Elastic Step—Disconsolate Party—Not the Season—Mend your Draught—Good Ale—Crotchet—Hammer and Tongs—Schoolmaster—True Eden Life—Flaming Tinman—Twice my Size—Hard at Work—My Poor Wife—Grey Moll—A Bible—Half and Half—What to Do—Half Inclined—In No Time—On One Condition—Don’t Stare—Like the Wind.
After walking some time, I found myself on the great road, at the same spot where I had turned aside the day before with my new-made acquaintance, in the direction of his house. I now continued my journey as before, towards the north. The weather, though beautiful, was much cooler than it had been for some time past; I walked at a great rate, with a springing and elastic step. In about two hours I came to where a kind of cottage stood a little way back from the road, with a huge oak before it, under the shade of which stood a little pony and a cart, which seemed to contain various articles. I was going past—when I saw scrawled over the door of the cottage, “Good beer sold here;” upon which, feeling myself all of a sudden very thirsty, I determined to go in and taste the beverage.
I entered a well-sanded kitchen, and seated myself on a bench, on one side of a long whitetable; the other side, which was nearest to the wall, was occupied by a party, or rather family, consisting of a grimy-looking man, somewhat under the middle size, dressed in faded velveteens, and wearing a leather apron—a rather pretty-looking woman, but sun-burnt, and meanly dressed, and two ragged children, a boy and girl, about four or five years old. The man sat with his eyes fixed upon the table, supporting his chin with both his hands; the woman, who was next him, sat quite still, save that occasionally she turned a glance upon her husband with eyes that appeared to have been lately crying. The children had none of the vivacity so general at their age. A more disconsolate family I had never seen; a mug, which, when filled, might contain half a pint, stood empty before them; a very disconsolate party indeed.
“House!” said I; “House!” and then as nobody appeared, I cried again as loud as I could, “House! do you hear me, House!”
“What’s your pleasure, young man?” said an elderly woman, who now made her appearance from a side apartment.
“To taste your ale,” said I.
“How much?” said the woman, stretching out her hand towards the empty mug upon the table.
“The largest measure-full in your house,” said I, putting back her hand gently. “This is not the season for half-pint mugs.”
“As you will, young man,” said the landlady; and presently brought in an earthen pitcher which might contain about three pints, and which foamed and frothed withal.
“Will this pay for it?” said I, putting down sixpence.
“I have to return you a penny,” said the landlady, putting her hand into her pocket.
“I want no change,” said I, flourishing my hand with an air.
“As you please, young gentleman,” said the landlady, and then making a kind of curtsey, she again retired to the side apartment.
“Here is your health, sir,” said I to the grimy-looking man, as I raised the pitcher to my lips.
The tinker, for such I supposed him to be, without altering his posture, raised his eyes, looked at me for a moment, gave a slight nod, and then once more fixed his eyes upon the table. I took a draught of the ale, which I found excellent. “Won’t you drink?” said I, holding the pitcher to the tinker.
The man again lifted up his eyes, looked at me, and then at the pitcher, and then at me again. I thought at one time that he was about to shake his head in sign of refusal, but no, he looked once more at the pitcher, and the temptation was too strong. Slowly removing his head from his arms, he took the pitcher, sighed, nodded, and drank a tolerable quantity, and then set the pitcher down before me upon the table.
“You had better mend your draught,” said I to the tinker, “it is a sad heart that never rejoices.”
“That’s true,” said the tinker, and again raising the pitcher to his lips, he mended his draught as I had bidden him, drinking a larger quantity than before.
“Pass it to your wife,” said I.
The poor woman took the pitcher from the man’s hand; before, however, raising it to her lips, she looked at the children. True mother’s heart, thought I to myself, and taking the half-pint mug,I made her fill it, and then held it to the children, causing each to take a draught. The woman wiped her eyes with the corner of her gown, before she raised the pitcher and drank to my health.
In about five minutes none of the family looked half so disconsolate as before, and the tinker and I were in deep discourse.
Oh, genial and gladdening is the power of good ale, the true and proper drink of Englishmen. He is not deserving of the name of Englishman who speaketh against ale, that is good ale, like that which has just made merry the hearts of this poor family; and yet there are beings, calling themselves Englishmen, who say that it is a sin to drink a cup of ale, and who on coming to this passage will be tempted to fling down the book and exclaim, “The man is evidently a bad man, for behold, by his own confession, he is not only fond of ale himself, but is in the habit of tempting other people with it.” Alas! alas! what a number of silly individuals there are in this world; I wonder what they would have had me do in this instance—given the afflicted family a cup of cold water? go to! They could have found water in the road, for there was a pellucid spring only a few yards distant from the house, as they were well aware—but they wanted not water. What should I have given them? meat and bread? go to! They were not hungry; there was stifled sobbing in their bosoms, and the first mouthful of strong meat would have choked them. What should I have given them? Money! what right had I to insult them by offering them money? Advice! words, words, words; friends, there is a time for everything;there is a time for a cup of cold water; there is a time for strong meat and bread; there is a time for advice, and there is a time for ale; and I have generally found that the time for advice is after a cup of ale. I do not say many cups; the tongue then speaketh more smoothly, and the ear listeneth more benignantly; but why do I attempt to reason with you? do I not know you for conceited creatures, with one idea—and that a foolish one;—a crotchet, for the sake of which ye would sacrifice anything, religion if required—country? There, fling down my book, I do not wish ye to walk any farther in my company, unless you cast your nonsense away, which ye will never do, for it is the breath of your nostrils; fling down my book, it was not written to support a crotchet, for know one thing, my good people, I have invariably been an enemy to humbug.
“Well,” said the tinker, after we had discoursed some time, “I little thought, when I first saw you, that you were of my own trade.”
Myself. Nor am I, at least not exactly. There is not much difference, ’tis true, between a tinker and a smith.
Tinker. You are a whitesmith then?
Myself. Not I, I’d scorn to be anything so mean; no, friend, black’s the colour; I am a brother of the horse-shoe. Success to the hammer and tongs.
Tinker. Well, I shouldn’t have thought you had been a blacksmith by your hands.
Myself. I have seen them, however, as black as yours. The truth is, I have not worked for many a day.
Tinker. Where did you serve first?
Myself. In Ireland.
Tinker. That’s a good way off, isn’t it?
Myself. Not very far; over those mountains to the left, and the run of salt water that lies behind them, there’s Ireland.
Tinker. It’s a fine thing to be a scholar.
Myself. Not half so fine as to be a tinker.
Tinker. How you talk!
Myself. Nothing but the truth; what can be better than to be one’s own master? Now a tinker is his own master, a scholar is not. Let us suppose the best of scholars, a schoolmaster for example, for I suppose you will admit that no one can be higher in scholarship than a schoolmaster; do you call his a pleasant life? I don’t; we should call him a school-slave, rather than a schoolmaster. Only conceive him in blessed weather like this, in his close school, teaching children to write in copy-books, “Evil communication corrupts good manners,” or “You cannot touch pitch without defilement,” or to spell out of Abedariums, or to read out of Jack Smith, or Sandford and Merton. Only conceive him, I say, drudging in such guise from morning till night, without any rational enjoyment but to beat the children. Would you compare such a dog’s life as that with your own—the happiest under heaven—true Eden life, as the Germans would say,—pitching your tent under the pleasant hedge-rows, listening to the song of the feathered tribes, collecting all the leaky kettles in the neighbourhood, soldering and joining, earning your honest bread by the wholesome sweat of your brow—making ten holes—hey, what’s this? what’s the man crying for?
Suddenly the tinker had covered his face withhis hands, and begun to sob and moan like a man in the deepest distress; the breast of his wife was heaved with emotion; even the children were agitated, the youngest began to roar.
Myself. What’s the matter with you; what are you all crying about?
Tinker(uncovering his face). Lord, why to hear you talk; isn’t that enough to make anybody cry—even the poor babes? Yes, you said right, ’tis life in the Garden of Eden—the tinker’s; I see so now that I’m about to give it up.
Myself. Give it up! you must not think of such a thing.
Tinker. No, I can’t bear to think of it, and yet I must; what’s to be done? How hard to be frightened to death, to be driven off the roads!
Myself. Who has driven you off the roads?
Tinker. Who! the Flaming Tinman.
Myself. Who is he?
Tinker. The biggest rogue in England, and the cruellest, or he wouldn’t have served me as he has done—I’ll tell you all about it. I was born upon the roads, and so was my father before me, and my mother too; and I worked with them as long as they lived, as a dutiful child, for I have nothing to reproach myself with on their account; and when my father died I took up the business, and went his beat, and supported my mother for the little time she lived; and when she died I married this young woman, who was not born upon the roads, but was a small tradesman’s daughter, at Gloster. She had a kindness for me, and, notwithstanding her friends were against the match, she married the poor tinker, and came to live with him upon the roads. Well, young man, for six or seven yearsI was the happiest fellow breathing, living just the life you described just now—respected by everybody in this beat; when in an evil hour comes this Black Jack, this Flaming Tinman, into these parts, driven as they say out of Yorkshire—for no good you may be sure. Now there is no beat will support two tinkers, as you doubtless know; mine was a good one, but it would not support the flying tinker and myself, though if it would have supported twenty it would have been all the same to the flying villain, who’ll brook no one but himself; so he presently finds me out, and offers to fight me for the beat. Now, being bred upon the roads, I can fight a little, that is with anything like my match, but I was not going to fight him, who happens to be twice my size, and so I told him; whereupon he knocks me down, and would have done me farther mischief had not some men been nigh and prevented him; so he threatened to cut my throat, and went his way. Well, I did not like such usage at all, and was woundily frightened, and tried to keep as much out of his way as possible, going anywhere but where I thought I was likely to meet him; and sure enough for several months I contrived to keep out of his way. At last somebody told me that he was gone back to Yorkshire, whereupon I was glad at heart, and ventured to show myself, going here and there as I did before. Well, young man, it was yesterday that I and mine set ourselves down in a lane, about five miles from here, and lighted our fire, and had our dinner, and after dinner I sat down to mend three kettles and a frying pan which the people in the neighbourhood had given me to mend—for, as I told you before, I have a good connection, owing to myhonesty. Well, as I sat there hard at work, happy as the day’s long, and thinking of anything but what was to happen, who should come up but this Black Jack, this king of the tinkers, rattling along in his cart, with his wife, that they call Grey Moll, by his side—for the villain has got a wife, and a maid-servant too; the last I never saw, but they that has, says that she is as big as a house, and young, and well to look at, which can’t be all said of Moll, who, though she’s big enough in all conscience, is neither young nor handsome. Well, no sooner does he see me and mine, than, giving the reins to Grey Moll, he springs out of his cart, and comes straight at me; not a word did he say, but on he comes straight at me like a wild bull. I am a quiet man, young fellow, but I saw now that quietness would be of no use, so I sprang up upon my legs, and being bred upon the roads, and able to fight a little, I squared as he came running in upon me, and had a round or two with him. Lord bless you, young man, it was like a fly fighting with an elephant—one of those big beasts the show-folks carry about. I had not a chance with the fellow, he knocked me here, he knocked me there, knocked me into the hedge, and knocked me out again. I was at my last shifts, and my poor wife saw it. Now my poor wife, though she is as gentle as a pigeon, has yet a spirit of her own, and though she wasn’t bred upon the roads, can scratch a little; so when she saw me at my last shifts, she flew at the villain—she couldn’t bear to see her partner murdered—and scratched the villain’s face. Lord bless you, young man, she had better have been quiet: Grey Moll no sooner saw what she was about, than springing out of thecart, where she had sat all along perfectly quiet, save a little whooping and screeching to encourage her blade:—Grey Moll, I say (my flesh creeps when I think of it—for I am a kind husband, and love my poor wife)—
Myself. Take another draught of the ale; you look frightened, and it will do you good. Stout liquor makes stout heart, as the man says in the play.
Tinker. That’s true, young man; here’s to you—where was I? Grey Moll no sooner saw what my wife was about, than springing out of the cart, she flew at my poor wife, clawed off her bonnet in a moment, and seized hold of her hair. Lord bless you, young man, my poor wife, in the hands of Grey Moll, was nothing better than a pigeon in the claws of a buzzard hawk, or I in the hands of the Flaming Tinman, which when I saw, my heart was fit to burst, and I determined to give up everything—everything to save my poor wife out of Grey Moll’s claws. “Hold!” I shouted. “Hold, both of you—Jack, Moll. Hold, both of you, for God’s sake, and I’ll do what you will: give up trade, and business, connection, bread, and everything, never more travel the roads, and go down on my knees to you in the bargain.” Well, this had some effect; Moll let go my wife, and the Blazing Tinman stopped for a moment; it was only for a moment, however, that he left off—all of a sudden he hit me a blow which sent me against a tree; and what did the villain then? why the flying villain seized me by the throat, and almost throttled me, roaring—what do you think, young man, that the flaming villain roared out?
Myself. I really don’t know—something horrible, I suppose.
Tinker. Horrible, indeed; you may well say horrible, young man; neither more nor less than the Bible—“A Bible, a Bible!” roared the Blazing Tinman; and he pressed my throat so hard against the tree that my senses began to dwaul away—a Bible, a Bible, still ringing in my ears. Now, young man, my poor wife is a Christian woman, and, though she travels the roads, carries a Bible with her at the bottom of her sack, with which sometimes she teaches the children to read—it was the only thing she brought with her from the place of her kith and kin, save her own body and the clothes on her back; so my poor wife, half distracted, runs to her sack, pulls out the Bible, and puts it into the hand of the Blazing Tinman, who then thrusts the end of it into my mouth with such fury that it made my lips bleed, and broke short one of my teeth which happened to be decayed. “Swear,” said he, “swear, you mumping villain, take your Bible oath that you will quit and give up the beat altogether, or I’ll”—and then the hard hearted villain made me swear by the Bible, and my own damnation, half-throttled as I was, to—to—I can’t go on—
Myself. Take another draught—stout liquor—
Tinker. I can’t, young man, my heart’s too full, and what’s more, the pitcher is empty.
Myself. And so he swore you, I suppose, on the Bible, to quit the roads?
Tinker. You are right, he did so, the Gypsy villain.
Myself. Gypsy! Is he a Gypsy?
Tinker. Not exactly; what they call a half and half. His father was a Gypsy, and his mother, like mine, one who walked the roads.
Myself. Is he of the Smiths—the Petulengres?
Tinker. I say, young man, you know a thing or two; one would think, to hear you talk, you had been bred upon the roads. I thought none but those bred upon the roads knew anything of that name—Petulengres! No, not he, he fights the Petulengres whenever he meets them; he likes nobody but himself, and wants to be king of the roads. I believe he is a Boss,[139]or a --- at any rate he’s a bad one, as I know to my cost.
Myself. And what are you going to do?
Tinker. Do! you may well ask that; I don’t know what to do. My poor wife and I have been talking of that all the morning, over that half-pint mug of beer; we can’t determine on what’s to be done. All we know is, that we must quit the roads. The villain swore that the next time he saw us on the roads he’d cut all our throats, and seize our horse and bit of a cart that are now standing out there under the tree.
Myself. And what do you mean to do with your horse and cart?
Tinker. Another question! What shall we do with our cart and pony? they are of no use to us now. Stay on the roads I will not, both for my oath’s sake and my own. If we had a trifle of money, we were thinking of going to Bristol, where I might get up a little business, but we have none; our last three farthings we spent about the mug of beer.
Myself. But why don’t you sell your horse and cart?
Tinker. Sell them, and who would buy them, unless some one who wished to set up in my line; but there’s no beat, and what’s the use of the horse and cart and the few tools without the beat?
Myself. I’m half inclined to buy your cart and pony, and your beat too.
Tinker. You! How came you to think of such a thing?
Myself. Why, like yourself, I hardly know what to do. I want a home and work. As for a home, I suppose I can contrive to make a home out of your tent and cart; and as for work, I must learn to be a tinker, it would not be hard for one of my trade to learn to tinker; what better can I do? Would you have me go to Chester and work there now? I don’t like the thoughts of it. If I go to Chester and work there, I can’t be my own man; I must work under a master, and perhaps he and I should quarrel, and when I quarrel I am apt to hit folks, and those that hit folks are sometimes sent to prison; I don’t like the thought either of going to Chester or to Chester prison. What do you think I could earn at Chester?
Tinker. A matter of eleven shillings a week, if anybody would employ you, which I don’t think they would with those hands of yours. But whether they would or not, if you are of a quarrelsome nature, you must not go to Chester; you would be in the castle in no time. I don’t know how to advise you. As for selling you my stock, I’d see you farther first, for your own sake.
Myself. Why?
Tinker. Why! you would get your head knocked off. Suppose you were to meet him?
Myself. Pooh, don’t be afraid on my account; if I were to meet him I could easily manage him one way or other. I know all kinds of strange words and names, and, as I told you before, I sometimes hit people when they put me out.
Here the tinker’s wife, who for some minutes past had been listening attentively to our discourse, interposed, saying, in a low soft tone: “I really don’t see, John, why you shouldn’t sell the young man the things, seeing that he wishes for them, and is so confident; you have told him plainly how matters stand, and if anything ill should befall him, people couldn’t lay the blame on you; but I don’t think any ill will befall him, and who knows but God has sent him to our assistance in time of need.”
“I’ll hear of no such thing,” said the tinker; “I have drunk at the young man’s expense, and though he says he’s quarrelsome, I would not wish to sit in pleasanter company. A pretty fellow I should be, now, if I were to let him follow his own will. If he once sets up on my beat, he’s a lost man, his ribs will be stove in, and his head knocked off his shoulders. There, you are crying, but you shan’t have your will though; I won’t be the young man’s destruction . . . If, indeed, I thought he could manage the tinker—but he never can; he says he can hit, but it’s no use hitting the tinker;—crying still! you are enough to drive one mad. I say, young man, I believe you understand a thing or two; just now you were talking of knowing hard words and names—I don’t wish to send you to your mischief—you say you know hardwords and names; let us see. Only on one condition I’ll sell you the pony and things; as for the beat it’s gone, isn’t mine—sworn away by my own mouth. Tell me what’s my name; if you can’t, may I—”
Myself. Don’t swear, it’s a bad habit, neither pleasant nor profitable. Your name is Slingsby—Jack Slingsby. There, don’t stare, there’s nothing in my telling you your name: I’ve been in these parts before, at least not very far from here. Ten years ago, when I was little more than a child, I was about twenty miles from here in a post chaise, at the door of an inn,[142]and as I looked from the window of the chaise, I saw you standing by a gutter, with a big tin ladle in your hand, and somebody called you Jack Slingsby. I never forget anything I hear or see; I can’t, I wish I could. So there’s nothing strange in my knowing your name; indeed, there’s nothing strange in anything, provided you examine it to the bottom. Now what am I to give you for the things?
I paid Slingsby five pounds ten shillings for his stock in trade, cart, and pony—purchased sundry provisions of the landlady, also a waggoner’s frock, which had belonged to a certain son of hers, deceased, gave my little animal a feed of corn, and prepared to depart.
“God bless you, young man,” said Slingsby, shaking me by the hand, “you are the best friend I’ve had for many a day: I have but one thing to tell you, Don’t cross that fellow’s path if you can help it; and stay—should the pony refuse to go, just touch him so, and he’ll fly like the wind.”
Effects of Corn—One Night Longer—The Hoofs—A Stumble—Are You Hurt?—What a Difference!—Drowsy—Maze of Bushes—Housekeeping—Sticks and Furze—The Drift-way—Account of Stock—Anvil and Bellows—Twenty Years.
It was two or three hours past noon when I took my departure from the place of the last adventure, walking by the side of my little cart; the pony, invigorated by the corn, to which he was probably not much accustomed, proceeded right gallantly; so far from having to hasten him forward by the particular application which the tinker had pointed out to me, I had rather to repress his eagerness, being, though an excellent pedestrian, not unfrequently left behind. The country through which I passed was beautiful and interesting, but solitary: few habitations appeared. As it was quite a matter of indifference to me in what direction I went, the whole world being before me, I allowed the pony to decide upon the matter; it was not long before he left the high road, being probably no friend to public places. I followed him I knew not whither, but, from subsequent observation, have reason to suppose that our course was in a north-west direction. At length night came upon us, and a cold wind sprang up, which was succeeded by a drizzling rain.
I had originally intended to pass the night in the cart, or to pitch my little tent on some convenient spot by the road’s side; but, owing to the alteration in the weather, I thought that it would be advisable to take up my quarters in any hedge alehouse at which I might arrive. To tell the truth, I was not very sorry to have an excuse to pass the night once more beneath a roof. I had determined to live quite independent, but I had never before passed a night by myself abroad, and felt a little apprehensive at the idea; I hoped, however, on the morrow, to be a little more prepared for the step, so I determined for one night—only for one night longer—to sleep like a Christian; but human determinations are not always put into effect, such a thing as opportunity is frequently wanting, such was the case here. I went on for a considerable time, in expectation of coming to some rustic hostelry, but nothing of the kind presented itself to my eyes; the country in which I now was seemed almost uninhabited, not a house of any kind was to be seen—at least I saw none—though it is true houses might be near without my seeing them, owing to the darkness of the night, for neither moon nor star was abroad. I heard, occasionally, the bark of dogs; but the sound appeared to come from an immense distance. The rain still fell, and the ground beneath my feet was wet and miry; in short, it was a night in which even a tramper by profession would feel more comfortable in being housed than abroad. I followed in the rear of the cart, the pony still proceeding at a sturdy pace, till methought I heard other hoofs than those of my own nag; I listened for a moment, and distinctly heard the sound of hoofs approaching at a greatrate, and evidently from the quarter towards which I and my little caravan were moving. We were in a dark lane—so dark that it was impossible for me to see my own hand. Apprehensive that some accident might occur, I ran forward, and, seizing the pony by the bridle, drew him as near as I could to the hedge. On came the hoofs—trot, trot, trot; and evidently more than those of one horse; their speed as they advanced appeared to slacken—it was only, however, for a moment. I heard a voice cry, “Push on,—this is a desperate robbing place,—never mind the dark;” and the hoofs came on quicker than before. “Stop!” said I, at the top of my voice; “stop! or . . . ” Before I could finish what I was about to say there was a stumble, a heavy fall, a cry, and a groan, and putting out my foot I felt what I conjectured to be the head of a horse stretched upon the road. “Lord have mercy upon us! what’s the matter?” exclaimed a voice. “Spare my life,” cried another voice, apparently from the ground; “only spare my life, and take all I have!” “Where are you, Master Wise?” cried the other voice. “Help! here, Master Bat,” cried the voice from the ground, “help me up or I shall be murdered.” “Why, what’s the matter?” said Bat. “Some one has knocked me down, and is robbing me,” said the voice from the ground. “Help! murder!” cried Bat; and, regardless of the entreaties of the man on the ground that he would stay and help him up, he urged his horse forward and galloped away as fast as he could. I remained for some time quiet, listening to various groans and exclamations uttered by the person on the ground; at length I said, “Holloa! are you hurt?” “Sparemy life, and take all I have!” said the voice from the ground. “Have they not done robbing you yet?” said I; “when they have finished let me know, and I will come and help you.” “Who is that?” said the voice; “pray come and help me, and do me no mischief.” “You were saying that some one was robbing you,” said I; “don’t think I shall come till he is gone away.” “Then you ben’t he?” said the voice. “Ar’n’t you robbed?” said I. “Can’t say I be,” said the voice; “not yet at any rate; but who are you? I don’t know you.” “A traveller whom you and your partner were going to run over in this dark lane; you almost frightened me out of my senses.” “Frightened!” said the voice, in a louder tone; “frightened! oh!” and thereupon I heard somebody getting upon his legs. This accomplished, the individual proceeded to attend to his horse, and with a little difficulty raised him upon his legs also. “Ar’n’t you hurt?” said I. “Hurt!” said the voice; “not I; don’t think it, whatever the horse may be. I tell you what, my fellow, I thought you were a robber; and now I find you are not, I have a good mind—” “To do what?” “To serve you out; ar’n’t you ashamed—?” “At what?” said I; “not to have robbed you? Shall I set about it now?” “Ha, ha!” said the man, dropping the bullying tone which he had assumed; “you are joking—robbing! who talks of robbing? I wonder how my horse’s knees are; not much hurt, I think—only mired.” The man, whoever he was, then got upon his horse; and, after moving him about a little, said, “Good night, friend; where are you?” “Here I am,” said I, “just behind you.” “You are, are you? Takethat.” I know not what he did, but probably pricking his horse with the spur the animal kicked out violently; one of his heels struck me on the shoulder, but luckily missed my face; I fell back with the violence of the blow, whilst the fellow scampered off at a great rate. Stopping at some distance, he loaded me with abuse, and then, continuing his way at a rapid trot, I heard no more of him.
“What a difference!” said I, getting up; “last night I was fêted in the hall of a rich genius, and to-night I am knocked down and mired in a dark lane by the heel of Master Wise’s horse—I wonder who gave him that name? And yet he was wise enough to wreak his revenge upon me, and I was not wise enough to keep out of his way. Well, I am not much hurt, so it is of little consequence.”
I now bethought me that, as I had a carriage of my own, I might as well make use of it; I therefore got into the cart, and, taking the reins in my hand, gave an encouraging cry to the pony, whereupon the sturdy little animal started again at as brisk a pace as if he had not already come many a long mile. I lay half reclining in the cart, holding the reins lazily, and allowing the animal to go just where he pleased, often wondering where he would conduct me. At length I felt drowsy, and my head sank upon my breast; I soon aroused myself, but it was only to doze again; this occurred several times. Opening my eyes after a doze somewhat longer than the others, I found that the drizzling rain had ceased, a corner of the moon was apparent in the heavens, casting a faint light; I looked around for a moment or two, but my eyesand brain were heavy with slumber, and I could scarcely distinguish where we were. I had a kind of dim consciousness that we were traversing an unenclosed country—perhaps a heath; I thought, however, that I saw certain large black objects looming in the distance, which I had a confused idea might be woods or plantations; the pony still moved at his usual pace. I did not find the jolting of the cart at all disagreeable, on the contrary, it had quite a somniferous effect upon me. Again my eyes closed; I opened them once more, but with less perception in them than before, looked forward, and, muttering something about woodlands, I placed myself in an easier posture than I had hitherto done, and fairly fell asleep.
How long I continued in that state I am unable to say, but I believe for a considerable time; I was suddenly awakened by the ceasing of the jolting to which I had become accustomed, and of which I was perfectly sensible in my sleep. I started up and looked around me, the moon was still shining, and the face of the heaven was studded with stars; I found myself amidst a maze of bushes of various kinds, but principally hazel and holly, through which was a path or drift-way with grass growing on either side, upon which the pony was already diligently browsing. I conjectured that this place had been one of the haunts of his former master, and, on dismounting and looking about, was strengthened in that opinion by finding a spot under an ash tree which, from its burnt and blackened appearance, seemed to have been frequently used as a fireplace. I will take up my quarters here, thought I; it is an excellent spot for me to commence my new profession in; I was quite right to trust myself to theguidance of the pony. Unharnessing the animal without delay, I permitted him to browse at free will on the grass, convinced that he would not wander far from a place to which he was so much attached; I then pitched the little tent close beside the ash tree to which I have alluded, and conveyed two or three articles into it, and instantly felt that I had commenced housekeeping for the first time in my life. Housekeeping, however, without a fire is a very sorry affair, something like the housekeeping of children in their toy houses; of this I was the more sensible from feeling very cold and shivering, owing to my late exposure to the rain, and sleeping in the night air. Collecting, therefore, all the dry sticks and furze I could find, I placed them upon the fireplace, adding certain chips and a billet which I found in the cart, it having apparently been the habit of Slingsby to carry with him a small store of fuel. Having then struck a spark in a tinder-box and lighted a match, I set fire to the combustible heap, and was not slow in raising a cheerful blaze; I then drew my cart near the fire, and, seating myself on one of the shafts, hung over the warmth with feelings of intense pleasure and satisfaction. Having continued in this posture for a considerable time, I turned my eyes to the heaven in the direction of a particular star; I, however, could not find the star, nor indeed many of the starry train, the greater number having fled, from which circumstance, and from the appearance of the sky, I concluded that morning was nigh. About this time I again began to feel drowsy; I therefore arose, and having prepared for myself a kind of couch in the tent, I flung myself upon it and went to sleep.
I will not say that I was awakened in the morning by the carolling of birds, as I perhaps might if I were writing a novel; I awoke because, to use vulgar language, I had slept my sleep out, not because the birds were carolling around me in numbers, as they had probably been for hours without my hearing them. I got up and left my tent; the morning was yet more bright than that of the preceding day. Impelled by curiosity, I walked about endeavouring to ascertain to what place chance, or rather the pony, had brought me; following the drift-way for some time, amidst bushes and stunted trees, I came to a grove of dark pines, through which it appeared to lead; I tracked it a few hundred yards, but seeing nothing but trees, and the way being wet and sloughy, owing to the recent rain, I returned on my steps, and, pursuing the path in another direction, came to a sandy road leading over a common, doubtless the one I had traversed the preceding night. My curiosity satisfied, I returned to my little encampment, and on the way beheld a small footpath on the left winding through the bushes, which had before escaped my observation. Having reached my tent and cart, I breakfasted on some of the provisions which I had procured the day before, and then proceeded to take a regular account of the stock formerly possessed by Slingsby the tinker, but now become my own by right of lawful purchase.
Besides the pony, the cart, and the tent, I found I was possessed of a mattress stuffed with straw on which to lie, and a blanket to cover me, the last quite clean and nearly new; then there was a frying pan and a kettle, the first for cooking any food which required cooking, and the second forheating any water which I might wish to heat. I likewise found an earthen teapot and two or three cups; of the first I should rather say I found the remains, it being broken in three parts, no doubt since it came into my possession, which would have precluded the possibility of my asking anybody to tea for the present, should anybody visit me, even supposing I had tea and sugar, which was not the case. I then overhauled what might more strictly be called the stock in trade; this consisted of various tools, an iron ladle, a chafing pan and small bellows, sundry pans and kettles, the latter being of tin, with the exception of one which was of copper, all in a state of considerable dilapidation—if I may use the term; of these first Slingsby had spoken in particular, advising me to mend them as soon as possible, and to endeavour to sell them, in order that I might have the satisfaction of receiving some return upon the outlay which I had made. There was likewise a small quantity of block tin, sheet tin, and solder. “This Slingsby,” said I, “is certainly a very honest man, he has sold me more than my money’s worth; I believe, however, there is something more in the cart.” Thereupon I rummaged the farther end of the cart, and, amidst a quantity of straw, I found a small anvil and bellows of that kind which are used in forges, and two hammers such as smiths use, one great, and the other small.
The sight of these last articles caused me no little surprise, as no word which had escaped from the mouth of Slingsby had given me reason to suppose that he had ever followed the occupation of a smith; yet, if he had not, how did he come by them? I sat down upon the shaft, and ponderedthe question deliberately in my mind; at length I concluded that he had come by them by one of those numerous casualties which occur upon the roads, of which I, being a young hand upon the roads, must have a very imperfect conception; honestly, of course—for I scouted the idea that Slingsby would have stolen this blacksmith’s gear—for I had the highest opinion of his honesty, which opinion I still retain at the present day, which is upwards of twenty years from the time of which I am speaking, during the whole of which period I have neither seen the poor fellow, nor received any intelligence of him.
New Profession—Beautiful Night—Jupiter—Sharp and Shrill—The Rommany Chi—All Alone—Three-and-Sixpence—What is Rommany?—Be Civil—Parraco Tute—Slight Start—She will be Grateful—The Rustling.
I passed the greater part of the day in endeavouring to teach myself the mysteries of my new profession. I cannot say that I was very successful, but the time passed agreeably, and was therefore not ill spent. Towards evening I flung my work aside, took some refreshment, and afterwards a walk.
This time I turned up the small footpath, of which I have already spoken. It led in a zigzag manner through thickets of hazel, elder, and sweet briar; after following its windings for somewhat better than a furlong, I heard a gentle sound of water, and presently came to a small rill, which ran directly across the path. I was rejoiced at the sight, for I had already experienced the want of water, which I yet knew must be nigh at hand, as I was in a place to all appearance occasionally frequented by wandering people, who I was aware never take up their quarters in places where water is difficult to be obtained. Forthwith I stretched myself on the ground, and took a long and deliciousdraught of the crystal stream, and then, seating myself in a bush, I continued for some time gazing on the water as it purled tinkling away in its channel through an opening in the hazels, and should have probably continued much longer had not the thought that I had left my property unprotected compelled me to rise and return to my encampment.
Night came on, and a beautiful night it was; up rose the moon, and innumerable stars decked the firmament of heaven. I sat on the shaft, my eyes turned upwards. I had found it: there it was twinkling millions of miles above me, mightiest star of the system to which we belong: of all stars, the one which has most interest for me—the star Jupiter.
Why have I always taken an interest in thee, O Jupiter? I know nothing about thee, save what every child knows, that thou art a big star, whose only light is derived from moons. And is not that knowledge enough to make me feel an interest in thee? Ay, truly, I never look at thee without wondering what is going on in thee; what is life in Jupiter? That there is life in Jupiter who can doubt? There is life in our own little star, therefore there must be life in Jupiter, which is not a little star. But how different must life be in Jupiter from what it is in our own little star! Life here is life beneath the dear sun—life in Jupiter is life beneath moons—four moons—no single moon is able to illumine that vast bulk. All know what life is in our own little star; it is anything but a routine of happiness here, where the dear sun rises to us every day: then how sad and moping must life be in mighty Jupiter, on whichno sun ever shines, and which is never lighted save by pale moon-beams! The thought that there is more sadness and melancholy in Jupiter than in this world of ours, where, alas! there is but too much, has always made me take a melancholy interest in that huge distant star.
Two or three days passed by in much the same manner as the first. During the morning I worked upon my kettles, and employed the remaining part of the day as I best could. The whole of this time I only saw two individuals, rustics, who passed by my encampment without vouchsafing me a glance; they probably considered themselves my superiors, as perhaps they were.
One very brilliant morning, as I sat at work in very good spirits, for by this time I had actually mended in a very creditable way, as I imagined, two kettles and a frying pan, I heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the path leading to the rivulet; at first it sounded from a considerable distance, but drew nearer by degrees. I soon remarked that the tones were exceedingly sharp and shrill, with yet something of childhood in them. Once or twice I distinguished certain words in the song which the voice was singing; the words were—but no, I thought again I was probably mistaken—and then the voice ceased for a time; presently I heard it again, close to the entrance of the footpath; in another moment I heard it in the lane or glade in which stood my tent, where it abruptly stopped, but not before I had heard the very words which I at first thought I had distinguished.
I turned my head; at the entrance of the footpath, which might be about thirty yards from the place where I was sitting, I perceived the figureof a young girl; her face was turned towards me, and she appeared to be scanning me and my encampment; after a little time she looked in the other direction, only for a moment, however; probably observing nothing in that quarter, she again looked towards me, and almost immediately stepped forward; and, as she advanced, sang the song which I had heard in the wood, the first words of which were those which I have already alluded to.
“The Rommany chiAnd the Rommany chalShall jaw tasaulorTo drab the bawlorAnd dook the gryOf the farming rye.”[156]
“The Rommany chiAnd the Rommany chalShall jaw tasaulorTo drab the bawlorAnd dook the gryOf the farming rye.”[156]
A very pretty song, thought I, falling again hard to work upon my kettle; a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good. Let them look to their cattle.
“All alone here, brother?” said a voice close by me, in sharp but not disagreeable tones.
I made no answer, but continued my work, click, click, with the gravity which became one of my profession. I allowed at least half a minute to elapse before I even lifted up my eyes.
A girl of about thirteen was standing before me; her features were very pretty, but with a peculiar expression; her complexion was a clear olive, and her jet black hair hung back upon her shoulders.She was rather scantily dressed, and her arms and feet were bare; round her neck, however, was a handsome string of corals, with ornaments of gold; in her hand she held a bulrush.
“All alone here, brother?” said the girl, as I looked up; “all alone here, in the lane; where are your wife and children?”
“Why do you call me brother?” said I; “I am no brother of yours. Do you take me for one of your people? I am no Gypsy; not I, indeed!”
“Don’t be afraid, brother, you are no Roman—Roman, indeed! you are not handsome enough to be a Roman; not black enough, tinker though you be. If I called you brother, it was because I didn’t know what else to call you. Marry, come up, brother, I should be sorry to have you for a brother.”
“Then you don’t like me?”
“Neither like you, nor dislike you, brother; what will you have for that kekaubi?”
“What’s the use of talking to me in that un-Christian way; what do you mean, young gentlewoman?”
“Lord, brother, what a fool you are! every tinker knows what a kekaubi is. I was asking you what you would have for that kettle.”
“Three-and-sixpence, young gentlewoman; isn’t it well mended?”
“Well mended! I could have done it better myself; three-and-sixpence! it’s only fit to be played at football with.”
“I will take no less for it, young gentlewoman; it has caused me a world of trouble.”
“I never saw a worse mended kettle. I say, brother, your hair is white.”
“’Tis nature; your hair is black; nature, nothing but nature.”
“I am young, brother; my hair is black—that’s nature: you are young, brother; your hair is white—that’s not nature.”
“I can’t help it if it be not, but it is nature after all; did you never see grey hair on the young?”
“Never! I have heard it is true of a grey lad, and a bad one he was. Oh, so bad.”
“Sit down on the grass, and tell me all about it, sister; do to oblige me, pretty sister.”
“Hey, brother, you don’t speak as you did—you don’t speak like a Gorgio, you speak like one of us, you call me sister.”
“As you call me brother; I am not an uncivil person after all, sister.”
“I say, brother, tell me one thing, and look me in the face—there—do you speak Rommany?”
“Rommany! Rommany! what is Rommany?”
“What is Rommany? our language to be sure; tell me, brother, only one thing, you don’t speak Rommany?”
“You say it.”
“I don’t say it, I wish to know. Do you speak Rommany?”
“Do you mean thieves’ slang—cant? no, I don’t speak cant, I don’t like it, I only know a few words; they call a sixpence a tanner, don’t they?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl, sitting down on the ground, “I was almost thinking—well, never mind, you don’t know Rommany. I say, brother, I think I should like to have the kekaubi.”
“I thought you said it was badly mended?”
“Yes, yes, brother, but—”
“I thought you said it was only fit to be played at football with?”
“Yes, yes, brother, but—”
“What will you give for it?”
“Brother, I am the poor person’s child, I will give you sixpence for the kekaubi.”
“Poor person’s child; how came you by that necklace?”
“Be civil, brother; am I to have the kekaubi?”
“Not for sixpence; isn’t the kettle nicely mended?”
“I never saw a nicer mended kettle, brother; am I to have the kekaubi, brother?”
“You like me then?”
“I don’t dislike you—I dislike no one; there’s only one, and him I don’t dislike, him I hate.”
“Who is he?”
“I scarcely know, I never saw him, but ’tis no affair of yours, you don’t speak Rommany; you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty brother?”
“You may have it, but not for sixpence, I’ll give it to you.”
“Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother; the rikkeni [pretty] kekaubi is now mine. Oh, rare! I thank you kindly, brother.”
Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hitherto held in her hand, and, seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a moment, and then began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle over her head the while, and singing—
“The Rommany chiAnd the Rommany chalShall jaw tasaulorTo drab the bawlorAnd dook the gryOf the farming rye.”
“The Rommany chiAnd the Rommany chalShall jaw tasaulorTo drab the bawlorAnd dook the gryOf the farming rye.”
“Good bye, brother, I must be going.”
“Good bye, sister; why do you sing that wicked song?”
“Wicked song, hey, brother! you don’t understand the song!”
“Ha, ha! Gypsy daughter,” said I, starting up and clapping my hands, “I don’t understand Rommany, don’t I? You shall see; here’s the answer to your gillie—
‘The Rommany chiAnd the Rommany chalLove luripenAnd dukkeripen,And hokkeripen,And every penBut lachipenAnd tatchipen.’”[160]
‘The Rommany chiAnd the Rommany chalLove luripenAnd dukkeripen,And hokkeripen,And every penBut lachipenAnd tatchipen.’”[160]
The girl, who had given a slight start when I began, remained for some time after I had concluded the song, standing motionless as a statue, with the kettle in her hand. At length she came towards me, and stared me full in the face. “Grey, tall, and talks Rommany,” said she to herself. In her countenance there was an expression which I had not seen before—an expression which struck me as being composed of fear, curiosity, and the deepest hate. It was momentary, however, and was succeeded by one smiling, frank, and open. “Ha, ha, brother,”said she, “well, I like you all the better for talking Rommany; it is a sweet language, isn’t it? especially as you sing it. How did you pick it up? But you picked it up upon the roads, no doubt? Ha, it was funny in you to pretend not to know it, and you so flush with it all the time; it was not kind in you, however, to frighten the poor person’s child so by screaming out, but it was kind in you to give the rikkeni kekaubi to the child of the poor person. She will be grateful to you; she will bring you her little dog to show you, her pretty juggal;[161]the poor person’s child will come and see you again; you are not going away to-day, I hope, or to-morrow, pretty brother, grey-haired brother—you are not going away to-morrow, I hope?”
“Nor the next day,” said I, “only to take a stroll to see if I can sell a kettle; good bye, little sister, Rommany sister, dingy sister.”
“Good bye, tall brother,” said the girl, as she departed, singing—
“The Rommany chi,” etc.
“The Rommany chi,” etc.
“There’s something about that girl that I don’t understand,” said I to myself; “something mysterious. However, it is nothing to me, she knows not who I am, and if she did, what then?”
Late that evening as I sat on the shaft of my cart in deep meditation, with my arms folded, I thought I heard a rustling in the bushes over against me. I turned my eyes in that direction, but saw nothing. “Some bird,” said I; “an owl, perhaps;” and once more I fell into meditation; my mind wandered from one thing toanother—musing now on the structure of the Roman tongue—now on the rise and fall of the Persian power—and now on the powers vested in recorders at quarter sessions. I was thinking what a fine thing it must be to be a recorder of the peace, when, lifting up my eyes, I saw right opposite, not a culprit at the bar, but, staring at me through a gap in the bush, a face wild and strange, half covered with grey hair; I only saw it a moment, the next it had disappeared.
Friend of Slingsby—All Quiet—Danger—The Two Cakes—Children in the Wood—Don’t be Angry—In Deep Thought—Temples Throbbing—Deadly Sick—Another Blow—No Answer—How Old are You?—Play and Sacrament—Heavy Heart—Song of Poison—Drow of Gypsies—The Dog—Ely’s Church—Get up, Bebee—The Vehicle—Can You Speak?—The Oil.
The next day, at an early hour, I harnessed my little pony, and, putting my things in my cart, I went on my projected stroll. Crossing the moor, I arrived in about an hour at a small village, from which, after a short stay, I proceeded to another, and from thence to a third. I found that the name of Slingsby was well known in these parts.
“If you are a friend of Slingsby you must be an honest lad,” said an ancient crone; “you shall never want for work whilst I can give it you. Here, take my kettle, the bottom came out this morning, and lend me that of yours till you bring it back. I’m not afraid to trust you—not I. Don’t hurry yourself, young man; if you don’t come back for a fortnight I shan’t have the worse opinion of you.”
I returned to my quarters at evening, tired, but rejoiced at heart; I had work before me for severaldays, having collected various kekaubies which required mending, in place of those which I left behind—those which I had been employed upon during the last few days. I found all quiet in the lane or glade, and, unharnessing my little horse, I once more pitched my tent in the old spot beneath the ash, lighted my fire, ate my frugal meal, and then, after looking for some time at the heavenly bodies, and more particularly at the star Jupiter, I entered my tent, lay down upon my pallet, and went to sleep.
Nothing occurred on the following day which requires any particular notice, nor indeed on the one succeeding that. It was about noon on the third day that I sat beneath the shade of the ash tree; I was not at work, for the weather was particularly hot, and I felt but little inclination to make any exertion. Leaning my back against the tree, I was not long in falling into a slumber; I particularly remember that slumber of mine beneath the ash tree, for it was about the sweetest slumber that I ever enjoyed; how long I continued in it I do not know; I could almost have wished that it had lasted to the present time. All of a sudden it appeared to me that a voice cried in my ear, “Danger! danger! danger!” Nothing seemingly could be more distinct than the words which I heard; then an uneasy sensation came over me, which I strove to get rid of, and at last succeeded, for I awoke. The Gypsy girl was standing just opposite to me, with her eyes fixed upon my countenance; a singular kind of little dog stood beside her.
“Ha!” said I, “was it you that cried danger? What danger is there?”
“Danger, brother? there is no danger; what danger should there be? I called to my little dog, but that was in the wood; my little dog’s name is not danger, but stranger; what danger should there be, brother?”
“What, indeed, except in sleeping beneath a tree; what is that you have got in your hand?”
“Something for you,” said the girl, sitting down and proceeding to untie a white napkin; “a pretty manricli, so sweet, so nice; when I went home to my people I told my grandbebee how kind you had been to the poor person’s child, and when my grandbebee saw the kekaubi, she said, ‘Hir mi devlis,[165a]it won’t do for the poor people to be ungrateful; by my God, I will bake a cake for the young harko mescro.’”[165b]
“But there are two cakes.”
“Yes, brother, two cakes, both for you; my grandbebee meant them both for you—but list, brother, I will have one of them for bringing them. I know you will give me one, pretty brother, grey-haired brother—which shall I have, brother?”
In the napkin were two round cakes, seemingly made of rich and costly compounds, and precisely similar in form, each weighing about half a pound.
“Which shall I have, brother?” said the Gypsy girl.
“Whichever you please.”
“No, brother, no, the cakes are yours, not mine, it is for you to say.”
“Well, then, give me the one nearest you, and take the other.”
“Yes, brother, yes,” said the girl; and takingthe cakes, she flung them into the air two or three times, catching them as they fell, and singing the while. “Pretty brother, grey-haired brother—here, brother,” said she, “here is your cake, this other is mine.”
“Are you sure,” said I, taking the cake, “that this is the one I chose?”
“Quite sure, brother; but if you like you can have mine; there’s no difference, however—shall I eat?”
“Yes, sister, eat.”
“See, brother, I do; now, brother, eat, pretty brother, grey-haired brother.”
“I am not hungry.”
“Not hungry! well, what then—what has being hungry to do with the matter? It is my grandbebee’s cake which was sent because you were kind to the poor person’s child; eat, brother, eat, and we shall be like the children in the wood that the Gorgios speak of.”
“The children in the wood had nothing to eat.”
“Yes, they had hips and haws; we have better. Eat, brother.”
“See, sister, I do,” and I ate a piece of the cake.
“Well, brother, how do you like it?” said the girl, looking fixedly at me.
“It is very rich and sweet, and yet there is something strange about it; I don’t think I shall eat any more.”
“Fie, brother, fie, to find fault with the poor person’s cake; see, I have nearly eaten mine.”
“That’s a pretty little dog.”
“Is it not, brother? that’s my juggal, my little sister, as I call her.”
“Come here, juggal,” said I to the animal.
“What do you want with my juggal?” said the girl.
“Only to give her a piece of cake,” said I, offering the dog a piece which I had just broken off.
“What do you mean?” said the girl, snatching the dog away; “my grandbebee’s cake is not for dogs.”
“Why, I just now saw you give the animal a piece of yours.”
“You lie, brother, you saw no such thing; but I see how it is, you wish to affront the poor person’s child. I shall go to my house.”
“Keep still, and don’t be angry; see, I have eaten the piece which I offered the dog. I meant no offence. It is a sweet cake after all.”
“Isn’t it, brother? I am glad you like it. Offence! brother, no offence at all! I am so glad you like my grandbebee’s cake, but she will be wanting me at home. Eat one piece more of grandbebee’s[167]cake and I will go.”
“I am not hungry, I will put the rest by.”
“One piece more before I go, handsome brother, grey-haired brother.”
“I will not eat any more, I have already eaten more than I wished to oblige you; if you must go, good day to you.”
The girl rose upon her feet, looked hard at me, then at the remainder of the cake which I held in my hand, and then at me again, and then stood for a moment or two, as if in deep thought; presently an air of satisfaction came over her countenance, she smiled and said, “Well, brother, well, do as you please, I merely wished you to eat because youhave been so kind to the poor person’s child. She loves you so, that she could have wished to have seen you eat it all; good bye, brother, I dare say when I am gone you will eat some more of it, and if you don’t, I dare say you have eaten enough to—to—show your love for us. After all, it was a poor person’s cake, a Rommany manricli,[168]and all you Gorgios are somewhat gorgious. Farewell, brother, pretty brother, grey-haired brother. Come, juggal.”
I remained under the ash tree seated on the grass for a minute or two, and endeavoured to resume the occupation in which I had been engaged before I fell asleep, but I felt no inclination for labour. I then thought I would sleep again, and once more reclined against the tree, and slumbered for some little time, but my sleep was more agitated than before. Something appeared to bear heavy on my breast, I struggled in my sleep, fell on the grass, and awoke; my temples were throbbing, there was a burning in my eyes, and my mouth felt parched; the oppression about the chest which I had felt in my sleep still continued. “I must shake off these feelings,” said I, “and get upon my legs.” I walked rapidly up and down upon the green sward; at length, feeling my thirst increase, I directed my steps down the narrow path to the spring which ran amidst the bushes; arriving there, I knelt down and drank of the water, but on lifting up my head I felt thirstier than before; again I drank, but with the like result; I was about to drink for the third time, when I felt a dreadful qualm which instantly robbed me of nearly all my strength. What can be the matter with me,thought I; but I suppose I have made myself ill by drinking cold water. I got up and made the best of my way back to my tent; before I reached it the qualm had seized me again, and I was deadly sick. I flung myself on my pallet, qualm succeeded qualm, but in the intervals my mouth was dry and burning, and I felt a frantic desire to drink, but no water was at hand, and to reach the spring once more was impossible; the qualms continued, deadly pains shot through my whole frame; I could bear my agonies no longer, and I fell into a trance or swoon. How long I continued therein I know not; on recovering, however, I felt somewhat better, and attempted to lift my head off my couch; the next moment, however, the qualms and pains returned, if possible, with greater violence than before. I am dying, thought I, like a dog, without any help; and then methought I heard a sound at a distance like people singing, and then once more I relapsed into my swoon.
I revived just as a heavy blow sounded upon the canvas of the tent. I started, but my condition did not permit me to rise; again the same kind of blow sounded upon the canvas; I thought for a moment of crying out and requesting assistance, but an inexplicable something chained my tongue, and now I heard a whisper on the outside of the tent. “He does not move, bebee,” said a voice which I knew. “I should not wonder if it has done for him already; however, strike again with your ran;”[169]and then there was another blow, after which another voice cried aloud in a strange tone, “Is the gentleman of the house asleep, or is he taking his dinner?” I remained quite silent andmotionless, and in another moment the voice continued, “What, no answer? what can the gentleman of the house be about that he makes no answer? perhaps the gentleman of the house may be darning his stockings?” Thereupon a face peered into the door of the tent, at the farther extremity of which I was stretched. It was that of a woman, but owing to the posture in which she stood, with her back to the light, and partly owing to a large straw bonnet, I could distinguish but very little of the features of her countenance. I had, however, recognised her voice; it was that of my old acquaintance, Mrs. Herne. “Ho, ho, sir!” said she, “here you are. Come here, Leonora,” said she to the Gypsy girl, who pressed in at the other side of the door; “here is the gentleman, not asleep, but only stretched out after dinner. Sit down on your ham, child, at the door, I shall do the same. There—you have seen me before, sir, have you not?”
“The gentleman makes no answer, bebee; perhaps he does not know you.”
“I have known him of old, Leonora,” said Mrs. Herne; “and, to tell you the truth, though I spoke to him just now, I expected no answer.”
“It’s a way he has, bebee,[170]I suppose?”
“Yes, child, it’s a way he has.”
“Take off your bonnet, bebee, perhaps he cannot see your face.”
“I do not think that will be of much use, child; however, I will take off my bonnet—there—and shake out my hair—there—you have seen this hair before, sir, and this face—”
“No answer, bebee.”
“Though the one was not quite so grey, nor the other so wrinkled.”
“How came they so, bebee?”
“All along of this Gorgio, child.”
“The gentleman in the house you mean, bebee.”
“Yes, child, the gentleman in the house. God grant that I may preserve my temper. Do you know, sir, my name? My name is Herne, which signifies a hairy individual, though neither grey-haired nor wrinkled. It is not the nature of the Hernes to be grey or wrinkled, even when they are old, and I am not old.”
“How old are you, bebee?”
“Sixty-five years, child—an inconsiderable number. My mother was a hundred and one—a considerable age—when she died, yet she had not one grey hair, and not more than six wrinkles—an inconsiderable number.”
“She had no griefs, bebee?”