Myself. I really cannot say; but with respect to the Hussar force, is it of Hungarian origin?
Hungarian. Its name shows its origin.Huz, in Hungarian, is twenty and the Hussar force is so called because it is formed of twentieths. A law was issued by which it was ordered that every Hungarian nobleman, out of every twenty dependants, should produce a well-equipped horseman, and with him proceed to the field of battle.
Myself. Why did Matyas capture Vienna?
Hungarian. Because the Emperor Frederick took part against him with the King of Poland, who claimed the kingdom of Hungary for his son, and had also assisted the Turk. He captured it in the year 1487, but did not survive his triumph long, expiring there in the year 1490. He was so veracious a man, that it was said of him, after his death, “Truth died with Matyas”. It might be added that the glory of Hungary departed with him. I wish to say nothing more connected with Hungarian history.
Myself. Another word. Did Matyas leave a son?
Hungarian. A natural son, Hunyadi John, called so after the great man. He would have been universally acknowledged as King of Hungary but for the illegitimacy of his birth. As it was, Ulaszlo, the son of the King of Poland, afterwards called Ulaszlo the Second, who claimed Hungary as being descended from Albert, was nominated king by a great majority of the Magyar electors. Hunyadi John for some time disputed the throne with him; there was some bloodshed, but Hunyadi John eventually submitted, and became the faithful captain of Ulaszlo, notwithstanding that the Turk offered to assist him with an army of two hundred thousand men.
Myself. Go on.
Hungarian. To what? Tché Drak, to theMohacs Veszedelem. Ulaszlo left a son, Lajos the Second, born without skin, as it issaid; certainly without a head. He, contrary to the advice of all his wise counsellors,—and amongst them was Batory Stephen, who became eventually King of Poland—engaged, with twenty-five thousand men, at Mohacs, Soliman the Turk, who had an army of two hundred thousand. Drak! the Magyars were annihilated, King Lajos disappeared with his heavy horse and armour in a bog. We call that battle, which was fought on the 29th of August, 1526, the destruction of Mohacs, but it was the destruction of Hungary.
Myself. You have twice used the worddrak, what is the meaning of it? Is it Hungarian?
Hungarian. No! it belongs to the mad Wallacks. They are a nation of madmen on the other side of Transylvania. Their country was formerly a fief of Hungary, like Moldavia, which is inhabited by the same race, who speak the same language and are equally mad.
Myself. What language do they speak?
Hungarian. A strange mixture of Latin and Sclavonian—they themselves being a mixed race of Romans and Sclavonians. Trajan sent certain legions to form military colonies in Dacia; and the present Wallacks and Moldavians are, to a certain extent, the descendants of the Roman soldiers, who married the women of the country. I say to a certain extent, for the Sclavonian element both in blood and language seems to prevail.
Myself. And what isdrak?
Hungarian. Dragon; which the Wallacks use for “devil”. The term is curious, as it shows that the old Romans looked upon the dragon as an infernal being.
Myself. You have been in Wallachia?
Hungarian. I have, and glad I was to get out of it. I hate the mad Wallacks.
Myself. Why do you call them mad?
Hungarian. They are always drinking or talking. I never saw a Wallachian eating or silent. They talk like madmen, and drink like madmen. In drinking they use small phials, the contents of which they pour down their throats. When I first went amongst them I thought the whole nation was under a course of physic, but the terrible jabber of their tongues soon undeceived me.Drakwas the first word I heard on entering Dacia, and the last when I left it. The Moldaves, if possible, drink more, and talk more than the Wallachians.
Myself. It is singular enough that the only Moldavian I have known could not speak. I suppose he was born dumb.
Hungarian. A Moldavian born dumb! Excuse me, the thing is impossible,—all Moldavians are born talking! I have known a Moldavian who could not speak, but he was not born dumb. His master, an Armenian, snipped off part of his tongue at Adrianople. He drove him mad with his jabber. He is now in London, where his master has a house. I have letters of credit on the house: the clerk paid me money in London, the master was absent; the money which you received for the horse belonged to that house.
Myself. Another word with respect to Hungarian history.
Hungarian. Drak! I wish to say nothing more about Hungarian history.
Myself. The Turk, I suppose, after Mohacs, got possession of Hungary?
Hungarian. Not exactly. The Turk, upon the whole, showed great moderation; not so the Austrian. Ferdinand the First claimed the crown of Hungary as being the cousin of Maria, widow of Lajos; he found too many disposed to support him. His claim, however, was resisted by Zapolya John, a Hungarian magnate, who caused himself to be elected king. Hungary was for a long time devastated by wars between the partisans of Zapolya and Ferdinand. At last Zapolya called in the Turk. Soliman behaved generously to him, and after his death befriended his young son, and Isabella his queen; eventually the Turks became masters of Transylvania and the greater part of Hungary. They were not bad masters, and had many friends in Hungary, especially amongst those of the reformed faith, to which I have myself the honour of belonging; those of the reformed faith found the Mufti more tolerant than the Pope. Many Hungarians went with the Turks to the siege of Vienna, whilst Tekeli and his horsemen guarded Hungary for them. A gallant enterprise that siege of Vienna, the last great effort of the Turk; it failed and he speedily lost Hungary, but he did not sneak from Hungary like a frightened hound. His defence of Buda will not be soon forgotten, where Apty Basha, the governor, died fighting like a lion in the breach. There’s many a Hungarian would prefer Stamboul to Vienna. Why does your Government always send fools to represent it at Vienna?
Myself. I have already told you that I cannot say. What became of Tekeli?
Hungarian. When Hungary was lost he retired with the Turks into Turkey. Count Renoncourt, in hisMemoirs, mentions having seen him at Adrianople. The Sultan, in consideration of theservices which he had rendered to the Moslem in Hungary, made over the revenues of certain towns and districts for his subsistence. The count says that he always went armed to the teeth, and was always attended by a young female dressed in male attire, who had followed him in his wars, and had more than once saved his life. His end is wrapped in mystery, I—whose greatest boast, next to being a Hungarian, is to be of his blood—know nothing of his end.
Myself. Allow me to ask who you are?
Hungarian.Egy szegeny Magyar Nemes ember, a poor Hungarian nobleman, son of one yet poorer. I was born in Transylvania, not far to the west of good Coloscvar. I served some time in the Austrian army as a noble Hussar, but am now equerry to a great nobleman, to whom I am distantly related. In his service I have travelled far and wide, buying horses. I have been in Russia and in Turkey, and am now at Horncastle, where I have had the satisfaction to meet with you, and to buy your horse, which is, in truth, a noble brute.
Myself. For a soldier and equerry you seem to know a great deal of the history of your country.
Hungarian. All I know is derived from Florentius of Buda, whom we call Budai Ferentz. He was professor of Greek and Latin at the Reformed College of Debreczen, where I was educated; he wrote a work entitledMagyar Polgari Lexicon, Lives of Great Hungarian Citizens. He was dead before I was born, but I found his book, when I was a child, in the solitary home of my father, which stood on the confines of apuszta, or wilderness, and that book I used to devour in winter nights when the winds were whistling around the house. Oh! how my blood used to glow at the descriptions of Magyar valour, and likewise of Turkish; for Florentius has always done justice to the Turk. Many a passage similar to this have I got by heart; it is connected with a battle on the plain of Rigo, which Hunyadi lost: “The next day, which was Friday, as the two armies were drawn up in battle array, a Magyar hero, riding forth, galloped up and down, challenging the Turks to single combat. Then came out to meet him the son of a renowned bashaw of Asia; rushing upon each other, both broke their lances, but the Magyar hero and his horse rolled over upon the ground, for the Turks had always the best horses.” O young man of Horncastle! if ever you learn Hungarian—and learn it assuredly you will after what I have told you—read the book of Florentius of Buda, even if you go to Hungary to get it, for you will scarcely find it elsewhere, and even there with difficulty,for the book has been long out of print. It describes the actions of the great men of Hungary down to the middle of the sixteenth century; and besides being written in the purest Hungarian, has the merit of having for its author a professor of the Reformed College at Debreczen.
Myself. I will go to Hungary rather than not read it. I am glad that the Turk beat the Magyar. When I used to read the ballads of Spain I always sided with the Moor against the Christian.
Hungarian. It was a drawn fight after all, for the terrible horse of the Turk presently flung his own master, whereupon the two champions returned to their respective armies; but in the grand conflict which ensued, the Turks beat the Magyars, pursuing them till night, and striking them on the necks with their scimitars. The Turk is a noble fellow; I should wish to be a Turk, were I not a Magyar.
Myself. The Turk always keeps his word, I am told.
Hungarian. Which the Christian very seldom does, and even the Hungarian does not always. In 1444 Ulaszlo made, at Szeged, peace with Amurath for ten years, which he swore with an oath to keep, but at the instigation of the Pope Julian he broke it, and induced his great captain, Hunyadi John, to share in the perjury. The consequence was the battle of Varna, of the 10th of November, in which Hunyadi was routed, and Ulaszlo slain. Did you ever hear his epitaph? it is both solemn and edifying:—
Romulidæ Cannas ego Varnam clade notavi;Discite mortales non temerare fidem:Me nisi Pontifices jussissent rumpere fœdusNon ferret Scythicum Pannonis ora jugum.
Romulidæ Cannas ego Varnam clade notavi;Discite mortales non temerare fidem:Me nisi Pontifices jussissent rumpere fœdusNon ferret Scythicum Pannonis ora jugum.
“Halloo!” said the jockey, starting up from a doze in which he had been indulging for the last hour, his head leaning upon his breast, “what is that? That’s not High Dutch; I bargained for High Dutch, and I left you speaking what I believed to be High Dutch, as it sounded very much like the language of horses, as I have been told High Dutch does; but as for what you are speaking now, whatever you may call it, it sounds more like the language of another kind of animal. I suppose you want to insult me, because I was once a dicky-boy.”
“Nothing of the kind,” said I; “the gentleman was making a quotation in Latin.”
“Latin, was it?” said the jockey; “that alters the case. Latin is genteel, and I have sent my eldest boy to an academy tolearn it. Come, let us hear you fire away in Latin,” he continued, proceeding to relight his pipe, which, before going to sleep, he had laid on the table.
“If you wish to follow the discourse in Latin,” said the Hungarian, in very bad English, “I can oblige you; I learned to speak very good Latin in the college of Debreczen.”
“That’s more,” said I, “than I have done in the colleges where I have been; in any little conversation which we may yet have, I wish you would use German.”
“Well,” said the jockey, taking a whiff, “make your conversation as short as possible, whether in Latin or Dutch, for, to tell you the truth, I am rather tired of merely playing listener.”
“You were saying you had been in Russia,” said I; “I believe the Russians are part of the Sclavonian race.”
Hungarian. Yes, part of the great Sclavonian family; one of the most numerous races in the world. The Russians themselves are very numerous; would that the Magyars could boast of the fifth part of their number!
Myself. What is the number of the Magyars?
Hungarian. Barely four millions. We came a tribe of Tartars into Europe, and settled down amongst Sclavonians, whom we conquered, but who never coalesced with us. The Austrian at present plays in Pannonia the Sclavonian against us, and us against the Sclavonian; but the downfall of the Austrian is at hand; they, like us, are not a numerous people.
Myself. Who will bring about his downfall?
Hungarian. The Russians. The Rysckie Tsar will lead his people forth, all the Sclavonians will join him, he will conquer all before him.
Myself. Are the Russians good soldiers?
Hungarian. They are stubborn and unflinching to an astonishing degree, and their fidelity to their Tsar is quite admirable. See how the Russians behaved at Plescova, in Livonia, in the old time, against our great Batory Stephen; they defended the place till it was a heap of rubbish, and mark how they behaved after they had been made prisoners. Stephen offered them two alternatives: to enter into his service, in which they would have good pay, clothing and fair treatment; or to be allowed to return to Russia. Without the slightest hesitation they, to a man, chose the latter, though well aware that their beloved Tsar, the cruel Ivan Basilowits, would put them all to death, amidst tortures the most horrible, for not doing what was impossible—preserving the town.
Myself. You speak Russian?
Hungarian. A little. I was born in the vicinity of a Sclavonian tribe; the servants of our house were Sclavonians, and I early acquired something of their language, which differs not much from that of Russia; when in that country I quickly understood what was said.
Myself. Have the Russians any literature?
Hungarian. Doubtless; but I am not acquainted with it, as I do not read their language; but I know something of their popular tales, to which I used to listen in theirizbushkas; a principal personage in these is a creation quite original—called Baba Yaga.
Myself. Who is Baba Yaga?
Hungarian. A female phantom, who is described as hurrying along thepuszta, or steppe, in a mortar, pounding with a pestle at a tremendous rate, and leaving a long trace on the ground behind her with her tongue, which is three yards long, and with which she seizes any men and horses coming in her way, swallowing them down into her capacious belly. She has several daughters, very handsome, and with plenty of money; happy the young Mujik who catches and marries one of them, for they make excellent wives.
“Many thanks,” said I, “for the information you have afforded me: this is rather poor wine,” I observed, as I poured out a glass; “I suppose you have better wine in Hungary?”
“Yes, we have better wine in Hungary. First of all there is Tokay, the most celebrated in the world, though I confess I prefer the wine of Eger—Tokay is too sweet.”
“Have you ever been at Tokay?”
“I have,” said the Hungarian.
“What kind of place is Tokay?”
“A small town situated on the Tyzza, a rapid river descending from the north; the Tokay Mountain is just behind the town, which stands on the right bank. The top of the mountain is called Kopacs Teto, or the bald tip; the hill is so steep that during thunderstorms pieces of it frequently fall down upon the roofs of the houses. It was planted with vines by King Lajos, who ascended the throne in the year 1342. The best wine called Tokay is, however, not made at Tokay, but at Kassau, two leagues farther into the Carpathians, of which Tokay is a spur. If you wish to drink the best Tokay, you must go to Vienna, to which place all the prime is sent. For the third time I ask you, O young man of Horncastle! why does your Government always send fools to represent it at Vienna?”
“And for the third time I tell you, O son of Almus! that I cannot say; perhaps, however, to drink the sweet Tokay wine; fools, you know, always like sweet things.”
“Good,” said the Hungarian; “it must be so, and when I return to Hungary, I will state to my countrymen your explanation of a circumstance which has frequently caused them great perplexity. Oh! the English are a clever people, and have a deep meaning in all they do. What a vision of deep policy opens itself to my view! they do not send their fool to Vienna in order to gape at processions, and to bow and scrape at a base Papist court, but to drink at the great dinners the celebrated Tokay of Hungary, which the Hungarians, though they do not drink it, are very proud of, and by doing so to intimate the sympathy which the English entertain for their fellow religionists of Hungary. Oh! the English are a deep people.”
Thepipe of the Hungarian had, for some time past, exhibited considerable symptoms of exhaustion, little or no ruttling having been heard in the tube, and scarcely a particle of smoke, drawn through the syphon, having been emitted from the lips of the possessor. He now rose from his seat, and going to a corner of the room, placed his pipe against the wall, then striding up and down the room, he cracked his fingers several times, exclaiming, in a half-musing manner: “Oh, the deep nation, which, in order to display its sympathy for Hungary, sends its fool to Vienna, to drink the sweet wine of Tokay!”
The jockey, having looked for some time at the tall figure with evident approbation, winked at me with that brilliant eye of his on which there was no speck, saying: “Did you ever see a taller fellow?”
“Never,” said I.
“Or a finer?”
“That’s another question,” said I, “which I am not so willing to answer; however, as I am fond of truth, and scorn to flatter, I will take the liberty of saying that I have seen a finer.”
“A finer! where?” said the jockey; whilst the Hungarian, who appeared to understand what we said, stood still, and looked full at me.
“Amongst a strange set of people,” said I, “whom, if I were to name, you would, I daresay, only laugh at me.”
“Who be they?” said the jockey. “Come, don’t be ashamed; I have occasionally kept queerish company myself.”
“The people whom we call gypsies,” said I; “whom the Germans call Zigeuner, and who call themselves Romany chals.”
“Zigeuner!” said the Hungarian; “by Isten! I do know those people.”
“Romany chals!” said the jockey; “whew! I begin to smell a rat.”
“What do you mean by smelling a rat?” said I.
“I’ll bet a crown,” said the jockey, “that you be the young chap what certain folks call ‘the Romany Rye’.”
“Ah!” said I, “how came you to know that name?”
“Be not you he?” said the jockey.
“Why, I certainly have been called by that name.”
“I could have sworn it,” said the jockey; then rising from his chair, he laid his pipe on the table, took a large hand-bell which stood on the sideboard, and going to the door, opened it, and commenced ringing in a most tremendous manner on the staircase. The noise presently brought up a waiter, to whom the jockey vociferated, “Go to your master, and tell him to send immediately three bottles of champagne, of the pink kind, mind you, which is twelve guineas a dozen”; the waiter hurried away, and the jockey resumed his seat and his pipe. I sat in silent astonishment until the waiter returned with a basket containing the wine, which, with three long glasses, he placed on the table. The jockey then got up, and going to a large bow window at the end of the room, which looked into a courtyard, peeped out; then saying, “the coast is clear,” he shut down the principal sash which was open for the sake of the air, and taking up a bottle of champagne, he placed another in the hands of the Hungarian, to whom he said something in private. The latter, who seemed to understand him, answered by a nod. The two then going to the end of the table fronting the window, and about eight paces from it, stood before it, holding the bottles by their necks; suddenly the jockey lifted up his arm. “Surely,” said I, “you are not mad enough to fling that bottle through the window?” “Here’s to the Romany Rye; here’s to the sweet master,” said the jockey, dashing the bottle through a pane in so neat a manner that scarcely a particle of glass fell into the room.
“Eljen edes csigany ur—eljen gul eray!” said the Hungarian, swinging round his bottle, and discharging it at the window; but, either not possessing the jockey’s accuracy of aim, or reckless of consequences, he flung his bottle so, that it struck against part of the wooden setting of the panes, breaking along with the wood and itself three or four panes to pieces. The crash was horrid, and wine and particles of glass flew back into the room, to the no small danger of its inmates. “What do you think of that?” said the jockey; “were you ever so honoured before?” “Honoured!” said I. “God preserve me in future from such honour;” and I put my finger to my cheek, which was slightly hurt by a particle of the glass. “That’s the way we of the cofrady honour great men at Horncastle,” said the jockey. “What, you are hurt! never mind; all the better; your scratch shows that you are the body the compliment was paid to.” “And what are you goingto do with the other bottle?” said I. “Do with it!” said the jockey, “why, drink it, cosily and comfortably, whilst holding a little quiet talk. The Romany Rye at Horncastle, what an idea!”
“And what will the master of the house say to all this damage which you have caused him!”
“What will your master say, William?” said the jockey to the waiter, who had witnessed the singular scene just described without exhibiting the slightest mark of surprise. William smiled, and slightly shrugging his shoulders, replied: “Very little, I dare say, sir; this a’n’t the first time your honour has done a thing of this kind”. “Nor will it be the first time that I shall have paid for it,” said the jockey; “well, I shall never have paid for a certain item in the bill with more pleasure than I shall pay for it now. Come, William, draw the cork, and let us taste the pink champagne.”
The waiter drew the cork, and filled the glasses with a pinky liquor, which bubbled, hissed and foamed. “How do you like it?” said the jockey, after I had imitated the example of my companions, by despatching my portion at a draught.
“It is wonderful wine,” said I; “I have never tasted champagne before, though I have frequently heard it praised; it more than answers my expectations; but, I confess, I should not wish to be obliged to drink it every day.”
“Nor I,” said the jockey, “for everyday drinking give me a glass of old port, or—”
“Of hard old ale,” I interposed, “which, according to my mind, is better than all the wine in the world.”
“Well said, Romany Rye,” said the jockey, “just my own opinion; now, William, make yourself scarce.”
The waiter withdrew, and I said to the jockey: “How did you become acquainted with the Romany chals?”
“I first became acquainted with them,” said the jockey, “when I lived with old Fulcher the basketmaker, who took me up when I was adrift upon the world; I do not mean the present Fulcher, who is likewise called old Fulcher, but his father, who has been dead this many a year; while living with him in the caravan, I frequently met them in the green lanes, and of latter years I have had occasional dealings with them in the horse line.”
“And the gypsies have mentioned me to you?” said I.
“Frequently,” said the jockey, “and not only those of these parts; why, there’s scarcely a part of England in which I have not heard the name of the Romany Rye mentioned by thesepeople. The power you have over them is wonderful; that is, I should have thought it wonderful, had they not more than once told me the cause.”
“And what is the cause?” said I, “for I am sure I do not know.”
“The cause is this,” said the jockey, “they never heard a bad word proceed from your mouth, and never knew you do a bad thing.”
“They are a singular people,” said I.
“And what a singular language they have got,” said the jockey.
“Do you know it?” said I.
“Only a few words,” said the jockey; “they were always chary in teaching me any.”
“They were vary sherry to me to,” said the Hungarian, speaking in broken English; “I only could learn from them half a dozen words, for example,gul eray, which, in the czigany of my country, means sweet gentleman, oredes urin my own Magyar.”
“Gudlo Rye, in the Romany of mine, means a sugar’d gentleman,” said I; “then there are gypsies in your country?”
“Plenty,” said the Hungarian, speaking German, “and in Russia and Turkey too; and wherever they are found, they are alike in their ways and language. Oh, they are a strange race, and how little known! I know little of them, but enough to say that one horse-load of nonsense has been written about them; there is one Valter Scott—”
“Mind what you say about him,” said I; “he is our grand authority in matters of philology and history.”
“A pretty philologist,” said the Hungarian, “who makes the gypsies speak Roth-Welsch, the dialect of thieves; a pretty historian, who couples together Thor and Tzernebock.”
“Where does he do that?” said I.
“In his conceited romance ofIvanhoe, he couples Thor and Tzernebock together, and calls them gods of the heathen Saxons.”
“Well,” said I, “Thur or Thor was certainly a god of the heathen Saxons.”
“True,” said the Hungarian; “but why couple him with Tzernebock? Tzernebock was a word which your Valter had picked up somewhere without knowing the meaning. Tzernebock was no god of the Saxons, but one of the gods of the Sclaves, on the southern side of the Baltic. The Sclaves had two grand gods to whom they sacrificed, Tzernebock and Bielebock; that is, the black and white gods, who represented the powers of dark andlight. They were overturned by Waldemar, the Dane, the great enemy of the Sclaves; the account of whose wars you will find in one fine old book, written by Saxo Gramaticus, which I read in the library of the college of Debreczen. The Sclaves, at one time, were masters of all the southern shore of the Baltic, where their descendants are still to be found, though they have lost their language, and call themselves Germans; but the word Zernevitz near Dantzic, still attests that the Sclavic language was once common in those parts. Zernevitz means the thing of blackness, as Tzernebock means the god of blackness. Prussia itself merely means, in Sclavish, Lower Russia. There is scarcely a race or language in the world more extended than the Sclavic. On the other side of the Dunau you will find the Sclaves and their language. Czernavoda is Sclavic, and means black water; in Turkish,kara su; even as Tzernebock means black god; and Belgrade, or Belograd, means the white town, even as Bielebock, or Bielebog, means the white god. Oh! he is one great ignorant, that Valter. He is going, they say, to write one history about Napoleon. I do hope that in his history he will couple his Thor and Tzernebock together. By my God! it would be good diversion that.”
“Walter Scott appears to be no particular favourite of yours,” said I.
“He is not,” said the Hungarian; “I hate him for his slavish principles. He wishes to see absolute power restored in this country, and Popery also—and I hate him because—what do you think? In one of his novels, published a few months ago, he has the insolence to insult Hungary in the person of one of her sons. He makes his great braggart, Cœur de Lion, fling a Magyar over his head. Ha! it was well for Richard that he never felt the gripe of a Hungarian. I wish the braggart could have felt the grip of me, who am ‘a’ magyarok közt legkissebb,’ the least among the Magyars. I do hate that Scott, and all his vile gang of Lowlanders and Highlanders. The black corps, thefeketeregiment of Matyas Hunyadi, was worth all the Scots, high or low, that ever pretended to be soldiers; and would have sent them all headlong into the Black Sea, had they dared to confront it on its shores; but why be angry with an ignorant, who couples together Thor and Tzernebock? Ha! Ha!”
“You have read his novels?” said I.
“Yes, I read them now and then. I do not speak much English, but I can read it well, and I have read some of hisromances and mean to read hisNapoleon, in the hope of finding Thor and Tzernebock coupled together in it, as in his high-flyingIvanhoe.”
“Come,” said the jockey, “no more Dutch, whether high or low. I am tired of it; unless we can have some English, I am off to bed.”
“I should be very glad to hear some English,” said I, “especially from your mouth. Several things which you have mentioned, have awakened my curiosity. Suppose you give us your history?”
“My history?” said the jockey. “A rum idea! however, less conversation should lag, I’ll give it you. First of all, however, a glass of champagne to each.”
After we had each taken a glass of champagne, the jockey commenced his history.
“Mygrandfather was a shorter, and my father was a smasher; the one was scragg’d, and the other lagg’d.”
I here interrupted the jockey by observing that his discourse was, for the greater part, unintelligible to me.
“I do not understand much English,” said the Hungarian, who, having replenished and resumed his mighty pipe, was now smoking away; “but, by Isten, I believe it is the gibberish which that great ignorant Valter Scott puts into the mouth of the folks he calls gypsies.”
“Something like it, I confess,” said I, “though this sounds more genuine than his dialect, which he picked up out of the canting vocabulary at the end of theEnglish Rogue, a book which, however despised, was written by a remarkable genius. What do you call the speech you were using?” said I, addressing myself to the jockey.
“Latin,” said the jockey very coolly; “that is, that dialect of it which is used by the light-fingered gentry.”
“He is right,” said the Hungarian; “it is what the Germans call Roth-Welsch: they call it so because there are a great many Latin words in it, introduced by the priests, who, at the time of the Reformation, being too lazy to work and too stupid to preach, joined the bands of thieves and robbers who prowled about the country. Italy, as you are aware, is called by the Germans Welschland, or the land of the Welschers; and I may add that Wallachia derives its name from a colony of Welschers which Trajan sent there. Welsch and Wallack being one and the same word, and tantamount to Latin.”
“I dare say you are right,” said I; “but why was Italy termed Welschland?”
“I do not know,” said the Hungarian.
“Then I think I can tell you,” said I; “it was called so because the original inhabitants were a Cimbric tribe, who were called Gwyltiad, that is, a race of wild people, living in coverts, who were of the same blood, and spoke the same language as the present inhabitants of Wales. Welsh seemsmerely a modification of Gwyltiad. Pray, continue your history,” said I to the jockey, “only please to do so in a language which we can understand, and first of all interpret the sentence with which you began it.”
“I told you that my grandfather was a shorter,” said the jockey, “by which is meant a gentleman who shortens or reduces the current coin of these realms, for which practice he was scragged, that is, hung by the scrag of the neck. And when I said that my father was a smasher, I meant one who passes forged notes, thereby doing his best to smash the Bank of England; by being lagged, I meant he was laid fast, that is, had a chain put round his leg and then transported.”
“Your explanations are perfectly satisfactory,” said I; “the three first words are metaphorical, and the fourth, lagged, is the old genuine Norse term, lagda, which signifies laid, whether in durance, or in bed, has nothing to do with the matter. What you have told me confirms me in an opinion which I have long entertained, that thieves’ Latin is a strange, mysterious speech, formed of metaphorical terms, and words derived from various ancient languages. Pray, tell me, now, how the gentleman, your grandfather, contrived to shorten the coin of these realms?”
“You shall hear,” said the jockey; “but I have one thing to beg of you, which is, that when I have once begun my history you will not interrupt me with questions. I don’t like them, they stops one, and puts one out of one’s tale, and are not wanted; for anything which I think can’t be understood, I should myself explain, without being asked. My grandfather reduced or shortened the coin of this country by three processes: by aquafortis, by clipping and by filing. Filing and clipping he employed in reducing all kinds of coin, whether gold or silver; but aquafortis he used merely in reducing gold coin, whether guineas, jacobuses or Portugal pieces, otherwise called moidores, which were at one time as current as guineas. By laying a guinea in aquafortis for twelve hours, he could filch from it to the value of ninepence, and by letting it remain there for twenty-four to the value of eighteenpence, the aquafortis eating the gold away, and leaving it like a sediment in the vessel. He was generally satisfied with taking the value of ninepence from a guinea, of eighteenpence from a jacobus or moidore, or half a crown from a broad Spanish piece, whether he reduced them by aquafortis, filing or clipping. From a five-shilling piece, which is called a bull in Latin, because it is round like a bull’s head, he would file or clip to the value of fivepence, and from lesser coin in proportion. He was connectedwith a numerous gang, or set, of people, who had given up their minds and talents entirely to shortening.”
Here I interrupted the jockey. “How singular,” said I, “is the fall and debasement of words; you talk of a gang, or set, of shorters; you are, perhaps, not aware that gang and set were, a thousand years ago, only connected with the great and Divine; they are ancient Norse words, which may be found in the heroic poems of the north, and in the Edda, a collection of mythologic and heroic songs. In these poems we read that such and such a king invaded Norway with a gang of heroes; or so and so, for example, Erik Bloodaxe, was admitted to the set of gods; but at present gang and set are merely applied to the vilest of the vile, and the lowest of the low,—we say a gang of thieves and shorters, or a set of authors. How touching is this debasement of words in the course of time; it puts me in mind of the decay of old houses and names. I have known a Mortimer who was a hedger and ditcher, a Berners who was born in a workhouse, and a descendant of the De Burghs, who bore the falcon, mending old kettles, and making horse and pony shoes in a dingle.”
“Odd enough,” said the jockey; “but you were saying you knew one Berners—man or woman? I would ask.”
“A woman,” said I.
“What might her Christian name be?” said the jockey.
“It is not to be mentioned lightly,” said I with a sigh.
“I shouldn’t wonder if it were Isopel,” said the jockey with an arch glance of his one brilliant eye.
“It was Isopel,” said I; “did you know Isopel Berners?”
“Aye, and have reason to know her,” said the jockey, putting his hand into his left waistcoat pocket, as if to feel for something, “for she gave me what I believe few men could do—a most confounded whopping. But now, Mr. Romany Rye, I have again to tell you that I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m speaking, and to add that if you break in upon me a third time, you and I shall quarrel.”
“Pray, proceed with your story,” said I; “I will not interrupt you again.”
“Good!” said the jockey. “Where was I? Oh, with a set of people who had given up their minds to shortening! Reducing the coin, though rather a lucrative, was a very dangerous trade. Coin filed felt rough to the touch; coin clipped could be easily detected by the eye; and as for coin reduced by aquafortis, it was generally so discoloured that, unless a great deal of pains was used to polish it, people were apt to stare at it in a strangemanner, and to say: ‘What have they been doing to this here gold?’ My grandfather, as I said before, was connected with a gang of shorters, and sometimes shortened money, and at other times passed off what had been shortened by other gentry.
“Passing off what had been shortened by others was his ruin; for once, in trying to pass off a broad piece which had been laid in aquafortis for four-and-twenty hours, and was very black, not having been properly rectified, he was stopped and searched, and other reduced coins being found about him, and in his lodgings, he was committed to prison, tried and executed. He was offered his life, provided he would betray his comrades; but he told the big-wigs, who wanted him to do so, that he would see them farther first, and died at Tyburn, amidst the cheers of the populace, leaving my grandmother and father, to whom he had always been a kind husband and parent—for, setting aside the crime for which he suffered, he was a moral man—leaving them, I say, to bewail his irreparable loss.
“’Tis said that misfortune never comes alone; this is, however, not always the case. Shortly after my grandfather’s misfortune, as my grandmother and her son were living in great misery in Spitalfields, her only relation—a brother from whom she had been estranged some years, on account of her marriage with my grandfather, who had been in an inferior station to herself—died, leaving all his property to her and the child. This property consisted of a farm of about a hundred acres, with its stock, and some money besides. My grandmother, who knew something of business, instantly went into the country, where she farmed the property for her own benefit and that of her son, to whom she gave an education suitable to a person in his condition, till he was old enough to manage the farm himself. Shortly after the young man came of age, my grandmother died, and my father, in about a year, married the daughter of a farmer, from whom he expected some little fortune, but who very much deceived him, becoming a bankrupt almost immediately after the marriage of his daughter, and himself and family going to the workhouse.
“My mother, however, made my father an excellent wife; and if my father in the long run did not do well it was no fault of hers. My father was not a bad man by nature; he was of an easy, generous temper—the most unfortunate temper, by-the-bye, for success in this life that any person can be possessed of, as those who have it are almost sure to be made dupes of by the designing. But, though easy and generous, he was anything but a fool; he had a quick and witty tongue of his own whenhe chose to exert it, and woe be to those who insulted him openly, for there was not a better boxer in the whole country round. My parents were married several years before I came into the world, who was their first and only child. I may be called an unfortunate creature; I was born with this beam or scale on my left eye, which does not allow me to see with it; and though I can see tolerably sharply with the other, indeed more than most people can with both of theirs, it is a great misfortune not to have two eyes like other people. Moreover, setting aside the affair of my eye, I had a very ugly countenance, my mouth being slightly wrung aside, and my complexion rather swarthy. In fact, I looked so queer that the gossips and neighbours, when they first saw me, swore I was a changeling—perhaps it would have been well if I had never been born; for my poor father, who had been particularly anxious to have a son, no sooner saw me than he turned away, went to the neighbouring town, and did not return for two days. I am by no means certain that I was not the cause of his ruin, for till I came into the world he was fond of his home, and attended much to business, but afterwards he went frequently into company and did not seem to care much about his affairs: he was, however, a kind man, and when his wife gave him advice never struck her, nor do I ever remember that he kicked me when I came in his way, or so much as cursed my ugly face, though it was easy to see that he didn’t over-like me. When I was six years old I was sent to the village school, where I was soon booked for a dunce, because the master found it impossible to teach me either to read or write. Before I had been at school two years, however, I had beaten boys four years older than myself, and could fling a stone with my left hand (for if I am right-eyed I am left-handed) higher and farther than any one in the parish. Moreover, no boy could equal me at riding, and no people ride so well or desperately as boys. I could ride a donkey—a thing far more difficult to ride than a horse—at full galop over hedges and ditches, seated, or rather floating upon his hinder part; so, though anything but clever, as this here Romany Rye would say, I was yet able to do things which few other people could do. By the time I was ten my father’s affairs had got into a very desperate condition, for he had taken to gambling and horse-racing, and, being unsuccessful, had sold his stock, mortgaged his estate, and incurred very serious debts. The upshot was, that within a little time all he had was seized, himself imprisoned, and my mother and myself put into a cottage belonging to the parish, which, being very cold anddamp, was the cause of her catching a fever, which speedily carried her off. I was then bound apprentice to a farmer, in whose service I underwent much coarse treatment, cold and hunger.
“After lying in prison near two years, my father was liberated by an Act for the benefit of insolvent debtors; he was then lost sight of for some time; at last, however, he made his appearance in the neighbourhood dressed like a gentleman, and seemingly possessed of plenty of money. He came to see me, took me into a field, and asked me how I was getting on. I told him I was dreadfully used, and begged him to take me away with him; he refused, and told me to be satisfied with my condition, for that he could do nothing for me. I had a great love for my father, and likewise a great admiration for him on account of his character as a boxer, the only character which boys in general regard, so I wished much to be with him, independently of the dog’s life I was leading where I was; I therefore said if he would not take me with him, I would follow him; he replied that I must do no such thing, for that if I did, it would be my ruin. I asked him what he meant, but he made no reply, only saying that he would go and speak to the farmer. Then taking me with him, he went to the farmer, and in a very civil manner said that he understood I had not been very kindly treated by him, but he hoped that in future I should be used better. The farmer answered in a surly tone, that I had been only too well treated, for that I was a worthless young scoundrel; high words ensued, and the farmer, forgetting the kind of man he had to deal with, checked him with my grandsire’s misfortune, and said he deserved to be hanged like his father. In a moment my father knocked him down, and on his getting up, gave him a terrible beating, then taking me by the hand he hastened away; as we were going down a lane he said we were now both done for. ‘I don’t care a straw for that, father,’ said I, ‘provided I be with you.’ My father took me to the neighbouring town, and going into the yard of a small inn, he ordered out a pony and light cart which belonged to him, then paying his bill, he told me to mount upon the seat, and getting up drove away like lightning; we drove for at least six hours without stopping, till we came to a cottage by the side of a heath; we put the pony and cart into a shed, and went into the cottage, my father unlocking the door with a key which he took out of his pocket; there was nobody in the cottage when we arrived, but shortly after there came a man and woman, and then some more people, and by ten o’clock at night there were a dozen ofus in the cottage. The people were companions of my father. My father began talking to them in Latin, but I did not understand much of the discourse, though I believe it was about myself, as their eyes were frequently turned to me. Some objections appeared to be made to what he said; however, all at last seemed to be settled, and we all sat down to some food. After that, all the people got up and went away, with the exception of the woman, who remained with my father and me. The next day my father also departed, leaving me with the woman, telling me before he went that she would teach me some things which it behoved me to know. I remained with her in the cottage upwards of a week; several of those who had been there coming and going. The woman, after making me take an oath to be faithful, told me that the people whom I had seen were a gang who got their livelihood by passing forged notes, and that my father was a principal man amongst them, adding that I must do my best to assist them. I was a poor ignorant child at that time, and I made no objection, thinking that whatever my father did must be right; the woman then gave me some instructions in the smasher’s dialect of the Latin language. I made great progress, because, for the first time in my life, I paid great attention to my lessons. At last my father returned, and, after some conversation with the woman, took me away in his cart. I shall be very short about what happened to my father and myself during two years. My father did his best to smash the Bank of England by passing forged notes, and I did my best to assist him. We attended races and fairs in all kinds of disguises; my father was a first-rate hand at a disguise, and could appear of all ages, from twenty to fourscore; he was, however, grabbed at last. He had said, as I have told you, that he should be my ruin, but I was the cause of his, and all owing to the misfortune of this here eye of mine. We came to this very place of Horncastle, where my father purchased two horses of a young man, paying for them with three forged notes purporting to be Bank of Englanders of fifty pounds each, and got the young man to change another of the like amount; he at that time appeared as a respectable dealer and I as his son, as I really was.
“As soon as we had got the horses we conveyed them to one of the places of call belonging to our gang, of which there were several. There they were delivered into the hands of one of our companions, who speedily sold them in a distant part of the country. The sum which they fetched—for the gang kept very regularaccounts—formed an important item on the next day of sharing, of which there were twelve in the year. The young man, whom my father had paid for the horses with his smashing notes, was soon in trouble about them, and ran some risk, as I heard, of being executed; but he bore a good character, told a plain story, and, above all, had friends, and was admitted to bail; to one of his friends he described my father and myself. This person happened to be at an inn in Yorkshire, where my father, disguised as a Quaker, attempted to pass a forged note. The note was shown to this individual, who pronounced it a forgery, it being exactly similar to those for which the young man had been in trouble, and which he had seen. My father, however, being supposed a respectable man, because he was dressed as a Quaker—the very reason, by-the-bye why anybody who knew aught of the Quakers would have suspected him to be a rogue—would have been let go, had I not made my appearance, dressed as his footboy. The friend of the young man looked at my eye, and seized hold of my father, who made a desperate resistance, I assisting him as in duty bound. Being, however, overpowered by numbers, he bade me by a look, and a word or two in Latin, to make myself scarce. Though my heart was fit to break, I obeyed my father, who was speedily committed. I followed him to the county town in which he was lodged, where shortly after I saw him tried, convicted and condemned. I then, having made friends with the jailor’s wife, visited him in his cell, where I found him very much cast down. He said, that my mother had appeared to him in a dream, and talked to him about a resurrection and Christ Jesus; there was a Bible before him, and he told me the chaplain had just been praying with him. He reproached himself much, saying, he was afraid he had been my ruin, by teaching me bad habits. I told him not to say any such thing, for that I had been the cause of his, owing to the misfortune of my eye. He begged me to give over all unlawful pursuits, saying, that if persisted in, they were sure of bringing a person to destruction. I advised him to try and make his escape, proposing that when the turnkey came to let me out, he should knock him down, and fight his way out, offering to assist him, showing him a small saw, with which one of our companions, who was in the neighbourhood, had provided me, and with which he could have cut through his fetters in five minutes; but he told me he had no wish to escape, and was quite willing to die. I was rather hard at that time; I am not very soft now; and I felt rather ashamed of my father’s want of what I called spirit. He was not executed after all; forthe chaplain, who was connected with a great family, stood his friend and got his sentence commuted, as they call it, to transportation; and in order to make the matter easy, he induced my father to make some valuable disclosures with respect to the smashers’ system. I confess that I would have been hanged before I would have done so, after having reaped the profit of it; that is, I think so now, seated comfortably in my inn, with my bottle of champagne before me. He, however, did not show himself carrion; he would not betray his companions, who had behaved very handsomely to him, having given the son of a lord, a great barrister, not a hundred-pound forged bill, but a hundred hard guineas, to plead his cause, and another ten, to induce him, after pleading, to put his hand to his breast, and say that, upon his honour, he believed the prisoner at the bar to be an honest and injured man. No; I am glad to be able to say, that my father did not show himself exactly carrion, though I could almost have wished he had let himself— However, I am here with my bottle of champagne and the Romany Rye, and he was in his cell, with bread and water and the prison chaplain. He took an affectionate leave of me before he was sent away, giving me three out of five guineas, all the money he had left. He was a kind man, but not exactly fitted to fill my grandfather’s shoes. I afterwards learned that he died of fever, as he was being carried across the sea.
“During the ’sizes I had made acquaintance with old Fulcher. I was in the town on my father’s account, and he was there on his son’s, who, having committed a small larceny, was in trouble. Young Fulcher, however, unlike my father, got off, though he did not give the son of a lord a hundred guineas to speak for him, and ten more to pledge his sacred honour for his honesty, but gave Counsellor P— one-and-twenty shillings to defend him, who so frightened the principal evidence, a plain honest farming-man, that he flatly contradicted what he had first said, and at last acknowledged himself to be all the rogues in the world, and, amongst other things, a perjured villain. Old Fulcher, before he left the town with his son,—and here it will be well to say that he and his son left it in a kind of triumph, the base drummer of a militia regiment, to whom they had given half a crown, beating his drum before them—old Fulcher I say, asked me to go and visit him, telling me where, at such a time, I might find him and his caravan and family; offering, if I thought fit, to teach me basket-making: so, after my father had been sent off, I went and found up old Fulcher, and became his apprentice in the basket-makingline. I stayed with him till the time of his death, which happened in about three months, travelling about with him and his family, and living in green lanes, where we saw gypsies and trampers, and all kinds of strange characters. Old Fulcher, besides being an industrious basket-maker, was an out and out thief, as was also his son, and, indeed, every member of his family. They used to make baskets during the day, and thieve during a great part of the night. I had not been with them twelve hours, before old Fulcher told me that I must thieve as well as the rest. I demurred at first, for I remembered the fate of my father, and what he had told me about leaving off bad courses, but soon allowed myself to be over-persuaded, more especially as the first robbery I was asked to do was a fruit robbery. I was to go with young Fulcher, and steal some fine Morell cherries, which grew against a wall in a gentleman’s garden; so young Fulcher and I went and stole the cherries, one half of which we ate, and gave the rest to the old man, who sold them to a fruiterer ten miles off from the place where we had stolen them. The next night old Fulcher took me out with himself. He was a great thief, though in a small way. He used to say, that they were fools, who did not always manage to keep the rope below their shoulders, by which he meant, that it was not advisable to commit a robbery, or do anything which could bring you to the gallows. He was all for petty larceny, and knew where to put his hand upon any little thing in England, which it was possible to steal. I submit it to the better judgment of the Romany Rye, who I see is a great hand for words and names, whether he ought not to have been called old Filcher, instead of Fulcher. I shan’t give a regular account of the larcenies which he committed during the short time I knew him, either alone by himself, or with me and his son. I shall merely relate the last:—
“A melancholy gentleman, who lived a very solitary life, had a large carp in a shady pond in a meadow close to his house; he was exceedingly fond of it, and used to feed it with his own hand, the creature being so tame that it would put its snout out of the water to be fed when it was whistled to; feeding and looking at his carp were the only pleasures the poor melancholy gentleman possessed. Old Fulcher—being in the neighbourhood, and having an order from a fishmonger for a large fish, which was wanted at a great city dinner, at which His Majesty was to be present—swore he would steal the carp, and asked me to go with him. I had heard of the gentleman’s fondness for his creature, and begged him to let it be, advising him to go and steal some otherfish; but old Fulcher swore, and said he would have the carp, although its master should hang himself; I told him he might go by himself, but he took his son and stole the carp, which weighed seventeen pounds. Old Fulcher got thirty shillings for the carp, which I afterwards heard was much admired and relished by His Majesty. The master, however, of the carp, on losing his favourite, became more melancholy than ever, and in a little time hanged himself. ‘What’s sport for one, is death to another,’ I once heard at the village school read out of a copy-book.
“This was the last larceny old Fulcher ever committed. He could keep his neck always out of the noose, but he could not always keep his leg out of the trap. A few nights after, having removed to a distance, he went to an osier car in order to steal some osiers for his basket-making, for he never bought any. I followed a little way behind. Old Fulcher had frequently stolen osiers out of the car, whilst in the neighbourhood, but during his absence the property, of which the car was a part, had been let to a young gentleman, a great hand for preserving game. Old Fulcher had not got far into the car before he put his foot into a man-trap. Hearing old Fulcher shriek, I ran up, and found him in a dreadful condition. Putting a large stick which I carried into the jaws of the trap, I contrived to prize them open, and get old Fulcher’s leg out, but the leg was broken. So I ran to the caravan, and told young Fulcher of what had happened, and he and I went and helped his father home. A doctor was sent for, who said it was necessary to take the leg off, but old Fulcher, being very much afraid of pain, said it should not be taken off, and the doctor went away, but after some days, old Fulcher becoming worse, ordered the doctor to be sent for, who came and took off his leg, but it was then too late, mortification had come on, and in a little time old Fulcher died.
“Thus perished old Fulcher; he was succeeded in his business by his son, young Fulcher, who, immediately after the death of his father, was called old Fulcher, it being our English custom to call everybody old, as soon as their fathers are buried; young Fulcher—I mean he who had been called young, but was now old Fulcher—wanted me to go out and commit larcenies with him; but I told him that I would have nothing more to do with thieving, having seen the ill effects of it, and that I should leave them in the morning. Old Fulcher begged me to think better of it, and his mother joined with him. They offered, if I would stay, to give me Mary Fulcher as a mort, till she and I were old enough to be regularly married, she being the daughter of the one, andthe sister of the other. I liked the girl very well, for she had always been civil to me, and had a fair complexion and nice red hair, both of which I like, being a bit of a black myself; but I refused, being determined to see something more of the world than I could hope to do with the Fulchers, and moreover, to live honestly, which I could never do along with them. So the next morning I left them: I was, as I said before, quite determined upon an honest livelihood, and I soon found one. He is a great fool who is ever dishonest in England. Any person who has any natural gift, and everybody has some natural gift, is sure of finding encouragement in this noble country of ours, provided he will but exhibit it. I had not walked more than three miles before I came to a wonderfully high church steeple, which stood close by the road; I looked at the steeple, and going to a heap of smooth pebbles which lay by the roadside, I took up some, and then went into the churchyard, and placing myself just below the tower, my right foot resting on a ledge, about two feet from the ground, I, with my left hand—being a left-handed person, do you see—flung or chucked up a stone, which lighting on the top of the steeple, which was at least a hundred and fifty feet high, did there remain. After repeating this feat two or three times, I ‘hulled’ up a stone, which went clean over the tower, and then one, my right foot still on the ledge, which rising at least five yards above the steeple, did fall down just at my feet. Without knowing it, I was showing off my gift to others besides myself, doing what, perhaps, not five men in England could do. Two men, who were passing by, stopped and looked at my proceedings, and when I had done flinging came into the churchyard, and, after paying me a compliment on what they had seen me do, proposed that I should join company with them; I asked them who they were, and they told me. The one was Hopping Ned, and the other Biting Giles. Both had their gifts, by which they got their livelihood; Ned could hop a hundred yards with any man in England, and Giles could lift up with his teeth any dresser or kitchen table in the country, and, standing erect, hold it dangling in his jaws. There’s many a big oak table and dresser in certain districts of England, which bear the marks of Giles’s teeth; and I make no doubt that, a hundred or two years hence, there’ll be strange stories about those marks, and that people will point them out as a proof that there were giants in bygone time, and that many a dentist will moralise on the decays which human teeth have undergone.
“They wanted me to go about with them, and exhibit my gift occasionally as they did theirs, promising that the money that wasgot by the exhibitions should be honestly divided. I consented, and we set off together, and that evening coming to a village, and putting up at the ale-house, all the grand folks of the village being there smoking their pipes, we contrived to introduce the subject of hopping—the upshot being that Ned hopped against the school-master for a pound, and beat him hollow; shortly after, Giles, for a wager, took up the kitchen table in his jaws, though he had to pay a shilling to the landlady for the marks he left, whose grandchildren will perhaps get money by exhibiting them. As for myself, I did nothing that day, but the next, on which my companions did nothing, I showed off at hulling stones against a cripple, the crack man for stone throwing, of a small town, a few miles farther on. Bets were made to the tune of some pounds; I contrived to beat the cripple, and just contrived; for to do him justice, I must acknowledge he was a first-rate hand at stones, though he had a game hip, and went sideways; his head, when he walked—if his movements could be called walking—not being above three feet above the ground. So we travelled, I and my companions, showing off our gifts, Giles and I occasionally for a gathering, but Ned never hopping unless against somebody for a wager. We lived honestly and comfortably, making no little money by our natural endowments, and were known over a great part of England as ‘Hopping Ned,’ ‘Biting Giles,’ and ‘Hull over the Head Jack,’ which was my name, it being the blackguard fashion of the English, do you see, to—”
Here I interrupted the jockey. “You may call it a blackguard fashion,” said I, “and I dare say it is, or it would scarcely be English; but it is an immensely ancient one, and is handed down to us from our northern ancestry, especially the Danes, who were in the habit of giving people surnames, or rather nicknames, from some quality of body or mind, but generally from some disadvantageous peculiarity of feature; for there is no denying that the English, Norse, or whatever we may please to call them, are an envious, depreciatory set of people, who not only give their poor comrades contemptuous surnames, but their great people also. They didn’t call you the matchless Hurler, because, by doing so, they would have paid you a compliment, but Hull-over-the-Head Jack, as much as to say that after all you were a scrub: so, in ancient time, instead of calling Regner the great conqueror, the Nation Tamer, they surnamed him Lodbrog, which signifies Rough or Hairy Breeks—lod or loddin signifying rough or hairy; and instead of complimenting Halgerdr, the wife of Gunnar of Hlitharend, the great champion of Iceland, upon her majestic presence, bycalling her Halgerdr, the stately or tall, what must they do but term her Ha-brokr, or High-breeks, it being the fashion in old times for Northern ladies to wear breeks, or breeches, which English ladies of the present day never think of doing; and just, as of old, they called Halgerdr Long-breeks, so this very day a fellow of Horncastle called, in my hearing, our noble-looking Hungarian friend here, Long-stockings. Oh, I could give you a hundred instances, both ancient and modern, of this unseemly propensity of our illustrious race, though I will only trouble you with a few more ancient ones; they not only nicknamed Regner, but his sons also, who were all kings, and distinguished men; one, whose name was Biorn, they nicknamed Ironsides; another, Sigurd, Snake in the Eye; another, White Sark, or White Shirt—I wonder they did not call him Dirty Shirt; and Ivarr, another, who was king of Northumberland, they called Beinlausi, or the Legless, because he was spindle-shanked, had no sap in his bones, and consequently no children. He was a great king, it is true, and very wise, nevertheless his blackguard countrymen, always averse, as their descendants are, to give credit to anybody, for any valuable quality or possession, must needs lay hold, do you see—”
But before I could say any more, the jockey, having laid down his pipe, rose, and having taken off his coat, advanced towards me.