The Romany Rye / A Sequel to 'Lavengro'

CHAPTER XV

My companions and myself proceeded on our way.  In about two hours we reached the place where the fair was to be held.  After breakfasting on bread and cheese and ale behind a broken stone wall, we drove our animals to the fair.  The fair was a common cattle and horse fair: there was little merriment going on, but there was no lack of business.  By about two o’clock in the afternoon, Mr. Petulengro and his people had disposed of their animals at what they conceived very fair prices—they were all in high spirits, and Jasper proposed to adjourn to a public-house.  As we were proceeding to one, a very fine horse, led by a jockey, made its appearance on the ground.  Mr. Petulengro stopped short, and looked at it steadfastly: ‘Fino covar dove odoy sas miro [101]—a fine thing were that, if it were but mine!’ he exclaimed.  ‘If you covet it,’ said I, ‘why do you not purchase it?’  ‘We low gyptians never buy animals of that description; if we did we could never sell them, and most likely should be had up as horse-stealers.’  ‘Then why did you say just now, “It were a fine thing if it were but yours?”’ said I.  ‘We gyptians always say so when we see anything that we admire.  An animal like that is not intended for a little hare like me, but for some grand gentleman like yourself.  I say, brother, do you buy that horse!’  ‘How should I buy the horse, you foolish person!’ said I.  ‘Buy the horse, brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro, ‘if you have not the money I can lend it you; though I be of lower Egypt.’  ‘You talk nonsense,’ said I; ‘however, I wish you would ask the man the price of it.’  Mr. Petulengro, going up to the jockey, inquired the price of the horse—the man, looking at him scornfully, made no reply.  ‘Young man,’ said I, going up to the jockey, ‘do me the favour to tell me the price of that horse, as I suppose it is to sell.’  The jockey, who was a surly-looking man, of about fifty, looked at me for a moment, then, after some hesitation, said, laconically, ‘Seventy.’  ‘Thank you,’ said I, and turned away.  ‘Buy that horse,’ said Mr. Petulengro, coming after me; ‘the dook tells me that in less than three months he will be sold for twice seventy.’  ‘I will have nothing to do with him,’ said I; ‘besides, Jasper, I don’t like his tail.  Did you observe what a mean scrubby tail he has?’  ‘What a fool you are, brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro; ‘that very tail of his shows his breeding.  No good bred horse ever yet carried a fine tail—’tis your scrubby-tailed horses that are your out-and-outers.  Did you ever hear of Syntax, brother?  That tail of his puts me in mind of Syntax.  Well, I say nothing more, have your own way—all I wonder at is, that a horse like him was ever brought to such a fair of dog cattle as this.’

Though not much acquainted with cards, I soon conceived a suspicion that the jockeys were cheating Mr. Petulengro and his companion, I therefore called Mr. Petulengro aside, and gave him a hint to that effect.  Mr. Petulengro, however, instead of thanking me, told me to mind my own bread and butter, and forthwith returned to his game.  I continued watching the players for some hours.  The gypsies lost considerably, and I saw clearly that the jockeys were cheating them most confoundedly.  I therefore once more called Mr. Petulengro aside, and told him that the jockeys were cheating him, conjuring him to return to the encampment.  Mr. Petulengro, who was by this time somewhat the worse for liquor, now fell into a passion, swore several oaths, and asking me who had made me a Moses over him and his brethren, told me to return to the encampment by myself.  Incensed at the unworthy return which my well-meant words received, I forthwith left the house, and having purchased a few articles of provision, I set out for the dingle alone.  It was dark night when I reached it, and descending I saw the glimmer of a fire from the depths of the dingle; my heart beat with fond anticipation of a welcome.  ‘Isopel Berners is waiting for me,’ said I, ‘and the first word that I shall hear from her lips is that she has made up her mind.  We shall go to America, and be so happy together.’  On reaching the bottom of the dingle, however, I saw seated near the fire, not Isopel Berners, but a gypsy girl, who told me that Miss Berners when she went away had charged her to keep up the fire, and have a kettle boiling against my arrival.  Startled at these words, I inquired at what hour Isopel had left, and whither she was gone, and was told that she had left the dingle, with her cart, about two hours after I departed; but where she was gone she (the girl) did not know.  I then asked whether she had left no message, and the girl replied that she had left none, but had merely given directions about the kettle and fire, putting, at the same time, sixpence into her hand.  ‘Very strange,’ thought I; then dismissing the gypsy girl I sat down by the fire.  I had no wish for tea, but sat looking on the embers, wondering what could be the motive of the sudden departure of Isopel.  ‘Does she mean to return?’ thought I to myself.  ‘Surely she means to return,’ Hope replied, ‘or she would not have gone away without leaving any message’—‘and yet she could scarcely mean to return,’ muttered Foreboding, ‘or she would assuredly have left some message with the girl.’  I then thought to myself what a hard thing it would be, if, after having made up my mind to assume the yoke of matrimony, I should be disappointed of the woman of my choice.  ‘Well, after all,’ thought I, ‘I can scarcely be disappointed; if such an ugly scoundrel as Sylvester had no difficulty in getting such a nice wife as Ursula, surely I, who am not a tenth part so ugly, cannot fail to obtain the hand of Isopel Berners, uncommonly fine damsel though she be.  Husbands do not grow upon hedge-rows; she is merely gone after a little business and will return to-morrow.’

Nothing occurred to me of any particular moment during the following day.  Isopel Berners did not return; but Mr. Petulengro and his companions came home from the fair early in the morning.  When I saw him, which was about mid-day, I found him with his face bruised and swelled.  It appeared that some time after I had left him, he himself perceived that the jockeys with whom he was playing cards were cheating him and his companion, a quarrel ensued, which terminated in a fight between Mr. Petulengro and one of the jockeys, which lasted some time, and in which Mr. Petulengro, though he eventually came off victor, was considerably beaten.  His bruises, in conjunction with his pecuniary loss, which amounted to about seven pounds, were the cause of his being much out of humour; before night, however, he had returned to his usual philosophic frame of mind, and, coming up to me as I was walking about, apologized for his behaviour on the preceding day, and assured me that he was determined, from that time forward, never to quarrel with a friend for giving him good advice.

Two more days passed, and still Isopel Berners did not return.  Gloomy thoughts and forebodings filled my mind.  During the day I wandered about the neighbouring roads in the hopes of catching an early glimpse of her and her returning vehicle; and at night lay awake, tossing about on my hard couch, listening to the rustle of every leaf, and occasionally thinking that I heard the sound of her wheels upon the distant road.  Once at midnight, just as I was about to fall into unconsciousness, I suddenly started up, for I was convinced that I heard the sound of wheels.  I listened most anxiously, and the sound of wheels striking against stones was certainly plain enough.  ‘She comes at last,’ thought I, and for a few moments I felt as if a mountain had been removed from my breast;—‘here she comes at last, now, how shall I receive her?  Oh,’ thought I, ‘I will receive her rather coolly, just as if I was not particularly anxious about her—that’s the way to manage these women.’  The next moment the sound became very loud, rather too loud, I thought, to proceed from her wheels, and then by degrees became fainter.  Rushing out of my tent, I hurried up the path to the top of the dingle, where I heard the sound distinctly enough, but it was going from me, and evidently proceeded from something much larger than the cart of Isopel.  I could, moreover, hear the stamping of a horse’s hoof at a lumbering trot.  Those only whose hopes have been wrought up to a high pitch, and then suddenly dashed down, can imagine what I felt at that moment; and yet when I returned to my lonely tent, and lay down on my hard pallet, the voice of conscience told me that the misery I was then undergoing, I had fully merited, from the unkind manner in which I had intended to receive her, when for a brief minute I supposed that she had returned.

‘Well, if I ever!’ said she, as she looked about her.  ‘My good gentlewoman,’ said I, ‘pray what may you please to want?’  ‘Gentlewoman!’ said the old dame, ‘please to want!—well, I call that speaking civilly, at any rate.  It is true, civil words cost nothing; nevertheless, we do not always get them.  What I please to want is to deliver a letter to a young man in this place; perhaps you be he?’  ‘What’s the name on the letter?’ said I, getting up and going to her.  ‘There is no name upon it,’ said she, taking a letter out of her scrip, and looking at it.  ‘It is directed to the young man in Mumper’s Dingle.’  ‘Then it is for me, I make no doubt,’ said I, stretching out my hand to take it.  ‘Please to pay me ninepence first,’ said the old woman.  ‘However,’ said she, ‘civility is civility, and, being rather a scarce article, should meet with some return.  Here’s the letter, young man, and I hope you will pay for it; for if you do not I must pay the postage myself.’  ‘You are the postwoman, I suppose,’ said I, as I took the letter.  ‘I am the postman’s mother,’ said the old woman; ‘but as he has a wide beat, I help him as much as I can, and I generally carry letters to places like this, to which he is afraid to come himself.’  ‘You say the postage is ninepence,’ said I, ‘here’s a shilling.’  ‘Well, I call that honourable,’ said the old woman, taking the shilling, and putting it into her pocket—‘here’s your change, young man,’ said she, offering me threepence.  ‘Pray keep that for yourself,’ said I; ‘you deserve it for your trouble.’  ‘Well, I call that genteel,’ said the old woman; ‘and as one good turn deserves another, since you look as if you couldn’t read, I will read your letter for you.  Let’s see it; it’s from some young woman or other, I dare say.’  ‘Thank you,’ said I, ‘but I can read.’  ‘All the better for you,’ said the old woman; ‘your being able to read will frequently save you a penny, for that’s the charge I generally make for reading letters; though as you behaved so genteely to me, I should have charged you nothing.  Well, if you can read, why don’t you open the letter, instead of keeping it hanging between your finger and thumb?’  ‘I am in no hurry to open it,’ said I, with a sigh.  The old woman looked at me for a moment—‘Well, young man,’ said she, ‘there are some—especially those who can read—who don’t like to open their letters when anybody is by, more especially when they come from young women.  Well, I won’t intrude upon you, but leave you alone with your letter.  I wish it may contain something pleasant.  God bless you,’ and with these words she departed.

‘To the Young Man in Mumper’s Dingle.

Sir,

I send these lines, with the hope and trust that they will find you well, even as I am myself at this moment, and in much better spirits, for my own are not such as I could wish they were, being sometimes rather hysterical and vapourish, and at other times, and most often, very low.  I am at a sea-port, and am just going on shipboard; and when you get these I shall be on the salt waters, on my way to a distant country, and leaving my own behind me, which I do not expect ever to see again.

‘And now, young man, I will, in the first place, say something about the manner in which I quitted you.  It must have seemed somewhat singular to you that I went away without taking any leave, or giving you the slightest hint that I was going; but I did not do so without considerable reflection.  I was afraid that I should not be able to support a leave-taking; and as you had said that you were determined to go wherever I did, I thought it best not to tell you at all; for I did not think it advisable that you should go with me, and I wished to have no dispute.

‘In the second place, I wish to say something about an offer of wedlock which you made me; perhaps, young man, had you made it at the first period of our acquaintance, I should have accepted it, but you did not, and kept putting off and putting off, and behaving in a very strange manner, till I could stand your conduct no longer, but determined upon leaving you and Old England, which last step I had been long thinking about; so when you made your offer at last everything was arranged—my cart and donkey engaged to be sold—and the greater part of my things disposed of.  However, young man, when you did make it, I frankly tell you that I had half a mind to accept it; at last, however, after very much consideration, I thought it best to leave you for ever, because, for some time past, I had become almost convinced, that though with a wonderful deal of learning, and exceedingly shrewd in some things, you were—pray don’t be offended—at the root mad! and though mad people, I have been told, sometimes make very good husbands, I was unwilling that your friends, if you had any, should say that Belle Berners, the workhouse girl, took advantage of your infirmity; for there is no concealing that I was born and bred up in a workhouse; notwithstanding that, my blood is better than your own, and as good as the best; you having yourself told me that my name is a noble name, and once, if I mistake not, that it was the same word as baron, which is the same thing as bear; and that to be called in old times a bear was considered as a great compliment—the bear being a mighty strong animal, on which account our forefathers called all their great fighting-men barons, which is the same as bears.

‘However, setting matters of blood and family entirely aside, many thanks to you, young man, from poor Belle, for the honour you did her in making that same offer; for, after all, it is an honour to receive an honourable offer, which she could see clearly yours was, with no floriness nor chaff in it; but, on the contrary, entire sincerity.  She assures you that she shall always bear it and yourself in mind, whether on land or water; and as a proof of the good-will she bears to you, she has sent you a lock of the hair which she wears on her head, which you were often looking at, and were pleased to call flax, which word she supposes you meant as a compliment, even as the old people meant to pass a compliment to their great folks, when they called them bears; though she cannot help thinking that they might have found an animal as strong as a bear, and somewhat less uncouth, to call their great folks after: even as she thinks yourself, amongst your great store of words, might have found something a little more genteel to call her hair after than flax, which, though strong and useful, is rather a coarse and common kind of article.

‘And as another proof of the goodwill she bears to you, she sends you, along with the lock, a piece of advice, which is worth all the hair in the world, to say nothing of the flax.

‘Fear God, and take your own part. [108]  There’s Bible in that, young man; see how Moses feared God, and how he took his own part against everybody who meddled with him.  And see how David feared God, and took his own part against all the bloody enemies which surrounded him—so fear God, young man, and never give in!  The world can bully, and is fond, provided it sees a man in a kind of difficulty, of getting about him, calling him coarse names, and even going so far as to hustle him; but the world, like all bullies, carries a white feather in its tail, and no sooner sees a man taking off his coat, and offering to fight his best, than it scatters here and there, and is always civil to him afterwards.  So when folks are disposed to ill-treat you, young man, say, “Lord have mercy upon me!” and then tip them Long Melford, [109] to which, as the saying goes, there is nothing comparable for shortness all the world over; and these last words, young man, are the last you will ever have from her who is, nevertheless,

‘Your affectionate female servant,
‘Isopel Berners.’

After reading the letter I sat for some time motionless, holding it in my hand.  The day-dream in which I had been a little time before indulging, of marrying Isopel Berners, of going with her to America, and having by her a large progeny, who were to assist me in felling trees, cultivating the soil, and who would take care of me when I was old, was now thoroughly dispelled.  Isopel had deserted me, and was gone to America by herself, where, perhaps, she would marry some other person, and would bear him a progeny, who would do for him what in my dream I had hoped my progeny by her would do for me.  Then the thought came into my head that though she was gone I might follow her to America, but then I thought that if I did I might not find her; America was a very large place, and I did not know the port to which she was bound; but I could follow her to the port from which she had sailed, and there possibly discover the port to which she was bound; but then I did not even know the port from which she had set out, for Isopel had not dated her letter from any place.  Suddenly it occurred to me that the post-mark on the letter would tell me from whence it came, so I forthwith looked at the back of the letter, and in the post-mark read the name of a well-known and not very distant sea-port.  I then knew with tolerable certainty the port where she had embarked, and I almost determined to follow her, but I almost instantly determined to do no such thing.  Isopel Berners had abandoned me, and I would not follow her; ‘perhaps,’ whispered pride, ‘if I overtook her, she would only despise me for running after her;’ and it also told me pretty roundly that, provided I ran after her, whether I overtook her or not, I should heartily despise myself.  So I determined not to follow Isopel Berners; I took her lock of hair, and looked at it, then put it in her letter, which I folded up and carefully stowed away, resolved to keep both for ever, but I determined not to follow her.  Two or three times, however, during the day, I wavered in my determination, and was again and again almost tempted to follow her, but every succeeding time the temptation was fainter.  In the evening I left the dingle, and sat down with Mr. Petulengro and his family by the door of his tent; Mr. Petulengro soon began talking of the letter which I had received in the morning.  ‘Is it not from Miss Berners, brother?’ said he.  I told him it was.  ‘Is she coming back, brother?’  ‘Never,’ said I; ‘she is gone to America, and has deserted me.’  ‘I always knew that you two were never destined for each other,’ said he.  ‘How did you know that?’ I inquired.  ‘The dook told me so, brother; you are born to be a great traveller.’  ‘Well,’ said I, ‘if I had gone with her to America, as I was thinking of doing, I should have been a great traveller.’  ‘You are to travel in another direction, brother,’ said he.  ‘I wish you would tell me all about my future wanderings,’ said I.  ‘I can’t, brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro, ‘there’s a power of clouds before my eye.’  ‘You are a poor seer, after all,’ said I, and getting up, I retired to my dingle and my tent, where I betook myself to my bed, and there, knowing the worst, and being no longer agitated by apprehension, nor agonized by expectation, I was soon buried in a deep slumber, the first which I had fallen into for several nights.

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

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

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

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

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

‘That ain’t all,’ said the landlord.  ‘This very morning the folks of our parish made me churchwarden, [116] which they would no more have done a month ago, when they considered me a down pin, than they—’

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

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

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

As I returned along the road I met Mr. Petulengro and one of his companions, who told me that they were bound for the public-house; whereupon I informed Jasper how I had seen in the stable the horse which we had admired at the fair.  ‘I shouldn’t wonder if you buy that horse after all, brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro.  With a smile at the absurdity of such a supposition, I left him and his companion, and betook myself to the dingle.  In the evening I received a visit from Mr. Petulengro, who forthwith commenced talking about the horse, which he had again seen, the landlord having shown it to him on learning that he was a friend of mine.  He told me that the horse pleased him more than ever, he having examined his points with more accuracy than he had an opportunity of doing on the first occasion, concluding by pressing me to buy him.  I begged him to desist from such foolish importunity, assuring him that I had never so much money in all my life as would enable me to purchase the horse.  Whilst this discourse was going on, Mr. Petulengro and myself were standing together in the midst of the dingle.  Suddenly he began to move round me in a very singular manner, making strange motions with his hands, and frightful contortions with his features, till I became alarmed, and asked him whether he had not lost his senses?  Whereupon, ceasing his movements and contortions, he assured me that he had not, but had merely been seized with a slight dizziness, and then once more returned to the subject of the horse.  Feeling myself very angry, I told him that if he continued persecuting me in this manner, I should be obliged to quarrel with him; adding, that I believed his only motive for asking me to buy the animal was to insult my poverty.  ‘Pretty poverty,’ said he, ‘with fifty pounds in your pocket; however, I have heard say, that it is always the custom of your rich people to talk of their poverty, more especially when they wish to avoid laying out money.’  Surprised at his saying that I had fifty pounds in my pocket, I asked him what he meant; whereupon he told me that he was very sure that I had fifty pounds in my pocket, offering to lay me five shillings to that effect.  ‘Done,’ said I; ‘I have scarcely more than the fifth part of what you say.’  ‘I know better, brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro; ‘and if you only pull out what you have in the pocket of your slop, I am sure you will have lost your wager.’  Putting my hand into the pocket, I felt something which I had never felt there before, and pulling it out, perceived that it was a clumsy leathern purse, which I found, on opening, contained four ten-pound notes, and several pieces of gold.  ‘Didn’t I tell you so, brother?’ said Mr. Petulengro.  ‘Now, in the first place, please to pay me the five shillings you have lost.’  ‘This is only a foolish piece of pleasantry,’ said I; ‘you put it into my pocket whilst you were moving about me, making faces like a distracted person.  Here, take your purse back.’  ‘I?’ said Mr. Petulengro, ‘not I, indeed! don’t think I am such a fool.  I have won my wager, so pay me the five shillings, brother.’  ‘Do drop this folly,’ said I, ‘and take your purse;’ and I flung it on the ground.  ‘Brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro, ‘you were talking of quarrelling with me just now.  I tell you now one thing, which is, that if you do not take back the purse, I will quarrel with you; and it shall be for good and all.  I’ll drop your acquaintance, no longer call you my pal, and not even say sarshan [119] to you when I meet you by the roadside.  Hir mi diblis [120] I never will.’  I saw by Jasper’s look and tone that he was in earnest, and, as I had really a regard for the strange being, I scarcely knew what to do.  ‘Now, be persuaded, brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro, taking up the purse, and handing it to me; ‘be persuaded; put the purse into your pocket, and buy the horse.’  ‘Well,’ said I, ‘if I did so, would you acknowledge the horse to be yours, and receive the money again as soon as I should be able to repay you?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That evening I informed Mr. Petulengro and his party that on the morrow I intended to mount my horse, and leave that part of the country in quest of adventures; inquiring of Jasper where, in the event of my selling the horse advantageously, I might meet with him, and repay the money I had borrowed of him; whereupon Mr. Petulengro informed me that in about ten weeks I might find him at a certain place at the Chong gav.  I then stated that as I could not well carry with me the property which I possessed in the dingle, which after all was of no considerable value, I resolved to bestow the said property, namely, the pony, tent, tinker-tools, etc., on Ursula and her husband, partly because they were poor, and partly on account of the great kindness which I bore to Ursula, from whom I had, on various occasions, experienced all manner of civility, particularly in regard to crabbed words.  On hearing this intelligence, Ursula returned many thanks to her gentle brother as she called me, and Sylvester was so overjoyed that, casting aside his usual phlegm, he said I was the best friend he had ever had in the world, and in testimony of his gratitude swore that he would permit me to give his wife a choomer in the presence of the whole company, which offer, however, met with a very mortifying reception; the company frowning disapprobation, Ursula protesting against anything of the kind, and I myself showing no forwardness to avail myself of it, having inherited from nature a considerable fund of modesty, to which was added no slight store acquired in the course of my Irish education.  I passed that night alone in the dingle in a very melancholy manner, with little or no sleep, thinking of Isopel Berners; and in the morning when I quitted it I shed several tears, as I reflected that I should probably never again see the spot where I had passed so many hours in her company.