Chapter XII (3)

"Let me call thee up before my mind's eye, High School, to
which every morning the two English brothers took their way
from the proud old Castle, through the lofty streets of the
Old Town. High School!--called so, I scarcely know why;
neither lofty in thyself nor by position, being situated in
a flat bottom; oblong structure of tawny-stone, with many
windows fenced with iron-netting--with thy long hall below,
and thy five chambers above, for the reception of the five
classes, into which the eight hundred urchins, who styled
thee instructress, were divided. Thy learned rector and his
four subordinate dominies; thy strange old porter of the tall
form and grizzled hair, hight Boee, and doubtless of Norse
ancestry, as his name declares; perhaps of the blood of Bui
hin Digri, the hero of northern song--the Jomsborg Viking, who
clove Thorsteinn Midlangr asunder in the dread sea-battle of
Horunga Vog, and who, when the fight was lost, and his own two
hands smitten off, seized two chests of gold with his bloody
stumps, and, springing with them into the sea, cried to the
scanty relics of his crew, 'Overboard, now, all Bui's lads!'
Yes, I remember all about thee, and how at eight of every morn
we were all gathered together with one accord in the long hall,
from which, after the litanies had been read, (for so I will
call them, being an Episcopalian,) the five classes from the
five sets of benches trotted off in long files, one boy after
the other, up the five spiral staircases of stone, each class
to its destination; and well do I remember how we of the third
sat hushed and still, watched by the eye of the dux, until the
door opened, and in walked that model of a good Scotchman, the
shrewd, intelligent, but warm-hearted and kind dominie, the
respectable Carson."

Generally we abominate apostrophes; but this is not so bad. We are glad to observe a tribute, even lightly paid, from an old pupil to the merits of that excellent and thoroughly learned man, Dr Carson, whose memory is still green amongst us, and on that subject we shall say nothing farther. But old Bowie! ye gods! how he would have stared at the magnificent pedigree chalked out for him by the enthusiastic Borrow! Little did the worthy janitor think, when exchanging squares of "lick" or "gib,"--condiments for the manufacture of which the excellent man was renowned--for the coppers of the urchins in high-lows, that in future years, after he was borne to his honoured rest in the Canongate churchyard, the "gyte," or rather "cowley," whose jaws he had seen so often aggluminated together by the adhesive force of his saccharine preparations, should proclaim his descent from one of the starkest of the Norse Berserkars! Great is the power of gib--irresistible the reminiscence of lick! We remember no instance of gratitude like to this, except, indeed, Sir Epicure Mammon's gratuitous offer to his cook, of knighthood in return for the preparation of a dish of sow's teats,

"Dressed with a delicate and poignant sauce!"

But enough of old Bowie, the representative of the Jomsborg Vikings!

During his residence in Edinburgh, Master Borrow became acquainted with a young man, who afterwards attained considerable though unenvied notoriety. He appears to have been tolerably hand-in-glove with David Haggart, and to have fought side by side with him in sundry "bickers," which at that time were prevalent on the salubrious margin of the Nor' Loch. We never enjoyed the advantage of an interview with David, and consequently cannot speak to the accuracy of Mr Borrow's portrait of him; but we are not in the least surprised at the almost affectionate terms which our author uses in regard to the grand evader of the Tolbooths; having been assured by several of our legal friends, who knew him well, that he was a person of considerable accomplishment and rather fascinating manners, a little eccentric perhaps in his habits, but decidedly a favourite with the bar. Some of our readers may possibly think that Mr Borrow's comparative estimate of the merits of Tamerlane and Haggart is slightly overwrought; and that his early prepossessions in favour of David may have led him to exalt that personage unduly. The bias, however is pardonable; and, sooth to say, were it not for the Dumfries murder, which was a bad business, we also should be inclined to rank Haggart rather high in the scale of criminals. He is still regarded as the Achilles of the Caledonian cracksmen, and legends of his daring, prowess, and ingenuity, are even yet current in the northern jails. During the literary epidemic which raged in this country some ten years back, occasioning such a demand for tales of robbery and assault, we remember to have received a MS. drama, in which Haggart was honourably mentioned. In that play, a prejudiced and narrow-minded burglar expressed his conviction that

"There never yet was cracksman worth a curse,
But he was English bred from top to toe!"

To which injurious assertion Ephraim the resetter, a more diligent student of history than his customer, thus replied--

"All honour to the brave, whate'er their birth!
I question not the greatness of the soil
That bred Dick Turpin, and the wondrous boy
Sheppard, whom iron bars could ne'er contain;
Yet other lands can boast their heroes too:
Keen David Haggart was of Scottish blood,
Left-handed Morgan was a Welshman born,
And kindred France claims honour for her own,
That young Iulus of the road, Duval!"

We hardly know which most to applaud--the total freedom from prejudice, or the poetry of this exquisite passage.

We have not space to insert a dialogue touching the merits of Sir William Wallace held between the two promising youths, Borrow and Haggart, in the airy vicinity of the "kittle nine-steps." Suffice it to say, that the former uttered such heterodox opinions regarding the great deliverer of Scotland, that Haggart threatened to pitch him over; and if he should ever chance to revisit Edinburgh, and drop into the studio of our friend Patric Park, who has just completed his magnificent and classic model of Wallace--a work which would confer honour upon any age or country--we would earnestly caution him, for his own sake, to avoid a repetition of the offence. The scene is then transferred to Ireland, and we have some rough-riding and horse-taming, with a glimpse of a rapparee; all which is exceedingly commonplace. Back again to England goes young Borrow, and at a horse-fair he encounters his old acquaintance Jasper Petulengro, now fairly installed and acknowledged as the reigning Pharaoh, his father and mother having been "bitchadey pawdel." This, in the Rommany or gipsy tongue, corresponds to, the emphatic term of "herring-ponded," by which facetious malefactors are wont to indicate the compulsory voyages of their friends. Mr Borrow is always great upon the subject of the gipsies, who, in fact, constitute nine-tenths of his stock in trade; and, if we are to believe him, such lapses as popular song attributes to a former Countess of Cassilis are by no means unusual at the present day. Here is a sketch of a fascinating horse-stealer.

"'And that tall handsome man on the hill, whom you whispered? I
suppose he's one of ye. What is his name?'

'Tawno Chikno,' said Jasper, 'which means the Small One; we
call him such because he is the biggest man of all our nation.
You say he is handsome; that is not the word, brother; he's the
beauty of the world. Women run wild at the sight of Tawno. An
earl's daughter, near London--a fine young lady with diamonds
round her neck--fell in love with Tawno. I have seen that lass
on a heath, as this may be, kneel down to Tawno, clasp his
feet, begging to be his wife--or anything else--if she might go
with him. But Tawno would have nothing to do with her.'"

A shrewd, sensible, and well-behaved fellow, this Tawno, in so far at least as the ladies are concerned. When a horse was to be picked up on the sly, he does not seem to have been so particular. The gipsies being encamped near the town where the author was then residing, an intimacy is struck up between them; Mr Borrow takes lessons in Rommany from the respectable Jasper, very much to the disgust of his mother-in-law, a certain Mrs Herne, who "comes of the hairy ones," and who ultimately secedes from the kraal, rather than receive the stranger into the tribe. The others entertain no such scruples.

"I went on studying the language, and, at the same time, the
manners of these strange people. My rapid progress in the
former astonished while it delighted Jasper. 'We'll no longer
call you Sap-engro, brother,' said he, 'but rather Lavengro,
which in the language of the gorgios meaneth Word-master.'
'Nay, brother,' said Tawno Chikno, with whom I had become very
intimate, 'you had better call him Cooro-mengro; I have put on
_the gloves_ with him, and find him a pure fist-master; I like
him for that, for I am a Cooro-mengro myself, and was born at
Brummagem.'"

There is a deal more of the same talk, tending to the laudation of the author. Our taste may be perverted and unusual, but we really cannot discover any merit whatever in the gipsy dialogues which occur throughout these volumes. Mr Borrow ought to reflect that he has already treated the public to a sufficiency of this jargon. What on earth are we to make of "dukkeripens," "chabos," "poknees," "chiving wafado dloova," "drabbing bawlor," "kekaubies," "drows," and "dinelos?" Possibly these terms may be used in the most refined Rommany circles, and enliven the conversation around the kettle in which the wired hare or pilfered capon is simmering but such exotics can hardly be considered as worth the pains of transplantation. When Mr Borrow, in a moral reflection of his own, observes, "softly, friend; when thou wouldst speak harshly of the dead, remember that thou hast not yet fulfilled thy own dukkeripen!"--he is penning absolute nonsense, and rendering himself supremely ridiculous. Then, as to the scraps of song which are here and there interspersed, we cannot aver that they either stir our bosoms like the call of a trumpet, or excite the tears of pity. However, as we said already, our taste may be in fault; and it is just possible that we may hear the following ditty warbled in many a drawing-room:--

"The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal,
Shall jaw basaulor
To drab the bawlor,
And dook the gry
Of the farming rye.

"The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal,
Love Luripen,
And dukkeripen,
And hokkeripen,
And every pen
But Lachipen,
And Tatchipen."

Certainly we never had, on any previous occasion, the dukkeripen to copy such jargon.

However pleasant it may be--and proverbs tell us that it is so--to go a-gipsying, it is manifest that this mode of life, unless professionally adopted, cannot keep the pot boiling. It is one thing to be an amateur, and another to be a thorough-paced practitioner. Mr Borrow, though tempted by his associates to adopt the latter course, and ally himself in marriage with a young fortune-teller of the name of Ursula, had the firmness and good sense to decline the proposal; and, accordingly, we presently find him ostensibly engaged in the study of law under the tutelage of an attorney. Young gentlemen so situated, are, we fear, but too apt to overlook the advantages within their reach, and to cultivate the Belles Lettres secretly when they should be immersed in Blackstone. If they do nothing worse, we may indulge the charitable hope that there is mercy for them in this world and the next. Mr Borrow did like his neighbours; with this difference that, instead of concealing the last new novel in his desk, he began manfully to master the difficulties of the Welsh language, and became an enthusiastic admirer of the poetry of Ab Gwilym. This, at all events, was a step in the right direction. Next, by one of those extraordinary accidents which, somehow or other, never occur except in novels, he became possessed of a copy of the Danish ballad-book--we presume the Kjoempeviser--and mastered the language by means of a Danish bible. To this he added afterwards a knowledge of German, and German literature; so that, when compelled to go forth and struggle, single-handed with the world, his accomplishments were of a varied, if not a very marketable kind.

We are here treated to a description of a prize-fight, which, if we recollect has been already sketched by Mr Borrow in his "Gipsies in Spain." It is rather too bombastic for our taste, though it is worked up with considerable effect, both as regards action and accessories. It is introduced, we presume, principally on account of an individual who was present, and who took a prominent part in the proceedings of the day--we mean the notorious Thurtell. That Mr Borrow should have added Thurtell to the list of his acquaintances,--for it seems the grim murderer of Weare was wont to bestow upon him a nod of recognition,--after having known Haggart, is certainly remarkable, and testifies, at all events, his superiority to vulgar prejudice. There is a clever scene at the house of a magistrate, where Thurtell introduces a prize-fighter to the notice of the _Custos Rotulorum_, a portion of which we are tempted to quote:--

"'In what can I oblige you, sir?' said the magistrate.

'Well, sir, the soul of wit is brevity; we want a place for
an approaching combat between my friend here and a brave from
town. Passing by your broad acres this fine morning, we saw a
pightle, which we deemed would suit. Lend us that pightle, and
receive our thanks; 'twould be a favour, though not much to
grant: we neither ask for Stonehenge nor for Tempe.'

My friend looked somewhat perplexed; after a moment, however,
he said, with a firm but gentlemanly air, 'Sir, I am sorry that
I cannot comply with your request.'

'Not comply!' said the man, his brow becoming dark as midnight;
and with a hoarse and savage tone, 'Not comply! why not?'

'It is impossible, sir; utterly impossible.'

'Why so?'

'I am not compelled to give my reasons to you, sir, nor to any
man.'

'Let me beg of you to alter your decision,' said the man in a
tone of profound respect.

'Utterly impossible, sir; I am a magistrate.'

'Magistrate! then fare-ye-well, for a green-coated buffer and a
Harmanbeck!'"

Lavengro--our fine fellow--it is not a thing to boast of, that you have, occasionally put on the gloves with Jack Thurtell!

Rejecting the profession of the law, our author, after the death of his father, started for London, in the hopes of a literary engagement; his sole credentials being a letter to a publisher from an eccentric German teacher, and two bundles of manuscript--being translations respectively from the Welsh and the Danish. Of course nobody would publish them; and the bookseller to whom he had been recommended would do nothing better for him than give him an order to compile a new series of the Newgate Calendar, at worse than hodman's wages. This portion of the story is very dull, and abounds in silly caricature. The struggles of the aspirant to literary distinction fail to excite in us the slightest degree of commiseration, because they are manifestly unreal; and the episodes of London life, though intended to be startling, are simply stupid. Thus, we have an Armenian merchant, whose acquaintance Mr Borrow makes by apprehending a thief while making free with his pocket-book--a merchant, only less sordid and fond of money than a Jew, whom, nevertheless, the author persuades to employ the whole of his realised fortune in making war upon the Persians! It is to be regretted that Mr Borrow does not favour us with his dukkeripen. Then there is the aforesaid thief, whom Mr Borrow again encounters at Greenwich fair, in the possession of a thimble-rig table, and who makes confidential proposals to him to act the subsidiary part of "bonnet." It was perhaps as well that Tawno Chikno's idea of investing the author with the honorary and fistic title of Cooro-mengro was not adopted, seeing that Mr Borrow abstained from doubling-up the scoundrel at the first hint of the kind. Then there is an applewoman who kept a stall on London Bridge, at which stall the aforesaid Armenian was wont to eat apples, and to which Mr Borrow occasionally repaired--for what purpose, does the reader think? Why--simply to read the history of Moll Flanders, a copy of which enticing work the old woman had in her possession!! This excellent creature, when Mr Borrow first knew her, was a receiver of stolen goods, and, in fact, hinted that, if Lavengro could pick up in the course of his peregrinations any stray handkerchiefs, she would be happy to give the highest available price for the same. There is some awful trash about her conversion having taken place in consequence of this copy of Moll being filched from her stall; but we have neither stomach nor patience to dwell upon this maudlin episode. The extract or essence of the whole, in so far as we can understand it, appears to be this--that by the perusal of Moll Flanders, Mr Borrow acquires a knowledge of the artistical skill of Defoe, and avails himself of that knowledge by writing an entire work of fiction within a week! We have never happened to fall in with this book, which is funnily entitled "The Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell," and therefore we cannot say whether or not it was limited to a single volume. In charity, we shall assume the smallest bulk; and if it be indeed true that Mr Borrow accomplished this task within the above time, feeding, moreover, all the while on nothing stronger than bread and water, we are ready, for the honour of our country, to back him for a heavy sum, not only against Fenimore Cooper, but even against the redoubted and hitherto unvanquished Dumas. We shall merely stipulate that the respective authors shall be securely and properly locked up, so that all communication from without may be effectually prevented. Cooper shall have as many sherry-cobblers, and Dumas as many bottles of Pomard or Chambertin, as they please. Lavengro shall be supplied with ale by the pitcherful; and we have no fears of the result. Only--let him establish his antecedents; and the challenge may be given, and the contest fixed, in time for the approaching "Exhibition of the Industry of all Nations."

These women are the very devil at driving bargains! The bookseller, to whom Lavengro sent the manuscript, might easily have been persuaded to come down with a cool five-and-twenty for the adventure; but his wife asked the author to tea, and between the relays of butter and toast, buttered the original Sap-engro so effectually, that he accepted the twenty, minus the five. And with this plentiful supply--from which the payment of accounts past due had to be deducted--Lavengro valorously determined to cut the trade of authorship, on the eve of his first success, and follow out his dukkeripen among scenes and sounds which were more congenial to his taste than the crowded streets and busy din of London.

Somehow or other an author always falls upon his feet. If you, dear reader, without any other recommendation than the figure and countenance which nature has bestowed upon you--even though you have never been solicited to join a gipsy encampment, or to participate in the mysteries of thimble-rig--should start upon a pedestrian expedition through these islands, rather shabbily attired, and carrying your bundle on the end of your stick, the odds are that you do not meet at every turn with a beneficent squire of considerable fortune, but eccentric literary habits, to invite you to make his house your home so long as you may please to honour it. This may be a reflection on modern hospitality; however, try the experiment for yourself, and you will find that we are right in our assumption. But, if you are an author, the case is very different--at least it will be different when you print. The _mens divinior_ will have come out in some way which passes human understanding. You may have been standing flattening your nose against an alehouse window, thinking perhaps intently on the means of liquidating your reckoning, when a chariot shall arrest itself at the door; a metaphysical gentleman steps out, for the apparent purpose of regaling himself with a glass of bitters; and in the course of five minutes' conversation, you so gain his heart, that you are whirled off to the mansion-house or the lodge, and forced to submit, for the next fortnight, to a regimen of turtle, venison, and claret. Such are the horrid but unavoidable nuisances of superior mental cultivation. It is no use struggling against the stream--you must perforce submit to it. And accordingly, when you publish, you enter a proper protest against the violence which has been done to your feelings, by removing you from a damp truckle-bed to a couch of eider down; and by forcing down your throat abhorred foreign luxuries, in place of that bread-and-cheese which you patriotically preferred as your nutriment.

No long time elapses before our friend Lavengro encounters his predestined squire. In the interim, however, he visits Stonehenge, and encounters a returned convict, who of course is the son of the applewoman. Shortly afterwards Amphytrion appears, just as Lavengro is sitting down to a buttock of beef and accompaniments in a cheerful inn. The character has been so often drawn, that it is rather difficult to chalk out a new branch of eccentricity for the gentleman who is about to convey the author to his house, in order that he may confide to him the details of his personal history: we are bound, however, to confess that Mr Borrow has managed this very cleverly. The new comer is afflicted with the mania of "touching"--not for any pleasurable sensation conveyed to the sensorium through the medium of the tips of the fingers, but for luck, or as a charm against the influence of the evil eye! For example, his mother being extremely ill, he finds himself irresistibly impelled to climb a large elm-tree and touch the topmost branch, as the means of averting the crisis. He does so, and sustains a severe fall, to the detriment of his nether-man, but is rewarded by finding that his filial piety has saved his mother, for the fever departed the moment that he clutched the gifted twig! Genius has no limits. After this it is not impossible that a gooseberry bush may be found available machinery for adding to the interest of a tale.

The story is told at the Squire's house during a thunder-storm; and another character, a certain Rev. Mr Platitude, is introduced solely, we presume, to lay a foundation for the subsequent appearance of a Roman Jesuit, to whom the said Platitude is in bondage. Having delivered himself of his touching history, the Squire, like Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, feels himself considerably easier in his mind, and Lavengro takes his leave. Led by his dukkeripen, he next falls in with a disconsolate tinker, Jack Slingsby by name, whom he finds with his wife and children sitting over an empty mug, "which, when filled, might contain half-a-pint." Lavengro is perfectly orthodox on the subject of malt liquor. He understands, appreciates, and even venerates its virtues; so, like a kind Christian, he orders a double jorum, and requests the woe-begone Jack to insinuate his whiskers therein. Slingsby complies, nothing loath; for grief is notoriously dry: and we are presently informed that he is sore at heart, in consequence of having been beaten off his bent by a rival, ycleped the Flaming Tinman, who travels the country, accompanied by his wife, Grey Moll, and a young woman of more than amazonian proportions. This Ajax having conceived an intense hatred of the pacific Slingsby, has first given him an unmerciful hiding; and, secondly, compelled him to take his Bible-oath that he will immediately vacate the country. Cause enough of sorrow, to be sure, the district being rife in frying-pans, and the kettles, generally speaking, of reasonable antiquity. Having delivered himself of this tale, the soft-hearted Slingsby weeps once more, and refuses to be comforted.

"'_Myself._--Take another draught--stout liquor.'

'_Tinker._--I can't, young man, my heart's too full, _and,
what's more, the pitcher is empty_.'"

Nature! thou art always the same. Under whatever garb--but we crave pardon. We have already condemned apostrophes.

An idea occurs to Lavengro. What if he were to become the proprietor, by purchasing Slingsby's stock in trade, and the goodwill of the district, and start on his own account as a regenerator of fractured pans? Of course he must be prepared to encounter the opposition of the Flying Tinman; but that was only a contingent hazard; and should it occur, why--our friend flattered himself that he had not looked upon the "terrible Randall" for nothing. In days of old, his sire had encountered Big Ben Brain the Bruiser "in single combat for one hour, at the end of which time the champions shook hands and retired, each having experienced quite enough of the other's prowess;" and the memory of that glorious deed was glowing in the bosom of the son. Free of the forge also was he, as one of Tubal Cain's apprentices; and if not quite an adept in the mysteries of solder, likely enough to become so with the help of a little practice. So Slingsby sold his cart, pony, and apparatus, for the sum of five pounds ten shillings, and our author was metamorphosed into a tinker. The account of his first night encampment is rather picturesque, and we shall insert it here, as a good specimen of Mr Borrow's powers of description.

"How long I continued in that state I am unable to say, but I
believe for a considerable time. I was suddenly awakened by the
ceasing of the jolting to which I had become accustomed, and
of which I was perfectly sensible in my sleep. I started up
and looked around me; the moon was still shining, and the face
of the heaven was studded with stars. I found myself amidst
a maze of bushes of various kinds, but principally hazel and
holly, through which was a path or driftway, with grass growing
on either side, upon which the pony was already diligently
browsing. I conjectured that this place had been one of the
haunts of his former master; and, on dismounting and looking
about, was strengthened in that opinion by finding a spot under
an ash-tree, which, from its burnt and blackened appearance,
seemed to have been frequently used as a fire-place. I will
take up my quarters here, thought I; it is an excellent spot
for me to commence my new profession in; I was quite right to
trust myself to the guidance of the pony. Unharnessing the
animal without delay, I permitted him to browse at free will
on the grass, convinced that he would not wander far from a
place to which he was so much attached; I then pitched the
little tent close beside the ash-tree to which I have alluded,
and conveyed two or three articles into it, and instantly felt
that I had commenced housekeeping for the first time in my
life. Housekeeping, however, without a fire is a very sorry
affair, something like the housekeeping of children in their
toy-houses. Of this I was the more sensible from feeling very
cold and shivering, owing to my late exposure to the rain,
and sleeping in the night air. Collecting, therefore, all the
dry sticks and furze I could find, I placed them upon the
fire-place, adding certain chips and a billet which I found
in the cart, it having apparently been the habit of Slingsby
to carry with him a small stock of fuel. Having then struck a
spark in a tinder-box, and lighted a match, I set fire to the
combustible heap, and was not slow in raising a cheerful blaze.
I then drew my cart near the fire, and, seating myself on one
of the shafts, hung over the warmth with feelings of intense
pleasure and satisfaction. Having continued in this posture
for a considerable time, I turned my eyes to the heaven in the
direction of a particular star; I, however, could not find the
star, nor indeed many of the starry train, the greater number
having fled, from which circumstance, and from the appearance
of the sky, I concluded that morning was nigh. About this time
I again began to feel drowsy; I therefore arose, and having
prepared for myself a kind of couch in the tent, I flung myself
upon it and went to sleep.

I will not say that I was awakened in the morning by the
carolling of birds, as I perhaps might if I were writing a
novel. I awoke because, to use vulgar language, I had slept my
sleep out--not because the birds were carolling around me in
numbers, as they probably had been for hours without my hearing
them. I got up and left my tent; the morning was yet more
bright than that of the preceding day. Impelled by curiosity, I
walked about, endeavouring to ascertain to what place chance,
or rather the pony, had brought me. Following the drift-way for
some time, amidst bushes and stunted trees, I came to a grove
of dark pines, through which it appeared to lead. I tracked it
a few hundred yards; but, seeing nothing but trees, and the way
being wet and sloughy, owing to the recent rain, I returned on
my steps, and, pursuing the path in another direction, came
to a sandy road leading over a common, doubtless the one I
had traversed the preceding night. My curiosity satisfied, I
returned to my little encampment, and on the way beheld a small
footpath on the left, winding through the bushes, which had
before escaped my observation. Having reached my tent and cart,
I breakfasted on some of the provisions which I had purchased
the day before, and then proceeded to take a regular account of
the stock formerly possessed by Slingsby the tinker, but now
become my own by right of lawful purchase.

Besides the pony, the cart, and the tent, I found I was
possessed of a mattress stuffed with straw, on which to lie,
and a blanket to cover me--the last quite clean, and nearly
new. Then there was a frying-pan and a kettle--the first for
cooking any food which required cooking, and the second for
heating any water which I might wish to heat. I likewise
found an earthen tea-pot and two or three cups. Of the first,
I should rather say I found the remains, it being broken in
three parts, no doubt since it came into my possession, which
would have precluded the possibility of my asking anybody to
tea for the present, should anybody visit me--even supposing I
had tea and sugar, which was not the case. I then overhauled
what might more strictly be called the stock in trade. This
consisted of various tools, an iron ladle, a chafing-pan and
small bellows, sundry pans and kettles--the latter being of
tin, with the exception of one which was of copper--all in a
state of considerable dilapidation, if I may use the term. Of
these first Slingsby had spoken in particular, advising me to
mend them as soon as possible, and to endeavour to sell them,
in order that I might have the satisfaction of receiving some
return upon the outlay which I had made. There was likewise
a small quantity of block-tin, sheet-tin, and solder. 'This
Slingsby,' said I, 'is certainly a very honest man; he has sold
me more than my money's worth; I believe, however, there is
something more in the cart.' Thereupon I rummaged the further
end of the cart, and, amidst a quantity of straw, I found a
small anvil, and bellows of that kind which are used in forges,
and two hammers, such as smiths use--one great and the other
small."

Here the author remains for a few days tinkering at his kettles, and wholly uninterrupted, until he is surprised by the visit of a young gipsy girl. The scene which follows is sufficiently absurd. The girl wants to get a kettle from him, and patters Rommany, which choice dialect Mr Borrow pretends not to understand. At last, however, he presents her with the culinary implement, and astonishes her by singing a part of that dainty ditty about dukkeripen, hokkeripen, and lachipen, which we have inserted above. He had much better have kept his accomplishments to himself; but we suppose the temptation was irresistible. Indeed, judging from the various instances which are chronicled in this book, it would appear that Lavengro made a regular practice, in his intercourse with every one, to maintain the semblance of considerable ignorance and simplicity, until some opportunity occurred, when he could let off his bottled knowledge with astounding effect. We question the wisdom of this method in any point of view, and under any circumstance. In the present case he paid dear for the untimely exhibition of his lore.

"The girl, who had given a slight start when I began, remained
for some time after I had concluded the song, standing
motionless as a statue, with the kettle in her hand. At
length she came towards me, and stared me full in the face.
'Grey, tall, and talks Rommany,' said she to herself. In her
countenance there was an expression which I had not seen
before--an expression which struck me as being composed of
fear, curiosity, and the deepest hate. It was momentary,
however, and was succeeded by one smiling, frank, and open.
'Ha, ha, brother,' said she, 'well, I like you all the
better for talking Rommany; it is a sweet language, isn't
it?--especially as you sing it. How did you pick it up? But you
picked it up on the roads, no doubt? Ha, it was funny in you
to pretend not to know it, and you so flush with it all the
time; it was not kind in you, however, to frighten the poor
person's child so by screaming out; but it was kind in you to
give the rikkeni kekaubi to the child of the poor person. She
will be grateful to you--she will bring you her little dog to
show you--her pretty juggal; the poor person's child will come
and see you again; you are not going away to-day, I hope, or
to-morrow, pretty brother, grey-haired brother--you are not
going away to-morrow, I hope?'

'Nor the next day,' said I; 'only to take a stroll to see if
I can sell a kettle. Good-bye, little sister, Rommany sister,
dingy sister.'

'Good-bye, tall brother,' said the girl as she departed,
singing--

"The Rommany chi," &c.

'There's something about that girl that I don't understand,'
said I to myself--'something mysterious. However, it is nothing
to me; she knows not who I am; and if she did, what then?'"

Lavengro, however, was doomed to become the victim of misplaced confidence. The young lady in question was the grand-daughter of Mrs Herne "of the hairy ones," who, as the reader will recollect, abandoned the society of her kin rather than associate with the gorgio, as, we presume, we ought to call Mr Borrow. This old woman, who was resolved to have her revenge should any opportunity occur, was encamped somewhere in the neighbourhood; and in the dusk of the evening Lavengro beheld "a face wild and strange, half-covered with grey hair," glaring at him through a gap in the bushes. It disappeared, and Lavengro went to bed. A day or two afterwards he received a second visit from the gipsy girl, who presented him with a species of bun, prepared, as she said, by her "grandbebee," for the express consumption of the "harko mescro" who had been so liberal of the "kekaubi." His evil dukkeripen induced the author to eat, and, as the reader must have already anticipated, the cake proves to have been poisoned.

Lavengro, in great agony, crawls into his tent, and has just sunk into a kind of heavy swoon, when he is aroused by a violent thump upon the canvass; and, opening his eyes, beholds Mrs Herne and the girl standing without. They have come to gloat over his dying pangs.

It has been our fortune to peruse several of the romances of M. Eugene Sue, and of his followers, as also divers of those interesting and improving fictions which issue, in a serial form, from Holywell Street; but we are not sure that we can recall to our memory any passage culled from these various sources, which is more unnatural, distorted, and purely disgusting, than the conversation between the two females. We give a very small portion of it--for it extends to ten or twelve pages--and what we do quote is, perhaps, the most natural of the whole:--

"'Halloo, sir! are you sleeping? you have taken drows. The
gentleman makes no answer. God give me patience!'

'And what if he doesn't, bebee; isn't he poisoned like a hog?
Gentleman! indeed; why call him gentleman? if he ever was one
he's broke, and is now a tinker--a worker of blue metal!'

'That's his way, child; to-day a tinker, to-morrow something
else: and as for being drabbed, I don't know what to say about
it.'

'Not drabbed! what do you mean, bebee? But look there,
bebee--ha, ha--look at the gentleman's motions.'

'He is sick, child, sure enough. Ho, ho! sir, you have taken
drows; what, another throe! writhe, sir, writhe, the hog died
by the drow of gipsies; I saw him stretched at evening. That's
yourself, sir. There is no hope, sir, no help; you have taken
drow. Shall I tell your fortune, sir--your dukkerin? God bless
you, young gentleman, much trouble will you have to suffer,
and much water to cross; but never mind, pretty gentleman, you
shall be fortunate at the end, and those who hate shall take
off their hats to you.'

'Hey, bebee!' cried the girl, 'what is this? what do you mean?
you have blessed the gorgio!'

'Blessed him! no, sure; what did I say? Oh, I remember; I'm
mad. Well, I can't help it; I said what the dukkerin dook told
me. Woe's me! he'll get up yet.'

'Nonsense, bebee! look at his motions; he's drabbed, spite of
dukkerin.'

'Don't say so, child; he's sick, 'tis true: but don't laugh at
dukkerin; only folks do that that know no better; I, for one,
will never laugh at the dukkerin dook. Sick again; I wish he
was gone.'

'He'll soon be gone, bebee; let's leave him. He's as good as
gone; look there--he's dead!'

'No, he's not; he'll get up--I feel it. Can't we hasten him?'

'Hasten him? yes, to be sure; set the dog upon him. Here,
Juggal, look in there, my dog.'

The dog made its appearance at the door of the tent, and began
to bark and tear up the ground.

'At him, Juggal, at him; he wished to poison, to drab you.
Halloo!'

The dog barked violently, and seemed about to spring at my
face, but retreated.

'The dog won't fly at him, child; he flashed at the dog with
his eye, and scared him. He'll get up.'

'Nonsense, bebee! you make me angry. How should he get up?'

'The dook tells me so; and what's more, I had a dream.'"

But the gentle Leonora--which was the name of the girl--has a strong tendency towards the practical. She would have been an invaluable assistant at the inn of Terracina--which hostelry the dramatic writers of the Surrey side used to select as the scene of their most appalling tragedies; representing the landlord as an unhappy misanthrope, who could never sleep unless he had poniarded his man; and the head-waiter as a merry creature, who wore two brace of stilettoes in his girdle, and lurked at the bottom of the pit, to receive the visitors when the bed tumbled through the trap-door. Miss Leonora, we say, becomes impatient at the exceeding dilatoriness of Lavengro in giving up the ghost, and entreats her bebee, notwithstanding the dukkerin, to finish him at once by poking her stick into his eye! The venerable descendant of the hairy ones attempts to carry this humane advice into effect, but, at the second lounge, the pole of the tent gives way, and she is sent sprawling under the canvass.

At this juncture, the sound of wheels is heard, and the girl has work enough to extricate her bebee, and hurry her off, before a car arrives. It is pulled up by the fallen tent. Lavengro hears a sound of voices; but the language is neither Rommany nor English: it is Welsh.

The Samaritan--who immediately doctors Lavengro with oil, and relieves him from the effect of the poison--is a Methodist preacher, who, in company with his wife, pays an annual visit to certain stations, where his ministry is greatly prized. The portrayment of this family--Peter, and his helpmate Winifred--would have been nearly perfect, had Mr Borrow not chosen to represent the man as haunted by the most horrible and overwhelming remorse for an imaginary sin of childhood. The idea is evidently taken from a melancholy passage in the life of Cowper, who, as every one knows, was, owing to constitutional hypochondria, the victim of hideous delusions. To select such themes wantonly and unnecessarily, argues the worst possible taste. They ought not, on any account, to have been introduced in a work of this kind; and Mr Borrow must not be surprised if very grave objections should be urged against his book, arising from the manner in which he has chosen to treat of so awful and inscrutable a dispensation. It will be no apology to say that the thing actually occurred, and that the writer is merely relating what passed under his own observation. No man is bound to set down and publish everything which he hears or sees. On the contrary, he is bound to use a just discretion, in order that he may not profanely enter on forbidden ground, or cruelly parade confessions and doubts which, surely, were never intended for the public ear.

But, as we have already indicated, we have no belief in the reality of the preacher's story. Even had the main incidents of the episode been true, it is not only improbable, but incredible, that a person, such as the preacher is represented to be, would have confided his history to Lavengro, who had certainly few recommendations as a spiritual adviser. We are thoroughly convinced that our hypothesis is correct, and that Mr Borrow--whose birth-place was Dereham, the town in which Cowper was buried--has been led, through a diseased and vicious taste, to reproduce a picture which no one can contemplate without a shudder. But enough on this painful subject. There is, however, a point of minor morals which we must notice. Is Mr Borrow aware that the conduct of his hero in concealing his knowledge of the Welsh language from the people who had just rescued him from death, so as to induce them to utter their most private thoughts and feelings within his hearing, was, to say the least of it, a very ungrateful return for all their kindness? It would appear not. However, we are tolerably certain that no one who peruses the book will differ from us in this opinion.

The preacher and his wife persuade Lavengro to travel with them as far as the boundary of Wales, where he stops, refusing to set foot on the land of Cadwallader. According to his usual custom, he petrifies them at parting by exhibiting his intimate knowledge of the Welsh language and literature. Just as they are taking leave, Petulengro makes his appearance, emerging from Wales, and Lavengro turns with him. Now, what does the reader think the respectable Jasper had been doing? Neither more nor less than assisting at the interment of Mrs Herne, who had herself anticipated the last tender offices of the executioner! The fraternal pair jog on for a while amicably, Petulengro beguiling the way by a sprightly narrative of blackguardism, until they reach a convenient piece of turf, when he expresses a strong desire to have a turn-up with the rather reluctant Lavengro. As the Rommany code of honour is but little understood, we may as well give Petulengro's reasons for defying his brother to the combat:--

"There is a point at present between us. There can be no doubt
that you are the cause of Mrs Herne's death--innocently, you
will say; but still the cause. Now, I shouldn't like it to be
known that I went up and down the country with a pal who was
the cause of my mother-in-law's death--that's to say, unless he
gave me satisfaction. Now, if I and my pal have a tussle, he
gives me satisfaction; and if he knocks my eyes out--which I
know you can't do--it makes no difference at all; he gives me
satisfaction: and he who says to the contrary knows nothing of
gipsy law, and is a dinelo into the bargain."

So, there being no other mode of adjustment, a stand-up fight took place, in which it would appear that Lavengro received the largest share of pepper. Petulengro at last declared himself satisfied, and the affiliated couple set forward as if nothing had happened to disturb the harmony of the afternoon. When they separate, Lavengro takes his way in a secluded dingle, five miles distant from the nearest village, and there encamps, makes horse-shoes, and has a fit of the horrors. Just as he is recovering from this attack, who should appear in the dingle but the Flying Tinman, with Grey Moll, and the amazon whom Slingsby had mentioned--"an exceedingly tall woman, or rather girl, for she could scarcely have been above eighteen." The Tinman himself was no beauty.

"I do not remember ever to have seen a more ruffianly-looking
fellow. He was about six feet high, with an immensely athletic
frame; his face was black and bluff, and sported an immense
pair of whiskers, but with here and there a grey hair; for
his age could not be much under fifty. He wore a faded blue
frock-coat, corduroys, and high-lows; on his black head was
a kind of red nightcap, round his bull-neck a Barcelona
handkerchief. I did not like the look of the man at all."

Two bulls are as likely to be amicable on one pasture as two tinkers on the same beat. There is some surly chaffing. Lavengro tries to conciliate the big girl by telling her that she is like Ingeborg, Queen of Norway--which must have been an exceedingly intelligible compliment--and then by pouring into her ear the following Orphean strain:--

"As I was jawing to the gav yeck divvers,
I met on the drom miro Rommany chi."

The minstrel's reward was a thundering douse on the chops. Then stood forth the Tinman in his ire, and a battle-royal commenced. Belle--for such was the name of the big girl--was, however, an admirer of fair play, and though she had been the first to strike him, volunteered her services as Lavengro's second--Grey Moll doing the needful for her spouse. After several sharp rounds, the Tinman misses a blow, smashes himself against a tree, and goes down like a ninepin, insensible to the call of time. There is honour among the tinkers, as there was law among the cutters. The defeated warrior retires with his mort, leaving Belle, whom he now abandons, to the protection of the victorious Lavengro.

And what follows? No sniggering, young gentleman, if you please. You never were more entirely mistaken in your life. It is true that Belle--or to give her her proper title--Miss Isopel Berners, was a young lady of doubtful origin, who had been educated in the workhouse. Why not? The only three noble names in the county were to be found there. "Mine was one, the other two were Devereux and Bohun." And she was independent as she was strong. Being apprenticed out at fourteen years of age to a small farmer and his wife, she knocked down her mistress for ill-using her, and, at sixteen, knocked down her master for taking improper liberties. Shortly afterwards, having taken service with a lady who travelled the country selling silks and linen, Belle thrashed two sailors who wanted to rob the cart; so that, upon the whole, she was by no means the Neæra with the tangles of whose hair it was safe to play, unless with her entire consent. Therefore the twain tarried in all amity and honour together in the dingle, making themselves, upon the whole, remarkably comfortable. An occasional visit to an alehouse, where politics and polemics were discussed, relieved Lavengro from the vapours; and of an evening in the dingle, he occupied himself by adding to the stock of accomplishments possessed by Miss Isopel Berners. The reader will naturally be anxious to know the nature of the lessons. Did he teach her ciphering, or French, or cross-stitch, or cooking according to the method of Mrs Glass, or philosophy, divinity, or calisthenics? Nothing of the kind. Lavengro gave her "LESSONS IN ARMENIAN!"

Nor were they altogether without visitors. The priest appears upon the stage, or rather comes to the dingle--a red-haired, squinting Jesuit, who, very unnecessarily, expounds his method for converting England to the faith of Rome, over several tumblers of Hollands-and-water, sweetened with a lump of sugar. It is a curious fact, that he preferred the water cold. Then, during a thunder-storm, a postilion makes his appearance in consequence of a capsize of his postchaise, and relates the history of his travels to Rome, where it appears that he also had known the red-haired Jesuit. The said postilion, by the way, is an accomplished rhetorician, for he divides his discourse into the three parts of exordium, argument, and peroration. And so the book ends; Lavengro and Miss Berners still remaining in the dingle, the latter having evidently conceived a tender interest for her teacher in Armenian lore.

Such are the contents of the book, which, most assuredly, will add but little to Mr Borrow's reputation. That he has seen a great deal of strange vagabond life, is certain; and it is equally plain that he is gifted with adequate powers for depicting it. But he is no artist as respects arrangement, and his anxiety to represent himself, or Lavengro, as a character altogether without a parallel, has led him into the most gross exaggerations and the most absurd positions. We were willing to accept his former works as valuable contributions to philology, and as containing sketches, vivid, if not true, of gipsy life and manners. But this must have a limit somewhere. We are sick of the Petulengros and their jargon, and Mr Borrow ought now to be aware that he has thoroughly exhausted that quarry. He is mistaken if he supposes that he has caught the secret of Defoe, who, like him, introduced the reader to scenes and characters which were not usually selected for portraiture and illustration. Defoe's excellence lies in his extreme truthfulness, his homely manner, and his total freedom from exaggeration; and until Mr Borrow is master of these qualities, he can never hope to succeed in this line of composition. We strongly suspect that, in the course of the composition of this book, which, unless our memory strangely deceives us, was announced more than two years ago, considerable changes have taken place in its plan and disposition. We cannot read the preface in connection with the latter part of the third volume, without thinking that much has been added and interpolated to suit the occasion of the recent Papal aggression; and that we are indebted to that circumstance for the introduction of the Jesuit, and the rhetorical postilion's story, so strangely dragged in as an episode to conclude the narrative. If we are right in this conjecture, a great deal of the incongruity which is apparent throughout the work is explained. But the faults still remain; and, while it is impossible to deny that Lavengro contains some spirited passages and many indications of talent, we cannot pronounce such a general verdict in its favour as would be at all satisfactory either to the author or his admirers.

THE ARTS IN PORTUGAL.[24]