The Romany Rye - A Sequel to 'Lavengro'
by George Borrow
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Transcribed from by the 1903 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price, email Many thanks to Norfolk and Norwich Millennium Library, UK, for kindly supplying the images from which this transcription was made.


A Sequel to 'Lavengro'





[Picture: Bushbury Church]


'Lavengro' and 'The Romany Rye' are one book, though the former was published in 1851 and the latter not until 1857. After a slumber of six years the dingle re-awakes to life, Lavengro's hammer shatters the stillness, and the blaze of his forge again lights up its shadows, while all the strange persons of the drama take up their parts at the point where the curtain had been so abruptly rung down. The post-chaise overturned in the last chapter of 'Lavengro' is repaired in the first of this sequel, the Man in Black proceeds with his interrupted disquisition, and Borrow resumes his cold-blooded courtship of poor Isopel, playing with her feelings as a cat with a mouse. The dingle episode is divided equally between the two works; and had not 'Glorious John,' after a series of peremptory notes from the author, at last consented to publish 'The Romany Rye' 'to oblige Mr. Borrow,' we had lost some of the most delightful scenes of which that enchanted spot was the theatre.

What part of this narrative is Dichtung and what is Wahrheit has been a debated question. In his chapter on pseudo-critics in the appendix to the present book, Borrow denies that he ever called 'Lavengro' an autobiography, or authorized any other person to call it so. But it had been advertised for some months as, 'Lavengro: an Autobiography'; while as early as 1843 Borrow writes to Murray that he is engaged upon his life; and as late as 1862, in an account of himself written for Mr. John Longe of Norwich, Borrow says that 'in 1851 he published "Lavengro," a work in which he gives an account of his early life.' There is indeed no doubt that the earlier part of 'Lavengro' is, in the main, a true history of the life and adventures of George Borrow, however embellished here or there with Borrovian touches; it is only of the truth of the occurrences just before and after leaving London that scepticism has been expressed. Borrow's story, however, is so circumstantial that we should at least be able to discover whether this part of his history is credible and consistent.

Plainly, the year when Borrow leaves London is 1825. 'Somewhat more than a year before,' in March (or rather April) {0a} of the year of Byron's funeral, {0b} he had entered the 'Big City,' a youth verging on manhood. In his preface to 'Lavengro' he speaks of the time as embracing 'nearly the first quarter of the present century,' and in 'The Romany Rye' refers to having edited the Newgate Chronicle some months ago. {0c} We know also that his youthful contributions to literature ceased with his translation of Klinger's 'Faustus,' published on April 18, 1825. About this time, then, when Borrow was literally reduced to his last shilling, he describes himself as visiting a fair in the neighbourhood of London. He refuses a loan of 50 pounds from Jasper Petulengro, and, returning homewards, notices in a publisher's window a request for a tale or novel. Subsisting on bread and water, he writes in a week the 'Life of Joseph Sell,' for which he receives 20 pounds, and twelve days after attending the fair leaves London. Passing through Salisbury, he travels northward and encamps in a dingle, where he is poisoned by his old enemy Mrs. Herne. Saved by the timely intervention of a methodist preacher and his wife, he recovers on the following day (Sunday), and nine days later accompanies his friends to the Welsh border. Here he again meets Jasper, returning with him the greater part of the day's journey, settling in 'Mumpers' Dingle,' where he is visited by his gypsy friends, four days before the Sunday upon which they all attend church.

A casual remark of Mr. Petulengro's on this occasion affords a valuable clue to the precise date. 'Any news stirring, Mr. Petulengro?' said Borrow; 'have you heard anything of the great religious movements?' 'Plenty,' said Mr. Petulengro; 'all the religious people, more especially the evangelicals, those who go about distributing tracts, are very angry about the fight between Gentleman Cooper and White-headed Bob, which they say ought not to have been permitted to take place; and then they are trying all they can to prevent the fight between the lion and the dogs, which they say is a disgrace to a Christian country.' The prize-fight between Baldwin and Cooper was fought on Tuesday, July 5, 1825, near Maidenhead. The combat between the lion, Nero, and six dogs took place at Warwick on Tuesday, July 26, and for months beforehand had been the subject of much discussion in the London and provincial press. {0d} The Wednesday, therefore, when the gypsies visited Borrow in the dingle must have fallen between these two events—i.e., must have been the 6th, 13th, or 20th of July. The fair to the south-east of London, towards which Borrow was attracted by a huge concourse of people, all moving in the same direction, is unmistakably the Greenwich Fair, held on Whit-Monday, May 23, 1825. {0e} He must, then, have set out after this date, and on a Tuesday, as we calculate by reckoning backwards from the first Sunday passed with Peter Williams. The gypsies' visit occurred on the 58th day of his tour, so that he must have left London on Tuesday, May 24, 1825, since to have started on any later day would have carried him beyond the date of the lion fight.

From these data we can now construct an exact diary of Borrow's adventures, from the day on which he left London to that on which he arrived at the posting-inn on the Great North Road.


1st day [Tuesday, May 24, 1825]. Leaves London, afternoon; walks nine miles S.W.; takes coach to [Amesbury].

2nd day [Wednesday, May 25]. Arrives [Amesbury] before dawn; sees Stonehenge; crosses Avon; descends to City of the Spire [Salisbury].

3rd day [Thursday, May 26]. Salisbury.

4th day [Friday, May 27]. Leaves Salisbury; walks N.W., about twelve miles to small town [? Heytesbury].

5th to 8th day [Saturday, May 28, to Tuesday, May 31]. Walks N.W., twenty to twenty-five miles per day.

9th day [Wednesday, June 1]. About two reaches small town, meets author and accompanies him home (two miles off main road).

10th day [Thursday, June 2]. Rev. Mr. Platitude visits author, Borrow leaves early; walks N. for two hours; buys Slingsby's pony and cart; afternoon travels N.W.; late at night arrives at a dingle [in Shropshire].

11th day [Friday, June 3]. Learning tinkering in dingle.

12th to 14th day [Saturday, June 4, to Monday, June 6]. Tinkering in dingle. {0f}

15th day [Tuesday, June 7]. Visited by Leonora.

16th day [Wednesday, June 8]. Collects kettles to mend.

17th to 18th day [Thursday, June 9, to Friday, June 10]. Uneventful.

19th day [Saturday, June 11]. Poisoned by Mrs. Herne's cake; saved by intervention of Welsh preacher and his wife; travels with them by night.

20th day [Sunday, June 12]. Peter Williams preaches; Borrow bathes; meets the dairyman's daughter.

21st day [Monday, June 13]. Uneventful.

22nd day [Tuesday, June 14]. Peter promises to tell his tale.

23rd to 24th day [Wednesday, June 15, to Thursday, June 16]. Uneventful.

25th day [Friday, June 17]. Peter tells his tale.

26th day [Saturday, June 18]. Peter tranquillized.

27th day [Sunday, June 19]. Peter preaches.

28th day [Monday, June 20]. Borrow talks of departing.

29th day [Tuesday, June 21]. Accompanies preacher and wife to Welsh border; meets Mr. Petulengro; returns with him; parts near the Silent Woman; settles in Mumper's Dingle.

30th to 32nd day [Wednesday, June 22, to Friday, June 24]. Practises making horse-shoes.

33rd day [Saturday, June 25]. Succeeds (after four days); at evening the horrors.

34th day [Sunday, June 26]. Better; reads Welsh Bible.

35th day [Monday, June 27]. Uneventful.

36th day [Tuesday, June 28]. Fight with Flaming Tinman; meets Isopel Berners, who remains in dingle.

37th day [Wednesday, June 29]. Visits public-house (landlord says fight took place day before); meets Man in Black; gives Belle her first Armenian lesson; Man in Black visits dingle.

38th to 40th day [Thursday, June 30, to Saturday, July 2]. Uneventful.

41st day [Sunday, July 3]. Landlord tells Borrow of approaching cock-fight.

42nd to 43rd day [Monday, July 4, to Tuesday, July 5]. Uneventful.

44th day [Wednesday, July 6]. The cock-fight.

45th to 47th day [Thursday, July 7, to Saturday, July 9]. Uneventful.

48th to 50th day [Sunday, July 10, to Tuesday, July 12]. Landlord's loss of cock-fight generally known.

51st day [Wednesday, July 13]. Landlord proposes fight between Borrow and Belle.

52nd to 53rd day [Thursday, July 14, to Friday, July 15]. On one of these days Man in Black probably visits dingle.

54th to 55th day [Saturday, July 16, to Sunday, July 17]. Uneventful.

56th day [Monday, July 18]. Thunderstorm; postillion's chaise overturned.

[End of 'Lavengro.']

NOTE.—The last twenty dates are thus arrived at. There are two references to the lapse of a fortnight since June 29, which was the date of Borrow's first visit to the public-house, and of Belle's first Armenian lesson. 'In about a fortnight Belle had hung up 100 Haikan numerals on the hake of her memory;' while the landlord, on the occasion when he suggests a fight between Borrow and Belle, complains that Hunter calls him an old fool, whereas a fortnight ago it was he who called Hunter a fool. The date, then, of this last visit of Borrow's to the public-house must have been on or about July 13. The defeat of the landlord's game-cocks has been noised abroad for the past three days (July 10, 11, 12), and since the landlord had referred ten days before to the fact that the fight was about to come off on the following Wednesday, it must have occurred on July 6. 'One day'—not necessarily the 14th or 15th, but this date is unimportant—the Man in Black revisits the dingle, and then follow three uneventful days, on the last evening of which is the great thunderstorm (July 18). Henceforward the daily record is plain and straightforward, and definitely fixed by the mention of the Sunday on which Borrow and the gypsies attend the church of M—.

[Beginning of 'Romany Rye.']

57th day [Tuesday, July 19]. Makes linchpin; postillion departs; evening, Man in Black.

58th day [Wednesday, July 20]. Arrival of gypsies; Belle goes on short journey.

59th day [Thursday, July 21]. Gypsies feast at Ursula's wedding.

60th to 61st day [Friday, July 22, to Saturday, July 23]. Uneventful.

62nd day [Sunday, July 24]. Afternoon church at M—; talk with Ursula under hedge; Belle returns at night.

63rd day [Monday, July 25]. Landlord in despair; evening, gypsies prepare for fair.

64th day [Tuesday, July 26]. Attends fair with gypsies; last view of Belle; sees horse.

65th day [Wednesday, July 27]. Gypsies return from fair.

66th to 67th day [Thursday, July 28, to Friday, July 29]. No Belle.

68th day [Saturday, July 30]. Belle's letter; Borrow sleeps soundly.

69th day [Sunday, July 31]. Landlord in luck; horse at public-house; Petulengro lends Borrow 50 pounds.

70th day [Monday, August 1]. Buys horse.

71st day [Tuesday, August 2]. Leaves dingle; rescues old man's ass; puts up at small inn on the North Road.

72nd day [Wednesday, August 3]. Reaches posting house [Swan Hotel, Stafford].

So far as we have proceeded the accuracy of this calculation depends upon two dates only. Can we verify it by establishing the truth of any of the events recorded by Borrow? In reply to my enquiry whether the Wolverhampton Chronicle contains any reference to a thunderstorm occurring on July 18, Mr. J. Elliot, the city librarian replied by sending me the following extract from that paper for Wednesday, July 20, 1825:

'On Monday afternoon [i.e., July 18] three men who were mowing in a field at the Limes, near Seabridge, in this county, took shelter under the hedge from a violent thunderstorm. They had not been long there before one of them was struck with the electric fluid, causing his immediate death. The other two men were a short distance from the ill-fated man above mentioned, and were stunned about an hour, but not injured further.'

Again, Borrow mentions attending a horse and cattle fair, in company with the gypsies, on the morning of the day when, looking backward toward the dingle, he saw Isopel Berners for the last time 'standing at the mouth, {0g} the beams of the morning sun shining full on her noble face and figure.' It seems probable that this fair, which took the party about two hours to reach, was the Tamworth horse and cattle fair held on July 26.

Again, Borrow tells us that 'a young moon gave a feeble light,' as he mounted the coach to Amesbury, and on May 24 the moon was in its first quarter. {0h} The planet Jupiter, too, he could have seen after 10 p.m. on June 3, but his reference to the position of Ursus Major on the evening of his talk with Ursula is less satisfactory. 'On arriving at the mouth of the dingle, which fronted the east, I perceived,' says Borrow, 'that Charles's Wain was nearly opposite to it high above in the heavens, by which I knew that the night was tolerably well advanced.' But on July 24, as I learn, Charles's Wain was in the N.W., and at midnight or 1 a.m. lay nearly due north, and as low down in the sky as it could be. This, however, is perhaps to consider too closely. Indeed, the general accuracy of this part of Borrow's story renders it probable that it was expanded from a brief diary kept at the time.

It will be seen that the dates thus arrived at differ from those of Borrow's biographer. According to Professor Knapp, {0i} Borrow visits Greenwich Fair on May 12, 1825, writes 'Joseph Sell' May 13 to 18, and disposes of the MS. on the 20th; leaves London on the 22nd, reaches Amesbury on the 23rd; leaves Salisbury May 26, and meets author (man who touches) May 30. On May 31 he buys Slingsby's pony, is in dingle June 1, visited by Leonora on the 5th, and drugged by Mrs. Herne on the 8th. He passes Sunday, June 12, and the following week with Peter Williams and his wife, on the 21st he sees them to the border, turns back with Petulengro and settles in Mumpers' Dingle. His fight with the Flaming Tinman, Professor Knapp tells us, must have occurred about the end of June. The Professor's chronology, however, seems to me derived from a calculation—not in itself over-exact {0j}—based upon the erroneous idea that the fair took place on May 12. {0k} This is traceable to a statement in Thorpe {0l} that 'the fair lasted as a "hog" and pleasure fair, and was held on May 12 and October 11, till 1872'; but Thorpe here refers to a later period, and there is no doubt that in 1825 the Greenwich Fair was held on Whit-Monday, May 23.

Not the least interesting corollary from this correction is the discovery that 'that extraordinary work,' the 'Life of Joseph Sell,' was never written. To me Borrow's insistent iteration of the bare statement that he wrote such a book is in itself suspicious, and it is not a little strange that a work for which 'during the last few months (before August, 1825) there has been a prodigious demand'{0m} should have entirely disappeared from the face of the earth. The name 'Sell,' which in some curious fashion seems to carry conviction to Professor Knapp's mind, {0n} seems to me a singularly inauspicious one, especially when coming from a writer who, like Pakomovna, was 'born not far from the sign of the gammon,' and who boasts in his appendix of having inserted deliberate misstatements in his books in order to deceive and mislead his critics. {0o} But why should Borrow pretend to have written this book? Chiefly, I think, to emphasize that independence of character of which he so frequently boasts, and which, after his marriage fifteen years later to a well-to-do widow, he is perhaps a little apt to antedate. {0p} However Borrow obtained the money which enabled him to leave London, it is plain that it was not by writing 'Joseph Sell' at the time and in the manner described. If he were in as desperate circumstances as he represents, he probably accepted Mr. Petulengro's offer, {0q} unless we are to suppose that he imitated the methods of Jerry Abershaw, Galloping Dick, or some of the 'fraternity of vagabonds' whose lives Borrow had chronicled in his 'Celebrated Trials.'

Borrow's narrative after his arrival at Stafford becomes dull, shadowy, and unconvincing—a strong argument against its truth; for while Borrow easily lived the life romantic, he seems to have lacked the power to imagine it. He describes himself as accepting a somewhat nondescript office at the posting-inn on the Great North Road, where he remains for an undefined but considerable period, and meets again with Francis Ardrey and the Rev. Mr. Platitude. On leaving the inn he refuses to accept the landlord's offer of an honorarium of 10 pounds, and sets off with his horse to Horncastle Fair. He meets with an accident a day's journey from his destination, which confines him for eight days in the house of the old man who could read Chinese crockery, but could not tell what was o'clock. Ultimately he reaches Horncastle before the end of the fair, sells his horse to Jack Dale the jockey, and journeys towards Norwich, where we part with him at Spalding.

These statements are mutually irreconcilable. Horncastle Fair was held from August 10 (the Feast of St. Lawrence) to August 21, and had 'just begun' on the day following his accident; but, as his journey lasted six days, this leaves no time at all for his experiences at the inn, where he must have stopped for some weeks, and apparently a much longer period, as 'a kind of overlooker in the stables.' If, on the other hand, we allow even a fortnight for his stop at the inn, for which 10 pounds would be handsome payment, then he could not have arrived at Horncastle before the end of the fair. Which part of his story, if any, are we to accept?

The Stafford story is decidedly weak. Borrow, being no fool, would not have journeyed north for two days on his road to Horncastle, nor would Ardrey have taken coach to Stafford en route for a lion fight at Warwick, which had taken place several days before. Mr. Platitude's reappearance is extremely artificial, and the ostler's tales of Abershaw and Co. are obviously reminiscences of Borrow's 'Celebrated Trials.' But the Horncastle story is weaker still. The 'Lord'-Lieutenant, so free and young,' is pilloried, because eighteen years afterwards he did not see his way to make Borrow a J.P. (Who would?) Murtagh is introduced merely as a lay figure, upon which to drape an inverted account of Borrow's own travels at a later period; and that very tedious gentleman, the tall Hungarian, is a character, Professor Knapp tells us, whom Borrow met in Hungary or Wallachia in 1884. It is plain that at this point the whole story has become what Borrow calls a 'fakement.'

But that Borrow did buy a horse with money lent by Petulengro, and sold it at a profit, we have some reason to credit. Nearly ten years before Borrow wrote 'The Romany Rye,' in the second edition of his 'Zincali,' published in 1843, he quotes a speech of Mr. Petulengro's 'on the day after mol-divvus, {0r} 1842.' 'I am no hindity mush, {0s} as you well know,' says Jasper. 'I suppose you have not forgot, how, fifteen years ago, when you made horse-shoes in the little dingle by the side of the Great North Road, I lent you fifty cottors {0t} to purchase the wonderful trotting cob of the innkeeper with the green Newmarket coat, which three days later you sold for two hundred.' This earlier version seems more probably the true one, and since three days would find Borrow in Stafford, it seems reasonable to conclude that he sold his horse there and not in Lincolnshire. Personally, however, I must confess to feeling little interest in the fate of the animal—Belle's donkey were a dearer object.

Mumpers' Dingle might well become the Mecca of true Borrovians, could we but determine the authentic spot. Somewhere or other—who will find it for us?—in west central Shropshire {0u} is a little roadside inn called the Silent Woman; {0v} a little further to the east is a milestone on the left hand side, and a few yards from the milestone the cross-road where Petulengro parted from Borrow. Ten miles further still is a town, and five miles from the town the famous dingle. Mr. Petulengro describes it as 'surprisingly dreary'; 'a deep dingle in the midst of a large field about which there has been a law-suit for some years past; the nearest town five miles distant, and only a few huts and hedge public-houses in the neighbourhood;' {0w} and Borrow speaks of it as 'a deep hollow in the midst of a wide field; the shelving sides overgrown with trees and bushes, a belt of sallows surrounding it on the top, and a steep winding path leading down into the depths.' {0x} It was surrounded by a copse of thorn bushes, {0y} and the mouth of the dingle fronted the east, {0z} while the highroad lay too far distant for the noise of traffic to reach Borrow's ears. {0z1}

Professor Knapp has located the dingle in Monmer Lane, Willenhall, and a visit to the locality and references to old and new ordnance surveys support this view. Willenhall lies in the coal measures of Staffordshire, and the modern development of its coal and iron industries has transformed the 'few huts and hedge public-houses' into a thriving town of about 17,000 inhabitants. The name of 'Mumpers' Dingle' did not seem to be locally recognised, and, indeed, was scornfully repudiated by the oldest inhabitant; but this may have been merely his revenge for my intrusion just about his dinner hour. But Monmer Lane, still pronounced and in the older ordnance surveys written 'Mumber Lane,' is known to all. At the top of this lane on the east side of the bridge lies the 'Monmer Lane Ironworks,' which Professor Knapp, a little carelessly, assumes to have been the site of the dingle; {0z2} and to the west a large flat, bare, uncultivated piece of land, Borrow's 'plain,' cut in two by the Bentley Canal, which runs through it east and west. A walk of 500 yards along the tow-path brings us to a small bridge crossing the canal. This is known as 'Dingle Bridge,' the little hawthorn-girt lane leading to it is called 'Dingle Lane,' and a field opposite bears the name of 'Dingle Piece.' The dingle itself has disappeared, possibly as a consequence of levelling operations in the construction of the canal, and must not be hastily identified by the pilgrim with the adjoining marl-pit, which has been excavated still more recently. But we can hardly doubt that somewhere hereabouts is the historic spot where Borrow fought and vanquished the Flaming Tinman, that here he lived with Miss Berners 'in an uncertificated manner,' that under an adjoining thorn-bush he held his astounding conversation with Ursula, and that from here, wearied of her companion's frigid regard and strange bantering, poor Isopel turned away with her little donkey-cart and a heavy heart.

The public-house kept by the landlord in the green Newmarket coat, who was 'the wonder and glory of the neighbourhood,' and who had fought and beaten 'Tom of Hopton,' is still standing, though it is no longer used as an inn, and the pious Borrovian must abandon any hopes he may have cherished of drinking to the Lavengro's memory in 'hard old ale.' A quaint old 'half-way house,' it lies, as Borrow describes, about two miles east of the dingle—he saw the setting sun as he returned from his frequent visits there—on the right-hand side of the highroad to Walsall, along which the brewer proposed to establish 'a stage-coach and three to run across the country', and a little nearer Willenhall, on the north side of the road, is Bentley Hall, the 'hall' from which the postillion must have been returning when overtaken by the thunderstorm. The church attended by Borrow and his gypsy friends, when Mrs. Petulengro horrified the sexton by invading the nobleman's vacant pew, may confidently be identified with Bushbury Church, which has all the features described by Borrow. It is rather over three miles' distance from the dingle, has a peal of bells, a chancel entrance, and is surrounded by lofty beech-trees. The vicar in 1825 was a Mr. Clare, but whether of evangelical views and a widower with two daughters, the present vicar is unable to inform me. 'The clergyman of M—, as they call him,' probably took his name from Moseley Court or Moseley Hall, country seats in the parish of Bushbury.

It is as a contribution to philology, Borrow tells us in the Appendix, that he wishes 'Lavengro' and this book to be judged. Fortunately for himself, his fame rests upon surer foundations. A great but careless linguist, Borrow was assuredly no philologist. 'Hair-erecting' (haarstraubend) is the fitting epithet which an Oriental scholar, Professor Richard Pischel, of Berlin, finds to describe Borrow's etymologies; while Pott, in quoting from the 'Zincali,' indicates his horror by notes of exclamation; or, when Borrow once in a way hits on the right etymon, confirms the statement with an ironical 'Ganz recht!' Though Borrow had read Borde, it was reserved for a Viennese scholar, Dr. Zupitza, to discover that the specimens of 'Egipt speche,' in our original Merry-Andrew's 'Boke of Knowledge,' were in reality good Anglo-Romany. And whatever may have been Lavengro's vaunted acquaintance with Armenian, it was apparently insufficient to enable him to identify any of the Armenian elements in the gypsy language.

Touching Borrow's knowledge of Romani, it must be confessed that while he has been the means of attracting others to the study of that interesting tongue, his own command of it was of the slightest. He never mastered 'deep' (or inflected) Romani, and even his broken gypsy is a curious Borrovian variety, distinct from the idiom of the tents. No gypsy ever uses chal or engro as a separate word, or talks of the dukkering dook or of penning a dukkerin. His genders are perversely incorrect, as in the title of the present book; and his 'Romano Lavo-Lil: Word Book of the Romany or English Gypsy Language' probably contains more 'howlers' than any other vocabulary in the world. He is responsible for the creation of such ghost-words as asarlas, 'at all, in no manner' (mistaking helpasar les for help asarlas, pp 18, 110); cappi, 'booty, gain' (to lel cappi, pp 28, 176 = 'to get blankets'); ebyok, 'sea' (? the gypsy questioned, mishearing 'ebb-eye' for 'ebb-tide'); is, 'if,' p. 51; kokkodus, 'uncle' (perhaps mistaking some such phrase as 'like my koko does' for 'like my kokkodus'); lutherum, 'sleep'; medisin, 'measure' (perhaps because medicine is measured out); moskey, 'a spy' (? mistaking dikamaski for dik! a moskey); o, 'he' (mistaking kai jivela for kai jivvel o, p. 53); pahamengro, 'turnip' (probably mistaking pusamengro, 'pitchfork,' for the turnip it was used to uproot); pazorrhus, 'indebted' = 'trust us'); pios, 'drunken as a health' (aukko tu [to] pios, p. 78 = 'here's fun'); sar, 'with'; sherrafo, 'religious, converted,' pp. 89, 194 (really 'chief, principal,' from shero, 'head'); sicovar, 'eternally' (si covar ajaw, p. 90 = 'so the thing is'); sos, 'who' (= 'what's'); talleno, 'woollen, flannel' (mistaking talleno chofa, p. 93, 'under-skirt' for 'flannel petticoat'), etc. Perhaps the most amusing instance of all is the word hinjiri in 'Lavengro.' When Mrs. Herne hanged herself, Petulengro says that she 'had been her own hinjiri,' {0z3} and the word is explained by Professor Knapp as the feminine of hinjiro, 'executioner,' from djandjir, 'a chain.' {0z4} But there is no such word as hinjero, and hinjiri is merely the English 'injury' with a superfluous aspirate.

On the Sunday evening after his conversation with Ursula, Borrow, moved by his discovery of the original meaning of the gypsy word patteran, falls into a strange train of thought. 'No one at present,' he says, 'knew that but myself and Ursula, who had learnt it from Mrs. Herne, the last, it was said, of the old stock; and then I thought what strange people the gypsies must have been in the old time. They were sufficiently strange at present, but they must have been far stranger of old; they must have been a more peculiar people—their language must have been more perfect—and they must have had a greater stock of strange secrets. I almost wished that I had lived some two or three hundred years ago, that I might have observed these people when they were yet stranger than at present. I wondered whether I could have introduced myself to their company at that period, whether I should have been so fortunate as to meet such a strange, half-malicious, half good-humoured being as Jasper, who would have instructed me in the language, then more deserving of note than at present. What might I not have done with that language had I known it in its purity? Why, I might have written books in it! Yet those who spoke it would hardly have admitted me to their society at that period, when they kept more to themselves. Yet I thought that I might possibly have gained their confidence, and have wandered about with them, and learnt their language and all their strange ways, and then—and then—and a sigh rose from the depth of my breast; for I began to think, "Supposing I had accomplished all this, what would have been the profit of it? and in what would all this wild gypsy dream have terminated?"'

It is one of the ironies of fate that Borrow, neither then nor thirty years later, when he made his pedestrian tour through Wales, should have known that there was still in that country a gypsy tribe who had preserved the language of two or three hundred years ago. He might have met gypsies who had spoken to that Romani patriarch Abram Wood; he might have told us the origin of the mysterious Ingrams, for one of whom he was himself mistaken; {0z5} he might have learned from Black Ellen some of the three hundred folk-tales with which she is credited; he might have sat at the feet of that fairy witch Alabina the Meleni, or have described 'Taw' as a girl in her teens. We may sigh for the pictures which the word-master would have given us of this people, but the sigh is almost one of relief when we think of the escape of the exquisite tongue which Borrow would have tortured and defaced, and I, for one, cannot pretend to regret that the discovery of Welsh Romani should have fallen instead to the lot of that perfect scholar-gypsy and gypsy-scholar, FRANCIS HINDES GROOME.

* * * * *

NOTE.—The page references to 'Lavengro' in the foot-notes are to F. H. Groome's edition published in this series; references to 'Romano Lavo-Lil' and 'Wild Wales' are to the original editions. Borrow's own foot-notes are marked (G. B.), and facts quoted on Professor Knapp's authority (Kn.).


It having been frequently stated in print that the book called 'Lavengro' was got up expressly against the Popish agitation in the years 1850-51, the author takes this opportunity of saying that the principal part of that book was written in the year '43, that the whole of it was completed before the termination of the year '46, and that it was in the hands of the publisher in the year '48. {0z6} And here he cannot forbear observing, that it was the duty of that publisher to have rebutted a statement which he knew to be a calumny; and also to have set the public right on another point dealt with in the Appendix to the present work, more especially as he was the proprietor of a review enjoying, however undeservedly, a certain sale and reputation.

'But take your own part, boy! For if you don't, no one will take it for you.'

With respect to 'Lavengro,' the author feels that he has no reason to be ashamed of it. In writing that book he did his duty, by pointing out to his country-people the nonsense which, to the greater part of them, is as the breath of their nostrils, and which, if indulged in, as it probably will be, to the same extent as hitherto, will, within a very few years, bring the land which he most loves beneath a foreign yoke; he does not here allude to the yoke of Rome.

Instead of being ashamed, has he not rather cause to be proud of a book which has had the honour of being rancorously abused and execrated by the very people of whom the country has least reason to be proud?

* * * * *

One day Cogia Efendy went to a bridal festival. The masters of the feast, observing his old and coarse apparel, paid him no consideration whatever. The Cogia saw that he had no chance of notice; so going out, he hurried to his house, and, putting on a splendid pelisse, returned to the place of festival. No sooner did he enter the door than the masters advanced to meet him, and saying, 'Welcome, Cogia Efendy,' with all imaginable honour and reverence, placed him at the head of the table, and said, 'Please to eat, Lord Cogia.' Forthwith the Cogia, taking hold of one of the furs of his pelisse, said, 'Welcome, my pelisse; please to eat, my lord.' The masters, looking at the Cogia with great surprise, said, 'What are you about?' Whereupon the Cogia replied, 'As it is quite evident that all the honour paid is paid to my pelisse, I think it ought to have some food too.'—PLEASANTRIES OF THE COGIA NASR EDDIN EFENDI.



I awoke at the first break of day, and, leaving the postillion fast asleep, stepped out of the tent. The dingle was dank and dripping. I lighted a fire of coals and got my forge in readiness. I then ascended to the field, where the chaise was standing as we had left it on the previous evening. After looking at the cloud-stone near it, now cold, and split into three pieces, I set about prying narrowly into the condition of the wheel and axle-tree—the latter had sustained no damage of any consequence, and the wheel, as far as I was able to judge, was sound, being only slightly injured in the box. The only thing requisite to set the chaise in a travelling condition appeared to be a linch-pin, which I determined to make. Going to the companion wheel, I took out the linch-pin, which I carried down with me to the dingle, to serve me as a model.

I found Belle by this time dressed, and seated near the forge: with a slight nod to her like that which a person gives who happens to see an acquaintance when his mind is occupied with important business, I forthwith set about my work. Selecting a piece of iron which I thought would serve my purpose, I placed it in the fire, and, plying the bellows in a furious manner, soon made it hot; then seizing it with the tongs, I laid it on my anvil, and began to beat it with my hammer, according to the rules of my art. The dingle resounded with my strokes. Belle sat still, and occasionally smiled, but suddenly started up, and retreated towards her encampment, on a spark, which I purposely sent in her direction, alighting on her knee. I found the making of a linch-pin no easy matter; it was, however, less difficult than the fabrication of a pony-shoe; my work, indeed, was much facilitated by my having another pin to look at. In about three-quarters of an hour I had succeeded tolerably well, and had produced a linch-pin which I thought would serve. During all this time, notwithstanding the noise which I was making, the postillion never showed his face. His non-appearance at first alarmed me: I was afraid he might be dead, but, on looking into the tent, I found him still buried in the soundest sleep. 'He must surely be descended from one of the seven sleepers,' said I, as I turned away and resumed my work. My work finished, I took a little oil, leather, and sand, and polished the pin as well as I could; then, summoning Belle, we both went to the chaise, where, with her assistance, I put on the wheel. The linch-pin which I had made fitted its place very well, and having replaced the other, I gazed at the chaise for some time with my heart full of that satisfaction which results from the consciousness of having achieved a great action; then, after looking at Belle in the hope of obtaining a compliment from her lips, which did not come, I returned to the dingle, without saying a word, followed by her. Belle set about making preparations for breakfast; and I, taking the kettle, went and filled it at the spring. Having hung it over the fire, I went to the tent in which the postillion was still sleeping, and called upon him to arise. He awoke with a start, and stared around him at first with the utmost surprise, not unmixed, I could observe, with a certain degree of fear. At last, looking in my face, he appeared to recollect himself. 'I had quite forgot,' said he, as he got up, 'where I was, and all that happened yesterday. However, I remember now the whole affair—thunder-storm, thunder-bolt, frightened horses, and all your kindness. Come, I must see after my coach and horses. I hope we shall be able to repair the damage.' 'The damage is already quite repaired,' said I, 'as you will see, if you come to the field above.' 'You don't say so,' said the postillion, coming out of the tent; 'well, I am mightily beholden to you. Good morning, young gentlewoman,' said he, addressing Belle, who, having finished her preparations, was seated near the fire. 'Good-morning, young man,' said Belle, 'I suppose you would be glad of some breakfast; however, you must wait a little, the kettle does not boil.' 'Come and look at your chaise,' said I; 'but tell me how it happened that the noise which I have been making did not awake you; for three-quarters of an hour at least I was hammering close at your ear.' 'I heard you all the time,' said the postillion, 'but your hammering made me sleep all the sounder; I am used to hear hammering in my morning sleep. There's a forge close by the room where I sleep when I'm at home, at my inn; for we have all kinds of conveniences at my inn—forge, carpenter's shop, and wheelwright's—so that when I heard you hammering, I thought, no doubt, that it was the old noise, and that I was comfortable in my bed at my own inn.' We now ascended to the field, where I showed the postillion his chaise. He looked at the pin attentively, rubbed his hands, and gave a loud laugh. 'Is it not well done?' said I. 'It will do till I get home,' he replied. 'And that is all you have to say?' I demanded. 'And that's a good deal,' said he, 'considering who made it. But don't be offended,' he added, 'I shall prize it all the more for its being made by a gentleman, and no blacksmith; and so will my governor, when I show it to him. I shan't let it remain where it is, but will keep it, as a remembrance of you, as long as I live.' He then again rubbed his hands with great glee, and said, 'I will now go and see after my horses, and then to breakfast, partner, if you please.' Suddenly, however, looking at his hands, he said, 'Before sitting down to breakfast, I am in the habit of washing my hands and face: I suppose you could not furnish me with a little soap and water.' 'As much water as you please,' said I, 'but if you want soap, I must go and trouble the young gentlewoman for some.' 'By no means,' said the postillion, 'water will do at a pinch.' 'Follow me,' said I, and leading him to the pond of the frogs and newts, I said, 'this is my ewer; you are welcome to part of it—the water is so soft that it is scarcely necessary to add soap to it;' then lying down on the bank, I plunged my head into the water, then scrubbed my hands and face, and afterwards wiped them with some long grass which grew on the margin of the pond. 'Bravo,' said the postillion, 'I see you know how to make a shift:' he then followed my example, declared he never felt more refreshed in his life, and, giving a bound, said, 'he would go and look after his horses.'

We then went to look after the horses, which we found not much the worse for having spent the night in the open air. My companion again inserted their heads in the corn-bags, and, leaving the animals to discuss their corn, returned with me to the dingle, where we found the kettle boiling. We sat down, and Belle made tea and did the honours of the meal. The postillion was in high spirits, ate heartily, and, to Belle's evident satisfaction, declared that he had never drank better tea in his life, or indeed any half so good. Breakfast over, he said that he must now go and harness his horses, as it was high time for him to return to his inn. Belle gave him her hand and wished him farewell: the postillion shook her hand warmly, and was advancing close up to her—for what purpose I cannot say—whereupon Belle, withdrawing her hand, drew herself up with an air which caused the postillion to retreat a step or two with an exceedingly sheepish look. Recovering himself, however, he made a low bow, and proceeded up the path. I attended him, and helped to harness his horses and put them to the vehicle; he then shook me by the hand, and taking the reins and whip mounted to his seat; ere he drove away he thus addressed me: 'If ever I forget your kindness and that of the young woman below, dash my buttons. If ever either of you should enter my inn you may depend upon a warm welcome, the best that can be set before you, and no expense to either, for I will give both of you the best of characters to the governor, who is the very best fellow upon all the road. As for your linch-pin, I trust it will serve till I get home, when I will take it out and keep it in remembrance of you all the days of my life:' then giving the horses a jerk with his reins, he cracked his whip and drove off.

I returned to the dingle, Belle had removed the breakfast things, and was busy in her own encampment: nothing occurred, worthy of being related, for two hours, at the end of which time Belle departed on a short expedition, and I again found myself alone in the dingle.



In the evening I received another visit from the man in black. I had been taking a stroll in the neighbourhood, and was sitting in the dingle in rather a listless manner, scarcely knowing how to employ myself; his coming, therefore, was by no means disagreeable to me. I produced the hollands and glass from my tent, where Isopel Berners had requested me to deposit them, and also some lump sugar, then taking the gotch {5a} I fetched water from the spring, and, sitting down, begged the man in black to help himself; he was not slow in complying with my desire, and prepared for himself a glass of hollands and water with a lump of sugar in it. After he had taken two or three sips with evident satisfaction, I, remembering his chuckling exclamation of 'Go to Rome for money,' when he last left the dingle, took the liberty, after a little conversation, of reminding him of it, whereupon, with a he! he! he! he replied, 'Your idea was not quite so original as I supposed. After leaving you the other night I remembered having read of an Emperor of Germany who conceived the idea of applying to Rome for money, and actually put it into practice.

'Urban the Eighth then occupied the papal chair, of the family of the Barbarini, {5b} nicknamed the Mosche, or Flies, from the circumstance of bees being their armorial bearing. The Emperor having exhausted all his money in endeavouring to defend the church against Gustavus Adolphus, the great King of Sweden, who was bent on its destruction, applied in his necessity to the Pope for a loan of money. The Pope, however, and his relations, whose cellars were at that time full of the money of the church, which they had been plundering for years, refused to lend him a scudo; whereupon a pasquinade picture was stuck up at Rome, representing the church lying on a bed, gashed with dreadful wounds, and beset all over with flies, which were sucking her, whilst the Emperor of Germany was kneeling before her with a miserable face requesting a little money towards carrying on the war against the heretics, to which the poor church was made to say: "How can I assist you, O my champion, do you not see that the flies have sucked me to the very bones?" Which story,' said he, 'shows that the idea of going to Rome for money was not quite so original as I imagined the other night, though utterly preposterous.

'This affair,' said he, 'occurred in what were called the days of nepotism. Certain Popes, who wished to make themselves in some degree independent of the cardinals, surrounded themselves with their nephews, and the rest of their family, who sucked the church and Christendom as much as they could, none doing so more effectually than the relations of Urban the Eighth, at whose death, according to the book called the "Nipotismo di Roma," {6a} there were in the Barbarini family two hundred and twenty-seven governments, abbeys, and high dignities; and so much hard cash in their possession that threescore and ten mules were scarcely sufficient to convey the plunder of one of them to Palestrina.' He added, however, that it was probable that Christendom fared better whilst the Popes were thus independent, as it was less sucked, whereas before and after that period, it was sucked by hundreds instead of tens, by the cardinals and all their relations, instead of by the Pope and his nephews only.

Then, after drinking rather copiously of his hollands, he said that it was certainly no bad idea of the Popes to surround themselves with nephews, on whom they bestowed great church dignities, as by so doing they were tolerably safe from poison, whereas a Pope, if abandoned to the cardinals, might at any time be made away with by them, provided they thought that he lived too long, or that he seemed disposed to do anything which they disliked; adding that Ganganelli {6b} would never have been poisoned provided he had had nephews about him to take care of his life, and to see that nothing unholy was put into his food, or a bustling, stirring brother's wife like Donna Olympia. He then, with a he! he! he! asked me if I had ever read the book called the 'Nipotismo di Roma,' and on my replying in the negative, he told me that it was a very curious and entertaining book, which he occasionally looked at in an idle hour, and proceeded to relate to me anecdotes out of the 'Nipotismo di Roma,' about the successor of Urban, Innocent the Tenth, and Donna Olympia, showing how fond he was of her, and how she cooked his food, and kept the cardinals away from it, and how she and her creatures plundered Christendom, with the sanction of the Pope, until Christendom, becoming enraged, insisted that he should put her away, which he did for a time, putting a nephew—one Camillo Astalli—in her place, in which, however, he did not continue long; for the Pope, conceiving a pique against him, banished him from his sight, and recalled Donna Olympia, who took care of his food, and plundered Christendom until Pope Innocent died.

I said that I only wondered that between Pope and cardinals the whole system of Rome had not long fallen to the ground, and was told in reply that its not having fallen was the strongest proof of its vital power, and the absolute necessity for the existence of the system. That the system, notwithstanding its occasional disorders, went on. Popes and cardinals might prey upon its bowels, and sell its interests, but the system survived. The cutting off of this or that member was not able to cause Rome any vital loss; for, as soon as she lost a member, the loss was supplied by her own inherent vitality; though her Popes had been poisoned by cardinals, and her cardinals by Popes, and though priests occasionally poisoned Popes, cardinals and each other, after all that had been and might be, she had still, and would ever have, her priests, cardinals, and pope.

Finding the man in black so communicative and reasonable, I determined to make the best of my opportunity, and learn from him all I could with respect to the papal system, and told him that he would particularly oblige me by telling me who the Pope of Rome was, and received for answer that he was an old man elected by a majority of cardinals to the papal chair; who, immediately after his election, became omnipotent and equal to God on earth. On my begging him not to talk such nonsense, and asking him how a person could be omnipotent who could not always preserve himself from poison, even when fenced round by nephews, or protected by a bustling woman, he, after taking a long sip of hollands and water, told me that I must not expect too much from omnipotence. For example, that as it would be unreasonable to expect that One above could annihilate the past—for instance, the Seven Years' War, or the French Revolution—though anyone who believed in Him would acknowledge Him to be omnipotent, so would it be unreasonable for the faithful to expect that the Pope could always guard himself from poison. Then, after looking at me for a moment stedfastly and taking another sip, he told me that Popes had frequently done impossibilities. For example, Innocent the Tenth had created a nephew; for, not liking particularly any of his real nephews, he had created the said Camillo Astalli his nephew; asking me, with a he! he! 'What but omnipotence could make a young man nephew to a person to whom he was not in the slightest degree related?' On my observing that of course no one believed that the young fellow was really the Pope's nephew, though the Pope might have adopted him as such, the man in black replied, 'that the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli had hitherto never become a point of faith; let, however, the present Pope, or any other Pope, proclaim that it is necessary to believe in the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli, and see whether the faithful would not believe in it. Who can doubt that,' he added, 'seeing that they believe in the reality of the five propositions of Jansenius? The Jesuits, wishing to ruin the Jansenists, induced a Pope to declare that such and such damnable opinions, which they called five propositions, were to be found in a book written by Jansen, though in reality no such propositions were to be found there; whereupon the existence of these propositions became forthwith a point of faith to the faithful. Do you then think,' he demanded, 'that there is one of the faithful who would not swallow, if called upon, the nephewship of Camillo Astalli as easily as the five propositions of Jansenius?' 'Surely, then,' said I, 'the faithful must be a pretty pack of simpletons!' Whereupon the man in black exclaimed, 'What! a Protestant, and an infringer of the rights of faith! Here's a fellow who would feel himself insulted if anyone were to ask him how he could believe in the miraculous conception, calling people simpletons who swallow the five propositions of Jansenius, and are disposed, if called upon, to swallow the reality of the nephewship of Camillo Astalli.'

I was about to speak when I was interrupted by the arrival of Belle. After unharnessing her donkey and adjusting her person a little, she came and sat down by us. In the meantime I had helped my companion to some more hollands and water, and had plunged with him into yet deeper discourse.



Having told the man in black that I should like to know all the truth with regard to the Pope and his system, he assured me he should be delighted to give me all the information in his power; that he had come to the dingle, not so much for the sake of the good cheer which I was in the habit of giving him, as in the hope of inducing me to enlist under the banners of Rome, and to fight in her cause; and that he had no doubt that, by speaking out frankly to me, he ran the best chance of winning me over.

He then proceeded to tell me that the experience of countless ages had proved the necessity of religion; the necessity, he would admit, was only for simpletons, but as nine-tenths of the dwellers upon this earth were simpletons, it would never do for sensible people to run counter to their folly, but, on the contrary, it was their wisest course to encourage them in it, always provided that, by so doing, sensible people could derive advantage; that the truly sensible people of this world were the priests, who, without caring a straw for religion for its own sake, made use of it as a cord by which to draw the simpletons after them; that there were many religions in this world, all of which had been turned to excellent account by the priesthood; but that the one the best adapted for the purposes of priestcraft was the popish, which, he said, was the oldest in the world and the best calculated to endure. On my inquiring what he meant by saying the popish religion was the oldest in the world, whereas there could be no doubt that the Greek and Roman religion had existed long before it, to say nothing of the old Indian religion still in existence and vigour, he said, with a nod, after taking a sip at his glass, that, between me and him, the popish religion, that of Greece and Rome, and the old Indian system were, in reality, one and the same.

'You told me that you intended to be frank,' said I, 'but, however frank you may be, I think you are rather wild.'

'We priests of Rome,' said the man in black, 'even those amongst us who do not go much abroad, know a great deal about church matters, of which you heretics have very little idea. Those of our brethren of the Propaganda, on their return home from distant missions, not unfrequently tell us very strange things relating to our dear mother: for example, our first missionaries to the East were not slow in discovering and telling to their brethren that our religion and the great Indian one were identical, no more difference between them than between Ram and Rome. Priests, convents, beads, prayers, processions, fastings, penances, all the same, not forgetting anchorites, and vermin, he! he! The Pope they found under the title of the Grand Lama, a sucking child surrounded by an immense number of priests. Our good brethren, some two hundred years ago, had a hearty laugh, which their successors have often re-echoed; they said that helpless suckling and its priests put them so much in mind of their own old man, surrounded by his cardinals, he! he! Old age is second childhood.'

'Did they find Christ?' said I.

'They found him too,' said the man in black, 'that is, they saw His image; He is considered in India as a pure kind of being, and on that account, perhaps, is kept there rather in the back-ground, even as He is here.'

'All this is very mysterious to me,' said I.

'Very likely,' said the man in black; 'but of this I am tolerably sure, and so are most of those of Rome, that modern Rome had its religion from ancient Rome, which had its religion from the East.'

'But how?' I demanded.

'It was brought about, I believe, by the wanderings of nations,' said the man in black. 'A brother of the Propaganda, a very learned man, once told me—I do not mean Mezzofanti, who has not five ideas—this brother once told me that all we of the Old World, from Calcutta to Dublin, are of the same stock, and were originally of the same language, and—'

'All of one religion,' I put in.

'All of one religion,' said the man in black; 'and now follow different modifications of the same religion.'

'We Christians are not image-worshippers,' said I.

'You heretics are not, you mean,' said the man in black; 'but you will be put down, just as you have always been, though others may rise up after you; the true religion is image-worship; people may strive against it, but they will only work themselves to an oil; how did it fare with that Greek Emperor, the Iconoclast, what was his name, Leon the Isaurian? Did not his image-breaking cost him Italy, the fairest province of his empire, and did not ten fresh images start up at home for every one which he demolished? Oh! you little know the craving which the soul sometimes feels after a good bodily image.'

'I have indeed no conception of it,' said I; 'I have an abhorrence of idolatry—the idea of bowing before a graven figure.'

'The idea, indeed,' said Belle, who had now joined us.

'Did you never bow before that of Shakespeare?' said the man in black, addressing himself to me, after a low bow to Belle.

'I don't remember that I ever did,' said I, 'but even suppose I did?'

'Suppose you did,' said the man in black: 'shame on you, Mr. Hater of Idolatry; why the very supposition brings you to the ground; you must make figures of Shakespeare, must you? then why not of St. Antonio, or Ignacio, or of a greater personage still? I know what you are going to say,' he cried, interrupting me as I was about to speak. 'You don't make his image in order to pay it Divine honours, but only to look at it, and think of Shakespeare; but this looking at a thing in order to think of a person is the very basis of idolatry. Shakespeare's works are not sufficient for you; no more are the Bible or the legend of St. Anthony or St. Ignacio for us, that is for those of us who believe in them; I tell you, Zingaro, that no religion can exist long which rejects a good bodily image.'

'Do you think,' said I, 'that Shakespeare's works would not exist without his image?'

'I believe,' said the man in black, 'that Shakespeare's image is looked at more than his works, and will be looked at, and perhaps adored, when they are forgotten. I am surprised that they have not been forgotten long ago; I am no admirer of them.'

'But I can't imagine,' said I, 'how you will put aside the authority of Moses. If Moses strove against image-worship, should not his doing so be conclusive as to the impropriety of the practice; what higher authority can you have than that of Moses?'

'The practice of the great majority of the human race,' said the man in black, 'and the recurrence to image-worship, where image-worship has been abolished. Do you know that Moses is considered by the Church as no better than a heretic, and though, for particular reasons, it has been obliged to adopt his writings, the adoption was merely a sham one, as it never paid the slightest attention to them? No, no, the Church was never led by Moses, nor by one mightier than he, whose doctrine it has equally nullified—I allude to Krishna in his second avatar; the Church, it is true, governs in his name, but not unfrequently gives him the lie, if he happens to have said anything which it dislikes. Did you never hear the reply which Padre Paolo Segani made to the French Protestant, Jean Anthoine Guerin, who had asked him whether it was easier for Christ to have been mistaken in His Gospel, than for the Pope to be mistaken in his decrees?'

'I never heard their names before,' said I.

'The answer was pat,' said the man in black, 'though he who made it was confessedly the most ignorant fellow of the very ignorant order to which he belonged, the Augustine. Christ might err as a man,' said he, 'but the Pope can never err, being God. The whole story is related in the Nipotismo.'

'I wonder you should ever have troubled yourselves with Christ at all,' said I.

'What was to be done?' said the man in black; 'the power of that name suddenly came over Europe, like the power of a mighty wind; it was said to have come from Judea, and from Judea it probably came when it first began to agitate minds in these parts; but it seems to have been known in the remote East, more or less for thousands of years previously. It filled people's minds with madness; it was followed by books which were never much regarded, as they contained little of insanity; but the name! what fury that breathed into people! the books were about peace and gentleness, but the name was the most horrible of war-cries—those who wished to uphold old names at first strove to oppose it, but their efforts were feeble, and they had no good war-cry; what was Mars as a war-cry compared with the name of —-? It was said that they persecuted terribly, but who said so? The Christians. The Christians could have given them a lesson in the art of persecution, and eventually did so. None but Christians have ever been good persecutors; well, the old religion succumbed, Christianity prevailed, for the ferocious is sure to prevail over the gentile.'

'I thought,' said I, 'you stated a little time ago that the Popish religion and the ancient Roman are the same?'

'In every point but that name, that Krishna and the fury and love of persecution which it inspired,' said the man in black. 'A hot blast came from the East, sounding Krishna; it absolutely maddened people's minds, and the people would call themselves his children; we will not belong to Jupiter any longer, we will belong to Krishna; and they did belong to Krishna, that is in name, but in nothing else; for who ever cared for Krishna in the Christian world, or who ever regarded the words attributed to him, or put them in practice?'

'Why, we Protestants regard his words, and endeavour to practise what they enjoin as much as possible.'

'But you reject his image,' said the man in black; 'better reject his words than his image: no religion can exist long which rejects a good bodily image. Why, the very negro barbarians of High Barbary could give you a lesson on that point; they have their fetish images, to which they look for help in their afflictions; they have likewise a high priest, whom they call—'

'Mumbo Jumbo,' said I; 'I know all about him already.'

'How came you to know anything about him?' said the man in black, with a look of some surprise.

'Some of us poor Protestant tinkers,' said I, 'though we live in dingles, are also acquainted with a thing or two.'

'I really believe you are,' said the man in black, staring at me; 'but, in connection with this Mumbo Jumbo, I could relate to you a comical story about a fellow, an English servant, I once met at Rome.'

'It would be quite unnecessary,' said I; 'I would much sooner hear you talk about Krishna, his words and image.'

'Spoken like a true heretic,' said the man in black; 'one of the faithful would have placed his image before his words; for what are all the words in the world compared with a good bodily image?'

'I believe you occasionally quote his words?' said I.

'He! he!' said the man in black; 'occasionally.'

'For example,' said I, 'upon this rock I will found my Church.'

'He! he!' said the man in black; 'you must really become one of us.'

'Yet you must have had some difficulty in getting the rock to Rome?'

'None whatever,' said the man in black; 'faith can remove mountains, to say nothing of rocks—ho! ho!'

'But I cannot imagine,' said I, 'what advantage you could derive from perverting those words of Scripture in which the Saviour talks about eating His body.'

'I do not know, indeed, why we troubled our heads about the matter at all,' said the man in black; 'but when you talk about perverting the meaning of the text, you speak ignorantly, Mr. Tinker. When He whom you call the Saviour gave His followers the sop and bade them eat it, telling them it was His body, He delicately alluded to what it was incumbent upon them to do after His death, namely, to eat His body.'

'You do not mean to say that He intended they should actually eat His body?'

'Then you suppose ignorantly,' said the man in black; 'eating the bodies of the dead was a heathenish custom, practised by the heirs and legatees of people who left property, and this custom is alluded to in the text.'

'But what has the New Testament to do with heathen customs,' said I, 'except to destroy them?'

'More than you suppose,' said the man in black. 'We priests of Rome, who have long lived at Rome, know much better what the New Testament is made of than the heretics and their theologians, not forgetting their Tinkers, though I confess some of the latter have occasionally surprised us—for example, Bunyan. The New Testament is crowded with allusions to heathen customs, and with words connected with pagan sorcery. Now, with respect to words, I would fain have you who pretend to be a philologist, tell me the meaning of Amen?'

I made no answer.

'We of Rome,' said the man in black, 'know two or three things of which the heretics are quite ignorant. For example, there are those amongst us—those, too, who do not pretend to be philologists—who know what "amen" is, and, moreover, how we got it. We got it from our ancestors, the priests of ancient Rome; and they got the word from their ancestors of the East, the priests of Buddh and Brahma.'

'And what is the meaning of the word?' I demanded.

'"Amen,"' said the man in black, 'is a modification of the old Hindoo formula, Omani batsikhom, by the almost ceaseless repetition of which the Indians hope to be received finally to the rest or state of forgetfulness of Buddh or Brahma. A foolish practice, you will say, but are you heretics much wiser, who are continually sticking amen to the end of your prayers, little knowing when you do so that you are consigning yourselves to the repose of Buddh? Oh, what hearty laughs our missionaries have had when comparing the eternally sounding Eastern gibberish of Omani batsikhom, Omani batsikhom, and the Ave Maria and Amen Jesus of our own idiotical devotees.'

'I have nothing to say about the Ave Marias and Amens of your superstitious devotees,' said I; 'I dare say that they use them nonsensically enough, but in putting amen to the end of a prayer we merely intend to express, "So let it be."'

'It means nothing of the kind,' said the man in black, 'and the Hindoos might just as well put your national oath at the end of their prayers, as perhaps they will after a great many thousand years, when English is forgotten, and only a few words of it remembered by dim tradition without being understood. How strange if, after the lapse of four thousand years, the Hindoos should damn themselves to the blindness so dear to their present masters, even as their masters at present consign themselves to the forgetfulness so dear to the Hindoos. But my glass has been empty for a considerable time, perhaps, Bellissima Biondina,' said he, addressing Belle, 'you will deign to replenish it?'

'I shall do no such thing,' said Belle, 'you have drank quite enough, and talked more than enough, and to tell you the truth, I wish you would leave us alone.'

'Shame on you, Belle!' said I; 'consider the obligations of hospitality.'

'I am sick of that word,' said Belle; 'you are so frequently misusing it. Were this place not Mumpers' Dingle, and consequently as free to the fellow as ourselves, I would lead him out of it.'

'Pray be quiet, Belle,' said I. 'You had better help yourself,' said I, addressing myself to the man in black; 'the lady is angry with you.'

'I am sorry for it,' said the man in black. 'If she is angry with me, I am not so with her, and shall be always proud to wait upon her; in the meantime I will wait upon myself.'



The man in black having helped himself to some more of his favourite beverage and tasted it, I thus addressed him: 'The evening is getting rather advanced, and I can see that this lady,' pointing to Belle, 'is anxious for her tea, which she prefers to take cosily and comfortably with me in the dingle. The place, it is true, is as free to you as to ourselves, nevertheless, as we are located here by necessity, whilst you merely come as a visitor, I must take the liberty of telling you that we shall be glad to be alone as soon as you have said what you have to say, and have finished the glass of refreshment at present in your hand. I think you said some time ago that one of your motives for coming hither was to induce me to enlist under the banner of Rome. I wish to know whether that was really the case.'

'Decidedly so,' said the man in black; 'I come here principally in the hope of enlisting you in our regiment, in which I have no doubt you could do us excellent service.'

'Would you enlist my companion as well?' I demanded.

'We should be only too proud to have her among us, whether she comes with you or alone,' said the man in black, with a polite bow to Belle.

'Before we give you an answer,' I replied, 'I would fain know more about you; perhaps you will declare your name?'

'That I will never do,' said the man in black; 'no one in England knows it but myself, and I will not declare it, even in a dingle; as for the rest, Sono un Prete Cattolico Appostolico—that is all that many a one of us can say for himself, and it assuredly means a great deal.'

'We will now proceed to business,' said I. 'You must be aware that we English are generally considered a self-interested people.'

'And with considerable justice,' said the man in black, drinking. 'Well, you are a person of acute perception, and I will presently make it evident to you that it would be to your interest to join with us. You are at present, evidently, in very needy circumstances, and are lost, not only to yourself, but the world; but should you enlist with us, I could find you an occupation not only agreeable, but one in which your talents would have free scope. I would introduce you in the various grand houses here in England, to which I have myself admission, as a surprising young gentleman of infinite learning, who by dint of study has discovered that the Roman is the only true faith. I tell you confidently that our popish females would make a saint, nay a God of you; they are fools enough for anything. There is one person in particular with whom I should wish to make you acquainted, in the hope that you would be able to help me to perform good service to the holy see. He is a gouty old fellow, of some learning, residing in an old hall near the great western seaport, and is one of the very few amongst the English Catholics possessing a grain of sense. I think you could help us to govern him, for he is not unfrequently disposed to be restive, asks us strange questions—occasionally threatens us with his crutch; and behaves so that we are often afraid that we shall lose him, or rather, his property, which he has bequeathed to us, and which is enormous. I am sure that you could help us to deal with him; sometimes with your humour, sometimes with your learning, and perhaps occasionally with your fists.'

'And in what manner would you provide for my companion?' said I.

'We would place her at once,' said the man in black, 'in the house of two highly-respectable Catholic ladies in this neighbourhood, where she would be treated with every care and consideration till her conversion should be accomplished in a regular manner; we would then remove her to a female monastic establishment, where, after undergoing a year's probation, during which time she would be instructed in every elegant accomplishment, she should take the veil. Her advancement would speedily follow, for, with such a face and figure, she would make a capital lady abbess, especially in Italy, to which country she would probably be sent; ladies of her hair and complexion—to say nothing of her height—being a curiosity in the south. With a little care and management she could soon obtain a vast reputation for sanctity; and who knows but after her death she might become a glorified saint—he! he! Sister Maria Theresa, for that is the name I propose you should bear. Holy Mother Maria Theresa—glorified and celestial saint, I have the honour of drinking to your health,' and the man in black drank.

'Well, Belle,' said I, 'what have you to say to the gentleman's proposal?'

'That if he goes on in this way I will break his glass against his mouth.'

'You have heard the lady's answer,' said I.

'I have,' said the man in black, 'and shall not press the matter. I can't help, however, repeating that she would make a capital lady abbess: she would keep the nuns in order, I warrant her; no easy matter! Break the glass against my mouth—he! he! How she would send the holy utensils flying at the nuns' heads occasionally, and just the person to wring the nose of Satan should he venture to appear one night in her cell in the shape of a handsome black man. No offence, madam, no offence, pray retain your seat,' said he, observing that Belle had started up; 'I mean no offence. Well, if you will not consent to be an abbess, perhaps you will consent to follow this young Zingaro, and to co-operate with him and us. I am a priest, madam, and can join you both in an instant, connubio stabili, as I suppose the knot has not been tied already.'

'Hold your mumping gibberish,' said Belle, 'and leave the dingle this moment, for though 't is free to every one, you have no right to insult me in it.'

'Pray be pacified,' said I to Belle, getting up, and placing myself between her and the man in black, 'he will presently leave, take my word for it—there, sit down again,' said I, as I led her to her seat; then, resuming my own, I said to the man in black: 'I advise you to leave the dingle as soon as possible.'

'I should wish to have your answer to my proposal first,' said he.

'Well, then, here you shall have it: I will not entertain your proposal; I detest your schemes: they are both wicked and foolish.'

'Wicked,' said the man in black, 'have they not—he! he!—the furtherance of religion in view?'

'A religion,' said I, 'in which you yourself do not believe, and which you contemn.'

'Whether I believe in it or not,' said the man in black, 'it is adapted for the generality of the human race; so I will forward it, and advise you to do the same. It was nearly extirpated in these regions, but it is springing up again, owing to circumstances. Radicalism is a good friend to us; all the liberals laud up our system out of hatred to the Established Church, though our system is ten times less liberal than the Church of England. Some of them have really come over to us. I myself confess a baronet who presided over the first radical meeting ever held in England—he was an atheist when he came over to us, in the hope of mortifying his own Church—but he is now—ho! ho!—a real Catholic devotee—quite afraid of my threats; I make him frequently scourge himself before me. Well, Radicalism does us good service, especially amongst the lower classes, for Radicalism chiefly flourishes amongst them; for though a baronet or two may be found amongst the radicals, and perhaps as many lords—fellows who have been discarded by their own order for clownishness, or something they have done—it incontestably flourishes best among the lower orders. Then the love of what is foreign is a great friend to us; this love is chiefly confined to the middle and upper classes. Some admire the French, and imitate them; others must needs be Spaniards, dress themselves up in a zamarra, stick a cigar in their mouths, and say, "Carajo." Others would pass for Germans; he! he! the idea of any one wishing to pass for a German! but what has done us more service than anything else in these regions—I mean amidst the middle classes—has been the novel, the Scotch novel. The good folks, since they have read the novels, have become Jacobites; and, because all the Jacobs were Papists, the good folks must become Papists also, or, at least, papistically inclined. The very Scotch Presbyterians, since they have read the novels, are become all but Papists; I speak advisedly, having lately been amongst them. There's a trumpery bit of a half papist sect, called the Scotch Episcopalian Church, which lay dormant and nearly forgotten for upwards of a hundred years, which has of late got wonderfully into fashion in Scotland, because, forsooth, some of the long-haired gentry of the novels were said to belong to it, such as Montrose and Dundee; and to this the Presbyterians are going over in throngs, traducing and vilifying their own forefathers, or denying them altogether, and calling themselves descendants of—ho! ho! ho!—Scottish Cavaliers!!! I have heard them myself repeating snatches of Jacobite ditties about "Bonnie Dundee," and—

'"Come, fill up my cup, and fill up my can, And saddle my horse, and call up my man."

There's stuff for you! Not that I object to the first part of the ditty. It is natural enough that a Scotchman should cry, "Come, fill up my cup!" more especially if he's drinking at another person's expense—all Scotchmen being fond of liquor at free cost: but "Saddle his horse!!!"—for what purpose I would ask? Where is the use of saddling a horse, unless you can ride him? and where was there ever a Scotchman who could ride?'

'Of course you have not a drop of Scotch blood in your veins,' said I, 'otherwise you would never have uttered that last sentence.'

'Don't be too sure of that,' said the man in black; 'you know little of Popery if you imagine that it cannot extinguish love of country, even in a Scotchman. A thorough-going Papist—and who more thorough-going than myself—cares nothing for his country; and why should he? he belongs to a system, and not to a country.'

'One thing,' said I, 'connected with you, I cannot understand; you call yourself a thorough-going Papist, yet are continually saying the most pungent things against Popery, and turning to unbounded ridicule those who show any inclination to embrace it.'

'Rome is a very sensible old body,' said the man in black, 'and little cares what her children say, provided they do her bidding. She knows several things, and amongst others, that no servants work so hard and faithfully as those who curse their masters at every stroke they do. She was not fool enough to be angry with the Miquelets of Alba, who renounced her, and called her "puta" all the time they were cutting the throats of the Netherlanders. Now, if she allowed her faithful soldiers the latitude of renouncing her, and calling her "puta" in the market-place, think not she is so unreasonable as to object to her faithful priests occasionally calling her "puta" in the dingle.'

'But,' said I, 'suppose some one were to tell the world some of the disorderly things which her priests say in the dingle?'

'He would have the fate of Cassandra,' said the man in black; 'no one would believe him—yes, the priests would: but they would make no sign of belief. They believe in the Alcoran des Cordeliers {21}—that is, those who have read it; but they make no sign.'

'A pretty system,' said I, 'which extinguishes love of country and of everything noble, and brings the minds of its ministers to a parity with those of devils, who delight in nothing but mischief.'

'The system,' said the man in black, 'is a grand one, with unbounded vitality. Compare it with your Protestantism, and you will see the difference. Popery is ever at work, whilst Protestantism is supine. A pretty Church, indeed, the Protestant! Why it can't even work a miracle.'

'Can your Church work miracles?' I demanded.

'That was the very question,' said the man in black, 'which the ancient British clergy asked of Austin Monk, after they had been fools enough to acknowledge their own inability. "We don't pretend to work miracles; do you?" "Oh! dear me, yes," said Austin; "we find no difficulty in the matter. We can raise the dead, we can make the blind see; and to convince you, I will give sight to the blind. Here is this blind Saxon, whom you cannot cure, but on whose eyes I will manifest my power, in order to show the difference between the true and the false Church;" and forthwith, with the assistance of a handkerchief and a little hot water, he opened the eyes of the barbarian. So we manage matters! A pretty Church, that old British Church, which could not work miracles—quite as helpless as the modern one. The fools! was birdlime so scarce a thing amongst them?—and were the properties of warm water so unknown to them, that they could not close a pair of eyes and open them?'

'It's a pity,' said I, 'that the British clergy at that interview with Austin, did not bring forward a blind Welshman, and ask the monk to operate upon him.'

'Clearly,' said the man in black; 'that's what they ought to have done; but they were fools without a single resource.' Here he took a sip at his glass.

'But they did not believe in the miracle?' said I.

'And what did their not believing avail them?' said the man in black. 'Austin remained master of the field, and they went away holding their heads down, and muttering to themselves. What a fine subject for a painting would be Austin's opening the eyes of the Saxon barbarian, and the discomfiture of the British clergy! I wonder it has not been painted!—he! he!'

'I suppose your Church still performs miracles occasionally?' said I.

'It does,' said the man in black. 'The Rev. —- has lately been performing miracles in Ireland, destroying devils that had got possession of people; he has been eminently successful. In two instances he not only destroyed the devils, but the lives of the people possessed—he! he! Oh! there is so much energy in our system; we are always at work, whilst Protestantism is supine.'

'You must not imagine,' said I, 'that all Protestants are supine; some of them appear to be filled with unbounded zeal. They deal, it is true, not in lying miracles, but they propagate God's Word. I remember only a few months ago, having occasion for a Bible, going to an establishment, {23} the object of which was to send Bibles all over the world. The supporters of that establishment could have no self-interested views; for I was supplied by them with a noble-sized Bible at a price so small as to preclude the idea that it could bring any profit to the vendors.'

The countenance of the man in black slightly fell. 'I know the people to whom you allude,' said he; 'indeed, unknown to them, I have frequently been to see them, and observed their ways. I tell you frankly that there is not a set of people in this kingdom who have caused our Church so much trouble and uneasiness. I should rather say that they alone cause us any; for as for the rest, what with their drowsiness, their plethora, their folly, and their vanity, they are doing us anything but mischief. These fellows are a pestilent set of heretics, whom we would gladly see burnt; they are, with the most untiring perseverance, and in spite of divers minatory declarations of the holy father, scattering their books abroad through all Europe, and have caused many people in Catholic countries to think that hitherto their priesthood have endeavoured, as much as possible, to keep them blinded. There is one fellow amongst them for whom we entertain a particular aversion; a big, burly parson, with the face of a lion, the voice of a buffalo, and a fist like a sledge-hammer. The last time I was there, I observed that his eye was upon me, and I did not like the glance he gave me at all; I observed him clench his fist, and I took my departure as fast as I conveniently could. Whether he suspected who I was, I know not; but I did not like his look at all, and do not intend to go again.'

'Well, then,' said I, 'you confess that you have redoubtable enemies to your plans in these regions, and that even amongst the ecclesiastics there are some widely different from those of the plethoric and Platitude schools.'

'It is but too true,' said the man in black; 'and if the rest of your Church were like them we should quickly bid adieu to all hope of converting these regions, but we are thankful to be able to say that such folks are not numerous; there are, moreover, causes at work quite sufficient to undermine even their zeal. Their sons return at the vacations, from Oxford and Cambridge, puppies, full of the nonsense which they have imbibed from Platitude professors; and this nonsense they retail at home, where it fails not to make some impression, whilst the daughters scream—I beg their pardons—warble about Scotland's Montrose, and Bonny Dundee, and all the Jacobs; so we have no doubt that their papas' zeal about the propagation of such a vulgar book as the Bible will in a very little time be terribly diminished. Old Rome will win, so you had better join her.'

And the man in black drained the last drop in his glass.

'Never,' said I, 'will I become the slave of Rome.'

'She will allow you latitude,' said the man in black; 'do but serve her, and she will allow you to call her "puta" at a decent time and place, her Popes occasionally call her "puta." A Pope has been known to start from his bed at midnight and rush out into the corridor, and call out "puta" three times in a voice which pierced the Vatican; that Pope was—'

'Alexander the Sixth, I dare say,' said I; 'the greatest monster that ever existed, though the worthiest head which the popish system ever had—so his conscience was not always still. I thought it had been seared with a brand of iron.'

'I did not allude to him, but to a much more modern Pope,' said the man in black; 'it is true he brought the word, which is Spanish, from Spain, his native country, to Rome. He was very fond of calling the Church by that name, and other Popes have taken it up. She will allow you to call her by it if you belong to her.'

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