Transcribed from the 1900 Ward, Lock and Co. edition by David Price,
email ccx074@pglaf.org
THE
ROMANY RYE:
A SEQUEL TO "LAVENGRO."
BY
GEORGE BORROW,
AUTHOR OF
"THE BIBLE IN SPAIN," "THE GYPSIES OF SPAIN," ETC.
_WITH SPECIAL INTRODUCTION BY_
THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON
"Fear God, and take your own part."
LONDON
WARD, LOCK AND CO. LIMITED
WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C
NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE
{Horncastle horse fair in the olden days. (From an old Water colour.):
p0.jpg}
ADVERTISEMENT.
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. 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.
IN DEFENCE OF BORROW.
When the publishers of "The Minerva Library" invited me to write a few
introductory words to this edition of Borrow's "Romany Rye," I hesitated
at first about undertaking the task. For, notwithstanding the kind
reception that my "Notes upon George Borrow" prefixed to their edition of
"Lavengro" met with from the public and the Press, I shrank from
associating again my own name with the name of a friend who is now an
English classic. But no sooner had I determined not to say any more
about my relations with Borrow than circumstances arose that impelled me,
as a matter of duty, to do so. Ever since the publication of Dr. Knapp's
memoirs of Borrow attacks upon his memory have been appearing--attacks
which only those who knew him can repel.
His has indeed been a fantastic fate! When the shortcomings of any
illustrious man save Borrow are under discussion, "_les defauts de ses
qualites_" is the criticism--wise as charitable--which they evoke. Yes,
each one is allowed to have his angularities save Borrow. Each one is
allowed to show his own pet unpleasant facets of character now and
then--allowed to show them as inevitable foils to the pleasant ones--save
Borrow. _His_ weaknesses no one ever condones. During his lifetime his
faults were for ever chafing and irritating his acquaintances, and now
that he and they are all dead these faults of his seem to be chafing and
irritating people of another generation. A fantastic fate, I say, for
him who was so interesting to some of us!
One writer assails him on account of his own ill-judged and unwarrantable
attacks upon a far greater man than himself--Sir Walter Scott; another on
account of his "no-popery" diatribes; another on account of his amusing
anger over "Charley o'er the Waterism."
When Mr. Murray's new and admirable edition of "The Romany Rye" came out
this year, a review of the book appeared in the _Daily Chronicle_, in
which vitality was given--given by one of the most genial as well as
brilliant and picturesque writers of our time--to all the old
misrepresentations of Borrow and also to a good many new ones. The fact
that this review came from so distinguished a writer as Dr. Jessopp lends
it an importance and a permanency that cannot be ignored. To me it gave
a twofold pain to read that review, for it was written by a man for whom
I have a very special regard. I cannot claim Dr. Jessopp as a personal
friend, but I have once or twice met him; and, assuredly, to spend any
time in his society without being greatly attracted by him is impossible.
I must say that I consider it quite lamentable that he who can hardly
himself have seen much if anything of Borrow should have breathed the
anti-Borrovian atmosphere of Norwich--should have been brought into
contact with people there and in Norfolk generally who did know Borrow
and who disliked, because they did not understand, him.
Lest it should be supposed that in writing with such warmth I am unduly
biassed in favour of Borrow I print here a letter I received concerning
that same review of Dr. Jessopp's. It is written by one who has with me
enjoyed many a delightful walk with Borrow in Richmond Park--one who knew
Borrow many years ago--long before I did--Dr. Gordon Hake's son--Mr.
Thomas St. E. Hake, the author of "Within Sound of the Weir," and other
successful novels, and a well-known writer in _Chambers's Journal_.
CRAIGMORE, BULSTRODE ROAD,
HOUNSLOW, W.
_May_ 15, 1900.
My Dear Watts-Dunton,--You will remember that when I congratulated you
upon the success of your two gypsy books I prophesied that now there
would be a boom of the gypsies: and I was right it seems. For you
will see by the enclosed newspaper cutting that in Surrey a regular
trade is going on in caravans for gypsy gentlemen. And "Lavengro" and
"The Romany Rye" are going, I see, into lots of new editions. I know
how this must gratify you. But I write to ask you whether you have
seen the extremely bitter attack upon Borrow's memory which has
appeared in the _Daily Chronicle_. The writer is a man I must surely
have heard you mention with esteem--Dr. Jessopp. It is a review of
Murray's new edition of "The Romany Rye." In case you have not seen
it I send you a cutting from it for you to judge for yourself. {0a}
Was there ever anything so unjust as this? As to what he says about
Borrow's being without animal passion, I fancy that the writer must
have misread certain printed words of yours in which you say,
"Supposing Borrow to have been physically drawn towards any woman,
could she possibly have been a Romany? would she not rather have been
of the Scandinavian type?" But I am quite sure that, when you said
this, you did not intend to suggest that he was "the Narses of
Literature." As to his dislike of children, I have heard you say how
interested he used to seem in the presence of gypsy children, and I
especially remember one anecdote of yours about the interest he took
in a child that he thought was being injured by the mother's smoking.
And did you not get that lovely anecdote about the gypsy child weeping
in the churchyard because the poor dead gorgios could not hear the
church chimes from something he told you? But I can speak from
personal experience about his feeling towards children that were not
gypsies. When our family lived at Bury St. Edmunds, in the fifties,
my father, as you know, was one of Borrow's most intimate friends, and
he was frequently at our house, and Borrow and my father were a good
deal in correspondence (as Dr. Knapp's book shows) and my impression
of Borrow is exactly the contrary of that which it would be if he in
the least resembled Dr. Jessopp's description of him. At that time
George was in the nursery and I was a child. He took a wonderfully
kind interest in us all; * * * * * * * * but the one he took most
notice of was George, chiefly because he was a very big, massive
child. It was then that he playfully christened him "Hales," because
he said that the child would develop into a second "Norfolk giant."
You will remember that he always addressed George by that pet name.
But what do you think of Dr. Jessopp's saying that Borrow's voice was
not that of a man? You yourself have spoken in some of your
writings--I don't exactly remember where and when--of the "trumpet-
like clearness" of Borrow's voice. As to his being beardless and
therefore the "Narses of Literature" it is difficult to imagine that a
man of intelligence, as I suppose Dr. Jessopp is, can really think
virility depends upon the growth of a man's whiskers, as no doubt
ignorant people often do. I should have thought that a man who knew
Norfolk well would know that it is notable for its beardless giants of
great power. I really think that, as Borrow's most intimate friend in
his latest years (I mean after my father left Roehampton for Germany),
it is your duty to write something and stand up for the dear old boy,
and you are the one man now who can defend him and do him justice. I
assure you that the last time that I ever saw him his talk was a good
deal about yourself. I remember the occasion very well; it was just
outside the Bank of England, when he was returning from one of those
mysterious East-end expeditions that you wot of: he was just partially
recovering from that sad accident which you have somewhere alluded to.
As to Dr. Jessopp, it is clear from his remarks upon a friend of
Borrow's--the Rev. Mr. John Gunn, of Norwich, that he never saw
Borrow. Gunn, he says, was of colossal frame and must have been in
his youth quite an inch taller than Borrow. And then he goes on to
say that Gunn's arm was as big as an ordinary man's thigh. Now you
and I and George, are specially competent to speak of Borrow's
physical development, for we have been with Borrow when at seventy
years of age he would bathe in a pond covered with thin ice. He then
stood six feet four and his muscles were as fully developed as those
of a young man in training. If Gunn was a more colossal man than
Borrow he certainly ought to have been put into a show. But you
should read the entire article, and I wish I had preserved it.
Yours ever affectionately,
THOMAS ST. E. HAKE.
I consider this an interesting document to all Borrovians. There are
only two things in it which I have to challenge. I infer that Mr. Hake
shares the common mistake of supposing Borrow to have been an East
Anglian. Not that this is surprising, seeing that Borrow himself shared
the same mistake--a mistake upon which I have on a previous occasion
remarked. I have said elsewhere that one might as well call Charlotte
Bronte a Yorkshire woman as call Borrow an East Anglian. He was, of
course, no more an East Anglian than an Irishman born in London is an
Englishman. He had at bottom no East Anglian characteristics, and this
explains the Norfolk prejudice against him. He inherited nothing from
Norfolk save his accent--unless it were that love of "leg of mutton and
turnips" which Mr. Hake and I have so often seen exemplified. The reason
why Borrow was so misjudged in Norfolk was, as I have hinted above, that
the racial characteristics of the Celt and the East Anglian clashed too
severely. Yet he is a striking illustration of the way in which the
locality that has given birth to a man influences his imagination
throughout his life. His father, a Cornishman of a good middle-class
family, had been obliged, owing to a youthful escapade, to leave his
native place and enlist as a common soldier. Afterwards he became a
recruiting officer, and moved about from one part of Great Britain and
Ireland to another. It so chanced that while staying at East Dereham, in
Norfolk, he met and fell in love with a lady of French extraction. Not
one drop of East Anglian blood was in the veins of Borrow's father, and
very little in the veins of his mother. Borrow's ancestry was pure
Cornish on one side, and on the other mainly French. But such was the
egotism of Borrow--perhaps I should have said, such is the egotism of
human nature--that the fact of his having been born in East Anglia made
him look upon that part of the world as the very hub of the universe.
East Anglia, however, seems to have cherished a very different feeling
towards Borrow. Another mistake of Mr. Hake's is in supposing that
Borrow gave me the lovely incident of the gypsy child weeping in the
churchyard because "the poor dead gorgios could not hear the church
bells." As this mistake has been shared by others, and has appeared in
print, I may as well say that it was a real incident in the life of a
well-known Romany chi, from whom I have this very morning received a
charming letter dated from "the van in the field," where she has settled
for the winter.
The anecdote about Borrow and the gypsy child who was, or seemed to be,
suffering through the mother's excessive love of her pipe can very
appropriately be introduced here, and I am glad that Mr. Hake has
recalled it to my mind. It shows not only Borrow's relations to
childhood, but also his susceptibility to those charms of womankind to
which Dr. Jessopp thinks he was impervious. Borrow was fond of telling
this story himself, in support of his anti-tobacco bias. Whenever he was
told, as he sometimes was, that what brought on the "horrors" when he
lived alone in the dingle, was the want of tobacco, this story was
certain to come up.
One lovely morning in the late summer, just before the trees were clothed
with what is called "gypsy gold," and the bright green of the foliage
showed scarcely a touch of bronze--at that very moment, indeed, when the
spirits of all the wild flowers that have left the common and the
hedgerow seem to come back for an hour and mingle their half-forgotten
perfumes with the new breath of calamint, ground-ivy, and pimpernel, he
and a friend were walking towards a certain camp of gryengroes well known
to them both. They were bound upon a quaint expedition. Will the reader
"be surprised to learn" that it was connected with Matthew Arnold and a
race in which he took a good deal of interest, the gypsies?
Borrow, whose attention had been only lately directed by his friend to
"The Scholar Gypsy," had declared that there was scarcely any latter-day
poetry worth reading, and also that whatever the merits of Matthew
Arnold's poem might be from any supposed artistic point of view, it
showed that Arnold had no conception of the Romany temper, and that no
gypsy who ever lived could sympathise with it, or even understand its
motive in the least degree. Borrow's friend had challenged this,
contending that howsoever Arnold's classic language might soar above a
gypsy's intelligence, the motive was so clearly developed that the most
illiterate person could grasp it. This was why in company with Borrow he
was now going (with a copy of Arnold's poems in his pocket) to try "The
Scholar Gypsy" upon the first intelligent gypsy woman they should meet at
the camp: as to gypsy men, "they were," said Borrow, "too prosaic to
furnish a fair test."
As they were walking along, Borrow's eyes, which were as long-sighted as
a gypsy's, perceived a white speck in a twisted old hawthorn bush some
distance off. He stopped and said: "At first I thought that white speck
in the bush was a piece of paper, but it's a magpie," next to the water-
wagtail the gypsies' most famous bird. On going up to the bush they
discovered a magpie crouched among the leaves. As it did not stir at
their approach, Borrow's friend said to him: "It is wounded--or else
dying--or is it a tame bird escaped from a cage?"
"Hawk!" said Borrow, laconically, and turned up his face and gazed into
the sky. "The magpie is waiting till the hawk has caught his quarry and
made his meal. I fancy he has himself been 'chivvied' by the hawk, as
the gypsies would say."
And there, sure enough, beneath one of the silver clouds that specked the
dazzling blue a hawk--one of the kind which takes its prey in the open
rather than in the thick woodlands--was wheeling up and up, and trying
its best to get above a poor little lark in order to stoop at and devour
it. That the magpie had seen the hawk and had been a witness of the
opening of the tragedy of the lark was evident, for in its dread of the
common foe of all well-intentioned and honest birds, it had forgotten its
fear of all creatures except the hawk. Man it looked upon as a
protecting friend.
As Borrow and his friend were gazing at the bird a woman's voice at their
elbows said--
"It's lucky to chivvy the hawk what chivvies a magpie. I shall stop here
till the hawk's flew away."
They turned round, and there stood a magnificent gypsy woman, carrying,
gypsy fashion, a weakly child that, in spite of its sallow and wasted
cheek, proclaimed itself to be hers. By her side stood a young gypsy
girl of about seventeen years of age. She was beautiful--quite
remarkably so--but her beauty was not of the typical Romany kind. It
was, perhaps, more like the beauty of a Capri girl.
She was bareheaded--there was not even a gypsy handkerchief on her
head--her hair was not plaited, and was not smooth and glossy like a
gypsy girl's hair, but flowed thick and heavy and rippling down the back
of her neck and upon her shoulders. In the tumbled tresses glittered
certain objects, which at first sight seemed to be jewels. They were
small dead dragon-flies of the crimson kind called "sylphs."
To Borrow and his friend these gypsies were well known. The woman with
the child was one of the Boswells: I dare not say what was her
connection, if any, with "Boswell the Great"--I mean Sylvester Boswell,
the grammarian and "well-known and popalated gipsy of Codling Gap," who,
on a memorable occasion, wrote so eloquently about the superiority of the
gypsy mode of life to all others "on the accont of health, sweetness of
air, and for enjoying the pleasure of Nature's life." But this I do
remember--that it was the very same Perpinia Boswell whose remarkable
Christian name has lately been made the subject of inquiry in _The
Guardian_. The other gypsy, the girl of the dragon-flies, I prefer to
leave nameless here.
After greeting the two, Borrow looked at the weakling child with the
deepest interest, and said, "This chavo ought not to look like that--with
such a mother as you, Perpinia."
"And with such a daddy, too," said she. "Mike's stronger for a man nor
even I am for a woman"--a glow of wifely pride passing over her face;
"and as to good looks, it's him as is got the good looks, not me. But
none on us can't make it out about the chavo. He's so weak and sick he
don't look as if he belonged to Boswells' breed at all."
"How many pipes of tobacco do you smoke in a day?" said Borrow's friend,
looking at the great black cutty pipe protruding from Perpinia's finely
cut lips, and seeming strangely out of place there.
"Can't say," said she, laughing.
"About as many as she can afford to buy," interrupted her
companion--"that's all. Mike don't like her a-smokin'. He says it makes
her look like a old Londra Irish woman in Common Garding Market."
"You must not smoke another pipe," said Borrow's friend to the
mother--"not another pipe till the child leaves the breast."
"What?" said Perpinia defiantly. "As if I could live without my pipe!"
"Fancy Pep a-livin' without her baccy," laughed the girl of the dragon-
flies.
"Your child can't live with it," said Borrow's friend to Perpinia. "That
pipe of yours is full of a poison called nicotine."
"Nick what?" said the girl, laughing. "That's a new kind o' Nick. Why,
you smoke yourself!"
"Nicotine," said Borrow's friend; "and the first part of Pep's body that
the poison gets into is her breast, and--"
"Gets into my burk?" said Perpinia; "get along wi' ye."
"Yes."
"Do it pison Pep's milk?" said the girl.
"Yes."
"That ain't true," said Perpinia; "can't be true."
"It _is_ true," said Borrow's friend. "If you don't give up that pipe
for a time the child will die, or else be a rickety thing all his life.
If you _do_ give it up, it will grow up to be as fine a Romany chal as
Mike himself."
"Chavo agin pipe, Pep," said the girl.
"Lend me your pipe, Perpinia," said Borrow, in that hail-fellow-well-met
tone of his which he reserved for the Romanies--a tone which no Romany
could ever resist. And he took it gently from the woman's lips. "Don't
smoke any more till I come to the camp and see the chavo again."
The woman looked very angry at first.
"He be's a good friend to the Romanies," said the girl in an appeasing
tone.
"That's true," said the woman, "but he's no business to take my pipe out
o' my mouth for all that."
She soon began to smile again, however, and let Borrow retain the pipe.
Borrow and his friend then moved away towards the dusty high-road leading
to the camp, and were joined by the young girl. Perpinia remained,
keeping guard over the magpie that was to bring luck to the sinking
child.
It was determined now that the young girl was the very person to be used
as the test-critic of the Romany mind upon Arnold's poem, for she was
exceptionally intelligent. So instead of going to the camp the oddly
assorted little party of three struck across the ferns, gorse, and
heather towards "Kingfisher brook," and when they reached it they sat
down on a fallen tree.
Nothing delights a gypsy girl so much as to listen to a story either told
or read to her, and when Borrow's friend pulled his book from his pocket
the gypsy girl began to clap her hands. Her anticipation of enjoyment
sent over her face a warm glow, and I can assure Dr. Jessopp that Borrow
(notwithstanding that his admiration of women was confined as a rule to
blondes of the Isopel Berners type) seemed as much struck by her beauty
as ever the Doctor could be himself. To say the truth, he frequently
talked of it afterwards. Her complexion, though darker than an English
girl's, was rather lighter than any ordinary gypsy's. Her eyes were of
an indescribable hue, but an artist who has since then painted her
portrait for Borrow's friend described it as a mingling of pansy-purple
and dark tawny. The pupils were so large that, being set in the somewhat
almond-shaped and long-eyelashed lids of her race, they were partly
curtained both above and below, and this had the peculiar effect of
making the eyes seem always a little contracted and just about to smile.
The great size and deep richness of the eyes made the straight little
nose seem smaller than it really was, they also lessened the apparent
size of the mouth, which, red as a rosebud, looked quite small until she
laughed when the white teeth made quite a wide glitter.
"The beauty of that girl," murmured Borrow, "is really quite--quite--"
I don't know what the sentence would have been had it been finished.
Before three lines of the poem had been read she jumped up and cried,
"Look at the Devil's needles. They're come to sew my eyes up for killing
their brothers."
And surely enough a gigantic dragon-fly, whose body-armour of sky-blue
and jet black, and great lace-woven wings, shining like a rainbow gauze,
caught the sun as he swept dazzling by, did really seem to be attracted
either by the wings of his dead brothers or by the lights shed from the
girl's eyes.
"I dussn't set here," said she. "Us Romanies call this 'Dragon-fly
brook.' And that's the king o' the dragon-flies: he lives here."
As she rose she seemed to be surrounded by dragon-flies of about a dozen
different species of all sizes, some crimson, some bronze, some green and
gold, whirling and dancing round her as if they meant to justify their
Romany name and sew up the girl's eyes.
"The Romanies call them the Devil's needles," said Borrow; "their
business is to sew up pretty girl's eyes."
In a second, however, they all vanished, and the girl after a while sat
down again to listen to the "lil," as she called the story.
Glanville's prose story, upon which Arnold's poem is based, was read
first. In this the girl was much interested. She herself was in love
with a Romany Rye. But when the reader went on to read to her Arnold's
poem, though her eyes flashed now and then at the lovely bits of
description--for the country about Oxford is quite remarkably like the
country in which she was born--she looked sadly bewildered, and then
asked to have it all read again. After a second reading she said in a
meditative way, "Can't make out what the lil's all about--seems all about
nothink! Seems to me that the pretty sights what makes a Romany fit to
jump out o' her skin for joy makes this 'ere gorgio want to cry. What a
rum lot gorgios is sure_ly_!"
And then she sprang up and ran off towards the camp with the agility of a
greyhound, turning round every few moments, pirouetting and laughing
aloud.
"The beauty of that girl," Borrow again murmured, "is quite--quite--"
Again he did not finish his sentence, but after a while said--
"That was all true about the nicotine?"
"Partly, I think," said his friend, "but not being a medical man I must
not be too emphatic. If it _is_ true it ought to be a criminal offence
for any woman to smoke in excess while she is suckling a child."
"Say it ought to be a criminal offence for a woman to smoke at all,"
growled Borrow. "Fancy kissing a woman's mouth that smelt of stale
tobacco--pheugh!"
Now, so far from forgetting this incident, Borrow took quite as much
interest in the case as though the child had been his own. He went at
short intervals to the camp to see Perpinia, who had abandoned her pipe,
for the time being. And when after a fortnight the child, either from
Perpinia's temporary abstention from nicotine, or through the "good luck"
sent by the magpie, or from some other cause began to recover from its
illness, he reported progress with the greatest gusto to his friend.
"Is not Perpinia very grateful to you and to me?" said the friend.
"Yes," said Borrow, with a twinkle in his eye. "She manages to feel
grateful to you and me for making her give up the pipe, and also to
believe at the same time that her child was saved by the good luck that
came to her because she guarded the magpie."
If it were needful to furnish other instances of Borrow's interest in
children, and also of his susceptibility to feminine charms, I could
easily furnish them. As to the "rancorous hatred that smouldered in that
sad heart of his," in spite of all his oddities, all his
"cantankerousness," to use one of his own words, he was a singularly
steadfast and loyal friend. Indeed, it was the very steadfastness of his
friendship that drove him to perpetrate that outrage at Mr. Bevan's
house, recorded in Dr. Gordon Hake's "Memoirs." I need only recall the
way in which he used to speak of those who had been kind to him (such as
his publisher, Mr. John Murray for instance) to show that no one could be
more loyal or more grateful than he who has been depicted as the
incarnation of all that is spiteful, fussy, and mean. There is no need
for the world to be told here that the author of "Lavengro" is a
delightful writer, and one who is more sure than most authors of his time
to win that little span of life which writing men call "immortality." But
if there is need for the world to be told further that George Borrow was
a good man, that he was a most winsome and a most charming companion,
that he was an English gentleman, straightforward, honest, and brave as
the very best exemplars of that fine old type, the world is now told
so--told so by two of the few living men who can speak of him with
authority, the writer of the above letter and myself.
THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON.
CHAPTER I.
THE MAKING OF THE LINCH-PIN--THE SOUND SLEEPER--BREAKFAST--THE
POSTILLION'S DEPARTURE.
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.