'Here the Gypsy gemman see,
With his Roman jib and his rome and dree--
Rome and dree, rum and dry
Rally round the Rommany Rye.'
'And now, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'seeing that you have drunk and
been drunken, you will perhaps tell us where you have been, and what
about?'
'I have been in the Big City,' said I, 'writing lils.'
'How much money have you got in your pocket, brother?' said Mr.
Petulengro.
'Eighteenpence,' said I; 'all I have in the world.'
'I have been in the Big City, too,' said Mr. Petulengro; 'but I have not
written lils--I have fought in the ring--I have fifty pounds in my
pocket--I have much more in the world. Brother, there is considerable
difference between us.'
'I would rather be the lil-writer, after all,' said the tall, handsome
black man; 'indeed, I would wish for nothing better.'
'Why so?' said Mr. Petulengro.
'Because they have so much to say for themselves,' said the black man,
'even when dead and gone. When they are laid in the churchyard, it is
their own fault if people ain't talking of them. Who will know, after I
am dead, or bitchadey pawdel, that I was once the beauty of the world, or
that you Jasper were--'
'The best man in England of my inches. That's true, Tawno--however,
here's our brother will perhaps let the world know something about us.'
'Not he,' said the other, with a sigh; 'he'll have quite enough to do in
writing his own lils, and telling the world how handsome and clever he
was; and who can blame him? Not I. If I could write lils, every word
should be about myself and my own tacho Rommanis--my own lawful wedded
wife, which is the same thing. I tell you what, brother, I once heard a
wise man say in Brummagem, that "there is nothing like blowing one's own
horn," which I conceive to be much the same thing as writing one's own
lil.'
After a little more conversation, Mr. Petulengro arose, and motioned me
to follow him. 'Only eighteenpence in the world, brother?' said he, as
we walked together.
'Nothing more, I assure you. How came you to ask me how much money I
had?'
'Because there was something in your look, brother, something very much
resembling that which a person showeth who does not carry much money in
his pocket. I was looking at my own face this morning in my wife's
looking-glass--I did not look as you do, brother.'
'I believe your sole motive for inquiring,' said I, 'was to have an
opportunity of venting a foolish boast, and to let me know that you were
in possession of fifty pounds.'
'What is the use of having money unless you let people know you have it?'
said Mr. Petulengro. 'It is not everyone can read faces, brother; and,
unless you knew I had money, how could you ask me to lend you any?'
'I am not going to ask you to lend me any.'
'Then you may have it without asking; as I said before, I have fifty
pounds, all lawfully-earnt money, got by fighting in the ring--I will
lend you that, brother.'
'You are very kind,' said I; 'but I will not take it.'
'Then the half of it?'
'Nor the half of it; but it is getting towards evening, I must go back to
the Great City.'
'And what will you do in the Boro Foros?'
'I know not,' said I.
'Earn money?'
'If I can.'
'And if you can't?'
'Starve!'
'You look ill, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro.
'I do not feel well; the Great City does not agree with me. Should I be
so fortunate as to earn some money, I would leave the Big City, and take
to the woods and fields.'
'You may do that, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro, 'whether you have money
or not. Our tents and horses are on the other side of yonder wooded
hill, come and stay with us; we shall all be glad of your company, but
more especially myself and my wife Pakomovna.'
'What hill is that?' I demanded.
And then Mr. Petulengro told me the name of the hill. 'We shall stay on
t'other side of the hill a fortnight,' he continued; 'and, as you are
fond of lil-writing, you may employ yourself profitably whilst there.
You can write the lil of him whose dook gallops down that hill every
night, even as the living man was wont to do long ago.'
'Who was he?' I demanded.
'Jemmy Abershaw,' said Mr. Petulengro; 'one of those whom we call Boro
drom engroes, and the gorgios highwaymen. I once heard a rye say that
the life of that man would fetch much money; so come to the other side of
the hill, and write the lil in the tent of Jasper and his wife
Pakomovna.'
At first I felt inclined to accept the invitation of Mr. Petulengro; a
little consideration, however, determined me to decline it. I had always
been on excellent terms with Mr. Petulengro, but I reflected that people
might be excellent friends when they met occasionally in the street, or
on the heath, or in the wood; but that these very people when living
together in a house, to say nothing of a tent, might quarrel. I
reflected, moreover, that Mr. Petulengro had a wife. I had always, it is
true, been a great favourite with Mrs. Petulengro, who had frequently
been loud in her commendation of the young rye, as she called me, and his
turn of conversation; but this was at a time when I stood in need of
nothing, lived under my parents' roof, and only visited at the tents to
divert and to be diverted. The times were altered, and I was by no means
certain that Mrs. Petulengro, when she should discover that I was in need
both of shelter and subsistence, might not alter her opinion both with
respect to the individual and what he said--stigmatising my conversation
as saucy discourse, and myself as a scurvy companion; and that she might
bring over her husband to her own way of thinking, provided, indeed, he
should need any conducting. I therefore, though without declaring my
reasons, declined the offer of Mr. Petulengro, and presently, after
shaking him by the hand, bent again my course towards the Great City.
I crossed the river at a bridge considerably above that hight of London;
for, not being acquainted with the way, I missed the turning which should
have brought me to the latter. Suddenly I found myself in a street of
which I had some recollection, and mechanically stopped before the window
of a shop at which various publications were exposed; it was that of the
bookseller to whom I had last applied in the hope of selling my ballads
or Ab Gwilym, and who had given me hopes that, in the event of my writing
a decent novel, or a tale, he would prove a purchaser. As I stood
listlessly looking at the window, and the publications which it
contained, I observed a paper affixed to the glass by wafers with
something written upon it. I drew yet nearer for the purpose of
inspecting it; the writing was in a fair round hand--'A Novel or Tale is
much wanted,' was what was written.