NEW PROFESSION--BEAUTIFUL NIGHT--JUPITER--SHARP AND SHRILL--ROMMANY
CHI--ALL ALONE--THREE-AND-SIXPENCE--WHAT IS ROMMANY?--BE CIVIL--PARRACO
TUTE--SLIGHT START--GRATEFUL--THE RUSTLING
I passed the greater part of the day in endeavouring to teach myself the
mysteries of my new profession. I cannot say that I was very successful,
but the time passed agreeably, and was therefore not ill spent. Towards
evening I flung my work aside, took some refreshment, and afterwards a
walk.
This time I turned up the small footpath of which I have already spoken.
It led in a zigzag manner through thickets of hazel, elder, and
sweet-brier; after following its windings for somewhat better than a
furlong, I heard a gentle sound of water, and presently came to a small
rill, which ran directly across the path. I was rejoiced at the sight,
for I had already experienced the want of water, which I yet knew must be
nigh at hand, as I was in a place to all appearance occasionally
frequented by wandering people, who I was aware never take up their
quarters in places where water is difficult to be obtained. Forthwith I
stretched myself on the ground, and took a long and delicious draught of
the crystal stream, and then, seating myself in a bush, I continued for
some time gazing on the water as it purled tinkling away in its channel
through an opening in the hazels, and should have probably continued much
longer had not the thought that I had left my property unprotected
compelled me to rise and return to my encampment.
Night came on, and a beautiful night it was; up rose the moon, and
innumerable stars decked the firmament of heaven. I sat on the shaft, my
eyes turned upwards. I had found it: there it was twinkling millions of
miles above me, mightiest star of the system to which we belong: of all
stars the one which has most interest for me--the star Jupiter.
Why have I always taken an interest in thee, O Jupiter? I know nothing
about thee, save what every child knows, that thou art a big star, whose
only light is derived from moons. And is not that knowledge enough to
make me feel an interest in thee? Ay, truly; I never look at thee
without wondering what is going on in thee; what is life in Jupiter?
That there is life in Jupiter who can doubt? There is life in our own
little star, therefore there must be life in Jupiter, which is not a
little star. But how different must life be in Jupiter from what it is
in our own little star! Life here is life beneath the dear sun--life in
Jupiter is life beneath moons--four moons--no single moon is able to
illumine that vast bulk. All know what life is in our own little star;
it is anything but a routine of happiness here, where the dear sun rises
to us every day: then how sad and moping must life be in mighty Jupiter,
on which no sun ever shines, and which is never lighted save by pale
moonbeams! The thought that there is more sadness and melancholy in
Jupiter than in this world of ours, where, alas! there is but too much,
has always made me take a melancholy interest in that huge distant star.
Two or three days passed by in much the same manner as the first. During
the morning I worked upon my kettles, and employed the remaining part of
the day as I best could. The whole of this time I only saw two
individuals, rustics, who passed by my encampment without vouchsafing me
a glance; they probably considered themselves my superiors, as perhaps
they were.
One very brilliant morning, as I sat at work in very good spirits, for by
this time I had actually mended in a very creditable way, as I imagined,
two kettles and a frying-pan, I heard a voice which seemed to proceed
from the path leading to the rivulet; at first it sounded from a
considerable distance, but drew nearer by degrees. I soon remarked that
the tones were exceedingly sharp and shrill, with yet something of
childhood in them. Once or twice I distinguished certain words in the
song which the voice was singing; the words were--but no, I thought again
I was probably mistaken--and then the voice ceased for a time; presently
I heard it again, close to the entrance of the footpath; in another
moment I heard it in the lane or glade in which stood my tent, where it
abruptly stopped, but not before I had heard the very words which I at
first thought I had distinguished.
I turned my head; at the entrance of the footpath, which might be about
thirty yards from the place where I was sitting, I perceived the figure
of a young girl; her face was turned towards me, and she appeared to be
scanning me and my encampment; after a little time she looked in the
other direction, only for a moment, however; probably observing nothing
in that quarter, she again looked towards me, and almost immediately
stepped forward; and, as she advanced, sang the song which I had heard in
the wood, the first words of which were those which I have already
alluded to.
'The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal
Shall jaw tasaulor
To drab the bawlor,
And dook the gry
Of the farming rye.'
A very pretty song, thought I, falling again hard to work upon my kettle;
a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good. Let them look to
their cattle.
'All alone here, brother?' said a voice close by me, in sharp but not
disagreeable tones.
I made no answer, but continued my work, click, click, with the gravity
which became one of my profession. I allowed at least half a minute to
elapse before I even lifted up my eyes.
A girl of about thirteen was standing before me; her features were very
pretty, but with a peculiar expression; her complexion was a clear olive,
and her jet black hair hung back upon her shoulders. She was rather
scantily dressed, and her arms and feet were bare; round her neck,
however, was a handsome string of corals, with ornaments of gold; in her
hand she held a bulrush.
'All alone here, brother?' said the girl, as I looked up; 'all alone
here, in the lane; where are your wife and children?'
'Why do you call me brother?' said I; 'I am no brother of yours. Do you
take me for one of your people? I am no gypsy; not I, indeed!'
'Don't be afraid, brother, you are no Roman--Roman indeed, you are not
handsome enough to be a Roman; not black enough, tinker though you be.
If I called you brother, it was because I didn't know what else to call
you. Marry, come up, brother, I should be sorry to have you for a
brother.'
'Then you don't like me?'
'Neither like you nor dislike you, brother; what will you have for that
kekaubi?'
'What's the use of talking to me in that un-Christian way; what do you
mean, young gentlewoman?'
'Lord, brother, what a fool you are; every tinker knows what a kekaubi
is. I was asking you what you would have for that kettle.'
'Three-and-sixpence, young gentlewoman; isn't it well mended?'
'Well mended! I could have done it better myself; three-and-sixpence!
it's only fit to be played at football with.'
'I will take no less for it, young gentlewoman; it has caused me a world
of trouble.'
'I never saw a worse mended kettle. I say, brother, your hair is white.'
''Tis nature; your hair is black; nature, nothing but nature.'
'I am young, brother; my hair is black--that's nature: you are young,
brother; your hair is white--that's not nature.'
'I can't help it if it be not, but it is nature after all; did you never
see grey hair on the young?'
'Never! I have heard it is true of a grey lad, and a bad one he was.
Oh, so bad.'
'Sit down on the grass, and tell me all about it, sister; do, to oblige
me, pretty sister.'
'Hey, brother, you don't speak as you did--you don't speak like a gorgio,
you speak like one of us, you call me sister.'
'As you call me brother; I am not an uncivil person after all, sister.'
'I say, brother, tell me one thing, and look me in the face--there--do
you speak Rommany?'
'Rommany! Rommany! what is Rommany?'
'What is Rommany? our language to be sure; tell me, brother, only one
thing, you don't speak Rommany?'
'You say it.'
'I don't say it, I wish to know. Do you speak Rommany?'
'Do you mean thieves' slang--cant? no, I don't speak cant, I don't like
it, I only know a few words; they call a sixpence a tanner, don't they?'
'I don't know,' said the girl, sitting down on the ground, 'I was almost
thinking--well, never mind, you don't know Rommany. I say, brother, I
think I should like to have the kekaubi.'
'I thought you said it was badly mended?'
'Yes, yes, brother, but--'
'I thought you said it was only fit to be played at football with?'
'Yes, yes, brother, but--'
'What will you give for it?'
'Brother, I am the poor person's child, I will give you sixpence for the
kekaubi.'
'Poor person's child; how came you by that necklace?'
'Be civil, brother; am I to have the kekaubi?'
'Not for sixpence; isn't the kettle nicely mended?'
'I never saw a nicer mended kettle, brother; am I to have the kekaubi,
brother?'
'You like me, then?'
'I don't dislike you--I dislike no one; there's only one, and him I don't
dislike, him I hate.'
'Who is he?'
'I scarcely know, I never saw him, but 'tis no affair of yours, you don't
speak Rommany; you will let me have the kekaubi, pretty brother?'
'You may have it, but not for sixpence; I'll give it to you.'
'Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother; the rikkeni kekaubi is now
mine. O, rare! I thank you kindly, brother.'
Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hitherto held in
her hand, and, seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a moment, and
then began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle over her head the
while, and singing--
'The Rommany chi
And the Rommany chal
Shall jaw tasaulor
To drab the bawlor,
And dook the gry
Of the farming rye.