VI. STREET SKETCHES.

     
      London, during hot weather, after the close of the wise season, suggests to the upper ten thousand, and to the lower twenty thousand who reflect their ways, and to the lowest millions who minister to them all, a scene of doleful dullness. I call the time which has passed wise, because that which succeeds is universally known as the silly season. Then the editors in town have recourse to the American newspapers for amusing murders, while their rural brethren invent great gooseberries. Then the sea-serpent again lifts his awful head. I am always glad when this sterling inheritance of the Northern races reappears; for while we have him I know that the capacity for swallowing a big bouncer, or for inventing one, is not lost. He is characteristic of a fine, bold race. Long may he wave! It is true that we cannot lie as gloriously as our ancestors did about him. When the great news-dealer of Norse times had no home-news he took his lyre, and either spun a yarn about Vinland such as would smash the “Telegraph,” or else sung about “that sea-snake tremendous curled, whose girth encircles half the world.” It is wonderful, it is awful, to consider how true we remain to the traditions of the older time. The French boast that they invented the canard. Let them boast. They also invented the shirt-collar; but hoary legends say that an Englishman invented the shirt for it, as well as the art of washing it. What the shirt is to the collar, that is the glorious, tough old Northern saga, or maritime spun yarn, to the canard, or duck. The yarn will wash; it passes into myth and history; it fits exactly, because it was made to order; its age and glory illustrate the survival of the fittest.
      I have, during three or four summers, remained a month in London after the family had taken flight to the sea-side. I stayed to finish books promised for the autumn. It is true that nearly four million of people remain in London during the later summer; but it is wonderful what an influence the absence of a few exerts on them and on the town. Then you realize by the long lines of idle vehicles in the ranks how few people in this world can afford a cab; then you find out how scanty is the number of those who buy goods at the really excellent shops; and then you may finally find out by satisfactory experience, if you are inclined to grumble at your lot in life or your fortune, how much better off you are than ninety-nine in a hundred of your fellow-murmurers at fate.
      It was my wont to walk out in the cool of the evening, to smoke my cigar in Regent's Park, seated on a bench, watching the children as they played about the clock-and-bull fountain,—for it embraces these objects among its adornments,—presented by Cowasie Jehanguire, who added to these magnificent Persian names the prosaic English postscript of Ready Money. In this his name sets forth the history of his Parsee people, who, from being heroic Ghebers, have come down to being bankers, who can “do” any Jew, and who might possibly tackle a Yankee so long as they kept out of New Jersey. One evening I walked outside of the Park, passing by the Gloucester Bridge to a little walk or boulevard, where there are a few benches. I was in deep moon-shadow, formed by the trees; only the ends of my boots shone like eyes in the moonlight as I put them out. After a while I saw a nice-looking young girl, of the humble-decent class, seated by me, and with her I entered into casual conversation. On the bench behind us were two young Italians, conversing in strongly marked Florentine dialect. They evidently thought that no one could understand them; as they became more interested they spoke more distinctly, letting out secrets which I by no means wished to hear.
      At that instant I recalled the famous story of Prince Bismarck and the Esthonian young ladies and the watch-key. I whispered to the girl,—
      “When I say something to you in a language which you do not understand, answer 'Si' as distinctly as you can.”
      The damsel was quick to understand. An instant after I said,—
      “Ha veduto il mio 'havallo la sera?”
      “Si.”
      There was a dead silence, and then a rise and a rush. My young friend rolled her eyes up at me, but said nothing. The Italians had departed with their awful mysteries. Then there came by a man who looked much worse. He was a truculent, untamable rough, evidently inspired with gin. At a glance I saw by the manner in which he carried his coat that he was a traveler, or one who lived on the roads. Seeing me he stopped, and said, grimly,—“Do you love your Jesus?” This is certainly a pious question; but it was uttered in a tone which intimated that if I did not answer it affirmatively I might expect anything but Christian treatment. I knew why the man uttered it. He had just come by an open-air preaching in the Park, and the phrase had, moreover, been recently chalked and stenciled by numerous zealous and busy nonconformists all over northwestern London. I smiled, and said, quietly,—
      “Pal, mor rakker sa drovan. Ja pukenus on the drum.” (Don't talk so loud, brother. Go away quietly.)
      The man's whole manner changed. As if quite sober, he said,—
      “Mang your shunaben, rye. But tute jins chomany. Kushti ratti!” (Beg your pardon, sir. But you do know a thing or two. Good-night!)
      “I was awfully frightened,” said the young girl, as the traveler departed. “I'm sure he meant to pitch into us. But what a wonderful way you have, sir, of sending people away! I wasn't so much astonished when you got rid of the Italians. I suppose ladies and gentlemen know Italian, or else they wouldn't go to the opera. But this man was a common, bad English tramp; yet I'm sure he spoke to you in some kind of strange language, and you said something to him that changed him into as peaceable as could be. What was it?”
      “It was gypsy, young lady,—what the gypsies talk among themselves.”
      “Do you know, sir, I think you're the most mysterious gentleman I ever met.”
      “Very likely. Good-night.”
      “Good night, sir.”
      I was walking with my friend the Palmer, one afternoon in June, in one of the several squares which lie to the west of the British Museum. As we went I saw a singular-looking, slightly-built man, lounging at a corner. He was wretchedly clad, and appeared to be selling some rudely-made, but curious contrivances of notched sticks, intended to contain flowerpots. He also had flower-holders made of twisted copper wire. But the greatest curiosity was the man himself. He had such a wild, wasted, wistful expression, a face marked with a life of almost unconscious misery. And most palpable in it was the unrest, which spoke of an endless struggle with life, and had ended by goading him into incessant wandering. I cannot imagine what people can be made of who can look at such men without emotion.
      “That is a gypsy,” I said to the Palmer. “Sarishan, pal!”
      The wanderer seemed to be greatly pleased to hear Romany. He declared that he was in the habit of talking it so much to himself when alone that his ordinary name was Romany Dick.
      “But if you come down to the Potteries, and want to find me, you mus'n't ask for Romany Dick, but Divius Dick.” “That means Wild Dick.” “Yes.” “And why?” “Because I wander about so, and can never stay more than a night in any one place. I can't help it. I must keep going.” He said this with that wistful, sad expression, a yearning as for something which he had never comprehended. Was it rest?
      “And so I rakker Romany [talk gypsy to myself], when I'm alone of a night, when the wind blows. It's better company than talkin' Gorginess. More sociable. He says—no—I say more sensible things Romaneskas than in English. You understand me?” he exclaimed suddenly, with the same wistful stare.
      “Perfectly. It's quite reasonable. It must be like having two heads instead of one, and being twice as knowing as anybody else.”
      “Yes, that's it. But everybody don't know it.”
      “What do you ask for one of those flower-stands, Dick?”
      “A shillin', sir.”
      “Well, here is my name and where I live, on an envelope. And here are two shillings. But if you chore mandy [cheat me] and don't leave it at the house, I'll look you up in the Potteries, and koor tute [whip you].”
      He looked at me very seriously. “Ah, yes. You could koor me kenna [whip me now]. But you couldn't have koored my dadas [whipped my father]. Leastways not afore he got his leg broken fightin' Lancaster Sam. You must have heard of my father,—Single-stick Dick. But if your're comin' down to the Potteries, don't come next Sunday. Come Sunday three weeks. My brother is stardo kenna for chorin a gry [in prison for horse-stealing]. In three weeks he'll be let out, and we're goin' to have a great family party to welcome him, and we'll be glad to see you. Do come.”
      The flower-stand was faithfully delivered, but another engagement prevented an acceptance of the invitation, and I have never seen Dick since.
                           * * * * *
      I was walking along Marylebone Road, which always seems to be a worn and wind-beaten street, very pretty once, and now repenting it; when just beyond Baker Street station I saw a gypsy van hung all round with baskets and wooden-ware. Smoke issued from its pipe, and it went along smoking like any careless pedestrian. It always seems strange to think of a family being thus conveyed with its dinner cooking, the children playing about the stove, over rural roads, past common and gorse and hedge, in and out of villages, and through Great Babylon itself, as if the family had a pied a terre, and were as secluded all the time as though they lived in Little Pedlington or Tinnecum. For they have just the same narrow range of gossip, and just the same set of friends, though the set are always on the move. Traveling does not make a cosmopolite.
      By the van strolled the lord and master, with his wife. I accosted him.
      “Sarishan?”
      “Sarishan rye!”
      “Did you ever see me before? Do you know me?”
      “No, sir.”
      “I'm sorry for that. I have a nice velveteen coat which I have been keeping for your father. How's your brother Frank? Traveling about Kingston, I suppose. As usual. But I don't care about trusting the coat to anybody who don't know me.”
      “I'll take it to him, safe enough, sir.”
      “Yes, I dare say. On your back. And wear it yourself six months before you see him.”
      Up spoke his wife: “That he shan't. I'll take good care that the pooro mush [the old man] gets it all right, in a week.”
      “Well, dye, I can trust you. You remember me. And, Anselo, here is my address. Come to the house in half an hour.”
      In half an hour the housekeeper, said with a quiet smile,—
      “If you please, sir, there's a gentleman—a gypsy gentleman—wishes to see you.”
      It is an English theory that the master can have no “visitors” who are not gentlemen. I must admit that Anselo's dress was not what could be called gentlemanly. From his hat to his stout shoes he looked the impenitent gypsy and sinful poacher, unaffected and natural. There was a cutaway, sporting look about his coat which indicated that he had grown to it from boyhood “in woodis grene.” He held a heavy-handled whip, a regular Romany tchupni or chuckni, which Mr. Borrow thinks gave rise to the word “jockey.” I thought the same once, but have changed my mind, for there were “jockeys” in England before gypsies. Altogether, Anselo (which comes from Wenceslas) was a determined and vigorous specimen of an old-fashioned English gypsy, a type which, with all its faults, is not wanting in sundry manly virtues.
      I knew that Anselo rarely entered any houses save ale-houses, and that he had probably never before been in a study full of books, arms, and bric-a-brac. And he knew that I was aware of it. Now, if he had been more of a fool, like a red Indian or an old-fashioned fop, he would have affected a stoical indifference, for fear of showing his ignorance. As it was, he sat down in an arm-chair, glanced about him, and said just the right thing.
      “It must be a pleasant thing, at the end of the day, after one has been running about, to come home to such a room as this, so full of fine things, and sit down in such a comfortable chair.” “Will I have a glass of old ale? Yes, I thank you.” “That is kushto levinor [good ale]. I never tasted better.” “Would I rather have wine or spirits? No, I thank you; such ale as this is fit for a king.”
      Here Anselo's keen eye suddenly rested on something which he understood.
      “What a beautiful little rifle! That's what I call a rinkno yag-engree [pretty gun].”
      “Has it been a wafedo wen [hard winter], Anselo?”
      “It has been a dreadful winter, sir. We have been hard put to it sometimes for food. It's dreadful to think of. I've acti'lly seen the time when I was almost desperated, and if I'd had such a gun as that I'm afraid, if I'd been tempted, I could a-found it in my heart to knock over a pheasant.”
      I looked sympathetically at Anselo. The idea of his having been brought to the very brink of such a terrible temptation and awful crime was touching. He met the glance with the expression of a good man, who had done no more than his duty, closed his eyes, and softly shook his head. Then he took another glass of ale, as if the memory of the pheasants or something connected with the subject had been too much for him, and spoke:—
      “I came here on my horse. But he's an ugly old white punch. So as not to discredit you, I left him standing before a gentleman's house, two doors off.”
      Here Anselo paused. I acknowledged this touching act of thoughtful delicacy by raising my glass. He drank again, then resumed:—
      “But I feel uneasy about leaving a horse by himself in the streets of London. He'll stand like a driven nail wherever you put him—but there's always plenty of claw-hammers to draw such nails.”
      “Don't be afraid, Anselo. The park-keeper will not let anybody take him through the gates. I'll pay for him if he goes.”
      But visions of a stolen horse seemed to haunt Anselo. One would have thought that something of the kind had been familiar to him. So I sent for the velveteen coat, and, folding it on his arm, he mounted the old white horse, while waving an adieu with the heavy-handled whip, rode away in the mist, and was seen no more.
      Farewell, farewell, thou old brown velveteen! I had thee first in by-gone years, afar, hunting ferocious fox and horrid hare, near Brighton, on the Downs, and wore thee well on many a sketching tour to churches old and castles dark or gray, when winter went with all his raines wete. Farewell, my coat, and benedicite! I bore thee over France unto Marseilles, and on the steamer where we took aboard two hundred Paynim pilgrims of Mahound. Farewell, my coat, and benedicite! Thou wert in Naples by great Virgil's tomb, and borest dust from Posilippo's grot, and hast been wetted by the dainty spray from bays and shoals of old Etrurian name. Farewell, my coat, and benedicite! And thou wert in the old Egyptian realm: I had thee on that morning 'neath the palms when long I lingered where of yore had stood the rose-red city, half as old as time. Farewell, my coat, and benedicite! It was a lady called thee into life. She said, Methinks ye need a velvet coat. It is a seemly guise to ride to hounds. Another gave me whip and silvered spurs. Now all have vanished in the darkening past. Ladies and all are gone into the gloom. Farewell, my coat, and benedicite. Thou'st had a venturous and traveled life, for thou wert once in Moscow in the snow. A true Bohemian thou hast ever been, and as a right Bohemian thou wilt die, the garment of a roving Romany. Fain would I see and hear what thou'rt to know of reckless riding and the gypsy tan, of camps in dark green lanes, afar from towns. Farewell, mine coat, and benedicite!