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!