CHAPTER VIII
THE CHURCH—THE ARISTOCRATICAL PEW—DAYS OF YORE—THE CLERGYMAN—‘IN WHAT WOULD A MAN BE PROFITED?’
When two days had passed, Sunday came; I breakfasted by myself in the solitary dingle; and then, having set things a little to rights, I ascended to Mr. Petulengro’s encampment. I could hear church-bells ringing around in the distance, appearing to say, ‘Come to church, come to church,’ as clearly as it was possible
for church-bells to say. I found Mr. Petulengro seated by the door of his tent, smoking his pipe, in rather an ungenteel undress. ‘Well, Jasper,’ said I, ‘are you ready to go to church; for if you are, I am ready to accompany you?’ ‘I am not ready, brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro, ‘nor is my wife; the church, too, to which we shall go is three miles off [52]; so it is of no use to think of going there this morning, as the service would be three-quarters over before we got there; if, however, you are disposed to go in the afternoon, we are your people.’ Thereupon I returned to my dingle, where I passed several hours in conning the Welsh Bible, which the preacher, Peter Williams, had given me.
At last I gave over reading, took a slight refreshment, and was about to emerge from the dingle, when I heard the voice of Mr. Petulengro calling me. I went up again to the encampment, where I found Mr. Petulengro, his wife, and Tawno Chikno, ready to proceed to church. Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro were dressed in Roman fashion, though not in the full-blown manner in which they had paid their visit to Isopel and myself. Tawno had on a clean white slop, with a nearly new black beaver, with very broad rims, and the nap exceedingly long. As for myself, I was dressed in much the same manner as that in which I departed from London, having on, in honour of the day, a shirt perfectly clean, having washed one on purpose for the occasion, with my own hands, the day before, in the pond of tepid water in which the newts and efts were in the habit of taking their pleasure. We proceeded for upwards of a mile, by footpaths through meadows and corn-fields; we crossed various stiles; at last, passing over one, we found ourselves in a road, wending along which for a considerable distance, we at last came in sight of a church, the bells of which had been tolling distinctly in our ears for some time; before, however, we reached the church-yard the bells had ceased their melody. It was surrounded by lofty beech-trees of brilliant green foliage. We entered the gate, Mrs. Petulengro leading the way, and proceeded to a small door near the east end of the church. As we advanced, the sound of singing within the church rose upon our ears. Arrived at the small door, Mrs. Petulengro opened it and entered, followed by Tawno Chikno. I myself went last
of all, following Mr. Petulengro, who, before I entered, turned round, and, with a significant nod, advised me to take care how I behaved. The part of the church which we had entered was the chancel; on one side stood a number of venerable old men—probably the neighbouring poor—and on the other a number of poor girls belonging to the village school, dressed in white gowns and straw bonnets, whom two elegant but simply dressed young women were superintending. Every voice seemed to be united in singing a certain anthem, which, notwithstanding it was written neither by Tate nor Brady, contains some of the sublimest words which were ever put together, not the worst of which are those which burst on our ears as we entered.
‘Every eye shall now behold Him,
Robed in dreadful majesty;
Those who set at nought and sold Him,
Pierced and nailed Him to the tree,
Deeply wailing,
Shall the true Messiah see.’
Still following Mrs. Petulengro, we proceeded down the chancel and along the aisle; notwithstanding the singing, I could distinctly hear as we passed many a voice whispering, ‘Here come the gypsies! here come the gypsies!’ I felt rather embarrassed, with a somewhat awkward doubt as to where we were to sit; none of the occupiers of the pews, who appeared to consist almost entirely of farmers, with their wives, sons and daughters, opened a door to admit us. Mrs. Petulengro, however, appeared to feel not the least embarrassment, but tripped along the aisle with the greatest nonchalance. We passed under the pulpit, in which stood the clergyman in his white surplice, and reached the middle of the church, where we were confronted by the sexton dressed in long blue coat, and holding in his hand a wand. This functionary motioned towards the lower end of the church, where were certain benches, partly occupied by poor people and boys. Mrs. Petulengro, however, with a toss of her head, directed her course to a magnificent pew, which was unoccupied, which she opened and entered, followed closely by Tawno Chikno, Mr. Petulengro, and myself. The sexton did not appear by any means to approve of the arrangement, and as I stood next the door
laid his finger on my arm, as if to intimate that myself and companions must quit our aristocratical location. I said nothing, but directed my eyes to the clergyman, who uttered a short and expressive cough; the sexton looked at him for a moment, and then, bowing his head, closed the door—in a moment more the music ceased. I took up a Prayer-book, on which was engraved an earl’s coronet. The clergyman uttered, ‘I will arise and go to my father.’ England’s sublime liturgy had commenced.
Oh what feelings came over me on finding myself again in an edifice devoted to the religion of my country. I had not been in such a place I cannot tell for how long—certainly not for years; and now I had found my way there again, it appeared as if I had fallen asleep in the pew of the old church of pretty D---. [54a] I had occasionally done so when a child, and had suddenly woke up. Yes, surely I had been asleep and had woken up; but, no! alas, no! I had not been asleep—at least not in the old church—if I had been asleep I had been walking in my sleep, struggling, striving, learning, and unlearning in my sleep. Years had rolled away whilst I had been asleep—ripe fruit had fallen, green fruit had come on whilst I had been asleep—how circumstances had altered, and above all myself, whilst I had been asleep. No, I had not been asleep in the old church! I was in a pew it is true, but not the pew of black leather, in which I sometimes fell asleep in days of yore, but in a strange pew; and then my companions, they were no longer those of days of yore. I was no longer with my respectable father and mother, and my dear brother, but with the gypsy cral [54b] and his wife, and the gigantic Tawno, the Antinous of the dusky people. And what was I myself? No longer an innocent child, but a moody man, bearing in my face, as I knew well, the marks of my strivings and strugglings, of what I had learnt and unlearnt; nevertheless, the general aspect of things brought to my mind what I had felt and seen of yore. There was difference enough it is true, but still there was a similarity—at least I thought so—the church, the clergyman, and the clerk, differing in many respects from those of pretty D---, put me strangely in mind of them; and then the words!—by-the-by, was it not the magic of the words which brought the dear enchanting past so powerfully before the
mind of Lavengro? for the words were the same sonorous words of high import which had first made an impression on his childish ear in the old church of pretty D---.
The liturgy was now over, during the reading of which my companions behaved in a most unexceptionable manner, sitting down and rising up when other people sat down and rose, and holding in their hands Prayer-books which they found in the pew, into which they stared intently, though I observed that, with the exception of Mrs. Petulengro, who knew how to read a little, they held the books by the top, and not the bottom, as is the usual way. The clergyman now ascended the pulpit, arrayed in his black gown. The congregation composed themselves to attention, as did also my companions, who fixed their eyes upon the clergyman with a certain strange immovable stare, which I believe to be peculiar to their race. The clergyman gave out his text, and began to preach. He was a tall, gentlemanly man, seemingly between fifty and sixty, with greyish hair; his features were very handsome, but with a somewhat melancholy cast: the tones of his voice were rich and noble, but also with somewhat of melancholy in them. The text which he gave out was the following one, ‘In what would a man be profited, provided he gained the whole world, and lost his own soul?’
And on this text the clergyman preached long and well: he did not read his sermon, but spoke it extempore; his doing so rather surprised and offended me at first; I was not used to such a style of preaching in a church devoted to the religion of my country. I compared it within my mind with the style of preaching used by the high-church rector in the old church of pretty D---, and I thought to myself it was very different, and being very different I did not like it, and I thought to myself how scandalized the people of D--- would have been had they heard it, and I figured to myself how indignant the high-church clerk would have been had any clergyman got up in the church of D--- and preached in such a manner. Did it not savour strongly of dissent, methodism, and similar low stuff? Surely it did; why the Methodist I had heard preach on the heath above the old city, preached in the same manner—at least he preached extempore; ay, and something like the present clergyman, for the
Methodist spoke very zealously and with great feeling, and so did the present clergyman; so I, of course, felt rather offended with the clergyman for speaking with zeal and feeling. However, long before the sermon was over I forgot the offence which I had taken, and listened to the sermon with much admiration, for the eloquence and powerful reasoning with which it abounded.
Oh how eloquent he was when he talked of the inestimable value of a man’s soul, which he said endured for ever, whilst his body, as everyone knew, lasted at most for a very contemptible period of time; and how forcibly he reasoned on the folly of a man, who, for the sake of gaining the whole world—a thing, he said, which provided he gained he could only possess for a part of the time, during which his perishable body existed—should lose his soul, that is, cause that precious deathless portion of him to suffer indescribable misery time without end.
There was one part of his sermon which struck me in a very particular manner, he said: ‘That there were some people who gained something in return for their souls; if they did not get the whole world, they got a part of it—lands, wealth, honour, or renown; mere trifles, he allowed, in comparison with the value of a man’s soul, which is destined either to enjoy delight, or suffer tribulation time without end; but which, in the eyes of the worldly, had a certain value, and which afforded a certain pleasure and satisfaction. But there were also others who lost their souls and got nothing for them—neither lands, wealth, renown, nor consideration, who were poor outcasts, and despised by everybody. My friends,’ he added, ‘if the man is a fool who barters his soul for the whole world, what a fool he must be who barters his soul for nothing.’
The eyes of the clergyman, as he uttered these words, wandered around the whole congregation, and when he had concluded them, the eyes of the whole congregation were turned upon my companions and myself.
CHAPTER IX
RETURN FROM CHURCH—THE CUCKOO AND GYPSY—SPIRITUAL DISCOURSE
The service over, my companions and myself returned towards the encampment by the way we came. Some of the humble part of the congregation laughed and joked at us as we passed. Mr. Petulengro and his wife, however, returned their laughs and jokes with interest. As for Tawno and myself, we said nothing; Tawno, like most handsome fellows, having very little to say for himself at any time; and myself, though not handsome, not being particularly skilful at repartee. Some boys followed us for a considerable time, making all kinds of observations about gypsies, but as we walked at a great pace, we gradually left them behind, and at last lost sight of them. Mrs. Petulengro and Tawno Chikno walked together, even as they had come, whilst Mr. Petulengro and myself followed at a little distance.
‘That was a very fine preacher we heard,’ said I to Mr. Petulengro, after we had crossed the stile into the fields.
‘Very fine, indeed, brother,’ said Mr. Petulengro; ‘he is talked of, far and wide, for his sermons; folks say that there is scarcely another like him in the whole of England.’
‘He looks rather melancholy, Jasper.’
‘He lost his wife several years ago, who, they say, was one of the most beautiful women ever seen. They say that it was grief for her loss that made him come out mighty strong as a preacher; for, though he was a clergyman, he was never heard of in the pulpit before he lost his wife; since then the whole country has rung with the preaching of the clergyman of M---, [57] as they call him. Those two nice young gentlewomen whom you saw with the female childer are his daughters.’
‘You seem to know all about him, Jasper. Did you ever hear him preach before?’
‘Never, brother; but he has frequently been to our tent, and his daughters, too, and given us tracts; for he
is one of the people they call Evangelicals, who give folks tracts which they cannot read.’
‘You should learn to read, Jasper.’
‘We have no time, brother.’
‘Are you not frequently idle?’
‘Never, brother; when we are not engaged in our traffic we are engaged in taking our relaxation, so we have no time to learn.’
‘You really should make an effort. If you were disposed to learn to read, I would endeavour to assist you. You would be all the better for knowing how to read.’
‘In what way, brother?’
‘Why, you could read the Scriptures, and by so doing learn your duty towards your fellow-creatures.’
‘We know that already, brother; the constables and justices have contrived to knock that tolerably into our heads.’
‘Yet you frequently break the laws.’
‘So, I believe, do now and then those who know how to read, brother.’
‘Very true, Jasper; but you really ought to learn to read, as by so doing you might learn your duty towards yourselves, and your chief duty is to take care of your own souls; did not the preacher say: “In what is a man profited, provided he gain the whole world?”’
‘We have not much of the world, brother.’
‘Very little indeed, Jasper. Did you not observe how the eyes of the whole congregation were turned towards our pew when the preacher said, “There are some people who lose their souls, and get nothing in exchange; who are outcast, despised, and miserable.” Now, was not what he said quite applicable to the gypsies?’
‘We are not miserable, brother.’
‘Well, then, you ought to be, Jasper. Have you an inch of ground of your own. Are you of the least use? Are you not spoken ill of by everybody? What’s a gypsy?’
‘What’s the bird noising yonder, brother?’
‘The bird! Oh, that’s the cuckoo tolling; but what has the cuckoo to do with the matter?’
‘We’ll see, brother; what’s the cuckoo?’
‘What is it? you know as much about it as myself, Jasper.’
‘Isn’t it a kind of roguish, chaffing bird, brother?’
‘I believe it is, Jasper.’
‘Nobody knows whence it comes, brother?’
‘I believe not, Jasper.’
‘Very poor, brother, not a nest of its own?’
‘So they say, Jasper.’
‘With every person’s bad word, brother?’
‘Yes, Jasper, every person is mocking it.’
‘Tolerably merry, brother?’
‘Yes, tolerably merry, Jasper.’
‘Of no use at all, brother?’
‘None whatever, Jasper.’
‘You would be glad to get rid of the cuckoos, brother?’
‘Why, not exactly, Jasper; the cuckoo is a pleasant, funny bird, and its presence and voice give a great charm to the green trees and fields; no, I can’t say I wish exactly to get rid of the cuckoo.’
‘Well, brother, what’s a Romany chal?’
‘You must answer that question yourself, Jasper.’
‘A roguish, chaffing fellow, a’n’t he, brother?’
‘Ay, ay, Jasper.’
‘Of no use at all, brother?’
‘Just so, Jasper; I see—’
‘Something very much like a cuckoo, brother?’
‘I see what you are after, Jasper.’
‘You would like to get rid of us, wouldn’t you?’
‘Why, no, not exactly.’
‘We are no ornament to the green lanes in spring and summer time, are we, brother? and the voices of our chies with their cukkerin [59a] and dukkerin [59b] don’t help to make them pleasant?’
‘I see what you are at, Jasper.’
‘You would wish to turn the cuckoos into barn-door fowls, wouldn’t you?’
‘Can’t say I should, Jasper, whatever some people might wish.’
‘And the chals and chies into radical weavers and factory wenches, hey, brother?’
‘Can’t say that I should, Jasper. You are certainly a picturesque people, and in many respects an ornament both to town and country; painting and lil writing [59c] too, are under great obligations to you. What pretty pictures
are made out of your campings and groupings, and what pretty books have been written in which gypsies, or at least creatures intended to represent gypsies, have been the principal figures. I think if we were without you, we should begin to miss you.’
‘Just as you would the cuckoos, if they were all converted into barn-door fowls. I tell you what, brother, frequently as I have sat under a hedge in spring or summer time and heard the cuckoo, I have thought that we chals and cuckoos are alike in many respects, but especially in character. Everybody speaks ill of us both, and everybody is glad to see both of us again.’
‘Yes, Jasper, but there is some difference between men and cuckoos; men have souls, Jasper.’
‘And why not cuckoos, brother?’
‘You should not talk so, Jasper; what you say is little short of blasphemy. How should a bird have a soul?’
‘And how should a man?’
‘Oh, we know very well that a man has a soul.’
‘How do you know it?’
‘We know very well.’
‘Would you take your oath of it, brother—your bodily oath?’
‘Why, I think I might, Jasper!’
‘Did you ever see the soul, brother?’
‘No, I never saw it.’
‘Then how could you swear to it? A pretty figure you would make in a court of justice, to swear to a thing which you never saw. Hold up your head, fellow. When and where did you see it? Now upon your oath, fellow, do you mean to say that this Roman stole the donkey’s foal? Oh, there’s no one for cross-questioning like Counsellor P---. Our people when they are in a hobble always like to employ him, though he is somewhat dear. Now, brother, how can you get over the “upon your oath, fellow, will you say that you have a soul?”’
‘Well, we will take no oaths on the subject; but you yourself believe in the soul. I have heard you say that you believe in dukkerin; now what is dukkerin but the soul science?’
‘When did I say that I believed in it?’
‘Why, after that fight, when you pointed to the bloody mark in the cloud, whilst he you wot of was galloping in
the barouch to the old town, amidst the rain-cataracts, the thunder, and flame of heaven.’
‘I have some kind of remembrance of it, brother.’
‘Then, again, I heard you say that the dook [61a] of Abershaw rode every night on horseback down the wooded hill.’
‘I say, brother, what a wonderful memory you have!’
‘I wish I had not, Jasper, but I can’t help it, it is my misfortune.’
‘Misfortune! well, perhaps it is; at any rate it is very ungenteel to have such a memory. I have heard my wife say that to show you have a long memory looks very vulgar, and that you can’t give a greater proof of gentility than by forgetting a thing as soon as possible—more especially a promise, or an acquaintance when he happens to be shabby. Well, brother, I don’t deny that I may have said that I believe in dukkerin, and in Abershaw’s dook, which you say is his soul; but what I believe one moment, or say I believe, don’t be certain that I shall believe the next, or say I do.’
‘Indeed, Jasper, I heard you say on a previous occasion on quoting a piece of a song, [61b] that when a man dies he is cast into the earth and there’s an end of him.’
‘I did, did I? Lor’ what a memory you have, brother. But you are not sure that I hold that opinion now.’
‘Certainly not, Jasper. Indeed, after such a sermon as we have been hearing, I should be very shocked if you held such an opinion.’
‘However, brother, don’t be sure I do not, however shocking such an opinion may be to you.’
‘What an incomprehensible people you are, Jasper.’
‘We are rather so, brother; indeed, we have posed wiser heads than yours before now.’
‘You seem to care for so little, and yet you rove about a distinct race.’
‘I say, brother!’
‘Yes, Jasper.’
‘What do you think of our women?’
‘They have certainly very singular names, Jasper.’
‘Names! Lavengro! However, brother, if you had been as fond of things as of names, you would never have been a pal of ours.’
‘A’n’t they rum animals?’
‘They have tongues of their own, Jasper.’
‘Did you ever feel their teeth and nails, brother?’
‘Never, Jasper, save Mrs. Herne’s. I have always been very civil to them, so—’
‘They let you alone. I say, brother, some part of the secret is in them.’
‘They seem rather flighty, Jasper.’
‘Ay, ay, brother!’
‘Rather fond of loose discourse!’
‘Rather so, brother.’
‘Can you always trust them, Jasper?’
‘We never watch them, brother.’
‘Can they always trust you?’
‘Not quite so well as we can them. However, we get on very well together, except Mikailia and her husband; but Mikailia is a cripple, and is married to the beauty of the world, so she may be expected to be jealous—though he would not part with her for a duchess, no more than I would part with my rawnie, [62a] nor any other chal with his.’
‘Ay, but would not the chi part with the chal for a duke, Jasper?’
‘My Pakomovna gave up the duke for me, brother.’
‘But she occasionally talks of him, Jasper.’
‘Yes, brother, but Pakomovna was born on a common not far from the sign of the gammon.’
‘Gammon of bacon, I suppose.’
‘Yes, brother; but gammon likewise means—’
‘I know it does, Jasper; it means fun, ridicule, jest; it is an ancient Norse word, and is found in the Edda.’
‘Lor’, brother! how learned in lils you are!’
‘Many words of Norse are to be found in our vulgar sayings, Jasper; for example—in that particularly vulgar saying of ours, “Your mother is up,” [62b] there’s a noble Norse word; mother, there, meaning not the female who bore us, but rage and choler, as I discovered by reading the Sagas, Jasper.’
‘Lor’, brother! how book-learned you be.’
‘Indifferently so, Jasper. Then you think you might trust your wife with the duke?’
‘I think I could, brother, or even with yourself.’
‘Myself, Jasper! Oh, I never troubled my head about your wife; but I suppose there have been love affairs between gorgios and Romany chies. [63] Why novels are stuffed with such matters; and then even one of your own songs says so—the song which Ursula was singing the other afternoon.’
‘That is somewhat of an old song, brother, and is sung by the chies as a warning at our solemn festivals.’
‘Well! but there’s your sister-in-law, Ursula, herself, Jasper.’
‘Ursula, herself, brother?’
‘You were talking of my having her, Jasper.’
‘Well, brother, why didn’t you have her?’
‘Would she have had me?’
‘Of course, brother. You are so much of a Roman, and speak Romany so remarkably well.’
‘Poor thing! she looks very innocent!’
‘Remarkably so, brother! however, though not born on the same common with my wife, she knows a thing or two of Roman matters.’
‘I should like to ask her a question or two, Jasper, in connection with that song.’
‘You can do no better, brother. Here we are at the camp. After tea, take Ursula under a hedge, and ask her a question or two in connection with that song.’