“He thinks you’re a gav-mush,” observed Henry; “and he’s got some sticks, an’ is tryin’ to hide them ’cause he daren’t throw ’em away. Oh, aint he scared?”
It was a pleasing spectacle to see the demi-Gipsy coming in with his poor little green sticks, worth perhaps a halfpenny, and such as no living farmer in all North America would have grudged a cartload of to anybody. Droll as it really seemed, the sight touched me while I laughed. Oh, if charity covereth a multitude of sins, what should not poverty do? I care not through which door it comes—nay, be it by the very portal of Vice herself—when sad and shivering poverty stands before me in humble form, I can only forgive and forget. And this child-theft was to obtain the means of work after all. And if you ask me why I did not at once proceed to the next magistrate and denounce the criminal, I can only throw myself for excuse on the illustrious example of George the Fourth, head of Church and State, who once in society saw a pickpocket remove from a gentleman’s fob his gold watch, winking at the king as he did so. “Of course I couldn’t say anything,” remarked the good-natured monarch, “for the rascal took me into his confidence.”
Jim walked into camp amid mild chaff, to be greeted in Rommany by the suspected policeman, and to accept a glass of the ale, which had rained as it were from heaven into this happy family. These basketmakers were not real Gipsies, but churdi or half-bloods, though they spoke with scorn of the two chair-menders, who, working by themselves at the extremity of the tented town (and excluded from a share in the beer), seemed to be a sort of pariahs unto these higher casters.
I should mention, en passant, that when the beer-bearer of the camp was sent for the three pots, he was told to “go over to Bill and borrow his two-gallon jug—and be very careful not to let him find out what it was for.” I must confess that I thought this was deeply unjust to the imposed-upon and beerless William; but it was another case of confidence, and he who sits among Gipsies by hedgerows green must not be over-particular. Il faut heurler avec les loups. “Ain’t it wrong to steal dese here chickens?” asked a negro who was seized with scruples while helping to rob a hen-roost. “Dat, Cuff, am a great moral question, an’ we haint got time to discuss it—so jist hand down anoder pullet.”
I found that Henry had much curious knowledge as to old Rommany ways, though he spoke with little respect of the Gipsy of the olden time, who, as he declared, thought all he needed in life was to get a row of silver buttons on his coat, a pair of high boots on his feet, and therewith—basta! He had evidently met at one time with Mr George Borrow, as appeared by his accurate description of that gentleman’s appearance, though he did not know his name. “Ah! he could talk the jib first-rateus,” remarked my informant; “and he says to me, ‘Bless you! you’ve all of you forgotten the real Gipsy language, and don’t know anything about it at all.’ Do you know Old Frank?” he suddenly inquired.
“Āvo,” I replied. “He’s the man who has been twice in America.”
“But d’ye know how rich he is? He’s got money in bank. And when a man gets money in bank, I say there is somethin’ in it. An’ how do you suppose he made that money?” he inquired, with the air of one who is about to “come down with a stunner.” “He did it a-dukkerin’.” [{171}] But he pronounced the word durkerin’; and I, detecting at once, as I thought, an affinity with the German “turkewava,” paused and stared, lost in thought. My pause was set down to amazement, and the Ancient Henry repeated—
“Fact. By durkerin’. I don’t wonder you’re astonished. Tellin’ fortunes just like a woman. It isn’t every man who could do that. But I suppose you could,” he continued, looking at me admiringly. “You know all the ways of the Gorgios, an’ could talk to ladies, an’ are up to high life; ah, you could make no end of money. Why don’t you do it?”
Innocent Gipsy! was this thy idea of qualification for a seer and a reader of dark lore? What wouldst thou say could I pour into thy brain the contents of the scores of works on “occult nonsense,” from Agrippa to Zadkiel, devoured with keen hunger in the days of my youth? Yes, in solemn sadness, out of the whole I have brought no powers of divination; and in it all found nothing so strange as the wondrous tongue in which we spoke. In this mystery called Life many ways have been proposed to me of alleviating its expenses; as, for instance, when the old professor earnestly commended that we two should obtain (I trust honestly) a donkey and a rinkni juva, who by telling fortunes should entirely contribute to our maintenance, and so wander cost-free, and kost-frei over merrie England. But I threw away the golden opportunity—ruthlessly rejected it—thereby incurring the scorn of all scientific philologists (none of whom, I trow, would have lost such a chance). It was for doing the same thing that Matthew Arnold immortalised a clerke of Oxenforde: though it may be that “since Elizabeth” such exploits have lost their prestige, as I knew of two students at the same university who a few years ago went off on a six weeks’ lark with two Gipsy girls; but who, far from desiring to have the fact chronicled in immortal rhyme, were even much afraid lest it should get into the county newspaper!
Leaving the basketmakers (among whom I subsequently found a grand-daughter of the celebrated Gipsy Queen, Charlotte Stanley), I went up the river, and there, above the bridge, found, as if withdrawn in pride, two other tents, by one of which stood a very pretty little girl of seven or eight years with a younger brother. While talking to the children, their father approached leading a horse. I had never seen him before, but he welcomed me politely in Rommany, saying that I had been pointed out to him as the Rommany rye, and that his mother, who was proficient in their language, was very desirous of meeting me. He was one of the smiths—a Petulengro or Petulamengro, or master of the horse-shoe, a name familiar to all readers of Lavengro.