There was no combating this obstinacy, as Tim was evidently a firm believer in palmistry. As a gipsy, he could not in reason be otherwise. Dan did not attempt to argue the matter, and after a few more words they parted, as Tim had business on hand.
"I'm off tinkering to a village ten miles from here, rye," said he; "but don't 'ee forget to come to our camp when it suits you. I'll be proud to put on the gloves with you again." And with this pugilistic invitation he parted from his late antagonist.
Dan remained lying where he was, and bearing in mind Tim's warning, made up his mind to baffle Mother Jericho's forecast if possible. But Fate proved too strong for him. Before the week was out, he met again with her whom he ironically christened the "Diana of Farbis."
[CHAPTER VI.]
THE FIRST LETTER TO A LONDON FRIEND.
Dear Jack,
Not wishing to cut myself off entirely from civilization, I write to apprise you of my adventures while exploring England. I am in the wilds--that is, in a lonely village surrounded by moors, and twenty miles from the nearest town. A ragged boy on a ragged pony carries letters to and fro from this place--Farbis it is called--twice a week. Other communication with the world there is none, so you see I am sufficiently isolated from the influences of the nineteenth century.
Of course you knew my intention of coming here, therefore you can express no surprise at the name of the village. I have seen the Court at a distance--a red-brick structure embosomed in pine woods--but as yet I have not called on the old lady who lives there. I cannot very well present myself in my character of a vagabond, as you may suppose; and, moreover, this wild life is so delightful that I wish to keep to myself as much as possible.
When I think of you dawdling in park and club, I pity you heartily. I, too, have been in--shall I call it Arcady?--and suffered the ennui of the season. Now I live, not in your artificial manner, but after a hale and lusty fashion which precludes weariness. I rise with the lark, and retire with the dicky birds. For the most part my bed is a fur rug beside a roaring fire under the stars, and I am thoroughly enjoying myself. This last statement appears extraordinary, but it is precisely true.
I begin to think civilization is a mistake, and that a cultivated man does not get so much out of his life as does the untutored savage. This is a somewhat quixotic way of looking at things, I admit; but, having tried both existences, I heartily pronounce in favour of the latter. I have an appetite which Gargantua might envy; I feel the blood rush through my veins; and I enjoy my life with a zest of which you, puny club-lounger, can have no conception. Such primevalism suits me, and I can well understand the fascination it has for so many men. I protest, Jack, that I never truly appreciated the history of the Scholar Gipsy till I read Arnold's poem by the light of my camp-fire. You get at the inmost soul of the thing from such circumstance.