And talking about gipsies, I am at present fraternizing with a tribe of genuine vagrants who have pitched their ragged tents close at hand. When I go there and see their Eastern looks, I feel as though some genie had transported me to an encampment of Bedouins in Arabia. My location is in a dell almost hidden by overhanging trees, but on occasions I descend through the pine woods to see my brother-vagrants on the edge of the moor. Though I do not know a word of Romany, and am clearly an alien, they receive me most amicably, which says much for their innate good breeding. Were I but a proficient in their tongue, no doubt they would call me "brother" and "Romany Rye," as their grandparents did Borrow.
"Lavengro" is another work which can only be appreciated in these surroundings. I have read it at least six times since leaving London, but it never palls on my taste, never grows dull, and exercises the same fascination as on the first perusal. Nay, more; Fate has taken a leaf from that glorious book and bestowed on me an adventure or so in the Borrovian style. My dell is a replica of that famous Dingle, and--would you believe it?--I have done battle with an individual like the Flaming Tinman. He also is a tinker and a bruiser, but here the resemblance ends. He is not a brute, and has no doxy trailing at his heels. Nor, alas! did he bring me an Isopel to whom I could teach--say French, in place of Armenian. One can say many pretty things in French, and the verbs lend themselves as readily to a philological flirtation as does the more recondite language of Lavengro. But I have no Isopel--at present.
I see you raise your eyebrows at those two last words. You are wrong to suspect evil where none exists. It is true that there is a nymph of these parts--but I had better tell you the beginning of the story. On the night of my arrival in this dell, there came to me a red-cloaked hag who prophesied like a veritable Deborah. Only one scrap of her jargon do I recollect--that Joy should come up through the Gates of Dawn. These same gates are two giant cliffs that stand sentinel at the entrance to Farbis valley. I went down for a swim next morning, and when the sun rose out of the ocean and poured his beams through this chasm, it looked not unlike the Gates of the Day. The name is a poetical one, and pretty. I can quite understand some mute inglorious Milton having so christened this natural entrance. Here I saw Joy coming up as predicted, in the person of a lovely young woman, whom I at first took to be a mermaid, but the sight of whose bare feet dispelled the illusion. I caught but a glimpse of her face, and----
Now, don't finish the sentence for me by saying I lost my heart. I did no such thing; but I own that a very clear picture of this stray Nereid is imprinted on my mind. I have not seen her since that morning, so, to convince myself that she was of mortal mould, I asked my friend the tinker about her. It seems she is the daughter of a Dr. Merle, and leads a kind of huntress-life in the woods and on the moors. Tim--my reality of the Flaming Tinman--waxed enthusiastic over her knowledge of wood-lore, her perfect swimming, her straight shooting, and various other accomplishments less feminine than masculine. He concluded by warning me not to fall in love if I did not mean to marry her. Did you ever hear such rubbish?--as though I were a wolf in disguise, on the prowl for maidens of tender years! I doubt whether I shall ever see her again, and I can only remember her as Aurora coming up through the Gates of Dawn. No! I have not the slightest wish to play the part of Tithonus, though I swear she is lovely enough to snare a less inflammable person than myself.
To speak seriously, I should like to see this girl again. She must be a very original creature to lead the life she does. I detest masculine women. Yet this Diana of Farbis piques my curiosity. Still, I shall not go out of my way to court Fate. If I meet Diana, it must be by chance; but, as I leave here in three days, I doubt whether I shall set eyes on her again. If I see her, if I fall in love with her, if I marry her, what would you say? But then, you see, I say "if"! "Much virtue in that little word," as sage Touchstone remarks.
If you remember, we jested on the probability of my meeting with a wife on my travels. What if this unknown nymph should prove to be my fate in the marriage-market? Mother Jericho, the gipsy sybil, hinted pretty strongly that she whom I met at the Gates of Dawn would become my wife. Well, I met this Diana, this Rosalind, this Meg--not Merrilies, but Merle--the doctor's daughter. There is not the slightest chance of my introducing her to you in such a rôle, I assure you. I have no belief in palmistry, nor, for the matter of that, in mésalliances.
But enough of women and love and guesses at the future. I must tell you of my fight with the tinker--or, rather, I would tell you had I the genius of Homer or the pen of Lavengro. I have neither. I fought a battle with him out of sheer love of fighting. There was no ill will on either side. We simply put on the gloves for a jest, and he was as eager as I to see who was the better man. Neither of us won, so I suppose we are about equal. Some fine day I'll have another bout with him, and see if I can't come off victorious. Tim is no mean foe, I assure you.
These are all the adventures I have to tell you at present, but you must own that they are sufficiently exciting for these prosaic days. If you yawn over this letter and scoff in your superfine way at my Tinker, my Diana, my red-cloaked Witch, I will never again put pen to paper for your pleasure. If my correspondence is not so exciting as the romances of Dumas, it has at least the merit of being perfectly true, which is more than you can say for the glibly uttered lies of a thousand bragging Bobadils who have been to Africa and shot mythical elephants.
In my next letter I will narrate my departure from this place, and my touching farewells of my gipsy friends. After all, I am not sure that I won't travel with them. They are a fascinating lot, though rather in want of soap and water. I may as well play my part of vagrant thoroughly, though, I must confess, I have hitherto been a dismal failure. Evidently I have not dressed the character properly, for the most addle-headed yokel calls me "zur," and looks expectant of a shilling. I am trying to get up an accent, but it's mighty difficult. Greek, which the monks said was an invention of the devil, is easy compared with this lingo.
You can write me a letter in reply to this, addressed to "Dan, Post Office, Farbis," and I'll call for it. Dan is my travelling name. It is, I think, admirably suited to me, and I like it better than the one given to me by my godparents. Peter is quite well, and sends his love. He is having a glorious time, and actually got within a yard of a rabbit the other day. Simon is sleek and steady, and holds his tongue, which is more than I can say of Peter. And now, my friend, I must close this letter, for which you ought to be very grateful, as it is written under great difficulties, with a bad pencil, in a bad light. To keep up the spirit of the thing, I sign my travelling name, and take leave of you so.