“I really, do not see how we can do better,” replied Timothy. “The world is all before us, and we must force our own way through it. As for his being a quack doctor, I see no great harm in that. People put their faith in nostrums more than they do in regular medicines; and it is well known that quack medicines, as they call them, cure as often as others, merely for that very reason.”
“Very true, Timothy; the mind once at ease, the body soon recovers, and faith, even in quack medicines, will often make people whole; but do you think that he does no more than impose upon people in that way?”
“He may, or he may not; at all events, we need do no more, I suppose.”
“I am not sure of that; however, we shall see. He says we may be useful to him, and I suppose we shall be, or he would not have engaged us—we shall soon find out.”
Part 1—Chapter X
In which the Reader is introduced to several new Aquaintances, and all connected with them, except Birth and Parentage, which appears to be the one thing wanting throughout the whole of this Work.
By this time we had arrived at the lime-kiln to which we had been directed, and we sat down on our bundles, chatting for about five minutes, when our new acquaintance made his appearance, with something in his hand, tied up in a handkerchief.
“You may as well put your coats into your bundles, and put on these frocks,” said he; “you will appear better among us, and be better received, for there is a gathering now, and some of them are queer customers. However, you have nothing to fear; when once you are with my wife and me, you are quite safe; her little finger would protect you from five hundred.”
“Your wife! who, then, is she?” inquired I, as I put my head through the smock frock.
“She is a great personage among the gipsies. She is, by descent, one of the heads of the tribe, and none dare to disobey her.”
“And you—are you a gipsy?”
“No, and yes. By birth I am not, but by choice, and marriage, I am admitted; but I was not born under a hedge, I can assure you, although I very often pass a night there now—that is, when I am domestic; but do not think that you are to remain long here; we shall leave in a few days, and may not meet the tribe again for months, although you may see my own family occasionally. I did not ask you to join me to pass a gipsy’s life—no, no, we must be stirring and active. Come, we are now close to them. Do not speak as you pass the huts, until you have entered mine. Then you may do as you please.”
We turned short round, passed through a gap in the hedge, and found ourselves on a small retired piece of common, which was studded with about twenty or thirty low gipsy huts. The fires were alight and provisions apparently cooking. We passed by nine or ten, and obeyed our guide’s injunctions to keep silence. At last we stopped, and perceived ourselves to be standing by the fool, who was dressed like us, in a smock frock, and Mr Jumbo, who was very busy making the pot boil, blowing at the sticks underneath till he was black in the face. Several of the men passed near us, and examined us with no very pleasant expression of countenance; and we were not sorry to see our conductor, who had gone into the hut, return, followed by a woman, to whom he was speaking in the language of the tribe. “Nattée bids you welcome,” said he, as she approached.
Never in my life will the remembrance of the first appearance of Nattée, and the effect it had upon me, be erased from my memory. She was tall, too tall, had it not been for the perfect symmetry of her form. Her face of a clear olive, and oval in shape; her eyes jetty black; nose straight, and beautifully formed; mouth small, thin lips, with a slight curl of disdain, and pearly teeth. I never beheld a woman of so commanding a presence. Her feet were bare, but very small, as well as her hands. On her fingers she wore many rings, of a curious old setting, and a piece of gold hung on her forehead, where the hair was parted. She looked at us, touched her high forehead with the ends of her fingers, and waving her hand gracefully, said, in a soft voice, “You are welcome,” and then turned to her husband, speaking to him in her own language, until by degrees they separated from us in earnest conversation.
She returned to us after a short time, without her husband, and said, in a voice, the notes of which were indeed soft, but the delivery of the words was most determined; “I have said that you are welcome; sit down, therefore, and share with us—fear nothing, you have no cause to fear. Be faithful, then, while you serve him; and when you would quit us, say so, and receive your leave to depart; but if you attempt to desert us without permission, then we shall suspect that you are our enemies, and treat you accordingly. There is your lodging while here,” continued she, pointing to another hut. “There is but one child with you, his boy (pointing to Jumbo), who can lie at your feet. And now join us as friends. Fleta, where are you?”
A soft voice answered from the tent of Nattée, and soon afterwards came out a little girl, of about eleven years old. The appearance of this child was a new source of interest. She was a little fairy figure, with a skin as white as the driven snow—light auburn hair, and large blue eyes; her dress was scanty, and showed a large portion of her taper legs. She hastened to Nattée, and folding her arms across her breast, stood still, saying meekly, “I am here.”
“Know these as friends, Fleta. Send that lazy Num (this was Philotas, the fool,) for more wood, and see that Jumbo tends the fire.”
Nattée smiled, and left us. I observed she went to where forty or fifty of the tribe were assembled, in earnest discourse. She took her seat with them, and marked deference was paid to her. In the mean time Jumbo had blown up a brisk fire; we were employed by Fleta in shredding vegetables, which she threw into the boiling kettle. Num appeared with more fuel, and at last there was nothing more to do. Fleta sat down by us, and parting her long hair, which had fallen over her eyes, looked us both in the face.
“Who gave you that name, Fleta?” inquired I.
“They gave it me,” replied she.
“And who are they?”
“Nattée, and Melchior, her husband.”
“But you are not their daughter?”
“No, I am not—that is, I believe not.”
The little girl stopped short, as if assured that she had said too much, cast her eyes down on the ground, and folded her arms, so that her hands rested on each opposite shoulder.
Timothy whispered to me, “She must have been stolen, depend upon it.”
“Silence,” said I.
The little girl overheard him, and looking at him, put her finger across her mouth, looking to where Num and Jumbo were sitting. I felt an interest for this child before I had been an hour in her company; she was so graceful, so feminine, so mournful in the expression of her countenance. That she was under restraint was evident; but still she did not appear to be actuated by fear. Nattée was very kind to her, and the child did not seem to be more reserved towards her than to others; her mournful, pensive look, was perhaps inherent to her nature. It was not until long after our first acquaintance that I ever saw a smile upon her features. Shortly after this little conversation, Nattée returned, walking with all the grace and dignity of a queen. Her husband, or Melchior, as I shall in future call him, soon joined us, and we sat down to our repast, which was excellent. It was composed of almost everything; sometimes I found myself busy with the wing of a fowl, at another, the leg of a rabbit—then a piece of mutton, or other flesh and fowl, which I could hardly distinguish. To these were added every sort of vegetable, among which potatoes predominated, forming a sort of stew, which an epicure might have praised. I had a long conversation with Melchior in the evening; and, not to weary the reader, I shall now proceed to state all that I then and subsequently gathered from him and others, relative to the parties with whom we were associating.
Melchior would not state who and what he was previous to his having joined the fraternity of gipsies; that he was not of humble birth, and that he had, when young, quitted his friends out of love for Nattée, or from some other causes not to be revealed, he led me to surmise. He had been many years in company with the tribe, and although, as one received into it, he did not stand so high in rank and estimation as his wife, still, from his marriage with Nattée, and his own peculiar qualifications and dexterity, he was almost as absolute as she was.
Melchior and Nattée were supposed to be the most wealthy of all the gipsies, and, at the same time, they were the most liberal of their wealth. Melchior, it appeared, gained money in three different characters; as a quack doctor, the character in which we first saw him; secondly, as a juggler, in which art he was most expert; and, thirdly, as a fortune-teller, and wise man.
Nattée, as I before mentioned, was of very high rank, or caste, in her tribe. At her first espousal of Melchior she lost much of her influence, as it was considered a degradation; but she was then very young, and must have been most beautiful. The talents of Melchior, and her own spirit, however, soon enabled her to regain, and even add still more to, her power and consideration among the tribe; and it was incredible to what extent, with the means which she possessed, this power was augmented.
Melchior had no children by his marriage, and, as far as I could judge from the few words which would escape from the lips of Nattée, she did not wish for any, as the race would not be considered pure. The subdivision of the tribe which followed Nattée consisted of about forty men, women, and children. These were ruled by her during the absence of her husband, who alternately assumed different characters, as suited his purpose; but in whatever town Melchior might happen to be, Nattée and her tribe were never far off, and always encamped within communication.
I ventured to question Melchior about the little Fleta; and he stated that she was the child of a soldier’s wife, who had been brought to bed, and died a few hours afterwards; that, at the time, she was on her way to join her husband, and had been taken ill on the road—had been assisted by Nattée and her companions, as far as they were able—had been buried by them, and that the child had been reared in the camp.
In time, the little girl became very intimate, and very partial to me. I questioned her as to her birth, telling her what Melchior had stated: for a long while she would not answer; the poor child had learned caution even at that early age; but after we were more intimate, she said, that which Melchior had stated was not true. She could recollect very well living in a great house, with everything very fine about her; but still it appeared as if it were a dream. She recollected two white ponies—and a lady who was her mamma—and a mulberry-tree, where she stained her frock; sometimes other things came to her memory, and then she forgot them again. From this it was evident that she had been stolen, and was probably of good parentage; certainly, if elegance and symmetry of person and form could prove blood, it never was more marked than in this interesting child. Her abode with the gipsies, and their peculiar mode of life and manners, had rendered her astonishingly precocious in intellect; but of education she had none, except what was instilled into her by Melchior whom she always accompanied when he assumed his character as a juggler. She then danced on the slack wire, at the same time performing several feats in balancing, throwing of oranges, etcetera. When Melchior was under other disguises, she remained in the camp with Nattée.
Of Num, or Philotas, as Melchior thought proper to call him, I have already spoken. He was a half-witted idiot, picked up in one of Melchior’s excursions; and as he stated to me, so did it prove to be the fact, that when on the stage, and questioned as a fool, his natural folly, and idiotical vacancy of countenance, were applauded by the spectators as admirably assumed. Even at the alehouses and taverns where we stopped, everyone imagined that all his folly was pretence, and looked upon him as a very clever fellow. There never was, perhaps, such a lachrymose countenance as this poor lad’s; and this added still more to the mirth of others, being also considered as put on for the occasion. Stephen Kemble played Falstaff without stuffing—Num played the fool without any effort or preparation. Jumbo was also “picked up;” this was not done by Melchior, who stated, that anybody might have him who claimed him; he tumbled with the fool upon the stage, and he also ate pudding to amuse the spectators—the only part of the performance which was suited to Jumbo’s taste, for he was a terrible little glutton, and never lost any opportunity of eating, as well as of sleeping.
And now, having described all our new companions, I must narrate what passed between Melchior and me, the day after our joining the camp. He first ran through his various professions, pointing out to me that as juggler he required a confederate, in which capacity I might be very useful, as he would soon instruct me in all his tricks. As a quack doctor he wanted the services of both Tim and myself in mixing up, making pills, etcetera, and also in assisting him in persuading the public of his great skill. As a fortune-teller, I should also be of great service, as he would explain to me hereafter. In short, he wanted a person of good personal appearance and education, in whom he might confide in every way. As to Tim, he might be made useful, if he chose, in various ways; amongst others, he wished him to learn tumbling and playing the fool, when, at times, the fool was required to give a shrewd answer on any point on which he would wish the public to be made acquainted. I agreed to my own part of the performance, and then had some conversation with Timothy, who immediately consented to do his best in what was allotted as his share. Thus was the matter quickly arranged, Melchior observing, that he had said nothing about remuneration, as I should find that trusting to him was far preferable to stipulated wages.
Part 1—Chapter XI
Whatever may be the Opinion of the Reader, he cannot assert that we are no Conjurors—We suit our wares to our Customers, and our Profits are considerable.
We had been three days in the camp when the gathering was broken up, each gang taking their own way. What the meeting was about I could not exactly discover: one occasion of it was to make arrangements relative to the different counties in which the subdivisions were to sojourn during the next year, so that they might know where to communicate with each other, and, at the same time, not interfere by being too near; but there were many other points discussed, of which, as a stranger, I was kept in ignorance. Melchior answered all my questions with apparent candour, but his habitual deceit was such, that whether he told the truth or not was impossible to be ascertained by his countenance.
When the gathering dispersed we packed up, and located ourselves about two miles from the common, on the borders of a forest of oak and ash. Our food was chiefly game, for we had some excellent poachers among us; and as for fish, it appeared to be at their command; there was not a pond or a pit but they could tell in a moment if it were tenanted, and if tenanted, in half an hour every fish would be floating on the top of the water, by the throwing in of some intoxicating sort of berry; other articles of food occasionally were found in the caldron; indeed, it was impossible to fare better than we did, or at less expense.
Our tents were generally pitched not far from a pool of water, and to avoid any unpleasant search, which sometimes would take place, everything liable to detection was sunk under the water until it was required for cooking; once in the pot, it was considered as safe. But with the foraging, Timothy and I had nothing to do; we participated in the eating, without asking any questions as to how it was procured.
My time was chiefly spent in company with Melchior, who initiated me into all the mysteries of cups and balls—juggling of every description—feats with cards, and made me acquainted with all his apparatus for prepared tricks. For hours and hours was I employed by his directions in what is called “making the pass” with a pack of cards, as almost all tricks on cards depend upon your dexterity in this manoeuvre. In about a month I was considered as a very fair adept; in the mean time, Timothy had to undergo his career of gymnastics, and was to be seen all day tumbling and re-tumbling, until he could tumble on his feet again. Light and active, he soon became a very dexterous performer, and could throw a somerset either backwards or forwards, walk on his hands, eat fire, pull out ribands, and do fifty other tricks to amuse a gaping audience. Jumbo also was worked hard, to bring down his fat, and never was allowed his dinner until he had given satisfaction to Melchior. Even little Fleta had to practise occasionally, as we were preparing for an expedition. Melchior, who appeared determined to create an effect, left us for three days, and returned with not only dresses for Timothy and me, but also new dresses for the rest of the company and shortly afterwards, bidding farewell to Nattée and the rest of the gipsies, we all set out—that is, Melchior, I, Timothy, Fleta, Num, and Jumbo. Late in the evening we arrived at the little town of —, and took up our quarters at a public-house, with the landlord of which Melchior had already made arrangements.
“Well, Timothy,” said I, as soon as we were in bed, “how do you like our new life and prospects?”
“I like it better than Mr Cophagus’s rudimans, and carrying out physic, at all events. But how does your dignity like turning Merry Andrew, Japhet?”
“To tell you the truth, I do not dislike it. There is a wildness and a devil-may-care feeling connected with it which is grateful to me at present. How long it may last I cannot tell; but for a year or two it appears to me that we may be very happy. At all events, we shall see the world, and have more than one profession to fall back upon.”
“That is true; but there is one thing that annoys me, Japhet, which is, we may have difficulty in leaving these people when we wish. Besides, you forget that you are losing sight of the principal object you had in view, that is, of finding out your father.”
“I certainly never expect to find him among the gipsies,” replied I, “for children are at a premium with them. They steal from others, and are not very likely therefore to leave them at the Foundling. But I do not know whether I have not as good a chance in our present employment as in any other. I have often been thinking that as fortune-tellers we may get hold of many strange secrets; however, we shall see. Melchior says, that he intends to appear in that character as soon as he has made a harvest in his present one.”
“What do you think of Melchior, now that you have been so much with him?”
“I think him an unprincipled man, but still with many good qualities. He appears to have a pleasure in deceit, and to have waged war with the world in general. Still he is generous, and, to a certain degree, confiding; kind in his disposition, and apparently a very good husband. There is something on his mind which weighs him down occasionally, and checks him in the height of his mirth. It comes over him like a dark cloud over a bright summer sun; and he is all gloom for a few minutes. I do not think that he would now commit any great crime; but I have a suspicion that he has done something which is a constant cause of remorse.”
“You are a very good judge of character, Japhet. But what a dear little child is that Fleta! She may exclaim with you—Who is my father?”
“Yes, we are both in much the same predicament, and that it is which I believe has so much increased my attachment to her. We are brother and sister in misfortune, and a sister she ever shall be to me, if such is the will of Heaven. But we must rise early to-morrow, Tim; so good night.”
“Yes, to-morrow it will be juggle and tumble—eat fire—um—and so on, as Mr Cophagus would have said; so good night, Japhet.”
The next morning we arrayed ourselves in our new habiliments; mine were silk stockings, shoes, and white kerseymere knee’d breeches, a blue silk waistcoat loaded with tinsel, and a short jacket to correspond of blue velvet, a sash round my waist, a hat and a plume of feathers. Timothy declared I looked very handsome, and as the glass said the same as plain as it could speak, I believed him. Timothy’s dress was a pair of wide Turkish trowsers and red jacket, with spangles. The others were much the same. Fleta was attired in small white satin Turkish trowsers, blue muslin and silver embroidered frock, worked sandals, and her hair braided and plaited in long tails behind, and she looked like a little sylph. Melchior’s dress was precisely the same as mine, and a more respectable company was seldom seen. Some musicians had been hired, and handbills were now circulated all over the town, stating that Signor Eugenio Velotti, with his company, would have the honour of performing before the nobility and gentry. The bill contained the fare which was to be provided, and intimated the hour of the performance, and the prices to be paid for the seats. The performance was to take place in a very large room attached to the inn, which, previous to the decadence of the town, had been used as an assembly-room. A platform was erected on the outside, on which were placed the musicians, and where we all occasionally made our appearance in our splendid dresses to attract the wonder of the people. There we strutted up and down, all but poor little Fleta, who appeared to shrink at the display, from intuitive modesty. When the music ceased, a smart parley between Melchior and me, and Philotas and Timothy, as the two fools, would take place; and Melchior declared, after the performance was over, that we conducted ourselves to admiration.
“Pray, Mr Philotas, do me the favour to tell me how many people you think are now present?” said Melchior to Num, in an imperative voice.
“I don’t know,” said Num, looking up with his idiotical, melancholy face.
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared the crowd at Num’s stupid answer.
“The fellow’s a fool!” said Melchior, to the gaping audience.
“Well, then, if he can’t tell; perhaps you may, Mr Dionysius,” said I, addressing Tim.
“How many, sir? Do you want to know exactly and directly?”
“Yes, sir, immediately.”
“Without counting, sir?”
“Yes, sir, without counting.”
“Well then, sir, I will tell, and make no mistake; there’s exactly as many again as half.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” from the crowd.
“That won’t do, sir. How many may be the half?”
“How many may be the half? Do you know yourself, sir?”
“Yes, sir, to be sure I do.”
“Then there’s no occasion for me to tell you.”
“Ha! ha! ha!”
“Well then, sir,” continued Melchior to Philotas, “perhaps you’ll tell how many ladies and gentlemen we may expect to honour us with their company to-night.”
“How many, sir?”
“Yes, sir, how many?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Num, after a pause.
“Positively you are the greatest fool I ever met with,” said Melchior.
“Well, he does act the fool as natural as life,” observed the crowd. “What a stupid face he does put on!”
“Perhaps you will be able to answer that question. Mr Dionysius,” said I to Tim.
“Yes, sir, I know exactly.”
“Well, sir, let’s hear.”
“In the first place, all the pretty women will come, and all the ugly ones stay away; and as for the men, all those who have got any money will be certain to come; those who hav’n’t, poor devils, must stay outside.”
“Suppose, sir, you make a bow to the ladies.”
“A very low one, sir?”
“Yes, very low indeed.”
Tim bent his body to the ground, and threw a somerset forward. “There, sir; I bowed so low, that I came up on the other side.”
“Ha! ha! capital!” from the crowd.
“I’ve got a round turn in my back, sir,” continued Tim, rubbing himself. “Hadn’t I better take it out again?”
“By all means.”
Tim threw a somerset backwards. “There, sir, all’s right now. One good turn deserves another. Now I’ll be off.”
“Where are you going to, sir?”
“Going sir! Why, I left my lollipop in the tinder-box, and I’m going to fetch it.”
“Ha! ha! ha!”
“Strike up, music!” and Master Jumbo commenced tumbling.
Such was the elegant wit with which we amused and attracted the audience. Perhaps, had we been more refined, we should not have been so successful.
That evening we had the room as full as it could hold. Signor Velotti alias Melchior astonished them. The cards appeared to obey his commands—rings were discovered in lady’s shoes—watches were beat to a powder and made whole—canary birds flew out of eggs. The audience were delighted. The entertainment closed with Fleta’s performance on the slack wire; and certainly never was there anything more beautiful and graceful. Balanced on the wire in a continual, waving motion, her eyes fixed upon a point to enable her to maintain her position, she performed several feats, such as the playing with five oranges, balancing swords, etcetera. Her extreme beauty—her very picturesque and becoming dress—her mournful expression and downcast eyes—her gentle manner, appeared to win the hearts of the audience; and when she was assisted off from her perilous situation by Melchior and me, and made her graceful courtesy, the plaudits were unanimous.
When the company dispersed I went to her, intending to praise her, but I found her in tears. “What is the matter, my dear Fleta?”
“O nothing! don’t say I have been crying—but I cannot bear it—so many people looking at me. Don’t say a word to Melchior—I won’t cry any more.”