“That I am sure I would,” replied Tim; and I made the same assertion.

  “Well, I was taken in that way at a fair, and lost ten shillings by the wager; now, we’ll try whether you can tell or not.” He took out some money from his pocket, which he selected without our seeing it, put a coin into the hand of each of us, closing our fists over it, “and now,” said he, “keep your eyes shut for a minute.”

  We did so, and a second or two afterwards we heard a voice which we instantly recognised. “Nay, but it was wrong to leave me on the way side thus, having agreed to pay the sum demanded. At my age one walketh not without fatigue, Excipenda tamen quædam sunt urbium, as Philostratus says, meaning, ‘that old limbs lose their activity, and seek the help of a crutch.’”

  “There’s the doctor,” cried Timothy, with his eyes still shut.

  “Now open your eyes,” said the man, “and tell me, before you open your hand, what there is in it.”

  “A halfpenny in mine,” said Tim.

  “A guinea in mine,” replied I.

  We opened our hands, and they were empty.

  “Where the devil is it?” exclaimed I, looking at Tim.

  “And where the devil’s the doctor?” replied he, looking round.

  “The money is in the doctor’s pocket,” replied the man, smiling.

  “Then where is the doctor’s pocket?”

  “Here,” replied he, slapping his pocket, and looking significantly at us. “I thought you were certain of knowing him again. About as certain as you were of telling the money in your hand.”

  He then, to our astonishment, imitated the doctor’s voice, and quoted prosody syntax, and Latin. Timothy and I were still in astonishment, when he continued, “If I had not found out that you were in want of employ, and further, that your services would be useful to me, I should not have made this discovery. Do you now think that you know enough to enter into my service? It is light work, and not bad pay; and now you may choose.”

  “I trust,” said I, “that there is no dishonesty?”

  “None that you need practise, if you are so scrupulous; perhaps your scruples may some day be removed. I make the most of my wares — every merchant does the same. I practise upon the folly of mankind — it is on that, that wise men live.”

  Timothy gave me a push, and nodded his head for me to give my consent. I reflected a few seconds, and at last I extended my hand. “I consent,” replied I, “with the reservation I have made.”

  “You will not repent,” said he; “and I will take your companion, not that I want him particularly, but I do want you. The fact is, I want a lad of gentlemanly address, and handsome appearance — with the very knowledge you possess — and now we will say no more for the present. By-the-bye, was that real Latin of yours?”

  “No,” replied I, laughing; “you quoted the grammar, and I replied with medical prescriptions. One was as good as the other.”

  “Quite — nay, better; for the school-boys may find me out, but not you. But now observe, when we come to the next cross road, we must get down — at least, I expect so; but we shall know in a minute.”

  In about the time he mentioned, a dark, gipsy-looking man looked into the wagon, and spoke to our acquaintance in an unknown language. He replied in the same, and the man disappeared. We continued our route for about a quarter of an hour, when he got out, asked us to follow him, and speaking a few words to the fool, which I did not hear, left him and the boy in the wagon. We paid our fare, took possession of our bundles, and followed our new companion for a few minutes on the cross road, when he stopped, and said, “I must now leave you, to prepare for your reception into our fraternity; continue straight on this road until you arrive at a lime-kiln, and wait there till I come.”

  He sprang over a stile, and took a direction verging at an angle from the road, forced his way through a hedge, and disappeared from our sight. “Upon my word, Timothy,” said I, “I hardly know what to say to this. Have we done right in trusting to this man, who, I am afraid! is a great rogue? I do not much like mixing with these gipsy people, for such I am sure he belongs to.”

  “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.”

  Chapter X

  In which the reader is introduced to several new acquaintances, 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, this boy (pointing to Jumbo), who can lay 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 meantime 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 every thing; 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, &c. 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, every one 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 any body 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, &c., 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.

  Chapter XI

  Whatever may be the opinion of the reader, he cannot assert that we are no conjurers — We suit our wares to our customers, and our profits are considerable.