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The Romany Rye

G >> George Borrow >> The Romany Rye




"I have thriven very well in business, and my name is up as being a
person who can be depended on, when folks treats me handsomely. I
always make a point when a gentleman comes to me, and says, 'Mr.
Dale,' or 'John,' for I have no objection to be called John by a
gentleman--'I wants a good horse, and am ready to pay a good
price'--I always makes a point, I say, to furnish him with an
animal worth the money; but when I sees a fellow, whether he calls
himself gentleman or not, wishing to circumvent me, what does I do?
I doesn't quarrel with him; not I; but, letting him imagine he is
taking me in, I contrives to sell him a screw for thirty pounds,
not worth thirty shillings. All honest respectable people have at
present great confidence in me, and frequently commissions me to
buy them horses at great fairs like this.

"This short young gentleman was recommended to me by a great landed
proprietor, to whom he bore letters of recommendation from some
great prince in his own country, who had a long time ago been
entertained at the house of the landed proprietor, and the
consequence is, that I brings young six foot six to Horncastle, and
purchases for him the horse of the Romany Rye. I don't do these
kind things for nothing, it is true; that can't be expected; for
every one must live by his trade; but, as I said before, when I am
treated handsomely, I treat folks so. Honesty, I have discovered,
as perhaps some other people have, is by far the best policy;
though, as I also said before, when I'm along with thieves, I can
beat them at their own game. If I am obliged to do it, I can pass
off the veriest screw as a flying drummedary, for even when I was a
child I had found out by various means what may be done with
animals. I wish now to ask a civil question, Mr. Romany Rye.
Certain folks have told me that you are a horse witch; are you one,
or are you not?"

"I, like yourself," said I, "know, to a certain extent, what may be
done with animals."

"Then how would you, Mr. Romany Rye, pass off the veriest screw in
the world for a flying drummedary?"

"By putting a small live eel down his throat; as long as the eel
remained in his stomach, the horse would appear brisk and lively in
a surprising degree."

"And how would you contrive to make a regular kicker and biter
appear so tame and gentle, that any respectable fat old gentleman
of sixty, who wanted an easy goer, would be glad to purchase him
for fifty pounds?"

"By pouring down his throat four pints of generous old ale, which
would make him so happy and comfortable, that he would not have the
heart to kick or bite anybody, for a season at least."

"And where did you learn all this?" said the jockey.

"I have read about the eel in an old English book, and about the
making drunk in a Spanish novel, and, singularly enough, I was told
the same things by a wild blacksmith in Ireland. Now tell me, do
you bewitch horses in this way?"

"I?" said the jockey; "mercy upon us! I wouldn't do such things
for a hatful of money. No, no, preserve me from live eels and
hocussing! And now let me ask you, how would you spirit a horse
out of a field?"

"How would I spirit a horse out of a field?"

"Yes; supposing you were down in the world, and had determined on
taking up the horse-stealing line of business."

"Why, I should-- But I tell you what, friend, I see you are trying
to pump me, and I tell you plainly that I will hear something from
you with respect to your art, before I tell you anything more. Now
how would you whisper a horse out of a field, provided you were
down in the world, and so forth?"

"Ah, ah, I see you are up to a game, Mr. Romany: however, I am a
gentleman in mind, if not by birth, and I scorn to do the
unhandsome thing to anybody who has dealt fairly towards me. Now
you told me something I didn't know, and I'll tell you something
which perhaps you do know. I whispers a horse out of a field in
this way: I have a mare in my stable; well, in the early season of
the year I goes into my stable--Well, I puts the sponge into a
small bottle which I keeps corked. I takes my bottle in my hand,
and goes into a field, suppose by night, where there is a very fine
stag horse. I manage with great difficulty to get within ten yards
of the horse, who stands staring at me just ready to run away. I
then uncorks my bottle, presses my fore-finger to the sponge, and
holds it out to the horse, the horse gives a sniff, then a start,
and comes nearer. I corks up my bottle and puts it into my pocket.
My business is done, for the next two hours the horse would follow
me anywhere--the difficulty, indeed, would be to get rid of him.
Now is that your way of doing business?"

"My way of doing business? Mercy upon us! I wouldn't steal a
horse in that way, or, indeed, in any way, for all the money in the
world: however, let me tell you, for your comfort, that a trick
somewhat similar is described in the history of Herodotus."

"In the history of Herod's ass!" said the jockey; "well, if I did
write a book, it should be about something more genteel than a
dickey."

"I did not say Herod's ass," said I, "but Herodotus, a very genteel
writer, I assure you, who wrote a history about very genteel
people, in a language no less genteel than Greek, more than two
thousand years ago. There was a dispute as to who should be king
amongst certain imperious chieftains. At last they agreed to obey
him whose horse should neigh first on a certain day, in front of
the royal palace, before the rising of the sun; for you must know
that they did not worship the person who made the sun as we do, but
the sun itself. So one of these chieftains, talking over the
matter to his groom, and saying he wondered who would be king, the
fellow said, 'Why you, master, or I don't know much about horses.'
So the day before the day of trial, what does the groom do, but
take his master's horse before the palace and introduce him to a
mare in the stable, and then lead him forth again. Well, early the
next day all the chieftains on their horses appeared in front of
the palace before the dawn of day. Not a horse neighed but one,
and that was the horse of him who had consulted with his groom,
who, thinking of the animal within the stable, gave such a neigh
that all the buildings rang. His rider was forthwith elected king,
and a brave king he was. So this shows what seemingly wonderful
things may be brought about by a little preparation."

"It doth," said the jockey; "what was the chap's name?"

"His name--his name--Darius Hystaspes."

"And the groom's?"

"I don't know."

"And he made a good king?"

"First-rate."

"Only think! well, if he made a good king, what a wonderful king
the groom would have made, through whose knowledge of 'orses he was
put on the throne. And now another question, Mr. Romany Rye, have
you particular words which have power to soothe or aggravate
horses?"

"You should ask me," said I, "whether I have horses that can be
aggravated or soothed by particular words. No words have any
particular power over horses or other animals who have never heard
them before--how, should they? But certain animals connect ideas
of misery or enjoyment with particular words which they are
acquainted with. I'll give you an example. I knew a cob in
Ireland that could be driven to a state of kicking madness by a
particular word, used by a particular person, in a particular tone;
but that word was connected with a very painful operation which had
been performed upon him by that individual, who had frequently
employed it at a certain period whilst the animal had been under
his treatment. The same cob could be soothed in a moment by
another word, used by the same individual in a very different kind
of tone; the word was deaghblasda, or sweet tasted. Some time
after the operation, whilst the cob was yet under his hands, the
fellow--who was what the Irish call a fairy smith--had done all he
could to soothe the creature, and had at last succeeded by giving
it gingerbread-buttons, of which the cob became passionately fond.
Invariably, however, before giving it a button, he said,
'Deaghblasda,' with which word the cob by degrees associated an
idea of unmixed enjoyment: so if he could rouse the cob to madness
by the word which recalled the torture to its remembrance, he could
as easily soothe it by the other word, which the cob knew would be
instantly followed by the button, which the smith never failed to
give him after using the word deaghblasda."

"There is nothing wonderful to be done," said the jockey, "without
a good deal of preparation, as I know myself. Folks stare and
wonder at certain things which they would only laugh at if they
knew how they were done; and to prove what I say is true, I will
give you one or two examples. Can either of you lend me a
handkerchief? That won't do," said he, as I presented him with a
silk one. "I wish for a delicate white handkerchief. That's just
the kind of thing," said he, as the Hungarian offered him a fine
white cambric handkerchief, beautifully worked with gold at the
hems; "now you shall see me set this handkerchief on fire." "Don't
let him do so by any means," said the Hungarian, speaking to me in
German, "it is the gift of a lady whom I highly admire, and I would
not have it burnt for the world." "He has no occasion to be under
any apprehension," said the jockey, after I had interpreted to him
what the Hungarian had said, "I will restore it to him uninjured,
or my name is not Jack Dale." Then sticking the handkerchief
carelessly into the left side of his bosom, he took the candle,
which by this time had burnt very low, and holding his head back,
he applied the flame to the handkerchief, which instantly seemed to
catch fire. "What do you think of that?" said he to the Hungarian.
"Why, that you have ruined me," said the latter. "No harm done, I
assure you," said the jockey, who presently, clapping his hand on
his bosom, extinguished the fire, and returned the handkerchief to
the Hungarian, asking him if it was burnt. "I see no burn upon
it," said the Hungarian; "but in the name of Gott, how could you
set it on fire without burning it?" "I never set it on fire at
all," said the jockey; "I set this on fire," showing us a piece of
half-burnt calico. "I placed this calico above it, and lighted not
the handkerchief, but the rag. Now I will show you something else.
I have a magic shilling in my pocket, which I can make run up along
my arm. But, first of all, I would gladly know whether either of
you can do the like." Thereupon the Hungarian and myself, putting
our hands into our pockets, took out shillings, and endeavoured to
make them run up our arms, but utterly failed; both shillings,
after we had made two or three attempts, falling to the ground.
"What noncomposses you both are," said the jockey; and placing a
shilling on the end of the fingers of his right hand he made
strange faces to it, drawing back his head, whereupon the shilling
instantly began to run up his arm, occasionally hopping and jumping
as if it were bewitched, always endeavouring to make towards the
head of the jockey.

"How do I do that?" said he, addressing himself to me. "I really
do not know," said I, "unless it is by the motion of your arm."
"The motion of my nonsense," said the jockey, and, making a
dreadful grimace, the shilling hopped upon his knee, and began to
run up his thigh and to climb up his breast. "How is that done?"
said he again. "By witchcraft, I suppose," said I. "There you are
right," said the jockey; "by the witchcraft of one of Miss Berners'
hairs; the end of one of her long hairs is tied to that shilling by
means of a hole in it, and the other end goes round my neck by
means of a loop; so that, when I draw back my head, the shilling
follows it. I suppose you wish to know how I got the hair," said
he, grinning at me. "I will tell you. I once, in the course of my
ridings, saw Miss Berners beneath a hedge, combing out her long
hair, and, being rather a modest kind of person, what must I do but
get off my horse, tie him to a gate, go up to her, and endeavour to
enter into conversation with her. After giving her the sele of the
day, and complimenting her on her hair, I asked her to give me one
of the threads; whereupon she gave me such a look, and, calling me
fellow, told me to take myself off. 'I must have a hair first,'
said I, making a snatch at one. I believe I hurt her; but, whether
I did or not, up she started, and, though her hair was unbound,
gave me the only drubbing I ever had in my life. Lor! how, with
her right hand, she fibbed me whilst she held me round the neck
with her left arm; I was soon glad to beg her pardon on my knees,
which she gave me in a moment, when she saw me in that condition,
being the most placable creature in the world, and not only her
pardon, but one of the hairs which I longed for, which I put
through a shilling, with which I have on evenings after fairs, like
this, frequently worked what seemed to those who looked on
downright witchcraft, but which is nothing more than pleasant
deception. And now, Mr. Romany Rye, to testify my regard for you,
I give you the shilling and the hair. I think you have a kind of
respect for Miss Berners; but whether you have or not, keep them as
long as you can, and whenever you look at them think of the finest
woman in England, and of John Dale, the jockey of Horncastle. I
believe I have told you my history," said he--"no, not quite; there
is one circumstance I had passed over. I told you that I have
thriven very well in business, and so I have, upon the whole; at
any rate, I find myself comfortably off now. I have horses, money,
and owe nobody a groat; at any rate, nothing but what I could pay
to-morrow. Yet I have had my dreary day, ay, after I had obtained
what I call a station in the world. All of a sudden, about five
years ago, everything seemed to go wrong with me--horses became
sick or died, people who owed me money broke or ran away, my house
caught fire, in fact, everything went against me; and not from any
mismanagement of my own. I looked round for help, but--what do you
think?--nobody would help me. Somehow or other it had got abroad
that I was in difficulties, and everybody seemed disposed to avoid
me, as if I had got the plague. Those who were always offering me
help when I wanted none, now, when they thought me in trouble,
talked of arresting me. Yes; two particular friends of mine, who
had always been offering me their purses when my own was stuffed
full, now talked of arresting me, though I only owed the scoundrels
a hundred pounds each; and they would have done so, provided I had
not paid them what I owed them; and how did I do that? Why, I was
able to do it because I found a friend--and who was that friend?
Why, a man who has since been hung, of whom everybody has heard,
and of whom everybody for the next hundred years will occasionally
talk.

"One day, whilst in trouble, I was visited by a person I had
occasionally met at sporting-dinners. He came to look after a
Suffolk Punch, the best horse, by the bye, that anybody can
purchase to drive, it being the only animal of the horse kind in
England that will pull twice at a dead weight. I told him that I
had none at that time that I could recommend; in fact, that every
horse in my stable was sick. He then invited me to dine with him
at an inn close by, and I was glad to go with him, in the hope of
getting rid of unpleasant thoughts. After dinner, during which he
talked nothing but slang, observing I looked very melancholy, he
asked me what was the matter with me, and I, my heart being opened
by the wine he had made me drink, told him my circumstances without
reserve. With an oath or two for not having treated him at first
like a friend, he said he would soon set me all right; and pulling
out two hundred pounds, told me to pay him when I could. I felt as
I never felt before; however, I took his notes, paid my sneaks, and
in less than three months was right again, and had returned him his
money. On paying it to him, I said that I had now a lunch which
would just suit him, saying that I would give it to him--a free
gift--for nothing. He swore at me;--telling me to keep my Punch,
for that he was suited already. I begged him to tell me how I
could requite him for his kindness, whereupon, with the most
dreadful oath I ever heard, he bade me come and see him hanged when
his time was come. I wrung his hand, and told him I would, and I
kept my word. The night before the day he was hanged at H---, I
harnessed a Suffolk Punch to my light gig, the same Punch which I
had offered to him, which I have ever since kept, and which brought
me and this short young man to Horncastle, and in eleven hours I
drove that Punch one hundred and ten miles. I arrived at H--- just
in the nick of time. There was the ugly jail--the scaffold--and
there upon it stood the only friend I ever had in the world.
Driving my Punch, which was all in a foam, into the midst of the
crowd, which made way for me as if it knew what I came for, I stood
up in my gig, took off my hat, and shouted, 'God Almighty bless
you, Jack!' The dying man turned his pale grim face towards me--
for his face was always somewhat grim, do you see--nodded and said,
or I thought I heard him say, 'All right, old chap.' The next
moment--my eyes water. He had a high heart, got into a scrape
whilst in the marines, lost his half-pay, took to the turf, ring,
gambling, and at last cut the throat of a villain who had robbed
him of nearly all he had. But he had good qualities, and I know
for certain that he never did half the bad things laid to his
charge; for example, he never bribed Tom Oliver to fight cross, as
it was said he did on the day of the awful thunder-storm. Ned
Flatnose fairly beat Tom Oliver, for though Ned was not what's
called a good fighter, he had a particular blow, which if he could
put in he was sure to win. His right shoulder, do you see, was two
inches farther back than it ought to have been, and consequently
his right fist generally fell short; but if he could swing himself
round, and put in a blow with that right arm, he could kill or take
away the senses of anybody in the world. It was by putting in that
blow in his second fight with Spring that he beat noble Tom.
Spring beat him like a sack in the first battle, but in the second
Ned Painter--for that was his real name--contrived to put in his
blow, and took the senses out of Spring; and in like manner he took
the senses out of Tom Oliver.

"Well, some are born to be hanged, and some are not; and many of
those who are not hanged are much worse than those who are. Jack,
with many a good quality, is hanged, whilst that fellow of a lord,
who wanted to get the horse from you at about two-thirds of his
value, without a single good quality in the world, is not hanged,
and probably will remain so. You ask the reason why, perhaps.
I'll tell you; the lack of a certain quality called courage, which
Jack possessed in abundance, will preserve him; from the love which
he bears his own neck he will do nothing which can bring him to the
gallows. In my rough way I'll draw their characters from their
childhood, and then ask whether Jack was not the best character of
the two. Jack was a rough, audacious boy, fond of fighting, going
a birds'-nesting, but I never heard he did anything particularly
cruel save once, I believe, tying a canister to a butcher's dog's
tail; whilst this fellow of a lord was by nature a savage beast,
and when a boy would in winter pluck poor fowls naked, and set them
running on the ice and in the snow, and was particularly fond of
burning cats alive in the fire. Jack, when a lad, gets a
commission on board a ship as an officer of horse marines, and in
two or three engagements behaves quite up to the mark--at least of
a marine; the marines having no particular character for courage,
you know--never having run to the guns and fired them like madmen
after the blue jackets had had more than enough. Oh, dear me, no!
My lord gets into the valorous British army, where cowardice--Oh,
dear me!--is a thing almost entirely unknown; and being on the
field of Waterloo the day before the battle, falls off his horse,
and, pretending to be hurt in the back, gets himself put on the
sick list--a pretty excuse--hurting his back--for not being present
at such a fight. Old Benbow, after part of both his legs had been
shot away in a sea-fight, made the carpenter make him a cradle to
hold his bloody stumps, and continued on deck, cheering his men
till he died. Jack returns home, and gets into trouble, and having
nothing to subsist by but his wits, gets his living by the ring and
the turf, doing many an odd kind of thing, I dare say, but not half
those laid to his charge. My lord does much the same without the
excuse for doing so which Jack had, for he had plenty of means, is
a leg, and a black, only in a more polished way, and with more
cunning, and I may say success, having done many a rascally thing
never laid to his charge. Jack at last cuts the throat of a
villain who had cheated him of all he had in the world, and who, I
am told, was in many points the counterpart of this screw and white
feather, is taken up, tried, and executed; and certainly taking
away a man's life is a dreadful thing; but is there nothing as bad?
Whitefeather will cut no person's throat--I will not say who has
cheated him, for, being a cheat himself, he will take good care
that nobody cheats him, but he'll do something quite as bad; out of
envy to a person who never injured him, and whom he hates for being
more clever and respected than himself, he will do all he possibly
can, by backbiting and every unfair means, to do that person a
mortal injury. But Jack is hanged, and my lord it not. Is that
right? My wife, Mary Fulcher--I beg her pardon, Mary Dale--who is
a Methodist, and has heard the mighty preacher, Peter Williams,
says some people are preserved from hanging by the grace of God.
With her I differs, and says it is from want of courage. This
Whitefeather, with one particle of Jack's courage, and with one
tithe of his good qualities, would have been hanged long ago, for
he has ten times Jack's malignity. Jack was hanged because, along
with his bad qualities, he had courage and generosity; this fellow
is not, because with all Jack's bad qualities, and many more,
amongst which is cunning, he has neither courage nor generosity.
Think of a fellow like that putting down two hundred pounds to
relieve a distressed fellow-creature; why he would rob, but for the
law and the fear it fills him with, a workhouse child of its
breakfast, as the saying is--and has been heard to say that he
would not trust his own father for sixpence, and he can't imagine
why such a thing as credit should be ever given. I never heard a
person give him a good word--stay, stay, yes! I once heard an old
parson, to whom I sold a Punch, say that he had the art of
receiving company gracefully and dismissing them without
refreshment. I don't wish to be too hard with him, and so let him
make the most of that compliment. Well! he manages to get on,
whilst Jack is hanged; not quite enviably, however; he has had his
rubs, and pretty hard ones--everybody knows he slunk from Waterloo,
and occasionally checks him with so doing; whilst he has been
rejected by a woman--what a mortification to the low pride of which
the scoundrel has plenty! There's a song about both circumstances,
which may, perhaps, ring in his ears on a dying bed. It's a funny
kind of song, set to the old tune of the Lord-Lieutenant or Deputy,
and with it I will conclude my discourse, for I really think it's
past one." The jockey then, with a very tolerable voice, sung the
following song:-


THE JOCKEY'S SONG.

Now list to a ditty both funny and true! -
Merrily moves the dance along -
A ditty that tells of a coward and screw,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

Sir Plume, though not liking a bullet at all, -
Merrily moves the dance along -
Had yet resolution to go to a BALL,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

"Woulez wous danser, mademoiselle?" -
Merrily moves the dance along; -
Said she, "Sir, to dance I should like very well,"
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

They danc'd to the left, and they danc'd to the right, -
Merrily moves the dance along; -
And her troth the fair damsel bestow'd on the knight,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

"Now what shall I fetch you, mademoiselle?" -
Merrily moves the dance along; -
Said she, "Sir, an ice I should like very well,"
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

But the ice, when he'd got it, he instantly ate, -
Merrily moves the dance along; -
Although his poor partner was all in a fret,
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

He ate up the ice like a prudent young lord, -
Merrily moves the dance along; -
For he saw 't was the very last ice on the board, -
My Lord-Lieutenant so free and young.

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