The Romany Rye

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And now with respect to the old man who knew Chinese, but could not
tell what was o'clock. This individual was a man whose natural
powers would have been utterly buried and lost beneath a mountain
of sloth and laziness, had not God determined otherwise. He had in
his early years chalked out for himself a plan of life in which he
had his own ease and self-indulgence solely in view; he had no
particular bad passions to gratify, he only wished to live a happy
quiet life, just as if the business of this mighty world could be
carried on by innocent people fond of ease or quiet, or that
Providence would permit innocent quiet drones to occupy any portion
of the earth and to cumber it. God had at any rate decreed that
this man should not cumber it as a drone. He brings a certain
affliction upon him, the agony of which produces that terrible
whirling of the brain which, unless it is stopped in time, produces
madness; he suffers indescribable misery for a period, until one
morning his attention is arrested, and his curiosity is aroused, by
certain Chinese letters on a teapot; his curiosity increases more
and more, and, of course, in proportion as his curiosity is
increased with respect to the Chinese marks, the misery in his
brain, produced by his mental affliction, decreases. He sets about
learning Chinese, and after the lapse of many years, during which
his mind subsides into a certain state of tranquillity, he acquires
sufficient knowledge of Chinese to be able to translate with ease
the inscriptions to be found on its singular crockery. Yes, the
laziest of human beings, through the Providence of God, a being too
of rather inferior capacity, acquires the written part of a
language so difficult that, as Lavengro said on a former occasion,
none but the cleverest people in Europe, the French, are able to
acquire it. But God did not intend that man should merely acquire
Chinese. He intended that he should be of use to his species, and
by the instrumentality of the first Chinese inscription which he
translates, the one which first arrested his curiosity, he is
taught the duty of hospitality; yes, by means of an inscription in
the language of a people, who have scarcely an idea of hospitality
themselves, God causes the slothful man to play a useful and
beneficent part in the world, relieving distressed wanderers, and,
amongst others, Lavengro himself. But a striking indication of the
man's surprising sloth is still apparent in what he omits to do; he
has learnt Chinese, the most difficult of languages, and he
practises acts of hospitality, because he believes himself enjoined
to do so by the Chinese inscription, but he cannot tell the hour of
the day by the clock within his house; he can get on, he thinks,
very well without being able to do so; therefore from this one
omission, it is easy to come to a conclusion as to what a
sluggard's part the man would have played in life, but for the
dispensation of Providence; nothing but extreme agony could have
induced such a man to do anything useful. He still continues, with
all he has acquired, with all his usefulness, and with all his
innocence of character, without any proper sense of religion,
though he has attained a rather advanced age. If it be observed,
that this want of religion is a great defect in the story, the
author begs leave to observe that he cannot help it. Lavengro
relates the lives of people so far as they were placed before him,
but no further. It was certainly a great defect in so good a man
to be without religion; it was likewise a great defect in so
learned a man not to be able to tell what was o'clock. It is
probable that God, in his loving kindness, will not permit that man
to go out of the world without religion; who knows but some
powerful minister of the church full of zeal for the glory of God,
will illume that man's dark mind; perhaps some clergyman will come
to the parish who will visit him and teach him his duty to his God.
Yes, it is very probable that such a man, before he dies, will have
been made to love his God; whether he will ever learn to know
what's o'clock is another matter. It is probable that he will go
out of the world without knowing what's o'clock. It is not so
necessary to be able to tell the time of day by the clock as to
know one's God through His inspired word; a man cannot get to
heaven without religion, but a man can get there very comfortably
without knowing what's o'clock.

But, above all, the care and providence of God are manifested in
the case of Lavengro himself, by the manner in which he is enabled
to make his way in the world up to a certain period, without
falling a prey either to vice or poverty. In his history, there is
a wonderful illustration of part of the text, quoted by his mother,
"I have been young, but now am old, yet never saw I the righteous
forsaken, or his seed begging his bread." He is the son of good
and honourable parents, but at the critical period of life, that of
entering into the world, he finds himself without any earthly
friend to help him, yet he manages to make his way; he does not
become a Captain in the Life Guards, it is true, nor does he get
into Parliament, nor does the last volume conclude in the most
satisfactory and unobjectionable manner, by his marrying a dowager
countess, as that wise man Addison did, or by his settling down as
a great country gentleman, perfectly happy and contented, like the
very moral Roderick Random, or the equally estimable Peregrine
Pickle; he is hack author, gypsy, tinker, and postillion, yet, upon
the whole, he seems to be quite as happy as the younger sons of
most earls, to have as high feelings of honour; and when the reader
loses sight of him, he has money in his pocket honestly acquired,
to enable him to commence a journey quite as laudable as those
which the younger sons of earls generally undertake. Surely all
this is a manifestation of the kindness and providence of God: and
yet he is not a religious person; up to the time when the reader
loses sight of him, he is decidedly not a religious person; he has
glimpses, it is true, of that God who does not forsake him, but he
prays very seldom, is not fond of going to church; and, though he
admires Tate and Brady's version of the Psalms, his admiration is
rather caused by the beautiful poetry which that version contains
than the religion; yet his tale is not finished--like the tale of
the gentleman who touched objects, and that of the old man who knew
Chinese without knowing what was o'clock; perhaps, like them, he is
destined to become religious, and to have, instead of occasional
glimpses, frequent and distinct views of his God; yet, though he
may become religious, it is hardly to be expected that he will
become a very precise and straightlaced person; it is probable that
he will retain, with his scholarship, something of his gypsyism,
his predilection for the hammer and tongs, and perhaps some
inclination to put on certain gloves, not white kid, with any
friend who may be inclined for a little old English diversion, and
a readiness to take a glass of ale, with plenty of malt in it, and
as little hop as may well be--ale at least two years old--with the
aforesaid friend, when the diversion is over; for, as it is the
belief of the writer that a person may get to heaven very
comfortably without knowing what's o'clock, so it is his belief
that he will not be refused admission there, because to the last he
has been fond of healthy and invigorating exercises, and felt a
willingness to partake of any of the good things which it pleases
the Almighty to put within the reach of his children during their
sojourn upon earth.

CHAPTER II

On Priestcraft.

The writer will now say a few words about priestcraft, and the
machinations of Rome, and will afterwards say something about
himself, and his motives for writing against them.

With respect to Rome, and her machinations, much valuable
information can be obtained from particular parts of Lavengro, and
its sequel. Shortly before the time when the hero of the book is
launched into the world, the Popish agitation in England had
commenced. The Popish propaganda had determined to make a grand
attempt on England; Popish priests were scattered over the land,
doing the best they could to make converts to the old superstition.
With the plans of Rome, and her hopes, and the reasons on which
those hopes are grounded, the hero of the book becomes acquainted,
during an expedition which he makes into the country, from certain
conversations which he holds with a priest in a dingle, in which
the hero had taken up his residence; he likewise learns from the
same person much of the secret history of the Roman See, and many
matters connected with the origin and progress of the Popish
superstition. The individual with whom he holds these
conversations is a learned, intelligent, but highly-unprincipled
person, of a character however very common amongst the priests of
Rome, who in general are people void of all religion, and who,
notwithstanding they are tied to Rome by a band which they have
neither the power nor wish to break, turn her and her practices,
over their cups with their confidential associates, to a ridicule
only exceeded by that to which they turn those who become the dupes
of their mistress and themselves.

It is now necessary that the writer should say something with
respect to himself, and his motives for waging war against Rome.
First of all, with respect to himself, he wishes to state, that to
the very last moment of his life, he will do and say all that in
his power may be to hold up to contempt and execration the
priestcraft and practices of Rome; there is, perhaps, no person
better acquainted than himself, not even among the choicest spirits
of the priesthood, with the origin and history of Popery. From
what he saw and heard of Popery in England, at a very early period
of his life, his curiosity was aroused, and he spared himself no
trouble, either by travel or study, to make himself well acquainted
with it in all its phases, the result being a hatred of it, which
he hopes and trusts he shall retain till the moment when his spirit
quits the body. Popery is the great lie of the world; a source
from which more misery and social degradation have flowed upon the
human race, than from all the other sources from which those evils
come. It is the oldest of all superstitions; and though in Europe
it assumes the name of Christianity, it existed and flourished
amidst the Himalayan hills at least two thousand years before the
real Christ was born in Bethlehem of Judea; in a word, it is
Buddhism; and let those who may be disposed to doubt this
assertion, compare the Popery of Rome, and the superstitious
practices of its followers, with the doings of the priests who
surround the grand Lama; and the mouthings, bellowing, turnings
round, and, above all, the penances of the followers of Buddh with
those of Roman devotees. But he is not going to dwell here on this
point; it is dwelt upon at tolerable length in the text, and has
likewise been handled with extraordinary power by the pen of the
gifted but irreligious Volney; moreover, the elite of the Roman
priesthood are perfectly well aware that their system is nothing
but Buddhism under a slight disguise, and the European world in
general has entertained for some time past an inkling of the fact.

And now a few words with respect to the motives of the writer for
expressing a hatred for Rome.

This expressed abhorrence of the author for Rome might be entitled
to little regard, provided it were possible to attribute it to any
self-interested motive. There have been professed enemies of Rome,
or of this or that system; but their professed enmity may
frequently be traced to some cause which does them little credit;
but the writer of these lines has no motive, and can have no
motive, for his enmity to Rome, save the abhorrence of an honest
heart for what is false, base, and cruel. A certain clergyman
wrote with much heat against the Papists in the time of--who was
known to favour the Papists, but was not expected to continue long
in office, and whose supposed successor, the person, indeed, who
did succeed him, was thought to be hostile to the Papists. This
divine, who obtained a rich benefice from the successor of--who
during -'s time had always opposed him in everything he proposed to
do, and who, of course, during that time affected to be very
inimical to Popery--this divine might well be suspected of having a
motive equally creditable for writing against the Papists, as that
which induced him to write for them, as soon as his patron, who
eventually did something more for him, had espoused their cause;
but what motive, save an honest one, can the present writer have,
for expressing an abhorrence of Popery? He is no clergyman, and
consequently can expect neither benefices nor bishoprics, supposing
it were the fashion of the present, or likely to be the fashion of
any future administration, to reward clergymen with benefices or
bishoprics, who, in the defence of the religion of their country
write, or shall write, against Popery, and not to reward those who
write, or shall write, in favour of it, and all its nonsense and
abominations.

"But if not a clergyman, he is the servant of a certain society,
which has the overthrow of Popery in view, and therefore," etc.
This assertion, which has been frequently made, is incorrect, even
as those who have made it probably knew it to be. He is the
servant of no society whatever. He eats his own bread, and is one
of the very few men in England who are independent in every sense
of the word.

It is true he went to Spain with the colours of that society on his
hat--oh! the blood glows in his veins! oh! the marrow awakes in his
old bones when he thinks of what he accomplished in Spain in the
cause of religion and civilization with the colours of that society
in his hat, and its weapon in his hand, even the sword of the word
of God; how with that weapon he hewed left and right, making the
priests fly before him, and run away squeaking: "Vaya! que demonio
es este!" Ay, and when he thinks of the plenty of Bible swords
which he left behind him, destined to prove, and which have already
proved, pretty calthrops in the heels of Popery. "Halloo!
Batuschca," he exclaimed the other night, on reading an article in
a newspaper; "what do you think of the present doings in Spain?
Your old friend the zingaro, the gitano who rode about Spain, to
say nothing of Galicia, with the Greek Buchini behind him as his
squire, had a hand in bringing them about; there are many brave
Spaniards connected with the present movement who took Bibles from
his hands, and read them and profited by them, learning from the
inspired page the duties of one man towards another, and the real
value of a priesthood and their head, who set at nought the word of
God, and think only of their own temporal interests; ay, and who
learned Gitano--their own Gitano--from the lips of the London
Caloro, and also songs in the said Gitano, very fit to dumbfounder
your semi-Buddhist priests when they attempt to bewilder people's
minds with their school-logic and pseudo-ecclesiastical nonsense,
songs such as -

"Un Erajai
Sinaba chibando un sermon--."

- But with that society he has long since ceased to have any
connection; he bade it adieu with feelings of love and admiration
more than fourteen years ago; so, in continuing to assault Popery,
no hopes of interest founded on that society can sway his mind--
interest! who, with worldly interest in view, would ever have
anything to do with that society? It is poor and supported, like
its founder Christ, by poor people; and so far from having
political influence, it is in such disfavour, and has ever been,
with the dastardly great, to whom the government of England has for
many years past been confided, that they having borne its colours
only for a month would be sufficient to exclude any man, whatever
his talents, his learning, or his courage may be, from the
slightest chance of being permitted to serve his country either for
fee, or without. A fellow who unites in himself the bankrupt
trader, the broken author, or rather book-maker, and the laughed-
down single speech spouter of the House of Commons, may look
forward, always supposing that at one time he has been a foaming
radical, to the government of an important colony. Ay, an ancient
fox who has lost his tail may, provided he has a score of radical
friends, who will swear that he can bark Chinese, though Chinese is
not barked but sung, be forced upon a Chinese colony, though it is
well known that to have lost one's tail is considered by the
Chinese in general as an irreparable infamy, whilst to have been
once connected with a certain society, to which, to its honour be
it said, all the radical party are vehemently hostile, would be
quite sufficient to keep any one not only from a government, but
something much less, even though he could translate the rhymed
"Sessions of Hariri," and were versed, still retaining his tail, in
the two languages in which Kien-Loung wrote his Eulogium on
Moukden, that piece which, translated by Amyot, the learned Jesuit,
won the applause of the celebrated Voltaire.

No! were the author influenced by hopes of fee or reward, he would,
instead of writing against Popery, write for it; all the trumpery
titled--he will not call them great again--would then be for him,
and their masters the radicals, with their hosts of newspapers,
would be for him, more especially if he would commence maligning
the society whose colours he had once on his hat--a society which,
as the priest says in the text, is one of the very few Protestant
institutions for which the Popish Church entertains any fear, and
consequently respect, as it respects nothing which it does not
fear. The writer said that certain "rulers" would never forgive
him for having been connected with that society; he went perhaps
too far in saying "never." It is probable that they would take him
into favour on one condition, which is, that he should turn his pen
and his voice against that society; such a mark "of a better way of
thinking" would perhaps induce them to give him a government,
nearly as good as that which they gave to a certain ancient radical
fox at the intercession of his radical friends (who were bound to
keep him from the pauper's kennel), after he had promised to foam,
bark, and snarl at corruption no more; he might even entertain
hopes of succeeding, nay, of superseding, the ancient creature in
his government; but even were he as badly off as he is well off, he
would do no such thing. He would rather exist on crusts and water;
he has often done so, and been happy; nay, he would rather starve
than be a rogue--for even the feeling of starvation is happiness
compared with what he feels who knows himself to be a rogue,
provided he has any feeling at all. What is the use of a mitre or
knighthood to a man who has betrayed his principles? What is the
use of a gilt collar, nay, even of a pair of scarlet breeches, to a
fox who has lost his tail? Oh! the horror which haunts the mind of
a fox who has lost his tail; and with reason, for his very mate
loathes him, and more especially if, like himself, she has lost her
brush. Oh! the horror which haunts the mind of the two-legged
rogue who has parted with his principles, or those which he
professed--for what? We'll suppose a government. What's the use
of a government, if the next day after you have received it, you
are obliged for very shame to scurry off to it with the hoot of
every honest man sounding in your ears?

"Lightly liar leaped and away ran."
PIERS PLOWMAN.

But bigotry, it has been said, makes the author write against
Popery; and thorough-going bigotry, indeed, will make a person say
or do anything. But the writer is a very pretty bigot truly!
Where will the public find traces of bigotry in anything he has
written? He has written against Rome with all his heart, with all
his mind, with all his soul, and with all his strength; but as a
person may be quite honest, and speak and write against Rome, in
like manner he may speak and write against her, and be quite free
from bigotry; though it is impossible for any one but a bigot or a
bad man to write or speak in her praise; her doctrines, actions,
and machinations being what they are.

Bigotry! The author was born, and has always continued in the
wrong church for bigotry, the quiet, unpretending Church of
England; a church which, had it been a bigoted church, and not long
suffering almost to a fault, might with its opportunities, as the
priest says in the text, have stood in a very different position
from that which it occupies at present. No! let those who are in
search of bigotry, seek for it in a church very different from the
inoffensive Church of England, which never encourages cruelty or
calumny. Let them seek for it amongst the members of the Church of
Rome, and more especially amongst those who have renegaded to it.
There is nothing, however false and horrible, which a pervert to
Rome will not say for his church, and which his priests will not
encourage him in saying; and there is nothing, however horrible--
the more horrible indeed and revolting to human nature, the more
eager he would be to do it--which he will not do for it, and which
his priests will not encourage him in doing.

Of the readiness which converts to Popery exhibit to sacrifice all
the ties of blood and affection on the shrine of their newly-
adopted religion, there is a curious illustration in the work of
Luigi Pulci. This man, who was born at Florence in the year 1432,
and who was deeply versed in the Bible, composed a poem, called the
"Morgante Maggiore," which he recited at the table of Lorenzo de
Medici, the great patron of Italian genius. It is a mock-heroic
and religious poem, in which the legends of knight-errantry, and of
the Popish Church, are turned to unbounded ridicule. The pretended
hero of it is a converted giant, called Morgante; though his
adventures do not occupy the twentieth part of the poem, the
principal personages being Charlemagne, Orlando, and his cousin
Rinaldo of Montalban. Morgante has two brothers, both of them
giants, and in the first canto of the poem, Morgante is represented
with his brothers as carrying on a feud with the abbot and monks of
a certain convent, built upon the confines of heathenesse; the
giants being in the habit of flinging down stones, or rather huge
rocks, on the convent. Orlando, however, who is banished from the
court of Charlemagne, arriving at the convent, undertakes to
destroy them, and, accordingly, kills Passamonte and Alabastro, and
converts Morgante, whose mind had been previously softened by a
vision, in which the "Blessed Virgin" figures. No sooner is he
converted than, as a sign of his penitence, what does he do, but
hastens and cuts off the hands of his two brothers, saying -

"Io vo' tagliar le mani a tutti quanti
E porterolle a que' monaci santi."

And he does cut off the hands of his brethren, and carries them to
the abbot, who blesses him for so doing. Pulci here is holding up
to ridicule and execration the horrid butchery or betrayal of
friends by popish converts, and the encouragement they receive from
the priest. No sooner is a person converted to Popery, than his
principal thought is how he can bring the hands and feet of his
brethren, however harmless they may be, and different from the
giants, to the "holy priests," who, if he manages to do so, never
fail to praise him, saying to the miserable wretch, as the abbot
said to Morgante:-

"Tu sarai or perfetto e vero amico
A Cristo, quanto tu gli eri nemico."

Can the English public deny the justice of Pulci's illustration,
after something which it has lately witnessed? Has it not seen
equivalents for the hands and feet of brothers carried by popish
perverts to the "holy priests," and has it not seen the manner in
which the offering has been received? Let those who are in quest
of bigotry seek for it among the perverts to Rome, and not amongst
those who, born in the pale of the Church of England, have always
continued in it.

CHAPTER III

On Foreign Nonsense.

With respect to the third point, various lessons which the book
reads to the nation at large, and which it would be well for the
nation to ponder and profit by.

There are many species of nonsense to which the nation is much
addicted, and of which the perusal of Lavengro ought to give them a
wholesome shame. First of all, with respect to the foreign
nonsense so prevalent now in England. The hero is a scholar; but,
though possessed of a great many tongues, he affects to be neither
Frenchman, nor German, nor this or that foreigner; he is one who
loves his country, and the language and literature of his country,
and speaks up for each and all when there is occasion to do so.
Now what is the case with nine out of ten amongst those of the
English who study foreign languages? No sooner have they picked up
a smattering of this or that speech than they begin to abuse their
own country, and everything connected with it, more especially its
language. This is particularly the case with those who call
themselves German students. It is said, and the writer believes
with truth, that when a woman falls in love with a particularly
ugly fellow, she squeezes him with ten times more zest than she
would a handsome one, if captivated by him. So it is with these
German students; no sooner have they taken German in hand than
there is nothing like German. Oh, the dear delightful German! How
proud I am that it is now my own, and that its divine literature is
within my reach! And all this whilst mumbling the most uncouth
speech, and crunching the most crabbed literature in Europe. The
writer is not an exclusive admirer of everything English; he does
not advise his country people never to go abroad, never to study
foreign languages, and he does not wish to persuade them that there
is nothing beautiful or valuable in foreign literature; he only
wishes that they would not make themselves fools with respect to
foreign people, foreign languages or reading; that if they chance
to have been in Spain, and have picked up a little Spanish, they
would not affect the airs of Spaniards; that if males they would
not make Tomfools of themselves by sticking cigars into their
mouths, dressing themselves in zamarras, and saying, carajo! {2}
and if females that they would not make zanies of themselves by
sticking cigars into their mouths, flinging mantillas over their
heads, and by saying carai, and perhaps carajo too; or if they have
been in France or Italy, and have picked up a little French or
Italian, they would not affect to be French or Italians; and
particularly, after having been a month or two in Germany, or
picked up a little German in England, they would not make
themselves foolish about everything German, as the Anglo-German in
the book does--a real character, the founder of the Anglo-German
school in England, and the cleverest Englishman who ever talked or
wrote encomiastic nonsense about Germany and the Germans. Of all
infatuations connected with what is foreign, the infatuation about
everything that is German, to a certain extent prevalent in
England, is assuredly the most ridiculous. One can find something
like a palliation for people making themselves somewhat foolish
about particular languages, literatures, and people. The Spanish
certainly is a noble language, and there is something wild and
captivating in the Spanish character, and its literature contains
the grand book of the world. French is a manly language. The
French are the great martial people in the world; and French
literature is admirable in many respects. Italian is a sweet
language, and of beautiful simplicity--its literature perhaps the
first in the world. The Italians!--wonderful men have sprung up in
Italy. Italy is not merely famous for painters, poets, musicians,
singers, and linguists--the greatest linguist the world ever saw,
the late Cardinal Mezzofanti, was an Italian; but it is celebrated
for men--men emphatically speaking: Columbus was an Italian,
Alexander Farnese was an Italian, so was the mightiest of the
mighty, Napoleon Bonaparte;--but the German language, German
literature, and the Germans! The writer has already stated his
opinion with respect to German; he does not speak from ignorance or
prejudice; he has heard German spoken, and many other languages.
German literature! He does not speak from ignorance, he has read
that and many a literature, and he repeats-- However, he
acknowledges that there is one fine poem in the German language,
that poem is the "Oberon;" a poem, by the bye, ignored by the
Germans--a speaking fact--and of course, by the Anglo-Germanists.
The Germans! he has been amongst them, and amongst many other
nations, and confesses that his opinion of the Germans, as men, is
a very low one. Germany, it is true, has produced one very great
man, the monk who fought the Pope, and nearly knocked him down; but
this man his countrymen--a telling fact--affect to despise, and, of
course, the Anglo-Germanists: the father of Anglo-Germanism was
very fond of inveighing against Luther.

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