The Gipsy: A Tale (Vols I & II). G. P. R. James

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      "And do I not find them?" cried the gipsy, warming in defence of his race; "to be sure I do. Think not that we have none among us as learned and as thoughtful as yourselves, though in another way. But you cannot understand us. You think that it is in our habits alone that we are different; but, remember, that when you speak to a true gipsy, who follows exactly the path of his fathers, you speak to one different in race, and creed, and mind, and feeling, and law, and philosophy, from you and yours. You think us all ignorant, and either bound as drudges to some low rejected trade, or plundering others, because we do not comprehend the excellence of laws. But let me tell you again, that there are men among us deeply read in sciences which you know not; speaking well a language, for a hundred words of which your schools have laboured long years in vain. Have we not laws, too, of our own? laws better observed than your boasted codes? But you choose to doubt that we have them, because we put you beyond our code, as you put us beyond yours. When was ever justice shown to a gipsy? and therefore we look upon you as things to pillage. You speak, too, of the pleasures of the mind. Do you think my mind finds no exercise in scenes like these? I walk hand in hand with the seasons through the world. Winter, your enemy, is my friend and companion. Gladly do I see him come, with his white mantle, through the bare woods and over the brown hills. I watch the budding forth of spring, too, and her light airs and changing skies, as I would the sports of a beloved child. I hail the majestic summer, as if the God of my own land had come to visit our race, even here; and in the yellow autumn, too, with the rich fruit and the fading leaf, I have a comrade full of calmer thoughts. The sunrise, and the sunset, and the midday, to me, are all eloquence. The storm, the stream, the clouds, the wind, for me have each a voice. I talk with the bright stars as they wander through the deep sky, and I listen to the sun and moon, as they sing along their lonely pilgrimage. Is not this enough? What need I more than nature?"

      Perhaps his companion, whose mind was in no degree wanting in acuteness, might imagine that in all the very enjoyments which the gipsy enumerated, as well as in the tone he used, were to be traced some remains of a better education than that of his race in general; and might believe, that had that education been continued, every pleasure that he felt would have been doubled by refinement. But all this came upon his mind as impression rather than as thought; and the reader will please to observe, that there is an immense difference between the two. The truth was, that ever since the conversation had turned to the gipsy himself, his companion had been doing what is oftener done than the world imagines; that is to say, talking without thinking, and listening without attending. In short, he was thinking of other things; and yet, as we have said, he spoke with kindness, and zeal, and real feeling; but the fact is, that the language he was talking was memory. Years before, he had come to the same conclusions, and held the same arguments in his own mind, regarding the very person in whose company he was now once more; so that--having, in all the news he had heard, greater calls upon present thought than he could well satisfy,--as soon as the gipsy began to speak of gipsy-life, he turned that topic over to memory, well knowing that she had a plentiful stock of ideas prepared to supply any demand upon such a subject; while intellect went on, quietly thinking of himself and of the present. This plan, when skilfully executed, has a collateral advantage, which, by-the-way, is often turned into a principal one; namely, that while you let memory go on with the conversation--unless she trips, or something of that kind--your companion does not perceive that you are thinking at all; and thus the stranger, apparently listened to, and took part in the gipsy's conversation about himself, while his inner soul was busy, most busy, with the other tidings which he had received. By the time that the enumeration of wild pleasures, afforded by a wandering life was over, he had settled his plans in his own mind; and, breaking off the subject there, demanded abruptly,--

      "When, Pharold--tell me, when did you see him?"

      He mentioned no name; and the gipsy, at once dropping the high and enthusiastic tone in which he had been speaking, answered, as to a common question, "It was but to-day--not four hours ago, or you had not found me here."

      "And why not?" demanded the other. "Whither would you go?"

      "Far away," answered the gipsy, "far away! I love not his neighbourhood; nor is it safe for me and mine. He thinks evil against us, and he will not be long ere he tries to bring his thoughts to pass."

      "But he cannot injure you," replied the other; "in all the things wherein you and he have borne a part, he has more cause to fear you than you have to fear him."

      "True! true!" said the gipsy; "and yet I love not his neighbourhood. I may have done things in this land in my youth, when passion and revenge were strong, and wisdom and forbearance weak, that I should little like to have investigated in my middle age. Not that I fear for myself; for, from the dark leap that all men must take, I have never shrunk through life. But I fear the sorrow of those that would weep for me, and the unjust mingling of the innocent with the guilty, for which your laws are infamous."

      His companion mused for a moment; and then, laying his hand upon the arm of the gipsy, he replied, in a tone where kindness mingled with authority: "Mark me, Pharold!" said he; "you know that I am not one either to counsel you amiss, or to fall from you at a moment of need: base, indeed, should I be, were I to do so, after all you have done for me. But my resolutions are not yet fixed--my mind is not yet made up; and I must hear more, and examine deeply, ere I execute my half-formed purpose. Still you have no cause to fear; call upon me whenever you need me; and, in the meantime, if you please, you can remove from the spot where you now are, but not so far that I cannot find you, for you must help me to the end of all this."

      "To the common, at the back of Mrs. Falkland's woods?" asked the gipsy: "they will hardly seek us there."

      "As good a spot as any," replied his companion; "and in the case of necessity, Pharold, here, I have written down where you may always find me in this immediate neighbourhood; remembering, in the meantime, all that you have promised."

      "I have promised--I have promised!" replied the gipsy; "and you never knew me break my word. But what is this you give me with the paper? I want not gold--and from you, William."

      "But your people may," replied the other; "take it, take it, Pharold; it is never useless in such a life as yours."

      "I will take it," answered the gipsy, "because it may give me more control over my people; for although among our nation there are men whose minds you little dream of, yet these I have here are not, perhaps, of the best,--not that they are evil either; but wild, and headstrong, and rash--as I was myself, when I was young."

      They had already turned in their walk, and were now re-approaching the fire, round which the gipsies were gathered. Their conversation had not been without its share of interest to either, and each had much matter for reflection: so that--as thought is not that which makes a man speak, but that which keeps him silent--they advanced without another word to the spot where the stranger's horse stood. It was a fine powerful animal, of great bone and blood; but it was standing like a lamb in the hands of a little boy, while the beautiful girl, whom we have mentioned as accosting the other travellers, now stood stroking his proud neck, and examining the accoutrements with a care that some people might have thought suspicious. As Pharold and his companion returned, however, she sprung away to the rest of her tribe with a step as light as the moonshine on the sea.

      "She is very beautiful," said the stranger, whose eye had rested on her for a moment; "who is she, Pharold?"

      "She is my wife!" replied the gipsy, abruptly.

      His companion shook his head with a sigh, and putting his foot in the stirrup, mounted his horse, and rode away.

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