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In the autumn of , when the war with Napoleon was ended, we were ordered to Ireland, where at school I read Latin and Greek with a nice old clergyman, and of an evening studied French and Italian with a banished priest, Italian being my favourite. It was in a horse fair I came across Jasper Petulengro, a young gipsy of whom I had caught sight in the gipsy camp I have already alluded to.

He was amazed to see me, and in the most effusively friendly way claimed me as a pal, calling me Sapengro, or snake-master, in allusion, he said, to the viper incident. He said he was also called Pharaoh, and was the horse-master of the camp. From this time I had frequent interviews with Jasper. He taught me much Romany, and introduced me to Tawno Chikno, the biggest man of the gipsy nation, and to Mrs.

These stood to him as parents, for his own were banished. I soon found that in the tents I had become acquainted with a most interesting people. With their language I was fascinated, though at first I had taken it for mere gibberish. My rapid progress astonished and delighted Jasper. We'll no longer call you Sapengro, brother, said he, but Lavengro, which in the language of the gorgios meaneth word-master.

And Jasper's wife actually proposed that I should marry her sister.


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The gipsies departed for England. I was now sixteen, and continued in the house of my parents, passing my time chiefly in philological pursuits. But it was high time that I should adopt some profession. My father would gladly have seen me enter the Church, but feared I was too erratic. So I was put to the law, but while remaining a novice at that pursuit, I became a perfect master of the Welsh language.

My father soon began to feel that he had made a mistake in the choice of a profession for me. My father was taken ill with severe attacks of gout, and, in a touching conversation, assured me that his end was approaching. Before that sad event happened, my brother, whom he longed to see, arrived home. My father died with the name of Christ on his lips.

The brave old soldier, during intervals between his attacks, had told me more of his life than I had ever learned before, and I was amazed to find how much he knew and had seen. He had talked with King George, and had known Wellington, and was the friend of Townshend, who, when Wolfe fell, led the British grenadiers against the shrinking regiments of Montcalm. One damp, misty March morning, I dismounted from the top of a coach in the yard of a London inn. Delivering my scanty baggage to a porter, I followed him to a lodging prepared for me by an acquaintance.

It consisted of a small room in which I was to sit, and a smaller one still in which I was to sleep. Having breakfasted comfortably by a good fire, I sallied forth and easily found my way to the place I was in quest of, for it was scarcely ten minutes' walk distant. I was cordially received by the big man to whom some of my productions had been sent by a kind friend, and to whom he had given me a letter of introduction, which was respectfully read.

But he informed me that he was selling his publishing business, and so could not make use of my literary help.

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He gave me counsel, however, especially advising me to write some evangelical tales, in the style of the Dairyman's Daughter. As I told him I had never heard of that work, he said: Then, sir, procure it by all means.


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    • Much more conversation ensued, during which the publisher told me that he purposed continuing to issue once a month his magazine, the Oxford Review, and to this he proposed that I should attempt to contribute. As I was going away he invited me to dine with him on the ensuing Sunday. On Sunday I was punctual to my appointment with the publisher. I found that for twenty years he had taken no animal food and no wine. I was also to make myself generally useful to the Review, and, furthermore, to translate into German a book of philosophy which he had written. Then he dismissed me, saying that, though he never went to church, he spent much of every Sunday afternoon alone, musing on the magnificence of Nature and the moral dignity of man.

    I compiled the Chronicles of Newgate, reviewed books for the Review, and occasionally tried my best to translate into German portions of the publisher's philosophy. But the Review did not prove a successful speculation, and with its decease its corps of writers broke up.

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    I was paid, not in cash, but in bills, one payable at twelve, the other at eighteen months after date. It was a long time before I could turn these bills to any account. At last I found a person willing to cash them at a discount of only thirty per cent. By the month of October I had accomplished about two-thirds of the compilation of the Newgate lives, and had also made some progress with the German translation. But about this time I had begun to see very clearly that it was impossible that our connection would be of long duration; yet, in the event of my leaving the big man, what had I to offer another publisher?

    I returned to my labour, finished the German translation, got paid in the usual style, and left that employer. One morning I discovered that my whole worldly wealth was reduced to a single half-crown, and throughout that day I walked about in considerable distress of mind. By a most singular chance I again came across my friend Petulengro in a fair into which I happened to wander when walking by the side of the river beyond London.

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    My gipsy friend was seated with several men, carousing beside a small cask. He sprang up, greeting me cordially, and we chatted in Romany as we walked about together. Questioning me closely, he soon discovered that by that time I had only eighteen pence in my pocket. Said Jasper: I, too, have been in the big city; but I have not been writing books. I have fought in the ring. I have fifty pounds in my pocket, and I have much more in the world. Brother, there is considerable difference between us.

    But he could not prevail on me to accept or to borrow money, for I said that if I could not earn, I would starve. Come and stay with us, said he. Our tents and horses are on the other side of yonder wooded hill. We shall all be glad of your company, especially myself and my wife, Pakomovna. I declined the kind invitation and walked on.

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    Returning to the great city, I suddenly found myself outside the shop of a publisher to whom I had vainly applied some time before, in the hope of selling some of my writings. As I looked listlessly at the window, I observed a paper affixed to the glass, on which was written in a fair round hand, A Novel or Tale is much wanted. I at once resolved to go to work to produce what was thus solicited. But what should the tale be about? After cogitating at my lodging, with bread and water before me, I concluded that I would write an entirely fictitious narrative called The Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell, the Great Traveller.

    This Joseph Sell was an imaginary personage who had come into my head. I seized pen and paper, but soon gave up the task of outlining the story, for the scenes flitted in bewildering fashion before my imagination. Yet, before morning, as I lay long awake, I had sketched the whole work on the tablets of my mind.

    Next day I partook of bread and water, and before night had completed pages of Joseph Sell, and added pages in varying quantity day by day, until my enterprise was finished. On arriving at the shop, I saw to my delight that the paper was still in the window. As I entered, a ladylike woman of about thirty came from the back parlour to ask my business. After my explanation, she requested me, as her husband was out, to leave the MS.

    At that hour I duly appeared, and was greeted with a cordial reception. I think your book will do, said the bookseller.

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    Reader, amidst life's difficulties, should you ever be tempted to despair, call to mind these experiences of Lavengro. There are few positions, however difficult, from which dogged resolution and perseverance will not liberate you. I had long determined to leave London, as my health had become much impaired. My preparations were soon made, and I set out to travel on foot.

    In about two hours I had cleared the great city, and was in a broad and excellent road, leading I knew not whither. In the evening, feeling weary, I thought of putting up at an inn, but was induced to take a seat in a coach, paying sixteen shillings for the fare. At dawn of day I was roused from a broken slumber and bidden to alight, and found myself close to a moorland.

    Walking on and on, I at length reached a circle of colossal stones. The spirit of Stonehenge was upon me. As I reclined under the great transverse stone, in the middle of the gateway of giants, I heard the tinkling of bells, and presently a large flock of sheep came browsing along, and several entered the circle. Soon a man also came up.

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    In a friendly talk, the young shepherd told me that the people of the plain believed that thousands of men had brought the stones from Ireland, to make a temple in which to worship God. But, said I, our forefathers slaughtered the men who raised the stones, and left not one stone on another. And it is well that they did, answered I, for whenever that stone, which English hands never raised, is by English hands thrown down, woe to the English race. Spare it, English. Hengist spared it.

    We parted, and I wandered off to Salisbury, the city of the spire.