I.--The Roving Life
It was, as usual, a brilliant morning, the dewy blades of the rye-grass which covered the plain sparkled brightly in the beams of the sun, which had probably been about two hours above the horizon. Near the mouth of the dingle--Mumpers' Dingle, near Wittenhall, Staffordshire--where my friend Isopel Berners and I, the travelling tinker, were encamped side by side, a rather numerous body of my ancient friends and allies occupied the ground. About five yards on the right, Mr. Petulengro was busily employed in erecting his tent; he held in his hand an iron bar, sharp at the bottom, with a kind of arm projecting from the top for the purpose of supporting a kettle or cauldron over the fire. With the sharp end of this he was making holes in the earth at about twenty inches distance from each other, into which he inserted certain long rods with a considerable bend towards the top, which constituted the timbers of the tent and the supporters of the canvas. Mrs. Petulengro and a female with a crutch in her hand, whom I recognised as Mrs. Chikno, sat near him on the ground.
"Here we are, brother," said Mr. Petulengro. "Here we are, and plenty of us."
"I am glad to see you all," said I; "and particularly you, madam," said I, making a bow to Mrs. Petulengro, "and you also, madam," taking off my hat to Mrs. Chikno.
"Good-day to you, sir," said Mrs. Petulengro. "You look as usual, charmingly, and speak so, too; you have not forgot your manners."
"It is not all gold that glitters," said Mrs. Chikno. "However, good-morrow to you, young rye."
"I am come on an errand," said I. "Isopel Berners, down in the dell there, requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro's company at breakfast. She will be happy also to see you, madam," said I, addressing Mrs. Chikno.
"Is that young female your wife, young man?" said Mrs. Chikno.
"My wife?" said I.
"Yes, young man, your wife--your lawful certificated wife?"
"No," said I. "She is not my wife."
"Then I will not visit with her," said Mrs. Chikno. "I countenance nothing in the roving line."
"What do you mean by the roving line?" I demanded.
"What do I mean by the roving line? Why, by it I mean such conduct as is not tatcheno. When ryes and rawnies lives together in dingles, without being certificated, I call such behaviour being tolerably deep in the roving line, everything savouring of which I am determined not to sanctify. I have suffered too much by my own certificated husband's outbreaks in that line to afford anything of the kind the slightest shadow of countenance."
"It is hard that people may not live in dingles together without being suspected of doing wrong," said I.
"So it is," said Mrs. Petulengro, interposing. "I am suspicious of nobody, not even of my own husband, whom some people would think I have a right to be suspicious of, seeing that on his account I once refused a lord. I always allows him an agreeable latitude to go where he pleases. But I have had the advantage of keeping good company, and therefore----"
"Meklis," said Mrs. Chikno, "pray drop all that, sister; I believe I have kept as good company as yourself; and with respect to that offer with which you frequently fatigue those who keeps company with you, I believe, after all, it was something in the roving and uncertificated line."
II.--The Parting of the Ways
Belle was sitting before the fire, at which the kettle was boiling.
"Were you waiting for me?" I inquired.
"Yes," said Belle.
"That was very kind," said I.
"Not half so kind," said she, "as it was of you to get everything ready for me in the dead of last night."
After tea, we resumed our study of Armenian. "First of all, tell me," said Belle, "what a verb is?"
"A part of speech," said I, "which, according to the dictionary, signifies some action or passion. For example: I command you, or I hate you."
"I have given you no cause to hate me," said Belle, looking me sorrowfully in the face.
"I was merely giving two examples," said I. "In Armenian, there are four conjugations of verbs; the first ends in al, the second in yel, the third in oul, and the fourth in il. Now, have you understood me?"
"I am afraid, indeed, it will all end ill," said Belle.
"Let us have no unprofitable interruptions," said I. "Come, we will begin with the verb hntal, a verb of the first conjugation, which signifies rejoice. Come along. Hntam, I rejoice; hntas, thou rejoicest. Why don't you follow, Belle?"
"I'm sure I don't rejoice, whatever you may do," said Belle.
"The chief difficulty, Belle," said I, "that I find in teaching you the Armenian grammar proceeds from your applying to yourself and me every example I give."
"I can't bear this much longer," said Belle.
"Keep yourself quiet," said I. "We will skip hntal and proceed to the second conjugation. Belle, I will now select for you to conjugate the prettiest verb in Armenian--the verb siriel. Here is the present tense: siriem, siries, sirè, siriemk, sirèk, sirien. Come on, Belle, and say 'siriem.'"
Belle hesitated. "You must admit, Belle, it is much softer than hntam."
"It is so," said Belle, "and to oblige you, I will say 'siriem.'"
"Very well indeed, Belle," said I. "And now, to show you how verbs act upon pronouns, I will say 'siriem zkiez.' Please to repeat 'siriem zkiez.'"
"'Siriem zkiez!'" said Belle. "That last word is very hard to say."
"Sorry that you think so, Belle," said I. "Now please to say 'siria zis.'" Belle did so.
"Now say 'yerani thè sirèir zis,'" said I.
"'Yerani thè sirèir zis,'" said Belle.
"Capital!" said I. "You have now said, 'I love you--love me--ah! would that you would love me!'"
"And I have said all these things?"
"You have said them in Armenian," said I.
"I would have said them in no language that I understood; and it was very wrong of you to take advantage of my ignorance and make me say such things."
"Why so?" said I. "If you said them, I said them, too."
"You did so," said Belle; "but I believe you were merely bantering and jeering."
"As I told you before, Belle," said I, "the chief difficulty which I find in teaching you Armenian proceeds from your persisting in applying to yourself and me every example I give."
"Then you meant nothing, after all?" said Belle, raising her voice.
"Let us proceed: sirietsi, I loved."
"You never loved anyone but yourself," said Belle; "and what's more----"
"Sirietsits, I will love," said I; "sirietsies, thou wilt love."
"Never one so thoroughly heartless."
"I tell you what, Belle--you are becoming intolerable. But we will change the verb. You would hardly believe, Belle," said I, "that the Armenian is in some respects closely connected with the Irish, but so it is. For example: that word parghatsoutsaniem is evidently derived from the same root as fear-gaim, which, in Irish, is as much as to say, 'I vex.'"
"You do, indeed," said Belle, sobbing.
"But how do you account for it?"
"Oh, man, man!" cried Belle, bursting into tears, "for what purpose do you ask a poor ignorant girl such a question, unless it be to vex and irritate her? If you wish to display your learning, do so to the wise and instructed, and not to me, who can scarcely read or write."