About mid-day Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro came to the dingle to pay the promised visit.  Belle, at the time of their arrival, was in her tent, but I was at the fire-place, engaged in hammering part of the outer-tire, or defence, which had come off from one of the wheels of my vehicle.  On perceiving them I forthwith went to receive them.  Mr. Petulengro was dressed in Roman fashion, with a somewhat smartly-cut sporting-coat, the buttons of which were half-crowns—­ and a waistcoat, scarlet and black, the buttons of which were spaded half-guineas; his breeches were of a stuff half velveteen, half corduroy, the cords exceedingly broad.  He had leggings of buff cloth, furred at the bottom; and upon his feet were highlows.  Under his left arm was a long black whalebone riding-whip, with a red lash, and an immense silver knob.  Upon his head was a hat with a high peak, somewhat of the kind which the Spaniards call calane, so much in favour with the bravos of Seville and Madrid.  Now, when I have added that Mr. Petulengro had on a very fine white holland shirt, I think I have described his array.  Mrs. Petulengro—­I beg pardon for not having spoken of her first—­was also arrayed very much in the Roman fashion.  Her hair, which was exceedingly black and lustrous, fell in braids on either side of her head.  In her ears were rings, with long drops of gold.  Round her neck was a string of what seemed very much like very large pearls, somewhat tarnished, however, and apparently of considerable antiquity.  “Here we are, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro; “here we are, come to see you—­wizard and witch, witch and wizard:-

“’There’s a chovahanee, and a chovahano, The nav se len is Petulengro.’”

“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mrs. Petulengro; “you make me ashamed of you with your vulgar ditties.  We are come a visiting now, and everything low should be left behind.”

“True,” said Mr. Petulengro; “why bring what’s low to the dingle, which is low enough already?”

“What, are you a catcher at words?” said I.  “I thought that catching at words had been confined to the pothouse farmers and village witty bodies.”

“All fools,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “catch at words, and very naturally, as by so doing they hope to prevent the possibility of rational conversation.  Catching at words confined to pothouse farmers, and village witty bodies!  No, not to Jasper Petulengro.  Listen for an hour or two to the discourse of a set they call newspaper editors, and if you don’t go out and eat grass, as a dog does when he is sick, I am no female woman.  The young lord whose hand I refused when I took up with wise Jasper, once brought two of them to my mother’s tan, when hankering after my company; they did nothing but carp at each other’s words, and a pretty hand they made of it.  Ill-favoured dogs they were; and their attempts at what they called wit almost as unfortunate as their countenances.”

“Well,” said I, “madam, we will drop all catchings and carpings for the present.  Pray take your seat on this stool, whilst I go and announce to Miss Isopel Berners your arrival.”