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diff --git a/46015-0.txt b/46015-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..db7f943 --- /dev/null +++ b/46015-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9394 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Gypsy's Parson, by George Hall, +Illustrated by Fred Shaw + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Gypsy's Parson + his experiences and adventures + + +Author: George Hall + + + +Release Date: June 17, 2014 [eBook #46015] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GYPSY'S PARSON*** + + +Transcribed from the J. B. Lippincott edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: The Rev. George Hall. Photo: Brigham] + + + + + + THE + GYPSY’S PARSON + + + HIS EXPERIENCES AND ADVENTURES + + * * * * * + + BY + + THE REV. GEORGE HALL + + RECTOR OF RUCKLAND, LINCOLNSHIRE + + * * * * * + + _ILLUSTRATED_ + + * * * * * + + PHILADELPHIA + J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY + + LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & CO. LTD. + + * * * * * + + TO + MY WIFE + MY COMPANION + ON MANY A GYPSY-JAUNT + + * * * * * + + “_They cast the glamour o’er him_.” + + * * * * * + + “YOU must forgive us. We are barbarians. . . . We are ruffians of + the sun . . . and we must be forgiven everything.” + + “It is easy to forgive in the sun,” Domini said. + + “Madame, it is impossible to be anything but lenient in the sun. + That is my experience. . . . But, as I was saying, the sun teaches + one a lesson of charity. When I first came to live in Africa in the + midst of the sand-rascals—eh, Madame, I suppose as a priest I ought + to have been shocked by their goings-on. And, indeed I tried to be, + I conscientiously did my best, but it was no good. I couldn’t be + shocked. The sunshine drove it all out of me. I could only say, ‘It + is not for me to question le bon Dieu, and le bon Dieu has created + these people and set them here in the sand to behave as they do. + What is my business? I can’t convert them. I can’t change their + morals—I must just be a friend to them, cheer them up in their + sorrows, give them a bit if they’re starving, doctor them a + little—I’m a first-rate hand at making an Arab take a pill or a + powder—when they are ill, and I make them at home with the white + marabout.’ That’s what the sun has taught me, and every sand-rascal + and sand-rascal’s child in Amara is a friend of mine.” + + “You are fond of the Arabs, then?” she said. + + “Of course I am, Madame. I can speak their language, and I’m as much + at home in their tents, and more, than I ever should be at the + Vatican—with all respect to the Holy Father.” + +(Conversation between Domini and Father Beret in _The Garden of Allah_, +quoted here by the kind permission of Mr. Robert Hichens.) + + + + +PREFACE + + +NOT a few writers have essayed to study the Gypsies in dusty libraries. +I have companioned with them on fell and common, racecourse and +fairground, on the turfy wayside and in the city’s heart. In my book, +which is a record of actual experiences, I have tried to present the +Gypsies just as I have found them, without minimising their faults or +magnifying their virtues. Most of the Gypsies mentioned in the following +pages have now passed away, and of those who remain, many have, for +obvious reasons, been renamed. + +For the majority of the pictures adorning my book, I owe a profound debt +of gratitude to my friend, Mr. Fred Shaw; also, for their kind permission +to include several pictures in my “Romany Gallery,” my cordial thanks are +due to Mrs. Johnson, of Yatton, Rev. H. H. Malleson, Mr. William +Ferguson, Mr. T. J. Lewis, Mr. H. Stimpson, and Mr. F. Wilkinson. + +The phonetics contained in this work are based upon a system invented by +my friend, Mr. R. A. Scott Macfie, of the Gypsy Lore Society, whose +innumerable kindnesses I most gratefully acknowledge. + + G. H. + +RUCKLAND RECTORY, + NEAR LOUTH, + LINCOLNSHIRE. + + + + +CONTENTS + + CHAP. PAGE + I. GYPSY COURT—MY INITIATION INTO GYPSYDOM 1 + II. CHARACTERS OF THE COURT—READING BORROW 16 + III. NORTH-COUNTRY GYPSIES 32 + IV. MY POACHING PUSSY—A ROMANY BENISON—MY FIRST TASTE 41 + OF HEDGEHOG + V. A GYPSY BAPTISM—ROMANY NAMES 52 + VI. I MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE 57 + VII. THE BLACKPOOL GYPSYRY 71 + VIII. A TRENTSIDE FAIR 89 + IX. TAKEN FOR TRAMPS—AN EAST ANGLIAN FAMILY 99 + X. PETERBOROUGH FAIR 118 + XI. A FORGOTTEN HIGHWAY—“ON THE ROAD” WITH 134 + JONATHAN—THE PATRIN—THE GHOST OF THE HAYSTACK + XII. THE GYPSY OF THE TOWN 152 + XIII. WITH THE YORKSHIRE GYPSIES 172 + XIV. A NIGHT WITH THE GYPSIES—THE SWEEP OF LYNN—LONDON 186 + GYPSIES—ON EPSOM DOWNS + XV. TINKERS AND GRINDERS 205 + XVI. THE INN ON THE RIDGEWAY—TALES BY THE FIRESIDE 213 + XVII. HORNCASTLE FAIR 229 + XVIII. A GYPSY SEPULCHRE—BURIAL LORE—THE PASSING OF 238 + JONATHAN + XIX. _BITSHADO PAWDEL_ (TRANSPORTED) 247 + XX. A ROMANY MUNCHAUSEN 256 + XXI. THE GYPSY OF THE HILLS—IN THE HEART OF WALES—A 262 + WESTMORLAND HORSE FAIR + XXII. FURZEMOOR 278 + GLOSSARY OF ROMANY WORDS 291 + GYPSY FORE OR CHRISTIAN NAMES 299 + INDEX 303 + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + +THE GYPSY’S PARSON _Frontispiece_ + FACING PAGE +A ROMANY LASS 6 +THE CAMP IN THE LANE 20 +A DAUGHTER OF “JASPER PETULENGRO” 28 +ON THE MOORLAND 36 +A NORTH-COUNTRY GYPSY GIRL 36 +ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE 48 +A CHILD OF THE CARAVAN 48 +A REST BY THE WAY 62 +A WAYSIDE IDYL 68 +CHILDREN OF THE OPEN AIR 68 +ON THE LOOK-OUT 72 +THE GYPSY’S PARSON WITH HIS FRIENDS 86 +FRIENDS AT THE FAIR 86 +A MAID OF THE TENTS 112 +ON THE EVE OF THE FAIR 118 +MIDLAND GYPSIES 128 +SOUTH-COUNTRY GYPSIES 128 +NETTING RABBITS 139 +’NEATH THE HEDGEROW 139 +THE GYPSY’S PARSON ON THE ROAD 142 +GYPSIES AT HOME 146 +COMRADES 146 +“A MOTHER IN EGYPT” 160 +HOUSE-DWELLING GYPSIES 172 +A GYPSY LAD 184 +ON THE RACECOURSE 202 +A TINKER OF THE OLDEN TIMES 208 +A WELSH GYPSY TINKER 208 +A ROMANY FIDDLER 222 +HORNCASTLE HORSE FAIR 230 +READY FOR THE FAIR 232 +YARD OF THE “GEORGE” INN, HORNCASTLE 232 +A LONDON GYPSY 246 +“BLACK AS A BOZ’LL” 258 +OLI PURUM 264 +A GYPSY HARPIST 264 +A HAPPY PAIR 268 +A CHAT BY THE GATE 268 +’NEATH CAUTLEY CRAG 272 +A BOTTOMLESS POOL 272 +A WANDERING MINSTREL 274 +BROUGH HILL HORSE FAIR 276 +GYPSY CHILDREN 280 + + + + +CHAPTER I +GYPSY COURT—MY INITIATION INTO GYPSYDOM + + +A TANGLE of sequestered streets lying around a triple-towered cathedral; +red roofs and gables massed under the ramparts of an ancient castle; a +grey Roman arch lit up every spring-time by the wallflower’s mimic gold; +an old-world Bailgate over whose tavern yards drifted the sleepy music of +the minster chimes; a crooked by-lane leading down to a wide common loved +by the winds of heaven—these were the surroundings of my childhood’s home +in that hilltop portion of Lincoln which has never quite thrown off its +medieval drowsiness. + +Not far from my father’s doorstep, as you looked towards the common, lay +a narrow court lined with poor tenements, and terminating in a bare yard +bounded by a squat wall. Every detail of this alley stands out in my +memory with the sharpness of a photograph; the cramped perspective of the +place as you entered it from our lane, the dreary-looking houses with +their mud-floored living-rooms fronting upon the roadway, the paintless +doors and windows, the blackened chimneys showing rakish against the sky, +all combined to make a picture of dun-coloured misery. There were, it is +true, a few redeeming features gilding the prevailing drabness of the +scene. The entrance to the court had a southerly outlook upon green +fields stretching up to the verge of the Castle Dyking, or, to revive its +more gruesome name, “Hangman’s Ditch,” so called from the grim +associations of a bygone day. From these fields a clean air blew through +the court, rendering it a less unwholesome haunt for the strange folk who +dwelt within its precincts; while not half a mile distant lay the breezy +common, a glorious playground for the children of Upper Lincoln. + +Seeing that this court and its denizens were destined in the order of +things to make a profound impression upon my childish imagination, I may +as well develop the picture rising so vividly before my mind’s eye. + +It was somewhere in the fifties of the last century, a few years, that is +to say, before my entrance into the world, that several families of +dark-featured “travellers” had pitched upon the court for their Gypsyry, +a proceeding at which our quiet lane at first shrugged its shoulders, +then focussed an interested gaze upon the intruders and their ways, and +finally lapsed into an indulgent toleration of them. Thus from day to +day throughout my early years, there might have been seen emerging from +the recesses of Gypsy Court swarthy men in twos and threes accompanied by +the poacher’s useful lurcher; nut-brown girls with their black hair +carelessly caught up in orange or crimson kerchiefs; wrinkled crones +smoking short clays, as gaily they drove forth in their rickety +donkey-carts; buxom mothers carrying babies slung, Indian fashion, across +their shoulders, and bearing on their arms baskets replete with pegs, +skewers, and small tin-ware of home manufacture. As for children, troops +of the brown imps were generally in evidence, their eldritch shrieks +rending the air between the portals of the little court and the gate +opening upon the common. + +No observes could possibly miss the fighting scenes and the ringing +shouts which made the court echo again. A passionate folk are the +Gypsies, a provoking word being at any time sufficient to call forth a +blow. Even as I write these words, visions of gory fists and faces +obtrude themselves through the mists of past days. + +However, the Gypsies were never reported to be otherwise than polite +towards the outsider who ventured into the alley. Diplomats rather than +hooligans were they. “Let’s ’eave ’alf a brick at ’im,” is not the +Gypsy’s way with a stranger who happens to stroll into the camp. At the +same time I would not have it imagined that the inhabitants of the +squalid court were of the best black Romany breed; far from it, they were +mostly of diluted blood, else how came they to turn sedentary at all? +For pure Gypsies (or _Romanitshelaw_, as they call themselves), the +aristocrats of their race, abhor settled life, preferring to die on the +road rather than wither inside four walls. + +On the occasion of a horse fair in the city, our lane would resound with +the clanging of hoofs beyond the ordinary, and in front of the taverns +there was much rattling of whipstocks on the insides of hard hats, in +order to enliven some weedy “screw,” and so reward its owner for hours of +patient “doctoring” in a corner well screened from prying eyes. Then +when the autumnal rains set in, and the leaves began to flutter down in +showers, there would come from afar the rumbling of Romany “homes on +wheels,” driven townwards by the oncoming of winter. To me it was always +a saddening sight to watch the travel-stained wanderers hying to their +winter quarters through miry streets heavy with mist and gloom. +_Staruben sî gav_ (town is a prison), an ancient vagabond was heard to +remark on a like occasion. + +A spectacle far more inspiriting was the departure of a Gypsy cavalcade +from the city on a gay spring morning. For into the dingy purlieus where +the travellers had wintered more or less cheerlessly, stray sunbeams and +soft airs had begun to penetrate. Tidings had reached them that away in +the open something had stirred, or called, or breathed along the furzy +lanes and among the tree boughs, and forthwith every Romany sojourner +within the ash-strewn yards of the city became eager to resume the free, +roving life of the roads. How often have I longed for the brush of an +artist to depict the company of merry Gypsies—men, women, and bairns, +horses, dogs, and donkeys, jingling pot-carts and living-wagons bedizened +with new paint, starting from the top of our lane for the open country, +just when the wind-rocked woods were burgeoning and every green +hedge-bottom had a sprinkling of purple violets. + +Now until my eleventh year I had seen no more than the mere outside of +Romany life, and I might never have had any Gypsy experiences to relate +but for a trivial blood-spilling, which, as I look back upon it, may well +be called my initiation into Gypsydom. Indeed, the small incident I am +about to mention had for me a most important result, insomuch as it made +me akin to Gypsies for the rest of my life. + +My earliest schools were dames’ academies—there were two of these +old-time institutions in our lane. Approached by a dark passage, the +second of these had for its lecture-hall a large brick-floored room, +whose presiding spirit was a dwarfish lady of sixty-five or more, before +whom we sat in rows at long desks. The school consisted of about a score +of children who were awed into subjection by a threatening rod of supple +ash, half as long again as the tapering stick around which the +scarlet-runners in your kitchen garden love to entwine themselves. This +dread implement of discipline, reared in a recess near our mistress’s +desk, would oft descend upon the head of a chattering boy or girl, and to +the tip of that rod my own pate was no stranger. + + [Picture: A Romany Lass. Photo: Valentine & Sons] + +Among my acquaintances at this school was a Gypsy girl whose parents +dwelt at the sunny end of the aforementioned court. A year or two my +senior, Sibby Smith was a shapely lass, having soft hazel eyes and a +wealth of dark hair crowning an olive-tinted face. Lissom as whalebone, +she had a pretty way of capering along the lanes with hedgerow berries or +leaves of autumn’s painting in her hair, and I, a silent, retiring boy, +would watch her movements with admiring eyes. Fittingly upon that lithe +form sat a garb of tawny-brown, with here a wisp of red and there a tag +of yellow, mingled as on the wings of a butterfly. The girl had a +harum-scarum brother, Snakey by name and slippery by nature, a little +older than herself, with whom out of school hours she would be off and +away searching the bushes for birds’ nests, or ransacking the thickets +for nuts; and one day in school I remember how she pulled out +inadvertently with her handkerchief a catapult—a Gypsy can bring down a +pheasant with the like—and falling with a clatter at our teacher’s feet, +the unholy weapon was straightway confiscated, whereat Sibby’s face grew +darker by a shade, as with her pen-nib she savagely stabbed the desk on +which our copybooks were outspread. A roamer in all the copses and lanes +around our city, and enjoying the freedom of the camps which tarried for +little or for long in the old brickyards fringing the common, this +schoolmate of mine expressed the out-of-door spirit in her very gait, and +as she pirouetted along the causeway, you caught from her flying figure +the smell of wood smoke and the mossy odour of deep dingles. + +In all the world it is hard to find the elusive Gypsy’s compeer. +Whimsical as the wind, and brimful of mischief as an elf of the wilds, +Sibby was to me the embodiment of bewitching mystery. From a hillock by +the hedge I have watched her seize a skittish pony by the mane and, +leaping astride its back, gallop madly along a lane, to return a few +moments later, breathless and dishevelled. This was her frolicsome mood. + +Never very far below the surface of the Gypsy nature lurks a feeling of +disdain, waxing fierce at times towards everything and everybody outside +the Romany world. To this mood the Gypsy life appears to be the only +life worth living, and the Gypsy is the only real man in the world. All +other ways and all alien folk are suspect. There were times therefore +when Sibby’s eyes would pierce me through with arrows of detestation as +though one had hailed from beneath the eaves of a constabulary. Yet the +next day, every shred of this dark feeling would be flung to the winds, +as under a scented may-bush the girl was romancing merrily or instructing +me in the peculiar whistle giving warning of the approach of Velveteens +or a policeman. + +Is there in the whole bag of humanity, I wonder, a nut harder to crack +than the Gypsy? + +One afternoon in turning a corner sharply on my way home from school, it +happened that I ran full tilt into Sibby Smith, and before I could say +“Jack Robinson” I received such a blow on the mouth as sent me sprawling +all my length on the road. There was, I suppose, something ludicrous in +the sight of a prostrate boy with his legs in the air; so at least the +girl seemed to think, for immediately she burst into laughter, and her +merriment being ever of an infectious sort, I found myself laughing too, +though inwardly I thought my punishment unmerited. A moment later, +however, as I stood wiping the blood from my lips, the puzzle was +explained. There in the dust lay a half-eaten, red-cheeked apple which +the Gypsy had been munching when the shock of the collision sent it +flying from her hand; hence the blow that descended upon me so swiftly. +Nor after the lapse of nearly forty years have I forgotten the forceful +stroke that laid me low on that autumn afternoon. + +On stormy days, when the loud-lunged gusts made a fanfaronade in the +chimney-stacks at home, it was my delight as a boy to seek the brow of +the grassy escarpment overlooking our common, and at that time I knew +nothing more glorious than a tussle with the wind roaring over the +hilltop. Leaping on the springy turf, hatless and bare-armed, fighting a +make-believe giant of sonorous voice, what high glee of spirit was mine! + +In those days the escarpment boasted a row of windmills, old-fashioned +structures, built partly of timber and partly of brick and stone, and +loud was the whirring of sails thereabouts in a brisk wind. At the head +of a cleft in the hillside, known as “Hobbler’s Hole,” was a mill which +had fallen into desuetude, and its great sails, shattered by a tempest, +lay in tangled heaps on the thistle-grown plot around the building. To +the tall thistles, tufted with downy seed, came goldfinches, dainty +little fellows, shy as fairies. Hitherward came also visitors of another +kind, for, as might be expected, the unwritten invitation to such a +harvest of firewood had duly spread to Gypsy Court. More than once in +the twilight Sibby got me to help her in carrying off fragments of +timber, and to a boy with _Tiger Tom the Pirate_ secreted in the lining +of his jacket, these small adventures were not without a tang of the +picaresque. As time went on, the door in the basement of the mill and +most of the window-frames were dragged piecemeal from their places to +boil Gypsy kettles, but there still remained the massive ladder giving +access to the dusty chambers wherein nestled the strangest of shadows. +Every youngster who came to play in Hobbler’s Hole knew quite well that +the mill was haunted. Readily enough we climbed the worm-eaten ladder in +broad daylight, and scampered about the resounding floors, or sat at the +frameless windows pelting bits of plaster at the jackdaws flitting to and +fro, but to think of invading the mouldering mill in the dusk hour when +hollow and common were visioned away into shadowy night was another +matter. Ah, then the mill took on an eeriness befitting a very +borderland of goblindom. + +Picturing the crumbling ruin and the wrinkled declivity dipping below it +towards the common, I recall how Snakey Smith said one day to me, “I +likes to sit afore a fire on the ground. You don’t feel nothing like so +lonesome as you keeps pushing sticks into the fire and watching ’em burn +away.” The words aptly express a Gypsy’s joy in a fire for its own sake, +regardless of utilitarian considerations. At the moment there may be no +kettle waiting to be boiled, no black stockpot demanding to be slung on +the crooked kettle-prop, yet, for the pure pleasure of the thing, a Gypsy +will light a small pile of dead sticks, and, lounging near, will gaze +wistfully at the spiral of thin, sweet smoke upcurling between the trees +in the lane. + +Without a doubt, if “you’s been a bit onlucky,” or, if your sky is cloudy +with sorrow, there is solace in a fire, as in a folk-tale and in the +voice of a violin. Did not Provost M‘Cormick, lawyer and lover of +Gypsies, find his Border Tinklers, amid their brown tents and shaggy +“cuddies,” reciting traditional tales to banish gloom? “Whenever he saw +me dull he wad say, ‘Come on, Mary, and I’ll tell ye a fairy tale,’ and +wi’ his gestures, girns, and granes, he wadna be lang till he had us a’ +roarin’.” + +A Gypsy who resided in a derelict railway carriage on a Cheshire common, +having lost a dear child, refused to be comforted and even declined to +take food. To his old fiddle he confided his grief, his body swaying to +and fro as he drew forth plaintive airs from the strings. + +Wandering one evening in cowslip-time below the decrepit windmill, I came +to a stile in the hedge, and, passing into the lane, I found Sibby and +Snakey heaping dead wood upon a fire on the margin of the common. + +“There!” exclaimed the Gypsy girl, “I know’d somebody was a-thinking of +me, ’cos my boots kept coming unlaced.” + +“Well, well, you made me jump, _baw_ (mate), you did,” put in her +brother. “How did you _jin_ we were _akai_?” (know we were here). + +“See,” said I, “what a pother you are making. I caught a whiff of your +smoke right on top of the hill.” + +With that I dropped down beside the fire, and, yielding the soul to the +witchery of red-gold flames dancing against the dark, it was easy enough +to glide into the realm of Faerie. Sibby, who had been lying at full +length before the fire, now gathered herself into a cross-legged posture, +and, lapsing into meditation, sat twisting a black elf-lock round her +forefinger. A touch of the “creepy” world seemed also to have fallen +upon Snakey, for he lay in silence staring into the beyond as though he +had sighted fairy faces peering between the brier sprays; or was it that +the knotted tree-bole leaning from the hedge had begun to make grimaces? +At last the boy awoke with a start. By his side lay a maiden ash-plant +with numerous hearts and rings neatly cut on its green bark, and, +whipping out a knife, he proceeded to add further touches to his _kosht_ +(stick). This led me to talk of my own achievement of that day in +carving my initials on a beech tree not far from where we were sitting. +Whereat Sibby remarked— + +“Why, it was only last week that me and mother went in our cart past +Dalton Brook, and we pulled up to look at the old tree what has _dui +vastaw_ (two hands) cut into it by Orferus Herren, and there they were +right enough. It was his brother Evergreen who broke his neck by +tumbling headlong into a stone-pit, wasn’t it, Snakey?” + +“For sure it was, _pen_ (sister), and our uncles Fennix and Euri were +well-nigh killed the same way right up agen Scotland, as I’ve heard dad +say times and agen.” + +“How was that?” I asked. + +Then followed Snakey’s story, which, as well as I remember, ran (in his +own words) something like this— + +“One night my uncles Fennix and Euri was crossing a moor among the +mountains, a long way up into the North Country. They’d been sitting all +the day in a _kitshima_ (tavern) and at last they begins to think it were +time to be marching to their stopping-place, some five miles away across +the moor, a wery nasty country with deep pits and ponds in it. It was +getting dark and the teeny stars were shining above the mountains. Well, +my uncles made off with a deal of bustle at first along a beaten track, +but after going a mile or two, down comes a fog—a clear thick ’un it +was—and they soon got off the path and were lost. It looked like ’em +having to _besh avrí_ (lie out) all night, as poor Jacob did. Only my +uncles didn’t see no silver ladder with angels dancing up and down on it, +and _mi dîri Duvel_ (God) sitting atop of it. But just as they were +about dead beat after poddling up and down for I can’t tell you how long, +they walked as nigh as nothing over the edge of a deep pit. It were a +narrow shave, for they only managed to save theirselves by clutching at +the bushes atop of the pit. Then what do you think, _baw_? They just +turned round, and there afore ’em stood a terrible crittur rearing itself +up and groaning loud. Their hearts was in their mouths. They thought +their time had come. + +“‘If that ain’t a _mulo_ (ghost), my name’s not Fennix,’ whispered my +uncle. + +“‘_Keka_’ (No); ‘it’s the wery _Beng_ (Devil) hisself,’ says Euri. + +“And there they stands a-dithering like leaves, till at last my uncle +Fennix pulls hisself together and walks on a yard or two, staring hard +afore him, and weren’t Euri glad above a bit to hear his brother say in +his nat’ral voice, ‘Come on, it’s nobbut a blessed _dunnock_ (steer) +after all.’ And with that the crittur kicked up its heels and galloped +away, and by a bit of luck my uncles stumbled right on to a cartway as +led ’em straight to the tents.” + +Among Gypsies, when the tale-telling mood is on, story will follow story, +often until drowsiness supervenes; for these folk dearly love a tale, and +are themselves possessed of no small store of family legends and +folk-narratives. + +“Now, it’s your turn, sister. Let’s have that tale about Old Ruzlam +Boz’ll’s boy.” + +Without stopping for a moment to think, Sibby began to reel off what was +evidently a well-known and favourite story, punctuating her sentences by +picking from her gown and flinging at me sundry prickly balls of burdock +seed, telling of what prowlings in the woods! + +“It’s donkey’s ears (_i.e._ long years) since Ruzlam Boz’ll’s wife had a +baby boy born’d in a tent near a spring what bubbled out betwixt two +rocks, and every summer they used to _besh_ (rest) by the same spring. +By and by, when the dear little boy grew big enough, his mammy sent him +every morning to fill the kettle. But one day he got a surprise. There +on the grass by the spring what should he see but a new silver shilling. +Of course he picked it up and put it into his pocket, and never said +nothing about it when he got back to the tent. Next morning he found +double the money at the spring-head, and so it went on until his pockets +were chinking full of silver, and for all that he never breathed no word +about his luck. But one day Old Ruzlam heard the boy rattling the money +in his pockets, and forced him to tell where he got it from. Next +morning the daddy went off, laughing to hisself and thinking of the nice +heap of silver he was going to pick up, but after he had looked up and +down and all over, he found just nothing at all, leastways he saw no +money; but as he stood scratting his head, puzzled-like, there, on one +side of the spring, he saw a dear little teeny old man, and on the other +side a dear little teeny old woman, and, saying never a word, they +stooped down and flung water right into Ruzlam’s eyes. So away he ran +home, and there, if he didn’t find his boy had gone cross-eyed. What’s +more, he never came right agen.” + +Thus, by pleasant steps amid scenes not lacking in glamour, I advanced +little by little in my knowledge of these fascinating straylings with +whom no stranger ever yet found it easy to mingle as one of themselves. + + + + +CHAPTER II +CHARACTERS OF THE COURT—READING BORROW + + +A FEW miles outside my native city, there stands on the bank of the Roman +Fossdyke a lonely house known as “Drinsey Nook,” formerly a tavern with +bowling greens, swings, and skittle alleys, a resort of wagonette and +boating parties out for a frolic in the sunshine. Often on bygone summer +eves have I loitered about the old inn gleaming white amid its guardian +trees, but best of all I loved to see the beechen boughs drop their fiery +leaves upon its mossy roof in the fading of the year. + +To-day, as of yore, the brown-sailed barges, laden with grain or scented +fir-planks, glide lazily past the place, and a motor-boat will at times +go racing by, to the alarm of the waterhens which had almost come to look +on the sleepy canal as their own. + +Does it ever dream of its gay past, I wonder—this old forgotten house +fronting upon the rush-fringed waterway? + +One golden October morning, my father, who had a passion for boating on +our local waters, hired a small sailing craft, and, the breezes aiding +us, we were wafted along the Fossdyke as far as the said riparian house +of call. Hour after hour we wandered in the beech woods stretching +behind the inn, resting now on some protruding snag or fallen bole to +watch the squirrels at play, and again pushing our way breast-high +through sheets of changing bracken to the hazel thickets where the nuts +hung in clusters well within reach of our hooked sticks. + +Linked with this ramble in the time of the falling leaves is an +impression I have never forgotten. “Look,” said my father, pointing to a +decayed stump of a post almost buried amid dank moss, “this is all that +remains of Tom Otter’s gibbet-tree.” I shuddered as he told how in other +days he had heard the chains clanking in the wind, and he went on to +relate that _his_ father was among the crowd of citizens who, starting +from Lincoln Castle one March morning in the year 1806, followed the +murderer’s corpse until it was hanged in irons on a post thirty feet high +on Saxilby Moor. For several days after the event, the vicinity of the +gibbet resembled a country fair with drinking booths, ballad singers, +Gypsy fiddlers, and fortune-tellers. + +The impressions of childhood are enduring; and just as the smell of the +wallflowers after an April shower will revive for you, dear fellow, the +vision of a garden walk under a lichened wall, and the dainty step of +your lady love by your side, so for me the wild scent of withering +bracken in the red autumn glades prompts my fancy to envisage anew the +gruesome scene as depicted by my father on that October day long gone by. +Nor is this all. + +To mention the name of Tom Otter is to call up for me more than one +swarthy inhabitant of Gypsy Court who lived to make old bones and sit by +the fire telling tales and smoking black tobacco. I have but to close my +eyes to behold a procession of these “characters” straggling out of the +dark court, their faces and figures lingering for a moment in memory’s +beam of light, then passing again into the shadows. And what strange +stories are wrapped up in the names and lives of some of these folk; +quaint comedy, grim tragedy, riotous passion, tales of love, laughter, +and tears. + +There was old Tom, nicknamed “Tom o’ the Gibbet,” whose patronymic was +_Petulengro_, which is Gypsy for Smith. + +Each of the great Romany clans, be it known, duplicates its surname, one +form being used before the _gawjê_ (non-Gypsies, aliens); the other form, +of cryptic import, is for the brotherhood of the blood. + +Old Tom Petulengro, further known as “Sneezing Tommy,” owing to his +liking for snuff, carried on a thriving trade in wooden meat-skewers and +pegs, and in his backyard you might see him with infinite patience +cutting up willow rods or splitting blocks of close-grained elder-wood; +and for years I never used to hear in church the familiar words of the +Psalmist, “Our bones lie strewn before the pit, like as when one heweth +wood upon the earth,” without seeing that narrow yard with its shining +axe lying midst a litter of chips and splinters. Elder-wood is still in +request for meat-skewers, and to this day not a few country butchers +prefer to use the Gypsy-made article. Old Tom used to say, with a +twinkle in his eye, that he _found_ nearly all his raw material on his +journeys up and down the countryside. For, as you could not fail to +observe, it was a habit with some of the dwellers in Gypsy Court to +absent themselves periodically with their light carts and tents. Halcyon +days were those for the court Gypsies. + +Let it be remembered that the County Council legend, “No camping +allowed,” had not yet begun to hit you in the eye from among the bramble +brakes on bits of wayside waste. The rural constable of that time had +not the conveniences his successor enjoys in the bicycle and the village +telephone. There were farmers who still retained a soft place in their +hearts for the Gypsy, and many a country squire viewed the nomads of the +grassy lanes with a kindly eye. If a carriage-horse grew restive in +passing a roadside fire at twilight, up from the hedge-bottom sprang an +obliging fellow who led the animal safely along and thereby won a cheery +word from the squire or his lady. Even Velveteens would hob-nob with the +jovial campers on the lord’s waste, and, quaffing a dram from their black +bottle, would toss a rabbit into the lap of a Romany mother and go on his +way. Here and there of course were tiresome believers in the hoary +policy of harassment and oppression— + + “Pack, and be out of this forthwith, + D’you know you have no business here? + ‘No, we hain’t got,’ said Samuel Smith, + ‘No business to be anywhere.’ + So wearily they went away, + Yet soon were camped in t’other lane, + And soon they laughed as wild and gay, + And soon the kettle boiled again.” + + [Picture: The Camp in the Lane. Photo: Fred Shaw] + +Reverting to Tom Petulengro’s sobriquet, I confess it provoked my +curiosity not a little. Tom _o’ the Gibbet_—what could the strange “tag” +mean? Time passed, even a few years, and one day its origin came to +light during a talk with Ashena Brown, Tom’s married sister, an elderly +Gypsy with a furrowed countenance and deep-set eyes which flashed with +fire as she grew excited in her talk. I can see her bowed figure and +long jetty curls, as in fancy I again stoop to enter the low-ceiled abode +in the smoky court where I listened to her chatter to the persistent +accompaniment of a donkey’s thump, thump, in an adjoining apartment. + +“Wonderful fond o’ the County o’ Nottingham was my people,” said the old +lady. “They know’d every stick and stone along the Trentside, and i’ the +Shirewood (Sherwood), and many’s the time we’ve stopped at Five Lane Ends +nigh Drinsey Nook. Why, my poor dear mammy (Lord rest her soul) was once +fired at by a foot-pad as she were coming outen the public upo’ the bank +there. The man’s pistol had nobbut powder in it, for he only meant to +_trash_ (frighten) her into handing up her _lova_ (money), but she had +none about her, for her last _shukora_ (sixpence) had gone in _levina_ +(ale). And after that, my mammy allus wore a big _diklo_ (kerchief) +round her head for to hide her cheek as were badly blued by the rascal’s +powder. + +“Ay, and I minds how my daddy used to make teeny horseshoes, knife +handles, and netting needles, outen the bits o’ wood he _tshin_’d (cut) +off the gibbet post, and wery good oak it was. Mebbe you’s heard o’ Tom +Otter’s post nigh to the woods? Ah, but p’raps you’s never been tell’d +that our Tom was born’d under it? The night my mammy were took bad, our +tents was a’most blown to bits. The wind banged the old irons agen the +post all night long, as I’ve heard her say. And when they wanted to name +the boy, they couldn’t think of no other name but Tom, for sure as they +tried to get away from it, the name kept coming back again—Tom, Tom, +Tom—till it sort o’ dinned itself into their heads. So at last my daddy +says, ‘Let’s call him Tom and done with it,’ and i’ time, folks got +a-calling him Tom o’ the Gibbet, and it stuck to him, it did. There, +now, I must give that here _maila_ (donkey) a bite o’ summut.” + +But I have not done with Tom Otter. + +Here is a story even more “creepy” than the last. Ashena is again the +speaker. “I’ them days I’d some delations as did funny things that folks +wouldn’t never think o’ doing nowadays. I’d an uncle as used to talk to +the _Beng_ (Devil). If anything went wrong wi’ a hoss, he’d say, +‘_Beng_, do this, and _Beng_, do that,’ like we talks to the _Duvel_ +(God) when we says ’ur prayers. But he weren’t eddicated, you see, he +didn’t know no better. And whenever uncle and aunt used to pass by Tom +Otter’s gibbet, they’d stop and look up at the poor man hanging there, +and they allus _wuser_’d (threw) him a bit o’ _hawben_ (food). They +couldn’t let theirselves go by wi’out doing that. + +“And there was a baker from Harby, and whenever he passed by the place he +would put a bread loaf on to the pointed end of a long rod and shove it +into that part o’ the irons where poor Tom’s head was, and sure enough +the bread allus went. The baker got hisself into trouble for doing that, +as I’ve heard our old people say.” + +Commenting on a parallel instance, occurring about the year 1779, in +which some women were wont to throw up to a gibbeted man a bunch of +tallow candles for him to eat, the Rev. S. Baring-Gould, in his _Book of +Folk-Lore_, writes: “Obviously the idea was still prevalent that life +continued to exist in the body after execution.” + +In the procession of “characters” issuing from the dark court, I see two +familiar figures, the parents of my Gypsy schoolmate, who would surely +have arrested even a stranger’s gaze. + +Partly from age, and partly from the habit of his calling, Plato Smith +the tinman stooped somewhat, yet his legs, which were long in comparison +with his body, carried him over the ground fast enough. A nearer view of +the old man’s countenance revealed certain scars concerning which tales +were told to his credit as a fighter. True, he had on one occasion been +worsted by an adversary, for the bridge of his nose diverged somewhat +from the straight line, a record of a telling blow. Always alert, Plato +looked the picture of spryness when soap and water had removed all traces +of the workshop, and he had donned a green cutaway coat, a bright yellow +neckcloth, and a felt “hat of antique shape,” high in the crown and broad +of brim, which was pulled well over his eyes whenever he went out. It +was whispered that none knew better than he how to whistle a horse out of +a field, but in this art I fancy he had grown rusty of late years. To be +sure, his long record as a poacher had brought him occasional lodgments +in the local house of detention, yet so ingrained was this Gypsy habit +that he could hardly refrain from chalking his gun-barrel and sallying +forth on moonlit nights. + +A riverside incident associated with Sibby’s father is as fresh in my +memory as if it happened but yesterday. A stream neither broad nor deep +is our homely Witham, crawling onward through fenny flats to the North +Sea. It was here that I learned on summer days to pull an oar in an old +black coble, and to glide steel-shod over the ice in the Christmas +holidays. Along a certain reach of the river, I was initiated by an +elder brother into the mysteries of angling on those tranquil evenings +when the bold perch showed their heads above water, like the fishes that +listened to St. Anthony’s sermon. Now it fell upon a day that my brother +and I were crossing the river by ferry-boat, a few miles outside the +city, our companions being Plato Smith and an ecclesiastic from the +minster-close—four happy anglers were we. At one end of the +flat-bottomed ferry-boat stood the parson fingering his rod and whistling +a lively tune, when, in midstream, there was a sudden hitch in the chain, +flinging the perspiring ferryman upon his face, and at the same time +precipitating our friend from the minster-close headlong into the river. +Never have I seen a wild duck, or a white-pate coot, disappear more +cleanly from sight than did our brother of “the cloth” into the liquid +element. Thanks mainly to Gypsy Plato’s resourcefulness, he was +extricated pretty quickly, and we left him in the care of an innkeeper, +in whose parlour at dusk we met him in borrowed raiment, looking more +than usually pallid of countenance beneath the broad eaves of our kindly +host’s old-fashioned Sunday “topper” padded to fit with a vivid red +handkerchief. + +A personality even more striking was Plato’s consort, Abigail, as you saw +her sunning herself under the parapet of the Witham bridge hard by the +“Three Magpies” Inn, her black eyes blinking as a gust from the river +flapped the loose ends of her gay kerchiefs which she wore three or four +deep, meeting on her bosom in old-time style. Hooked like a falcon’s +beak, her nose drooped over her pursed lips towards a prominent chin, +giving her a witchlike mien. Quadrupled strings of corals encircled her +wizened neck, and a black velvet bodice bedecked with silver buttons, a +skirt of bold check pattern, and a poke-bonnet formed her customary +walking attire. Often, on her homeward way after her daily round with +the basket, have I met her puffing a small black pipe as she shuffled +along our lane. By _didakais_ (half-breeds) she was certainly feared, +and they maintained it was bad luck to meet her first thing of a morning, +and were known to turn back on seeing her in the street. “Her eyes make +you feel that queer” was a common saying, and it follows that she ranked +high as a fortune-teller. Seldom a fair passed but you met her in the +noisy throng, chaffing the _gawjê_ (gentiles), or surrounded by a group +of village Johnnies and Mollies eager to have their palms read. What a +picture she made as she stooped to tighten the girths of her shaggy +donkey at whose head stood the wild, dusky Sibby with a spring wind +whisking her black locks about her cheeks, out on the open road beyond +the town, for maid and mother were devoted companions on many a foray +into the villages dotted over Lincoln Heath. + +Another conspicuous character of the court was a quaint little hunchback, +a pedlar by trade, whose sad deformity and resentful temper caused him to +become the butt of every street gamin’s joke. He would often be seen in +company with Sammy Noble, a wooden-legged vendor of firewood. The pair, +I regret to say, called too frequently at taverns, and more than once I +have seen them assisted home by kindly policemen, or “peelers,” as they +were then called, who if resurrected to-day in their long black coats and +chimney-pot hats, would surely be taken for nothing short of cathedral +dignitaries. + +The hero of the Gypsy colony was a tall athletic fellow, “Soldier” +’Plisti (or Supplistia) Boswell, who also bore the nickname of “Jumping +Jack,” of whom I give a reminiscence or two here. + +One day a country squire was driving a pony chaise along a lane, and, +rounding a corner, he came upon a ring of Gypsies roasting hedgehogs. +Imagine his astonishment to see a slender lad spring up, and, running a +few yards, take a flying leap clear over the pony’s back, a feat so +pleasing to the squire that he called the boy to his side and, presenting +him with a bright crown-piece, offered—so the tale runs—“to keep him like +a gentleman for life.” In return for which kindness, the Gypsy was +expected to disown his people, a condition which was not jumped at by +Jack. + +’Plisti’s home in Gypsy Court was one day the scene of a singular +incident. A fox closely pursued by the hounds dashed through the open +door of the living-room, where before the fire lay the Gypsy asleep and +snoring. Reynard in his haste managed to sweep the sleeper’s face with +his brush; and mighty was the yell that burst from ’Plisti’s throat on +being thus disturbed, causing the fox to seek refuge in a hovel hard by, +where the dogs fell upon him. A brother of mine who was in the court at +the time obtained possession of the brush, and the trophy was given a +conspicuous place in our home. + +In those days it was no unusual course for the Gypsy lads to enlist in +the Militia, and ’Plisti looked every inch a soldier as he marched +homeward from the morning’s drill on the common. In play he would level +his musket at you, and laugh like a merry boy, if you caught his spirit +and made believe that you were wounded. If he was proud of his scarlet +jacket, his characteristic Gypsy vanity led him to glory in shirts of +dyes so resplendent that in comparison the vaunted multi-coloured coat of +Joseph would indeed have been thrown into the shade. + +The Gypsy spell cast upon me in childhood was now reinforced by my +discovery of the autobiographical writings of George Borrow. It was in +my teens that I devoured _Lavengro_ in its original three-volume form. +By taper-light in an attic bedroom at home, or in some hollow on the +common where the battered race-cards whitened the base of the gorse +bushes—our old common is the annual scene of the Lincolnshire Handicap—I +thrilled over the boy Borrow’s encounter with the Gypsies in the green +lane at Norman Cross. I followed him through the crowded horse-fair at +Norwich, and into the smoky tents pitched upon Mousehold Heath. But the +episode which impressed me most of all was the fight with the Flaming +Tinman. The _dramatis personæ_ of that narrative would pursue me even +into my dreams. _The Romany Rye_, with its vivid picture of Horncastle +Fair, was pleasant enough reading, though not nearly so fascinating as +_Lavengro_. Little did I think that the coming days were to bring some +of Borrows originals within my ken. + + [Picture: A daughter of “Jasper Petulengro”] + +How far Borrow’s Gypsies are portraits of individuals, and to what extent +we are able to identify them, are questions which have often been asked. +Don Jorge would probably have denied the charge of individual +portraiture, yet there is no doubt that he had definite prototypes in his +mind’s eye when penning his narratives. Just as in _Guy Mannering_, Sir +Walter Scott portrayed an actual Jean Gordon under the name of Meg +Merrilies, so we know that Borrow has given us his old friend Ambrose +Smith under the now famous cognomen of “Jasper Petulengro,” a fact made +plain by Dr. Knapp in his monumental work {28} familiar to all Gypsy +students. Shortly before his death at Dunbar in October, 1878, Ambrose +Smith and his wife Sanspirela (a Heron before marriage), together with +their family, had been noticed and befriended by Queen Victoria. To wit: +the following entry in _More Leaves from the Journal of a Life in the +Highlands_. + + “_August_ 26_th_, 1878.—At half-past three started with Beatrice, + Leopold, and the Duchess in the landau, and four, the Duke, Lady Ely, + General Ponsonby, and Mr. Yorke, going in the second carriage, and + Lord Haddington riding all the way. We drove through the west part + of Dunbar, which was very full, and we were literally pelted with + small nosegays, till the carriage was full of them; then for some + distance past the village of Belheven, Knockendale Hill, where were + stationed in their best attire the queen of the gipsies, an oldish + woman [Sanspirela] with a yellow handkerchief on her head, and a + youngish, very dark, and truly gipsy-like woman in velvet and a red + shawl, and another woman. The queen is a thorough gipsy, with a + scarlet cloak and a yellow handkerchief around her head. Men in red + hunting-coats, all very dark, and all standing on a platform here, + bowed and waved their handkerchiefs.” + +In the seventh chapter of _The Romany Rye_, Borrow tells how he one day +got his dinner “entirely off the body of a squirrel which had been shot +the day before by a chal of the name of Piramus, who, besides being a +good shot, was celebrated for his skill in playing on the fiddle.” + +Nieces of Piramus Gray, whom I know, have testified to their uncle’s +excellence as a marksman, and on the authority of Sinfai, a daughter of +Piramus, I have been told that Ambrose Smith’s praise of her father’s +fiddling was well founded. + + “About a week ago my people and myself” (the speaker is Ambrose, + _i.e._ Jasper Petulengro) “were encamped on a green by a plantation + in the neighbourhood of a great house. In the evening we were making + merry, the girls dancing, while Piramus was playing on the fiddle a + tune of his own composing, to which he had given his own name, + Piramus of Rome, and which is much celebrated amongst our people, and + from which I have been told one of the grand gorgio composers who + once heard it has taken several hints.” + +The gifted fiddler was at that time only a slim fellow of twenty-eight +summers. Long years afterwards, when Piramus was a very old man and I a +youth of twenty, I remember seeing him in our Lincolnshire town of Louth, +where he was still tapping with his tinker’s hammer and fondling his +violin in his cottage at the River Head. A story which the old man never +tired of telling was that of his brother Jack’s heroism. + +Upon a day, many years ago, the children of Piramus were boating on a +river, and, their craft capsizing, all were flung into the stream. Jack, +who happened to be on the bank, leaped in and saved all but two, the +oldest and the youngest, who were drowned. In his day Piramus had +excelled as a fighter, and certainly the knotty fists of the aged tinman +looked as if they had done service in the bruising line. + +Two visitors who loved to cheer the last days of Piramus were his +daughter Sinfai and her husband, Isaac Heron, who have themselves now +passed away. Whenever I think of the tall figure of Old Isaac, I recall +one evening in the summer of 1876, when a camp of the Herons lay just +outside of Lincoln. What appeared to be a Gypsy trial was in progress, +and I remember the inward thrill on beholding those Herons in a ring, +chattering like a flock of daws. Inside the circle stands a young man, +bare-headed, stripped of coat and vest, and gesticulating wildly. Now he +flings his arms about, and now he thrusts his fingers through his shaggy +black hair. On his brow the sweat stands in beads. I can hear the name +“Wilhelmina,” as it comes in a piercing shriek from his lips. The old +men and women are muttering together as calmly they look on. In that +throng were Isaac and Sinfai, along with some of the older Yorkshire +Herons, Golias, Khulai, and others. + +In after years I came to know very intimately many members of the clan +Heron, and among them a niece of that weird old hag, Mrs. Herne (to use +Borrow’s spelling of the name), who sent the poisoned cake to Lavengro in +Mumper’s Dingle. + +Having had a romantic interest in the Gypsies aroused in me thus early, I +naturally looked forward to the days when I should leave home and meet +the people of the _kawlo rat_ (black blood) in other parts of the +country. + + + + +CHAPTER III +NORTH-COUNTRY GYPSIES + + +A TYPICAL colliery village in a bleak northern county was the scene of my +first curacy. Silhouettes of ugliness were its black pit buildings, +dominated by a mountain of burning refuse exhaling night and day a +poisonous breath which tarnished your brass candlesticks and rendered +noxious the “long, unlovely street” of the parish. What in the name of +wisdom induced me to pitch my tent in such a spot, I can scarcely say at +this distance of time, unless perhaps it was a mad desire to rub against +something rough and rude after having been reared in the drowsy +atmosphere of pastoral Lincolnshire. + +But if the picture which met my gaze on parochial rounds possessed no +inspiring feature, you may take my word for it that the setting of the +picture was undeniably charming. Close at hand lay the valley of the +Wear, by whose brown and amber waters, broken by frequent beds of gravel, +I used to wander, trout-rod in hand, or, wading ankle-deep in bluebells, +I added to my store of nature-knowledge by observing the ways of the +wood-folk—the tawny squirrel on his fir-bough, the red-polled woodpecker +hammering at a decayed elm-branch, or a lank heron standing stiff as a +stake on the margin of a pool. + +Across the airy uplands at the back of the village runs a road which was +ever a favourite walk of mine. Away in the distance, Durham’s towers +lift their grey stones, and nearer across the fields, “like a roebuck at +bay,” rises the castle, which together with the lordship of Brancepeth, +Geoffrey, grandson of the Norman Gilbert de Nevil, received as dowry with +Emma Bulmer, his Saxon bride. Right well I came to know the weathered +walls of Brancepeth Castle, where in fancy I used to hear the blare of +bugle (_not the motor-horn_), and to a dreamer it is still a place where +“the swords shine and the armour rings.” + +One June day I took the byway over the hills, and as I leaned upon a gate +looking towards the castle, a sound of wheels not far off was heard on +the gritty roadway, and from round the corner a party of Gypsies hove in +sight. There were two or three carts bearing the name of Watland, with +several comely people aboard, and lagging in the rear came a pair of +shaggy colts, whipped up by a shock-headed lad of fifteen. When I +greeted these wanderers, they drew rein and descended from the carts, and +standing there in the sunshine on the road, they appeared to me more than +anything like a gang of prehistoric folk risen from some tumulus on the +moor; features, garments, horses, vehicles—all were tinctured with Mother +Earth’s reds and browns picked up from wild heaths, clay-pits, and sandy +lanes. To my mind the sight was an agreeable variation from the daily +procession of miners so black with coal-dust that you could not for the +life of you distinguish Bill from Bob, or Jack from Jerry. + +“Are you stopping about here?” I asked, after an exchange of salutations. + +“Yes; come and see us to-night on top o’ the moor. We’ll be fixed up by +then.” Turning to his wife, the leader of the party said— + +“Ay, doesn’t he remind you of that young priest up yonder by Newcastle, +what used to come and take a cup of tea with us?” + +There was something about these Watlands which impressed me. Although +obviously poor, they were light-hearted—I had caught the lilt of a song +before they came in sight. A blithesome spirit of acceptance, a serenity +drawn from Nature’s bosom was theirs, and I could imagine them whistling +cheerily as they bent their heads to buffeting storms. + +“Take no thought for the morrow,” is the Gypsy’s own philosophy. Were +real road-folk ever able to tell you the route of the morrow’s itinerary? +Break of day will be time enough to discuss the next stage of the +journey. + +Sundown’s fires burned redly behind the black pines, as I found myself on +the moor, a wide expanse tracked by little paths worn by passing feet, a +haunt of whin-chats, grasshoppers, and bright-eyed lizards—sun-lovers +all. + +Knowing the whimsicalities of the Gypsy nature, I had half expected to +draw a blank after dawdling through the afternoon at Brancepeth Castle. +I wondered whether my luck would be the same as on a past occasion +whereon it happened that down a green lane I had located a picturesque +lot of Gypsies who might almost have stepped straight out of a Morland +canvas, and most anxious I was to secure a few snapshots, but +unfortunately my camera had been left at home. + +“You’ll be here all day, I expect?” + +“To be sure we shall, my _rai_, you’ll find us here _koliko sawla_ +(to-morrow morning), if you’s a mind to come.” + +Preferring to act upon the _carpe diem_ principle, I returned with my +camera as expeditiously as I could, and though but an hour and a half had +elapsed, alas! my birds had flown. Homewards I trudged, a joy-bereft +soul for whom the world had suddenly grown empty. + +This leads me to remark that the Gypsies are far from easy to photograph. +The degree of friendship does not enter into the problem. I have known +strangers to pose readily, while old friends have doggedly refused to be +“took.” Once a friend and I had talked one of the reticent Herons into a +willingness to be photographed. Yes, on the morrow he would be “took.” +But with the morrow his mood had changed. “No, _raia_, not for a +thousand pounds.” + +I remember photographing a Gypsy girl under curious conditions. Said I, +as she sat upon the grass— + +“You’ll allow me to take a little picture? Your hair is so pretty, and +you have a happy face.” + + [Picture: A North-Country Gypsy Girl. Photo. H. Stimpson] + +But, no, my words were wasted. Bad luck followed that sort of thing, a +cousin of hers had died a fortnight after being “took.” + +“But isn’t there some charm for keeping off bad luck?” + +Looking thoughtful for a moment, she replied— + +“Oh yes, if you’ll give me a pair of bootlaces, you can _lel mi mui_ +(take my face) as many times as you _kom_” (like). + +I had a pair of laces, _but they were in my boots_. Nothing daunted, +however, I went off to a shop in the village half a mile away, and was +soon back again presenting the laces to the girl with an Oriental salaam. + +Then I got my picture. + + [Picture: On the Moorland. Photo. Chas. Reid] + +Reverting to the Watlands, I was not disappointed. There in a hollow on +the moor I found them squatting around their fires. Wearied by travel, +some of the elders had retired for the night. “_Dik lesti_’s _pîro_” +(look at his foot), said one of the boys, pointing to a man’s bare brown +foot protruding from beneath a tent cover. Within view of Durham’s +twinkling lights we sat, and my tobacco pouch having gone the round, we +were soon deep in the sayings and doings of the Watlands of other days, +for when business is off Gypsies ever talk of Gypsies. As I looked at +these folk, it seemed as though behind them through the dusk peered the +shades of Romanies of an older, weirder sort, who shunned contact with +cities and hated _gawjê_ (non-Gypsies) with a bitterness unknown to-day. + +Here is a tale of the old times, obtained from grizzled “Durham” Mike +Watland, and translated more or less into my own words. + + “When I was a little fellow, I used to listen with delight to a + blood-curdling story which my grandfather used to tell as we sat + watching the red embers die out at night. One time he found himself + in a strange predicament, and got such a “gliff” as he had never + experienced before. This of course was many years ago, for my + grandfather lived to the age of ninety-four, and I am one of the + third generation of a long-lived family of Gypsies. The ways of our + people were a bit different then. In those days, you saw no harm in + taking anything you had a fancy for, if you could get it. My + grandfather was a young fellow, and on this particular morning he + crossed a moor and came to a hamlet containing three or four + straggling houses, and near one of these stood a cowshed and a low + barn. In passing the shed he saw hanging there a nice porker which + had been killed early that morning, and round it was wrapped a sack + to prevent dogs or cats from gnawing it. All this my grandfather + observed as he hawked his goods at the cottage door, inwardly + resolving to pay Mr. Piggy a visit by night. All was quiet when at a + late hour he re-crossed the moor and arrived at the shed, on entering + which he put out his hands and felt for the pig where he had seen it + hanging in the morning, but, no, it had been removed. It then + occurred to him that for greater safety it might have been carried + into the low-roofed barn, so in he went and felt all along the + cross-beam. He was right. Sure enough the pig’s face struck cold to + his hand. Quickly he cut the rope, and, slinging piggy across his + shoulder, was soon making his way back to the camping-place. But + crossing that rough land with a heavy load was no easy task, and you + may be sure that the farther he went the heavier it became. When + descending a slope, he caught his foot in a hole, and down he tumbled + with his burden. Now as he arose and laid hold of the rope in order + to hoist the pig once more, the moon came out from behind a cloud, + and revealed the face of—_a dead man_! For a moment he stood + mesmerized by fright, then sick at heart he proceeded to acquaint the + nearest constable with the fact. The corpse was identified as that + of a feeble-minded cottager who had hanged himself in the barn.” + +One day I was exploring the city of Durham, for my early life in Lincoln +had imbued me with a love of old architecture, and the nave of Durham +minster profoundly gratified my love of the sombre, when, lo, just over +the way, I saw a weather-beaten _vâdo_ (living-van), and near it was the +owner, looking up and down the street as if expecting someone to appear. +Crossing the road, I greeted the Gypsy, who turned out to be one of the +Winters, a North-Country family to whom has been applied (not without +reason) the epithet “wild,” and I remembered how Hoyland, in his +_Historical Survey of the Gypsies_, had written— + + “The distinguished Northern poet, Walter Scott, who is Sheriff of + Selkirkshire, has in a very obliging manner communicated the + following statement—‘ . . . some of the most atrocious families have + been extirpated. I allude to the Winters, a Northumberland clan, + who, I fancy, are all buried by this time.’” + +But Sheriff Scott was wrong. + +The Winters had only changed their haunts, and on being driven out of the +Border Country had moved southward. + +As I stood chatting with Mr. Winter, his handsome wife came up with a +hawking-basket on her arm. I shall always remember her in connection +with a story she told me. + + “One day I was sitting on a bank under a garden hedge. It was a hot + day and I was very thirsty. I said aloud, ‘Oh, for a drink of beer.’ + Just then a voice came over the hedge, a nice, clear, silvery voice + it was, like as if an angel from heaven was a-talking to me—‘You + shall have one, my dearie.’ And in a minute or two a kind lady came + down with a big jug of beer. How I did bless that lady for her + kindness to a poor Gypsy, and I drank the lot. About a month + afterwards, I heard of the death of that lady, and I vowed to myself + and to the _rawni_’s _muli_ (lady’s spirit) that I would never touch + another drop of beer as long as I lived, and I never have done and + never will no more.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV +MY POACHING PUSSY—A ROMANY BENISON—MY FIRST TASTE OF HEDGEHOG + + +MY clerical life has been spent for the most part in green country +places, chiefly amid wind-swept hills. Consequently one has learned to +delight in the creatures that run and fly, the wild things of wood and +wold and brookside, and this love of Nature and her children has never +left me; it has companioned with me throughout my wanderings. Give me +now an elevated crest commanding a broad sweep of field and forest, with +the swift rush of keen air over the furze bushes, a footpath among the +thorn-scrub where the finches chatter, the sedgy bank of a moorland +stream from which I can hear the “flup” of the trout, or the call of the +peewits somersaulting in the sunlight: simple pleasures are these, yet +they bring a world of happiness to a man who loves the wilds more than +cities, and the windy wold better than the stifling street. + +Contrary to the popular notion that Lincolnshire is no more than a dreary +expanse of black fenland soil intersected by drains of geometric +straightness, I may point out that there are two well-defined hill ranges +extending almost throughout the county—the chalk and greensand Wolds, and +the limestone “Heights,” running parallel after the manner of the _duplex +spina_ of Virgil’s well-bred horse. + +On the western edge of the Wolds, overlooking a richly varied landscape, +nestles the hamlet where I made my first home after marriage, and the +country lying around our hilltop parsonage was an ideal hunting-ground +for a naturalist. Borne on the rude March gales the wild pipe of the +curlew greeted the ear as you met the buffeting gusts along the +unfrequented ridgeways, and over winter snows an observant eye might +trace the badger’s spoor. On summer evenings when the far-away minster +of Lincoln was a purple cameo upon an amber ground, and the shadows +creeping out of the woods began to spread over the hills, a brown owl +would sail by on noiseless wings, or Reynard might be seen trotting +across the sheep-nibbled sward towards the warren below the clustering +firs. + +Rambling along the wold one gleaming autumn afternoon, my attention was +attracted by the rapid movements of some diminutive, fluffy-looking +creature, which to a casual saunterer might have been a wren or a +hedgesparrow; but after having stood quietly for a moment or two, a dark +velvety ball of fur darted towards me, and in a most confiding manner ran +over my boots, and sniffed at the stout ash-plant which I invariably +carry with me along the lanes. For some time I stood watching the +unconscious play of this tiny mouse. At last, however, I made a move and +my wee friend fled like a thought to his retreat in the hedge. + +On another occasion, I was seated in my old oak stall in the village +church. It was a harvest festival, and a college friend was in the midst +of his sermon, when I distinctly felt something nibbling at the hem of my +cassock. It was a plump grey mouse, and on moving my foot I saw him +speed down the aisle like an arrow. As fortune had it, the ladies in the +front pew, being properly rapt in the eloquent discourse, escaped the +disquieting vision of my church mousie. + +These mice incidents, with a few more like them, were strung together and +dispatched to the _Pall Mall Budget_, edited at that time by Mr. Charles +Morley. My literary effort was duly printed, with pleasing sketches from +the pencil of that peerless lover of pussies, Mr. Louis Wain, the then +president of the Cat Club. + +It was in the same parish that I had a favourite pussy, “Tony” by name, +who would daily follow me to church, and wait at the vestry door for my +reappearance after matin-prayers. But, alas, he acquired the poaching +habit, a sure path to destruction, as I learned one day to my sorrow in +passing the keeper’s gibbet at the end of a woodland glade. + +One of my rambles with this pussy I recall quite vividly. One afternoon +I set off across the wold intending to make pastoral visits upon a few +outlying cottagers. I had got about half a mile from home, and, looking +round, there was Tony just at my heels. I strolled along, and presently +heard a squealing, and out of a clump of nettles came my cat dragging a +plump rabbit. It was dead, and the cat, panting after his effort, looked +up at me, as much as to say, “You’re not going to leave it here, are +you?” Whereupon I remembered the saying of an old Gypsy, “If you had a +dog that brought a hare or a rabbit to your feet, wouldn’t it be flying +in the face of providence to refuse to take it?” So, picking up the +rabbit, I put it in one of the roomy pockets of my long-tailed coat, and +went on. The cat persisted in following. By and by, we drew near to a +disused quarry, where the cat captured a second rabbit, which went into +the other pocket of my long coat. By this time I began to feel the charm +of the sport of that gentleman who sallies forth on “a shiny night at the +season of the year.” The pastoral visits had now perforce to be +abandoned, but on turning my face homeward, oh, horrors! there, not a +hundred yards away, was a man on horseback, accompanied by a dog, and, +seeing them, my cat scooted along a gulley up the hill, and was gone. I +could not disappear quite so easily. However, as I did not altogether +fancy a strange dog sniffing at my coat-tails, I made a detour, and the +horseman passed a good way below me on the slope. You should have seen +my wife smile as I plumped two nice bunnies on the kitchen table. We +observed that those rabbits tasted quite as good as any you purchase at a +game-dealer’s stall in the market. + + * * * * * + +Gypsies, as all the world knows, are fond of the hedgehog. + +They do not keep him as a pet. They eat him, and roast hedgehog +accompanied with sage and onions is a dish for an episcopal table. I +never see one of these prickly fellows without being reminded of several +experiences. + +Once in passing along a town street on my way to the Archdeacon’s +Visitation, I noticed not far ahead of me an elderly woman stepping out +with a swinging stride. Her face I could not see, but she wore a +tattered shawl about her shoulders, and her black hair was done up in +small plaits like a horse’s mane at fair-time. “Gypsy,” said I to +myself, and, hastening alongside, I greeted her in the Romany tongue. +The words had a magical effect. Instantly she wheeled round and scanned +me up and down with a puzzled air. There before her, wearing an orthodox +collar and black coat, stood a parson who nevertheless talked like a +Gypsy. Now in common with some ladies of high degree, nearly all Gypsy +women enjoy a whiff of tobacco smoke. This old lady, however, declined a +gift of the weed on the ground that “the brantitus” had troubled her of +late, but she gladly stepped with me into a snug coffeehouse close by, +where over our steaming cups we conversed aloud in the Gypsy language, to +the complete mystification of the prim-looking manageress whose curiosity +kept her hovering near. What that good woman’s thoughts were, I have not +the faintest idea. I only know that she seemed amazed at the sight of a +Gypsy in easy intercourse with a simple-looking cleric who appeared to be +enjoying himself. Both, too, were speaking a queer-sounding language +understandable to each other, but utterly incomprehensible to the +listener. What could it all mean? Well, Gypsies at anyrate are not +without a sense of humour; indeed, no one enjoys a bit of fun more than +they. Taking in the situation at a glance, my Gypsy companion gave me a +sly look, and, waving her hand playfully, exclaimed, “Never mind him, +missis, he’s nobbut an Irishman, and can’t a boy and his mither talk a +word or two in their own language?” + +On my taking leave of the Gypsy mother, she bestowed this benison upon +me: “The Lord love you, my son, and _may you always have a big hedgehog +in your mouth_.” + +Hedgehog, as I have said, is a dainty dish with Gypsies, and the old +woman was no more than kindly wishing that there might ever be a titbit +ready to slip into my mouth. + + * * * * * + +I am not likely to forget the occasion of my first actual taste of this +Romany delicacy. + +Charley Watland (brother of “Durham” Mike), a wide traveller, had told me +much of the delights of a certain old-fashioned Midland horse-fair, +concluding one of his glowing descriptions by inviting me to meet him in +mid-September at this fair. Thus it came to pass that I set out one fine +morning with my face towards the distant hills of Leicestershire. Of the +day-long journey, I am now concerned only with its closing scenes. +Pushing up a long, tiring hill, I spied over a hedge in the dusk two or +three _vâdê_ (living-vans), some low tents with flickering fires before +them, and dark figures moving to and fro. With what energy I had left, I +climbed over a fence and made straight for the Gypsy fires. A tall +_Romanitshel_, leaning against a tree-bole, was singing snatches of a +song in which I caught the words _Beng_ (Devil) and _puri-dai_ +(grandmother), but, on seeing a stranger approach, he ceased. The Romany +greeting, which I flung on the evening air, caused a stoutish woman to +thrust her head from the doorway of the nearest caravan. + +“He’s one o’ the Lees, I’ll be bound. He talks like ’em. He’s come back +from over the _pâni_” (water). Which, being interpreted, meant that I +was a “lag’s” boy returned from over-sea. The idea tickled me so that I +laughed outright. + +Beside the fire which was burning brightly at the feet of the tall Gypsy +man, children and dogs were rolling over one another in perfect +happiness, and at my elbow a lad, peering into my face, exclaimed— + +“I’ll swop _diklo_s (kerchiefs) with you, _rai_.” + +“No, you won’t,” I replied; “mine’s silk and yours cotton.” + +“_Pen mandi_, _baw_” (Tell me, friend), I inquired of the tall man under +the trees, “Is Charley Watland here this time?” + +“_Keka_, _mi pal_, the _puro_’s _poger_’d his _hĕro_ (No, my brother, the +old man’s broken his leg) at Peterborough. He’s got kicked by a hoss, +and he’s in the infirmary.” This was bad news, for I had hoped to meet +my friend here and spend the night with him. + + [Picture: Round the camp-fire. Photo. F. R. Hinkins] + +A little way across the fields the lights of a village gleamed through +the darkness, and, making my way thither, I sought for a resting-place, +but in vain. Every available bed was already engaged. In and out of the +taverns passed horse-dealers and rollicking Gypsies. Groups of Romany +lads and lasses stood talking in the lane. Burly women with foaming jugs +bumped against you in the shadows. Between the barking of dogs and the +whinnying of horses, a word or two of Romany floated now and then to +one’s ear. + + [Picture: A child of the caravan. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +Tired after my day in the open air, I turned into a by-lane to think +matters over. A gentle wind rustled the leaves on the trees, and on the +eastern horizon a growing light told of approaching moon-rise. I sat on +a fence and watched Old Silver appear above the hills. Away from the +village, I began to notice the sights and sounds of night. An owl on +velvety wing fluttered by. Little birds cheeped in the thicket behind +me. Field-mice squeaked in the grass on the bank. I began to feel cut +off from the world. What was I to do? Walk about all night? Make a bed +on the bracken in a neighbouring wood? Renew my search for a more +civilized couch in one or other of the adjacent villages? Tramp down the +long dusty road to a small town some few miles off, where I knew of more +than one snug hostelry? Why indeed? Was I not out for adventure? I +resolved to ask the Gypsies to give me a bed. Therefore, without further +ado, I slipped through a gap in the hedge, and made tracks for the Gypsy +fires already mentioned. + +“Hello, here’s the _rai_ back again.” It was the tall Gypsy’s wife who +spoke. My tale was soon told, and I was promptly offered a corner under +Arthur West’s tilt-hood placed tent-wise on the ground. Now that my mind +was at ease, I sat me down by the fire near which a savoury smell of +supper arose. It was astonishing how quickly we cleaned the bones of +several bird-like objects set before us. + +“Did you ever taste of these little things afore?” + +“Well, whatever they are, I shouldn’t mind if they had been larger.” + +At this they all laughed aloud. + +“_Dawdi_, the _rai_ doesn’t _jin_ he’s _haw_’d _hotshwitshi_” (Fancy, the +gentleman doesn’t know he’s eaten hedgehog). + +So this was the much-vaunted Romany dish, nor did it disappoint me. The +blended flavours of pheasant and sucking-pig are still present to my +memory as I recall that moonlit meal washed down by a jug of brown ale. + +On awaking next morning, I realized the truth of the saying, “Gypsies get +something straight from heaven which is never known to people who sleep +in stuffy houses and get up to wash in warm water.” + +When I recall awakenings in lodgings with the bedclothes, valances, +curtains, falderals, antimacassars, all heavy with suggestions of +humanity, I marvel no more at the Gypsy’s choice of a bed of crisp +bracken or sweet straw, with maybe a wisp of dried river-mint or wild +thyme mingled with it. + +Walking bare-foot in the dewy grass with the Gypsy children, we made our +toilet together in the open, with the light airs of the wold playing +about us. Then came breakfast by the wood fire, and during the meal my +host’s donkey affectionately put his cold nose on the bare of my neck. +In a little while we stood on the common where the fair was in full +swing, and, strolling among the horses and dealers, I spied a +curly-haired son of old Horace Boswell, just arrived from Leicester, who +found time to tell me a funny tale about his father. + +Since early morn Horace had been riding a lively horse, and, dismounting, +handed the reins to a pal and walked a few yards into the fair. As he +was looking about him, he lighted upon George Smith of Coalville, who, +arching his bushy eyebrows and stroking his great beard, stood shocked at +the sight of a Gypsy walking unsteadily. As a matter of fact, Horace’s +legs had not yet thrown off the cramp of many hours’ riding on a skittish +animal. When solemn George opened his mouth it was to ask a question— + +“Do you drink beer, my good man?” + +“Well, my kind gentleman,” replied Horace, “afore I answers that +question, I’d reely like to know whether it’s a simple inquiry or an +inwitation.” + +This was too much for the worthy philanthropist who, turning swiftly on +his heel, went his way swinging his Gladstone-bag and gingham. + +About the middle of the afternoon I sought out my hospitable friend +Arthur West before quitting the fair, and, looking me straight in the +eyes, he said, “Are you quite sure that you have enough _lova_ (money) to +see you home? For if I thought you hadn’t, I should chuck a handful on +the _drom_ (road) and leave it for you to pick up.” + +How shall we ever get you to understand the spirit of these wanderers; +you who coddle yourselves in hot, close rooms; who are wedded to the life +of a mill-horse jogging in convention’s dusty track, and whose souls are +imprisoned within the dimensions of a red-ochred flower-pot? + + + + +CHAPTER V +A GYPSY BAPTISM—ROMANY NAMES + + +QUITTING the Wolds, described in the preceding chapter, I took up my +abode in a large village situated on Lincoln Heath, where I had further +opportunities of pursuing my Gypsy studies round about home. + +In a sinuous turfy lane which ran behind our house, the Gypsies would +pitch their camp from time to time, and one of these wandering families +conceived the notion of renting a cottage in the village. In my mind’s +eye I can see that little house, wearing a lost, desolate air. It stood +in a walled-in yard, where loose stones lay strewn, and the ridge of the +red-tiled roof sunken in the middle threatened a collapse. + +Unaccustomed to sleeping under a roof, and a rickety one at that, the +Gypsies fled in alarm from their chamber one wild, boisterous night, +fearing lest the chimney-pots should tumble in upon them. Near by stood +their green caravan, and snugly abed therein they felt secure from all +harm. Next day a timid rap came at the Rectory door, and a black-eyed +girl whispered in my ear that her mother would like the baby, a few hours +old, to be christened. This I did, and a day or two afterwards I was +agreeably surprised to meet the Gypsy mother with her baby taking the +fresh air on the high road. What mother in any other rank of life could +carry her child in the open so soon after its birth? + +“It’s a way we have,” said Walter Heron, when explaining to me that a +plate, cup, and saucer are set apart for the mother’s use during the four +weeks following the birth of a child. The vessels are then destroyed in +accordance with an old puerperal tabu. This custom is still observed in +all good Romany families. + +Tom Lee, an English Gypsy, broke up a loaf of bread and strewed the +crumbs around his tent when his son Bendigo was born, for some of the +old-time Gypsies hold the notion that bread possesses a protective magic +against evil influences. Seated one day in the tent of Bendigo Lee on +the South Shore at Blackpool, I questioned him about his father’s +practice. “In the days when I was born,” he replied, “there were people +that could do hurt by looking at you, and I s’pose my _dadus_ (father) +sprinkled the crumbs lest any evil person going by should cast harm upon +me.” + +A distinct survival of the belief in the evil eye. + + * * * * * + +Romany “fore,” or Christian names, {53} are often peculiar, and afford +much material for reflection. + +Whence come such names as Khulai, Maireni, Malini, Mori, Shuri? In these +names Sir Richard Temple discerns Indian forms or terminations. The +Anglo-Romany names, Fenela, Siari, and Trenit, have been identified by +Mr. H. T. Crofton with the Continental forms, Vennel, Cihari, and +Tranitza, the last being a common feminine Gypsy name in Hungary. + +Euphonious and out-of-the-way names are irresistible to the Gypsy. + +“What metal is that box made of, sir?” asked a Gypsy mother on seeing a +gentleman’s cigarette-case. + +“Aluminium,” was the reply. + +“What a beautiful name for my gell’s baby!” + +According to Charles G. Leland, a Gypsy father, hearing two gentlemen +talking about Mount Vesuvius, was greatly impressed by the name, and +consulted with them as to the propriety of giving it to his little boy. + +Gypsies dislike to be addressed by their peculiar “fore” or Christian +names in the presence of _gawjê_; hence to the postman, Ènos become Amos, +Fèmi—Amy, and Poley—George, and so on. As a rule, you find a Gypsy is +unwilling to impart his true name to a stranger. May not this reluctance +be due to a lingering subconscious belief that the possession of one’s +true name would enable a stranger to work harmful spells upon the owner? + +Time was when the belief was widely spread that the utterance of a man’s +true name drew him to the speaker. Medieval records are full of +legendary accounts of spirits who were summoned by the casual +pronunciation of their names. Until lately there were peasants in the +North of Ireland and Arran who absolutely refused to tell their names to +a stranger because such knowledge, it was believed, would enable him to +“call” them, no matter how far he was from them, and whenever he cared to +do so. They also believed that any spell worked on the written name +would have the same effect as if worked on the owner. + +It is a fact that not a few Gypsy surnames are identical with those of +ancient noble families, _e.g._ Boswell, or Bosville (sometimes contracted +to Boss), Gray, Heron, Hearne, or Herne, Lees, Lovells, and Stanleys. It +has been surmised, by way of explanation, that the Gypsies soon after +their arrival in this country adopted the surnames of the owners of the +estates on which particular hordes usually encamped, or the names of +those landed families who afforded protection to the persecuted +wanderers. + +Speaking of the Gypsies, Gilbert White of Selborne, says, “One of these +tribes calls itself by the noble name of Stanley.” This mention of the +Stanleys reminds me that once on Gonerby Hill, near Grantham, on the +Great North Road, I met a young man who looked like a mechanic out of +work, yet his bearing was that of a Gypsy. In our talk he admitted that +he was of Romany blood. He had been a horseman in Lord George Sanger’s +circus, but something had gone wrong and he was thrown out of employ. At +first he gave his name as Richardson (not a Gypsy name), but he +afterwards told me that his grandfather, a Stanley, had been transported, +for which reason the family assumed the name of Richardson. + + + + +CHAPTER VI +I MAKE A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + + +FOR several years I was curate-in-charge of a parish abutting upon the +Great North Road, and during that time I used to meet many Gypsies on the +famous highway. There passed along it members of the Boswell clan, +making their way from Edinburgh to London; the dark Herons, after +spending the summer months in the Northern Counties, came by this route +to their winter quarters at Nottingham; a lawless horde of Lovells also +knew this road well. Sometimes these Gypsies would turn aside from the +dusty highway for a brief rest in the green lanes across an adjacent +river, but they rarely tarried longer than a day. With one of these +Gypsies I became intimately acquainted, and this is how our friendship +began. + +One May morning I had been strolling along the aforesaid road, and, +turning towards the river where it is spanned by an old mill-bridge, I +loitered there in expectation of the arrival of a pack of otter-hounds, +visitors from another county; for complaints had long been accumulating +to the effect that _Lutra_ had been making depredations among the fish, +game, and poultry all along the reaches of the river. Adjoining the +bridge was a watermill where often might be heard the humming of the +great wheel and the roar of foam-flecked water. Mellowed by time’s +gentle touch, the irregular outlines of the building seemed verily as if +arranged to be imaged on canvas; timbers and weathered stones were +everywhere mottled with rosettes of orange and grey lichen, and when the +sunbeams warmed the tints and tones of the old mill into rich masses of +colour you experienced a thrill which made you wish to repeat it. + +A little way off, our river was crossed by a shallow ford rarely used by +vehicular traffic, which mostly passed by the bridge. Once a year, +however, the miller closed the bridge in order to preserve a right-of-way +through his yard, and on this occasion toll was taken of every cart, +while a free way was allowed by the ford. But the astute fellow usually +arranged that the closing of the bridge should coincide with a market day +at the nearest town, and he would choose a time when the river was +swollen by flood-water beyond its ordinary dimensions, thus rendering the +ford a dangerous crossing. + +After waiting awhile, a murmur of deep voices broke upon my ear, as with +a rush and a splash about a score of bonny, rough-coated dogs burst into +view round a bend in the stream. It was not in my plans to follow the +dogs, so when the pack and its excited companions had gone by, I +proceeded leisurely along a lane leading towards the green uplands +looking down upon the valley. + +A little way up the lane I came upon two dark-featured lads, and, going +up to one of them who was tacking strips of straw-plait upon the top of a +three-legged table, I said— + +“You seem very busy this morning.” + +“We must do something for a living.” + +“You’re certainly a good hand at your business. How long are you +stopping here?” + +“That’s more nor I know.” (This with a shrewd look at me from top to +toe.) “Ax grandfather, up yonder wi’ the hosses.” + +Higher up the lane, and almost hidden by outlying tangles of bramble and +wild-rose, sat a man of sixty or more, puffing tobacco smoke from his +black clay, and near him on the wayside three horses ripped the tender +grasses. + +Looking up at me with a start, the man said— + +“Well, you fairly took me by surprise, sir. For a wonder I never heard +you a-coming. I must be getting deaf.” + +“_Romanitshel_?” (Gypsy) I queried. + +“_Âvali_, _mi tshavo_” (Yes, my son), he replied; “you’s been among our +people, that’s plain, or you wouldn’t talk like you do. Mebbe you’s +heard tell o’ Jonathan Boswell—that’s me. But I must be off now with +these here hosses to the smithy. We’s _besh_in _akai_ (stopping here) +for a day or two. Our wagon’s in the _kitshima_ (tavern) yard just past +the mill.” + +“Well, Jonathan, I want you to bring one of those Gypsy-tables the boys +are making to my place this afternoon; don’t fail to come. I shall _dik +avrî_ for _tîro mui_ about _trin ora_” (look out for your face about +three o’clock). + +“Right, I’ll be there, _raia_.” + +In due course the Gypsy presented himself at my door in company with his +two grandsons, and among them they carried three tables. I had only +asked for one, but Jonathan was such a “find” that I gladly purchased all +the articles and bade the little party follow me into the garden. The +two grandsons displayed a remarkable knowledge of trees, which they were +able to identify not merely by their foliage, but by the character of +their bark. Wild birds they knew by note and flight as well as by +plumage. There is so much a Gypsy boy knows about nature. + +How meagre, by contrast, is the information possessed by the average +County Council schoolboy; which reminds me that I was once giving an +object-lesson to a class of fifth-standard children attending our village +school. We were seated on a river bank whose insect life and botanical +treasures I had been pointing out to an interested group of listeners. +As nothing had been said about the scaly denizens of the stream, I +concluded my talk by putting a question to the entire class. + +“Hands up, those who can tell me the names of any fish to be found in +this river.” + +Quickly a dozen pink palms were uplifted, and I could see that several +lips were bursting with information. Imagine my surprise when I was +informed—“red-herring, sprats, and mackerel.” + +On the following evening I went across the fields to see my friends by +the watermill. The amber light of sunset was falling upon green hedge +and rippling river. From a thorn bush a nightingale jug-jugged +deliciously. There was poetry in the air. Nor was it dispelled by the +discovery that my friends had drawn their “house on wheels” into the +grassy lane leading down to the ford. + +Seated on a mound of sand, Jonathan was chatting with a stranger who had +the looks of an Irishman. I joined them, but no sooner had I dropped a +word or two of Romany than the stranger arose, saying, “I don’t +understand your talk, so I’d better be going.” He then left us, and, +seeing he had gone away, old Fazenti, Jonathan’s wife, stepped down from +the living-wagon, and our discourse became considerably enlivened by her +presence. + +Speaking of _duker_in (fortune-telling), she said, “It’ll go on while the +world lasts,” which was Fazzy’s way of saying that the credulous will be +in the world after the poor have left it. “It’s the hawking-basket that +gi’s us our chance, don’t you _dik_ (see)? I takes care never to be +without my licence, and the _muskro_ (policeman) would have to get up +wery early to catch old Fazzy asleep. Did I ever have any _mulo-mas_? +{61} Many’s the time I’ve had a bit. In spring, when lambs are about, +that’s the time for _mulo-mas_. + +“A good country for hedgehogs is this, but we don’t eat ’em in the +spring. The back end of the year is the best time for ’em; there’s a bit +of flesh on ’em then. When you find one, if he’s rolled up in a ball, +you rub his back with a stick right down his spine, and he’ll open out +fast enough. Then you hit him hard on the nose, and he’s as dead as a +door nail. The old way of cooking him was to cover him with clay and +bake him in the fire. When he was cooked you tapped the clay ball, and +the prickles and skin came away with the clay. Nowadays we burn down the +bristles, then shave ’em off, draw and clean him and roast him on a spit +before a hot fire. He’s wery good with _puvengri_s (potatoes), sage, and +onions. _Bouri_s (snails) are good to eat in winter. You get them in a +hard frost from behind old stumps of trees. You put salt on ’em and they +make fine broth. Wery strengthening is _bouri-zimen_” (snail broth). + + [Picture: A rest by the way. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +While we were conversing, Jonathan’s grandsons passed by with a lurcher. + +“A useful dog, that, I should think,” said I. + +“_Kushto yek sî dova_ for _shushiaw_ and _kanengrê_” (A good one is that +for rabbits and hares), replied the old man. “I minds well the day I +bought him off a man with a pot-cart as was stopping along with us. We’d +got leave from a farmer to draw into a lane running between some clover +fields, and we were just sitting down to a cup o’ tea when a keeper comes +along and says— + +“‘I’m afraid some of you fellows have been up to mischief, because +there’s a hare in a snare along this hedge.’ + +“‘Then it’s somebody else’s snare, not ours,’ I says, ‘for we’s only just +got here, and yon farmer as give us leave to stop will tell you the same +if you ask him.’ + +“‘Well, see here,’ says the keeper, ‘there’s a rabbit for your pot. Keep +a sharp look out, and mind you let me know if anybody comes to fetch that +hare. There’s my cottage up yonder.’ + +“Then he went away, and would you believe it, a bit after the moon got up +we see a man coming across the field and straight to that snare he went, +and as he was taking the hare out of it, there was a tap on his shoulder +from the keeper. Now, who do you think the man was that got catched so +nicely? _It was the willage policeman_. And that night I bought that +here _jukel_ (dog), I did, and me and the dog had a fine time among the +_shushiaw_ (rabbits) after the keeper and the policeman had gone away. +About a week after, the _muskro_ (policeman) had to appear in court, and +a wery poor figure he cut afore the _pukinger_ (magistrate). You see, he +was catched proper, and couldn’t get out of it no-how. The pot-cart man +and me had to go up as witnesses.” + +“You’ll know this countryside well, I expect. Do you ever spend the +night in Dark Lane, as I believe they call it?” + +“One time we used to stop there a lot, _rai_, but they won’t let us now. +How’smiver, we _hatsh odoi_ (encamp there) for a _râti_ (night) at odd +times, spite of everybody.” + +This remark was accompanied by a half-smothered chuckle from Jonathan, +who, while filling his pipe from my tobacco pouch, seemed to be +ruminating upon a reminiscence which presently came out. + +The said lane lies pleasantly between a neighbouring village and the +river, and about the month of May the grass down there begins to be +sweet, but woe to the Gypsies whom the constable finds encamped +thereabouts. + +Jonathan went on to tell how he and his party once passed a night very +happily there when the may-buds were bursting. And this is how it was +done. + +In a wayside tavern the Gypsy had heard it whispered that the County +Police had gone to the town for the annual inspection, which involved a +temporary absence of the constables from their respective localities. +But, to make quite sure of this, on arriving at the village of F—, +Jonathan sought out a certain cottage and thus addressed himself to a +constable’s wife— + +“Is the sergeant at home?” + +“No, my man. What do you want him for?” + +“A pony of mine has gone astray, and I want him to let me know if he +hears anything about it. Perhaps he’ll be at home to-night?” + +“He won’t, I’m afraid.” + +“Thank you, ma’am.” + +Thus Jonathan camped down Dark Lane with impunity. + +One morning shortly after my meeting with Jonathan, a Gypsy mother called +at my Rectory. She led her black-eyed, five-year-old boy by the hand. +Brown as a berry, the handsome little fellow would have served admirably +for an artist’s model, and his mother had many pleasing touches of Gypsy +colour about her attire. From beneath a bright red _diklo_ (kerchief) +which she wore, a few black curls straggled out on to her forehead, and a +gay bodice showed under her green shawl. The woman said that she had +heard so much of me from her father—Jonathan Boswell—that she had come on +purpose to see me. I invited her into the kitchen, and over bread and +cheese and ale we chatted. + +“Ain’t we all delated, _raia_, come to think of it? There’s a Man above +as made us all.” + +Quickly I made friends with the little boy, and at my request his mother +afforded our household no small delight by leaving her son with us for +the day. The tiny lad was entirely unaccustomed to house ways, and his +behaviour was a study. On seeing a Christmas card with the Christ-child +lying in the manger guarded by a white-winged angel, he exclaimed, “I +know what that is” (pointing to the heavenly visitant); “we often sees +’em flying over the fields. _It’s a seagull_.” + +With great readiness he joined in the games of my children, such as +shuttlecock and battledore, skipping, and the like. Sitting at a table +for a meal was evidently a novel experience for the little chap, and it +was amusing to see him slip off his chair and squat on the hearthrug, +putting his plate on his knee as though a Gypsy boy ought not to do +exactly as the _gawjê_, and he used his fingers freely in lieu of fork +and spoon. After the meal we sat round the fire, and talked of his life +on the road. + +“I found a hen’s nest in the hedge-bottom, this morning, I did.” + +“Any eggs in?” I asked. + +“Yes; three.” + +“Did you take them?” + +“No, I left ’em—_till there was more_.” + +Then I told him fairy tales of green woods, ghosts, and goblins, and he +became excited, springing once or twice from his chair, as if he would +like to have danced about the room. + +“Oh, I knows a lot about _mulo_s” (ghosts), said the little Gypsy. +“There’s different sorts—milk-white ’uns and coal-black ’uns. When we’re +abed at nights, they come screaming round our wagon and flapping at the +windows. My daddy gets his gun and shoots, then we hears ’em no more for +a bit. But they are soon back agen, and I’m that frit when I hears ’em, +I can’t sleep. When mammy’s going out with her basket of a morning, and +daddy’s gone somewhere to see about a hoss, I daren’t go far into the big +wood agen our stopping-place, ’cos of the black pig what lives there. +Daddy has seen it, and nobody can’t kill it, for you can bang a stick +right through it without hurting it. Mammy allus says, ‘Don’t you never +go into that wood, else the black pig’ll get you.’” + +We showed him picture books, and, pointing to an ass and a foal, he said, +“My daddy’s got a little donkey just like that, three months old, and +when it’s bigger I shall ride on it, like that man’s doing in the +pictur’.” + +We rambled in the Rectory garden, and he quickly found a hedgehog in its +nest. All the senses of this little fellow were extremely alert. + +In the early evening his mother returned for him, and their meeting was a +pretty sight. Placing her hawking-basket on the ground, she picked up +her laddie in her arms and kissed him. Slowly the pair walked away, +casting more than one backward glance at the house. + +A few days later, news reached me of a Gypsy arrival in a green lane +about a mile from my Rectory. I therefore hastened across the fields, +and, long before sighting the party, whiffs of wood-smoke, which the +breeze brought my way, told that they were already encamped. On reaching +the spot, Farmer W—’s best bullock pasture, I spied Jonathan’s cart along +with other vehicles drawn up with their backs towards a high hedge. +There were fires on the grass, and from family groups merry voices rang +out on the air. In the lane a troop of children were hovering around a +little black donkey, a pretty young foal, which allowed them to fondle it +to their hearts’ content. What a picture it was which greeted +me—tree-boles, tilt-carts, and hedgerows lit up by the fading sunlight, +and the blue smoke of the fires wafted about the undulating field dipping +down to the river. Quickly I dropped into a corner by one of the fires, +and the mirth was just at its height when up rode Farmer W— on his +chestnut cob. + + [Picture: A Wayside Idyl. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +“Where’s that scamp of a Boswell?” he shouted angrily. + +Jonathan stepped forward, hanging his head somewhat. + +“What does all this mean?” asked the farmer. “I thought it was only for +yourself that you begged leave to stop here. Who the divil’s all this +gang?” + +“I really couldn’t help it,” said Jonathan. “They stuck to me, and would +come in. They’re all delations of mine, don’t you see, sir?” + +A look from the Gypsy made me step forward and plead for the party, which +I did with success. + + [Picture: Children of the Open Air. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +About the middle of June I was again in Old Boswell’s company. Under a +hedge pink with wild-roses, we sat smoking and waiting for the fair to +begin on Stow Green, a South Lincolnshire common. Already horses were +assembling and dealers were beginning to arrive in all sorts of +conveyances. Hot sunshine blazed down upon the common, whose only +building was a wretched-looking lockup, around which lounged several +representatives of the county constabulary. Wandering in and about the +motley throng, I caught a whisper going the round that a fight was to +take place before the end of the day. It had been explained to me that +this fight was not the result of any quarrel arising at the fair. It had +been arranged long beforehand. Whenever a difference arose between two +families, champions were told off to fight the matter out at Stow Green +Fair. + +Somewhere about the middle of the afternoon, as the business began to +slacken, a number of people were seen to move to one corner of the +common. Evidently something was afoot. I wandered across and found a +crowd consisting mainly of Gypsies, and in order to get a better view, I +climbed upon a trestle table outside a booth. In the middle of a ring of +people stood two of the dark Grays, stripped to the waist, and, at a +signal given by an elderly man, the combatants put up their “maulers” and +the fight began. It was by no means a one-sided contest, the men being +well matched with regard to weight and strength. Blow followed blow in +quick succession, and at the first drawing of blood the Gypsy onlookers +became excited, and the entire crowd began to surge to and fro. Of +course, the police hurried up, but soon perceived that it was useless to +interfere. + +“Let ’em have it out,” cried many voices. After a breathing space, the +fighters again closed in, and, parting a little, one of them stepped back +a pace or two and, springing towards his opponent, dealt him a heavy blow +which determined the battle, and all was over. At this juncture, the +table on which I and others stood suddenly gave way, and we were +precipitated to the grass, but no harm was done, beyond a few bruises and +the shattering of sundry jugs and glasses. + +An echo of a fighting song haunts me as I recall this Gypsy contest on +Stow Green— + + “Whack it on the grinders, thump it on the jaw, + Smack it on the tater-trap a dozen times or more. + Slap it on the snuff-box, make the claret fly, + Thump it on the jaw again, never say die.” + +After the fair was over I sat under a hedge and took tea with Jonathan +and Fazenti. + +A hare’s back adorned my plate. + +“Why, mother, I didn’t know that this was in season.” + +“My _dinelo_ (simpleton), don’t you _jin_ (know) _it’s always in season +with the likes of us_?” + + + + +CHAPTER VII +THE BLACKPOOL GYPSYRY + + +IT has been said that if an architect, a caterer, and a poet were +commissioned to construct out of our existing south and east coast +resorts a place which, in its appeal to the million, might compare with +Blackpool, they would utterly fail, a saying not to be questioned for a +moment. + +Yet the sight which thrilled me most, as I beheld it years ago, was not +the cluster of gilded pleasure-palaces in the town, but the gay Gypsyry +squatting on the sand-dunes at the extremity of the South Shore. +Living-vans of green and gold with their flapping canvas covers; domed +tents whose blankets of red and grey had faded at the touch of sun and +wind; boarden porches and outgrowths of a fantastic character, the work +of Romany carpenters; unabashed advertisements announcing Gypsy queens +patronized by duchesses and lords; bevies of black-eyed, wheedling +witches eager to pounce upon the stroller into Gypsydom; and troops of +fine children, shock-headed and jolly—all these I beheld in the Gypsyry +which is now no more. “Life enjoyed to the last” might well have been +its epitaph. + +Those were the days of Old Sarah Boswell and her nephews Kenza and Oscar; +Johnny and Wasti Gray; Elijah Heron and his son Poley; Bendigo and +Morjiana Purum; the vivacious Robinsons; Dolferus Petulengro and Noarus +Tâno; some of whom, alas, “have joined the people whom no true Romany +will call by name.” + + [Picture: On the Look-Out. Photo. T. J. Lewis] + +Hot June sunshine flooded the sandhills on the afternoon of my entry into +the encampment, which, by the way, was made strategetically from the +rear. Thus it was that I lighted upon the retired tent of the oldest +occupants of the Gypsyry. Unlike the alert and expectant Romany mothers +and maids who hovered about this Gypsy town’s front gate, Ned Boswell’s +widow sat drowsing at the tent door, overpowered by the midsummer heat. +I was about to turn away, intending to revisit the old lady later on, +when her son Alma, the lynx-eyed, popped upon me from round the corner, +and in a sandy hollow a little way off we were soon deep in conversation. + +“Now, _rashai_,” said Alma, after we had talked awhile, “there’s one +thing I would like to ask you. Where do you think us _Romanitshel_s +reely origin’d from?” + +Here I was confronted by a question which has been asked throughout the +ages, and addressed to myself how many times? + +Who are the Gypsies, and where did they come from? Bulky tomes have been +filled with scholarly speculations upon these questions, and so varied +have been the conclusions arrived at that we appear to be no nearer to +the solution of the mystery than when about the year 1777 the German +Rudiger first made known to the world that the Gypsies spoke an Indian +dialect, which discovery is said “to have injured more than it served in +the quest after the origin of the Gypsies, because it has prevented +scholars from searching for it.” Taking philology for our guide, we may +believe that the ancestors of our Gypsies tarried for centuries in +North-West India, a region which they quitted with their faces set +towards the west not later than about 1000 A.D. To quote the words of an +authority {73} on the linguistic side of the problem: “Their language +proves that they once inhabited Northern India, but as no Indian writers +have left any documents describing this people, their mode of life in +India, and the most interesting point of all, why they emigrated, must +for ever remain a matter for conjecture. It is, however, surprising what +can be proved from our present knowledge of their language, which, it is +generally admitted, must rank as an independent eighth among the seven +modern Indian languages of the Aryan stock, based on Sanskrit. To begin +with, the grammatical peculiarities of the language of the Gypsies +resemble those of the modern Aryan languages of India so closely that it +is impossible not to believe that they were developed side by side. +Comparing Gypsy and Hindi, for example, we find that their declensions +are based exactly on the same principle, that neither has a real genitive +case, that both decline their adjectives only when used as nouns. Now it +is generally held that these modern forms came slowly into existence +throughout the eleventh century, when the old synthetical structure of +the Sanskrit was broken up and thrown into confusion, but not quite lost, +while the modern auxiliary verbs and prepositions were as yet hardly +fully established in their stead. Therefore, it is extremely unlikely +that the Gypsies left India before the tenth century, when they could +have carried away with them, so to speak, the germs of the new +construction, absorbed on Indian soil.” + +From the words they borrowed from Persia, Armenia, and Greece, we know +that the wanderers passed through these countries on their way westward, +but, since no Arabic or Coptic words are found in the Gypsy tongue, we +infer that they were never in Egypt. The theory of the Egyptian origin +of the _Romanitshel_s probably arose from legends which they themselves +set afloat. + +Two stories were repeated by the Gypsies. They said that they were +Egyptian penitents on a seven years’ pilgrimage. The Saracens had +attacked them in Egypt, and, having surrendered to their enemies, they +became Saracens themselves and denied Christ. Now, as a penance, they +were ordered to travel for seven years without sleeping in a bed. A +second story was that their exile was a punishment for the sin of having +refused hospitality to Joseph and the Virgin Mary when they fled into +Egypt with the newborn Christ-child to escape the anger of Herod. + +Associated with the Gypsies are other legends which may have been +invented by them for similar purposes. An old tradition asserts that +Caspar, one of the three Magi, was a Gypsy, and that it was he who (as +their ruler) first converted them to the Christian religion. The +Lithuanian Gypsies say that stealing has been permitted in their favour +by God because the Gypsies, being present at the Crucifixion, stole one +of the four nails, and therefore God allows them to steal, and it is not +accounted a sin to them. + +Needless to say, the foregoing statements were not delivered to Alma +Boswell. Of their actual history the Anglo-Romany folk know nothing, but +this does not prevent them from holding some curious notions about +themselves. So, in response to Alma’s question about the origin of the +Gypsies, I replied that great scholars believed his race to have come +from India. + +“Oh, I think they’re wrong,” said Alma. “Far more likely we came from +the land of Bethlehem. Being a _rashai_ (parson), you’ll know the Bible, +I suppose, from cover to cover. Well, you’ve heard of the man called +Cain. Now, don’t the Old Book say that he went away and married a +black-eyed camper-gal, one of our roving folks? I reckons we sprang from +them. We was the first people what the dear Lord made, and mebbe we +shall be the last on earth. When all the rest is wore out, there’ll +still be a few of our folks travelling with tents and wagons.” + +Such was Alma’s idea of the origin of the Gypsies. + +“But there,” he continued, “you must read my Uncle Westarus’s big book +all about our people. There was a doctor and a lawyer, wery kind +gentlemen, real _bawrê raiaw_ (swells), who used to talk to my uncle for +hours on end, and they wrote down every word he said, and then he wrote +them a sight of letters, wery long ones, and they are all of ’em in +print. So if you reads that book, you’ll larn all as is’ known about +us.” + +Alma’s Uncle Westarus was certainly a remarkable Gypsy, possessing quite +a library, which he carried about with him on his travels. It is on +record that at the age of fifty-five his library included several volumes +of fiction, history, poetry, and science, a large Bible, a Church of +England Prayer Book, Burns’s _Justice_, as well as English, Greek, and +Latin dictionaries. + +For the information of those who may not already know it, the volume +designated by Alma “my uncle’s book” is a most valuable _vade mecum_ for +Gypsy students entitled _The Dialect of the English Gypsies_, by Dr. Bath +Smart and Mr. H. T. Crofton. + +There was a strong dash of Gypsy pride in Alma’s remark that the Boswells +were the only real Gypsies left. “These others all about us are _kek +tatsho_” (not genuine), he said, with a wave of the hand; “they’re only +half-breeds.” + +“But,” I queried, “are not the Herons and Lees good Gypsies?” Then, +veering from his first statement, he admitted that the families I had +named might be allowed a place among the old roots. + +Then followed a discussion about grades of Gypsy blood. These were +classified by Alma— + +1. The Black _Romanitshel_s, “the real thing.” + +2. The _Didakai_s, or half-breeds, who pronounce the Romany words _dik +akai_ (look here) as _did akai_. + +3. Hedge-crawlers, or mumpers. “There’s a lot of ’em up London way,” +said Alma. “We’d scorn to go near the likes of them—a _tshikli_ (dirty) +lot, not Gypsies at all.” + +In his last remark Alma certainly hit the nail on the head. The +distinction between the Gypsy and the mumper cannot be too strongly +emphasized. Anyone who has known members of our old Gypsy families, such +as the Boswells, Grays, Herons, Lees, Lovells, Smiths, Stanleys, and +Woods, will never again make the grave error of confounding the Gypsy +with the mumper. + +Rising from our hollow in the sand, we walked a little way between the +tents, and when Alma took the railway crossing for a ramble in the town, +I betook myself to his mother’s tent. Having just aroused from sleep, +the old lady was somewhat absent-minded, but she was quickly on the alert +at hearing my greeting in Romany. + +“What gibberish is it you’re talking, my gentleman?” + +“You understand it well enough, I’m thinking, mother.” + +So blank was her look, so well-feigned her ignorance, that for the nonce +it seemed that after all the ancient language of the tents was a delusion +and a dream. + +Then methought of a plan I had tried before. Having for many years made +a study of Gypsy pedigrees, I have often been able to give a temporary +shock to a Gypsy’s mind by telling him the names of his +great-grandfathers and of his uncles and aunts, paternal and maternal. +“How came you to know all this, Mr. Hall?” my Gypsy will ask. “You +certainly don’t look an old man.” + +It was now my turn to pretend ignorance. + +“If it’s not being very inquisitive, Mrs. Boswell, I am wondering what +your maiden-name may have been?” + +“That I won’t tell you, and nobody in this town knows what it was.” + +“Is that really so? Fancy, no one in Blackpool knows your maiden-name.” + +“Not a soul.” (This very solemnly.) + +“Then what if I can tell you?” + +“Well, what was it, my gentleman?” eyeing me curiously. + +“You are one of the Drapers—Old Israel’s daughter, if I’m not mistaken” +(looking straight into her large eyes as though reading the information +at the back of her brain), “and your two sisters were Rodi and Lani.” + +If a stone figure had spoken, she could scarcely have looked more amazed, +and, quite forgetting herself, she exclaimed— + +“_Av adrê_, _mi tshavo_, and _besh tălê_” (Come inside, my son, and sit +down). + +Mrs. Boswell’s manner was now so amiable, and her voice so soft, that as +she handed me cake and tea, I felt as if I had known her all my life. +All who have ever met a pure-bred Gypsy will know what Romany politeness +is, and how charming a sense of the fitness of things these wanderers +possess. As one who has worked hard at Gypsy genealogy, I have myself +often been surprised at one thing. A member of the _kawlo rat_ (black +blood) will betray no inquisitiveness in regard to his tiresome +interlocutor who may be a perfect stranger to him. How many of us, I +wonder, would care to be subjected to such an inquisition as we sometimes +inflict upon a Gypsy by our interrogations as to his ancestry? Yet the +Gypsy apparently takes it all with complacence and good humour. + +When taking mine ease behind the scenes in a Gypsy camp, it has often +amused me to observe how extremes meet. After all, the tastes of the +high and the low are not so very far removed. If the duchess is proud of +her blue blood and her ancestral tree, so is the Gypsy of her black blood +and lengthy pedigree. I have known “swells” who liked their game so +“high” that it almost ran into the fields again, a taste akin to the +Gypsy’s liking for _mulo-mas_. The Gypsy mother’s love for her black +cutty joins hands with the after-dinner cigarette in my lady’s boudoir. +It goes without saying that politeness is a stamp of both extremes. + +In the cool of the evening I wandered inland to a sequestered camp, where +Isaac and Sinfai Heron, those aristocrats of their race, sat by their +fire in an angle where two hedgerows met. + +“We likes a bit o’ quiet, you see,” said the slender, gracious Sinfai, +when I asked why they had pitched on a spot so far from Blackpool’s South +Shore. + +“Get the _rai_ one o’ the rugs to _besh oprê_” (sit upon), said Isaac to +his grandson Walter, who trotted off briskly to a large tent, and +reappeared with a smartly striped coverlet, which he spread for me +beneath the hedge. A second grandson, with a similar alacrity, set off +at Sinfai’s bidding to find sticks for the fire. The devotion of these +lads to their grandparents seemed to spring from a sense of comradery +rather than reverence, and the quaint deference paid in turn by the old +people to the boys impressed me not a little—a thing I have often +observed in Romany camps. + +Old Isaac’s memory carried him back to Mousehold Heath of the long ago, +and, listening to his talk, one could see the brown tents and smoking +fires amid the ling and fern. Among the Gypsies reclining by those fires +were the Smiths, the Maces, the Pinfolds, and the Grays—Sinfai’s folk—and +of course some of the old Herons. Niabai, Isaac’s father, would sit +mending kettles, for, like many of the Gypsies of those days, he was a +tinker by calling, and when on travel would carry his grindstone on his +back. Sometimes of an evening, “Mister Burrow” would walk up on to the +Heath for a chat with Niabai and his wife “Crowy,” so called by reason of +her very dark features. Borrow picked up from Crowy many a Romany _lav_ +(word). Gypsy fights were common on the Heath, and at times the fern +would be trampled down by the crowds who came from far and near to +witness these thrilling scenes. + +Old Isaac had two uncles of whom he made mention—William Heron, always +known as “the handsome man,” and Robert Heron, known as “the lame man.” +Examples of a remarkable exactness of observation are Borrow’s +pen-portraits of the two last-named brothers contained in the +Introduction to _The Zincali_. The writer does not mention them by name, +but when I submitted a memorized version of these word-pictures to my +friend Isaac he at once recognized his uncles, William and Robert. + +Let us open _The Zincali_. + +Handsome William is standing by his horse. He is tall, as were all the +men of his clan. + + “Almost a giant, for his height could not have been less than six + feet three. It is impossible for the imagination to conceive + anything more perfectly beautiful than were the features of this man, + and the most skilful sculptor of Greece might have taken them as his + model for a hero and a god. The forehead was exceedingly lofty—a + rare thing in a Gypsy; the nose less Roman than Grecian—fine, yet + delicate; the eyes large, overhung with long, drooping lashes, giving + them almost a melancholy expression; it was only when the lashes were + elevated that the Gypsy glance was seen, if that can be called a + glance which is a strange stare, like nothing else in the world. His + complexion was a beautiful olive, and his teeth were of a brilliance + uncommon even amongst these people, who have all fine teeth. He was + dressed in a coarse wagoner’s slop, which, however, was unable to + conceal altogether his noble and Herculean figure. He might be about + twenty-eight.” + +William is said to have persisted in carrying his own silver mug in his +coat pocket, and would drink out of no other vessel. “I’d scorn to wet +my lips with a drop of drink out of a _gawjikeno kuro_,” meaning the +publican’s mugs. + +Robert, William’s elder brother, remained on horseback, looking “more +like a phantom than anything human. His complexion was the colour of +pale dust, and of that same colour was all that pertained to him, hat and +clothes. His boots were dusty of course, for it was midsummer, and his +very horse was of a dusty dun. His features were whimsically ugly, most +of his teeth were gone, and as to age, he might be thirty or sixty. He +was somewhat lame and halt, but an unequalled rider when once upon his +steed, which he was naturally not very solicitous to quit.” + +Robert was always considered the wizard of the clan. Never having been +married, he dispensed with a tent, preferring, like some of the deep +Woods of Wales, to sleep in a barn. He was nicknamed “Church” Robert, +because he was a reader and had a wonderful memory, and sometimes going +to church he listened to lessons and psalms and would afterwards reel +them off like a _roker_in _tshiriklo_ (parrot). + +When I made a move to go, Old Isaac drew himself to his full height and +said, “_Av akai apopli_, _rashai_” (Come here again, parson), and the +boys to whom I had mentioned my roving experiences urged me to come and +camp near them. “Let us put up a tent for you here next to ours.” +Sinfai, who walked to the field-gate with me, slipped into my pocket a +_bita delaben_ (small gift), a green wineglass. + +A sunset of rare beauty was reddening the sandhills when I returned to +the Gypsyry on the South Shore. For a while I walked up and down in the +miniature fair, and before I turned my face towards the town, lights +began to appear in the tent baulks and the stars came out over the +darkening sea. + +Next morning I was walking along the spacious sea-front with Archie Smith +for companion, and in the distance appeared a little man pushing a +grinding-barrow. Quickening our steps, we overtook him and found he was +Elijah Heron on his morning round. I inquired where he was stopping, and +promised to visit him later in the day. My companion, the lively Archie, +was reeling off for my benefit a list of the inhabitants of the South +Shore Gypsyry, and had just mentioned Bendigo Purum, when, rounding a +corner, we met the man himself, a very swarthy Gypsy—almost black, one +might say. + +“_Roker_ of the _Beng_,” whispered Archie, “and you’ll _dik lesti_” (see +him). + +Farther along in a narrow thoroughfare we observed several Gypsy women +out a-shopping, their gay _diklo_s and blouses making splashes of bright +colour in the crowded street. It seemed to me that Blackpool was alive +with Gypsies. In the afternoon I returned to the South Shore, and, +hearing the strains of a violin proceeding from a gorgeous red blanket +tent in a field near the railway, I made my way thither, and to my joy I +discovered Eros and Lias Robinson at home. + +Here is a song which I heard from the lips of Lias— + + “_Mandi’s tshori puri dai_ + _Jaw_’d _adrê kongri_ to _shun_ the _rashai_; + The _gawjê saw sal_’d as _yoi besh_’d _talê_; + _Yoi dik_’d ’_drê_ the _lil_, but _yoi keka del-aprê_; + The _rashai roker_’d agen _duker_in, _pen_’d _dova sos_ a _laj_, + But _yov keka jin_’d _mandi duker_’d _yov_’s _tshai_, + _Puker_’d _yoi_’d _romer_ a _barvdo rai_.” + +_Translation_. + + “My poor old mother + Went into church to hear the parson; + The gentiles all laughed as she sat down; + She looked into the book, but she could not read; + The parson talked against fortune-telling, said it was a shame, + But he never knew I had told his daughter’s fortune, + Told her she’d marry a wealthy squire.” + +Lias was full of reminiscences of wanderings through the heart of Wales, +and I listened with keen interest to his talk about the deep Woods. In +my readings of Leland’s writings I had come upon the mention of Mat Wood +whom, in after years, I had the good fortune to meet in Wales. During +his Welsh wanderings, Lias had met several sons of John Roberts, the +harpist, concerning whom I had learned much from Groome’s delightful +book, _In Gipsy Tents_. Here I may mention that Old John Roberts was an +occasional visitor to Lincolnshire in days gone by. He travelled widely +with his harp, on which he was a talented player. My wife, who hails +from the Fen country, remembers John’s visits to her native village of +Fleet, near Holbeach in Lincolnshire, where he would play on the parish +green, as well as on the lawns of private houses. A venerable-looking, +bearded man, who might have passed for a clergyman, he was a welcome +guest in the home of my father-in-law, where he would play old airs to a +pianoforte accompaniment. + + [Picture: The gypsy’s parson with his friends. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +The afternoon and evening which followed my morning ramble were crowded +with Gypsy experiences. At the back of a large tent sat Kenza Boswell +fiddling, while his daughters danced with exceeding grace. + +Next, Noarus Tâno, in one of his skittish moods, kept me in fits of +laughter for ten minutes. He was the humorist of the Blackpool camp. + +Entirely unaccustomed to controlling his imagination, Noarus will tell an +extraordinary tale in which he himself plays a part, with no other object +than to amuse his hearer, or to lift himself a little higher in your +esteem. And just as no one is expected to believe the narratives of +Baron Munchausen, so the Gypsy in telling his “lying tale” is perfectly +content with the laughter of the listener. This gay spirit of +exaggeration certainly stamps the following tale told by Old Tâno. + + [Picture: Friends at the fair. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +The scene is the kitchen of the village inn, and poultry-lifting is the +topic of conversation. It is Noarus who speaks— + + “There’s a farmer’s wife up in the willage what’s been blaming a + two-legged fox for robbing her hen-roost. I say it’s some low dealer + what comes out of the town with a light cart on a shiny night when + the stormy winds are blowing, so as folks shan’t hear him at work. + You knows the sort, but us Gypsies has a different way. When did you + ever know any of us to meddle with anythink in these here parts? + Don’t your farmers buy ponies off us? Ain’t we highly respected by + the gentle-folk for miles round? Why, there was a squire up in + Yorkshire, a prize-poultry fancier, as know’d my people wery well. + We often camped on his land and never meddled with nothink. He + trusted us so much that he comes down to our tents one day and says + to my daddy— + + “‘I want to beg a favour of you, Tâno. I’m going abroad for a while, + and I want you and your son to take charge of my poultry farm while + I’m away.’ + + “Well, my daddy and me took charge of his prize fowls, and when he + come back again, how do you think he found things, my gentlemen?” + + The company, profoundly impressed by the speaker’s discourse, + exclaimed with one voice— + + “All right to a feather.” + + “Nay, that he never did. _We_’d _ate the hull blessed lot_!” + +Mindful of my promise to visit Elijah Heron, I sought out his tent, and I +had to stoop very low to get in the doorway. In my pocket was a heavy, +silver-mounted brier pipe possessing a large amber mouthpiece. This I +presented to the old man, and it was good to see his face light up with +pleasure. “_Tatsheni rup si kova_” (Real silver is this), he said, +pointing to the mountings. “A _swêgler_’s _kek kushto_ without _tuvalo_” +(A pipe’s no good without tobacco), I remarked, handing him a cake of +Black Jack. He lighted up and looked as happy as a king. + +Noticing that I was slightly deaf, he recommended oil extracted from +vipers as good for deafness. The mention of snakes took him back to his +sojourn in the Antipodes. “I never talks of _saps_ (snakes) but I thinks +of the days when I was travelling in ’Stralia. One night I got leave +from a farmer to stop near a river, but I didn’t _hatsh odoi_ (remain +there) for more than an hour or two, for I found there was _saps_ +about—nasty, hissing critturs. A black man as come down to the river to +water some hosses told me that the _saps_ sometimes _maw_’d (killed) +animals near the river, so I packed up my traps and kept on the road all +night. Give me Old England, I say. I’m right glad to be back here.” + + * * * * * + +In a little tent hard by, I heard Poley and his wife singing as I said +“Good-night” to Elijah. Happy, twinkling eyes they were that looked out +at me from that little tent door as I passed. I envy you that merry +heart, Poley, that evergreen spirit of yours, and, recalling your face, I +see again the array of Gypsy tents as twilight dropped its purple veil on +Blackpool’s pleasant shore. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII +A TRENTSIDE FAIR + + +OVERNIGHT a welcome rain had fallen upon a thirsty land, and morning +broke cool and grey, with a lively breeze stirring the tree-tops, and +shaking the raindrops from the grasses, as I strode along the banks of +the river Trent, with my face set towards West Stockwith Horse Fair. The +long, dry summer was drawing to a close, and there was an agreeable sense +of novelty in the rain-drenched aspect of the countryside. After a +harvest prematurely ripened by an exuberance of sunshine, brown-cheeked +September was now hastening to splash here a leaf and there a spray with +rich colour, and on this particular morning it seemed to me that reeds, +flags, and willows were taking on autumnal tints earlier than usual. +Occasionally, from the river bank, I spied a water-rat or a coot swimming +amongst the sedges, and once on the path stretching before me a pert +wagtail—the Gypsy bird—foretold, as the Gypsies say, a coming encounter +with roving friends. + +Pleasantly enough my early morning walk terminated at the old-world +Trentside village of my destination. By this time, between the vapours +rolling overhead, the sun had appeared, and was gilding the barges moored +to a primitive quay below the long line of straggling houses. On the +Lincolnshire side of the Trent quite a colony of Gypsy vans had drawn up +on a turfy plateau, and their owners were now to be seen crossing the +river by ferry-boat, their laughter floating to me over the water. This +was by no means my first visit to the riverside horse fair, and after +refreshing at one of the inns, I went down the lane to the fair-ground +occupying two fields, in the larger of which were already assembled +horses and dealers in a state of lively commotion beyond a fringe of +ale-booths and luncheon tents; while in the smaller field were gathered +numerous Gypsy families with their carts and smoking fires. + +Never in my life do I remember to have witnessed such a horde of ancient +vagabonds of both sexes as on this occasion, and with no little delight I +stood and gazed upon the picture. What struck me in particular was the +motley character of the party. Decrepit great-grandfolks mumbling +together; grandfathers in ragged garb and battered hats; wizened +grandmothers sucking their pipes; aged uncles and aunts in time-stained +tatters; wives in their teens dandling babies; bright-eyed children +drumming happily on the bottoms of inverted pots and pans; merry lads and +lasses, interspersed amongst an assembly of the quaintest rag dolls it +has ever been my fortune to behold. It seemed to me as if all the old +Romany folk of several counties had met together for the last time in +their lives. + +Moving into the larger field, I had not gone far before I felt a tug at +my sleeve, and, looking round, I saw the two lads whom I had met with +Jonathan by the watermill. They led me straight to a little covered cart +drawn under the hedge where Boswell was conversing with ’Plisti Smith. + +As I have said elsewhere, the play-spirit is strong in the Gypsy, even in +his latter years, and while talking with my two friends up came a +comical-looking Gypsy, Charley Welch, who must have been nearer ninety +than seventy, and, picking up a potato lying on the ground—the large +field had grown a crop of potatoes that summer—he laughingly dropped it +into Jonathan’s coat pocket. + +“There, don’t say that Old Charley never gave you nothink.” + +After that I walked with Jonathan among the horses, and we came upon +Flash Arno and Black Înan, who found time to accompany us to one of the +refreshment booths where the talk ranged through a variety of topics. +Înan knew Mister Groome, the book-writer, up Edinburgh way. He had met +him there not long before in company with my friend Frampton Boswell. I +soon found that these Gypsies did not hold with folks writing books about +their race and telling the _mumpli gawjê_ (nasty gentiles) about their +ways. + +No one loves a little fun more than the Gypsy, and generally he means no +harm by his playful romancing. After all, he is but a grown-up child, +and loves to make-believe. The Gypsy’s world is a haphazard one, in +which luck plays a large part. He knows nothing of the orderly cosmos of +providence or science. I make these remarks by way of prelude to +examples of this spirit. + +Who can help laughing inwardly as the Gypsy weaves a romantic tale about +you, all for the benefit of a stranger? And in the course of my +morning’s ramble through West Stockwith Fair I had several experiences of +the kind. + +“See that little dealer over there?” said Peter Smith, indicating a small +Gypsy man holding a tall black horse by a halter. The animal looked +gigantic by the side of its owner. + +“Come along with me, and while I _roker_ (talk) to him, _maw puker_ a +_lav_” (don’t speak a word). Then we both went up to the little Gypsy, +and with the gravest of countenances Peter began to spin a long romance +all about an imaginary sister of mine who lived at Brighton and was +wanting just such a horse as the one before us. It really was a fine +animal, and I could not refrain from stroking its glossy skin. + +Peter continued: “This here gentleman doesn’t ride hisself, you see, but +his sister has asked him to look out for a horse, and this one ’ull just +suit her.” I found it difficult to preserve silence, but somehow I +managed to do so. Finally, Peter took me aside and talked mysteriously +about nothing in particular, and quietly bade me walk away. A few +minutes later I beheld Peter quaffing a large mug of ale evidently at the +little man’s expense. + +Moving in and out among the throng, I presently walked out along the +road, and there I came upon Hamalên Smith, who, after some talk, +suggested a bit of fun. Pointing to a Gypsy camp down a lane, he said— + +“That’s Belinda Trickett sitting by the fire with her children. Go you +down the lane and have a little game. I’ll stop here and see how you get +on. You don’t know the woman, I suppose?” + +“Not I. She’s a stranger to me.” + +“That’s all right. Togged as you are, she’ll never take you for a +parson, not she. Mind you look severe-like and say to Belinda, ‘Is your +husband at home? What’s his name?’ It’s Harry, but she’s sure to say +it’s something else.” + +Down the lane I went, and, approaching Mrs. Trickett and family, I drew +out a notebook and pencil—a sure way to frighten a Gypsy. Why these +things should suggest “police” I can scarcely say, but they do. The +woman’s clay pipe dropped from her mouth and fell upon the grass, and +beneath the brown of her cheeks a pallor crept. Mrs. Trickett was +alarmed. + +“What is your husband’s name?” + +“George Smith.” + +“When will he be at home?” + +“I can’t say. He’s gone to the fair.” + +Under their mother’s shawl three tiny children huddled like little brown +partridges beneath an outspread wing, a sight which caused me some +pricking of heart. The biggest child kept saying, “What does the _gawjo_ +want, mammy?” Just then I looked up the lane and saw a man coming down, +who by his jaunty air I guessed was the woman’s husband. + +“_Kushti sawla_ (Good morning), Mr. Trickett; take a little _tuvalo_.” I +handed him my tobacco pouch. “I’ve come a long way to see you. Ask me +to sit down a bit, now I’ve got here.” + +Mrs. Trickett’s face was a study in wonderment, as I sat down for a +friendly chat. “_Dawdi_,” said she, “you did _trasher mandi_ (frighten +me). I thought there was _tshumani oprê_” (something up). + +When Hamalên Smith, from the top of the lane, saw that the episode had +arrived at a happy termination, he strolled down the lane and joined us. + +A far-travelled Gypsy is Hamalên, and many a tale can he unfold. + + “One morning,” said he, “a policeman came up to my wagon and told me + as how twenty-four fowls was missing from the next field to where we + was stopping. Somebody had stole ’em in the night. ‘Of course you + suspects us,’ says I to the policeman, ‘but you’re wrong. We’ve + never touched a feather of ’em.’ However, nothing would do but the + man must search my wagon from top to bottom, and for all his trouble + he found nothing. I know’d very well I hadn’t touched ’em, and I was + telling him the truth. + + “‘Wait a bit,’ says he. ‘Didn’t I see _three_ vans in this field + last night as I was going along the high road?’ + + “‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘My boys have gone on in front with the other + wagons.’ + + “Says he, ‘That looks suspicious. I must make haste and find them. + Where have they gone?’ + + “‘I can’t say, for I don’t know myself.’ + + “‘Well, I shall have to come with you, and you must show me where to + find them.’ The policeman jumped up and sat on the seat along with + me and my wife, and off we went to find the boys. Of course it was + plain to see by the wheel-marks just outside the gate which way they + had turned, but when we got to the cross-roads about three miles + furder on, the road was that hard and dry that no wheel-marks could + be seen. Now I could easily have misled the policeman, but I thought + it best to try to find the boys as quick as I could, for I didn’t + believe for a minute they had done it. Looking down the road, I saw + the boys’ _patrin_ (guiding sign). The policeman didn’t know what I + was looking at, and it wasn’t likely as I should show him our signs, + so I says we’ll take this road, and we turned off to the left. + + “‘How did you know which way the boys had gone?’ asked the policeman. + ‘Was it some thing tied on that tree bough hanging over the road?’ + + “‘I never sees nothing on the tree bough,’ says I. + + “I thought to myself the policeman must have been reading some tale + about the Gypsies. Anyway, he had heard something about _patrin_s + and such-like, but I wasn’t going to be the one to larn him our + signs, so I changed the subject. + + “‘Yon’s my boys on in front,’ says I. The policeman began rubbing + his hands and smiling. At last we caught up with the boys, and the + policeman searched inside the two wagons and found nothing. Then he + says— + + “‘I might as well look on the top,’ and he climbed on to the roofs of + the wagons. + + “‘Hello, what have we here?’ says he, in a way that made me turn + warm. He lifted up a dead pigeon. + + “‘Where did you get that from?’ I asked the boys. + + “‘Picked it up a bit o’ way down the road. It had just killed itself + on the telegraph wires by the wood side.’ + + “After that, the disappointed policeman went away, and the thieves + were never found out. + + * * * * * + + “Another time we draw’d into a rutted lane lying off the high road. + We had our three wagons, and at night we always covered the big one + up, because we didn’t sleep in it. It was a nice quiet lane, and we + thought there would be nobody to trouble us as there was no willage + near. But about midnight a man knocked on the wagon and woke us up. + + “‘What are you doing here?’ + + “‘No harm, I hope. We’ll clear out first thing in the morning.’ He + said he’d been knocking at the big wagon what was covered up, and he + couldn’t make anybody hear. + + “‘Well,’ says I, ‘whatever you do, don’t you touch that big wagon + agen.’ + + “‘Why, what’s in it?’ + + “‘Wild beasts, for sure—_a lion and a tiger_.’ + + “You’d ha’ laughed at the way that man made hisself scarce. Next + morning, as we draw’d out of the lane, we met a policeman. + + “‘I hear you have some wild beasts in that big wagon of yours. + Wasn’t it a bit dangerous stopping so near the highway?’ + + “‘Well, we’re clearing out in good time.’ + + “‘Get along with you then.’ + + “A few miles furder on the road we come to a little town, and as it + was market day we pulled up in the big square, and I took the cover + off the big wagon. Just as I was doing this, who should come up but + the policeman we’d met in the early morning. + + “‘Where’s those wild beasts of yours?’ says he. + + “‘Oh,’ says I, ‘I’ll soon show you.’ And I went inside my brush and + carpet wagon and brought out two big rugs, and I showed him a tiger + skin and a lion skin, both lined with red. ‘There’s my wild beasts,’ + said I. + + “Talk about laughing, I thought that policeman would never ha’ + stopped.” + + + + +CHAPTER IX +TAKEN FOR TRAMPS—AN EAST ANGLIAN FAMILY + + +DAY after day, in the woods around our village, the autumnal gales roared +and ravened with unabated fury, snapping brittle boughs, cracking +decrepit boles, and piling up drifts of brown leaves around grey roots +protruding like half-buried bones through the mossy woodland floor. Then +right in the midst of it all came a spell of calm weather, as if summer +had stolen back to her former haunts in sylvan glade and ferny lane. +Call it by what name you please, this brief season of sunny repose +following upon the heels of the tempestuous equinoctials is a time when +some of us are impelled, as by a primal instinct, to shake off the collar +of routine and take the road leading over the hill into what realm of +adventure beyond. + +Fully a week the summer-like interlude had held sway in the land. Upon +the newly-turned furrows shimmered a golden light. A dreamy haze trailed +its filmy skirts over hill and dale. In narrow lanes invisible threads +of spiders’ silk stretched from hedge to hedge, and wayside tangles again +were silvered over with a fine dust suggestive of July. Amid the +lingering clover-flowers bees buzzed and blundered. Through the still +air, leaves of maple and chestnut, like red-winged insects, twirled down +to the grass, and the tall elms in the village churchyard littered their +yellow foliage upon the graves. Everywhere, serenitude, repose, peace, +save in restless hearts chafing at the humdrum of tasks grown monotonous +by reason of long-continued performance. For who with a soul fully awake +can resist the lure of the road at gossamer-time? + +Thus it came to pass one afternoon that my wife and I, slipping out of +our drowsy village, took the upland way which after numerous windings +brought us into the Great North Road. Our plans were of the flimsiest. +It mattered little whether we went north or south, so long as we were +absent for a few days. On reaching the far-famed highway we stood under +the branching arms of a finger-post, and tossed pennies to determine the +course of our itinerary. “North” having won the toss, we footed it gaily +in that direction. To be sure, our semi-Gypsy garb, donned for this +jaunt, was not long in taking on a coating of road dust, and we were +about to shake off this clinging powder, when the rattle of wheels was +heard behind us, and almost immediately a dogcart slowed down by our +side, and the driver, a rubicund farmer, amicably invited us to take a +lift, an offer which was gladly accepted, and we climbed aboard the +conveyance. + +“I’ve allus had a feeling for folks like you, and I offens give ’em a +lift as I’m passing back’ards and forrards on the ramper. Afore I pulled +up just now I says to myself, ‘They’ve seen better days, I’ll be bound.’ +Maybe you’ve been in the army? Leastways, I thought you seemed to hold +yourself up pretty straight in your walk. I’ve done a bit of soldiering +myself. Once at a big do-ment in London, I was in the Queen’s Escort. +Yes, I’ve been about a bit in my time. I dessay you two’s got a goodish +way to go yet afore you come to your night’s lodgings. + +“Ay, dear me,” he went on, “we offens has your sort calling at our +place—my farm’s a few miles farther along this way—and one day not long +since a poor chap knocked at our door and asked for work. He was a +parson’s son, so we gave him a lightish job and fed him well and bedded +him in the barn for three or four nights, till his sore feet got right +agen. Poor fellow, he worn’t much good at labouring work, but we liked +to listen to his tales; he could tell you summut now.” + +Thus he rambled on after the manner of a garrulous Guardian of the Poor +who had acquired an interest in tramps. + +“Yon’s my place among the trees, so I must leave you here.” + +We thanked him for his kindly lift, and, rounding a bend in the highway, +were glad to relieve our pent-up feelings in laughter over the good man’s +misconception. + +Now, as everyone knows, who has journeyed along it, the fine old turnpike +abounds in travellers of every shade and grade. Not once or twice on its +turfy wayside have I fraternized with “Weary Willies” boiling their tea +in discarded treacle-tins. Even now as we went along, two or three +tramps passed by, one of them coming up to beg a few matches, the others +scarcely giving us a glance. + +Hearing the rumble of an approaching vehicle, we looked towards the bend +of the road, and round it came what looked like a carrier’s cart drawn by +a horse apparently old, for it proceeded slowly, and the cart creaked and +jolted as if it, too, were ancient. As it jogged nearer, I saw it +contained but a single occupant—a brown-faced little man who wore a faded +yellow kerchief—and, stepping into the roadway, I greeted him with _sâ +shan_ (how do?). Whereupon he pulled up. “I heard what you said just +now, but you’ve made a mistake. I’m no Romany—I’m a showman, an Aunt +Sally man, bound for Retford.” + +Now a Gypsy will frequently deny his blood. Knowing that his kind live +under a ban, he has no desire to draw attention to himself. But, looking +at this Aunt Sally man, I saw that he had told the truth. His face was +freckled. No real Gypsy freckles. After all, as Groome says, “It is not +the caravan that makes the Gypsy, any more than my cat becomes a dog if +she takes to living in a kennel.” + +Our road now became a gradual descent into a clean, flower-loving +village, where amid the trees we caught the gleam of a large canvas booth +in a field, and there were knockings of a mallet to be heard. Nor was it +long before we learned what was afoot. Within a tavern’s comfortable +parlour, a coloured playbill informed the world that Harrison’s +travelling theatre would that evening present a sensational drama—_Gypsy +Jack_—and in due time we found ourselves seated among the cottagers and +farm-hands, enjoying a highly entertaining, though garbled, version of +Mr. G. R. Sims’s _Romany Rye_. Opening with a Gypsy encampment in which +the gaily dressed Lees sat talking round a fire in a forest glade, we +were successively shown Joe Hackett’s shop, the race-course at Epsom, the +deck of the _Saratoga_, the cellar near Rotherhithe, and the Thames by +night. The play seemed a not inappropriate episode in our Gypsy jaunt. + +Years afterwards, during one Derby week, I saw Mr. Sims’s _Romany Rye_ +remarkably well played at a South London theatre. In connection with +this play an amusing story is told. The managers of the Princess’s +Theatre in London were anxious that the new drama should be announced in +the “Agony” column of _The Times_. Like many another one, the +advertisement clerk at _The Times_ office could make nothing whatever of +the mysterious words _Romany Rye_. + +“What the deuce is this _Romany Rye_?” he asked the bearer of the strange +document. + +“If you please, sir,” said the messenger, whom the manager of the theatre +had sworn to secrecy—“if you please, sir, I think it’s the name of a new +liver-pad.” + +“Well,” remarked the official, “_The Times_ is a great paper and can do +without padding. Take it away.” + +And the advertisement was declined. + + * * * * * + +From the door of the canvas theatre it was an easy walk to the little +town of Newark-on-Trent, at one of whose pleasant hostelries we spent the +night, our window overlooking the ruined castle by the waterside. It had +been in our minds to continue our walk next morning along the Great North +Road, but at breakfast a small paragraph in a newspaper brought about a +quick change in our plans. The item of news ran thus— + + “_THE ROMANIES AGAIN_. + + “Our friends, the gipsy Greys, are still with us in Grimsby, lamented + Mr. Councillor E— last evening, and he wanted to know whether + something could not be done to get them to clear out. The Town Clerk + had assisted them somewhat, and one or two had gone, but there were + still four families encamped at the back of T— Street, New Clee. + Inspector M— said he had visited the encampment and he must say that + the caravans were very clean. They could not be said to create a + nuisance. ‘It is not the tents that are a nuisance,’ replied the + lively representative of the H— Ward, ‘but the parties themselves, + who trespass in the backyards of the houses in that neighbourhood. + It is no uncommon thing on waking up in the morning to find a donkey + or a goat in your backyard or garden.’ The Inspector stated that + Eliza Grey, the owner of the vans, had informed him they would all be + going away in a few days.” + +It was the sight of the Romany family name which altered our plans. The +East Anglian Grays are a good type of Gypsy not to be encountered every +day, hence we decided to lose no time in taking the train for Grimsby. +It was a crawling “ordinary” by which we travelled, and at a little +wayside station a few miles out of Newark, a lithe, dark fellow carrying +a pedlar’s basket stepped into our compartment, and at once I recognized +in him my old friend Snakey Petulengro. How his face lit up on seeing +me, for we had not met for years. I was so much struck by his altered +bearing that I could scarcely believe my eyes. He seemed now as gentle +in his manner as once he had been wild. The sight of him brought back +Gypsy Court and all its associations. He said he had left the old home, +his father and mother having passed away. On my inquiring about his +sister Sibby, he said she had married a Gypsy and, tiring of Old England, +had gone to ’Merikay. As Snakey quitted the carriage at Lincoln, an +observant passenger remarked— + +“There goes one of Nature’s gentlemen.” + +By mid-afternoon the slender hydraulic tower glowed rosily in the +sunlight above Grimsby Docks; and since the fishing-port had no +particular charm for us, we proceeded to Cleethorpes, preferring the more +airy shore and being eager to see the Gypsies. As might be expected, the +summer-like day had brought a goodly number of late holiday-makers to the +sands, and as we moved in and out among the groups near the pier foot, I +heard a donkey-boy address someone not far away— + +“Would the lady like a ride?” The lad’s features, bearing, and tone of +voice were distinctly Gypsy, and, seeing he was within hail, I looked +towards him and said— + +“_Dova sî kushto maila odoi_” (That’s a good donkey there). + +His face beamed with delight, and from his lips sprang the question— + +“_Romano Rai_?” (Gypsy gentleman?) + +“_Âwa_; _kai shan tîro foki hatsh_in?” (Yes; where are your people +camping?) + +In gratitude for the explicit directions he gave, I placed a sixpence in +his hand, and his remark was “_Dova_’s too _kisi_, _raia_” (That’s too +much, sir). “A _hora_ (penny) would have been _dosta_ (enough) for +_mandi_” (me). This boy was one of the Grays, and, following his +instructions, we had no difficulty in locating the Romany camp. + +It was early evening when we strolled forth upon an expanse of grass +parcelled into building plots, where in a corner between the hedgerows +were drawn up, with the doorways facing south, several substantial _vâdê_ +(caravans) near which some large tents had been erected. The Grays, who +were silently moving to and fro, revealed by their interested +side-glances that they had already heard of somebody’s inquiries +concerning themselves, and when we advanced to offer our civil and +friendly greetings to two women who were washing pots before an outside +fire, every politeness was shown to us. They rose and spread a horse-rug +for us upon the ground. “_Dai ta tshai_” (mother and daughter), thought +I; nor was I wrong. The older woman, diminutive, lean, and somewhat bent +with age, informed me that she was Eliza Gray, and the younger was her +daughter Lena. As we talked by the fire, a goat appeared and rubbed its +nose affectionately against Eliza’s knee. Said she: “This is an old pet +of ours. We’s had it for years. I picked it up in Scotland.” + +In late September the sun goes down early, and a chilly wind now set in +from the North Sea. In the baulk of the old lady’s tent a coke brazier +was glowing invitingly, so we all moved under cover, and, seated on a +dais of clean straw covered with rugs, listened to tales and talk, the +brazier’s crimson gleam being our only light. After some discussion of +mutual acquaintances, the conversation drifted towards _duker_in +(fortune-telling), a subject never very far from the thoughts of a Gypsy +woman. + +“How I’ve _sal_’d” (laughed), said Eliza, “at those _dinelê gawjê_ +(foolish gentiles) what come to our tent to be _duker_’d. One time I put +a crystal on a little table covered with oilcloth, and I ax’d the young +lady if she couldn’t see her sweetheart in it. ‘Yes, I can,’ she says, +‘and it’s just like his face, but oh, lor, in this glass ball he’s got a +tail.’ I nearly laughed straight out, for I’d sort of accidentally put +the crystal on top of a monkey picture. The oilcloth was covered with +all sorts of beastses, don’t you see?” + +A superstitious family, the Grays have a characteristic way of recounting +their own traditions. Here is one of Eliza’s tales— + + “Once we were stopping by a woodside. The back of our tent was nigh + agen a dry ditch full of dead leaves, and one night we lay abed + listening to sounds, a thing I can’t abide. Well, there was rummy + folk about in them days, so when we hears a footstep in the wood just + t’other side of that there ditch, I ups wi’ the kettle-prop and peeps + outen the tent, and listens, but no, never a sound could I catch; all + was still as the grave. Till long and by last there comes a rustling + in the leaves, and the bushes parts like something trying to make a + way through. Then I lifts up the kettle-prop, and I says to myself, + if blows are to be struck, Liza had better be the first to strike, + when there, straight afore me, stands a woman waving her poor thin + arms about, but saying nothing. At that I drops the kettle-prop and + screams, and my man Perun jumps straight up. ‘They’re killing my + Liza, they are.’ But by that the _muli_ (ghost) had gone like a + flash of lightning. Next morning we ax’d at the keeper’s house down + the lane, and the missis tell’d us as how a _rawni_ (lady) was once + _maw_’d (murdered) in that wood, so it would be her _muli_ as I saw + that night. Oh, yes, I believe in _mulê_, I do.” + +During the telling of this tale two of Eliza’s sons, Yoben and Poley, +sauntered up and stood listening behind their sister Lena. It was Yoben +who now added his contribution of ghost-lore. + + “Why, yes, of course, mother, there’s _mulê_ (ghosts). Don’t you + remember after Dolferus died, his voice used to speak in the tent to + Delaia? She says it really was his voice as nat’ral as life, and it + made her shiver to hear it. One day she went to a parson for advice. + He told her the next time it spoke, to say: ‘I promise you nothing. + Begone!’ Well, sure enough, the voice came again, and she remembered + to say what the parson had told her, and she never heard the voice no + more. My Uncle Ike asked Delaia one day— + + “‘I say, my gal, did you really hear Dolferus’s voice?’ + + “‘Yes; it was his and no one else’s.’ + + “‘Is that the _tatshipen_ (truth), my gal?’ Ike seemed anxious to + know the truth of the matter.” + + * * * * * + + “Dreams is funny things,” put in Poley, “and I’ve had some wery queer + ’uns in my time. Once I dreamt I was walking along a narrow shelf of + rock, and on one side of me was a stony wall like a cliff, and on the + other side the edge of the path hung over a terrible steep place. + Right away below was a river of fiery red stuff pouring along. You + could smell it. I thought this rocky road was the path to heaven, + and I was trying to get there, but, ’pon my word, it was no easy + matter. Now I see’d a tiger chained to the rocky wall on my left + hand, and a bit furder on a big lion was tied up. These here + critturs was hard to get past. I had to go wery near the dangerous + edge what looked down on to the burning river. What a fright I was + in; it made the sweat run off me. Sometimes I had to crawl on my + hands and knees to get round a big rock in the middle of the path. I + felt as if I never should get where I wanted to. Well, after a lot + of scrambling and slithering, for my feet gave way sometimes—I had + naily boots on—I got to the top of the path, and in the dazzling + light, like the sun itself on a summer day, there sat a grey-haired, + doubled-up man, a wery aged man, with his chin resting on his hand. + It was the _Duvel_ (God), and when he see’d me coming, he sat up and + held up his hand, forbidding me to go any furder. He didn’t speak a + word, but I knew that his uplifted hand meant ‘Go back.’ And just + then I woke. That’s my dream of trying to get to heaven.” + + * * * * * + + “There’s a lot about heaven and hell in God’s Book, isn’t there, + _rashai_?” said Old Eliza. “A _rawni_ (lady) used to read all about + them places to us on a Sunday, but that were years ago, and I used to + like to hear her talk about the blessed Saviour riding on a _maila_ + (donkey) into the big town. She said they nailed him to a cross on + Good Friday, and when we was young I remember we all used to fast on + that day. We ate no flesh—nothing with blood in it—it would be a sin + to do that. If we took anything to stay our hunger it was nothing + but dry bread, and our drink was water. We didn’t _tuv_ (smoke), and + we didn’t _tov_ our _kokerê_ (wash ourselves) on that day. I don’t + know whether there be such places as heaven and hell. I reckons we + makes our own destiny. Heaven and hell’s inside us; that’s what I + think.” + +Lena, however, had her own ideas. “This life is everything there is, I +reckons, and when we’re dead, that’s the end of us. Life is sweet, mind +you, and we’s a right to be as happy as we can. Mother’s getting old, +you see, and has had her fling. I mean to have a good time. Why, last +Sunday me and Poley was going off to get some nuts in the woods, but +mother stopped us— + +“It’s _Beng_’s work getting nuts on the dear Lord’s day.” + +“Yes,” says Yoben; “I’ve heard our old daddy say that the _Beng_ likes +nuts, and I’d sartinly scorn to go getting them onlucky things on a +Sunday; I wouldn’t like to put myself in the _Beng_’s power, like poor +Zuba Lovell.” + +“What about Zuba?” asked my wife. + +Then Yoben told a weird tale. + + [Picture: A Maid of the Tents] + + “A handsome lass was Zuba, but bad luck dogged her like her own + shadow. One night she came back to the camp, for she lived with her + old people, and, throwing down a few coppers she had in her hand, she + said— + + “‘There, mother, what do you think of that for a hard day’s work?’ + She had done wery badly, you see. Luck never seemed to come her way + at all. And after supper she wandered out a little way from the + camp. The moon and stars was shining as she walked round and round + an old tree, a blasted old stump, black as a gallows-post. As she + kept on walking round it, she said aloud, ‘This game won’t do for me. + It’s money I want and money I’ll have. I’d sell my blood to the + _Beng_ to have plenty of money in my pocket always.’ The words was + hardly out of her mouth when a black thing, like the shadow of the + tree, rose up from the ground, and, lor, there was the wery _Beng_ + hisself, and after he’d promised her what she had wished for, he + wanished. And after that no more grumbling from Zuba; no more + complaints about her bad luck. She always had plenty of money now, + and she bought herself trinkets and fine clothes till everybody was + ’mazed at her, and of course she had kept it to herself what took + place that night by the old tree. Days and weeks went by, till one + night Zuba was missing from the camp. Her old folks sat up by the + fire waiting for her, but no Zuba came. At last her daddy set out to + look for her, and there by the foot of the tree lay Zuba’s frock and + shawl, and when he took ’em back to his wife’s tent, the poor woman + screamed and fainted right away, and old man Lovell walked up and + down all night, saying, ‘Oh, my Zuba, my blessed gal, we shall never + see you no more,’ and they never did. The _Beng_ had fetched her. + That’s the end of Zuba Lovell.” + +While listening to these tales in the tent, the flight of the hours +passed unobserved, till a distant clock boomed out the hour of ten. + +“You’ll _wel apopli_ (come again), my dears?” said Eliza, as we retired +amid the smiles and bows of the Gypsy family. + +Next morning found us again in the camp. Already the Gypsies had +breakfasted, and were making preparations for “_tov_in-_divus_” +(washing-day). Sun and wind promised an ideal day for such a purpose. +It was a thing to be noticed that the articles about to be dealt with lay +in two heaps on the grass. + +Among the Gypsies there is a ceremonial rule which holds it to be +_mokadi_ (unclean) to wash together in the same vessel “what you eat off +with what you wear.” This was the meaning of the separated articles, and +then I observed two zinc vessels lying ready on the ground. Said Old +Eliza to Lena, “I’ll take this lot, and you take that lot.” To begin +with, they both cleansed their hands and arms in hot water, and as they +did this I remarked how brown were Lena’s arms, whereupon she replied +with a laugh— + +“_Âwa_, _raia_ (Yes, sir), monkey soap won’t fetch that off”—a modern +rendering, I take it, of Ferdousi’s saying, “No washing will turn a Gypsy +white.” + +Now as our friends were about to become much occupied, we proposed to +stroll round the camp and pay calls on the other Gypsies in the same +field. “Stop a bit,” said Eliza, and, slipping into the tent, she came +out with a black bottle. “You’ll take a drop of my elderberry wine and a +bite o’ cake,” pouring out the claret-coloured liquid into two glasses +fished out from an inner recess. While enjoying this snack on the grass, +I took out from a breast pocket a white unused handkerchief which I +spread on my knee. Presently Old Eliza slyly took it by the corner and +twitched it away, giving me in place thereof a neatly folded napkin +brought from the tent, and I saw that I had broken a Gypsy custom in +converting a handkerchief into a crumbcloth. Said the old mother, “That +_mol_ (wine) is old, and should be _kushto_ (good). It’s some we buried +in a place till we came round again.” + +In another corner of the field were encamped Fennix Boswell and his +stepson Shanny, and, going forward, we found the pair seated at their +tent door handling fishing-rods. On seeing us they rose and invited us +into the tent, where we sat down. Shanny showed us some of his pencil +drawings. + +“I’ve got one of a parrot somewhere; I must find it,” said he. + +“_Âwali_, _muk man dik o roker_in-_tshiriklo_” (Yes, let me see the +talking-bird), I replied, and in a minute or two he handed me a really +clever sketch. + +These two Gypsies had just come down from Scotland, where they had been +travelling during the summer months, and we got talking about Kirk +Yetholm. The Blythes, related to old King Charley Faa, were +acquaintances of theirs. It appears that one of the King’s sons named +Robert, a rollicking fellow, was fond, as Gypsies are, of practical +jokes, and some of his escapades are still remembered in the Border +Country. One of Fennix’s tales about this fun-loving Faa may well find a +place here. + + * * * * * + +One spring morning Bobbie started off on a foray with some of his pals. +The air was clear, and a soft wind was blowing over the Lammer-moors on +whose slopes the lambs were gambolling. The Gypsies had walked a few +miles, and the mountain air had sharpened the edge of their appetites. +Looking round for a farmhouse or a cottage where they might ask for a +kettle of boiling water to brew their tea in the can—such as few of the +Faas would ever travel without—Bobbie was the first to espy some +outbuildings, at the back of which stood a shepherd’s cottage, and, +taking upon himself to be spokesman, he bravely started off for the +cottage, the men resting meanwhile at the foot of the hill. As he +approached the door, a fine savoury smell greeted Bobbie, making him feel +ten times more hungry than before. He knocked gently at the door, which +stood ajar, but no one came, and all was quiet within. He repeated his +knock, and, taking a step forward, found the kitchen empty. Before the +fire stood a tempting shepherds-pie of a most extraordinary size, and its +appetizing steam quite overcame any scruples which otherwise might have +lurked in the heart of Bobbie Faa. Not for one moment did he hesitate, +but, nipping up the dish, he speedily ran down the hill with the pie +under his arm. Not knowing how he had come by it, his mates could +scarcely believe their eyes when he laid the pie on the grass, and they +praised the gude-wife who had so kindly given them such a feast. When +the dish was empty, he gave it to a pal, telling him to take it back to +the gude woman and say how much they had enjoyed the pie. It happened to +be a sheep-shearing day, and the shepherd’s wife had gone to call her +husband and his fellows to their dinner. She had just returned to the +kitchen when the Gypsy lad arrived with the empty dish, and on handing it +back to her with smiles and thanks, a torrent of abuse was poured forth +on the poor boy’s head, as the woman now grasped the situation and became +aware of the fate of her pie. Just then her husband and the other +shearers appeared round the corner, and, hearing what had befallen their +dinner, the infuriated men seized the lad and gave him a sound drubbing. + + + + +CHAPTER X +PETERBOROUGH FAIR + + +THE twentieth century has witnessed a remarkable revival of certain +old-time pleasures in the form of pageants and pastoral plays, +folk-songs, and dances, but it should not be overlooked that in our midst +still linger those popular revels, tattered survivals of medieval mirth, +called pleasure-fairs, held periodically in most of our old country +towns. It is true, these ancient fairs are not what they were, Father +Time having laid his hand heavily upon them, with the result that not a +few of their features which were reckoned among our childhood’s joys have +vanished. + + [Picture: On the Eve of the Fair. Photo. Rev. H. H. Malleson] + +Gone are the marionettes, the wax-works, the ghost-shows. Departed, too, +are many of the mysterious little booths, behind whose canvas walls queer +freaks and abnormalities were wont to hide. Perhaps, however, when the +travelling cinema has outworn its vogue, the older “mystery” shows will +reappear by the side of the Alpine slide, the scenic railway, and the joy +wheel. + +Still renowned for their wondrous gaiety are a few of our larger fairs, +whither huge crowds flock by road and rail for a few hours of rollicking +carnival. I have in mind such events as Barnet September Fair, +Birmingham Onion Fair, the October merry-makings at Hull, Nottingham +Goose Fair, and the like, but even these, owing to a variety of reasons, +are now of shrunken dimensions. + +Fairs of whatever sort are generally occasions of friendly reunion, not +only for show-people and _gawjê_ visitors, but also for Gypsies who love +to forgather on the margins of the fair-ground, or upon an adjacent +common, where they compare notes and discuss the happenings since their +last meeting. + +Borne on the crisp October air, the chimes of Peterborough floated over +the city roofs, reaching even to the fair-grounds, where I was one of the +large holiday crowd which hustled and laughed and tossed confetti in +mimic snow-showers. When in quest of Gypsies, the first half-hour you +spend in wandering about a fair is a time of pleasurable excitement. Who +can tell how many old friends you may meet, or what fresh dark faces you +are about to encounter? + +As I was saying, the crowd was hilarious, and, having so far recognized +no Romany countenance up and down the footways between the coco-nut shies +and shooting-galleries, swing-boats and merry-go-rounds, it occurred to +me that a little more breathing-space might be found upon the open +pasture where horses were being bought and sold, and, pushing along in +that direction, I was brought to a standstill at the foot of the steps +leading down from a gilded show-front. Walking with the airs of a fine +lady, there came down those steps a young Gypsy attired in a yellow gown +and tartan blouse, with a blazing red scarf thrown over her shoulders +upon which her hair fell in black curls. It was this coloured vision as +much as the block in the footway that held me up for the nonce. Another +moment, and Lena Gray, Old Eliza’s daughter, brushed against my shoulder, +yet, as often happens in a crowd, she failed to see me. Therefore, into +her ear I dropped a whispered Romany phrase at which she started, and, +recognizing me, exclaimed— + +“_Dawdi_, _raia_, this _is_ a surprise!” + +It was but a few steps to the sheltered spot in a field opposite the +horse-fair where her brother Yoben sat fiddling by the side of the +living-van. Even before we came up to him, something arrested my +attention—the unusual shape of his violin, which, as Lena informed me, +her brother had made out of a cigar-box picked up in a public-house. + +Our field corner had a most agreeable outlook. Beyond a stretch of +greenest turf, dotted with caravans and bounded by the reddening autumn +hedgerows, lay the pleasure-fair, a sunlit fantasia of colour, from +which, like feathery plumes, ascended puffs of white steam topping +numerous whirling roundabouts. Pleasant it was to sit out here in the +calm weather chatting with the Grays, whom I had so recently met on the +Lincolnshire sea-border, and even while we conversed there passed by a +little party of gaily-dressed Gypsies—two rather portly women of middle +age and two slender girls. + +“Who are those people?” I asked. + +“Some of the _gozverê_ (cunning) Lovells,” replied Lena. Then I +remembered that for some time past I had carried in my notebook several +cuttings grown dingy with age, relating to traditional practices +characteristic of this family. Two paragraphs will suffice as specimens. + + “A domestic servant told a remarkable story yesterday before a West + London magistrate. She said that a gipsy called at the house and + asked her to buy some laces. She refused, and prisoner then offered + to tell her fortune for a shilling. Witness agreed, and the woman + told her fortune, and she (witness) gave her two shillings, and asked + her for the change. Prisoner said she would tell her young man’s + name by the planet. Witness had a half-sovereign and two half-crowns + in her purse, and prisoner asked her to let her have the coins to + cross the palm of her hand with. She handed her the coins, and the + woman crossed her palm. She then asked her to fetch a glass of + water, and, on her returning with it, told her to drink it. + Afterwards she told her to pray, and then, apparently putting the + 10s. and the two half-crowns in her pocket-handkerchief, placed the + handkerchief in her bodice, and told her not to take it out for + twenty minutes. After that the woman left. + + “The magistrate: ‘Did you take the handkerchief out?’ + + “‘Well, I waited for twenty minutes or so, and then I took it out, + and instead of the 10s. and the two half-crowns I found two pennies + and a farthing.’ (Laughter.)” + +Obviously, the above is a variant of the ancient Gypsy trick known as the +_hokano bawro_ (big swindle). Something equally Gypsy, as we shall see, +clings to our second example. + + “The local police have had their attention engaged during the week in + connection with an alleged extraordinary occurrence whereby a + shopgirl became, under supposed hypnotic influence, the dupe of two + gipsy women. From inquiry it appears that on Saturday afternoon two + gipsy women, having the appearance of mother and daughter, entered a + baby-linen shop, and seem to have exerted such a remarkable influence + over the girl that she was induced to hand over to them articles of + wear amounting in value to between £8 and £9. Before they left the + shop she recovered her self-possession sufficiently to express doubt + as to whether they would return with the goods or money, and her + fears were allayed somewhat by receiving from her visitors in the + shape of security a lady’s beautiful gold ring and chain. + Subsequently the young lady, suspecting the genuineness of the + pledges, took them to a jeweller, who declared the value of the ring + and chain to be not more than a couple of shillings. The shopgirl is + unable to account for her want of self-possession in the presence of + the gipsies, and states that she felt she might have given them + anything they asked for. There were a good many gipsies located in + the district, but on a visit to the encampment in company with the + police the girl did not recognize her two visitors. The remarkable + occurrence has given rise to much comment in the locality.” + +Here is something strangely akin to the Romany mesmerism to which +allusion is made by “The Scholar-Gipsy,” whose + + “. . . mates had arts to rule as they desir’d + The workings of men’s brains; + And they can bind them to what thoughts they will.” + +As is well known, Matthew Arnold’s poem is based upon the following +passage in Joseph Glanvill’s _Vanity of Dogmatizing_:— + + “That one man should be able to bind the thoughts of another, and + determine them to their particular objects, will be reckoned in the + first rank of Impossibles; Yet by the power of advanc’d Imagination + it may very probably be effected; and story abounds with Instances. + I’le trouble the Reader but with one; and the hands from which I had + it, make me secure of the truth on’t. There was very lately a lad in + the University of Oxford, who, being of very pregnant and ready + parts, and yet wanting the encouragement of preferment, was by his + poverty forced to leave his studies there, and to cast himself upon + the wide world for livelyhood. Now, his necessities growing daily on + him, and wanting the help of friends to relieve him; he was at last + forced to joyn himself to a company of Vagabond Gypsies, whom + occasionally he met with, and to follow their trade for a + maintenance. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating + subtility of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and + esteem; that they discover’d to him their Mystery; in the practice of + which, by the pregnancy of his wit and partz he soon grew so good a + proficient, as to out-do his Instructours. After he had been a + pretty while well exercis’d in the Trade; there chanc’d to ride by a + couple of Scholars who had formerly bin of his acquaintance. The + Scholars had quickly spyed out their old friend, among the Gypsies; + and their amazement to see him among such society, had well-nigh + discover’d him; but by a sign he prevented their owning him before + that crew; and taking one of them aside privately, desir’d him with + his friend to go to an Inn, not far distant thence, promising there + to come to them. They accordingly went thither, and he follows; + after their first salutations, his friends enquire how he came to + live so odd a life as that was, and to joyn himself with such a + cheating beggerly company. The Scholar-Gypsy having given them an + account of the necessity, which drove him to that kind of life; told + them, that the people he went with were not such Impostours as they + were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning + among them, and could do wonders by the power of Imagination, and + that himself had learned much of their Art, and improved it further + than themselves could. And to evince the truth of what he told them, + he said he’d remove into another room, leaving them to discourse + together; and upon his return tell them the sum of what they had + talked of; which accordingly he perform’d, giving them a full account + of what had pass’d between them in his absence. The Scholars being + amaz’d at so unexpected a discovery, earnestly desir’d him to + unriddle the mystery. In which he gave them satisfaction, by telling + them, that what he did was by the power of Imagination, his Phancy + binding theirs; and that himself had dictated to them the discourse + they held together, while he was from them: That there were + warrantable wayes of heightening the Imagination to that pitch, as to + bind another’s; and that when he had compass’d the whole secret, some + parts of which he said he was yet ignorant of, he intended to leave + their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.” + +One sometimes wonders whether the world would have cared one jot about +the revelations which the Oxford Scholar here promises, for to the +majority the “Gypsies” are almost tabu. + +In a letter which I received from that perfect Scholar-Gypsy and +Gypsy-Scholar, the late Francis Hindes Groome, he tells how he once +stumbled upon a typical critic. + + “Three or four years ago I gave a lecture on Gypsies at Greenock, and + a well-dressed man came up after it. + + “‘There were some things,’ he remarked, ‘that I quite liked in your + lecture, but on a good many points _you were absolutely wrong_.’ + + “‘Of course you’ve studied the question?’ I asked him. + + “‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I looked up the article “Gypsies” in Dr. + Brewer’s _Dictionary of Fable_ just before coming along.’” + +Talking of critics reminds me how I once received something of a shock to +the nerves during the opening sentences of a lecture on “Gypsy Customs.” +Not far from the platform where I stood, there sat a well-to-do +horse-dealer who, having married a pure-bred Gypsy, was presumably in +possession of “inside information.” The vision of his face, all +alertness and curiosity, caused me a momentary disturbance. What would +this critic make of my disclosures? How would he take my revelations? +Warming to my subject, however, I was made happy by my auditor +interjecting such remarks as “That’s right.” “He’s got it.” “Where does +the man get it all from?” Sometimes he would punctuate his exclamations +by vigorously slapping his knee and laughing aloud. Certainly his +ejaculations added a piquancy to my tales gathered from Gypsy tents. + + * * * * * + +But to return to Peterborough Fair. + +About the middle of the afternoon, as I stood on a grassy mound +overlooking the horses, I spied near a group of animals my old friend, +Anselo Draper, flourishing a long-handled whip. This swart East Anglian +roamer wore a dark brown coat of Newmarket cut, slouch hat of soft green +felt, and crimson neckerchief neatly tied at the throat. Along an open +space between the rows of horses sauntered his two pretty daughters, +Jemima and Phœbe, bareheaded and bare-armed, their laughing voices +ringing out merrily, while at their heels followed two little brothers +cracking whips as became budding horse-dealers. + +Quite a head above the Gaskins and Brinkleys with whom she was talking +loudly, stood Wythen, Anselo’s wife, who, happening to look my way, +smiled and came towards me, holding out the empty bowl of her pipe. + +“Got a bit of _tuvalo_ (tobacco) about you, _rashai_ (parson)? I’m dying +for a smoke.” + +“_So bok ke-divus_?” (What luck to-day?) I inquired, handing over my +pouch. + +“_Bikin_’d _tshîtshî_” (Sold nothing), she replied, jerking her whip +towards the ponies, “but I’ll _duker_ (tell fortunes) a bit this +evening,” adjusting her black hat with its large ostrich feathers and +gaudy orange bow set jauntily at the side. + + [Picture: Midland Gypsies. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +On my pretending to ridicule _duker_in, she said— + +“Look here, now, what’s the difference between a Gypsy telling fortunes +at a fair and a parson _roker_in (preaching) in church of a Sunday?” + +“If that’s a riddle,” said I, “it’s beyond me to answer it.” + +“Well, when folks do bad things, you foretell a bad future for them, +don’t you? And when they do right, you promises ’em a good time? What’s +the difference then between you and me? I’m a low-class fortune-teller +and you’s a high-class fortune-teller. You’s had a deal of eddication. +My only school has been the fairs, race-courses, and sich-like. But I +bet I can tell a fortune as well as you any day. Let me tell yours.” + +And she did. + + [Picture: South-Country Gypsies. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +As we stood there and talked, I noticed that the woman looked worried +about something, and presently I heard her say to Anselo, “I haven’t +found it yet.” It was a brooch that she had lost. Then I told how once +I lost and found a ring. One Sunday morning just before service, I stood +on the gravel swinging my arms in physical exercises as a freshener +before going to church, and suddenly I heard the tinkle of my ring on the +yellow gravel. As only a few minutes remained before church time, I +thought of a child’s method of finding a thing quickly, and, turning +myself round three times, I tossed upon the ground a smooth black pebble, +and, going, forward, lo, there was the ring close to the pebble. + +Eyeing me curiously, Wythen remarked— + +“Do you know what we says about people as does that sort of thing? Well, +we reckons they has dealings with the _Beng_ (Devil). + +“When I was a little ’un, my old granny would do things like that, and +she used to say that when you sees a star falling you must wish a wish, +and if you do it afore the _stari pogers_ (the star breaks) your wish +will come true.” + +It seems that among Gypsies “wishing a wish” sometimes means a curse. It +was at Peterborough Fair in 1872 that Groome saw a blind Gypsy child—made +blind, he was told, through the father wishing a wish. Akin to this is +the belief in the evil eye. A Battersea Gypsy mother would not let her +baby be seen by its half-witted uncle, for fear his looking at it should +turn its black hair red. + +After leaving Wythen, I sauntered along, making mental notes of Gypsies +all around, among whom were local Brinkleys, the far-travelled Greens, +some Loveridges, and other Midland Gypsies. I was about to move away +towards the pleasure fair, when a dealer standing near some ponies caught +my eye. I had never seen the man before, but as he looked a thorough +Gypsy, I drew alongside and accosted him in Romany. For a moment he +stared at my clerical frock-coat and broad-brimmed hat, and then calmly +remarked— + +“I say, pal, you look born to them things you’ve got on, you do really. +You reckons to attend fairs at these here cathedral places, don’t you? +Didn’t I once see you at Ely, or was it Chester?” + +To this man I was nothing more than a Gypsy “dragsman” disguised in +clerical garb. Accordingly, he lowered his voice as he said— + +“See this here pony? Will you sell it for me? You’ll do it easy enough +with your experience. On my honour it ain’t a _bongo yek_ (wrong ’un), +nor yet a _tshordo grai_” (stolen horse). + +“What about the price?” I asked. + +“If you get a tenner for it,” he replied, “there’ll be a _bâ_ (sovereign) +for yourself. What say?” + +“_Saw tatsho_ (All right). _Jaw_ ’_vrî konaw_” (Go away now). And in +less than ten minutes after taking my stand by the little animal, I had a +bid from a young farmer of the small-holder type. His offer was +accompanied by some adverse criticism. Who ever heard a man praise the +horse he intended to buy? + +“Examine the pony for yourself,” said I. + +He looked at its teeth. He lifted its feet one by one. He pinched and +punched it all over. The pony was next trotted to and fro, and so +pleased was the farmer with the animal’s behaviour that he promptly +handed over ten pounds and led the pony away. On seeing that I had +completed the business, my Gypsy friend, who was just round the corner, +came up, and on my giving up the money, he put one of the sovereigns into +my hand. When I got away I had a good laugh to myself, and it took me +some time to get my face straight. + +Walking back into the heart of the town, I saw a dusty, ill-clad party of +Gypsies going slowly along with a light dray drawn by a young horse with +flowing mane and long tail, and when they reached the corner where I was +standing, I spoke to the woman who was at the horse’s head. She said she +was a Smith, and when I pointed to the name Hardy on the dray, she +remarked, “Oh, that’s nobbut a travelling name.” It may be noted that +Gypsies are extremely careless about their names. + +At a later hour in a field behind the pleasure fair, I found the +comfortable _vâdo_ of my friend, Anselo Draper, and tapped at the van +door with the knob of my stick. Quickly the door opened, and thrusting +out his dark, handsome head, Anselo shouted, “_Av adrê_, _baw_” (Come in, +friend). + +What a contrast! Outside: a very babel of blaring sounds, a dark sky +reflecting the glow of a myriad naphtha flares. Within: cosiness and +warmth, red curtains, glittering mirrors, polished brasses, and a good +fire. Over the best teacups (taken tenderly from a corner cupboard) +Anselo and his wife talked of their travels. They had been as far north +as Glasgow that summer, and had sold a good _vâdo_ (van) to one of the +Boswells at Newcastle Fair. They had decided to winter at +Southend-on-Sea. “We shall make a tent, a big one, and very jolly it +will be with a _yog_ (fire) in the baulk. To be sure, there will be +plenty of mumpers (low-class van-dwellers) around us, but we shall not be +the only _tatshenê Romanitshel_s (real Gypsies) stopping there.” + +Next, Anselo plunged into an account of a low dealer’s trick at the horse +fair. It seemed that this dealer had sold two horses to a farmer for +forty pounds. A stranger coming up to the farmer offered to buy them at +a higher price, so into a tavern they retired to talk things over. +During drinks the stranger continually offered more money for the horses, +and the farmer remained there a longer time than was good for him. At +last when the man was hopelessly muddled the stranger disappeared. Nor +had the horses so far been seen again. + +“But there’s not so much of that done as there was. My father knew a +Gypsy who died up in Yorkshire, a desprit hand at _grai-tshor_in +(horse-stealing), and to this day they say, ‘If you shake a bridle over +his grave, he’ll jump up and steal a horse.’” Both Wythen and Anselo +laughed merrily as I told a tale I once heard of a Gypsy who had been +“away” for a space. Coming out of the prison gate, he was met by a +fellow who asked him what he had been in there for. + +“For finding a horse,” was the reply. + +“But surely they would never jug you for finding a horse?” + +“Well, but you see I found this one before his owner had lost him.” + +Anselo admitted that this sort of thing was not at all uncommon in the +old days, and two of his uncles had to take a trip across the water for +similar practices. + +When I left my friends and hastened to catch my train, the pleasure fair +was in full blast, noisy organs, cymbals and drums, shrieking whistles, +and the dull muffled roar of innumerable human voices, sounds which long +haunted my ears, and, looking back from the moving train, there still +floated from the distance the din and rattle of the receding fair. + + + + +CHAPTER XI +A FORGOTTEN HIGHWAY—“ON THE ROAD” WITH JONATHAN—THE PATRIN—THE GHOST OF +THE HAYSTACK + + +“WE was all brought up on this Old Dyke. We’s _hatsh_’d (camped) on it +in all weathers. I knows every yard of it. Ay, the fine _kanengrê_ +(hares) we’s taken from these here fields.” + +The speaker was my old friend, Jonathan Boswell, who with his tilt-cart +had overtaken me whilst strolling along the grass-grown Roman Ermine +Street which traverses the broad Heath stretching southward of Lincoln. +At the Gypsy’s cheery invitation, I joined him on his seat under the +overarching tilt. Behind us were the diminishing towers of the old city, +and right on ahead the chariot-way of the Imperial legions ran, straight +as an arrow along the Heath. Not a wild expanse, mind you, like your +Yorkshire moorland with its wimpling burns and leagues of heather, though +I daresay our Heath, now so admirably tilled, was savage enough in the +days when “the long, lone, level line of the well-kept warpath, marked at +intervals with high stones or posts as a guiding-line in fog or snow, +stretched through a solitude but rarely broken, except by the footfall of +the legionaries and the plaint of the golden plover sounding sweet from +off the moorland.” Turf-covered from hedge to hedge for many a mile, the +High Dyke, as the old road is now called, may well be described as a +forgotten highway. Indeed, I have tramped along it mile on mile without +meeting a soul, unless mayhap it was a sun-tanned drover slouching at the +heels of half a dozen bullocks, or a village lad asleep in a +hedge-bottom, with a soft-eyed motherly cow or two grazing not far away. + +On this particular morning near the end of April, an unclouded sun lit up +the verdant cornlands and larch spinneys. It shone upon the loins of the +sturdy nag between the shafts. It touched into a brighter gold the +gorse-bloom on the wayside bushes, and provoked the green-finches to +fling their songs into the air from lichened palings and bramble sprays. +Onward we journeyed, bumping and jolting over the uneven turfy road, and +occasionally dodging the mounds of earth thrown up by the burrowing +rabbits. What a picturesque figure my companion presented in his faded +bottle-green coat adorned with large pearl buttons. His close-fitting +dogskin cap imparted to his swarthy, sharply-cut features a not +inappropriate poacher-like air, and I fancied the old man’s wrinkles had +deepened on his brow since our last meeting, just after his wife’s death +up in Yorkshire. + +Sitting back under the hood, Jonathan here burst out with a pretty little +reminiscence. + +“D’ye know, my pal, what this here bit o’ the Old Dyke brings to my mind? +Ay, deary me, it takes me back to times as’ll never, never come no +more—the days when I were a lad along with my people, and our delations +a-_besh_in (resting) on this here wery grass we’s passing over. See, +there, under that warm bank topped with thick thorns: well, I’s slept +there times on end with my dear mammy and daddy in our tent, and my +uncles and aunts would be _hatsh_in (camping) right along this sheltered +bit. I can see it all while I’s talking to you—the carts with their +shafts propped up and the smook a-going up from the fires afore the +tents, and the ponies and donkeys grazing under the trees yonder. Ay, my +son, them were the times for the likes of us. + +“There’s one thing I minds” (this with a merry twinkle in his eye). +“I’ll tell you about it. It were a fine summer morning, somewheres about +six o’clock. My mammy and daddy was up making a fire to boil the kettle. +I heard ’em bustling about, and I ought to ha’ been up to help, but I +were lazy-like that morning. Then comes my daddy a-talking quick to +hisself, and I know’d summut were the matter. He lifts up the _tan-kopa_ +(tent-blanket) and hollers at me as I lay stretched out upo’ the straw— + +“_Hatsh oprê_, _tshavo_, _kèr sig_. _De graiaw_ and _mailas saw +praster_’d _avrî_. _Jaw_’_vrî_ an’ _dik_ for _len._’ (Get up, boy, make +haste. The horses and donkeys have all run away. Go forth and look for +them.) + +“I were out and off in a jiffey. I never stopped to get dressed. What’s +more, me not thinking what I was a-doing, I throws away the only thing I +had on my back—my shirt—just as you toss off your coat when you’s in a +hurry, and away I goes down the long road to find the animals. Whilst I +were away, all the family, my big brothers and sisters, and them +delations as I spoke of, had gathered round the fires for _sawla-hawben_ +(breakfast), an’ they hadn’t finished when I got back with the hosses and +donkeys. I’d clean forgot how I were fixed, an’, my gom, didn’t they +laff when they set eyes on me; an’ my blessed mammy, she shouts— + +“‘_Kai sî tîro gad_, _m’o rinkeno tshavo_?’ (Where’s your shirt, my +pretty boy?) Into the tent I dived, an’ I weren’t long dressing, for I +wanted to be gitting my share o’ the _balovas_ an’ _yora_s (ham and +eggs).” + +Occasionally the spinneys skirting the deserted road obscured the view of +the far-off Wolds, but one could forgive these temporary interventions, +for the sprays of larch and beech hanging out from the little woods were +delicate in their new spring garb, and as the breezes caught them they +rose and sank with a beautiful feathery droop. Now across the fields on +our left hand there came into view a familiar landmark, Dunston Pillar, +concerning which I once heard a story from the lips of Bishop Edward +Trollope, a whilom neighbour of mine. + +At one time Lincoln Heath was a vast unenclosed rabbit warren dotted over +with fir woods and quarries, and at times travellers lost their way upon +it. So Dunston Pillar was erected, and a lantern was placed on top to +guide benighted wayfarers over the Heath. Doubtless the old lighthouse +served its purpose well, yet it did not always enable people to reach +their own homes in safety, for the locality was infested with robbers on +the look out for travelling gentry. Not far from the Pillar stood an old +coaching inn, the “Green Man,” and one night, after assisting their +driver to his box, two gentlemen who had been carousing there thought it +prudent to remind their man thus: “John, be sure you keep the Pillar +light upon your right, and then we shall reach Lincoln safely.” However, +when the two awoke at daybreak and found themselves still near the +Pillar, one of them called out, “Why, John, where are we?” Upon which, +John replied drowsily from the box, “Oh, it’s a’ roight, sir, the +Pillar’s on our roight.” And so it was, for he had been driving round it +all night. + +As we jogged along, Jonathan would occasionally jerk his whip towards a +rich pasture, and with a sly wink would say, “We’s _puv_’d _our graiaw_ +in that field more than once.” Let me explain. In order to give their +horses a good feed, the Gypsies when camping on the High Dyke would turn +their animals overnight into a nice fat pasture, taking care, of course, +to remove them early in the morning. + +At this point we drew rein, and took a meal under the lee of a plantation +in whose boughs thrushes fluted and willow-wrens made fairy music. Not +far away, couch-grass fires sent their smoke across the level surface of +a loamy field, making the air of the lane pungent with the scent of +burning stalks. Seated there under the spreading trees, my Gypsy +companion related a poaching incident with some gusto, for it is next to +impossible to dispossess the Gypsy of the notion that the wild rabbits +frisking about the moors and commons are as free to him as to the owner +of the lands on which they happen to be playing. + + [Picture: Netting Rabbits. Photo. F. R. Hinkins] + + “One time when our folks was camping on the Dyke a keeper comes up to + the fire. It was evening, and we was having some stew, and the + keeper joined us. He were a pleasant, good-company fellow, wery + different from keepers nowadays, and after the meal was over, my old + mammy says to him, ‘There’s two things that’s wery good—a drop of + brandy to warm the cockles o’ your heart, and a bit o’ black ’bacca + to warm your snitch-end.’ And the keeper agreed. Then my daddy + brings out a black bottle and mixes him a drink in a teacup, and us + boys come peeping into the tent to listen to the tales what daddy and + the keeper got a-telling. I can see ’em all a-sitting there now, my + old mam a-puffing her _swêgler_ (pipe) and the keeper and daddy + blowing a big cloud till you couldn’t hardlins see across the tent + for smook. But mam never gave us boys nothink from the bottle, and + when the keeper began to get jolly, my dad tipped us a wink, and off + goes three of us wi’ the dogs, and we had a good time in the big + woods. Nobody came near us, and we didn’t carry the game home that + night lest we might meet a _gawjo_. We know’d a thing better than + that. We hid the game in a leafy hollow, and sent some of the big + gells in the morning with sacks, and they brought all home safe.” + + [Picture: ’Neath the Hedgerow. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +Two miles onward we stopped a few minutes at Byard’s Leap to look at the +large iron horseshoes embedded in the turf. It is these shoes that help +to perpetuate the local legend which gives the hamlet its name. Here is +the Gypsy version of the tradition. + + “Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, there was a wicked witch what + lived in a stone-pit wi’ big dark trees hanging over it. This woman + did a lot of mischief on the farms all round, witching the stock in + the fields, and she cast sickness on people young and old. They say + the witch was once a beautiful girl who sold her blood to the _Beng_ + (Devil), and that’s how she got her powers. At last she grew wery + ugly, and still went on working great harm. One day the folks of + that neighbourhood met together and tossed up to see who was to kill + the witch. It was a shepherd who had to do it, though it went + against his mind, as he had often played with the witch when she was + a beautiful girl. However, he promised to put an end to her, and set + off to choose a horse to ride on. All the horses on the farm were + driven down to a pond. One of them was a blind one, an old favourite + of the farmer’s, which he wouldn’t allow to be killed. Now, while + the horses were drinking, the shepherd was to _wuser_ a _bâ_ (throw a + stone) over the horses’ backs into the water, and the one that looked + up first was the one he was to ride. Well, if the poor old blind + horse didn’t lift up its head, so he saddled it and bridled it and + rode off to the stone-pit. When he got there he shouted, ‘Come out, + my lass, I want to speak to you.’ + + “‘I’m suckling my cubs;’—she had two bairns, and the shepherd was + said to be their father—‘wait till I’ve tied my shoe-strings, and + then I’ll come.’ Soon she came out, and, springing on to the horse’s + back behind the shepherd, she dug her claws into the animal’s flesh, + while the shepherd rode poor blind Bayard—that was the horse’s + name—towards the cross-roads, and on the way there the _grai_ (horse) + gave a tremendous jump—sixty feet—and both the riders were thrown + off; the witch was killed on the spot, the shepherd was lamed for + life, and the blind horse fell down dead.” + +Starting from the first set of four horseshoes in the turf, I measured +the distance in strides to the next set of four, and, roughly speaking, +found it to be sixty feet. + +Here our roads diverged, Jonathan going westward towards the “Cliff,” +while I took the turn for Sleaford. + +Within three weeks from this meeting with Jonathan on the High Dyke, I +had business calling me to the town of Newark-on-Trent, where, as luck +had it, the May horse-fair was in full swing, and under the shadow of the +Castle by the waterside I met my Gypsy friend once more. In a corner of +the fairground, which was crowded with horses, I found Jonathan in +company with one of the Smiths, and the two men were drinking ale out of +big horn tumblers rimmed with silver. Petulengro had a nice _vâdo_, and, +going up to it, I read the name “Bailey, Warrington.” He explained that +he was breaking new ground, and therefore had taken a change of name. +Like most Gypsies, he had some pets—two dogs, a bantam cock and hen, a +jackdaw, and a canary. As Jonathan had absorbing business on hand, I did +not see him again until evening, when I joined him in his tilt-cart, and +we set off towards Ollerton. Underneath the vehicle were slung several +tent rods, notched, or numbered, in order to facilitate the erection of +the tent. Said he, “I’m expecting my nephew to join us to-morrow—that’s +Charley—he’s promised to come after us, so I must lay the _patrin_s +(signs) for him.” + +Let us see how this is done. + +At a crossing of two highways, a few miles out of the town, Jonathan went +to the hedge-bottom and plucked a bunch of long grass, then upon a +clearing among the tussocks on the wayside he divided the bunch into +three portions, carefully placing these with their tips pointing in the +direction which we were about to take. + + [Picture: The Gypsy’s Parson on the Road. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +“There now,” said the old man, “I’ve got to do this at every cross-road, +for there’s no telling exactly where we shall stop to-night. But Charley +is bound to find us, for he’ll _dik avrî_ for _mandi_’s _patrin_” (look +out for my sign). + +There are many varieties in the form of the _patrin_, for no two families +use exactly the same sign. I have heard Gypsies who were about to +separate into parties, discussing the particular form of _patrin_ to be +used by the advance guard, so that those who were following would know +exactly what to look for, and whereabouts on the roadside they might +expect to find it. + +A Suffolk friend, whilst sitting unobserved on a fence in the twilight, +watched some Gypsies laying a _patrin_ formed of small elm twigs, their +tips indicating the direction taken. A peculiar form of _patrin_ I once +saw was a wisp of grass tied round a sapling in the hedgerow. + +For myself, I never see a _patrin_ on the roadside without recalling +Ursula’s pathetic story in _The Romany Rye_. Readers who know their +Borrow will remember how the woman followed her husband for a great many +miles by means of his signs left on the wayside. + +Between Kneesall and Wellow a halt was made, and, having lit a fire of +sticks under the shadow of a wood, we warmed some stew in a black pot. +As we sprawled on the grass, a fox dashed across the road with a rabbit +dangling from its jaws, and Jonathan shouted in the hope of making +Reynard drop the bunny, but in vain. Then I told him how once I saw a +fox capture and kill a rabbit on the slope of a warren. He was about to +trot off with his prey when I gave a lusty shout which made him halt and +look round at me for a moment. Seeing that I was quite a hundred yards +away, Reynard dropped the rabbit, scratched a hole, and buried his +capture, carefully spreading the loose earth and stones over the place +with his sharp nose. Then he made for the woods. Now, though I searched +diligently for that buried rabbit, I could not for the life of me +discover it, the entire surface of the warren-slope being so dotted over +with recent rabbit-scratchings strewn with small stones. + +While Jonathan was making some small repair of the harness, I drew from +my pocket a few newspaper cuttings and letters, in one of which was a +dialogue between two Gypsies, a tiny boy and an aged man, who had met +upon the road— + + “BOY. _Sâ shan_, _baw_, has _tuti dik_’d _mi dadus ke-divus_? + + MAN. _Keka_, _mi tshavo_, _mandi keka jin_s _tuti_’s _dadus_. _Sî + yov_ a _bawro mush_ wiv _kawlo bal_? + + BOY. _Âwali_, _dova sî mi dadus_, _tatsho_. + + MAN. Has _yov_ a pair o’ check _rokamiaw_? + + BOY. _Âwa_, _dova_’s _mi dadus_. + + MAN. Has _yov_ a _loli baiengri_ wiv _bawrê krafnê_? + + BOY. _Âwa_, dat’s _mi dadus_, feth. + + MAN. _Dawdi_, _mandi dik_’d _lesti tălê o drom odoi_ a-_mong_in a + _puri_ pair o’ _tshokaw_ to _tshiv oprê lesti_’s _nongê pîrê_. + + BOY. _Dova sî keka mi dadus_, at all.” + +_Translation_. + + “BOY. How do, mate. Have you seen my father to-day? + + MAN. No, my boy, I don’t know your father. Is he a big man with + black hair? + + BOY. Yes, that’s my father, sure. + + MAN. Has he a pair of check trousers? + + BOY. Yes, that’s my father. + + MAN. Has he a red waistcoat with big buttons? + + BOY. Yes, that’s my father, faith. + + MAN. Lor, I saw him down the road there a-begging an old pair of + boots to put on his bare feet. + + BOY. That’s not my father at all.” + +“A bit o’ the old style, I call that,” was my companion’s comment. + +After we had yoked in and were about to start off, my old Gypsy pulled +out his handkerchief to catch a sneeze on the wing. He was successful, +and, unnoticed by him, a little wooden animal fell to the grass. On +picking it up, I handed back to him a dog with a tail broken off and one +foot missing, and he grabbed at it excitedly, saying— + +“I wouldn’t _nasher_ (lose) that for a deal.” + +This little fetish I remembered to have seen on a former occasion. +Jonathan had put it on the top of a gatepost and was talking to it, as he +puffed a cloud of tobacco smoke. For some reason, he was never willing +to discuss the subject. + + [Picture: Comrades] + +Pursuing our journey, we came to the little town of Ollerton, and after a +halt at one of the inns we travelled onward through Edwinstowe until we +reached a tract of ferny, heathery country, where we drew up, unyoked and +unharnessed the horse, and in wonderfully quick time had our little tent +erected. You have sometimes heard people say, “Poor Gypsies,” yet if you +had travelled with them, as I have, you would hear it said, “Poor _gawjê_ +(gentiles), we feels sorry for ’em, cooped up in their stuffy houses.” + + [Picture: Gypsies at Home. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +There is nothing so healthy as a tent under the open sky, with the wind +blowing freely around you and the birds singing their canticles in the +woods hard by. I speak from experience in regard to tent life, for under +Jonathan’s tuition I learned long ago how to construct a Gypsy’s tent of +ash or hazel rods thrust into the ground and their tapering ends bent and +fixed into a ridge-pole, the whole being covered with coarse brown +blankets pinned on with stout 3-inch pins. (The Gypsies use the long +thorns of the wild sloe, or thin elder skewers.) In such a tent I have +slept nightly for many months in succession. It is grand to sit at your +tent door, building castles in the air, which at any rate cost very +little in upkeep. + +Bosky Sherwood with its oaks and birches and uncurling bracken stretched +away towards the west, and, strolling along the unfenced road, lo, an old +woman with her apron full of sticks was seen coming down a glade. She +turned out to be Rachel Shaw, whom we accompanied to where, round a +corner, the camp of the Gypsy Shaws lay within a secluded alcove. This +was a pleasant surprise. Here, by the fire, sat Tiger Shaw and his three +grown-up daughters, fine strapping girls. I had often heard of +“Fiddling” Tiger, whose children were said to be excellent dancers. It +was said of their father that he could play tunes by thumping with his +fists upon his bare chest. We sat chatting with them till the moon rose, +a full golden disk, over the woods. The night air was sweet with forest +smells exhaling from bursting oak-buds and sheets of wood hyacinths. A +rare place for owls is Sherwood, and more than once as we sat there, a +broad-winged bird came out of the black shadows and flew away hooting +down the road. + +Old Tiger, who hails from the Low Country between Lynn and St. Ives, +remembers when the “Jack o’ Lantern” used to flicker by night in those +parts in the days of his childhood, and of ghost tales he has a rich +store. One of his best tales is the ghost of the haystack, which I give +in my own words. + + “One night a Gypsy and his wife went to take some hay from a stack at + the back of a mansion. As they were getting it, they looked up and + saw on the top of the stack a wizened old man wearing a + three-cornered hat, a cut-away coat with silver buttons, + knee-breeches, silk stockings, buckled shoes, and by his side hung a + curious sword. At this sight they stood amazed, then, gathering + courage, the Gypsy woman looked up and said— + + “‘If this is your hay, sir, may we take a handful for our pony?’ + + “The figure on the stack never spoke, but nodded his head, so they + took a lot, and, departing, left a trail of hay reaching from the + stack to the camp. Next morning the squire of the mansion came + along. + + “‘You rascally vagabonds, you thieving rogues, how dare you steal my + hay? If you had asked me, I’d have given you some.’ + + “‘But we _did_ get leave.’ + + “‘How so?’ + + “Then they described the gentleman on the stack, giving the details + as already told. At this the squire turned deathly pale, and laid + hold of a fence to steady himself. + + “‘Why, you’ve seen my old grandfather who has been dead years and + years, and if he gave you leave, you can get as much of that hay as + you please.’ + + “And you may be sure they did.” + +The first grey light of dawn was creeping down the road and waking the +life of the woods, when we were called from our slumbers by a cheery +“Hello,” and Jonathan sprang up to receive his nephew, who had already +drawn his _vâdo_ upon the grass; indeed, before we had dressed, Charley +had gathered sticks for the breakfast fire, and by the time that our meal +was finished, the sun was gilding the tree-tops. Now we were ready for +the departure, and, moving along the road, we found the Shaws also taking +the _drom_ (road). By the side of the _vâdo_ walked Tiger’s girls, their +loosened hair blowing in the wind, and going along they gathered the +yellow cowslips. + +Onward through the gorsy lanes we travelled together as far as Mansfield, +where our merry party became divided, the Boswells taking the highway +leading through North Derbyshire to Sheffield, the Shaws going westward +towards Matlock, and myself setting off in a southerly direction. + +Just where Robin Hood’s Hills begin to rise beyond the red-stemmed pines +of the Thieves’ Wood, I came upon a resplendent caravan of the Pulman +type drawn up on the wayside turf a long way from any village. Near by +sat two persons, a man past middle age, wearing a kilt and +tam-o’-shanter, who had for companion a pretty lass in her teens, with +long brown hair. On the ground between them stood a big crystal jar, and +with long forks the two were spearing cubes of preserved ginger. Their +backs being turned towards me, they gave a little start of surprise as I +went up, and, raising my hat, inquired, “Dr. Gordon Stables?” + +“That’s my name,” said he, and, inviting me to join them on the grass, he +dispatched the girl for another fork, with which very soon I, too, was +spearing for ginger. + +Here before me was the “Gentleman Gypsy,” whose writings had been +familiar to me since boyhood. + +“You’ll think it strange,” said he, “when I tell you that I have no +memory for faces, but I rarely fail to remember the look of any tree I +have once seen by the roadside.” + +When Gypsies were mentioned, the good doctor had grateful reminiscences +of them. During many years of road-travel he had often come upon the +wandering folk, and he liked them. They were cheerful people who never +forgot a kindness. They were most obliging withal, and readily lent +their horses to pull his somewhat heavy “house on wheels” up the stiff +inclines. Altogether, he had a very good word for the Gypsies. + +By mid-afternoon I was standing in the churchyard at Selston, where lay +the fragments of the headstone of a Romany chief, Dan Boswell. An +irreverent bull was declared to have been responsible for the shattered +condition of the stone upon which a quaint epitaph was now faintly +visible. It ran as follows:— + + “I’ve lodged in many a town, + I’ve travelled many a year, + But death at length hath brought me down + To my last lodging here.” + +My late father-in-law, formerly a curate of Selston, remembered how +Gypsies paid visits to this grave and poured libations of ale upon it. +The adjacent common, long since enclosed, was once much frequented by the +nomad tribes. + +My resting-place that evening was the pleasant Midland town of +Nottingham, and right soundly I slept after my long day on the road. + + + + +CHAPTER XII +THE GYPSY OF THE TOWN + + +IN the sunny forenoon I was walking in one of the airy suburbs of +Nottingham, and, passing by the entrance to some livery stables, I +noticed on a sign-board in prominent yellow letters on a black ground the +surname of Boss. This it was that brought me to a standstill in front of +the large doors in a high wall. “A Romany name,” I said to myself. “I +ought to find a Gypsy here;” and, pushing open one of the doors, I saw +before me an office with masses of brown wallflower abloom beneath a +wide-open window. + +“Come in,” said a mellow voice, in response to my knock at the little +door in the porch, and, entering, I was confronted by a handsome man of +fifty, evidently the master of the establishment, neatly dressed, well +groomed, and unmistakably Romany. + +“Mr. Boss?” + +“That’s so.” + +“_Romanitshel tu shan_?” (You are a Gypsy?) + +“_Âvali_, _baw_. _Av ta besh tălê_” (Yes, mate. Come and sit down.) +The words were accompanied by a low, musical laugh that was pleasant to +hear. He then conducted me to a garden seat where we sat and talked in +the May sunshine. Generally my companion would use the inflected dialect +of the old-time Gypsies, but at intervals he dropped into the _pogado +tshib_, the “broken language,” as spoken by the average English Gypsy of +to-day. For which lapses he apologized: “I wonder what my old dad would +say to hear me _roker_in like a _posh-rat_?” (talking like a half-breed). +“One of the old roots was my daddy, who could talk for hours in nothing +but ‘double-words’” (_i.e._ inflected Romany). “There were the +‘double-words’ and the other way—the broken language. Some of us young +upstarts never picked up all the ‘double-words’ our parents used, and now +the poor old language is fast going to pieces. What with these Gypsy +novels and their bits of Romany talk—my girl reads them to me—why, +everybody is getting to know it. I once heard a gentleman say that our +language was a made-up gibberish. But he was wrong. It’s a real +language, and an old one at that. But, as I was saying, it’s getting +blown very much nowadays. Why, down in Kent, Surrey, and Sussex there +are whole villages where you can hear Romany talked on all sides of you. +The little shopkeepers know it. The publicans can _roker_ (talk Gypsy) a +bit. The stable-boys throw it at one another. And you can’t stir in the +lanes without meeting a kiddie with the eyes and hair of a Gypsy—blest if +you can.” + +Noticing my flow of the _kawlo tshib_ (black language, _i.e._ Romany), +Boss tapped me familiarly on the knee: “I can’t reckon you up at all, +_rashai_ (parson). How have you picked it all up? Have you been sweet +on a Gypsy girl, or have you _romer_’d _yek_?” (married one). + +Then with all a Gypsy’s restlessness, he sprang up and led me to his +villa residence over the way, where, apologizing for the absence of his +wife, he introduced me to his daughter, a tall girl of twenty or more, +gentle, refined-looking, with fathomless Gypsy eyes and an olive tint in +her cheeks. + +“I’m going to take the _rashai_ for a drive,” said he. “We’ll be back +for tea.” + +In the tastefully ordered drawing-room I chatted with Miss Boss, whose +Romany rippled melodiously. A piece of classical music stood open on the +piano, and several recent novels lay scattered about. On her father’s +return within a few moments, I caught the sound of a horse pawing +impatiently outside, and presently I was seated with Jack Boss in a smart +yellow gig behind a slim “blood” animal. As we drove through the town my +companion pointed to a carriage-horse in passing: “_Wafodu grai sî dova_” +(a trashy horse is that), and when I translated his words he chuckled +merrily. “To think that you know _that_, and you don’t look a bit like a +Gypsy. Not a drop of the blood in you, I should think. You puzzle me, +you really do. Perhaps you’ve got it from books. I’ve heard of such +works, but have never seen them. I suppose you priests can find it all +in Latin somewhere? Now, to look at me you’d never think—would you?—that +I’d been born in a little tent” (he bent his fingers in semblance of +curved rods) “and had travelled on the roads. But that’s years ago, yet +I like to think of those days. If they were rough times, we had plenty +of fun. Don’t I remember going with my old dad to visit the Grays and +Herons, Lovells and Stanleys, in their tents—real Gypsies if you like. +You don’t often _dik_ a _tatsheno Romanitshel konaw_” (see a true Gypsy +nowadays). “It gave me a deal of pleasure the other day to meet Ike +Heron in his low-crowned topper and Newmarket coat. One of the old +standards is Ike. Perhaps you know him?” + + * * * * * + +By this time we were speeding between green hedgerows in the open +country, and when at last we pulled up at a wayside hostelry, nothing +would do but I must drink my Gypsy’s health. Then the horse’s head was +turned for home. Romany topics being still to the fore, and having +recently heard of the passing of George Smith of Coalville, I asked my +companion if he had ever met the parent of the first “Moveable Dwellings’ +Bill.” + +“I can’t say that I ever crossed his path, and I don’t know that I +particularly wanted to. His letters in the papers used to _rile my +people terribly_. We weren’t quite so bad as he painted us. It was +plain enough that he knew nothing of the real Romanies, nothing whatever. +Why, his “gipsies” were nothing but the very poorest hedge-crawlers, with +never a drop of our blood in their bodies. The man meant all right, very +likely, but as for his methods—well, the less said about them the +better.” + +As we parted after tea at his garden gate, I wished my Gypsy _kushto bok_ +(good luck). + +“A good thing _that_, Mr. Hall, and may we both have more of it.” + +I retain very pleasant memories of that afternoon spent in the genial +company of Mr. Jack Boss, whom I have since met several times at +horse-fairs in different parts of the country. + + * * * * * + +It has fallen to my lot to know a number of Gypsies who have made their +homes in our cities, and who, though moving in respectable circles, still +retain the old secret tongue of the roads, as well as a marked spirit of +detachment from most of the ideas of the people among whom they live. +Pride of race remains. No matter how high he may climb, the pure Gypsy +is proud of his birth and secretly despises all who are not of his blood. +When talking of breezy commons, green woodsides, rabbits, pheasants, and +the like, I have seen the eyes of a house-dwelling Gypsy grow wistful as +he sighed at the visions and memories arising within him. + +The sedentary Gypsies are now largely in the preponderance. Not that the +tendency to settle is entirely a thing of our times. Fifty years ago, +the Gypsy colony hard by my childhood’s home told of a movement not then +by any means new. Twenty years earlier, did not Ambrose (Jasper) Smith +say to Lavengro?—“There is no living for the poor people, the +_chokengris_ (police) pursue us from place to place, and the gorgios are +becoming either so poor or miserly that they grudge our cattle a bite of +grass by the wayside, and ourselves a yard of ground to light a fire +upon.” + +Many years prior to this complaint, the wholesale enclosing of the +commons, the harassing attentions of the press-gang, the flooding of our +roads by Irish vagrants, the barbaric administration of “justice,” and +the pressure of the times generally, had caused many a Gypsy to adopt a +sedentary life. Numbers of old-fashioned Romany families, finding life +no longer tolerable in England, were allured to the colonies by glowing +accounts received from migrated friends of the freedom and manifold +opportunities for making a living across the sea. All along since those +times it may be said that no year has passed without witnessing the +settlement of many Gypsies. + +Some of my happiest “finds” in the way of house-dwelling Gypsies were +several aged members of the great Boswell clan, living in the town of +Derby, and to them I owe many reminiscences of Gypsy life in bygone days. +It was from Lincolnshire _Romanitshel_s of the same clan-name that I had +first learned of the Derby colony whose Gypsy denizens were so +entertaining that if ever I found myself within a few miles of their +Midland town I could in no way resist going to see them. It must have +been many years since first they settled there, and yet they would talk +of Lincolnshire as though they had quitted its highways and byways but +yesterday. Moreover, these Boswells were related to some of Borrow’s +originals, a fact which in my eyes lent no small glamour to these folk. + +One cool spring evening I stood in a cramped yard in Derby, and, tapping +at a cottage door, I heard a tremulous voice inviting me to enter. +Within that little room my aged friend, Coralina Boswell, was warming her +thin hands at a few glowing coals in the grate. A flickering candle on +the chimney-piece cast a fitful yellow gleam on the old lady seated on +the hearthrug not far from a truckle bed. Wrapped about her shawl-wise +was a portion of a scarlet blanket throwing up her features, swarthy and +deeply seamed, into strong relief. She begged me to take the only chair, +which I drew up to the fire. + +“I am glad to see you, my son. I’m a lonely old woman. My _tshăvê_ +(children) are all far away.” Here she picked up a black pipe which she +had laid down on my entering, and went on chatting about her family, +mentioning a daughter named Froniga. + +“That sounds like Veronica.” + +“Yes, we name’t her after the one that wiped the dear Lord’s face wiv a +_diklo_” (handkerchief). + +This set her thoughts a-wandering, and she went on to tell how last night +she saw strange things. + +“I was in a _wesh_ (wood), thick and green, and I went on and on, and I +felt wild beasts rubbing agen me, but they never hurted me, ’cos my +blessed Saviour was a-sitting wiv His angels among the clouds just above +the roundy tops o’ the big trees. It was beautiful to see Him there. +And sometimes, as I sits here, I sees Him come into this room, as real as +when you came in yourself. + +“What made you come so far to see the likes o’ me? It’s wery kind o’ +you. I’s travelled all through your country, and a nice part it is. I +remembers the green fields all lying in the sun by the riverside.” +(Clearly she was thinking of the Trentside haunts of her clan.) + +“Now, my son, will you _tshiv_ some _kosht_ on the _yog_ (put some wood +on the fire) and light that _vâva mumeli_ (other candle) on the +chimbly-shelf?” + +On the walls of the room were several black-framed funeral cards, in the +midst of which was a blurred enlargement of a Romany _vâdo_ (cart), and, +seeing my eyes wandering towards this picture, Coralina broke out again— + +“Ah, that’s my _rom_’s (husband) wagon there, as we’s travelled in many a +year, and there he is on the steps a-looking at me so loving-like. I +_roker_s (talk) to him sometimes, forgetting he’s been gone this many a +year. + +“Mine’s a lonely life, and what would become of me I don’t know, if I +hadn’t some kind delations living in this _gav_” (town). + +As I stepped out into the narrow yard, a bright moon silvered the +battered door and the little crisscross window of Old Coralina’s abode, +and, walking along a crooked street, I thought of the strange life of the +woman I had just left, an existence in which dreams and visions passed +for realities. + + [Picture: A Mother in Egypt. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +In the same town lived another aged Gypsy, Eldi Boswell, whose days were +chiefly spent on a couch-bed smoking and dreaming. Too decrepit to leave +her cottage, she loved to bask in the glow of the fire, and I recall no +more picturesque Gypsy figure than Old Eldi, with her furrowed face and +her long, dark ringlets straggling out from beneath a once gorgeous +_diklo_. It was easy to see that she had been a beauty in her time, and +in confidential moments she would say that in her young days she had +often been taken for her cousin, Sanspirela Heron (the lovely wife of +Ambrose Smith), whose forename was (in _Lavengro_) changed by Borrow to +Pakomovna. Certainly one could not help being struck by Old Eldi’s large +eyes. Much has been written about the peculiarity of the Gypsy eye, +Borrow and Leland in particular having enlarged upon this topic. Not of +a soft, steady hue like that of a pool in the moorland peat, it is a +changeful eye of glittering black endowed with a strange penetrative +quality. + +Born about the year 1820 at Susworth, a hamlet on the Lincolnshire bank +of the Trent, Eldi remembered not only the names, but a host of tales in +which bygone Gypsies played a part. + +My father, a schoolmate of Thomas Miller at Gainsborough on the Trent, +used to speak of the riverside Gypsies whom Miller presents in his +writings: _e.g._ in _Gideon Giles the Roper_ he gives pictures of the +Boswells, who were probably some of Old Eldi’s folk. + +For instance, if I had been reading in Borrow’s _Gypsy Word-Book_ about +that famous old rascal, Ryley Boswell, I would say to Eldi— + +“Did you ever know Old Ryley?” + +“Sartinly, I minds him well enough. ‘Gentleman’ Ryley, they used to call +him. He was a tinker, like the rest of our _mushaw_ (men), but he +wouldn’t carry his creel (grinding-outfit) on his back like other people. +He must have it on a little cart, and a pony to draw it.” + +“Is it true that he had more than one wife living with him at the same +time?” + +“Well, yes, he had three wives. There was Yoki Shuri. You’s heard tell +of her, sure-ly—a wery clever woman she was at getting money. Then there +was Lucy Boswell, Old Tyso’s gell, a nicer woman never breathed, but +Ryley was rough with her and made her sleep in a little tent with his +dogs Musho and Ponto. Nobody blamed her when she left him and went to +’Merikay with her six children. Then there was Charlotte Hammond as went +away and took on with Zacky Lee. A lot of those Lees round London sprang +from them. In his best days Ryley had heaps of money and travelled all +over the country. He had a fine black mare, Bess Beldam, and he rode on +her a-hunting with the gentry up in Yorkshire. He was partic’lar fond o’ +that country, was Ryley. I minds how fine he looked on his splendid mare +as had silver shoes, and him in a coat with golden guineas for buttons. +I’s heard of him riding slap-dash through a camp, springing over the +tents and scutching the _nongê tshavê_ (naked children) with his +_tshupni_ (whip): ‘I’ll let ’em know who I am—Ryley Boswell, King of the +Gypsies.’ But at last his luck left him, and he took hisself off to +London with his Yoki Shuri. Even to her as stuck to him through all, he +was unkind. One day he tied her to a cart-wheel and leathered her, ’cos +she told him of his ill-doings. At London, they lived in the Potteries, +but he never did no good in the big city. One day, as he was skinning a +rabbit, he scratched his hand and got blood-poisoning, and died in a +little house underneath the railway arches. They buried him in Brompton +Churchyard.” + +Thus she would spin on at great length about Ryley Boswell. + +Another time she would talk about the Herons. She was old enough to +remember Niabai and Crowy (the parents of my aged friend, Ike Heron), as +well as “handsome” William, “lame” Robert, Miller, Lusha, and other +members of the same family. According to her account, these fellows were +a tall, dark, big-boned, rough set. + +Asked if she had ever known any Gypsy called Reynolds, Eldi replied— + +“To be sure, there was Reynolds Heron as married my Aunt Peggy.” + +Then I understood how Ambrose Smith (_alias_ Reynolds) came in his last +years to adopt for his own travelling surname the Christian name of his +wife Sanspirela’s father, Reynolds Heron, concerning whom it is recorded +that he used to fast on the five Fridays next after the season of Lent, +in memory of the five wounds of the Saviour. + +I used to like to hear Eldi talk of the days when artists, squires, and +their ladies would pay visits to the camp. “There was my husband’s Aunt +‘Norna’—her proper name was Lucretia Boswell—she was a beautiful woman, +and Mr. Oakley painted a picture of her wearing an orange shawl about her +shoulders. She never married, and always travelled with her sister +Deloraifi, who never married neither. Ay, when I was a barefooted gell +with the wind a-blowing my hair about, the painting-gentlemen would get +me to sit for my picture; and squires would stop us in the lanes and try +to pick up our words.” + +Rascalities of which modern Gypsydom knows nothing would creep into +Eldi’s memory-pictures. I mean the wayside robberies, the bloody fights, +the sheep and horse stealing of the rough old days of her girlhood. She +would get so rapt away in the past that she would speak of people dead +and gone as though they were living still, and, awaking to the present, +would remark with a deep-drawn sigh—“But, there, I’s seen none of ’em for +a wery long time.” + +Under the heading of “A Modern Enchantress,” the following note, +describing my Gypsy friend, was communicated by an Irish clergyman to +_The Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society_ of the year 1890:— + + “A short time since, a clergyman stopping at my house told me that + some time ago, when he was assisting in the work of All Saints’ + Parish, Derby, he had residing in the parish a Gypsy family named + Boswell. One of the family was sick, and he found the greatest + difficulty in getting into the house; and when he did get in, the + sick man told him that the sooner he cleared out of the house the + better—if he came to talk about religion. In fact, it was only by + most judicious management, and by promises not to speak about + religion till the sick man spoke of it first, that he was able to + establish a footing in the house. But after a little time he got on + quite friendly terms with the family. He then discovered that when + any of the family were sick an old aunt came into the room and seemed + to perform a kind of incantation over them. His description of her + performance was very like what we read about Eastern Dervishes. She + gradually worked herself up into a species of frenzy, flinging her + arms about and muttering a kind of incantation or prayer, until her + voice ascended into a wild scream and descended again into a whisper + as the frenzy passed away, and she was left lying exhausted and + apparently in fainting condition on the floor. When she arrived at + this state she was immediately carried out of the sick-room by her + relatives.” + +A grey morning with a lowering sky and splashes of rain had given place +in the early forenoon to a brilliant day, and sunbeams lit up the +Humber’s wharves and shipping as I stepped from the steam ferry upon the +Corporation Pier at Hull. Often before had I visited this busy seaport +on Gypsy errands, and the cause of my present visit was to seek out the +whereabouts of the descendants of Ryley Boswell, renowned in Gypsy +history. From Borrow’s _Romany Word-Book_ I had gathered that Ryley +hailed from Yorkshire, and Eldi Boswell of Derby, and the London +relatives of Yoki Shuri had informed me that Hull was a likely place to +locate some of Ryley’s offspring. A few inquiries brought me the +information that a Gypsy and his wife kept a little grocery store in a +back street, which I had no difficulty in finding, though, reconnoitring +outside the shop, I saw in its exterior nothing suggestive of the Romany. +Going inside, I rapped with my foot on the floor, and a middle-aged +woman, only distantly resembling a Gypsy, responded to my summons. +Pointing to a barrel of ruddy Canadians, I made request in Romany for two +apples, and immediately a change came over her face. The sound of the +Gypsy language produced a beaming smile where solemnity had sat. After +making a further purchase, I was invited into the living-room, where I +had no sooner sat down than the woman’s husband, looking still less like +a Gypsy, entered, but on my giving him a _sâ shan_ (how do?) he laughed +outright, and we had some fun. It tickled me not a little to hear the +pair discussing my physiognomy. + +“Why, he’s got Newty’s _nok_ (nose), that he has now.” And the wife +asked me if I had brought news of a fortune left to them by their Uncle +Newty in Australia. + +“Newty—well, I _have_ heard of him. Wasn’t he _bitshado pawdel_ +(transported) to Hobart Town for horse-stealing? But for whom do you +take me?” + +“One of Newty’s sons, for sure. And here’s your father’s photograph” +(handing me a daguerreotype in velvet-lined case). “Now look at yourself +in the glass. Why, you’re the wery spit of Uncle Newton.” + +So I found myself taken for a grandson of Old Ryley and Yoki Shuri, and +my shopkeeping friends were themselves actual grandchildren of those +Gypsies of renown. Here was a lucky find, and since I was out upon a +genealogical errand, I availed myself of the present opportunity to scoop +in a goodly store of facts for my increasing collection of Romany +pedigrees. + +A few years after this visit to Hull, a correspondent in Australia +imparted to me a number of facts relating to transported Gypsies. Here +are a few of his personal recollections of Newton Boswell (or Boss), whom +he had known as a travelling knife-grinder at Launceston in Tasmania. + + “Newton, familiarly known as ‘Newty,’ seemed a nice quiet fellow, + tall and spare, with the remains of good looks. Polite and + well-spoken, he was not particularly Gypsy-looking, except for his + walk and build—not particularly dark. At the same time he _did_ look + like a Gypsy. His eyes were of a mild brown. He wore a big felt hat + and a coloured handkerchief. He told me that he had been popular + with ladies, that one lady who had a large house (in New South Wales, + I think), and with whom he worked as a servant or driver, took a + particular fancy to him, but he left that situation because he wanted + to be on the move. He said he did not like remaining long in one + place. Newton confirmed Borrow’s description of Ryley, in regard to + his wearing gold coins as buttons on his clothes, and other details. + When I read him parts of Borrow’s books, he was astonished to find in + print many facts familiar to himself. He once brought round his + fiddle for me to hear him play, which he did in the energetic, + spirited style peculiar to the race. He told me that he had + travelled all over Australia. + + “Once, many years ago, there came up to Newton’s grinding-barrow in + Sydney a handsome, dark, beautifully dressed, young lady who, looking + him fixedly in the eyes, said— + + “‘There’s a Romany look about you.’ + + “‘I beg your pardon, madam?’ + + “‘There’s a Romany look about you.’ + + “‘Why, madam, do I look any different from anybody else?’ + + “‘Well, you are wearing a yellow handkerchief round your neck.’ + + “‘Can’t anybody wear a coloured handkerchief, madam?’ + + “‘Yes, they can, but they don’t.’ + + “‘Well, madam, I _am_ a Gypsy—a pure-bred one too—my name is + Boswell.’ + + “‘And so am I a Gypsy—my name is Lovell.’ + + “She gave Newton a sovereign and invited him to call at her house. + He subsequently learned that she had married some well-to-do man (a + non-Gypsy) in England, who had brought her out to Australia, and that + on his returning suddenly from a trip to the Old Country, he shot her + in a passion of jealousy, and then shot himself.” + +Some weeks later I was again exploring Hull for Gypsies. To me few +things are more agreeable than to hear Romany spoken unexpectedly. +Walking along a city street, if suddenly amid the din of the traffic I +hear a Gypsy greeting, I experience a very pleasant emotion. + +In passing along the Anlaby Road, I heard from behind me, “_Sâ shan_, +_rashaia_?” (How do, parson?) and, looking round, I saw Mireli Heron’s +son, a jovial, harum-scarum fellow who has found a permanent home in +Hull. I remember him as a travelling Gypsy, and his garb was then +characteristic and becoming, but he had now adopted a coat, collar, and +tie of the prevailing fashion. The Gypsy of the town, I find, has no +desire to attract attention to himself; hence he becomes subdued in +appearance, more’s the pity. Having settled, he becomes “respectable,” +drab-coloured, unpicturesque. + +At my request young Heron walked across with me to the Spring Bank, and +on the way thither he pulled up at a photographers shop window, and, +pointing to a picture, asked— + +“What would you call that in _Romanes_?” (Gypsy). + +“Why, a _kuskti-dik_in _rakli_ (a good-looking girl), to be sure.” + +“_Keka_, _keka_ (no, no), I don’t mean that. What’s our word for +‘picture’?” + +“_Dikamengri_.” + +“_Keka_, that’s the word for a looking-glass.” + +“Well, what would _you_ say?” + +“_Stor-dui_-graph” (_Four_(4)-_two_(2)-graph, hence photograph). + +The Romany tongue is plastic, and a Gypsy will playfully coin new words +in this fashion. As a Gypsy once said, “There’s always a way of saying a +thing in _Romanes_, if you can find it out.” Certain it is, if a Gypsy +has no old word for a thing, he will not be long in coining a new one. + +Entering the Spring Bank Cemetery together, my companion pointed out the +grave of Yoki Shuri, the faithful consort of Ryley Boswell (or Boss), and +upon the neat stone I read this inscription, “In memory of Shorensey +Boss, who died Jan. 18, 1868, aged 65 years.” From a bush planted on the +grave I plucked a sweet white rose. + +Further, I learned from my companion that Old Ryley’s son Isaac, commonly +called “Haggi,” had died in Hull only a few years previously. Like his +brother Newton, he too had visited Australia, and, returning to this +country, had settled in Hull, and was daily seen in the streets with a +grinding-barrow. A girl whom Haggi brought with him from Australia told +me (this was a few years later) that when as a child she was naughty, +Haggi would frighten her by saying, “If you’re not good, Old Ryley will +get you, and he’ll _maw tut_” (kill you). + +One summer, when holidaying with my family at the breezy Yorkshire +coast-town of Bridlington, I heard that there were Romanies living in a +house at a little inland town, and, cycling over the hills, I spent a +pleasant hour in the home of a Gypsy, who in a sweet voice sang the +following ballad:— + + “There were seven Gypsies all in a row, + And they sang blithe and bonny, O! + They sang until at last they came + Unto the yellow castle’s hall, O! + + The yellow castle’s lady, she came out, + And gave to them some siller, O! + She gave to them a far better thing, + ’Twas the gold ring from her finger, O! + + At ten o’clock o’ night her lord came home, + Enquiring for his lady, O! + The waiting-maid gave this reply, + She’s gone with the roving Gypsies, O! + + Come saddle me my milk-white steed, + Come saddle for me my pony, O! + That I may go by the green-wood side, + Until I find my lady, O! + + So all through the dark o’ night he rode, + Until the next day’s dawning, O! + He rode along the green-wood side, + And there he found his lady, O! + + Last night you laid on a good feather bed, + Beside your own married lord, O! + To-night in the cold open fields you lie, + Along with the roving Gypsies, O! + + What made you leave your home and your lands? + What made you leave your money, O! + What made you leave your own married lord, + To go with the roving Gypsies, O! + + What cares I for my home and my lands, + What cares I for my money, O! + What cares I for my own married lord, + I’ll go with the roving Gypsies, O!” + +On leaving, I placed a silver coin in the singer’s tawny palm, whereupon +she sprang from her stool by the fire and gave me a resounding kiss on +the cheek. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII +WITH THE YORKSHIRE GYPSIES + + +AS I have said, Gypsies settled in houses now greatly outnumber their +roving brethren. Hence it has come to pass that nearly every town in the +land possesses a Bohemian quarter where you are met by dark faces and +sidelong glances speaking of Gypsy blood. Nor can the student of Gypsy +life and manners afford to neglect these haunts despite their dinginess, +for as often as not they contain aged Gypsies whose memories are well +worth ransacking for lore and legend, and in “working” these queer +alleys, one has often picked up choice reminiscences of bygone Gypsy +life. + + [Picture: House-Dwelling Gypsies. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +One morning I was walking under the grey walls of Scarborough Castle, +and, coming out upon the sparkling North Bay, I ran into the arms of a +_mush-fakir_ (umbrella-mender), who looked as if there rolled in his +veins a blend of Scottish and Irish blood, but I was mistaken, for he +told me he was Welsh and bore the name of Evans. Far-travelled, his +peregrinations had ranged from Aberdeen to Penzance, and seldom have I +met a man of his class so overflowing with varied knowledge. He asked me +if I knew William Street in Scarborough, but as a newcomer I admitted +that I had not so much as heard of the locality, and made request for +further information. + +“I reckon William Street ’ll just suit you,” he declared. “It’s full o’ +tinkers and grinders, Gypsies and sweeps, and the like.” + +“A regular Whitechapel,” I suggested. + +“Now you’ve hit it,” said he laughingly. + +I asked him where he was residing in that street. + +“At the Model, to be sure, and if you ax for Long Ambrose, you’ll find +they all know me.” + +I further inquired of him as to the Gypsy inhabitants of that quarter, +and he gave me a list of the “travellers” who had settled there. These I +called upon leisurely during a holiday extending over three weeks. One +day I would look up one or two of them, and a few days later I renewed my +visitation by dropping in upon several others, and so on until this +little gold-mine was exhausted. + +From the sea-front it was a change scarcely Aladdin-like to find oneself +in smoky William Street, a byway shut in by dingy walls, which in the +deepening dusk took on an air of mystery. A little way down the street, +I knocked at the door of Inji Morrison, but as there was no response I +lifted the latch, and, putting my head inside the room, I spake aloud, +“_Putsh man te av adrê_” (Ask me to come inside). A sound of shuffling +feet was heard, with tripping steps in the rear, and an old crone +tottered forward, along with her granddaughter, dark-eyed and +twenty-five. Following them into the kitchen, I saw the floor scattered +with willow pegs in various stages of manufacture. The pair accorded me +a genial welcome, though they scanned me curiously as if wondering what +sort of Gypsy I might be. When I mentioned some black foreign +_Romanitshel_s whom I had seen, the old mother remarked— + +“I shouldn’t like to _dik lendi_ (see them); they would make me think of +the _Beng_.” + +Then, as the old lady was dull of hearing, her granddaughter (in an +aside) said— + +“You mustn’t mind, _rai_, what granny says; she’s getting old. As for +the _Beng_, there ain’t no sich pusson, I don’t think. There’s nothing +bad comes from below. There’s the springs we drink from, and the dearie +little flowers we love to gather. And there’s nothing but good comes +from above; the blessed sunshine and the light o’ moon and the rain that +falls—why, all of ’em’s good things, ain’t they? The badness is on’y +what people makes.” + +Now through the open door leading to a cramped backyard came a hairy +terrier, followed by a small boy with saucy eyes and long, black curls +falling upon the shoulders of his ill-fitting coat. A great-grandson +from a few doors lower down was this quicksilver pixy, who sat himself at +our feet and cuddled the terrier near a few red embers in the grate. + +“Mend the fire, my gal,” said Old Inji. And when the wood blazed and lit +up the room, granny filled her pipe from shavings cut from a cake of +black tobacco. + +“I’ll never go to Seamer Fair no more now my man’s dead. ’Tain’t likely +as I could. ’Twouldn’t be the same, would it?” + +“Seamer Fair, when is that?” + +“Why, next week. There’ll be _dosta Romanitshel_s _odoi_ (many Gypsies +there) and music and dancing. Ay, and fighting too.” + +Then she fell to rambling about her former life on the road. + + * * * * * + +Another day I sat with Vashti Boswell in her cottage down one of the +numerous yards branching out of William Street. Handing me a rude stool, +the work of some Gypsy carpenter, she sat herself on the fender. On her +forehead was a deep indentation which she said was made by a blow from a +poker at the hand of a mad relative. In vivid words she described the +occasion of that blow, and one pictured the desperate struggle between +the two women, till Vashti, fainting from loss of blood, fell in a heap +on to the floor, but not before Izaria, a stalwart fellow, attracted by +his mother’s screams, had rushed into the house and snatched the weapon +from the mad woman’s hand. + +A little higher up the street lived this same son and Vashti’s nephew, +Joel Boswell, who were sent for, a neighbour’s child acting as messenger. +I have often noticed that Gypsies will call in their kinsfolk who live +near to share in the pleasure and excitement, likewise in the “grist,” +implied by a _rai_’s visit. Much to my surprise Vashti knew all about +Gypsy Court at Lincoln, and little wonder when she presently told me that +her husband was a half-brother of my old friend, Jumping Jack. + +Talking of the past, Vashti declared that very few Gypsies in her day +went to church for marriage. + +“My man and me jumped the besom, we did. That’s how we was married. +Like many more, we didn’t get _parson’d_, but we thought our old way just +as binding as if we’d been to church. My man were a good ’un as long as +he lived, and weren’t that enough for the likes o’ me?” + +“Then you remember Jumping Jack?” I asked. + +“_Âwa_ (yes), and he could jump too. He once cleared the backs of three +horses standing side by side, and I’s seen him jump the common gate times +and agen. When my husband was living, we used to travel Lincolnshire, +and now lots of us are living in houses scattered all over the _tem_” +(country). + +At this juncture, Joel disappeared for a few moments, and on his return +bore a large jug of foaming brown ale, which was his way of welcoming the +_rai_, and pipes were soon in full blast. + +It was from Joel’s lips that I heard about Mordecai Boswell, who died at +Retford many years ago. Mordecai was a fine-looking man, his hair +falling in long curls. He wore a dark green coat with big pearl buttons +and a broad collar, while his low-crowned hat might well have been a +family heirloom. He had a dancing booth at fairs, and would fiddle, +while his sister Matilda danced and played the tambourine. Frampton +Boswell used to join him at the St. Leger and other big races, and they +didn’t do badly with the dancing booth. + +One day a _gawjo_ was chatting with Mordecai, and the talk turned upon +_hotshiwitshi_ (hedgehog). + +“I couldn’t fancy eating that creature,” said the _gawjo_. “It makes me +feel queer to think of it.” + +“Look here,” said Mordecai, “I’ll bet you a half-crown that before many +days are past you’ll have had some.” + +The _gawjo_ grinned and shrugged his shoulders. Time went on, and the +_gawjo_ one day came upon Mordecai and his family having dinner on the +roadside. + +“Won’t you have a bite with us?” said Mordecai. + +“What’s that on the dish?” asked the _gawjo_. + +“Duck,” replied the Gypsy, with a grave face. The _gawjo_ sat down and +was soon enjoying what looked remarkably like a duck’s leg. When the +meal was over and pipes were brought out, Mordecai got a-talking. + +“Well, my pal, where have you been since I saw you last, and how have you +been faring? Has any Gypsy got you to swallow a bit o’ _hotshiwitshi_?” + +“No, not likely. Didn’t I tell you that that nasty creature should never +touch my lips?” + +“Then you’ve done it to-day. You’ve had _hotshi_ for dinner, and you +seemed to enjoy one of the legs finely. You smacked your lips over it +anyway. Hand up that half-crown.” + +He did so, and, turning pale, walked away. + +“I say, _rai_,” remarked Izaria, “did you know there’s some of the black +Herrens (Herons) stopping at Robin Hood’s Bay, not far from here? I seen +’em at Scarborough a little while back, and I shouldn’t wonder if some of +’em’s at Seamer Fair next week.” + +Making a mental note of these two places, I resolved to visit them. +Then, happening to mention the _mush-fakir_ whom I had encountered near +the Castle, Joel said, “I once had an uncle as was very fond of this here +town, I mean Elisha Blewitt, as married Mordecai’s sister Sybarina; my +uncle was a _mush-fakir_, but he’s been dead for years. As for that +there man you spoke of, I believe there’s a long-legged _gèro_ (man) in +the same line o’ business living at the Model.” + +Next day in the same quarter I waylaid Fennix Smith in company with a +Gypsy named Swales, who were about to set forth in a two-wheeled cart +drawn by a thin-legged pony, their destination being Malton. On their +way home they would call at “No Man’s Land,” where they expected to find +some of their travelling friends drawing up for Seamer Fair. Between +their legs I noticed a lurcher curled up, and, pointing to it, I said, “I +see you mean to have some sport on the way.” + +“Yes, and we shan’t forget to bring you some-think, pass’n, if we has +good luck.” + +After the pony-cart had rattled out of the street, I turned into the yard +of the Model, where several grinding-barrows stood under a lean-to, but I +failed to recognize Long Ambrose’s property among them, and, entering the +house, I learned that my _mush-fakir_ might be expected home at any time. +Walking up the street, I came upon a stalwart Gypsy woman standing at her +open door. Her husband, I gathered, was a tinker, and not a prosperous +one at that, judging by his wife’s tattered gown and woebegone air. +During our talk about her relations who travelled Lincolnshire, two +pretty little children continually tugged at her gown. + +“If you go to Seamer Fair, _rai_, you’ll be sure to find some of my +folks, the Smiths, along with the Herrens and Youngs.” + +Just then I heard a man whistling, and round the corner appeared Long +Ambrose pushing his barrow. In the yard of the Model we conversed, and +on his referring to Gloucester, I asked if he knew any of the Carews, +horse-dealers of that city. + +“Oh yes, there was one of them sold a dyed horse to match a black +carriage-_grai_, and a wery ‘fly’ cove he was, but he got found out, and +had to do ‘time’ for that affair.” My _mush-fakir seemed_ to have +travelled everywhere. + + * * * * * + +Mindful of the intimation let fall by Izaria Boswell that there were +black Herons to be found at Robin Hood’s Bay, I made my way thither afoot +one brilliant July morning. A cool air from the sea tempered the sun’s +powerful rays, and it was good to inhale the sweetness of the summer +meadows where the haymakers were busy. Overhead the bent-winged silvery +gulls passed to and fro, and among the wayside bushes yellow-hammers +trilled their song which in childhood we translated by the words, “a +little bit of bread and no cheese.” + +Perched on the top of a lofty cliff overlooking the North Sea, the +village of Robin Hood’s Bay seems almost to overhang a precipice, and on +stormy nights the wind roaring up the cliff flings the salt spray far +inland. The whole of the coast hereabouts is a delicious panorama of +rock-bound bays and coves. + +On arriving at the village I had no difficulty in locating my Gypsies. A +fisherman, sun-tanned and jovial, pointed a stubby finger towards a +grassy plot whereon stood three caravans, and it was with a thrill of +pleasure that I drew near. Yes, there on the short turf sat one-armed +Josh and Nettie, his wife. Our greetings were hearty, and as we talked, +up came one of the Youngs. + +“You are just the man I want to see, _rashai_,” and, taking out a +crumpled newspaper, he said, “There’s something in here about stopping +the Gypsies from camping at Scarborough.” + +After a hunt through the paper, I came upon a report of a meeting of the +wiseacres of the town, and read their speeches about the “nuisances” said +to be created by the Gypsies. + +“But there ain’t any Gypsies there now _we’s_ come away,” said Young. +“The people stopping there are only poor _didakai_s (half-breeds) and +_mumpari_. We don’t call _them_ Gypsies.” + +The speaker was one of the purest-bred English Gypsies I have ever met. + +Pure Gypsies draw a marked line between dirty, low-class van-dwellers and +themselves; but unfortunately the world at large makes no such +distinction, immensely to the detriment of the true _Romanitshel_. + +East Yorkshire is a favourite country with the Herons and Youngs. Both +Josh and Nettie love it well, as did also some of their forelders. It +was at Robin Hood’s Bay that Nettie’s Aunt Whipney died long years ago. +I well remember a little tale about this old Gypsy. Tinker Ned, her +husband, had “found” a _kani_ (hen) for the pot. It was a small one, and +Whipney cooked it. When the tinker came home at a later hour than he had +promised, he asked— + +“Where’s that _kani_? Have you cooked it?” + +His wife answered by putting two fingers into her mouth, meaning, that +she had consumed the little fowl. Thereupon Tinker Ned picked up a loose +tent rod and gave her a good thrashing. + +Close by sat Nettie’s daughter-in-law, Isabel, and her children, bonny +bairns, tumbled happily on the grass. As I looked at these Gypsies, all +of them pictures of blooming health—clear-eyed, clean-limbed, bare-headed +in sun and breeze—I reflected not without sadness on the fact that the +tendency of modern legislation is to curtail and render more difficult +the free, roving life of these children of Nature. + +It was now late in the afternoon, and over tea we talked of other times +and old Gypsy ways. Nettie told of her own mischievous tricks when she +was a child, how she used to hide her mammy’s pipe in a tuft of grass +near the tent, and then watch her hunt up and down for it; her sister +Linda and she would have a good laugh to themselves over the trick, and +then what tales their old mother would tell them by the fire o’ nights. +One of these stories related to a horse belonging to some Irish Gypsies, +the O’Neils. + +He was an aged animal and a favourite of the family. One day he fell +down and broke his back. Quite still he lay, and, taking him for dead, +they removed his skin, but in the morning he came and kicked at the +_vâdo_. He was a sight awful to behold. Now it happened that near at +hand lay a pile of sheepskins, so they hurriedly clapped some of these on +the poor horse and bound them round and round with willow withies. In a +little while the animal recovered, and the O’Neils used to clip a crop of +wool off him every year. And since the willow sticks took root and grew, +the Gypsies were able to cut materials sufficient to make many baskets. + +Folk-stories of this character are classified by lorists as “lying +tales,” and in a subsequent chapter I shall give a sheaf of such stories +familiar to all our Boswells and Herons, wherever you may light upon +them. + +It was Nettie’s daughter-in-law who, after listening to a ghost tale from +me, protested— + +“_Mulos_ (ghosts)—I’ll tell you what I thinks about ’em. Folks who die +and go to the good place won’t never want to leave it, and as for people +what go to the bad place, I reckons they’ll have to stop there. ’Tain’t +likely they’ll ever have a chance to come back.” + +Looking up the footpath leading to the camp, I saw Isabel’s little boy +dragging a dead bough behind him. Said Josh, waving his stump of an arm +towards the approaching child— + +“The worst thing we Gypsies does nowadays is to pick up a dead stick or +two for the fire, and if we goes into a _wesh_ (wood) for a little +_shushi_ (rabbit) for the pot, well, I reckon there’s plenty left for +them as has a deal too many. If we sets a snare, it ain’t so cruel as +the keeper’s teethy traps, and the lord and lady as employs the keeper +talks in the Town Hall agen cruelty to animals—so I hear. Oh dear, it +makes me larf!” + +As I turned to take a farewell look at the group, I saw the Gypsies +stretched at full length, puffing their pipes, while away beyond them lay +the deep blue sea, and the rugged coast trending north and south in +exquisite bays. It was a sight to cherish in the memory. + +A cool rain in the early hours had given place to a hot July morning, as +I entered the village of Seamer already astir with its horse-fair. +Making my way between knots of colts and droves of ponies at whose heels +Gypsy boys were waving pink glazed calico flags, I went to where one of +the North-Country Smiths stood gesticulating before a group of +prospective buyers of colts, and discovered in him Elias Petulengro’s +son, Vanlo, whom I had known at Lincoln. Presently he walked across to +me and held out a hand of friendship. All around us were Yorkshire +travelling folk, and while chatting with Vanlo I witnessed a curious +thing. Three policemen stood talking together, and one of them had his +hands behind his back. A Gypsy, sidling up, slipped a half-crown into +this policeman’s hand. I saw his fingers close over the coin, yet he +never by the slightest sign betrayed this act of the Gypsy, which passed +unobserved by the other constables. Petulengro, who witnessed it, +explained that this sort of thing is not uncommon. It obtains little +privileges. “The _muskro_” (policeman), said he, “will turn a blind eye +to that Gypsy’s fire on some wayside to-night.” + + [Picture: A Gypsy Lad. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +Strolling through the fair, I spied old Clara Smith smoking a black clay +under a stone wall, and by her side sat her daughter Tiena and one of her +male relations, whom I had once met on a bleak fell in North-West +Yorkshire. It was he who told me the following tale as he sat making +pegs among the ling:— + +“When I was a boy, I was taking _puvengri_s (potatoes) from a field, and +I looked up, and there stood a tall man staring at me over the hedge. + +“‘You come along with me,’ he shouted, and, taking him for a policeman in +plain clothes, I obeyed, and went with him to a big building which I +thought was the Sessions House. There were many people inside, and a +gentleman was talking to them. At last he looked hard at me, and said, +‘Thou art the man.’ + +“So I jumped up and said, ‘Yes, I know I am, but I didn’t mean to do it. +It was my uncle as made me go. I’ll never steal potatoes no more.’ And +because I would keep on talking like a Philadelphia lawyer, they turned +me out without passing sentence on me. Next day I was walking with my +uncle, and the tall man as took me off to the place, passed by. ‘That’s +the policeman as arrested me,’ says I. + +“‘Why, you silly boy,’ said my uncle, ‘that there man is the evangelist, +and he took you to his chapel, he did.’” + + + + +CHAPTER XIV +A NIGHT WITH THE GYPSIES—THE SWEEP OF LYNN—LONDON GYPSIES—ON EPSOM DOWNS + + +“IT ain’t fit to turn a dog out o’ doors, that it ain’t, so you’d better +make up your mind to stop all night.” + +Saying this, Gypsy Ladin closed the porch door, but not without +difficulty, for a gale was battering upon the wayside bungalow. Half an +hour ago, as I hurried along the willow-fringed “ramper” on my way to see +this old Romany pal, black rain-clouds, bulging low over the fenland +wapentake, had foretold an approaching storm; and now with the descent of +the May night the tempest had burst in full fury upon the land. +Torrential rain, swift swelling rushes of wind, and brilliant flashes of +lightning made me glad to be housed with my friend in his fire-lit room. + +Hidden by a dense hedge from the highway, this Gypsy abode stood back +amid a cluster of apple trees, and a daylight view of the place would +have revealed to you an entirely nondescript habitation, with here a +home-made porch, and there a creeper-grown extension sheltering a green +caravan in which Ladin and his wife Juli have travelled many a mile over +the smooth causeways of the far-reaching flats. + +Let me picture for you the tiny apartment where we now sat happily +blowing clouds of tobacco smoke. Over the wide fireplace, which occupied +one side of the room, rose a high mantelpiece surrounded by coloured +prints of Derby winners, divided one from another by glistening +horse-bits and brass-bound whips. Opposite the fireplace a small +casement looked out upon a bulb-garden aglow by day with hyacinths, +tulips, and narcissi—a common sight in the Fens. The side walls were +adorned with portraits of Gypsy relatives deceased and living, and the +brazen ornaments on parts of a van-horse’s harness gleamed in the rays of +the pendant lamp. Before the fire sat my friend and his wife, a tall, +striking woman of the old-fashioned Draper clan, and along with us were +two youthful sons of the house, Rinki and Zegul, smart, quick-eyed +fellows, who occupied a home-made bench opposite my seat of honour in the +chimney corner. At our feet lay a dark lurcher, a type of dog whose +peculiar qualities are well appreciated by Gypsies. + +I have already spoken of my friend as “Gypsy” Ladin, but his ruddy +complexion and grey eyes are scarcely suggestive of the pure Romany. +About the good “black blood” of his wife, however, there can be no manner +of doubt. Probably my friend would agree with the roving _gawjo_, who, +having married a pure Gypsy, declared that the mingling of gentile and +Romany crafts was a desirable blending of qualities. Did not Lazzy +Smith, renowned in Gypsydom, once say— + + “Ain’t it in the Bible that God’s people should multiply and be as + one? It ain’t no sort o’ use at all a-goin’ agen the dear blessed + Lord’s words. Why, a cross is good, even if it be only in wheat, + ain’t it, now?” + +Belonging to East Anglia, Ladin’s forelders have mingled a good deal with +the Herons who formerly travelled the counties bordering upon the North +Sea. Himself akin to the Chilcots and Smiths, Ladin has inherited not a +few traditions of these families. + +“Do you remember Yoki Shuri Smith?” I asked. + +“You mean Old Ryley’s wife? Ay, I mind her well, but Ryley I don’t +remember. Shuri”—Ladin shivered as he uttered the name—“was looked upon +as a _tshovihawni_ (witch) by our folks. We allus thought it unlucky to +meet her on the road of a morning. I’ve known my folks turn back, +saying, ‘It ain’t no use going out to-day.’” + +After a discussion of Shuri’s “powers,” I ventured upon a tale of my own +experience of a witch who lived in a parish of which I was formerly +curate-in-charge. + +About a fortnight after my arrival at the Rectory, our aged gardener took +me into his confidence. + +“Excuse me askin’ if you’ve seen Old Betty what lives agin the well at +the bottom of the lane? You must mind you don’t never get across wi’ +that woman, or she’ll sartinly mek things awk’ard for you.” + +The man’s meaning was that Betty had “peculiar powers.” A widow of sixty +or more, she attended no place of worship, and rarely covered her grey +head with anything more than a shawl. Besides her allowance from the +parish, she managed to make a little money by selling ointments for +wounds and sores, and many a cure has been wrought by means of her +home-made compounds. My first meeting with her was on the Feast of St. +Thomas, called in those parts “Mumping Day.” At my door stood Old Betty +asking for a bit of silver, and a few yards behind her came several other +widows. Hesitatingly I stood just over the threshold, when suddenly, +before I could step aside, a lot of soft snow slid from the house-roof +with a splash upon my bare head, while Old Betty and her companions +laughed loud and long. The village gossips duly spread it abroad that +Betty had, by her “peculiar powers,” brought down the snow upon the +parson’s head. Anyway, I resolved for the future to be more prompt in +the exercise of that unfailing charm against Betty’s witchcraft—a silver +shilling. + + * * * * * + +“Did you ever see my Aunt Sarah at Blackpool?” said Juli. + +“Yes, I once had tea in her tent on the South Shore. Did she and her +_rom_ (husband), Edward, ever travel on this side of England?” + +“Sartinly, they did. Ned’s daddy, Tyso, lies buried in your country. +Poor old man, many’s the time I’ve heard the tale about him and the +shepherd boy.” + +“What was that?” + + * * * * * + +“Well, Tyso was once _hatsh_in (camping) on a Norfolk common and got +a-talking with a boy tending sheep. Says the boy to Tyso— + +“‘I can tell you where there’s a buried box full o’ money.’ + +“‘Show me the place,’ says Tyso. + +“The boy took him to a little low, green hill, and then they fetches a +spade and digs into it. Sure enough they bared the lid of an old iron +chest with a ring on top, and both of ’em tugged hard at the ring, but +the box wouldn’t budge an inch. Just then Tyso swore, and the ring +slipped outen their hands, and down went the box and they never see’d it +no more.” + + * * * * * + +“One time the Herrens (Herons) used to come about here a good deal. +There was handsome William, a wery notified man he were. Then there was +Old Niabai and Crowy. Their son Isaac had a boy born at Lynn close by +here—that was Îza. You’ll know him sure-ly. I’ve often met Ike’s +half-brother Manful in Lynn. I can see him now, a little doubled-up old +man. I ’spects you’s heard tell of Manful’s diamond? One day in a +public, he catch’d sight of something shining among the sand—they sanded +the slab floors in them days—and, whatever the thing was, it shone like a +bit of cut-glass, and at first he thought it wasn’t worth stooping for, +but when the taproom was empty he picked it up, and _dawdi_! if it wasn’t +a diamond as big as a cobnut. So away he takes it to a pawnbroker’s +shop, and the head man told him it were worth hundreds of pounds. My +dear old dad once saw it with his own eyes.” + + * * * * * + +While the black trees shuddered outside in the tempest, Ladin next told a +story I shall never forget. + + * * * * * + +“When my uncle, Alfred Herren, and his wife Becky was a-travelling in +Shropshire, they draw’d their wagon one night into a by-lane—so they +thought—just outside the village, but daylight show’d ’em it were a +gentleman’s drive leading up to a red mansion among the trees. Did my +uncle pull out when he found he’d made a mistake? No, for a wery good +reason he stopped where he was. His missis had been took ill in the +night, and a little gell were born. The doctor gave no hopes at all for +the wife, and just when things looked blackest, a groom on horseback came +up from the mansion, and, slamming on the wagon-side with his whipstock, +shouted— + +“‘Clear out of here, you rascally Gypsies, afore my master sees you.’ + +“Uncle Alfred put his head outen the door, and said— + +“‘Stop it, my man. There’s a woman a-dying in here. I’d take it kind of +you to go to the big house yonder and ask the good lady to come and pray +by a dying Gypsy.’ + +“Off goes the groom with the message, and soon the squire’s lady come +along carrying a basket of good things, and did all she could for Becky, +but the poor thing died. After that the parson came to christen the +baby. + +“‘What name?’ he asks. + +“‘Flower o’ May,’ says my uncle. The wagon stood under a may-tree, and +the flowers were dropping on the grass like snow. Now, the squire and +his lady come along. Says he— + +“‘The Almighty has never given us the blessing of a child, so we would +like to adopt this little girl of yours and bring her up as our own. +Here’ (holding up a bag) ‘are one hundred sovereigns. Take them, my good +man, and let us have the baby.’ + +“‘Nay,’ says my uncle, ‘you may keep your bag of gold. I can’t never +part wi’ my little gell.’ + +“Years went by, and at last my uncle fell ill and died. Then my own +parents took care of the little gell, and they changed her name to Rodi, +for they couldn’t abide to hear the name Flower o’ May no more; it +reminded ’em too sadly of them as had gone.” + + * * * * * + +On arising from my couch next morning, it was a pleasure to find that the +air was moderately quiet, and patches of blue were showing between the +rolling clouds. Breakfast over, my friends showed me round their garden +gay with flowering bulbs. Gypsy-like, they had numerous pets—a pair of +long-eared owls, a jackdaw, a goldfinch, some dainty bantams, and two or +three pheasants in a wired poultry-run. Now the Gypsies came as far as +the highway to see me off. Tender leaves and twigs strewed the road, as +I mounted my bicycle, and after pedalling through several villages, the +roofs of King’s Lynn began to appear ahead. A turn in the road at last +brought me to a bridge spanning the broad river Ouse discoloured by +flood-water. In a yard of the tavern just across the river, the chimneys +of several Gypsy vans were to be seen. I therefore dismounted to make +inquiries. Sunning himself on a bench outside the inn, sat a tall Gypsy +man emptying a mug of Norfolk ale. + +“_Sâ shan_, _baw_?” (How do, mate?) said I, sitting down beside him. He +turned out to be one of the Kilthorpes, and his pals in the yard were +Coopers from London. + + * * * * * + +An hour or two later, as I was loitering at a street corner in Lynn, I +observed not far away a two-wheeled hooded cart drawn by a tired horse. +From under a dark archway they emerged, and, coming into the light, I +noticed an old woman under the hood smoking a pipe, and just then, from +behind the cart stepped a sweep, who disappeared into a coal-yard, +carrying a sack in his hand. Following him, I heard him say— + +“Half a hundred-weight, missis.” A burly woman, having weighed out the +coal, poured it into the sack—a bottomless receptacle—and the black lumps +were scattered about the floor. + +“_Muk man peser_” (Let me pay), said I, from behind the sweep. Whereupon +the grimy old fellow looked round with an amazed stare. + +“_Pariko tuti_, _rai_” (Thank you, sir), he stammered out, and, producing +a piece of string, he tied the sack bottom securely, and the two of us +picked up the littered coal. + +“Where are you living?” I asked. + +“_Pawdel_ the _pâni_” (Across the water) “in West Lynn. We’ve been away +for three months, and we’re going round to our house now. Come across +to-night. Anybody will tell you where Old Stivven lives.” + +When the yellow street-lamps were twinkling in the dusk, I groped my way +down a long dark passage, and at the foot of a flight of slippery wet +steps, found a black coble moored. For ten minutes or so I waited till a +man in a jersey appeared and rowed me across the broad, rolling Ouse. At +the “White Swan” inn I made inquiry for my sweep, and was given an +address, and discovered a sweep, but, alas, he wasn’t my man at all, and +I began to think Old Stephen had tricked me. But now I was given another +address, where I found my man and his wife in their living-room, amid a +spread of blankets and bedding airing in front of a bright fire. For a +while we talked, and then at the sweep’s suggestion we moved across to +the “White Swan.” + +Stephen had formerly travelled with Barney Mace, an uncle of Jem, the +world-famed pugilist, who had a boxing booth which he took to country +fairs up and down the land, and in order to _tâder_ the _gawjê_ (draw the +gentiles), Stephen and Poley (Barney’s son) would engage in a few rounds +just outside the booth. + +The sweep had known Old Ōseri Gray, commonly called “Sore-eyed Horsery,” +who died some years ago at King’s Lynn. He was a renowned Gypsy fiddler. +If he heard a band play a tune, he would go home and reproduce the air on +his violin, putting in such variations, grace-notes, shakes, and runs, +that none of his fellows could compare with him. + + * * * * * + +Among the sweep’s reminiscences was a curious story about an eccentric +Gypsy who had a fancy for carrying his coffin in his travelling van. The +man had a daughter, a grown woman, who went about with him, his wife +having died some years before. One afternoon while she was away with her +basket in the village, her father took out the coffin and was busy +repainting it when a thunderstorm descended. The Gypsy took shelter in +his _vâdo_, which was drawn up near an elm tree on a bit of a common. +Picture the grief and dismay of his daughter on returning to find her +father a corpse, for a flash of lightning had struck the tree and the van +and killed the old Romany. On the day of the Gypsy’s funeral, the vicar +of the parish had the flag flying half-mast high on the church tower, +which everybody said was a kindly feeling to show for one who was only a +wandering Gypsy. + +On asking my sweep about the house-dwelling Gypsies of Lynn, he directed +me to the abode of the aged widow of Louis Boss (son of the famous Ryley +Boswell or Boss), and a charming reception she gave me in her spotless +cottage in a retired court. The sweep had told me of this old lady’s +liking for snuff, and a visit to a _tuvalo budika_ (tobacco shop) enabled +me to give her a little pleasure. By the fireside she refilled her shiny +metal box, and, having offered me a trial of the pungent dust, herself +took deep, loving pinches, with the air of a connoisseur. Indeed, the +snuff cemented our friendship forthwith. Here I am reminded of a story +telling how Dr. Manning (of the Religious Tract Society) once employed +snuff in a very different fashion. When visiting Granada in Spain, he +was beset by a begging crew of swarthy men, women, and children, and as +he stood in the middle of the clamouring horde, he took out his +snuff-box. Immediately all the Gypsies wanted a pinch. He obliged them, +so long as the snuff lasted, taking care to keep a tight hold of his +silver box. Soon the Gypsies were all sneezing and laughing +immoderately, and amid the commotion the good doctor managed to make his +escape. + +The road from King’s Lynn to East Dereham led me through villages astir +with Whitsuntide festivities. At one point I turned down a by-lane, and, +resting at the foot of a tree within view of Borrow’s birthplace at +Dumpling Green, I observed a party of donkey-folk trudging along with +their animals towards Dereham. Local mumpers were these people, a +draggle-tailed lot, and I could not help reflecting upon the difference +between the poor wanderers who now pass for Gypsies and the Petulengros +and Herons of Borrow’s time. + +In the church of East Dereham, one’s fancy pictured the boy Borrow in the +corner of a pew fixing his eyes upon the dignified rector and parish +clerk “from whose lips would roll many a portentous word descriptive of +the wondrous works of the Most High.” + +It was like living in _Lavengro_ to wander about the alleys and lanes of +old Norwich and through the ling and fern on breezy Mousehold above the +town. Up there amid the camping sites and the fighting-pits, it was not +without sadness that I read on a notice-board—“No Gypsy, squatter, or +vagrant shall frequent, or resort to, or remain upon the Heath.” O +shades of Jasper Petulengro and Tawno Chikno, changed indeed are the +times since the days when ye loved and fought and trafficked within the +precincts of beautiful old Norwich! + +Concerning my trip by boat from Yarmouth to London, which was entirely +lacking in Gypsy interest, nothing need be said here. + +London is in parts strongly tinctured with Gypsy blood. Let anyone walk +along the streets which have been built upon the sites of the old +metropolitan Gypsyries, and he will surely see dark faces and black eyes +telling how the Gypsies still cling to these localities. All around +Latimer Road Station, which stands upon the Potteries, Gypsies are to be +found living in narrow courts and dingy lanes. + +On my way to Epsom on the eve of the Derby, I passed a few happy moments +with my aged pal, Robert Petulengro, in whose back room at Notting Hill I +have often been regaled with racy stories and touching reminiscences of +old-time Romany life. There is something suggestive of the cleric in +Bob’s demeanour, and a stranger would never suspect that my +placid-looking friend had led a wild, roving life. It is when he loses +himself in a tale that his mild ministerial air gives place to a vivacity +characteristically Gypsy. + +To the Gypsyry on the Potteries came nomads named Heron and Leatherlund +in the year 1854. (Some of their descendants still reside at the backs +of the mews in Notting Hill.) They were the survivors of a sad disaster +which in the previous year had befallen a party of hop-pickers at Hadlow +in Kent. Through the kindness of a Gypsy woman who was “saved from the +flood,” I am able to reprint a portion of an old tract giving the Rev. R. +Shindler’s version of “The Medway Disaster.” + + “In Kent you may still be told of a sad catastrophe which befel a + party of hop-pickers, in the year 1853, as they were returning to + their temporary habitations after a day’s work. The scene of the + alarming event was in the parish of Hadlow, near Tunbridge, Kent. It + is well known that thousands of poor people flock down into Kent for + the hopping. Some of these are Gypsies; some may be described as + house-cart people, who travel from place to place for the greater + part of the year, selling their wares—brushes and brooms, tin-ware, + earthen-ware, and such-like; but by far the larger part emerge from + the lanes and alleys and courts of London. To the last especially, + but to the others also, the hopping proves, when the weather is fine + and the hops good, a pleasant recreation as well as a profitable + employment. A number of people of Gypsy character and habits were + employed by a farmer who resided in the parish of Tudely, and who had + hop gardens also in Hadlow parish. It is a good rule among the + hop-farmers, that when their gardens are any considerable distance + from the homes of the natives or the encampments of the strangers, + the pickers should be conveyed in wagons to and from the gardens. In + this case, the river Medway had to be crossed in going to and from + the gardens, and the only means of crossing was a wooden bridge of + considerable span, and high above the current. The bridge was + considered dangerous, especially for spirited horses, who were + alarmed at the noise made by their own feet. The bridge was rendered + even more dangerous by reason of the rather frail open wooden rails + which flanked it right and left. + + “On the morning of the day on which the catastrophe occurred, several + parties passed over the bridge in safety, and in the evening parties + of natives, or ‘home-dwellers,’ had returned without any mishap; but + as a party of Gypsies and suchlike were being conveyed back, the + horses suddenly took fright, ran the wagon against the side of the + bridge, which gave way, and wagon, horses, and people were + precipitated into the strong current below, and no less than thirty + were drowned. I was then pastor in a neighbouring parish, and had + taken a deep interest in the religious condition of the hoppers, + preaching in fields and stackyards and elsewhere near their + encampments, and distributing tracts and New Testaments. The sad + event mentioned above stirred my heart a great deal, and I felt + impelled to write a short tract. The thirty hop-pickers were buried + in Hadlow churchyard in a common grave, the spot being marked by a + monument recording the names of those who perished in the waters of + the Medway.” + +There are in Battersea numerous “yards” under railway arches, where +living-vans of “travellers” used to be seen all the year round. Very +much diluted is the Gypsy blood to be found nowadays in these “yards.” +It is these degenerates, mostly Londoners bred and born, who at times +give so much trouble to the local authorities in Surrey. + +Upon Hampstead Heath, and at Wormwood Scrubbs, a sprinkling of Gypsy +faces may be seen among the show-folk on a Bank Holiday, and at Edmonton, +Mitcham, and near Southend-on-Sea, I have met Gypsies all the year round. + +If the Yorkshireman goes to see the St. Leger because he has an +instinctive love of horse-flesh, the Cockney resorts to Epsom Downs on +the Derby Day to smell the scent of green turf and to take part in the +most stupendous picnic in the world. + +Not merely to see a crowd of nearly a million human beings, but to sample +Epsom’s Gypsies, was the object of my visit to the Downs one +unforgettable June day. London’s unyielding pavements mean for me, after +a day or two of them, an unpleasant foot-soreness, hence it was a relief +to step forth upon the springy sward outside the Downs Station. Like +children let loose from school, my fellow-travellers from town laughed +and joked, whistled and sang, as briskly they moved towards the course. + +It was among the gorse bushes on the sunlit hilltop that I caught my +first glimpse of the Gypsies, and to one acquainted with the swart +_Romanitshel_s of East Anglia and the Northern Counties, the folk of the +ramshackle carts and tiny tents were distinctly disappointing. Ruddy, +fair-haired, and poorly-clad, were many of them; what a falling off from +the horde of dark Gypsies assembled at some of our North-Country fairs! + +While I was chatting with a metropolitan policeman, up came a tall Gypsy +girl vending what purported to be tiny squares of cedar wood, though the +specimen I purchased for threepence smelled a good deal more like the +innermost layer of the red bark abounding in the strips of pine forest +around Tunbridge Wells. When I inquired of the damsel as to what Gypsies +were present on the Downs, she replied, with a low laugh, “You’s never +got to go far in these parts for to catch an Ayre. My dad’s an Ayre, but +my _dai_ (mother) was a Stevens. Over there” (pointing to a town of +Gypsy caravans and a country fair combined opposite the Grand Stand) +“you’ll find some of the Matthews, Penfolds, and maybe a few of the +Bucklands.” + + [Picture: On the Racecourse. Photo. Valentine] + +Crossing the course, I made my way to the part of the Downs indicated by +Cinderella Ayre, and though I rubbed shoulders with a good many sunburnt +travellers in corduroys, and show-women in gowns of red and green, the +first real Gypsy it was my good fortune to meet was Davy Lee, the ancient +vagabond who “planted” the _duker_in-_mokto_ (fortune-telling box) upon +George Smith of Coalville. Although nearly blind, Davy managed to dodge +in and out of the crowd, and, taking me up to his wagon, found time to +chat about his father, the renowned Zacky Lee. + +“My daddy was stopping one night in a field, and before going to bed, he +looked out and there was his white donkey—leastways so he fancied. It +was roaming about, and he set off to catch and tether it, so as he +shouldn’t lose it. But do whatever he would, he could never get up to +the animal. The nearer he tried to come at it, the furder off it allus +was, till at last he know’d that what he’d been chasing all night was not +his donkey at all, but the Devil.” + +Lounging on the grass, I noticed that the great event of the afternoon +had arrived. Sleek, lean horses cantered along the course and passed out +of sight. Amid a confused hubbub of voices, several moments went by. +Now the glasses were levelled, and a profound silence settled on the +crowd. All eyes were turned upon a little knot of horses appearing round +Tattenham Corner. Then the sound of many voices swelled into a roar and +died down again when the numbers went up. + +Prominent at these races in days gone by was Matthias Cooper, a Gypsy to +whom the late King Edward, when Prince of Wales, would toss a golden +sovereign. A well-known figure was Matty, attired in white hat, yellow +waistcoat, black cut-away coat, and white trousers. Hovering about this +old Gypsy was an air of the Courts and the Wilderness, for had he not +mingled with royalty nearly all his life, this old “Windsor Froggie”? It +was from him that Charles G. Leland obtained most of the materials that +went to make his work entitled _The English Gipsies and their Language_. +Matty is now no more, but his sons, Anselo and Wacker, still attend the +Epsom races year by year. + +The great carnival was at last subsiding when I found myself in the tent +of Anselo Cooper and his wife, with whom I took tea. I am not likely to +forget my ride from the course to Epsom Town. As the Coopers were not +leaving till the end of the week, they begged a lift for me from some +friends of theirs who were going to the town. Our “carriage,” a +two-wheeled affair, was drawn by a gaunt, long-legged horse, and along +with some strange dark Gypsies I sat upon a pile of smoky tent-covers. +We sped along the Down-land in a fashion which rocked us terribly. The +very policemen laughed as we went by, but we reached the town in safety. + + + + +CHAPTER XV +TINKERS AND GRINDERS + + +A PLAGUE of an incline to joints stiffened by age, the Steep Hill at +Lincoln is for me aureoled by all the fair colours of youth. Have I not +more than once rent my nether garments in gliding down the adjacent +hand-rail? Likewise in the time of snow have I not, defiant of +police-notices, made slides where the gradient is sharpest? + +Now it happened one day that under the shadow of the ancient, timbered +houses just below the crown of the hill there stood at his workshop on +wheels a Gypsy tinker whose wizened figure and general air of queerness +would have charmed a Teniers, and I, a town boy with no small capacity +for prying, hovered at his elbow, studying his operations. Suz-z-z-z-z +went the tinker’s wheel, as the sparks scattered in a rosy shower from +the edge of a deftly handled blade. Then of a sudden something happened, +causing me to jump as one who had been shot. There was a dull thud of a +falling body, followed immediately by a shrill cry issuing from the +throat of a sprawling pedlar— + +“Stop my leg, stop my leg!” + +A glance at the poor fellow revealed the whole story. His wooden leg, +having become detached from its moorings, was rolling down the paved +incline. Several persons were passing at the time, and more than one +made a dash to recover the defaulting limb, but, youth’s suppleness +favouring me, I managed to capture the elusive treasure, and up the hill +I bore it in triumph. With admirable agility the tinker reattached the +limb, and the pedlar went on his way rejoicing. + +“Gimme yer knife, boy,” said the tinker. + +I had one resembling a saw, which he whisked from my hand and duly +restored with a nice edge. He then resumed his work as though nothing +worthy of remark had happened to stay the song of his wheel. + +A craft of hoary antiquity is that of the nomad metal-worker. An +Austrian ecclesiastic, in the year 1200, describes the “calderari,” or +tinkers, of that time: “They have no home or country. Everywhere they +are found alike. They travel through the world abusing mankind with +their knavery.” + +Four hundred years later, an Italian writer gives an account of the +tinker who enchants the knives of the peasants by magnetizing them so as +to pick up needles, and for this he accepts payment in the shape of a +fowl or a pie. To this day in Eastern Europe, the smith, usually a +Gypsy, is regarded as a semi-conjurer who has dealings with the Devil. + +In Scotland you will find numberless “Creenies, crinks, and tinklers” who +roam in primitive Gypsy fashion, with donkeys, ramshackle carts, tents, +and a tinker’s equipment. If you have dropped into the shepherd’s +cottage in the heathery glen, or the lone farmhouse on the Lowland fell, +you will have noticed the horn spoons and ladles, or the rude +smoothing-irons. These are the handiwork of the tinklers of a bygone +generation. + +Two or three generations ago most of our English Gypsies were wandering +tinkers carrying their outfits on their backs. + +For my own part, I have everywhere found the caste of tinkers a cheerful, +happy-go-lucky fellowship, and in talks with them I have observed that +they generally know a few Gypsy words, even when it is clear that they do +not belong to the dark race. + +Shakespeare’s Prince Hal, in _Henry IV_. (First Part, Act 2, Scene 4), is +made to say, “I can drink with any tinker in his own language.” This +language, or jargon, known as _Shelta_, {207} has been the subject of +much learned writing. + +My first lesson in Shelta was taken near the Shire Bridge, where the +Great North Road, approaching Newark-on-Trent from the south, quits +Lincolnshire for the county of Nottingham. A favourite halting-place is +this for wayfaring folk of all sorts. Seated on Mother Earth’s green +carpet, a tinker and his wife were taking tea, and at their invitation I +sat beside them for a chat. Presently I showed two bright new pennies to +the tinker, saying— + +“If you’ll tell me what these are in _Shelta_, they’re yours.” + + [Picture: A Tinker of the Olden Times. By permission of Mrs. Johnson] + +In a moment he replied, “_Od nyok_” (two heads), and I handed over the +coins. With a comic gesture he queried— + +“Yer wouldn’t like to larn a bit more o’ thet langwidge, would yer?” + + [Picture: A Welsh Gypsy Tinker. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +“Rat-tat-tat” went the old brass knocker one morning at the side-door of +my house, and on being informed that a tinker was inquiring for me, I +hastened to see what manner of man he was. Before me stood a battered +specimen of the Romany of the roads, and with a view to testing his +depth, I asked— + +“Do you ever _dik_ any _Romanitshel_s on the _drom_?” (see any Gypsies on +the road). + +“You ’ave me there, mister,” said he. “Upon my soul, I dunno what you’re +talkin’ about.” + +The man’s face was a study in innocence. + +“You know right enough what I’m saying,” I continued in Romany. + +My man could endure it no longer, and, exploding with mirth, he turned +and shouted to his brother, who stood near a grinding-barrow on the road. + +“_Av akai_, Bill, ’ere’s a _rashai roker_in _Romanes_ as fast as we can” +(Come here, Bill, here’s a parson talking Gypsy). “Bring that _shushi_ +(rabbit) out o’ the _guno_” (sack). + +With unaffected goodwill, the two Gypsies insisted on my accepting the +rabbit as a token of friendship. This I did gladly, asking no questions +as to how they had come by a newly-killed rabbit. After grinding my +garden axe, they both set off whistling down the road. + + * * * * * + +One day a Gypsy tinker, whom I had met a few times, took me aside, +saying— + +“My sister lives in the next street” (he told me the number). “She has a +pony, a poor, scraggy thing, which she wants to get rid of badly. Go you +and say to her— + +“‘I hear you have a nice little cob to sell.’ And when she brings it +round for you to look at, say— + +“‘Bless my soul, do you think I’d buy a hoppy _grai_ like _dova_?’” (a +lame horse like that). + +Presently, at that sister’s threshold, I waited for the pony to be +brought round, which on arriving proved to be a miserable-looking animal +indeed. The woman looked first at me, then at the pony, which limped +badly, while its bones showed through its skin. + +Said I, “Well, really, I didn’t expect to see quite such a _wafodu kova_” +(wretched thing). + +Readily entering into the joke, she laughed heartily. She had taken me +for a _dinelo gawjo_ (gentile simpleton), and to her astonishment I had +turned out to be a Gypsy of a higher sort. + + * * * * * + +At one time I used to have frequent visits from a travelling tinker, and +when his grinding-barrow was standing in my yard, I would chat with him +while he was doing some little job. He was an interesting fellow who had +seen something of the world. He had a remarkable knowledge of the +medicinal properties of wild herbs, and would spend hours by the chalk +stream in our valley, grubbing up liverwort of which he would make +decoctions. One morning he was in the tale-telling mood. + +“It was this very barrer what you’re looking at now. You notice there’s +lots of bits of brass nailed on it for to catch the sunshine. I likes my +barrer to look cheerful. Well, there was a fellow came to me with summut +wrapped up in brown paper, a flat thing it was, and he says, ‘I want you +to buy this here off me.’ Says I, ‘Let’s have a look at it,’ and when he +opened it out, it was a fine bit of copper-plate with summut engraved on +it. I asked him what the engraving was about, for you know I can’t read. +He says, ‘It’s an architex business plate, that’s all, and you can have +it for a shilling.’ So I bought it and nailed it on to my barrer among +the other bits of brass and things. Well, happens that a parson was +a-talking to me one day, and I noticed his eye lighted on this here +copper-plate. Says he, looking wery serious, ‘I’m afraid this will get +you into trouble, if a policeman sees it.’ ‘How’s that?’ I asked. +‘What’s wrong with the copper-plate?’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘it’s a plate for +printing £5 notes. Where did you get it from?’ And I told him. You may +be sure I soon had that plate off my barrer, and, turning to the parson, +I says, ‘Perhaps you’ll buy it off me, for a sort of nicknack?’ And he +gave me half-a-crown for it.” + +Looking slyly at me, the tinker remarked— + +“When that parson got home, being a man of eddication, he would know +where to get the right sort of paper, and then he would make £5 notes +cheap, you bet.” + + * * * * * + +For several Christmas Eves past, this tinker’s boy and a little pal have +walked some miles from a neighbouring town to sing carols at my Rectory +door. They possess good voices and sing very tunefully some of the old +carols, “God rest you, merry gentlemen,” and the like. + +One summer afternoon, in the market-place at Hull, I met two grinders +coming out of a tavern, near which stood a tinker’s barrow belonging to +one of them, Golias Gray, a Gypsy, whom I had seen before at fair-times +in the seaport town. “Black as the ace of spades” is Golias, and he was, +as usual, sporting a yellow shirt. His pale-faced companion, a stranger +to me, after a little talk, waxed communicative, and, whilst his Gypsy +pal resumed his grinding of knives, he gave me a short list of words in +_Shelta_ (Tinker’s Talk). + +SHELTA. ENGLISH. +Binni Little. +Bog To get. +Buer Woman, wife. +Cam Son. +Gap To kiss. +Gosh To sit. +Granni To know. +Hin One. +Ken House. +Minkler Tinker. +Mizzle To go. +Monkeri Country. +Mush Umbrella. +Nyok Head. +Od Two. +Sonni To see. +Stammer To spit. +Stimmer Pipe. +Sweebli Boy. +Thari To speak. +Tober Road. + +CHAPTER XVI +THE INN ON THE RIDGEWAY—TALES BY THE FIRESIDE + + +AT one time I had a great liking for long jaunts in search of +fossils—cross-country rambles extending over two or three days. Thus I +came to know many a deserted quarry and unfrequented byway of our county, +as well as the bedchambers of sundry remote wayside inns—“hedge-taverns,” +perhaps some would have described these lonely little houses of call. +Occasionally, however, I lighted upon an inn which had seen better days, +a sleepy old house with mullioned casements, a worn mounting-block of +stone, and a rude iron ring still fixed in the wall near the deep porch +before which an unfenced stretch of sward dipped towards the roadway. + +Let me recall one of my geologizing expeditions on an early March day. I +had been successful in my quest, and my knapsack, laden with stony +spoils, was not very light. But what matter? It was fine to be striding +along a ridgeway with a roaring gale behind, and every wayside tree +whistling like a ships rigging in a storm. Going along that road, I +stretched out my limbs, and in so doing the very thews and sinews of the +mind became more elastic. Straight from the reddening west blew the wild +whirling wind, which, like some old giant, frolicsome yet kind, spread +out its open palms upon my back, fairly shoving me along. This was +living—this fine exaltation, this surging up of joyous emotions; and from +a gnarled ash tree a storm-thrush with throbbing speckled throat told the +same tale of a heart set free from every care. Such was my mood when at +a turn of the road a red-shawled figure, surely a Gypsy, appeared for a +moment and as suddenly was lost to sight down a gloomy yew-fringed drive +leading to the rear of a low grey mansion. She’ll be out again +presently, thought I; so I resolved to await the woman’s reappearance. + +Meanwhile, like a spreading forest fire, the sunset flung its flaming +crimson far over the land. Tree boughs and boles caught the glow, and +underfoot the very grasses burnt by winter frosts seemed dyed with blood. +Across a riot of sundown colours, black rooks were heading for their +resting-place in the upland woods rugged against a castle-phantasy of +lurid cloud piled up in the east. + +Loitering there, methought of the wandering Gypsies who in other days had +passed along this desolate road. I seemed again to behold a gang of +slouching Herons, swarthy, black-eyed, secretive, accompanied by their +pack-ponies and donkeys carrying tent-rods, pots, and pans. Who shall +say what processions of old Romany souls, long departed, here visit the +glimpses of the moon? + +The moments flew by, but no Gypsy came. A little longer I waited, pacing +sharply up and down the roadway, then as the red shawl had not put in an +appearance, visions of a cosy meal by the fire of a certain inn began to +beckon alluringly, so I started on my way again. Soon I forgot all about +the Gypsy, who by this time had probably done a good stroke in the +_duker_in line among the servants of the mansion. However, a rutted, +grassy lane turning off to the left drew one’s eye towards a gorsy corner +where the chimney of a Gypsy van flung a drooping trail of smoke over the +tangles, and, going forward, I shouted in the doorway, “Anybody at home?” + +A man’s scared face looked out. Perhaps he had expected a command to +quit his corner and draw out into the windy night. A moment later in a +tone of relief, he said— + +“Now I know who you are. You’ll be the _rashai_ I met wi’ Jonathan +Boswell by the watermill. Don’t you remember I moved away when you began +to _roker_ (talk)? My pal Boswell wanted to have you to himself. That’s +why I took my hook. But come inside a bit. This wind’s enough to blow +your wery _bal avrî_” (hair off). + +How strange it is that if a Gypsy has seen you anywhere for a few +moments, he is able to identify your very shadow for ever after. + +Gladly I joined Old Frank in his cheery _vâdo_, which certainly suggested +comfort and gaiety to this traveller on the wild March evening. + +“You gave me a bit of a shock,” said Frank. “At first I took you for a +_muskro_ (constable), but as soon as the light of my lamp fell on your +face I reckernized you in a minute.” + +We talked awhile of Old Jonathan, whose faithful consort Fazzy had passed +away up in Yorkshire. This brought to mind the red-shawled woman whom I +had seen down the road. + +“That’ll be my _monushni_ (wife). I expect her home di-rectly. When she +comes, you pretend to be a _muskro_”—this with a broad grin. “Say +roughish-like, ‘Wasn’t your name Liddy West afore you was married?’ Then +draw out a bit of paper, a letter folded long or anythink like that’ll +do, and say, ‘I’ve come to take you for fortune-telling.’” + +No one understands the whole art and mystery of practical joking better +than the Gypsy, and he dearly loves to play pranks even upon his fellows. +It is part and parcel of the Gypsy’s innate spirit of mischief, examples +of which I have seen not a few in my time. + + * * * * * + +Having acquiesced in the joke, our talk presently ran on _muskro_s. + +“_Muskro_s _sî jukel_s” (policemen are dogs), said the Gypsy. + +“There was a pal of mine who was up to card games [sharping?], and at +Doncaster Races he happened to drop a word or two in _Romanes_ (Gypsy +tongue) to a mate. A _muskro_ was standing near, and bless me if he +didn’t _jin_ the _tshib_ (know the language), and of course my pal and +his mate was _lel_’d _oprê_ (taken up). ’Pend upon it, _muskro_s is +_jukel_s.” + +A good step farther along the road stood the tavern, the “Black Boy,” +whose swinging sign of an Ethiopian countenance I was eager to see, since +I was to spend the night there in order to resume my fossil-hunting on +the morrow. + +“Come and see me a little later at the _kitshima_ (inn) down the road, +and mind you bring the missis and your fiddle.” As I rose to go, I +noticed Frank gave a sidelong glance at my bulging knapsack, and in order +to satisfy his curiosity, I took out a fossil, a fine _gryphea incurva_, +on seeing which he drew back, holding up his hands in real or mock +horror, I could scarcely say which. + +“_Dâbla_, that be one of the Devil’s toe-nails, wery onlucky stuff to +carry about you! Wherever did you get it from?” + +“Off the _Beng_’s _pîro_ (Devil’s foot), to be sure,” I said, with a +laugh, and renewed my invitation pressingly. He promised to come. + +What a relief to stretch your limbs before a glowing fire inside an +old-fashioned inn, when boisterous winds are shaking the window-panes and +driving the loose straw from the cobbled yard into the hedge bottoms. No +stranger at this house on the ridgeway, I know every nook of the room. +There is the old gun still reared up in yonder corner. From nails in the +cross-beams hang flitches of bacon and bulky hams. Plates and dishes +arranged on racks glitter in the firelight. The pewter mugs on the +dresser and the bright copper warming-pan hanging on the wall reflect the +glow of the ruddy flames darting up the wide chimney. Here and there +hang modern oleographs whose crude tints have been softened by smoke. + +Tea is set on a table over which a lamp hanging from a hook in the +ceiling casts a pleasant radiance. During my meal the landlord, ruddy of +countenance, looks in and greets me in a friendly way. From his talk +with his wife, a slight, frail-looking woman of seventy who sits darning +by the fire, I gather that a horse is very ill in the stable, and any +moment the veterinary surgeon is expected. Presently, the barking of a +dog in the front of the inn announces his arrival in a gig, and the +landlord hurries out with a storm-lantern in his hand. In a few minutes, +the two men enter, and before the fire the burly vet rubs his hands, +talks in clear, sharp tones, then, tossing off a “scotch” smoking hot, he +wishes us good-night. Whereupon the innkeeper goes off to the stable. + +Tea over, a small maid with chestnut hair and spotless pinafore clears +the table, and I move to the high-backed settle opposite the landlady. +In the fire-grate a huge chunk of wood burns brightly, and every now and +then a puff of wood-smoke comes out into the room. + +Addressing the old lady, I inform her that I am expecting some visitors +to see me to-night, and they are stopping in a little lane down the road. + +“Why, we had those Gypsies up here this morning. Their faces are well +known round here, though we don’t have them so much as we used to do. +You take an interest in Gypsies, don’t you, sir? At least I’ve heard it +said that you do. They don’t often set foot inside your church, I should +think?” + +“Sometimes they do, and their reverent behaviour would certainly put to +shame some of the more regular attenders. If their unfamiliarity with +print leads them to hold a borrowed book upside down, they do at anyrate +kneel upon their knees instead of squatting upon the benches, and I have +never once known them to go to sleep during sermon-time.” + +Speaking about Gypsies and churches, I am reminded of a funny experience +I once had all through a Gypsy cabman’s mistake. + + * * * * * + +I had promised to take an afternoon service at a village church miles +away in the country, and the road to it was unfamiliar to me. On my +naming the place, the driver said that he knew every inch of the road, +and, trusting myself in his hands, we bowled along for several miles, and +at last struck off into a tangle of green lanes. A few minutes before +the hour of service—three o’clock—my driver put me down at an old grey +stone church, saying, “Here we are, sir.” Entering the church, I found a +congregation assembled, and, going into the belfry, I asked for the +vestry wherein to robe. + +“We ain’t got one here. Our pass’n dresses hisself in his house and +comes in at that little door.” The sexton then conducted me to a +chantry-chapel full of dusty figures of knights and their ladies lying +side by side with their feet resting upon their hounds. There I robed +and awaited the ceasing of the bells. When they stopped, I stepped +towards the prayer desk, when, to my astonishment, there appeared through +the small door in the chancel a fully-robed parson, white-headed and +bowed with age. We met and exchanged astonished glances. + +Said I, “I’m afraid there is some mistake.” + +He shook his head. “I’m deaf, and can’t hear a word you say.” He then +went to his desk, and knelt before commencing evensong. + +It was an uncomfortable five minutes for me. I could hear the +congregation tittering and the mixed choir giggling. In despair I went +to the lady organist, and asked for the name of the church. Her reply +made it clear that I had come to the wrong village, and, rushing out by +the chancel door, I sought my cabby, whom I rated soundly for his +blunder. Fortunately my destination was no more than a mile and a half +farther on. + + * * * * * + +In a little while, the tavern door opened noisily, admitting a rush of +wind. There was a sound of naily boots on the threshold, and Gypsy Frank +and his wife entered. In a few moments they were happy enough on the +black settle with mugs of good Newark brew in front of them. + +Just before the Gypsies had arrived, I had been studying a pocket-map of +the locality, and once again I had an old impression confirmed that many +out-of-the-way country districts are dotted over with place-names bearing +witness to the prevalence of Gypsy encampments in the past. I mean such +names as “Gypsy Lane,” “Gypsy Nook,” “Gypsy Dale,” and the like. On the +map I had noted a “Gypsy Corner,” “Gypsy Bridge,” and “Gypsy Ford.” + +It was about “Gypsy Ford” that I put a question to Old Frank sitting by +my side, and he described the shallow crossing at a bend in the river +over which before now I had passed by a narrow plank-bridge. According +to my Gypsy, one night many years ago a quarrel arose in the Romany tents +encamped near the ford, and in the course of a fight between two kinsmen, +one of them was slain. Speedily a grave was dug, and, the corpse having +been covered up, the Gypsies fled the spot. This affair became widely +known, and little wonder that a legend arose about a “something” having +been seen in the neighbourhood of the ford. + +“You’s mebbe heard,” said Frank, “about Gypsy Jack’s wife, ‘Flash’ +Rosabel, who was drownded at the ford on just such a wild night as this.” + +“‘Let’s camp in the lane on this side of the water,’ says Jack’s wife. + +“‘_Keka_’ (No), says he, ‘not in this _drom_ (road) where the _mulo_ +(ghost) walks. With a bright moon like this, our _grai_ (horse) will see +to pull us through the river all right, never fear.’ + +“Anyway, he whipped up the horse and steered straight into the ford. And +then a sad thing happened. There had been a deal o’ rain and the stream +was bigger and stronger than Jack had any idea of. Somewheres about the +middle of the river, the hoss was swept off its feet, the wagon tumbled +over on to its side, and poor old ‘Flash’ Rosabel was carried away and +drownded. Jack allus said that the _grai_ must have _dik_’d the _mulo_” +(the horse must have seen the ghost). “That’s a tale what’s been told by +many a traveller’s fire.” + + [Picture: A Romany Fiddler. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +Just then the publican came in, panting after a tussle with the wind, +and, being on good terms with my Gypsy friends, he said, “I’m glad to see +you’ve brought your music. Gi’ us a tune, Frank.” Then the Gypsy, +taking his fiddle from its baize bag, screwed up the strings, and, having +tuned them to his liking, gave us a merry air from memory’s repertoire. +At the back of the clear cantabile of the air, you heard the deep roar of +the storm. Once I went to the window and looked out into the night. +Athwart the white moonlit road lay the sharp black shadows of the ash +trees rising from the far hedgerow, and, as I watched the swaying, +writhing boughs, a lonely horseman sped past, a phantom he seemed more +than a living being, and, returning to my nook in the ingle, I heard in +fancy all through the Gypsy’s music the haunting clatter of the +night-rider’s horse, and wondered what mysterious mission had called him +forth on this riotous March evening. Now the fiddler ceased, and his +pewter was forthwith replenished. “Good ale, this,” says Frank, wiping +his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why, yes,” put in the landlady, +looking over her spectacles, and glad, if the truth be known, to give her +darning a rest; “it’s Newark ale, and no better drink could any man wish +for; we’ve sold nothing else for years.” + +Said the landlord, who by this time had recovered his breath— + +“That was a strange case as I see’d in the paper t’other day about the +wise woman getting ‘trapped’ by the constable’s wife as went to have her +fortune told. The paper said as how a crystal ball were used, but I’m +blest if I knows how anybody can expect to see their future in a thing o’ +that sort.” + +“Dunno so much about that,” remarked Old Liddy, who had been dreaming +over the fire. “A woman as had a crystal once told my dad he would go to +prison in a fortnight, and sure enough he did, along wi’ a conjurer who’d +been up to his tricks, and dad says to him when they was in jail, ‘A +mighty poor conjurer you be, my fine fellow, if you can’t conjure us out +of this place.’ I believes there _is_ summut in crystals.” + + * * * * * + +And then I was tempted to tell how a clairvoyant’s crystal once did me a +good turn. Let me explain that many years ago, when I was a curate on +the Wolds, our Rector’s aged wife used to bring me rare wild-flowers to +be named, and thus I won a place in the lady’s good books. + +Time passed, and the Rector’s wife died. Not long after, I moved away to +another sphere of work. Then came the news of the decease of the old +Rector himself. One morning, twenty years after quitting that Wold +parish, a letter reached me, asking if I had been a curate with Canon A— +in such and such years, and further inquiring whether my wife Elizabeth +was still alive. Of course I had no difficulty in satisfying the writer +of the letter, and his speedy reply brought an agreeable enclosure in the +form of a cheque, a little legacy bequeathed to us by a codicil to the +will of the old Rector’s wife who loved wild-flowers. But the strangest +part of the story is yet to come. During a visit to London, the wife of +the present parson of our old parish visited a clairvoyant who by the aid +of a crystal declared that in the drawing-room of her home stood a small +brass handled writing-table containing several drawers, in one of which +would be found on examination a bundle of papers long neglected. On +returning home, the writing-table was duly searched, with the result that +the forgotten codicil was disclosed, and in it were mentioned some +legacies bequeathed to friends, several of whom had since passed away, +but my wife and I happened to be among the survivors. Thus there came to +us, as I have said, an agreeable arrival by the morning post, so that if +“seeing is believing,” my wife and I ought nevermore to scoff at +clairvoyants and their crystals. + + * * * * * + +“_Dawdi_!” (expression of surprise) exclaimed Liddy, with something of a +gasp in her voice, while Old Frank looked wonder struck. + +“Well, that licks all I’ve ever heard,” said the publican, slapping his +knee in punctuation of his surprise. “Now let’s have another tune, +Frank.” + +Whereupon the fiddler broke into a Scottish air with variations, his body +swaying to and fro the while. During several staves, the player laid his +cheek on the violin in a fashion so comical that at the end of the tune I +could not refrain from remarking— + +“You reminded me just now, my pal, of Wry-necked Charley the +_boshomengro_” (fiddler). With a good-natured grin he replied— + +“So you know that tale about the fiddler?” + +And here it is, in my own words. + +Charley Lovell, a fiddler of renown, was returning one evening after a +tiring day’s fiddling at a village feast. On the way to his tent, which +was pitched in a disused quarry, the Gypsy took from his pocket a few +coins he had received by way of payment. “Poor luck, I call it, to be +paid like this for such hard work.” Thus commiserating himself, he +trudged along the sunken lane leading to his tent. Imagine his surprise +to find at the tent door a tall gentleman dressed in black broad-cloth. +Dark of complexion, black-eyed, and polished in demeanour, the stranger +turned to meet the Gypsy. + +“Good evening, sir,” said Charley, bowing low, for he had the sense to +perceive that a gentleman stood before him. “Pray what can I do for +you?” + +“A great kindness,” responded the stranger, “for I have heard of your +skilful playing upon this wonderful instrument” (tapping Charley’s fiddle +with his finger), “and I wish to know if you will come to play at a dance +of mine to-morrow night.” The place and hour were named, and the Gypsy +promised to be there. + +“Open your hands, my man;” and into them the stranger emptied a pocketful +of silver coins, and departed, smiling over his shoulder at the perplexed +Gypsy. All that night Charley tossed restlessly on his bed of straw. “A +fore-handed payment, and generous too. Who can that dark gentleman be?” +In the morning the Gypsy betook himself to a neighbouring priest, who, on +hearing his story, looked grave. + +“You have made a bargain with the Devil.” + +“Then tell me how I can get out of it.” + +“You must keep your engagement, for, if you don’t, the Devil will fetch +you.” + +“But what am I to do when I get there?” + +“If you do as I say, all will be well. When you are asked to strike up, +you must be sure to play nothing but slow, solemn psalm tunes. Mind you +do as I say.” + +At the appointed hour the trembling fiddler stood on the moonlit sward +within the walls of a ruined castle. Awaiting his arrival was the tall +dark gentleman surrounded by his guests, an array of lords and ladies in +silks and satins. When the signal was given for the fiddler to commence +his music, Charley drew his bow over the strings, evoking none but psalm +tunes, solemn and slow, as the priest had advised. After a few moments +of this sort of music, the Devil marched up to the Gypsy, and, fixing his +large black eyes upon him, said— + +“Give us something more lively at once.” + +“I cannot,” said the Gypsy. + +“Then, take _that_!”—and the Devil struck Charley a smart blow on the +cheek, twisting the poor fellow’s head on one side, and so it ever +remained. After that, he was always known as “Wry-necked” Charley. + +As the clock was striking the hour of ten, the rural tavern’s +closing-time, my Gypsy friends stepped out into the night. + +All through the long hours the wind howled in the chimney and rattled the +casements, and one traveller at least slept but fitfully in his +four-poster draped with curtains of red damask. + +In the morning the landlord informed me at breakfast that a tree had been +blown down across the road, and, while “rembling” under his overturned +straw-stack, a fine fox was found smothered, and, “See here,” he said, “I +shall always think of last night whenever I look at this,” holding up a +beautiful tawny brush. + +The storm-rack was still scudding overhead as I bade adieu to the quaint +pair on the footworn doorstep of the “Black Boy” on the ridge way. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII +HORNCASTLE FAIR + + +LIKE Lincoln, York, and Chester, the town of Horncastle originated within +the boundaries of a Roman _castrum_, and to this day an old-world +atmosphere clings to its narrow, cobbled streets. + +Readers who know their Borrow will recall the visit of “The Romany Rye” +to Horncastle in the August of 1825, in order to sell a horse which he +had purchased by means of a loan from his Gypsy friend Jasper. + +Nowhere perhaps are the changes wrought by the passing years more plainly +seen than at a horse-fair of ancient standing. Horncastle has +inhabitants who remember when the great August Horse-Fair occupied fully +a fortnight or three weeks, and was widely recognized as an event of the +first rank. Within my own observation, this fair, like others of its +kind, has declined with swift strides. In my time, buyers would be +present from all parts of the country, as well as from the Continent, and +members of our best Gypsy families invariably made a point of attending. +In all these respects, however, the once famous fair has dwindled in a +very marked manner. + +Let me describe a twentieth-century visit to the August horse-mart. + +Having approached the town along a bold ridgeway commanding a countryside +yellowing to harvest, I arrive to find the place astir with dealers and +horses. Though now but a one-day affair, the mart is not without its +pleasing aspects to a lover of such scenes. The chief centre of business +is known as the Bull Ring, where well-clad dealers from our English +towns, horsey-looking men slapping their thighs with malacca canes, rub +shoulders with rubicund farmers from Wold and Marsh, grooms and Gypsies. +Not for the purpose of buying or selling horses have I come hither, but +for no other reason than to meet the Gypsy families who usually turn up +at the fair. + + [Picture: Horncastle Horse Fair. Photo. Carlton] + +Behind the Parish Church of St. Mary, in a pasture pleasantly open to the +sun, numerous caravans are drawn up under the hedges. It is here that +the better sort of Gypsies congregate. Down Hemingby Lane lies an +encampment of poorer travellers, and some of the same sort of people have +drawn into the yard of the “New Inn.” In the course of the day I shall +visit these three companies of Gypsies. + +Meanwhile, passing over the Bain Bridge, I step inside the old Parish +Church and, taking out from my pocket a well-thumbed copy of _The Romany +Rye_, I turn to the passage where Borrow talks with the sexton about the +rusty scythes hanging on the wall. Just then a lady, evidently an +American tourist, who has been looking up Tennyson’s footprints, which +abound hereabouts, asks:— + +“Can you tell me anything about those strange-looking things on the +wall?” + +Various theories have been advanced to account for the presence of these +old scythe-blades within the sacred building, the popular opinion being +that they were used as instruments of war at Winceby Fight on 11th +October 1643. So much, indeed, Borrow seems to have gathered from the +sexton, but the better-informed authorities of to-day think that they are +relics of the rising known as the Pilgrimage of Grace in the year 1536. + +Quitting the fine old church, I passed out into the fair, and straightway +met a Gypsy fingering a telegram. “Will you read it for me, please?” +The message was from a popular Baroness who was desirous of borrowing a +caravan for a bazaar; and as I pencilled a reply on the back of the +telegram, the Gypsy declared that he would sleep in a tent till his +“house on wheels” returned to him. + +I have always known that Gypsies readily help one another when in +trouble. This man, before going off with his telegram, told me a +pleasing thing. It appears that an aged Gypsy, whose horse had died +suddenly, had no money to buy another with, but a pal of his, going round +with a cap among the Gypsy dealers at the fair, had quickly taken ten +pounds, which were handed up to the old man who was now able to buy +himself an animal. + +In _The Romany Rye_, Borrow speaks of the inn where he put up as having a +yard which opened into the principal street of the town. On entering +that yard he was greeted by the ostlers with—“It is no use coming +here—all full—no room whatever;” whilst one added in an undertone, “That +’ere a’n’t a bad-looking horse.” In a large upstairs room overlooking a +court, the newcomer dined with several people connected with the fair. + + [Picture: The “George” Inn Yard at Horncastle. Photo. Carlton] + +During former visits to Horncastle I had tried to identify Borrow’s inn, +but without result. Happily, on the present occasion, I came upon a +local antiquary from whom I gathered that Borrow’s inn was undoubtedly +the “George,” now converted into a post office. Strolling down the +quondam inn-yard, my friend pointed out the bow-window through which the +jockey so neatly pitched his bottle of pink champagne. Also, he told a +good tale of the fair in its palmy days— + + [Picture: Ready for the Fair. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +Public-houses, though very numerous in the town, were yet unable to +supply the fair folk with all the drink they required, and any +householder could take out what was called a Bough Licence on payment of +seven shillings and sixpence. Having decided to take out such a licence, +a man and his wife obtained a barrel of beer and displayed the customary +green bough over their door. On the eve of the fair the husband said to +his wife— + +“I’ll see if this beer is good.” + +“You won’t without paying for it.” + +“Very well, my dear, I’ll have three-pen’orth,” handing over the coins to +his wife. + +He appeared to enjoy it so much that she said— + +“Let me have three-pen’orth,” handing the pence to her husband. Then he +had another drink, passing the threepence back again. And the same +coppers passed to and fro until the barrel was empty. + + * * * * * + +It was to Horncastle Fair, years ago, that Jem Mace came with his master, +Nat Langham, to whom he had been introduced at Lincoln Fair, where Nat +had a sparring troupe which he had brought down from the metropolis. At +Horncastle, Jem had a tremendous glove-fight with the local champion, who +was the terror of the district. This fellow was bigger and older than +Mace, who was then only in his eighteenth year, and for a long time the +issue was doubtful, but at last the Horncastle champion was licked to a +standstill, and had to give in. + +Walking down a crooked by-lane, past a shop where a chatty little tailor +sat repairing a scarlet hunting-coat (the South Wolds Kennels lie a few +miles outside the town), I found a camp of Gypsies in a field, and near +one of the fires on the grass sat Liddy Brown, a crone of seventy years, +puffing a black pipe, her curls peeping from beneath a gay _diklo_ +(kerchief). In the course of our talk, she spoke of our hilly country, +and recalled the days when her folk had pack-donkeys and camped in the +green lanes on the Wolds. A grand-daughter of Fowk Heron, she had some +diverting reminiscences of her mother Mizereti, and her aunts Cinderella +and Tiena. The last-named was bitten by a mad dog, and thereby came to +an untimely end. + +Returning to the town, I looked into the “New Inn” yard and found a +number of Gypsies stopping there. The women and girls had donned their +smartest fair-going raiment. As I viewed these wanderers, it was not +easy to realize that they were the lingering remnants of the once +powerful tribes of Browns and Winters hailing from the Border country in +the days of Sheriff Walter Scott. + +Passing through the archway of the inn, I mingle again with the crowd, +but no thimblengro, no Irish Murtagh, no Jack Dale meet the eye, though, +curiously enough, from the racing stables at Baumber, where the Derby +winner of 1875—Prince Batthyany’s Galopin—was born, there are two or +three jockeys looking more than usually diminutive among the burly +dealers in the street. + +Towards the end of the afternoon the fair began to slacken. The few +remaining groups of horses seemed to have gone to sleep in the sultry +Bull Ring. Already farmers were moving off in their light traps, and +dealers were making for the railway station. Going along the riverside +path I saw a Gypsy man asleep at the foot of a tree, and, climbing a +fence, I found myself in the encampment behind the church. The scene was +enlivening. Seated around their fires most of the Gypsies were making +ready for the evening meal. Near a little tent the aged Mrs. Petulengro, +a veritable “Mother in Egypt,” was lighting her pipe. Her grand-daughter +coming out of the tent offers her a stool to sit upon, but the old lady +scorns the idea. “I should tumble off a thing like that. I’m better +down here,” pointing to a sack spread by the fire beside which two +kettles are hissing. + +In various parts of the field the Petulengros are gathered together. +Here are tall Alfy and Hook-nosed Suki, “Rabbitskin” Bob, and +“Ratcatcher” Charley. During supper, I had to listen to a disquisition +on lying from Suki. Put into a nutshell, her ideas amount to this: Lying +is of two kinds. There is lying for a living, else how could any sort of +business be carried on. But business deceptions are not to be mentioned +in the same breath with nasty lies which are meant to “hurt a body.” + +“Do you remember, _rashai_, that time we met you by Newark, when Elijah +was with us? A jolly old fellow he were. He often got into _staruben_ +(prison) for fighting but never for stealing. He would go through an +orchard, like that one there” (pointing to some apple-trees close by), +“but do you think he’d ever pick up an apple? Not he, he’d never steal +nothink, wouldn’t Elijah. He could stand hard knocks, and would only +fight a better man than hisself. He was that tough, nothing ever hurt +him. He would lay asleep under a wagon with never a shirt on him and +take no harm.” + +Elijah was one of three brothers—tall, powerful fellows. Sometimes the +trio, Elijah, Master, and Swallow, would enter a lonely tavern, and +having ordered ale would depart without paying for it. When the publican +protested, the Gypsies displayed their brawny arms and huge fists before +his face. One day they had performed this favourite trick several times, +and were paying an evening call at a village inn, where they sat a long +time. Waxing quarrelsome, the brothers first brawled among themselves, +and afterwards got at cross-purposes with a farmer in the tap-room. In +the course of a tussle with this person, Swallow fell upon him as he lay +on the floor, and, as they struggled there, a steel rush-threading needle +of large size, used in mending chair bottoms, dropped from the Gypsy’s +pocket. Seizing this, Elijah pricked the farmer in the ribs, and then +flung the needle at the feet of Swallow, who picked it up. The farmer’s +cries attracted the attention of a village constable who was going by. + +“Eh, what’s the matter here?” said the constable, stepping into the +tap-room. + +“These Gypsies are trying to murder me,” said the farmer. “One of ’em’s +stuck me with a long knife as he’s got about him.” + +The pockets of the Gypsies were searched, and the steel needle was found +upon Swallow. As the constable held it up between his fingers, the +farmer cried—“That’s it. That’s what he tried to kill me with.” + +The three brothers were arrested and underwent their trial, with the +result that Elijah and Master were sent to prison for a year, but poor +Swallow, although innocent of the charge made against him, was +transported for fourteen years. + +By that Gypsy fire the evening meal passed pleasantly enough, and when at +a later hour I returned to the town, the darkened houses were framing the +cobbled street, and through the open window of a tavern I caught a soft +Romany phrase along with the clinking of glasses. And then from under +the archway of the inn yard a dwarfish Gypsy, mounted on a lean horse, +rode off with a great clatter into the dusk. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII +A GYPSY SEPULCHRE—BURIAL LORE—THE PASSING OF JONATHAN + + +IN Tetford churchyard, not far from my Rectory on the Lincolnshire Wolds, +lies the grave of two celebrated Gypsies, Tyso Boswell and Edward, or “No +Name,” Hearn (Heron), who were killed by lightning on 5th August 1831. +The incident seems to have made a profound impression upon our Gypsies, +and to this day it is everywhere remembered among the Anglo-Romany clans. +A large company of the Boswells and Hearns (Herons) appear to have halted +at Tetford on their way to Horncastle August Fair, at that time a +horse-mart of great importance. Overtaken by a thunderstorm, Tyso and No +Name were sheltering in a barn, whither they had gone for some straw, +when a stroke of lightning descended fatally upon them. + +An aged Gypsy, Lucy Brown (born in the year 1807), once informed me that +she remembered the incident quite clearly. Said she, “We were camping +atop of Tetford Hill, just above Ruckland Valley, when the lightning +struck the poor fellows. We were on our way to Horncastle Fair. I mind +it all, _rashai_, as if it had happened only yesterday.” + +In Westarus Boswell’s autobiography, recorded (in his own words) by Smart +and Crofton in their work _The Dialect of the English Gypsies_, are some +references to this event— + + “I was born at Dover. My father (Tyso) was a soldier, and I was born + in the army. My father, when I was born, was in charge of the great + gun (Queen Anne’s pocket-piece). After a while he came home, and + left the army. He came down into Yorkshire, and there he stayed for + many years, and all our family were brought up in that county, and + there we all stayed after he was killed in Lincolnshire. He died + when I was a lad. The lightning struck him and another, both + together. They were cousins. Our people put them both in one grave. + There I left them, poor fellows. I was much grieved at it. He + (Tyso) always dressed well. When he was buried, I took a wife, and + went all over the country. . . . His cousin’s name was called No + Name, because he was not christened till he was an old man, and then + they called him Edward.” + +A curious story attaches to “No Name” Hearn. His parents took him to +church to be christened, and when the parson said, “Name this child,” the +Gypsy mother answered, “It’s Jehovah, sir.” “I cannot give your child +that name,” protested the clergyman. Whereupon the Gypsies stalked out +of the church muttering, “He shall be called ‘No Name,’” and by this +fore-name he was known all through his life, although in his old age, as +Westarus Boswell has told us, he was baptized in the name of Edward. + +As might be expected, the funeral of Tyso and Edward was attended by many +Gypsies from far and near, and for some years afterwards the grave was +visited annually by relatives, who are said to have poured libations of +ale upon it. A grandson of Tyso relates that he once found a hole “as +big as a fire bucket” in the side of the grave. This he stuffed with +hay, and to my own knowledge the hole is still there, the brickwork of +the vault having fallen inward. Aged folk at Tetford tell how a witch +formerly lived in a cottage near the churchyard. One of her cats +kittened down the hole in the vault, and passers-by would shudder to see +the kittens bolt like rabbits into the Gypsies’ grave. + + * * * * * + +If the Gypsies possess any religion at all, it may be summed up in one +sentence—reverence for the dead. In bygone ages the Gypsies buried their +dead in wild lonely spots, and though for many years the wanderers have +been granted Christian burial, yet now and then an aged _Romanitshel_ on +his deathbed will express a desire to be laid to rest in the open and not +in the churchyard. Moses Boswell, a Derbyshire Gypsy, requested that he +might be buried “under the fireplace,” _i.e._ on the site of an +encampment of his people. When dying, Isaac Heron said, “Bury me under a +hedge,” a reminiscence of the earlier mode of sepulture. In his +_Lavengro_, Borrow describes the burial of old Mrs. Herne: “The body was +placed not in a coffin but on a bier, and carried not to the churchyard +but to a deep dingle close by; and there it was buried beneath a rock, +dressed just as I have told (in a red cloak and big bonnet of black +beaver); and this was done at the bidding of Leonora, who had heard her +_bebee_ (aunt) say that she wished to be buried, not in gorgeous fashion, +but like a Roman woman of the old blood.” + +On the information of some East-Anglian Gypsies, my friend, Mr. T. W. +Thompson, a good tsiganologue, writes: “It must have been somewhere about +1830 when Borrow’s friend, Ambrose Smith (Jasper Petulengro), found one +of the Hernes burying his wife in a ditch near Gorleston, took the body +away and gave it a Christian burial to prevent further trouble befalling +the old man.” + +In an entertaining volume entitled, _Caravanning and Camping Out_, Mr. J. +Harris Stone describes a wayside Gypsy burial— + +“Some twenty years ago a Gypsy died in an encampment near Lulworth Cove +in Dorset, and a friend of mine, who had become great friends with the +tribe because he used to go and sing comic songs to them and perform +simple conjuring tricks, was asked to the funeral. He told me that the +coffin was black, and the burial took place at the cross-roads—not +exactly in the centre of the roadway where the highways crossed, but on +the patch of roadside waste at the angle of one of the roads. Water was +sprinkled on the coffin and earth thrown on, in the course of the ritual +in Romany, but no parson was present.” + +Near the grass-grown sand-dunes of an East Lincolnshire parish is a +camping-place frequented by Gypsies for many years past. In turning up +the soil thereabouts not long ago, some labourers came upon a human +skeleton, probably that of a Gypsy who had been buried there. + +I give these instances because it has been strongly asserted that +Christian burial only has been the Gypsies’ usage for the last two +hundred years. + +Sometimes a careful watch is kept over the body between death and burial. +A Welsh correspondent who had an opportunity of observing this practice, +writes: “I found my Romany friends seated around a fire, and close by in +a van lay the dead wife of one of the company, awaiting burial on the +morrow. Gypsies about here do not go to bed from the time of a death +till after the funeral. They sit in company around the fire, and now and +again fall back and doze, but at least three must keep awake. If only +two were awake, one might drop off to sleep and that would leave only +one. Fear of the ghost is given as the reason why they sit in company by +the fire.” + +As a rule, the corpse is attired in the best clothes worn during life. +Sometimes the garments are turned inside out, a practice in Bulgarian +mourning. When Zachariah Smith was buried in Yorkshire four years ago +the following articles were enclosed in his coffin: a suit of clothes, +besides the one he was wearing, watch and chain, a muffler, four pocket +handkerchiefs, a hammer, a candle, and twopence. + +On the day after the funeral, old-fashioned Gypsies destroy the +possessions of the dead, money excepted. All consumable belongings are +burnt, while the crockery, iron utensils, and other articles are broken +and dropped into a river, or buried, if no water is near. Jewellery is +often disposed of in a similar manner. The horse of the deceased is +either shot, or sold to the knackers to be destroyed. Fear of the ghost +is the explanation of these ceremonies. So long as the possessions of +the dead person remain intact, the ghost is believed to hover about them. +In order, therefore, to dispel the ghost of the dead, his belongings are +destroyed. + +Another observance, expressing in a striking manner the grief of the +bereaved, is seen in their abstention for many years, or for ever, from +the favourite food, beverage, or pastime of the loved one whom they have +lost. One day Richard Petulengro called at my door and was offered +refreshment in the kitchen—“Not any ale, thank you. My brother died a +bit ago, and he was wery fond of it. I don’t touch it now.” + +It is recorded of Old Isaac Joule that he would often spend whole nights +watching by his Gypsy wife’s tomb in Yatton churchyard. Her headstone, +which may still be seen, bears the lines— + + “Here lies Merily Joule + A beauty bright: + That left Isaac Joule + Her heart’s delight + 1827.” + +Sometimes unusual articles are laid on graves. Upon his boy’s grave, +Bohemia Boswell deposited a little teapot from which the boy used to +drink. Rodney Smith placed a breast-pin upon his mother’s grave in +Norton churchyard. + +Gypsies shrink from uttering the names of the dead. Fear of invoking the +ghost underlies this ancient tabu. One of the Herons had a child named +Chasey, who died, and now he never utters that name. He even invented a +nickname for a friend bearing the name of Chasey, in order to avoid +pronouncing the name of his own dead child. + +One day, during conversation with Frampton Boswell, Groome asked— + +“How did you get your name, Frampton; was it your father’s?” + +“I can’t tell you that, but wait a minute.” And going to his mother’s +caravan, he returned with a framed photograph of a gravestone. + +“That was my poor father’s name, but I’ve never spoken it since the day +he died.” + +“He don’t want her to walk,” said my old friend, Frank Elliot, in +explanation of a Gypsy’s reluctance to mention his dead sister’s name. A +Gypsy boy was baptized Vyner Smith, but when his Uncle Vyner died, the +boy was renamed Robert, because the name Vyner was too painful a reminder +of the departed relation. + +A death-omen among Gypsies is the cry of the “death-hawk” heard over a +camp by night. A Gypsy once told me how two crows and two yellow pigeons +flew to and fro over him in a town street in the early morning. By these +signs he knew that his wife had died in the hospital, and so it proved. + + * * * * * + +Let me close this chapter with the passing of my old friend Jonathan +Boswell. Not long ago tidings reached me that he had died in his +travelling cart, in which I have spent some happy hours with him on the +road. The last time I saw Jonathan alive he was seated by his fire on a +little lonely common, and near him stood the old cart looking so very +ramshackle that a gust of wind might almost have wrecked it. Among the +tufted bog-rushes, the lambs were gambolling a few yards away. As I sat +with him, my old friend talked of bygone jaunts we had taken together, +and his grandson, who was present, recalled the day he once spent at our +Rectory. With slow and feeble steps Jonathan walked with me to the edge +of the common and waved his cap in farewell. I never saw him again. I +like to think of the old man as, looking back, I saw him holding out his +hand to fondle a lamb whose confidence he had won while camping on the +common. + + [Picture: A London Gypsy. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +About a month after receiving the news of the death of my old pal, I came +upon his grandson, who told me that the _vâdo_ (cart) had been +_hotsherdo_ (burnt). The fragments which remained after the fire were +duly buried, and the faithful nag had been sent away to the hunt-kennels. +Thus, with the ancient ceremonies of his race, my old friend had been +laid to rest. + + TO THE ENGLISH GIPSIES. {246} + + “You soon will pass away; + Laid one by one below the village steeple + You face the East from which your fathers sprang, + Or sleep in moorland turf, beyond the clang + Of towns and fairs; your tribes have joined the people + Whom no true Romany will call by name, + The folk departed like the camp-fire flame + Of withered yesterday.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIX +_BITSHADO PAWDEL_ (TRANSPORTED) + + +THICKLY sprinkled with Gypsy names are the “Transportation Lists” +(1787–1867) reposing on the shelves of the Public Record Office in +London; yet as your eye scans those lists of names, how dull and ordinary +they look. It is not until you embark upon the arduous task of tracking +individuals in old newspaper files that you realize the charm of +unearthing buried romances in which the Gypsies played a part. + +If, on the one hand, the wildness and roughness of the times are fully +impressed upon your mind, there arises also the unedifying spectacle of +British justices vieing with one another in their ardour for dispatching +Gypsies across the sea on the most trivial pretexts. In the +Transportation Lists both sexes are well represented, and occasionally +one obtains the _aliases_ borne by Gypsies at the time of their arrest. +From a study of these _aliases_, it becomes possible to trace the origin +of some of our modern Gypsy families, for it is quite in keeping with +Romany usage for the children of an expatriated father to adopt his +_alias_. + +I have never yet known an elderly Gypsy whose memory lacked a store of +what may be called transportation tales, and, listening to their recital, +I have sometimes been saddened, if not angered. What can we of the +twentieth century think of the “justice” (!) which sent a Romany mother +across the sea for stealing a lady’s comb valued at sixpence, or banished +for seven years a middle-aged Gypsy man for the crime of appropriating +three penny picture-books from a cottage doorway? + +Over a few crimson embers on the ground I listened one summer evening to +tales from the lips of one of the old Herons, as we sat together under a +thorn hedge. For a theft of harness Solli Heron (my informant’s uncle) +was sentenced to a lengthy residence in an over-sea colony. The time +came when he and a few Gypsy comrades were led out of prison and placed +in chains on board the coach which was to convey them to the convict +ship. By some means Solli had become possessed of a small file, +wherewith, during the journey by coach, he managed to cut through his +irons and make his escape into a wood. After an exciting chase through +brake and brier, the Gypsy was recaptured and duly shipped across the +sea. + +The following story shows that sometimes, when two Gypsies were +implicated in a crime, one of them would endeavour to screen his +companion. From the stables at Claremont House, Esher, during the period +of the Princess (afterwards Queen) Victoria’s residence, a horse and a +mare were stolen by two Gypsies, an elderly man and a younger one. Early +one foggy morning these fellows broke open the stable door and took the +animals away. A hue-and-cry was set up, and, within a few days of the +theft, the red-breasted “Runners” had made an arrest. In court, the +Princess’s coachman declared that he had seen two men near the stable, +but the elder Gypsy persistently affirmed that he had done the business +entirely alone, and his endeavour to screen his mate proved effectual. +The young Gypsy was acquitted, but his companion was transported for life +to Van Diemen’s Land. + +The same spirit of self-sacrifice is seen in another incident— + +A Gypsy tinker and a sweep were arrested for stealing a pony at a time +when the penalty for horse-stealing was death. Said the sweep to the +tinker— + +“Why need two of us be hanged for this job? I’ll swear that you know +nothing about it.” + +When the two were brought up for trial, the sweep, while readily +admitting his own guilt, asserted the tinker’s innocence with such +vehemence that the judge and jury believed his tale. The tinker got +twelve months in jail, but the sweep was hanged. + + * * * * * + +In his _Romany Word-Book_, Borrow mentions the transportation of Fighting +Jack Cooper, “once the terror of all the Light Weights of the English +Ring, who knocked West Country Dick to pieces, and killed Paddy O’Leary, +the fighting pot-boy, Jack Randall’s pet.” Jack Cooper and his brother +Tom were transported under peculiar circumstances. Tom was the first to +be sent away. It appears that the brothers went to a ball where, in the +course of the evening, Jack “pinched” a silver snuff-box, and without +meaning any harm dropped it into his brother’s pocket. Presently the +snuff-box was missed by its owner, and suspicion fell upon the Gypsies. +A policeman was called in, and, while conversing with Tom, offered him a +pinch of snuff. As the Gypsy removed a handkerchief from his pocket, out +flew the snuff-box to his great astonishment, for he was unaware of the +trick played by his brother. Speedily the handcuffs were slipped upon +Tom’s wrists, and in due course he was brought to trial. Before the +judge, Jack swore that Tom was innocent, as indeed he was, but he was +nevertheless sentenced to transportation. + +However, Jack’s fate was not long delayed. “Infatuated with love for his +paramour,” (says Borrow), “he bore the blame of a crime which she had +committed, and suffered transportation to save her.” On the expiration +of his lengthy term, he preferred to stay in Australia, where he made +money by teaching young gentlemen the pugilistic art. + + * * * * * + +There are more stories of this kind showing that innocent persons were at +times sent across the water. + + * * * * * + +Well-known to the Gypsies of our Midland counties is the story of Absalom +Boswell’s transportation. One night the Gypsy father and his two sons +sat talking in their tent, and, in order to rest his weary feet, the old +man removed his shoes and soon fell asleep on the straw. One of the lads +donned his father’s footgear, and set off with his brother to _latsher_ a +bit of _bokro-mas_, which, being interpreted, means that they went to +steal “mutton.” Their errand was successful, but morning light brought a +policeman to the camp, for the sheep had been missed and suspicion had +fallen upon the Gypsies. An early riser, Absalom had put on his shoes +and was walking abroad. He and his two sons were arrested. There were +no witnesses to the theft, but a footprint had been discovered on a patch +of clay in the farmer’s field from which the sheep had been taken, and +Absalom’s shoe fitted the footprint exactly. On this shred of +circumstantial evidence the old man was transported for seven years, +while his sons were lodged in jail for twelve months. + + * * * * * + +On Mitcham Common I once heard the following story from one of the +Dightons. Seated on the wayside was a Gypsy making pegs, with his +children playing around him, and, looking up from his work, he was +surprised to see a well-dressed _gawji_ (non-Gypsy) woman staring hard at +him. She stood there without saying a word, until at last she moved +slowly away. Then came a policeman to where the peg-maker sat— + +“You must come along with me.” + +“What for?” + +“You’ll know when we get to the police station.” + +A report had been handed in that a young woman had been found +half-murdered in a green lane. She said a Gypsy had done it, and +described the man to a detail, giving the colour of his hair, particulars +of his dress, and the number of his children. “I am an innocent man,” +said the Gypsy, “and the Lord’ll make her tell the truth before she +dies.” He was transported for seven years. Two years afterwards the +lady fell ill, and confessed that the man was innocent. He was +liberated, but on the homeward voyage he died. + + * * * * * + +Yet another tale from the “tents of Egypt”— + +John Chilcot was _bitshado pawdel_ (transported), and his wife took it so +much to heart that she would sit on the tent floor cutting up straw into +pieces about an inch in length. At last she could endure it no longer. +She craved for the sight of her husband, so she _tshor_’d _tshumani_ +(stole something), and was sent away too. The strange part of the story +is, that the same farmer who employed Chilcot on his farm in Van Diemen’s +Land, went and hired John’s wife when she was sent out there. The woman +came to John’s cottage one day about sundown, and, looking through the +open door, she saw him lacing his heavy boots, as he muttered to himself, +“I must _tshiv mi tshokaw oprê_ an’ _jaw te __dik de bokrê_” (I must put +my boots on and go to see the sheep). + +“_Âwa_, _mi mush_, _tshiv len oprê_ and _kèr sig_” (Yes, my man, put them +on and make haste). John looked up, and, seeing his own wife standing +there, opened his arms and she dropped into them. The two worked +together for months without the farmer knowing who the woman was, then +one day John told him that she was his lawful wife, and they lived +together till their time expired, when they came back to England. + + * * * * * + +A story is told of one of the old Herons who had been transported, and, +his term having expired, he wrote to his wife and family in England +asking them to send fifty pounds. This they did, and a reply was +received announcing the time of his arrival at a certain port. As a +means of identification, he promised, on landing, to carry a small bundle +of sticks on his right shoulder. His sons met him, and according to his +promise he had the sticks on his shoulder. Now these sons were only tiny +children when their father had been sent away, and did not remember what +his features were like, but of course they were willing to accept him as +their father, and rejoiced accordingly. Then came the meeting between +the old man and his wife. But so completely had his features changed +during the long years of absence that she failed to recognize him as her +husband, even though he pointed to his old bottle green coat still in her +possession. It is said that he turned away sorrowfully, and died soon +after of a broken heart. + + * * * * * + +Moses Heron was on the Thames in a convict ship going to Australia for +_grai-tshor_in (horse-stealing). Some of his relatives went out in a +boat to see the last of him, as his ship was anchored off shore. Moses +took out his knife and cut his _diklo_ (kerchief) from his neck and threw +it overboard for them to take the knot back to his sweetheart. He cut +the _diklo_ from under his ear so that the knot was undisturbed but +remained just as he had tied it. + +Stories of this character might be multiplied indefinitely, but the +instances given will suffice to show how pathetic are the annals of the +Gypsies. + + * * * * * + +In a lecture delivered before the Leeds Philosophical and Literary +Society, my friend, Mr. R. A. Scott Macfie, has justly estimated the +character of the Anglo-_Romanitshel_s of to-day. + +“In Great Britain the Gypsies are at present exposed to a petty +persecution, inflicted ostensibly for their good by illogical persons, +who pretend to believe that they live unnatural lives and should be +driven into town slums for the benefit of their health and morals. They +are harassed by prosecutions on such curious pretexts as sleeping-out, +overcrowding (in tents every inch of which admits the free passage of +God’s fresh air), possessing no dustbin, or neglecting to provide a +proper water supply for their habitations. Yet, on the whole, in this +country they have for the last century received less unpleasant attention +and more sympathy than elsewhere, and it is very noteworthy that they +have responded to this kindness by adopting the civilized conception of +their duty towards their neighbour. I have many hundreds of press +cuttings from British newspapers published during the last few years. +They prove that the Gypsies of this country are never guilty of the +greater crimes. The majority of the convictions are for almost +inevitable offences, such as halting in the road or allowing horses to +stray. Gypsies have, of course, rather primitive views as to rights of +property, especially in respect of what grows or moves upon the earth in +a more or less wild state, yet, while there are an appreciable number of +instances of poaching, fortune-telling, and of certain traditional Gypsy +swindles, most of the cases of so-called theft are very insignificant +petty larcenies—a handful of fruit taken from an orchard, a few swedes +from a field, or a stick or two from the hedge. So conspicuous is the +law-abiding character of the British Gypsies in my records, and in my +personal experience, that I do not hesitate to assert, that, in spite of +their reputation, they are as superior in honesty to the lower classes of +our native population as they are in morality and cleanliness.” + + + + +CHAPTER XX +A ROMANY MUNCHAUSEN + + +THE Gypsies are an imaginative folk, delighting, like children, in +romances and romancing; and if one may judge from the array of folk-tales +{256} already collected from them, these wanderers appear to possess the +gift of story-telling in generous measure. To this day, in Eastern +Europe, the Gypsies still pursue their ancient rôle of tale-telling, +mystifying their hearers with stories which perhaps they brought out of +India many centuries ago. Here, in the West, no one can mingle +intimately with members of the Gypsy clan of Wood, amid the mountains of +Wales, without feeling the charm of the wonderful tales handed down to +them from their forelders. + +Sometimes I have seen the beginning of a folktale in a fragment of +narrative reeled off by a Gypsy on the spur of the moment. + +A London Gypsy had been fiddling for my delectation, and, when he ceased, +I asked him quite casually why, being a Gypsy, his hair was fair? +Without a moment’s reflection he replied, “I’ll tell you why my hair is +fair. One winter night I slept with my head outside the tent, and of +course my hair froze to the ground. When I woke in the morning I shouted +for help, and my daddy poured boiling water on my hair to get it loose. +That’s why my _bal_ is _pawni_” (my hair is fair). + +An impromptu “lying tale” intended to amuse. + +Groome, in his _Gypsy-Folk Tales_ (Introduction, p. lxxxi.), notices the +same sort of thing in a fanciful outburst on the part of a Gypsy girl. +“She had been to a pic-nic in a four-in-hand, with ‘a lot o’ real tiptop +gentry’; and ‘_reia_’ (sir), she said to me afterwards, ‘I’ll tell you +the comicalist thing that ever was. We’d pulled up to put the brake on, +and there was a _puro hotchiwitchi_ (old hedgehog) come and looked at us +through the hedge, looked at me hard. I could see he’d his eye on me. +And home he’d go, that old hedgehog, to his wife, and “Missus,” he’d say, +“what d’ye think? I seen a little Gypsy gal just now in a coach and four +hosses,” and “_Dâbla_” she’d say, “_sawkûmi_ ’as _vâdê kenaw_” (Bless us, +every one has carriages now).’” + +Years ago I used to hear our English Gypsies speak of a certain Happy +Boz’ll, a Gypsy given to romancing about his own affairs. He was always +the hero of his own stories, and to this day, among our Gypsies, a Happy +Boz’ll tale is a synonym for a “crammer.” + +It was once my good fortune at Lincoln Fair to come upon a van-dwelling +horse-dealer, close upon his eightieth year, whose early days were spent +in the company of Happy Boz’ll, and from him I obtained the tales given +below:— + +Old Happy had a donkey, and one day it was lost. Up and down the green +lanes the Gypsy searched for the missing animal and found it not. At +last, as he was wandering under some trees, he heard a familiar noise +overhead. The sound came from the top of a big ash tree, and sure +enough, when Happy looked up, there was the old donkey among the topmost +boughs. + +“What are you doing there?” shouted Happy. + +“I’m gathering a bundle of sticks for your fire.” + +And saying this, the donkey climbed down with a bunch of nice ash sticks. + + [Picture: Black as a Boz’ll. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +At one time Happy, who was a tinker and grinder by trade, possessed a +grinding-barrow made out of a whole block of silver, and whenever he was +thirsty he had only to chop off a lump of silver and go to the nearest +inn to get as much ale as he could carry. In course of time his barrow +grew smaller, and there came a day when Happy had no barrow at all. He +had swallowed it. + + * * * * * + +One day Happy’s wife, Becky, said to him— + +“Go and get a bucket of drinking water.” Away he went to the spring, +and, having filled the bucket, he paused to take a drink from it, and +going on again he stumbled and spilt the water. When he got home he +appeared before his wife with an empty bucket in his hand. + +“Why haven’t you brought the water?” asked Becky. + +“Well, my blessed, I filled the bucket right enough, but on the way back +the water started a-laughing at me, and I couldn’t carry it no furder. +Ay, the water laughed itself out of the bucket, it did—every little drop +of it. There, now I’ve told you.” + + * * * * * + +Another time Happy was crossing a field, and seeing a sack filled with +something he went up and examined it, and there, if it wasn’t full of +eggs. He picked up the sack and carried it away on his back, and never +cracked one of them. + + * * * * * + +Happy was once walking beside a hedge, cracking nuts. He had pockets and +pockets full of them, and he happened to fling a nutshell over the hedge, +and it hit a wery fine hare and killed it. Wasn’t that strange now? + + * * * * * + +Happy never owned a wagon. He and his wife travelled all their lives +with a pack-donkey and a tent. One night their tent took fire, and in a +little while they had nothing left in the world save the donkey and its +blinkers. The next morning, as they crept out from under the hedge, +Happy said to his wife, “We shall have to beg wery hard to-day.” By the +evening they had done so well that they had provided themselves with an +entirely new outfit. Under the hedge stood the finest tent you ever saw. +Inside it were new blankets, new bedding, new everything. + +“Well, my Becky, how do you like it?” + +“We haven’t done so badly after all, my Happy. We’ve got a better tent +and a better supper than we had last night.” + +“And I’m thinking, my Becky,” said Happy, laughing softly, “that it’s +wonderful like getting married again.” + + * * * * * + +Happy was once going along a road over the Peak o’ Derby. He hadn’t gone +far before he saw a cart full of the very best china, delicate stuff all +coloured and gilded, and between the shafts stood a fine horse with +silver-plated harness. There they were on the wayside grass and nobody +with them. Happy lit his pipe and waited a bit to see if their owner +came along. But nobody came. So he led the horse and cart to an inn +just round the bend of the road, and asked the landlord if he knew who +was the owner, but he didn’t know. On and on went Happy, up hill and +down dale, inquiring everywhere for the owner of the horse and pot-cart, +but nowhere could he light on the gentleman, though he nearly broke his +heart with anxiety in trying his best to find him. + + * * * * * + +Happy one day took his dog a-hunting. Two hares started up, but the dog +couldn’t run after both of them at once. Just then, however, the dog ran +against a scythe-blade and cut itself in two. One half of the dog ran +after one hare and caught it. The other half of the dog ran after the +second hare and caught it. The hares were brought to Happy’s feet. Then +the two halves of the dog came together again. And the dog died. Happy +took off the skin and patched his knee-breeches with it. Just a year +afterwards, to the very day, his breeches burst open and barked at him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI +THE GYPSY OF THE HILLS—IN THE HEART OF WALES—A WESTMORLAND HORSE-FAIR + + +I + + +_May_ 12.—Just as I stepped out of the train at Corwen, thick vapours, +blotting out the mountains, made up their minds to let down rain. Five +years before, on landing at the same station, it was only to find a +tornado howling over the land and heavy rain falling. That wild night +I’m not likely to forget in a hurry. . . . + +At last, after an hour’s wait in a snug hostelry, I set off along the +Holyhead Road, having a certain encampment in my mind’s eye. At the +“Goat” Inn, where the by-road turns off for Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch, I made +inquiry for the said camp, but the landlord only shook his head. One of +his daughters, however, hearing my question, said she knew where it was, +and coming with me to the door indicated the whereabouts of the caravans +of my quest. By now the rain had ceased, and, in a few moments, round a +bend in the highway, the outline of a Gypsy tent, with a caravan and a +tilt-cart standing near it, caught my eye against a row of twisted oaks +in a wayside field. On entering the camp there were hearty greetings +from Gilderoy Gray and Oli Purum, his travelling pal. The ruddy glow in +the fire-bucket made the tent’s interior an inviting spot for tea, and +there was plenty of fun that evening. Outside: the dark night with a +roaring wind in the oak trees. Within: a wood-fire lit up the red +blankets stretched over the curved tent-rods, and upon a well-made couch +of straw (covered with rugs) we reclined. Oli was in fine form for +tale-telling, and his pipe often went out. Gilderoy, too, had heaps of +things to tell. Was ever a lover of the road better stocked with +anecdotes than he? + +In the tilt-cart I made my bed, and slept as soundly as a dormouse. + +_May_ 13.—At 5 a.m. the sun was shining gloriously upon the mountains. +Wash and breakfast in the open air. In the forenoon we three took the +hilly road leading to Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch. A light breeze from off the +mountains carried the smell of spring everywhere. The birds were all +a-twitter in the leafing woods. Blue speedwells, white stars of +stitchwort, bee-haunted gorse bloom—all turned to salute the sovereign +sun glowing down upon the land. Gilderoy, ever a good walker, was soon +pegging on ahead; then at a stile in a hedge he would wait until Oli and +I came up. Just below the village of Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch, we stood on +the _puri porj_ (old bridge) and watched the trout leap in the +vandyke-brown pools of the river Alwen. On to the “Hand” tavern, my +ideal village inn. George Borrow saw the interiors of many such houses +during his tramps through “Wild Wales.” Nor are we likely to forget the +kindness we received at the home of a certain great Scholar-Gypsy and +Gypsy-Scholar, perched upon a high point commanding a magnificent +landscape. + + [Picture: Oli Purum. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +About tea-time a jolly face appeared at our tent door, announcing the +arrival of Gil’roy’s brother Jim, and, just as dusk was enfolding the +scene, a merry boy came bounding into the camp. This was Deborah Purum’s +Willy, who told us that Bala Fair was to take place on the morrow. +Lively indeed was our camp this evening, for had not our company +increased by two? Resolving to set off in good time toward Bala in the +morning, we slipped into our beds about midnight, and soon forgot to +listen to the owls hooting mournfully in the woods. + + [Picture: A Gypsy Harpist. Photo. W. Ferguson] + +_May_ 14.—A white mist on the mountains foretold a fine day, and by 6.30 +we were breakfasting on trout and bacon done over a wood fire. Then +harnessing the mare to the tilt-cart, we all climbed aboard, and away we +rattled towards Bala. The wayside woods were empurpled with hyacinths, +and on the hedge-banks little bushes of bilberry hung out their crimson +flowers. Oli Purum, who is half a Welsh Gypsy, could tell us the very +names of the families who had camped round the black patches on the +roadsides. Springing off the cart, he would examine the heaps of +willow-peelings with a critical eye. “_Âwa_, (yes) I thought so. It’s +some of the Klisons (Locks) that’s been _hatsh_in _akai_ (stopping +here).” A splendid trotter, our mare made light work of pulling the +tilt-cart over those seventeen miles down the vale to Bala. Of course we +were all wondering as to the Gypsies we might see at the fair. What a +crowd of farm-folk we found filling the streets on our arrival. Just in +front of the “White Lion” hostelry, I saw a potter-woman standing before +a spread of crockery of all shapes and sizes on the side of the road, +and, curiously enough, I had once met her son, Orlando Fox, at Bristol. + +Little did we dream, however, of the surprise awaiting us here in Bala. +Elbowing our way through the dense crowd, it was Gilderoy who was the +first to exclaim, “_Dik odoi_” (Look there), and turning our gaze that +way, there, sure enough, was a very dark old Gypsy with grizzled locks +and glittering black eyes. His garments were weathered by long wear amid +the mountains, and in him I recognized the patriarchal Matthew (a +descendant of Abraham Wood) whom I had met some years before. + +The Woods preserve many stories of Abraham, their earliest known +progenitor, who flourished about the beginning of the eighteenth century. +Entering Wales from Somerset, he brought with him a violin, and is +supposed to have been the first to play upon one in the Principality. +According to tradition, “He always rode on a blood-horse, would not sleep +in the open but in barns, wore a three-cocked hat with gold lace, a red +silk coat, a waistcoat embroidered with green leaves, had half-crowns for +buttons on his coat, sported white breeches gaily decked with ribbons, +pumps with silver buckles and spurs, a gold watch and chain, and two gold +rings.” Many of Abraham’s descendants are excellent players on the harp, +and all, without exception, speak pure, deep, inflected Romany, akin to +the beautiful musical dialect spoken by the Gypsies of Eastern Europe. +Angling all summer, fiddling or harping all winter, such is the life of +the Gypsy Woods of Wales. + +It was with joy that we rambled with Matty along the shore of Bala Llyn, +a glittering mirror in the sunshine broken only by rings made by rising +fish. The windless day of summerlike quality induced our little party to +loiter by the lake, and when at length we turned to come away, there on +the road stood a Romany lass with her little brother, as merry a pair as +ever wore Gypsy togs. To me it was very delightful to hear their fluent +Welsh Romany. + +There was no difficulty in persuading Matty to accompany us to our camp +at Maerdy. He seemed only too glad to escape into the sweet open country +after the close atmosphere of the town streets. And how the mare did +travel after her feed and rest! On and on up the mountain road we went, +startling the horned sheep on the unfenced roadsides. Now and then Matty +would point out the spots where his old folks used to camp. Well away +from the town, we took a bite of bread and cheese at a tiny white inn +backed by a strip of pine forest, from whose shadows darted a grey +sheep-dog almost wolf-like in its leanness of figure and sharpness of +nose. What a penetrating bark it had too! + +A few more miles of rough road, with here a lone farm and there a cottage +with lumps of white spar on its window-ledges, brought us once again to +the “Cymro,” Maerdy, where we encountered a funny horse-breaker, +reminding one of Borrow’s gossipy ostlers. Oli Purum’s tricks here “took +the cake,” and to the delight of his audience he kept up a constant +stream of them. + +To-night we felt that fate had been extraordinarily kind to us, as by the +fire we sat listening to Matty’s weird tales and to Oli’s rendering of +“The Shepherd of Snowdon” and other Welsh airs on his violin. A rare +stock of tales has Matty—stories replete with enchanted castles, green +dragons, witches, ghosts, and the hero is nearly always a clever Gypsy +named Jack. Matty is Oli’s cousin, and it is charming to see how happy +they are together. + +To me this is a holiday indeed. The utter absence of conventionality, +and the diversions of the Gypsy life, are as balm to one’s nerves. + +_May_ 15.—To-day is another blue and golden foretaste of summer. Along +the banks of the Alwen, dodging in and out among huge boulders, climbing +fences, scrambling through the masses of flowering gorse and broom, +Gilderoy, Matty, and I made our way to Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch. In the old +inn, a cool retreat after the broiling sunshine in the wooded valley, we +sat awhile. Years ago I saw Matty and his sons dance on the blue-stone +floor of this room, just after the New Year had come in—a time when all +Welsh folk are merry with fiddle and song. + + [Picture: A Happy Pair. Photo. W. Ferguson] + +On getting back to our camp in the early evening, all hands set to work, +some gathering sticks, others fetching water, and soon the supper was +spread inside the roomy tent. Tales and talk till the late-rising moon +glinted through the holes nibbled by field-mice in the tent blankets. +Then to dreamland. + + [Picture: A Chat by the Gate. Photo. W. Ferguson] + +_May_ 16.—This morning I find thin ice on a pail of water standing in the +open. How bracing to complete your toilet in the cool air from the +mountains. See with what tenderness the sunlight colours the rocks up +there by the hillside farmstead. For the first time since coming into +Wales I hear the cuckoo calling in the woods. High up on the slope I see +a black horse dragging a hurdle with thorn boughs weighted by stones—a +primitive harrow. I’ll have a scamper down the road through the keen air +of morn, before the sun has drunk up all the dew. + +After breakfast I go a-fishing. Home in the afternoon to find some of +the Gypsy Locks coming down the Holyhead Road with their carts and +ponies; a delightful party, and much _rokerben_ (conversation) followed. + +A little later Gilderoy and I drive in the tilt-cart to Corwen to fetch +Fred o’ the Bawro Gav. This means more fun for us round the evening +fire. When depressed in days to come, I want to remember that flow of +Gypsy mirth away there under the shadow of Cader Dinmael, while the +oak-groves outside our tent whispered in the rising wind of night. + +_May_ 17.—Farewell, tent and caravan and tilt-cart. Farewell, old pals +beside your smoking fires. Farewell, sweet Wales and your beautiful +mountains. To-day I return to civilization. + +Oli Purum drove me to Corwen station, and by night I am at home again on +the Wolds of Lincolnshire. + + + +II + + +_September_ 27.—We are at Sedbergh, a little grey town at the foot of the +Yorkshire Fells. Stone walls, narrow streets, old inns—all have their +outlines softened by the mellow shadows, half-golden, half-brown, +stealing over the place this afternoon. Looking out from a tavern window +I experience a thrill. There in the street stand two vehicles, a _vâdo_ +and a tilt-cart, with sleek horses between their shafts. That tilt-cart +I should know anywhere, for under its weathered hood I have dreamt happy +dreams. + + * * * * * + +“I say, pals, we must be stirring. Come along,” exclaims Gilderoy Gray, +rising from his corner on the smooth-worn settle. We follow our leader +into the street, and, boarding those vehicles, we are not long in getting +clear of Sedbergh town. Bound for Brough Hill Horse-Fair, our party of +six never had a gayer prospect. Here we are on the road again—Gil’roy, +Merry Jim, Fred o’ the Bawro Gav, Oli Purum, his son Willy, and the +Gypsy’s Parson. . . . + +But even the brightest of September days must wane, and soon to right and +left of us dark ridges lift themselves against the fading light. Our +first stage is a short one. Nightfall sees us pull up at Cautley Crag, +where we seek a stopping-place in the small croft adjoining the lonely +white inn on the roadside. However, the gate proves too narrow to admit +our carts, so we draw upon the wayside turf, under the shelter of a stone +wall. Nimble as ever, Oli erects the red blanket tent in the croft, and +Willy busies himself in building a good fire. When an abundance of brown +bracken has been laid down in the tent (no fresh straw is to be had), the +customary rugs are spread and we sit down to supper. Pipes and chatter +make the evening hours fly. There is so much Gypsy news to talk over. +At last, having placed a warning lantern, like a pendant star, on one of +the carts, we tumble into our beds and quickly fall asleep. + +_September_ 28.—A keen, clear autumn morn making you feel how good it is +to be alive. After pottering about the camp, Gilderoy and I wander along +the bank of the roaring Rawthey, while Jim and Fred, lured by the shine +and glamour of the sunlit mountains, set off across the dewy moor for a +closer look at the “Spout,” as the waterfall up the dingle is described +on the map. Down by the plank-bridge I stand and look at the fells all +a-shimmer in the sun. Far up beyond the region of stone walls, built +(says our Oli) in the days when labourers received a wage of a penny a +day, one’s eye follows the forms of mountain ponies, horned sheep, and a +couple of shepherds roaming with their dogs. Nearer, on the river-bank, +are small companies of geese preening their feathers in the sunshine. I +hear from our landlord that prowling hill-foxes sometimes snap up a goose +on the moor. . . . + +Breakfast over, we were busy packing when some of the Whartons (Oli’s +relations) passed by in their light accommodation carts _en route_ for +Brough Fair, so Oli and Willy must needs rush out to gather the latest +news of the road. This meant a trifling delay in our getting off, for +Gypsies are loquacious. However, by 9.30 we were once more “on travel,” +feeling blithe as larks. Rumble-rumble went the wheels on the road, and +all was going as merry as a marriage bell until a single magpie flitted +across our track. Observing the bird of ill-omen, I quoted the old-time +ditty— + + “One for sorrow, two for mirth, + Three for a wedding, four for a birth.” + +“That’s only an old woman’s tale,” quoth the Gypsy, flicking the horse’s +glossy back with the ends of the reins. Yet, a mile or so farther on, +Oli was the first to discover that the horse had cast a shoe. Handing +over the reins, the lithe Gypsy went off at a trot, and not long after he +came up flaunting the lost shoe, just as the smith at Court Common was +ready, tools in hand, to put it on. + + [Picture: ’Neath Cautley Crag. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +Under the lee of a wood of bronzed beeches we made a stick fire to warm +the stew-pot, while the smith replaced the shoe amid an interested group +of yokels who had popped up from goodness knows where. + +The wonderfully transparent atmosphere of this region appears to possess +magnifying powers, for even the poultry on the distant knolls assume the +forms of huge birds, and as for the gaunt lady who sat “taking the air” +on a lonesome bench half a mile away, she would have passed right enough +for the wife of Goliath, if that celebrity ever possessed a missis. + +In a locality like this, romance and poetry meet one at every turn. A +commonplace duck-pond in a grassy hollow does not, perhaps, suggest the +glamorous things of life; yet the small tarn lying before us in the +sunshine is the subject of a curious local legend. Here, says tradition, +you are treading upon fairy ground, for in this dimple in front of the +beech wood you have a _bottomless pool_! + + [Picture: A Bottomless Pool. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +As for yon grey house amid the trees on the common’s upper edge, well, +the man for whom it was built lived in it but a day and died, and over +the doorway somebody has inscribed the text, “Occupy till I come.” + +Soon after quitting the common, Wild Boar Fell begins to mark the skyline +on our right, and now all around us lies a realm of strewn rocks— + + “Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, + The fragments of an earlier world.” + +A stiff push up the inclines brought us at last to the high point from +whence the road dipped into the long straggling town of Kirkby-Stephen. +Verily the place seemed to have dropped asleep in the September sun. +With as little delay as possible we held on our way until, by 5 p.m., we +had made Warcop and had pitched behind the farmhouse where we had stayed +on previous happy occasions. + +With all hands to work, the tent was put up in record time, and as the +ruddy sundown tinged the tree boles near our camp, we gathered round the +fire for the evening meal. Thus closed a superb summerlike day. + +_September_ 29.—Somewhere about 7 a.m. a whiff of tobacco smoke comes +curling pleasantly round the edge of our bunk in the tilt-cart, and I +become aware that my bedmate, Fred o’ the Bawro Gav, is dressing. +“There’s a heavy dew this morning,” says he, turning back the coverings +at the entrance of the cart; and in a little while I am up and washing +outside, and perceive for myself that the cobwebs on the hedge are +delicately jewelled with drops of dew. “Look at the calves,” says Fred, +“pretty fellows, aren’t they?” My companion has quite a farmer’s eye for +things, and as a weather-prophet he rarely makes a mistake. Overhead low +clouds are rolling, or rather masses of dove-coloured mist, with patches +of blue sky showing between, and already the mountains rising to the +north are richly bathed in sunshine. + +During the forenoon Gilderoy, Fred, and I stretch our legs in a stroll +upon the sunlit “Hill,” where the Gypsies are encamped in considerable +numbers for the morrow’s great horse-fair. Many familiar faces greet us +on every hand. Now it is Pat Lee who springs out from a group and nearly +twists off Fred’s hand, so vigorous is the shaking it receives, and now I +am honoured by an invitation to test the weight of Femi Coleman’s new +baby. From the doorway of a gorgeous _vâdo_ Sophia Lovell thrusts out +her black poll and inquires after our Oli. In this manner, with many +variations, we make our way between the camps, and our ramble proves +enjoyable in every way. + + [Picture: A Wandering Minstrel. Photo. Fred Shaw] + +Going back to the wagons at Warcop, we drop into an inn, and by a bit of +luck it happens that a “character” is present in the person of “Fiddling” +Billy Williams, the wandering minstrel, who at our request takes his +brown violin from a bag on his back and plays some lively airs, and Oli +and Willy Purum, who have turned up, dance cleverly to a tune or two on +the smooth-worn, blue-stone floor. But Old Billy—I cannot take my eyes +off him. Look at his weathered coat (a gift from Lord Lonsdale) which in +the course of years has lost its nap and shows here and there patches of +a ruddy lower layer; surely the nondescript garment suits the grizzled +old wanderer to perfection. Watching him closely, I observe that he has +a very passable acquaintance with the Gypsy tongue, so, edging towards +him, I drop a deep sentence into his ear. How he starts! “You know +something,” says he. Then he goes on to tell me that as a boy he +travelled with no less renowned a personage than John Roberts, the Welsh +Gypsy harpist. Here’s a find. Who ever expected to meet a pupil of Old +Janik’s in a remote Westmorland inn? Billy says that Roberts taught him +how to “scrape music off these things,” twanging the fiddle-strings with +a forefinger, and smiling sweetly as he does it. For myself, I count +this meeting with Fiddling Billy one of the “events” of our trip. + +In the evening we again rambled on the “Hill” to see a memorable +sight—hundreds of Gypsy fires with rings of dark figures squatting around +the blazing logs. A feast for the eyes of a lover of the nomads was this +array of firelit faces set against a background of caravans, stone walls, +and mountains. + +_September_ 30.—A fine morning with a cool wind blowing from the east. +As we sat at breakfast, a clatter of hoofs on the road announced belated +arrivals for the fair. Early in the forenoon we found ourselves in the +thick of the crowd, which, to me, seemed as big as ever on Brough Hill. +Once upon a time this fair used to last a whole week, much more indeed +for the Gypsy element, but nowadays the last day of September and the +first day of October are the only recognized dates. Droves of fell +ponies took up a large space on the fair-ground. A few heavy horses and +a sprinkling of “bloods” met the eye at times. For one thing we could +see our Gypsy friends busy upon their “native heath,” for where is a +Gypsy at home if it is not at a horse-fair? + +As evening approached, an ugly bank of inky-black cloud came over the +mountains, and the wind in rude gusts began to wail, Valkyrie-like, in +the tree-tops, and to shake our wagons in a way that reminded one of a +night at sea. Thus the day which had opened so gaily ended in real +“Brough weather.” + +An authority on that local phenomenon known as the “Helm” wind writes: +“The field of its operation extends from near Brough for a distance of +perhaps thirty miles down the Eden Valley towards Carlisle, and is +sharply restricted to the belt lying between the Pennines and the river; +never, on the one hand, being encountered on the actual summit of the +range, and never, on the other, crossing the water. Bitterly cold, it +rushes like a tornado down the slope, and works havoc in the valley +below. If the “Helm” happens to blow during the fair, the proprietors of +scores of refreshment tents may usually bid farewell to all the canvas +they possess.” + + [Picture: Brough Hill Horse Fair. Photo. Valentine] + +The Gypsies, to whom I have ever mentioned the “Helm” wind at Brough, +invariably shrug their shoulders, as if it were an old friend, and not a +very welcome one at that. + +_October_ 1.—We were all afoot in good time this morning, six o’clock or +thereabouts, and right glad we were to see the sun breaking through the +mists over Brough Fox Tower. Taking a halter apiece, Fred and I went to +fetch the horses. Breakfast; then we packed, and away we went. +“Good-bye, old camping-place,” we said, as the wagons reached the +Musgrave ramper, for very pleasant had been our sojourn by the spreading +trees beyond the old farmhouse. On the way to Kirkby-Stephen, many light +carts rattled past, going south, and, after the stiff pull out of the +town, it was good to be once more on the open road with the keen mountain +air blowing on our faces from over wide leagues of rocks and heather. + +By early evening we had reached Cautley, where, as before, we drew on to +the strip of wayside turf, and in quick time a couple of plump fowls were +roasting in the black pot over a wood fire. To watch Oli prepare and +cook those fowls was an object-lesson to be remembered. Bravo, Oli, our +Romany chef! + +Realizing that this was our last evening in the wilds, we were in no +hurry to get between the blankets. So we stretched out the tales, and +meandered leisurely through the fields of reminiscence, while the cloud +of tobacco smoke grew denser around us, and the stars o’ night shone more +and more brightly over Cautley’s black crag. + +_October_ 2.—Up at seven to find the sky almost free from clouds and +holding out the promise of a brilliant wind-up. After breakfast we set +off for Lancaster, near whose castle we parted; and now, over fireside +pipes, my notebook and its jottings possess the power to make every sight +and sound of the journey live again. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII +FURZEMOOR + + +ARE you seeking a recipe for youth? Go a-Gypsying. Forth to the winding +road under the open sky, the Gypsies are calling you. Scorning our +hurrying mode of life, these folk are content to loiter beneath the green +beeches, or in the shadow of some old inn on the fringe of a windy +common. Like Nature herself, these wildlings of hers overflow with the +play-spirit and therefore remain ever youthful. To rub shoulders with +them, I have found, is to acquire a laughing indifference to dull care +and all its melancholy train. Whoever then would grow light-hearted and +become just a happy child of sun and star and stream, let him respond to +the call of the road: let him go a-Gypsying. + +Long ago I observed that during the pleasanter months of the year a few +families of wanderers were generally to be found encamped upon a secluded +waste—which I will call Furzemoor—where, by the courtesy of the owner, +they were allowed to remain as long as they pleased. They resorted +thither, so it seemed to me, to recuperate from the effects of their +winter’s sojourn upon the city ash-patches hemmed in by unsavoury gas-lit +streets. + +One April afternoon, following close upon a lengthy stay in London, I +remember how blithely I tramped along the grassy cart-track, which, after +winding between hedgerows full of green sprays, sweet odours and tinkling +bird-notes, emerged upon rugged Furzemoor—one of those few places which +in after years become for you backgrounds of dream-like delight by reason +of the memories associated with them. Is it not to such spots that the +fancy turns when the mood of the commonplace hangs heavily upon you, and +any shred of adventure would be more stirring to the heart than “the +cackle of our burg,” which is too often mistaken for “the murmur of the +world”? + +No matter how often I came, the moor had ever the power to stir one’s +imagination anew by its suggestive atmosphere of the remote, the aloof, +the wild; and having paused at the end of the lane to renew old +recollections, I went forward and peered over the edge of a declivity +fringed with bushes of furze in golden flower. Ah! there below the +slope, kissed by the warm sun and fanned by the breath of spring from off +the heath, lay the brown tents, tilt-carts, and smouldering fires of a +Romany camp, looking strangely deserted save for a girlish figure +reclining near one of the fires over which a kettle was slung. Pushing +between the bushes, my blundering feet loosened some large stones which +rolled down the bank with a rattle, causing the girl to look sharply over +her shoulder, and simultaneously from her red lips came a warning +whistle, a shrill penetrating note first ascending then dropping again. +I had heard that whistle of old and knew well its significance. In +response thereto a Gypsy man appeared from behind the tents, his keen +eyes gleaming with recognition. “Hey, _rashai_, we’s been a-talking +about you lately. Only last night I was saying, p’raps our pass’n will +be coming to see us one of these days, and here you are!” + +Such was the greeting I got from Gypsy Sam, who now wheeled about and +walked me off to a sandy hollow where his wife Lottie and her bairns sat +by the fire. On catching sight of me, the children—a black-eyed +troop—raised a shout of welcome, and, like little savages, soon began +tugging at my coat tails. After an absence of several months from the +camping-place this was a joyful meeting, and I guessed that my friends +had much news to tell. + + [Picture: Gypsy Children. Photo. Illustrations Bureau] + +“It’s no use pretending to offer you a chair,” said Lottie, giving my +hand a hearty shake, “for we haven’t got one. If there’s anything I does +detest, it’s chairs. The nasty things make sich draughts about ’ur +legs.” So, squatting on the ground, I awaited the unfolding of the +family budget. + +There was a touch of the Orient on every side. Stuck in the wind-rippled +sand under a bold wall of rock were curved tent-rods with brown blankets +pinned round them. Between the golden furze clumps a lean horse and a +shaggy ass ripped the grasses. A greyhound lay asleep under a tilt-cart +upon the shafts of which sundry gay garments were hanging to dry. Upon +this picture my eye rested with pleasure. + +Now Gypsy Sam ignites his tobacco by scooping up a red ember with the +bowl of his pipe. His wife does the same, and I follow suit. + +“A prettier place is this,” quoth Lottie, “than when you see’d us under +that ugly railway bank at Hull.” + +Verily the Gypsies are possessed of an æsthetic sense, and their roving +eyes grow wistful as they take in the beauty of the distant hills and the +sun-gleams lighting up grassy knolls and spindly fir-trees rising from +patches of sand. + +“You remember that _pawno grai_ (white horse) of ours?” says Sam. “Well, +we lost him a little while back. A bit of _wafro bok_ (bad luck) that +was for us. We was stopping at a place with nasty bogs around us, and +one stormy night the _grai_ got into one of ’em unbeknown to we, and i’ +the morning we found him with no more than his nose sticking out. Of +course he were dead as a stone. Then there was that _kawlo jukel_ (black +dog) what you saw at Hull—brother to this one under the cart—he got +poisoned up yonder by Rotherham. I reckon a keeper done it as had a +spite agen us. I wouldn’t ha’ parted with that dog for a good deal; he’s +got us many a rabbit.” + +The steaming splutter of the kettle suggests a meal, which is soon spread +in winsome style. Meanwhile, from another fire hard by, a black pot is +brought, and a savoury stew is followed by tea and slices of buttered +bread with green cresses fresh from the brook. As Lottie lifts the +silver teapot to pour out tea, I cannot help admiring the lovely old +thing, and the Gypsy sees my appreciation. + +“Yes,” (holding it up in the sunlight), “it’s a beauty, ain’t it? Did +you ever hear of my Aunt Jōni’s quart silver teapot? Squire Shandres +used to fix greedy eyes on it whenever he come down to the camp, but my +aunt wouldn’t part with it, not likely. You won’t remember Jōni, of +course. A funny old woman she were, to be sure. There was one thing I +minds her a-telling of us. She’d been out with her _kipsi_ (basket) but +it weren’t one of her good days, and by night her basket was nearly as +heavy as when she’d set out. Twopence was all she’d made, as she passed +through three or four willages, tumble-down sort of places, where the +house walls were bent and the thatches of the cottages were sinking into +the rooms underneath ’em. At one of these cottages as stood in an odd +corner, Jōni stopped to knock. Two steps led up to a green door with a +bird-cage hanging outside. She waited a minute, but as nobody came she +gave two more raps and tried the door. It was bolted. After that she +heard sounds inside, a muttering voice came nearer, and slip-slap went +the shoes, as an old woman opened the door. Talk about ugly, she was +that, if you like; and there was hair growing on her lip and chin. +Fixing her black eyes on Jōni, she scowled and scolded, and, pointing a +finger at her, she cursed poor Jōni, and for ten days afterwards my aunt +couldn’t speak proper. Whenever she tried to talk, she could only groan +and bark and moo like the beastses, and it wasn’t till after the tenth +day that she were herself at all.” + +From witches it was not a long leap to wise men. + +Said Lottie, “Did I ever tell you about the wise man of Northampton? +Well, it was one time as I’d had wery bad luck indeed with my basket. I +couldn’t sell nothing at all in the willages agen that town, but I know’d +a _gozvero mush_ (wise man) as lived there, so I went to see him, and he +give me a rabbit’s head and a cake of bread. ‘Now,’ says he, ‘go you and +call at the places where you’ve took nothing, and you’ll take money at +all of ’em.’ + +“And what he told me came true, every word of it. I’ll take my sacrium +oath it did. That there _gozvero mush_ (wise man) could tell the names +of folks as had stolen things, and he could _dûker_ (tell fortunes) like +one of us. He could tell folk a lot about theirselves by rubbing his +hand over the bumps on their heads, and he could read the stars like a +book, and find out things by the cards and by the crystal. He was sort +of friendly with our people, and they liked him, but they would never go +near a witch if they knew it.” + +It has been truly said, “No one is fond of Gypsies, but is fonder of +Gypsy children.” Grave-eyed pixies, at once bold and reserved, these +quaint little sprites are simply irresistible. When the meal is over, I +stroll off with a party of these romping rascals towards a gorsy hollow +which the sun warms into a gayer gold. Asking the children if they would +like a tale, and what sort? Answer comes, “A _muleno gudlo_” (fairy +tale). + +“How long?” + +“A mile long, in course.” + +Into my tale creeps a ghost, and when I had done, little Reuben says— + +“I know something about _mulos_ (ghosts). One time a man was killed by a +bull at the corner of the lane down yonder, and we allus hurries past +that place for fear of _dik_in his _mulo_” (seeing his ghost). “And then +there was two Gypsies as father once know’d. They begged some straw from +a farmer and put it in a little shed for to sleep on. Then they went +into the willage to buy a loaf, and when they got back they found the +straw had gone. A little ways off they see’d a woman running away with +the straw, but ’stid of follering her they went straight to the farmhouse +where they’d got leave to sleep in the shed, and they told the farmer +about the woman, and he says— + +“‘Why, that’s my old woman as died ten year ago.’ My word, those Gypsies +soon began to look out for a sleeping-place somewhere else. Yes, we +knows a lot about _mulo_s.” + +“What’s that noise?” asked one of the girls, springing up. + +“Come away _tshavê_ (children). Come away, sir. Don’t you hear that +nasty little _sap_” (snake)? + +From among the mossy stones near at hand came a hissing sound, and there, +sure enough, was a small viper wagging his black-forked tongue at us. We +got up and moved nearer the camp. + +“Norfolk’s the place for sarpints,” said one of the boys; “I once see one +with a frog in its mouth. Lor, how the poor thing did squeal. There’s +lots of lizards about here, and they say that a _hotshi_ (hedgehog) will +eat ’em, but if I thought _that_ I’d never touch no more _hotshi_ s’long +as I live.” + +I told the children of a little incident which had happened on my way to +Furzemoor, how I had cycled into a family of weasels crossing the road +but didn’t run over any of them, and, dismounting, I banged one of the +little fellows with my hat. He lay still, and I thought he was dead, but +when I turned my head for a moment he was gone like a flash. Lottie, who +had drawn near and was listening, remarked— + +“It’s bad luck to meet a wezzel on the _drom_ (road), but if there’s +anything we does like to meet, it’s the Romany _tshiriklo_ (bird),” which +I knew to be the pied wagtail, the foreteller of coming Gypsies. + +“When we sees our _tshiriklo_ on the road, and it flies, we knows we are +going to meet Gypsies who’ll be akin to us, but if it only runs away, the +travellers coming will be strangers. One day me and my man was on the +_drom_ and we see a young hare tumbling over and over in front of us. +That’s a sign as means ill, and, sure enough, a few days after we heard +tell of the death of my man’s uncle ’Lijah. Talking about meeting +things, I’ve heard it said that if you meet two carts, one tied behind +t’other, you’ll soon go to prison.” + +The strains of a fiddle now proceeded from where Sam sat alone by the +fire, and we joined him. As the sun was going down one of the girls +proposed a dance, and soon a merry whirl of Gypsy elves enlivened the +camp. By the fireside, reminiscences came crowding into Sam’s brain. + +“Many’s the time, as you know, we’ve draw’d on to this place, and I takes +good care to be friendly with all the keepers round here. I never +meddles wi’ nothink, you see, so we never gets across wi’ ’em. Ay, but I +minds when I didn’t used to be so pertikler. See that oak wood up +yonder? In my young days me and my old mammy got leave from a keeper to +gather acorns in that wood. Us used to take ’ur sacks and fill ’em with +acorns and sell ’em to a man as we know’d. And mam ’ud warn me not to +meddle with the rabbits, lest we should be forbid to stop on here. One +afternoon mam had half-filled her sack, and when her back was turned, I +tumbled the acorns out, and slipped into the sack three rabbits as I’d +knocked over, and I put the acorns back on the top of ’em. I was a good +big lad then, and, my, wasn’t I frit when I see the keeper coming with +his dog. When he got up to us, he and mam got a-talking, and I see the +dog sniffing round the bag. The keeper, thinking that there was only +acorns in it, shouts to the dog, “Come away there.” But the dog stuck +there, and I was trembling in my boots for fear we should get into +trouble. Howsiver, the keeper kept calling the dog off, and soon they +goes away. Then I nips up the bag and trots off home with it, and when I +told mam about it afterwards she gave me a downright good scolding and +begged me never to do it no more. + +“Our old folks allus travelled with pack-donkeys, and they had one donkey +as was a wery knowing animal. I’ll tell you one thing it did. We was +stopping in a lane of a summer’s evening, and our _foki_ (people) was +smoking afore the fire under a hedge with the children playing round, and +everybody was as happy as the Lord in Heaven, but all at once our _maila_ +(donkey) comes and pokes its head atween daddy and me, and I taps it on +the nose, playful-like, to send it away, but it comes back, and it was +that restless and fidgety, poking and pulling at us—it wouldn’t be druv +off. My mammy had been watching it from the tent, and she come up and +says— + +“‘That _maila_ knows summut, I reckons.’ + +“‘Ay, it’s a sign sure enough,’ says daddy. And the donkey still kep’ on +poking and pulling at us. Long and by last dad says— + +“‘We’d better clear out of here,’ for he thought there was summut queer +about the donkey’s goings on. Well, we pulled up the tent rods and +packed ’ur things, and we’d only just got out of the lane when two +horsemen come along and began inquiring about a little pig as was missing +from a farm. They made us unpack, and they searched through everythink, +but, of course, they couldn’t find nothink agen us, and they goes their +way and we goes ours. And that night, after we had settled down in an +old quarry a bit furder on, my daddy beckoned me and took me to a deep +hollow full o’ dead leaves, and, scrabbling among ’em, he takes out—what +do you think? The nicest little _bawlo_ (porker) you ever see’d, and we +gets it safe home. That donkey _did_ know summut after all. Ay, them +were the old times. Things is wery different now. + +“If you come here to-morrow you’ll mebbe walk up with me to the planting +on t’other side of yon beck. The _rai_ as this land belongs to lets me +_tshin_ (cut) all the _wuzen_ (elder) I wants. My old daddy used to say— + +“‘You should never lay a chopper to a tree wi’out first axing the +fairies’ leave,’ but folks forgets to do it now.” + +The eyes of my friends here began to turn frequently in the direction of +the cart-track. Indeed, when their eyes were not looking that way it +seemed to me that their minds still were. Nor was this expectancy to go +long unsatisfied, for soon there appeared in the sunken lane a black +chimney topping a green-hooded vehicle, a light cart bringing up the +rear. These Gypsies turned out to be a married son of Sam, with his wife +and family. Here was a jolly arrival. With surprising rapidity the +horses were unyoked, and the newcomers were gathered round their parents +on the grass. Off to a well-known spring run the girls to fill the +kettle and a bucket or two, and the boys scamper off towards a spinney to +return with an abundance of dead wood. Then how the fires crackle and +spurt, and in next to no time the steam is puffing from kettle spouts. + +Feeling ten years younger for my visit to the Furzemoor Gypsies, I +climbed up the deeply-rutted lane on the way to the distant railway +station, and, as I turned for a last look, brown hands were waving, and +_kushto bok_ (good luck), which is the Gypsy’s “good-bye,” was shouted +after me. On my part I felt a strong tugging at the heart when, at a +bend in the lane, I caught a farewell glimpse of the domed tents, +upcurling blue smoke, and happy Gypsies among the golden gorse. + + + + +GLOSSARY + + +PRONUNCIATION {291} + + +I. VOWEL-SOUNDS + + AS IN +â alms (âms). +a aloe (alô). +aw all (awl). +ê ale (êl). +è air (èr). +e ell (el). +î eel (îl). +i ill (il). +ô old (ôld). +o olive (oliv). +û ooze (ûz). +u book (buk). +ù ulcer (ùlsa). + +II. DIPHTHONGS + + AS IN +ai aisle (ail). +oi oyster (oista). +ou ounce (ouns). + +III. CONSONANTS + + +The following are pronounced as in English:— + + b, d, f, h, k, l, m, n, p, t, v, w. + +v and w are, as a rule, easily interchangeable. + + AS IN +y yes (yes). +r roam (rôm). +ch loch (Scottish loch). +s ass (as). +sh shin (shin). +tsh chin (tshin). +z zest (zest). +zh pleasure (plezhur). +j (dzh) jest (jest). +g gate (gêt). +ng singer (singa). +ngg finger (fingga). +th thin (thin). +dh then (dhen). + +VOCABULARY. + + ROMANY. ENGLISH. +Adrê In, into, within. +Akai Here. +Apopli Again. +Aprê On, upon. +Av Come. +Âva, âvali, âwa, âwali Yes, certainly, verily +Avrî Away, out. + +Bâ Stone, sovereign (£1). +Baiengri Waistcoat. +Bal Hair. +Balovas Bacon, ham. +Barvelo Rich. +Baw Comrade, mate. +Bawlo Pig. +Bawro Great, large. +Bawro-Gav London. +Beng Devil. +Besh Sit, rest, lie. +Bîbi Aunt. +Biken Sell. +Bita Little. +Bitshado Sent. +Bitshado-pawdel Sent over, transported. +Bok Luck. +Bokro Sheep. +Bokro-mas Mutton. +Bongo Crooked, lame, wrong. +Boshomengro Fiddler. +Bouri Snail. +Bouri-zimen Snail-broth. +Bûdika Shop. + +Dâbla Exclamation of surprise. +Dadus Father. +Dai Mother. +Dawdi Exclamation of surprise. +Delaben Gift. +Del-aprê Read. +Didakai Half-breed Gypsy. +Dik See, look. +Dikamengri Picture, looking-glass. +Diklo Kerchief. +Dinelo Fool, simpleton. +Diri Dear. +Divus Day. +Dosta Enough, plenty. +Dova That. +Drom Road. +Dûi Two. +Dûker Tell fortunes. +Dûkeripen Fortune. +Dûvel God. + +Fôki People. + +Gad Shirt. +Gawjikeno Belonging to gentiles. +Gawjo Alien, gentile, anyone who is not a Gypsy. +Gav Town. +Gèro Man. +Gozvero Cunning. +Grai Horse. +Gudlo Tale, noise. +Guno Bag, sack. +Hatsh Stop, camp. +Hatsh-oprê Arise, get up. +Haw Eat. +Hawben A meal, food. +Hĕro Leg, wheel. +Hokano Lie, trick, swindle. +Hora Penny. +Hotsherdo Burnt. +Hotshiwitshi Hedgehog. + +Jaw Go. +Jin Know. +Jiv Live. +Jukel Dog. + +Kai Where. +Kanengro Hare. +Kani Hen. +Kawlo Black. +Ke-divus To-day. +Kek, keka No, not, never. +Kel, kèr Do, make. +Kèr House. +Kipsi Basket. +Kisi Much. +Kitshima Tavern, public-house. +Klîsin Lock. +Kokero Self. +Koliko To-morrow. +Kom Love, like. +Kon Who. +Konaw Now. +Kongri Church. +Kopa Blanket. +Kosht Stick, wood. +Kova This, thing. +Krafni Button. +Kuro Cup, glass, mug. +Kushto Good. +Laj Shame. +Latsher Find, pick up. +Lav Word. +Lavengro Word-man, linguist. +Lel Get, take. +Len, lendi Them, their. +Lesti Him, his. +Levina Beer. +Lil Book, paper. +Loli Red. +Lova Money. + +Maila Donkey. +Man, mandi I, me. +Mas Meat. +Masengro Butcher. +Maw Don’t. +Maw Kill, slay, murder. +Mî, mîro, m’o My, mine. +Mokado Unclean. +Mokto Box. +Mol Wine. +Mong Beg, pray, request. +Monûshni Woman, wife. +Mûi Mouth, face. +Mûk Let, allow, leave, lend. +Mûleno Ghostly, fairy, supernatural. +Mûlo Dead, ghost. +Mûlo-mas Carrion. +Mûmeli Candle. +Mumpari, mumper Low-class traveller. +Mumpli Nasty. +Mûsh Man. +Mûskro Policeman. + +Nasher Lose, waste. +Nongo Naked, bald, bare. + +O The. +Odoi There. +Oprê On, up, upon. +Ora Hour, watch. + +Pal Brother. +Pâni Water. +Pariko Thank. +Patrin Trail, sign, leaf. +Pawdel Across, over, beyond. +Pawni Fair, white. +Pen Sister. +Pen Say. +Peser Pay. +Petulengro Smith. +Pîro Foot. +Pogado Broken. +Poger Break. +Porj Bridge. +Posh Half. +Praster Run. +Pûker Tell. +Pûkinger Magistrate. +Pûri-dai Grandmother. +Pûro Old. +Pûrum Leek. +Pûtsh Ask. +Pûv Field. +Pûvengri Potato. + +Rai, raia Gentleman, sir. +Rakli Girl. +Rashai Priest, parson. +Rat Blood. +Rat, rati Night. +Rawni Lady. +Rinkeno Beautiful. +Rokamiaw Trousers. +Roker Talk, speak. +Rokerben Conversation, speech. +Rom Husband. +Romanes Gypsy-wise, Gypsy language. +Romanitshel Gypsy. +Romano Gypsy. +Romer Marry +Rûp Silver. + +Sâ How. +Sal Laugh. +Sap Snake. +Saw All, everything. +Sawkûmi Everybody. +Sawla Morning. +Shan Are. +Shûkora Sixpence. +Shûn Hear. +Shushi Rabbit. +Sî Is. +Sig Quickly, soon, early. +Sô What. +Sos Was. +Stari Star. +Staruben Prison. +Stor Four. +Swêgler Pipe. + +Ta And. +Tâder Draw. +Tălê Down. +Tan Tent. +Tâno Young. +Tatsheno True, genuine. +Tatshipen Truth. +Tatsho True. +Te To. +Tem Country, land. +Tîro Your. +Tôv Wash. +Trash Frighten. +Trin Three. +Tshai Lass, daughter, girl. +Tshavo Son. +Tshib Tongue, language. +Tshikli Dirty, foul. +Tshin Cut. +Tshiriklo Bird. +Tshitshi Nothing. +Tshiv Put. +Tshokaw Boots. +Tshor Steal. +Tshordo Stolen. +Tshori Poor. +Tshovihawni Witch. +Tshûmani Something. +Tshûpni Whip. +Tû, tût, tûti You. +Tûv Smoke. +Tûvalo Tobacco. + +Vâdo Caravan, cart. +Vâva Another. +Vast Hand. +Vel, wel Come. + +Wafodû, wafro Bad. +Wesh, vesh Wood, forest. +Wûser Throw. +Wûzen Elder. + +Yek One. +Yog Fire. +Yoi She. +Yôra Egg. +Yov He. + +Zimen Broth + +MUMPER’S PATTER + +Dunnock Steer. +Mush-fakir Umbrella-mender. + +GYPSY “FORE” OR CHRISTIAN NAMES. + + +MASCULINE NAMES. + + +Airant. + +Aniel. + +Artelus. + +Baius. + +Barendon. + +Bartholoways. + +Bohemia. + +Bosko. + +Boufi. + +Buzi. + +Craimia. + +Credi. + +Dimiti. + +Dinki. + +Doval. + +Dud. + +Duraia. + +Dusti. + +Eros. + +Evergreen. + +Feli. + +Fennix. + +Fowk. + +Ganation. + +Glympton. + +Golias. + +Gōni. + +Gui. + +Haini. + +Harkles. + +Harodain. + +Hedji. + +Înan. + +Îthil. + +Îza. + +Jaina. + +Kaivela. + +Kashi. + +Khulai. + +Ladin. + +Lamerok. + +Leshi. + +Liberty. + +Logan. + +Loni. + +Lumas. + +Lusha. + +Mairik. + +Manabel. + +Manfri. + +Manful. + +Mantis. + +Meriful. + +Moelus. + +Morpus. + +Moti. + +Motsha. + +Motshan. + +Motshus. + +Muldobrai. + +Nelus. + +Niabai. + +Nipkin. + +Nitshel. + +Northalion. + +Ōbi. + +Ōki. + +Ŏlbi. + +Ŏli. + +Orferus. + +Ōseri. + +Ōthi. + +Ōti. + +Penderbela. + +Persuvius. + +Perun. + +Pesulia. + +Piramus. + +Polius. + +Potamus. + +Rabai. + +Raito. + +Renda. + +Righteous. + +Rinki. + +Ruslo. + +Sairenda. + +Santabelphijum. + +Santalina. + +Santanoa. + +Seki. + +Seneptune. + +Shandres. + +Shani. + +Shiva. + +Silus. + +Simpronius. + +Solivaino. + +Studivares. + +Swallow. + +Taimi. + +Taiso. + +Teni. + +Thurles. + +Tudlin. + +Tuti. + +Vaina. + +Wacka. + +Waimore. + +Wantelo. + +Wingi. + +Woodlock. + +Yoben. + +Zegul. + +Zezil. + + + +FEMININE NAMES. + + +Acorn. + +Alamina. + +Andelia. + +Angelis. + +Anis. + +Ashena. + +Ashila. + +Aslog. + +Begonia. + +Bidi. + +Biti. + +Bobum. + +Boina. + +Consuleti. + +Daiena. + +Darklis. + +Delaia. + +Delenda. + +Deleta. + +Deloreni. + +Dorenia. + +Edingel. + +Eldorai. + +Elophia. + +Elvaira. + +Emanaia. + +Erosabel. + +Everilda. + +Ezi. + +Fazenti. + +Femi. + +Fernet. + +Fianci. + +Fili. + +Florentia. + +Fluenzi. + +Froniga. + +Genti. + +Glorina. + +Graveleni. + +Idadê. + +Inji. + +Jeta. + +Jōni. + +Kadilia. + +Kerlenda. + +Kiomi. + +Kodi. + +Kraisini. + +Laini. + +Lavaina. + +Leanabel. + +Lenda. + +Leondra. + +Levaithen. + +Lidi. + +Linji. + +Liti. + +Lurina. + +Lusana. + +Lwaiden. + +Madona. + +Maiburi. + +Maireni. + +Mandra. + +Marbeleni. + +Melvinia. + +Memberensi. + +Mezi. + +Million. + +Mino. + +Mireli. + +Miselda. + +Mitoreni. + +Mizereti. + +Modiwench. + +Morjiana. + +Nareli. + +Olovina. + +Omi. + +Oshina. + +Paizeni. + +Paizi. + +Pamela. + +Penhela. + +Perpagelion. + +Piki. + +Plenti. + +Polovine. + +Pomona. + +Queenation. + +Reni. + +Repentance. + +Repriona. + +Richenda. + +Rodi. + +Romania. + +Saibarini. + +Saiera. + +Saifi. + +Saiforela. + +Saiki. + +Sanspirela. + +Savaina. + +Sedinia. + +Seluna. + +Seni. + +Separi. + +Shorensi. + +Shuri. + +Sibela. + +Siberensi. + +Sibereti. + +Sinaminta. + +Sinfai. + +Spidi. + +Stari. + +Suti. + +Taishan. + +Telaitha. + +Tiena. + +Traienti. + +Treci. + +Treli. + +Trenit. + +Vashti. + +Wadi. + +Waini. + +Wasti. + +Wenti. + +Weson. + +Whipni. + +Widens. + +Wigi. + +Wuzi. + +Yunakrai. + +Zebra. + +Zina. + +Zuba. + + + + +INDEX + + +Arnold, Matthew, _The Scholar-Gipsy_, 123. + +Articles enclosed in coffin, 243. + +Aryan languages of India and the Gypsy language, 73–74. + +Australia, Gypsies in, 167–168. + + * * * * * + +Baring-Gould, S., _Book of Folk-Lore_, 22. + +Borrow, George, 27, 81, 197, 264; Dumpling Green (Borrow’s birthplace), +197; _Lavengro_, 27, 28, 160, 197, 241; Borrow’s originals, 28–31, 158; +_The Romany Rye_, 28–30, 143, 230, 232; _Romany_ (Gypsy) _Word-Book_, +161, 165, 249; _The Zincali_, 81–83. + +Bottomless pool, a, 272. + +Brancepeth Castle, 33, 35. + +Bread crumbled to ward off evil, 53. + +Brewer, Dr., _Dictionary of Fable_, 126. + +Burning possessions of the departed, 243, 246. + +Byard’s Leap, a witch legend, 140–141. + + * * * * * + +_Caian_, _The_ (quoted), 73–74. + +Calderari, the, 206. + +Charm, a Gypsy, 36. + +Childbirth tabu, 53. + +Coining words, 170. + +Creel (portable grinding-machine), 161. + +Creenies, 206. + +Crinks, 207. + +Crofton, H. T., on continental origin of certain Anglo-Romany Christian +names, 54; _The Dialect of the English Gypsies_. See Smart. + +Crystal-gazing, 108, 223–225. + + * * * * * + +Dancing booth, 177. + +_Dark Ages_, _The_, by “L.,” 246. + +Death-hawk, 245. + +Devil and nuts, 111. + +_Dialect of the English Gypsies_, _The_, by Dr. Bath Smart and H. T. +Crofton, 76, 239. + +Dialects, modern Indian, 73. + +Dialogue between two Gypsies, 144–145. + +Diamond, Manful Heron’s, 190–191. + +_Didakais_ (half-breeds), 25, 77. + +Drinking-vessels of aliens avoided, 82. + + * * * * * + +East Anglian Gypsy family, an, 104–117. + +Egyptian origin of the Gypsies, legend of, 74–75. + +Ermine Street (High Dyke), a Roman road, 134. + +Evil eye, 53, 129. + + * * * * * + +Fairies, 15, 288. + +Fairs—Bala, 265; Brough Hill, 275; Horncastle, 229–237; Leicestershire +Fair, a, 47; Lincoln, 257; Newark-on-Trent, 141–142; Peterborough, +118–133; Seamer, 184–185; Stow Green, 68–70; West Stockwith, 89–98. + +Fasting, 111, 163. + +Fear of ghost, 243. + +Feeding a gibbeted man, 22. + +Ferdousi (quoted), 114. + +Fight between Gypsies, a, 69–70. + +Fighting song, a, 70. + +Flaming, Tinman, the, 28. + +Fortune-telling, 61, 107–108, 128. + +Fossdyke, a Roman canal, 16–17. + +Freckles and Gypsies, 102. + + * * * * * + +Gamekeepers and Gypsies, 19, 63, 139, 286–287. + +Gentleman Gypsy, the. See Stables, Dr. Gordon. + +Ghosts, 66–67, 108–109, 183, 284. + +Gibberish, 78, 153. + +Gilliat-Smith, B., on the Gypsy language, 73–74. + +Glanvill, Joseph, _The Vanity of Dogmatizing_, 123–125. + +Gordon, Jean, prototype of Meg Merrilies, 28. + +Great North Road, the, 55, 57, 100, 104, 207. + +Groome, F. H., 91, 102, 129; _Gypsy Folk-Tales_, 257; _In Gipsy Tents_, +85; letter (quoted), 126. + +Gypsy baptism, a, 52–53. + +„ benison, a, 46. + +„ bird (pied wagtail), 89, 285. + +,, blood, grades of, 77. + +„ burial lore, 240–246. + +„ carelessness about names, 131. + +,, cheerfulness, 34. + +Gypsy, Christian or “fore” names, 53–54, 299–302. + +„ church-going, 219. + +„ cookery, 277. + +„ Court, its characters, 18–27, 105, 176. + +„ crimes, 254–255. + +„ curse, 129. + +„ dreams, 109–110, 159. + +„ enchantress, a, 164–165. + +„ epitaphs, 150, 244. + +„ eye, the, 160–161. + +„ fetish, 145–146. + +„ fiddlers, 10–11, 29–30, 84, 86, 120, 195, 222, 266–267, 274–275. + +„ fighters, 3, 30, 69–70. + +„ graves, 150, 170, 238, 240. + +„ guiding-signs (_patrin_s), 95–96, 142–143. + +„ harpist, 85–86, 275. + +„ heroism, 30. + +„ hospitality, 49–51. + +„ incantation over sick person, 164–165. + +_Gypsy Jack_, a drama, 103. + +,, _Laddie_, the, a ballad, 171. + +Gypsy language, the, 73–74, 153. + +„ Lore Society (note), 254. + +„ love of extraordinary names, 54. + +„ love of a fire, 10. + +„ marriage, 176. + +,, mesmerism, 122–125. + +,, migrations, 157. + +,, moods, 7. + +,, morals, 255. + +,, name-changes, 244–245. + +,, origins, 72–76. + +„ pedigrees, 78–79, 167. + +,, pets, 142, 192–193. + +,, play-spirit, 91–94, 216. + +,, politeness, 3, 79. + +„ pride, 76, 156. + +,, queens, 71. + +,, reverence for the dead, 240. + +,, sense of beauty, 281. + +„ snuff-taking, 18, 196. + +,, soldier, a, 27. + +„ song, a, 84–85. + +„ surnames, 55–56. + +„ tent, construction of, 146. + +,, tinkers, 205–212. + +„ trial, a, 31. + +„ tricks, 121–123, 132, 236. + +„ unwillingness to impart names, 54–55. + +,, warning whistle, 7, 280. + +,, washing rules, 113–114. + +Gypsyries—Blackpool, 71–88; Derby, 157–165; Lincoln, 2–4; London, 162, +198–201; Scarborough, 173–179. + + * * * * * + +Half-breeds, 77, 181. + +Hangman’s Ditch, 2. + +Hedge-crawlers, 77, 156. + +Hedgehog, 26, 45, 49–50, 62, 67, 177–178, 257. + +“Helm” wind (at Brough Hill), 276. + +_Henry IV_. (Shakespeare), quoted, 207. + +High Dyke, or Ermine Street, 134–141. + +Hindi, 73. + +_Hokano Bawro_, a traditional swindle, 121–122. + +Holyhead Road, the, 262, 268. + +Horse of deceased Gypsy shot or sold, 243, 246. + +Horse-stealing, 132. + +Hoyland, _Historical Survey of the Gypsies_, 39. + + * * * * * + +Irish vagrants, 157. + + * * * * * + +Jack o’ Lantern, 147. + +Jewellery of deceased Gypsy dropped into river, 243. + +_Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society_, _The_, 164–165. + + * * * * * + +King Edward the VII. (when Prince of Wales), 203. + +Kirk Yetholm, 115. + +Knapp, Dr. W. I., _The Life_, _Writings_, _and Correspondence of George +Borrow_, 28. + + * * * * * + +Legends and folk-tales— + + Caspar, one of the Magi, a Gypsy, 75. + + Ghost of the Haystack, the, 147–148. + + Ghost of the Ford, the, 222. + + Happy Boz’ll’s Tales, 257–261. + + Nails at the Crucifixion, a legend, 75. + + O’Neil’s Horse, 182. + + Romanitshels hail from Egypt, a legend, 74–75. + + Ruzlam Boz’ll’s Boy and the Fairies, 14–15. + + Witch of Byard’s Leap, the, 140–141. + + Wry-necked Fiddler, the, and the Devil, 225–227. + + Zuba Lovell sells herself to the Devil, 112–113. + +Leland, Charles G., 54; _The English Gipsies and their Language_, 203; +his discovery of Shelta (note), 208. + +Libation on Gypsy graves, 151, 240. + +Lincoln, Upper (described), 1–2. + +Lithuanian Gypsies, 75. + +Loan-words, 74. + +Lying tales, 86–87, 257–261. + + * * * * * + +Mace, Jem, the pugilist, 195, 233. + +M‘Cormick, Provost, his _Tinkler Gypsies_ (quoted), 10. + +Macfie, R. A. Scott, lecture (quoted), 254–255; _System of Anglo-Romany +Spelling for English Readers and British Printers_, 291–292. + +Magi, the, a Gypsy legend, 75. + +Merrilies, Meg, 28. + +Meyer, Kuno, on Shelta (note), 207. + +Miller, Thomas, _Gideon Giles the Roper_, 161. + +_Mokadi_ (unclean), 113–114. + +Mousehold Heath, 28, 80–81, 197. + +Moveable Dwellings Bill, the, 155. + +_Mulo-mas_ (note), 61, 62. + +Mumper’s Dingle, 31. + +Mumpers and Gypsies contrasted, 77. + + * * * * * + +Name-changes, 192, 244–245. + +Newark ale, 221, 223. + +No Man’s Land, 178. + +Nomenclature, Gypsy, 299–302. + + * * * * * + +Oakley (an artist), 163. + +Omens, 245, 285–286. + +Oppression of Gypsies, 20. + + * * * * * + +_Pall Mall Budget_, the, 43. + +“Peelers,” 26. + +Petulengro Jasper (Ambrose Smith), 28, 30, 157, 197, 229, 241. + +Public Record Office, the, 247. + +_Puvin Graiaw_, the illegal pasturing of horses, 138. + + * * * * * + +Recipe for youth, a, 278. + +Robin Hood’s Bay, Gypsies at, 178, 180–183. + +„ „ Hills, 149. + +Romany Language, its pronunciation, 291–292. + +„ Vocabulary, a, 292–298. + +Rudiger, 73. + + * * * * * + +Sampson, Dr. John, on Shelta (note), 207–208. + +Sanskrit, 73–74. + +Scott, Sir Walter, 28; _Guy Mannering_, 28; Sheriff of Selkirkshire, 39, +234. + +Scythe blades in Horncastle Church, 230–231. + +Self-sacrifice of a sweep, 249. + +Shelta (tinkers’ talk), its Celtic origin (note), 207–208; short +vocabulary of, 212. + +Sims, G. R., _The Romany Rye_ (a drama), 103–104. + +Smart, Dr. Bath, and Crofton, H. T., _The Dialect of the English +Gypsies_, 76, 239. + +Smith, George, of Coalville (philanthropist), 51, 155–156. + +Snail broth, 62. + +Snakes, 88, 285. + +Spanish Gypsies, 196. + +Spirits summoned by the spoken name, 54–55. + +Stables, Dr. Gordon, 149–150. + +Stone, J. Harris, _Caravanning and Camping Out_, 241. + +Stories— + + Bishop Trollope’s Story of Dunston Pillar, 137–138. + + Bobby Faa and the Shepherd’s Pie, 115–117. + + Dunnock (steer), a Tale about, 12–13. + + Eliza Gray’s Tale of a Ghost, 108–109. + + “Finding” a Horse, 132–133. + + Poaching Policeman, a, 63. + + The Bough Licence, 232–233. + + The Donkey that knew Something, 287–288. + + The Gypsy’s Surprise, 37–38. + + Tyso Boswell and the Buried Treasure, 190. + + * * * * * + +Tabu, childbirth, 53. + +„ on food and drink of the dead, 39–40, 243. + +„ on names of the dead, 244–245. + +Tales. See Legends, Lying Tales, Stories, Transportation. + +Temple, Sir Richard, on Gypsy Christian names, 54. + +Theatre, Harrison’s, 103. + +Thompson, T. W., on Gypsy burial, 241. + +_Times_, the, 103–104. + +Tinkers, 205–212, 249. + +Tinkers’ talk. See Shelta. + +Tinklers, 10, 207. + +Transportation of Gypsies, 247–254. + +,, tales, 247–254. + +Trollope, Bishop E., 137. + +Turning garments of dead inside out, 242–243. + + * * * * * + +Victoria, Queen, _More Leaves from the Journal of a Life in the +Highlands_ (quoted), 29. + + * * * * * + +Watching the corpse, 242. + +„ the grave, 243–244. + +Wayside burial, 240–242. + +Welsh Gypsies, 262–269. + +White, Gilbert, of Selborne, 55. + +Wine buried, 114. + +Wise man, a, 283. + +,, woman, a, 223. + +Wishing a wish, 129. + +Witches, 188, 240, 282–283. + +Wood, Abraham, 265–266. + + + + +Footnotes + + +{28} _The Life_, _Writings_, _and Correspondence of George Borrow_, by +Prof. Wm. I. Knapp. London, 1899. + +{53} See list of masculine and feminine names, pp. 299–302. + +{61} _Mulo-mas_, the flesh of an animal which has died without the aid +of a butcher. “Isn’t what the _diri Duvel_ (God) kills as good as +anything killed by a _masengro_?” (butcher). + +{73} “Gypsies,” by B. Gilliat-Smith (_The Caian_, vol. xvi. No. 3). + +{207} “Shelta is a secret language of great antiquity . . . in Irish +MSS. we have mentions and records of it under various names . . . though +now confined to tinkers, its knowledge was once possessed by Irish poets +and scholars, who, probably, were its original framers” (Professor Kuno +Meyer). + +“The language of the tinkers is a dialect or jargon exclusively of Celtic +origin, though, like one of their own stolen asses, it is so docked and +disguised as to be scarcely recognizable. . . . A large number of Shelta +words are formed by transposing the principal letters of the Gaelic word. +This species of back-slang is, of course, purely phonetic, differing in +this respect from the more artificial letter-reversing back-slang of +costers and cabmen. . . . It is indeed strange that the existence of a +tongue so ancient and widespread as Shelta should have remained entirely +unsuspected until Mr. Leland, with whom the undivided honour of this +discovery rests, first made it public in the pages of _Macmillan’s +Magazine_” (Dr. John Sampson). + +{246} _The Dark Ages and Other Poems_. By L. + +{256} _Gypsy Folk-Tales_, by Francis Hindes Groome (London, 1899). + +{291} Taken from _A System of Anglo-Romani Spelling for English Readers +and British Printers_, by R. A. 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