“IT’S A MERRY LIFE AND PLENTY OF FUN.”“IT’S A MERRY LIFE AND PLENTY OF FUN.”
“IT’S A MERRY LIFE AND PLENTY OF FUN.”
“Then you might give us a hand.”
Scarcely had she said this when my hat (fortunately a soft felt) was crushed down over my eyes, for the girl had pulled down the next bine and a mass had fallen on my head. It is true she had warned me by saying, “Mind your head!” but had not given me time to get out of the way.
“There!” she exclaimed, laughing, “I didn’t do that on purpose, did I?”
I replied that I was not quite sure, but suggested it might have been an accident.
“That’s kushti o’ tute, Rye,” she answered, and we turned to picking in earnest.
“Do you know,” she began again, “I made sure you were married, but you’re not, are you?”
I replied to this in the negative.
“And are you going to be?” she queried.
“No,” said I; “at least not until the right person comes my way.”
“Ain’t you never taken any one out?” she continued.
At this critical juncture the “pole puller” arrived, and with a “mind your heads!” sent down large sprays of hops into the basket and our conversation on such personal matters was not resumed, for a member of the Church Army Mission came around with hot tea in an urn which was conveyed along the lines in a perambulator. This solicitude on the part of the C.A. is greatly appreciated, the charge made for the tea being absurdly low. Cut cake was also dispensed by a lady worker at a similar “selling off” price.
After the brief tea and cake diversion we continued our picking.
For the information of those who have no experience of the pleasure that may be derived from picking hops, I may say that beyond alertness, and nimbleness of fingers, no special aptitude for the work is demanded, but the class of person whose fingers are “all thumbs” will not be likely to get much pleasure out of the occupation and had better stay at home, or, at least, keep out of the way, for they will not be wanted during “hopping.” A quick child has often been known to pick cleaner and in greater quantity than many an adult, and, as with strawberries, so with hops, the gypsies arealmost invariably the cleanest and most rapid pickers.
Naturally alert and quick, the Romanichal must not be likened to the average rural worker or farm hand, who will perhaps do fairly well the class of work he is required to do, but is altogether lacking in the adaptability and quick-wittedness of the true gypsy. For instance, the normal rustic usually finds it a tough job to acquire sufficient English, of a kind, to enable him to hold communication with his fellow-man and to help him in gaining a livelihood, while the Romanichal, who usually does not attend even a village school, speaks English fluently, with fewer grammatical errors and far less dialect than the labourer, and for his own particular uses has the well-beloved and musical Romany. Thus—speaking in terms of comparison—we may say that the true gypsy exemplifies the grace and skill of the Oriental, while the average rustic appears to be a welding of Teutonic clumsiness and Saxon stupidity.
I soon discovered that my companion was, in intelligence, quite up to the average chi, and that she brought a good deal of philosophy to bear upon her view of life. During our talk she asked—
“Rye, do you care what people say about you?”
“No,” I replied; “why should I?”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said, and went on—
“I think if everybody got an honest living they wouldn’t care what people thought about them. If there’s one thing I don’t like it’s pride; it makes such fools of people, and rich folks are generally the proudest, but you know as well as I do it’s the people who work the hardest that have the most right to be proud, but they’re too sensible.
“I know a man who had a lot of money, and when his hair got a little grey he dyed it, but that didn’t help him to be honest, did it?
“Ah well! our basket’s full, perhaps you’ll give a hand to empty it into this bag.”
Having accomplished this we resumed the pulling and picking; eventually a whistle sounded and all the pickers called out at once, making a good deal of noise for a few seconds,—the day’s work was finished after we had picked those we had down. After the hops had been “booked” and collected by the carts preparatory to taking them to the kiln for drying,we “knocked off” and turned our faces homeward.
Only a few minutes had elapsed after our return ere kettles were singing,—for a wood fire made in the open hurries matters,—and, furnished with good appetites, we sat down to a well-earned tea, after which the long evening was before us. Before we had finished washing up tea-things, the evening mist began to rise, for it must be remembered we were in the latter half of the month of September, so we cut enough firewood to last the evening, and built up a good fire.
Some people there certainly are, many probably, who in their well-ordered homes are surrounded by most of the comforts and conveniences science and the arts have rendered possible, but would pass a gypsy encampment on a windswept moor without giving a thought to the occupants, or at most would regard them as dishonest, low-lived outcasts, perhaps deserving pity, but a nuisance anyway. To such I commend the philosophy of my girl friend of the afternoon and the following words of an old gypsy which I heard by the camp fire after tea.
“I would give nothing,” he said, “to be ableto live in a large house; I think them as has the most money has the most to worry ’em, so they can’t think of anybody but themselves.”
Discussions on this and similar statements or assertions by other members of our group made the time pass all too rapidly, and when most of the eyes around the fire began to get heavy, a large jugful of cocoa—enough to go round—was made and partaken of to the accompaniment of bread and cheese. A little later, the camp was quiet in sleep.
IN previous chapters passing mention has been frequently made of the Romany language,—the tongue of the true gypsy,—and it is interesting to note that a writer, some fifty years since, said he regretted to have to say that in a few years the language would not be spoken, if, indeed, there would be any gypsies to speak it. Such a statement, made by an undoubted authority on the subject at that period, would probably be considered by many at the present time sufficient to warrant an assertion that the Romany language is now practically dead, together with most of the Romanies themselves. Even a superficial investigation of the matter by the man in the street would tend to confirm this idea as the gypsy resents any interference with his affairs, and is, moreover, very jealous of his language. This should occasion no surprise, for, from the first appearance of gypsies in this country, right down to the present time, they have notbeen treated in a way calculated to engender in them a belief in the good intentions of the Gentiles. However, a very different state of things from that premised will be found actually to exist by the few who have full opportunities, while possessing the necessary qualifications for forming a correct opinion, for the gypsy is not by any means extinct, and, not only is the old language very much alive among the Romanies, but they have coined or built up words to denote inventions that were unknown to the writer of half a century ago.
It must be admitted that cant or slang words are used for many objects, but it will be found that Romany is used in a number of cases, alternatively with such words.
In colloquial Romany, as in English, a number of words are trimmed or abbreviated so that while conversation is thereby rendered more facile, the way of the would-be learner of the language is made additionally hard,—for instance, the term kekauvisky saster—the iron upon which the kettle is hung—is frequently abbreviated to kaubisaster,—kaubi being synonymous with kekauvi for kettle, and, as it gives less trouble to say, is really better, for one is less likely to confuse it with kek or kekko—meaningno, not, etc. Dickoi, too, is used for dick acoi (look here), and in place of paniskey shock (water-cress), the shorter word panishock is often substituted.
“DOLCE FAR NIENTE.”“DOLCE FAR NIENTE.”
“DOLCE FAR NIENTE.”
As the scope of this work does not include the teaching of the Romany tongue, I will not weary the reader with other instances of gypsy word-clipping, but proceed with a brief general survey of the language, touching upon some interesting features and peculiarities, and give a few literal examples which have been either addressed to me, or have come directly under my notice while living among the people.
It will, of course, be understood that the translations are freely rendered, and that gypsy in common with other languages possesses peculiarities which must be learned by ear and cannot be adequately described in writing.
The attainment of fluency in the language is practically impossible apart from a lengthy sojourn by the aspirant with the people, and even this, by itself, will be of little use, for his physical and temperamental qualifications must be such as commend themselves to those whom he wishes to make his friends, and as a consequence—instructors. However, under the most favourable conditions, direct information willvery rarely be imparted, so that the pupil’s progress will largely depend on his powers of absorption and imitation.
Generally, Romany is spoken with a free and altogether irregular admixture of English, making it very much more difficult for the novice to get a good start, for not only are the sandwiched English words absolutely meaningless to him, in the unlikely event of his being able to distinguish them, but some of the Romany words having a similar sound to English have a totally different meaning. As might be expected, some slight variations in the pronunciation or enunciation of the English portions occur in different localities; but Romany may be said to be almost free from provincialisms, so that one who is conversant with it will have little difficulty in conversing with gypsies from any part of the country.
“THE WEAKER SEX” (?)“THE WEAKER SEX” (?)
“THE WEAKER SEX” (?)
A curious fact I have noted, is that Romany names for some of the commonest things, articles in everyday use, have been forgotten by the gypsies, while the names of some objects for which they have no occasion, year in, year out, have been retained in all their original purity. Time and again have I been asked for the Romany names of certain commonobjects, and upon a word being supplied, my interrogator has repeated it again and again to impress it upon his memory. One of the most fluent speakers I ever met had forgotten the word for “plate,” while another was unable to say “thank you” in Romany, albeit each had a very extensive knowledge of the tongue, including names for many animals, flowers and insects, and was an adept at word building; with respect to this practice it must be borne in mind that the gypsy uses the Romany language much in the same way that a potter uses clay,—he does not alter the character of the material, but moulds it into an expression of his idea.
Usually he is little worried by genders or any rules of grammar, his sole purpose being to convey his ideas in the simplest manner possible in the best Romany he has at command, and he considers it ashislanguage, for the use only of himself and his people, being unwilling that a gorgio should learn even a few words of it.
“What would be the use of Romany,” said an old man to me, “if sore dinneleskoe gorgios jinned what mande penned?”
So general is this jealous feeling, that all knowledge of the language will frequently be disowned, and I have often known gypsiesintentionally misinform non-gypsies by supplying wrong words; for instance, I heard a gypsy tell an inquiring gorgio that the word “match” was “yog cosh” in gypsy. Upon analyzing this and finding it signified “fire stick,” the information would be accepted as correct, until it was discovered that it also meant a firebrand, and that there is a very different genuine Romany word denoting this specific match and nothing else.
The true Romanichal prides himself on his knowledge of the tongue, which, when well spoken, he designates “deep” Romany, and I have known real exponents of it in descendants of the old, old gypsies who have been described, with some little exaggeration, perhaps, as having been “as black as the ace of spades”; at the same time, I am acquainted with other families who are much darker-complexioned than many Hindoos, whose Romany is comparatively meagre.
Apropos of the suspicious reticence of the gypsy, I recollect that while in the hop gardens, a man came one day to the spot where a gypsy girl and I were picking, and having heard a little of our conversation, came nearer and said—
“I say, I should like to learn Romany.”
“BEAUX YEUX.”“BEAUX YEUX.”
“BEAUX YEUX.”
The girl replied, “Oh, would you—why it would take you ever so long. That’s true, isn’t it?” she added, turning to me for confirmation of the statement.
Undaunted, he returned to the charge—
“Well, can you tell me the best way to learn?”
“Yes,” replied my companion without a moment’s hesitation, “marry a gypsy girl,—if she’ll have you.”
Upon looking into this, and reading between the lines, the objection the gypsies have to the acquirement of their language by any one whom they do not credit with some degree of blood relationship is quite evident.
On another occasion I happened to be chatting with about half a dozen gypsies, when a person who was not a gypsy joined the group. This was a signal for a woman near me to come close and whisper—
“Kekko rokkra it, mush” (don’t talk it), and I discovered later that the new-comer was one who had picked up a little of the language and was most anxious to learn more. Although the behaviour of the gypsies towards the man was politeness itself, no more Romany was spoken until he was out of earshot.
I have previously had occasion to refer to the direct searching gaze of the gypsy, that look which makes even an unimaginative Gentile feel as though he were being turned inside out for inspection. In a fashion, this is really the case, for the piercing eyes play a principal part in their owner’s rapid estimate of a new-comer; if his decision be that the stranger possesses neither consanguinity nor sympathy with his own race, but is essentially a gorgio, I know of nothing that will induce the gypsy to impart correct information about his people or their language,—on the other hand, should he discover some trace of blood relationship and be assured of fellow-feeling, he will extend the right hand of fellowship to the whilom stranger, and a mutual knowledge of the Romany tongue will, as it were, endorse a bond of lasting friendship, the no-longer stranger will be introduced to, and accepted by the relatives and friends as a tatcho pal.
“WHEN THE HEART IS YOUNG.”“WHEN THE HEART IS YOUNG.”
“WHEN THE HEART IS YOUNG.”
In returning to our consideration of the gypsy language it will not, we think, be difficult to realize that, to a great extent, it is this aloofness and the clinging to old traditions, tribal laws and customs, that has not only enabled them to discredit prophecies of extinction, buthas kept them very much alive, with a language little known by outsiders, and an unshaken belief in their assertion that gypsies, their language and manner of life will never die out. It is at least certain that the genuine Romanies do all possible among themselves to keep their own language in vigorous health, and although many are illiterate they seize every opportunity to recover lost words, and by constant repetition commit them to memory.
Notwithstanding the admixture of English with the Romany, it is astonishing how little the tongue has altered in the centuries during which it has been spoken and passed on from one generation to another in this country mainly by word of mouth. Occasionally, however, one may hear slight variations, which, upon investigation, resolve into the exact words, or a close resemblance to words having the same meaning in one or other of the dialects of Romany of the European continent; instances of this I recall as I write:—
I once heard a child talking to the cat, which he always called a “matchiko,” instead of the English gypsy word, “matchko.”
One man always addressed me as “mini Rye,” instead of the usual “miro Rye.” In thesecases “matchiko” is the identical word, while “mini” reminds one of “minrio,” both words being in a continental dialect, but having the meaning intended by the English users.
The following examples, being set down verbatim as addressed to, or heard by me, will give a good idea of colloquial Romany of the present day:—
“Miro dado jalled to buty adrey a wongar mine, ta his pals del’d dado oprey the nok and poggered it; if he hadn’t jalled apré he’d have been mullo.”
(My father went to work in a coal mine and his workmates hit father on the nose and broke it; if he hadn’t gone up he’d have been killed.)
“Trin petuls kitchema.”
(Three Horseshoes public-house.)
A man introduced another as “a pal o’ the beng,” which means “brother of the devil.”
“Rye, dick at the gry’s (gryor) choring cas.”
(Sir, or gentleman, look at the horses stealing hay.)
“He kair’d a lot of wongar acoi, he’s chopped his vardo for another, mande dick’d to rardi.”
(He made a deal of money here, he has exchanged his van for another, I saw it this night.)
Passing gleams of restless mirth“Passing gleams of restless mirth.”H. Coleridge.
“Passing gleams of restless mirth.”H. Coleridge.
“Passing gleams of restless mirth.”H. Coleridge.
“Passing gleams of restless mirth.”H. Coleridge.
“Passing gleams of restless mirth.”
H. Coleridge.
“When sore Romanichals have jailed, this tan’ll be a mullo poov.”
(When all the gypsies have gone away, this place will be like a cemetery.)
“A juva mande knew bute chiv’d her tickno te woddrus drey the vardo, but the drab-engro penned she’d be mullo if she atched, so her deya chiv’d her drey the tan.”
(A married woman I knew well put her child to bed in the caravan, but the doctor said she wouldn’t live if she stayed there, so her mother put her in the tent.)
“Yeck divvus a mush came te mande ta del’d mande yeck coro levinor, mande penned, mande kekko pi levinor. Then yo penned, will tuti pi soda pani or ginger levinor, tuti’s a Romany mush ta mande cams tuti te lei chomany.”
(One day a man came to me and gave me a pot of ale; I said I did not drink ale, then he said, will you drink soda water, or ginger beer, you’re a Romany chal and I desire you to take something.)
“I pen’d paracrow tuti, pen’d kushti divvus, ta jalled oprey o’ drom te mande’s tan.”
(I thanked him, said good day and went along the road to my tent.)
“Will mande dick tuti collico sorlo?
“I dick’d tuti collico sarla but tuti kekko dick mande.”
(Shall I see you to-morrow morning?
I saw you yesterday evening but you didn’t see me.)
“Here’s to the Romany Rye; he’s kek a cooromengro, but a mush that jins what we pens. He’s kek a killimengro, but a tatcho Romano.”
(Here’s to the gypsy gentleman; he’s not a fighting man, but knows just what we say. He’s not a dancing fellow, but one of the gentleman gypsies.)
Among the mongrel gypsies and Chorodies a good deal of slang is interposed throughout their talk, and they appear to be unable to judge by the sound of a word whether it be an approximately correct gypsy word or a slang term, whereas the true gypsy, upon hearing a Romany word of which he had no previous knowledge, will say it over and over again, and at last assert, “Yes, that’s right, that’s correct, I can tell.”
THE POST-PRANDIAL HALF-HOUR.THE POST-PRANDIAL HALF-HOUR.
THE POST-PRANDIAL HALF-HOUR.
A half-caste gypsy once attempted to bring discredit on my knowledge of the Romany tongue by speaking in what he afterwards informed me was “foreign Romany.” I regret that while I have a distinct recollection of thejumble of sounds, I am not able to reproduce it. Strangely enough, this man prided himself on being able to talk in a tongue no one else understood, and I confess I am still incapable of seeing just how he or any one else benefited thereby.
Probably it is the “Romany” of the Chorodies and low-lived half-castes that has induced writers to describe the gypsy tongue in England as having become sadly mutilated; certainly, such folk present no exception to the rule that the language of a people becomes, almost invariably, degraded in the ratio that their life is debased, the lowest of them seeming even to select inharmonious, and often foul and repulsive words to express their daily needs. Language would, indeed, appear to be to them little more than the bark of a dog, or the neighing of a horse, for, obviously, the melody of pure Romany does not in the least appeal to them as it undoubtedly does to the true Romanichal, whose language conjures up visions of trees and birds, furze-covered commons and heather-clad moors.
Romany is a poetical language, and, as might be expected, gypsy poetry is not rare. When well recited it is very musical although muchof it does not rhyme; I have, however, found that a mixed Romany audience invariably prefers such as has both rhythm and rhyme.
One evening towards the end of the hoppicking, I attended a concert which had been organized for the entertainment of the gypsies, the artistes for the most part being the Romanies themselves, while the programme might fittingly be described as “scratch.”
“TATCHEY ROMANIES.”“TATCHEY ROMANIES.”
“TATCHEY ROMANIES.”
The affair was held in a large tent capable of accommodating, say, a hundred to a hundred and fifty persons. We had a “full house” and the odour of hops was very perceptible; but this was a trifling matter which, if noticed at all by the majority of the audience, was immediately forgotten when the programme was commenced. Names had been given during the morning by those who were willing to sing, or otherwise contribute to the amusement or entertainment of the company. Our platform consisted of a box placed bottom upward, the tent was illuminated by two hanging lamps, and as there was no charge for admission, every grade of gypsy society contributed its quota of audience, among whom were many good-looking girls, a fair sprinkling of men and a number of women whose beauty had not for several years been remarkable; there was also present a small contingent of the rough element, one or two of whom caused a little trouble at times by perpetrating idiotic practical jokes, one of which was that a youth would commence to set on fire the coat-tail of some one directly in front of him; however, these disturbers of the peace were soon noticed, and, as I had anticipated, were advised in very forcible language to get outside. As they were discreet enough to withdraw, our programme subsequently went along very well. One or two humorous songs were sung by gypsies, and, strangely enough, not the slightest indication of humour was apparent in either intonation or gesture. Songs of a more or less sentimental character were the rule, although we had some rollicking songs towards the end, to which a girl executed a step-dance on the box until a board gave way.
The singing of the Romany girls was very seductive; whether this was due to the witchery of their glances, their winning manner, or the peculiar, weird style of singing, I have not been able to determine; as a rule, their voices are good, they sing in tune, and usually are unaccompanied by any instrument.
I am not able to call to mind the titles of allthe songs of the evening, but the following were favourites:—
“Home is home.”
“When the fields are white with daisies.”
“Put my little shoes away.”
“I’ve been lonely since my mother died.”
One small boy announced the title of a poem he was going to recite, but when mounted upon the box in front of the audience he commenced with something of so different a nature that the management decided hastily he had better step down and the audience would forego the remainder, which, I learned subsequently, was worse than the verse we heard. The next boy, however, gave us a treat, for he had the voice of a seraph and sang well,—indeed, I often heard the boy in the hop fields and could generally track him down by his voice. Some of the “home-dwellers” also contributed to the evening’s entertainment, one of them being good enough to bring a gramophone. At last “God save the King” was sung, and we prepared to depart to our respective vans and tents.
Some of the audience had come from another camp at a little distance, and as the night was very dark some one voiced their desire for a lantern. Fortunately, I was able to procure anoil torch designed for outdoor use, so with this flaming merrily, I led the way at the head of a band of Romanies. We were a merry party and a good deal of jesting was indulged in.
Before separating, and while we were in a lane with a steep bank on each side, some one suggested the Romany dance and the hint was at once acted upon.
It would seem that from earliest times these people have numbered amongst them many excellent dancers and singers, and what I now witnessed demonstrated beyond doubt that their love of song and the dance is as strong to-day as in the past.
The company disposed themselves in a circle and two or three couples went into the ring, a song was started and time was kept by the clapping of hands. Some one said—
“Go it! dance away, it’s early yet, we are all Romanies here and the kushti Romany Rye’s lelled a moomli so we can dick the dancing.” Then upon the request “Now, all together, please,” each of the dancers clasped a partner, and with cheeks touching, the whirling commenced. Another, then another, fascinated by the movements of the dancers, entered the ring and took part, either in a species of step-dance orby executing the mazy whirl. The dance was performed with all the zest and vivacity of the Italian tarantella, but instead of being accompanied by such songs as are favoured by some of the peasants who perform the tarantella,—of which the subjoined insensate couplet is an example—
“Fegato fritto e baccalà!In ’ccoppo ’na camera a pazzia.”(With dried salt cod and liver-fryUp in a room to play sky-high)—
“Fegato fritto e baccalà!In ’ccoppo ’na camera a pazzia.”(With dried salt cod and liver-fryUp in a room to play sky-high)—
“Fegato fritto e baccalà!In ’ccoppo ’na camera a pazzia.”(With dried salt cod and liver-fryUp in a room to play sky-high)—
“Fegato fritto e baccalà!
In ’ccoppo ’na camera a pazzia.”
(With dried salt cod and liver-fry
Up in a room to play sky-high)—
lively English songs, into which Romany words were inserted when they happened to rhyme,—were sung with gusto by the entire company. Had there been any gorgios present they could not have failed to be amused and puzzled by these songs, of which the words were a mosaic of poggado jib sung to dance time.
The play of light as it fell upon the throng, catching here a kerchief of yellow or other brilliant colour on head or shoulders, there a necklace of bright red beads, a gold brooch or large ear-rings,—produced an effect that would have gladdened the heart of a painter, thetout ensemble—even if a little barbaric—being quite captivating. Swarthy skins seemed still darker by the torchlight, and as the excitement increased, eyes flashed as only a Romany’s can, and, one after another, dark-eyed belles flashedby; I could imagine no term more aptly descriptive of each than their own musical words, “rinkeny chovahani.”
“DUI KUSHTI KAULO YOCKS.”“DUI KUSHTI KAULO YOCKS.”
“DUI KUSHTI KAULO YOCKS.”
At last, the dance ended almost as suddenly as it had been begun and the merry party broke up.
It was nearing the time when the final goodbye would be said and all would again go on the road, so that this was the last occasion during the hop-picking upon which so general a gathering could take place; some would, perhaps, meet again in a week or two, others not until next “hopping.” As there were a number present whom I did not expect to see again for a good while, I received many a warm hand-shake and the almost invariable and hearty wish for a “happy journey,” which, from a gypsy, means not only the journey one is just about to take, but also implies—“as you travel through life may happiness attend you.”
Any little unpleasant happenings there might have been were forgotten, and, after a parting song, keepsakes were asked for and exchanged,—a pretty custom that brings to mind the giver long after each has jalled opré the drom.
IT is a Sunday night, and as I sit beside my fire, rejoicing in the grateful warmth afforded by the substantial billets, I can hear much that passes in the tent nearest to mine and in the vicinity of its fire; moreover, I can just distinguish one person from another in the group around the blaze which provides a patch of light with a softened edge against the velvety black background of a moonless night. A middle-aged woman commences singing the well-known hymn, “What a Friend we have in Jesus,” while younger members of the family begin to join in.
It is an occasion which one would hardly describe as ludicrous, yet I am scarcely able to repress a smile, for this is what I hear in different voices, verbatim and in proper sequence—“What a Friend we have,—Mother! where’s the soap, I can’t find it,—Mary Ann, be quiet, will you,—Good night, mush,—Come out o’ theway, Mary, you’ll burn yourself,—Will you shut up, I ain’t a-goin’ to give you no more sweets, I’m goin’ to have this one myself,—D—— n you, you’d eat me an’ all if I let you—”
The hymn starts again, at last gets fairly under way and all join in heartily; when finished, another is gone through, and yet another, all the family seeming to appreciate the occasion and enjoy the singing.
After due allowance for the faults of these people—the existence of which I should be more than foolish to deny—and writing off, as it were, so much for depreciated human nature, there remains a great deal about them that is straightforward and lovable.
There is, too, a peculiar attractiveness in this singing by the camp fire before the family retires to rest on this Sunday night.
This absolutely faithful description of the close of a Sunday evening in a gypsy encampment, of which my own tent formed a part, and the few observations thereon which I made at the time, afford material for a good deal of thought. Why—it may be asked—did not these people attend some place of worship this Sunday evening? As a matter of fact, they had been asked to attend a church; that they did not,is scarcely to be wondered at as it was situated at a considerable distance, and was only to be reached by much groping along dark lanes; moreover, by staying away they were not subjected to the exasperating sight of primly dressed worshippers drawing back their skirts to avoid contact with gypsies who were presumptuous enough to imagine that the Christ of the well-dressed could be their Christ too.
One may well hesitate to blame them for holding a service of their own in a church whose walls were the darkness of night, and whose vaulted roof was Nature’s own. Gypsies may be illiterate,—many are, some are not,—but all of them who are worthy of the name Romany are keen, albeit in one direction at least they may be likened to children,—they are able to put questions which make one pause. More than once have I been asked by them in slightly differing words, whether “parsons are paid a lot of money to minister to those only who possess fine clothes and a good place in society,” also, “whether the people called Pharisees in the Bible are all dead.” There is no need for chronicling my replies to these questions, and in passing I will state merely that I replied truthfully. However, it is with pleasure I turn to thework of the Church Army Mission, which I have viewed with much interest, for such work among the gypsies is in many respects of a difficult character and calls for conscientious workers having a more or less specialized knowledge and tact of the finest.
It has often been stated that it is almost impossible to get a gypsy to view religion in its true aspect, and one has but to read, to realize the amount of trouble experienced by many who have sooner or later relinquished their endeavours, declaring it impossible to do very much among them. Having myself had opportunities of becoming familiar with the ideas of gypsies while living among them, my impressions of the beliefs and intuitive religion of the Romanies, and some account of their reception of such efforts for their moral advancement as have come under my notice may, perhaps, throw a little light on bygone failures, as well as on the good work now in progress.
To put the matter bluntly, religious symbolism and ceremonial do not attract the gypsy,—perhaps my meaning will be more definite if I say—do not appeal to the gypsy as components of, nor as essentials to religion, and they strike no finer chord in his nature than does thedisplay in a circus procession. That there exists with them nevertheless a profound belief in the existence of God as the Maker of the beautiful earth is evidenced by the fact that while the gypsy will treat with ridicule the notion that he could be in any way helped (morally) in this world, or advanced in the next, by bowing according to man-made rules, so many times to the right or left, a suitably worded appeal to his better self, pointing him through Nature to Nature’s God will always hold his attention.
Shall we then adjudge him the less a worshipper, or the less devout, in that he has a clearer vision of God as the loving Creator of birds and beasts and every other form of life, and as the painter of the sunset and the flowers? Again, certain narrow-minded people imagine, or profess to believe, that those who do not join in public worship, or in some way proclaim themselves Christians, are of necessity atheists. It is to be feared that these self-appointed judges would find many “atheists” among the gypsies; but, such atheists as “love their fellow-men,” and whose religion is that of the good Samaritan.
“MANDE’S GRY.”“MANDE’S GRY.”
“MANDE’S GRY.”
Many of the gypsies profess to dislike the gorgio or non-gypsy, and undoubtedly they doso,—the pity of it is that, as a race, they have had, and still have, cause for it; nevertheless in a number of instances coming under my notice this fact has not prevented them from doing a good turn to those in need outside gypsydom.
As I am dealing with facts only, it will, of course, be understood that I am not endeavouring to depict every gypsy as a saint, nor to persuade the reader that he will be both gladly and kindly received at every encampment he may chance upon; but having gained exceptional knowledge of these people by living amongst them, it would be a contemptible neglect of duty on my part if I forbore to testify to the many good points which I know exist in characters that are too often blackened by prejudiced cowards in different walks of life who feel sure that their victims have little or no chance of defending themselves. No one can deny that there are bad Romanichals, but it must also be admitted that clergymen, barristers, stockbrokers and others are not invariably paragons of virtue.
Prejudice against gypsies has been referred to, and in a great measure it may be considered to have resulted from the teaching that all nomads are knaves as well as vagabonds, which has beenignorantly and, from time out of mind, instilled into the minds of the young.
In turning now to make a cursory survey of the work being done among the gypsies by the Church Army Mission, I would point out that I have “no axe to grind” anyway, but will speak only of what I know, for I have looked in at their meetings, have had frequent opportunities of viewing their methods, both as an outsider and as a gypsy too, and have been one of the gypsy audiences at their lantern lectures. One of such evening lectures is indelibly impressed on my memory.
A “RINKENY CHI.”A “RINKENY CHI.”
A “RINKENY CHI.”
In endeavouring to convey an idea of the entertainment and its setting, I must ask the reader to imagine gypsies in ones, twos, threes and irregular parties—assorted in all respects,—age, sex, size and condition,—wending their way in the twilight, along a lane thickly wooded on either hand. It is September, and the teasel heads and seeded umbels of wild angelica stand out, sentinel-wise, along the path leading to the camp where the lecture is to be given. At times it is necessary to pick one’s way very carefully, for darkness is coming on apace, and now and again the young hazels meet overhead, while underfoot it is very muddy and slippery. Atlast, a sort of clearing is just visible ahead and ever and anon there is wafted by the gentle breeze, a smell as of cooking proceeding, light from camp fires beginning, meanwhile, to play hide-and-seek among the branches of the trees. Upon arriving at the camp one finds that a sheet for the coming pictures is being affixed to the end of a wooden hut; by the time this is in position and the lantern erected, a fair audience has assembled; some are standing, many are squatting on the ground; now our service commences in the usual way, with prayer and the singing of a hymn.
To-night, a story is read while being illustrated by life-model slides, and I need scarcely say that its tendency is wholesome, the suppression of evil, triumph of the right and so on.
It is interesting to hear the occasional remarks of members of the audience as certain pictures are shown, or particular incidents are related.
“How I could love a chavi (child) like that, couldn’t you?” one young woman says to another.
Now, an older woman remarks to a friend—
“Yes, that’s true, I know drink will do that, for I’ve seen it.”
One feels that the story, simple as it is, touchesthe hearts of the listeners, and cannot but have an uplifting tendency.
I am glad to note the total absence of that “button-holing” of the individual which some seem to think so necessary in work of this nature. Gentle, straightforward, persuasive, heart-to-heart talk may, and probably will, win a Romanichal in time, but button-holing—never! I almost tremble to think of any zealous young man who adopts this method with a gypsy; few care to be button-holed in this way, but to try it with a gypsy is to make an enemy.
Now, all join heartily in the closing hymn, and there can be no doubt as to their enjoyment of it, for they sing it over again and again, so bringing to a close a gathering that would probably be regarded by an outsider as a strange meeting of strange people, and yet there is withal a fascination and charm about the whole affair, a sense of something to be thankful for that one fails to experience at a fashionable gathering.
“NO PLACE LIKE HOME.”“NO PLACE LIKE HOME.”
“NO PLACE LIKE HOME.”
The well-known one-time hatred of all churches by the Romanies, and their dislike to adopt any custom of the gorgio would almost suffice to account for the gypsies having their own marriage ceremony, but when it is borne in mind that gypsies were—ought I not to say, are?—looked at askance by church-goers, and are obviously regarded with more scorn than sympathy, and that the gypsy knows this, it will be evident that the mission worker has need of infinite tact, and must be able to grasp and appreciate the traditional beliefs and inherited distrust of the gypsy, as well as sympathize in the difficulties and temptations which confront and beset him, if he hopes to find eventually that his work has not been in vain.
As the most direct route to a gypsy parent’s heart is usually by way of the child, the work of the mission in giving the children, whenever possible, an elementary school education and at the same time instilling correct ideas of right and wrong, and teaching them simple truths, must in the nature of things eventually influence for good the lives of both children and parents; meantime the self-denying workers obey the injunction—not to be weary in well-doing, trusting to the assurance that—in due season they will reap if they faint not.
Many a Romany wedding is still celebrated in the old, old way; but there are increasing numbers each year who are married at some recognized place of worship, thanks to the efforts of the mission workers, who point outto them that although they may after their own ceremony remain faithful to each other through life, as is almost invariably the case, it would be better to be married at a place of worship, or otherwise in accordance with the law of this country.
To see a gypsy really and thoroughly uncomfortable one must behold him on his wedding day, should he elect—as occasionally he does—to wear, for once, a high collar. Accustomed to the kerchief around his neck, the wearing of a starched collar must, to him, feel much like being put in irons, and although he survives the ordeal, it must remain an agonizing memory to him ever after.
As the work of the Church Army Mission gives but a side-light upon Romany life, I must not dwell on it beyond adding that their workers go with the gypsies, not merely during the fruit-picking or the hop-picking, but are always among them whenever there appears to be the most pressing need or favourable opportunity for their services, and therein lies the secret of any success they may have had.
“To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late,” and despite the postponement of the day of reckoning by living in the open air in arational way, Romany life is not exempt from paying the debt to Nature, and sooner or later the sojourner in gypsy land must inevitably have some saddening experiences.
One evening I was asked to sit up with friends whose father had just passed over to the majority. As I had known the old man in life very well and was desirous of showing my sympathy with the family in any way possible, I acceded to the request.
The coffin was placed in a tent at a short distance from the rest of the camp, by its side stood a tiny clock recording the few hours remaining ere the body would be committed to the ground, the little chamber being lit by a lantern suspended from one of the tent rods. Two were keeping watch until midnight, when they would arouse two others to take their place until dawn. The autumn night was chilly, so a good fire was made and I sat until after ten o’clock with the watchers, until the moon, which was almost at the full, appeared well over the tree-tops, for we were in the depth of the forest; all around, and up to the little clearing in which the camp was situated, were large beeches and oaks whose foliage was quite still excepting when a slight puff of wind sent a shiver through the leaves.
The whole scene was weird in the extreme,—the tent with its silent occupant, the watchers at a short distance by the fire whose lambent flames peopled the solitude with moving shadowy forms,—little imagination being needed for one to fancy them playing ghostly hide-and-seek among the trees,—and looking down upon it all was the harvest moon.
I was present at the funeral next day, when the ceremony was most impressive, every one behaving with the utmost decorum. On this particular occasion there were none of the spectacular demonstrations of grief that at some gypsy funerals resemble the Eastern wailing. The personal belongings of the deceased were afterwards burned, as is customary, but I believe none of them were buried with him.
These obsequies vary with different families, some of whom religiously carry out traditional rites, which others seem altogether to ignore.
Many readers will doubtless recollect that, but a few years since, when a certain gypsy died, his van was burnt, crockery smashed, and metal pots and pans were battered so as to be useless. Occurrences of this kind appear, however, to be less frequent than in the past, when relatives of the departed gypsy sometimes reduced themselves to a condition of absolute poverty by faithfully carrying out this ceremony. In such cases, remonstrance, especially by a non-gypsy, would be quite useless, and no reply would be vouchsafed, except that “it is the way of the Romanies.”
There are certain practices of the gypsies which by many may be regarded as a “trifle shady,” one of such is the vocation of fortune telling. It is pretty generally known that—as has already been pointed out—fortune telling as a profession has for years been illegal; nevertheless, it is still practised, and at races and similar concourses of people one may—to quote an old song: ” ... meet with the smiling gypsy maid, your fortune true to tell,” but the modern, smiling gypsy maid is not to be caught napping, and any circular, business card or booklet she may issue to her public will be found, almost invariably, to be so carefully worded that her profession does not come “within the meaning of the Act.” I know a gypsy who does a good business in this direction with “the quality.” She informed me that the game paid well. I inquired what was her usual fee and she replied—
“Posh koraunas you dick,” which may be translated—Half-crowns, you understand.
It was in the autumn that I last saw this woman, and there was little business doing save at a few fairs. We sat at the camp fire one night, and—to use an expressive colloquialism—“talked shop,” discussing gypsy arts, including the telling of fortunes and the books purporting to teach it; usually these books treat mainly of palmistry, and have a few diagrams of the principal lines of the hand with “explanations.”
Even at the risk of repeating some of my previous observations I must not omit to give a summary of our exchange of views and certain of my own deductions.
Much of the ordinary fortune teller’s knowledge of her client’s circumstances appears to be inferential,—cast of features, conformation and condition of hands, and other characteristics being rapidly absorbed, but inferential reasoning alone will not explain many a gypsy pronouncement. I will give an instance or two which aptly illustrate this:—
Quite late one Saturday night I found that, contrary to my expectations, the succeeding day would be quite free from matters needing my presence at home, therefore I decided, when too late to communicate my intention to any one, to visit some gypsy acquaintances who wouldbe encamped—I presumed—at a place some twenty-five miles from my home. Starting early on the Sunday morning, I arrived eventually at the camping ground, where I found the families I had in mind late on the previous night. After the usual greetings, I remarked—
“You don’t seem much surprised to have me come upon you suddenly in this fashion.”
“No, we’re not,” said one of the women; “we knew you was a-coming—your spirit’s been here.”
Upon another occasion I came upon a Romany woman, who, with several children and the inevitable lurcher, awaited at their caravan the return of her husband who had gone into the village near with a basket of goods. Neither of us had ever seen or heard anything of the other, and yet within five minutes of entering into conversation with her she told me she could tell that I was not a native of the district and that my ancestors had lived in quite another part of the country, which she described. This occurred as part of a friendly chat, no question of fortune telling or the handing over of money being thought of on either side,—the uncanny part of the affair being that her statements were quite correct.
Telepathy may account for much, but I believe the gypsy employs it unconsciously, and there is no reason why this faculty should not be much more fully developed among the true Romanies, who are of Indian origin, than among, say, the Anglo-Saxons. With the advance of civilization it would seem that the faculty of telepathic intercommunication decreases, for we find it highly developed among certain Indian races, and almost non-existent in the forefront of civilization. It is not contended that any one, gypsy or otherwise, can pierce the veil obscuring the future of every one of us, but it cannot be denied that the true gypsy seems to be able in some way to gain a more accurate idea of the probable, than the average non-gypsy. Moreover, the average gypsy has himself a belief that certain specially favoured individuals of his race have limited powers of seeing into the future, even I have been asked quite seriously at various times to “dukker the vast” of some gypsy or other, and have been considered unkind in refusing to do so.