FOOTNOTES:

THE “DARK ROOM.”THE “DARK ROOM.”

THE “DARK ROOM.”

Most of the gypsies are very keen critics of photographs of themselves or their acquaintances, and when portraits to their satisfaction are produced they are extremely anxious to secure at least one copy “to put up in the van.” In such cases I have found that the photographs are carefully treated, and may be seen year after year; even tent-dwellers, who, in the nature of things, have great difficulty in keeping pictures of any kind in fair condition, will produce from somewhere a grubby envelope or paper parcel, and exhibit with unmistakable interest its contents, consisting of photographs of themselves and their tents, which they have somehow managed to preserve in decent condition, and they will give particulars as to how, when, where and why each was taken, the minutest details of which have been preserved by their wonderful memory.

In order to obtain gratis one or more copies of a picture from the photographer, gypsies usually subject him to an amount of diplomatic wheedling, which generally attains its object, albeit curious inducements are sometimes advanced by them. A gypsy was once endeavouring to cajole me into promising her another copy of her portrait, her importunity reaching its climax when she said—

“Well, if you’ll give me one, I’ll buy a nice wooden frame for it to remember you by.”

It is perhaps scarcely necessary to add that I immediately surrendered, but I must confess that to this day I have not been able to appreciate the implied benefit to myself in this munificent offer. It is, however, abundantly evident that good photographs of themselves and relatives are highly prized by the gypsies, and scarcely less so are those of their proved friends. I have on several occasions seen my own portrait included with those of the family, or enjoying a place of honour in caravans, long after I had forgotten that the particular families had it in their possession.

Gypsies are a most interesting people, and every one who has first-hand knowledge of them is aware that there is not the least necessity toinvent mysterious rites, villainous practices or blood-curdling crimes, and impute them to the Romanies, in order to make accounts of them fascinating, yet we find to this day writers who would have their own admirers believe that their atrocious tales of gypsies are the result of personal observation and direct communication with them.

A comparatively recent newspaper article of this kind contains the implication that they are never married by priest or parson, also that when dead they are carried—uncoffined—and buried by their own people (never otherwise) in a secluded spot known only to themselves. Another writer states that the gypsies bury their dead under water.

It is much to be regretted that originators or copyists of such statements as these, do not either ascertain the probability at least of their being true, or refrain altogether from writing about things of which they have no definite knowledge. These tales, were they not cruelly unjust to the Romanies, would be almost as laughable as a description I once heard being given by a man who certainly gave the impression that he believed his own statement; he said:

“They always sleep with their heads outside their tents, and if you happen to go to a camp early on a winter’s morning as I have been, you will sometimes see their heads outside with the frost on them.”

Gypsies are frequently—all too frequently it is feared—driven to great straits in hard weather to find the wherewithal to keep their bodies fairly nourished and sufficiently clothed; but they are not the fools nor the rogues that writers of such insensate tales as I have quoted would have us believe, tales which my own experiences abundantly disprove.

During the greater part of the year, the food of the poorer families consists very largely of potatoes, although the same people may—when “luck is in”—be found regaling themselves with boiled neck of mutton, potatoes and suet puddings. An occasional hedgehog is highly appreciated by them. On more than one occasion my gypsy friends have scarcely believed me when I stated that I had never eaten hedgehog. “What!” exclaimed one, “never tasted hotchi—well, youhavemissed a treat and no mistake, they beat chicken, or rabbit or anything else—well there, I never!”

Undoubtedly, gypsies are very fond of hedgehogs, some having dogs specially trained to find and take them; the pigs are usually cooked in either of the following ways:—

The hedgehog, after having been killed by being struck smartly on the head with a stout stick, then receives a certain amount of preparation, and in districts where the requisite clay is procurable, the animal, skin and spines included, is completely encased in it and is well cooked in a bed of glowing wood ashes. The al frescochefis able to judge to a nicety when the meat is done, when the ball is withdrawn, after which the clay is broken and dexterously removed, bringing away with it the spiny covering of the hedgehog.

At other times, the luckless hotchi, after being killed is skinned, an operation needing a gypsy to perform expeditiously, and the animal, after some further preparation, is spitted on a stick and roasted before a glowing wood fire, the spit being usually revolved by hand-power of two of the family—one at either end. In either case, hedgehog braised or roast seems to be a luxury to be coveted; indeed, a gypsy epicure told me that as articles of food he considered them “worth ten shillings apiece.”

In winter, gypsies do not disdain as food thecommon squirrel, in the bringing of which to earth some of them are expert.

Rabbits, too, are quadrupeds with which—in the shape of viands at least—most gypsies have a fairly intimate acquaintance.

While deprecating the killing of squirrels, hedgehogs and other creatures of the wilds, it would be unfair to blame the gypsies, who do it in order to assuage hunger, as is almost invariably the case, while ignoring the fact that people who have not that excuse, kill infinitely greater numbers of such creatures, often with far greater cruelty, for so-called “sport.”

In the foregoing somewhat discursive, but absolutely veracious accounts of Romany life, I have endeavoured to record, with strict impartiality and in readable form, phases and episodes of gypsy existence, which in the nature of things must be quite inaccessible by any other means, to all but a few.

OFF TO THE “‘OPPIN’.”OFF TO THE “‘OPPIN’.”

OFF TO THE “‘OPPIN’.”

In a recent newspaper article, gypsies are called outlaws; on turning up “outlaw” in a modern dictionary, one finds the word defined as “a person deprived of the protection of the law.” Surely this statement in the article in question must have been a reflection of the desires of the writer, for the outlaws referred towere a section of the English gypsies—virtually such as are the subjects of my pen, pencil and camera. It is to be feared that the spirit of bigotry and uncharitableness that characterized the Middle Ages is not dead; but, like the justly detested couch grass, lives and grows around us unseen, excepting for the elegant and innocent-looking but tell-tale evidences here and there on the surface.

It is high time that the obloquy and unfair treatment to which our gypsy brethren have been subjected—proceeding partly from ignorance of the people themselves, and partly from the encouragement and exercise of sentiments that are unworthy of a professedly Christian nation—gave place to some embodiment of the behest—

“Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.”

Drawing now to a conclusion, I see again with my mind’s eye, an incident in one of my recent walks abroad:—

On the day following Christmas Day, at a distance of two or three miles from any ordinary habitation, or even a gypsy camp, I saw trudging along the road and coming towards me, a Romany woman and three little children. All of themwere poorly clad, the woman having no covering to her head. Although they appeared to have no food with them and the day was raw and foggy, all seemed cheerful—the woman singing in an undertone. The song was evidently, “It’s a long way to Tipperary,” for just as I came alongside the party I caught the words, “it’s a long ways to go.”

What an unconscious sarcasm on the way of that poor woman and her little ones,—aye, and of many another gypsy, through life,—assuredly “a long ways to go” if it be regarded as prospecting for even a very small share of the meanest of such things as multitudes consider indispensable to comfort, or even existence. And yet how the cheery optimism of these travelling people rebukes the discontented well-to-do idler.

Gypsies or gorgios, are we not all travellers, pilgrims of eternity, carrying nothing to the next stage in our existence but what we accumulate in our innermost selves, and the Romanichal may well be an optimist when he realizes, even in an indefinite way, that the poorest gypsy has an equal opportunity with the highest of the mighty ones of earth, of gathering to himself as he goes through life, of the best that can be carried from this world into the next.

1See Fig. 22,p. 6.

1See Fig. 22,p. 6.

2See Illustration facingp. 6.

2See Illustration facingp. 6.

3Probably a nest ofVespa sylvestris.

3Probably a nest ofVespa sylvestris.

4Whortleberry.

4Whortleberry.

5Seep. 259.

5Seep. 259.

Shopping day, usually Saturday. The term is sometimes used for Monday, but this day is more frequently called “toving divvus,” or washing day.

Literally, field the horse, but it is always understood to mean—to put a horse in a field, at night.

Literally, talking wood,—Finger-post, sign-post. A better term, but not so commonly used, is—Drom sikkering engri,—a thing for showing the way.

PRINTED BYWILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND

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