ATYPICALcolliery 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 adecayed 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 thesight 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, myrai, you’ll find us herekoliko sawla(to-morrow morning), if you’s a mind to come.”
Preferring to act upon thecarpe diemprinciple, 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 undercurious 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.”
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 canlel mi mui(take my face) as many times as youkom” (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.
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’spîro” (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 thesefolk, 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 hatedgawjê(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 hourhe 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.”
“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 hourhe 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-beatenvâdo(living-van), and near it was the owner, looking up and down the street as if expecting someone to appear. Crossingthe 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 hisHistorical 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.’”
“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 monthafterwards, I heard of the death of that lady, and I vowed to myself and to therawni’smuli(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.”
“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 monthafterwards, I heard of the death of that lady, and I vowed to myself and to therawni’smuli(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.”
Myclerical 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 hillranges extending almost throughout the county—the chalk and greensand Wolds, and the limestone “Heights,” running parallel after the manner of theduplex spinaof 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 unconsciousplay 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 thePall 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 outlyingcottagers. 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 rabbitstasted 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 completemystification 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, andmay 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, concludingone 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 threevâdê(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 tallRomanitshel, leaning against a tree-bole, was singing snatches of a song in which I caught the wordsBeng(Devil) andpuri-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 thepâni” (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 swopdiklos (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, thepuro’spoger’d hishĕro(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.
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.
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. Ibegan 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 theraiback 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, theraidoesn’tjinhe’shaw’dhotshwitshi” (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 toa 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 enoughlova(money) to see you home? For if I thought you hadn’t, I should chuck a handful on thedrom(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?
Quittingthe 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 motherwould 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 mydadus(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 ofgawjê; 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 spreadthat 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 hadbeen 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.
Forseveral 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 thatLutrahad been making depredations among the fish, game, and poultry all along the reaches of the river. Adjoiningthe 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’sbeshinakai(stopping here) for a day or two. Our wagon’s in thekitshima(tavern) yard just past the mill.”
“Well, Jonathan, I want you to bring one ofthose Gypsy-tables the boys are making to my place this afternoon; don’t fail to come. I shalldik avrîfortîro muiabouttrin 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 ofdukerin (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 youdik(see)? I takes care never to be without my licence, and themuskro(policeman) would have to get up wery early to catch old Fazzy asleep. Did I ever have anymulo-mas?[61]Many’s the time I’ve had a bit. In spring, when lambs are about, that’s the time formulo-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 withpuvengris (potatoes), sage, and onions.Bouris (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 isbouri-zimen” (snail broth).
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 dovaforshushiawandkanengrê” (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 werejust 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 herejukel(dog), I did, and me and the dog had a fine time among theshushiaw(rabbits) after the keeper and the policeman had gone away. About a week after, themuskro(policeman) had to appear in court, and a wery poor figure he cut afore thepukinger(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, wehatsh odoi(encamp there) for arâti(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 wanthim 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 reddiklo(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 thegawjê, 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 aboutmulos” (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 fritwhen 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 spiedJonathan’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.
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.
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, thepolice 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.”
“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.”
“Mydinelo(simpleton), don’t youjin(know)it’s always in season with the likes of us?”
Ithas 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.”
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 usRomanitshels 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 havebeen 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 1000A.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 onthe 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 theRomanitshels 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 andthe 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 arashai(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 dearLord 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, realbawrê 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’sJustice, 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 valuablevade mecumfor Gypsy students entitledThe 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 arekek tatsho” (notgenuine), 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 BlackRomanitshels, “the real thing.”
2. TheDidakais, or half-breeds, who pronounce the Romany wordsdik akai(look here) asdid 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—atshikli(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 intoher 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, andbesh 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 thekawlo 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 formulo-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 theraione o’ the rugs tobesh 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.