Old Isaac’s memory carried him back to Mousehold Heath of the long ago, and, listening to his talk, one could see the brown tents and smoking fires amid the ling and fern. Among the Gypsies recliningby those fires were the Smiths, the Maces, the Pinfolds, and the Grays—Sinfai’s folk—and of course some of the old Herons. Niabai, Isaac’s father, would sit mending kettles, for, like many of the Gypsies of those days, he was a tinker by calling, and when on travel would carry his grindstone on his back. Sometimes of an evening, “Mister Burrow” would walk up on to the Heath for a chat with Niabai and his wife “Crowy,” so called by reason of her very dark features. Borrow picked up from Crowy many a Romanylav(word). Gypsy fights were common on the Heath, and at times the fern would be trampled down by the crowds who came from far and near to witness these thrilling scenes.
Old Isaac had two uncles of whom he made mention—William Heron, always known as “the handsome man,” and Robert Heron, known as “the lame man.” Examples of a remarkable exactness of observation are Borrow’s pen-portraits of the two last-named brothers contained in the Introduction toThe Zincali. The writer does not mention them by name, but when I submitted a memorized version of these word-pictures to my friend Isaac he at once recognized his uncles, William and Robert.
Let us openThe Zincali.
Handsome William is standing by his horse. He is tall, as were all the men of his clan.
“Almost a giant, for his height could not have been less than six feet three. It is impossible forthe imagination to conceive anything more perfectly beautiful than were the features of this man, and the most skilful sculptor of Greece might have taken them as his model for a hero and a god. The forehead was exceedingly lofty—a rare thing in a Gypsy; the nose less Roman than Grecian—fine, yet delicate; the eyes large, overhung with long, drooping lashes, giving them almost a melancholy expression; it was only when the lashes were elevated that the Gypsy glance was seen, if that can be called a glance which is a strange stare, like nothing else in the world. His complexion was a beautiful olive, and his teeth were of a brilliance uncommon even amongst these people, who have all fine teeth. He was dressed in a coarse wagoner’s slop, which, however, was unable to conceal altogether his noble and Herculean figure. He might be about twenty-eight.”
“Almost a giant, for his height could not have been less than six feet three. It is impossible forthe imagination to conceive anything more perfectly beautiful than were the features of this man, and the most skilful sculptor of Greece might have taken them as his model for a hero and a god. The forehead was exceedingly lofty—a rare thing in a Gypsy; the nose less Roman than Grecian—fine, yet delicate; the eyes large, overhung with long, drooping lashes, giving them almost a melancholy expression; it was only when the lashes were elevated that the Gypsy glance was seen, if that can be called a glance which is a strange stare, like nothing else in the world. His complexion was a beautiful olive, and his teeth were of a brilliance uncommon even amongst these people, who have all fine teeth. He was dressed in a coarse wagoner’s slop, which, however, was unable to conceal altogether his noble and Herculean figure. He might be about twenty-eight.”
William is said to have persisted in carrying his own silver mug in his coat pocket, and would drink out of no other vessel. “I’d scorn to wet my lips with a drop of drink out of agawjikeno kuro,” meaning the publican’s mugs.
Robert, William’s elder brother, remained on horseback, looking “more like a phantom than anything human. His complexion was the colour of pale dust, and of that same colour was all that pertained to him, hat and clothes. His boots were dusty of course, for it was midsummer, and his very horse was of a dusty dun. His features werewhimsically ugly, most of his teeth were gone, and as to age, he might be thirty or sixty. He was somewhat lame and halt, but an unequalled rider when once upon his steed, which he was naturally not very solicitous to quit.”
Robert was always considered the wizard of the clan. Never having been married, he dispensed with a tent, preferring, like some of the deep Woods of Wales, to sleep in a barn. He was nicknamed “Church” Robert, because he was a reader and had a wonderful memory, and sometimes going to church he listened to lessons and psalms and would afterwards reel them off like arokerintshiriklo(parrot).
When I made a move to go, Old Isaac drew himself to his full height and said, “Av akai apopli,rashai” (Come here again, parson), and the boys to whom I had mentioned my roving experiences urged me to come and camp near them. “Let us put up a tent for you here next to ours.” Sinfai, who walked to the field-gate with me, slipped into my pocket abita delaben(small gift), a green wineglass.
A sunset of rare beauty was reddening the sandhills when I returned to the Gypsyry on the South Shore. For a while I walked up and down in the miniature fair, and before I turned my face towards the town, lights began to appear in the tent baulks and the stars came out over the darkening sea.
Next morning I was walking along the spacioussea-front with Archie Smith for companion, and in the distance appeared a little man pushing a grinding-barrow. Quickening our steps, we overtook him and found he was Elijah Heron on his morning round. I inquired where he was stopping, and promised to visit him later in the day. My companion, the lively Archie, was reeling off for my benefit a list of the inhabitants of the South Shore Gypsyry, and had just mentioned Bendigo Purum, when, rounding a corner, we met the man himself, a very swarthy Gypsy—almost black, one might say.
“Rokerof theBeng,” whispered Archie, “and you’lldik lesti” (see him).
Farther along in a narrow thoroughfare we observed several Gypsy women out a-shopping, their gaydiklos and blouses making splashes of bright colour in the crowded street. It seemed to me that Blackpool was alive with Gypsies. In the afternoon I returned to the South Shore, and, hearing the strains of a violin proceeding from a gorgeous red blanket tent in a field near the railway, I made my way thither, and to my joy I discovered Eros and Lias Robinson at home.
Here is a song which I heard from the lips of Lias—
“Mandi’s tshori puri daiJaw’dadrê kongritoshuntherashai;Thegawjê saw sal’d asyoi besh’dtalê;Yoi dik’d ’drêthelil, butyoi keka del-aprê;Therashai roker’d agendukerin,pen’ddova sosalaj,Butyov keka jin’dmandi duker’dyov’stshai,Puker’dyoi’dromerabarvdo rai.”
“Mandi’s tshori puri daiJaw’dadrê kongritoshuntherashai;Thegawjê saw sal’d asyoi besh’dtalê;Yoi dik’d ’drêthelil, butyoi keka del-aprê;Therashai roker’d agendukerin,pen’ddova sosalaj,Butyov keka jin’dmandi duker’dyov’stshai,Puker’dyoi’dromerabarvdo rai.”
Translation.
“My poor old motherWent into church to hear the parson;The gentiles all laughed as she sat down;She looked into the book, but she could not read;The parson talked against fortune-telling, said it was a shame,But he never knew I had told his daughter’s fortune,Told her she’d marry a wealthy squire.”
“My poor old motherWent into church to hear the parson;The gentiles all laughed as she sat down;She looked into the book, but she could not read;The parson talked against fortune-telling, said it was a shame,But he never knew I had told his daughter’s fortune,Told her she’d marry a wealthy squire.”
Lias was full of reminiscences of wanderings through the heart of Wales, and I listened with keen interest to his talk about the deep Woods. In my readings of Leland’s writings I had come upon the mention of Mat Wood whom, in after years, I had the good fortune to meet in Wales. During his Welsh wanderings, Lias had met several sons of John Roberts, the harpist, concerning whom I had learned much from Groome’s delightful book,In Gipsy Tents. Here I may mention that Old John Roberts was an occasional visitor to Lincolnshire in days gone by. He travelled widely with his harp, on which he was a talented player. My wife, who hails from the Fen country, remembers John’s visits to her native village of Fleet, near Holbeach in Lincolnshire, where he would play on the parish green, as well as on the lawns of private houses. A venerable-looking, bearded man, who might have passed for a clergyman, he was a welcome guest in the home of myfather-in-law, where he would play old airs to a pianoforte accompaniment.
The gypsy’s parson with his friends. Photo. Fred Shaw
The afternoon and evening which followed my morning ramble were crowded with Gypsy experiences. At the back of a large tent sat Kenza Boswell fiddling, while his daughters danced with exceeding grace.
Next, Noarus Tâno, in one of his skittish moods, kept me in fits of laughter for ten minutes. He was the humorist of the Blackpool camp.
Entirely unaccustomed to controlling his imagination, Noarus will tell an extraordinary tale in which he himself plays a part, with no other object than to amuse his hearer, or to lift himself a little higher in your esteem. And just as no one is expected to believe the narratives of Baron Munchausen, so the Gypsy in telling his “lying tale” is perfectly content with the laughter of the listener. This gay spirit of exaggeration certainly stamps the following tale told by Old Tâno.
Friends at the fair. Photo. Fred Shaw
The scene is the kitchen of the village inn, and poultry-lifting is the topic of conversation. It is Noarus who speaks—
“There’s a farmer’s wife up in the willage what’s been blaming a two-legged fox for robbing her hen-roost. I say it’s some low dealer what comes out of the town with a light cart on a shiny night when the stormy winds are blowing, so as folks shan’t hear him at work. You knows the sort, but us Gypsies has a different way. When did you ever know anyof us to meddle with anythink in these here parts? Don’t your farmers buy ponies off us? Ain’t we highly respected by the gentle-folk for miles round? Why, there was a squire up in Yorkshire, a prize-poultry fancier, as know’d my people wery well. We often camped on his land and never meddled with nothink. He trusted us so much that he comes down to our tents one day and says to my daddy—“‘I want to beg a favour of you, Tâno. I’m going abroad for a while, and I want you and your son to take charge of my poultry farm while I’m away.’“Well, my daddy and me took charge of his prize fowls, and when he come back again, how do you think he found things, my gentlemen?”The company, profoundly impressed by the speaker’s discourse, exclaimed with one voice—“All right to a feather.”“Nay, that he never did.We’date the hull blessed lot!”
“There’s a farmer’s wife up in the willage what’s been blaming a two-legged fox for robbing her hen-roost. I say it’s some low dealer what comes out of the town with a light cart on a shiny night when the stormy winds are blowing, so as folks shan’t hear him at work. You knows the sort, but us Gypsies has a different way. When did you ever know anyof us to meddle with anythink in these here parts? Don’t your farmers buy ponies off us? Ain’t we highly respected by the gentle-folk for miles round? Why, there was a squire up in Yorkshire, a prize-poultry fancier, as know’d my people wery well. We often camped on his land and never meddled with nothink. He trusted us so much that he comes down to our tents one day and says to my daddy—
“‘I want to beg a favour of you, Tâno. I’m going abroad for a while, and I want you and your son to take charge of my poultry farm while I’m away.’
“Well, my daddy and me took charge of his prize fowls, and when he come back again, how do you think he found things, my gentlemen?”
The company, profoundly impressed by the speaker’s discourse, exclaimed with one voice—
“All right to a feather.”
“Nay, that he never did.We’date the hull blessed lot!”
Mindful of my promise to visit Elijah Heron, I sought out his tent, and I had to stoop very low to get in the doorway. In my pocket was a heavy, silver-mounted brier pipe possessing a large amber mouthpiece. This I presented to the old man, and it was good to see his face light up with pleasure. “Tatsheni rup si kova” (Real silver is this), he said, pointing to the mountings. “Aswêgler’skek kushtowithouttuvalo” (A pipe’s no good without tobacco),I remarked, handing him a cake of Black Jack. He lighted up and looked as happy as a king.
Noticing that I was slightly deaf, he recommended oil extracted from vipers as good for deafness. The mention of snakes took him back to his sojourn in the Antipodes. “I never talks ofsaps(snakes) but I thinks of the days when I was travelling in ’Stralia. One night I got leave from a farmer to stop near a river, but I didn’thatsh odoi(remain there) for more than an hour or two, for I found there wassapsabout—nasty, hissing critturs. A black man as come down to the river to water some hosses told me that thesapssometimesmaw’d (killed) animals near the river, so I packed up my traps and kept on the road all night. Give me Old England, I say. I’m right glad to be back here.”
In a little tent hard by, I heard Poley and his wife singing as I said “Good-night” to Elijah. Happy, twinkling eyes they were that looked out at me from that little tent door as I passed. I envy you that merry heart, Poley, that evergreen spirit of yours, and, recalling your face, I see again the array of Gypsy tents as twilight dropped its purple veil on Blackpool’s pleasant shore.
Overnighta welcome rain had fallen upon a thirsty land, and morning broke cool and grey, with a lively breeze stirring the tree-tops, and shaking the raindrops from the grasses, as I strode along the banks of the river Trent, with my face set towards West Stockwith Horse Fair. The long, dry summer was drawing to a close, and there was an agreeable sense of novelty in the rain-drenched aspect of the countryside. After a harvest prematurely ripened by an exuberance of sunshine, brown-cheeked September was now hastening to splash here a leaf and there a spray with rich colour, and on this particular morning it seemed to me that reeds, flags, and willows were taking on autumnal tints earlier than usual. Occasionally, from the river bank, I spied a water-rat or a coot swimming amongst the sedges, and once on the path stretching before me a pert wagtail—the Gypsy bird—foretold, as the Gypsies say, a coming encounter with roving friends.
Pleasantly enough my early morning walk terminated at the old-world Trentside village of my destination. By this time, between the vapoursrolling overhead, the sun had appeared, and was gilding the barges moored to a primitive quay below the long line of straggling houses. On the Lincolnshire side of the Trent quite a colony of Gypsy vans had drawn up on a turfy plateau, and their owners were now to be seen crossing the river by ferry-boat, their laughter floating to me over the water. This was by no means my first visit to the riverside horse fair, and after refreshing at one of the inns, I went down the lane to the fair-ground occupying two fields, in the larger of which were already assembled horses and dealers in a state of lively commotion beyond a fringe of ale-booths and luncheon tents; while in the smaller field were gathered numerous Gypsy families with their carts and smoking fires.
Never in my life do I remember to have witnessed such a horde of ancient vagabonds of both sexes as on this occasion, and with no little delight I stood and gazed upon the picture. What struck me in particular was the motley character of the party. Decrepit great-grandfolks mumbling together; grandfathers in ragged garb and battered hats; wizened grandmothers sucking their pipes; aged uncles and aunts in time-stained tatters; wives in their teens dandling babies; bright-eyed children drumming happily on the bottoms of inverted pots and pans; merry lads and lasses, interspersed amongst an assembly of the quaintest rag dolls it has ever been my fortune to behold. It seemed to me as if all the old Romanyfolk of several counties had met together for the last time in their lives.
Moving into the larger field, I had not gone far before I felt a tug at my sleeve, and, looking round, I saw the two lads whom I had met with Jonathan by the watermill. They led me straight to a little covered cart drawn under the hedge where Boswell was conversing with ’Plisti Smith.
As I have said elsewhere, the play-spirit is strong in the Gypsy, even in his latter years, and while talking with my two friends up came a comical-looking Gypsy, Charley Welch, who must have been nearer ninety than seventy, and, picking up a potato lying on the ground—the large field had grown a crop of potatoes that summer—he laughingly dropped it into Jonathan’s coat pocket.
“There, don’t say that Old Charley never gave you nothink.”
After that I walked with Jonathan among the horses, and we came upon Flash Arno and Black Înan, who found time to accompany us to one of the refreshment booths where the talk ranged through a variety of topics. Înan knew Mister Groome, the book-writer, up Edinburgh way. He had met him there not long before in company with my friend Frampton Boswell. I soon found that these Gypsies did not hold with folks writing books about their race and telling themumpli gawjê(nasty gentiles) about their ways.
No one loves a little fun more than the Gypsy,and generally he means no harm by his playful romancing. After all, he is but a grown-up child, and loves to make-believe. The Gypsy’s world is a haphazard one, in which luck plays a large part. He knows nothing of the orderly cosmos of providence or science. I make these remarks by way of prelude to examples of this spirit.
Who can help laughing inwardly as the Gypsy weaves a romantic tale about you, all for the benefit of a stranger? And in the course of my morning’s ramble through West Stockwith Fair I had several experiences of the kind.
“See that little dealer over there?” said Peter Smith, indicating a small Gypsy man holding a tall black horse by a halter. The animal looked gigantic by the side of its owner.
“Come along with me, and while Iroker(talk) to him,maw pukeralav” (don’t speak a word). Then we both went up to the little Gypsy, and with the gravest of countenances Peter began to spin a long romance all about an imaginary sister of mine who lived at Brighton and was wanting just such a horse as the one before us. It really was a fine animal, and I could not refrain from stroking its glossy skin.
Peter continued: “This here gentleman doesn’t ride hisself, you see, but his sister has asked him to look out for a horse, and this one ’ull just suit her.” I found it difficult to preserve silence, but somehow I managed to do so. Finally, Peter took me asideand talked mysteriously about nothing in particular, and quietly bade me walk away. A few minutes later I beheld Peter quaffing a large mug of ale evidently at the little man’s expense.
Moving in and out among the throng, I presently walked out along the road, and there I came upon Hamalên Smith, who, after some talk, suggested a bit of fun. Pointing to a Gypsy camp down a lane, he said—
“That’s Belinda Trickett sitting by the fire with her children. Go you down the lane and have a little game. I’ll stop here and see how you get on. You don’t know the woman, I suppose?”
“Not I. She’s a stranger to me.”
“That’s all right. Togged as you are, she’ll never take you for a parson, not she. Mind you look severe-like and say to Belinda, ‘Is your husband at home? What’s his name?’ It’s Harry, but she’s sure to say it’s something else.”
Down the lane I went, and, approaching Mrs. Trickett and family, I drew out a notebook and pencil—a sure way to frighten a Gypsy. Why these things should suggest “police” I can scarcely say, but they do. The woman’s clay pipe dropped from her mouth and fell upon the grass, and beneath the brown of her cheeks a pallor crept. Mrs. Trickett was alarmed.
“What is your husband’s name?”
“George Smith.”
“When will he be at home?”
“I can’t say. He’s gone to the fair.”
Under their mother’s shawl three tiny children huddled like little brown partridges beneath an outspread wing, a sight which caused me some pricking of heart. The biggest child kept saying, “What does thegawjowant, mammy?” Just then I looked up the lane and saw a man coming down, who by his jaunty air I guessed was the woman’s husband.
“Kushti sawla(Good morning), Mr. Trickett; take a littletuvalo.” I handed him my tobacco pouch. “I’ve come a long way to see you. Ask me to sit down a bit, now I’ve got here.”
Mrs. Trickett’s face was a study in wonderment, as I sat down for a friendly chat. “Dawdi,” said she, “you didtrasher mandi(frighten me). I thought there wastshumani oprê” (something up).
When Hamalên Smith, from the top of the lane, saw that the episode had arrived at a happy termination, he strolled down the lane and joined us.
A far-travelled Gypsy is Hamalên, and many a tale can he unfold.
“One morning,” said he, “a policeman came up to my wagon and told me as how twenty-four fowls was missing from the next field to where we was stopping. Somebody had stole ’em in the night. ‘Of course you suspects us,’ says I to the policeman, ‘but you’re wrong. We’ve never touched a feather of ’em.’ However, nothing would do but the manmust search my wagon from top to bottom, and for all his trouble he found nothing. I know’d very well I hadn’t touched ’em, and I was telling him the truth.“‘Wait a bit,’ says he. ‘Didn’t I seethreevans in this field last night as I was going along the high road?’“‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘My boys have gone on in front with the other wagons.’“Says he, ‘That looks suspicious. I must make haste and find them. Where have they gone?’“‘I can’t say, for I don’t know myself.’“‘Well, I shall have to come with you, and you must show me where to find them.’ The policeman jumped up and sat on the seat along with me and my wife, and off we went to find the boys. Of course it was plain to see by the wheel-marks just outside the gate which way they had turned, but when we got to the cross-roads about three miles furder on, the road was that hard and dry that no wheel-marks could be seen. Now I could easily have misled the policeman, but I thought it best to try to find the boys as quick as I could, for I didn’t believe for a minute they had done it. Looking down the road, I saw the boys’patrin(guiding sign). The policeman didn’t know what I was looking at, and it wasn’t likely as I should show him our signs, so I says we’ll take this road, and we turned off to the left.“‘How did you know which way the boys had gone?’ asked the policeman. ‘Was it something tied on that tree bough hanging over the road?’“‘I never sees nothing on the tree bough,’ says I.“I thought to myself the policeman must have been reading some tale about the Gypsies. Anyway, he had heard something aboutpatrins and such-like, but I wasn’t going to be the one to larn him our signs, so I changed the subject.“‘Yon’s my boys on in front,’ says I. The policeman began rubbing his hands and smiling. At last we caught up with the boys, and the policeman searched inside the two wagons and found nothing. Then he says—“‘I might as well look on the top,’ and he climbed on to the roofs of the wagons.“‘Hello, what have we here?’ says he, in a way that made me turn warm. He lifted up a dead pigeon.“‘Where did you get that from?’ I asked the boys.“‘Picked it up a bit o’ way down the road. It had just killed itself on the telegraph wires by the wood side.’“After that, the disappointed policeman went away, and the thieves were never found out.
“One morning,” said he, “a policeman came up to my wagon and told me as how twenty-four fowls was missing from the next field to where we was stopping. Somebody had stole ’em in the night. ‘Of course you suspects us,’ says I to the policeman, ‘but you’re wrong. We’ve never touched a feather of ’em.’ However, nothing would do but the manmust search my wagon from top to bottom, and for all his trouble he found nothing. I know’d very well I hadn’t touched ’em, and I was telling him the truth.
“‘Wait a bit,’ says he. ‘Didn’t I seethreevans in this field last night as I was going along the high road?’
“‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘My boys have gone on in front with the other wagons.’
“Says he, ‘That looks suspicious. I must make haste and find them. Where have they gone?’
“‘I can’t say, for I don’t know myself.’
“‘Well, I shall have to come with you, and you must show me where to find them.’ The policeman jumped up and sat on the seat along with me and my wife, and off we went to find the boys. Of course it was plain to see by the wheel-marks just outside the gate which way they had turned, but when we got to the cross-roads about three miles furder on, the road was that hard and dry that no wheel-marks could be seen. Now I could easily have misled the policeman, but I thought it best to try to find the boys as quick as I could, for I didn’t believe for a minute they had done it. Looking down the road, I saw the boys’patrin(guiding sign). The policeman didn’t know what I was looking at, and it wasn’t likely as I should show him our signs, so I says we’ll take this road, and we turned off to the left.
“‘How did you know which way the boys had gone?’ asked the policeman. ‘Was it something tied on that tree bough hanging over the road?’
“‘I never sees nothing on the tree bough,’ says I.
“I thought to myself the policeman must have been reading some tale about the Gypsies. Anyway, he had heard something aboutpatrins and such-like, but I wasn’t going to be the one to larn him our signs, so I changed the subject.
“‘Yon’s my boys on in front,’ says I. The policeman began rubbing his hands and smiling. At last we caught up with the boys, and the policeman searched inside the two wagons and found nothing. Then he says—
“‘I might as well look on the top,’ and he climbed on to the roofs of the wagons.
“‘Hello, what have we here?’ says he, in a way that made me turn warm. He lifted up a dead pigeon.
“‘Where did you get that from?’ I asked the boys.
“‘Picked it up a bit o’ way down the road. It had just killed itself on the telegraph wires by the wood side.’
“After that, the disappointed policeman went away, and the thieves were never found out.
“Another time we draw’d into a rutted lane lying off the high road. We had our three wagons, and at night we always covered the big one up, becausewe didn’t sleep in it. It was a nice quiet lane, and we thought there would be nobody to trouble us as there was no willage near. But about midnight a man knocked on the wagon and woke us up.“‘What are you doing here?’“‘No harm, I hope. We’ll clear out first thing in the morning.’ He said he’d been knocking at the big wagon what was covered up, and he couldn’t make anybody hear.“‘Well,’ says I, ‘whatever you do, don’t you touch that big wagon agen.’“‘Why, what’s in it?’“‘Wild beasts, for sure—a lion and a tiger.’“You’d ha’ laughed at the way that man made hisself scarce. Next morning, as we draw’d out of the lane, we met a policeman.“‘I hear you have some wild beasts in that big wagon of yours. Wasn’t it a bit dangerous stopping so near the highway?’“‘Well, we’re clearing out in good time.’“‘Get along with you then.’“A few miles furder on the road we come to a little town, and as it was market day we pulled up in the big square, and I took the cover off the big wagon. Just as I was doing this, who should come up but the policeman we’d met in the early morning.“‘Where’s those wild beasts of yours?’ says he.“‘Oh,’ says I, ‘I’ll soon show you.’ And I went inside my brush and carpet wagon and brought outtwo big rugs, and I showed him a tiger skin and a lion skin, both lined with red. ‘There’s my wild beasts,’ said I.“Talk about laughing, I thought that policeman would never ha’ stopped.”
“Another time we draw’d into a rutted lane lying off the high road. We had our three wagons, and at night we always covered the big one up, becausewe didn’t sleep in it. It was a nice quiet lane, and we thought there would be nobody to trouble us as there was no willage near. But about midnight a man knocked on the wagon and woke us up.
“‘What are you doing here?’
“‘No harm, I hope. We’ll clear out first thing in the morning.’ He said he’d been knocking at the big wagon what was covered up, and he couldn’t make anybody hear.
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘whatever you do, don’t you touch that big wagon agen.’
“‘Why, what’s in it?’
“‘Wild beasts, for sure—a lion and a tiger.’
“You’d ha’ laughed at the way that man made hisself scarce. Next morning, as we draw’d out of the lane, we met a policeman.
“‘I hear you have some wild beasts in that big wagon of yours. Wasn’t it a bit dangerous stopping so near the highway?’
“‘Well, we’re clearing out in good time.’
“‘Get along with you then.’
“A few miles furder on the road we come to a little town, and as it was market day we pulled up in the big square, and I took the cover off the big wagon. Just as I was doing this, who should come up but the policeman we’d met in the early morning.
“‘Where’s those wild beasts of yours?’ says he.
“‘Oh,’ says I, ‘I’ll soon show you.’ And I went inside my brush and carpet wagon and brought outtwo big rugs, and I showed him a tiger skin and a lion skin, both lined with red. ‘There’s my wild beasts,’ said I.
“Talk about laughing, I thought that policeman would never ha’ stopped.”
Dayafter day, in the woods around our village, the autumnal gales roared and ravened with unabated fury, snapping brittle boughs, cracking decrepit boles, and piling up drifts of brown leaves around grey roots protruding like half-buried bones through the mossy woodland floor. Then right in the midst of it all came a spell of calm weather, as if summer had stolen back to her former haunts in sylvan glade and ferny lane. Call it by what name you please, this brief season of sunny repose following upon the heels of the tempestuous equinoctials is a time when some of us are impelled, as by a primal instinct, to shake off the collar of routine and take the road leading over the hill into what realm of adventure beyond.
Fully a week the summer-like interlude had held sway in the land. Upon the newly-turned furrows shimmered a golden light. A dreamy haze trailed its filmy skirts over hill and dale. In narrow lanes invisible threads of spiders’ silk stretched from hedge to hedge, and wayside tangles again were silvered over with a fine dust suggestive of July. Amid thelingering clover-flowers bees buzzed and blundered. Through the still air, leaves of maple and chestnut, like red-winged insects, twirled down to the grass, and the tall elms in the village churchyard littered their yellow foliage upon the graves. Everywhere, serenitude, repose, peace, save in restless hearts chafing at the humdrum of tasks grown monotonous by reason of long-continued performance. For who with a soul fully awake can resist the lure of the road at gossamer-time?
Thus it came to pass one afternoon that my wife and I, slipping out of our drowsy village, took the upland way which after numerous windings brought us into the Great North Road. Our plans were of the flimsiest. It mattered little whether we went north or south, so long as we were absent for a few days. On reaching the far-famed highway we stood under the branching arms of a finger-post, and tossed pennies to determine the course of our itinerary. “North” having won the toss, we footed it gaily in that direction. To be sure, our semi-Gypsy garb, donned for this jaunt, was not long in taking on a coating of road dust, and we were about to shake off this clinging powder, when the rattle of wheels was heard behind us, and almost immediately a dogcart slowed down by our side, and the driver, a rubicund farmer, amicably invited us to take a lift, an offer which was gladly accepted, and we climbed aboard the conveyance.
“I’ve allus had a feeling for folks like you, andI offens give ’em a lift as I’m passing back’ards and forrards on the ramper. Afore I pulled up just now I says to myself, ‘They’ve seen better days, I’ll be bound.’ Maybe you’ve been in the army? Leastways, I thought you seemed to hold yourself up pretty straight in your walk. I’ve done a bit of soldiering myself. Once at a big do-ment in London, I was in the Queen’s Escort. Yes, I’ve been about a bit in my time. I dessay you two’s got a goodish way to go yet afore you come to your night’s lodgings.
“Ay, dear me,” he went on, “we offens has your sort calling at our place—my farm’s a few miles farther along this way—and one day not long since a poor chap knocked at our door and asked for work. He was a parson’s son, so we gave him a lightish job and fed him well and bedded him in the barn for three or four nights, till his sore feet got right agen. Poor fellow, he worn’t much good at labouring work, but we liked to listen to his tales; he could tell you summut now.”
Thus he rambled on after the manner of a garrulous Guardian of the Poor who had acquired an interest in tramps.
“Yon’s my place among the trees, so I must leave you here.”
We thanked him for his kindly lift, and, rounding a bend in the highway, were glad to relieve our pent-up feelings in laughter over the good man’s misconception.
Now, as everyone knows, who has journeyedalong it, the fine old turnpike abounds in travellers of every shade and grade. Not once or twice on its turfy wayside have I fraternized with “Weary Willies” boiling their tea in discarded treacle-tins. Even now as we went along, two or three tramps passed by, one of them coming up to beg a few matches, the others scarcely giving us a glance.
Hearing the rumble of an approaching vehicle, we looked towards the bend of the road, and round it came what looked like a carrier’s cart drawn by a horse apparently old, for it proceeded slowly, and the cart creaked and jolted as if it, too, were ancient. As it jogged nearer, I saw it contained but a single occupant—a brown-faced little man who wore a faded yellow kerchief—and, stepping into the roadway, I greeted him withsâ shan(how do?). Whereupon he pulled up. “I heard what you said just now, but you’ve made a mistake. I’m no Romany—I’m a showman, an Aunt Sally man, bound for Retford.”
Now a Gypsy will frequently deny his blood. Knowing that his kind live under a ban, he has no desire to draw attention to himself. But, looking at this Aunt Sally man, I saw that he had told the truth. His face was freckled. No real Gypsy freckles. After all, as Groome says, “It is not the caravan that makes the Gypsy, any more than my cat becomes a dog if she takes to living in a kennel.”
Our road now became a gradual descent into a clean, flower-loving village, where amid the trees we caught the gleam of a large canvas booth in a field,and there were knockings of a mallet to be heard. Nor was it long before we learned what was afoot. Within a tavern’s comfortable parlour, a coloured playbill informed the world that Harrison’s travelling theatre would that evening present a sensational drama—Gypsy Jack—and in due time we found ourselves seated among the cottagers and farm-hands, enjoying a highly entertaining, though garbled, version of Mr. G. R. Sims’sRomany Rye. Opening with a Gypsy encampment in which the gaily dressed Lees sat talking round a fire in a forest glade, we were successively shown Joe Hackett’s shop, the race-course at Epsom, the deck of theSaratoga, the cellar near Rotherhithe, and the Thames by night. The play seemed a not inappropriate episode in our Gypsy jaunt.
Years afterwards, during one Derby week, I saw Mr. Sims’sRomany Ryeremarkably well played at a South London theatre. In connection with this play an amusing story is told. The managers of the Princess’s Theatre in London were anxious that the new drama should be announced in the “Agony” column ofThe Times. Like many another one, the advertisement clerk atThe Timesoffice could make nothing whatever of the mysterious wordsRomany Rye.
“What the deuce is thisRomany Rye?” he asked the bearer of the strange document.
“If you please, sir,” said the messenger, whom the manager of the theatre had sworn to secrecy—“ifyou please, sir, I think it’s the name of a new liver-pad.”
“Well,” remarked the official, “The Timesis a great paper and can do without padding. Take it away.”
And the advertisement was declined.
From the door of the canvas theatre it was an easy walk to the little town of Newark-on-Trent, at one of whose pleasant hostelries we spent the night, our window overlooking the ruined castle by the waterside. It had been in our minds to continue our walk next morning along the Great North Road, but at breakfast a small paragraph in a newspaper brought about a quick change in our plans. The item of news ran thus—
“THE ROMANIES AGAIN.“Our friends, the gipsy Greys, are still with us in Grimsby, lamented Mr. Councillor E— last evening, and he wanted to know whether something could not be done to get them to clear out. The Town Clerk had assisted them somewhat, and one or two had gone, but there were still four families encamped at the back of T— Street, New Clee. Inspector M— said he had visited the encampment and he must say that the caravans were very clean. They could not be said to create a nuisance. ‘It is not the tents that are a nuisance,’ replied the lively representative of the H— Ward, ‘but the partiesthemselves, who trespass in the backyards of the houses in that neighbourhood. It is no uncommon thing on waking up in the morning to find a donkey or a goat in your backyard or garden.’ The Inspector stated that Eliza Grey, the owner of the vans, had informed him they would all be going away in a few days.”
“THE ROMANIES AGAIN.
“Our friends, the gipsy Greys, are still with us in Grimsby, lamented Mr. Councillor E— last evening, and he wanted to know whether something could not be done to get them to clear out. The Town Clerk had assisted them somewhat, and one or two had gone, but there were still four families encamped at the back of T— Street, New Clee. Inspector M— said he had visited the encampment and he must say that the caravans were very clean. They could not be said to create a nuisance. ‘It is not the tents that are a nuisance,’ replied the lively representative of the H— Ward, ‘but the partiesthemselves, who trespass in the backyards of the houses in that neighbourhood. It is no uncommon thing on waking up in the morning to find a donkey or a goat in your backyard or garden.’ The Inspector stated that Eliza Grey, the owner of the vans, had informed him they would all be going away in a few days.”
It was the sight of the Romany family name which altered our plans. The East Anglian Grays are a good type of Gypsy not to be encountered every day, hence we decided to lose no time in taking the train for Grimsby. It was a crawling “ordinary” by which we travelled, and at a little wayside station a few miles out of Newark, a lithe, dark fellow carrying a pedlar’s basket stepped into our compartment, and at once I recognized in him my old friend Snakey Petulengro. How his face lit up on seeing me, for we had not met for years. I was so much struck by his altered bearing that I could scarcely believe my eyes. He seemed now as gentle in his manner as once he had been wild. The sight of him brought back Gypsy Court and all its associations. He said he had left the old home, his father and mother having passed away. On my inquiring about his sister Sibby, he said she had married a Gypsy and, tiring of Old England, had gone to ’Merikay. As Snakey quitted the carriage at Lincoln, an observant passenger remarked—
“There goes one of Nature’s gentlemen.”
By mid-afternoon the slender hydraulic towerglowed rosily in the sunlight above Grimsby Docks; and since the fishing-port had no particular charm for us, we proceeded to Cleethorpes, preferring the more airy shore and being eager to see the Gypsies. As might be expected, the summer-like day had brought a goodly number of late holiday-makers to the sands, and as we moved in and out among the groups near the pier foot, I heard a donkey-boy address someone not far away—
“Would the lady like a ride?” The lad’s features, bearing, and tone of voice were distinctly Gypsy, and, seeing he was within hail, I looked towards him and said—
“Dova sî kushto maila odoi” (That’s a good donkey there).
His face beamed with delight, and from his lips sprang the question—
“Romano Rai?” (Gypsy gentleman?)
“Âwa;kai shan tîro foki hatshin?” (Yes; where are your people camping?)
In gratitude for the explicit directions he gave, I placed a sixpence in his hand, and his remark was “Dova’s tookisi,raia” (That’s too much, sir). “Ahora(penny) would have beendosta(enough) formandi” (me). This boy was one of the Grays, and, following his instructions, we had no difficulty in locating the Romany camp.
It was early evening when we strolled forth upon an expanse of grass parcelled into building plots, where in a corner between the hedgerows weredrawn up, with the doorways facing south, several substantialvâdê(caravans) near which some large tents had been erected. The Grays, who were silently moving to and fro, revealed by their interested side-glances that they had already heard of somebody’s inquiries concerning themselves, and when we advanced to offer our civil and friendly greetings to two women who were washing pots before an outside fire, every politeness was shown to us. They rose and spread a horse-rug for us upon the ground. “Dai ta tshai” (mother and daughter), thought I; nor was I wrong. The older woman, diminutive, lean, and somewhat bent with age, informed me that she was Eliza Gray, and the younger was her daughter Lena. As we talked by the fire, a goat appeared and rubbed its nose affectionately against Eliza’s knee. Said she: “This is an old pet of ours. We’s had it for years. I picked it up in Scotland.”
In late September the sun goes down early, and a chilly wind now set in from the North Sea. In the baulk of the old lady’s tent a coke brazier was glowing invitingly, so we all moved under cover, and, seated on a dais of clean straw covered with rugs, listened to tales and talk, the brazier’s crimson gleam being our only light. After some discussion of mutual acquaintances, the conversation drifted towardsdukerin (fortune-telling), a subject never very far from the thoughts of a Gypsy woman.
“How I’vesal’d” (laughed), said Eliza, “at thosedinelê gawjê(foolish gentiles) what come to our tentto beduker’d. One time I put a crystal on a little table covered with oilcloth, and I ax’d the young lady if she couldn’t see her sweetheart in it. ‘Yes, I can,’ she says, ‘and it’s just like his face, but oh, lor, in this glass ball he’s got a tail.’ I nearly laughed straight out, for I’d sort of accidentally put the crystal on top of a monkey picture. The oilcloth was covered with all sorts of beastses, don’t you see?”
A superstitious family, the Grays have a characteristic way of recounting their own traditions. Here is one of Eliza’s tales—
“Once we were stopping by a woodside. The back of our tent was nigh agen a dry ditch full of dead leaves, and one night we lay abed listening to sounds, a thing I can’t abide. Well, there was rummy folk about in them days, so when we hears a footstep in the wood just t’other side of that there ditch, I ups wi’ the kettle-prop and peeps outen the tent, and listens, but no, never a sound could I catch; all was still as the grave. Till long and by last there comes a rustling in the leaves, and the bushes parts like something trying to make a way through. Then I lifts up the kettle-prop, and I says to myself, if blows are to be struck, Liza had better be the first to strike, when there, straight afore me, stands a woman waving her poor thin arms about, but saying nothing. At that I drops the kettle-prop and screams, and my man Perun jumps straight up. ‘They’re killing my Liza, they are.’ But by thatthemuli(ghost) had gone like a flash of lightning. Next morning we ax’d at the keeper’s house down the lane, and the missis tell’d us as how arawni(lady) was oncemaw’d (murdered) in that wood, so it would be hermulias I saw that night. Oh, yes, I believe inmulê, I do.”
“Once we were stopping by a woodside. The back of our tent was nigh agen a dry ditch full of dead leaves, and one night we lay abed listening to sounds, a thing I can’t abide. Well, there was rummy folk about in them days, so when we hears a footstep in the wood just t’other side of that there ditch, I ups wi’ the kettle-prop and peeps outen the tent, and listens, but no, never a sound could I catch; all was still as the grave. Till long and by last there comes a rustling in the leaves, and the bushes parts like something trying to make a way through. Then I lifts up the kettle-prop, and I says to myself, if blows are to be struck, Liza had better be the first to strike, when there, straight afore me, stands a woman waving her poor thin arms about, but saying nothing. At that I drops the kettle-prop and screams, and my man Perun jumps straight up. ‘They’re killing my Liza, they are.’ But by thatthemuli(ghost) had gone like a flash of lightning. Next morning we ax’d at the keeper’s house down the lane, and the missis tell’d us as how arawni(lady) was oncemaw’d (murdered) in that wood, so it would be hermulias I saw that night. Oh, yes, I believe inmulê, I do.”
During the telling of this tale two of Eliza’s sons, Yoben and Poley, sauntered up and stood listening behind their sister Lena. It was Yoben who now added his contribution of ghost-lore.
“Why, yes, of course, mother, there’smulê(ghosts). Don’t you remember after Dolferus died, his voice used to speak in the tent to Delaia? She says it really was his voice as nat’ral as life, and it made her shiver to hear it. One day she went to a parson for advice. He told her the next time it spoke, to say: ‘I promise you nothing. Begone!’ Well, sure enough, the voice came again, and she remembered to say what the parson had told her, and she never heard the voice no more. My Uncle Ike asked Delaia one day—“‘I say, my gal, did you really hear Dolferus’s voice?’“‘Yes; it was his and no one else’s.’“‘Is that thetatshipen(truth), my gal?’ Ike seemed anxious to know the truth of the matter.”
“Why, yes, of course, mother, there’smulê(ghosts). Don’t you remember after Dolferus died, his voice used to speak in the tent to Delaia? She says it really was his voice as nat’ral as life, and it made her shiver to hear it. One day she went to a parson for advice. He told her the next time it spoke, to say: ‘I promise you nothing. Begone!’ Well, sure enough, the voice came again, and she remembered to say what the parson had told her, and she never heard the voice no more. My Uncle Ike asked Delaia one day—
“‘I say, my gal, did you really hear Dolferus’s voice?’
“‘Yes; it was his and no one else’s.’
“‘Is that thetatshipen(truth), my gal?’ Ike seemed anxious to know the truth of the matter.”
“Dreams is funny things,” put in Poley, “and I’ve had some wery queer ’uns in my time. OnceI dreamt I was walking along a narrow shelf of rock, and on one side of me was a stony wall like a cliff, and on the other side the edge of the path hung over a terrible steep place. Right away below was a river of fiery red stuff pouring along. You could smell it. I thought this rocky road was the path to heaven, and I was trying to get there, but, ’pon my word, it was no easy matter. Now I see’d a tiger chained to the rocky wall on my left hand, and a bit furder on a big lion was tied up. These here critturs was hard to get past. I had to go wery near the dangerous edge what looked down on to the burning river. What a fright I was in; it made the sweat run off me. Sometimes I had to crawl on my hands and knees to get round a big rock in the middle of the path. I felt as if I never should get where I wanted to. Well, after a lot of scrambling and slithering, for my feet gave way sometimes—I had naily boots on—I got to the top of the path, and in the dazzling light, like the sun itself on a summer day, there sat a grey-haired, doubled-up man, a wery aged man, with his chin resting on his hand. It was theDuvel(God), and when he see’d me coming, he sat up and held up his hand, forbidding me to go any furder. He didn’t speak a word, but I knew that his uplifted hand meant ‘Go back.’ And just then I woke. That’s my dream of trying to get to heaven.”
“Dreams is funny things,” put in Poley, “and I’ve had some wery queer ’uns in my time. OnceI dreamt I was walking along a narrow shelf of rock, and on one side of me was a stony wall like a cliff, and on the other side the edge of the path hung over a terrible steep place. Right away below was a river of fiery red stuff pouring along. You could smell it. I thought this rocky road was the path to heaven, and I was trying to get there, but, ’pon my word, it was no easy matter. Now I see’d a tiger chained to the rocky wall on my left hand, and a bit furder on a big lion was tied up. These here critturs was hard to get past. I had to go wery near the dangerous edge what looked down on to the burning river. What a fright I was in; it made the sweat run off me. Sometimes I had to crawl on my hands and knees to get round a big rock in the middle of the path. I felt as if I never should get where I wanted to. Well, after a lot of scrambling and slithering, for my feet gave way sometimes—I had naily boots on—I got to the top of the path, and in the dazzling light, like the sun itself on a summer day, there sat a grey-haired, doubled-up man, a wery aged man, with his chin resting on his hand. It was theDuvel(God), and when he see’d me coming, he sat up and held up his hand, forbidding me to go any furder. He didn’t speak a word, but I knew that his uplifted hand meant ‘Go back.’ And just then I woke. That’s my dream of trying to get to heaven.”
“There’s a lot about heaven and hell in God’sBook, isn’t there,rashai?” said Old Eliza. “Arawni(lady) used to read all about them places to us on a Sunday, but that were years ago, and I used to like to hear her talk about the blessed Saviour riding on amaila(donkey) into the big town. She said they nailed him to a cross on Good Friday, and when we was young I remember we all used to fast on that day. We ate no flesh—nothing with blood in it—it would be a sin to do that. If we took anything to stay our hunger it was nothing but dry bread, and our drink was water. We didn’ttuv(smoke), and we didn’ttovourkokerê(wash ourselves) on that day. I don’t know whether there be such places as heaven and hell. I reckons we makes our own destiny. Heaven and hell’s inside us; that’s what I think.”
“There’s a lot about heaven and hell in God’sBook, isn’t there,rashai?” said Old Eliza. “Arawni(lady) used to read all about them places to us on a Sunday, but that were years ago, and I used to like to hear her talk about the blessed Saviour riding on amaila(donkey) into the big town. She said they nailed him to a cross on Good Friday, and when we was young I remember we all used to fast on that day. We ate no flesh—nothing with blood in it—it would be a sin to do that. If we took anything to stay our hunger it was nothing but dry bread, and our drink was water. We didn’ttuv(smoke), and we didn’ttovourkokerê(wash ourselves) on that day. I don’t know whether there be such places as heaven and hell. I reckons we makes our own destiny. Heaven and hell’s inside us; that’s what I think.”
Lena, however, had her own ideas. “This life is everything there is, I reckons, and when we’re dead, that’s the end of us. Life is sweet, mind you, and we’s a right to be as happy as we can. Mother’s getting old, you see, and has had her fling. I mean to have a good time. Why, last Sunday me and Poley was going off to get some nuts in the woods, but mother stopped us—
“It’sBeng’s work getting nuts on the dear Lord’s day.”
“Yes,” says Yoben; “I’ve heard our old daddy say that theBenglikes nuts, and I’d sartinly scorn to go getting them onlucky things on a Sunday; Iwouldn’t like to put myself in theBeng’s power, like poor Zuba Lovell.”
“What about Zuba?” asked my wife.
Then Yoben told a weird tale.
A Maid of the Tents
“A handsome lass was Zuba, but bad luck dogged her like her own shadow. One night she came back to the camp, for she lived with her old people, and, throwing down a few coppers she had in her hand, she said—“‘There, mother, what do you think of that for a hard day’s work?’ She had done wery badly, you see. Luck never seemed to come her way at all. And after supper she wandered out a little way from the camp. The moon and stars was shining as she walked round and round an old tree, a blasted old stump, black as a gallows-post. As she kept on walking round it, she said aloud, ‘This game won’t do for me. It’s money I want and money I’ll have. I’d sell my blood to theBengto have plenty of money in my pocket always.’ The words was hardly out of her mouth when a black thing, like the shadow of the tree, rose up from the ground, and, lor, there was the weryBenghisself, and after he’d promised her what she had wished for, he wanished. And after that no more grumbling from Zuba; no more complaints about her bad luck. She always had plenty of money now, and she bought herself trinkets and fine clothes till everybody was ’mazed at her, and of course she had kept it to herself what took place that night by theold tree. Days and weeks went by, till one night Zuba was missing from the camp. Her old folks sat up by the fire waiting for her, but no Zuba came. At last her daddy set out to look for her, and there by the foot of the tree lay Zuba’s frock and shawl, and when he took ’em back to his wife’s tent, the poor woman screamed and fainted right away, and old man Lovell walked up and down all night, saying, ‘Oh, my Zuba, my blessed gal, we shall never see you no more,’ and they never did. TheBenghad fetched her. That’s the end of Zuba Lovell.”
“A handsome lass was Zuba, but bad luck dogged her like her own shadow. One night she came back to the camp, for she lived with her old people, and, throwing down a few coppers she had in her hand, she said—
“‘There, mother, what do you think of that for a hard day’s work?’ She had done wery badly, you see. Luck never seemed to come her way at all. And after supper she wandered out a little way from the camp. The moon and stars was shining as she walked round and round an old tree, a blasted old stump, black as a gallows-post. As she kept on walking round it, she said aloud, ‘This game won’t do for me. It’s money I want and money I’ll have. I’d sell my blood to theBengto have plenty of money in my pocket always.’ The words was hardly out of her mouth when a black thing, like the shadow of the tree, rose up from the ground, and, lor, there was the weryBenghisself, and after he’d promised her what she had wished for, he wanished. And after that no more grumbling from Zuba; no more complaints about her bad luck. She always had plenty of money now, and she bought herself trinkets and fine clothes till everybody was ’mazed at her, and of course she had kept it to herself what took place that night by theold tree. Days and weeks went by, till one night Zuba was missing from the camp. Her old folks sat up by the fire waiting for her, but no Zuba came. At last her daddy set out to look for her, and there by the foot of the tree lay Zuba’s frock and shawl, and when he took ’em back to his wife’s tent, the poor woman screamed and fainted right away, and old man Lovell walked up and down all night, saying, ‘Oh, my Zuba, my blessed gal, we shall never see you no more,’ and they never did. TheBenghad fetched her. That’s the end of Zuba Lovell.”
While listening to these tales in the tent, the flight of the hours passed unobserved, till a distant clock boomed out the hour of ten.
“You’llwel apopli(come again), my dears?” said Eliza, as we retired amid the smiles and bows of the Gypsy family.
Next morning found us again in the camp. Already the Gypsies had breakfasted, and were making preparations for “tovin-divus” (washing-day). Sun and wind promised an ideal day for such a purpose. It was a thing to be noticed that the articles about to be dealt with lay in two heaps on the grass.
Among the Gypsies there is a ceremonial rule which holds it to bemokadi(unclean) to wash together in the same vessel “what you eat off with what you wear.” This was the meaning of the separated articles, and then I observed two zinc vessels lyingready on the ground. Said Old Eliza to Lena, “I’ll take this lot, and you take that lot.” To begin with, they both cleansed their hands and arms in hot water, and as they did this I remarked how brown were Lena’s arms, whereupon she replied with a laugh—
“Âwa,raia(Yes, sir), monkey soap won’t fetch that off”—a modern rendering, I take it, of Ferdousi’s saying, “No washing will turn a Gypsy white.”
Now as our friends were about to become much occupied, we proposed to stroll round the camp and pay calls on the other Gypsies in the same field. “Stop a bit,” said Eliza, and, slipping into the tent, she came out with a black bottle. “You’ll take a drop of my elderberry wine and a bite o’ cake,” pouring out the claret-coloured liquid into two glasses fished out from an inner recess. While enjoying this snack on the grass, I took out from a breast pocket a white unused handkerchief which I spread on my knee. Presently Old Eliza slyly took it by the corner and twitched it away, giving me in place thereof a neatly folded napkin brought from the tent, and I saw that I had broken a Gypsy custom in converting a handkerchief into a crumbcloth. Said the old mother, “Thatmol(wine) is old, and should bekushto(good). It’s some we buried in a place till we came round again.”
In another corner of the field were encamped Fennix Boswell and his stepson Shanny, and, going forward, we found the pair seated at their tent doorhandling fishing-rods. On seeing us they rose and invited us into the tent, where we sat down. Shanny showed us some of his pencil drawings.
“I’ve got one of a parrot somewhere; I must find it,” said he.
“Âwali,muk man dik o rokerin-tshiriklo” (Yes, let me see the talking-bird), I replied, and in a minute or two he handed me a really clever sketch.
These two Gypsies had just come down from Scotland, where they had been travelling during the summer months, and we got talking about Kirk Yetholm. The Blythes, related to old King Charley Faa, were acquaintances of theirs. It appears that one of the King’s sons named Robert, a rollicking fellow, was fond, as Gypsies are, of practical jokes, and some of his escapades are still remembered in the Border Country. One of Fennix’s tales about this fun-loving Faa may well find a place here.