By this time we were speeding between green hedgerows in the open country, and when at last we pulled up at a wayside hostelry, nothing would do but I must drink my Gypsy’s health. Then the horse’s head was turned for home. Romany topics being still to the fore, and having recently heard of the passing of George Smith of Coalville, I asked my companion if he had ever met the parent of the first “Moveable Dwellings’ Bill.”
“I can’t say that I ever crossed his path, and I don’t know that I particularly wanted to. Hisletters in the papers used torile my people terribly. We weren’t quite so bad as he painted us. It was plain enough that he knew nothing of the real Romanies, nothing whatever. Why, his “gipsies” were nothing but the very poorest hedge-crawlers, with never a drop of our blood in their bodies. The man meant all right, very likely, but as for his methods—well, the less said about them the better.”
As we parted after tea at his garden gate, I wished my Gypsykushto bok(good luck).
“A good thingthat, Mr. Hall, and may we both have more of it.”
I retain very pleasant memories of that afternoon spent in the genial company of Mr. Jack Boss, whom I have since met several times at horse-fairs in different parts of the country.
It has fallen to my lot to know a number of Gypsies who have made their homes in our cities, and who, though moving in respectable circles, still retain the old secret tongue of the roads, as well as a marked spirit of detachment from most of the ideas of the people among whom they live. Pride of race remains. No matter how high he may climb, the pure Gypsy is proud of his birth and secretly despises all who are not of his blood. When talking of breezy commons, green woodsides, rabbits, pheasants, and the like, I have seen the eyes of a house-dwelling Gypsy grow wistful as he sighed at the visions and memories arising within him.
The sedentary Gypsies are now largely in the preponderance. Not that the tendency to settle is entirely a thing of our times. Fifty years ago, the Gypsy colony hard by my childhood’s home told of a movement not then by any means new. Twenty years earlier, did not Ambrose (Jasper) Smith say to Lavengro?—“There is no living for the poor people, thechokengris(police) pursue us from place to place, and the gorgios are becoming either so poor or miserly that they grudge our cattle a bite of grass by the wayside, and ourselves a yard of ground to light a fire upon.”
Many years prior to this complaint, the wholesale enclosing of the commons, the harassing attentions of the press-gang, the flooding of our roads by Irish vagrants, the barbaric administration of “justice,” and the pressure of the times generally, had caused many a Gypsy to adopt a sedentary life. Numbers of old-fashioned Romany families, finding life no longer tolerable in England, were allured to the colonies by glowing accounts received from migrated friends of the freedom and manifold opportunities for making a living across the sea. All along since those times it may be said that no year has passed without witnessing the settlement of many Gypsies.
Some of my happiest “finds” in the way of house-dwelling Gypsies were several aged members of the great Boswell clan, living in the town of Derby, and to them I owe many reminiscences of Gypsy lifein bygone days. It was from LincolnshireRomanitshels of the same clan-name that I had first learned of the Derby colony whose Gypsy denizens were so entertaining that if ever I found myself within a few miles of their Midland town I could in no way resist going to see them. It must have been many years since first they settled there, and yet they would talk of Lincolnshire as though they had quitted its highways and byways but yesterday. Moreover, these Boswells were related to some of Borrow’s originals, a fact which in my eyes lent no small glamour to these folk.
One cool spring evening I stood in a cramped yard in Derby, and, tapping at a cottage door, I heard a tremulous voice inviting me to enter. Within that little room my aged friend, Coralina Boswell, was warming her thin hands at a few glowing coals in the grate. A flickering candle on the chimney-piece cast a fitful yellow gleam on the old lady seated on the hearthrug not far from a truckle bed. Wrapped about her shawl-wise was a portion of a scarlet blanket throwing up her features, swarthy and deeply seamed, into strong relief. She begged me to take the only chair, which I drew up to the fire.
“I am glad to see you, my son. I’m a lonely old woman. Mytshăvê(children) are all far away.” Here she picked up a black pipe which she had laid down on my entering, and went on chatting about her family, mentioning a daughter named Froniga.
“That sounds like Veronica.”
“Yes, we name’t her after the one that wiped the dear Lord’s face wiv adiklo” (handkerchief).
This set her thoughts a-wandering, and she went on to tell how last night she saw strange things.
“I was in awesh(wood), thick and green, and I went on and on, and I felt wild beasts rubbing agen me, but they never hurted me, ’cos my blessed Saviour was a-sitting wiv His angels among the clouds just above the roundy tops o’ the big trees. It was beautiful to see Him there. And sometimes, as I sits here, I sees Him come into this room, as real as when you came in yourself.
“What made you come so far to see the likes o’ me? It’s wery kind o’ you. I’s travelled all through your country, and a nice part it is. I remembers the green fields all lying in the sun by the riverside.” (Clearly she was thinking of the Trentside haunts of her clan.)
“Now, my son, will youtshivsomekoshton theyog(put some wood on the fire) and light thatvâva mumeli(other candle) on the chimbly-shelf?”
On the walls of the room were several black-framed funeral cards, in the midst of which was a blurred enlargement of a Romanyvâdo(cart), and, seeing my eyes wandering towards this picture, Coralina broke out again—
“Ah, that’s myrom’s (husband) wagon there, aswe’s travelled in many a year, and there he is on the steps a-looking at me so loving-like. Irokers (talk) to him sometimes, forgetting he’s been gone this many a year.
“Mine’s a lonely life, and what would become of me I don’t know, if I hadn’t some kind delations living in thisgav” (town).
As I stepped out into the narrow yard, a bright moon silvered the battered door and the little crisscross window of Old Coralina’s abode, and, walking along a crooked street, I thought of the strange life of the woman I had just left, an existence in which dreams and visions passed for realities.
A Mother in Egypt. Photo. Fred Shaw
In the same town lived another aged Gypsy, Eldi Boswell, whose days were chiefly spent on a couch-bed smoking and dreaming. Too decrepit to leave her cottage, she loved to bask in the glow of the fire, and I recall no more picturesque Gypsy figure than Old Eldi, with her furrowed face and her long, dark ringlets straggling out from beneath a once gorgeousdiklo. It was easy to see that she had been a beauty in her time, and in confidential moments she would say that in her young days she had often been taken for her cousin, Sanspirela Heron (the lovely wife of Ambrose Smith), whose forename was (inLavengro) changed by Borrow to Pakomovna. Certainly one could not help being struck by Old Eldi’s large eyes. Much has been written about the peculiarity of the Gypsy eye, Borrow and Leland in particular having enlarged upon this topic. Not of a soft, steadyhue like that of a pool in the moorland peat, it is a changeful eye of glittering black endowed with a strange penetrative quality.
Born about the year 1820 at Susworth, a hamlet on the Lincolnshire bank of the Trent, Eldi remembered not only the names, but a host of tales in which bygone Gypsies played a part.
My father, a schoolmate of Thomas Miller at Gainsborough on the Trent, used to speak of the riverside Gypsies whom Miller presents in his writings:e.g.inGideon Giles the Roperhe gives pictures of the Boswells, who were probably some of Old Eldi’s folk.
For instance, if I had been reading in Borrow’sGypsy Word-Bookabout that famous old rascal, Ryley Boswell, I would say to Eldi—
“Did you ever know Old Ryley?”
“Sartinly, I minds him well enough. ‘Gentleman’ Ryley, they used to call him. He was a tinker, like the rest of ourmushaw(men), but he wouldn’t carry his creel (grinding-outfit) on his back like other people. He must have it on a little cart, and a pony to draw it.”
“Is it true that he had more than one wife living with him at the same time?”
“Well, yes, he had three wives. There was Yoki Shuri. You’s heard tell of her, sure-ly—a wery clever woman she was at getting money. Then there was Lucy Boswell, Old Tyso’s gell, a nicer woman never breathed, but Ryley was rough withher and made her sleep in a little tent with his dogs Musho and Ponto. Nobody blamed her when she left him and went to ’Merikay with her six children. Then there was Charlotte Hammond as went away and took on with Zacky Lee. A lot of those Lees round London sprang from them. In his best days Ryley had heaps of money and travelled all over the country. He had a fine black mare, Bess Beldam, and he rode on her a-hunting with the gentry up in Yorkshire. He was partic’lar fond o’ that country, was Ryley. I minds how fine he looked on his splendid mare as had silver shoes, and him in a coat with golden guineas for buttons. I’s heard of him riding slap-dash through a camp, springing over the tents and scutching thenongê tshavê(naked children) with histshupni(whip): ‘I’ll let ’em know who I am—Ryley Boswell, King of the Gypsies.’ But at last his luck left him, and he took hisself off to London with his Yoki Shuri. Even to her as stuck to him through all, he was unkind. One day he tied her to a cart-wheel and leathered her, ’cos she told him of his ill-doings. At London, they lived in the Potteries, but he never did no good in the big city. One day, as he was skinning a rabbit, he scratched his hand and got blood-poisoning, and died in a little house underneath the railway arches. They buried him in Brompton Churchyard.”
Thus she would spin on at great length about Ryley Boswell.
Another time she would talk about the Herons.She was old enough to remember Niabai and Crowy (the parents of my aged friend, Ike Heron), as well as “handsome” William, “lame” Robert, Miller, Lusha, and other members of the same family. According to her account, these fellows were a tall, dark, big-boned, rough set.
Asked if she had ever known any Gypsy called Reynolds, Eldi replied—
“To be sure, there was Reynolds Heron as married my Aunt Peggy.”
Then I understood how Ambrose Smith (aliasReynolds) came in his last years to adopt for his own travelling surname the Christian name of his wife Sanspirela’s father, Reynolds Heron, concerning whom it is recorded that he used to fast on the five Fridays next after the season of Lent, in memory of the five wounds of the Saviour.
I used to like to hear Eldi talk of the days when artists, squires, and their ladies would pay visits to the camp. “There was my husband’s Aunt ‘Norna’—her proper name was Lucretia Boswell—she was a beautiful woman, and Mr. Oakley painted a picture of her wearing an orange shawl about her shoulders. She never married, and always travelled with her sister Deloraifi, who never married neither. Ay, when I was a barefooted gell with the wind a-blowing my hair about, the painting-gentlemen would get me to sit for my picture; and squires would stop us in the lanes and try to pick up our words.”
Rascalities of which modern Gypsydom knows nothing would creep into Eldi’s memory-pictures. I mean the wayside robberies, the bloody fights, the sheep and horse stealing of the rough old days of her girlhood. She would get so rapt away in the past that she would speak of people dead and gone as though they were living still, and, awaking to the present, would remark with a deep-drawn sigh—“But, there, I’s seen none of ’em for a wery long time.”
Under the heading of “A Modern Enchantress,” the following note, describing my Gypsy friend, was communicated by an Irish clergyman toThe Journal of the Gypsy Lore Societyof the year 1890:—
“A short time since, a clergyman stopping at my house told me that some time ago, when he was assisting in the work of All Saints’ Parish, Derby, he had residing in the parish a Gypsy family named Boswell. One of the family was sick, and he found the greatest difficulty in getting into the house; and when he did get in, the sick man told him that the sooner he cleared out of the house the better—if he came to talk about religion. In fact, it was only by most judicious management, and by promises not to speak about religion till the sick man spoke of it first, that he was able to establish a footing in the house. But after a little time he got on quite friendly terms with the family. He then discovered that when any of the family were sick an old aunt came into the room and seemed to performa kind of incantation over them. His description of her performance was very like what we read about Eastern Dervishes. She gradually worked herself up into a species of frenzy, flinging her arms about and muttering a kind of incantation or prayer, until her voice ascended into a wild scream and descended again into a whisper as the frenzy passed away, and she was left lying exhausted and apparently in fainting condition on the floor. When she arrived at this state she was immediately carried out of the sick-room by her relatives.”
“A short time since, a clergyman stopping at my house told me that some time ago, when he was assisting in the work of All Saints’ Parish, Derby, he had residing in the parish a Gypsy family named Boswell. One of the family was sick, and he found the greatest difficulty in getting into the house; and when he did get in, the sick man told him that the sooner he cleared out of the house the better—if he came to talk about religion. In fact, it was only by most judicious management, and by promises not to speak about religion till the sick man spoke of it first, that he was able to establish a footing in the house. But after a little time he got on quite friendly terms with the family. He then discovered that when any of the family were sick an old aunt came into the room and seemed to performa kind of incantation over them. His description of her performance was very like what we read about Eastern Dervishes. She gradually worked herself up into a species of frenzy, flinging her arms about and muttering a kind of incantation or prayer, until her voice ascended into a wild scream and descended again into a whisper as the frenzy passed away, and she was left lying exhausted and apparently in fainting condition on the floor. When she arrived at this state she was immediately carried out of the sick-room by her relatives.”
A grey morning with a lowering sky and splashes of rain had given place in the early forenoon to a brilliant day, and sunbeams lit up the Humber’s wharves and shipping as I stepped from the steam ferry upon the Corporation Pier at Hull. Often before had I visited this busy seaport on Gypsy errands, and the cause of my present visit was to seek out the whereabouts of the descendants of Ryley Boswell, renowned in Gypsy history. From Borrow’sRomany Word-BookI had gathered that Ryley hailed from Yorkshire, and Eldi Boswell of Derby, and the London relatives of Yoki Shuri had informed me that Hull was a likely place to locate some of Ryley’s offspring. A few inquiries brought me the information that a Gypsy and his wife kept a little grocery store in a back street, which I had no difficulty in finding, though, reconnoitring outside the shop, I saw in its exterior nothing suggestive of theRomany. Going inside, I rapped with my foot on the floor, and a middle-aged woman, only distantly resembling a Gypsy, responded to my summons. Pointing to a barrel of ruddy Canadians, I made request in Romany for two apples, and immediately a change came over her face. The sound of the Gypsy language produced a beaming smile where solemnity had sat. After making a further purchase, I was invited into the living-room, where I had no sooner sat down than the woman’s husband, looking still less like a Gypsy, entered, but on my giving him asâ shan(how do?) he laughed outright, and we had some fun. It tickled me not a little to hear the pair discussing my physiognomy.
“Why, he’s got Newty’snok(nose), that he has now.” And the wife asked me if I had brought news of a fortune left to them by their Uncle Newty in Australia.
“Newty—well, Ihaveheard of him. Wasn’t hebitshado pawdel(transported) to Hobart Town for horse-stealing? But for whom do you take me?”
“One of Newty’s sons, for sure. And here’s your father’s photograph” (handing me a daguerreotype in velvet-lined case). “Now look at yourself in the glass. Why, you’re the wery spit of Uncle Newton.”
So I found myself taken for a grandson of Old Ryley and Yoki Shuri, and my shopkeeping friends were themselves actual grandchildren of those Gypsies of renown. Here was a lucky find, and since I wasout upon a genealogical errand, I availed myself of the present opportunity to scoop in a goodly store of facts for my increasing collection of Romany pedigrees.
A few years after this visit to Hull, a correspondent in Australia imparted to me a number of facts relating to transported Gypsies. Here are a few of his personal recollections of Newton Boswell (or Boss), whom he had known as a travelling knife-grinder at Launceston in Tasmania.
“Newton, familiarly known as ‘Newty,’ seemed a nice quiet fellow, tall and spare, with the remains of good looks. Polite and well-spoken, he was not particularly Gypsy-looking, except for his walk and build—not particularly dark. At the same time hedidlook like a Gypsy. His eyes were of a mild brown. He wore a big felt hat and a coloured handkerchief. He told me that he had been popular with ladies, that one lady who had a large house (in New South Wales, I think), and with whom he worked as a servant or driver, took a particular fancy to him, but he left that situation because he wanted to be on the move. He said he did not like remaining long in one place. Newton confirmed Borrow’s description of Ryley, in regard to his wearing gold coins as buttons on his clothes, and other details. When I read him parts of Borrow’s books, he was astonished to find in print many facts familiar to himself. He once brought round his fiddle for meto hear him play, which he did in the energetic, spirited style peculiar to the race. He told me that he had travelled all over Australia.“Once, many years ago, there came up to Newton’s grinding-barrow in Sydney a handsome, dark, beautifully dressed, young lady who, looking him fixedly in the eyes, said—“‘There’s a Romany look about you.’“‘I beg your pardon, madam?’“‘There’s a Romany look about you.’“‘Why, madam, do I look any different from anybody else?’“‘Well, you are wearing a yellow handkerchief round your neck.’“‘Can’t anybody wear a coloured handkerchief, madam?’“‘Yes, they can, but they don’t.’“‘Well, madam, Iama Gypsy—a pure-bred one too—my name is Boswell.’“‘And so am I a Gypsy—my name is Lovell.’“She gave Newton a sovereign and invited him to call at her house. He subsequently learned that she had married some well-to-do man (a non-Gypsy) in England, who had brought her out to Australia, and that on his returning suddenly from a trip to the Old Country, he shot her in a passion of jealousy, and then shot himself.”
“Newton, familiarly known as ‘Newty,’ seemed a nice quiet fellow, tall and spare, with the remains of good looks. Polite and well-spoken, he was not particularly Gypsy-looking, except for his walk and build—not particularly dark. At the same time hedidlook like a Gypsy. His eyes were of a mild brown. He wore a big felt hat and a coloured handkerchief. He told me that he had been popular with ladies, that one lady who had a large house (in New South Wales, I think), and with whom he worked as a servant or driver, took a particular fancy to him, but he left that situation because he wanted to be on the move. He said he did not like remaining long in one place. Newton confirmed Borrow’s description of Ryley, in regard to his wearing gold coins as buttons on his clothes, and other details. When I read him parts of Borrow’s books, he was astonished to find in print many facts familiar to himself. He once brought round his fiddle for meto hear him play, which he did in the energetic, spirited style peculiar to the race. He told me that he had travelled all over Australia.
“Once, many years ago, there came up to Newton’s grinding-barrow in Sydney a handsome, dark, beautifully dressed, young lady who, looking him fixedly in the eyes, said—
“‘There’s a Romany look about you.’
“‘I beg your pardon, madam?’
“‘There’s a Romany look about you.’
“‘Why, madam, do I look any different from anybody else?’
“‘Well, you are wearing a yellow handkerchief round your neck.’
“‘Can’t anybody wear a coloured handkerchief, madam?’
“‘Yes, they can, but they don’t.’
“‘Well, madam, Iama Gypsy—a pure-bred one too—my name is Boswell.’
“‘And so am I a Gypsy—my name is Lovell.’
“She gave Newton a sovereign and invited him to call at her house. He subsequently learned that she had married some well-to-do man (a non-Gypsy) in England, who had brought her out to Australia, and that on his returning suddenly from a trip to the Old Country, he shot her in a passion of jealousy, and then shot himself.”
Some weeks later I was again exploring Hull forGypsies. To me few things are more agreeable than to hear Romany spoken unexpectedly. Walking along a city street, if suddenly amid the din of the traffic I hear a Gypsy greeting, I experience a very pleasant emotion.
In passing along the Anlaby Road, I heard from behind me, “Sâ shan,rashaia?” (How do, parson?) and, looking round, I saw Mireli Heron’s son, a jovial, harum-scarum fellow who has found a permanent home in Hull. I remember him as a travelling Gypsy, and his garb was then characteristic and becoming, but he had now adopted a coat, collar, and tie of the prevailing fashion. The Gypsy of the town, I find, has no desire to attract attention to himself; hence he becomes subdued in appearance, more’s the pity. Having settled, he becomes “respectable,” drab-coloured, unpicturesque.
At my request young Heron walked across with me to the Spring Bank, and on the way thither he pulled up at a photographers shop window, and, pointing to a picture, asked—
“What would you call that inRomanes?” (Gypsy).
“Why, akuskti-dikinrakli(a good-looking girl), to be sure.”
“Keka,keka(no, no), I don’t mean that. What’s our word for ‘picture’?”
“Dikamengri.”
“Keka, that’s the word for a looking-glass.”
“Well, what wouldyousay?”
“Stor-dui-graph” (Four(4)-two(2)-graph, hence photograph).
The Romany tongue is plastic, and a Gypsy will playfully coin new words in this fashion. As a Gypsy once said, “There’s always a way of saying a thing inRomanes, if you can find it out.” Certain it is, if a Gypsy has no old word for a thing, he will not be long in coining a new one.
Entering the Spring Bank Cemetery together, my companion pointed out the grave of Yoki Shuri, the faithful consort of Ryley Boswell (or Boss), and upon the neat stone I read this inscription, “In memory of Shorensey Boss, who died Jan. 18, 1868, aged 65 years.” From a bush planted on the grave I plucked a sweet white rose.
Further, I learned from my companion that Old Ryley’s son Isaac, commonly called “Haggi,” had died in Hull only a few years previously. Like his brother Newton, he too had visited Australia, and, returning to this country, had settled in Hull, and was daily seen in the streets with a grinding-barrow. A girl whom Haggi brought with him from Australia told me (this was a few years later) that when as a child she was naughty, Haggi would frighten her by saying, “If you’re not good, Old Ryley will get you, and he’llmaw tut” (kill you).
One summer, when holidaying with my family at the breezy Yorkshire coast-town of Bridlington, I heard that there were Romanies living in a house at a little inland town, and, cycling over the hills, I spent a pleasant hour in the home of a Gypsy, who in a sweet voice sang the following ballad:—
“There were seven Gypsies all in a row,And they sang blithe and bonny, O!They sang until at last they cameUnto the yellow castle’s hall, O!The yellow castle’s lady, she came out,And gave to them some siller, O!She gave to them a far better thing,’Twas the gold ring from her finger, O!At ten o’clock o’ night her lord came home,Enquiring for his lady, O!The waiting-maid gave this reply,She’s gone with the roving Gypsies, O!Come saddle me my milk-white steed,Come saddle for me my pony, O!That I may go by the green-wood side,Until I find my lady, O!So all through the dark o’ night he rode,Until the next day’s dawning, O!He rode along the green-wood side,And there he found his lady, O!Last night you laid on a good feather bed,Beside your own married lord, O!To-night in the cold open fields you lie,Along with the roving Gypsies, O!What made you leave your home and your lands?What made you leave your money, O!What made you leave your own married lord,To go with the roving Gypsies, O!What cares I for my home and my lands,What cares I for my money, O!What cares I for my own married lord,I’ll go with the roving Gypsies, O!”
“There were seven Gypsies all in a row,And they sang blithe and bonny, O!They sang until at last they cameUnto the yellow castle’s hall, O!
The yellow castle’s lady, she came out,And gave to them some siller, O!She gave to them a far better thing,’Twas the gold ring from her finger, O!
At ten o’clock o’ night her lord came home,Enquiring for his lady, O!The waiting-maid gave this reply,She’s gone with the roving Gypsies, O!
Come saddle me my milk-white steed,Come saddle for me my pony, O!That I may go by the green-wood side,Until I find my lady, O!
So all through the dark o’ night he rode,Until the next day’s dawning, O!He rode along the green-wood side,And there he found his lady, O!
Last night you laid on a good feather bed,Beside your own married lord, O!To-night in the cold open fields you lie,Along with the roving Gypsies, O!
What made you leave your home and your lands?What made you leave your money, O!What made you leave your own married lord,To go with the roving Gypsies, O!
What cares I for my home and my lands,What cares I for my money, O!What cares I for my own married lord,I’ll go with the roving Gypsies, O!”
On leaving, I placed a silver coin in the singer’s tawny palm, whereupon she sprang from her stool by the fire and gave me a resounding kiss on the cheek.
AsI have said, Gypsies settled in houses now greatly outnumber their roving brethren. Hence it has come to pass that nearly every town in the land possesses a Bohemian quarter where you are met by dark faces and sidelong glances speaking of Gypsy blood. Nor can the student of Gypsy life and manners afford to neglect these haunts despite their dinginess, for as often as not they contain aged Gypsies whose memories are well worth ransacking for lore and legend, and in “working” these queer alleys, one has often picked up choice reminiscences of bygone Gypsy life.
House-Dwelling Gypsies. Photo. Fred Shaw
One morning I was walking under the grey walls of Scarborough Castle, and, coming out upon the sparkling North Bay, I ran into the arms of amush-fakir(umbrella-mender), who looked as if there rolled in his veins a blend of Scottish and Irish blood, but I was mistaken, for he told me he was Welsh and bore the name of Evans. Far-travelled, his peregrinations had ranged from Aberdeen to Penzance, and seldom have I met a man of his class so overflowing with varied knowledge. He asked me if Iknew William Street in Scarborough, but as a newcomer I admitted that I had not so much as heard of the locality, and made request for further information.
“I reckon William Street ’ll just suit you,” he declared. “It’s full o’ tinkers and grinders, Gypsies and sweeps, and the like.”
“A regular Whitechapel,” I suggested.
“Now you’ve hit it,” said he laughingly.
I asked him where he was residing in that street.
“At the Model, to be sure, and if you ax for Long Ambrose, you’ll find they all know me.”
I further inquired of him as to the Gypsy inhabitants of that quarter, and he gave me a list of the “travellers” who had settled there. These I called upon leisurely during a holiday extending over three weeks. One day I would look up one or two of them, and a few days later I renewed my visitation by dropping in upon several others, and so on until this little gold-mine was exhausted.
From the sea-front it was a change scarcely Aladdin-like to find oneself in smoky William Street, a byway shut in by dingy walls, which in the deepening dusk took on an air of mystery. A little way down the street, I knocked at the door of Inji Morrison, but as there was no response I lifted the latch, and, putting my head inside the room, I spake aloud, “Putsh man te av adrê” (Ask me to come inside). A sound of shuffling feet was heard, with tripping steps in the rear, and an old crone tottered forward, along with her granddaughter, dark-eyedand twenty-five. Following them into the kitchen, I saw the floor scattered with willow pegs in various stages of manufacture. The pair accorded me a genial welcome, though they scanned me curiously as if wondering what sort of Gypsy I might be. When I mentioned some black foreignRomanitshels whom I had seen, the old mother remarked—
“I shouldn’t like todik lendi(see them); they would make me think of theBeng.”
Then, as the old lady was dull of hearing, her granddaughter (in an aside) said—
“You mustn’t mind,rai, what granny says; she’s getting old. As for theBeng, there ain’t no sich pusson, I don’t think. There’s nothing bad comes from below. There’s the springs we drink from, and the dearie little flowers we love to gather. And there’s nothing but good comes from above; the blessed sunshine and the light o’ moon and the rain that falls—why, all of ’em’s good things, ain’t they? The badness is on’y what people makes.”
Now through the open door leading to a cramped backyard came a hairy terrier, followed by a small boy with saucy eyes and long, black curls falling upon the shoulders of his ill-fitting coat. A great-grandson from a few doors lower down was this quicksilver pixy, who sat himself at our feet and cuddled the terrier near a few red embers in the grate.
“Mend the fire, my gal,” said Old Inji. And when the wood blazed and lit up the room, grannyfilled her pipe from shavings cut from a cake of black tobacco.
“I’ll never go to Seamer Fair no more now my man’s dead. ’Tain’t likely as I could. ’Twouldn’t be the same, would it?”
“Seamer Fair, when is that?”
“Why, next week. There’ll bedosta Romanitshelsodoi(many Gypsies there) and music and dancing. Ay, and fighting too.”
Then she fell to rambling about her former life on the road.
Another day I sat with Vashti Boswell in her cottage down one of the numerous yards branching out of William Street. Handing me a rude stool, the work of some Gypsy carpenter, she sat herself on the fender. On her forehead was a deep indentation which she said was made by a blow from a poker at the hand of a mad relative. In vivid words she described the occasion of that blow, and one pictured the desperate struggle between the two women, till Vashti, fainting from loss of blood, fell in a heap on to the floor, but not before Izaria, a stalwart fellow, attracted by his mother’s screams, had rushed into the house and snatched the weapon from the mad woman’s hand.
A little higher up the street lived this same son and Vashti’s nephew, Joel Boswell, who were sent for, a neighbour’s child acting as messenger. I have often noticed that Gypsies will call in theirkinsfolk who live near to share in the pleasure and excitement, likewise in the “grist,” implied by arai’s visit. Much to my surprise Vashti knew all about Gypsy Court at Lincoln, and little wonder when she presently told me that her husband was a half-brother of my old friend, Jumping Jack.
Talking of the past, Vashti declared that very few Gypsies in her day went to church for marriage.
“My man and me jumped the besom, we did. That’s how we was married. Like many more, we didn’t getparson’d, but we thought our old way just as binding as if we’d been to church. My man were a good ’un as long as he lived, and weren’t that enough for the likes o’ me?”
“Then you remember Jumping Jack?” I asked.
“Âwa(yes), and he could jump too. He once cleared the backs of three horses standing side by side, and I’s seen him jump the common gate times and agen. When my husband was living, we used to travel Lincolnshire, and now lots of us are living in houses scattered all over thetem” (country).
At this juncture, Joel disappeared for a few moments, and on his return bore a large jug of foaming brown ale, which was his way of welcoming therai, and pipes were soon in full blast.
It was from Joel’s lips that I heard about Mordecai Boswell, who died at Retford many years ago. Mordecai was a fine-looking man, his hair falling in long curls. He wore a dark green coat with big pearl buttons and a broad collar, while hislow-crowned hat might well have been a family heirloom. He had a dancing booth at fairs, and would fiddle, while his sister Matilda danced and played the tambourine. Frampton Boswell used to join him at the St. Leger and other big races, and they didn’t do badly with the dancing booth.
One day agawjowas chatting with Mordecai, and the talk turned uponhotshiwitshi(hedgehog).
“I couldn’t fancy eating that creature,” said thegawjo. “It makes me feel queer to think of it.”
“Look here,” said Mordecai, “I’ll bet you a half-crown that before many days are past you’ll have had some.”
Thegawjogrinned and shrugged his shoulders. Time went on, and thegawjoone day came upon Mordecai and his family having dinner on the roadside.
“Won’t you have a bite with us?” said Mordecai.
“What’s that on the dish?” asked thegawjo.
“Duck,” replied the Gypsy, with a grave face. Thegawjosat down and was soon enjoying what looked remarkably like a duck’s leg. When the meal was over and pipes were brought out, Mordecai got a-talking.
“Well, my pal, where have you been since I saw you last, and how have you been faring? Has any Gypsy got you to swallow a bit o’hotshiwitshi?”
“No, not likely. Didn’t I tell you that that nasty creature should never touch my lips?”
“Then you’ve done it to-day. You’ve hadhotshifor dinner, and you seemed to enjoy one of the legs finely. You smacked your lips over it anyway. Hand up that half-crown.”
He did so, and, turning pale, walked away.
“I say,rai,” remarked Izaria, “did you know there’s some of the black Herrens (Herons) stopping at Robin Hood’s Bay, not far from here? I seen ’em at Scarborough a little while back, and I shouldn’t wonder if some of ’em’s at Seamer Fair next week.”
Making a mental note of these two places, I resolved to visit them. Then, happening to mention themush-fakirwhom I had encountered near the Castle, Joel said, “I once had an uncle as was very fond of this here town, I mean Elisha Blewitt, as married Mordecai’s sister Sybarina; my uncle was amush-fakir, but he’s been dead for years. As for that there man you spoke of, I believe there’s a long-leggedgèro(man) in the same line o’ business living at the Model.”
Next day in the same quarter I waylaid Fennix Smith in company with a Gypsy named Swales, who were about to set forth in a two-wheeled cart drawn by a thin-legged pony, their destination being Malton. On their way home they would call at “No Man’s Land,” where they expected to find some of their travelling friends drawing up for Seamer Fair. Between their legs I noticed a lurcher curled up, and, pointing to it, I said, “I see you mean to have some sport on the way.”
“Yes, and we shan’t forget to bring you some-think, pass’n, if we has good luck.”
After the pony-cart had rattled out of the street, I turned into the yard of the Model, where several grinding-barrows stood under a lean-to, but I failed to recognize Long Ambrose’s property among them, and, entering the house, I learned that mymush-fakirmight be expected home at any time. Walking up the street, I came upon a stalwart Gypsy woman standing at her open door. Her husband, I gathered, was a tinker, and not a prosperous one at that, judging by his wife’s tattered gown and woebegone air. During our talk about her relations who travelled Lincolnshire, two pretty little children continually tugged at her gown.
“If you go to Seamer Fair,rai, you’ll be sure to find some of my folks, the Smiths, along with the Herrens and Youngs.”
Just then I heard a man whistling, and round the corner appeared Long Ambrose pushing his barrow. In the yard of the Model we conversed, and on his referring to Gloucester, I asked if he knew any of the Carews, horse-dealers of that city.
“Oh yes, there was one of them sold a dyed horse to match a black carriage-grai, and a wery ‘fly’ cove he was, but he got found out, and had to do ‘time’ for that affair.” Mymush-fakir seemedto have travelled everywhere.
Mindful of the intimation let fall by Izaria Boswellthat there were black Herons to be found at Robin Hood’s Bay, I made my way thither afoot one brilliant July morning. A cool air from the sea tempered the sun’s powerful rays, and it was good to inhale the sweetness of the summer meadows where the haymakers were busy. Overhead the bent-winged silvery gulls passed to and fro, and among the wayside bushes yellow-hammers trilled their song which in childhood we translated by the words, “a little bit of bread and no cheese.”
Perched on the top of a lofty cliff overlooking the North Sea, the village of Robin Hood’s Bay seems almost to overhang a precipice, and on stormy nights the wind roaring up the cliff flings the salt spray far inland. The whole of the coast hereabouts is a delicious panorama of rock-bound bays and coves.
On arriving at the village I had no difficulty in locating my Gypsies. A fisherman, sun-tanned and jovial, pointed a stubby finger towards a grassy plot whereon stood three caravans, and it was with a thrill of pleasure that I drew near. Yes, there on the short turf sat one-armed Josh and Nettie, his wife. Our greetings were hearty, and as we talked, up came one of the Youngs.
“You are just the man I want to see,rashai,” and, taking out a crumpled newspaper, he said, “There’s something in here about stopping the Gypsies from camping at Scarborough.”
After a hunt through the paper, I came upon areport of a meeting of the wiseacres of the town, and read their speeches about the “nuisances” said to be created by the Gypsies.
“But there ain’t any Gypsies there nowwe’scome away,” said Young. “The people stopping there are only poordidakais (half-breeds) andmumpari. We don’t callthemGypsies.”
The speaker was one of the purest-bred English Gypsies I have ever met.
Pure Gypsies draw a marked line between dirty, low-class van-dwellers and themselves; but unfortunately the world at large makes no such distinction, immensely to the detriment of the trueRomanitshel.
East Yorkshire is a favourite country with the Herons and Youngs. Both Josh and Nettie love it well, as did also some of their forelders. It was at Robin Hood’s Bay that Nettie’s Aunt Whipney died long years ago. I well remember a little tale about this old Gypsy. Tinker Ned, her husband, had “found” akani(hen) for the pot. It was a small one, and Whipney cooked it. When the tinker came home at a later hour than he had promised, he asked—
“Where’s thatkani? Have you cooked it?”
His wife answered by putting two fingers into her mouth, meaning, that she had consumed the little fowl. Thereupon Tinker Ned picked up a loose tent rod and gave her a good thrashing.
Close by sat Nettie’s daughter-in-law, Isabel, and her children, bonny bairns, tumbled happily on the grass. As I looked at these Gypsies, all of thempictures of blooming health—clear-eyed, clean-limbed, bare-headed in sun and breeze—I reflected not without sadness on the fact that the tendency of modern legislation is to curtail and render more difficult the free, roving life of these children of Nature.
It was now late in the afternoon, and over tea we talked of other times and old Gypsy ways. Nettie told of her own mischievous tricks when she was a child, how she used to hide her mammy’s pipe in a tuft of grass near the tent, and then watch her hunt up and down for it; her sister Linda and she would have a good laugh to themselves over the trick, and then what tales their old mother would tell them by the fire o’ nights. One of these stories related to a horse belonging to some Irish Gypsies, the O’Neils.
He was an aged animal and a favourite of the family. One day he fell down and broke his back. Quite still he lay, and, taking him for dead, they removed his skin, but in the morning he came and kicked at thevâdo. He was a sight awful to behold. Now it happened that near at hand lay a pile of sheepskins, so they hurriedly clapped some of these on the poor horse and bound them round and round with willow withies. In a little while the animal recovered, and the O’Neils used to clip a crop of wool off him every year. And since the willow sticks took root and grew, the Gypsies were able to cut materials sufficient to make many baskets.
Folk-stories of this character are classified by lorists as “lying tales,” and in a subsequent chapterI shall give a sheaf of such stories familiar to all our Boswells and Herons, wherever you may light upon them.
It was Nettie’s daughter-in-law who, after listening to a ghost tale from me, protested—
“Mulos(ghosts)—I’ll tell you what I thinks about ’em. Folks who die and go to the good place won’t never want to leave it, and as for people what go to the bad place, I reckons they’ll have to stop there. ’Tain’t likely they’ll ever have a chance to come back.”
Looking up the footpath leading to the camp, I saw Isabel’s little boy dragging a dead bough behind him. Said Josh, waving his stump of an arm towards the approaching child—
“The worst thing we Gypsies does nowadays is to pick up a dead stick or two for the fire, and if we goes into awesh(wood) for a littleshushi(rabbit) for the pot, well, I reckon there’s plenty left for them as has a deal too many. If we sets a snare, it ain’t so cruel as the keeper’s teethy traps, and the lord and lady as employs the keeper talks in the Town Hall agen cruelty to animals—so I hear. Oh dear, it makes me larf!”
As I turned to take a farewell look at the group, I saw the Gypsies stretched at full length, puffing their pipes, while away beyond them lay the deep blue sea, and the rugged coast trending north and south in exquisite bays. It was a sight to cherish in the memory.
A cool rain in the early hours had given place to a hot July morning, as I entered the village of Seamer already astir with its horse-fair. Making my way between knots of colts and droves of ponies at whose heels Gypsy boys were waving pink glazed calico flags, I went to where one of the North-Country Smiths stood gesticulating before a group of prospective buyers of colts, and discovered in him Elias Petulengro’s son, Vanlo, whom I had known at Lincoln. Presently he walked across to me and held out a hand of friendship. All around us were Yorkshire travelling folk, and while chatting with Vanlo I witnessed a curious thing. Three policemen stood talking together, and one of them had his hands behind his back. A Gypsy, sidling up, slipped a half-crown into this policeman’s hand. I saw his fingers close over the coin, yet he never by the slightest sign betrayed this act of the Gypsy, which passed unobserved by the other constables. Petulengro, who witnessed it, explained that this sort of thing is not uncommon. It obtains little privileges. “Themuskro” (policeman), said he, “will turn a blind eye to that Gypsy’s fire on some wayside to-night.”
A Gypsy Lad. Photo. Fred Shaw
Strolling through the fair, I spied old Clara Smith smoking a black clay under a stone wall, and by her side sat her daughter Tiena and one of her male relations, whom I had once met on a bleak fell in North-West Yorkshire. It was he who told me the following tale as he sat making pegs among the ling:—
“When I was a boy, I was takingpuvengris (potatoes) from a field, and I looked up, and there stood a tall man staring at me over the hedge.
“‘You come along with me,’ he shouted, and, taking him for a policeman in plain clothes, I obeyed, and went with him to a big building which I thought was the Sessions House. There were many people inside, and a gentleman was talking to them. At last he looked hard at me, and said, ‘Thou art the man.’
“So I jumped up and said, ‘Yes, I know I am, but I didn’t mean to do it. It was my uncle as made me go. I’ll never steal potatoes no more.’ And because I would keep on talking like a Philadelphia lawyer, they turned me out without passing sentence on me. Next day I was walking with my uncle, and the tall man as took me off to the place, passed by. ‘That’s the policeman as arrested me,’ says I.
“‘Why, you silly boy,’ said my uncle, ‘that there man is the evangelist, and he took you to his chapel, he did.’”
“Itain’t fit to turn a dog out o’ doors, that it ain’t, so you’d better make up your mind to stop all night.”
Saying this, Gypsy Ladin closed the porch door, but not without difficulty, for a gale was battering upon the wayside bungalow. Half an hour ago, as I hurried along the willow-fringed “ramper” on my way to see this old Romany pal, black rain-clouds, bulging low over the fenland wapentake, had foretold an approaching storm; and now with the descent of the May night the tempest had burst in full fury upon the land. Torrential rain, swift swelling rushes of wind, and brilliant flashes of lightning made me glad to be housed with my friend in his fire-lit room.
Hidden by a dense hedge from the highway, this Gypsy abode stood back amid a cluster of apple trees, and a daylight view of the place would have revealed to you an entirely nondescript habitation, with here a home-made porch, and there a creeper-grown extension sheltering a green caravan in which Ladin and his wife Juli have travelled many a mile over the smooth causeways of the far-reaching flats.
Let me picture for you the tiny apartment where we now sat happily blowing clouds of tobacco smoke. Over the wide fireplace, which occupied one side of the room, rose a high mantelpiece surrounded by coloured prints of Derby winners, divided one from another by glistening horse-bits and brass-bound whips. Opposite the fireplace a small casement looked out upon a bulb-garden aglow by day with hyacinths, tulips, and narcissi—a common sight in the Fens. The side walls were adorned with portraits of Gypsy relatives deceased and living, and the brazen ornaments on parts of a van-horse’s harness gleamed in the rays of the pendant lamp. Before the fire sat my friend and his wife, a tall, striking woman of the old-fashioned Draper clan, and along with us were two youthful sons of the house, Rinki and Zegul, smart, quick-eyed fellows, who occupied a home-made bench opposite my seat of honour in the chimney corner. At our feet lay a dark lurcher, a type of dog whose peculiar qualities are well appreciated by Gypsies.
I have already spoken of my friend as “Gypsy” Ladin, but his ruddy complexion and grey eyes are scarcely suggestive of the pure Romany. About the good “black blood” of his wife, however, there can be no manner of doubt. Probably my friend would agree with the rovinggawjo, who, having married a pure Gypsy, declared that the mingling of gentile and Romany crafts was a desirable blending of qualities. Did not Lazzy Smith, renowned in Gypsydom, once say—
“Ain’t it in the Bible that God’s people should multiply and be as one? It ain’t no sort o’ use at all a-goin’ agen the dear blessed Lord’s words. Why, a cross is good, even if it be only in wheat, ain’t it, now?”
“Ain’t it in the Bible that God’s people should multiply and be as one? It ain’t no sort o’ use at all a-goin’ agen the dear blessed Lord’s words. Why, a cross is good, even if it be only in wheat, ain’t it, now?”
Belonging to East Anglia, Ladin’s forelders have mingled a good deal with the Herons who formerly travelled the counties bordering upon the North Sea. Himself akin to the Chilcots and Smiths, Ladin has inherited not a few traditions of these families.
“Do you remember Yoki Shuri Smith?” I asked.
“You mean Old Ryley’s wife? Ay, I mind her well, but Ryley I don’t remember. Shuri”—Ladin shivered as he uttered the name—“was looked upon as atshovihawni(witch) by our folks. We allus thought it unlucky to meet her on the road of a morning. I’ve known my folks turn back, saying, ‘It ain’t no use going out to-day.’”
After a discussion of Shuri’s “powers,” I ventured upon a tale of my own experience of a witch who lived in a parish of which I was formerly curate-in-charge.
About a fortnight after my arrival at the Rectory, our aged gardener took me into his confidence.
“Excuse me askin’ if you’ve seen Old Betty what lives agin the well at the bottom of the lane? You must mind you don’t never get across wi’ that woman, or she’ll sartinly mek things awk’ard for you.”
The man’s meaning was that Betty had “peculiar powers.” A widow of sixty or more, she attendedno place of worship, and rarely covered her grey head with anything more than a shawl. Besides her allowance from the parish, she managed to make a little money by selling ointments for wounds and sores, and many a cure has been wrought by means of her home-made compounds. My first meeting with her was on the Feast of St. Thomas, called in those parts “Mumping Day.” At my door stood Old Betty asking for a bit of silver, and a few yards behind her came several other widows. Hesitatingly I stood just over the threshold, when suddenly, before I could step aside, a lot of soft snow slid from the house-roof with a splash upon my bare head, while Old Betty and her companions laughed loud and long. The village gossips duly spread it abroad that Betty had, by her “peculiar powers,” brought down the snow upon the parson’s head. Anyway, I resolved for the future to be more prompt in the exercise of that unfailing charm against Betty’s witchcraft—a silver shilling.