One spring morning Bobbie started off on a foray with some of his pals. The air was clear, and a soft wind was blowing over the Lammer-moors on whose slopes the lambs were gambolling. The Gypsies had walked a few miles, and the mountain air had sharpened the edge of their appetites. Looking round for a farmhouse or a cottage where they might ask for a kettle of boiling water to brew their tea in the can—such as few of the Faas would ever travel without—Bobbie was the first to espy some outbuildings, at the back ofwhich stood a shepherd’s cottage, and, taking upon himself to be spokesman, he bravely started off for the cottage, the men resting meanwhile at the foot of the hill. As he approached the door, a fine savoury smell greeted Bobbie, making him feel ten times more hungry than before. He knocked gently at the door, which stood ajar, but no one came, and all was quiet within. He repeated his knock, and, taking a step forward, found the kitchen empty. Before the fire stood a tempting shepherds-pie of a most extraordinary size, and its appetizing steam quite overcame any scruples which otherwise might have lurked in the heart of Bobbie Faa. Not for one moment did he hesitate, but, nipping up the dish, he speedily ran down the hill with the pie under his arm. Not knowing how he had come by it, his mates could scarcely believe their eyes when he laid the pie on the grass, and they praised the gude-wife who had so kindly given them such a feast. When the dish was empty, he gave it to a pal, telling him to take it back to the gude woman and say how much they had enjoyed the pie. It happened to be a sheep-shearing day, and the shepherd’s wife had gone to call her husband and his fellows to their dinner. She had just returned to the kitchen when the Gypsy lad arrived with the empty dish, and on handing it back to her with smiles and thanks, a torrent of abuse was poured forth on the poor boy’s head, as the woman now grasped the situation andbecame aware of the fate of her pie. Just then her husband and the other shearers appeared round the corner, and, hearing what had befallen their dinner, the infuriated men seized the lad and gave him a sound drubbing.
Thetwentieth century has witnessed a remarkable revival of certain old-time pleasures in the form of pageants and pastoral plays, folk-songs, and dances, but it should not be overlooked that in our midst still linger those popular revels, tattered survivals of medieval mirth, called pleasure-fairs, held periodically in most of our old country towns. It is true, these ancient fairs are not what they were, Father Time having laid his hand heavily upon them, with the result that not a few of their features which were reckoned among our childhood’s joys have vanished.
On the Eve of the Fair. Photo. Rev. H. H. Malleson
Gone are the marionettes, the wax-works, the ghost-shows. Departed, too, are many of the mysterious little booths, behind whose canvas walls queer freaks and abnormalities were wont to hide. Perhaps, however, when the travelling cinema has outworn its vogue, the older “mystery” shows will reappear by the side of the Alpine slide, the scenic railway, and the joy wheel.
Still renowned for their wondrous gaiety are a few of our larger fairs, whither huge crowds flockby road and rail for a few hours of rollicking carnival. I have in mind such events as Barnet September Fair, Birmingham Onion Fair, the October merry-makings at Hull, Nottingham Goose Fair, and the like, but even these, owing to a variety of reasons, are now of shrunken dimensions.
Fairs of whatever sort are generally occasions of friendly reunion, not only for show-people andgawjêvisitors, but also for Gypsies who love to forgather on the margins of the fair-ground, or upon an adjacent common, where they compare notes and discuss the happenings since their last meeting.
Borne on the crisp October air, the chimes of Peterborough floated over the city roofs, reaching even to the fair-grounds, where I was one of the large holiday crowd which hustled and laughed and tossed confetti in mimic snow-showers. When in quest of Gypsies, the first half-hour you spend in wandering about a fair is a time of pleasurable excitement. Who can tell how many old friends you may meet, or what fresh dark faces you are about to encounter?
As I was saying, the crowd was hilarious, and, having so far recognized no Romany countenance up and down the footways between the coco-nut shies and shooting-galleries, swing-boats and merry-go-rounds, it occurred to me that a little more breathing-space might be found upon the open pasture where horses were being bought and sold, and, pushing alongin that direction, I was brought to a standstill at the foot of the steps leading down from a gilded show-front. Walking with the airs of a fine lady, there came down those steps a young Gypsy attired in a yellow gown and tartan blouse, with a blazing red scarf thrown over her shoulders upon which her hair fell in black curls. It was this coloured vision as much as the block in the footway that held me up for the nonce. Another moment, and Lena Gray, Old Eliza’s daughter, brushed against my shoulder, yet, as often happens in a crowd, she failed to see me. Therefore, into her ear I dropped a whispered Romany phrase at which she started, and, recognizing me, exclaimed—
“Dawdi,raia, thisisa surprise!”
It was but a few steps to the sheltered spot in a field opposite the horse-fair where her brother Yoben sat fiddling by the side of the living-van. Even before we came up to him, something arrested my attention—the unusual shape of his violin, which, as Lena informed me, her brother had made out of a cigar-box picked up in a public-house.
Our field corner had a most agreeable outlook. Beyond a stretch of greenest turf, dotted with caravans and bounded by the reddening autumn hedgerows, lay the pleasure-fair, a sunlit fantasia of colour, from which, like feathery plumes, ascended puffs of white steam topping numerous whirling roundabouts. Pleasant it was to sit out here in the calm weather chatting with the Grays, whom I hadso recently met on the Lincolnshire sea-border, and even while we conversed there passed by a little party of gaily-dressed Gypsies—two rather portly women of middle age and two slender girls.
“Who are those people?” I asked.
“Some of thegozverê(cunning) Lovells,” replied Lena. Then I remembered that for some time past I had carried in my notebook several cuttings grown dingy with age, relating to traditional practices characteristic of this family. Two paragraphs will suffice as specimens.
“A domestic servant told a remarkable story yesterday before a West London magistrate. She said that a gipsy called at the house and asked her to buy some laces. She refused, and prisoner then offered to tell her fortune for a shilling. Witness agreed, and the woman told her fortune, and she (witness) gave her two shillings, and asked her for the change. Prisoner said she would tell her young man’s name by the planet. Witness had a half-sovereign and two half-crowns in her purse, and prisoner asked her to let her have the coins to cross the palm of her hand with. She handed her the coins, and the woman crossed her palm. She then asked her to fetch a glass of water, and, on her returning with it, told her to drink it. Afterwards she told her to pray, and then, apparently putting the 10s. and the two half-crowns in her pocket-handkerchief, placed the handkerchief in her bodice,and told her not to take it out for twenty minutes. After that the woman left.“The magistrate: ‘Did you take the handkerchief out?’“‘Well, I waited for twenty minutes or so, and then I took it out, and instead of the 10s. and the two half-crowns I found two pennies and a farthing.’ (Laughter.)”
“A domestic servant told a remarkable story yesterday before a West London magistrate. She said that a gipsy called at the house and asked her to buy some laces. She refused, and prisoner then offered to tell her fortune for a shilling. Witness agreed, and the woman told her fortune, and she (witness) gave her two shillings, and asked her for the change. Prisoner said she would tell her young man’s name by the planet. Witness had a half-sovereign and two half-crowns in her purse, and prisoner asked her to let her have the coins to cross the palm of her hand with. She handed her the coins, and the woman crossed her palm. She then asked her to fetch a glass of water, and, on her returning with it, told her to drink it. Afterwards she told her to pray, and then, apparently putting the 10s. and the two half-crowns in her pocket-handkerchief, placed the handkerchief in her bodice,and told her not to take it out for twenty minutes. After that the woman left.
“The magistrate: ‘Did you take the handkerchief out?’
“‘Well, I waited for twenty minutes or so, and then I took it out, and instead of the 10s. and the two half-crowns I found two pennies and a farthing.’ (Laughter.)”
Obviously, the above is a variant of the ancient Gypsy trick known as thehokano bawro(big swindle). Something equally Gypsy, as we shall see, clings to our second example.
“The local police have had their attention engaged during the week in connection with an alleged extraordinary occurrence whereby a shopgirl became, under supposed hypnotic influence, the dupe of two gipsy women. From inquiry it appears that on Saturday afternoon two gipsy women, having the appearance of mother and daughter, entered a baby-linen shop, and seem to have exerted such a remarkable influence over the girl that she was induced to hand over to them articles of wear amounting in value to between £8 and £9. Before they left the shop she recovered her self-possession sufficiently to express doubt as to whether they would return with the goods or money, and her fears were allayed somewhat by receiving from her visitors in the shape of security a lady’s beautiful gold ring and chain. Subsequently the young lady, suspecting the genuinenessof the pledges, took them to a jeweller, who declared the value of the ring and chain to be not more than a couple of shillings. The shopgirl is unable to account for her want of self-possession in the presence of the gipsies, and states that she felt she might have given them anything they asked for. There were a good many gipsies located in the district, but on a visit to the encampment in company with the police the girl did not recognize her two visitors. The remarkable occurrence has given rise to much comment in the locality.”
“The local police have had their attention engaged during the week in connection with an alleged extraordinary occurrence whereby a shopgirl became, under supposed hypnotic influence, the dupe of two gipsy women. From inquiry it appears that on Saturday afternoon two gipsy women, having the appearance of mother and daughter, entered a baby-linen shop, and seem to have exerted such a remarkable influence over the girl that she was induced to hand over to them articles of wear amounting in value to between £8 and £9. Before they left the shop she recovered her self-possession sufficiently to express doubt as to whether they would return with the goods or money, and her fears were allayed somewhat by receiving from her visitors in the shape of security a lady’s beautiful gold ring and chain. Subsequently the young lady, suspecting the genuinenessof the pledges, took them to a jeweller, who declared the value of the ring and chain to be not more than a couple of shillings. The shopgirl is unable to account for her want of self-possession in the presence of the gipsies, and states that she felt she might have given them anything they asked for. There were a good many gipsies located in the district, but on a visit to the encampment in company with the police the girl did not recognize her two visitors. The remarkable occurrence has given rise to much comment in the locality.”
Here is something strangely akin to the Romany mesmerism to which allusion is made by “The Scholar-Gipsy,” whose
“. . . mates had arts to rule as they desir’dThe workings of men’s brains;And they can bind them to what thoughts they will.”
“. . . mates had arts to rule as they desir’dThe workings of men’s brains;And they can bind them to what thoughts they will.”
As is well known, Matthew Arnold’s poem is based upon the following passage in Joseph Glanvill’sVanity of Dogmatizing:—
“That one man should be able to bind the thoughts of another, and determine them to their particular objects, will be reckoned in the first rank of Impossibles; Yet by the power of advanc’d Imagination it may very probably be effected; and story abounds with Instances. I’le trouble the Reader but with one; and the hands from which I had it, make me secure of the truth on’t. Therewas very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who, being of very pregnant and ready parts, and yet wanting the encouragement of preferment, was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there, and to cast himself upon the wide world for livelyhood. Now, his necessities growing daily on him, and wanting the help of friends to relieve him; he was at last forced to joyn himself to a company of Vagabond Gypsies, whom occasionally he met with, and to follow their trade for a maintenance. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtility of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem; that they discover’d to him their Mystery; in the practice of which, by the pregnancy of his wit and partz he soon grew so good a proficient, as to out-do his Instructours. After he had been a pretty while well exercis’d in the Trade; there chanc’d to ride by a couple of Scholars who had formerly bin of his acquaintance. The Scholars had quickly spyed out their old friend, among the Gypsies; and their amazement to see him among such society, had well-nigh discover’d him; but by a sign he prevented their owning him before that crew; and taking one of them aside privately, desir’d him with his friend to go to an Inn, not far distant thence, promising there to come to them. They accordingly went thither, and he follows; after their first salutations, his friends enquire how he came to live so odd a life as that was, and to joyn himself with such a cheating beggerly company. TheScholar-Gypsy having given them an account of the necessity, which drove him to that kind of life; told them, that the people he went with were not such Impostours as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of Imagination, and that himself had learned much of their Art, and improved it further than themselves could. And to evince the truth of what he told them, he said he’d remove into another room, leaving them to discourse together; and upon his return tell them the sum of what they had talked of; which accordingly he perform’d, giving them a full account of what had pass’d between them in his absence. The Scholars being amaz’d at so unexpected a discovery, earnestly desir’d him to unriddle the mystery. In which he gave them satisfaction, by telling them, that what he did was by the power of Imagination, his Phancy binding theirs; and that himself had dictated to them the discourse they held together, while he was from them: That there were warrantable wayes of heightening the Imagination to that pitch, as to bind another’s; and that when he had compass’d the whole secret, some parts of which he said he was yet ignorant of, he intended to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.”
“That one man should be able to bind the thoughts of another, and determine them to their particular objects, will be reckoned in the first rank of Impossibles; Yet by the power of advanc’d Imagination it may very probably be effected; and story abounds with Instances. I’le trouble the Reader but with one; and the hands from which I had it, make me secure of the truth on’t. Therewas very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who, being of very pregnant and ready parts, and yet wanting the encouragement of preferment, was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there, and to cast himself upon the wide world for livelyhood. Now, his necessities growing daily on him, and wanting the help of friends to relieve him; he was at last forced to joyn himself to a company of Vagabond Gypsies, whom occasionally he met with, and to follow their trade for a maintenance. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtility of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem; that they discover’d to him their Mystery; in the practice of which, by the pregnancy of his wit and partz he soon grew so good a proficient, as to out-do his Instructours. After he had been a pretty while well exercis’d in the Trade; there chanc’d to ride by a couple of Scholars who had formerly bin of his acquaintance. The Scholars had quickly spyed out their old friend, among the Gypsies; and their amazement to see him among such society, had well-nigh discover’d him; but by a sign he prevented their owning him before that crew; and taking one of them aside privately, desir’d him with his friend to go to an Inn, not far distant thence, promising there to come to them. They accordingly went thither, and he follows; after their first salutations, his friends enquire how he came to live so odd a life as that was, and to joyn himself with such a cheating beggerly company. TheScholar-Gypsy having given them an account of the necessity, which drove him to that kind of life; told them, that the people he went with were not such Impostours as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of Imagination, and that himself had learned much of their Art, and improved it further than themselves could. And to evince the truth of what he told them, he said he’d remove into another room, leaving them to discourse together; and upon his return tell them the sum of what they had talked of; which accordingly he perform’d, giving them a full account of what had pass’d between them in his absence. The Scholars being amaz’d at so unexpected a discovery, earnestly desir’d him to unriddle the mystery. In which he gave them satisfaction, by telling them, that what he did was by the power of Imagination, his Phancy binding theirs; and that himself had dictated to them the discourse they held together, while he was from them: That there were warrantable wayes of heightening the Imagination to that pitch, as to bind another’s; and that when he had compass’d the whole secret, some parts of which he said he was yet ignorant of, he intended to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.”
One sometimes wonders whether the world would have cared one jot about the revelations which theOxford Scholar here promises, for to the majority the “Gypsies” are almost tabu.
In a letter which I received from that perfect Scholar-Gypsy and Gypsy-Scholar, the late Francis Hindes Groome, he tells how he once stumbled upon a typical critic.
“Three or four years ago I gave a lecture on Gypsies at Greenock, and a well-dressed man came up after it.“‘There were some things,’ he remarked, ‘that I quite liked in your lecture, but on a good many pointsyou were absolutely wrong.’“‘Of course you’ve studied the question?’ I asked him.“‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I looked up the article “Gypsies” in Dr. Brewer’sDictionary of Fablejust before coming along.’”
“Three or four years ago I gave a lecture on Gypsies at Greenock, and a well-dressed man came up after it.
“‘There were some things,’ he remarked, ‘that I quite liked in your lecture, but on a good many pointsyou were absolutely wrong.’
“‘Of course you’ve studied the question?’ I asked him.
“‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I looked up the article “Gypsies” in Dr. Brewer’sDictionary of Fablejust before coming along.’”
Talking of critics reminds me how I once received something of a shock to the nerves during the opening sentences of a lecture on “Gypsy Customs.” Not far from the platform where I stood, there sat a well-to-do horse-dealer who, having married a pure-bred Gypsy, was presumably in possession of “inside information.” The vision of his face, all alertness and curiosity, caused me a momentary disturbance. What would this critic make of my disclosures? How would he take my revelations? Warming to my subject, however, I was made happyby my auditor interjecting such remarks as “That’s right.” “He’s got it.” “Where does the man get it all from?” Sometimes he would punctuate his exclamations by vigorously slapping his knee and laughing aloud. Certainly his ejaculations added a piquancy to my tales gathered from Gypsy tents.
But to return to Peterborough Fair.
About the middle of the afternoon, as I stood on a grassy mound overlooking the horses, I spied near a group of animals my old friend, Anselo Draper, flourishing a long-handled whip. This swart East Anglian roamer wore a dark brown coat of Newmarket cut, slouch hat of soft green felt, and crimson neckerchief neatly tied at the throat. Along an open space between the rows of horses sauntered his two pretty daughters, Jemima and Phœbe, bareheaded and bare-armed, their laughing voices ringing out merrily, while at their heels followed two little brothers cracking whips as became budding horse-dealers.
Quite a head above the Gaskins and Brinkleys with whom she was talking loudly, stood Wythen, Anselo’s wife, who, happening to look my way, smiled and came towards me, holding out the empty bowl of her pipe.
“Got a bit oftuvalo(tobacco) about you,rashai(parson)? I’m dying for a smoke.”
“So bok ke-divus?” (What luck to-day?) I inquired, handing over my pouch.
“Bikin’dtshîtshî” (Sold nothing), she replied, jerking her whip towards the ponies, “but I’llduker(tell fortunes) a bit this evening,” adjusting her black hat with its large ostrich feathers and gaudy orange bow set jauntily at the side.
Midland Gypsies. Photo. Fred Shaw
On my pretending to ridiculedukerin, she said—
“Look here, now, what’s the difference between a Gypsy telling fortunes at a fair and a parsonrokerin (preaching) in church of a Sunday?”
“If that’s a riddle,” said I, “it’s beyond me to answer it.”
“Well, when folks do bad things, you foretell a bad future for them, don’t you? And when they do right, you promises ’em a good time? What’s the difference then between you and me? I’m a low-class fortune-teller and you’s a high-class fortune-teller. You’s had a deal of eddication. My only school has been the fairs, race-courses, and sich-like. But I bet I can tell a fortune as well as you any day. Let me tell yours.”
And she did.
South-Country Gypsies. Photo. Fred Shaw
As we stood there and talked, I noticed that the woman looked worried about something, and presently I heard her say to Anselo, “I haven’t found it yet.” It was a brooch that she had lost. Then I told how once I lost and found a ring. One Sunday morning just before service, I stood on the gravel swinging my arms in physical exercises as a freshener before going to church, and suddenly I heard the tinkle of my ring on the yellow gravel.As only a few minutes remained before church time, I thought of a child’s method of finding a thing quickly, and, turning myself round three times, I tossed upon the ground a smooth black pebble, and, going, forward, lo, there was the ring close to the pebble.
Eyeing me curiously, Wythen remarked—
“Do you know what we says about people as does that sort of thing? Well, we reckons they has dealings with theBeng(Devil).
“When I was a little ’un, my old granny would do things like that, and she used to say that when you sees a star falling you must wish a wish, and if you do it afore thestari pogers(the star breaks) your wish will come true.”
It seems that among Gypsies “wishing a wish” sometimes means a curse. It was at Peterborough Fair in 1872 that Groome saw a blind Gypsy child—made blind, he was told, through the father wishing a wish. Akin to this is the belief in the evil eye. A Battersea Gypsy mother would not let her baby be seen by its half-witted uncle, for fear his looking at it should turn its black hair red.
After leaving Wythen, I sauntered along, making mental notes of Gypsies all around, among whom were local Brinkleys, the far-travelled Greens, some Loveridges, and other Midland Gypsies. I was about to move away towards the pleasure fair, when a dealer standing near some ponies caught my eye. I had never seen the man before, but as he looked a thorough Gypsy, I drew alongside and accostedhim in Romany. For a moment he stared at my clerical frock-coat and broad-brimmed hat, and then calmly remarked—
“I say, pal, you look born to them things you’ve got on, you do really. You reckons to attend fairs at these here cathedral places, don’t you? Didn’t I once see you at Ely, or was it Chester?”
To this man I was nothing more than a Gypsy “dragsman” disguised in clerical garb. Accordingly, he lowered his voice as he said—
“See this here pony? Will you sell it for me? You’ll do it easy enough with your experience. On my honour it ain’t abongo yek(wrong ’un), nor yet atshordo grai” (stolen horse).
“What about the price?” I asked.
“If you get a tenner for it,” he replied, “there’ll be abâ(sovereign) for yourself. What say?”
“Saw tatsho(All right).Jaw’vrî konaw” (Go away now). And in less than ten minutes after taking my stand by the little animal, I had a bid from a young farmer of the small-holder type. His offer was accompanied by some adverse criticism. Who ever heard a man praise the horse he intended to buy?
“Examine the pony for yourself,” said I.
He looked at its teeth. He lifted its feet one by one. He pinched and punched it all over. The pony was next trotted to and fro, and so pleased was the farmer with the animal’s behaviour that he promptly handed over ten pounds and led the ponyaway. On seeing that I had completed the business, my Gypsy friend, who was just round the corner, came up, and on my giving up the money, he put one of the sovereigns into my hand. When I got away I had a good laugh to myself, and it took me some time to get my face straight.
Walking back into the heart of the town, I saw a dusty, ill-clad party of Gypsies going slowly along with a light dray drawn by a young horse with flowing mane and long tail, and when they reached the corner where I was standing, I spoke to the woman who was at the horse’s head. She said she was a Smith, and when I pointed to the name Hardy on the dray, she remarked, “Oh, that’s nobbut a travelling name.” It may be noted that Gypsies are extremely careless about their names.
At a later hour in a field behind the pleasure fair, I found the comfortablevâdoof my friend, Anselo Draper, and tapped at the van door with the knob of my stick. Quickly the door opened, and thrusting out his dark, handsome head, Anselo shouted, “Av adrê,baw” (Come in, friend).
What a contrast! Outside: a very babel of blaring sounds, a dark sky reflecting the glow of a myriad naphtha flares. Within: cosiness and warmth, red curtains, glittering mirrors, polished brasses, and a good fire. Over the best teacups (taken tenderly from a corner cupboard) Anselo and his wife talked of their travels. They had been as far north as Glasgow that summer, and had sold a goodvâdo(van) to one of the Boswells at Newcastle Fair. They had decided to winter at Southend-on-Sea. “We shall make a tent, a big one, and very jolly it will be with ayog(fire) in the baulk. To be sure, there will be plenty of mumpers (low-class van-dwellers) around us, but we shall not be the onlytatshenê Romanitshels (real Gypsies) stopping there.”
Next, Anselo plunged into an account of a low dealer’s trick at the horse fair. It seemed that this dealer had sold two horses to a farmer for forty pounds. A stranger coming up to the farmer offered to buy them at a higher price, so into a tavern they retired to talk things over. During drinks the stranger continually offered more money for the horses, and the farmer remained there a longer time than was good for him. At last when the man was hopelessly muddled the stranger disappeared. Nor had the horses so far been seen again.
“But there’s not so much of that done as there was. My father knew a Gypsy who died up in Yorkshire, a desprit hand atgrai-tshorin (horse-stealing), and to this day they say, ‘If you shake a bridle over his grave, he’ll jump up and steal a horse.’” Both Wythen and Anselo laughed merrily as I told a tale I once heard of a Gypsy who had been “away” for a space. Coming out of the prison gate, he was met by a fellow who asked him what he had been in there for.
“For finding a horse,” was the reply.
“But surely they would never jug you for finding a horse?”
“Well, but you see I found this one before his owner had lost him.”
Anselo admitted that this sort of thing was not at all uncommon in the old days, and two of his uncles had to take a trip across the water for similar practices.
When I left my friends and hastened to catch my train, the pleasure fair was in full blast, noisy organs, cymbals and drums, shrieking whistles, and the dull muffled roar of innumerable human voices, sounds which long haunted my ears, and, looking back from the moving train, there still floated from the distance the din and rattle of the receding fair.
“Wewas all brought up on this Old Dyke. We’shatsh’d (camped) on it in all weathers. I knows every yard of it. Ay, the finekanengrê(hares) we’s taken from these here fields.”
The speaker was my old friend, Jonathan Boswell, who with his tilt-cart had overtaken me whilst strolling along the grass-grown Roman Ermine Street which traverses the broad Heath stretching southward of Lincoln. At the Gypsy’s cheery invitation, I joined him on his seat under the overarching tilt. Behind us were the diminishing towers of the old city, and right on ahead the chariot-way of the Imperial legions ran, straight as an arrow along the Heath. Not a wild expanse, mind you, like your Yorkshire moorland with its wimpling burns and leagues of heather, though I daresay our Heath, now so admirably tilled, was savage enough in the days when “the long, lone, level line of the well-kept warpath, marked at intervals with high stones or posts as a guiding-line in fog or snow, stretched througha solitude but rarely broken, except by the footfall of the legionaries and the plaint of the golden plover sounding sweet from off the moorland.” Turf-covered from hedge to hedge for many a mile, the High Dyke, as the old road is now called, may well be described as a forgotten highway. Indeed, I have tramped along it mile on mile without meeting a soul, unless mayhap it was a sun-tanned drover slouching at the heels of half a dozen bullocks, or a village lad asleep in a hedge-bottom, with a soft-eyed motherly cow or two grazing not far away.
On this particular morning near the end of April, an unclouded sun lit up the verdant cornlands and larch spinneys. It shone upon the loins of the sturdy nag between the shafts. It touched into a brighter gold the gorse-bloom on the wayside bushes, and provoked the green-finches to fling their songs into the air from lichened palings and bramble sprays. Onward we journeyed, bumping and jolting over the uneven turfy road, and occasionally dodging the mounds of earth thrown up by the burrowing rabbits. What a picturesque figure my companion presented in his faded bottle-green coat adorned with large pearl buttons. His close-fitting dogskin cap imparted to his swarthy, sharply-cut features a not inappropriate poacher-like air, and I fancied the old man’s wrinkles had deepened on his brow since our last meeting, just after his wife’s death up in Yorkshire.
Sitting back under the hood, Jonathan here burst out with a pretty little reminiscence.
“D’ye know, my pal, what this here bit o’ the Old Dyke brings to my mind? Ay, deary me, it takes me back to times as’ll never, never come no more—the days when I were a lad along with my people, and our delations a-beshin (resting) on this here wery grass we’s passing over. See, there, under that warm bank topped with thick thorns: well, I’s slept there times on end with my dear mammy and daddy in our tent, and my uncles and aunts would behatshin (camping) right along this sheltered bit. I can see it all while I’s talking to you—the carts with their shafts propped up and the smook a-going up from the fires afore the tents, and the ponies and donkeys grazing under the trees yonder. Ay, my son, them were the times for the likes of us.
“There’s one thing I minds” (this with a merry twinkle in his eye). “I’ll tell you about it. It were a fine summer morning, somewheres about six o’clock. My mammy and daddy was up making a fire to boil the kettle. I heard ’em bustling about, and I ought to ha’ been up to help, but I were lazy-like that morning. Then comes my daddy a-talking quick to hisself, and I know’d summut were the matter. He lifts up thetan-kopa(tent-blanket) and hollers at me as I lay stretched out upo’ the straw—
“Hatsh oprê,tshavo,kèr sig.De graiawandmailas saw praster’davrî.Jaw’vrîan’dikforlen.’ (Get up, boy, make haste. The horses and donkeys have all run away. Go forth and look for them.)
“I were out and off in a jiffey. I never stopped toget dressed. What’s more, me not thinking what I was a-doing, I throws away the only thing I had on my back—my shirt—just as you toss off your coat when you’s in a hurry, and away I goes down the long road to find the animals. Whilst I were away, all the family, my big brothers and sisters, and them delations as I spoke of, had gathered round the fires forsawla-hawben(breakfast), an’ they hadn’t finished when I got back with the hosses and donkeys. I’d clean forgot how I were fixed, an’, my gom, didn’t they laff when they set eyes on me; an’ my blessed mammy, she shouts—
“‘Kai sî tîro gad,m’o rinkeno tshavo?’ (Where’s your shirt, my pretty boy?) Into the tent I dived, an’ I weren’t long dressing, for I wanted to be gitting my share o’ thebalovasan’yoras (ham and eggs).”
Occasionally the spinneys skirting the deserted road obscured the view of the far-off Wolds, but one could forgive these temporary interventions, for the sprays of larch and beech hanging out from the little woods were delicate in their new spring garb, and as the breezes caught them they rose and sank with a beautiful feathery droop. Now across the fields on our left hand there came into view a familiar landmark, Dunston Pillar, concerning which I once heard a story from the lips of Bishop Edward Trollope, a whilom neighbour of mine.
At one time Lincoln Heath was a vast unenclosed rabbit warren dotted over with fir woods and quarries, and at times travellers lost their way upon it. SoDunston Pillar was erected, and a lantern was placed on top to guide benighted wayfarers over the Heath. Doubtless the old lighthouse served its purpose well, yet it did not always enable people to reach their own homes in safety, for the locality was infested with robbers on the look out for travelling gentry. Not far from the Pillar stood an old coaching inn, the “Green Man,” and one night, after assisting their driver to his box, two gentlemen who had been carousing there thought it prudent to remind their man thus: “John, be sure you keep the Pillar light upon your right, and then we shall reach Lincoln safely.” However, when the two awoke at daybreak and found themselves still near the Pillar, one of them called out, “Why, John, where are we?” Upon which, John replied drowsily from the box, “Oh, it’s a’ roight, sir, the Pillar’s on our roight.” And so it was, for he had been driving round it all night.
As we jogged along, Jonathan would occasionally jerk his whip towards a rich pasture, and with a sly wink would say, “We’spuv’dour graiawin that field more than once.” Let me explain. In order to give their horses a good feed, the Gypsies when camping on the High Dyke would turn their animals overnight into a nice fat pasture, taking care, of course, to remove them early in the morning.
At this point we drew rein, and took a meal under the lee of a plantation in whose boughs thrushes fluted and willow-wrens made fairy music. Not far away, couch-grass fires sent their smokeacross the level surface of a loamy field, making the air of the lane pungent with the scent of burning stalks. Seated there under the spreading trees, my Gypsy companion related a poaching incident with some gusto, for it is next to impossible to dispossess the Gypsy of the notion that the wild rabbits frisking about the moors and commons are as free to him as to the owner of the lands on which they happen to be playing.
Netting Rabbits. Photo. F. R. Hinkins
“One time when our folks was camping on the Dyke a keeper comes up to the fire. It was evening, and we was having some stew, and the keeper joined us. He were a pleasant, good-company fellow, wery different from keepers nowadays, and after the meal was over, my old mammy says to him, ‘There’s two things that’s wery good—a drop of brandy to warm the cockles o’ your heart, and a bit o’ black ’bacca to warm your snitch-end.’ And the keeper agreed. Then my daddy brings out a black bottle and mixes him a drink in a teacup, and us boys come peeping into the tent to listen to the tales what daddy and the keeper got a-telling. I can see ’em all a-sitting there now, my old mam a-puffing herswêgler(pipe) and the keeper and daddy blowing a big cloud till you couldn’t hardlins see across the tent for smook. But mam never gave us boys nothink from the bottle, and when the keeper began to get jolly, my dad tipped us a wink, and off goes three of us wi’ the dogs, and we had a good time in the big woods. Nobody came near us, and we didn’tcarry the game home that night lest we might meet agawjo. We know’d a thing better than that. We hid the game in a leafy hollow, and sent some of the big gells in the morning with sacks, and they brought all home safe.”’Neath the Hedgerow. Photo. Fred Shaw
“One time when our folks was camping on the Dyke a keeper comes up to the fire. It was evening, and we was having some stew, and the keeper joined us. He were a pleasant, good-company fellow, wery different from keepers nowadays, and after the meal was over, my old mammy says to him, ‘There’s two things that’s wery good—a drop of brandy to warm the cockles o’ your heart, and a bit o’ black ’bacca to warm your snitch-end.’ And the keeper agreed. Then my daddy brings out a black bottle and mixes him a drink in a teacup, and us boys come peeping into the tent to listen to the tales what daddy and the keeper got a-telling. I can see ’em all a-sitting there now, my old mam a-puffing herswêgler(pipe) and the keeper and daddy blowing a big cloud till you couldn’t hardlins see across the tent for smook. But mam never gave us boys nothink from the bottle, and when the keeper began to get jolly, my dad tipped us a wink, and off goes three of us wi’ the dogs, and we had a good time in the big woods. Nobody came near us, and we didn’tcarry the game home that night lest we might meet agawjo. We know’d a thing better than that. We hid the game in a leafy hollow, and sent some of the big gells in the morning with sacks, and they brought all home safe.”
’Neath the Hedgerow. Photo. Fred Shaw
Two miles onward we stopped a few minutes at Byard’s Leap to look at the large iron horseshoes embedded in the turf. It is these shoes that help to perpetuate the local legend which gives the hamlet its name. Here is the Gypsy version of the tradition.
“Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, there was a wicked witch what lived in a stone-pit wi’ big dark trees hanging over it. This woman did a lot of mischief on the farms all round, witching the stock in the fields, and she cast sickness on people young and old. They say the witch was once a beautiful girl who sold her blood to theBeng(Devil), and that’s how she got her powers. At last she grew wery ugly, and still went on working great harm. One day the folks of that neighbourhood met together and tossed up to see who was to kill the witch. It was a shepherd who had to do it, though it went against his mind, as he had often played with the witch when she was a beautiful girl. However, he promised to put an end to her, and set off to choose a horse to ride on. All the horses on the farm were driven down to a pond. One of them was a blind one, an old favourite of the farmer’s, which he wouldn’t allow to be killed. Now, while the horses were drinking, the shepherdwas towuserabâ(throw a stone) over the horses’ backs into the water, and the one that looked up first was the one he was to ride. Well, if the poor old blind horse didn’t lift up its head, so he saddled it and bridled it and rode off to the stone-pit. When he got there he shouted, ‘Come out, my lass, I want to speak to you.’“‘I’m suckling my cubs;’—she had two bairns, and the shepherd was said to be their father—‘wait till I’ve tied my shoe-strings, and then I’ll come.’ Soon she came out, and, springing on to the horse’s back behind the shepherd, she dug her claws into the animal’s flesh, while the shepherd rode poor blind Bayard—that was the horse’s name—towards the cross-roads, and on the way there thegrai(horse) gave a tremendous jump—sixty feet—and both the riders were thrown off; the witch was killed on the spot, the shepherd was lamed for life, and the blind horse fell down dead.”
“Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, there was a wicked witch what lived in a stone-pit wi’ big dark trees hanging over it. This woman did a lot of mischief on the farms all round, witching the stock in the fields, and she cast sickness on people young and old. They say the witch was once a beautiful girl who sold her blood to theBeng(Devil), and that’s how she got her powers. At last she grew wery ugly, and still went on working great harm. One day the folks of that neighbourhood met together and tossed up to see who was to kill the witch. It was a shepherd who had to do it, though it went against his mind, as he had often played with the witch when she was a beautiful girl. However, he promised to put an end to her, and set off to choose a horse to ride on. All the horses on the farm were driven down to a pond. One of them was a blind one, an old favourite of the farmer’s, which he wouldn’t allow to be killed. Now, while the horses were drinking, the shepherdwas towuserabâ(throw a stone) over the horses’ backs into the water, and the one that looked up first was the one he was to ride. Well, if the poor old blind horse didn’t lift up its head, so he saddled it and bridled it and rode off to the stone-pit. When he got there he shouted, ‘Come out, my lass, I want to speak to you.’
“‘I’m suckling my cubs;’—she had two bairns, and the shepherd was said to be their father—‘wait till I’ve tied my shoe-strings, and then I’ll come.’ Soon she came out, and, springing on to the horse’s back behind the shepherd, she dug her claws into the animal’s flesh, while the shepherd rode poor blind Bayard—that was the horse’s name—towards the cross-roads, and on the way there thegrai(horse) gave a tremendous jump—sixty feet—and both the riders were thrown off; the witch was killed on the spot, the shepherd was lamed for life, and the blind horse fell down dead.”
Starting from the first set of four horseshoes in the turf, I measured the distance in strides to the next set of four, and, roughly speaking, found it to be sixty feet.
Here our roads diverged, Jonathan going westward towards the “Cliff,” while I took the turn for Sleaford.
Within three weeks from this meeting with Jonathan on the High Dyke, I had business calling me to the town of Newark-on-Trent, where, as luck had it, the May horse-fair was in full swing, and underthe shadow of the Castle by the waterside I met my Gypsy friend once more. In a corner of the fairground, which was crowded with horses, I found Jonathan in company with one of the Smiths, and the two men were drinking ale out of big horn tumblers rimmed with silver. Petulengro had a nicevâdo, and, going up to it, I read the name “Bailey, Warrington.” He explained that he was breaking new ground, and therefore had taken a change of name. Like most Gypsies, he had some pets—two dogs, a bantam cock and hen, a jackdaw, and a canary. As Jonathan had absorbing business on hand, I did not see him again until evening, when I joined him in his tilt-cart, and we set off towards Ollerton. Underneath the vehicle were slung several tent rods, notched, or numbered, in order to facilitate the erection of the tent. Said he, “I’m expecting my nephew to join us to-morrow—that’s Charley—he’s promised to come after us, so I must lay thepatrins (signs) for him.”
Let us see how this is done.
At a crossing of two highways, a few miles out of the town, Jonathan went to the hedge-bottom and plucked a bunch of long grass, then upon a clearing among the tussocks on the wayside he divided the bunch into three portions, carefully placing these with their tips pointing in the direction which we were about to take.
The Gypsy’s Parson on the Road. Photo. Fred Shaw
“There now,” said the old man, “I’ve got to do this at every cross-road, for there’s no telling exactlywhere we shall stop to-night. But Charley is bound to find us, for he’lldik avrîformandi’spatrin” (look out for my sign).
There are many varieties in the form of thepatrin, for no two families use exactly the same sign. I have heard Gypsies who were about to separate into parties, discussing the particular form ofpatrinto be used by the advance guard, so that those who were following would know exactly what to look for, and whereabouts on the roadside they might expect to find it.
A Suffolk friend, whilst sitting unobserved on a fence in the twilight, watched some Gypsies laying apatrinformed of small elm twigs, their tips indicating the direction taken. A peculiar form ofpatrinI once saw was a wisp of grass tied round a sapling in the hedgerow.
For myself, I never see apatrinon the roadside without recalling Ursula’s pathetic story inThe Romany Rye. Readers who know their Borrow will remember how the woman followed her husband for a great many miles by means of his signs left on the wayside.
Between Kneesall and Wellow a halt was made, and, having lit a fire of sticks under the shadow of a wood, we warmed some stew in a black pot. As we sprawled on the grass, a fox dashed across the road with a rabbit dangling from its jaws, and Jonathan shouted in the hope of making Reynard drop the bunny, but in vain. Then I told him how once Isaw a fox capture and kill a rabbit on the slope of a warren. He was about to trot off with his prey when I gave a lusty shout which made him halt and look round at me for a moment. Seeing that I was quite a hundred yards away, Reynard dropped the rabbit, scratched a hole, and buried his capture, carefully spreading the loose earth and stones over the place with his sharp nose. Then he made for the woods. Now, though I searched diligently for that buried rabbit, I could not for the life of me discover it, the entire surface of the warren-slope being so dotted over with recent rabbit-scratchings strewn with small stones.
While Jonathan was making some small repair of the harness, I drew from my pocket a few newspaper cuttings and letters, in one of which was a dialogue between two Gypsies, a tiny boy and an aged man, who had met upon the road—
“Boy.Sâ shan,baw, hastuti dik’dmi dadus ke-divus?Man.Keka,mi tshavo,mandi keka jinstuti’sdadus.Sî yovabawro mushwivkawlo bal?Boy.Âwali,dova sî mi dadus,tatsho.Man. Hasyova pair o’ checkrokamiaw?Boy.Âwa,dova’smi dadus.Man. Hasyovaloli baiengriwivbawrê krafnê?Boy.Âwa, dat’smi dadus, feth.Man.Dawdi,mandi dik’dlesti tălê o drom odoia-mongin apuripair o’tshokawtotshiv oprê lesti’snongê pîrê.Boy.Dova sî keka mi dadus, at all.”
“Boy.Sâ shan,baw, hastuti dik’dmi dadus ke-divus?
Man.Keka,mi tshavo,mandi keka jinstuti’sdadus.Sî yovabawro mushwivkawlo bal?
Boy.Âwali,dova sî mi dadus,tatsho.
Man. Hasyova pair o’ checkrokamiaw?
Boy.Âwa,dova’smi dadus.
Man. Hasyovaloli baiengriwivbawrê krafnê?
Boy.Âwa, dat’smi dadus, feth.
Man.Dawdi,mandi dik’dlesti tălê o drom odoia-mongin apuripair o’tshokawtotshiv oprê lesti’snongê pîrê.
Boy.Dova sî keka mi dadus, at all.”
Translation.
“Boy. How do, mate. Have you seen my father to-day?Man. No, my boy, I don’t know your father. Is he a big man with black hair?Boy. Yes, that’s my father, sure.Man. Has he a pair of check trousers?Boy. Yes, that’s my father.Man. Has he a red waistcoat with big buttons?Boy. Yes, that’s my father, faith.Man. Lor, I saw him down the road there a-begging an old pair of boots to put on his bare feet.Boy. That’s not my father at all.”
“Boy. How do, mate. Have you seen my father to-day?
Man. No, my boy, I don’t know your father. Is he a big man with black hair?
Boy. Yes, that’s my father, sure.
Man. Has he a pair of check trousers?
Boy. Yes, that’s my father.
Man. Has he a red waistcoat with big buttons?
Boy. Yes, that’s my father, faith.
Man. Lor, I saw him down the road there a-begging an old pair of boots to put on his bare feet.
Boy. That’s not my father at all.”
“A bit o’ the old style, I call that,” was my companion’s comment.
After we had yoked in and were about to start off, my old Gypsy pulled out his handkerchief to catch a sneeze on the wing. He was successful, and, unnoticed by him, a little wooden animal fell to the grass. On picking it up, I handed back to him a dog with a tail broken off and one foot missing, and he grabbed at it excitedly, saying—
“I wouldn’tnasher(lose) that for a deal.”
This little fetish I remembered to have seen on aformer occasion. Jonathan had put it on the top of a gatepost and was talking to it, as he puffed a cloud of tobacco smoke. For some reason, he was never willing to discuss the subject.
Comrades
Pursuing our journey, we came to the little town of Ollerton, and after a halt at one of the inns we travelled onward through Edwinstowe until we reached a tract of ferny, heathery country, where we drew up, unyoked and unharnessed the horse, and in wonderfully quick time had our little tent erected. You have sometimes heard people say, “Poor Gypsies,” yet if you had travelled with them, as I have, you would hear it said, “Poorgawjê(gentiles), we feels sorry for ’em, cooped up in their stuffy houses.”
Gypsies at Home. Photo. Fred Shaw
There is nothing so healthy as a tent under the open sky, with the wind blowing freely around you and the birds singing their canticles in the woods hard by. I speak from experience in regard to tent life, for under Jonathan’s tuition I learned long ago how to construct a Gypsy’s tent of ash or hazel rods thrust into the ground and their tapering ends bent and fixed into a ridge-pole, the whole being covered with coarse brown blankets pinned on with stout 3-inch pins. (The Gypsies use the long thorns of the wild sloe, or thin elder skewers.) In such a tent I have slept nightly for many months in succession. It is grand to sit at your tent door, building castles in the air, which at any rate cost very little in upkeep.
Bosky Sherwood with its oaks and birches and uncurling bracken stretched away towards the west,and, strolling along the unfenced road, lo, an old woman with her apron full of sticks was seen coming down a glade. She turned out to be Rachel Shaw, whom we accompanied to where, round a corner, the camp of the Gypsy Shaws lay within a secluded alcove. This was a pleasant surprise. Here, by the fire, sat Tiger Shaw and his three grown-up daughters, fine strapping girls. I had often heard of “Fiddling” Tiger, whose children were said to be excellent dancers. It was said of their father that he could play tunes by thumping with his fists upon his bare chest. We sat chatting with them till the moon rose, a full golden disk, over the woods. The night air was sweet with forest smells exhaling from bursting oak-buds and sheets of wood hyacinths. A rare place for owls is Sherwood, and more than once as we sat there, a broad-winged bird came out of the black shadows and flew away hooting down the road.
Old Tiger, who hails from the Low Country between Lynn and St. Ives, remembers when the “Jack o’ Lantern” used to flicker by night in those parts in the days of his childhood, and of ghost tales he has a rich store. One of his best tales is the ghost of the haystack, which I give in my own words.
“One night a Gypsy and his wife went to take some hay from a stack at the back of a mansion. As they were getting it, they looked up and saw on the top of the stack a wizened old man wearing a three-cornered hat, a cut-away coat with silver buttons,knee-breeches, silk stockings, buckled shoes, and by his side hung a curious sword. At this sight they stood amazed, then, gathering courage, the Gypsy woman looked up and said—“‘If this is your hay, sir, may we take a handful for our pony?’“The figure on the stack never spoke, but nodded his head, so they took a lot, and, departing, left a trail of hay reaching from the stack to the camp. Next morning the squire of the mansion came along.“‘You rascally vagabonds, you thieving rogues, how dare you steal my hay? If you had asked me, I’d have given you some.’“‘But wedidget leave.’“‘How so?’“Then they described the gentleman on the stack, giving the details as already told. At this the squire turned deathly pale, and laid hold of a fence to steady himself.“‘Why, you’ve seen my old grandfather who has been dead years and years, and if he gave you leave, you can get as much of that hay as you please.’“And you may be sure they did.”
“One night a Gypsy and his wife went to take some hay from a stack at the back of a mansion. As they were getting it, they looked up and saw on the top of the stack a wizened old man wearing a three-cornered hat, a cut-away coat with silver buttons,knee-breeches, silk stockings, buckled shoes, and by his side hung a curious sword. At this sight they stood amazed, then, gathering courage, the Gypsy woman looked up and said—
“‘If this is your hay, sir, may we take a handful for our pony?’
“The figure on the stack never spoke, but nodded his head, so they took a lot, and, departing, left a trail of hay reaching from the stack to the camp. Next morning the squire of the mansion came along.
“‘You rascally vagabonds, you thieving rogues, how dare you steal my hay? If you had asked me, I’d have given you some.’
“‘But wedidget leave.’
“‘How so?’
“Then they described the gentleman on the stack, giving the details as already told. At this the squire turned deathly pale, and laid hold of a fence to steady himself.
“‘Why, you’ve seen my old grandfather who has been dead years and years, and if he gave you leave, you can get as much of that hay as you please.’
“And you may be sure they did.”
The first grey light of dawn was creeping down the road and waking the life of the woods, when we were called from our slumbers by a cheery “Hello,” and Jonathan sprang up to receive his nephew, who had already drawn hisvâdoupon the grass; indeed, before we had dressed, Charley had gathered sticksfor the breakfast fire, and by the time that our meal was finished, the sun was gilding the tree-tops. Now we were ready for the departure, and, moving along the road, we found the Shaws also taking thedrom(road). By the side of thevâdowalked Tiger’s girls, their loosened hair blowing in the wind, and going along they gathered the yellow cowslips.
Onward through the gorsy lanes we travelled together as far as Mansfield, where our merry party became divided, the Boswells taking the highway leading through North Derbyshire to Sheffield, the Shaws going westward towards Matlock, and myself setting off in a southerly direction.
Just where Robin Hood’s Hills begin to rise beyond the red-stemmed pines of the Thieves’ Wood, I came upon a resplendent caravan of the Pulman type drawn up on the wayside turf a long way from any village. Near by sat two persons, a man past middle age, wearing a kilt and tam-o’-shanter, who had for companion a pretty lass in her teens, with long brown hair. On the ground between them stood a big crystal jar, and with long forks the two were spearing cubes of preserved ginger. Their backs being turned towards me, they gave a little start of surprise as I went up, and, raising my hat, inquired, “Dr. Gordon Stables?”
“That’s my name,” said he, and, inviting me to join them on the grass, he dispatched the girl for another fork, with which very soon I, too, was spearing for ginger.
Here before me was the “Gentleman Gypsy,” whose writings had been familiar to me since boyhood.
“You’ll think it strange,” said he, “when I tell you that I have no memory for faces, but I rarely fail to remember the look of any tree I have once seen by the roadside.”
When Gypsies were mentioned, the good doctor had grateful reminiscences of them. During many years of road-travel he had often come upon the wandering folk, and he liked them. They were cheerful people who never forgot a kindness. They were most obliging withal, and readily lent their horses to pull his somewhat heavy “house on wheels” up the stiff inclines. Altogether, he had a very good word for the Gypsies.
By mid-afternoon I was standing in the churchyard at Selston, where lay the fragments of the headstone of a Romany chief, Dan Boswell. An irreverent bull was declared to have been responsible for the shattered condition of the stone upon which a quaint epitaph was now faintly visible. It ran as follows:—
“I’ve lodged in many a town,I’ve travelled many a year,But death at length hath brought me downTo my last lodging here.”
“I’ve lodged in many a town,I’ve travelled many a year,But death at length hath brought me downTo my last lodging here.”
My late father-in-law, formerly a curate of Selston, remembered how Gypsies paid visits to this grave andpoured libations of ale upon it. The adjacent common, long since enclosed, was once much frequented by the nomad tribes.
My resting-place that evening was the pleasant Midland town of Nottingham, and right soundly I slept after my long day on the road.
Inthe sunny forenoon I was walking in one of the airy suburbs of Nottingham, and, passing by the entrance to some livery stables, I noticed on a sign-board in prominent yellow letters on a black ground the surname of Boss. This it was that brought me to a standstill in front of the large doors in a high wall. “A Romany name,” I said to myself. “I ought to find a Gypsy here;” and, pushing open one of the doors, I saw before me an office with masses of brown wallflower abloom beneath a wide-open window.
“Come in,” said a mellow voice, in response to my knock at the little door in the porch, and, entering, I was confronted by a handsome man of fifty, evidently the master of the establishment, neatly dressed, well groomed, and unmistakably Romany.
“Mr. Boss?”
“That’s so.”
“Romanitshel tu shan?” (You are a Gypsy?)
“Âvali,baw.Av ta besh tălê” (Yes, mate. Come and sit down.) The words were accompaniedby a low, musical laugh that was pleasant to hear. He then conducted me to a garden seat where we sat and talked in the May sunshine. Generally my companion would use the inflected dialect of the old-time Gypsies, but at intervals he dropped into thepogado tshib, the “broken language,” as spoken by the average English Gypsy of to-day. For which lapses he apologized: “I wonder what my old dad would say to hear merokerin like aposh-rat?” (talking like a half-breed). “One of the old roots was my daddy, who could talk for hours in nothing but ‘double-words’” (i.e.inflected Romany). “There were the ‘double-words’ and the other way—the broken language. Some of us young upstarts never picked up all the ‘double-words’ our parents used, and now the poor old language is fast going to pieces. What with these Gypsy novels and their bits of Romany talk—my girl reads them to me—why, everybody is getting to know it. I once heard a gentleman say that our language was a made-up gibberish. But he was wrong. It’s a real language, and an old one at that. But, as I was saying, it’s getting blown very much nowadays. Why, down in Kent, Surrey, and Sussex there are whole villages where you can hear Romany talked on all sides of you. The little shopkeepers know it. The publicans canroker(talk Gypsy) a bit. The stable-boys throw it at one another. And you can’t stir in the lanes without meeting a kiddiewith the eyes and hair of a Gypsy—blest if you can.”
Noticing my flow of thekawlo tshib(black language,i.e.Romany), Boss tapped me familiarly on the knee: “I can’t reckon you up at all,rashai(parson). How have you picked it all up? Have you been sweet on a Gypsy girl, or have youromer’dyek?” (married one).
Then with all a Gypsy’s restlessness, he sprang up and led me to his villa residence over the way, where, apologizing for the absence of his wife, he introduced me to his daughter, a tall girl of twenty or more, gentle, refined-looking, with fathomless Gypsy eyes and an olive tint in her cheeks.
“I’m going to take therashaifor a drive,” said he. “We’ll be back for tea.”
In the tastefully ordered drawing-room I chatted with Miss Boss, whose Romany rippled melodiously. A piece of classical music stood open on the piano, and several recent novels lay scattered about. On her father’s return within a few moments, I caught the sound of a horse pawing impatiently outside, and presently I was seated with Jack Boss in a smart yellow gig behind a slim “blood” animal. As we drove through the town my companion pointed to a carriage-horse in passing: “Wafodu grai sî dova” (a trashy horse is that), and when I translated his words he chuckled merrily. “To think that you knowthat, and you don’t look a bit like a Gypsy. Not a drop of the blood in you,I should think. You puzzle me, you really do. Perhaps you’ve got it from books. I’ve heard of such works, but have never seen them. I suppose you priests can find it all in Latin somewhere? Now, to look at me you’d never think—would you?—that I’d been born in a little tent” (he bent his fingers in semblance of curved rods) “and had travelled on the roads. But that’s years ago, yet I like to think of those days. If they were rough times, we had plenty of fun. Don’t I remember going with my old dad to visit the Grays and Herons, Lovells and Stanleys, in their tents—real Gypsies if you like. You don’t oftendikatatsheno Romanitshel konaw” (see a true Gypsy nowadays). “It gave me a deal of pleasure the other day to meet Ike Heron in his low-crowned topper and Newmarket coat. One of the old standards is Ike. Perhaps you know him?”