"As we looked upon the church and parsonage, surrounded as they were by the modern park, with the broad silver lake near, the rising mountains on all sides, and the clear blue sky above, our senses seemed entranced with the passing beauty of the scene. It was one of those glimpses of perfect nature which casts the anchor deep in memory, and leaves a lasting impression of bygone days." And then Esmeralda danced as she sang the words of her song; the words not in English are her own, for I cannot find them even in the slang Romany, and what she meant by her bosh is only known to herself.

"Shula gang shaugh gig a magala, I'll set me down on yonder hill; And there I'll cry my fill, And every tear shall turn a mill. Shula gang shaugh gig a magala To my Uskadina slawn slawn.

"Shula gang shaugh gig a magala, I'll buy me a petticoat and dye it red, And round this world I'll beg my bread; The lad I love is far away. Shula gang shaugh gig a magala To my Uskadina slawn slawn.

"Shul shul gang along with me, Gang along me, I'll gang along with you, I'll buy you a petticoat and dye it in the blue, Sweet William shall kiss you in the rue. Shula gang shaugh gig a magala To my Uskadina slawn slawn."

"We were supremely happy," says Mr. Petalengro, "in our wandering existence. We contrasted in our semi-consciousness of mind our absence from a thousand anxious cares which crowd upon the social position of those who take part in an overwrought state of extreme civilisation. How long we should have continued our half-dormant reflections which might have added a few more notes upon the philosophy of life, we knew not, but we were roused by the rumble of a stolk-jaerre along the road."

"For the dance no music can be better than that of a Gipsy band; there is life and animation in it which carries you away. If you have danced to it yourself, especially in a czardas, {176} then to hear the stirring tones without involuntarily springing up is, I assert, an absolute impossibility." Poor, deluded mortals, I am afraid they will find—

"Nothing but leaves! Sad memory weaves No veil to hide the past; And as we trace our weary way, Counting each lost and misspent day, Sadly we find at last, Nothing but leaves!"

The converse of all this artificial and misleading Gipsy life is to be seen in hard fate and fact at our own doors—"Look on this picture and then on that."

"There is a land, a sunny land, Whose skies are ever bright; Where evening shadows never fall: The Saviour is its light."

"There's a land that is fairer than day, And by faith we can see it afar; For the Father waits over the way To prepare us a dwelling-place there In the sweet by-and-bye."

George Borrow, during his labours among the Gipsies of Spain forty years ago, did not find much occasion for rollicking fun, merriment, and boisterous laughter; his path was not one of roses, over mossy banks, among the honeysuckles and daisies, by the side of running rivulets warbling over the smooth pebbles; sitting among the primroses, listening to the enchanting voices of the thousand forest and valley songsters; gazing at the various and beautiful kinds of foliage on the hill-sides as the thrilling strains of music pealed forth from the sweet voice of Esmeralda and her tambourine. No, no, no! George Borrow had to face the hard lot of all those who start on the path of usefulness, honour, and heaven. Hard fare, disappointment, opposition, few friends, life in danger, his path was rough and covered with stones; his flowers were thistles, his songs attended with tears, and sorrow filled his heart. But note his object, and mark his end. In speaking of some of the difficulties in his travels, he says:—"My time lay heavily on my hands, my only source of amusement consisting in the conversation of the woman telling of the wonderful tales of the land of the Moors—prison escapes, thievish feats, and one or two poisoning adventures in which she had been engaged. There was something very wild in her gestures. She goggled frightfully with her eyes." And then speaking of the old Gipsy woman whom he went to see:—"Here, thrusting her hand into her pocket, she discharged a handful of some kind of dust or snuff into the fellow's face. He stamped and roared, but was for some time held fast by the two Gipsy men; he extricated himself, however, and attempted to unsheath a knife which he wore in his girdle; but the two young Gipsies flung themselves upon him like furies."

Borrow says, after travelling a long distance by night, and setting out again the next morning to travel thirteen leagues:—"Throughout the day a drizzling rain was falling, which turned the dust of the roads into mud and mire. Towards evening we reached a moor—a wild place enough, strewn with enormous stones and rocks. The wind had ceased, but a strong wind rose and howled at our backs. The sun went down, and dark night presently came over us. We proceeded for nearly three hours, until we heard the barking of dogs, and perceived a light or two in the distance. 'That is Trujillo,' said Antonio, who had not spoken for a long time. 'I am glad of it,' I replied; 'I am so thoroughly tired, I shall sleep soundly in Trujillo.' That is as it may be. We soon entered the town, which appeared dark and gloomy enough. I followed close behind the Gipsy, who led the way, I knew not whither, through dismal streets and dark places where cats were squalling. 'Here is the house,' said he at last, dismounting before a low, mean hut. He knocked, but no answer. He knocked again, but no answer. 'There can be no difficulty,' said I, 'with respect to what we have to do. If your friends are gone out, it is easy enough to go to a posada.' 'You know not what you say,' replied the Gipsy. 'I dare not go to the mesuna, nor enter any house in Trujillo save this, and this is shut. Well, there is no remedy; we must move on; and, between ourselves, the sooner we leave the place the better. My own brother was garroted at Trujillo.' He lighted a cigar by means of a steel and yesca, sprung on his mule, and proceeded through streets and lanes equally dismal as those through which we had already travelled." Mr. Borrow goes on to say:—"I confess I did not much like this decision of the Gipsy; I felt very slight inclination to leave the town behind, and to venture into unknown places in the dark of the night, amidst rain and mist—for the wind had now dropped, and the rain again began to fall briskly. I was, moreover, much fatigued, and wished for nothing better than to deposit myself in some comfortable manger, where I might sink to sleep lulled by the pleasant sound of horses and mules despatching their provender. I had, however, put myself under the direction of the Gipsy, and I was too old a traveller to quarrel with my guide under present circumstances. I therefore followed close to his crupper, our only light being the glow emitted from the Gipsy's cigar. At last he flung it from his mouth into a puddle, and we were then in darkness. We proceeded in this manner for a long time. The Gipsy was silent. I myself was equally so. The rain descended more and more. I sometimes thought I heard doleful noises, something like the hooting of owls. 'This is a strange night to be wandering abroad in,' I at length said to Antonio, the Gipsy. (The Gipsy word for Antonio is 'Devil.') 'It is, brother,' said the Gipsy; 'but I would sooner be abroad in such a night, and in such places, than in the estaripel of Trujillo.'

"We wandered at least a league further, and now appeared to be near a wood, for I could occasionally distinguish the trunks of immense trees. Suddenly Antonio stopped his mule. 'Look, brother,' said he, 'to the left, and tell me if you do not see a light; your eyes are sharper than mine.' I did as he commanded me. At first I could see nothing, but, moving a little further on, I plainly saw a large light at some distance, seemingly amongst the trees. 'Yonder cannot be a lamp or candle,' said I; 'it is more like the blaze of a fire.' 'Very likely,' said Antonio. 'There are no queres (houses) in this place; it is doubtless a fire made by durotunes (shepherds); let us go and join them, for, as you say, it is doleful work wandering about at night amidst rain and mire.'

"We dismounted and entered what I now saw was a forest, leading the animals cautiously amongst the trees and brushwood. In about five minutes we reached a small open space, at the farther side of which, at the foot of a large cork-tree, a fire was burning, and by it stood or sat two or three figures. They had heard our approach, and one of them now exclaimed, 'Quien Vive?' 'I know that voice,' said Antonio, and, leaving the horse with me, rapidly advanced towards the fire. Presently I heard an 'Ola!' and a laugh, and soon the voice of Antonio summoned me to advance. On reaching the fire, I found two dark lads, and a still darker woman of about forty, the latter seated on what appeared to be horse or mule furniture. I likewise saw a horse and two donkeys tethered to the neighbouring trees. It was, in fact, a Gipsy bivouac . . . 'Come forward, brother, and show yourself,' said Antonio to me; 'you are amongst friends; these are of the Errate, the very people whom I expected to find at Trujillo, and in whose house we should have slept.'

"'And what,' said I, 'could have induced them to leave their house in Trujillo and come into this dark forest, in the midst of wind and rain, to pass the night?'

"'They come on business of Egypt, brother, doubtless,' replied Antonio, 'and that business is none of ours. Calla boca! It is lucky we have found them here, else we should have had no supper, and our horses no corn.'

"'My ro is prisoner at the village yonder,' said the woman, pointing with her hand in a particular direction; 'he is prisoner yonder for choring a mailla (stealing a donkey); we are come to see what we can do in his behalf; and where can we lodge better than in this forest, where there is nothing to pay? It is not the first time, I trow, that Calore have slept at the root of a tree.'

"One of the striplings now gave us barley for our animals in a large bag, into which we successively introduced their heads, allowing the famished creatures to regale themselves till we conceived that they had satisfied their hunger. There was a puchero simmering at the fire, half-fall of bacon, garbanzos, and other provisions; this was emptied into a large wooden platter, and out of this Antonio and myself supped; the other Gipsies refused to join us, giving us to understand that they had eaten before our arrival; they all, however, did justice to the leathern bottle of Antonio, which, before his departure from Merida, he had the precaution to fill.

"I was by this time completely overcome with fatigue and sleep. Antonio flung me an immense horse-cloth, of which he bore more than one beneath the huge cushion on which he rode. In this I wrapped myself, and placing my head upon a bundle, and my feet as near as possible to the fire, I lay down."

How delightful and soul-inspiring it would have been to the weary pilgrim, jaded in the cause of the poor Gipsies, if Antonio's heart had been full of religious zeal and fervour, and Hubert Petalengro and Esmeralda, their souls filled to overflowing with the love of God, had been by the side of the camp-fire, and the trio had struck up with their sweet voices, as the good man was drawing his weary legs and cold feet together before the embers of the dying Gipsy fire—

"Guide me, O thou great Jehovah, Pilgrim through this barren land; I am weak, but Thou art mighty, Hold me with Thy powerful hand. Bread of heaven, feed me till I want no more.

"Open now the crystal fountain Whence the healing waters flow; Let the fiery, cloudy pillars, Lead me all my journey through. Strong Deliverer, be Thou still my strength and shield."

"Antonio and the other Gipsies remained seated by the fire conversing. I listened for a moment to what they said, but I did not perfectly understand it, and what I did understand by no means interested me. The rain still drizzled, but I heeded it not, and was soon asleep.

"The sun was just appearing as I awoke. I made several efforts before I could rise from the ground; my limbs were quite stiff, and my hair was covered with rime, for the rain had ceased, and a rather severe frost set in. I looked around me, but could see neither Antonio nor the Gipsies; the animals of the latter had likewise disappeared, so had the horse which I had hitherto rode; the mule, however, of Antonio still remained fastened to the tree. The latter circumstance quieted some apprehensions which were beginning to arise in my mind. 'They are gone on some business of Egypt,' I said to myself, 'and will return anon.' I gathered together the embers of the fire, and heaping upon them sticks and branches, soon succeeded in calling forth a blaze, beside which I again placed the puchero, with what remained of the provision of last night. I waited for a considerable time in expectation of the return of my companions, but as they did not appear, I sat down and breakfasted. Before I had well finished I heard the noise of a horse approaching rapidly, and presently Antonio made his appearance amongst the trees, with some agitation in his countenance. He sprang from the horse, and instantly proceeded to untie the mule. 'Mount, brother, mount!' said he, pointing to the horse; 'I went with the Callee and her chabes to the village where the ro is in trouble; the chino-baro, however, seized them at once with their cattle, and would have laid hands also on me; but I set spurs to the grasti, gave him the bridle, and was soon far away. Mount, brother, mount, or we shall have the whole rustic canaille upon us in a twinkling—it is such a bad place.'"

I almost imagine Borrow would have said, under the circumstances, as he was putting his foot into the stirrup to mount his horse to fly for his life into the wild regions of an unknown country:—

"Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly; While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high. Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, Till the storm of life is past, Safe into the haven guide, Oh, receive my soul at last.

"Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on Thee, Leave, O leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me. All my trust on Thee is stayed, All my help from Thee I bring, Cover my defenceless head, With the shadow of Thy wing."

Sir Walter Scott, in "Guy Mannering," speaking of the dark deeds of the Gipsies, says:—"The idea of being dragged out of his miserable concealment by wretches whose trade was that of midnight murder, without weapons or the slightest means of defence, except entreaties which would be only their sport, and cries for help which could never reach other ear than their own—his safety intrusted to the precarious compassion of a being associated with these felons, and whose trade of rapine and imposture must have hardened her against every human feeling—the bitterness of his emotions almost choked him. He endeavoured to read in her withered and dark countenance, as the lamp threw its light upon her features, something that promised those feelings of compassion which females, even in their most degraded state, can seldom altogether smother. There was no such touch of humanity about this woman."

"'Never fear,' said the old Gipsy man, 'Meg's true-bred; she's the last in the gang that will start; but she has some queer ways, and often cuts queer words.' With more of this gibberish, they continued the conversation, rendering it thus, even to each other, a dark, obscure dialect, eked out by significant nods and signs, but never expressing distinctly or in plain language the subject on which it turned."

G. P. Whyte-Melville speaks of the Russian Gipsies in the language of fiction in his "Interpreter" as follows:—"The morning sun smiles upon a motley troop journeying towards the Danube. Two or three lithe, supple urchins, bounding and dancing along with half-naked bodies, and bright black eyes shining through knotted elf-locks, form the advanced guard. Half-a-dozen donkeys seem to carry the whole property of the tribe. The main body consists of sinewy, active-looking men, and strikingly handsome girls, all walking with the free, graceful air and elastic gait peculiar to those whose lives are passed entirely in active exercise, under no roof but that of heaven. Dark-browed women in the very meridian of beauty bring up the rear, dragging or carrying a race of swarthy progeny, all alike distinguished for the sparkling eyes and raven hair, which, with a cunning nothing can overreach, and a nature nothing can tame, seem to be the peculiar inheritance of the Gipsy. Their costume is striking, not to say grotesque. Some of the girls, and all the matrons, bind their brows with various coloured handkerchiefs, which form a very picturesque and not unbecoming head-gear; whilst in a few instances coins even of gold are strung amongst the jetty locks of the Zingyni beauties. The men are not so particular in their attire. One sinewy fellow wears only a goatskin shirt and a string of beads round his neck, but the generality are clad in the coarse cloth of the country, much tattered, and bearing evident symptoms of weather and wear. The little mischievous urchins who are clinging round their mothers' necks, or dragging back from their mothers' hands, and holding on to their mothers' skirts, are almost naked. Small heads and hands and feet, all the marks of what we are accustomed to term high birth, are hereditary among the Gipsies; and we doubt if the Queen of the South herself was a more queenly-looking personage than the dame now marching in the midst of the throng, and conversing earnestly with her companion, a resolute-looking man scarce entering upon the prime of life, with a Gipsy complexion, but a bearing in which it is not difficult to recognise the soldier. He is talking to his protectress—for such she is—with a military frankness and vivacity, which even to that royal personage, accustomed though she be to exact all the respect due to her rank, appear by no means displeasing. The lady is verging on the autumn of her charms (their summer must have been scorching indeed!), and though a masculine beauty, is a beauty nevertheless. Black-browed is she, and deep-coloured, with eyes of fire, and locks of jet, even now untinged with grey. Straight and regular are her features, and the wide mouth, with its strong, even dazzling teeth, betokens an energy and force of will which would do credit to the other sex. She has the face of a woman that would dare much, labour much, everything but love much. She ought to be a queen, and she is one, none the less despotic for ruling over a tribe of Gipsies instead of a civilised community . . .

"'Every Gipsy can tell fortunes; mine has been told many a time, but it never came true.'

"She was studying the lines on his palm with earnest attention. She raised her dark eyes angrily to his face.

"'Blind! blind!' she answered, in a low, eager tone. 'The best of you cannot see a yard upon your way. Look at that white road, winding and winding many a mile before us upon the plain. Because it is flat and soft and smooth as far as we can see, will there be no hills on our journey, no rocks to cut our feet, no thorns to tear our limbs? Can you see the Danube rolling on far, far before us? Can you see the river you will have to cross some day, or can you tell me where it leads? I have the map of our journey here in my brain; I have the map of your career here on your hand. Once more I say, when the chiefs are in council, and the hosts are melting like snow before the sun, and the earth quakes, and the heavens are filled with thunder, and the shower that falls scorches and crushes and blasts—remember me! I follow the line of wealth: Man of gold! spoil on; here a horse, there a diamond; hundreds to uphold the right, thousands to spare the wrong; both hands full, and broad lands near a city of palaces, and a king's favour, and a nation of slaves beneath thy foot. I follow the line of pleasure: costly amber; rich embroidery; dark eyes melting for the Croat; glances unveiled for the shaven head, many and loving and beautiful; a garland of roses, all for one—rose by rose plucked and withered and thrown away; one tender bud remaining; cherish it till it blows, and wear it till it dies. I follow the line of blood:—it leads towards the rising sun—charging squadrons with lances in rest, and a wild shout in a strange tongue; and the dead wrapped in grey, with charm and amulet that were powerless to save; and hosts of many nations gathered by the sea—pestilence, famine, despair, and victory. Rising on the whirlwind, chief among chiefs, the honoured of leaders, the counsellor of princes—remember me! But ha! the line is crossed. Beware! trust not the sons of the adopted land; when the lily is on thy breast, beware of the dusky shadow on the wall! beware, and remember me!' . . .

"I proffered my hand readily to the Gipsy, and crossed it with one of the two pieces of silver which constituted the whole of my worldly wealth. The Gipsy laughed, and began to prophesy in German. There are some events a child never forgets; and I remember every word she said as well as if it had been spoken yesterday.

"'Over the sea, and again over the sea; thou shalt know grief and hardship and losses, and the dove shall be driven from its nest. And the dove's heart shall become like the eagle's, that flies alone, and fleshes her beak in the slain. Beat on, though the poor wings be bruised by the tempest, and the breast be sore, and the heart sink; beat on against the wind, and seek no shelter till thou find thy resting-place at last. The time will come—only beat on.'

"The woman laughed as she spoke; but there was a kindly tone in her voice and a pitying look in her bright eyes that went straight to my heart. Many a time since, in life, when the storm has indeed been boisterous and the wings so weary, have I thought of those words of encouragement, 'The time will come—beat on.' . . .

"'Thou shalt be a "De Rohan," my darling, and I can promise thee no brighter lot—broad acres, and blessings from the poor, and horses, and wealth, and honours. And the sword shall spare thee, and the battle turn aside to let thee pass. And thou shalt wed a fair bride with dark eyes and a queenly brow; but beware of St. Hubert's Day. Birth and burial, birth and burial—beware of St. Hubert's Day.'"

Disraeli, speaking of the Gipsies in his "Venetia," says:—"As Cadurcis approached he observed some low tents, and in a few minutes he was in the centre of an encampment of Gipsies. He was for a moment somewhat dismayed, for he had been brought up with the usual terror of these wild people; nevertheless he was not unequal to the occasion. He was surrounded in an instant, but only with women and children, for Gipsy men never immediately appear. They smiled with their bright eyes, and the flashes of the watch-fire threw a lurid glare over their dark and flashing countenances; they held out their practised hands; they uttered unintelligible, but not unfriendly sounds."

Matilda Betham Edwards, in her remarks upon Gipsies, says:—"Your pulses are quickened to Gipsy pitch, you are ready to make love or war, to heal and slay, to wander to the world's end, to be outlawed and hunted down, to dare and do anything for the sake of the sweet, untramelled life of the tent, the bright blue sky, the mountain air, the free savagedom, the joyous dance, the passionate friendship, the fiery love."

I come now to notice what a few of the poets have said about these ignorant, nomadic tribes, who have been skulking and flitting about in our midst, since the days of Borrow, Roberts, Hoyland, and Crabb—a period of over forty years.

"He grows, like the young oak, healthy and broad, With no home but the forest, no bed but the sward; Half-naked he wades in the limpid stream, Or dances about in the scorching beam. The dazzling glare of the banquet sheen Hath never fallen on him I ween, But fragments are spread, and the wood pine piled, And sweet is the meal of the Gipsy child."—ELIZA COOK.

"The Gipsy eye, bright as the star That sends its light from heaven afar, Wild with the strains of thy guitar, This heart with rapture fill. Then, maiden fair, beneath this star, Come, touch me with the light guitar. Thy brow unworked by lines of care, Decked with locks of raven hair, Seems ever beautiful and fair At moonlight's stilly hour. What bliss! beside the leafy maze, Illumined by the moon's pale rays, On thy sweet face to sit and gaze, Thou wild, uncultured flower. Then, maiden fair, beneath this star, Come, touch me with the light guitar."

HUBERT SMITH: "Tent Life in Norway."

"From every place condemned to roam, In every place we seek a home; These branches form our summer roof, By thick grown leaves made weather-proof; In shelt'ring nooks and hollow ways, We cheerily pass our winter days. Come circle round the Gipsy's fire, Come circle round the Gipsy's fire, Our songs, our stories never tire, Our songs, our stories never tire."—REEVE.

"Where is the little Gipsy's home? Under the spreading greenwood tree, Wherever she may roam, Wherever that tree may be. Roaming the world o'er, Crossing the deep blue sea, She finds on every shore, A home among the free, A home among the free, Ah, voila la Gitana, voila la Gitana."—HALLIDAY.

"He checked his steed, and sighed to mark Her coral lips, her eyes so dark, And stately bearing—as she had been Bred up in courts, and born a queen. Again he came, and again he came, Each day with a warmer, a wilder flame, And still again—till sleep by night For Judith's sake fled his pillow quite."—DELTA.

"A race that lives on prey, as foxes do, With stealthy, petty rapine; so despised, It is not persecuted, only spurned, Crushed under foot, warred on by chance like rats, Or swarming flies, or reptiles of the sea, Dragged in the net unsought and flung far off, To perish as they may."

GEORGE ELIOT: "The Spanish Gipsies," 1865.

"Help me wonder, here's a booke, Where I would for ever looke. Never did a Gipsy trace Smoother lines in hands or face; Venus here doth Saturne move That you should be the Queene of Love."

BEN JONSON.

"Fond dreamer, pause! why floats the silvery breath Of thin, light smoke from yonder bank of heath? What forms are those beneath the shaggy trees, In tattered tent, scarce sheltered from the breeze; The hoary father and the ancient dame, The squalid children, cowering o'er the flame? Those were not born by English hearths to dwell, Or heed the carols of the village bell; Those swarthy lineaments, that wild attire, Those stranger tones, bespeak an eastern sire; Bid us in home's most favoured precincts trace The houseless children of a homeless race; And as in warning vision seem to show That man's best joys are drowned by shades of woe.

"Pilgrims of Earth, who hath not owned the spell That ever seems around your tents to dwell; Solemn and thrilling as the nameless dread That guards the chambers of the silent dead! The sportive child, if near your camp he stray, Stands tranced with fear, and heeds no more his play; To gain your magic aid, the love-sick swain, With hasty footsteps threads the dusky lane; The passing traveller lingers, half in sport, And half in awe beside your savage court, While the weird hags explore his palm to spell What varied fates these mystic lines foretell.

"The murmuring streams your minstrel songs supply, The moss your couch, the oak your canopy; The sun awakes you as with trumpet-call, Lightly ye spring from slumber's gentle thrall; Eve draws her curtain o'er the burning west, Like forest birds ye sink at once to rest.

"Free as the winds that through the forest rush, Wild as the flowers that by the wayside blush, Children of nature wandering to and fro, Man knows not whence ye came, nor where ye go; Like foreign weeds cast upon Western strands, Which stormy waves have borne from unknown lands; Like the murmuring shells to fancy's ears that tell The mystic secrets of their ocean cell.

"Drear was the scene—a dark and troublous time— The Heaven all gloom, the wearied Earth all crime; Men deemed they saw the unshackled powers of ill Rage in that storm, and work their perfect will. Then like a traveller, when the wild wind blows, And black night flickers with the driving snows, A stranger people, 'mid that murky gloom, Knocked at the gates of awe-struck Christendom! No clang of arms, no din of battle roared Round the still march of that mysterious horde; Weary and sad arrayed in pilgrim's guise, They stood and prayed, nor raised their suppliant eyes. At once to Europe's hundred shores they came, In voice, in feature, and in garb the same. Mother and babe and youth, and hoary age, The haughty chieftain and the wizard sage; At once in every land went up the cry, 'Oh! fear us not—receive us or we die!'"

DEAN STANLEY'S PRIZE POEM, 1837: "The Gipsies."



Part IV. Gipsy Life in a Variety of Aspects.

[Picture: A Gipsy's van near Notting Hill, Latimer Road]

In Part III. I have endeavoured, as well as I have been able, to show some of the agencies that have been set in motion during the last three centuries for and against the Gipsies, with a view to their extermination, by the hang-man, to their being reclaimed by the religious zeal and fervour of the minister, and to their improvement by the artificial means of poetry, fiction, and romance. First, the persecution dealt out to the Gipsies in this, as well as other countries, during a period of several centuries, although to a large extent brought upon themselves by their horrible system of lying and deception, neither exterminated them nor improved their habits; but, on the contrary, they increased and spread like mushrooms; the oftener they were trampled upon the more they seemed to thrive; the more they were hated, hunted, and driven into hiding-places the oftener these sly, fortune-telling, lying foxes would be seen sneaking across our path, ready to grab our chickens and young turkeys as opportunities presented themselves. Second, that when stern justice said "it is enough," persecution hanging down its hands and revenge drooping her head, a few noble-hearted men, filled with missionary zeal, took up the cause of the Gipsies for a period of nearly forty years in various forms and ways at the end of the last and the commencement of the present century. Except in a few isolated cases, they also failed in producing any noticeable change in either the moral, social, or religious condition of the Gipsies, and with the death of Hoyland, Borrow, Crabb, Roberts, and others, died the last flicker of a flickering light that was to lead these poor, deluded, benighted heathen wanderers upon a road to usefulness, honesty, uprightness, and industry. Third, that on the decline of religious zeal, fervour, and philanthropy on behalf of the Gipsies more than forty years ago the spasmodic efforts of poets, novelists, and dramatists, in a variety of forms of fiction and romance, came to the front, to lead them to the goal through a lot of questionable by-lanes, queer places, and artificial lights, the result being that these melodramatic personages have left the Gipsies in a more pitiable condition than they were before they took up their cause, although they, in doing so, put "two faces under one hat," blessing and cursing, smiling and frowning, all in one breath, praising their faults and sins, and damning their few virtues. In fact, to such a degree have fiction writers painted the black side of a Gipsy's life, habits, and character in glowing colours that, to take another 20,000 men, women, and children out of our back slums and sink-gutters and write the word "Gipsy" upon their back, instead of "scamp," and send them through the country with a few donkeys, some long sticks, old blankets and rags, dark eyes, dirty faces, filthy bodies, short petticoats, and old scarlet hoods and cloaks, you would in fifty years make this country not worth living in. It is my decided conviction that unless we are careful, and take the "bull by the horns," and compel them to educate their children, and to put their habitations, tents, and vans under better sanitary arrangements, we shall be fostering seeds in these dregs of society that will one day put a stop to the work of civilisation, and bring to an end the advance in arts, science, laws, and commerce that have been making such rapid strides in this country of late years.

It is more pleasant to human nature to sit upon a stile on a midsummer eve, down a country lane, in the twilight, as the shades of evening are gathering around you, the stars twinkling over head, the little silver stream rippling over the pebbles at your feet in sounds like the distant warbling of the lark, and the sweet notes of the nightingale ringing in your ears, than to visit the abodes of misery, filth, and squalor among the Gipsies in their wigwams. It is more agreeable to the soft parts of our hearts and our finer feelings to listen to the melody and harmony of lively, lovely damsels as they send forth their enchanting strains than to hear the cries of the poor little, dirty Gipsy children sending forth their piteous moans for bread. It is more delightful to the poetic and sentimental parts of our nature to guide over the stepping-stones a number of bright, sharp, clean, lively, interesting, little dears, with their "hoops," "shuttle-cocks," and "battle-doors," than to be seated among a lot of little ragged, half-starved Gipsy children, who have never known what soap, water, and comb are. It is more in harmony with our sensibilities to sit and listen to the drollery, wit, sarcasm, and fun of Punch than to the horrible tales of blood, revenge, immorality, and murder that some of the adult Gipsies delight in setting forth. It is more in accordance with our feelings to sit and admire the innocent, angelic being, the perfection of the good and beautiful, than to sit by the hardened, wicked, ugly, old Gipsy woman who has spent a lifetime in sin and debauchery, cursing the God who made her as she expires. Nevertheless, these things have to be done if we are to have the angelic beings from the other world ministering to our wants, and wafting us home as we leave our tenement of clay behind to receive the "Well done."

I will now, as we pass along, endeavour to show what the actual condition of the Gipsies has been in the past, and what it is at the present time, which, in some cases, has been touched upon previously, with reference to the moral, social, and religious traits in their character that go to the making up of a MAN—the noblest work of God. The peculiar fascinating charms about them, conjured up by ethnologists and philologists, I will leave for those learned gentlemen to deal with as they may think well. I will, however, say that, as regards their so-called language, it is neither more nor less than gibberish, not "full of sound and fury signifying nothing," but full of "sound and fury" signifying something. They never converse with it openly among themselves for a good purpose, as the Frenchmen, Germans, Turks, Spaniards, or other foreigners do. Some of the old Gipsies have a thousand or more leading words made up from various sources, English, French, German, Spanish, Indian, &c., which they teach their children, and use in the presence of strangers with a certain amount of pride, and, at the same time, to throw dust into their eyes while the Gipsies are talking among themselves. They will in the same breath bless you in English and curse you in Romany; this I experienced myself lately while sitting in a tent among a dozen uninteresting-looking Gipsies, while they one and all were thanking me for taking steps to get the children educated. There was one among them who with a smile upon his face, was cursing me in Romany from his heart. Many writers differ in the spelling and pronunciation of Gipsy words, and what strikes me as remarkable is, the Gipsies themselves are equally confused upon these points. No doubt the confusion in the minds of writers arises principally from the fact that they have had their information from ignorant, lying, deceiving Gipsies. Almost all Gipsies have an inveterate hatred and jealousy towards each other, especially if one sets himself up as knowing more than John Jones in the next yard. One Gipsy would say paanengro-gujo means sailor, or water gentile, another Gipsy would say it means an Irishman, or potato gentile; another would say poovengri-gujo meant a sailor; another would say it means an Irishman. They glory in contradictions and mystification. I was at an encampment a few days ago, and out of the twenty-five men and women and forty children there were not three that could talk Romany, and there was not one who could spell a single word of it. Their language, like themselves, was Indian enough, no doubt, when they started on their pilgrimage many centuries ago; but, as a consequence of their mixing with the scum of other nations in their journey westward, the charm in their language and themselves has pretty nearly by this time vanished. If I were to attempt to write a book about their language it would not do the Gipsies one iota of good. "God bless you" are words the Gipsies very often use when showing their kindness for favours received, and, as a kind of test, I have tried to find out lately if there were any Gipsies round London who could tell me what these words were in Romany, and I have only found one who could perform the task. They all shake their heads and say, "Ours is not a language, only slang, which we use when required." Taking their slang generally, according to Grellmann, Hoyland, Borrow, Smart, and Crofton, there is certainly nothing very elevating about it. Worldliness, sensuality, and devilism are things helped forward by their gibberish. Words dealing with honesty, uprightness, fidelity, industry, religion, cleanliness, and love are very sparse.

William Stanley, a converted Gipsy, said, some years since, that "God bless you" was in Romany, Artmee Devillesty; Smart and Crofton say it is, Doovel, parav, parik toot, tooti. In another place they say it is Doovel jal toosa. Mrs. Simpson says it is, Mi-Doovel-kom-tooti. Mrs. Smith says it is Mi-Doovel Andy-Paratuta.

The following are the whole of the slang words Smart and Crofton have under the letters indicated, and which words are taken principally from Grellmann, Hoyland, Borrow, and Dr. Paspati:—

I.

I, Man, me, mandi, manghi.

Ill, Nasfelo, naffelo doosh.

Illness, Naffelopen.

Ill-tempered, Korni.

Imitation, Foshono.

Immediately, Kenaw sig.

In, Adre, dre, ando, inna.

Indebted, Pazerous.

Inflame, Katcher.

Injure, Dooka.

Inn, Kitchema.

Innkeeper, Kitchemengro.

Intestine, Venderi.

Into, Ande, adre, dre.

Ireland, Hindo-tem, Hinditemeskro-tem.

Irishman, Hindi-temengro, poovengri gaujo.

Irish Gipsy, Efage.

Iron, Saster, saasta, saashta.

Iron, Sastera.

Is, See.

It, Les.

Itch, Honj.

J.

Jail, Steripen.

Jews, Miduvelesto-mauromengri.

Jockey, Kestermengro.

Judgment, Bitchama.

Jump, Hokter hok oxta.

Jumper, Hoxterer.

Just now, Kenaw sig.

Justice of the peace, Chivlo-gaujo, chuvno-gaujo, pokenyus, pookinyus.

K.

Keep, Righer, riker.

Kettle, Kekavvi, kavvi.

Key, Klerin klisin.

Kick, Del, de.

Kill, Maur.

Kin, Simensa.

Kind, Komelo komomuso.

King, Kralis.

Kingdom, Kralisom tem.

Kiss, Chooma.

Knee, Chong, choong.

Knife, Choori chivomengro chinomengro.

Knock, Koor, de.

Know, Jin.

Knowing, Yoki, jinomengro, jinomeskro.

Q.

Quarrel, Chingar.

Quarrel, Chingariben, godli.

Quart, Trooshni.

Queen, Kralisi krailisi.

Quick, Sig.

Quick, Be, Sigo toot, ressi toot kair abba.

Quietly, Shookar.

The following dozen words will show, in some degree, the fearful amount of ignorance there is amongst them, even when using the language of their mother country, for England is the mother country of the present race of Gipsies. For—

Expensive, Expencival.

Decide, Cide.

Advice, Device.

Dictionary, Dixen.

Equally, Ealfully.

Instructed, Indistructed.

Gentleman, Gemmen.

Daunted, Dauntment.

Spitefulness, Spiteliness.

Habeas Corpus, Hawcus paccus.

Increase, Increach.

Submit, Commist.



I cannot find joy, delight, eternity, innocent, ever, everlasting, endless, hereafter, and similar words, and, on inquiry, I find that many of the Gipsies do not believe in an eternity, future punishment, or rewards; this belief, no doubt, has its effects upon their morals in this life.

The opinion respecting the Gipsy language at the commencement of the present century was, that it was composed only of cant terms, or of what has been called the slang of beggars; much of this probably was promoted and strengthened by the dictionary contained in a pamphlet, entitled, "The Life and Adventures of Bamfylde Moore Carew." It consists for the most part of English words trumped up apparently not so much for the purpose of concealment as a burlesque. Even if used by this people at all, the introduction of this cant and slang as the genuine language of the community of Gipsies is a gross imposition on the public.

Rees, in his Encyclopaedia, 1819, describes the Gipsies as "impostors and jugglers forming a kind of commonwealth among themselves, who disguise themselves in uncouth habits, smearing their faces and bodies, and framing to themselves a canting language, wander up and down, and under pretence of telling fortunes, curing diseases, &c., abuse the common people, trick them of their money, and steal all that they come at."

Mr. Borrow, speaking of the Hungarian Gipsies in his "Zyncali," page 7, says:—"Hungary, though a country not a tenth part so extensive as the huge colossus of the Russian empire, whose Czar reigns over a hundred lands, contains perhaps as many Gipsies, it not being uncommon to find whole villages inhabited by this race. They likewise abound in the suburbs of the towns.

"In Hungary the feudal system still exists in all its pristine barbarity. In no country does the hard hand of oppression bear so heavy upon the lower classes—not even in Russia. The peasants of Russia are serfs, it is true, but their condition is enviable compared with that of the same class in the other country; they have certain rights and privileges, and are, upon the whole, happy and contented, at least, there, whilst the Hungarians are ground to powder. Two classes are free in Hungary to do almost what they please—the nobility and the Gipsies (the former are above the law, the latter below it). A toll is wrung from the hands of the hard working labourers, that most meritorious class, in passing over a bridge, for example, at Perth, which is not demanded from a well-dressed person, nor from Zingany, who have frequently no dress at all, and whose insouciance stands in striking contrast with the trembling submission of the peasants. The Gipsy, wherever you find him, is an incomprehensible being, but nowhere more than in Hungary, where in the midst of slavery he is free, though apparently one step lower than the lowest slave. The habits of the Hungarian Gipsies are abominable; their hovels appear sinks of the vilest poverty and filth; their dress is at best rags; their food frequently of the vilest carrion, and occasionally, if report be true, still worse: thus they live in filth, in rags, in nakedness. The women are fortune-tellers. Of course both sexes are thieves of the first water. They roam where they list."

The "Chronicle of Bologna," printed about the year 1422, says:—"And of those who went to have their fortunes told few there were who had not their purses stolen, or some portion of their garments cut away. Their women also traversed the city six or eight together, entering the houses of the citizens, and diverting them with idle talk while one of the party secured whatever she could lay her hands upon. In the shops they pretended to buy, but in fact stole. They were amongst the cleverest thieves that the world contained. Be it noted that they were the most hideous crew ever seen in these parts. They were lean and black, and ate like pigs. The women wore mantles flung upon one shoulder, with only a vest underneath." Forli, who wrote about them about the same time as the "Chronicle of Bologna," does not seem to have liked them, and says they were not "even civilised, and resembling rather savage and untamed beasts."

A writer describes a visit to a Gipsy's tent as follows:—"We were in a wigwam which afforded us but miserable shelter from the inclemency of the season. The storm raged without; the tempest roared in the open country; the wind blew with violence, and whistled through the fissures of the cabin; the rain fell in torrents, and prevented us from continuing our route. Our host was an Indian with sparkling and intelligent eyes, clad with a certain elegance, and wrapped majestically in a large fur cloak. Seated close to the fire, which cast a reddish gleam through the interior of the wigwam, he felt himself all at once seized with an irresistible desire to imitate the convulsion of nature, and to sing his impressions. So taking hold of a drum which hung near his bed, he beat a slight rolling, resembling the distant sounds of an approaching storm, then raising his voice to a shrill treble, which he knew how to soften when he pleased, he imitated the whistling of the air, the creaking of the branches dashing against one another, and the particular noise produced by dead leaves when accumulated in compact masses on the ground. By degrees the rollings of the drum became more frequent and louder, the chants more sonorous and shrill; and at last our Indian shrieked, howled, and roared in the most frightful manner; he struggled and struck his instrument with extraordinary rapidity; it was a real tempest, to which nothing was wanting, not even the distant howling of the dogs, nor the bellowing of the affrighted buffaloes."

Mr. Leland, speaking of the Russian Gipsies near Moscow, says that after meeting them in public, and penetrating to their homes, they were altogether original, deeply interesting, and able to read and write, and have a wonderful capacity for music, and goes on to say that he speedily found the Russian Gipsies were as unaffected and childlike as they were gentle in manner, and that compared with our own prize-fighting, sturdy, begging, and always suspecting Gipsy roughs, as a delicate greyhound might compare with a very shrewd old bulldog trained by a fly tramp. Leland, in his article, speaking of one of the Russian Gipsy maidens, says:—"Miss Sarsha, who had a slight cast in one of her wild black eyes, which added something to the Gipsiness and roguery of her smiles, and who wore in a ring a large diamond, which seemed as if it might be the right eye in the wrong place, was what is called an earnest young lady, and with plenty to say and great energy wherewith to say it. What with her eyes, her diamond, her smiles, and her tongue, she constituted altogether a fine specimen of irrepressible fireworks."

Leland, referring to the musical abilities of the Russian Gipsies, in his article in "Macmillan's Magazine," November, 1879, says:—"These artists, with wonderful tact and untaught skill have succeeded in all their songs in combining the mysterious and maddening chorus of the true wild eastern music with that of regular and simple melody intelligible to every western ear." "I listened," says Leland, "to the strangest, wildest, and sweetest singing I ever had heard—the singing of Lurleis, of syrens, of witches. First, one damsel, with an exquisitely clear, firm voice began to sing a verse of a love ballad, and as it approached the end the chorus stole in, softly and unperceived, but with exquisite skill, until, in a few seconds, the summer breeze, murmuring melody over a rippling lake, seemed changed to a midnight tempest roaring over a stormy sea, in which the basso of the black captain pealed like thunder, and as it died away a second girl took up the melody, very sweetly, but with a little more excitement—it was like a gleam of moonlight on the still agitated waters—a strange contralto witch gleam, and then again the chorus and the storm, and then another solo yet sweeter, sadder, and stranger—the movement continually increasing, until all was fast, and wild, and mad—a locomotive quick step and then a sudden silence—sunlight—the storm had blown away;" and adds, "I could only think of those strange fits of excitement which thrill the Red Indian, and make him burst into song."

"After the first Gipsy lyric then came another to which the captain especially directed my attention as being what Sam. Petalengro calls 'The girl in the red chemise'—as well as I can recall his words. A very sweet song, with a simple but spirited chorus, and as the sympathetic electricity of excitement seized the performers we were all in a minute going down the rapids in a spring freshet. 'Sing, sir, sing!' cried my handsome neighbour, with her black Gipsy eyes sparkling fire."

Some excuse ought to be made for Leland getting into this wild state of excitement, for he had on his right and on his left, before and behind him, dark-eyed Gipsy beauties—as some would call them—among whom was one, the belle of the party, dressed in black silk attire, wafting in his face the enchanting fan of fascination till he was completely mesmerised. How different this hour's excitement to the twenty-three hours' reality!

The following is the full history of a remarkable case which has recently occurred in Russia, taken from the London daily papers last November, and it shows the way in which Gipsy witches and fortune-tellers are held and horribly treated in that country. It is quite evident that Gipsies and witches are not esteemed by the Russians like angels:—

Agrafena Ignatjewa was as a child simple and amiable, neither sharper nor more stupid than all the other girls of her native village, Wratschewo, in the Government of Novgorod. But the people of the place having, from her early youth, made up their minds that she had the "evil eye," nothing could eradicate that impression.

Being branded with this reputation, it naturally followed that powers of divination and enchantment were attributed to her, including the ability to afflict both men and animals with various plagues and sicknesses.

In spite, however, of the supernatural skill with which she was credited, she met with no suitor save a poor soldier. She accepted him gladly, and going with him, shortly after her marriage, to St. Petersburg, Wratschewo lost sight of her for some twelve years. She was, however, by no means forgotten there, for when, after the death of her husband, she again betook herself to the home of her childhood, she found that her old reputation still clung to her. The news of her return spread like wild-fire, and general disaster was anticipated from her injurious spells. This, however, was, from fear, talked of only behind her back, and dread of her at length reached such a pitch that the villagers and their wives sent her presents and assisted her in every way, hoping thereby to get into her good graces, and so escape being practised upon by her infernal arts. As she was now fifty years of age, somewhat weakly, and therefore unable to earn a living, these attentions were by no means unwelcome, and she therefore did nothing to disabuse her neighbours' minds. Their superstition enabled her to live comfortably and without care, and she knew very well that any assurances she might give would not have produced the slightest effect.

A short time after her return to Wratschewo, several women fell ill. This was, of course, laid at the door of Ignatjewa, particularly as one of these women, the daughter of a peasant, had been attacked immediately after being refused a slight favour by her. Whenever any misfortune whatsoever happened in the village, all fingers pointed to Ignatjewa as the source of it. At the beginning of the present year a dismissed soldier, in the interest of the community, actually instituted criminal proceedings against her before the local urjadnik, the chief of the police of the district, the immediate charge preferred being that she had bewitched his wife.

Meanwhile the feeling in the village against her became so intensified that it was resolved by the people, pending the decision on the complaint that had been lodged, to take the law into their hands so far as to fasten her up in her cottage.

The execution of this resolve was not delayed a moment. Led by Kauschin, Nikisorow, Starovij, and an old man of seventy, one Schipensk, whose wife and daughters were at the time supposed to be suffering from her witchcraft, a crowd of villagers set out on the way to Ignatjewa's dwelling. Nikisorow had provided himself with hammer and nails, and Iwanow with some chips of pinewood "to smoke out the bad spirits." Finding the cottage door locked, they beat it in, and while a portion of them nailed up the windows the remainder crowded in and announced to the terrified woman that, by unanimous decision, she was, for the present, to be kept fastened up in her house. Some of them then proceeded to look through the rooms, where they found, unfortunately, several bottles containing medicaments. Believing these to be enchanted potions, and therefore conclusive proofs of Ignatjewa's guilt, it was decided, on the suggestion of Nikisorow, to burn her and her devilish work there and then. "We must put an end to it," shouted the peasants in chorus; "if we let her off now we shall be bewitched one and all."

Kauschin, who held in his hand a lighted chip of pine-wood, which he had used "to smoke out the spirits" and to light him about the premises, instantly applied it to a bundle of straw lying in a room, after which all hastily left. Ignatjewa attempted in vain to follow them. The agonised woman then tried to get out at the windows, but these were already nailed up. In front of the cottage stood the people, blankly staring at the spreading flames, and listening to the cries of their victim without moving a muscle.

At this point Ignatjewa's brother came on the scene, and ran towards the cottage to rescue his sister. But a dozen arms held him back. "Don't let her out," shouted the venerable Schipensk, the husband and father of the bewitched women. "I'll answer for it, that we won't, father; we have put up with her long enough," replied one of the band. "The Lord be praised!" exclaimed another, "let her burn away; she bewitched my daughters too."

The little room in which Ignatjewa had taken refuge was not as yet reached by the fire. Appeals were now made to her to confess herself a witch, the brother joining, probably in the hope that if she did so her life might be spared. "But I am entirely innocent," the poor woman cried out. One of the bystanders, apparently the only one in possession of his five senses, made another attempt at rescue, but was hindered by the mob. He then, in loud tones, warned them of the punishment which would certainly await them, but in vain, no attention was paid to him. On the contrary, the progress of the flames not appearing rapid enough, it was endeavoured to accelerate it by shoving the snow from the roof and loosening the frame-work. The fire now extended rapidly, one beam after another blazed up, and at length the roof fell in on the wretched woman.

The ashes smouldered the whole night; on the following morning nothing was found remaining but the charred bones of Ignatjewa.

The idea now, it would seem, occurred to the murderers that perhaps, after all, their action had not been altogether lawful. They accordingly resolved to bribe the local authority, who had already viewed the scene of the affair, to hush it up. For this purpose they made a collection, and handed him the proceeds, twenty-one roubles ninety copecks. To their astonishment he did not accept the money, but at once reported the horrible deed to his superior officer. Sixteen of the villagers were, in consequence, brought up for trial at Tichwin before the district court of Novgorod on the charge of murdering Agrafena Ignatjewa, in the manner above described.

After a protracted hearing with jury the following result was arrived at:—Kauschin, who had first set fire to the building; Starovij, who had assisted in accelerating the burning; and Nikisorow, the prime mover in the matter, who had nailed up the windows, were found guilty, and sentenced by the judge to some slight ecclesiastical penance, while the remaining thirteen, including the aged Schipensk—who had used his influence to prevent a rescue—went scot free.

The Spanish Gipsies, in Grellmann's day, would resort to the most wicked and inhuman practices. Before taking one of their horses to the fair they would make an incision in some secret part of the skin, through which they would blow the creature up till his flesh looked fat and plump, and then they would apply a strong sticking plaster to prevent the air escaping. Wolfgang Franz says they make use of another device with an eel. Grellmann says of the Spanish Gipsies in his day that dancing was another means of getting something; they generally practised dancing when they were begging, particularly if men were about the streets. Their dances were of the most disgusting kind that could be conceived; the most lascivious attitudes and gestures, young girls and married women, travelling with their fathers, would indulge in, to the extent of frisking about the streets in a state of nudity.

Further inquiries among the Gipsies more than ever satisfy me that my first statement last August, viz., that five per cent. of them could not read and write, is being more than fully borne out by facts brought under my notice; in fact, I question if there will be three per cent. of the Gipsies who can read and write. The following letter has been sent to me by a friend to show that there is one Gipsy in the country, at least, who knows how to put a letter together, and as it is somewhat of a curiosity I give it, as exactly as possible as I received it, of course leaving out the name, and without note or comment.

"Newtown Moor, "the 22nd, 1877.

"Dear Sir,—

"I recivd your last Letter, and proude to say that I shall (if alls well) endeavor to cum on the day mentioned. I shall start from hear 5.36 a.m., and be in Edinburgh betwen 3 and 4. I have no more to say very particular, only feel proude of having the enviteation (we are all well hear) with the exception of my little Daughter. She still keeps about the same. I shall finish (this little bit) by sending all our very kind love and respects to Mrs. —- and yourself. Hopeing this will find you boath in good helth (I shall go on with a little bit of something else) (by the way, a little filling up which I hope you will parden me for taking up so much of your time.

"I am yours "Very obediently,t "WELSH HARPER.

(Now a little more about what my poor old mother leant me when a child) and before I go on any further I want you (if you will be so kind) as to perticullery—understand me—that the ch has a curious sound—also the LR, as, for instence, chommay, in staid hommay, choy in place of hoi. Chotche yoi instaid of hotche yoi. Matteva ma tot in staid of lat eva ma tot and so on. I shall now commence with the feminine and the musculin gender (but I must mind as I don't put my foot in it) as you know a hundred times more than I do about these last words—the same time the maight be a little picket up by them. Well, hear goes to make a start. (You must not always laugh.)

"Singular Feminine M. F. "Masculine gender. gender.

Dad Dai Dada Daia

Chavo Chai Chavay Chaia

Tieno Tienoy Tickna

Morsh Jovel Morsha Jovya

Gongeo Gangee Gongea Gongeya

Racloo Raclee

Raclay or Racklay

Pal Pen Palla Peoya

Pella Penya Cock Bebey



(I shall finish this) as you know yourself it will take me to long to go on with more of it. I shall now sho how my poor mother use to speak her English.

"THE WHOL FAMALY CAMPING WITH HORSES, DONKEYS, AND DOGS.

"On the first weakning in the morning (mother speaking to my Father in the Tent)—"Now, man, weak dear Boys up to go and geather some sticks to light the fire, and to see whare dem Hoses and Donkeys are. I think I shoud some marshas helen a pray the Drom and coving the collas out of the pub. Mother again—Now, boy, go and get some water to put in the ole kettle for breakfast. The Boy—I davda—I must go and do every bit a thing. Why don't you send dat gel to cer some thing some times her crie chee tal only wishing talkay all the blessed time. Mother, I am going to send her to the farm House for milk (jack loses mony) when a Bran of fire is flying after him, and he (the boy) over a big piece of wood, and hurts his knea.

"The girl goes for the milk (and she has a river to go threw) when presently a Bull is heard roreng. Mother, dare now, boy, go and meet your sister; does de Bull roreing after her. She will fall down in a faint in de middle of de riber. Boy sar can I gal ear yoi ta ma docadom me heroi ta shom quit leam (the old woman), go, man, go, man, and stick has dat charey chai is a beling da da say dat dat is a very bad after jovyas. Strenge men brings the Horses and donkeys up to the tents, and begins to scould very much. (The little girl comes with the milk.) The girl said to her brother that she may fall over the wooden in the river for what he cared; yet the boy said that when she would fall down she would chin a bit, and all the fish would come and nibble at her. Horras and her bull; and then they began the scrubble, and begins to scould her brother for not going to meet her, when they boath have a scuffel over the fire, and very near knocks the jockett over, when the boy hops away upon one leg, and hops upon one of the dog's paws—un-seen—and dog runs away barking, and runs himself near one of the Donkeys, and the Donkey gives him a kick, until he is briging in the horse. The old woman: Dare now, dare now, ockkie now chorro jocked mardo. Breakfast is over with a deal of boather, and a little laughing and cursing and swaring.

"They strike the tents. (The old woman) Men chovolay nen sig waste ja mangay. I am a faling a vaver drom codires, and you will meet me near old Town. Be shewer and leave a pattern by the side of the cross road, if you sal be dare before me.

"(The old man and the Boys Pitches the Tents) and gets himself ready to go to the Town. The old woman comes up, and one of the girls with her—boath very tired and havey, loaded with choben behind her back, anugh to frighten waggens and carts of the road with her humpey back.

"(They intend to stay in this delightfull camping place for a good many days.) To day is soposid to be a very hot day, and a fare day in a Town about three miles and a half from there. The old woman and one of her Daughters goes out as usual. The old man takes a couple of Horses to the Fare to try and sell. (The boys go a fishing.) The day is very bright and hot. (The old man soon comes home.)

"One of the prityist girls takes a strol by herself down to a butyfull streem of water to have herself a wash, and she begins singing to the sound of a waterfall close by her, when all of a suden a very nice looking young gentleman, who got tiard fishing in the morning, and the day being very hot, took a bit of a lull on his face, his basket on his back, and Fishing-rod by his side (the girl did not see him) nor him her) until he was atracted by some strange sound, when all of a instant he sprung upon his heels, and to his surprise seen a most butyfull creature with her bear bosom and her long black hair and butyfull black eyes, white teeth, and a butyfull figure. He stared with all the eyes he had, and he made a advance towards her, and when she seen him she stared also at him, and aproaching slowly towards her and saying, from whence comest thou hear, my butyfull maid (and staring at her butyfull figure) thinking that she was some angel as droped down (when she with a pleasant smile by showing her ivory and her sparkling eyes) Oh, my father's tents are not fare off, and seen the day very warm I thought to have a little wash.

"Gentleman Well indeed I have been fishing to day, and cot a few this morning; but the day turned out so excesably hot I was obliged to go in to a shade and have a sleep, but was alarmed at your sweet voice mingling with the murmuring waters. They boath steer up to the camp, when now and then as he is speaking to her on the road going up, a loude and shrill laugh is heard many times—the same time he does not sho the least sign of vulgaraty by taking any sort of liberty with her whatever. They arrive at the tents, when one or the little boys says to his dady Dady, dady, there is a rye a velin a pra. The gentleman sitts himself down and pulls out a big Flask very near full of Brandy and toboco, and offers to the old man.

"By this time that young girl goes in her Tent and pull down the front, and presently out she comes butyfully dressed, which bewitched the young gentleman, and he said that they were welcome to come there to stop as long as they had a mind so as they would not tear the Headges. He goes and leaves them highly delighted towards hime, and he should pay them another visit. This camping ground belonged to the young gentleman's father, and is situated in a butyfull part of Derbyshire. One of the little girls sees two young ladys coming a little sideways across the common from a gentleman's house which is very near, which turns out to be the gentleman's two sisters. The little girl, Mamey, mamey, der is doi Rawngas avelin accai atch a pray. The young ladys comes to the tents and smiles, when the old woman says to one of them, Good day, meyam, it's a very fine day, meyam; shall I tell you a few words, meyam? The old woman takes them on one side and tells them something just to please them, now and then a word of truth, the rest a good lot of lies.

"The old man goes off for a stroll with a couple of dogs.

"One of the young boys asks his mother for some money, and she refuses him, or says she has got none. The boy says, Where is the 000 pounds tooteys sold froom those doi Rawngas maw did accai I held now from them they pend them not appopolar? One of the other brothers says to him, Hear, Abraham, ile lend you 5s. Will you, my blessed brother. Yes, I will; hear it is. Now we will boath of us go to the gav togeather. One gets his fiddle ready and the other the Tamareen. The harp is too heavy to carry. They go to call at the post office for a chinginargery—they boath come home rather wary.

"The next day the Boys go a fishing again and bring home a good lot (as the day was not near so hot as the day before) and comes home in good time to play the harp and violin (and sometimes the Tambureen) for the county gouges [green horns], as a good many comes to have a dance on the green—the collection would be the boys pocket money.

"There is a great deal of amusement found by those that us to follow Barns. The have many country people coming them to hear there music and to dance on the green, or sometimes in the barn, but most oftener in the house in a big kitchen, and the country people would be staring at the collays, Gipsies, with all there eyes, and the Gipsies would stare at the people to see them such Dinalays [fools].

"Those who followed Barns, us to call gentlemen's houses with the Harps, and us to be called in and make a good thing of it.

"Dear Mr.—With your permission I will leave of now, and let you know a little more when I come. Hoping that I have not trespased on your time to read such follishness. All that I have written has happened.

"I again beg to remain, "Yours very respectfully, "WELSHANENGAY BORY BOSHAHENGBO.

[Hedge Fiddler.]

"I beg to acquaint you that I am the oldest living Welsh Harper in the world at the present time. Mr. Thomas G—-, Welsh Harper to the Prince of Wales, is next to me."

It would be perhaps a difficult task to find a score of Gipsies out of the 15,000 to 20,000 there are in this country who can write as well as the foregoing letter.

The following may be considered a fair specimen of the high class or "Gentleman Gipsy," so much admired by those who have got the Gipsy spell round their necks, the Gipsy spectacles before their eyes, the Gipsy charm in their pocket, and who can see nothing but what is lively, charming, fascinating, and delightful in the Gipsy, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. To those of my friends I present them with an account of Ryley Bosvil as a man after their own heart, at the same time I would call their attention to his ending, as related by Borrow.

Ryley Bosvil was a native of Yorkshire, a county where, as the Gipsies say, "There's a deadly sight of Bosvils." He was above the middle height, exceedingly strong and active, and one of the best riders in Yorkshire, which is saying a great deal. He was thoroughly versed in all the arts of the old race; he had two wives, never went to church, and considered that when a man died he was cast into the earth and there was an end of him. He frequently used to say that if any of his people became Gorgios he would kill them. He had a sister of the name of Clara, a nice, delicate girl, about fourteen years younger than himself, who travelled about with an aunt; this girl was noticed by a respectable Christian family, who, taking great interest in her, persuaded her to come and live with them. She was instructed by them, in the rudiments of the Christian religion, appeared delighted with her new friends, and promised never to leave them. After the lapse of about six weeks there was a knock at the door, and a dark man stood before it, who said he wanted Clara. Clara went out trembling, had some discourse with the man in an unknown tongue, and shortly returned in tears, and said that she must go. "What for?" said her friends. "Did you not promise to stay with us?" "I did so," said the girl, weeping more bitterly; "but that man is my brother, who says I must go with him; and what he says must be." So with her brother she departed, and her Christian friends never saw her again. What became of her? Was she made away with? Many thought she was, but she was not. Ryley put her into a light cart, drawn by a "flying pony," and hurried her across England, even to distant Norfolk, where he left her with three Gipsy women. With these women the writer found her encamped in a dark wood, and had much discourse with her both on Christian and Egyptian matters. She was very melancholy, bitterly regretted her having been compelled to quit her Christian friends, and said that she wished she had never been a Gipsy. She was exhorted to keep a firm grip of her Christianity, and was not seen again for a quarter of a century, when she was met on Epsom Downs on the Derby day, when the terrible horse, "Gladiateur," beat all the English steeds. She was then very much changed indeed, appearing as a full-blown Egyptian matron, with two very handsome daughters flaringly dressed in genuine Gipsy fashion, to whom she was giving motherly counsels as to the best means to hok and dukker the gentlefolk. All her Christianity she appeared to have flung to the dogs, for when the writer spoke to her on that very important subject she made no answer save by an indescribable Gipsy look. On other matters she was communicative enough, telling the writer, amongst other things, that since he saw her she had been twice married, and both times very well, for that her first husband, by whom she had the two daughters, whom the writer "kept staring at," was a man every inch of him, and her second, who was then on the Downs grinding knives with a machine he had, though he had not much manhood, being nearly eighty years old, had something much better, namely, a mint of money, which she hoped shortly to have in her possession.

Ryley, like most of the Bosvils, was a tinker by profession; but though a tinker, he was amazingly proud and haughty of heart. His grand ambition was to be a great man among his people, a Gipsy king (no such individuals as either Gipsy kings or queens ever existed). To this end he furnished himself with clothes made after the costliest Gipsy fashion; the two hinder buttons of the coat, which was of thick blue cloth, were broad gold pieces of Spain, generally called ounces; the fore-buttons were English "spaded guineas," the buttons of the waistcoat were half-guineas, and those of the collar and the wrists of his shirt were seven-shilling gold-pieces. In this coat he would frequently make his appearance on a magnificent horse, whose hoofs, like those of the steed of a Turkish Sultan, were cased in shoes of silver. How did he support such expense? it may be asked. Partly by driving a trade in "wafedo loovo," counterfeit coin, with which he was supplied by certain honest tradespeople of Brummagem; partly and principally by large sums of money which he received from his two wives, and which they obtained by the practice of certain arts peculiar to Gipsy females. One of his wives was a truly remarkable woman. She was of the Petalengro or Smith tribe. Her Christian name, if Christian name it can be called, was Xuri or Shuri, and from her exceeding smartness and cleverness she was generally called by the Gipsies Yocky Shuri—that is, smart or clever Shuri, Yocky being a Gipsy word signifying "clever." She could dukker—that is, tell fortunes—to perfection, by which alone, during the racing season, she could make a hundred pounds a month. She was good at the big hok—that is, at inducing people to put money into her hands in the hope of it being multiplied; and, oh, dear! how she could caur—that is, filch gold rings and trinkets from jewellers' cases, the kind of thing which the Spanish Gipsies call ustibar pastesas—filching with hands. Frequently she would disappear and travel about England, and Scotland too, dukkering, hokking, and cauring, and after the lapse of a month return and deliver to her husband, like a true and faithful wife, the proceeds of her industry. So no wonder that the Flying Tinker, as he was called, was enabled to cut a grand appearance. He was very fond of hunting, and would frequently join the field in regular hunting costume, save and except that instead of the leather hunting cap he wore one of fur, with a gold band round it, to denote that though he mixed with Gorgios he was still a Romany chal. Thus equipped, and mounted on a capital hunter, whenever he encountered a Gipsy encampment he would invariably dash through it, doing all the harm he could, in order, as he said, to let the juggals know that he was their king, and had a right to do what he pleased with his own. Things went on swimmingly for a great many years, but, as prosperity does not continue for ever, his dark hour came at last. His wives got into trouble in one or two expeditions, and his dealings in wafedo loovo to be noised about. Moreover, by his grand airs and violent proceedings, he had incurred the hatred of both Gorgios and Gipsies, particularly of the latter, some of whom he had ridden over and lamed for life. One day he addressed his two wives—

"The Gorgios seek to hang me, The Gipsies seek to kill me; This country we must leave."

SHURI.

"I'll join with you to heaven, I'll fare with you, Yandors, But not if Lura goes."

LURA.

"I'll join with you to heaven And to the wicked country, Though Shuri goeth too."

RYLEY.

"Since I must choose betwixt you, My choice is Yocky Shuri, Though Lura loves me best."

LURA.

"My blackest curse on Shuri; Oh, Ryley, I'll not curse you, But you will never thrive."

She then took her departure, with her cart and donkey, and Ryley remained with Shuri.

RYLEY.

"I've chosen now betwixt ye, Your wish you now have gotten, But for it you shall smart."

He then struck her with his fist on the cheek and broke her jaw-bone. Shuri uttered no cry or complaint, only mumbled—

"Although with broken jaw-bone, I'll follow thee, my Riley, Since Lura doesn't fal."

Thereupon Ryley and Yocky Shuri left Yorkshire and wended their way to London, where they took up their abode in the Gipsyry near Shepherd's Bush. Shuri went about dukkering and hokking, but not with the spirit of former times, for she was not quite so young as she had been, and her jaw, which was never properly cured, pained her very much. Ryley went about tinkering, but he was unacquainted with London and its neighbourhood, and did not get much to do. An old Gipsy man, who was driving about a little cart filled with skewers, saw him standing in a state of perplexity at a place where four roads met:—

OLD GIPSY.

"Methinks I see a brother. Who's your father? Who's your mother? And what be your name?"

RYLEY.

"A Bosvil was my father, A Bosvil was my mother, And Ryley is my name."

OLD GIPSY.

"I'm glad to see you, brother; I am a kaulo camlo. {218a} What service can I do?"

RYLEY.

"I'm jawing petulengring, {218b} But do not know the country; Perhaps you'll show me round."

OLD GIPSY.

"I'll sikker tulle prala! Ino bikkening escouyor, {218c} And av along with me."

The old Gipsy showed Ryley about the country for a week or two, and Ryley formed a kind of connection and did a little business. He, however, displayed little or no energy, was gloomy and dissatisfied, and frequently said that his heart was broken since he had left Yorkshire. Shuri did her best to cheer him, but without effect. Once when she bade him get up and exert himself, he said that if he did it would be of no use, and asked her whether she did not remember the parting prophecy of his other wife, that he would never thrive. At the end of about two years he ceased going his rounds, and did nothing but smoke under the arches of the railroad and loiter about beershops. At length he became very weak and took to his bed; doctors were called in by his faithful Shuri, but there is no remedy for a bruised spirit. A Methodist came and asked him, "What was his hope?" "My hope," said he, "is that when I am dead I shall be put into the ground, and my wife and children will weep over me," and such, it may be observed, is the last hope of every genuine Gipsy. His hope was gratified. Shuri and his children, of whom he had three—two stout young fellows and a girl—gave him a magnificent funeral, and screamed and shouted and wept over his grave. They then returned to the "arches," not to divide his property among them, and to quarrel about the division, according to Christian practice, but to destroy it. They killed his swift pony—still swift though twenty-seven years of age—and buried it deep in the ground without depriving it of its skin. Then they broke the caravan to pieces, making of the fragments a fire, on which they threw his bedding, carpets, curtains, blankets, and everything which would burn. Finally, they dashed his mirrors, china, and crockery to pieces, hacked his metal pots, dishes, and what not to bits, and flung the whole on the blazing pile. {219} Such was the life, such the death, and such were the funeral obsequies of Ryley Bosvil, a Gipsy who will be long remembered amongst the English Romany for his buttons, his two wives, grand airs, and last not least, for having been the composer of various stanzas in the Gipsy tongue, which have plenty of force if nothing else to recommend them. One of these, addressed to Yocky Shuri, runs as follows:—

"Beneath the bright sun there is none, There is none I love like my Yocky Shuri; With the greatest delight in blood I would fight To the knees for my Yocky Shuri."

How much better and happier it would have been for this poor, hardened, ignorant, old Gipsy, if, instead of indulging in such rubbish as he did in the last hours of an idle and wasted life, he could, after a life spent in doing good to the Gipsies and others over whom he had influence, as the shades of the evening of life gathered round him, sung, from the bottom of his heart—fetching tears to his eyes as it did mine a Sunday or two ago—the following verses to the tune of "Belmont:"—

"When in the vale of lengthened years My feeble feet shall tread, And I survey the various scenes Through which I have been led,

"How many mercies will my life Before my view unfold! What countless dangers will be past! What tales of sorrow told!

"This scene will all my labours end, This road conduct on high; With comfort I'll review the past, And triumph though I die."

On the first Sunday in February this year I found myself surrounded by a black, thick London fog—almost as dense as the blackest midnight, and an overpowering sense of suffocation creeping over me—in the midst of an encampment of Gipsies at Canning Town, and, acting upon their kind invitation, I crept into one of their tents, and there found about a dozen Gipsy men of all sizes, ages, and complexions, squatting upon peg shavings. Some of their faces looked full of intelligence and worthy of a better vocation, and others seemed as if they had had the "cropper" at work round their ears; so short was their hair that any one attempting to "pull it up by the roots" would have a difficult task, unless he set to it with his teeth. They looked to me as if several of them had worn bright steel ornaments round their wrists and had danced at a county ball, and done more stepping upon the wheel of fortune than many people imagine; at any rate, they were quite happy in their way, and seemed prepared for another turn round when needful. Their first salutation was, "Well, governor, how are you? Sit you down and make yourself comfortable, and let's have a chat. Never mind if it is Sunday, send for some 'fourpenny' for us." I partly did as they bid me, but, owing to the darkness of the tent and the fog, I sat upon a seat that was partly covered with filth, consequently I had an addition to my trousers more than I bargained for. I told them my object was not to come to send for "fourpenny," but to get a law passed to compel the Gipsy parents to send their children to school, and to have their tents registered and provided with a kind of school pass book; and, before I had well finished my remarks, one of the Gipsies, a good-looking fellow, said, "I say, Bill, that will be a capital thing, won't it?" "God bless you, man, for it," was the remark of another, and so the thing went the round among them. By this time there were some score or more Gipsy women and children at the tent door, or, I should rather say, rag coverlet, who heard what had passed, and they thoroughly fell in with the idea. The question next turned upon religion. They said they had heard that there were half-a-dozen different religions, and asked me if it was true. One said he was a Roman Catholic; but did not believe there was a hell. Another said he was a Methodist, but could not agree with their singing and praying, and so it went round till they asked me what religion was. I told them in a way that seemed to satisfy them, and I also told them some of its results. I could not learn that any of these Gipsies had ever been in a place of worship.

I mentioned to them that I wanted to show, during my inquiries, both sides of the question, and should be glad if they would point out to me the name of a Gipsy whom they could look up to and consider as a good pattern for them to follow. Here they began to scratch their heads, and said I had put them "a nightcap on." "Upon my soul," said one, "I should not know where to begin to look for one," and then related to me the following story:—"The Devil sent word to some of his agents for them to send him the worst man they could find upon the face of the earth. So news went about among various societies everywhere, consultations and meetings were held, and it was decided that a Gipsy should be sent, as none of the societies or agents could find one bad enough. Accordingly a passport was procured, and they started the Gipsy on his way. When he came to the door of hell he knocked for admittance. The Devil shouted out, 'Who is there?' The Gipsy cried out, 'A Gipsy.' 'All right,' said the Devil; 'you are just the man I am wanting. I have been on the look-out for you some time. Come in. I have been told the Gipsies are the worst folks in all the world.' The Gipsy had not been long in hell before the Devil perceived that he was too bad for his place, and the place began to swarm with young imps to such a degree that the Devil called the Gipsy to him one day, and said, 'Of all the people that have ever come to this place you are the worst. You are too bad for us. Here is your passport. Be off back again!' The Devil opened the door, and said, as the Gipsy was going, 'Make yourself scarce.' So you see," said Lee to me, "we are too bad for the Devil. We'll go anywhere, fight anybody, or do anything. Now, lads, drink that 'fourpenny' up, and let's send for some more." This is Gipsy life in England on a Sunday afternoon within the sound of church bells.

[Picture: A Fortune-telling Gipsy enjoying her pipe]

The proprietor of the Weekly Times very readily granted permission for one of the principals of his staff to accompany me to one of the Gipsy encampments a Sunday or two ago on the outskirts of London. Those who know the writer would say the article is truthful, and not in the least overdrawn:—"The lane was full of decent-looking houses, tenanted by labourers in foundries and gas and waterworks; but there were spaces