ROMANY LIFE

DŌSHA.

ROMANY LIFE

EXPERIENCED AND OBSERVED DURING
MANY YEARS OF FRIENDLY INTERCOURSE
WITH THE GYPSIES
BY
FRANK CUTTRISS
ILLUSTRATED WITH A LARGE NUMBER OF UNIQUE
PHOTOGRAPHS AND OTHER PICTURES BY THE AUTHOR
MILLS & BOON LIMITED
49 RUPERT STREET
LONDON, W.

First published 1915

PREFACE

IT is a curious fact, that while very few can be found nowadays to accept without question, fanciful or otherwise, unscientific statements concerning natural objects or supernatural happenings, many time-worn, misleading accounts of gypsies and what they are supposed to do—but do not—are still implicitly credited by a great majority of thinking people. A solution of this may be looked for in one or other of the following surmises, perhaps—more or less—in all:

That the widespread unacquaintance with the real Romany character and gypsy life is due to the dearth of reliable information, and to the fictional nature of much that has been written on the subject.

That most writers have endeavoured to satisfy the public interest in the subject by the ever-available fiction, for the reason that the suspicious, reticent, and often unapproachable attitude of gypsies generally renders it difficult to provide material from the life.

That the prevailing unsympathetic attitude of non-gypsies in general, and of many of those who would approach the gypsies for literary purposes in particular, reacts on them and increases the tenseness of the situation.

Hearsay, in matters concerning the gypsies, even when emanating from presumably reliable sources, cannot altogether be relied upon. Unless one lives among them and as one of them, goes freely to and fro, sees and hears for himself, understanding the while most of what may be said in Romany, slang and English,—a lingual conglomerate heard nowhere but among these people,—his accounts will be of little value in depicting aspects of Romany life.

Just how much truth, if any, there may be in the invariable assertion by gypsies, that I have a good deal of the true Romany in my composition, I am unable to say; there can, however, be no doubt whatever of their belief in it, nor that their tenacity on the point, coupled with my adaptability to their manner of life, and my use of their tongue (which I cannot but admit seems to me a language I might have used in a previous existence), have proved a veritable “open sesame,” admitting me to the innermost circle of friendship, and enabling me, while not breaking faith with them, to describe truthfully, customs and aspects of their life which do not come within the ken of the gorgio or non-gypsy.

Although it might be considered by some, that the insertion of a certain amount of fiction would add glitter to my narration, I have religiously refrained from making any such addition, feeling that the work, in so far as it is a revelation of little-known aspects of Romany life, would, under such conditions, lose its entire value.

Frank Cuttriss.

A glossary of most of the Romany and cant words it has been expedient to use in this work, together with English equivalents, will be found at the end.

N.B.—It must be distinctly understood that none of the incidents related in this book must be taken to apply, or to allude in any way to any living persons, and that the photographs must not be considered as having any connection with any particular incident related.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

ROMANY LIFE

CHAPTER I

THE terms “gypsy” and “tramp” are by many considered synonymous. It is not, however, by any means the case, for while gypsies may be, and sometimes are, mistaken for tramps, the genuine professional tramp and the Tachey Romany, or true gypsy, have very little in common.

The tramp may perhaps be described as one who is dominated by the early instincts of our race,—instincts which in every one of us are but just below the veneer of civilization,—for we know that in the infancy of the human race man was perforce of a roving, restless and predatory disposition, driven by circumstances to wander in search of food, and, as in the case of plants which have been improved,—civilized, if you will, by cultivation,—there is always the tendency to return to the primitive state, so every civilized man is more or less insistently urged by Nature to disregard the conventions of Society, to live in the open air and to wander.

We may then take it that the professional tramp demonstrates this instinct combined with a detestation of honest toil. Such men sometimes depart from the ways of their kind and adopt the manner of life of the gypsy, and, when living under such conditions, they are, in some districts, designated “Mumpers.” Sometimes these mumpers intermarry with the gypsies, adopt their mode of living and assimilate many of their customs and portions of their language, with the result that their progeny exhibit many of the true Romany characteristics. Sometimes such half-caste gypsies are called “diddecoys,” but one also hears the term loosely applied to the true gypsy. I have heard it most frequently by the people of Hampshire, and occasionally by the gypsies themselves. A man once said to me, “I ain’t an old diddecoy like my missus; I was born in a house, but she’s always been a travelling lady.”

Of the caravan or tent dwellers it is difficult to say which are the more interesting, as owners of caravans may be frequently found camping in tents,—perhaps while the van is undergoing repairs, or because it will not accommodate the whole of the family. Again, a family will, for a time, take to “life under the tan” and later we may see them located in a van, it will therefore be better to make no invidious comparisons but treat of both van and tent dweller impartially. To the student, the life led by the habitual tent dwellers will appeal the more strongly as many of them have not associated with the outside world to quite the same extent as their caravan brethren and they are therefore, in some respects, the more interesting, and we can gain from them a much better idea of the primitive dwellings and general conditions under which most of the gypsies lived during those centuries of wandering both in India and after their emigration. Concerning much of their wanderings, history is dumb, but certain facts stand out in strong relief, for historians relate how in 1414 they appeared in Germany and France in bands, gaining a livelihood by the practice of fortune-telling.

Bands of them went to Persia as musicians, others engaged in various trades and scattered all over Europe. Their appearance in England dates from about 1480.

We read that the Persian monarch Behran Gour received from an Indian king 12,000 musicians of both sexes who were known as “Lûris” or “Lûlis,” and in this record of what is presumably the first emigration of the gypsies, the term “Lûris” is identical with that by which gypsies are known in Persia to-day. Pursuing the theme, we note the statement by old writers that “between al-Mansura and Mokrau the waters of the Indus have formed marshes, the borders of which are inhabited by certain Indian tribes called Zott, they are true nomads, living in huts like the Berbers.” We are told further that in the Arabic dictionary al-Kamus this entry occurs—“Zott arabicized from Jatt, a people of Indian origin.” Zott, by the way, is the name by which the gypsies are known to the Arabs.

Much space might, of course, be devoted to accounts of the life of these people after their departure from India to their arrival upon our shores, but it is a long, and often a sad story. A book, too, might be written on “The Arts and Devices used in Persecuting the Gypsies,” as in all countries,—not excepting our own,—they have received most inhuman treatment, and all who possess the smallest spark of Christian charity must feel ashamed of many of their countrymen. At the present day our methods differ it is true, but are we at heart more tolerant than our forefathers? do we not still drive the Romany chal and Romany chi from hedge to hedge? the only respite being when they are allowed to encamp for a short time on ground known to them as “Kekkeno mush’s poov,” or to us as “No man’s ground,” otherwise, a common. Both policeman and keeper appear to regard them as vermin and would fain treat them as such. Seldom—it would seem—do they seek to gain really reliable information concerning them, while the keeper, displaying the ignorance and bigotry usually associated with his office, and, coupling with it a desire to stand well in his employer’s opinion, goes even so far as to bear false witness against them. Such cases have been brought to my notice and it should, I think, be scarcely a matter for surprise if a keeper or office bearer of that ilk has the error of his ways forcibly demonstrated to him or upon him by one whom he has traduced.

A gypsy never forgets either a kindness or an intentional injury.

A keeper is, or should be, a trusted man, and while he may present his friends with game shot upon his master’s estate and take advantage to almost any extent of that curious term—perquisite, so great is his honesty and his consideration for his employer that he is willing to affirm—on his oath if needs be—that he has detected gypsies in the act of poaching on milord’s estate at the same instant of time he and his brother keepers or intimates were drinking to the health of anyone rather than themselves at the local “hotel.” In a court of justice the judge himself is probably a land-owner and preserver of game and is prone to accept the statement of anyone whom he considers trustworthy, and the gypsy whom he may regard as having been “born in sin” will probably be sent to eat the prison loaf.

I hold no brief for the gypsies, nor contend that they are better or worse than others, neither do I close my eyes to the fact that treatment such as I have known them to be subjected to cannot be defended either on the score of Christian charity or the normal Englishman’s love of fair play.

Can it then be wondered at that the gypsy is taciturn, difficult to approach, suspicious of all men?

To go back a little, we find we must give Henry VIII credit for issuing the first act of persecution against the gypsies, Mary and Elizabeth followed suit, and at last even capital punishment was prescribed as a means of getting rid of them.

Nowadays it is somewhat difficult to realise that, formerly, because a people or a class were not understood, those who were in power should, for no other reason, become obsessed with the insane idea of annihilating them.

In France under Louis XIII and Louis XIV some of the gypsies were massacred, others barely escaped with their lives, while in 1633 Philip IV appears to have forbidden them to use their own language, and in 1745 a decree was issued ordering the putting to death of all wandering gypsies.

Fortunately, this could not be carried out to the letter. Yet, with all this persecution, past and present, the gypsy, when really known and understood, is one of the best of friends. “Aye, it’s a merry life and plenty o’ fun,” said one to me recently.

I do not, however, wish to convey the impression that he is a perpetually happy being. None can be more variable, one minute he may be convulsed with laughter, the next—deeply despondent. His temperament has much to remind one of the changeability of Nature, sunshine one moment, the next a darkened sky. The gypsy, too, has much of the child in his composition, he is as a child that somehow has never fully grown up, not that he is childish, far from it, but long contact with the gypsy and close study of gypsy character present them to me as a people who are actuated to the full by all the passions and emotions of healthy, natural manhood, and yet never really let go their hold on childhood.

Are you a kairengro or house-dweller who visits him, then he will seldom exhibit his cunning—and in all the arts pertaining to his trade or trades he is usually remarkably clever—he thinks you “jal a moskeying,” that is, go a-spying, than which there is nothing perhaps he dislikes more, unless it be to be seen by a gorgio or non-gypsy in the act of having a meal. He may talk to you, he may be most entertaining, but he may be probing your heart and mind at the same time, and not until you have long passed satisfactorily his hawk-eyed, soul-searching examination, will he regard you as more than any other gorgio or Gentile, but, if you can converse in his own tongue—the Romany jib he loves so well but never or seldom displays before a stranger—and he is assured of your good intentions by long acquaintance, then only will he open out and reveal himself, and give, as it were, his seal to the friendship by inviting you to partake of a meal with his family, indeed, he would be likely to fight for you or share his last penny with you if need be, and you then come to realise that with all his complexity of character, there lies beneath, a warm heart and generous disposition.

Many are handicapped by being unable to read or write. I have in mind a Romany acquaintance who does a good business, but has to rely on the help of friends to order his wares and pay his accounts for him. He came to me one day and asked if I could write another letter for him, adding, almost as though speaking to himself, “It’s a love-letter this time.”

“Well,” said I, after pen and paper had been procured, “please go ahead.” For a moment or two he seemed lost in thought and hesitated, as though at a loss how to begin. I offered a suggestion and he at once said, “Yes! put that down.” The ice being now broken we got along famously, he standing with his back towards me, dictating. The letter was written in a combination of English (of a sort) and Romany,—poggado jib or broken tongue as it is termed. Perhaps no more curious camipen-lil (love-letter) had ever been written. As he was quite unable to write I signed his name—he had, in fact, almost forgotten how it should be spelled. Having done this I quite naturally supposed my task was completed, but no, he desired every available bit of space filled in with crosses. “What are those for?” I asked artlessly. “Oh, she’ll understand,” he replied. “Put in some more, please.”

I therefore made crosses both big and small wherever they could be squeezed in, until he seemed satisfied, but I sincerely trust his Romany chi did not try to count them. One can almost imagine her making the attempt: “Yeck, dui, trin, stor, pantsch, sho,” and before reaching “dui trins ta yeck” and “dui stors,” giving up the task as being beyond her.

Many of the gypsies are, of course, able to write, but they get little schooling in the ordinary sense of the term and I have heard the gypsies say they do not like their boys and girls to sit next to a lot of gorgio children in a school. Better times are ahead, however, for the school-master is abroad, and there are workers among them, notably the Church Army Mission, whose self-sacrificing men teach the children the alphabet, elementary arithmetic, etc., together with such simple Christian truths as they can assimilate, for in the children lies their hope. An aspect of the work of the Mission which is not seen by the passer-by, is the tactful, considerate help rendered in times of distress. A gypsy, whatever his status, has a certain pride and he will not, if he can avoid it, visit a relieving officer; the workers of the Mission, however, with an equally keen insight into human nature, have perhaps a more sympathetic heart, enabling them to find out real cases of need, when they help to the best of their ability, often when such help should really be forthcoming from the relieving officer.

Unfortunately, many writers fail to discriminate between the Chorodies (low, wandering outcasts) and the Romany chals (true gypsies). Scathing letters have appeared in the newspapers, condemning all gypsies and other nomads as incorrigible rogues, and suggesting fourteenth-century methods for their removal. One writer—I will not debase the word by calling him man—said he did not care what became of them so long as they did not come near him,—a strikingly unbeautiful example of existing intolerance.

However, it is not my aim, nor province, to answer directly the newspaper letters of selfish and pharisaical people, but rather to exhibit the gypsy character, and to speak of the gypsy as I have found and know him, no better, no worse; to carry the reader in imagination with me, to see them at work, to sit by the camp fire, to listen to their quaint folk tales, the wise saying and the merry jest, and endeavour to do some little to modify the effect of the ignorant or vindictive doctrine of those who, generation after generation, have taught the young that the terms gypsy, tramp and vagabond are more or less alike, standing for most that is depraved and villainous. In the few cases, when in after life some acquaintance with gypsy character has been made, this idea has, of course, been much modified, or altogether dissipated, while a close and sympathetic study of the Romany folk has invariably led to a desire to condone their failings, or at least to consider them of small account in comparison with so much that is commendable.

Upon more than one occasion has my clothing—permeated by the wood smoke of the gypsy fire—betrayed to acquaintances the fact that I had been among the Romany folk, and given the opportunity for jeering observations anent the “tents of the ungodly,” but, as the old adage has it, “he laughs best who laughs last,” and it is indeed gratifying to be able later in life to conjure up pleasant pictures of one’s friends seated, as they were, around the camp fire.

One such of many similar scenes is deeply impressed on my memory: I was at the camp of a Romany friend and we had discussed an early supper of povengros (potatoes) and salt, washed down with tea, when someone suggested a song. There may be sweeter melodies than songs in the Romany, as sung by the chies, but I have yet to hear them. There is a sweetness and a certain wild attractiveness about the language well adapted to the poetry of music, and the gypsies are passionate lovers of beautiful sounds. A poem read to them in Spanish, pleases their ear, they understand perhaps not a word, but appreciate the rhythm. Their language, too, reminds one somewhat of that tongue. I am however, digressing:

By the camp fire that evening, our talk, after a song or two, was mostly in and of the Romany tongue. One would narrate some experience, another would take up the thread, and so on, the firelight meanwhile playing on their faces. The soughing of the light wind overhead seemed attuned to the weirdness of the scene, and the while, the pageant of one of the loveliest of summer sunsets was passing, every merging scene having its glory duplicated on the reflecting surface of the river, which, winding and looping in its course, glided and faded imperceptibly into a purple haze, the whole scene changing momentarily, but with a tranquillity which, “while moving, seemed asleep,” until it passed through an almost unearthly splendour of afterglow into the cool star-depths of the summer night.

In extenuation—perhaps I should say explanation—of the conduct of those who think unkindly or deal harshly with the gypsies on principle, I suggest that they neither really know nor try to understand them; moreover, the likelihood of their personally gaining any such knowledge of them as results from experiences of the nature I have attempted to describe, is very remote; indeed, so suspicious and unapproachable are they—mainly because we as a people have made them so—that were one to cultivate their acquaintance, with the very best of intentions, years would probably elapse before he would be welcomed as a true pal (brother), and not until then would he understand them or appreciate their outlook on things.

Personally, I have found them, as companions, scrupulously honest; with regard, however, to farmers and landowners who are known to dislike the gypsies, this opinion might need some slight modification, but here again one should endeavour to see things from the gypsies’ point of view. They do not as a rule look upon poaching as wrong, contending that they are illtreated by man-made laws, that rabbits were provided for man’s sustenance, and that it is not more sinful for a gypsy to catch a rabbit to ward off starvation from his family, than for another man to run over it with a motor-car, and in fairness to the gypsies it must be said that they probably poach less than the average village labourer.

Apropos of their ideas of honesty, a friend tells me that many years since, a family of gypsies encamped near the town of——, and his father gave them permission to draw all the water they needed from the well on his land. During the long stay of the family in the locality he did not lose one pennyworth by their depredations, notwithstanding that all around chickens and other live stock disappeared—left home as it were and forgot to return. There would appear to have been no actual proof that the gypsies were implicated, but the animals vanished during the time the gypsies were encamped there.

One cannot speak too highly of such traits in their character as love of their children and mutual help. When bad luck comes they bow to the inevitable, accepting it with a philosophy not possible to many of us. When times are good, there is mutton in the pot and “spotted donkey,” suet puddings, grace the festive board, and for this he is thankful, but when his luck is out, he tightens his belt a little and looks forward to the morrow,—his luck may turn, who knows?

Great indeed is the contrast between the luxury-loving, well-to-do man about town of to-day and these Romany folk, a people who have scarcely changed since they left India hundreds of years ago. Our progress in Art and Science has scarcely touched them, they still retain their language and many of their old customs, while the ethnographic student will readily distinguish the prevalent Oriental cast of features. Many of them set about their daily task much as did their early ancestors, who lived in the same kind of tent. Even the little hanging-lamps we see occasionally in the tents are of a design that is as old as the hills, and to-day the Hindu uses just such a lamp. There is much that is primitive, also much that is supremely fascinating about the true gypsy, and if we could imagine him without his archaic, musical language, he would still be a far more interesting and clear-cut personality than the average gorgio or non-gypsy, and the reader will find that we owe more to the gypsy than is commonly supposed.

Perhaps no more convincing proof of their Indian origin can be adduced than the following short vocabulary of Romany words, selected to show their similarity to Hindustanee and Sanscrit. It may be contended that the language contains words derived from other nations or sources. Fragments of other tongues have naturally crept in, but in this respect an Englishman is scarcely the person to criticize.

In the following list of numerals the words for seven and eight are given, but nowadays few gypsies use them, many having forgotten them.

Instead of efta, or seven, they say Dui trins ta yeck, and for octo, eight, Dui stors is used, for nine, Dui stors ta yeck, meaning respectively, two threes and one, two fours, and two fours and one.

CHAPTER II

RECENTLY, while visiting a Romany encampment, I found so many old friends whom I had desired to see again, and from whom it was difficult—without giving offence—to tear oneself away, that the work of my pen was getting sadly in arrear, and I determined to devote two or three hours one afternoon to the task of writing. Selecting a spot under a hedge which seemed to offer sufficient privacy and a fairly comfortable seat, I set to work with a resolve to cover a lot of paper.

I had been thus busily engaged for some considerable time—and was in the throes of straightening out a particularly obstinate paragraph, when a man sauntered up and threw himself down upon the grass near me with a manner intended to intimate that he was willing to talk. He opened conversation, as most of the Romanies do, by asking the time, then he wondered if I had such a thing as a “lucifer” about me. Having lit up a terribly evil-smelling and much-blackened cutty pipe he made an ejaculatory remark with reference to a mosquito that had settled upon the back of his hand. There is no need to repeat what he said, but it bore no resemblance to Romany.

Thus, having as it were cleared the decks for action, he waited, seeming to have something to say when I should care to listen. I had so far made good use of the afternoon, and, although much remained for me to do, I could not follow my habitual practice of making fresh Romany friends whenever possible if I kept my head buried in my papers, therefore, after folding up my notes, I seated myself somewhat nearer to my companion, and after a few casual remarks and opinions regarding the prospect for fruit and hops, he said he wished me to write a letter for him as he was unable to do it himself. “You’re a por-engro I’m told, and have written many a lil for Romany folk,” said he, in a somewhat questioning way. “That is true,” I answered, and, producing a sheet of paper, I wrote at his dictation. It was not nearly so interesting as a camipen-lil, or love-letter, as it related only to some new “sparks,” as the diamonds used in china-drilling are termed, which he desired to be sent to him and for which he had procured a postal order, this I duly filled in and crossed.

During the writing of this order a woman loitered towards us, later, two younger women approached. The little group stood at a considerate distance until the task was completed, when they came nearer and seated themselves tailor-wise, or, rather should I say, gypsy-fashion, each of the younger women producing a cigarette and the older woman a clay pipe of generous capacity. When all had lit up, one said to me:

“Do you rokkra Romany?” Upon receiving my reply in the affirmative she said somewhat sharply:

“Who taught you? You’re a kairengro, aren’t you?”

“Why do you think that?” I queried. To this she vouchsafed no reply, appearing not to have heard the question, but after gazing steadily at me for quite an appreciable time she asked:

“Why don’t you get a van and come along o’ us? You must get tired o’ stopping in one place.”

I confessed that such was the case.

“Then why do you stay under a roof?”

Here the older woman joined in with:

“I was born outside myself, I’m the mother o’ seventeen children, and, please the Almighty, I’m going to die outside, why, I suffocates in a house, there ain’t no air in a house,—you never gets air in a house!”

“Look at the pale faces of them as lives in ’em,” said one of the younger women,—“but you”—she continued, turning to me—“are one o’ the dark ones.”

“That is perhaps lucky for me,” I remarked.

“Yes, ’tis so,” was the reply, “all Romany chies hates a pale face, at least all but the silly ones.”

“But,” said I, “if I procured a van and travelled about with you, I am not sure that I should feel altogether safe, for we might disagree sometimes and perhaps fight, in which case I should come out badly, for the little fighting I do is with pen and ink and I am no master with either gloves or fists.”

“Safe!” exclaimed the man, “you’d be safe, ab-so-lutely, nobody would fight, wouldn’t want to fight with you anyhow; as for me, I could fall out with you, but if you refused to shake hands with me the next minute I should say you’re no pal o’ mine.”

AN OCTOGENARIAN.

We may note in passing, that this portion of our free and easy conversation, which is set down verbatim as it took place, aptly illustrates the following among the features which stand out in the Romany character:

The possession of a kind of clairvoyance which enables them to promptly and accurately “size up” the sympathies of a chance acquaintance.

Their instinctive dislike and distrust of fair or pale people.

Their good-fellowship and ready reciprocation of kindness.

Their alacrity in recovering from misunderstandings and ebullitions of temper, albeit they never forget an intentional slight or injustice.

Presently the conversation was switched on to the subject of weddings.

“Some of our folk are getting ‘spliced’ in a week or two in that church yonder,” said one of the women, “but yer know we don’t all get married by the clergyman, whatever clever people may say about it. Many a chal and chi are married in the good old Roman way.”

“And how is that?” I asked, adding, “Just among yourselves, I suppose?”

“Auvli,” she replied, “you takes mande by the vast,—so,”—suiting action to word she placed her hand in my grasp—“and,” she continued, “you pukker to mande tute will always be a tacho Romado and mande pens she’ll be a tacho Romadi to you.”

“So that’s Romipen (marriage),” said I—“and do you consider it binding?”

“Always, prala,” she replied impressively.

“Supposing the man did not think it was, and left you?” I ventured.

“So much the worse for him,” she answered—“for whenever any of my people saw him they’d down him with a cosh.”

“Is that the gypsy law?”

“That is the gypsy law, prala.”

The earnest manner, and the convincing tone in which all this was said left no room for doubt that the unwritten laws of the Romanies are really felt by them to be more sacred and binding than the law of the land,—the former being obeyed because of an inherited respect for them, or a mystical allegiance to tribal traditions, while the latter would appear to command respect only on account of the physical force behind.

The gypsy wedding is usually accompanied by a spree by way of celebration, and unhappily some of the company emulate the gorgios at similar functions by getting into a state quite the reverse of sober. Such conduct, even if pardonable on these occasions, is of course discreditable, but to be quite just to the gypsy I must say that his behaviour in the circumstances seems to be less bestial than that of many a non-gypsy who professedly despises him.

“Are you married?” asked one of the girls of me.

“No,” I replied.

“Well, you ain’t got much to worry about,” said she, with a saucy smile.

Not far from our group was a camp that had all day appeared deserted save for a child or two left “on guard.”

Now there came from it sounds as of meat sizzling in the frying-pan, while clouds of wood-smoke ascended and a cheery voice called out:

“Will you join us?—you’re welcome.”

Accordingly, we went over to the living wagons and tents and found several women busily engaged in preparing for the evening meal; one was dexterously manipulating a frying-pan, another tended the fire, and so on.

I was invited to partake of the meal with a family whose home was a tent. In the way of food there was bread and jam, German sausage and bread, and bowls of tea. As I was the guest I was offered for a seat a boot-repairing iron upon which a piece of sacking was placed to modify its undesirable qualities. I imagine it would take years of practice to enable one to sit with any degree of comfort on a boot-repairing iron, but I determined to make the best of it and to appear as though I liked it and had sat upon nothing but boot-irons all my life. However, the fumes from the coke fire hard by proved almost too much for me and I was in danger of falling from my precarious perch. My friends evidently noticed this as they made a less uncertain seat for me by upturning an empty bucket and covering the bottom with an old coat as a cushion.

“There is in all this cold and hollow world

No fount of deep, strong, deathless love,

Save that within a mother’s heart.”

Mrs. Hemans.

Almost everyone has some recollection of the brown tents of the gypsy fraternity, which, at longer or shorter intervals, may be seen dotted here and there upon the commons. Comparatively few, however, have any close-range acquaintance even with the exterior of these primitive dwellings, and fewer still have any idea of the arrangement of the interior. In many of the poorest tents of the gypsies of southern England there really is no arrangement, in fact, there is almost “no nothing,” as someone with a touch of pathetic facetiousness has described their condition, but the tent in which I now found myself belonged to a family of genuine Romanies and differed somewhat from those of the poorer tent-dwellers.

The fire—whose fumes had at first given me trouble—was contained in a circular and rather deep kind of iron tray about fifteen inches in diameter which was kept from actual contact with the ground by being supported on three old bricks; over the fire a kettle was suspended by the kekauvisky saster—frequently called a crane—the kettle iron.

Reference to our illustration on page 38 will enable one at a glance to get an idea of the general arrangement. At the end farthest removed from the fire were the beds, in front of which, and raised some four or five inches from the floor, was a sort of divan composed of straw evenly laid and covered with cloths, the remainder of the floor space being bare earth. Curtains were hung before the beds, giving something of an Oriental air to the interior.

There were, too, a few cushions that had seen much service but nevertheless were clean, besides which there was practically nothing but the customary box for the storage of china and food, and yet this was, and had been for more than twenty years, the dwelling of these Romany folk, honest people, who had worked hard—often for a bare subsistence—but who had nevertheless reared a large family of healthy children without appealing to charity. And they were proud, too, boasting of a long line of proud ancestors.

This set me a-thinking, and as I sat there these thoughts passed through my mind:

“If pride in one’s ancestry is justifiable, have not these people far saner reasons for such pride than those who boast of having ‘come over with the Conqueror’?” It is indeed true that their Romany forbears were not numbered among the cut-throat rabble who accompanied the historic William of Normandy, but they come of a people who had a history, literature and a language when that gentleman made his début.

Like their near relatives, the Hindus of to-day, many of the gypsies can neither read nor write, but usually our Romany friend has a sound mind in a sound body, and when he points—as he well may—to the blots on our civilization and the shams in our religion, I do not wonder at the up-hill work of those good souls among us who seek to instil the Christ spirit into the minds of those whom the world dubs outcasts, and yet surprise is evinced that the progress of our missions to these people is slow. How heart-breaking the work is only those who are engaged in it know. But a truce to moralizing. I must bestir myself or my friends will judge me dull.

After the meal the kettle needed to be again filled and the water heated preparatory to a general wash and clean up, and I heard a young girl ordering her younger brother to—

“Put the panee on the yog, yer fool, and mind yer put some soda in,” which of course meant—“Put the water on the fire and add some soda.” He was afterwards instructed by the mother to “clean the churi’s on the poov,” and set about it by utilizing the hard earth floor as a knife-board, in doing which I noticed that he sensibly selected a miniature mound upon which to rub the blades so that his knuckles should not be subjected to the same cleaning process as the knives, which were ultimately stowed away quite clean, if they had not received a high polish.

Work for the day—which in this case had been strawberry picking—being over, the time before turning in was whiled away with tales of the road, common and forest, and stories of keepers, police and other bugbears of nomadic life. When my companion considered that a sketch would help his narrative he made a rough drawing on the hard earth—of a road or other subject—with the charred end of a piece of stick, and I discovered that he worked out simple accounts connected with his work in the same manner.

Turning to the fire I observed to my friend:

“One seldom comes across a tripod nowadays, I suppose they are no longer used?”

“Well,” said he, “now you mention it, I don’t think I’ve seen more than two or three for years. One I saw at a pony fair in the New Forest, and I believe I have seen one or two in Kent, but real old genuine ones would most likely be valuable now just as old copper kettles are.”

DOUBLE TENT. WINTER.

“I know someone,” he continued, “who had a very old one, in fact it was too old to use, but it fetched a good bit o’ money, it was all hand-hammered, mind you. I shouldn’t ha’ sold it if it had been mine, but the woman as had it was hard up, and you don’t think much about anything when you’re hungry except satisfyin’ your belly, and there was kiddies wanting bread too.”

“But,” he added retrospectively, “now nearly all use the crane.”

The washing of the crockery being finished and the beds having been made, I could see that my friends would soon retire for the night; I therefore bade them good night and wended my way homeward. As I passed now a tent, now a van, cheery voices rang out:

“Good night, who is it?”

“Por-engro,” said I.

“All right,” was the reply, “good night to you.”

In ascending a little hill on my way I halted for a second and looked back. In the dim distance lights glimmered here and there and I reflected that in a few minutes all the occupants would be slumbering, perhaps not even expecting outsiders,—the beasts of burden, and the betie juggals tuley the wardoes, those cute little mongrel dogs under the vans, which one never finds asleep.

Again I turned my face towards home, feeling physically very tired, while mentally I was actively engaged in turning over the events of the day, and reviewing, to the credit of my gypsy acquaintances, the self-sacrifices I had witnessed and the little kindnesses I had seen them perform one to the other, sometimes even under the cloak of rough behaviour and sharp words, but one could make no mistake as to the love they have for the children. This has always impressed me as one of the good traits in the gypsies’ somewhat complex character, and one that may well efface a multitude of sins. One of their women once said to me:

“I couldn’t see ’em want. Folks say it’s wrong to take chickens and rabbits, but if I knew I should get six months for it and I could keep the kiddies from starvin’, I’d get ’em the grub and take my six months.”

Speaking of food brings to mind domestic utensils and appliances, and a short description of those commonly in use among the tent-dwelling gypsies will not be out of place here. It will be obvious that as these people are true nomads, such goods and chattels as they carry about with them must be easily portable as well as indispensable.

SINGLE TENT. SUMMER.

The possessor of a van is, of course, able to carry more, and is often a person of some means, but the tent-dweller’s means of transport—if indeed he possess any but the sinews of his family—consists of a horse and cart, or sometimes only of a vehicle scarcely worthy of the name of cart, and a dilapidated donkey whose coat reminds one of a badly moth-eaten hearth-rug; we refrain, however, from comparing the Romany “moke” with its well-fed and sleek relatives of the seaside.

One of the most important of the domestic implements—and therefore one that is in almost universal use—is the crane or kettle prop—the kekauvisky saster, kekauvi meaning kettle, and saster, in gypsy, standing for iron, will sufficiently explain this curious name. It is not only used for the kettle but also for suspending the inevitable pirry or boiler over the fire. In effect, these cranes are alike, but a number of patterns may be found, any one costing from a shilling to half a crown. One I have seen a great many times has the end fashioned to resemble an adder, others are quite plain with a knob, while others have a ball a short distance from the tip. In substance they vary from about five-eighths of an inch to an inch or so in diameter and are about three feet six in length, usually round, but occasionally square in section. They are used by thrusting the straight end into the ground at an angle which will bring a vessel suspended from the hook over the centre of the fire. In the simplest form the end of the crane for thrusting into the ground is merely tapered to a point, but others may be seen having a rectangular bulge which is likewise pointed, both forms being also used by thrusting, or auger-wise, for making holes in hard ground for the insertion of the tent rods.

It is interesting to note that, according to information supplied by one long resident in India, the Hindus most nearly resembling our gypsies do not use the crane, but in place of it stones or pieces of green wood full of sap are employed, being placed so that the earthen cooking vessel rests upon them. In the latter case the cooking is completed before the wooden supports are burned through.

Some of the cranes are very old, the snake-like one to which we have alluded being a case in point, having been made in Cornwall about a century ago, since when it has been in constant use by the same family.

The articles next in importance are kettle and boiler, the kettle perhaps holding first place, as the very poorest family which cannot boast of a boiler will invariably possess a kettle.

This is occasionally of copper, but as no time is spent in unnecessarily cleaning any of these utensils their composition can only be ascertained after free use of a pocket knife. The boiler is nearly always composed of iron, is oval in form and of fair capacity.

Each member of the family, excepting the young children, is usually provided with a knife, fork and spoon,—of sorts,—but should either, or both fork and spoon be wanting, as is not infrequently the case, no difficulty seems to be experienced in conveying any food to the mouth by the knife. It must, of course, be borne in mind that these observations apply to the tent-dwellers, their brethren of the van being generally better supplied with domestic conveniences. A basin or two, a few plates, a bucket for water and sometimes a bottle for drinking water,—even a gypsy finding it easier to drink from a bottle than from a pail—will about complete the list, but an odd saucepan or two, a frying-pan and one or more dishes may occasionally be found. A frying-pan for hanging upon the crane which we discovered upon one occasion is illustrated.[1]

There are several reasons why the gypsies do not as a rule make a camp fire directly on the ground, the most obvious being perhaps that their method precludes the burning of the turf, which in some districts at least would cause trouble, and the free passage of air under the fire aids combustion to some extent, while it allows the fire and accompaniments to be rearranged under cover in the space of a few seconds, should a sudden change of weather render it advisable; moreover, it is an easy matter to obliterate traces of a recent encampment. Sheet iron—very frequently in the form of an old tea-tray—is used, upon which to build the fire; this is supported upon pieces of iron bar bent roughly to the shape of a figure 7, the longer ends of which are driven a little way into the ground.

Some possess an iron stand for the purpose, shaped as shown in Fig. 14,[2] in which at points a, b, c, will be seen small studs or elevations, the purpose of which is apparently to reduce to a minimum contact between tray and stand, with a view to conserve heat.

GYPSY TENT, SHOWING INTERIOR.

Before leaving as a topic the fire and its appurtenances, a word must be said with reference to the methods adopted by those who are not fortunate enough to possess a crane.

The simplest arrangement I have seen consisted merely of part of the fairly straight branch of a tree, one end of which was thrust into the ground at an angle—crane fashion, the other end having affixed to it a hook of wire, which looked suspiciously like part of a barbed-wire fence. Another of these kettle-supports might very well have been designed by primitive man; two forked branches had been pushed into the ground two or three feet apart, and lying in the forked upper ends was another stick having upon it two or three crudely fashioned hooks. Another and even less ambitious contrivance consisted of two rough sticks thrust into the ground similarly to those just described, but, having no forked tops, the horizontal stick was tied in position with string and wire, and was furnished with the usual hooks for the kettle.

Although there is in most tents a box in which food and breakables are stored, yet one may often see a loaf or loaves of bread in an uncovered basket, or otherwise exposed to sun and wind; under these conditions it speedily becomes as dry as the proverbial chip, but hunger and good teeth make all the difference in one’s ideas as to what is eatable. I have seen the children devouring such bread with an appetite and with a zest that would be the envy of many an epicure.

I hope, however, to say something about food and roadside cookery later.

As most of the gypsies go to sleep at dusk, or as soon as night has fallen, it will be understood that little provision is made for illuminating their tents, and, as would be expected, such as exists is primitive, a lamp usually consisting of a small bowl supported by a bent wire terminating with a loop or hook for suspending from the tent rods. A heavy oil such as colza is used, the wick being supported by a bent wire. Candles are also used in these lamps, but I have seen in use lamps made especially for them.

The tent dwellings of the gypsies greatly resemble each other, and, with few exceptions, are of the simple arched form that has probably characterized them from the earliest times: a close acquaintance with them, however, will reveal certain differences or modifications which may perhaps be peculiar to members of a certain family or tribe. I do not wish to convey the idea that different tribes have any very decided differences in their tents, nevertheless in some respects they will probably differ sufficiently to enable one who is well acquainted with these people to say, almost with certainty, what families inhabit certain tents. Alterations are also made to suit the changing seasons and the differences of camping grounds. In summer the single tent is principally in evidence, in winter nearly all who possess sufficient material make up a double tent by the simple method of placing two single ones in line, face to face a short distance apart, the intervening space being filled in by a few long rods pushed into the ground at an angle approximating the curve of the tents on either side, and covered with blanketing pinned in position to connect the two tents, and as the upper ends of the rods are free and uncovered, they provide a combination of ventilating shaft and chimney, the fire being always made directly beneath the opening. As a whole this arrangement bears a certain resemblance to the wigwam of the Red man.

The construction of one of the tents is quite a simple matter, and although no ropes or similar stays are used, the tent has yet to be devised that will prove to be more secure in rough weather, more comfortable in all weathers to the occupier, more “roomy” for its size, or less costly to construct; at the same time the gypsy tent may be very quickly erected or dismantled and packs into a small compass.

The numerous good qualities of these simple structures will perhaps be more readily realized if the construction of one be described and followed from commencement to completion.

The first essential is a piece of ash or oak,—preferably the former, as being less likely to split,—about five feet long by three inches broad and one and a half inches thick. This should be bored with a series of five pairs of three-quarter inch holes. A gypsy would accomplish this by burning out the holes with the tapered end of the crane brought to a red heat.

Next procure twelve or thirteen green hazel or ash rods about five feet six inches in length, taper the ends of ten of these so that they may fit snugly into the ridge-piece just described, having done which, the other ends of the rods must be pushed into holes in the ground already made at proper distances by means of the crane, so that by “croming” or bending over the rods, five on each side arch-fashion, they are held firmly in position by the ridge-piece into which they fit. The skeleton of the tent will now be complete but for the two or three rods to form the framework of the end,—these rods, by the way, may be somewhat longer than those for the sides,—they should be thrust into holes in the ground at a suitable distance, bent over the first or nearest of the arched rods and pushed under the next, thus completing the framework.

When the owner of the tent has his choice of material for the covering, brown blanketing is generally selected, as very little rain water gets through, it is decidedly warm in winter, and in the form of old Army blankets is fairly cheap; it is secured in place by means of skewers, horse-shoe nails, blackthorn spines, or wood pins that have been fried in fat, a process which renders them waterproof and easy to insert.

All too frequently, however, the impecunious “gippo” has to be content with whatever he can get hold of to shield him from wind, rain and snow, and not infrequently, one finds such materials used as bits of canvas, sailcloth, old carpeting, worn-out waterproof or other garments, together with odds and ends of a variety of fabrics, the original uses of which it is impossible to even guess at. In the single tent are pieces of blanketing which during the day are turned aside, but at night are let down so as to cover the entrance and fulfil the functions of a door.

In boisterous weather a protecting sheet of canvas or blanket called the “loo” is fixed up on the windward side of the fire; in the case of the double tent such a “loo” is formed by the covering on either side of the central portion when left closed to windward while the other is uncovered, as most frequently it is in autumn and mild winter weather. The tents vary much in size but the approximate dimensions of a single one are:

Three feet six inches to six feet in length, five feet six wide, and three to four feet in height, while a double tent may be about five feet six inches wide, thirteen to fourteen feet in length and four feet in height.

Gypsies do not, as a rule, use a ground sheet, but contrive to keep tolerably dry without one. For bedding, they often use bracken or heather-tops, which are sometimes covered with sacking or pieces of canvas, at another time they will use a sack loosely stuffed with hay or straw, and not infrequently they will sleep with nothing between themselves and the otherwise bare earth but such loose rags or straw as they may have been able to bring together.

GYPSY TENT SHOWING CONSTRUCTION.

Those who are accustomed to some kind of bed—in the generally accepted sense of the word—will not consider this enticing; nevertheless, while the seductive nature of a few rags as a bed upon the ground may well be ignored, bracken, heather, hay, etc., are used with a considerable amount of satisfaction and a kind of primitive comfort by these people.

In appraising the term “comfort” in its application to gypsy life one must not forget that it is a word of comparative significance, nor that the gypsy is reared in a scant nursery and is thereby rendered immune from the petty annoyances and complaints that beset daily the life of the pampered,—may we not correctly say, ultra-civilized,—for the gypsy lives a healthy, open-air life, with sun, wind and rain as his closest companions, taking no anxious thought for the morrow, with the result that he is seldom seriously unwell or unfit,—to quote the words of an Indian gypsy to an acquaintance of mine:

“Gypsies are ill but once,”—a general statement which appears to be as applicable to our English Romanies as to their Hindu brethren.

CHAPTER III

“Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must take it with us or we find it not.”—Emerson.

HITHERTO, the injunction, “Seek, and ye shall find,” would appear to have been construed with sinistral intention of seeking to discredit the gypsy, by most of those who have professed to give an insight to Romany life, presuming, of course, that the word-pictures presented by them have described their impressions and have not been filched ideas served up anew.

This seemingly ungenerous observation is warranted by the fact that the justifiably suspicious attitude of the gypsy has in all but a few noteworthy instances kept the gorgio at a distance, and it may be safely inferred that no true description or estimate of Romany life and character is possible excepting as the result of an admitted friendship with the people.

Unlovable features exist in every community—gypsy or otherwise—and unfortunately, perhaps, for the reputation of the gypsies, their inaccessibility has in most cases necessitated the employment by the gorgio writer of “narrow-angle” vision (to use a photographic simile), the inevitable result of which has been that their unattractive qualities loom large in the foreground, and upon these attention is focussed, while the real picture in the rear is obliterated or rendered indistinguishable.

Many of the Romany folk are unable to read, which fact, in conjunction with their manner of living, places them at a great disadvantage with respect to the expression of their ideas on many topics, but that they appreciate the beautiful in nature, have a crude philosophy, and decided opinions on equity may be gathered from the following incidents and conversational anecdotes, which I give with colloquialisms verbatim.

One evening, as the setting sun was transforming the western horizon into a panorama of wonderful colour-blending, I came upon a young gypsy woman standing upon a slight eminence evidently watching the glorious sky. Just as I came up to her, a motor vehicle whizzed past on the road near to us. The gypsy turned to view the begoggled occupants and, perceiving me, blurted out—

“What do you think they look like?” while her lip curved and a look of intense contempt came into her face for the modern man and woman in the car, who were whisking through space, raising clouds of dust and leaving behind, both literally and figuratively, a nasty taste in one’s mouth. Turning again to the magnificent sky picture she remarked as though she were a different woman:

“I say, ain’t it lovely!”

I expressed my agreement with her in appreciating the lovely scene, but soon descended to more mundane matters by asking if she had seen anything of a particular branch of the Vardomescro family, for if they were, as I supposed, in the vicinity, I intended to visit the camp. She replied that she thought they must have moved before she came to the spot last evening. However, I searched around with the hope of finding some sign that would enable me to ascertain their whereabouts. I soon found what may be termed their notice of change of address, but as the arrangement of sticks and leaves had been to some extent disturbed,—presumably by some wandering animal,—it was a little difficult to decipher, nevertheless there was sufficient to indicate that they had gone about two miles away to the north.

As it was now too late in the evening to set out I decided to postpone my visit until the morrow, which, judging from the stratus clouds about the setting sun, would be fine.

In the morning, after putting up a few sandwiches, in case I was unable to discover my friends, I set out for the locality in which I expected to find them. Failing to observe any indication of their presence I sat down and listened intently, having many a time located a camp by the noise of children playing, the sound of wood being chopped or broken for the fire and so on, but now nothing broke the silence to guide me; I concluded, therefore, that they had again gone on, but as I had not found the site of their last camp I had little hope of tracing them and was thinking of returning when, at less than a hundred yards distant, I saw a member of the family I had been seeking,—a young woman upon whom had been bestowed the name of Sinfai Vardomescro—known to the gorgio as Miss Cooper. She informed me that the remainder of the family were away but might return at any minute, that she was just going to fetch a bucket of water and would be back at the camp in a few minutes. She then went on for the water while I set off for the tents, the position of which she had pointed out. Upon reaching the camp I found a seat on an old box and, awaiting events, had nothing to do but think.

The gypsies being uppermost in my mind, I experienced a sensation of something akin to envy as I ruminated,—“it was true Science was a meaningless word to them, literature equally a term without signification, the existence of arts, manufactures and commerce was but dimly realized by them, and yet,—did they not enjoy a fuller freedom than I,—did they not escape the cares, worries and anxieties that were inseparable from a state of respectability,—so called,—they had never even heard of Mrs. Grundy,—they”—but here my musing was cut short by the arrival of Sinfai with the water.

“Do you know anything about cookin’?” she asked.

“How should I?” said I; “it’s hardly been my line up to the present.”

“Then,” she retorted, “you’d better jolly well begin to learn at once.”

“All right,” said I, laughing. “What’s on the menu?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” was the reply; “but we’ve got to get some poovengroes ready first of all,—here’s a churi for you.”

Taking the proffered knife, I set to work scraping potatoes. Sinfai, overlooking my performance, remarked approvingly—“Ain’t so bad for a start,—we shall make a Romany out o’ you ’fore long.”

While occupied thus as lady’s help I inquired of my instructress, “Where’s your mother today, Sinfai, is she dukkerin?”

“Sh—h!” she replied, “don’t talk so loud, some mush may shoon what you pens. We has to be careful nowadays, the police is down on us,—dukkerin ain’t what it used to be; one time we made a good bit by it—but there! it’s no good worrying about it. I say, Rye, ain’t you never had your fortune told?”

“Yes, Miss—— told it,” I admitted.

“Oh, she ain’t no good at it,” said Sinfai with a sniff; “it allus must be told by a dark person. It’s a gift, you know, and the gorgios as can’t do it of course says it’s dreadful wicked and oughter be put a stop to. Do you believe in it?” she inquired, with a quizzical expression.

“I hardly know,” I replied, somewhat evasively.

“You’ll agree that we knows more about some people than they think, I suppose?” she asked.

“Yes, certainly,” said I.

“Well, then,” rejoined Sinfai in a confidential manner, “dukkerin is only tellin’ ’em what we know. Do you know, the first time I ever saw you and before you’d said half a dozen words, I knew what county you came from,—I’ve travelled that way, you see, and when you came to our camp the first time and sat down, I said to myself, ‘’Taint the first time he’s sat at a Roman camp fire.’ And I was right too, wasn’t I?” I admitted that it was so.

“Well,” she continued, “if I’d told your fortune I should ha’ told you that and of course made you pay for it.”

“Money appears to be quite necessary,” I remarked.

“Well,” said she, “you know we must live somehow,” adding with a merry twinkle, “but I’ll tell yours for nothing if you like.”

“By the way, who did you think could, in a place like this, overhear my question about fortune telling?” I inquired.

“SHOSHOI.”

“You never know,” she replied, “but I’ve known folks as ought to bin doin’ something better, sneak about and lie hidin’ in the bushes to hear what us Romanies was talking about, but our ears are better than theirs, so we know they’re listenin’, and we talk for their benefit.”

“Why don’t you rokkra Romany so they couldn’t understand?” I queried.

“’Cos we wants the dinneloes to understand,” she answered.

“So that you may play the fool with them,” I added.

“That’s it,” she assented, unblushingly; “if they expects to catch us nappin’ they’re mistaken. So we settles it we’re going to catch shoshoi at a certain place. The man in the bushes hears it and off he goes and lies in wait for us. Where do we go? Why another way, of course, and then we have rabbit—but talkin’s all very well, my Rye, but we haven’t lit the fire yet and the kettle ought to be bilin’; have you got a light?”

She gathered together some pieces of paper and a number of sticks and tried to get a fire going, but it was of no use, the material was damp.

“Bust the thing!” ejaculated my companion; “rum stuff to light a fire with—I got wet through the other day getting some of it too. Didn’t I catch cold? bless you no; shouldn’t know what to do with one if I had it.”

I congratulated her on her immunity.

“Lucky!” she repeated rather ruefully, “am I; look at that fire, fair smokes you out,” then rather insinuatingly added:

“Now you got on all right with the poovengroes, suppose you try your hand at gettin’ her a-goin’,” at the same time nodding towards the fire, which certainly smoked terribly, but appeared very unwilling to burn as desired.

“Well,” said I, perhaps rather ungallantly, “I suppose I may as well do that as sit and look at you.”

“Oh, I don’t mind being looked at,” returned Sinfai, “but you might help with the fire at the same time,—jest see what I do, and if you make some like them, we’ll have her going in no time.”

Hereupon she took a piece of dry deal from an old box and split from it a slip; this she deftly cut from one end almost to the other in a series of leafy shavings around it, and in such a manner that each shaving remained attached to the stick. Together we prepared a number of these and arranged them in a conical pile, each one having the detached end of the chips downward, and a match was applied.

“Got him!” exclaimed Sinfai in her impulsive way as we fed the flames, at first with small twigs, then with larger pieces, and although there was a superabundance of pungent smoke, we had also a cheery, crackling fire.

The kettle was now filled and hung upon the crane, the potatoes were cut into thick slices and set cooking with some meat in the frying-pan. A saucepan was next half-filled with water in readiness for a smoked haddock Vardomescro père was expected to bring.

“Listen!” said Sinfai, “there’s dad coming,” and, although at the moment I could hear nothing to indicate the approach of any living thing, the lapse of a few minutes proved the superior keenness of her hearing, for I began to catch—very indistinctly at first—snatches of the old fellow’s favourite song, “Poor old Joe.”

“Ah! here he comes,” added Sinfai as he approached; “he’s allus ’appy.” In this instance, however, the ’appiness had some connection with refreshment recently imbibed.

Extracting a small parcel from his coat pocket he handed it to her, saying—

“There y’are, nice bit o’ fish that. I couldn’t get no haddicks ’cept fillets, and that little lot cost me fourteen pence with a kipper for meself.”

Turning to me he continued—

“I can’t stand haddick, yer know, but a kipper nicely smoked, with a lot o’ bread and butter, that’s what I like.”

At this juncture the “missis” appeared carrying a large basket which contained,—beside a few oddments of lace and thread, mending wool, shoe laces and reels of cotton,—some loaves of bread and other eatables.

Mention should be made, by the way, of the hawker’s licence, which, carefully stowed away in an envelope, was always left in the basket in case it should be necessary or advisable to demonstrate that her sole means of subsistence was the peddling of lace and other small wares.

There can be no doubt that dukkerin paid best.

The man was about to seat himself preparatory to partaking of the meal, when his wife—noticing the dirty state of his hands—told him in a forcible manner that he should not “sit down to tea with hands like that.”

Looking in my direction, and, assuming a manner evidently intended to appear as an apology for his wife’s outburst, the man observed—

“Ain’t she obsurd now her ole man’s come home.”

I noticed that nevertheless he dutifully washed his hands but made a lame attempt to assert his position as head of the establishment at the expense of the puppy that had just nestled down upon his bed, exclaiming as he turned it out—

“Git hout you, d’ye ’ear, I don’t want no fleas in my bed,—never had a dog in my tent and ain’t agoin’ to; get hout.”

In this camp, however, as in many another, the woman ruled.

Even a short acquaintance with almost any of these wanderers will reveal the fact that they possess quite a fund of humour, and will not infrequently make quaint, trite, or humorous allusions, sometimes even intensely funny remarks, and be, apparently, quite unconscious of doing so, the family with whom I was now fraternizing being no exception.

After the meal, when the younger children had been packed away, the conversation touched upon a number of subjects, varying from theft to aeroplanes, and from personal cleanliness to disasters at sea,—for the gypsy seems to be unable to concentrate his attention for any length of time, but wanders from subject to subject.

In conversing with them one should not be surprised if the conversation takes all sorts of twists and turns. That the gypsy is incapable of viewing matters from a standpoint other than his own, must be considered as the inevitable result of his aloofness.

Some reference having been made to the distinctions of meum and tuum, the mother said—

“Do you know what I’d do if a child o’ mine was to beg, or collar anything? Why I’d prison him for three weeks an’ feed him on bread and water, that’s the truth,—I ain’t a lyin’ woman though I’m sittin’ here,—an’ I can’t abide dirty children,” she continued. “Cleanliness is next to godliness, they say, an’ you gets a big lump o’ soap for a penny nowadays, and I can tell you, Rye, my kiddies ain’t chiklo neither.”

The fact that the tents were in decent condition and the children had appeared fairly well clothed and shod had not escaped my notice, while the meal which had just been partaken of had been on a more lavish scale than I had anticipated and I made some remark to that effect.

“Yes, thank God!” was the unmistakably sincere reply of the man. “I’ve bin in work most o’ the time the last four months, ain’t I, mother?—but we knows what it is to have nothin’ inside, and because we have to get used to the feel of a hungry belly it ain’t to say we likes it. D’you know, Rye, many’s the time I’ve gone to sleep for an hour or two in the daytime when I couldn’t get no work, so I could forget I was hungry.”

At this point the wife addressed me, proffering the advice—

“Don’t you never go near——; she’s a bad lot, you’ll know her anywhere if you meet her ’cos she’s got a mouth like a ’oss collar. She be a lippety tippoty sort, ain’t no good to nobody; besides, she’s got a awful temper on her; as for me, d’ye know, I could keep my temper for seven year; d—n you, you are clumsy,” this being said in the same breath to her child, who had, presumably, got up from bed for a drink of water and had upset the can; she then straightway continued talking as though no interruption had occurred, and chattered on from one subject to another with scarcely a break—

“My husband can read, you know, and he had a paper lent him that had got in it all about a big boat sinking,—nearly everybody was drowned, it said, pani-mushes and all.

“It’s my belief the world’s got too full o’ people and that’s the way the Almighty’s got o’ thinnin’ ’em out. Lord save us all, ain’t it awful to think of ’em all alive same as you and me and then——!

“Yes, my Rye, this country’s good enough for me. Starvation’s ahead next winter for some of us I dare say—but then, folks can starve in Canada too.

“Do you know, as we was sittin’ here last week, one of them aeroplanes come nearly over right up there,—I don’t believe in them things,—if we was meant to fly I’m certain the Almighty would ha’ given us a pair o’ wings apiece.”

In this way her tongue ran on. At length she asked—

“Are you an invalid in your left hand? Why do you hold it like that?”

This curiously expressed inquiry was suggested by the position in which I was holding my hand to relieve pain caused by carrying a heavy camera during several days of wandering.

Heavy clouds had been gathering for some little time and rain had seemed imminent, now it pattered down in a fashion that promised a downpour.

“Come into the tent,” said my hostess, “there ain’t no creepers,—tramps gets ’em, we don’t.”

She had scarcely finished speaking when she scratched her head vigorously.

“Yus!” she ejaculated as she noticed my attempt to suppress a smile.

“Them’s gnats!”

“Dordi!” she exclaimed as we got under cover. “Did you hear that? It sounded like thunder; hope we ain’t goin’ to get any, it foretells a death, you know; we had a dreadful storm the night before Mrs. Beshaley’s little ’un died.”

Hearing a footfall, Mrs. Vardomescro applied one eye to a small hole in the tent blanket, then said—

“Make room there, Bill, she’s coming here.”

By shifting around a little we made room for one more and I must confess I was very glad to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Beshaley, for she was one of the nicest, in addition to being one of the most beautiful of Romany women I had met. She appeared to be between twenty-five and thirty years of age; she wore no hat but had her hair—which was intensely black—plaited somewhat elaborately, the plaits hanging over her ears passed around the back of her head in a style facetiously termed “the door-knocker pattern.” Nevertheless, it suited her. In her ears were gold ear-rings of a curious crescentic design, and around the neck she had four rows of large red beads. She was dressed in black, being in mourning for her little boy.

After I had been introduced to her by Mrs. Vardomescro as “a friend who jinned what was pen’d in Romany,” all took part in the conversation. Most of what passed would have little general interest, but there is pathos in the following reference made by the new-comer to her recent loss which must not be passed by, and which is an unconscious, albeit welcome, refutation of charges of impassiveness, and the indifference of gypsies to the welfare of their children. An illuminating glimpse may also be obtained of an aspect of Romany life that is rarely, if ever, paraded—before the gorgio.

“My little boy who died,” said Mrs. Beshaley, “was a stiff little chap, he’d talk like a man and would stop older children teasing birds or any animals, saying, ‘mustn’t do it, mustn’t do it.’ Dear little fellow, he was too good, so—he had to leave us.”

Silently, our sympathies went out to the bereaved mother, who, as though oblivious of our presence, continued—soliloquizing—

“Mande’s chavo’s lelled oprey,

He’s jalled to the praio tem,

Yeck divvus I shall dick leste,

Though the poov he’ll dick kek komi.”

My child is taken above,

He’s gone to the children’s home,

One day I will see my love,

Though the earth no more he’ll roam.