Gipsies and Comteists identical as to "Religion"--Singular Manner of
Mourning for the Dead, as practised by Gipsies--Illustrations from
Life--Gipsy Job and the Cigars--Oaths by the Dead--Universal Gipsy Custom
of never Mentioning the Names of the Dead--Burying valuable Objects with
the Dead--Gipsies, Comteists, Hegelians, and Jews--The Rev. James Crabbe.
Comte, the author of the Positivist philosophy, never felt the need of a
religion until he had fallen in love; and at the present day his "faith"
appears to consist in a worship of the great and wise and good among the
dead. I have already spoken of many Gipsies reminding me, by their
entirely unconscious ungodliness, of thorough Hegelians. I may now add,
that, like the Positivists, they seem to correct their irreligion through
the influence of love; and by a strange custom, which is, in spirit and
fact, nothing less than adoring the departed and offering to the dead a
singular sacrifice.
He who has no house finds a home in family and friends, whence it results
that the Gipsy, despite his ferocious quarrels in the clan, and his sharp
practice even with near relations, is--all things considered--perhaps the
most devoted to kith and kin of any one in the world. His very name--rom,
a husband--indicates it. His children, as almost every writer on him,
from Grellmann down to the present day, has observed, are more thoroughly
indulged and spoiled than any non-gipsy can conceive; and despite all the
apparent contradictions caused by the selfishness born of poverty,
irritable Eastern blood, and the eccentricity of semi-civilisation, I
doubt if any man, on the whole, in the world, is more attached to his
own.
It was only three or four hours ago, as I write, on the fifth day of
February 1872, that a Gipsy said to me, "It is nine years since my wife
died, and I would give all Anglaterra to have her again."
That the real religion of the Gipsies, as I have already observed,
consists like that of the Comteists, in devotion to the dead, is
indicated by a very extraordinary custom, which, notwithstanding the very
general decay, of late years, of all their old habits, still prevails
universally. This is the refraining from some usage or indulgence in
honour of the departed--a sacrifice, as it were, to their _manes_--and I
believe that, by inquiring, it will be found to exist among all Gipsies
in all parts of the world. In England it is shown by observances which
are maintained at great personal inconvenience, sometime for years, or
during life. Thus, there are many Gipsies who, because a deceased
brother was fond of spirits, have refrained, after his departure, from
tasting them, or who have given up their favourite pursuits, for the
reason that they were last indulged in, in company with the lost and
loved one.
As a further illustration, I will give in the original Gipsy-language, as
I myself took it down rapidly, but literally, the comments of a
full-blooded Gipsy on this custom--the translation being annexed. I
should state that the narrative which precedes his comments was a reply
to my question, Why he invariably declined my offer of cigars?
"No; I never toovs cigaras, kek. I never toovs 'em kenna since my pal's
chavo Job mullered. And I'll pooker tute how it welled."
"It was at the boro wellgooro where the graias prasters. I was kairin
the paiass of the koshters, and mandy dicked a rye an' pookered him for a
droppi levinor. '_Avali_,' he penned, 'I'll del you levinor and a kushto
tuvalo too.' 'Parraco,' says I, 'rya.' So he del mandy the levinor and
a dozen cigaras. I pet em adree my poachy an' jailed apre the purge and
latched odoi my pal's chavo, an' he pook'd mandy, 'Where you jallin to,
kako?' And I penned: 'Job, I've lelled some covvas for tute.' 'Tacho,'
says he--so I del him the cigaras. Penned he: 'Where did tute latcher
'em?' 'A rye del 'em a mandy.' So he pet em adree his poachy, an'
pookered mandy, 'What'll tu lel to pi?' 'A droppi levinor.' So he
penned, 'Pauli the grais prasters, I'll jal atut the puvius and dick
tute.'
"Eight or nine divvuses pauli, at the K'allis's Gav, his pal welled to
mandy and pookered mi Job sus naflo. And I penned, 'Any thing dush?'
'Worse nor dovo.' 'What _is_ the covvo?' Says yuv, 'Mandy kaums tute to
jal to my pal--don't spare the gry--mukk her jal!' So he del mi a fino
grai, and I kistered eight mee so sig that I thought I'd mored her. An'
I pet her dree the stanya, an' I jalled a lay in the puv and' odoi I
dicked Job. 'Thank me Duvel!' penned he, 'Kako you's welled acai, and if
mandy gets opre this bugni (for 'twas the bugni he'd lelled), I'll del
tute the kushtiest gry that you'll beat sar the Romni chuls.' But he
mullered.
"And he pens as he was mullerin. 'Kako, tute jins the cigarras you del a
mandy?' '_Avali_,' I says he, 'I've got 'em acai in my poachy.' Mandy
and my pens was by him, but his romni was avree, adree the boro tan,
bikinin covvas, for she'd never lelled the bugni, nor his chavos, so they
couldn't well a dickin, for we wouldn't mukk em. And so he mullered.
"And when yuv's mullo I pet my wast adree his poachy and there mandy
lastered the cigaras. And from dovo chairus, rya, mandy never tooved a
cigar.
"Avali--there's adusta Romni chuls that kairs dovo. And when my juvo
mullered, mandy never lelled nokengro kekoomi. Some chairuses in her
jivaben, she'd lel a bitti nokengro avree my mokto, and when I'd pen,
'Deari juvo, what do you kair dovo for?' she pooker mandy, 'It's kushti
for my sherro.' And so when she mullered mandy never lelled chichi
sensus.
"Some mushis wont haw mass because the pal or pen that mullered was
kammaben to it,--some wont pi levinor for panj or ten besh, some wont haw
the kammaben matcho that the chavo hawed. Some wont haw puvengroes or pi
tood, or haw pabos, and saw (sar) for the mullos.
"Some won't kair wardos or kil the boshomengro--'that's mandy's pooro
chavo's gilli'--and some won't kel. 'No, I can't kel, the last time I
kelled was with mandy's poor juvo that's been mullo this shtor besh.'
"'Come pal, let's jal an' have a drappi levinor--the boshomengri's odoi.'
'Kek, pal, kekoomi--I never pi'd a drappi levinor since my bibi's
jalled.' 'Kushto--lel some tuvalo pal?' 'Kek--kek--mandy never tooved
since minno juvo pelled a lay in the panni, and never jalled avree
kekoomi a jivaben.' 'Well, let's jal and kair paiass with the
koshters--we dui'll play you dui for a pint o' levinor.' 'Kek--I never
kaired the paiass of the koshters since my dadas mullered--the last
chairus I ever played was with him.'
"And Lena, the juva of my pal's chavo, Job, never hawed plums a'ter her
rom mullered."
(TRANSLATION).--"No, I never smoke cigars. No; I never smoke them now
since my brother's son Job died. And I'll tell you how it came.
"It was at the great fair where the horses run (_i.e_., the races), I was
keeping a cock-shy, and I saw a gentleman, and asked him for a drop of
ale. 'Yes,' he said, 'I'll give you ale, and a good smoke too.' 'Thank
you,' says I, 'Sir.' So he gave me the ale, and a dozen cigars. I put
them in my pocket, and went on the road and found there my brother's son,
and he asked me, 'Where (are) you going, uncle?' And I said: 'Job, I
have something for you.' 'Good,' says he--so I gave him the cigars. He
said: 'Where did you find them?' 'A gentleman gave them to me.' So he
put them in his pocket, and asked me, 'What'll you take to drink?' 'A
drop of ale.' So he said, 'After the horses (have) run I'll go across
the field and see you.'
"Eight or nine days after, at Hampton Court, {53} his 'pal' came to me
and told me that Job was ill. And I said, 'Anything wrong?' 'Worse nor
that.' 'What _is_ the affair?' Said he, 'I want you to go to my
pal,--don't spare the horse--let her go!' So he gave me a fine horse,
and I rode eight miles so fast that I thought I'd killed her. And I put
her in the stable, and I went down into the field, and there I saw Job.
'Thank God!' said he; 'Uncle, you've come here; and if I get over this
small-pox (for 'twas the smallpox he'd caught), I'll give you the best
horse that you'll beat all the Gipsies.' But he died.
"And he says as he was dying, 'Uncle, you know the cigars you gave me?'
'Yes.' Says he, 'I've got 'em here in my pocket.' I and my sisters were
by him, but his wife was outside in the great tent, selling things, for
she never had the smallpox, nor his children, so they couldn't come to
see, for we wouldn't let them. And so he died.
"And when he was dead, I put my hand in his pocket, and there I found the
cigars. And from that time, Sir, I never smoked a cigar.
"Yes! there are plenty of Gipsies who do that. And when my wife died, I
never took snuff again. Sometimes in her life she'd take a bit of snuff
out (from) my box; and when I'd say, 'Dear wife, what do you do that
for?' she'd tell me, 'It's good for my head.' And so when she died I
never took any (none) since.
"Some men won't eat meat because the brother or sister that died was fond
of (to) it; some won't drink ale for five or ten years; some won't eat
the favourite fish that the child ate. Some won't eat potatoes, or drink
milk, or eat apples; and all for the dead.
"Some won't play cards or the fiddle--'that's my poor boy's tune'--and
some won't dance--'No, I can't dance, the last time I danced was with my
poor wife (or girl) that's been dead this four years.'
"'Come, brother, let's go and have a drop of ale; the fiddler is there.'
'No, brother, I never drank a drop of ale since my aunt went (died).'
'Well, take some tobacco, brother?' 'No, no, I have not smoked since my
wife fell in the water and never came out again alive.' 'Well, let's go
and play at cock-shy, we two'll play you two for a pint o' ale.' 'No, I
never played at cock-shy since my father died; the last time I played was
with him.'
"And Lena, the wife of my nephew Job, never ate plums after her husband
died."
This is a strange manner of mourning, but it is more effective than the
mere wearing of black, since it is often a long-sustained and trying
tribute to the dead. Its Oriental-Indian origin is apparent enough. But
among the German Gipsies, who, I am firmly convinced, represent in
language and customs their English brethren as the latter were three
centuries ago, this reverence for the departed assumes an even deeper and
more serious character. Mr Richard Liebich (_Die Zigeuner_, _Leipzig_,
1863), tells us that in his country their most sacred oath is _Ap i
mulende_!--by the dead!--and with it may be classed the equally
patriarchal imprecation, "By my father's hand!"
Since writing the foregoing sentence a very remarkable confirmation of
the existence of this oath among English Gipsies, and the sacredness with
which it is observed, came under my own observation. An elderly Gipsy,
during the course of a family difficulty, declared to his sister that he
would leave the house. She did not believe he would until he swore by
his dead wife--by his "_mullo juvo_." And when he had said this, his
sister promptly remarked: "Now you have sworn by her, I know you will do
it." He narrated this to me the next day, adding that he was going to
put a tent up, about a mile away, and live there. I asked him if he ever
swore by his dead father, to which he said: "Always, until my wife died."
This poor man was almost entirely ignorant of what was in the Bible, as I
found by questioning him; but I doubt whether I know any Christian on
whom a Bible oath would be more binding than was to him his own by the
dead. To me there was something deeply moving in the simple earnestness
and strangeness of this adjuration.
The German, like the older English Gipsies, carefully burn the clothes
and bed of the deceased, and, indeed, most objects closely connected with
them, and what is more extraordinary, evince their respect by carefully
avoiding mentioning their names, even when they are borne by other
persons or are characteristic of certain things. So that when a Gipsy
maiden named Forella once died, her entire nation, among whom the trout
had always been known only by its German designation, Forelle, at once
changed the name, and, to this day it is called by them _mulo
madscho_--the dead fish,--or at times _lolo madscho_--the red fish.
This is also the case among the English Gipsies. Wishing to have the
exact words and views of a real Rommany on this subject, I made inquiry,
and noted down his reply, which was literally as follows:--
"Avali; when Rommany chals or juvos are mullos, their pals don't kaum to
shoon their navs pauli--it kairs 'em too bongo--so they're purabend to
waver navs. Saw don't kair it--kek--but posh do, kenna. My chavo's nav
was Horfer or Horferus, but the bitti chavis penned him Wacker. Well,
yeck divvus pre the wellgooro o' the graias prasters, my juvo dicked a
boro _doll_ adree some hev of a buttika and penned, 'Dovo odoi dicks just
like moro Wacker!' So we penned him _Wackerdoll_, but a'ter my juvo
mullered I rakkered him Wacker again, because Wackerdoll pet mandy in
cammoben o' my poor juvo."
In English: "Yes. When Gipsy men or women die, their friends don't care
to hear their names again--it makes them too sad, so they are changed to
other names. All don't do it--no--but half of them do so still. My
boy's name was Horfer or Horferus (Orpheus), but the children called him
Wacker. Well, one day at the great fair of the races, my wife saw a
large doll in some window of a shop, and said, 'That looks just like our
Wacker!' So we called him Wackerdoll, but after my wife died I called
him Wacker again, because Wacker_doll_ put me in mind of my poor wife."
When further interrogated on the same subject, he said:
"A'ter my juva mullered, if I dicked a waver rakli with lakis'nav, an'
mandy was a rakkerin laki, mandy'd pen ajaw a waver geeri's nav, an
rakker her by a waver nav:--dovo's to pen I'd lel some bongonav sar's
Polly or Sukey. An' it was the sar covva with my dades nav--if I dicked
a mush with a nav that simmed leskers, mandy'd rakker him by a waver nav.
For 'twould kair any mush wafro to shoon the navyas of the mullas a't
'were cammoben to him."
Or in English, "After my wife died, if I saw another girl with her name,
and I was talking to her, I'd _speak_ another woman's name, and call her
by another name; that's to say, I'd take some nick-name, such as Polly or
Sukey. And it was the same thing with my father's name--if I saw a man
with a name that was the same as his (literally, 'that _samed_ his'), I'd
call him by another name. For 'twould make any man grieve (lit. 'bad')
to hear the names of the dead that were dear to him."
I suppose that there are very few persons, not of Gipsy blood, in
England, to whom the information will not be new, that there are to be
found everywhere among us, people who mourn for their lost friends in
this strange and touching manner.
Another form of respect for the departed among Gipsies, is shown by their
frequently burying some object of value with the corpse, as is, however,
done by most wild races. On questioning the same Gipsy last alluded to,
he spoke as follows on this subject, I taking down his words:--
"When Job mullered and was chivved adree the puv, there was a nevvi
kushto-dickin dui chakkas pakkered adree the mullo mokto. Dighton penned
a mandy the waver divvus, that trin thousand bars was gavvered posh yeck
o' the Chilcotts. An I've shooned o' some Stanleys were buried with
sonnakai wongashees apre langis wastos. '_Do sar the Rommany chals kair
adovo_?' Kek. Some chivs covvas pash the mullos adree the puv, and boot
adusta don't."
In English: "When Job died and was buried, there was a new beautiful pair
of shoes put in the coffin (_lit_. corpse-box). Dighton told me the
other day, that three thousand pounds were hidden with one of the
Chilcotts. And I have heard of some Stanleys who were buried with gold
rings on their fingers. '_Do all the Gipsies do that_?' No! some put
things with the dead in the earth, and many do not."
Mr Liebich further declares, that while there is really nothing in it to
sustain the belief, this extraordinary reverence and regard for the dead
is the only fact at all indicating an idea of the immortality of the soul
which he has ever found among the Gipsies; but, as he admits, it proves
nothing. To me, however, it is grimly grotesque, when I return to the
disciples of Comte--the Positivists--the most highly cultivated scholars
of the most refined form of philosophy in its latest stage, and find that
their ultimate and practical manifestation of _la religion_, is quite the
same as that of those unaffected and natural Positivists, the Gipsies.
With these, as with the others, our fathers find their immortality in our
short-lived memories, and if among either, some one moved by deep love--as
Auguste was by the eyes of Clotilda--has yearned for immortality with the
dear one, and cursed in agony Annihilation, he falls upon the faith
founded in ancient India, that only that soul lives for ever which has
done so much good on earth, as to leave behind it in humanity,
ineffaceable traces of its elevation.
Verily, the poor Gipsies would seem, to a humourist, to have been created
by the devil, whose name they almost use for God, a living parody and
satanic burlesque of all that human faith, doubt, or wisdom, have ever
accomplished in their highest forms. Even to the weakest minded and most
uninformed manufacturers of "Grellmann-diluted" pamphlets, on the
Gipsies, their parallel to the Jews is most apparent. All over the world
this black and God-wanting shadow dances behind the solid Theism of "The
People," affording proof that if the latter can be preserved, even in the
wildest wanderings, to illustrate Holy Writ--so can gipsydom--for no
apparent purpose whatever. How often have we heard that the preservation
of the Jews is a phenomenon without equal? And yet they both live--the
sad and sober Jew, the gay and tipsy Gipsy, Shemite and Aryan--the one so
ridiculously like and unlike the other, that we may almost wonder whether
Humour does not enter into the Divine purpose and have its place in the
Destiny of Man. For my own part, I shall always believe that the Heathen
Mythology shows a superiority to any other, in _one_ conception--that of
Loki, who into the tremendous upturnings of the Universe always inspires
a grim grotesqueness; a laughter either diabolic or divine.
Judaism, which is pre-eminently the principle of religious belief:--the
metaphysical emancipation and enlightenment of Germany, and the
materialistic positivism of France, are then, as I have indicated,
nowhere so practically and yet laughably illustrated as by the Gipsy.
Free from all the trammels of faith, and, to the last degree, indifferent
and rationalistic, he satisfies the demands of Feuerbach; devoted to the
positive and to the memory of the dead, he is the ideal of the greatest
French philosophy, while as a wanderer on the face of the earth--not
neglectful of picking up things _en route_--he is the rather blurred
_facsimile_ of the Hebrew, the main difference in the latter parallel
being that while the Jews are God's chosen people, the poor Gipsies seem
to have been selected as favourites by that darker spirit, whose name
they have naively substituted for divinity:--_Nomen et omen_.
I may add, however, in due fairness, that there are in England some true
Gipsies of unmixed blood, who--it may be without much reflection--have
certainly adopted ideas consonant with a genial faith in immortality, and
certain phases of religion. The reader will find in another chapter a
curious and beautiful Gipsy custom recorded, that of burning an ash fire
on Christmas-day, in honour of our Saviour, because He was born and lived
like a Gipsy; and one day I was startled by bearing a Rom say "Miduvel
hatch for mandy an' kair me kushto."--My God stand up for me and make me
well. "That" he added, in an explanatory tone, "is what you say when
you're sick." These instances, however, indicate no deep-seated
conviction, though they are certainly curious, and, in their extreme
simplicity, affecting. That truly good man, the Rev. James Crabb, in his
touching little book, "The Gipsies' Advocate," gave numbers of instances
of Gipsy conversions to religion and of real piety among them, which
occurred after their minds and feelings had been changed by his labours;
indeed, it would seem as if their lively imaginations and warm hearts
render them extremely susceptible to the sufferings of Jesus. But this
does not in the least affect the extraordinary truth that in their
nomadic and natural condition, the Gipsies, all the world over, present
the spectacle, almost without a parallel, of total indifference to, and
ignorance of, religion, and that I have found true old-fashioned
specimens of it in England.
I would say, in conclusion, that the Rev. James Crabb, whose unaffected
and earnest little book tells its own story, did much good in his own
time and way among the poor Gipsies; and the fact that he is mentioned to
the present day, by them, with respect and love, proves that missionaries
are not useless, nor Gipsies ungrateful--though it is almost the fashion
with too many people to assume both positions as rules without
exceptions.