FURZEMOOR
ARE you seeking a recipe for youth? Go a-Gypsying. Forth to the winding
road under the open sky, the Gypsies are calling you. Scorning our
hurrying mode of life, these folk are content to loiter beneath the green
beeches, or in the shadow of some old inn on the fringe of a windy
common. Like Nature herself, these wildlings of hers overflow with the
play-spirit and therefore remain ever youthful. To rub shoulders with
them, I have found, is to acquire a laughing indifference to dull care
and all its melancholy train. Whoever then would grow light-hearted and
become just a happy child of sun and star and stream, let him respond to
the call of the road: let him go a-Gypsying.
Long ago I observed that during the pleasanter months of the year a few
families of wanderers were generally to be found encamped upon a secluded
waste—which I will call Furzemoor—where, by the courtesy of the owner,
they were allowed to remain as long as they pleased. They resorted
thither, so it seemed to me, to recuperate from the effects of their
winter’s sojourn upon the city ash-patches hemmed in by unsavoury gas-lit
streets.
One April afternoon, following close upon a lengthy stay in London, I
remember how blithely I tramped along the grassy cart-track, which, after
winding between hedgerows full of green sprays, sweet odours and tinkling
bird-notes, emerged upon rugged Furzemoor—one of those few places which
in after years become for you backgrounds of dream-like delight by reason
of the memories associated with them. Is it not to such spots that the
fancy turns when the mood of the commonplace hangs heavily upon you, and
any shred of adventure would be more stirring to the heart than “the
cackle of our burg,” which is too often mistaken for “the murmur of the
world”?
No matter how often I came, the moor had ever the power to stir one’s
imagination anew by its suggestive atmosphere of the remote, the aloof,
the wild; and having paused at the end of the lane to renew old
recollections, I went forward and peered over the edge of a declivity
fringed with bushes of furze in golden flower. Ah! there below the
slope, kissed by the warm sun and fanned by the breath of spring from off
the heath, lay the brown tents, tilt-carts, and smouldering fires of a
Romany camp, looking strangely deserted save for a girlish figure
reclining near one of the fires over which a kettle was slung. Pushing
between the bushes, my blundering feet loosened some large stones which
rolled down the bank with a rattle, causing the girl to look sharply over
her shoulder, and simultaneously from her red lips came a warning
whistle, a shrill penetrating note first ascending then dropping again.
I had heard that whistle of old and knew well its significance. In
response thereto a Gypsy man appeared from behind the tents, his keen
eyes gleaming with recognition. “Hey, _rashai_, we’s been a-talking
about you lately. Only last night I was saying, p’raps our pass’n will
be coming to see us one of these days, and here you are!”
Such was the greeting I got from Gypsy Sam, who now wheeled about and
walked me off to a sandy hollow where his wife Lottie and her bairns sat
by the fire. On catching sight of me, the children—a black-eyed
troop—raised a shout of welcome, and, like little savages, soon began
tugging at my coat tails. After an absence of several months from the
camping-place this was a joyful meeting, and I guessed that my friends
had much news to tell.
[Picture: Gypsy Children. Photo. Illustrations Bureau]
“It’s no use pretending to offer you a chair,” said Lottie, giving my
hand a hearty shake, “for we haven’t got one. If there’s anything I does
detest, it’s chairs. The nasty things make sich draughts about ’ur
legs.” So, squatting on the ground, I awaited the unfolding of the
family budget.
There was a touch of the Orient on every side. Stuck in the wind-rippled
sand under a bold wall of rock were curved tent-rods with brown blankets
pinned round them. Between the golden furze clumps a lean horse and a
shaggy ass ripped the grasses. A greyhound lay asleep under a tilt-cart
upon the shafts of which sundry gay garments were hanging to dry. Upon
this picture my eye rested with pleasure.
Now Gypsy Sam ignites his tobacco by scooping up a red ember with the
bowl of his pipe. His wife does the same, and I follow suit.
“A prettier place is this,” quoth Lottie, “than when you see’d us under
that ugly railway bank at Hull.”
Verily the Gypsies are possessed of an æsthetic sense, and their roving
eyes grow wistful as they take in the beauty of the distant hills and the
sun-gleams lighting up grassy knolls and spindly fir-trees rising from
patches of sand.
“You remember that _pawno grai_ (white horse) of ours?” says Sam. “Well,
we lost him a little while back. A bit of _wafro bok_ (bad luck) that
was for us. We was stopping at a place with nasty bogs around us, and
one stormy night the _grai_ got into one of ’em unbeknown to we, and i’
the morning we found him with no more than his nose sticking out. Of
course he were dead as a stone. Then there was that _kawlo jukel_ (black
dog) what you saw at Hull—brother to this one under the cart—he got
poisoned up yonder by Rotherham. I reckon a keeper done it as had a
spite agen us. I wouldn’t ha’ parted with that dog for a good deal; he’s
got us many a rabbit.”
The steaming splutter of the kettle suggests a meal, which is soon spread
in winsome style. Meanwhile, from another fire hard by, a black pot is
brought, and a savoury stew is followed by tea and slices of buttered
bread with green cresses fresh from the brook. As Lottie lifts the
silver teapot to pour out tea, I cannot help admiring the lovely old
thing, and the Gypsy sees my appreciation.
“Yes,” (holding it up in the sunlight), “it’s a beauty, ain’t it? Did
you ever hear of my Aunt Jōni’s quart silver teapot? Squire Shandres
used to fix greedy eyes on it whenever he come down to the camp, but my
aunt wouldn’t part with it, not likely. You won’t remember Jōni, of
course. A funny old woman she were, to be sure. There was one thing I
minds her a-telling of us. She’d been out with her _kipsi_ (basket) but
it weren’t one of her good days, and by night her basket was nearly as
heavy as when she’d set out. Twopence was all she’d made, as she passed
through three or four willages, tumble-down sort of places, where the
house walls were bent and the thatches of the cottages were sinking into
the rooms underneath ’em. At one of these cottages as stood in an odd
corner, Jōni stopped to knock. Two steps led up to a green door with a
bird-cage hanging outside. She waited a minute, but as nobody came she
gave two more raps and tried the door. It was bolted. After that she
heard sounds inside, a muttering voice came nearer, and slip-slap went
the shoes, as an old woman opened the door. Talk about ugly, she was
that, if you like; and there was hair growing on her lip and chin.
Fixing her black eyes on Jōni, she scowled and scolded, and, pointing a
finger at her, she cursed poor Jōni, and for ten days afterwards my aunt
couldn’t speak proper. Whenever she tried to talk, she could only groan
and bark and moo like the beastses, and it wasn’t till after the tenth
day that she were herself at all.”
From witches it was not a long leap to wise men.
Said Lottie, “Did I ever tell you about the wise man of Northampton?
Well, it was one time as I’d had wery bad luck indeed with my basket. I
couldn’t sell nothing at all in the willages agen that town, but I know’d
a _gozvero mush_ (wise man) as lived there, so I went to see him, and he
give me a rabbit’s head and a cake of bread. ‘Now,’ says he, ‘go you and
call at the places where you’ve took nothing, and you’ll take money at
all of ’em.’
“And what he told me came true, every word of it. I’ll take my sacrium
oath it did. That there _gozvero mush_ (wise man) could tell the names
of folks as had stolen things, and he could _dûker_ (tell fortunes) like
one of us. He could tell folk a lot about theirselves by rubbing his
hand over the bumps on their heads, and he could read the stars like a
book, and find out things by the cards and by the crystal. He was sort
of friendly with our people, and they liked him, but they would never go
near a witch if they knew it.”
It has been truly said, “No one is fond of Gypsies, but is fonder of
Gypsy children.” Grave-eyed pixies, at once bold and reserved, these
quaint little sprites are simply irresistible. When the meal is over, I
stroll off with a party of these romping rascals towards a gorsy hollow
which the sun warms into a gayer gold. Asking the children if they would
like a tale, and what sort? Answer comes, “A _muleno gudlo_” (fairy
tale).
“How long?”
“A mile long, in course.”
Into my tale creeps a ghost, and when I had done, little Reuben says—
“I know something about _mulos_ (ghosts). One time a man was killed by a
bull at the corner of the lane down yonder, and we allus hurries past
that place for fear of _dik_in his _mulo_” (seeing his ghost). “And then
there was two Gypsies as father once know’d. They begged some straw from
a farmer and put it in a little shed for to sleep on. Then they went
into the willage to buy a loaf, and when they got back they found the
straw had gone. A little ways off they see’d a woman running away with
the straw, but ’stid of follering her they went straight to the farmhouse
where they’d got leave to sleep in the shed, and they told the farmer
about the woman, and he says—
“‘Why, that’s my old woman as died ten year ago.’ My word, those Gypsies
soon began to look out for a sleeping-place somewhere else. Yes, we
knows a lot about _mulo_s.”
“What’s that noise?” asked one of the girls, springing up.
“Come away _tshavê_ (children). Come away, sir. Don’t you hear that
nasty little _sap_” (snake)?
From among the mossy stones near at hand came a hissing sound, and there,
sure enough, was a small viper wagging his black-forked tongue at us. We
got up and moved nearer the camp.
“Norfolk’s the place for sarpints,” said one of the boys; “I once see one
with a frog in its mouth. Lor, how the poor thing did squeal. There’s
lots of lizards about here, and they say that a _hotshi_ (hedgehog) will
eat ’em, but if I thought _that_ I’d never touch no more _hotshi_ s’long
as I live.”
I told the children of a little incident which had happened on my way to
Furzemoor, how I had cycled into a family of weasels crossing the road
but didn’t run over any of them, and, dismounting, I banged one of the
little fellows with my hat. He lay still, and I thought he was dead, but
when I turned my head for a moment he was gone like a flash. Lottie, who
had drawn near and was listening, remarked—
“It’s bad luck to meet a wezzel on the _drom_ (road), but if there’s
anything we does like to meet, it’s the Romany _tshiriklo_ (bird),” which
I knew to be the pied wagtail, the foreteller of coming Gypsies.
“When we sees our _tshiriklo_ on the road, and it flies, we knows we are
going to meet Gypsies who’ll be akin to us, but if it only runs away, the
travellers coming will be strangers. One day me and my man was on the
_drom_ and we see a young hare tumbling over and over in front of us.
That’s a sign as means ill, and, sure enough, a few days after we heard
tell of the death of my man’s uncle ’Lijah. Talking about meeting
things, I’ve heard it said that if you meet two carts, one tied behind
t’other, you’ll soon go to prison.”
The strains of a fiddle now proceeded from where Sam sat alone by the
fire, and we joined him. As the sun was going down one of the girls
proposed a dance, and soon a merry whirl of Gypsy elves enlivened the
camp. By the fireside, reminiscences came crowding into Sam’s brain.
“Many’s the time, as you know, we’ve draw’d on to this place, and I takes
good care to be friendly with all the keepers round here. I never
meddles wi’ nothink, you see, so we never gets across wi’ ’em. Ay, but I
minds when I didn’t used to be so pertikler. See that oak wood up
yonder? In my young days me and my old mammy got leave from a keeper to
gather acorns in that wood. Us used to take ’ur sacks and fill ’em with
acorns and sell ’em to a man as we know’d. And mam ’ud warn me not to
meddle with the rabbits, lest we should be forbid to stop on here. One
afternoon mam had half-filled her sack, and when her back was turned, I
tumbled the acorns out, and slipped into the sack three rabbits as I’d
knocked over, and I put the acorns back on the top of ’em. I was a good
big lad then, and, my, wasn’t I frit when I see the keeper coming with
his dog. When he got up to us, he and mam got a-talking, and I see the
dog sniffing round the bag. The keeper, thinking that there was only
acorns in it, shouts to the dog, “Come away there.” But the dog stuck
there, and I was trembling in my boots for fear we should get into
trouble. Howsiver, the keeper kept calling the dog off, and soon they
goes away. Then I nips up the bag and trots off home with it, and when I
told mam about it afterwards she gave me a downright good scolding and
begged me never to do it no more.
“Our old folks allus travelled with pack-donkeys, and they had one donkey
as was a wery knowing animal. I’ll tell you one thing it did. We was
stopping in a lane of a summer’s evening, and our _foki_ (people) was
smoking afore the fire under a hedge with the children playing round, and
everybody was as happy as the Lord in Heaven, but all at once our _maila_
(donkey) comes and pokes its head atween daddy and me, and I taps it on
the nose, playful-like, to send it away, but it comes back, and it was
that restless and fidgety, poking and pulling at us—it wouldn’t be druv
off. My mammy had been watching it from the tent, and she come up and
says—
“‘That _maila_ knows summut, I reckons.’
“‘Ay, it’s a sign sure enough,’ says daddy. And the donkey still kep’ on
poking and pulling at us. Long and by last dad says—
“‘We’d better clear out of here,’ for he thought there was summut queer
about the donkey’s goings on. Well, we pulled up the tent rods and
packed ’ur things, and we’d only just got out of the lane when two
horsemen come along and began inquiring about a little pig as was missing
from a farm. They made us unpack, and they searched through everythink,
but, of course, they couldn’t find nothink agen us, and they goes their
way and we goes ours. And that night, after we had settled down in an
old quarry a bit furder on, my daddy beckoned me and took me to a deep
hollow full o’ dead leaves, and, scrabbling among ’em, he takes out—what
do you think? The nicest little _bawlo_ (porker) you ever see’d, and we
gets it safe home. That donkey _did_ know summut after all. Ay, them
were the old times. Things is wery different now.
“If you come here to-morrow you’ll mebbe walk up with me to the planting
on t’other side of yon beck. The _rai_ as this land belongs to lets me
_tshin_ (cut) all the _wuzen_ (elder) I wants. My old daddy used to say—
“‘You should never lay a chopper to a tree wi’out first axing the
fairies’ leave,’ but folks forgets to do it now.”
The eyes of my friends here began to turn frequently in the direction of
the cart-track. Indeed, when their eyes were not looking that way it
seemed to me that their minds still were. Nor was this expectancy to go
long unsatisfied, for soon there appeared in the sunken lane a black
chimney topping a green-hooded vehicle, a light cart bringing up the
rear. These Gypsies turned out to be a married son of Sam, with his wife
and family. Here was a jolly arrival. With surprising rapidity the
horses were unyoked, and the newcomers were gathered round their parents
on the grass. Off to a well-known spring run the girls to fill the
kettle and a bucket or two, and the boys scamper off towards a spinney to
return with an abundance of dead wood. Then how the fires crackle and
spurt, and in next to no time the steam is puffing from kettle spouts.
Feeling ten years younger for my visit to the Furzemoor Gypsies, I
climbed up the deeply-rutted lane on the way to the distant railway
station, and, as I turned for a last look, brown hands were waving, and
_kushto bok_ (good luck), which is the Gypsy’s “good-bye,” was shouted
after me. On my part I felt a strong tugging at the heart when, at a
bend in the lane, I caught a farewell glimpse of the domed tents,
upcurling blue smoke, and happy Gypsies among the golden gorse.
GLOSSARY
PRONUNCIATION {291}
I. VOWEL-SOUNDS
AS IN
â alms (âms).
a aloe (alô).
aw all (awl).
ê ale (êl).
è air (èr).
e ell (el).
î eel (îl).
i ill (il).
ô old (ôld).
o olive (oliv).
û ooze (ûz).
u book (buk).
ù ulcer (ùlsa).
II. DIPHTHONGS
AS IN
ai aisle (ail).
oi oyster (oista).
ou ounce (ouns).
III. CONSONANTS
The following are pronounced as in English:—
b, d, f, h, k, l, m, n, p, t, v, w.
v and w are, as a rule, easily interchangeable.
AS IN
y yes (yes).
r roam (rôm).
ch loch (Scottish loch).
s ass (as).
sh shin (shin).
tsh chin (tshin).
z zest (zest).
zh pleasure (plezhur).
j (dzh) jest (jest).
g gate (gêt).
ng singer (singa).
ngg finger (fingga).
th thin (thin).
dh then (dhen).
VOCABULARY.
ROMANY. ENGLISH.
Adrê In, into, within.
Akai Here.
Apopli Again.
Aprê On, upon.
Av Come.
Âva, âvali, âwa, âwali Yes, certainly, verily
Avrî Away, out.
Bâ Stone, sovereign (£1).
Baiengri Waistcoat.
Bal Hair.
Balovas Bacon, ham.
Barvelo Rich.
Baw Comrade, mate.
Bawlo Pig.
Bawro Great, large.
Bawro-Gav London.
Beng Devil.
Besh Sit, rest, lie.
Bîbi Aunt.
Biken Sell.
Bita Little.
Bitshado Sent.
Bitshado-pawdel Sent over, transported.
Bok Luck.
Bokro Sheep.
Bokro-mas Mutton.
Bongo Crooked, lame, wrong.
Boshomengro Fiddler.
Bouri Snail.
Bouri-zimen Snail-broth.
Bûdika Shop.
Dâbla Exclamation of surprise.
Dadus Father.
Dai Mother.
Dawdi Exclamation of surprise.
Delaben Gift.
Del-aprê Read.
Didakai Half-breed Gypsy.
Dik See, look.
Dikamengri Picture, looking-glass.
Diklo Kerchief.
Dinelo Fool, simpleton.
Diri Dear.
Divus Day.
Dosta Enough, plenty.
Dova That.
Drom Road.
Dûi Two.
Dûker Tell fortunes.
Dûkeripen Fortune.
Dûvel God.
Fôki People.
Gad Shirt.
Gawjikeno Belonging to gentiles.
Gawjo Alien, gentile, anyone who is not a Gypsy.
Gav Town.
Gèro Man.
Gozvero Cunning.
Grai Horse.
Gudlo Tale, noise.
Guno Bag, sack.
Hatsh Stop, camp.
Hatsh-oprê Arise, get up.
Haw Eat.
Hawben A meal, food.
Hĕro Leg, wheel.
Hokano Lie, trick, swindle.
Hora Penny.
Hotsherdo Burnt.
Hotshiwitshi Hedgehog.
Jaw Go.
Jin Know.
Jiv Live.
Jukel Dog.
Kai Where.
Kanengro Hare.
Kani Hen.
Kawlo Black.
Ke-divus To-day.
Kek, keka No, not, never.
Kel, kèr Do, make.
Kèr House.
Kipsi Basket.
Kisi Much.
Kitshima Tavern, public-house.
Klîsin Lock.
Kokero Self.
Koliko To-morrow.
Kom Love, like.
Kon Who.
Konaw Now.
Kongri Church.
Kopa Blanket.
Kosht Stick, wood.
Kova This, thing.
Krafni Button.
Kuro Cup, glass, mug.
Kushto Good.
Laj Shame.
Latsher Find, pick up.
Lav Word.
Lavengro Word-man, linguist.
Lel Get, take.
Len, lendi Them, their.
Lesti Him, his.
Levina Beer.
Lil Book, paper.
Loli Red.
Lova Money.
Maila Donkey.
Man, mandi I, me.
Mas Meat.
Masengro Butcher.
Maw Don’t.
Maw Kill, slay, murder.
Mî, mîro, m’o My, mine.
Mokado Unclean.
Mokto Box.
Mol Wine.
Mong Beg, pray, request.
Monûshni Woman, wife.
Mûi Mouth, face.
Mûk Let, allow, leave, lend.
Mûleno Ghostly, fairy, supernatural.
Mûlo Dead, ghost.
Mûlo-mas Carrion.
Mûmeli Candle.
Mumpari, mumper Low-class traveller.
Mumpli Nasty.
Mûsh Man.
Mûskro Policeman.
Nasher Lose, waste.
Nongo Naked, bald, bare.
O The.
Odoi There.
Oprê On, up, upon.
Ora Hour, watch.
Pal Brother.
Pâni Water.
Pariko Thank.
Patrin Trail, sign, leaf.
Pawdel Across, over, beyond.
Pawni Fair, white.
Pen Sister.
Pen Say.
Peser Pay.
Petulengro Smith.
Pîro Foot.
Pogado Broken.
Poger Break.
Porj Bridge.
Posh Half.
Praster Run.
Pûker Tell.
Pûkinger Magistrate.
Pûri-dai Grandmother.
Pûro Old.
Pûrum Leek.
Pûtsh Ask.
Pûv Field.
Pûvengri Potato.
Rai, raia Gentleman, sir.
Rakli Girl.
Rashai Priest, parson.
Rat Blood.
Rat, rati Night.
Rawni Lady.
Rinkeno Beautiful.
Rokamiaw Trousers.
Roker Talk, speak.
Rokerben Conversation, speech.
Rom Husband.
Romanes Gypsy-wise, Gypsy language.
Romanitshel Gypsy.
Romano Gypsy.
Romer Marry
Rûp Silver.
Sâ How.
Sal Laugh.
Sap Snake.
Saw All, everything.
Sawkûmi Everybody.
Sawla Morning.
Shan Are.
Shûkora Sixpence.
Shûn Hear.
Shushi Rabbit.
Sî Is.
Sig Quickly, soon, early.
Sô What.
Sos Was.
Stari Star.
Staruben Prison.
Stor Four.
Swêgler Pipe.
Ta And.
Tâder Draw.
Tălê Down.
Tan Tent.
Tâno Young.
Tatsheno True, genuine.
Tatshipen Truth.
Tatsho True.
Te To.
Tem Country, land.
Tîro Your.
Tôv Wash.
Trash Frighten.
Trin Three.
Tshai Lass, daughter, girl.
Tshavo Son.
Tshib Tongue, language.
Tshikli Dirty, foul.
Tshin Cut.
Tshiriklo Bird.
Tshitshi Nothing.
Tshiv Put.
Tshokaw Boots.
Tshor Steal.
Tshordo Stolen.
Tshori Poor.
Tshovihawni Witch.
Tshûmani Something.
Tshûpni Whip.
Tû, tût, tûti You.
Tûv Smoke.
Tûvalo Tobacco.
Vâdo Caravan, cart.
Vâva Another.
Vast Hand.
Vel, wel Come.
Wafodû, wafro Bad.
Wesh, vesh Wood, forest.
Wûser Throw.
Wûzen Elder.
Yek One.
Yog Fire.
Yoi She.
Yôra Egg.
Yov He.
Zimen Broth
MUMPER’S PATTER
Dunnock Steer.
Mush-fakir Umbrella-mender.
GYPSY “FORE” OR CHRISTIAN NAMES.
MASCULINE NAMES.
Airant.
Aniel.
Artelus.
Baius.
Barendon.
Bartholoways.
Bohemia.
Bosko.
Boufi.
Buzi.
Craimia.
Credi.
Dimiti.
Dinki.
Doval.
Dud.
Duraia.
Dusti.
Eros.
Evergreen.
Feli.
Fennix.
Fowk.
Ganation.
Glympton.
Golias.
Gōni.
Gui.
Haini.
Harkles.
Harodain.
Hedji.
Înan.
Îthil.
Îza.
Jaina.
Kaivela.
Kashi.
Khulai.
Ladin.
Lamerok.
Leshi.
Liberty.
Logan.
Loni.
Lumas.
Lusha.
Mairik.
Manabel.
Manfri.
Manful.
Mantis.
Meriful.
Moelus.
Morpus.
Moti.
Motsha.
Motshan.
Motshus.
Muldobrai.
Nelus.
Niabai.
Nipkin.
Nitshel.
Northalion.
Ōbi.
Ōki.
Ŏlbi.
Ŏli.
Orferus.
Ōseri.
Ōthi.
Ōti.
Penderbela.
Persuvius.
Perun.
Pesulia.
Piramus.
Polius.
Potamus.
Rabai.
Raito.
Renda.
Righteous.
Rinki.
Ruslo.
Sairenda.
Santabelphijum.
Santalina.
Santanoa.
Seki.
Seneptune.
Shandres.
Shani.
Shiva.
Silus.
Simpronius.
Solivaino.
Studivares.
Swallow.
Taimi.
Taiso.
Teni.
Thurles.
Tudlin.
Tuti.
Vaina.
Wacka.
Waimore.
Wantelo.
Wingi.
Woodlock.
Yoben.
Zegul.
Zezil.
FEMININE NAMES.
Acorn.
Alamina.
Andelia.
Angelis.
Anis.
Ashena.
Ashila.
Aslog.
Begonia.
Bidi.
Biti.
Bobum.
Boina.
Consuleti.
Daiena.
Darklis.
Delaia.
Delenda.
Deleta.
Deloreni.
Dorenia.
Edingel.
Eldorai.
Elophia.
Elvaira.
Emanaia.
Erosabel.
Everilda.
Ezi.
Fazenti.
Femi.
Fernet.
Fianci.
Fili.
Florentia.
Fluenzi.
Froniga.
Genti.
Glorina.
Graveleni.
Idadê.
Inji.
Jeta.
Jōni.
Kadilia.
Kerlenda.
Kiomi.
Kodi.
Kraisini.
Laini.
Lavaina.
Leanabel.
Lenda.
Leondra.
Levaithen.
Lidi.
Linji.
Liti.
Lurina.
Lusana.
Lwaiden.
Madona.
Maiburi.
Maireni.
Mandra.
Marbeleni.
Melvinia.
Memberensi.
Mezi.
Million.
Mino.
Mireli.
Miselda.
Mitoreni.
Mizereti.
Modiwench.
Morjiana.
Nareli.
Olovina.
Omi.
Oshina.
Paizeni.
Paizi.
Pamela.
Penhela.
Perpagelion.
Piki.
Plenti.
Polovine.
Pomona.
Queenation.
Reni.
Repentance.
Repriona.
Richenda.
Rodi.
Romania.
Saibarini.
Saiera.
Saifi.
Saiforela.
Saiki.
Sanspirela.
Savaina.
Sedinia.
Seluna.
Seni.
Separi.
Shorensi.
Shuri.
Sibela.
Siberensi.
Sibereti.
Sinaminta.
Sinfai.
Spidi.
Stari.
Suti.
Taishan.
Telaitha.
Tiena.
Traienti.
Treci.
Treli.
Trenit.
Vashti.
Wadi.
Waini.
Wasti.
Wenti.
Weson.
Whipni.
Widens.
Wigi.
Wuzi.
Yunakrai.
Zebra.
Zina.
Zuba.
INDEX
Arnold, Matthew, _The Scholar-Gipsy_, 123.
Articles enclosed in coffin, 243.
Aryan languages of India and the Gypsy language, 73–74.
Australia, Gypsies in, 167–168.
* * * * *
Baring-Gould, S., _Book of Folk-Lore_, 22.
Borrow, George, 27, 81, 197, 264; Dumpling Green (Borrow’s birthplace),
197; _Lavengro_, 27, 28, 160, 197, 241; Borrow’s originals, 28–31, 158;
_The Romany Rye_, 28–30, 143, 230, 232; _Romany_ (Gypsy) _Word-Book_,
161, 165, 249; _The Zincali_, 81–83.
Bottomless pool, a, 272.
Brancepeth Castle, 33, 35.
Bread crumbled to ward off evil, 53.
Brewer, Dr., _Dictionary of Fable_, 126.
Burning possessions of the departed, 243, 246.
Byard’s Leap, a witch legend, 140–141.
* * * * *
_Caian_, _The_ (quoted), 73–74.
Calderari, the, 206.
Charm, a Gypsy, 36.
Childbirth tabu, 53.
Coining words, 170.
Creel (portable grinding-machine), 161.
Creenies, 206.
Crinks, 207.
Crofton, H. T., on continental origin of certain Anglo-Romany Christian
names, 54; _The Dialect of the English Gypsies_. See Smart.
Crystal-gazing, 108, 223–225.
* * * * *
Dancing booth, 177.
_Dark Ages_, _The_, by “L.,” 246.
Death-hawk, 245.
Devil and nuts, 111.
_Dialect of the English Gypsies_, _The_, by Dr. Bath Smart and H. T.
Crofton, 76, 239.
Dialects, modern Indian, 73.
Dialogue between two Gypsies, 144–145.
Diamond, Manful Heron’s, 190–191.
_Didakais_ (half-breeds), 25, 77.
Drinking-vessels of aliens avoided, 82.
* * * * *
East Anglian Gypsy family, an, 104–117.
Egyptian origin of the Gypsies, legend of, 74–75.
Ermine Street (High Dyke), a Roman road, 134.
Evil eye, 53, 129.
* * * * *
Fairies, 15, 288.
Fairs—Bala, 265; Brough Hill, 275; Horncastle, 229–237; Leicestershire
Fair, a, 47; Lincoln, 257; Newark-on-Trent, 141–142; Peterborough,
118–133; Seamer, 184–185; Stow Green, 68–70; West Stockwith, 89–98.
Fasting, 111, 163.
Fear of ghost, 243.
Feeding a gibbeted man, 22.
Ferdousi (quoted), 114.
Fight between Gypsies, a, 69–70.
Fighting song, a, 70.
Flaming, Tinman, the, 28.
Fortune-telling, 61, 107–108, 128.
Fossdyke, a Roman canal, 16–17.
Freckles and Gypsies, 102.
* * * * *
Gamekeepers and Gypsies, 19, 63, 139, 286–287.
Gentleman Gypsy, the. See Stables, Dr. Gordon.
Ghosts, 66–67, 108–109, 183, 284.
Gibberish, 78, 153.
Gilliat-Smith, B., on the Gypsy language, 73–74.
Glanvill, Joseph, _The Vanity of Dogmatizing_, 123–125.
Gordon, Jean, prototype of Meg Merrilies, 28.
Great North Road, the, 55, 57, 100, 104, 207.
Groome, F. H., 91, 102, 129; _Gypsy Folk-Tales_, 257; _In Gipsy Tents_,
85; letter (quoted), 126.
Gypsy baptism, a, 52–53.
„ benison, a, 46.
„ bird (pied wagtail), 89, 285.
,, blood, grades of, 77.
„ burial lore, 240–246.
„ carelessness about names, 131.
,, cheerfulness, 34.
Gypsy, Christian or “fore” names, 53–54, 299–302.
„ church-going, 219.
„ cookery, 277.
„ Court, its characters, 18–27, 105, 176.
„ crimes, 254–255.
„ curse, 129.
„ dreams, 109–110, 159.
„ enchantress, a, 164–165.
„ epitaphs, 150, 244.
„ eye, the, 160–161.
„ fetish, 145–146.
„ fiddlers, 10–11, 29–30, 84, 86, 120, 195, 222, 266–267, 274–275.
„ fighters, 3, 30, 69–70.
„ graves, 150, 170, 238, 240.
„ guiding-signs (_patrin_s), 95–96, 142–143.
„ harpist, 85–86, 275.
„ heroism, 30.
„ hospitality, 49–51.
„ incantation over sick person, 164–165.
_Gypsy Jack_, a drama, 103.
,, _Laddie_, the, a ballad, 171.
Gypsy language, the, 73–74, 153.
„ Lore Society (note), 254.
„ love of extraordinary names, 54.
„ love of a fire, 10.
„ marriage, 176.
,, mesmerism, 122–125.
,, migrations, 157.
,, moods, 7.
,, morals, 255.
,, name-changes, 244–245.
,, origins, 72–76.
„ pedigrees, 78–79, 167.
,, pets, 142, 192–193.
,, play-spirit, 91–94, 216.
,, politeness, 3, 79.
„ pride, 76, 156.
,, queens, 71.
,, reverence for the dead, 240.
,, sense of beauty, 281.
„ snuff-taking, 18, 196.
,, soldier, a, 27.
„ song, a, 84–85.
„ surnames, 55–56.
„ tent, construction of, 146.
,, tinkers, 205–212.
„ trial, a, 31.
„ tricks, 121–123, 132, 236.
„ unwillingness to impart names, 54–55.
,, warning whistle, 7, 280.
,, washing rules, 113–114.
Gypsyries—Blackpool, 71–88; Derby, 157–165; Lincoln, 2–4; London, 162,
198–201; Scarborough, 173–179.
* * * * *
Half-breeds, 77, 181.
Hangman’s Ditch, 2.
Hedge-crawlers, 77, 156.
Hedgehog, 26, 45, 49–50, 62, 67, 177–178, 257.
“Helm” wind (at Brough Hill), 276.
_Henry IV_. (Shakespeare), quoted, 207.
High Dyke, or Ermine Street, 134–141.
Hindi, 73.
_Hokano Bawro_, a traditional swindle, 121–122.
Holyhead Road, the, 262, 268.
Horse of deceased Gypsy shot or sold, 243, 246.
Horse-stealing, 132.
Hoyland, _Historical Survey of the Gypsies_, 39.
* * * * *
Irish vagrants, 157.
* * * * *
Jack o’ Lantern, 147.
Jewellery of deceased Gypsy dropped into river, 243.
_Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society_, _The_, 164–165.
* * * * *
King Edward the VII. (when Prince of Wales), 203.
Kirk Yetholm, 115.
Knapp, Dr. W. I., _The Life_, _Writings_, _and Correspondence of George
Borrow_, 28.
* * * * *
Legends and folk-tales—
Caspar, one of the Magi, a Gypsy, 75.
Ghost of the Haystack, the, 147–148.
Ghost of the Ford, the, 222.
Happy Boz’ll’s Tales, 257–261.
Nails at the Crucifixion, a legend, 75.
O’Neil’s Horse, 182.
Romanitshels hail from Egypt, a legend, 74–75.
Ruzlam Boz’ll’s Boy and the Fairies, 14–15.
Witch of Byard’s Leap, the, 140–141.
Wry-necked Fiddler, the, and the Devil, 225–227.
Zuba Lovell sells herself to the Devil, 112–113.
Leland, Charles G., 54; _The English Gipsies and their Language_, 203;
his discovery of Shelta (note), 208.
Libation on Gypsy graves, 151, 240.
Lincoln, Upper (described), 1–2.
Lithuanian Gypsies, 75.
Loan-words, 74.
Lying tales, 86–87, 257–261.
* * * * *
Mace, Jem, the pugilist, 195, 233.
M‘Cormick, Provost, his _Tinkler Gypsies_ (quoted), 10.
Macfie, R. A. Scott, lecture (quoted), 254–255; _System of Anglo-Romany
Spelling for English Readers and British Printers_, 291–292.
Magi, the, a Gypsy legend, 75.
Merrilies, Meg, 28.
Meyer, Kuno, on Shelta (note), 207.
Miller, Thomas, _Gideon Giles the Roper_, 161.
_Mokadi_ (unclean), 113–114.
Mousehold Heath, 28, 80–81, 197.
Moveable Dwellings Bill, the, 155.
_Mulo-mas_ (note), 61, 62.
Mumper’s Dingle, 31.
Mumpers and Gypsies contrasted, 77.
* * * * *
Name-changes, 192, 244–245.
Newark ale, 221, 223.
No Man’s Land, 178.
Nomenclature, Gypsy, 299–302.
* * * * *
Oakley (an artist), 163.
Omens, 245, 285–286.
Oppression of Gypsies, 20.
* * * * *
_Pall Mall Budget_, the, 43.
“Peelers,” 26.
Petulengro Jasper (Ambrose Smith), 28, 30, 157, 197, 229, 241.
Public Record Office, the, 247.
_Puvin Graiaw_, the illegal pasturing of horses, 138.
* * * * *
Recipe for youth, a, 278.
Robin Hood’s Bay, Gypsies at, 178, 180–183.
„ „ Hills, 149.
Romany Language, its pronunciation, 291–292.
„ Vocabulary, a, 292–298.
Rudiger, 73.
* * * * *
Sampson, Dr. John, on Shelta (note), 207–208.
Sanskrit, 73–74.
Scott, Sir Walter, 28; _Guy Mannering_, 28; Sheriff of Selkirkshire, 39,
234.
Scythe blades in Horncastle Church, 230–231.
Self-sacrifice of a sweep, 249.
Shelta (tinkers’ talk), its Celtic origin (note), 207–208; short
vocabulary of, 212.
Sims, G. R., _The Romany Rye_ (a drama), 103–104.
Smart, Dr. Bath, and Crofton, H. T., _The Dialect of the English
Gypsies_, 76, 239.
Smith, George, of Coalville (philanthropist), 51, 155–156.
Snail broth, 62.
Snakes, 88, 285.
Spanish Gypsies, 196.
Spirits summoned by the spoken name, 54–55.
Stables, Dr. Gordon, 149–150.
Stone, J. Harris, _Caravanning and Camping Out_, 241.
Stories—
Bishop Trollope’s Story of Dunston Pillar, 137–138.
Bobby Faa and the Shepherd’s Pie, 115–117.
Dunnock (steer), a Tale about, 12–13.
Eliza Gray’s Tale of a Ghost, 108–109.
“Finding” a Horse, 132–133.
Poaching Policeman, a, 63.
The Bough Licence, 232–233.
The Donkey that knew Something, 287–288.
The Gypsy’s Surprise, 37–38.
Tyso Boswell and the Buried Treasure, 190.
* * * * *
Tabu, childbirth, 53.
„ on food and drink of the dead, 39–40, 243.
„ on names of the dead, 244–245.
Tales. See Legends, Lying Tales, Stories, Transportation.
Temple, Sir Richard, on Gypsy Christian names, 54.
Theatre, Harrison’s, 103.
Thompson, T. W., on Gypsy burial, 241.
_Times_, the, 103–104.
Tinkers, 205–212, 249.
Tinkers’ talk. See Shelta.
Tinklers, 10, 207.
Transportation of Gypsies, 247–254.
,, tales, 247–254.
Trollope, Bishop E., 137.
Turning garments of dead inside out, 242–243.
* * * * *
Victoria, Queen, _More Leaves from the Journal of a Life in the
Highlands_ (quoted), 29.
* * * * *
Watching the corpse, 242.
„ the grave, 243–244.
Wayside burial, 240–242.
Welsh Gypsies, 262–269.
White, Gilbert, of Selborne, 55.
Wine buried, 114.
Wise man, a, 283.
,, woman, a, 223.
Wishing a wish, 129.
Witches, 188, 240, 282–283.
Wood, Abraham, 265–266.
Footnotes
{28} _The Life_, _Writings_, _and Correspondence of George Borrow_, by
Prof. Wm. I. Knapp. London, 1899.
{53} See list of masculine and feminine names, pp. 299–302.
{61} _Mulo-mas_, the flesh of an animal which has died without the aid
of a butcher. “Isn’t what the _diri Duvel_ (God) kills as good as
anything killed by a _masengro_?” (butcher).
{73} “Gypsies,” by B. Gilliat-Smith (_The Caian_, vol. xvi. No. 3).
{207} “Shelta is a secret language of great antiquity . . . in Irish
MSS. we have mentions and records of it under various names . . . though
now confined to tinkers, its knowledge was once possessed by Irish poets
and scholars, who, probably, were its original framers” (Professor Kuno
Meyer).
“The language of the tinkers is a dialect or jargon exclusively of Celtic
origin, though, like one of their own stolen asses, it is so docked and
disguised as to be scarcely recognizable. . . . A large number of Shelta
words are formed by transposing the principal letters of the Gaelic word.
This species of back-slang is, of course, purely phonetic, differing in
this respect from the more artificial letter-reversing back-slang of
costers and cabmen. . . . It is indeed strange that the existence of a
tongue so ancient and widespread as Shelta should have remained entirely
unsuspected until Mr. Leland, with whom the undivided honour of this
discovery rests, first made it public in the pages of _Macmillan’s
Magazine_” (Dr. John Sampson).
{246} _The Dark Ages and Other Poems_. By L.
{256} _Gypsy Folk-Tales_, by Francis Hindes Groome (London, 1899).
{291} Taken from _A System of Anglo-Romani Spelling for English Readers
and British Printers_, by R. A. Scott Macfie.