THE second great Gypsyry is on the Middlesex side of the river, and is
distant about three miles, as the crow flies, from that of Wandsworth.
Strange as it may seem, it is not far distant from the most fashionable
part of London; from the beautiful squares, noble streets, and thousand
palaces of Tyburnia, a region which, though only a small part of the
enormous metropolis, can show more beautiful edifices, wealth, elegance,
and luxury, than all foreign capitals put together. After passing
Tyburnia, and going more than halfway down Notting Hill, you turn to the
right, and proceed along a tolerably genteel street till it divides into
two, one of which looks more like a lane than a street, and which is on
the left hand, and bears the name of Pottery Lane. Go along this lane,
and you will presently find yourself amongst a number of low,
uncouth-looking sheds, open at the sides, and containing an immense
quantity of earthen chimney-pots, pantiles, fancy-bricks, and similar
articles. This place is called the Potteries, and gives the name of
Pottery Lane to the lane through which you have just passed. A dirty
little road goes through it, which you must follow, and presently turning
to your left, you will enter a little, filthy street, and going some way
down it, you will see, on your right hand, a little, open bit of ground,
chock-full of crazy, battered caravans of all colours—some yellow, some
green, some red. Dark men, wild-looking, witch-like women, and
yellow-faced children are at the doors of the caravans, or wending their
way through the narrow spaces left for transit between the vehicles. You
have now arrived at the second grand Gypsyry of London—you are amongst
the Romany Chals of the Potteries, called in Gypsy the _Koromengreskoe
Tan_, or the place of the fellows who make pots; in which place certain
Gypsies have settled, not with the view of making pots, an employment
which they utterly eschew, but simply because it is convenient to them,
and suits their fancy.
A goodly collection of Gypsies you will find in that little nook, crowded
with caravans. Most of them are Tatchey Romany, real Gypsies,
“long-established people, of the old order.” Amongst them are
Ratzie-mescroes, Hearnes, Herons, or duck-people; Chumo-mescroes or
Bosvils; a Kaulo Camlo (a Black Lovel) or two, and a Beshaley or Stanley.
It is no easy thing to find a Stanley nowadays, even in the Baulo Tem, or
Hampshire, which is the proper home of the Stanleys, for the Bugnior,
pimples or small-pox, has of late years made sad havoc amongst the
Stanleys; but yonder tall old gentlewoman, descending the steps of a
caravan, with a flaming red cloak and a large black beaver bonnet, and
holding a travelling basket in her hand, is a Tatchey Beshaley, a
“genuine” Stanley. The generality, however, of “them Gyptians” are
Ratzie-mescroes, Hearnes, or duck-people; and, speaking of the Hearnes,
it is but right to say that he who may be called the Gypsy Father of
London, old Thomas Ratzie-mescro, or Hearne, though not exactly residing
here, lives close by in a caravan, in a little bit of a yard over the
way, where he can breathe more freely, and be less annoyed by the brats
and the young fellows than he would be in yonder crowded place.
Though the spot which it has just been attempted to describe, may be
considered as the head-quarters of the London Gypsies, on the Middlesex
side of the Thames, the whole neighbourhood, for a mile to the north of
it, may to a certain extent be considered a Gypsy region—that is, a
district where Gypsies, or gentry whose habits very much resemble those
of Gypsies, may at any time be found. No metropolitan district, indeed,
could be well more suited for Gypsies to take up their abode in. It is a
neighbourhood of transition; of brickfields, open spaces, poor streets
inhabited by low artisans, isolated houses, sites of intended tenements,
or sites of tenements which have been pulled down; it is in fact a mere
chaos, where there is no order and no regularity; where there is nothing
durable, or intended to be durable; though there can be little doubt that
within a few years order and beauty itself will be found here, that the
misery, squalidness, and meanness will have disappeared, and the whole
district, up to the railroad arches which bound it on the west and north,
will be covered with palaces, like those of Tyburnia, or delightful
villas, like those which decorate what is called Saint John’s Wood. At
present, however, it is quite the kind of place to please the Gypsies and
wandering people, who find many places within its bounds where they can
squat and settle, or take up their quarters for a night or two without
much risk of being interfered with. Here their tents, cars, and caravans
may be seen amidst ruins, half-raised walls, and on patches of unenclosed
ground; here their children may, throughout the day, be seen playing
about, flinging up dust and dirt, some partly naked, and others entirely
so; and here, at night, the different families, men, women, and children,
may be seen seated around their fires and their kettles, taking their
evening meal, and every now and then indulging in shouts of merriment, as
much as to say,—
What care we, though we be so small?
The tent shall stand when the palace shall fall;
which is quite true. The Gypsy tent must make way for the palace, but
after a millennium or two, the Gypsy tent is pitched on the ruins of the
palace.
Of the open spaces above mentioned, the most considerable is one called
Latimer’s Green. It lies on the north-western side of the district, and
is not far from that place of old renown called the Shepherd’s Bush,
where in the good ancient times highwaymen used to lurk for the purpose
of pouncing upon the travellers of the Oxford Road. It may contain about
five or six acres, and, though nominally under the control of trustees,
is in reality little more than a “no man’s ground,” where anybody may
feed a horse, light a fire, and boil a kettle. It is a great resort of
vagrant people, less of Gypsies than those who call themselves
travellers, and are denominated by the Gypsies Chorodies, and who live
for the most part in miserable caravans, though there is generally a
Gypsy tent or two to be seen there, belonging to some Deighton or Shaw,
or perhaps Petulengro, from the Lil-engro Tan, as the Romany call
Cambridgeshire. Amidst these Chorody caravans and Gypsy tents may
frequently be seen the _ker-vardo_, the house on wheels, of one who,
whenever he takes up his quarters here, is considered the cock of the
walk, the king of the place. He is a little under forty years of age,
and somewhat under five feet ten inches in height. His face is
wonderfully like that of a mastiff of the largest size, particularly in
its jowls; his neck is short and very thick, and must be nearly as strong
as that of a bull; his chest is so broad that one does not like to say
how broad it is; and the voice which every now and then proceeds from it
has much the sound of that of the mighty dog just mentioned; his arms are
long and exceedingly muscular, and his fists huge and bony. He wears a
low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, a coarse blue coat with short skirts,
leggings, and high-lows. Such is the _kral o’ the tan_, the _rex loci_,
the cock of the green. But what is he besides? Is he Gypsy, _Chorody_,
or _Hindity mush_? I say, you had better not call him by any one of
those names, for if you did he would perhaps hit you, and then, oh dear!
That is Mr. G. A., a travelling horse-dealer, who lives in a caravan, and
finds it frequently convenient to take up his abode for weeks together on
Latimer’s Green. He is a thorough-bred Englishman, though he is married
to a daughter of one of the old, sacred Gypsy families, a certain Lurina
Ratziemescri, duck or heron female, who is a very handsome woman, and who
has two brothers, dark, stealthy-looking young fellows, who serve with
almost slavish obedience their sister’s lord and husband, listening
uncomplainingly to his abuse of Gypsies, whom, though he lives amongst
them and is married to one by whom he has several children, he holds in
supreme contempt, never speaking of them but as a lying, thievish,
cowardly set, any three of whom he could beat with one hand; as perhaps
he could, for he is a desperate pugilist, and has three times fought in
“the ring” with good men, whom, though not a scientific fighter, he beat
with ease by dint of terrible blows, causing them to roar out. He is
very well to do in the world; his caravan, a rather stately affair, is
splendidly furnished within; and it is a pleasure to see his wife, at
Hampton Court races, dressed in Gypsy fashion, decked with real gems and
jewels and rich gold chains, and waited upon by her dark brothers dressed
like dandy pages. How is all this expense supported? Why, by
horsedealing. Mr. G. is, then, up to all kinds of horsedealers’ tricks,
no doubt. Aye, aye, he is up to them, but he doesn’t practise them. He
says it’s of no use, and that honesty is the best policy, and he’ll stick
to it; and so he does, and finds the profit of it. His traffic in
horses, though confined entirely to small people, such as
market-gardeners, travellers, show-folks, and the like, is very great;
every small person who wishes to buy a horse, or to sell a horse, or to
swop a horse, goes to Mr. G., and has never reason to complain, for all
acknowledge that he has done the fair thing by them; though all agree
that there is no overreaching him, which indeed very few people try to
do, deterred by the dread of his manual prowess, of which a Gypsy once
gave to the writer the following _striking_ illustration:—“He will jal
oprey to a gry that’s wafodu, prawla, and coure leste tuley with the
courepen of his wast.” (He will go up to a vicious horse, brother, and
knock him down with a blow of his fist.)
The arches of the railroad which bounds this region on the west and north
serve as a resort for Gypsies, who erect within them their tents, which
are thus sheltered in summer from the scorching rays of the sun, and in
winter from the drenching rain. In what close proximity we sometimes
find emblems of what is most rude and simple, and what is most artificial
and ingenious! For example, below the arch is the Gypsy donkey-cart,
whilst above it is thundering the chariot of fire which can run across a
county in half an hour. The principal frequenters of these arches are
Bosvils and Lees; the former are chiefly tinkers, and the latter
_esconyemengres_, or skewer-makers. The reason for this difference is
that the Bosvils are chiefly immigrants from the country, where there is
not much demand for skewers, whereas the Lees are natives of the
metropolis or the neighbourhood, where the demand for skewers has from
time immemorial been enormously great. It was in the shelter of one of
these arches that the celebrated Ryley Bosvil, the Gypsy king of
Yorkshire, breathed his last a few years ago.