RYLEY Bosvil was a native of Yorkshire, a country where, as the Gypsies
say, “there’s a deadly sight of Bosvils.” He was above the middle
height, exceedingly strong and active, and one of the best riders in
Yorkshire, which is saying a great deal. He was a thorough Gypsy, versed
in all the arts of the old race, had two wives, never went to church, and
considered that when a man died he was cast into the earth, and there was
an end of him. He frequently used to say that if any of his people
became Gorgios he would kill them. He had a sister of the name of Clara,
a nice, delicate, interesting girl, about fourteen years younger than
himself, who travelled about with an aunt; this girl was noticed by a
respectable Christian family, who, taking a great interest in her,
persuaded her to come and live with them. She was instructed by them in
the rudiments of the Christian religion, appeared delighted with her new
friends, and promised never to leave them. After the lapse of about six
weeks there was a knock at the door; a dark man stood before it who said
he wanted Clara. Clara went out trembling, had some discourse with the
man in an unknown tongue, and shortly returned in tears, and said that
she must go. “What for?” said her friends. “Did you not promise to stay
with us?” “I did so,” said the girl, weeping more bitterly; “but that
man is my brother, who says I must go with him, and what he says must
be.” So with her brother she departed, and her Christian friends never
saw her again. What became of her? Was she made away with? Many
thought she was, but she was not. Ryley put her into a light cart, drawn
by “a flying pony,” and hurried her across England, even to distant
Norfolk, where he left her, after threatening her, with three Gypsy women
who were devoted to him. With these women the writer found her one night
encamped in a dark wood, and had much discourse with her, both on
Christian and Egyptian matters. She was very melancholy, bitterly
regretted having been compelled to quit her Christian friends, and said
that she wished she had never been a Gypsy. The writer, after exhorting
her to keep a firm grip of her Christianity, departed, and did not see
her again for nearly a quarter of a century, when he met her on Epsom
Downs, on the Derby day when the terrible horse Gladiateur beat all the
English steeds. She was then very much changed, very much changed
indeed, appearing as a full-blown Egyptian matron, with two very handsome
daughters flaringly dressed in genuine Gypsy fashion, to whom she was
giving motherly counsels as to the best means to _hok_ and _dukker_ the
gentlefolks. All her Christianity she appeared to have flung to the
dogs, for when the writer spoke to her on that very important subject,
she made no answer save by an indescribable Gypsy look. On other matters
she was communicative enough, telling the writer, amongst other things,
that since he saw her she had been twice married, and both times very
well, for that her first husband, by whom she had the two daughters whom
the writer “kept staring at,” was a man every inch of him, and her
second, who was then on the Downs grinding knives with a machine he had,
though he had not much manhood, being nearly eighty years old, had
something much better, namely a mint of money, which she hoped shortly to
have in her own possession.
Ryley, like most of the Bosvils, was a tinker by profession; but, though
a tinker, he was amazingly proud and haughty of heart. His grand
ambition was to be a great man among his people, a Gypsy King. To this
end he furnished himself with clothes made after the costliest Gypsy
fashion: the two hinder buttons of the coat, which was of thick blue
cloth, were broad gold pieces of Spain, generally called ounces; the
fore-buttons were English “spaded guineas”; the buttons of the waistcoat
were half-guineas, and those of the collar and the wrists of his shirt
were seven-shilling gold pieces. In this coat he would frequently make
his appearance on a magnificent horse, whose hoofs, like those of the
steed of a Turkish sultan, were cased in shoes of silver. How did he
support such expense? it may be asked. Partly by driving a trade in
_wafodu luvvu_, counterfeit coin, with which he was supplied by certain
honest tradespeople of Brummagem; partly and principally by large sums of
money which he received from his two wives, and which they obtained by
the practice of certain arts peculiar to Gypsy females. One of his wives
was a truly remarkable woman: she was of the Petulengro or Smith tribe;
her Christian name, if Christian name it can be called, was Xuri or
Shuri, and from her exceeding smartness and cleverness she was generally
called by the Gypsies Yocky Shuri,—that is, smart or clever Shuri,
_yocky_ being a Gypsy word, signifying ‘clever.’ She could _dukker_—that
is, tell fortunes—to perfection, by which alone during the racing season
she could make a hundred pounds a month. She was good at the _big hok_,
that is, at inducing people to put money into her hands, in the hope of
its being multiplied; and, oh dear! how she could _caur_—that is, filch
gold rings and trinkets from jewellers’ cases; the kind of thing which
the Spanish Gypsy women call _ustilar pastesas_, filching with the hands.
Frequently she would disappear, and travel about England, and Scotland
too, _dukkering_, _hokking_, and _cauring_, and after the lapse of a
month return and deliver to her husband, like a true and faithful wife,
the proceeds of her industry. So no wonder that the Flying Tinker, as he
was called, was enabled to cut a grand appearance. He was very fond of
hunting, and would frequently join the field in regular hunting costume,
save and except that, instead of the leather hunting-cap, he wore one of
fur with a gold band around it, to denote that though he mixed with
Gorgios he was still a Romany-chal. Thus equipped and mounted on a
capital hunter, whenever he encountered a Gypsy encampment he would
invariably dash through it, doing all the harm he could, in order, as he
said, to let the _juggals_ know that he was their king and had a right to
do what he pleased with his own. Things went on swimmingly for a great
many years, but, as prosperity does not continue for ever, his dark hour
came at last. His wives got into trouble in one or two expeditions, and
his dealings in _wafodu luvvu_ began to be noised about. Moreover, by
his grand airs and violent proceedings he had incurred the hatred of both
Gorgios and Gypsies, particularly of the latter, some of whom he had
ridden over and lamed for life. One day he addressed his two wives:—
“The Gorgios seek to hang me,
The Gypsies seek to kill me:
This country we must leave.”
_Shuri_.
“I’ll jaw with you to heaven,
I’ll jaw with you to Yaudors—
But not if Lura goes.”
_Lura_.
“I’ll jaw with you to heaven,
And to the wicked country,
Though Shuri goeth too.”
_Ryley_.
“Since I must choose betwixt ye,
My choice is Yocky Shuri,
Though Lura loves me best.”
_Lura_.
“My blackest curse on Shuri!
Oh, Ryley, I’ll not curse you,
But you will never thrive.”
She then took her departure with her cart and donkey, and Ryley remained
with Shuri.
_Ryley_.
“I’ve chosen now betwixt ye;
Your wish you now have gotten,
But for it you shall smart.”
He then struck her with his fist on the cheek, and broke her jawbone.
Shuri uttered no cry or complaint, only mumbled:
“Although with broken jawbone,
I’ll follow thee, my Ryley,
Since Lura doesn’t jal.”
Thereupon Ryley and Yocky Shuri left Yorkshire, and wended their way to
London, where they took up their abode in the Gypsyry near the Shepherd’s
Bush. Shuri went about _dukkering_ and _hokking_, but not with the
spirit of former times, for she was not quite so young as she had been,
and her jaw, which was never properly cured, pained her much. Ryley went
about tinkering, but he was unacquainted with London and its
neighbourhood, and did not get much to do. An old Gypsy-man, who was
driving about a little cart filled with skewers, saw him standing in a
state of perplexity at a place where four roads met.
_Old Gypsy_.
“Methinks I see a brother!
Who’s your father? Who’s your mother?
And what may be your name?”
_Ryley_.
“A Bosvil was my father;
A Bosvil was my mother;
And Ryley is my name.”
_Old Gypsy_.
“I’m glad to see you, brother!
I am a Kaulo Camlo. {247a}
What service can I do?”
_Ryley_.
“I’m jawing petulengring, {247b}
But do not know the country;
Perhaps you’ll show me round.”
_Old Gypsy_.
“I’ll sikker tute, prala!
I’m bikkening esconyor; {247c}
Av, av along with me!”
The old Gypsy showed Ryley about the country for a week or two, and Ryley
formed a kind of connection, and did a little business. He, however,
displayed little or no energy, was gloomy and dissatisfied, and
frequently said that his heart was broken since he had left Yorkshire.
Shuri did her best to cheer him, but without effect. Once, when she bade
him get up and exert himself, he said that if he did it would be of
little use, and asked her whether she did not remember the parting
prophecy of his other wife that he would never thrive. At the end of
about two years he ceased going his rounds, and did nothing but smoke
under the arches of the railroad, and loiter about beershops. At length
he became very weak, and took to his bed; doctors were called in by his
faithful Shuri, but there is no remedy for a bruised spirit. A Methodist
came and asked him, “What was his hope?” “My hope,” said he, “is that
when I am dead I shall be put into the ground, and my wife and children
will weep over me.” And such, it may be observed, is the last hope of
every genuine Gypsy. His hope was gratified. Shuri and his children, of
whom he had three—two stout young fellows and a girl—gave him a
magnificent funeral, and screamed, shouted, and wept over his grave.
They then returned to the “Arches,” not to divide his property amongst
them, and to quarrel about the division, according to Christian practice,
but to destroy it. They killed his swift pony—still swift, though
twenty-seven years of age—and buried it deep in the ground, without
depriving it of its skin. They then broke the caravan and cart to
pieces, making of the fragments a fire, on which they threw his bedding,
carpets, curtains, blankets, and everything which would burn. Finally,
they dashed his mirrors, china, and crockery to pieces, hacked his metal
pots, dishes and what-not to bits, and flung the whole on the blazing
pile. Such was the life, such the death, and such were the funeral
obsequies of Ryley Bosvil, a Gypsy who will be long remembered amongst
the English Romany for his buttons, his two wives, his grand airs, and
last, and not least, for having been the composer of various stanzas in
the Gypsy tongue, which have plenty of force, if nothing else, to
recommend them. One of these, addressed to Yocky Shuri, runs as follows:
Tuley the Can I kokkeney cam
Like my rinkeny Yocky Shuri:
Oprey the chongor in ratti I’d cour
For my rinkeny Yocky Shuri!
Which may be thus rendered:
Beneath the bright sun, there is none, there is none,
I love like my Yocky Shuri:
With the greatest delight, in blood I would fight
To the knees for my Yocky Shuri!