THERE are two Yetholms—Town Yetholm and Kirk Yetholm. They stand at the
distance of about a quarter of a mile from each other, and between them
is a valley, down which runs a small stream, called the Beaumont River,
crossed by a little stone bridge. Of the town there is not much to be
said. It is a long, straggling place, on the road between Morbuttle and
Kelso, from which latter place it is distant about seven miles. It is
comparatively modern, and sprang up when the Kirk town began to fall into
decay. Kirk Yetholm derives the first part of its name from the church,
which serves for a place of worship not only for the inhabitants of the
place, but for those of the town also. The present church is modern,
having been built on the site of the old kirk, which was pulled down in
the early part of the present century, and which had been witness of many
a strange event connected with the wars between England and Scotland. It
stands at the entrance of the place, on the left hand as you turn to the
village after ascending the steep road which leads from the bridge. The
place occupies the lower portion of a hill, a spur of the Cheviot range,
behind which is another hill, much higher, rising to an altitude of at
least 900 feet. At one time it was surrounded by a stone wall, and at
the farther end is a gateway overlooking a road leading to the English
border, from which Kirk Yetholm is distant only a mile and a quarter; the
boundary of the two kingdoms being here a small brook called Shorton
Burn, on the English side of which is a village of harmless, simple
Northumbrians, differing strangely in appearance, manner, and language
from the people who live within a stone’s throw of them on the other
side.
Kirk Yetholm is a small place, but with a remarkable look. It consists
of a street, terminating in what is called a green, with houses on three
sides, but open on the fourth, or right side to the mountain, towards
which quarter it is grassy and steep. Most of the houses are ancient,
and are built of rude stone. By far the most remarkable-looking house is
a large and dilapidated building, which has much the appearance of a
ruinous Spanish _posada_ or _venta_. There is not much life in the
place, and you may stand ten minutes where the street opens upon the
square without seeing any other human beings than two or three women
seated at the house doors, or a ragged, bare-headed boy or two lying on
the grass on the upper side of the Green. It came to pass that late one
Saturday afternoon, at the commencement of August, in the year 1866, I
was standing where the street opens on this Green, or imperfect square.
My eyes were fixed on the dilapidated house, the appearance of which
awakened in my mind all kinds of odd ideas. “A strange-looking place,”
said I to myself at last, “and I shouldn’t wonder if strange things have
been done in it.”
“Come to see the Gypsy toon, sir?” said a voice not far from me.
I turned, and saw standing within two yards of me a woman about forty
years of age, of decent appearance, though without either cap or bonnet.
“A Gypsy town, is it?” said I; “why, I thought it had been Kirk Yetholm.”
_Woman_.—“Weel, sir, if it is Kirk Yetholm, must it not be a Gypsy toon?
Has not Kirk Yetholm ever been a Gypsy toon?”
_Myself_.—“My good woman, ‘ever’ is a long term, and Kirk Yetholm must
have been Kirk Yetholm long before there were Gypsies in Scotland, or
England either.”
_Woman_.—“Weel, sir, your honour may be right, and I dare say is; for
your honour seems to be a learned gentleman. Certain, however, it is
that Kirk Yetholm has been a Gypsy toon beyond the memory of man.”
_Myself_.—“You do not seem to be a Gypsy.”
_Woman_.—“Seem to be a Gypsy! Na, na, sir! I am the bairn of decent
parents, and belong not to Kirk Yetholm, but to Haddington.”
_Myself_.—“And what brought you to Kirk Yetholm?”
_Woman_.—“Oh, my ain little bit of business brought me to Kirk Yetholm,
sir.”
_Myself_.—“Which is no business of mine. That’s a queer-looking house
there.”
_Woman_.—“The house that your honour was looking at so attentively when I
first spoke to ye? A queer-looking house it is, and a queer kind of man
once lived in it. Does your honour know who once lived in that house?”
_Myself_.—“No. How should I? I am here for the first time, and after
taking a bite and sup at the inn at the town over yonder I strolled
hither.”
_Woman_.—“Does your honour come from far?”
_Myself_.—“A good way. I came from Strandraar, the farthest part of
Galloway, where I landed from a ship which brought me from Ireland.”
_Woman_.—“And what may have brought your honour into these parts?”
_Myself_.—“Oh, my ain wee bit of business brought me into these parts.”
“Which wee bit of business is nae business of mine,” said the woman,
smiling. “Weel, your honour is quite right to keep your ain counsel;
for, as your honour weel kens, if a person canna keep his ain counsel it
is nae likely that any other body will keep it for him. But to gae back
to the queer house, and the queer man that once ’habited it. That man,
your honour, was old Will Faa.”
_Myself_.—“Old Will Faa!”
_Woman_.—“Yes. Old Will Faa, the Gypsy king, smuggler, and innkeeper; he
lived in that inn.”
_Myself_.—“Oh, then that house has been an inn?”
_Woman_.—“It still is an inn, and has always been an inn; and though it
has such an eerie look it is sometimes lively enough, more especially
after the Gypsies have returned from their summer excursions in the
country. It’s a roaring place then. They spend most of their
sleight-o’-hand gains in that house.”
_Myself_.—“Is the house still kept by a Faa?”
_Woman_.—“No, sir; there are no Faas to keep it. The name is clean dead
in the land, though there is still some of the blood remaining.”
_Myself_.—“I really should like to see some of the blood.”
_Woman_.—“Weel, sir, you can do that without much difficulty; there are
not many Gypsies just now in Kirk Yetholm; but the one who they say has
more of his blood than any one else happens to be here. I mean his
grandbairn—his daughter’s daughter; she whom they ca’ the ‘Gypsy Queen o’
Yetholm,’ and whom they lead about the toon once a year, mounted on a
cuddy, with a tin crown on her head, with much shouting, and with mony a
barbaric ceremony.”
_Myself_.—“I really should like to see her.”
_Woman_.—“Weel, sir, there’s a woman behind you, seated at the doorway,
who can get your honour not only the sight of her, but the speech of her,
for she is one of the race, and a relation of hers; and, to tell ye the
truth, she has had her eye upon your honour for some time past, expecting
to be asked about the qeeen, for scarcely anybody comes to Yetholm but
goes to see the queen; and some gae so far as to say that they merely
crowned her queen in hopes of bringing grist to the Gypsy mill.”
I thanked the woman, and was about to turn away, in order to address
myself to the other woman seated on the step, when my obliging friend
said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but before ye go I wish to caution you,
when you get to the speech of the queen, not to put any speerings to her
about a certain tongue or dialect which they say the Gypsies have. All
the Gypsies become glum and dour as soon as they are spoken to about
their language, and particularly the queen. The queen might say
something uncivil to your honour, should you ask her questions about her
language.”
_Myself_.—“Oh, then the Gypsies of Yetholm have a language of their own?”
_Woman_.—“I canna say, sir; I dinna ken whether they have or not; I have
been at Yetholm several years, about my ain wee bit o’ business, and
never heard them utter a word that was not either English or broad
Scotch. Some people say that they have a language of their ain, and
others say that they have nane, and moreover that, though they call
themselves Gypsies, they are far less Gypsy than Irish, a great deal of
Irish being mixed in their veins with a very little of the much more
respectable Gypsy blood. It may be sae, or it may be not; perhaps your
honour will find out. That’s the woman, sir, just behind ye at the door.
Gud e’en. I maun noo gang and boil my cup o’tay.”
To the woman at the door I now betook myself. She was seated on the
threshold, and employed in knitting. She was dressed in white, and had a
cap on her head, from which depended a couple of ribbons, one on each
side. As I drew near she looked up. She had a full, round, smooth face,
and her complexion was brown, or rather olive, a hue which contrasted
with that of her eyes, which were blue.
“There is something Gypsy in that face,” said I to myself, as I looked at
her; “but I don’t like those eyes.”
“A fine evening,” said I to her at last.
“Yes, sir,” said the woman, with very little of the Scotch accent; “it is
a fine evening. Come to see the town?”
“Yes,” said I; “I am come to see the town. A nice little town it seems.”
“And I suppose come to see the Gypsies, too,” said the woman, with a half
smile.
“Well,” said I, “to be frank with you, I came to see the Gypsies. You
are not one, I suppose?”
“Indeed I am,” said the woman, rather sharply, “and who shall say that I
am not, seeing that I am a relation of old Will Faa, the man whom the
woman from Haddington was speaking to you about; for I heard her mention
his name?”
“Then,” said I, “you must be related to her whom they call the Gypsy
queen.”
“I am, indeed, sir. Would you wish to see her?”
“By all means,” said I. “I should wish very much to see the Gypsy
queen.”
“Then I will show you to her, sir; many gentlefolks from England come to
see the Gypsy queen of Yetholm. Follow me, sir!”
She got up, and, without laying down her knitting-work, went round the
corner, and began to ascend the hill. She was strongly made, and was
rather above the middle height. She conducted me to a small house, some
little way up the hill. As we were going, I said to her, “As you are a
Gypsy, I suppose you have no objection to a _coro_ of _koshto levinor_?”
{259}
She stopped her knitting for a moment, and appeared to consider, and then
resuming it, she said hesitatingly, “No, sir, no! None at all! That is,
not exactly!”
“She is no true Gypsy, after all,” said I to myself.
We went through a little garden to the door of the house, which stood
ajar. She pushed it open, and looked in; then, turning round, she said:
“She is not here, sir; but she is close at hand. Wait here till I go and
fetch her.” She went to a house a little farther up the hill, and I
presently saw her returning with another female, of slighter build, lower
in stature, and apparently much older. She came towards me with much
smiling, smirking, and nodding, which I returned with as much smiling and
nodding as if I had known her for threescore years. She motioned me with
her hand to enter the house. I did so. The other woman returned down
the hill, and the queen of the Gypsies entering, and shutting the door,
confronted me on the floor, and said, in a rather musical, but slightly
faltering voice:
“Now, sir, in what can I oblige you?”
Thereupon, letting the umbrella fall, which I invariably carry about with
me in my journeyings, I flung my arms three times up into the air, and in
an exceedingly disagreeable voice, owing to a cold which I had had for
some time, and which I had caught amongst the lakes of Loughmaben, whilst
hunting after Gypsies whom I could not find, I exclaimed:
“Sossi your nav? Pukker mande tute’s nav! Shan tu a mumpli-mushi, or a
tatchi Romany?”
Which, interpreted into Gorgio, runs thus:
“What is your name? Tell me your name! Are you a mumping woman, or a
true Gypsy?”
The woman appeared frightened, and for some time said nothing, but only
stared at me. At length, recovering herself, she exclaimed, in an angry
tone, “Why do you talk to me in that manner, and in that gibberish? I
don’t understand a word of it.”
“Gibberish!” said I; “it is no gibberish; it is Zingarrijib, Romany
rokrapen, real Gypsy of the old order.”
“Whatever it is,” said the woman, “it’s of no use speaking it to me. If
you want to speak to me, you must speak English or Scotch.”
“Why, they told me as how you were a Gypsy,” said I.
“And they told you the truth,” said the woman; “I am a Gypsy, and a real
one; I am not ashamed of my blood.”
“If yer were a Gyptian,” said I, “yer would be able to speak Gyptian; but
yer can’t, not a word.”
“At any rate,” said the woman, “I can speak English, which is more than
you can. Why, your way of speaking is that of the lowest vagrants of the
roads.”
“Oh, I have two or three ways of speaking English,” said I; “and when I
speaks to low wagram folks, I speaks in a low wagram manner.”
“Not very civil,” said the woman.
“A pretty Gypsy!” said I; “why, I’ll be bound you don’t know what a
_churi_ is!”
The woman gave me a sharp look; but made no reply.
“A pretty queen of the Gypsies!” said I; “why, she doesn’t know the
meaning of _churi_!”
“Doesn’t she?” said the woman, evidently nettled; “doesn’t she?”
“Why, do you mean to say that you know the meaning of _churi_?”
“Why, of course I do,” said the woman.
“Hardly, my good lady,” said I; “hardly; a _churi_ to you is merely a
_churi_.”
“A _churi_ is a knife,” said the woman, in a tone of defiance; “a _churi_
is a knife.”
“Oh, it is,” said I; “and yet you tried to persuade me that you had no
peculiar language of your own, and only knew English and Scotch: _churi_
is a word of the language in which I spoke to you at first, Zingarrijib,
or Gypsy language; and since you know that word, I make no doubt that you
know others, and in fact can speak Gypsy. Come; let us have a little
confidential discourse together.”
The woman stood for some time, as if in reflection, and at length said:
“Sir, before having any particular discourse with you, I wish to put a
few questions to you, in order to gather from your answers whether it is
safe to talk to you on Gypsy matters. You pretend to understand the
Gypsy language: if I find you do not, I will hold no further discourse
with you; and the sooner you take yourself off the better. If I find you
do, I will talk with you as long as you like. What do you call
that?”—and she pointed to the fire.
“Speaking Gyptianly?” said I.
The woman nodded.
“Whoy, I calls that _yog_.”
“Hm,” said the woman: “and the dog out there?”
“Gyptian-loike?” said I.
“Yes.”
“Whoy, I calls that a _juggal_.”
“And the hat on your head?”
“Well, I have two words for that: a _staury_ and a _stadge_.”
“_Stadge_,” said the woman, “we call it here. Now what’s a gun?”
“There is no Gypsy in England,” said I, “can tell you the word for a gun;
at least the proper word, which is lost. They have a
word—_yag-engro_—but that is a made-up word signifying a fire-thing.”
“Then you don’t know the word for a gun,” said the Gypsy.
“Oh dear me! Yes,” said I; “the genuine Gypsy word for a gun is
_puschca_. But I did not pick up that word in England, but in Hungary,
where the Gypsies retain their language better than in England: _puschca_
is the proper word for a gun, and not _yag-engro_, which may mean a
fire-shovel, tongs, poker, or anything connected with fire, quite as well
as a gun.”
“_Puschca_ is the word, sure enough,” said the Gypsy. “I thought I
should have caught you there; and now I have but one more question to ask
you, and when I have done so, you may as well go; for I am quite sure you
cannot answer it. What is _Nokkum_?”
“_Nokkum_,” said I; “_nokkum_?”
“Aye,” said the Gypsy; “what is _Nokkum_? Our people here, besides their
common name of Romany, have a private name for themselves, which is
_Nokkum_ or _Nokkums_. Why do the children of the Caungri Foros call
themselves _Nokkums_?”
“_Nokkum_,” said I; “_nokkum_? The root of _nokkum_ must be _nok_, which
signifieth a nose.”
“A-h!” said the Gypsy, slowly drawing out the monosyllable, as if in
astonishment.
“Yes,” said I; “the root of _nokkum_ is assuredly _nok_, and I have no
doubt that your people call themselves _Nokkum_ because they are in the
habit of _nosing_ the Gorgios. _Nokkums_ means _Nosems_.”
“Sit down, sir,” said the Gypsy, handing me a chair. “I am now ready to
talk to you as much as you please about _Nokkum_ words and matters, for I
see there is no danger. But I tell you frankly that had I not found that
you knew as much as, or a great deal more than, myself, not a hundred
pounds, nor indeed all the money in Berwick, should have induced me to
hold discourse with you about the words and matters of the Brown children
of Kirk Yetholm.”
I sat down in the chair which she handed me; she sat down in another, and
we were presently in deep discourse about matters _Nokkum_. We first
began to talk about words, and I soon found that her knowledge of Romany
was anything but extensive; far less so, indeed, than that of the
commonest English Gypsy woman, for whenever I addressed her in regular
Gypsy sentences, and not in _poggado jib_, or broken language, she would
giggle and say I was too deep for her. I should say that the sum total
of her vocabulary barely amounted to three hundred words. Even of these
there were several which were not pure Gypsy words—that is, belonging to
the speech which the ancient Zingary brought with them to Britain. Some
of her bastard Gypsy words belonged to the cant or allegorical jargon of
thieves, who, in order to disguise their real meaning, call one thing by
the name of another. For example, she called a shilling a ‘hog,’ a word
belonging to the old English cant dialect, instead of calling it by the
genuine Gypsy term _tringurushi_, the literal meaning of which is three
groats. Then she called a donkey ‘asal,’ and a stone ‘cloch,’ which
words are neither cant nor Gypsy, but Irish or Gaelic. I incurred her
vehement indignation by saying they were Gaelic. She contradicted me
flatly, and said that whatever else I might know I was quite wrong there;
for that neither she nor any one of her people would condescend to speak
anything so low as Gaelic, or indeed, if they possibly could avoid it, to
have anything to do with the poverty-stricken creatures who used it. It
is a singular fact that, though principally owing to the magic writings
of Walter Scott, the Highland Gael and Gaelic have obtained the highest
reputation in every other part of the world, they are held in the
Lowlands in very considerable contempt. There the Highlander, elsewhere
“the bold Gael with sword and buckler,” is the type of poverty and
wretchedness; and his language, elsewhere “the fine old Gaelic, the
speech of Adam and Eve in Paradise,” is the designation of every
unintelligible jargon. But not to digress. On my expressing to the
Gypsy queen my regret that she was unable to hold with me a regular
conversation in Romany, she said that no one regretted it more than
herself, but that there was no help for it; and that slight as I might
consider her knowledge of Romany to be, it was far greater than that of
any other Gypsy on the Border, or indeed in the whole of Scotland; and
that as for the _Nokkums_, there was not one on the Green who was
acquainted with half a dozen words of Romany, though the few words they
had they prized high enough, and would rather part with their heart’s
blood than communicate them to a stranger.
“Unless,” said I, “they found the stranger knew more than themselves.”
“That would make no difference with them,” said the queen, “though it has
made a great deal of difference with me. They would merely turn up their
noses, and say they had no Gaelic. You would not find them so
communicative as me; the _Nokkums_, in general, are a dour set, sir.”
Before quitting the subject of language it is but right to say that
though she did not know much Gypsy, and used cant and Gaelic terms, she
possessed several words unknown to the English Romany, but which are of
the true Gypsy order. Amongst them was the word _tirrehi_, or
_tirrehai_, signifying shoes or boots, which I had heard in Spain and in
the east of Europe. Another was _calches_, a Wallachian word signifying
trousers. Moreover, she gave the right pronunciation to the word which
denotes a man not of Gypsy blood, saying _gajo_, and not _gorgio_, as the
English Gypsies do. After all, her knowledge of Gentle Romany was not
altogether to be sneezed at.
Ceasing to talk to her about words, I began to question her about the
Faas. She said that a great number of the Faas had come in the old time
to Yetholm, and settled down there, and that her own forefathers had
always been the principal people among them. I asked her if she
remembered her grandfather, old Will Faa, and received for answer that
she remembered him very well, and that I put her very much in mind of
him, being a tall, lusty man, like himself, and having a skellying look
with the left eye, just like him. I asked her if she had not seen queer
folks at Yetholm in her grandfather’s time. “_Dosta dosta_,” said she;
“plenty, plenty of queer folk I saw at Yetholm in my grandfather’s time,
and plenty I have seen since, and not the least queer is he who is now
asking me questions.” “Did you ever see Piper Allen?” said I; “he was a
great friend of your grandfather’s.” “I never saw him,” she replied;
“but I have often heard of him. He married one of our people.” “He did
so,” said I, “and the marriage-feast was held on the Green just behind
us. He got a good, clever wife, and she got a bad, rascally husband.
One night, after taking an affectionate farewell of her, he left her on
an expedition, with plenty of money in his pocket, which he had obtained
from her, and which she had procured by her dexterity. After going about
four miles he bethought himself that she had still some money, and
returning crept up to the room in which she lay asleep, and stole her
pocket, in which were eight guineas; then slunk away, and never returned,
leaving her in poverty, from which she never recovered.” I then
mentioned Madge Gordon, at one time the Gypsy queen of the Border, who
used, magnificently dressed, to ride about on a pony shod with silver,
inquiring if she had ever seen her. She said she had frequently seen
Madge Faa, for that was her name, and not Gordon; but that when she knew
her, all her magnificence, beauty, and royalty had left her; for she was
then a poor, poverty-stricken old woman, just able with a pipkin in her
hand to totter to the well on the Green for water. Then with much
nodding, winking, and skellying, I began to talk about _Drabbing bawlor_,
_dooking gryes_, _cauring_, and _hokking_, and asked if them ’ere things
were ever done by the _Nokkums_: and received for answer that she
believed such things were occasionally done, not by the _Nokkums_, but by
other Gypsies, with whom her people had no connection.
Observing her eyeing me rather suspiciously, I changed the subject;
asking her if she had travelled much about. She told me she had, and
that she had visited most parts of Scotland, and seen a good bit of the
northern part of England.
“Did you travel alone?” said I.
“No,” said she; “when I travelled in Scotland I was with some of my own
people, and in England with the Lees and Bosvils.”
“Old acquaintances of mine,” said I; “why only the other day I was with
them at Fairlop Fair, in the Wesh.”
“I frequently heard them talk of Epping Forest,” said the Gypsy; “a nice
place, is it not?”
“The loveliest forest in the world!” said I. “Not equal to what it was,
but still the loveliest forest in the world, and the pleasantest,
especially in summer; for then it is thronged with grand company, and the
nightingales, and cuckoos, and Romany _chals_ and _chies_. As for
Romany-chals there is not such a place for them in the whole world as the
Forest. Them that wants to see Romany-chals should go to the Forest,
especially to the Bald-faced Hind on the hill above Fairlop, on the day
of Fairlop Fair. It is their trysting-place, as you would say, and there
they musters from all parts of England, and there they whoops, dances,
and plays; keeping some order nevertheless, because the _Rye_ of all the
Romans is in the house, seated behind the door:—
Romany Chalor
Anglo the wuddur
Mistos are boshing;
Mande beshello
Innar the wuddur
Shooning the boshipen.”
Roman lads
Before the door
Bravely fiddle;
Here I sit
Within the door
And hear them fiddle.
“I wish I knew as much Romany as you, sir,” said the Gypsy. “Why, I
never heard so much Romany before in all my life.”
She was rather a small woman, apparently between sixty and seventy, with
intelligent and rather delicate features. Her complexion was darker than
that of the other female; but she had the same kind of blue eyes. The
room in which we were seated was rather long, and tolerably high. In the
wall, on the side which fronted the windows which looked out upon the
Green, were oblong holes for beds, like those seen in the sides of a
cabin. There was nothing of squalor or poverty about the place.
Wishing to know her age, I inquired of her what it was. She looked
angry, and said she did not know.
“Are you forty-nine?” said I, with a terrible voice, and a yet more
terrible look.
“More,” said she, with a smile; “I am sixty-eight.”
There was something of the gentlewoman in her: on my offering her money
she refused to take it, saying that she did not want it, and it was with
the utmost difficulty that I persuaded her to accept a trifle, with
which, she said, she would buy herself some tea.
But withal there was _hukni_ in her, and by that she proved her Gypsy
blood. I asked her if she would be at home on the following day, for in
that case I would call and have some more talk with her, and received for
answer that she would be at home and delighted to see me. On going,
however, on the following day, which was Sunday, I found the garden-gate
locked and the window-shutters up, plainly denoting that there was nobody
at home.
Seeing some men lying on the hill, a little way above, who appeared to be
observing me, I went up to them for the purpose of making inquiries.
They were all young men, and decently though coarsely dressed. None wore
the Scottish cap or bonnet, but all the hat of England. Their
countenances were rather dark, but had nothing of the vivacious
expression observable in the Gypsy face, but much of the dogged, sullen
look which makes the countenances of the generality of the Irish who
inhabit London and some other of the large English towns so disagreeable.
They were lying on their bellies, occasionally kicking their heels into
the air. I greeted them civilly, but received no salutation in return.
“Is So-and-so at home?” said I.
“No,” said one, who, though seemingly the eldest of the party, could not
have been more than three-and-twenty years of age; “she is gone out.”
“Is she gone far?” said I.
“No,” said the speaker, kicking up his heels.
“Where is she gone to?”
“She’s gone to Cauldstrame.”
“How far is that?”
“Just thirteen miles.”
“Will she be at home to-day?”
“She may, or she may not.”
“Are you of her people?” said I.
“No-h,” said the fellow, slowly drawing out the word.
“Can you speak Irish?”
“No-h; I can’t speak Irish,” said the fellow, tossing up his nose, and
then flinging up his heels.
“You know what _arragod_ is?” said I.
“No-h!”
“But you know what _ruppy_ is?” said I; and thereupon I winked and
nodded.
“No-h;” and then up went the nose, and subsequently the heels.
“Good day,” said I; and turned away; I received no counter-salutation;
but, as I went down the hill, there was none of the shouting and laughter
which generally follow a discomfited party. They were a hard, sullen,
cautious set, in whom a few drops of Gypsy blood were mixed with some
Scottish and a much larger quantity of low Irish. Between them and their
queen a striking difference was observable. In her there was both fun
and cordiality; in them not the slightest appearance of either. What was
the cause of this disparity? The reason was they were neither the
children nor the grandchildren of real Gypsies, but only the remote
descendants, whereas she was the granddaughter of two genuine Gypsies,
old Will Faa and his wife, whose daughter was her mother; so that she
might be considered all but a thorough Gypsy; for being by her mother’s
side a Gypsy, she was of course much more so than she would have been had
she sprung from a Gypsy father and a Gentile mother; the qualities of a
child, both mental and bodily, depending much less on the father than on
the mother. Had her father been a Faa, instead of her mother, I should
probably never have heard from her lips a single word of Romany, but
found her as sullen and inductile as the _Nokkums_ on the Green, whom it
was of little more use questioning than so many stones.
Nevertheless, she had played me the _hukni_, and that was not very
agreeable; so I determined to be even with her, and by some means or
other to see her again. Hearing that on the next day, which was Monday,
a great fair was to be held in the neighbourhood of Kelso, I determined
to go thither, knowing that the likeliest place in all the world to find
a Gypsy at is a fair; so I went to the grand cattle-fair of St. George,
held near the ruined castle of Roxburgh, in a lovely meadow not far from
the junction of the Teviot and Tweed; and there sure enough, on my third
saunter up and down, I met my Gypsy. We met in the most cordial
manner—smirks and giggling on her side, smiles and nodding on mine. She
was dressed respectably in black, and was holding the arm of a stout
wench, dressed in garments of the same colour, who she said was her
niece, and a _rinkeni rakli_. The girl whom she called _rinkeni_ or
handsome, but whom I did not consider handsome, had much of the
appearance of one of those _Irish_ girls, born in London, whom one so
frequently sees carrying milk-pails about the streets of the metropolis.
By the bye, how is it that the children born in England of Irish parents
account themselves Irish and not English, whilst the children born in
Ireland of English parents call themselves not English but Irish? Is it
because there is ten times more nationality in Irish blood than in
English? After the smirks, smiles, and salutations were over, I inquired
whether there were many Gypsies in the fair. “Plenty,” said she, “plenty
Tates, Andersons, Reeds, and many others. That woman is an
Anderson—yonder is a Tate,” said she, pointing to two common-looking
females. “Have they much Romany?” said I. “No,” said she, “scarcely a
word.” “I think I shall go and speak to them,” said I. “Don’t,” said
she; “they would only be uncivil to you. Moreover, they have nothing of
that kind—on the word of a _rawnie_ they have not.”
I looked in her eyes; there was nothing of _hukni_ in them, so I shook
her by the hand; and through rain and mist, for the day was a wretched
one, trudged away to Dryburgh to pay my respects at the tomb of Walter
Scott, a man with whose principles I have no sympathy, but for whose
genius I have always entertained the most intense admiration.