The fact that nearly all true Romanies have two surnames—one by which
they are known to the gorgio, the other by which all genuine gypsies
know them—will, unless given due consideration, be somewhat puzzling
to those whose knowledge of the gypsies is but slight. Regarded
cursorily, such an arrangement would appear to possess no advantage,
but upon consideration it will be obvious that to a seclusive,
suspicious and suspected people, the ability to converse—not only in
the language of the country in which they dwell, but also—in a tongue
which is practically unknown outside their own race, is likely to
stand them in good stead, more especially if the proper names in the
secret tongue bear no resemblance to their equivalents in the language
of the country; and it cannot be doubted that many a tight corner has
been negotiated, and many a man has escaped punishment,—deserved or
otherwise,—simply because warning or other timely information has
been conveyed in the secret language to those concerned.
The following case in point was related to me by the principal gypsy
actor in the incident:—
A gay mush (policeman) “collared” him on one occasion when he was with
some relatives. Desiring to apprise a certain gypsy family of this
occurrence and to give them information that would put them upon the
alert, and, being in the circumstances obliged to speak openly, he said
in Romany to his brother who was near, all that was necessary for his
purpose, including, of course, the name of the family. This conveyed
nothing to the policeman, who was evidently nonplussed as he said
roughly to his prisoner,—“Now, young man, we don’t want any of your
back slang,” an observation which, instead of impressing his hearers
with his perspicacity as it was evidently intended to do, informed them
that he was utterly ignorant of the Romany tongue, and, not only this,
but that he was not sufficiently astute to keep the knowledge of his
ignorance to himself; had it been possible, however, for the officer
to have heard even the English surname of the family implicated,
his suspicions would have been at once aroused, but he had scarcely
disappeared from the scene when a child was despatched hotfoot with
the message to the camp of the family involved.
In passing, it may be remarked that gypsy children are extraordinarily
cute in business of this nature. When important news has to be carried,
the words “Plastra lesti” addressed to them by their parents make
them scuttle along like hares, and sharp, indeed, will be the eyes
or ears of the rural policeman who either sees or hears anything of
the youngsters until after their message has been delivered, for they
will run barefoot on the inner side of a hedge, lie concealed amongst
herbage, take a short cut here, another there, through a stream, or
anything else if such a course will save time and enable them to get to
their destination quickly and secretly.
To return to the subject of the two names:—
It is worth noting that it is usually the surname only which is
rendered into Romany; for instance, Fezenta Cooper in English will in
the gypsy tongue be Fezenta Vardomescro, Clara Stanley will be Clara
Beshaley, and so on.
The surnames hereunder are among the best known of the principal Romany
families:—
Barney, Stanley, Smith, Pidgley, Cooper, Hughes, Wells, Lee, Shaw,
Deighton, Saunders, Lovell, White, Ayres, Loversedge, Rickman, Brazil,
Bull, Churen, Doe, Fenner, Harris, Buckland, Lakey, Lamb, Sherred,
Black, Willett, Taylor, Bosswel, Boswell, Allen, Carew, Corrie, Glover,
Buckley, Bosvil, Loveridge, James.
Scotch surnames:—
Young, Ruthven, Blythe, Fleckie, Gordon, Faa.
Many of the Christian names are very curious, as is evidenced by the
following lists, which might, of course, be greatly extended, but the
names given indicate the widely differing sources drawn upon by the
gypsies:—
MALE.—Panuel, Sylvester, Wester, Jobey, Soner, Euri, Jasper, Samson,
Bendigo, Noel, Daniel, Liberty, Freedom, Noah, Nelson, Franny, Rodney,
Larry.
FEMALE.—Sinfai, Fenella, Shuri, Laura, Ivy, Mona, Fezenta, Videy,
Dōsha, Rhona, Rawnie, Zillah, Leander.
One or two, it may be noted, are of Biblical derivation, for the source
of some others we must go to the gypsies’ land of origin, and so on.
While it is outside the scope of the present work to go deeply into the
origin of names, a few suggestions as to the possible derivation of
one or two may not be uninteresting.
Take, for example, the not altogether unpleasing name of Dōsha; what
does it mean? It seems likely that it is derived from the Romany
word Dusta or Dosta, meaning plenty or enough, or it may have some
connection with Dosh—evil. Again, Rhona very closely resembles the
Hindustani word Ronā, to weep, and it is quite conceivable that it
may have been first bestowed as a name under circumstances which gave
cause for weeping. The name Shuri, too, is almost identical with the
gypsy word churi—knife, and it is possible that knives may have had
something to do with the first use of this name as well as the surname
Churen.
Doubtless many recognized names, or portions of names among the
gypsies, result from the persistence of nicknames, thus a clumsy
or greedy person may be called baulo (pig), a touchy, irritable
fellow hotchi (hedgehog), such nicknames becoming in course of time
agglomerated with the real names, or in some cases superseding them.
Romany people assert that persons of gentle birth bearing the same
surnames as themselves, obtained those names in the first place from
the gypsies, the possibility that the reverse obtains seeming never to
occur to them.
They may, however, justly accuse the gorgio of appropriating and
putting to pretty general use as cant expressions, several words from
their language; for instance, the gypsy word “chavo” has been altered
to “shaver” and is in common use to designate a child; pal, signifying
brother, mush, man, are frequently used. Turning to a modern dictionary
for the signification of the word “chum” we find it given as “an
intimate friend,—etymology unknown.” Now, as the gypsy word, choom,
signifies a kiss, and the Sanscrit, chumb, has the same meaning and is
perhaps somewhat nearer to our word, it will not be unreasonable to
consider our word “chum” adapted from the Romany, and to be the term
for a friend whom one kisses.
The gypsy is usually proud of the family name, and, far from railing
at Providence for decreeing a gypsy’s lot for him, he invests the part
with a certain dignity, which his dislike of the gorgio helps him to
sustain; in fact, I know of more than one Romany family whose members
consider it derogatory to execute work “to order.” The following
incident very well describes their attitude in this respect:—
A lady, who was aware that I had had intercourse with the gypsies for
many years, came to me in great trouble and explained that she had
ordered a dozen baskets to be made by a gypsy named W—— H——, and
although he knew she urgently needed them for a bazaar he had not
supplied even one of them,—she considered him very foolish to refuse
work which would amount to twelve shillings, but the fact remained that
no baskets had come her way and she had come to me seeking a solution
of the difficulty. I endeavoured to explain the affair without giving
offence, but the actual reason why the man refused to do the work
was, that the lady, who had a somewhat exalted idea of her own social
standing and general importance, had _ordered_ this man—who considered
himself, in some ways at least, her superior—to do the work; she had
undoubtedly given the order with the very best of intentions, but
obviously the gypsy’s insight had shown him that she—the lady—felt
she was abasing herself by holding intercourse with him, the outcast,
and, while giving her credit for some sort of a desire to do good, he
would give relief to his wounded pride by spitting on the ground in her
direction after she had left.
Some little time later, I required two or three of these baskets for
presents, so I looked up this same W—— H—— and asked if he would be
good enough to make a few for me, at the same time telling him he could
make them just when he pleased and bring them along as completed, the
result being that I received several baskets in one week, and later, I
had to tell him to stop or I would have more baskets than friends.
These little incidents,—simple enough in themselves,—throw a good
deal of light on a particular aspect of the relations of Romany and
gorgio. The gypsy has his inherited propensities and aversions, and
traditional usages; as these have remained practically unchanged for
centuries, it is, to say the least of it, unreasonable to expect him
to change suddenly and conform to standards of thought and action set
up by those whom he regards with antipathy. To the law of the land,
he perforce submits, but all attempt to force him into the social or
commercial moulds of modern civilization may be likened to the forcing
of a highly elastic substance into a confined space, it will remain
there only under pressure, the removal of which may result in its
flying out into the face of its would-be moulder.
The gypsy, in common with all other subjects of the realm, has no
choice but to submit to the law of the land, and so long as the
laws which especially affect him are just, this is as it should be;
unfortunately, however, it would appear that the administration of
these laws,—perhaps I should say, the direct application of them to
gypsy life, is in too many cases left to officials who detest the
people, have an exaggerated idea of their office, and who therefore
delight to enforce the letter of the law rather than to grant such
grace as the law would permit, or, at least, such as humanity demands.
One terribly cold day in winter saw me at the camp of some of my gypsy
friends, where I expected to hear the usual sounds of merriment, but on
this occasion, a strange quietness which I did not understand seemed to
be brooding over the place.
“Is there anything wrong?” I asked.
“Yes,” said one. “Mrs. S—— ’s little ‘un’s dyin’; she’s camped just
over there in the lee o’ them bushes,—go over, I’m sure she’ll be glad
to see you.”
[Illustration: WINTER.]
Acting upon the suggestion I went in the direction indicated, feeling,
however, that under the circumstances the Missioner would be of more
service. Having reached the tent, I was invited to enter as it was
“more comfortable inside.”
It is true that under cover of the tent, in which a small fire was
burning, the piercing wind was not quite so biting, but—“more
comfortable!”—just think of it! What an elastic term “comfort” is if
it may be applied to such conditions, while a bedroom in winter with
a thermometer at 45° to 50° Fahrenheit will be described as “horribly
cold and uncomfortable.” Truly, the world is what we make it. Try for a
moment to imagine the scene:—
At the far end of the tent, on a bed composed of dead bracken and old
clothes, lay a little child, her wan but pretty face telling that the
end of the struggle in which she was being worsted was not far off,
and it was only too evident that the little sufferer had made her last
appearance at the camp fire, where she, like many another, had loved
to listen to the old world songs, or to the lively airs coaxed from an
ancient fiddle by her brother, who claimed to be a boshomengro.
As I sat with the parents in the smoky tent it seemed to me impossible
that the child could live through the morrow. But, what of that!
the law could have nothing to do with children dying, peacefully or
otherwise, for had it not decreed that gypsies should be allowed to
encamp only in certain places and only for a very short time before
being required to move on. The next morning a keeper appeared on the
scene, and although the time allowed by law had barely expired, and
the circumstances were explained to him, he peremptorily ordered the
striking of the camp.
There could be no mistake as to his attitude in the matter: “the law
empowered him to make these miserable people move on and he was not
going to be cheated out of a job he would enjoy, not he; what would it
matter if the brat did die, it was only a gypsy kid.”
Although it was the season of sodden earth and stinging rain, the tent
was perforce shifted to be pitched elsewhere, and meanwhile, the little
inmate passed beyond the power and petty tyranny of callous keepers.
And what of the keeper?
For the present we must needs be content with the assurance
that—“Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”
There are, of course, keepers and keepers, many being very good
fellows, doing their work conscientiously, keeping the golden rule in
sight, and far be it from me to say anything that may be construed as
a disparagement of them _in toto_, but I cannot, with justice to my
gypsy friends, refrain from presenting a faithful word picture of the
original of the incident recorded:—
He is a creature who ostensibly thanks God he is not as other men,
who, by means of carefully displayed sanctimony, artful planning, and
cunning sneak work, manages to retain the good opinion of superiors
in office who do not see, and will not believe in his double-dealing,
although the gypsies, without exception, know beyond question that his
life is a tissue of frauds; and wild game, for which they occasionally
risk their liberty rather than starvation, is constantly being
illicitly taken by him and disposed of wholesale.
It is scarcely possible for the gypsy at his worst to be so despicable
a creature.
The gypsy professes to hate the gorgio and small wonder if he lives
up to his profession; it is, however, refreshing to find he has a
warm corner in his heart for suffering humanity outside his own
race. Some Romany folk, well known to me, who in the way of worldly
goods possess practically nothing, and are at times without common
necessaries, befriended a lad whom they found in rags and in a pitiable
state of hunger and dirt. They fed and cleaned the boy, clothed him
by contributing—one a coat, another an old pair of trousers and so
on, kept him for a time until he was presentable, then did their best
to give him a start in life by procuring work for him. A veritable
fulfilling of the behest to—“Give, hoping for nothing again.”
Even a casual acquaintance with the Romanies will reveal the fact that
in common with their Oriental relatives, gypsy women and girls are
very fond of finery and personal adornment, and many of them may be
found wearing valuable ear-rings, finger rings and other jewellery.
One old writer, I note, roundly condemns this practice among them and
endeavours to substantiate his remarks by quoting the exhortation of
the apostle Peter:—
“Whose adorning let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting of the
hair, and the wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel.”
Let us look at the matter fairly. We may presume the gypsies derive
a certain pleasure in wearing such finery and jewellery as they
can command, and we may safely give them credit for obtaining them
honestly; indeed, most of their articles of jewellery are heirlooms,
and are, of course, valued much beyond their intrinsic worth. Who then
has any right whatever to interfere with their use of these things, or
to dictate whether they should, or should not wear them?
The gypsy also dresses her hair in a particular manner because her
ancestors so dressed theirs, because too she knows perfectly well what
suits her; moreover, she has not the least desire to dress or appear as
a gorgio, and to suggest to a gypsy that she should adopt the ways of
Gentiles in these respects is nothing short of an insult.
True gypsies are a most exclusive race, but there have been numerous
intermarriages with Gentiles, and even at a single fair or other gypsy
gathering a discriminating observer will soon discover almost as many
social grades as in a non-gypsy community, and several degrees of
racial admixture; at the top of the scale, Romanies of interesting
personality, at the bottom, Chorodies, “low, wandering outcasts,”
with little or no gypsy blood in their veins, and whose hair has been
described as reminiscent of the material of which cheap mops are
composed, and whose habits are disgustingly dirty. Unfortunately for
the reputation of the real gypsy, many people who have not thought
it worth while to look into the matter, are unaware that these
differences exist, and consequently class all together as “gypsies.”
The language of the Chorodies is a conglomeration of Romany, bad
English and slang, differing widely from the “gentle Romany” of the
true gypsy.
I have said that gypsies are exclusive,—this is especially noticeable
in the way the Romany tongue is kept secret by them. It is scarcely
ever displayed, although it may be occasionally used in public for
strategic reasons; even a knowledge of it will be denied by them when
interrogated by one who appears inquisitive; it is nevertheless spoken,
little or much by thousands in England to-day.
It is a curious but indisputable fact that among true gypsies as well
as Romany half-breeds, the Oriental characteristics—black hair, dark
eyes, swarthy skin, peculiar cast of features, and lithe body—are
usually much more evident in the women than in the men, in girls than
boys.
A good type of English gypsy girl is Dōsha (see Frontispiece), whose
portrait exhibits all these peculiarities most distinctly; the facial
angle, the carriage of the head, even the angle of the body, and, one
might almost say, the “hang” of the clothes, are Oriental.
[Illustration: “DŌSHA.”]
There is, too, something extraordinarily mystical about the eyes,
and no great exercise of the imagination is needed to enable one to
credit their possessor with occult powers. The directness and fixity
of gaze are such as haunt one and render it easy to understand how
for centuries gypsies have been regarded as endowed with strange
gifts. At the present time, such a belief is to a great extent
pooh-poohed,—ostensibly so, at least,—but until we of the West
have arrived at a vastly greater knowledge than we now possess, of
telepathy, hypnotism and allied sciences, it will be well that we
restrain our dogmatism and altogether withhold our sneers in matters
occult. It does not necessarily follow that we should place reliance
on such gypsy arts as fortune telling, neither can it, on the other
hand, be denied that there is in this, and their implied power of
clairvoyance, a fundamental something we do not understand.
The practice of fortune telling is condemned as heathenish, and abuse
is hurled at both the gypsy who pretends to read the future and
the superstitious person who is imposed upon. The lopsidedness of
the public in the matter would be amusing were it not for the very
different way the gypsy has of looking at these things.
I do not for a moment advocate a return to the old order which allowed
swindlers to victimize right and left, but from the gypsy standpoint
it appears to be scarcely playing the “game” for an announcement to
be allowed to appear on the bills of a church bazaar that “a real
gypsy prophetess” or a palmist has been engaged, who will read the
future, etc., at sixpence, half a crown, or what not, per person,
for the benefit of the fund, which results in the improvised tent
or cavern of the gypsy having quite a stream of visitors who “don’t
believe in this sort of thing, but it’s for such a good object, you
know, dear,” and the fund eventually benefits by a substantial amount,
to the gratification of the reverend principal, who may be also a
magistrate and dispenser of justice, and it is quite possible that he
may on the day following feel it to be his duty to assist in putting
down the fortune telling imposture and may send a gypsy to prison
for doing—with a better excuse for it—the self-same thing that he
countenanced, and he will, moreover, probably deliver a homily to Mary
Jane, who had been foolish enough to put silver into the hand of the
gypsy with the hope of learning something of a future that is veiled
from priest and parlourmaid alike.
[Illustration: “DŌSHA.”]
Although fortune telling is now illegal in this country it is still
practised _sub rosa_. Until comparatively recently, however, it was
quite a lucrative profession to adepts, and more than one third-rate
exponent has mournfully confessed to me that in the good old times “we
used to make a tidy bit o’ money dukkerin.”
One of the most celebrated of successful fortune tellers of recent
times was perhaps Lucy Lee, who pursued her profession for something
over twenty-six years. Her business headquarters were at The Devil’s
Dyke, near Brighton. She did not, however, reside there permanently,
but—latterly at least—journeyed to and from Brighton daily in a small
carriage. She probably amassed a considerable sum of money, for in
addition to the numerous people of rank and note she could count among
her clientèle, Devil’s Dyke had annually its thousands of visitors,
of whom a goodly proportion doubtless left silver in the hand of the
soothsayer—in the orthodox manner. Of her oracular pronouncements I
have no personal knowledge. If I recollect aright, she was wearing,
on the last occasion of my seeing her, a cloak of brilliant red edged
with white, a black silk or satin dress, a white apron, and upon her
head a red handkerchief. She maintained that past events in one’s
life as well as the future are mapped out on the hand; she told
fortunes also by means of cards. Gypsies are very keen observers, and
those fortune tellers among them who pretend to something beyond pure
guesswork, undoubtedly find the searching examination of a face quite
as suggestive as a study of the hand; moreover, they do not omit to
gaze intently into the tell-tale eyes of the person seeking information
and are consequently able to make certain deductions upon which to base
their shrewd guesses, and as these may be delivered in ambiguous terms
they are frequently near enough to the facts to impress or satisfy the
applicant.
Gypsies have ever been prone to make capital out of the artlessness,
culpable weaknesses, and avarice of a section of mankind.
[Illustration:
“Adroit the line of palmistry to trace.”
LEYDEN.]
The confidence trick in a great variety of forms has in the past been
worked by them with considerable success, female domestics being
perhaps their especial victims, but well-to-do people have by no means
escaped their wiles. A trick, having innumerable variants, and which,
in days gone by, had a very long and successful run,—perhaps it is
still going,—was played upon those who believed gypsies to be the
possessors of mystical powers; it consisted in the superstitious dupe
being induced to believe that a sum of money enclosed in a packet and
handed to the gypsy in order that she might for a small sum repeat over
it certain unintelligible words, would become doubled in quantity and
value a certain time after it had been returned to the owner and had
been hidden in accordance with the gypsy’s directions. It is, perhaps,
scarcely necessary to add that the gypsy either gave instructions for
the hiding of the money in some place accessible to herself, or she
acquired it by abstraction or substitution before returning the packet
to the credulous owner, the result in any case being the same,—the
gypsy got the money and was not to be found when the date given for the
consummation of the spell arrived.
Numerous accounts of similar frauds exist, many possibly having some
foundation in fact, while others may be set down as purposely distorted
facts, or as fabrications specially devised for fostering ill-feeling
against the gypsies, or for justifying, as far as possible, the
tyrannical measures taken to exterminate them.
Looking back upon the harsh treatment meted out to the gypsies in
former times, one can imagine the undercurrent of fear which prompted
it, a fear bred of the superstitious beliefs of the times and kept
alive by the outlandish appearance, seclusive habits, strange customs
and secret tongue of the Romanies, items which, even to this day,
are reckoned against them by the ignorant and superstitious. It is
therefore difficult, if not impossible to find unbiassed accounts
either of gypsy crime or petty frauds at almost any period in their
history.
Generally speaking, the term “gypsies” in newspaper reports of police
cases is a misnomer, the persons implicated being mostly Chorodies,
who, with very few exceptions, have no blood-relationship with Romany
people, neither have they much in common beside a similarity in
their mode of life. The disparity is especially noticeable in the
respective women, for Romany women have always been noted for their
handsome features, and in instances where the mother has not the
usual regularity and beauty of feature, her children are frequently
exceedingly pretty; we cannot, however, say so much for the Chorodies,
for, to quote the description of them by a well-known writer,—“their
complexion, when not obscured with grime, is rather fair than dark,
evincing that their origin is low, swinish Saxon, and not gentle
Romany.” Written many years ago, this is true to-day, and it is these
people principally who bring discredit to the gypsy name. Occasionally
among these people I have seen families upon whom the unenviable
epithet of Hinditymengre, or Filthy people, has been bestowed,—these
are Irish vagrants, but, like George Borrow, I fail to see that they
are dirtier than Chorodies generally, indeed I can scarcely imagine
it to be possible. There is really no occasion for such dirty habits,
as they have the same opportunities for their ablutions and equal
facilities for general cleanliness as the Romanies.
Gypsies are ardent lovers of music, and have wonderfully retentive
memories; some among them—notably Hungarians—have attained eminence
as composers, and in our own land one may find really good Romany
performers on the violin, harp, cornet, etc., although from lack of
education gypsy music is more frequently of the country ball or dancing
booth order.
A genius for dancing would appear to be inherited by the Romany chi,
as most of the girls, even the veriest children, revel in it, while
many of the young women are most graceful exponents of the “poetry of
motion” and not only cultivate the art as a source of income, but in
their exuberant health and spirits, seemingly indulge in it from sheer
inability to restrain themselves; certainly some of their dances appear
to be such as only a gypsy, with her physique and temperament, can
accomplish, but in this respect the palm would probably be awarded to
the gypsies of Spain.
Pliant of body and lithe of limb is the gypsy, but it is a grave
mistake—and one which many benevolent people have made—to suppose
that he has no strength of mind, and that he will readily accommodate
himself to forms and conditions of life which are diametrically opposed
to those in which he was nurtured, and which for centuries have
characterized his race.
Self-reliant, resourceful, versatile he is, but his temperament is not
plastic, and attempts to induce gypsies to break away from their mode
of life, to live in houses and to become what may be termed normal
citizens,—although made with the very best of intentions,—have either
failed altogether, or have succeeded only in spoiling a decent gypsy or
two to add to our slum population.
A Londoner loves the sights, smells and sounds of the city,—the open
road, moorland and forest are desolation to him; the Romany chal
stifles amongst houses, suffocates under a roof, the rush and noises
of the city distract him, its smells are as poison, and he turns with
indescribable relief to the forest glade, the open heath,—his very
nature demands them,—they are his breath of life.
“But,” argues our philanthropist, “he would in time become accustomed
to the town or village, and surely it would be for his ultimate good?”
Would it?
I may return to the subject later, meanwhile the following facts,
replying indirectly to the question, are suggestive:—
Those who know practically nothing of the gypsy character are confident
in the possibility of gradually weaning them from the nomadic life,
and of inducing them to settle down to the cottage, and the workaday
existence of the respectable labourer or artisan.
On the other hand:—
Those who have gained intimate knowledge of the race by long and
friendly intercourse with its people, and are consequently able to see
and feel with them and to understand their inbred love of a life of
freedom in touch with Nature, cannot dissociate the idea of sacrilege
from any thought of “improving” out of existence all that to the
gypsy—really counts.
In some parts of the Continent gypsy children go naked for some years,
but in our own country—possibly owing partly to changeability of
climate—clothes are almost invariably worn, but often they are of the
scantiest description. I have seen the children running barefoot in the
snow, their bodies being protected only by one thin garment, but as
they are subjected to such Spartan treatment from infancy, they do not,
apparently, suffer as would house-dwellers under similar conditions.
Much ingenuity is sometimes displayed by the poorer families in
adapting for their own use clothes which have been given to them.
The following incident, the principals in which are well known to me,
is an amusing case in point:—
A gentleman gave a pair of his trousers to a gypsy. A week or so later,
when out walking, he saw a small gypsy boy coming towards him, and
“there seemed,” said he when relating the occurrence to me, “something
very familiar about this boy’s dress, which at first puzzled me
considerably, but afterwards, as the boy came nearer, I saw that he
had made a complete suit from my old trousers; a little had been cut
from the legs, the pockets had been turned inside out and the ends
cut open, so that by getting into the garment and thrusting his arms
through the pockets,—as sleeves,—he secured a sort of combination
suit, trousers and coat in one; he had reduced the opening at the top
by tying pieces of string from button to button, and to complete the
garment and separate what I may perhaps call the blouse part from the
trousers portion, he had tied a piece of cord around his waist.” Now
the boy was small and thin and the gentleman to whom the trousers had
belonged was of somewhat ample proportions, therefore the appearance of
the boy, it is perhaps needless to add, was more ludicrous than can be
well described, reminding one of the account given by Gypsy Smith of
his first pair of trousers, which prompted inquiries as to whether he
was going or coming, at what time the balloon was going up, and so on.
Ingenuity of a different type was shown by a gypsy who desired to
attend the funeral of a relative and made the occasion an excuse
for borrowing from a householder of my acquaintance a pair of black
trousers to wear during the ceremony; his pretext of wishing to borrow
the trousers, and for one day only, showed the diplomat, for he must
have felt sure that if he could but get the trousers the owner would
not trouble him to return them.
Gypsies do not forget acts of kindness to their folk, neither are they
ungrateful, but will often endeavour to make some little return for
sympathetic help extended to them. In connection with this I note as a
curious psychological fact, that they will occasionally pilfer in order
to present the proceeds of the theft to a benefactor, as a tangible
proof of gratitude.
Upon one occasion a young fellow offered me some fine plums in return
for a slight service I had rendered, all the circumstances pointing to
his having stolen the fruit for the purpose on his way to see me.
We may then take it that pilfering from a gorgio is reckoned a venial
offence,—a trifling matter, but failure to show proper appreciation of
services rendered is considered “low down” behaviour and unworthy of a
self-respecting gypsy.
In the field of scientific invention, it seems that the gypsy is
not very likely to become a shining light, but that he nevertheless
possesses considerable ingenuity in certain directions is shown by
his turning to good account apparently useless native material in
the manufacture of useful, ornamental and curious articles, and his
brain is also fairly fertile in the way of dodges that will, now and
again, yield a few pence. One of such dodges—evincing considerable
astuteness, and some little knowledge of domestic economy on the part
of its originator—was brought under my observation by a small gypsy
boy asking if I would not “please buy one?” at the same time opening
the lid of an old chocolate box and exposing to view a number of oddly
shaped, flattish cakes differing slightly in size, each being about
one and a half inches by one inch, and half-inch in thickness, all
being curiously veined or marbled in drabs and browns and emitting a
rather pleasant odour. At first, I was a good deal puzzled as to their
composition, and was not helped much by the information volunteered by
the boy, that they were for “keepin’ the morf away an’ takin’ iney mole
outcher close.” This done into English would read—“keeping the moth
away and removing iron-mould from your clothes.” A brief examination of
the contents of the box enabled me to see through the fraud.
The little cakes had been prepared by breaking off projecting pieces
from the deeply furrowed bark of the cluster pine, these had been
shaved and bevelled with a knife until the pattern formed by the
layers was sufficiently pronounced, and afterwards smoothed with
sandpaper, so that unless one touched them he might easily mistake
them for variegated tablets of soap; a few drops of scent—sprinkled
probably from a penny bottle of synthetic “Eau de Lavande”—had
completed the process of manufacture. I may add that as the boy had not
been furnished with directions for use, he could not state how many
penny pieces would be required to keep the “morf” away from a given
space, nor how long the spell would last; with respect to the “iney
mole,” one would expect an intensification rather than a diminution of
the stain from the use of such an eradicator.
Most of my readers have probably seen, or, may possess, examples of
work in wood or other material which has been built up within globes
or bottles of water, the whole having been passed in and put together
through a comparatively small neck or other aperture.
Such work has at all times been beloved of sailors, but gypsies are
occasionally found who make this class of “ornament.”
Two examples I have seen remind me of another instance of gypsy
shrewdness. A gypsy boy, aged about thirteen, called at my house one
morning with some bottles of water which also contained specimens of
woodwork for sale; these were a sort of emblematical Calvary, each
bottle containing one tall and two shorter crosses, two spears at
back, a hammer and three nails in front, all of which were cut from
wood and were inserted in a cruciform foot also composed of deal, the
three crosses being decorated by the favourite angle-notching that is
reminiscent of a boy’s first pocket-knife.
The sum of sixpence was asked for each bottle with its contents.
I purchased one of them and thought I had seen the last of the lad,
but in the afternoon he appeared with another bottle exactly like
those he had previously brought, excepting that between the two spears
a ladder had been fitted. It was described as a much better one than
those he had brought in the morning, and he added that as I had already
bought one he would let me have it for ninepence. Although I failed to
appreciate the implied favour, I made a second purchase.
It will be noticed that the boy did not bring the better article
first, or he would certainly have sold but one at ninepence instead of
disposing of two for fifteen pence, also that he did not offer terms
for exchanging the inferior for the better article, but sold a second.
The manufacture of just this class of article is not one of the common
occupations of gypsies, and it is possible, as this family came
from the neighbourhood of Cardiff, that the locality, together with
occasional contact with sailors, may have suggested it to them as a
help in their struggle to live.
Another way of turning an “honest” penny, practised occasionally by
both gypsy and tramp, is the making of artificial flowers from turnips.
Turnips may be usually acquired pretty easily, and the competent
artist, by deftly using a pocket knife, converts them into most
attractive and really deceptive imitations of flowers.
I am not sure if the imitation of any particular species is aimed at,
but the kind usually produced may be described as midway between a
white water lily and a rose; these flowers are generally left “plain
turnip,” but I have seen them splashed with crimson, or occasionally
dyed entirely with cochineal or aniline solution.
A flower is usually offered arranged as a button-hole or bouquet, a
twig being inserted as a stem and a few leaves added; those of laurel
and thuja lobbi are favourites as they are always to be “pinched” _en
route_; moreover, the odour of the thuja neutralizes any vegetable-like
smell of the flower.
A large proportion of the articles hawked around by gypsy vans at the
present time are not of gypsy manufacture, as machine-made tinware
and other goods yield a greater profit; individual tent-dwelling
hawkers, however, still carry a fair variety of home-made stuff, such
as clothes-pegs, toys, grass mats and baskets, meat skewers, wire
flower-baskets, etc.
I was recently at a country fair which attracted the usual gypsy
proprietors of shows, stalls and the like, and amongst them I got into
conversation with an old man of sixty to seventy years of age. He was a
man of more than the average intelligence of his class and had at one
time been a travelling photographer.
“Yes,” said he in reply to a question of mine, “I made a good bit of
money photographing at one time, but there isn’t much to be done at it
now, I’ve still got my cameras and lenses and things in the van, but I
never use them.”
“But things are slack in the pleasure line during all the winter
months, aren’t they?” I inquired.
“Yes,” he replied, “it’s as much as most of us do in the summer to
make enough to carry us through, but d’ye know,” he continued in a
confidential manner, “there’s a good living to be got, and could be
got by a lot of our people if they’d only go into it. I’m too old
to start afresh now, but any man with a livin’ wagon, as could work
at tinkering, furniture repairing and china riveting, do a bit of
photography when it came along, and wouldn’t turn up his nose at stray
odd jobs such as putting in window-sash lines, seeing to paraffin
lamps and the like, and travelled around the out-of-the-way places,
what you’d call remote districts, would make sure of a good living all
the year round. Mind you, it would be a hard life,—it couldn’t be
much harder than some of us have at this game,—but it would pay, and
there’s many a gypsy with ability to do it—only he don’t.”
In the early days of photography the arrival of the Photographic Van,
otherwise “Saloon,” for its periodical stay in the village or town, was
eagerly awaited as the only opportunity to have a “likeness taken” for,
perhaps, months. In some of the home counties certainly, and in others
possibly, the only professional portrait photographers doing work at
popular prices were, at one time, the Romany operator-proprietors of
these travelling portrait saloons, and most excellent work was turned
out too. I have in my possession family portraits taken upwards of half
a century ago by these gypsy artists, which would put to shame similar
work but ten years old.
One of these, taken in 1858 on glass, blacked at the back, framed in
what is known as a “mat and preserver,” fitted into the well-known
plush-lined wood case, is in a condition as absolutely fresh and
perfect as on the day it was taken, and was the work of a typical
Tachey Romany, a man of fine physique and handsome features, who
travelled Hertfordshire and adjoining counties.
Another Romany production is a portrait taken in 1864 by a man
travelling Bedfordshire, Cambridgeshire, etc. It is a carte de visite
portrait on the old albumenized paper, and is first-rate work, its rich
purple tones being as fresh and strong as when just finished.
Doubtless, there are to-day many treasured portraits—all there is
left to recall the features of loved ones—which are the work of
gypsy artists who travelled the country at the time when photography
was still young and few other opportunities existed of obtaining
photographic portraits.