It is a Sunday night, and as I sit beside my fire, rejoicing in the
grateful warmth afforded by the substantial billets, I can hear much
that passes in the tent nearest to mine and in the vicinity of its
fire; moreover, I can just distinguish one person from another in the
group around the blaze which provides a patch of light with a softened
edge against the velvety black background of a moonless night. A
middle-aged woman commences singing the well-known hymn, “What a Friend
we have in Jesus,” while younger members of the family begin to join in.
It is an occasion which one would hardly describe as ludicrous, yet
I am scarcely able to repress a smile, for this is what I hear in
different voices, verbatim and in proper sequence—“What a Friend we
have,—Mother! where’s the soap, I can’t find it,—Mary Ann, be quiet,
will you,—Good night, mush,—Come out o’ the way, Mary, you’ll burn
yourself,—Will you shut up, I ain’t a-goin’ to give you no more
sweets, I’m goin’ to have this one myself,—D——n you, you’d eat me
an’ all if I let you—”
The hymn starts again, at last gets fairly under way and all join in
heartily; when finished, another is gone through, and yet another, all
the family seeming to appreciate the occasion and enjoy the singing.
After due allowance for the faults of these people—the existence of
which I should be more than foolish to deny—and writing off, as it
were, so much for depreciated human nature, there remains a great deal
about them that is straightforward and lovable.
There is, too, a peculiar attractiveness in this singing by the camp
fire before the family retires to rest on this Sunday night.
This absolutely faithful description of the close of a Sunday evening
in a gypsy encampment, of which my own tent formed a part, and the few
observations thereon which I made at the time, afford material for a
good deal of thought. Why—it may be asked—did not these people attend
some place of worship this Sunday evening? As a matter of fact, they
had been asked to attend a church; that they did not, is scarcely
to be wondered at as it was situated at a considerable distance, and
was only to be reached by much groping along dark lanes; moreover,
by staying away they were not subjected to the exasperating sight of
primly dressed worshippers drawing back their skirts to avoid contact
with gypsies who were presumptuous enough to imagine that the Christ of
the well-dressed could be their Christ too.
One may well hesitate to blame them for holding a service of their own
in a church whose walls were the darkness of night, and whose vaulted
roof was Nature’s own. Gypsies may be illiterate,—many are, some are
not,—but all of them who are worthy of the name Romany are keen,
albeit in one direction at least they may be likened to children,—they
are able to put questions which make one pause. More than once have
I been asked by them in slightly differing words, whether “parsons
are paid a lot of money to minister to those only who possess fine
clothes and a good place in society,” also, “whether the people called
Pharisees in the Bible are all dead.” There is no need for chronicling
my replies to these questions, and in passing I will state merely that
I replied truthfully. However, it is with pleasure I turn to the work
of the Church Army Mission, which I have viewed with much interest,
for such work among the gypsies is in many respects of a difficult
character and calls for conscientious workers having a more or less
specialized knowledge and tact of the finest.
It has often been stated that it is almost impossible to get a gypsy to
view religion in its true aspect, and one has but to read, to realize
the amount of trouble experienced by many who have sooner or later
relinquished their endeavours, declaring it impossible to do very much
among them. Having myself had opportunities of becoming familiar with
the ideas of gypsies while living among them, my impressions of the
beliefs and intuitive religion of the Romanies, and some account of
their reception of such efforts for their moral advancement as have
come under my notice may, perhaps, throw a little light on bygone
failures, as well as on the good work now in progress.
To put the matter bluntly, religious symbolism and ceremonial do not
attract the gypsy,—perhaps my meaning will be more definite if I
say—do not appeal to the gypsy as components of, nor as essentials
to religion, and they strike no finer chord in his nature than does
the display in a circus procession. That there exists with them
nevertheless a profound belief in the existence of God as the Maker
of the beautiful earth is evidenced by the fact that while the gypsy
will treat with ridicule the notion that he could be in any way helped
(morally) in this world, or advanced in the next, by bowing according
to man-made rules, so many times to the right or left, a suitably
worded appeal to his better self, pointing him through Nature to
Nature’s God will always hold his attention.
Shall we then adjudge him the less a worshipper, or the less devout,
in that he has a clearer vision of God as the loving Creator of birds
and beasts and every other form of life, and as the painter of the
sunset and the flowers? Again, certain narrow-minded people imagine, or
profess to believe, that those who do not join in public worship, or
in some way proclaim themselves Christians, are of necessity atheists.
It is to be feared that these self-appointed judges would find many
“atheists” among the gypsies; but, such atheists as “love their
fellow-men,” and whose religion is that of the good Samaritan.
[Illustration: “MANDE’S GRY.”]
Many of the gypsies profess to dislike the gorgio or non-gypsy, and
undoubtedly they do so,—the pity of it is that, as a race, they
have had, and still have, cause for it; nevertheless in a number of
instances coming under my notice this fact has not prevented them from
doing a good turn to those in need outside gypsydom.
As I am dealing with facts only, it will, of course, be understood that
I am not endeavouring to depict every gypsy as a saint, nor to persuade
the reader that he will be both gladly and kindly received at every
encampment he may chance upon; but having gained exceptional knowledge
of these people by living amongst them, it would be a contemptible
neglect of duty on my part if I forbore to testify to the many good
points which I know exist in characters that are too often blackened
by prejudiced cowards in different walks of life who feel sure that
their victims have little or no chance of defending themselves. No one
can deny that there are bad Romanichals, but it must also be admitted
that clergymen, barristers, stockbrokers and others are not invariably
paragons of virtue.
Prejudice against gypsies has been referred to, and in a great measure
it may be considered to have resulted from the teaching that all nomads
are knaves as well as vagabonds, which has been ignorantly and, from
time out of mind, instilled into the minds of the young.
In turning now to make a cursory survey of the work being done among
the gypsies by the Church Army Mission, I would point out that I have
“no axe to grind” anyway, but will speak only of what I know, for I
have looked in at their meetings, have had frequent opportunities of
viewing their methods, both as an outsider and as a gypsy too, and have
been one of the gypsy audiences at their lantern lectures. One of such
evening lectures is indelibly impressed on my memory.
[Illustration: A “RINKENY CHI.”]
In endeavouring to convey an idea of the entertainment and its setting,
I must ask the reader to imagine gypsies in ones, twos, threes and
irregular parties—assorted in all respects,—age, sex, size and
condition,—wending their way in the twilight, along a lane thickly
wooded on either hand. It is September, and the teasel heads and
seeded umbels of wild angelica stand out, sentinel-wise, along the
path leading to the camp where the lecture is to be given. At times
it is necessary to pick one’s way very carefully, for darkness is
coming on apace, and now and again the young hazels meet overhead,
while underfoot it is very muddy and slippery. At last, a sort of
clearing is just visible ahead and ever and anon there is wafted by the
gentle breeze, a smell as of cooking proceeding, light from camp fires
beginning, meanwhile, to play hide-and-seek among the branches of the
trees. Upon arriving at the camp one finds that a sheet for the coming
pictures is being affixed to the end of a wooden hut; by the time this
is in position and the lantern erected, a fair audience has assembled;
some are standing, many are squatting on the ground; now our service
commences in the usual way, with prayer and the singing of a hymn.
To-night, a story is read while being illustrated by life-model slides,
and I need scarcely say that its tendency is wholesome, the suppression
of evil, triumph of the right and so on.
It is interesting to hear the occasional remarks of members of the
audience as certain pictures are shown, or particular incidents are
related.
“How I could love a chavi (child) like that, couldn’t you?” one young
woman says to another.
Now, an older woman remarks to a friend—
“Yes, that’s true, I know drink will do that, for I’ve seen it.”
One feels that the story, simple as it is, touches the hearts of the
listeners, and cannot but have an uplifting tendency.
I am glad to note the total absence of that “button-holing” of the
individual which some seem to think so necessary in work of this
nature. Gentle, straightforward, persuasive, heart-to-heart talk may,
and probably will, win a Romanichal in time, but button-holing—never!
I almost tremble to think of any zealous young man who adopts this
method with a gypsy; few care to be button-holed in this way, but to
try it with a gypsy is to make an enemy.
Now, all join heartily in the closing hymn, and there can be no doubt
as to their enjoyment of it, for they sing it over again and again,
so bringing to a close a gathering that would probably be regarded
by an outsider as a strange meeting of strange people, and yet there
is withal a fascination and charm about the whole affair, a sense
of something to be thankful for that one fails to experience at a
fashionable gathering.
[Illustration: “NO PLACE LIKE HOME.”]
The well-known one-time hatred of all churches by the Romanies, and
their dislike to adopt any custom of the gorgio would almost suffice to
account for the gypsies having their own marriage ceremony, but when it
is borne in mind that gypsies were—ought I not to say, are?—looked
at askance by church-goers, and are obviously regarded with more scorn
than sympathy, and that the gypsy knows this, it will be evident that
the mission worker has need of infinite tact, and must be able to grasp
and appreciate the traditional beliefs and inherited distrust of the
gypsy, as well as sympathize in the difficulties and temptations which
confront and beset him, if he hopes to find eventually that his work
has not been in vain.
As the most direct route to a gypsy parent’s heart is usually by
way of the child, the work of the mission in giving the children,
whenever possible, an elementary school education and at the same time
instilling correct ideas of right and wrong, and teaching them simple
truths, must in the nature of things eventually influence for good the
lives of both children and parents; meantime the self-denying workers
obey the injunction—not to be weary in well-doing, trusting to the
assurance that—in due season they will reap if they faint not.
Many a Romany wedding is still celebrated in the old, old way; but
there are increasing numbers each year who are married at some
recognized place of worship, thanks to the efforts of the mission
workers, who point out to them that although they may after their
own ceremony remain faithful to each other through life, as is almost
invariably the case, it would be better to be married at a place of
worship, or otherwise in accordance with the law of this country.
To see a gypsy really and thoroughly uncomfortable one must behold him
on his wedding day, should he elect—as occasionally he does—to wear,
for once, a high collar. Accustomed to the kerchief around his neck,
the wearing of a starched collar must, to him, feel much like being
put in irons, and although he survives the ordeal, it must remain an
agonizing memory to him ever after.
As the work of the Church Army Mission gives but a side-light upon
Romany life, I must not dwell on it beyond adding that their workers
go with the gypsies, not merely during the fruit-picking or the
hop-picking, but are always among them whenever there appears to be the
most pressing need or favourable opportunity for their services, and
therein lies the secret of any success they may have had.
“To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late,” and despite
the postponement of the day of reckoning by living in the open air in
a rational way, Romany life is not exempt from paying the debt to
Nature, and sooner or later the sojourner in gypsy land must inevitably
have some saddening experiences.
One evening I was asked to sit up with friends whose father had just
passed over to the majority. As I had known the old man in life very
well and was desirous of showing my sympathy with the family in any way
possible, I acceded to the request.
The coffin was placed in a tent at a short distance from the rest
of the camp, by its side stood a tiny clock recording the few hours
remaining ere the body would be committed to the ground, the little
chamber being lit by a lantern suspended from one of the tent rods. Two
were keeping watch until midnight, when they would arouse two others
to take their place until dawn. The autumn night was chilly, so a good
fire was made and I sat until after ten o’clock with the watchers,
until the moon, which was almost at the full, appeared well over the
tree-tops, for we were in the depth of the forest; all around, and
up to the little clearing in which the camp was situated, were large
beeches and oaks whose foliage was quite still excepting when a slight
puff of wind sent a shiver through the leaves.
The whole scene was weird in the extreme,—the tent with its silent
occupant, the watchers at a short distance by the fire whose lambent
flames peopled the solitude with moving shadowy forms,—little
imagination being needed for one to fancy them playing ghostly
hide-and-seek among the trees,—and looking down upon it all was the
harvest moon.
I was present at the funeral next day, when the ceremony was most
impressive, every one behaving with the utmost decorum. On this
particular occasion there were none of the spectacular demonstrations
of grief that at some gypsy funerals resemble the Eastern wailing.
The personal belongings of the deceased were afterwards burned, as is
customary, but I believe none of them were buried with him.
These obsequies vary with different families, some of whom religiously
carry out traditional rites, which others seem altogether to ignore.
Many readers will doubtless recollect that, but a few years since,
when a certain gypsy died, his van was burnt, crockery smashed, and
metal pots and pans were battered so as to be useless. Occurrences of
this kind appear, however, to be less frequent than in the past, when
relatives of the departed gypsy sometimes reduced themselves to a
condition of absolute poverty by faithfully carrying out this ceremony.
In such cases, remonstrance, especially by a non-gypsy, would be quite
useless, and no reply would be vouchsafed, except that “it is the way
of the Romanies.”
There are certain practices of the gypsies which by many may be
regarded as a “trifle shady,” one of such is the vocation of fortune
telling. It is pretty generally known that—as has already been
pointed out—fortune telling as a profession has for years been
illegal; nevertheless, it is still practised, and at races and similar
concourses of people one may—to quote an old song: “... meet with the
smiling gypsy maid, your fortune true to tell,” but the modern, smiling
gypsy maid is not to be caught napping, and any circular, business
card or booklet she may issue to her public will be found, almost
invariably, to be so carefully worded that her profession does not
come “within the meaning of the Act.” I know a gypsy who does a good
business in this direction with “the quality.” She informed me that the
game paid well. I inquired what was her usual fee and she replied—
“Posh koraunas you dick,” which may be translated—Half-crowns, you
understand.
It was in the autumn that I last saw this woman, and there was little
business doing save at a few fairs. We sat at the camp fire one night,
and—to use an expressive colloquialism—“talked shop,” discussing
gypsy arts, including the telling of fortunes and the books purporting
to teach it; usually these books treat mainly of palmistry, and have a
few diagrams of the principal lines of the hand with “explanations.”
Even at the risk of repeating some of my previous observations I must
not omit to give a summary of our exchange of views and certain of my
own deductions.
Much of the ordinary fortune teller’s knowledge of her client’s
circumstances appears to be inferential,—cast of features,
conformation and condition of hands, and other characteristics being
rapidly absorbed, but inferential reasoning alone will not explain
many a gypsy pronouncement. I will give an instance or two which aptly
illustrate this:—
Quite late one Saturday night I found that, contrary to my
expectations, the succeeding day would be quite free from matters
needing my presence at home, therefore I decided, when too late to
communicate my intention to any one, to visit some gypsy acquaintances
who would be encamped—I presumed—at a place some twenty-five
miles from my home. Starting early on the Sunday morning, I arrived
eventually at the camping ground, where I found the families I had in
mind late on the previous night. After the usual greetings, I remarked—
“You don’t seem much surprised to have me come upon you suddenly in
this fashion.”
“No, we’re not,” said one of the women; “we knew you was a-coming—your
spirit’s been here.”
Upon another occasion I came upon a Romany woman, who, with several
children and the inevitable lurcher, awaited at their caravan the
return of her husband who had gone into the village near with a basket
of goods. Neither of us had ever seen or heard anything of the other,
and yet within five minutes of entering into conversation with her she
told me she could tell that I was not a native of the district and that
my ancestors had lived in quite another part of the country, which she
described. This occurred as part of a friendly chat, no question of
fortune telling or the handing over of money being thought of on either
side,—the uncanny part of the affair being that her statements were
quite correct.
Telepathy may account for much, but I believe the gypsy employs it
unconsciously, and there is no reason why this faculty should not
be much more fully developed among the true Romanies, who are of
Indian origin, than among, say, the Anglo-Saxons. With the advance
of civilization it would seem that the faculty of telepathic
intercommunication decreases, for we find it highly developed among
certain Indian races, and almost non-existent in the forefront of
civilization. It is not contended that any one, gypsy or otherwise,
can pierce the veil obscuring the future of every one of us, but it
cannot be denied that the true gypsy seems to be able in some way to
gain a more accurate idea of the probable, than the average non-gypsy.
Moreover, the average gypsy has himself a belief that certain specially
favoured individuals of his race have limited powers of seeing into
the future, even I have been asked quite seriously at various times
to “dukker the vast” of some gypsy or other, and have been considered
unkind in refusing to do so.
[Illustration: “LIFE’S EVENTIDE.”]
I asked my friend how she dressed at Boronashimescrutan, and was
informed that she put a kerchief over her head, another upon her
shoulders, and was then ready for business. She said further that
she made a little money by talking Romany, as many of the Rawnies
from the Boro Gav were willing to pay something just to satisfy their
curiosity by hearing it spoken. To my remark that Romany was a very
pleasant-sounding language, she heartily assented.
During our chat, the husband had been occupied with what is known
as “chiving tulipen prey the chokkars.” He held a boot in one hand,
turning it here and there to the fire to get it thoroughly warmed, then
with the other hand he applied a large lump of suet which was stuck
on a stick, repeatedly warming the boot and rubbing on the fat until
the leather appeared saturated; after treating the other boot in like
manner, he rubbed and kneaded the leather to work the grease thoroughly
into it, so making it quite waterproof and supple. He politely handed
over the fat for me to treat my boots, for all of us in that camp had
worn wet boots for at least two days.
Later with a preliminary “did I ever show you this?” he produced for
my inspection an extraordinarily massive and evidently old silver
watch-chain of a curb pattern. He informed me that originally it
belonged to, and was worn by, a gypsy—long since dead, for whom it
had been made specially, and to his instructions,—certainly it was
the largest and heaviest watch-chain I have ever seen, curiously so
in fact, and I persuaded him to allow me to weigh it. I found that it
turned the scale at one pound five ounces avoirdupois and I noticed it
was stamped on every piece; it bore signs of having been worn, probably
for many years, and I mentally pictured a man with the aldermanic
stomach needed to display it properly. Altogether it seemed the kind
of appendage one could not lose, for upon becoming detached from the
person the loss of weight would be immediately noticed. I have often
wondered if the original watch partook of the huge proportions of the
chain.
Before finally dismissing the theme of fortune telling, I feel that as
my gypsy friends have afforded me unique opportunities for studying the
question from their point of view, I have at the same time been able to
bring my unbiassed judgment to bear from the position of an outsider,
and I owe it to the Romanies to state some of their reasons for
thinking the law in the matter deals hardly with them, while I cannot
but admit the good intention to suppress all proved attempts to obtain
money by false pretences.
It cannot be denied that the Western nations are unable to fathom the
mysticism of the Far East, neither can they explain the means by which
Orientals—who are uncivilized in our meaning of the term—receive
and transmit information without the aid of modern science but with
greater facility and rapidity. Again, some of the Native Indian races
seem to have entirely under control influences of which we of the
West know nothing, or to which we perhaps give vague names to cover
our ignorance. If, to this, we add the fact that in sheer trickery,
deception and sleight of hand, the Oriental has no equal, we have a
combination which must be regarded as in some degree the heritage of
the Romany, and sweeping condemnation of the practices of such people,
who are not understood, is likely to be unjust. Always, there have
been, of course, gypsies whose practices would be based on trickery
and deception,—always, too, there have been others, who have in no
small degree inherited the occult powers of their ancestors, and who
would scorn the deceits of their humbler and less scrupulous brethren;
the former class have no better defence of their fortune telling
than—that they must live somehow, and if people can be found who
are silly enough to believe what they tell them, they are perfectly
justified in taking their money for it; the latter class, however,
when practising fortune telling exercise a profound knowledge of human
nature, and consciously or unconsciously bring into operation powers
of which we have little or no conception, and whose pronouncements are
no more intentional swindling than are those of a phrenologist, and
one cannot but respect some of the arguments they advance in their
defence:—
They seldom foretell ill-luck,—usually they predict a happy
marriage, accession to wealth, long life and a good time
generally.
They contend that this is no more reprehensible than the lie
which passes one’s lips when he says to a friend who is very
ill, or may be apparently on the road to recovery, “Oh, you
certainly look so much better than you did yesterday,” knowing
the while that the sufferer is more seriously ill than on the
previous day.
That surely it is well to foretell a good time, even when the
seer has no prescience in the matter, so that the anxious
one may be cheered by the thought of the happiness lying just
ahead, although it be always just ahead, as to many it too
often is until with their latest breath it becomes a glorious
reality.
Better this, anyhow, than the uncharitable pessimism of a writer on
this very subject of the last century, who, after characterizing
everything a gypsy might say as a “stark lie” said, “And why should we
deceive ourselves with gay and splendid expectations?”
After all, whatever may be our individual leanings in these
matters,—the things that really count may be best gauged by the words
of Him Who said: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of
these, ye have done it unto Me.”
Once in the hop country I heard a child at a little distance crying
distressfully as though in pain; before I could reach her, a somewhat
rough-looking gypsy fellow forestalled me, and, after gently
endeavouring to soothe the child, he called to a woman near for a piece
of rag,—some one had evidently thrown a sharp stone which had cut,
rather badly, the face of the child, causing it to bleed freely. The
woman, seeing that a piece of linen was necessary, at once ripped off
a piece of the blouse she was wearing, applied the inner side to the
child’s face and bound up the wound. After it had ceased crying she led
it away to its mother in a distant part of the field. The torn blouse
seemed to be of no consequence,—a little child was in trouble and she
had done what she could.