CHAPTER XIII

WITH THE YORKSHIRE GYPSIES

AS I have said, Gypsies settled in houses now greatly outnumber their roving brethren. Hence it has come to pass that nearly every town in the land possesses a Bohemian quarter where you are met by dark faces and sidelong glances speaking of Gypsy blood. Nor can the student of Gypsy life and manners afford to neglect these haunts despite their dinginess, for as often as not they contain aged Gypsies whose memories are well worth ransacking for lore and legend, and in “working” these queer alleys, one has often picked up choice reminiscences of bygone Gypsy life.

[Picture: House-Dwelling Gypsies. Photo. Fred Shaw]

One morning I was walking under the grey walls of Scarborough Castle, and, coming out upon the sparkling North Bay, I ran into the arms of a _mush-fakir_ (umbrella-mender), who looked as if there rolled in his veins a blend of Scottish and Irish blood, but I was mistaken, for he told me he was Welsh and bore the name of Evans. Far-travelled, his peregrinations had ranged from Aberdeen to Penzance, and seldom have I met a man of his class so overflowing with varied knowledge. He asked me if I knew William Street in Scarborough, but as a newcomer I admitted that I had not so much as heard of the locality, and made request for further information.

“I reckon William Street ’ll just suit you,” he declared. “It’s full o’ tinkers and grinders, Gypsies and sweeps, and the like.”

“A regular Whitechapel,” I suggested.

“Now you’ve hit it,” said he laughingly.

I asked him where he was residing in that street.

“At the Model, to be sure, and if you ax for Long Ambrose, you’ll find they all know me.”

I further inquired of him as to the Gypsy inhabitants of that quarter, and he gave me a list of the “travellers” who had settled there. These I called upon leisurely during a holiday extending over three weeks. One day I would look up one or two of them, and a few days later I renewed my visitation by dropping in upon several others, and so on until this little gold-mine was exhausted.

From the sea-front it was a change scarcely Aladdin-like to find oneself in smoky William Street, a byway shut in by dingy walls, which in the deepening dusk took on an air of mystery. A little way down the street, I knocked at the door of Inji Morrison, but as there was no response I lifted the latch, and, putting my head inside the room, I spake aloud, “_Putsh man te av adrê_” (Ask me to come inside). A sound of shuffling feet was heard, with tripping steps in the rear, and an old crone tottered forward, along with her granddaughter, dark-eyed and twenty-five. Following them into the kitchen, I saw the floor scattered with willow pegs in various stages of manufacture. The pair accorded me a genial welcome, though they scanned me curiously as if wondering what sort of Gypsy I might be. When I mentioned some black foreign _Romanitshel_s whom I had seen, the old mother remarked—

“I shouldn’t like to _dik lendi_ (see them); they would make me think of the _Beng_.”

Then, as the old lady was dull of hearing, her granddaughter (in an aside) said—

“You mustn’t mind, _rai_, what granny says; she’s getting old. As for the _Beng_, there ain’t no sich pusson, I don’t think. There’s nothing bad comes from below. There’s the springs we drink from, and the dearie little flowers we love to gather. And there’s nothing but good comes from above; the blessed sunshine and the light o’ moon and the rain that falls—why, all of ’em’s good things, ain’t they? The badness is on’y what people makes.”

Now through the open door leading to a cramped backyard came a hairy terrier, followed by a small boy with saucy eyes and long, black curls falling upon the shoulders of his ill-fitting coat. A great-grandson from a few doors lower down was this quicksilver pixy, who sat himself at our feet and cuddled the terrier near a few red embers in the grate.

“Mend the fire, my gal,” said Old Inji. And when the wood blazed and lit up the room, granny filled her pipe from shavings cut from a cake of black tobacco.

“I’ll never go to Seamer Fair no more now my man’s dead. ’Tain’t likely as I could. ’Twouldn’t be the same, would it?”

“Seamer Fair, when is that?”

“Why, next week. There’ll be _dosta Romanitshel_s _odoi_ (many Gypsies there) and music and dancing. Ay, and fighting too.”

Then she fell to rambling about her former life on the road.

* * * * *

Another day I sat with Vashti Boswell in her cottage down one of the numerous yards branching out of William Street. Handing me a rude stool, the work of some Gypsy carpenter, she sat herself on the fender. On her forehead was a deep indentation which she said was made by a blow from a poker at the hand of a mad relative. In vivid words she described the occasion of that blow, and one pictured the desperate struggle between the two women, till Vashti, fainting from loss of blood, fell in a heap on to the floor, but not before Izaria, a stalwart fellow, attracted by his mother’s screams, had rushed into the house and snatched the weapon from the mad woman’s hand.

A little higher up the street lived this same son and Vashti’s nephew, Joel Boswell, who were sent for, a neighbour’s child acting as messenger. I have often noticed that Gypsies will call in their kinsfolk who live near to share in the pleasure and excitement, likewise in the “grist,” implied by a _rai_’s visit. Much to my surprise Vashti knew all about Gypsy Court at Lincoln, and little wonder when she presently told me that her husband was a half-brother of my old friend, Jumping Jack.

Talking of the past, Vashti declared that very few Gypsies in her day went to church for marriage.

“My man and me jumped the besom, we did. That’s how we was married. Like many more, we didn’t get _parson’d_, but we thought our old way just as binding as if we’d been to church. My man were a good ’un as long as he lived, and weren’t that enough for the likes o’ me?”

“Then you remember Jumping Jack?” I asked.

“_Âwa_ (yes), and he could jump too. He once cleared the backs of three horses standing side by side, and I’s seen him jump the common gate times and agen. When my husband was living, we used to travel Lincolnshire, and now lots of us are living in houses scattered all over the _tem_” (country).

At this juncture, Joel disappeared for a few moments, and on his return bore a large jug of foaming brown ale, which was his way of welcoming the _rai_, and pipes were soon in full blast.

It was from Joel’s lips that I heard about Mordecai Boswell, who died at Retford many years ago. Mordecai was a fine-looking man, his hair falling in long curls. He wore a dark green coat with big pearl buttons and a broad collar, while his low-crowned hat might well have been a family heirloom. He had a dancing booth at fairs, and would fiddle, while his sister Matilda danced and played the tambourine. Frampton Boswell used to join him at the St. Leger and other big races, and they didn’t do badly with the dancing booth.

One day a _gawjo_ was chatting with Mordecai, and the talk turned upon _hotshiwitshi_ (hedgehog).

“I couldn’t fancy eating that creature,” said the _gawjo_. “It makes me feel queer to think of it.”

“Look here,” said Mordecai, “I’ll bet you a half-crown that before many days are past you’ll have had some.”

The _gawjo_ grinned and shrugged his shoulders. Time went on, and the _gawjo_ one day came upon Mordecai and his family having dinner on the roadside.

“Won’t you have a bite with us?” said Mordecai.

“What’s that on the dish?” asked the _gawjo_.

“Duck,” replied the Gypsy, with a grave face. The _gawjo_ sat down and was soon enjoying what looked remarkably like a duck’s leg. When the meal was over and pipes were brought out, Mordecai got a-talking.

“Well, my pal, where have you been since I saw you last, and how have you been faring? Has any Gypsy got you to swallow a bit o’ _hotshiwitshi_?”

“No, not likely. Didn’t I tell you that that nasty creature should never touch my lips?”

“Then you’ve done it to-day. You’ve had _hotshi_ for dinner, and you seemed to enjoy one of the legs finely. You smacked your lips over it anyway. Hand up that half-crown.”

He did so, and, turning pale, walked away.

“I say, _rai_,” remarked Izaria, “did you know there’s some of the black Herrens (Herons) stopping at Robin Hood’s Bay, not far from here? I seen ’em at Scarborough a little while back, and I shouldn’t wonder if some of ’em’s at Seamer Fair next week.”

Making a mental note of these two places, I resolved to visit them. Then, happening to mention the _mush-fakir_ whom I had encountered near the Castle, Joel said, “I once had an uncle as was very fond of this here town, I mean Elisha Blewitt, as married Mordecai’s sister Sybarina; my uncle was a _mush-fakir_, but he’s been dead for years. As for that there man you spoke of, I believe there’s a long-legged _gèro_ (man) in the same line o’ business living at the Model.”

Next day in the same quarter I waylaid Fennix Smith in company with a Gypsy named Swales, who were about to set forth in a two-wheeled cart drawn by a thin-legged pony, their destination being Malton. On their way home they would call at “No Man’s Land,” where they expected to find some of their travelling friends drawing up for Seamer Fair. Between their legs I noticed a lurcher curled up, and, pointing to it, I said, “I see you mean to have some sport on the way.”

“Yes, and we shan’t forget to bring you some-think, pass’n, if we has good luck.”

After the pony-cart had rattled out of the street, I turned into the yard of the Model, where several grinding-barrows stood under a lean-to, but I failed to recognize Long Ambrose’s property among them, and, entering the house, I learned that my _mush-fakir_ might be expected home at any time. Walking up the street, I came upon a stalwart Gypsy woman standing at her open door. Her husband, I gathered, was a tinker, and not a prosperous one at that, judging by his wife’s tattered gown and woebegone air. During our talk about her relations who travelled Lincolnshire, two pretty little children continually tugged at her gown.

“If you go to Seamer Fair, _rai_, you’ll be sure to find some of my folks, the Smiths, along with the Herrens and Youngs.”

Just then I heard a man whistling, and round the corner appeared Long Ambrose pushing his barrow. In the yard of the Model we conversed, and on his referring to Gloucester, I asked if he knew any of the Carews, horse-dealers of that city.

“Oh yes, there was one of them sold a dyed horse to match a black carriage-_grai_, and a wery ‘fly’ cove he was, but he got found out, and had to do ‘time’ for that affair.” My _mush-fakir seemed_ to have travelled everywhere.

* * * * *

Mindful of the intimation let fall by Izaria Boswell that there were black Herons to be found at Robin Hood’s Bay, I made my way thither afoot one brilliant July morning. A cool air from the sea tempered the sun’s powerful rays, and it was good to inhale the sweetness of the summer meadows where the haymakers were busy. Overhead the bent-winged silvery gulls passed to and fro, and among the wayside bushes yellow-hammers trilled their song which in childhood we translated by the words, “a little bit of bread and no cheese.”

Perched on the top of a lofty cliff overlooking the North Sea, the village of Robin Hood’s Bay seems almost to overhang a precipice, and on stormy nights the wind roaring up the cliff flings the salt spray far inland. The whole of the coast hereabouts is a delicious panorama of rock-bound bays and coves.

On arriving at the village I had no difficulty in locating my Gypsies. A fisherman, sun-tanned and jovial, pointed a stubby finger towards a grassy plot whereon stood three caravans, and it was with a thrill of pleasure that I drew near. Yes, there on the short turf sat one-armed Josh and Nettie, his wife. Our greetings were hearty, and as we talked, up came one of the Youngs.

“You are just the man I want to see, _rashai_,” and, taking out a crumpled newspaper, he said, “There’s something in here about stopping the Gypsies from camping at Scarborough.”

After a hunt through the paper, I came upon a report of a meeting of the wiseacres of the town, and read their speeches about the “nuisances” said to be created by the Gypsies.

“But there ain’t any Gypsies there now _we’s_ come away,” said Young. “The people stopping there are only poor _didakai_s (half-breeds) and _mumpari_. We don’t call _them_ Gypsies.”

The speaker was one of the purest-bred English Gypsies I have ever met.

Pure Gypsies draw a marked line between dirty, low-class van-dwellers and themselves; but unfortunately the world at large makes no such distinction, immensely to the detriment of the true _Romanitshel_.

East Yorkshire is a favourite country with the Herons and Youngs. Both Josh and Nettie love it well, as did also some of their forelders. It was at Robin Hood’s Bay that Nettie’s Aunt Whipney died long years ago. I well remember a little tale about this old Gypsy. Tinker Ned, her husband, had “found” a _kani_ (hen) for the pot. It was a small one, and Whipney cooked it. When the tinker came home at a later hour than he had promised, he asked—

“Where’s that _kani_? Have you cooked it?”

His wife answered by putting two fingers into her mouth, meaning, that she had consumed the little fowl. Thereupon Tinker Ned picked up a loose tent rod and gave her a good thrashing.

Close by sat Nettie’s daughter-in-law, Isabel, and her children, bonny bairns, tumbled happily on the grass. As I looked at these Gypsies, all of them pictures of blooming health—clear-eyed, clean-limbed, bare-headed in sun and breeze—I reflected not without sadness on the fact that the tendency of modern legislation is to curtail and render more difficult the free, roving life of these children of Nature.

It was now late in the afternoon, and over tea we talked of other times and old Gypsy ways. Nettie told of her own mischievous tricks when she was a child, how she used to hide her mammy’s pipe in a tuft of grass near the tent, and then watch her hunt up and down for it; her sister Linda and she would have a good laugh to themselves over the trick, and then what tales their old mother would tell them by the fire o’ nights. One of these stories related to a horse belonging to some Irish Gypsies, the O’Neils.

He was an aged animal and a favourite of the family. One day he fell down and broke his back. Quite still he lay, and, taking him for dead, they removed his skin, but in the morning he came and kicked at the _vâdo_. He was a sight awful to behold. Now it happened that near at hand lay a pile of sheepskins, so they hurriedly clapped some of these on the poor horse and bound them round and round with willow withies. In a little while the animal recovered, and the O’Neils used to clip a crop of wool off him every year. And since the willow sticks took root and grew, the Gypsies were able to cut materials sufficient to make many baskets.

Folk-stories of this character are classified by lorists as “lying tales,” and in a subsequent chapter I shall give a sheaf of such stories familiar to all our Boswells and Herons, wherever you may light upon them.

It was Nettie’s daughter-in-law who, after listening to a ghost tale from me, protested—

“_Mulos_ (ghosts)—I’ll tell you what I thinks about ’em. Folks who die and go to the good place won’t never want to leave it, and as for people what go to the bad place, I reckons they’ll have to stop there. ’Tain’t likely they’ll ever have a chance to come back.”

Looking up the footpath leading to the camp, I saw Isabel’s little boy dragging a dead bough behind him. Said Josh, waving his stump of an arm towards the approaching child—

“The worst thing we Gypsies does nowadays is to pick up a dead stick or two for the fire, and if we goes into a _wesh_ (wood) for a little _shushi_ (rabbit) for the pot, well, I reckon there’s plenty left for them as has a deal too many. If we sets a snare, it ain’t so cruel as the keeper’s teethy traps, and the lord and lady as employs the keeper talks in the Town Hall agen cruelty to animals—so I hear. Oh dear, it makes me larf!”

As I turned to take a farewell look at the group, I saw the Gypsies stretched at full length, puffing their pipes, while away beyond them lay the deep blue sea, and the rugged coast trending north and south in exquisite bays. It was a sight to cherish in the memory.

A cool rain in the early hours had given place to a hot July morning, as I entered the village of Seamer already astir with its horse-fair. Making my way between knots of colts and droves of ponies at whose heels Gypsy boys were waving pink glazed calico flags, I went to where one of the North-Country Smiths stood gesticulating before a group of prospective buyers of colts, and discovered in him Elias Petulengro’s son, Vanlo, whom I had known at Lincoln. Presently he walked across to me and held out a hand of friendship. All around us were Yorkshire travelling folk, and while chatting with Vanlo I witnessed a curious thing. Three policemen stood talking together, and one of them had his hands behind his back. A Gypsy, sidling up, slipped a half-crown into this policeman’s hand. I saw his fingers close over the coin, yet he never by the slightest sign betrayed this act of the Gypsy, which passed unobserved by the other constables. Petulengro, who witnessed it, explained that this sort of thing is not uncommon. It obtains little privileges. “The _muskro_” (policeman), said he, “will turn a blind eye to that Gypsy’s fire on some wayside to-night.”

[Picture: A Gypsy Lad. Photo. Fred Shaw]

Strolling through the fair, I spied old Clara Smith smoking a black clay under a stone wall, and by her side sat her daughter Tiena and one of her male relations, whom I had once met on a bleak fell in North-West Yorkshire. It was he who told me the following tale as he sat making pegs among the ling:—

“When I was a boy, I was taking _puvengri_s (potatoes) from a field, and I looked up, and there stood a tall man staring at me over the hedge.

“‘You come along with me,’ he shouted, and, taking him for a policeman in plain clothes, I obeyed, and went with him to a big building which I thought was the Sessions House. There were many people inside, and a gentleman was talking to them. At last he looked hard at me, and said, ‘Thou art the man.’

“So I jumped up and said, ‘Yes, I know I am, but I didn’t mean to do it. It was my uncle as made me go. I’ll never steal potatoes no more.’ And because I would keep on talking like a Philadelphia lawyer, they turned me out without passing sentence on me. Next day I was walking with my uncle, and the tall man as took me off to the place, passed by. ‘That’s the policeman as arrested me,’ says I.

“‘Why, you silly boy,’ said my uncle, ‘that there man is the evangelist, and he took you to his chapel, he did.’”