CHAPTER XXII

FURZEMOOR

ARE you seeking a recipe for youth? Go a-Gypsying. Forth to the winding road under the open sky, the Gypsies are calling you. Scorning our hurrying mode of life, these folk are content to loiter beneath the green beeches, or in the shadow of some old inn on the fringe of a windy common. Like Nature herself, these wildlings of hers overflow with the play-spirit and therefore remain ever youthful. To rub shoulders with them, I have found, is to acquire a laughing indifference to dull care and all its melancholy train. Whoever then would grow light-hearted and become just a happy child of sun and star and stream, let him respond to the call of the road: let him go a-Gypsying.

Long ago I observed that during the pleasanter months of the year a few families of wanderers were generally to be found encamped upon a secluded waste—which I will call Furzemoor—where, by the courtesy of the owner, they were allowed to remain as long as they pleased. They resorted thither, so it seemed to me, to recuperate from the effects of their winter’s sojourn upon the city ash-patches hemmed in by unsavoury gas-lit streets.

One April afternoon, following close upon a lengthy stay in London, I remember how blithely I tramped along the grassy cart-track, which, after winding between hedgerows full of green sprays, sweet odours and tinkling bird-notes, emerged upon rugged Furzemoor—one of those few places which in after years become for you backgrounds of dream-like delight by reason of the memories associated with them. Is it not to such spots that the fancy turns when the mood of the commonplace hangs heavily upon you, and any shred of adventure would be more stirring to the heart than “the cackle of our burg,” which is too often mistaken for “the murmur of the world”?

No matter how often I came, the moor had ever the power to stir one’s imagination anew by its suggestive atmosphere of the remote, the aloof, the wild; and having paused at the end of the lane to renew old recollections, I went forward and peered over the edge of a declivity fringed with bushes of furze in golden flower. Ah! there below the slope, kissed by the warm sun and fanned by the breath of spring from off the heath, lay the brown tents, tilt-carts, and smouldering fires of a Romany camp, looking strangely deserted save for a girlish figure reclining near one of the fires over which a kettle was slung. Pushing between the bushes, my blundering feet loosened some large stones which rolled down the bank with a rattle, causing the girl to look sharply over her shoulder, and simultaneously from her red lips came a warning whistle, a shrill penetrating note first ascending then dropping again. I had heard that whistle of old and knew well its significance. In response thereto a Gypsy man appeared from behind the tents, his keen eyes gleaming with recognition. “Hey, _rashai_, we’s been a-talking about you lately. Only last night I was saying, p’raps our pass’n will be coming to see us one of these days, and here you are!”

Such was the greeting I got from Gypsy Sam, who now wheeled about and walked me off to a sandy hollow where his wife Lottie and her bairns sat by the fire. On catching sight of me, the children—a black-eyed troop—raised a shout of welcome, and, like little savages, soon began tugging at my coat tails. After an absence of several months from the camping-place this was a joyful meeting, and I guessed that my friends had much news to tell.

[Picture: Gypsy Children. Photo. Illustrations Bureau]

“It’s no use pretending to offer you a chair,” said Lottie, giving my hand a hearty shake, “for we haven’t got one. If there’s anything I does detest, it’s chairs. The nasty things make sich draughts about ’ur legs.” So, squatting on the ground, I awaited the unfolding of the family budget.

There was a touch of the Orient on every side. Stuck in the wind-rippled sand under a bold wall of rock were curved tent-rods with brown blankets pinned round them. Between the golden furze clumps a lean horse and a shaggy ass ripped the grasses. A greyhound lay asleep under a tilt-cart upon the shafts of which sundry gay garments were hanging to dry. Upon this picture my eye rested with pleasure.

Now Gypsy Sam ignites his tobacco by scooping up a red ember with the bowl of his pipe. His wife does the same, and I follow suit.

“A prettier place is this,” quoth Lottie, “than when you see’d us under that ugly railway bank at Hull.”

Verily the Gypsies are possessed of an æsthetic sense, and their roving eyes grow wistful as they take in the beauty of the distant hills and the sun-gleams lighting up grassy knolls and spindly fir-trees rising from patches of sand.

“You remember that _pawno grai_ (white horse) of ours?” says Sam. “Well, we lost him a little while back. A bit of _wafro bok_ (bad luck) that was for us. We was stopping at a place with nasty bogs around us, and one stormy night the _grai_ got into one of ’em unbeknown to we, and i’ the morning we found him with no more than his nose sticking out. Of course he were dead as a stone. Then there was that _kawlo jukel_ (black dog) what you saw at Hull—brother to this one under the cart—he got poisoned up yonder by Rotherham. I reckon a keeper done it as had a spite agen us. I wouldn’t ha’ parted with that dog for a good deal; he’s got us many a rabbit.”

The steaming splutter of the kettle suggests a meal, which is soon spread in winsome style. Meanwhile, from another fire hard by, a black pot is brought, and a savoury stew is followed by tea and slices of buttered bread with green cresses fresh from the brook. As Lottie lifts the silver teapot to pour out tea, I cannot help admiring the lovely old thing, and the Gypsy sees my appreciation.

“Yes,” (holding it up in the sunlight), “it’s a beauty, ain’t it? Did you ever hear of my Aunt Jōni’s quart silver teapot? Squire Shandres used to fix greedy eyes on it whenever he come down to the camp, but my aunt wouldn’t part with it, not likely. You won’t remember Jōni, of course. A funny old woman she were, to be sure. There was one thing I minds her a-telling of us. She’d been out with her _kipsi_ (basket) but it weren’t one of her good days, and by night her basket was nearly as heavy as when she’d set out. Twopence was all she’d made, as she passed through three or four willages, tumble-down sort of places, where the house walls were bent and the thatches of the cottages were sinking into the rooms underneath ’em. At one of these cottages as stood in an odd corner, Jōni stopped to knock. Two steps led up to a green door with a bird-cage hanging outside. She waited a minute, but as nobody came she gave two more raps and tried the door. It was bolted. After that she heard sounds inside, a muttering voice came nearer, and slip-slap went the shoes, as an old woman opened the door. Talk about ugly, she was that, if you like; and there was hair growing on her lip and chin. Fixing her black eyes on Jōni, she scowled and scolded, and, pointing a finger at her, she cursed poor Jōni, and for ten days afterwards my aunt couldn’t speak proper. Whenever she tried to talk, she could only groan and bark and moo like the beastses, and it wasn’t till after the tenth day that she were herself at all.”

From witches it was not a long leap to wise men.

Said Lottie, “Did I ever tell you about the wise man of Northampton? Well, it was one time as I’d had wery bad luck indeed with my basket. I couldn’t sell nothing at all in the willages agen that town, but I know’d a _gozvero mush_ (wise man) as lived there, so I went to see him, and he give me a rabbit’s head and a cake of bread. ‘Now,’ says he, ‘go you and call at the places where you’ve took nothing, and you’ll take money at all of ’em.’

“And what he told me came true, every word of it. I’ll take my sacrium oath it did. That there _gozvero mush_ (wise man) could tell the names of folks as had stolen things, and he could _dûker_ (tell fortunes) like one of us. He could tell folk a lot about theirselves by rubbing his hand over the bumps on their heads, and he could read the stars like a book, and find out things by the cards and by the crystal. He was sort of friendly with our people, and they liked him, but they would never go near a witch if they knew it.”

It has been truly said, “No one is fond of Gypsies, but is fonder of Gypsy children.” Grave-eyed pixies, at once bold and reserved, these quaint little sprites are simply irresistible. When the meal is over, I stroll off with a party of these romping rascals towards a gorsy hollow which the sun warms into a gayer gold. Asking the children if they would like a tale, and what sort? Answer comes, “A _muleno gudlo_” (fairy tale).

“How long?”

“A mile long, in course.”

Into my tale creeps a ghost, and when I had done, little Reuben says—

“I know something about _mulos_ (ghosts). One time a man was killed by a bull at the corner of the lane down yonder, and we allus hurries past that place for fear of _dik_in his _mulo_” (seeing his ghost). “And then there was two Gypsies as father once know’d. They begged some straw from a farmer and put it in a little shed for to sleep on. Then they went into the willage to buy a loaf, and when they got back they found the straw had gone. A little ways off they see’d a woman running away with the straw, but ’stid of follering her they went straight to the farmhouse where they’d got leave to sleep in the shed, and they told the farmer about the woman, and he says—

“‘Why, that’s my old woman as died ten year ago.’ My word, those Gypsies soon began to look out for a sleeping-place somewhere else. Yes, we knows a lot about _mulo_s.”

“What’s that noise?” asked one of the girls, springing up.

“Come away _tshavê_ (children). Come away, sir. Don’t you hear that nasty little _sap_” (snake)?

From among the mossy stones near at hand came a hissing sound, and there, sure enough, was a small viper wagging his black-forked tongue at us. We got up and moved nearer the camp.

“Norfolk’s the place for sarpints,” said one of the boys; “I once see one with a frog in its mouth. Lor, how the poor thing did squeal. There’s lots of lizards about here, and they say that a _hotshi_ (hedgehog) will eat ’em, but if I thought _that_ I’d never touch no more _hotshi_ s’long as I live.”

I told the children of a little incident which had happened on my way to Furzemoor, how I had cycled into a family of weasels crossing the road but didn’t run over any of them, and, dismounting, I banged one of the little fellows with my hat. He lay still, and I thought he was dead, but when I turned my head for a moment he was gone like a flash. Lottie, who had drawn near and was listening, remarked—

“It’s bad luck to meet a wezzel on the _drom_ (road), but if there’s anything we does like to meet, it’s the Romany _tshiriklo_ (bird),” which I knew to be the pied wagtail, the foreteller of coming Gypsies.

“When we sees our _tshiriklo_ on the road, and it flies, we knows we are going to meet Gypsies who’ll be akin to us, but if it only runs away, the travellers coming will be strangers. One day me and my man was on the _drom_ and we see a young hare tumbling over and over in front of us. That’s a sign as means ill, and, sure enough, a few days after we heard tell of the death of my man’s uncle ’Lijah. Talking about meeting things, I’ve heard it said that if you meet two carts, one tied behind t’other, you’ll soon go to prison.”

The strains of a fiddle now proceeded from where Sam sat alone by the fire, and we joined him. As the sun was going down one of the girls proposed a dance, and soon a merry whirl of Gypsy elves enlivened the camp. By the fireside, reminiscences came crowding into Sam’s brain.

“Many’s the time, as you know, we’ve draw’d on to this place, and I takes good care to be friendly with all the keepers round here. I never meddles wi’ nothink, you see, so we never gets across wi’ ’em. Ay, but I minds when I didn’t used to be so pertikler. See that oak wood up yonder? In my young days me and my old mammy got leave from a keeper to gather acorns in that wood. Us used to take ’ur sacks and fill ’em with acorns and sell ’em to a man as we know’d. And mam ’ud warn me not to meddle with the rabbits, lest we should be forbid to stop on here. One afternoon mam had half-filled her sack, and when her back was turned, I tumbled the acorns out, and slipped into the sack three rabbits as I’d knocked over, and I put the acorns back on the top of ’em. I was a good big lad then, and, my, wasn’t I frit when I see the keeper coming with his dog. When he got up to us, he and mam got a-talking, and I see the dog sniffing round the bag. The keeper, thinking that there was only acorns in it, shouts to the dog, “Come away there.” But the dog stuck there, and I was trembling in my boots for fear we should get into trouble. Howsiver, the keeper kept calling the dog off, and soon they goes away. Then I nips up the bag and trots off home with it, and when I told mam about it afterwards she gave me a downright good scolding and begged me never to do it no more.

“Our old folks allus travelled with pack-donkeys, and they had one donkey as was a wery knowing animal. I’ll tell you one thing it did. We was stopping in a lane of a summer’s evening, and our _foki_ (people) was smoking afore the fire under a hedge with the children playing round, and everybody was as happy as the Lord in Heaven, but all at once our _maila_ (donkey) comes and pokes its head atween daddy and me, and I taps it on the nose, playful-like, to send it away, but it comes back, and it was that restless and fidgety, poking and pulling at us—it wouldn’t be druv off. My mammy had been watching it from the tent, and she come up and says—

“‘That _maila_ knows summut, I reckons.’

“‘Ay, it’s a sign sure enough,’ says daddy. And the donkey still kep’ on poking and pulling at us. Long and by last dad says—

“‘We’d better clear out of here,’ for he thought there was summut queer about the donkey’s goings on. Well, we pulled up the tent rods and packed ’ur things, and we’d only just got out of the lane when two horsemen come along and began inquiring about a little pig as was missing from a farm. They made us unpack, and they searched through everythink, but, of course, they couldn’t find nothink agen us, and they goes their way and we goes ours. And that night, after we had settled down in an old quarry a bit furder on, my daddy beckoned me and took me to a deep hollow full o’ dead leaves, and, scrabbling among ’em, he takes out—what do you think? The nicest little _bawlo_ (porker) you ever see’d, and we gets it safe home. That donkey _did_ know summut after all. Ay, them were the old times. Things is wery different now.

“If you come here to-morrow you’ll mebbe walk up with me to the planting on t’other side of yon beck. The _rai_ as this land belongs to lets me _tshin_ (cut) all the _wuzen_ (elder) I wants. My old daddy used to say—

“‘You should never lay a chopper to a tree wi’out first axing the fairies’ leave,’ but folks forgets to do it now.”

The eyes of my friends here began to turn frequently in the direction of the cart-track. Indeed, when their eyes were not looking that way it seemed to me that their minds still were. Nor was this expectancy to go long unsatisfied, for soon there appeared in the sunken lane a black chimney topping a green-hooded vehicle, a light cart bringing up the rear. These Gypsies turned out to be a married son of Sam, with his wife and family. Here was a jolly arrival. With surprising rapidity the horses were unyoked, and the newcomers were gathered round their parents on the grass. Off to a well-known spring run the girls to fill the kettle and a bucket or two, and the boys scamper off towards a spinney to return with an abundance of dead wood. Then how the fires crackle and spurt, and in next to no time the steam is puffing from kettle spouts.

Feeling ten years younger for my visit to the Furzemoor Gypsies, I climbed up the deeply-rutted lane on the way to the distant railway station, and, as I turned for a last look, brown hands were waving, and _kushto bok_ (good luck), which is the Gypsy’s “good-bye,” was shouted after me. On my part I felt a strong tugging at the heart when, at a bend in the lane, I caught a farewell glimpse of the domed tents, upcurling blue smoke, and happy Gypsies among the golden gorse.

GLOSSARY

PRONUNCIATION {291}

I. VOWEL-SOUNDS

AS IN â alms (âms). a aloe (alô). aw all (awl). ê ale (êl). è air (èr). e ell (el). î eel (îl). i ill (il). ô old (ôld). o olive (oliv). û ooze (ûz). u book (buk). ù ulcer (ùlsa).

II. DIPHTHONGS

AS IN ai aisle (ail). oi oyster (oista). ou ounce (ouns).

III. CONSONANTS

The following are pronounced as in English:—

b, d, f, h, k, l, m, n, p, t, v, w.

v and w are, as a rule, easily interchangeable.

AS IN y yes (yes). r roam (rôm). ch loch (Scottish loch). s ass (as). sh shin (shin). tsh chin (tshin). z zest (zest). zh pleasure (plezhur). j (dzh) jest (jest). g gate (gêt). ng singer (singa). ngg finger (fingga). th thin (thin). dh then (dhen).

VOCABULARY.

ROMANY. ENGLISH. Adrê In, into, within. Akai Here. Apopli Again. Aprê On, upon. Av Come. Âva, âvali, âwa, âwali Yes, certainly, verily Avrî Away, out.

Bâ Stone, sovereign (£1). Baiengri Waistcoat. Bal Hair. Balovas Bacon, ham. Barvelo Rich. Baw Comrade, mate. Bawlo Pig. Bawro Great, large. Bawro-Gav London. Beng Devil. Besh Sit, rest, lie. Bîbi Aunt. Biken Sell. Bita Little. Bitshado Sent. Bitshado-pawdel Sent over, transported. Bok Luck. Bokro Sheep. Bokro-mas Mutton. Bongo Crooked, lame, wrong. Boshomengro Fiddler. Bouri Snail. Bouri-zimen Snail-broth. Bûdika Shop.

Dâbla Exclamation of surprise. Dadus Father. Dai Mother. Dawdi Exclamation of surprise. Delaben Gift. Del-aprê Read. Didakai Half-breed Gypsy. Dik See, look. Dikamengri Picture, looking-glass. Diklo Kerchief. Dinelo Fool, simpleton. Diri Dear. Divus Day. Dosta Enough, plenty. Dova That. Drom Road. Dûi Two. Dûker Tell fortunes. Dûkeripen Fortune. Dûvel God.

Fôki People.

Gad Shirt. Gawjikeno Belonging to gentiles. Gawjo Alien, gentile, anyone who is not a Gypsy. Gav Town. Gèro Man. Gozvero Cunning. Grai Horse. Gudlo Tale, noise. Guno Bag, sack. Hatsh Stop, camp. Hatsh-oprê Arise, get up. Haw Eat. Hawben A meal, food. Hĕro Leg, wheel. Hokano Lie, trick, swindle. Hora Penny. Hotsherdo Burnt. Hotshiwitshi Hedgehog.

Jaw Go. Jin Know. Jiv Live. Jukel Dog.

Kai Where. Kanengro Hare. Kani Hen. Kawlo Black. Ke-divus To-day. Kek, keka No, not, never. Kel, kèr Do, make. Kèr House. Kipsi Basket. Kisi Much. Kitshima Tavern, public-house. Klîsin Lock. Kokero Self. Koliko To-morrow. Kom Love, like. Kon Who. Konaw Now. Kongri Church. Kopa Blanket. Kosht Stick, wood. Kova This, thing. Krafni Button. Kuro Cup, glass, mug. Kushto Good. Laj Shame. Latsher Find, pick up. Lav Word. Lavengro Word-man, linguist. Lel Get, take. Len, lendi Them, their. Lesti Him, his. Levina Beer. Lil Book, paper. Loli Red. Lova Money.

Maila Donkey. Man, mandi I, me. Mas Meat. Masengro Butcher. Maw Don’t. Maw Kill, slay, murder. Mî, mîro, m’o My, mine. Mokado Unclean. Mokto Box. Mol Wine. Mong Beg, pray, request. Monûshni Woman, wife. Mûi Mouth, face. Mûk Let, allow, leave, lend. Mûleno Ghostly, fairy, supernatural. Mûlo Dead, ghost. Mûlo-mas Carrion. Mûmeli Candle. Mumpari, mumper Low-class traveller. Mumpli Nasty. Mûsh Man. Mûskro Policeman.

Nasher Lose, waste. Nongo Naked, bald, bare.

O The. Odoi There. Oprê On, up, upon. Ora Hour, watch.

Pal Brother. Pâni Water. Pariko Thank. Patrin Trail, sign, leaf. Pawdel Across, over, beyond. Pawni Fair, white. Pen Sister. Pen Say. Peser Pay. Petulengro Smith. Pîro Foot. Pogado Broken. Poger Break. Porj Bridge. Posh Half. Praster Run. Pûker Tell. Pûkinger Magistrate. Pûri-dai Grandmother. Pûro Old. Pûrum Leek. Pûtsh Ask. Pûv Field. Pûvengri Potato.

Rai, raia Gentleman, sir. Rakli Girl. Rashai Priest, parson. Rat Blood. Rat, rati Night. Rawni Lady. Rinkeno Beautiful. Rokamiaw Trousers. Roker Talk, speak. Rokerben Conversation, speech. Rom Husband. Romanes Gypsy-wise, Gypsy language. Romanitshel Gypsy. Romano Gypsy. Romer Marry Rûp Silver.

Sâ How. Sal Laugh. Sap Snake. Saw All, everything. Sawkûmi Everybody. Sawla Morning. Shan Are. Shûkora Sixpence. Shûn Hear. Shushi Rabbit. Sî Is. Sig Quickly, soon, early. Sô What. Sos Was. Stari Star. Staruben Prison. Stor Four. Swêgler Pipe.

Ta And. Tâder Draw. Tălê Down. Tan Tent. Tâno Young. Tatsheno True, genuine. Tatshipen Truth. Tatsho True. Te To. Tem Country, land. Tîro Your. Tôv Wash. Trash Frighten. Trin Three. Tshai Lass, daughter, girl. Tshavo Son. Tshib Tongue, language. Tshikli Dirty, foul. Tshin Cut. Tshiriklo Bird. Tshitshi Nothing. Tshiv Put. Tshokaw Boots. Tshor Steal. Tshordo Stolen. Tshori Poor. Tshovihawni Witch. Tshûmani Something. Tshûpni Whip. Tû, tût, tûti You. Tûv Smoke. Tûvalo Tobacco.

Vâdo Caravan, cart. Vâva Another. Vast Hand. Vel, wel Come.

Wafodû, wafro Bad. Wesh, vesh Wood, forest. Wûser Throw. Wûzen Elder.

Yek One. Yog Fire. Yoi She. Yôra Egg. Yov He.

Zimen Broth

MUMPER’S PATTER

Dunnock Steer. Mush-fakir Umbrella-mender.

GYPSY “FORE” OR CHRISTIAN NAMES.

MASCULINE NAMES.

Airant.

Aniel.

Artelus.

Baius.

Barendon.

Bartholoways.

Bohemia.

Bosko.

Boufi.

Buzi.

Craimia.

Credi.

Dimiti.

Dinki.

Doval.

Dud.

Duraia.

Dusti.

Eros.

Evergreen.

Feli.

Fennix.

Fowk.

Ganation.

Glympton.

Golias.

Gōni.

Gui.

Haini.

Harkles.

Harodain.

Hedji.

Înan.

Îthil.

Îza.

Jaina.

Kaivela.

Kashi.

Khulai.

Ladin.

Lamerok.

Leshi.

Liberty.

Logan.

Loni.

Lumas.

Lusha.

Mairik.

Manabel.

Manfri.

Manful.

Mantis.

Meriful.

Moelus.

Morpus.

Moti.

Motsha.

Motshan.

Motshus.

Muldobrai.

Nelus.

Niabai.

Nipkin.

Nitshel.

Northalion.

Ōbi.

Ōki.

Ŏlbi.

Ŏli.

Orferus.

Ōseri.

Ōthi.

Ōti.

Penderbela.

Persuvius.

Perun.

Pesulia.

Piramus.

Polius.

Potamus.

Rabai.

Raito.

Renda.

Righteous.

Rinki.

Ruslo.

Sairenda.

Santabelphijum.

Santalina.

Santanoa.

Seki.

Seneptune.

Shandres.

Shani.

Shiva.

Silus.

Simpronius.

Solivaino.

Studivares.

Swallow.

Taimi.

Taiso.

Teni.

Thurles.

Tudlin.

Tuti.

Vaina.

Wacka.

Waimore.

Wantelo.

Wingi.

Woodlock.

Yoben.

Zegul.

Zezil.

FEMININE NAMES.

Acorn.

Alamina.

Andelia.

Angelis.

Anis.

Ashena.

Ashila.

Aslog.

Begonia.

Bidi.

Biti.

Bobum.

Boina.

Consuleti.

Daiena.

Darklis.

Delaia.

Delenda.

Deleta.

Deloreni.

Dorenia.

Edingel.

Eldorai.

Elophia.

Elvaira.

Emanaia.

Erosabel.

Everilda.

Ezi.

Fazenti.

Femi.

Fernet.

Fianci.

Fili.

Florentia.

Fluenzi.

Froniga.

Genti.

Glorina.

Graveleni.

Idadê.

Inji.

Jeta.

Jōni.

Kadilia.

Kerlenda.

Kiomi.

Kodi.

Kraisini.

Laini.

Lavaina.

Leanabel.

Lenda.

Leondra.

Levaithen.

Lidi.

Linji.

Liti.

Lurina.

Lusana.

Lwaiden.

Madona.

Maiburi.

Maireni.

Mandra.

Marbeleni.

Melvinia.

Memberensi.

Mezi.

Million.

Mino.

Mireli.

Miselda.

Mitoreni.

Mizereti.

Modiwench.

Morjiana.

Nareli.

Olovina.

Omi.

Oshina.

Paizeni.

Paizi.

Pamela.

Penhela.

Perpagelion.

Piki.

Plenti.

Polovine.

Pomona.

Queenation.

Reni.

Repentance.

Repriona.

Richenda.

Rodi.

Romania.

Saibarini.

Saiera.

Saifi.

Saiforela.

Saiki.

Sanspirela.

Savaina.

Sedinia.

Seluna.

Seni.

Separi.

Shorensi.

Shuri.

Sibela.

Siberensi.

Sibereti.

Sinaminta.

Sinfai.

Spidi.

Stari.

Suti.

Taishan.

Telaitha.

Tiena.

Traienti.

Treci.

Treli.

Trenit.

Vashti.

Wadi.

Waini.

Wasti.

Wenti.

Weson.

Whipni.

Widens.

Wigi.

Wuzi.

Yunakrai.

Zebra.

Zina.

Zuba.

INDEX

Arnold, Matthew, _The Scholar-Gipsy_, 123.

Articles enclosed in coffin, 243.

Aryan languages of India and the Gypsy language, 73–74.

Australia, Gypsies in, 167–168.

* * * * *

Baring-Gould, S., _Book of Folk-Lore_, 22.

Borrow, George, 27, 81, 197, 264; Dumpling Green (Borrow’s birthplace), 197; _Lavengro_, 27, 28, 160, 197, 241; Borrow’s originals, 28–31, 158; _The Romany Rye_, 28–30, 143, 230, 232; _Romany_ (Gypsy) _Word-Book_, 161, 165, 249; _The Zincali_, 81–83.

Bottomless pool, a, 272.

Brancepeth Castle, 33, 35.

Bread crumbled to ward off evil, 53.

Brewer, Dr., _Dictionary of Fable_, 126.

Burning possessions of the departed, 243, 246.

Byard’s Leap, a witch legend, 140–141.

* * * * *

_Caian_, _The_ (quoted), 73–74.

Calderari, the, 206.

Charm, a Gypsy, 36.

Childbirth tabu, 53.

Coining words, 170.

Creel (portable grinding-machine), 161.

Creenies, 206.

Crinks, 207.

Crofton, H. T., on continental origin of certain Anglo-Romany Christian names, 54; _The Dialect of the English Gypsies_. See Smart.

Crystal-gazing, 108, 223–225.

* * * * *

Dancing booth, 177.

_Dark Ages_, _The_, by “L.,” 246.

Death-hawk, 245.

Devil and nuts, 111.

_Dialect of the English Gypsies_, _The_, by Dr. Bath Smart and H. T. Crofton, 76, 239.

Dialects, modern Indian, 73.

Dialogue between two Gypsies, 144–145.

Diamond, Manful Heron’s, 190–191.

_Didakais_ (half-breeds), 25, 77.

Drinking-vessels of aliens avoided, 82.

* * * * *

East Anglian Gypsy family, an, 104–117.

Egyptian origin of the Gypsies, legend of, 74–75.

Ermine Street (High Dyke), a Roman road, 134.

Evil eye, 53, 129.

* * * * *

Fairies, 15, 288.

Fairs—Bala, 265; Brough Hill, 275; Horncastle, 229–237; Leicestershire Fair, a, 47; Lincoln, 257; Newark-on-Trent, 141–142; Peterborough, 118–133; Seamer, 184–185; Stow Green, 68–70; West Stockwith, 89–98.

Fasting, 111, 163.

Fear of ghost, 243.

Feeding a gibbeted man, 22.

Ferdousi (quoted), 114.

Fight between Gypsies, a, 69–70.

Fighting song, a, 70.

Flaming, Tinman, the, 28.

Fortune-telling, 61, 107–108, 128.

Fossdyke, a Roman canal, 16–17.

Freckles and Gypsies, 102.

* * * * *

Gamekeepers and Gypsies, 19, 63, 139, 286–287.

Gentleman Gypsy, the. See Stables, Dr. Gordon.

Ghosts, 66–67, 108–109, 183, 284.

Gibberish, 78, 153.

Gilliat-Smith, B., on the Gypsy language, 73–74.

Glanvill, Joseph, _The Vanity of Dogmatizing_, 123–125.

Gordon, Jean, prototype of Meg Merrilies, 28.

Great North Road, the, 55, 57, 100, 104, 207.

Groome, F. H., 91, 102, 129; _Gypsy Folk-Tales_, 257; _In Gipsy Tents_, 85; letter (quoted), 126.

Gypsy baptism, a, 52–53.

„ benison, a, 46.

„ bird (pied wagtail), 89, 285.

,, blood, grades of, 77.

„ burial lore, 240–246.

„ carelessness about names, 131.

,, cheerfulness, 34.

Gypsy, Christian or “fore” names, 53–54, 299–302.

„ church-going, 219.

„ cookery, 277.

„ Court, its characters, 18–27, 105, 176.

„ crimes, 254–255.

„ curse, 129.

„ dreams, 109–110, 159.

„ enchantress, a, 164–165.

„ epitaphs, 150, 244.

„ eye, the, 160–161.

„ fetish, 145–146.

„ fiddlers, 10–11, 29–30, 84, 86, 120, 195, 222, 266–267, 274–275.

„ fighters, 3, 30, 69–70.

„ graves, 150, 170, 238, 240.

„ guiding-signs (_patrin_s), 95–96, 142–143.

„ harpist, 85–86, 275.

„ heroism, 30.

„ hospitality, 49–51.

„ incantation over sick person, 164–165.

_Gypsy Jack_, a drama, 103.

,, _Laddie_, the, a ballad, 171.

Gypsy language, the, 73–74, 153.

„ Lore Society (note), 254.

„ love of extraordinary names, 54.

„ love of a fire, 10.

„ marriage, 176.

,, mesmerism, 122–125.

,, migrations, 157.

,, moods, 7.

,, morals, 255.

,, name-changes, 244–245.

,, origins, 72–76.

„ pedigrees, 78–79, 167.

,, pets, 142, 192–193.

,, play-spirit, 91–94, 216.

,, politeness, 3, 79.

„ pride, 76, 156.

,, queens, 71.

,, reverence for the dead, 240.

,, sense of beauty, 281.

„ snuff-taking, 18, 196.

,, soldier, a, 27.

„ song, a, 84–85.

„ surnames, 55–56.

„ tent, construction of, 146.

,, tinkers, 205–212.

„ trial, a, 31.

„ tricks, 121–123, 132, 236.

„ unwillingness to impart names, 54–55.

,, warning whistle, 7, 280.

,, washing rules, 113–114.

Gypsyries—Blackpool, 71–88; Derby, 157–165; Lincoln, 2–4; London, 162, 198–201; Scarborough, 173–179.

* * * * *

Half-breeds, 77, 181.

Hangman’s Ditch, 2.

Hedge-crawlers, 77, 156.

Hedgehog, 26, 45, 49–50, 62, 67, 177–178, 257.

“Helm” wind (at Brough Hill), 276.

_Henry IV_. (Shakespeare), quoted, 207.

High Dyke, or Ermine Street, 134–141.

Hindi, 73.

_Hokano Bawro_, a traditional swindle, 121–122.

Holyhead Road, the, 262, 268.

Horse of deceased Gypsy shot or sold, 243, 246.

Horse-stealing, 132.

Hoyland, _Historical Survey of the Gypsies_, 39.

* * * * *

Irish vagrants, 157.

* * * * *

Jack o’ Lantern, 147.

Jewellery of deceased Gypsy dropped into river, 243.

_Journal of the Gypsy Lore Society_, _The_, 164–165.

* * * * *

King Edward the VII. (when Prince of Wales), 203.

Kirk Yetholm, 115.

Knapp, Dr. W. I., _The Life_, _Writings_, _and Correspondence of George Borrow_, 28.

* * * * *

Legends and folk-tales—

Caspar, one of the Magi, a Gypsy, 75.

Ghost of the Haystack, the, 147–148.

Ghost of the Ford, the, 222.

Happy Boz’ll’s Tales, 257–261.

Nails at the Crucifixion, a legend, 75.

O’Neil’s Horse, 182.

Romanitshels hail from Egypt, a legend, 74–75.

Ruzlam Boz’ll’s Boy and the Fairies, 14–15.

Witch of Byard’s Leap, the, 140–141.

Wry-necked Fiddler, the, and the Devil, 225–227.

Zuba Lovell sells herself to the Devil, 112–113.

Leland, Charles G., 54; _The English Gipsies and their Language_, 203; his discovery of Shelta (note), 208.

Libation on Gypsy graves, 151, 240.

Lincoln, Upper (described), 1–2.

Lithuanian Gypsies, 75.

Loan-words, 74.

Lying tales, 86–87, 257–261.

* * * * *

Mace, Jem, the pugilist, 195, 233.

M‘Cormick, Provost, his _Tinkler Gypsies_ (quoted), 10.

Macfie, R. A. Scott, lecture (quoted), 254–255; _System of Anglo-Romany Spelling for English Readers and British Printers_, 291–292.

Magi, the, a Gypsy legend, 75.

Merrilies, Meg, 28.

Meyer, Kuno, on Shelta (note), 207.

Miller, Thomas, _Gideon Giles the Roper_, 161.

_Mokadi_ (unclean), 113–114.

Mousehold Heath, 28, 80–81, 197.

Moveable Dwellings Bill, the, 155.

_Mulo-mas_ (note), 61, 62.

Mumper’s Dingle, 31.

Mumpers and Gypsies contrasted, 77.

* * * * *

Name-changes, 192, 244–245.

Newark ale, 221, 223.

No Man’s Land, 178.

Nomenclature, Gypsy, 299–302.

* * * * *

Oakley (an artist), 163.

Omens, 245, 285–286.

Oppression of Gypsies, 20.

* * * * *

_Pall Mall Budget_, the, 43.

“Peelers,” 26.

Petulengro Jasper (Ambrose Smith), 28, 30, 157, 197, 229, 241.

Public Record Office, the, 247.

_Puvin Graiaw_, the illegal pasturing of horses, 138.

* * * * *

Recipe for youth, a, 278.

Robin Hood’s Bay, Gypsies at, 178, 180–183.

„ „ Hills, 149.

Romany Language, its pronunciation, 291–292.

„ Vocabulary, a, 292–298.

Rudiger, 73.

* * * * *

Sampson, Dr. John, on Shelta (note), 207–208.

Sanskrit, 73–74.

Scott, Sir Walter, 28; _Guy Mannering_, 28; Sheriff of Selkirkshire, 39, 234.

Scythe blades in Horncastle Church, 230–231.

Self-sacrifice of a sweep, 249.

Shelta (tinkers’ talk), its Celtic origin (note), 207–208; short vocabulary of, 212.

Sims, G. R., _The Romany Rye_ (a drama), 103–104.

Smart, Dr. Bath, and Crofton, H. T., _The Dialect of the English Gypsies_, 76, 239.

Smith, George, of Coalville (philanthropist), 51, 155–156.

Snail broth, 62.

Snakes, 88, 285.

Spanish Gypsies, 196.

Spirits summoned by the spoken name, 54–55.

Stables, Dr. Gordon, 149–150.

Stone, J. Harris, _Caravanning and Camping Out_, 241.

Stories—

Bishop Trollope’s Story of Dunston Pillar, 137–138.

Bobby Faa and the Shepherd’s Pie, 115–117.

Dunnock (steer), a Tale about, 12–13.

Eliza Gray’s Tale of a Ghost, 108–109.

“Finding” a Horse, 132–133.

Poaching Policeman, a, 63.

The Bough Licence, 232–233.

The Donkey that knew Something, 287–288.

The Gypsy’s Surprise, 37–38.

Tyso Boswell and the Buried Treasure, 190.

* * * * *

Tabu, childbirth, 53.

„ on food and drink of the dead, 39–40, 243.

„ on names of the dead, 244–245.

Tales. See Legends, Lying Tales, Stories, Transportation.

Temple, Sir Richard, on Gypsy Christian names, 54.

Theatre, Harrison’s, 103.

Thompson, T. W., on Gypsy burial, 241.

_Times_, the, 103–104.

Tinkers, 205–212, 249.

Tinkers’ talk. See Shelta.

Tinklers, 10, 207.

Transportation of Gypsies, 247–254.

,, tales, 247–254.

Trollope, Bishop E., 137.

Turning garments of dead inside out, 242–243.

* * * * *

Victoria, Queen, _More Leaves from the Journal of a Life in the Highlands_ (quoted), 29.

* * * * *

Watching the corpse, 242.

„ the grave, 243–244.

Wayside burial, 240–242.

Welsh Gypsies, 262–269.

White, Gilbert, of Selborne, 55.

Wine buried, 114.

Wise man, a, 283.

,, woman, a, 223.

Wishing a wish, 129.

Witches, 188, 240, 282–283.

Wood, Abraham, 265–266.

Footnotes

{28} _The Life_, _Writings_, _and Correspondence of George Borrow_, by Prof. Wm. I. Knapp. London, 1899.

{53} See list of masculine and feminine names, pp. 299–302.

{61} _Mulo-mas_, the flesh of an animal which has died without the aid of a butcher. “Isn’t what the _diri Duvel_ (God) kills as good as anything killed by a _masengro_?” (butcher).

{73} “Gypsies,” by B. Gilliat-Smith (_The Caian_, vol. xvi. No. 3).

{207} “Shelta is a secret language of great antiquity . . . in Irish MSS. we have mentions and records of it under various names . . . though now confined to tinkers, its knowledge was once possessed by Irish poets and scholars, who, probably, were its original framers” (Professor Kuno Meyer).

“The language of the tinkers is a dialect or jargon exclusively of Celtic origin, though, like one of their own stolen asses, it is so docked and disguised as to be scarcely recognizable. . . . A large number of Shelta words are formed by transposing the principal letters of the Gaelic word. This species of back-slang is, of course, purely phonetic, differing in this respect from the more artificial letter-reversing back-slang of costers and cabmen. . . . It is indeed strange that the existence of a tongue so ancient and widespread as Shelta should have remained entirely unsuspected until Mr. Leland, with whom the undivided honour of this discovery rests, first made it public in the pages of _Macmillan’s Magazine_” (Dr. John Sampson).

{246} _The Dark Ages and Other Poems_. By L.

{256} _Gypsy Folk-Tales_, by Francis Hindes Groome (London, 1899).

{291} Taken from _A System of Anglo-Romani Spelling for English Readers and British Printers_, by R. A. Scott Macfie.