CHAPTER V

A GYPSY BAPTISM—ROMANY NAMES

QUITTING the Wolds, described in the preceding chapter, I took up my abode in a large village situated on Lincoln Heath, where I had further opportunities of pursuing my Gypsy studies round about home.

In a sinuous turfy lane which ran behind our house, the Gypsies would pitch their camp from time to time, and one of these wandering families conceived the notion of renting a cottage in the village. In my mind’s eye I can see that little house, wearing a lost, desolate air. It stood in a walled-in yard, where loose stones lay strewn, and the ridge of the red-tiled roof sunken in the middle threatened a collapse.

Unaccustomed to sleeping under a roof, and a rickety one at that, the Gypsies fled in alarm from their chamber one wild, boisterous night, fearing lest the chimney-pots should tumble in upon them. Near by stood their green caravan, and snugly abed therein they felt secure from all harm. Next day a timid rap came at the Rectory door, and a black-eyed girl whispered in my ear that her mother would like the baby, a few hours old, to be christened. This I did, and a day or two afterwards I was agreeably surprised to meet the Gypsy mother with her baby taking the fresh air on the high road. What mother in any other rank of life could carry her child in the open so soon after its birth?

“It’s a way we have,” said Walter Heron, when explaining to me that a plate, cup, and saucer are set apart for the mother’s use during the four weeks following the birth of a child. The vessels are then destroyed in accordance with an old puerperal tabu. This custom is still observed in all good Romany families.

Tom Lee, an English Gypsy, broke up a loaf of bread and strewed the crumbs around his tent when his son Bendigo was born, for some of the old-time Gypsies hold the notion that bread possesses a protective magic against evil influences. Seated one day in the tent of Bendigo Lee on the South Shore at Blackpool, I questioned him about his father’s practice. “In the days when I was born,” he replied, “there were people that could do hurt by looking at you, and I s’pose my _dadus_ (father) sprinkled the crumbs lest any evil person going by should cast harm upon me.”

A distinct survival of the belief in the evil eye.

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Romany “fore,” or Christian names, {53} are often peculiar, and afford much material for reflection.

Whence come such names as Khulai, Maireni, Malini, Mori, Shuri? In these names Sir Richard Temple discerns Indian forms or terminations. The Anglo-Romany names, Fenela, Siari, and Trenit, have been identified by Mr. H. T. Crofton with the Continental forms, Vennel, Cihari, and Tranitza, the last being a common feminine Gypsy name in Hungary.

Euphonious and out-of-the-way names are irresistible to the Gypsy.

“What metal is that box made of, sir?” asked a Gypsy mother on seeing a gentleman’s cigarette-case.

“Aluminium,” was the reply.

“What a beautiful name for my gell’s baby!”

According to Charles G. Leland, a Gypsy father, hearing two gentlemen talking about Mount Vesuvius, was greatly impressed by the name, and consulted with them as to the propriety of giving it to his little boy.

Gypsies dislike to be addressed by their peculiar “fore” or Christian names in the presence of _gawjê_; hence to the postman, Ènos become Amos, Fèmi—Amy, and Poley—George, and so on. As a rule, you find a Gypsy is unwilling to impart his true name to a stranger. May not this reluctance be due to a lingering subconscious belief that the possession of one’s true name would enable a stranger to work harmful spells upon the owner?

Time was when the belief was widely spread that the utterance of a man’s true name drew him to the speaker. Medieval records are full of legendary accounts of spirits who were summoned by the casual pronunciation of their names. Until lately there were peasants in the North of Ireland and Arran who absolutely refused to tell their names to a stranger because such knowledge, it was believed, would enable him to “call” them, no matter how far he was from them, and whenever he cared to do so. They also believed that any spell worked on the written name would have the same effect as if worked on the owner.

It is a fact that not a few Gypsy surnames are identical with those of ancient noble families, _e.g._ Boswell, or Bosville (sometimes contracted to Boss), Gray, Heron, Hearne, or Herne, Lees, Lovells, and Stanleys. It has been surmised, by way of explanation, that the Gypsies soon after their arrival in this country adopted the surnames of the owners of the estates on which particular hordes usually encamped, or the names of those landed families who afforded protection to the persecuted wanderers.

Speaking of the Gypsies, Gilbert White of Selborne, says, “One of these tribes calls itself by the noble name of Stanley.” This mention of the Stanleys reminds me that once on Gonerby Hill, near Grantham, on the Great North Road, I met a young man who looked like a mechanic out of work, yet his bearing was that of a Gypsy. In our talk he admitted that he was of Romany blood. He had been a horseman in Lord George Sanger’s circus, but something had gone wrong and he was thrown out of employ. At first he gave his name as Richardson (not a Gypsy name), but he afterwards told me that his grandfather, a Stanley, had been transported, for which reason the family assumed the name of Richardson.