THE terms “gypsy” and “tramp” are by many considered synonymous. It is not, however, by any means the case, for while gypsies may be, and sometimes are, mistaken for tramps, the genuine professional tramp and the Tachey Romany, or true gypsy, have very little in common.

The tramp may perhaps be described as one who is dominated by the early instincts of our race,—instincts which in every one of us are but just below the veneer of civilization,—for we know that in the infancy of the human race man was perforce of a roving, restless and predatory disposition, driven by circumstances to wander in search of food, and, as in the case of plants which have been improved,—civilized, if you will, by cultivation,—there is always the tendency to return to the primitive state, so every civilized man is more or less insistently urged by Nature to disregard the conventions of Society, to live in the open air and to wander.

We may then take it that the professional tramp demonstrates this instinct combined with a detestation of honest toil. Such men sometimes depart from the ways of their kind and adopt the manner of life of the gypsy, and, when living under such conditions, they are, in some districts, designated “Mumpers.” Sometimes these mumpers intermarry with the gypsies, adopt their mode of living and assimilate many of their customs and portions of their language, with the result that their progeny exhibit many of the true Romany characteristics. Sometimes such half-caste gypsies are called “diddecoys,” but one also hears the term loosely applied to the true gypsy. I have heard it most frequently by the people of Hampshire, and occasionally by the gypsies themselves. A man once said to me, “I ain’t an old diddecoy like my missus; I was born in a house, but she’s always been a travelling lady.”

Of the caravan or tent dwellers it is difficult to say which are the more interesting, as owners of caravans may be frequently found camping in tents,—perhaps while the van is undergoing repairs, or because it will not accommodate the whole of the family. Again, a family will, for a time, take to “life under the tan” and later we may see them located in a van, it will therefore be better to make no invidious comparisons but treat of both van and tent dweller impartially. To the student, the life led by the habitual tent dwellers will appeal the more strongly as many of them have not associated with the outside world to quite the same extent as their caravan brethren and they are therefore, in some respects, the more interesting, and we can gain from them a much better idea of the primitive dwellings and general conditions under which most of the gypsies lived during those centuries of wandering both in India and after their emigration. Concerning much of their wanderings, history is dumb, but certain facts stand out in strong relief, for historians relate how in 1414 they appeared in Germany and France in bands, gaining a livelihood by the practice of fortune-telling.

Bands of them went to Persia as musicians, others engaged in various trades and scattered all over Europe. Their appearance in England dates from about 1480.

We read that the Persian monarch Behran Gour received from an Indian king 12,000 musicians of both sexes who were known as “LÛris” or “LÛlis,” and in this record of what is presumably the first emigration of the gypsies, the term “LÛris” is identical with that by which gypsies are known in Persia to-day. Pursuing the theme, we note the statement by old writers that “between al-Mansura and Mokrau the waters of the Indus have formed marshes, the borders of which are inhabited by certain Indian tribes called Zott, they are true nomads, living in huts like the Berbers.” We are told further that in the Arabic dictionary al-Kamus this entry occurs—“Zott arabicized from Jatt, a people of Indian origin.” Zott, by the way, is the name by which the gypsies are known to the Arabs.

Much space might, of course, be devoted to accounts of the life of these people after their departure from India to their arrival upon our shores, but it is a long, and often a sad story. A book, too, might be written on “The Arts and Devices used in Persecuting the Gypsies,” as in all countries,—not excepting our own,—they have received most inhuman treatment, and all who possess the smallest spark of Christian charity must feel ashamed of many of their countrymen. At the present day our methods differ it is true, but are we at heart more tolerant than our forefathers? do we not still drive the Romany chal and Romany chi from hedge to hedge? the only respite being when they are allowed to encamp for a short time on ground known to them as “Kekkeno mush’s poov,” or to us as “No man’s ground,” otherwise, a common. Both policeman and keeper appear to regard them as vermin and would fain treat them as such. Seldom—it would seem—do they seek to gain really reliable information concerning them, while the keeper, displaying the ignorance and bigotry usually associated with his office, and, coupling with it a desire to stand well in his employer’s opinion, goes even so far as to bear false witness against them. Such cases have been brought to my notice and it should, I think, be scarcely a matter for surprise if a keeper or office bearer of that ilk has the error of his ways forcibly demonstrated to him or upon him by one whom he has traduced.

A gypsy never forgets either a kindness or an intentional injury.

A keeper is, or should be, a trusted man, and while he may present his friends with game shot upon his master’s estate and take advantage to almost any extent of that curious term—perquisite, so great is his honesty and his consideration for his employer that he is willing to affirm—on his oath if needs be—that he has detected gypsies in the act of poaching on milord’s estate at the same instant of time he and his brother keepers or intimates were drinking to the health of anyone rather than themselves at the local “hotel.” In a court of justice the judge himself is probably a land-owner and preserver of game and is prone to accept the statement of anyone whom he considers trustworthy, and the gypsy whom he may regard as having been “born in sin” will probably be sent to eat the prison loaf.

I hold no brief for the gypsies, nor contend that they are better or worse than others, neither do I close my eyes to the fact that treatment such as I have known them to be subjected to cannot be defended either on the score of Christian charity or the normal Englishman’s love of fair play.

Can it then be wondered at that the gypsy is taciturn, difficult to approach, suspicious of all men?

To go back a little, we find we must give Henry VIII credit for issuing the first act of persecution against the gypsies, Mary and Elizabeth followed suit, and at last even capital punishment was prescribed as a means of getting rid of them.

Nowadays it is somewhat difficult to realise that, formerly, because a people or a class were not understood, those who were in power should, for no other reason, become obsessed with the insane idea of annihilating them.

In France under Louis XIII and Louis XIV some of the gypsies were massacred, others barely escaped with their lives, while in 1633 Philip IV appears to have forbidden them to use their own language, and in 1745 a decree was issued ordering the putting to death of all wandering gypsies.

Fortunately, this could not be carried out to the letter. Yet, with all this persecution, past and present, the gypsy, when really known and understood, is one of the best of friends. “Aye, it’s a merry life and plenty o’ fun,” said one to me recently.

I do not, however, wish to convey the impression that he is a perpetually happy being. None can be more variable, one minute he may be convulsed with laughter, the next—deeply despondent. His temperament has much to remind one of the changeability of Nature, sunshine one moment, the next a darkened sky. The gypsy, too, has much of the child in his composition, he is as a child that somehow has never fully grown up, not that he is childish, far from it, but long contact with the gypsy and close study of gypsy character present them to me as a people who are actuated to the full by all the passions and emotions of healthy, natural manhood, and yet never really let go their hold on childhood.

Are you a kairengro or house-dweller who visits him, then he will seldom exhibit his cunning—and in all the arts pertaining to his trade or trades he is usually remarkably clever—he thinks you “jal a moskeying,” that is, go a-spying, than which there is nothing perhaps he dislikes more, unless it be to be seen by a gorgio or non-gypsy in the act of having a meal. He may talk to you, he may be most entertaining, but he may be probing your heart and mind at the same time, and not until you have long passed satisfactorily his hawk-eyed, soul-searching examination, will he regard you as more than any other gorgio or Gentile, but, if you can converse in his own tongue—the Romany jib he loves so well but never or seldom displays before a stranger—and he is assured of your good intentions by long acquaintance, then only will he open out and reveal himself, and give, as it were, his seal to the friendship by inviting you to partake of a meal with his family, indeed, he would be likely to fight for you or share his last penny with you if need be, and you then come to realise that with all his complexity of character, there lies beneath, a warm heart and generous disposition.

Many are handicapped by being unable to read or write. I have in mind a Romany acquaintance who does a good business, but has to rely on the help of friends to order his wares and pay his accounts for him. He came to me one day and asked if I could write another letter for him, adding, almost as though speaking to himself, “It’s a love-letter this time.”

“Well,” said I, after pen and paper had been procured, “please go ahead.” For a moment or two he seemed lost in thought and hesitated, as though at a loss how to begin. I offered a suggestion and he at once said, “Yes! put that down.” The ice being now broken we got along famously, he standing with his back towards me, dictating. The letter was written in a combination of English (of a sort) and Romany,—poggado jib or broken tongue as it is termed. Perhaps no more curious camipen-lil (love-letter) had ever been written. As he was quite unable to write I signed his name—he had, in fact, almost forgotten how it should be spelled. Having done this I quite naturally supposed my task was completed, but no, he desired every available bit of space filled in with crosses. “What are those for?” I asked artlessly. “Oh, she’ll understand,” he replied. “Put in some more, please.”

I therefore made crosses both big and small wherever they could be squeezed in, until he seemed satisfied, but I sincerely trust his Romany chi did not try to count them. One can almost imagine her making the attempt: “Yeck, dui, trin, stor, pantsch, sho,” and before reaching “dui trins ta yeck” and “dui stors,” giving up the task as being beyond her.

Many of the gypsies are, of course, able to write, but they get little schooling in the ordinary sense of the term and I have heard the gypsies say they do not like their boys and girls to sit next to a lot of gorgio children in a school. Better times are ahead, however, for the school-master is abroad, and there are workers among them, notably the Church Army Mission, whose self-sacrificing men teach the children the alphabet, elementary arithmetic, etc., together with such simple Christian truths as they can assimilate, for in the children lies their hope. An aspect of the work of the Mission which is not seen by the passer-by, is the tactful, considerate help rendered in times of distress. A gypsy, whatever his status, has a certain pride and he will not, if he can avoid it, visit a relieving officer; the workers of the Mission, however, with an equally keen insight into human nature, have perhaps a more sympathetic heart, enabling them to find out real cases of need, when they help to the best of their ability, often when such help should really be forthcoming from the relieving officer.

Unfortunately, many writers fail to discriminate between the Chorodies (low, wandering outcasts) and the Romany chals (true gypsies). Scathing letters have appeared in the newspapers, condemning all gypsies and other nomads as incorrigible rogues, and suggesting fourteenth-century methods for their removal. One writer—I will not debase the word by calling him man—said he did not care what became of them so long as they did not come near him,—a strikingly unbeautiful example of existing intolerance.

However, it is not my aim, nor province, to answer directly the newspaper letters of selfish and pharisaical people, but rather to exhibit the gypsy character, and to speak of the gypsy as I have found and know him, no better, no worse; to carry the reader in imagination with me, to see them at work, to sit by the camp fire, to listen to their quaint folk tales, the wise saying and the merry jest, and endeavour to do some little to modify the effect of the ignorant or vindictive doctrine of those who, generation after generation, have taught the young that the terms gypsy, tramp and vagabond are more or less alike, standing for most that is depraved and villainous. In the few cases, when in after life some acquaintance with gypsy character has been made, this idea has, of course, been much modified, or altogether dissipated, while a close and sympathetic study of the Romany folk has invariably led to a desire to condone their failings, or at least to consider them of small account in comparison with so much that is commendable.

Upon more than one occasion has my clothing—permeated by the wood smoke of the gypsy fire—betrayed to acquaintances the fact that I had been among the Romany folk, and given the opportunity for jeering observations anent the “tents of the ungodly,” but, as the old adage has it, “he laughs best who laughs last,” and it is indeed gratifying to be able later in life to conjure up pleasant pictures of one’s friends seated, as they were, around the camp fire.

One such of many similar scenes is deeply impressed on my memory: I was at the camp of a Romany friend and we had discussed an early supper of povengros (potatoes) and salt, washed down with tea, when someone suggested a song. There may be sweeter melodies than songs in the Romany, as sung by the chies, but I have yet to hear them. There is a sweetness and a certain wild attractiveness about the language well adapted to the poetry of music, and the gypsies are passionate lovers of beautiful sounds. A poem read to them in Spanish, pleases their ear, they understand perhaps not a word, but appreciate the rhythm. Their language, too, reminds one somewhat of that tongue. I am however, digressing:

By the camp fire that evening, our talk, after a song or two, was mostly in and of the Romany tongue. One would narrate some experience, another would take up the thread, and so on, the firelight meanwhile playing on their faces. The soughing of the light wind overhead seemed attuned to the weirdness of the scene, and the while, the pageant of one of the loveliest of summer sunsets was passing, every merging scene having its glory duplicated on the reflecting surface of the river, which, winding and looping in its course, glided and faded imperceptibly into a purple haze, the whole scene changing momentarily, but with a tranquillity which, “while moving, seemed asleep,” until it passed through an almost unearthly splendour of afterglow into the cool star-depths of the summer night.

In extenuation—perhaps I should say explanation—of the conduct of those who think unkindly or deal harshly with the gypsies on principle, I suggest that they neither really know nor try to understand them; moreover, the likelihood of their personally gaining any such knowledge of them as results from experiences of the nature I have attempted to describe, is very remote; indeed, so suspicious and unapproachable are they—mainly because we as a people have made them so—that were one to cultivate their acquaintance, with the very best of intentions, years would probably elapse before he would be welcomed as a true pal (brother), and not until then would he understand them or appreciate their outlook on things.

Personally, I have found them, as companions, scrupulously honest; with regard, however, to farmers and landowners who are known to dislike the gypsies, this opinion might need some slight modification, but here again one should endeavour to see things from the gypsies’ point of view. They do not as a rule look upon poaching as wrong, contending that they are illtreated by man-made laws, that rabbits were provided for man’s sustenance, and that it is not more sinful for a gypsy to catch a rabbit to ward off starvation from his family, than for another man to run over it with a motor-car, and in fairness to the gypsies it must be said that they probably poach less than the average village labourer.

Apropos of their ideas of honesty, a friend tells me that many years since, a family of gypsies encamped near the town of——, and his father gave them permission to draw all the water they needed from the well on his land. During the long stay of the family in the locality he did not lose one pennyworth by their depredations, notwithstanding that all around chickens and other live stock disappeared—left home as it were and forgot to return. There would appear to have been no actual proof that the gypsies were implicated, but the animals vanished during the time the gypsies were encamped there.

One cannot speak too highly of such traits in their character as love of their children and mutual help. When bad luck comes they bow to the inevitable, accepting it with a philosophy not possible to many of us. When times are good, there is mutton in the pot and “spotted donkey,” suet puddings, grace the festive board, and for this he is thankful, but when his luck is out, he tightens his belt a little and looks forward to the morrow,—his luck may turn, who knows?

Great indeed is the contrast between the luxury-loving, well-to-do man about town of to-day and these Romany folk, a people who have scarcely changed since they left India hundreds of years ago. Our progress in Art and Science has scarcely touched them, they still retain their language and many of their old customs, while the ethnographic student will readily distinguish the prevalent Oriental cast of features. Many of them set about their daily task much as did their early ancestors, who lived in the same kind of tent. Even the little hanging-lamps we see occasionally in the tents are of a design that is as old as the hills, and to-day the Hindu uses just such a lamp. There is much that is primitive, also much that is supremely fascinating about the true gypsy, and if we could imagine him without his archaic, musical language, he would still be a far more interesting and clear-cut personality than the average gorgio or non-gypsy, and the reader will find that we owe more to the gypsy than is commonly supposed.

Perhaps no more convincing proof of their Indian origin can be adduced than the following short vocabulary of Romany words, selected to show their similarity to Hindustanee and Sanscrit. It may be contended that the language contains words derived from other nations or sources. Fragments of other tongues have naturally crept in, but in this respect an Englishman is scarcely the person to criticize.

In the following list of numerals the words for seven and eight are given, but nowadays few gypsies use them, many having forgotten them.

Instead of efta, or seven, they say Dui trins ta yeck, and for octo, eight, Dui stors is used, for nine, Dui stors ta yeck, meaning respectively, two threes and one, two fours, and two fours and one.