RECENTLY, while visiting a Romany encampment, I found so many old friends whom I had desired to see again, and from whom it was difficult—without giving offence—to tear oneself away, that the work of my pen was getting sadly in arrear, and I determined to devote two or three hours one afternoon to the task of writing. Selecting a spot under a hedge which seemed to offer sufficient privacy and a fairly comfortable seat, I set to work with a resolve to cover a lot of paper.

I had been thus busily engaged for some considerable time—and was in the throes of straightening out a particularly obstinate paragraph, when a man sauntered up and threw himself down upon the grass near me with a manner intended to intimate that he was willing to talk. He opened conversation, as most of the Romanies do, by asking the time, then he wondered if I had such a thing as a “lucifer” about me. Having lit up a terribly evil-smelling and much-blackened cutty pipe he made an ejaculatory remark with reference to a mosquito that had settled upon the back of his hand. There is no need to repeat what he said, but it bore no resemblance to Romany.

Thus, having as it were cleared the decks for action, he waited, seeming to have something to say when I should care to listen. I had so far made good use of the afternoon, and, although much remained for me to do, I could not follow my habitual practice of making fresh Romany friends whenever possible if I kept my head buried in my papers, therefore, after folding up my notes, I seated myself somewhat nearer to my companion, and after a few casual remarks and opinions regarding the prospect for fruit and hops, he said he wished me to write a letter for him as he was unable to do it himself. “You’re a por-engro I’m told, and have written many a lil for Romany folk,” said he, in a somewhat questioning way. “That is true,” I answered, and, producing a sheet of paper, I wrote at his dictation. It was not nearly so interesting as a camipen-lil, or love-letter, as it related only to some new “sparks,” as the diamonds used in china-drilling are termed, which he desired to be sent to him and for which he had procured a postal order, this I duly filled in and crossed.

During the writing of this order a woman loitered towards us, later, two younger women approached. The little group stood at a considerate distance until the task was completed, when they came nearer and seated themselves tailor-wise, or, rather should I say, gypsy-fashion, each of the younger women producing a cigarette and the older woman a clay pipe of generous capacity. When all had lit up, one said to me:

“Do you rokkra Romany?” Upon receiving my reply in the affirmative she said somewhat sharply:

“Who taught you? You’re a kairengro, aren’t you?”

“Why do you think that?” I queried. To this she vouchsafed no reply, appearing not to have heard the question, but after gazing steadily at me for quite an appreciable time she asked:

“Why don’t you get a van and come along o’ us? You must get tired o’ stopping in one place.”

I confessed that such was the case.

“Then why do you stay under a roof?”

Here the older woman joined in with:

“I was born outside myself, I’m the mother o’ seventeen children, and, please the Almighty, I’m going to die outside, why, I suffocates in a house, there ain’t no air in a house,—you never gets air in a house!”

“Look at the pale faces of them as lives in ’em,” said one of the younger women,—“but you”—she continued, turning to me—“are one o’ the dark ones.”

“That is perhaps lucky for me,” I remarked.

“Yes, ’tis so,” was the reply, “all Romany chies hates a pale face, at least all but the silly ones.”

“But,” said I, “if I procured a van and travelled about with you, I am not sure that I should feel altogether safe, for we might disagree sometimes and perhaps fight, in which case I should come out badly, for the little fighting I do is with pen and ink and I am no master with either gloves or fists.”

“Safe!” exclaimed the man, “you’d be safe, ab-so-lutely, nobody would fight, wouldn’t want to fight with you anyhow; as for me, I could fall out with you, but if you refused to shake hands with me the next minute I should say you’re no pal o’ mine.”

We may note in passing, that this portion of our free and easy conversation, which is set down verbatim as it took place, aptly illustrates the following among the features which stand out in the Romany character:

The possession of a kind of clairvoyance which enables them to promptly and accurately “size up” the sympathies of a chance acquaintance.

Their instinctive dislike and distrust of fair or pale people.

Their good-fellowship and ready reciprocation of kindness.

Their alacrity in recovering from misunderstandings and ebullitions of temper, albeit they never forget an intentional slight or injustice.

Presently the conversation was switched on to the subject of weddings.

“Some of our folk are getting ‘spliced’ in a week or two in that church yonder,” said one of the women, “but yer know we don’t all get married by the clergyman, whatever clever people may say about it. Many a chal and chi are married in the good old Roman way.”

“And how is that?” I asked, adding, “Just among yourselves, I suppose?”

“Auvli,” she replied, “you takes mande by the vast,—so,”—suiting action to word she placed her hand in my grasp—“and,” she continued, “you pukker to mande tute will always be a tacho Romado and mande pens she’ll be a tacho Romadi to you.”

“So that’s Romipen (marriage),” said I—“and do you consider it binding?”

“Always, prala,” she replied impressively.

“Supposing the man did not think it was, and left you?” I ventured.

“So much the worse for him,” she answered—“for whenever any of my people saw him they’d down him with a cosh.”

“Is that the gypsy law?”

“That is the gypsy law, prala.”

The earnest manner, and the convincing tone in which all this was said left no room for doubt that the unwritten laws of the Romanies are really felt by them to be more sacred and binding than the law of the land,—the former being obeyed because of an inherited respect for them, or a mystical allegiance to tribal traditions, while the latter would appear to command respect only on account of the physical force behind.

The gypsy wedding is usually accompanied by a spree by way of celebration, and unhappily some of the company emulate the gorgios at similar functions by getting into a state quite the reverse of sober. Such conduct, even if pardonable on these occasions, is of course discreditable, but to be quite just to the gypsy I must say that his behaviour in the circumstances seems to be less bestial than that of many a non-gypsy who professedly despises him.

“Are you married?” asked one of the girls of me.

“No,” I replied.

“Well, you ain’t got much to worry about,” said she, with a saucy smile.

Not far from our group was a camp that had all day appeared deserted save for a child or two left “on guard.”

Now there came from it sounds as of meat sizzling in the frying-pan, while clouds of wood-smoke ascended and a cheery voice called out:

“Will you join us?—you’re welcome.”

Accordingly, we went over to the living wagons and tents and found several women busily engaged in preparing for the evening meal; one was dexterously manipulating a frying-pan, another tended the fire, and so on.

I was invited to partake of the meal with a family whose home was a tent. In the way of food there was bread and jam, German sausage and bread, and bowls of tea. As I was the guest I was offered for a seat a boot-repairing iron upon which a piece of sacking was placed to modify its undesirable qualities. I imagine it would take years of practice to enable one to sit with any degree of comfort on a boot-repairing iron, but I determined to make the best of it and to appear as though I liked it and had sat upon nothing but boot-irons all my life. However, the fumes from the coke fire hard by proved almost too much for me and I was in danger of falling from my precarious perch. My friends evidently noticed this as they made a less uncertain seat for me by upturning an empty bucket and covering the bottom with an old coat as a cushion.

Almost everyone has some recollection of the brown tents of the gypsy fraternity, which, at longer or shorter intervals, may be seen dotted here and there upon the commons. Comparatively few, however, have any close-range acquaintance even with the exterior of these primitive dwellings, and fewer still have any idea of the arrangement of the interior. In many of the poorest tents of the gypsies of southern England there really is no arrangement, in fact, there is almost “no nothing,” as someone with a touch of pathetic facetiousness has described their condition, but the tent in which I now found myself belonged to a family of genuine Romanies and differed somewhat from those of the poorer tent-dwellers.

The fire—whose fumes had at first given me trouble—was contained in a circular and rather deep kind of iron tray about fifteen inches in diameter which was kept from actual contact with the ground by being supported on three old bricks; over the fire a kettle was suspended by the kekauvisky saster—frequently called a crane—the kettle iron.

Reference to our illustration on page 38 will enable one at a glance to get an idea of the general arrangement. At the end farthest removed from the fire were the beds, in front of which, and raised some four or five inches from the floor, was a sort of divan composed of straw evenly laid and covered with cloths, the remainder of the floor space being bare earth. Curtains were hung before the beds, giving something of an Oriental air to the interior.

There were, too, a few cushions that had seen much service but nevertheless were clean, besides which there was practically nothing but the customary box for the storage of china and food, and yet this was, and had been for more than twenty years, the dwelling of these Romany folk, honest people, who had worked hard—often for a bare subsistence—but who had nevertheless reared a large family of healthy children without appealing to charity. And they were proud, too, boasting of a long line of proud ancestors.

This set me a-thinking, and as I sat there these thoughts passed through my mind:

“If pride in one’s ancestry is justifiable, have not these people far saner reasons for such pride than those who boast of having ‘come over with the Conqueror’?” It is indeed true that their Romany forbears were not numbered among the cut-throat rabble who accompanied the historic William of Normandy, but they come of a people who had a history, literature and a language when that gentleman made his dÉbut.

Like their near relatives, the Hindus of to-day, many of the gypsies can neither read nor write, but usually our Romany friend has a sound mind in a sound body, and when he points—as he well may—to the blots on our civilization and the shams in our religion, I do not wonder at the up-hill work of those good souls among us who seek to instil the Christ spirit into the minds of those whom the world dubs outcasts, and yet surprise is evinced that the progress of our missions to these people is slow. How heart-breaking the work is only those who are engaged in it know. But a truce to moralizing. I must bestir myself or my friends will judge me dull.

After the meal the kettle needed to be again filled and the water heated preparatory to a general wash and clean up, and I heard a young girl ordering her younger brother to—

“Put the panee on the yog, yer fool, and mind yer put some soda in,” which of course meant—“Put the water on the fire and add some soda.” He was afterwards instructed by the mother to “clean the churi’s on the poov,” and set about it by utilizing the hard earth floor as a knife-board, in doing which I noticed that he sensibly selected a miniature mound upon which to rub the blades so that his knuckles should not be subjected to the same cleaning process as the knives, which were ultimately stowed away quite clean, if they had not received a high polish.

Work for the day—which in this case had been strawberry picking—being over, the time before turning in was whiled away with tales of the road, common and forest, and stories of keepers, police and other bugbears of nomadic life. When my companion considered that a sketch would help his narrative he made a rough drawing on the hard earth—of a road or other subject—with the charred end of a piece of stick, and I discovered that he worked out simple accounts connected with his work in the same manner.

Turning to the fire I observed to my friend:

“One seldom comes across a tripod nowadays, I suppose they are no longer used?”

“Well,” said he, “now you mention it, I don’t think I’ve seen more than two or three for years. One I saw at a pony fair in the New Forest, and I believe I have seen one or two in Kent, but real old genuine ones would most likely be valuable now just as old copper kettles are.”

“I know someone,” he continued, “who had a very old one, in fact it was too old to use, but it fetched a good bit o’ money, it was all hand-hammered, mind you. I shouldn’t ha’ sold it if it had been mine, but the woman as had it was hard up, and you don’t think much about anything when you’re hungry except satisfyin’ your belly, and there was kiddies wanting bread too.”

“But,” he added retrospectively, “now nearly all use the crane.”

The washing of the crockery being finished and the beds having been made, I could see that my friends would soon retire for the night; I therefore bade them good night and wended my way homeward. As I passed now a tent, now a van, cheery voices rang out:

“Good night, who is it?”

“Por-engro,” said I.

“All right,” was the reply, “good night to you.”

In ascending a little hill on my way I halted for a second and looked back. In the dim distance lights glimmered here and there and I reflected that in a few minutes all the occupants would be slumbering, perhaps not even expecting outsiders,—the beasts of burden, and the betie juggals tuley the wardoes, those cute little mongrel dogs under the vans, which one never finds asleep.

Again I turned my face towards home, feeling physically very tired, while mentally I was actively engaged in turning over the events of the day, and reviewing, to the credit of my gypsy acquaintances, the self-sacrifices I had witnessed and the little kindnesses I had seen them perform one to the other, sometimes even under the cloak of rough behaviour and sharp words, but one could make no mistake as to the love they have for the children. This has always impressed me as one of the good traits in the gypsies’ somewhat complex character, and one that may well efface a multitude of sins. One of their women once said to me:

“I couldn’t see ’em want. Folks say it’s wrong to take chickens and rabbits, but if I knew I should get six months for it and I could keep the kiddies from starvin’, I’d get ’em the grub and take my six months.”

Speaking of food brings to mind domestic utensils and appliances, and a short description of those commonly in use among the tent-dwelling gypsies will not be out of place here. It will be obvious that as these people are true nomads, such goods and chattels as they carry about with them must be easily portable as well as indispensable.

The possessor of a van is, of course, able to carry more, and is often a person of some means, but the tent-dweller’s means of transport—if indeed he possess any but the sinews of his family—consists of a horse and cart, or sometimes only of a vehicle scarcely worthy of the name of cart, and a dilapidated donkey whose coat reminds one of a badly moth-eaten hearth-rug; we refrain, however, from comparing the Romany “moke” with its well-fed and sleek relatives of the seaside.

One of the most important of the domestic implements—and therefore one that is in almost universal use—is the crane or kettle prop—the kekauvisky saster, kekauvi meaning kettle, and saster, in gypsy, standing for iron, will sufficiently explain this curious name. It is not only used for the kettle but also for suspending the inevitable pirry or boiler over the fire. In effect, these cranes are alike, but a number of patterns may be found, any one costing from a shilling to half a crown. One I have seen a great many times has the end fashioned to resemble an adder, others are quite plain with a knob, while others have a ball a short distance from the tip. In substance they vary from about five-eighths of an inch to an inch or so in diameter and are about three feet six in length, usually round, but occasionally square in section. They are used by thrusting the straight end into the ground at an angle which will bring a vessel suspended from the hook over the centre of the fire. In the simplest form the end of the crane for thrusting into the ground is merely tapered to a point, but others may be seen having a rectangular bulge which is likewise pointed, both forms being also used by thrusting, or auger-wise, for making holes in hard ground for the insertion of the tent rods.

It is interesting to note that, according to information supplied by one long resident in India, the Hindus most nearly resembling our gypsies do not use the crane, but in place of it stones or pieces of green wood full of sap are employed, being placed so that the earthen cooking vessel rests upon them. In the latter case the cooking is completed before the wooden supports are burned through.

Some of the cranes are very old, the snake-like one to which we have alluded being a case in point, having been made in Cornwall about a century ago, since when it has been in constant use by the same family.

The articles next in importance are kettle and boiler, the kettle perhaps holding first place, as the very poorest family which cannot boast of a boiler will invariably possess a kettle.

This is occasionally of copper, but as no time is spent in unnecessarily cleaning any of these utensils their composition can only be ascertained after free use of a pocket knife. The boiler is nearly always composed of iron, is oval in form and of fair capacity.

Each member of the family, excepting the young children, is usually provided with a knife, fork and spoon,—of sorts,—but should either, or both fork and spoon be wanting, as is not infrequently the case, no difficulty seems to be experienced in conveying any food to the mouth by the knife. It must, of course, be borne in mind that these observations apply to the tent-dwellers, their brethren of the van being generally better supplied with domestic conveniences. A basin or two, a few plates, a bucket for water and sometimes a bottle for drinking water,—even a gypsy finding it easier to drink from a bottle than from a pail—will about complete the list, but an odd saucepan or two, a frying-pan and one or more dishes may occasionally be found. A frying-pan for hanging upon the crane which we discovered upon one occasion is illustrated.1

There are several reasons why the gypsies do not as a rule make a camp fire directly on the ground, the most obvious being perhaps that their method precludes the burning of the turf, which in some districts at least would cause trouble, and the free passage of air under the fire aids combustion to some extent, while it allows the fire and accompaniments to be rearranged under cover in the space of a few seconds, should a sudden change of weather render it advisable; moreover, it is an easy matter to obliterate traces of a recent encampment. Sheet iron—very frequently in the form of an old tea-tray—is used, upon which to build the fire; this is supported upon pieces of iron bar bent roughly to the shape of a figure 7, the longer ends of which are driven a little way into the ground.

Some possess an iron stand for the purpose, shaped as shown in Fig. 14,2 in which at points a, b, c, will be seen small studs or elevations, the purpose of which is apparently to reduce to a minimum contact between tray and stand, with a view to conserve heat.

Before leaving as a topic the fire and its appurtenances, a word must be said with reference to the methods adopted by those who are not fortunate enough to possess a crane.

The simplest arrangement I have seen consisted merely of part of the fairly straight branch of a tree, one end of which was thrust into the ground at an angle—crane fashion, the other end having affixed to it a hook of wire, which looked suspiciously like part of a barbed-wire fence. Another of these kettle-supports might very well have been designed by primitive man; two forked branches had been pushed into the ground two or three feet apart, and lying in the forked upper ends was another stick having upon it two or three crudely fashioned hooks. Another and even less ambitious contrivance consisted of two rough sticks thrust into the ground similarly to those just described, but, having no forked tops, the horizontal stick was tied in position with string and wire, and was furnished with the usual hooks for the kettle.

Although there is in most tents a box in which food and breakables are stored, yet one may often see a loaf or loaves of bread in an uncovered basket, or otherwise exposed to sun and wind; under these conditions it speedily becomes as dry as the proverbial chip, but hunger and good teeth make all the difference in one’s ideas as to what is eatable. I have seen the children devouring such bread with an appetite and with a zest that would be the envy of many an epicure.

I hope, however, to say something about food and roadside cookery later.

As most of the gypsies go to sleep at dusk, or as soon as night has fallen, it will be understood that little provision is made for illuminating their tents, and, as would be expected, such as exists is primitive, a lamp usually consisting of a small bowl supported by a bent wire terminating with a loop or hook for suspending from the tent rods. A heavy oil such as colza is used, the wick being supported by a bent wire. Candles are also used in these lamps, but I have seen in use lamps made especially for them.

The tent dwellings of the gypsies greatly resemble each other, and, with few exceptions, are of the simple arched form that has probably characterized them from the earliest times: a close acquaintance with them, however, will reveal certain differences or modifications which may perhaps be peculiar to members of a certain family or tribe. I do not wish to convey the idea that different tribes have any very decided differences in their tents, nevertheless in some respects they will probably differ sufficiently to enable one who is well acquainted with these people to say, almost with certainty, what families inhabit certain tents. Alterations are also made to suit the changing seasons and the differences of camping grounds. In summer the single tent is principally in evidence, in winter nearly all who possess sufficient material make up a double tent by the simple method of placing two single ones in line, face to face a short distance apart, the intervening space being filled in by a few long rods pushed into the ground at an angle approximating the curve of the tents on either side, and covered with blanketing pinned in position to connect the two tents, and as the upper ends of the rods are free and uncovered, they provide a combination of ventilating shaft and chimney, the fire being always made directly beneath the opening. As a whole this arrangement bears a certain resemblance to the wigwam of the Red man.

The construction of one of the tents is quite a simple matter, and although no ropes or similar stays are used, the tent has yet to be devised that will prove to be more secure in rough weather, more comfortable in all weathers to the occupier, more “roomy” for its size, or less costly to construct; at the same time the gypsy tent may be very quickly erected or dismantled and packs into a small compass.

The numerous good qualities of these simple structures will perhaps be more readily realized if the construction of one be described and followed from commencement to completion.

The first essential is a piece of ash or oak,—preferably the former, as being less likely to split,—about five feet long by three inches broad and one and a half inches thick. This should be bored with a series of five pairs of three-quarter inch holes. A gypsy would accomplish this by burning out the holes with the tapered end of the crane brought to a red heat.

Next procure twelve or thirteen green hazel or ash rods about five feet six inches in length, taper the ends of ten of these so that they may fit snugly into the ridge-piece just described, having done which, the other ends of the rods must be pushed into holes in the ground already made at proper distances by means of the crane, so that by “croming” or bending over the rods, five on each side arch-fashion, they are held firmly in position by the ridge-piece into which they fit. The skeleton of the tent will now be complete but for the two or three rods to form the framework of the end,—these rods, by the way, may be somewhat longer than those for the sides,—they should be thrust into holes in the ground at a suitable distance, bent over the first or nearest of the arched rods and pushed under the next, thus completing the framework.

When the owner of the tent has his choice of material for the covering, brown blanketing is generally selected, as very little rain water gets through, it is decidedly warm in winter, and in the form of old Army blankets is fairly cheap; it is secured in place by means of skewers, horse-shoe nails, blackthorn spines, or wood pins that have been fried in fat, a process which renders them waterproof and easy to insert.

All too frequently, however, the impecunious “gippo” has to be content with whatever he can get hold of to shield him from wind, rain and snow, and not infrequently, one finds such materials used as bits of canvas, sailcloth, old carpeting, worn-out waterproof or other garments, together with odds and ends of a variety of fabrics, the original uses of which it is impossible to even guess at. In the single tent are pieces of blanketing which during the day are turned aside, but at night are let down so as to cover the entrance and fulfil the functions of a door.

In boisterous weather a protecting sheet of canvas or blanket called the “loo” is fixed up on the windward side of the fire; in the case of the double tent such a “loo” is formed by the covering on either side of the central portion when left closed to windward while the other is uncovered, as most frequently it is in autumn and mild winter weather. The tents vary much in size but the approximate dimensions of a single one are:

Three feet six inches to six feet in length, five feet six wide, and three to four feet in height, while a double tent may be about five feet six inches wide, thirteen to fourteen feet in length and four feet in height.

Gypsies do not, as a rule, use a ground sheet, but contrive to keep tolerably dry without one. For bedding, they often use bracken or heather-tops, which are sometimes covered with sacking or pieces of canvas, at another time they will use a sack loosely stuffed with hay or straw, and not infrequently they will sleep with nothing between themselves and the otherwise bare earth but such loose rags or straw as they may have been able to bring together.

Those who are accustomed to some kind of bed—in the generally accepted sense of the word—will not consider this enticing; nevertheless, while the seductive nature of a few rags as a bed upon the ground may well be ignored, bracken, heather, hay, etc., are used with a considerable amount of satisfaction and a kind of primitive comfort by these people.

In appraising the term “comfort” in its application to gypsy life one must not forget that it is a word of comparative significance, nor that the gypsy is reared in a scant nursery and is thereby rendered immune from the petty annoyances and complaints that beset daily the life of the pampered,—may we not correctly say, ultra-civilized,—for the gypsy lives a healthy, open-air life, with sun, wind and rain as his closest companions, taking no anxious thought for the morrow, with the result that he is seldom seriously unwell or unfit,—to quote the words of an Indian gypsy to an acquaintance of mine:

“Gypsies are ill but once,”—a general statement which appears to be as applicable to our English Romanies as to their Hindu brethren.