IT is at any time interesting to meet in propri person either the original, or an exact counterpart of a character with whom one has hitherto been acquainted only through the observations of a third person, and it has been my good fortune to meet one such in a certain Mr. Petulengro, a name, by the way, that is pretty well known as the Romany equivalent of the surname Smith. Almost every one who mixes at all with gypsies will come across a number of Smiths, especially in the southern and eastern counties, but he whom I have in mind is one of the old school, and, so far as identity alone is concerned, might have stepped out of the pages of a writer upon gypsy life of the last century. He is a man of medium height, with typical Romany features, and may often be seen wearing a black great-coat having two silver buttons—each about one and a half inches in diameter—near the top. He is comparatively well-to-do, and is in possession of a caravan which cost something well over a hundred pounds to build. Until recently, he and I had somehow always managed to keep beyond hand-shaking distance, although we were known to each other through mutual friends. When at last I met him, he said as we shook hands—

“Pal from Nevi Wesh, I knew it as soon as I saw you.”

Thereupon he introduced me to his relatives, including, apparently, almost every one in that camp. After these preliminaries he spread a sack for me at his fireside and we had a long talk together. He spoke “deep” Romany and acquainted me with a number of words which I believe had not been printed, and informed me that not long previously he had talked with a gentleman speaking an Indian language who understood most of what he said in Romany, while he was able to get at the meaning of a lot of the words the gentleman used, adding that he counted up to six almost the same as in Romany, but for seven, eight and nine he said—as nearly as I can remember—“sart, arth, now.” “Doesn’t that,” said my friend, “seem to prove that the Romanies came from India at one time, else where did we get the language? Some of our folks say, ‘No, we are all English only we don’t speak the same tongue,’ but don’t you believe it, Rye. Did you ever see a real thoroughbred Englishman or woman as dark as my folks, or with hands and feet as well made and as small as ours? No, my pal! hoquepens like that won’t do. Besides, you can always tell a true gypsy by his eye, it’s different somehow from the gorgios. I’m not ‘overstruck’ by the way the gorgios speak to each other either,—they say—hello, Smith! hello, Jones! and so on in the rudest way. Did you ever hear anything better than the gypsy way of calling one another pal for brother and pen for sister? After all we are really brothers and sisters.”

“And would you,” I asked, “call a gorgio a pal?”

“No!” he replied, “and you know it. A gorgio’s a gorgio, and a chal’s a chal, and always will be.”

“But, sometimes a gypsy chi marries a Gentile,” I continued, as I wished to know how he regarded such unions.

“That’s true,” he admitted, “but if a tickno o’ mande’s got romm’d to a gorgio, he or she wouldn’t get help if they wanted it—at least,” he added hastily, as though the vision of one of his children being in dire need while he stood aloof was perhaps not to be thought of, “not as they would be if they kept true. The gypsy law, as you well know, is, that if sickness or trouble of any kind overtakes our folk—our folk, I said, we club together—even if it means parting with the last pasherro—and help, for God alone knows when any of us may want help, but, gorgios,—ugh!”

“One would almost suppose you don’t like them,” I remarked with a smile.

“Like ’em!” he exclaimed. “Me like ’em! Well, I’ll tell you what happened to me; it’s years ago now, but I remember it as well as if it was yesterday:—

“It was not very long after I was married, and my wife and I were very happy in our wedding living-wagon. We travelled all over the country and once or twice into Wales. Well, just about the time my eldest was born the drab-engro told us we’d better atch a bit till the wife was well again, so we found a snug corner a little way from a town and expected to be left in peace. I got permission from the owner of a bit of waste land, to stay a few weeks, and he charged me a few pence a week as rent. This land was next to a kind o’ small park belonging to a gentleman who was one of the grumpy sort. One day, he put his ugly face over the fence and said to me—

“‘What are you doing here?’

“I told him as politely as I could that I was airing a clean shirt over my fire to be ready for putting on that evening.

“‘Did you hear what I said?’ he bawled out.

“‘Certainly,’ said I, ‘and I answered you, didn’t I?’

“Lor’, you should ha’ seen his face, it looked like a red suet pudding with a moustache on it.

“‘You—you insolent gypsy,’ he spluttered, ‘I’ll have you moved, you dirty fellow, you and your dirty van.’ After this he went away, and, thinks I to myself—If I can manage it there’ll be some fun, so I went next day to a lawyer and asked if the land was for sale where I had my van. He promised to look into the matter for me, and in a day or two I saw him again, and he told me the owner would sell it at such and such a price. I found I had enough money, so I bought it and the lawyer attended to the transfer all right. You understand, this was all done on the quiet, and shortly afterwards my disagreeable neighbour finding that I stayed there in defiance of his threats, took legal proceedings to get rid of me as a nuisance. We had a rare set-to, I can tell you, and I won the day, for so sure was he of settling a poor gypsy that he had no solicitor to act for him and conducted his case himself; but my lawyer proved that the land belonged to me and got some respectable people of the neighbourhood to witness that we were always well behaved. There really wasn’t any need for him to complain at all, for we were always a quiet lot, but it sort o’ got his back up, I suppose, to think that a traveller should come so near to his little estate.

“However, we’ve stopped there many a winter since and have scarcely ever seen the man, he may be dead by this time for all I know. It’s a strange world, pal, ain’t it?”

Somewhat later my friend informed me he had arranged to meet a few pals at a certain kitchema to discuss a few things over a friendly coru levinor, so that unless I accompanied him, which he would very much like me to do, we should be obliged to part as it was about time he set out. Hoping to get a glimpse of some new phase of Romany life I agreed to go with him.

Outside the inn he introduced me as a Romany Rye, and upon other gypsies inside the house calling to us we went in and joined the company. As I am not a drinker of levinor (ale) I called for a modest “stone ginger” to justify my presence in the house, and so found myself in the midst of a jovial gathering of Romanies. Glasses were filled and my friend, holding his aloft, proposed, in my honour—

“Gentlemen, the health of our friend the Romany Rye.”

As this was said in Romany, I felt bound to reply in that tongue. I guessed from the puzzled expression on the face of the landlord that he could make little of what was said, and my impression was confirmed when one of the gypsies—looking at me—jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the man and said “baulo-mui” (pig-face), an expressive, albeit uncomplimentary remark.

A good while before the familiar “Time, gentlemen, time” sounded, the company had become decidedly merry; the frequent thirst-slaking attempts of a few had carried them even beyond this stage and they had become quarrelsome. A heated argument was going on at one end of the room, and a disturbance seemed imminent as “sides” were formed for and against some motion. I was now asked—

“Rye, which do you stand up for?”

This was a poser as I was not particularly anxious to stand up for either side; fisticuffs is not at all a strong point with me, besides I had friends in either faction, and for obvious reasons had no desire whatever to make enemies; here my habit of a rapid decision stood me in good stead, and with tactful deference to their known love of fair play I explained that I really did not know the nature of the matter in dispute and would be glad to be informed. I soon learned that the disturbance arose from a difference of opinion as to how long it would take to paint a vardo (caravan) properly. One man held that he could paint one as well as a carpenter [sic] in three days,—a statement which some agreed with and others disputed; eventually an appeal was made to me to settle the matter, and I did it in this manner.

“What does it matter,” I asked, “how long it takes to paint, if, when it is done, you can sell it to a dinnelo gorgio for des bars more than it is worth?”

“Right you are, Rye!” came the immediate and uproarious response. “You’re a Romany chal right enough—shake.” A general, hearty hand-shake brought the incident to a happy conclusion.

On the following evening I again saw friend Petulengro. After the usual greetings he made a proposal to me, which, as he had not the least idea that circumstances prevented my embracing his offer, was, to say the least of it, extremely kind. Said he—“Rye, mande’ll del tute a vardo for desh ta dui trins ta yeck bars, and trust you same as I would any other pal; I’ll give you a year to pay it in, pay any time you like in the year.”

I thanked him for the generous offer, telling him I was not just then in need of a caravan. As my tent was at some distance I bade him good evening early in order to reach home before darkness set in, but before I left he called one of his children who was preparing for bed, and said to her—

“Now, my chavi, you listen to me,—this mush is a Romany chal,—what do you say?” The tot then put her tiny brown hand in mine and said, “God bless you, good night.”

“That’s what she’s been taught to say to all her gypsy brothers,” said Petulengro, “and she treats you the same, you see.”

By the time I was well on the way home it was almost dark. I met several gypsy fellows returning to their camp, and upon recognizing me they gave me “kushti rardi” in passing (Romany equivalent to good night).

I have a very distinct recollection of that night, for two or three horses had a fancy for grazing close to my tent,—so close were they that at times it seemed as though they would bite my pillow. There was nothing for it but to drive them off. Scarcely, however, had I settled down again to sleep when the chump, chump of horses grazing quite close to my head again awakened me to full consciousness.

I discovered next morning that these horses had somehow got loose, and visited more tents than mine during the night. I wondered whether the existence of a stack of prime hay at no great distance, having only a flimsy protecting rail, had suggested possibilities to the owners of these renegades.

One man had thrown his boots at them, and found in the morning that one boot had gone into a ditch. Another—a man who slept in a small and rather “lightly sprung” caravan—told me he awoke some time in the night owing to some one shaking the van; half-awake, he asked what was the matter, but, as the only reply was an extra vigorous shake, he woke up properly and looked out, to find three loose horses around, one of which was using a back corner of his van as a scratching-post; thereupon he drove off all the horses in the direction of the haystack in the next field. I shrewdly suspect that although he omitted to mention it, he had an idea that the subsequent manoeuvres of the horses would lead to an interesting situation between the owners of the horses and him of the haystack. With daylight upon the scene I saw the horses pulling out large mouthfuls of hay from the stack, and later, the wrathful owner with a pocket-book in hand—apparently assessing damages. It is a suggestive fact that the next and subsequent nights passed quietly, all the horses remaining properly tethered.

Having arranged with Mr. Petulengro that I would look in and have tea on a certain evening if I did not run against him in the meantime, I set out from my tent early in the afternoon of the day appointed so that I could take the walk leisurely. Finding later I had gained time by cutting across hop fields that had been picked, and was likely to arrive at the neighbouring camp before I was due, I rested upon a wood pile and was thoroughly lazy for half an hour or so. Just before me was a wood of young oaks whose continuity was scarcely broken by an occasional stiffly erect pine, but which otherwise fell softly away to the valley below,—upon my right was a tall hedge of maple, whose foliage was beginning to take on an autumnal richness. The silence was almost complete, perfect it certainly was, for the twittering of tits overhead and the nearer music of grasshoppers seemed but to accentuate the general stillness. I scarcely know if I fell asleep, but I became suddenly conscious that the evening mist was rising and that I must bestir myself.

Possibly, the voices I could hear had broken in upon my dreams, for the noise of men, women and children calling out one to another now increased to a general hubbub in the distance, for all had been “called off,” and work in the fields for the day was over. A few minutes later and animated groups troop along the lane towards the camping ground, where a further few minutes suffice to bring fires to life and preparations into full swing for a well-earned tea.

I can scarcely imagine any man—if, indeed, he be a “live” man in the expressive sense of the American term—who could look upon such a scene as confronted me when I approached the camp, groups of merry, hard-working people, mostly Romanies, of both sexes and of almost all ages, in groups around the fires, living the simple, open-air life upon just what they work hard for—without thinking that there is something vouchsafed to these people that he would give much to call his own.

My friend had called out to me as I passed his field, and pointed out a convenient gap in the hedge, by making use of which I saved a few minutes’ walk and soon joined the family at the meal. Our talk touched upon a great variety of topics—from lame horses to chills on the stomach—until I managed to shunt it on to a subject in which I was really interested,—the reputed efficacy of charms. The matter had scarcely been broached when my host produced from his pocket a small flattish bone, and, handing it to me for close inspection, said—

“That’s a very good thing to carry on you; it’s a bone that comes from the side of a sheep’s skull. I’ve been told that if it were not for that particular bone, a sheep would be able to talk.”5

I was unable to get a photograph of this interesting luck-bringer but made a drawing of it, the actual bone being about two inches in length. It was now my turn to explain the “virtue” of the brooch being worn by Mrs. Petulengro. She stated she had it given to her and was told it was lucky, but knew no more about it. I was very much interested in this ornament, for, as I told them, I had read about it in a book concerning Spanish gypsies, but had not previously seen one of them (Fig. 10, page 112). According to the writer of this book, these charms were suspended from the necks of children by means of a cord braided from the hair of a black mare’s tail, and was considered a safeguard against the ill-effects of the evil eye. This brooch agreed in every particular with those described, being of stag’s horn mounted with silver, but it appeared to have been always worn as a brooch and not suspended in the manner narrated. I reminded my friends that in Egypt cowrie shells were worn as a charm for the same purpose. Here Mr. Petulengro exclaimed excitedly—

“Why! I know some one who has a watch-chain made of those shells, only they are silver. I’ll show you the chain to-morrow if I can find the man who wears it” (Fig. 11, page 112).

I noted this, and later made the following extract from “The Modern Egyptians,” which in this connection will not be without interest:—

“Shells called cowries are especially considered preservatives against the evil eye; and hence, as well as for the sake of ornament, they are often attached to the trappings of camels, horses and other animals, and sometimes to the caps of children. Such appendages are evidently meant to attract the eye to themselves, and so to prevent observation and envy of the object they are designed to protect.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Petulengro, “can you tell me what this is?” as she handed to me a circular brooch having a loose silver coin mounted in it.

“Yes,” I replied, “it is a piece of Turkish money.”

“What are the marks all over it?” she asked further. “Are they writing?”

I told her they were, and again she questioned:—

“Are there people who can read it?”

I assured her that there were, but still she was curious, and wished to know if I could read it. I had to confess that I could not and I believe the admission gave her real pleasure, for had she known what it signified, I am sure it would have lost much of its attractiveness. Similarly, the amulets worn by the Arabs contain, sometimes, extracts from the Koran, at others a meaningless jumble of words, which, on account of the impossibility of attributing any rational meaning to them, are considered to act as charms. Evidently the cryptic nature of the characters on the coin appealed in like manner to Mrs. Petulengro.

Nothing dies harder than superstition,—as a matter of fact it appears upon investigation that superstitions are not dying. If it were not impossible to arrive at exact knowledge of the grip superstitious beliefs have on all grades of society, we should probably find that while superstition en masse seems to be undergoing revision,—is being brought up to date as it were,—civilization with its vaunted “march of intellect” and leavening effect of culture, seems powerless to eradicate the belief that particular ornaments or objects guard their possessors from certain real or imaginary evils.

The poorest gypsies share this fatuous idea with our “old nobility” who have faith in mascots in the shape of a grotesque figure for the radiator of their motor-car, or some strange object carried or worn on the person, and the superstitious of all ranks of society who carry “charms” on their watch-chains, “lucky” pigs, wish-bones, stones, elephants, dogs, monkeys and what not on chatelaines or elsewhere about themselves or their belongings. A well-to-do person may wear a silver or gold charm studded with diamonds, while the poor person carries instead, a piece of coral, a bit of bone, portion of a bat, brass ornaments or anything beside—any one being just as likely to bring good luck, or as potent in warding off evils, as the other—chacun À son goÛt.

The Romanichal, like many another, is superstitious but does not advertise the fact. Chary of confessing to a belief in the efficacy of charms, sometimes even to the extent of untruthfully denying it, his attitude renders it somewhat difficult to estimate the extent to which such beliefs obtain among the people, and it is only when living in their midst and enjoying their fullest confidence that one is able to obtain reliable information on the matter. Even under the most favourable conditions it is not easy to ascertain whether this or that belief is distinctly gypsy and of Eastern origin, or has been appropriated from one or other of the Western nations. In any case it is not more ridiculous for an illiterate gypsy to consider the wearing of a mole’s foot a safeguard against rheumatism, or that a brass brooch or other ornament in the form of a human hand will bring good luck to the wearer, than for an educated man of good position to decorate his motor-car with a “Teddy bear” or a “gollywog,” believing all the while that it will obviate skidding, or will carry him scathless through a collision. Again, I have yet to discover among the tales of the Romanies something as senseless as the non-gypsy stories of The Devil’s Dyke near Brighton, and of the miraculous beam in the Priory church of Christ-church, or the rustic belief that the immature forms of the fungus Phallus impudicus are really eggs laid by ghosts.

I found that the Petulengro couple were not exceptions to the rule that gypsies are well versed in a crude plant lore, including preparations of or from wayside and other vegetation, and their use in curing simple ailments. There can be no doubt whatever that many common complaints yield quite as readily to the vegetable drugs and simple treatment of gypsies, as to the mineral productions of the chemist. Gypsy methods of making up their prescriptions may be rough and ready, but, provided they steer clear of the powerful alkaloids—and invariably they do—there is at least little to fear, especially if the patients have gypsy constitutions to begin with.

Eyebright, Euphrasia officinalis, is used by them for inflamed eyes—a decoction of the plant being made and the eyes fomented therewith.

Ground ivy, Nepeta glechoma, is also used for a like purpose. The lichen Sticta pulmonacea has been used by rustics as a specific in cases of consumption, but I have not known it to be used by gypsies, a fact which I think worth recording in their favour, for a decoction of this lichen is just about the nastiest-tasting “remedy” on earth. Being of an inquiring turn of mind I once made up some of this medicine, and for no reason but to gratify my curiosity, I sampled it—once. I have never since doubted its efficacy, as a consumptive or any other sufferer for whom it was prescribed would either recover immediately or would gladly die to avoid taking a second dose.

The mention of plants used for the preparation of eye lotions reminds me of a curious expression used by a half-bred gypsy. I was telling her of a lady who suffered a good deal with an inflamed eye; the gypsy advocated eyebright or ground ivy as a cure, “for you know,” said she, “you can’t be too careful with the eye, it’s such a precious limb.”

The gypsy faculty for using words of similar sound but of quite different signification from those intended, or of curious, home-made words, or inapplicable terms, is often productive of very whimsical statements, as the following extracts from my contemporary notes exemplify:—

... A gypsy, charged with using disgusting language in public, made a pathetic appeal to the magistrate against conviction for the offence as he was “certain sure he never used no unseen (obscene) language.”

... A gypsy girl, looking at a photograph in which the more distant figures in a group were somewhat indistinct, remarked “that she could hardly concern (discern) who it was standing there.”

... Upon mentioning the bombardment by the Germans of Rheims Cathedral to a gypsy, he expressed great indignation, and added, “that was a lovely church, I’ve seen a picture of it, it was all tattooed beautiful down the front.”

... “My sister’s gone to the dissumption hospital,” said a gypsy girl who evidently meant “consumption.”

... After asking a favour, an old gypsy woman, wishing to make it understood that she was in no great hurry, said, “I ain’t in no caddle about it.”

... The widow of a gypsy who had just died, asked a male friend if he would kindly act as a bearer at the funeral. The man, willing to help and anxious to condole, replied, “Oh yes, please God, I’ll be glad to,”—an unfortunate way of expressing his sympathy, for it admits equally of the interpretation that he would be glad of the opportunity to put the deceased out of the way.

... “Well, how do you like this (wet) weather?” I asked of an old gypsy acquaintance.

“Oh, my dear,” she replied, “it’s awful, we’re reg’lar soakened out.”

... Upon one occasion when photographing at a gypsy camp, one of the men, who had obviously spent a good deal of that day in endeavouring to quench a troublesome thirst and was in consequence rather quarrelsome, broke in upon the scene, exclaiming, “You can’t come here and take my kid’s fortygraph without commission (permission), so I tells yer.”

Very curious terms may be heard—more especially among the half-bred gypsies and Chorodies—for describing complaints or bodily ailments. I am inclined to think that gypsies escape much illness by reason of their outdoor life; they also take care of themselves to a certain extent; herein I allude to genuine Romany folk, for they avoid wet clothes and sitting directly upon damp ground, beside taking other reasonable precautions with regard to health. Chorodies, however, appear usually to take little, if any, care, and as a consequence may often be heard to complain of rheumatism. A gypsy will not, haphazard, drink any sort or condition of water, but a Chorodie seems to drink anything that looks like it. At times, a gypsy will, of course, be compelled either to go without or to drink water that an American would describe as “tough stuff”; in such case he almost invariably boils the water well before using it, so avoiding all ill-effects. At various times during my wanderings with the Romanies I have been obliged to drink water which would be better described as “half and half” mud and water, rather than as the product of the crystal spring, but even this, after being well boiled and made into tea, lost what might be termed its individuality and no ill-effects ensued.

The Romanichal—in bygone days—had a fair knowledge of vegetable poisons, and methods of preparing them for use—and misuse—but the knowledge would appear to have lapsed, for nowadays one never hears of poison being used by gypsies, either to drab baulo or to convert an enemy. This kind of thing seems to belong to the obscurity of the “good old days,” when men were put to death as heretics, and others were hung for stealing or even for being gypsies.