GYPSIES, being human, must of necessity obtain in some way the wherewithal to sustain life. As the earning of bread by the sweat of the brow is not by any means the curse some people try to make it, it may be logical to refuse a helping hand while pretending to think that gypsies should consider themselves fortunate in that they have to work hard—with a capital H for the most part—to obtain barely sufficient to keep together body and soul, but such sophistries are never convincing or conclusive to those who regulate their work in the world by the golden rule.

There are scores of gypsies to-day who would gladly learn a “gypsy trade,” i.e. some handicraft that can be learned and plied without antagonism to the nomadic instincts of the people, such as, say, the work of a general whitesmith, or working cutler,—toy-making and so on.

There are, of course, horse-dealers, roundabout or show proprietors and other Romanies who are comparatively wealthy, and are quite outside the scope of these observations. Nevertheless, there are many in a different position who are not only willing but anxious to be doing something better than at present they know how; but—and there’s the rub—there exists among them the almost unconquerable suspicion of, and aversion to, the gorgio. Although it might, with apparent reason, be argued that any effort on their behalf should be, or would be, accepted by them, there would remain the incontestable fact that commensurate success would not result unless the instructor could speak to the gypsies in their own language, and demonstrated in every possible way that he was in sympathy with them. Moreover, no building of any kind at a distance from a camp would be likely to attract pupils,—probably not a gypsy would attend any institution however much he might desire the benefits to be obtained thereby. That there exists nevertheless the inclination to learn trades may be gathered from the remark made by a middle-aged gypsy, who, with a sweeping movement of his hand towards his eight to ten children, varying in age from twenty years to three, said to me, “Not one o’ them knows a trade, and winter’s coming on.”

A gypsy will always appreciate, and never forget kindness suitably tendered, that helps him to be independent of help; but he is liable to curse either the hand that doles out pharisaical charity, or the bigot who refuses help to one who does not belong to his sect.

Let us for a few moments consider the hard lot of the tent-dwelling gypsy family, the members of which make a few different articles in their season,—the wife, and possibly a child or two, after having assisted to make a stock, hawk the things around for sale while the man stays at home and makes more. When one takes into consideration the many weary miles tramped, the hours and days worked through, and the few pence realized for it all, it will be obvious that certain kinds only of home-made articles can be hawked about to advantage, that is to say, they must be of such kinds as can be made from raw material costing little or nothing beside labour to procure. Great ingenuity is displayed in piecing together all sorts of natural or manufactured odds and ends into something that shall be sufficiently novel, attractive or useful, to bring about the transfer of small coin from the gorgios to themselves. One day they will be selling—perhaps it would be more exact to say, trying to dispose of for next to nothing—little brooms neatly made of heather or whips made of plaited rushes, the Juncus communis of botanists. At another time they may be seen burdened with grass doormats, and it is not an uncommon occurrence for a gypsy woman to carry many miles in one day, a heavy baby on one side, and on the other a large basket of cottons, tapes, laces, etc., with one or more of these grass mats, while another child may have a reserve of two or three more. These mats, which are very often sold for threepence each, contain a really large quantity of dry grass stems tightly bound and woven together with strips of fresh bark of the bramble. Try and imagine the amount of work involved in the production of one of these threepenny serviceable mats:—

The man usually walks several miles out and back for a supply of grass which is of a certain kind and is only locally abundant; he has to gather the blackberry stems—not an attractive pastime—and prepare the long strips of bark, manufacture the mat,—a hand-hardening if not a heart-breaking operation; finally, the mat is carried around, often for hours before being sold, and is sometimes even carried back to camp to go around again, to be sold at last for threepence.

I know an old gypsy, seventy years of age, who in the proper season walks to a spot eight miles distant from his usual camping ground to gather those attractive purple plumes—the flowers of the common reed, Arundo phragmites. After wading into the mud and water and cutting a stock of the flowering stems and carrying them the eight miles to his camp—sixteen miles in all—he cuts them into suitable lengths, bunches them up and binds them neatly with some of the leaves, and afterwards carries them around to sell at one penny the bunch.

The making of “gypsy clothes-pegs” still occupies many a gypsy fellow, especially during the winter months, while some continue at it more or less throughout the year. The art is one of those in the Romany category of “chinning the cosh,” and it is interesting to note that a westerner, who for the first time sees a gypsy setting about the task, will regard him as working backwards. The few tools necessary for this industry are—a bill-hook for cutting rods, a churi or knife, a strong pair of scissors or tinman’s snips, a hammer and a bradawl.

Having procured a supply of wood, the worker cuts it into lengths that will make two clothes-pegs. The knife is then held by the left hand, and so placed that its back rests just under the knee of the operator, who almost invariably sits at the work. The rod is then grasped by the right hand and drawn across the edge of the knife towards the worker in such a manner that only the bark, or slightly beyond, is removed, and the rod made tolerably cylindrical. Then, using a piece of wood, which is often stained to identify it, as a gauge for length, the rod is placed upon a little post driven into the ground, a knife is held at a right angle to it in the correct place, when one or two smart blows given to the back of it with a heavy piece of wood cut the rod through cleanly and quickly; it is next slightly split and, sometimes before, sometimes after, the tin band has been pinned around near the top, the knife is inserted in the slit and the peg is trimmed outwards, after which a few cuts in shaping complete an article that sells at one penny per dozen. They are usually hawked about by the women in batches of one dozen.

Attractive, if not particularly durable, fern baskets are often made and offered for sale by gypsies in peaty or other districts in which ferns are to be easily obtained. Such baskets are frequently composed of sticks alternating with acorns or pine cones. A good-looking fern is planted therein, a quantity of hypnum moss packed in the crevices and it is then ready for sale. The making of baskets of this form is very simple, the only materials needed being straight sticks, acorns or pine cones and a little wire. Holes are drilled through both sticks and cones, which are threaded on wires in the form of a curved mat, the ends of which are brought together and the wires twisted. A twig or two at the bottom and it is ready for the plant.

In some counties the daffodil grows in profusion in a semi-wild state and is gathered by gypsies by sackfuls. The early bird catches the worm, or, in other words, the first gypsy in the market sells most daffodils, and as no one more fully realizes this than does the gypsy himself, he sets about hurrying matters in this way:

The flowers are picked while the buds are still unopened; during the evening one may see the family seated around the fire, each one dipping the flower stalks in a saucepan of hot water; they are then laid aside until the morning, when they are rapidly and neatly bunched for sale. Flowers which are forced open in this manner do not, of course, last nearly so long as those which open naturally; but this does not disturb the gypsy, who is usually too intently concerned with the bread-and-jam aspect of the matter to be worried by such a trifle.

I was once photographing some gypsy fellows who were occupied in bunching “daffies,” as they term them, when something went wrong with the mechanism of my camera which necessitated the taking out of all the plates for the removal of the obstruction. Here was a predicament; I was nearly seven miles from home with no means of proceeding with my work unless I could take all the plates from my camera, correct it, and replace them in order. I decided therefore to risk doing it if by any method whatever a dark “room” could be improvised, so, kneeling upon the ground with my camera, the gypsy folk piled around and over me, sacks, tent blankets, hay, daffodil bags and what not, while my companion contributed a coat to supplement my own, then darkness seemed complete and with misgivings I did what my sense of touch indicated as being needed and recharged the camera,—but oh, the stuffiness and the heat of my dark tent, to think of it even now gives me a sensation of being suffocated. My companion took toll for the use of his coat by snapshotting me while in the “dark room”; perhaps the picture opposite may be more correctly described as the dark room while I was in it.

On another occasion I was changing plates at night in absolute darkness in a caravan; a gypsy boy of about ten years of age was present during the operation, and doubtless he thought it altogether a strange business, for now and again he would say: “Oh, mush, ain’t it funny?” I was very much afraid his curiosity would prompt him to strike a match, to see what was actually going on; but, fortunately, he was susceptible to my appeals to him to sit quite still; nevertheless, I felt much relieved when I had my exposed plates safely packed and the camera refilled, for I had that day exposed plates on some of my choicest subjects. It will be evident to the photographically inclined, that the conditions under which one practises the art while living as a Romanichal among Romanies, are not always ideal; even the best of shutters objects at times to roughing it, being set fast when it should move, or becoming “unstuck” when it should be rigid; but this kind of thing imparts additional variety to a changeful life, although in the event of one being compelled to stay at home doing repairs during the greater part of the best photographic day experienced, one’s good or bad points are likely to be developed accordingly as the soul is possessed in patience or the work in hand has an obbligato of expletives.

Most of the gypsies are very keen critics of photographs of themselves or their acquaintances, and when portraits to their satisfaction are produced they are extremely anxious to secure at least one copy “to put up in the van.” In such cases I have found that the photographs are carefully treated, and may be seen year after year; even tent-dwellers, who, in the nature of things, have great difficulty in keeping pictures of any kind in fair condition, will produce from somewhere a grubby envelope or paper parcel, and exhibit with unmistakable interest its contents, consisting of photographs of themselves and their tents, which they have somehow managed to preserve in decent condition, and they will give particulars as to how, when, where and why each was taken, the minutest details of which have been preserved by their wonderful memory.

In order to obtain gratis one or more copies of a picture from the photographer, gypsies usually subject him to an amount of diplomatic wheedling, which generally attains its object, albeit curious inducements are sometimes advanced by them. A gypsy was once endeavouring to cajole me into promising her another copy of her portrait, her importunity reaching its climax when she said—

“Well, if you’ll give me one, I’ll buy a nice wooden frame for it to remember you by.”

It is perhaps scarcely necessary to add that I immediately surrendered, but I must confess that to this day I have not been able to appreciate the implied benefit to myself in this munificent offer. It is, however, abundantly evident that good photographs of themselves and relatives are highly prized by the gypsies, and scarcely less so are those of their proved friends. I have on several occasions seen my own portrait included with those of the family, or enjoying a place of honour in caravans, long after I had forgotten that the particular families had it in their possession.

Gypsies are a most interesting people, and every one who has first-hand knowledge of them is aware that there is not the least necessity to invent mysterious rites, villainous practices or blood-curdling crimes, and impute them to the Romanies, in order to make accounts of them fascinating, yet we find to this day writers who would have their own admirers believe that their atrocious tales of gypsies are the result of personal observation and direct communication with them.

A comparatively recent newspaper article of this kind contains the implication that they are never married by priest or parson, also that when dead they are carried—uncoffined—and buried by their own people (never otherwise) in a secluded spot known only to themselves. Another writer states that the gypsies bury their dead under water.

It is much to be regretted that originators or copyists of such statements as these, do not either ascertain the probability at least of their being true, or refrain altogether from writing about things of which they have no definite knowledge. These tales, were they not cruelly unjust to the Romanies, would be almost as laughable as a description I once heard being given by a man who certainly gave the impression that he believed his own statement; he said:

“They always sleep with their heads outside their tents, and if you happen to go to a camp early on a winter’s morning as I have been, you will sometimes see their heads outside with the frost on them.”

Gypsies are frequently—all too frequently it is feared—driven to great straits in hard weather to find the wherewithal to keep their bodies fairly nourished and sufficiently clothed; but they are not the fools nor the rogues that writers of such insensate tales as I have quoted would have us believe, tales which my own experiences abundantly disprove.

During the greater part of the year, the food of the poorer families consists very largely of potatoes, although the same people may—when “luck is in”—be found regaling themselves with boiled neck of mutton, potatoes and suet puddings. An occasional hedgehog is highly appreciated by them. On more than one occasion my gypsy friends have scarcely believed me when I stated that I had never eaten hedgehog. “What!” exclaimed one, “never tasted hotchi—well, you have missed a treat and no mistake, they beat chicken, or rabbit or anything else—well there, I never!”

Undoubtedly, gypsies are very fond of hedgehogs, some having dogs specially trained to find and take them; the pigs are usually cooked in either of the following ways:—

The hedgehog, after having been killed by being struck smartly on the head with a stout stick, then receives a certain amount of preparation, and in districts where the requisite clay is procurable, the animal, skin and spines included, is completely encased in it and is well cooked in a bed of glowing wood ashes. The al fresco chef is able to judge to a nicety when the meat is done, when the ball is withdrawn, after which the clay is broken and dexterously removed, bringing away with it the spiny covering of the hedgehog.

At other times, the luckless hotchi, after being killed is skinned, an operation needing a gypsy to perform expeditiously, and the animal, after some further preparation, is spitted on a stick and roasted before a glowing wood fire, the spit being usually revolved by hand-power of two of the family—one at either end. In either case, hedgehog braised or roast seems to be a luxury to be coveted; indeed, a gypsy epicure told me that as articles of food he considered them “worth ten shillings apiece.”

In winter, gypsies do not disdain as food the common squirrel, in the bringing of which to earth some of them are expert.

Rabbits, too, are quadrupeds with which—in the shape of viands at least—most gypsies have a fairly intimate acquaintance.

While deprecating the killing of squirrels, hedgehogs and other creatures of the wilds, it would be unfair to blame the gypsies, who do it in order to assuage hunger, as is almost invariably the case, while ignoring the fact that people who have not that excuse, kill infinitely greater numbers of such creatures, often with far greater cruelty, for so-called “sport.”

In the foregoing somewhat discursive, but absolutely veracious accounts of Romany life, I have endeavoured to record, with strict impartiality and in readable form, phases and episodes of gypsy existence, which in the nature of things must be quite inaccessible by any other means, to all but a few.

In a recent newspaper article, gypsies are called outlaws; on turning up “outlaw” in a modern dictionary, one finds the word defined as “a person deprived of the protection of the law.” Surely this statement in the article in question must have been a reflection of the desires of the writer, for the outlaws referred to were a section of the English gypsies—virtually such as are the subjects of my pen, pencil and camera. It is to be feared that the spirit of bigotry and uncharitableness that characterized the Middle Ages is not dead; but, like the justly detested couch grass, lives and grows around us unseen, excepting for the elegant and innocent-looking but tell-tale evidences here and there on the surface.

It is high time that the obloquy and unfair treatment to which our gypsy brethren have been subjected—proceeding partly from ignorance of the people themselves, and partly from the encouragement and exercise of sentiments that are unworthy of a professedly Christian nation—gave place to some embodiment of the behest—

“Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.”

Drawing now to a conclusion, I see again with my mind’s eye, an incident in one of my recent walks abroad:—

On the day following Christmas Day, at a distance of two or three miles from any ordinary habitation, or even a gypsy camp, I saw trudging along the road and coming towards me, a Romany woman and three little children. All of them were poorly clad, the woman having no covering to her head. Although they appeared to have no food with them and the day was raw and foggy, all seemed cheerful—the woman singing in an undertone. The song was evidently, “It’s a long way to Tipperary,” for just as I came alongside the party I caught the words, “it’s a long ways to go.”

What an unconscious sarcasm on the way of that poor woman and her little ones,—aye, and of many another gypsy, through life,—assuredly “a long ways to go” if it be regarded as prospecting for even a very small share of the meanest of such things as multitudes consider indispensable to comfort, or even existence. And yet how the cheery optimism of these travelling people rebukes the discontented well-to-do idler.

Gypsies or gorgios, are we not all travellers, pilgrims of eternity, carrying nothing to the next stage in our existence but what we accumulate in our innermost selves, and the Romanichal may well be an optimist when he realizes, even in an indefinite way, that the poorest gypsy has an equal opportunity with the highest of the mighty ones of earth, of gathering to himself as he goes through life, of the best that can be carried from this world into the next.