When I saw him, he was sitting on the ground by his door, mending the broken bottom of a chair. His house was half-house half-waggon, and stood in a corner of the court; not far from it were two or three other waggon-houses. There was a disagreeable smell of hogs, though I saw none. I said, "How you do?" in the Gypsy tongue, and we had discourse together. He was a tall man, as I could see, though he was sitting. But, though tall, he was not stout, and his hands were small as those of a lady. His face was as red as a winter apple, and his hair was rather red than grey. He had a small hat on his head, and he was not badly dressed. On my asking him how tall he was, and how old, he said that he was six foot high, all but an inch, and that he was ninety-two years old. He could not talk much Gypsy, but understood almost all that I said to him. Our discourse was chiefly in English. One thing only in his manner of speaking I thought worthy of remembrance. Instead of saying Romany, like other Gypsies, he said Roumany, a word which instantly brought to my mind Roumain, the genuine, ancient name of the Wallachian tongue and people. He seemed to be rather ashamed of being of Gypsy blood. He told me that he was born in Buckinghamshire, that he was no true Gypsy, but only half-and-half: his father was a Gypsy, but his mother was a Gentile of Oxford; he had never had any particular liking for the Gypsy manner of living, and when little had been a farmer's boy. When he grew up he enlisted into the Oxford militia, and was fourteen years a militia soldier. He had gone much about England and Scotland in the time of the old war, and had been in France, having volunteered to go thither to fight against the French. He had seen Bordeaux and the great city of Paris. After war he had taken up chair-making, and had travelled about the country, but had been now for more than thirty years living in London. He had been married, but his wife had long been dead. She had borne him a son, who was now a man seventy years of age, looking much older than himself, and at present lying sick of a burning fever in one of the caravans. He said that at one time he could make a good deal of money by chair-making, but now from his great age could scarcely earn a shilling a day. "What a shame," said I, "that a man so old as you should have to work at all!" "Courage!
courage!" he cried; "I thank God that I am strong enough to work, and that I have good friends; I shan't be sorry to live to be a hundred years old, though true it is that if I were a gentleman I would do no work." His grandson, a man of about five-and-thirty, came now and conversed with me. He was a good-looking and rather well-dressed man, with something of a knowing card in his countenance. He said that his grandfather was a fine old man, who had seen a great deal, and that a great many people came to hear his stories of the old time, of the French and American wars, and of what he had seen in other countries. That, truth to say, there was a time when his way was far from commendable, for that he loved to fight, swear, and make himself drunk; but that now he was another man, that he had abandoned all fighting and evil speaking, and, to crown all, was a tee-totaller, he himself having made him swear that he would no more drink either gin or ale: that he went every Sunday either to church or Tabernacle, and that, though he did not know how to read, he loved to hear the holy book read to him; that the gentlemen of the parish entertained a great regard for him, and that the church clergyman and, above all, Dr. P. of the Tabernacle had a high opinion of him, and said that he would partake of the holy banquet with our Lord Jesus in the blessed country above. On my inquiring whether the Gypsies came often to see him, he said that they came now and then to say "Good day" and "How do you do?" but that was all; that neither his grandfather nor himself cared to see them, because they were evil people, full of wickedness and left-handed love, and, above all, very envyous; that in the winter they all went in a body to the gentlemen and spoke ill of the old man, and begged the gentlemen to take from him a blanket which the gentlemen had lent him to warm his poor old body with in the time of the terrible cold; that it is true their wickedness did the old man no harm, for the gentlemen told them to go away and be ashamed of themselves, but that it was not pleasant to think that one was of the same blood as such people. After some time I gave the old man a small piece of silver, shook him by the hand, said that I should be glad to see him live to be a hundred, and went away home.
KOKKODUS ARTARUS
Drey the puro cheeros there jibb'd a puri Romani juva, Sinfaya laki nav. Tatchi Romani juva i; caum'd to rokkra Romany, nav'd every mush kokkodus, ta every mushi deya. Yeck chavo was laki; lescro nav Artaros; dinnelo or diviou was O; romadi was lesgue; but the rommadi merr'd, mukking leste yeck chavo. Artaros caum'd to jal oprey the drom, and sikker his nangipen to rawnies and kair muior. At last the ryor chiv'd leste drey the diviou ker. The chavo jibb'd with his puri deya till he was a desch ta pantsch besh engro. Yeck divvus a Romani juva jalling along the drom dick'd the puri juva beshing tuley a bor roving: What's the matter, Sinfaya, pukker'd i?
My chavo's chavo is lell'd oprey, deya.
What's he lell'd oprey for?
For a meila and posh, deya.
Why don't you jal to dick leste?
I have nash'd my maila, deya.
O ma be tugni about your maila; jal and dick leste.
I don't jin kah se, deya! diviou kokkodus Artaros jins, kek mande.
Ah diviou, diviou, jal amande callico.
MANG, PRALA
Romano chavo was manging sar bori gudli yeck rye te del les pasherro.
Lescri deya so was beshing kek dur from odoy penn'd in gorgikey rokrapen: Meklis juggal, ta av acoi! ma kair the rye kinyo with your gudli! and then penn'd sig in Romany jib: Mang, Prala, mang! Ta o chavo kair'd ajaw till the rye chiv'd les yeck shohaury.
[Something like the following little anecdote is related by the Gypsies in every part of Continental Europe.]
BEG ON, BROTHER
