And down he run,
Hickory dickory dock.”
We have hickory, or ek-keri, again followed by a significant one. It may be observed that; while my first quotation abounds in what are unmistakably Romany words, I can find no trace of any in any other child-rhymes of the kind. I lay stress on this, for if I were a great Celtic scholar I should not have the least difficulty in proving that every word in every rhyme, down to “Tommy, make room for your uncle,” was all old Irish or Gaelic.
Word for word every person who understands Romany will admit the following:—
Ek, or yek, means one. Yekorus, ekorus, or yeckori, or ekkeri, once.
U-kair-an. You kair an, or begin. Kair is to make or do, ānkair to begin. “Do you begin?”
Fillissin is a castle, or gentleman’s country seat (H. Smith).
Follasi, or follasy, is a lady’s glove.
Nākelas. I learned this word from an old gypsy. It is used as equivalent to don’t, but also means ná (kélas), you don’t play. From kel-ava, I play.
Ján, Jā-an, Go on. From jāva, I go. Hindu, jána, and jáo.
Kivi, or keevy. No meaning.
Kavi, a kettle, from kekāvi, commonly given as kāvi. Greek, κεκκάβος. Hindu, kal, a box.
Stini. No meaning that I know.
Stáni. A buck.
Of the last line it may be remarked that if we take from ingle ’em (angle ’em), which is probably added for mere jingle, there remains stán, or stáni, “a buck,” followed by the very same word in English.
With the mournful examples of Mr. Bellenden Kerr’s efforts to show that all our old proverbs, saws, sayings, and tavern signs are Dutch, and Sir William Betham’s Etruscan-Irish, and the works of an army of “philologists,” who consider mere chance resemblance to be a proof of identical origin, I should be justly regarded as one of the seekers for mystery in moonshine if I declared that I positively believed this to be Romany. But it certainly contains words which, without any stretching or fitting, are simply gypsy, and I think it not improbable that it was some sham charm used by some Romany fortune-teller to bewilder Gorgios. Let the reader imagine the burnt-sienna, wild-cat-eyed old sorceress performing before a credulous farm-wife and her children, the great ceremony of hākkni pánki—which Mr. Borrow calls hokkani bāro, but for which there is a far deeper name—that of “the great secret”—which even my best Romany friends tried to conceal from me. This is to lel dūdikabin—to “take lightment.” In the oldest English canting, lightment occurs as an equivalent for theft—whether it came from Romany, or Romany from it, I cannot tell.
This feat—which is described by almost every writer on Gypsies—is performed by inducing some woman of largely magnified faith to believe that there is hidden in her house a magic treasure, which can only be made “to come to hand” by depositing in the cellar another treasure, to which it will come by natural affinity and attraction. “For gold, as you sees, draws gold, my deari, and so if you ties up all your money in a pocket-handkercher, an’ leaves it, you’ll find it doubled. An’ wasn’t there the Squire’s lady—you know Mrs. Trefarlo, of course—and didn’t she draw two hundred old gold guineas out of the ground where they’d laid in an old grave—and only one guinea she gave me for all my trouble; an’ I hope you’ll do better than that for the poor old gypsy, my deari——.”
The gold and the spoons are all tied up—for, as the enchantress sagely observes, “there may be silver to”—and she solemnly repeats over it magical rhymes, while the children, standing around in awe, listen to every word. It is a good subject for a picture. Sometimes the windows are closed, and candles lighted—to add to the effect. The bundle is left or buried in a certain place. The next day the gypsy comes and sees how the charm is working. Could any one look under her cloak, he might find another bundle precisely resembling the one containing the treasure. She looks at the precious deposit, repeats her rhyme again solemnly and departs, after carefully charging the house-wife that the bundle must not be touched, looked at, or spoken of for three weeks. “Every word you tell about it, my deari, will be a guinea gone away.” Sometimes she exacts an oath on the Bible, when she chivs o manzin apré lāatti—that nothing shall be said.
Back to the farmer’s house never again. After three weeks another Extraordinary Instance of Gross Credulity appears in the country paper, and is perhaps repeated in a colossal London daily, with a reference to the absence of the schoolmaster. There is wailing and shame in the house—perhaps great suffering—for it may be that the savings of years, and bequeathed tankards, and marriage rings, and inherited jewellery, and mother’s souvenirs have been swept away. The charm has worked.
“How can people be such fools!” Yea—how can they? How can fully ninety-nine out of one hundred, and I fear me nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand, be capable of what amounts to precisely the same thing—paying out their cash in the hopes that the Invisible Influences in the Inscrutable Cellar or Celestial Garret will pay it back to them, cent. per cent.? Oh, reader, if you be of middle age (for there are perhaps some young agnostics beginning to appear to whom the cap does not fit), and can swear on your hat that you never in your life have been taken in by a dūdikabin in any form—send me your name and I will award you for an epitaph that glorious one given in the Nugæ Venales: