“Pen a mandy, Priscilla Cooper, sa buti me sosti del tute for adovo pustini vashtini?” (Tell me, Priscilla Cooper, how much should I give you for those woollen gloves?)
“Eighteen pence, master.” The common price was ninepence.
“I will not give you eighteen pence,” I replied.
“Then how much will you give, master?” asked Priscilla.
“Four shillings will I give, and not a penny less—miri pen—you may take it or leave it.”
I went off with the gloves, while the women roared out blessings in Romany. There was something in the whole style of the gift, or the manner of giving it, which was specially gratifying to gypsies, and the account thereof soon spread far and wide over the roads as a beautiful deed.
The fraternity of the roads is a strange thing. Once when I lived at Walton there was an old gypsy woman named Lizzie Buckland who often camped near us. A good and winsome young lady named Lillie Doering had taken a liking
to the old lady, and sent her a nice Christmas present of clothing, tea, &c., which was sent to me to give to the Egyptian mother. But when I went to seek her, she had flown over the hills and far away. It made no difference. I walked on till I met a perfect stranger to me, a woman, but “evidently a traveller.” “Where is old Liz?” I asked. “Somewhere about four miles beyond Moulsey.” “I’ve got a present for her; are you going that way?” “Not exactly, but I’ll take it to her; a few miles don’t signify.” I learned that it had gone from hand to hand and been safely delivered. It seems a strange way to deliver valuables, to walk forth and give them to the first tramp whom you meet; but I knew my people.
I may here say that during this and the previous winter I had practised wood-carving. In which, as in studying Gypsy, I had certain ultimate aims, which were fully developed in later years. I have several times observed in this record that when I get an idea I cherish it, think it over, and work it up. Out of this wood-carving and repoussé and the designing which it involved I in time developed ideas which led to what I may fairly call a great result.
We remained at Brighton until February, when we went to London and stayed at the Langham Hotel. Then began the London life of visits, dinners, and for me, as usual, of literary work. In those days I began to meet and know Professor E. H. Palmer, Walter Besant, Walter H. Pollock, and many other men of the time of whom I shall anon have more to say. I arranged with Mr. Trübner as to the publication of “The English Gypsies.” I think it was at this time that I dined one evening at Sir Charles Dilke’s, where a droll incident took place. There was present a small Frenchman, to whom I had not been introduced, and whose name therefore I did not know. After dinner in the smoking-room I turned over with this gentleman a very curious collection of the works of Blake, which were new to him. Finding that he evidently knew something about art, I explained to him that