It was only three or four hours ago, as I write, on the fifth day of February 1872, that a Gipsy said to me, “It is nine years since my wife died, and I would give all Anglaterra to have her again.”
That the real religion of the Gipsies, as I have already observed, consists like that of the Comteists, in devotion to the dead, is indicated by a very extraordinary custom, which, notwithstanding the very general decay, of late years, of all their old habits, still prevails universally. This is the refraining from some usage or indulgence in honour of the departed—a sacrifice, as it were, to their manes—and I believe that, by inquiring, it will be found to exist among all Gipsies in all parts of the world. In England it is shown by observances which are maintained at great personal inconvenience, sometime for years, or during life. Thus, there are many Gipsies who, because a deceased brother was fond of spirits, have refrained, after his departure, from tasting them, or who have given up their favourite pursuits, for the reason that they were last indulged in, in company with the lost and loved one.
As a further illustration, I will give in the original Gipsy-language, as I myself took it down rapidly, but literally, the comments of a full-blooded Gipsy on this custom—the translation being annexed. I should state that the narrative which precedes his comments was a reply to my question, Why he invariably declined my offer of cigars?
“No; I never toovs cigaras, kek. I never toovs ’em kennā since my pal’s chavo Job mullered. And I’ll pooker tute how it welled.”
“It was at the boro wellgooro where the graias prasters. I was kairin the paiass of the koshters, and mandy dicked a rye an’ pookered him for a droppi levinor. ‘Āvali,’ he penned, ‘I’ll del you levinor and a kushto tuvalo too.’ ‘Parraco,’ says I, ‘rya.’ So he del mandy the levinor and a dozen cigaras. I pet em adrée my poachy an’ jailed apré the purge and latched odói my pal’s chavo, an’ he pook’d mandy, ‘Where you jāllin to, kāko?’ And I penned: ‘Job, I’ve lelled some covvas for tute.’ ‘Tácho,’ says he—so I del him the cigaras. Penned he: ‘Where did tute latcher ’em?’ ‘A rye del ’em a mandy.’ So he pet em adrée his poachy, an’ pookered mandy, ‘What’ll tu lel to pi?’ ‘A droppi levinor.’ So he penned, ‘Pauli the grais prasters, I’ll jāl atut the puvius and dick tute.’
“Eight or nine divvuses pauli, at the K’allis’s Gav, his pal welled to mandy and pookered mi Job sus naflo. And I penned, ‘Any thing dush?’ ‘Worse nor dovo.’ ‘What is the covvo?’ Says yuv, ‘Mandy kaums tute to jāl to my pal—don’t spare the gry—mukk her jāl!’ So he del mi a fino grai, and I kistered eight mee so sig that I thought I’d mored her. An’ I pet her drée the stanya, an’ I jālled a lay in the pūv and’ odói I dicked Job. ‘Thank me Duvel!’ penned he, ‘Kāko you’s welled acaï, and if mandy gets opré this bugni (for ’twas the bugni he’d lelled), I’ll del tute the kushtiest gry that you’ll beat sār the Romni chuls.’ But he mullered.
“And he pens as he was mullerin. ‘Kāko, tute jins the cigarras you del a mandy?’ ‘Avali,’ I says he, ‘I’ve got ’em acaï in my poachy.’ Mandy and my pens was by him, but his romni was avree, adrée the boro tan, bikinin covvas, for she’d never lelled the bugni, nor his chavos, so they couldn’t well a dickin, for we wouldn’t mukk em. And so he mullered.
“And when yuv’s mullo I pet my wast adrée his poachy and there mandy lastered the cigaras. And from dovo chairus, ryá, mandy never tooved a cigar.
“Āvali—there’s adusta Romni chuls that kairs dovo. And when my juvo mullered, mandy never lelled nokengro kekoomi. Some chairuses in her jivaben, she’d lel a bitti nokengro avree my mokto, and when I’d pen, ‘Deari juvo, what do you kair dovo for?’ she pooker mandy, ‘It’s kushti for my sherro.’ And so when she mullered mandy never lelled chichi sensus.
“Some mushis wont haw māss because the pal or pen that mullered was kāmmaben to it,—some wont pi levinor for panj or ten besh, some wont haw the kāmmaben matcho that the chavo hawed. Some wont haw puvengroes or pi tood, or haw pabos, and saw (sār) for the mullos.