“Some won’t play cards or the fiddle—‘that’s my poor boy’s tune’—and some won’t dance—‘No, I can’t dance, the last time I danced was with my poor wife (or girl) that’s been dead this four years.’
“‘Come, brother, let’s go and have a drop of ale; the fiddler is there.’ ‘No, brother, I never drank a drop of ale since my aunt went (died).’ ‘Well, take some tobacco, brother?’ ‘No, no, I have not smoked since my wife fell in the water and never came out again alive.’ ‘Well, let’s go and play at cock-shy, we two’ll play you two for a pint o’ ale.’ ‘No, I never played at cock-shy since my father died; the last time I played was with him.’
“And Lena, the wife of my nephew Job, never ate plums after her husband died.”
This is a strange manner of mourning, but it is more effective than the mere wearing of black, since it is often a long-sustained and trying tribute to the dead. Its Oriental-Indian origin is apparent enough. But among the German Gipsies, who, I am firmly convinced, represent in language and customs their English brethren as the latter were three centuries ago, this reverence for the departed assumes an even deeper and more serious character. Mr Richard Liebich (Die Zigeuner, Leipzig, 1863), tells us that in his country their most sacred oath is Ap i mulende!—by the dead!—and with it may be classed the equally patriarchal imprecation, “By my father’s hand!”
Since writing the foregoing sentence a very remarkable confirmation of the existence of this oath among English Gipsies, and the sacredness with which it is observed, came under my own observation. An elderly Gipsy, during the course of a family difficulty, declared to his sister that he would leave the house. She did not believe he would until he swore by his dead wife—by his “mullo juvo.” And when he had said this, his sister promptly remarked: “Now you have sworn by her, I know you will do it.” He narrated this to me the next day, adding that he was going to put a tent up, about a mile away, and live there. I asked him if he ever swore by his dead father, to which he said: “Always, until my wife died.” This poor man was almost entirely ignorant of what was in the Bible, as I found by questioning him; but I doubt whether I know any Christian on whom a Bible oath would be more binding than was to him his own by the dead. To me there was something deeply moving in the simple earnestness and strangeness of this adjuration.
The German, like the older English Gipsies, carefully burn the clothes and bed of the deceased, and, indeed, most objects closely connected with them, and what is more extraordinary, evince their respect by carefully avoiding mentioning their names, even when they are borne by other persons or are characteristic of certain things. So that when a Gipsy maiden named Forella once died, her entire nation, among whom the trout had always been known only by its German designation, Forelle, at once changed the name, and, to this day it is called by them mulo madscho—the dead fish,—or at times lolo madscho—the red fish.
This is also the case among the English Gipsies. Wishing to have the exact words and views of a real Rommany on this subject, I made inquiry, and noted down his reply, which was literally as follows:—
“Āvali; when Rommany chals or juvos are mullos, their pals don’t kaum to shoon their navs pauli—it kairs ’em too bongo—so they’re purabend to waver navs. Saw don’t kair it—kek—but posh do, kennā. My chavo’s nav was Horfer or Horferus, but the bitti chavis penned him Wacker. Well, yeck divvus pré the wellgooro o’ the graias prasters, my juvo dicked a boro doll adrée some hev of a buttika and penned, ‘Dovo odöi dicks just like moro Wacker!’ So we penned him Wackerdoll, but a’ter my juvo mullered I rakkered him Wacker again, because Wackerdoll pet mandy in cāmmoben o’ my poor juvo.”
In English: “Yes. When Gipsy men or women die, their friends don’t care to hear their names again—it makes them too sad, so they are changed to other names. All don’t do it—no—but half of them do so still. My boy’s name was Horfer or Horferus (Orpheus), but the children called him Wacker. Well, one day at the great fair of the races, my wife saw a large doll in some window of a shop, and said, ‘That looks just like our Wacker!’ So we called him Wackerdoll, but after my wife died I called him Wacker again, because Wackerdoll put me in mind of my poor wife.”
When further interrogated on the same subject, he said: