Arthur Mitchell, in inquiring What is Civilization? [209] remarks that “all the things which gather round or grow upon a high state of civilization are not necessarily true parts of it. These conventionalities are often regarded as its very essence.” And it is true that the greater the fool or snob, the deeper is the conviction that the conventional is the core of “culture.” “‘It is not genteel,’ ‘in good form,’ or ‘the mode,’ to do this or do that, or say this or say that.”
“Such things are spoken of as marks of a high civilization, or by those who do not confound civilization with culture as differentiators between the cultured and the uncultured.” Dr. Mitchell “neither praises nor condemns these things;” but it is well for a man, while he is about it, to know his own mind, and I, for myself, condemn them with all my heart and soul, whenever anybody declares that such brass counters in the game of life are real gold, and insists that I shall accept them as such. For small play in a very small way with small people, I would endure them; but many men and nearly all women make their capital of them. And whatever may be said in their favor, it cannot be denied that they constantly lead to lying and heartlessness. Even Dr. Mitchell, while he says he does not condemn them, proceeds immediately to declare that “while we submit to them they constitute a sort of tyranny, under which we fret and secretly pine for escape. Does not the exquisite of Rotten Row weary for his flannel shirt and shooting-jacket? Do not ‘well-constituted’ men want to fish and shoot or kill something, themselves, by climbing mountains, when they can find nothing else? In short, does it not appear that these conventionalities are irksome, and are disregarded when the chance presents itself? And does it not seem as if there were something in human nature pulling men back to a rude and simple life?” To find that men suffer under the conventionalities, “adds, on the whole,” says our canny, prudent Scot, “to the respectability of human nature.” Tu ha ragione (right you are), Dr. Mitchell, there. For the conventional, whether found among Fijians as they were, or in Mayfair as it is, whenever it is vexatious and merely serves as a
cordon to separate “sassiety” from society, detracts from the respectability of humanity, and is in itself vulgar. If every man in society were a gentleman and every woman a lady, there would be no more conventionalism. Usus est tyrannus (custom is a tyrant), or, as the Talmud proverb saith, “Custom is the plague of wise men, but is the idol of fools.” And he was a wise Jew, whoever he was, who declared it.
But let us return to our black sheep, the gypsy. While happy in not being conventional, and while rejoicing, or at least unconsciously enjoying freedom from the bonds of etiquette, he agrees with the Chinese, red Indians, May Fairies, and Fifth Avenoodles in manifesting under the most trying circumstances that imperturbability which was once declared by an eminent Philadelphian to be “the Corinthian ornament of a gentleman.” He who said this builded better than he knew, for the ornament in question, if purely Corinthian, is simply brass. One morning I was sauntering with the Palmer in Aberystwith, when we met with a young and good-looking gypsy woman, with whom we entered into conversation, learning that she was a Bosville, and acquiring other items of news as to Egypt and the roads, and then left.
We had not gone far before we found a tinker. He who catches a tinker has got hold of half a gypsy and a whole cosmopolite, however bad the catch may be. He did not understand the greeting Sarishan!—he really could not remember to have heard it. He did not know any gypsies,—“he could not get along with them.” They were a bad lot. He had seen some gypsies three weeks before on the road. They were curious dark people, who lived in tents. He could not talk Romany.
This was really pitiable. It was too much. The Palmer informed him that he was wasting his best opportunities, and that it was a great pity that any man who lived on the roads should be so ignorant. The tinker never winked. In the goodness of our hearts we even offered to give him lessons in the kalo jib, or black language. The grinder was as calm as a Belgravian image. And as we turned to depart the professor said,—
“Mandy’d del tute a shahori to pi moro kammaben, if tute jinned sa mandi pukkers.” (I’d give you a sixpence to drink our health, if you knew what I am saying.)
With undisturbed gravity the tinker replied,—
“Now I come to think of it, I do remember to have heard somethin’ in the parst like that. It’s a conwivial expression arskin’ me if I won’t have a tanner for ale. Which I will.”
“Now since you take such an interest in gypsies,” I answered, “it is a pity that you should know so little about them. I have seen them since you have. I saw a nice young woman, one of the Bosvilles here, not half an hour ago. Shall I introduce you?”