As the most direct route to a gypsy parent’s heart is usually by way of the child, the work of the mission in giving the children, whenever possible, an elementary school education and at the same time instilling correct ideas of right and wrong, and teaching them simple truths, must in the nature of things eventually influence for good the lives of both children and parents; meantime the self-denying workers obey the injunction—not to be weary in well-doing, trusting to the assurance that—in due season they will reap if they faint not.
Many a Romany wedding is still celebrated in the old, old way; but there are increasing numbers each year who are married at some recognized place of worship, thanks to the efforts of the mission workers, who point out to them that although they may after their own ceremony remain faithful to each other through life, as is almost invariably the case, it would be better to be married at a place of worship, or otherwise in accordance with the law of this country.
To see a gypsy really and thoroughly uncomfortable one must behold him on his wedding day, should he elect—as occasionally he does—to wear, for once, a high collar. Accustomed to the kerchief around his neck, the wearing of a starched collar must, to him, feel much like being put in irons, and although he survives the ordeal, it must remain an agonizing memory to him ever after.
As the work of the Church Army Mission gives but a side-light upon Romany life, I must not dwell on it beyond adding that their workers go with the gypsies, not merely during the fruit-picking or the hop-picking, but are always among them whenever there appears to be the most pressing need or favourable opportunity for their services, and therein lies the secret of any success they may have had.
“To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late,” and despite the postponement of the day of reckoning by living in the open air in a rational way, Romany life is not exempt from paying the debt to Nature, and sooner or later the sojourner in gypsy land must inevitably have some saddening experiences.
One evening I was asked to sit up with friends whose father had just passed over to the majority. As I had known the old man in life very well and was desirous of showing my sympathy with the family in any way possible, I acceded to the request.
The coffin was placed in a tent at a short distance from the rest of the camp, by its side stood a tiny clock recording the few hours remaining ere the body would be committed to the ground, the little chamber being lit by a lantern suspended from one of the tent rods. Two were keeping watch until midnight, when they would arouse two others to take their place until dawn. The autumn night was chilly, so a good fire was made and I sat until after ten o’clock with the watchers, until the moon, which was almost at the full, appeared well over the tree-tops, for we were in the depth of the forest; all around, and up to the little clearing in which the camp was situated, were large beeches and oaks whose foliage was quite still excepting when a slight puff of wind sent a shiver through the leaves.
The whole scene was weird in the extreme,—the tent with its silent occupant, the watchers at a short distance by the fire whose lambent flames peopled the solitude with moving shadowy forms,—little imagination being needed for one to fancy them playing ghostly hide-and-seek among the trees,—and looking down upon it all was the harvest moon.
I was present at the funeral next day, when the ceremony was most impressive, every one behaving with the utmost decorum. On this particular occasion there were none of the spectacular demonstrations of grief that at some gypsy funerals resemble the Eastern wailing. The personal belongings of the deceased were afterwards burned, as is customary, but I believe none of them were buried with him.