In order to obtain gratis one or more copies of a picture from the photographer, gypsies usually subject him to an amount of diplomatic wheedling, which generally attains its object, albeit curious inducements are sometimes advanced by them. A gypsy was once endeavouring to cajole me into promising her another copy of her portrait, her importunity reaching its climax when she said—
“Well, if you’ll give me one, I’ll buy a nice wooden frame for it to remember you by.”
It is perhaps scarcely necessary to add that I immediately surrendered, but I must confess that to this day I have not been able to appreciate the implied benefit to myself in this munificent offer. It is, however, abundantly evident that good photographs of themselves and relatives are highly prized by the gypsies, and scarcely less so are those of their proved friends. I have on several occasions seen my own portrait included with those of the family, or enjoying a place of honour in caravans, long after I had forgotten that the particular families had it in their possession.
Gypsies are a most interesting people, and every one who has first-hand knowledge of them is aware that there is not the least necessity to invent mysterious rites, villainous practices or blood-curdling crimes, and impute them to the Romanies, in order to make accounts of them fascinating, yet we find to this day writers who would have their own admirers believe that their atrocious tales of gypsies are the result of personal observation and direct communication with them.
A comparatively recent newspaper article of this kind contains the implication that they are never married by priest or parson, also that when dead they are carried—uncoffined—and buried by their own people (never otherwise) in a secluded spot known only to themselves. Another writer states that the gypsies bury their dead under water.
It is much to be regretted that originators or copyists of such statements as these, do not either ascertain the probability at least of their being true, or refrain altogether from writing about things of which they have no definite knowledge. These tales, were they not cruelly unjust to the Romanies, would be almost as laughable as a description I once heard being given by a man who certainly gave the impression that he believed his own statement; he said:
“They always sleep with their heads outside their tents, and if you happen to go to a camp early on a winter’s morning as I have been, you will sometimes see their heads outside with the frost on them.”
Gypsies are frequently—all too frequently it is feared—driven to great straits in hard weather to find the wherewithal to keep their bodies fairly nourished and sufficiently clothed; but they are not the fools nor the rogues that writers of such insensate tales as I have quoted would have us believe, tales which my own experiences abundantly disprove.
During the greater part of the year, the food of the poorer families consists very largely of potatoes, although the same people may—when “luck is in”—be found regaling themselves with boiled neck of mutton, potatoes and suet puddings. An occasional hedgehog is highly appreciated by them. On more than one occasion my gypsy friends have scarcely believed me when I stated that I had never eaten hedgehog. “What!” exclaimed one, “never tasted hotchi—well, you have missed a treat and no mistake, they beat chicken, or rabbit or anything else—well there, I never!”