One such of many similar scenes is deeply impressed on my memory: I was at the camp of a Romany friend and we had discussed an early supper of povengros (potatoes) and salt, washed down with tea, when someone suggested a song. There may be sweeter melodies than songs in the Romany, as sung by the chies, but I have yet to hear them. There is a sweetness and a certain wild attractiveness about the language well adapted to the poetry of music, and the gypsies are passionate lovers of beautiful sounds. A poem read to them in Spanish, pleases their ear, they understand perhaps not a word, but appreciate the rhythm. Their language, too, reminds one somewhat of that tongue. I am however, digressing:
By the camp fire that evening, our talk, after a song or two, was mostly in and of the Romany tongue. One would narrate some experience, another would take up the thread, and so on, the firelight meanwhile playing on their faces. The soughing of the light wind overhead seemed attuned to the weirdness of the scene, and the while, the pageant of one of the loveliest of summer sunsets was passing, every merging scene having its glory duplicated on the reflecting surface of the river, which, winding and looping in its course, glided and faded imperceptibly into a purple haze, the whole scene changing momentarily, but with a tranquillity which, “while moving, seemed asleep,” until it passed through an almost unearthly splendour of afterglow into the cool star-depths of the summer night.
In extenuation—perhaps I should say explanation—of the conduct of those who think unkindly or deal harshly with the gypsies on principle, I suggest that they neither really know nor try to understand them; moreover, the likelihood of their personally gaining any such knowledge of them as results from experiences of the nature I have attempted to describe, is very remote; indeed, so suspicious and unapproachable are they—mainly because we as a people have made them so—that were one to cultivate their acquaintance, with the very best of intentions, years would probably elapse before he would be welcomed as a true pal (brother), and not until then would he understand them or appreciate their outlook on things.
Personally, I have found them, as companions, scrupulously honest; with regard, however, to farmers and landowners who are known to dislike the gypsies, this opinion might need some slight modification, but here again one should endeavour to see things from the gypsies’ point of view. They do not as a rule look upon poaching as wrong, contending that they are illtreated by man-made laws, that rabbits were provided for man’s sustenance, and that it is not more sinful for a gypsy to catch a rabbit to ward off starvation from his family, than for another man to run over it with a motor-car, and in fairness to the gypsies it must be said that they probably poach less than the average village labourer.
Apropos of their ideas of honesty, a friend tells me that many years since, a family of gypsies encamped near the town of——, and his father gave them permission to draw all the water they needed from the well on his land. During the long stay of the family in the locality he did not lose one pennyworth by their depredations, notwithstanding that all around chickens and other live stock disappeared—left home as it were and forgot to return. There would appear to have been no actual proof that the gypsies were implicated, but the animals vanished during the time the gypsies were encamped there.
One cannot speak too highly of such traits in their character as love of their children and mutual help. When bad luck comes they bow to the inevitable, accepting it with a philosophy not possible to many of us. When times are good, there is mutton in the pot and “spotted donkey,” suet puddings, grace the festive board, and for this he is thankful, but when his luck is out, he tightens his belt a little and looks forward to the morrow,—his luck may turn, who knows?
Great indeed is the contrast between the luxury-loving, well-to-do man about town of to-day and these Romany folk, a people who have scarcely changed since they left India hundreds of years ago. Our progress in Art and Science has scarcely touched them, they still retain their language and many of their old customs, while the ethnographic student will readily distinguish the prevalent Oriental cast of features. Many of them set about their daily task much as did their early ancestors, who lived in the same kind of tent. Even the little hanging-lamps we see occasionally in the tents are of a design that is as old as the hills, and to-day the Hindu uses just such a lamp. There is much that is primitive, also much that is supremely fascinating about the true gypsy, and if we could imagine him without his archaic, musical language, he would still be a far more interesting and clear-cut personality than the average gorgio or non-gypsy, and the reader will find that we owe more to the gypsy than is commonly supposed.
Perhaps no more convincing proof of their Indian origin can be adduced than the following short vocabulary of Romany words, selected to show their similarity to Hindustanee and Sanscrit. It may be contended that the language contains words derived from other nations or sources. Fragments of other tongues have naturally crept in, but in this respect an Englishman is scarcely the person to criticize.
In the following list of numerals the words for seven and eight are given, but nowadays few gypsies use them, many having forgotten them.