Here is something strangely akin to the Romany mesmerism to which allusion is made by “The Scholar-Gipsy,” whose
“. . . mates had arts to rule as they desir’d
The workings of men’s brains;
And they can bind them to what thoughts they will.”
As is well known, Matthew Arnold’s poem is based upon the following passage in Joseph Glanvill’s Vanity of Dogmatizing:—
“That one man should be able to bind the thoughts of another, and determine them to their particular objects, will be reckoned in the first rank of Impossibles; Yet by the power of advanc’d Imagination it may very probably be effected; and story abounds with Instances. I’le trouble the Reader but with one; and the hands from which I had it, make me secure of the truth on’t. There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who, being of very pregnant and ready parts, and yet wanting the encouragement of preferment, was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there, and to cast himself upon the wide world for livelyhood. Now, his necessities growing daily on him, and wanting the help of friends to relieve him; he was at last forced to joyn himself to a company of Vagabond Gypsies, whom occasionally he met with, and to follow their trade for a maintenance. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtility of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem; that they discover’d to him their Mystery; in the practice of which, by the pregnancy of his wit and partz he soon grew so good a proficient, as to out-do his Instructours. After he had been a pretty while well exercis’d in the Trade; there chanc’d to ride by a couple of Scholars who had formerly bin of his acquaintance. The Scholars had quickly spyed out their old friend, among the Gypsies; and their amazement to see him among such society, had well-nigh discover’d him; but by a sign he prevented their owning him before that crew; and taking one of them aside privately, desir’d him with his friend to go to an Inn, not far distant thence, promising there to come to them. They accordingly went thither, and he follows; after their first salutations, his friends enquire how he came to live so odd a life as that was, and to joyn himself with such a cheating beggerly company. The Scholar-Gypsy having given them an account of the necessity, which drove him to that kind of life; told them, that the people he went with were not such Impostours as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of Imagination, and that himself had learned much of their Art, and improved it further than themselves could. And to evince the truth of what he told them, he said he’d remove into another room, leaving them to discourse together; and upon his return tell them the sum of what they had talked of; which accordingly he perform’d, giving them a full account of what had pass’d between them in his absence. The Scholars being amaz’d at so unexpected a discovery, earnestly desir’d him to unriddle the mystery. In which he gave them satisfaction, by telling them, that what he did was by the power of Imagination, his Phancy binding theirs; and that himself had dictated to them the discourse they held together, while he was from them: That there were warrantable wayes of heightening the Imagination to that pitch, as to bind another’s; and that when he had compass’d the whole secret, some parts of which he said he was yet ignorant of, he intended to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.”
One sometimes wonders whether the world would have cared one jot about the revelations which the Oxford Scholar here promises, for to the majority the “Gypsies” are almost tabu.
In a letter which I received from that perfect Scholar-Gypsy and Gypsy-Scholar, the late Francis Hindes Groome, he tells how he once stumbled upon a typical critic.
“Three or four years ago I gave a lecture on Gypsies at Greenock, and a well-dressed man came up after it.
“‘There were some things,’ he remarked, ‘that I quite liked in your lecture, but on a good many points you were absolutely wrong.’
“‘Of course you’ve studied the question?’ I asked him.
“‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I looked up the article “Gypsies” in Dr. Brewer’s Dictionary of Fable just before coming along.’”
Talking of critics reminds me how I once received something of a shock to the nerves during the opening sentences of a lecture on “Gypsy Customs.” Not far from the platform where I stood, there sat a well-to-do horse-dealer who, having married a pure-bred Gypsy, was presumably in possession of “inside information.” The vision of his face, all alertness and curiosity, caused me a momentary disturbance. What would this critic make of my disclosures? How would he take my revelations? Warming to my subject, however, I was made happy by my auditor interjecting such remarks as “That’s right.” “He’s got it.” “Where does the man get it all from?” Sometimes he would punctuate his exclamations by vigorously slapping his knee and laughing aloud. Certainly his ejaculations added a piquancy to my tales gathered from Gypsy tents.
But to return to Peterborough Fair.
About the middle of the afternoon, as I stood on a grassy mound overlooking the horses, I spied near a group of animals my old friend, Anselo Draper, flourishing a long-handled whip. This swart East Anglian roamer wore a dark brown coat of Newmarket cut, slouch hat of soft green felt, and crimson neckerchief neatly tied at the throat. Along an open space between the rows of horses sauntered his two pretty daughters, Jemima and Phœbe, bareheaded and bare-armed, their laughing voices ringing out merrily, while at their heels followed two little brothers cracking whips as became budding horse-dealers.