“Why, we had those Gypsies up here this morning. Their faces are well known round here, though we don’t have them so much as we used to do. You take an interest in Gypsies, don’t you, sir? At least I’ve heard it said that you do. They don’t often set foot inside your church, I should think?”
“Sometimes they do, and their reverent behaviour would certainly put to shame some of the more regular attenders. If their unfamiliarity with print leads them to hold a borrowed book upside down, they do at anyrate kneel upon their knees instead of squatting upon the benches, and I have never once known them to go to sleep during sermon-time.”
Speaking about Gypsies and churches, I am reminded of a funny experience I once had all through a Gypsy cabman’s mistake.
I had promised to take an afternoon service at a village church miles away in the country, and the road to it was unfamiliar to me. On my naming the place, the driver said that he knew every inch of the road, and, trusting myself in his hands, we bowled along for several miles, and at last struck off into a tangle of green lanes. A few minutes before the hour of service—three o’clock—my driver put me down at an old grey stone church, saying, “Here we are, sir.” Entering the church, I found a congregation assembled, and, going into the belfry, I asked for the vestry wherein to robe.
“We ain’t got one here. Our pass’n dresses hisself in his house and comes in at that little door.” The sexton then conducted me to a chantry-chapel full of dusty figures of knights and their ladies lying side by side with their feet resting upon their hounds. There I robed and awaited the ceasing of the bells. When they stopped, I stepped towards the prayer desk, when, to my astonishment, there appeared through the small door in the chancel a fully-robed parson, white-headed and bowed with age. We met and exchanged astonished glances.
Said I, “I’m afraid there is some mistake.”
He shook his head. “I’m deaf, and can’t hear a word you say.” He then went to his desk, and knelt before commencing evensong.
It was an uncomfortable five minutes for me. I could hear the congregation tittering and the mixed choir giggling. In despair I went to the lady organist, and asked for the name of the church. Her reply made it clear that I had come to the wrong village, and, rushing out by the chancel door, I sought my cabby, whom I rated soundly for his blunder. Fortunately my destination was no more than a mile and a half farther on.
In a little while, the tavern door opened noisily, admitting a rush of wind. There was a sound of naily boots on the threshold, and Gypsy Frank and his wife entered. In a few moments they were happy enough on the black settle with mugs of good Newark brew in front of them.
Just before the Gypsies had arrived, I had been studying a pocket-map of the locality, and once again I had an old impression confirmed that many out-of-the-way country districts are dotted over with place-names bearing witness to the prevalence of Gypsy encampments in the past. I mean such names as “Gypsy Lane,” “Gypsy Nook,” “Gypsy Dale,” and the like. On the map I had noted a “Gypsy Corner,” “Gypsy Bridge,” and “Gypsy Ford.”