Chapter I: Gipsies (2)

“Nearly two years afterwards, my neighbour, the farrier, came to ask me if I would join him and Pierce in some further endeavours to recover the stolen horses, which we had a fair chance of doing, he thought, according to the letter he presented for my perusal, a curious one it was, dated, ‘The Hulks, Portsmouth.’ The writer (one of the Stanleys) stated, that having been condemned to seven years’ transportation, for a recent offence, he wished to stock himself with a few comforts for his voyage, and, therefore, if we, the losers of such and such horses, stolen at such a time, would make it ‘worth his while,’ he would put us in a way to have them back again. He began his letter (it was addressed to Pierce), ‘Dear friend,’ and said at the conclusion, that not liking to go by his own name in such a place, and in his present circumstances, he had taken the liberty to use his, and begged to be addressed as Edward Pierce. One of the girl Stanleys married a Blake, and prosperous vagabonds they were,--kept a chaise-cart, and a fine horse, with expensive plated harness. On the occasion of the christening of their first child, which took place at Beaulieu, they invited all the farmers and respectable country folk for miles round to a feast on the heath, and a sumptuous feast it was, and every thing ‘done decently and in order.’ Abundance of good things, eatables and drinkables.

“The tables, borrowed for the occasion, almost elegantly spread. Liquor in abundance, good ale and strong, but no abuse of it. Fiddling and dancing afterwards till the long summer day closed in, and then the wild hosts and their civilized guests parted with mutual good-will; the most respectable of the latter (good substantial farmers, their wives and families) protesting they had never been so well treated, or in company more decently conducted.

“Mr. Crabbe alludes at p. 29 of the ‘Gipsies’ Advocate,’ to a circumstance connected with gipsy burials, as having occurred in the neighbouring county of Wilts. I suspect it to be the same which was related to me two years ago, by the vicar of a parish in the New Forest, who had it from his intimate friend the curate of a Wiltshire parish, the name of which I forget. A small party of gipsies had remained stationary in the neighbourhood for an unusual length of time, detained by the illness of one of them, a very young woman and beautiful--lately married to a man as comely as herself. ‘One of the finest young men,’ the curate said, ‘he ever set eyes on.’ The woman died, and soon after the husband came, almost in a state of distraction, to apply for leave to bury her in the church. The permission could not be granted, though the man pleaded with passionate earnestness, saying, _any required sum_, however large, should be forthcoming, might he but lay her in the church. Finding that to be impossible, he bought a piece of ground in the churchyard, made a deep vault, where she was interred, and over it caused a monument to be erected, which was not only costly but in good taste, as was the simple record inscribed on it. This occurred several years ago, and not once has he omitted an annual visit to the grave since the day of his wife’s interment.

“The magistrates, country gentlemen, and farmers, in the neighbourhood of Mr. Crabbe’s gipsy colony, complain bitterly of the effects of his benevolent scheme--affirming that it subjects them to the perpetual depredations of swarms of vagrants of all sorts, and that the good man himself is the dupe of nine-tenths of these persons, who allow him for a time to reckon them among his reformed gipsies. Be it as it may that this well meaning man is or is not imposed on, certain it is, that as a nation we are chargeable with culpable neglect towards these wild denizens. We ‘compass sea and land to make one proselyte,’ and at home, we suffer fellow beings to live and die among us, as unheeded and uncared for (far more so) as ‘the beasts that perish.’”

We may illustrate this just remark of Mrs. Southey’s, and at the same time, the occasional scenes of wild life in England, by quoting from Mr. Crabbe’s volume the following extraordinary anecdote.

“George III. being out one day hunting, the chase lay through the skirts of the forest. The stag had been hard run, and to escape the dogs, had crossed the river in a deep part. The dogs could not be brought to follow; and it became necessary, in order to come up with it, to make a circuitous route along the banks of the river, through some thick and troublesome underwood. The roughness of the ground, the long grass, and frequent thickets, obliged the sportsmen to separate from each other; each one endeavouring to make the best and speediest route he could. Before they had reached the end of the forest, the king’s horse manifested signs of fatigue and uneasiness, so much so, that his Majesty resolved upon yielding the pleasures of the chase to those of compassion for his horse. With this view he turned down the first avenue of the forest, and determined on riding quietly to the oaks, there to wait for some of his attendants. The king had only proceeded a few yards, when, instead of the cry of the hounds he fancied he heard the cry of human distress. As he rode forward, he heard it more distinctly:--‘Oh, my mother! my mother! God pity and bless my poor mother!’ The curiosity and kindness of the sovereign led him instantly to the spot. It was a little green plot on one side of the forest, where was spread on the grass, under a branching oak, a little pallet, half covered with a kind of tent; and a basket or two with some packs, lay on the ground at a few paces distant from the tent. Near to the root of the tree he observed a little swarthy girl about eight years of age, on her knees praying, while her little black eyes ran down with tears. Distress of any kind was always relieved by his Majesty, for he had a heart which melted at human woe. ‘What my child, is the cause of your weeping?’ he asked, ‘For what do you pray?’ The little creature at first started, then rose from her knees; and pointing to the tent, said,--‘Oh sir, my dying mother!’ ‘What?’ said his Majesty, dismounting, and fastening his horse up to the branches of the oak, ‘what, my child? tell me all about it.’ The little creature now led the king to the tent; where lay, partly covered, a middle-aged female gipsy in the last stages of a decline, and in the last moments of life. She turned her dying eyes expressively to the royal visiter, then looked up to heaven, but not a word did she utter; the organs of speech had ceased their office; _the silver cord was loosed, and the wheel broken at the cistern_. The little girl then wept aloud, and stooping down, wiped the dying sweat from her mother’s face. The king, much affected, asked the child her name, and of her family, and how long her mother had been ill. Just at that moment another gipsy girl, much older, came out of breath to the spot. She had been to the town of W------, and brought some medicine for her dying mother. Observing a stranger, she curtsied modestly, and hastening to her mother, knelt down by her side, kissed her pallid lips, and burst into tears. ‘What, my dear child,’ said his Majesty, ‘can be done for you?’ ‘O sir,’ she replied, ‘my dying mother wanted a religious person to teach her, and to pray with her before she died. I ran all the way before it was light this morning to W------, and asked for a minister, _but no one could I get to come with me to pray with my dear mother_!’ The dying woman seemed sensible of what her daughter was saying, and her countenance was much agitated. The air was again rent with the cries of the distressed daughters. The king, full of kindness, instantly endeavoured to comfort them. He said, ‘I am a minister, and God has sent me to instruct and comfort your mother.’ He then sate down on a pack by the side of the pallet, and taking the hand of the dying gipsy, discoursed on the demerit of sin, and the nature of redemption. He then pointed her to Christ, the all-sufficient Saviour. While doing this, the poor creature seemed to gather consolation and hope: her eyes sparkled with brightness, and her countenance became animated. She looked up--she smiled; but it was the last smile; it was the glimmering of expiring nature. As the expression of peace, however, remained strong in her countenance, it was not till some time had elapsed, that they perceived the struggling spirit had left mortality.

“It was at this moment that some of his Majesty’s attendants, who had missed him at the chase, and had been riding through the forest in search of him, rode up, and found him comforting the afflicted gipsies. It was an affecting sight, and worthy of everlasting record in the annals of kings.

“He now rose up, put some gold into the hands of the afflicted girls, promised them his protection, and bade them look to heaven. He then wiped the tears from his eyes, and mounted his horse. His attendants, greatly affected, stood in silent admiration. Lord L------ was going to speak, but his Majesty, turning to the gipsies, and pointing to the breathless corpse, and to the weeping girls, said, with strong emotion,--‘Who, my lord, who, thinkest thou, was neighbour unto these?’”

GIPSIES OF FASHION.

An incident which occurred to me in the summer of 1837, shewed me most strikingly how next to impossible it is for the peculiar manner and costume of the English gipsies to be personated. In an evening drive on the 27th of July, with a young friend staying with us, as we passed through, or by, the little rustic hamlet of Stoke D’Abernon, for it consists of houses scattered along one side of the road, I was struck with two singular female figures at a little distance before us. They were both young--the one about the middle size, the other rather taller. The taller one was dressed in a dark cotton bedgown, dark petticoat, grey stockings, and shoes; on her head was tied a yellow silk handkerchief, and in her hand she held, as a walking-staff, a long stout hazel wand, recently cut from the hedge. The other had on also a short bedgown, but of a pink colour, striped and figured with white, a dark petticoat, and ankle-boots. On her head she wore an old straw bonnet. As my eye caught them at a distance,--the one standing with her tall stick by a pool on one side of the way, the other in the act of begging from, or addressing, a gentleman who was sitting on a stile, I could not help exclaiming,--“What have we got here!--Maria de Moulins and Madge Wildfire?” As we drew near, they came running up to us, and, one on each side of the pony-chaise, began begging most importunately: “Will you give us sixpence? Do give us sixpence! Do, dear gentleman, give us sixpence! Dear lady, do tell the gentleman to give us sixpence!” It was only necessary to give a slight glance at the faces of these beggars, and to hear one tone of their voices, to know that it was a frolic--that they were _ladies_ of education and family, from some of the neighbouring country houses, thus dressed up. They had hair and eyes jet black as any gipsies; and after all that has been said of the beauty of some of the gipsy women--and they have a great deal--were handsomer than any gipsies I ever saw. The taller, who appeared the younger of the two, was a very lovely woman, of a slender figure, the exquisite symmetry of which was not to be disguised by the rustic dress she had assumed. The other had, or affected, a slight lisp. Irresistible as such beggars might appear, I resolved to refuse them, in order to see how they would keep up the attempt, and how they would take a refusal. I therefore said, laughing, “O! I have no sixpences for beggars like you; you certainly are very charming beggars; you have chosen a very rustic costume; you act your part very well indeed, and I hope you will enjoy your frolic.” All this time I kept driving on at a good pace; but the resolute damsels still ran on, importuning for a sixpence. One soon dropped behind--the taller one still ran on with her stick in her hand, in a voice of much softness and sweetness still begging for sixpence--as they were poor strangers, and had got nothing all day! As she ran, this sort of badinage passed:--“Where do you come from?” “O, we have come all the way from Epsom to meet our young man here, and he has deceived us.”--“Well, I hope no young man will deceive you more cruelly.” “Dear gentleman, if you won’t give us sixpence, give us a penny then to buy us a glass of ale!” “O, you are no ale drinkers--what should you think of a glass of gin?” “I should like something, for I am _very_ tired: and what is sixpence to you?--you have a very good horse in your chaise; I have no doubt you are a gentleman of independent fortune--_do_ give us sixpence!” “No, I wish I were half as rich as you are.” Here the Queen of Love and Beauty stopped, and turned round with an air of very beautiful disdain. As she went back to join her companion, we were again struck with the grace of her form, and the buoyancy of her carriage.

My impression was that these ladies were merely acting beggars; but we soon found that they were acting gipsies; for they offered to tell almost every body’s fortunes, and actually did tell some. As we returned, we met them coming up a hollow woody lane, near Bookham Common, about a mile from where we left them; and behold! they and the gentleman who was there sitting on the stile--a military-looking man with light mustachios--were walking familiarly on together. It was evident that they had found “their young man!” It was a group worthy of the pencil of Stothard; and on the opposite side of the lane, from a cottage above it, out were come a countrywoman, and six or seven children, of different ages, in their rustic costume, and stood to look at them--a little picture after the very heart of Collins. The moment our actresses saw us, they motioned their escort to move off to the other side of the way, and to walk on, as though he did not belong to them, and again renewed their importunity as we passed. I merely smiled, and moved my hat to them. As we proceeded, I stopped and asked of all the country people I met--who was that gentleman? and who the ladies dressed as beggars? The miller thought the gentleman was from Bookham Lodge, the seat of Captain Blackwood--he heard a large party of gentry was just come there; “but the women, sir, they are Dutch women!” Dutch women! Broom-girls, in fact! Broom-girls, with legs and arms like young elephants! and broad solid figures, as if cut out of blocks of wood--how very like those slim and elegant creatures! But it was enough for the worthy miller, whose fortune they _had_ offered to tell, that they had on short bedgowns and dark petticoats. A grocer from Epsom, with his spring-cart, going as they do all round the country, from one gentleman’s house to another, had had his fortune told by them, and was lost in amaze at the announcement that he had had nine children, six of whom were still living--five girls and one boy; the very facts to a hair! A farmer and his wife at Stoke, never dreamt that the gentleman whom they had noticed belonged to these “young baggages of beggars,” that had been sitting on the bank by the road-side opposite their house; but his wife said one of them was the handsomest beggar she _ever_ saw. “Ay, they were both good-looking,” said the man, “and had famous things on.” The groom at the parsonage-gate “didn’t know the gentleman in the mustachios; but the women, bless you, they were no _ladies_.” “Why?” “O, they carried it on too far for ladies here, I assure you.” “What did they do?” “O! they came ringing at the bell like new ’uns; six or seven times they called us out--they would take no nay.”

Little did these fair _ladies_, when sallying out for this frolic in the sylvan lanes of Surrey, dream, I dare say, that they should meet “a chiel takin’ notes,” that would put their exploits into print. Here they are, however; and if they should chance to see this, I must tell them, that they were very sweet nondescripts, but not very perfect beggars; and far, far indeed, from perfect Zinganies. For Madge Wildfires, they were not amiss; but beggars, impudent as they are, seldom ask for sixpences; seldom appear in new apparel; never run by the side of carriages--that is left to beggar children. Pleading looks, and a pitiful whining tone, with low genuflections, mark the young beggar-woman, as she stands fixed at one place;--her husband is dead, and she is going home to her parents or parish; or he is gone for a soldier, and she is following to the garrison. Lancashire witches they would have done for capitally--but then witches don’t tell fortunes by palmistry; their vocation is by spell and cauldron; and as for gipsies, why it is just as difficult to mistake the particular expression and cultivated voice of an English lady, as it is the features and voice of the real gipsy-woman. Black eyes and black hair these ladies had; but they had neither the olive skin, nor the bold, easy _degagée_ air of the gipsy belle; and what do gipsies with such beautifully _slender_ and delicate hands? They were importunate; but nothing but a life and an education in the gipsy-camp, and perhaps the blood and descent of the gipsy, can give the peculiar style of palaver--the _suaviter in modo_--the unique flattery--the “you are born fortunate, sir”--with which the gipsy accosts you. And the costume! The gipsy wears nothing short. She has a long gown,--a long red cloak--a handkerchief tied over her head, it is true, but upon _it_ a large flapping bonnet with lace trimming, or black beaver hat;--instead of that fairy form, she is generally strapping, tall, and strong--and instead of those taper ankles and small feet, which could evidently dance down the four-and-twenty hours, she has her lower limbs arrayed in black stockings and stout shoes that would do for a wagoner. Young gipsy women walk with sticks! how rarely do you see an old one with one? Knowing now who these ladies were, I should, beforehand, have expected a closer personation of the gipsy; but the result only proves the difficulty of the attempt. It must, however be confessed, that this was as pretty a little rural adventure as one could desire to meet with.