All the gypsies in the country are not upon the roads. Many of them
live in houses, and that very respectably, nay, even aristocratically.
Yea, and it may be, O reader, that thou hast met them and knowest them
not, any more than thou knowest many other deep secrets of the hearts
and lives of those who live around thee. Dark are the ways of the
Romany, strange his paths, even when reclaimed from the tent and the
van. It is, however, intelligible enough that the Rom converted to the
true faith of broadcloth garments by Poole, or dresses by Worth, as
well as to the holy gospel of daily baths and savon au violet,
should say as little as possible of his origin. For the majority of the
world being snobs, they continually insist that all blood unlike their
own is base, and the child of the kalorat, knowing this, sayeth
naught, and ever carefully keeps the lid of silence on the pot of his
birth. And as no being that ever was, is, or will be ever enjoyed
holding a secret, playing a part, or otherwise entering into the
deepest mystery of life—which is to make a joke of it—so thoroughly
as a gypsy, it follows that the being respectable has to him a raciness
and drollery and pungency and point which passeth faith. It has often
occurred to me, and the older I grow the more I find it true, that the
real pleasure which bank presidents, moral politicians, not a few
clergymen, and most other highly representative good men take in having
a high character is the exquisite secret consciousness of its being
utterly undeserved. They love acting. Let no man say that the love of
the drama is founded on the artificial or sham. I have heard the
Reverend Histriomastix war and batter this on the pulpit; but the
utterance per se was an actual, living lie. He was acting while
he preached. Love or hunger is not more an innate passion than acting.
The child in the nursery, the savage by the Nyanza or in Alaska, the
multitude of great cities, all love to bemask and seem what they are
not. Crush out carnivals and masked balls and theatres, and lo, you!
the disguising and acting and masking show themselves in the whole
community. Mawworm and Aminidab Sleek then play a role in every
household, and every child becomes a wretched little Roscius. Verily I
say unto you, the fewer actors the more acting; the fewer theatres the
more stages, and the worse. Lay it to heart, study it deeply, you who
believe that the stage is an open door to hell, for the chances are
ninety and nine to one that if this be true you will end by
consciously or unconsciously keeping a private little gate thereunto.
Beloved, put this in thy pipe and fumigate it, that acting in some form
is a human instinct which cannot be extinguished, which never has been
and never will be; and this being so, is it not better, with Dr.
Bellows, to try to put it into proper form than to crush it? Truly it
has been proved that with this, as with a certain other unquenchable
penchant of humanity, when you suppress a score of professionals you
create a thousand zealous amateurs. There was never in this world a
stage on which mere acting was more skillfully carried out than in all
England under Cromwell, or in Philadelphia under the Quakers. Eccentric
dresses, artificial forms of language, separate and “peculiar”
expressions of character unlike those of “the world,” were all only
giving a form to that craving for being odd and queer which forms the
soul of masking and acting. Of course people who act all the time
object to the stage. Le diable ne veut pas de miroir.
The gypsy of society not always, but yet frequently, retains a keen
interest in his wild ancestry. He keeps up the language; it is a
delightful secret; he loves now and then to take a look at “the old
thing.” Closely allied to the converted sinners are the aficionados, or the ladies and gentlemen born with unconquerable Bohemian tastes,
which may be accounted for by their having been themselves gypsies in
preexistent lives. No one can explain how or why it is that the
aficion comes upon them. It is in them. I know a very
learned man in England, a gentleman of high position, one whose name is
familiar to my readers. He could never explain or understand why from
early childhood he had felt himself drawn towards the wanderers. When
he was only ten years old he saved up all his little store of pence
wherewith to pay a tinker to give him lessons in Romany, in which
tongue he is now a Past Grand. I know ladies in England and in America,
both of the blood and otherwise, who would give up a ball of the
highest flight in society, to sit an hour in a gypsy tent, and on whom
a whispered word of Romany acts like wild-fire. Great as my experience
has been I can really no more explain the intensity of this yearning,
this rapport, than I can fly. My own fancy for gypsydom is faint
and feeble compared to what I have found in many others. It is in them
like the love for opium, for music, for love itself, or for acting. I
confess that there is to me a nameless charm in the strangely, softly
flowing language, which gives a sweeter sound to every foreign word
which it adopts, just as the melody of a forest stream is said to make
more musical the songs of the birds who dwell beside it. Thus Wentzel
becomes Wenselo and Anselo; Arthur, Artaros; London, Lundra; Sylvester,
Westaros. Such a phrase as “Dordi! dovelo adoi?” (See!
what is that there?) could not be surpassed for mere beauty of sound.
It is apropos of living double lives, and playing parts, and the
charm of stealing away unseen, like naughty children, to romp with the
tabooed offspring of outlawed neighbors, that I write this, to
introduce a letter from a lady, who has kindly permitted me to publish
it. It tells its own story of two existences, two souls in one. I give
it as it was written, first in Romany, and then in English:—
Febmunti 1_st.
MIRO KAMLO PAL,—Tu tevel mishto ta shun te latcherdum me akovo
kurikus tacho Romany tan akai adre o gav. Buti kamaben lis sas
ta
dikk mori foki apopli; buti kushti ta shun moro jib. Mi-duvel
atch
apa mande, si ne shomas pash naflo o Gorginess, vonk' akovo
vias. O
waver divvus sa me viom fon a swell saleskro haben, dikdom me
dui
Romani chia beshin alay apre a longo skamin adre —-Square.
Kalor
yakkor, kalor balyor, lullo diklas apre i sherria, te lender
trushnia
aglal lender piria. Mi-duvel, shomas pash divio sar kamaben ta
dikav
lender! Avo! kairdum o wardomengro hatch i graia te sheldom
avri,
“Come here!” Yon penden te me sos a rani ta dukker te
vian sig
adosta. Awer me saldom te pendom adre Romanis: “Sarishan miri
dearis! Tute don't jin mandy's a Romany!” Yon nastis patser
lende
kania nera yakkor. “Mi-duvel! Sa se tiro nav? putchde yeck.
“Miro
nav se Britannia Lee.” Kenna-sig yon diktas te me sos tachi, te
penden amengi lender navia shanas M. te D. Lis sos duro pa
lende ta
jin sa a Romani rani astis jiv amen Gorgios, te dikk sa
Gorgious,
awer te vel kushti Romani aja, te tevel buoino lakis kaloratt.
Buti
rakkerdem apre mori foki, buti nevvi, buti savo sos rumado, te
beeno,
te puredo, savo sos vino fon o puro tem, te butikumi aja
kekkeno sos
rakkerben sa gudli. M. pende amengi, “Mandy don't jin how tute
can
jiv among dem Gorgies.” Pukerdom anpali: “Mandy dont jiv, mandy
mers
kairin amen lender.” Yon mangades mande ta well ta dikk a len,
adre
lendes ker apre o chumba kai atchena pa o wen. Pende M., “Av
miri
pen ta ha a bitti sar mendi. Tute jins the chais are only kerri
aratti te Kurrkus.”
Sunday sala miri pen te me ghion adoi te latchedon o ker. O tan
sos
bitto, awer sa i Romanis pende, dikde boro adosta paller jivin
adre o
wardo. M. sos adoi te lakis roms dye, a kushti puri chai. A.
sar
shtor chavia. M. kerde haben sa mendui viom adoi. I puri dye
sos
mishto ta dikk mande, yoi kamde ta jin sar trustal mande.
Rakkerdem
buti aja, te yoi pende te yoi ne kekker latchde a Romani rani
denna
mande. Pendom me ke laki shan adre society kumi Romani rania,
awer i
galderli Gorgios ne jinena lis.
Yoi pende sa miri pen dikde simlo Lusha Cooper, te siggerde
lakis
kaloratt butider denna me. “Tute don't favor the Coopers, miri
dearie! Tute pens tiri dye rummerd a mush navvered Smith. Was
adovo
the Smith as lelled kellin te kurin booths pasher Lundra
Bridge? Sos
tute beeno adre Anglaterra?” Pukkerdom me ke puri dye sar jinav
me
trustal miri kokeri te simensi. Tu jinsa shan kek Gorgies sa
longi-bavoli apre genealogies, sa i puri Romani dyia. Vonka
foki
nastis chin lende adre lilia, rikkerena lende aduro adre
lendros
sherria. Que la main droit perd recueille la gauche.
“Does tute jin any of the —-'s?” pende M. “Tute dikks sim ta
—-'s
juva.” “Ne kekker, yois too pauno,' pens A. “It's chomani adre
the
look of her,” pende M.
Dikkpali miro pal. Tu jinsa te —-sos i chi savo dudikabinde
manush, navdo —-buti wongur. Vanka yoi sos lino apre, o
Beshomengro pende ta ker laki chiv apre a shuba sims Gorgios te
adenne lelled laki adre a tan sar desh te dui gorgi chaia. —-
astissa pen i chai savo chorde lestis lovvo. Vanka yoi vias
adre o
tan, yoi ghias sig keti laki, te pende: “Jinava me laki talla
lakis
longi vangusti, te rinkeni mui. Yoi sos stardi dui beshya, awer
o
Gorgio kekker las leski vongur pali.”
Savo-chirus mendi rakkerden o wuder pirido, te trin manushia
vian
adre. . . . Pali lenders sarishans, M. shelde avri: “Av ta
misali,
rikker yer skammins longo tute! Mrs. Lee, why didn't tute bring
yer
rom?” “Adenna me shom kek rumadi.” “Mi-duvel, Britannia!” pende
—-
“M. pende amengy te tu sos rumado.” “M. didn't dukker tacho
vonka
yoi dukkerd adovo. Yois a dinneli,” pendom me. Te adenne sar
mendi
saden atut M. Haben sos kushto, loim a kani, ballovas te
puvengros,
te kushto curro levina. Liom mendi kushto paiass dre moro puro
Romany dromus. Rinkenodiro sos, kerde mande pash ta ruv, shomas
sa
kushto-bakno ta atch yecker apopli men mori foki. Sos
“Britannia!”
akai, te “Britannia!” doi, te sar sa adre o puro cheirus, vonka
chavi
shomas. Ne patserava me ta Dante chinde:—
“Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi dei tempi felici.”
Talla me shomas kushto-bakno ta pen apre o puro chirus. Sar
lende
piden miro kamaben Romaneskaes, sar gudlo; talla H. Yov pende
nastis
ker lis, pa yuv kenna lias tabuti. Kushto dikin Romnichal yuv.
Tu
tevel jin lesti sarakai pa Romani, yuv se sa kalo. Te avec
l'air
indefinnissable du vrai Bohemien. Yuv patserde me ta piav
miro
sastopen wavescro chirus. Kana shomas pa misali, geero vias
keti
ian; dukkeriben kamde yov. Hunali sos i puri dye te pendes
amergi,
“Beng lel o puro jukel for wellin vanka mendi shom hain, te
kenna tu
shan akai, miri Britannia Yov ne tevel lel kek kushto bak.
Mandy'll
pen leste a wafedo dukkerin.” Adoi A. putcherde mengy, “Does
tute
dukker or sa does tute ker.” “Miri pen, mandy'll pen tute
tacho.
Mandy dukkers te dudikabins te kers buti covvas. Shom a tachi
Romani
chovihani.” “Tacho! tacho!” saden butider. Miri pen te me
rikkerdem
a boro matto-morricley pa i chavis. Yon beshden alay apre o
purj,
hais lis. Rinkeno picture sas, pendom dikkav mande te
miri penia
te pralia kenna shomas bitti. Latcherdom me a tani kali chavi
of
panj besh chorin levina avri miro curro. Dikde, sar lakis bori
kali
yakka te kali balia simno tikno Bacchante, sa yoi prasterde
adrom.
Pendom parako pa moro kushto-bakeno chirus—“kushto bak” te
“kushto
divvus.” Mendi diom moro tachopen ta well apopli, te kan viom
kerri.
Patserava dikk tute akai talla o prasterin o ye graia. Kushto
bak te
kushto ratti.
Sarja tiro pen,
BRITANNIA LEE.
TRANSLATION.
February 1_st.
MY DEAR FRIEND,—You will be glad to learn that I, within the
week,
found a real Romany family (place) here in this town. Charming
it
was to find our folk again; pleasant it was to listen to our
tongue.
The Lord be on me! but I was half sick of Gentiles and their
ways
till this occurred. The other day, as I was returning from a
highly
aristocratic breakfast, where we had winter strawberries with
the
creme de la creme, I saw two gypsy women sitting on a
bench in —-
Square. Black eyes, black hair, red kerchiefs on their heads,
their
baskets on the ground before their feet. Dear Lord! but I was
half
wild with delight at seeing them. Aye, I made the coachman stop
the
horses, and cried aloud, “Come here!” They thought I was a lady
to
fortune-tell, and came quickly. But I laughed, and said in
Romany,
“How are you, my dears? You don't know that I am a gypsy.” They
could not trust their very ears or eyes! At length one said,
“My
God! what is your name?” “My name's Britannia Lee,” and,
at a
glance, they saw that I was to be trusted, and a Romany. Their
names, they said, were M. and D. It was hard (far) for them to
understand how a Romany lady could live among Gentiles,
and look so
Gorgious, and yet be a true gypsy withal, and proud of her dark
blood. Much they talked about our people; much news I
heard,—much
as to who was married and born and buried, who was come from
the old
country, and much more. Oh, never was such news so sweet
to me!
M. said, “I don't know how you can live among the
Gentiles.” I
answered, “I don't live; I die, living in their houses
with them.”
They begged me then to come and see them in their home, upon
the
hill, where they are wintering. M. said, “Come, my sister, and
eat a
little with us. You know that the women are only at home at
night
and on Sunday.”
Sunday morning, sister and I went there, and found the house. It
was
a little place, but, as they said, after the life in wagons it
seemed
large. M. was there, and her husband's mother, a nice old
woman;
also A., with four children. M. was cooking as we entered. The
old
mother was glad to see us; she wished to know all about us. All
talked, indeed, and that quite rapidly, and she said that I was
the
first Romany lady {279} she had ever seen. I said to her that
in
society are many gypsy ladies to be found, but that the
wretched
Gentiles do not know it.
She said that my sister looked like Lusha Cooper, and showed her
dark
blood more than I do. “You don't favor the Coopers, my dearie.
You
say your mother married a Smith. Was that the Smith who kept a
dancing and boxing place near London Bridge? Were you born in
England?” I told the old mother all I knew about myself and my
relations. You know that no Gorgios are so long-winded on
genealogies as old mothers in Rom. When people don't write them
down
in their family Bibles, they carry them, extended, in their
heads.
Que la main droit perd recueille la gauche.
“Do you know any of the —-'s?” said M. “You look like —-'s
wife.”
“No; she's too pale,” said A. “It's something in the look of
her,”
said M.
Reflect, my brother. You know that —-was the woman who “cleaned
out” a man named —-of a very large sum {280} by “dukkeripen”
and
“dudikabin.” “When she was arrested, the justice made her dress
like
any Gorgio, and placed her among twelve Gentile women. The man
who
had been robbed was to point out who among them had stolen his
money.
When she came into the room, he went at once to her, and said,
'I
know her by her long skinny fingers and handsome face.' She was
imprisoned for two years, but the Gorgio never recovered his
money.”
What time we reasoned thus, the door undid, and three men
entered.
After their greetings, M. cried, “Come to table; bring your
chairs
with you!” “Mrs. Lee, why didn't you bring your husband?”
“Because
I am not married.” “Lord! Britannia! Why, M. told me that you
were.” “Ah, M. didn't fortune right when she fortuned that.
She's a
fool,” quoth I. And then we all laughed like children. The food
was
good: chickens and ham and fried potatoes, with a glass of
sound ale.
We were gay as flies in summer, in the real old Romany way. 'T
was
“Britannia” here, “Britannia” there, as in the merry days when
we
were young. Little do I believe in Dante's words,—
“Nessun maggior dolore,
Che ricordarsi dei tempi felici.”
“There is no greater grief
Than to remember by-gone happy days.”
For it is always happiness to me to think of good old times when
I
was glad. All drank my health, Romaneskaes, together,
with a
shout,—all save H., who said he had already had too much.
Good-looking gypsy, that! You'd know him anywhere for Romany,
he is
so dark,—avec l'air indefinissable du vrai Bohemien. He
promised
to drink my health another time.
As we sat, a gentleman came in below, wishing to have his
fortune
told. I remember to have read that the Pythoness of Delphian
oracle
prepared herself for dukkerin, or presaging, by taking a
few drops
of cherry-laurel water. (I have had it prescribed for my eyes
as R
aq. laur. cerasi. fiat lotio,—possibly to enable me to
see into
the future.) Perhaps it was the cherry-brandy beloved of
British
matrons and Brighton school-girls, taken at Mutton's. Mais
revenons
a nos moutons. The old mother had taken, not cherry-laurel
water,
nor even cherry-brandy, but joly good ale, and olde, which, far
from
fitting her to reveal the darksome lore of futurity, had
rendered her
loath to leave the festive board of the present. Wrathful was
the
sybil, furious as the Vala when waked by Odin, angry as Thor
when he
missed his hammer, to miss her merriment. “May the devil take
the
old dog for coming when we are eating, and when thou art here,
my
Britannia! Little good fortune will he hear this day. Evil
shall be
the best I'll promise him.” Thus spake the sorceress, and out
she
went to keep her word. Truly it was a splendid picture this of
“The
Enraged Witch,” as painted by Hexenmeister von Teufel, of
Hollenstadt,—her viper eyes flashing infernal light and most
unchristian fire, shaking les noirs serpents de ses cheveux, as she
went forth. I know how, in an instant, her face was beautiful
with
welcome, smiling like a Neapolitan at a cent; but the poor
believer
caught it hot, all the same, and had a sleepless night over his
future fate. I wonder if the Pythoness of old, when summoned
from a
petit souper, or a holy prophet called out of bed of a
cold night,
to decide by royal command on the fate of Israel, ever “took it
out”
on the untimely king by promising him a lively, unhappy time of
it.
Truly it is fine to be behind the scenes and see how they work
the
oracle. For the gentleman who came to consult my witch was a
man of
might in the secrets of state, and one whom I have met in high
society. And, oh! if he had known who it was that was
up-stairs,
laughing at him for a fool!
While she was forth, A. asked me, “Do you tell fortunes, or
what?”
“My sister,” I replied, “I'll tell thee the truth. I do tell
fortunes. I keep a house for the purchase of stolen goods. I am
largely engaged in making counterfeit money and all kinds of
forgery.
I am interested in burglary. I lie, swear, cheat, and steal,
and get
drunk on Sunday. And I do many other things. I am a real Romany
witch.” This little confession of faith brought down the house.
“Bravo! bravo!” they cried, laughing.
Sister and I had brought a great tipsy-cake for the children,
and
they were all sitting under a table, eating it. It was a pretty
picture. I thought I saw in it myself and all my sisters and
brothers as we were once. Just such little gypsies and duckling
Romanys! And now! And then! What a comedy some lives are,—yea,
such lives as mine! And now it is you who are behind the
scenes;
anon, I shall change with you. Va Pierre, vient
Pierette. Then
I surprised a little brown maiden imp of five summers stealing
my
beer, and as she was caught in the act, and tore away shrieking
with
laughter, she looked, with her great black eyes and flowing
jetty
curling locks, like a perfect little Bacchante.
Then we said, “Thank you for the happy time!” “Good luck!” and
“Good
day!” giving our promises to come again. So we went home all
well.
I hope to see you at the races here. Good luck and good-night
also
to you.
Always your friend,
BRITANNIA LEE
I have somewhat abbreviated the Romany text of this letter, and Miss
Lee herself has somewhat polished and enlarged the translation, which
is strictly fit and proper, she being a very different person in
English from what she is in gypsy, as are most of her kind. This letter
may be, to many, a strange lesson, a quaint essay, a social problem, a
fable, an epigram, or a frolic,—just as they choose to take it. To me
it is a poem. Thou, my friend, canst easily understand why all that is
wild and strange, out-of-doors, far away by night, is worthy of being
Tennysoned or Whitmanned. If there be given unto thee stupendous
blasted trees, looking in the moonlight like the pillars of a vast and
ghostly temple; the fall of cataracts down awful rocks; the wind
wailing in wondrous language or whistling Indian melody all night on
heath, rocks, and hills, over ancient graves and through lonely caves,
bearing with it the hoot of the night-owl; while over all the stars
look down in eternal mystery, like eyes reading the great riddle of the
night which thou knowest not,—this is to thee like Ariel's song. To me
and to us there are men and women who are in life as the wild river and
the night-owl, as the blasted tree and the wind over ancient graves. No
man is educated until he has arrived at that state of thought when a
picture is quite the same as a book, an old gray-beard jug as a
manuscript, men, women, and children as libraries. It was but yester
morn that I read a cuneiform inscription printed by doves' feet in the
snow, finding a meaning where in by-gone years I should have seen only
a quaint resemblance. For in this by the ornithomanteia known of
old to the Chaldean sages I saw that it was neither from arrow-heads or
wedges which gave the letters to the old Assyrians. When thou art at
this point, then Nature is equal in all her types, and the city, as the
forest, full of endless beauty and piquancy,—in saecula saeculorum.
I had written the foregoing, and had enveloped and directed it to be
mailed, when I met in a lady-book entitled “Magyarland” with the
following passages:—
“The gypsy girl in this family was a pretty young woman, with
masses
of raven hair and a clear skin, but, notwithstanding her neat
dress
and civilized surroundings, we recognized her immediately. It
is, in
truth, not until one sees the Romany translated to an entirely
new
form of existence, and under circumstances inconsistent with
their
ordinary lives, that one realizes how completely different they
are
from the rest of mankind in form and feature. Instead of
disguising,
the garb of civilization only enhances the type, and renders it
the
more apparent. No matter what dress they may assume, no matter
what
may be their calling, no matter whether they are dwellers in
tents or
houses, it is impossible for gypsies to disguise their origin.
Taken
from their customary surroundings, they become at once an
anomaly and
an anachronism, and present such an instance of the absurdity
of
attempting to invert the order of nature that we feel more than
ever
how utterly different they are from the human race; that there
is a
key to their strange life which we do not possess,—a secret
free
masonry that renders them more isolated than the veriest
savages
dwelling in the African wilds,—and a hidden mystery hanging
over
them and their origin that we shall never comprehend. They are
indeed a people so entirely separate and distinct that, in
whatever
clime or quarter of the globe they may be met with, they are
instantly recognized; for with them forty centuries of
association
with civilized races have not succeeded in obliterating one
single
sign.”
* * * * *
“Alas!” cried the princess; “I can never, never find the door of
the
enchanted cavern, nor enter the golden cavern, nor solve its
wonderful mystery. It has been closed for thousands of years,
and it
will remain closed forever.”
“What flowers are those which thou holdest?” asked the hermit.
“Only primroses or Mary's-keys, {285} and tulips,” replied the
princess.
“Touch the rock with them,” said the hermit, “and the door will
open.”
* * * * *
The lady writer of “Magyarland” held in her hand all the while, and
knew it not, a beautiful primrose, which might have opened for her the
mysterious Romany cavern. On a Danube steamboat she saw a little blind
boy sitting all day all alone: only a little Slavonian peasant boy, “an
odd, quaint little specimen of humanity, with loose brown garments, cut
precisely like those of a grown-up man, and his bits of feet in little
raw-hide moccasins.” However, with a tender, gentle heart she began to
pet the little waif. And the captain told her what the boy was. “He is
a guslar, or minstrel, as they call them in Croatia. The
Yougo-Slavs dedicate all male children who are born blind, from
infancy, to the Muses. As soon as they are old enough to handle
anything, a small mandolin is given them, which they are taught to
play; after which they are taken every day into the woods, where they
are left till evening to commune in their little hearts with nature. In
due time they become poets, or at any rate rhapsodists, singing of the
things they never saw, and when grown up are sent forth to earn their
livelihood, like the troubadours of old, by singing from place to
place, and asking alms by the wayside.
“It is not difficult for a Slav to become a poet; he takes in poetic
sentiment as a river does water from its source. The first sounds he is
conscious of are the words of his mother singing to him as she rocks
his cradle. Then, as she watches the dawning of intelligence in his
infant face, her mother language is that of poetry, which she
improvises at the moment, and though he never saw the flowers nor the
snow-capped mountains, nor the flowing streams and rivers, he describes
them out of his inner consciousness, and the influence which the varied
sounds of nature have upon his mind.”
Rock and river and greenwood tree, sweet-spiced spring flower,
rustling grass, and bird-singing nature and freedom,—this is the
secret of the poets' song and of the Romany, and there is no other
mystery in either. He who sleeps on graves rises mad or a poet; all who
lie on the earth, which is the grave and cradle of nature, and who live
al fresco, understand gypsies as well as my lady Britannia Lee.
Nay, when some natures take to the Romany they become like the Norman
knights of the Pale, who were more Paddyfied than the Paddies
themselves. These become leaders among the gypsies, who recognize the
fact that one renegade is more zealous than ten Turks. As for the
“mystery” of the history of the gypsies, it is time, sweet friends,
that 't were ended. When we know that there is to-day, in India, a sect
and set of Vauriens, who are there considered Gipsissimae, and who call
themselves, with their wives and language and being, Rom, Romni, and
Romnipana, even as they do in England; and when we know, moreover, that
their faces proclaim them to be Indian, and that they have been a
wandering caste since the dawn of Hindu history, we have, I trow,
little more to seek. As for the rest, you may read it in the great book
of Out-of Doors, capitulo nullo folio nigro, or wherever you
choose to open it, written as distinctly, plainly, and sweetly as the
imprint of a school-boy's knife and fork on a mince-pie, or in the
uprolled rapture of the eyes of Britannia when she inhaleth the perfume
of a fresh bunch of Florentine violets. Ite missa est.