On a summer day, when waking dreams softly wave before the fancy, it
is pleasant to walk in the noon-stillness along the Thames, for then we
pass a series of pictures forming a gallery which I would not exchange
for that of the Louvre, could I impress them as indelibly upon the
eye-memory as its works are fixed on canvas. There exists in all of us
a spiritual photographic apparatus, by means of which we might retain
accurately all we have ever seen, and bring out, at will, the pictures
from the pigeon-holes of the memory, or make new ones as vivid as aught
we see in dreams, but the faculty must be developed in childhood. So
surely as I am now writing this will become, at some future day, a
branch of education, to be developed into results of which the wildest
imagination can form no conception, and I put the prediction on record.
As it is, I am sorry that I was never trained to this half-thinking,
half-painting art, since, if I had been, I should have left for distant
days to come some charming views of Surrey as it appears in this
decade.
The reedy eyots and the rising hills; the level meadows and the
little villes, with their antique perpendicular Gothic churches, which
form the points around which they have clustered for centuries, even as
groups of boats in the river are tied around their mooring-posts; the
bridges and trim cottages or elegant mansions with their
flower-bordered grounds sweeping down to the water's edge, looking like
rich carpets with new baize over the centre, make the pictures of which
I speak, varying with every turn of the Thames; while the river itself
is, at this season, like a continual regatta, with many kinds of boats,
propelled by stalwart young Englishmen or healthy, handsome damsels, of
every rank, the better class by far predominating. There is a
disposition among the English to don quaint holiday attire, to put on
the picturesque, and go to the very limits which custom permits, which
would astonish an American. Of late years this is becoming the case,
too, in Trans-Atlantis, but it has always been usual in England, to
mark the fete day with a festive dress, to wear gay ribbons, and to
indulge the very harmless instinct of youth to be gallant and gay.
I had started one morning on a walk by the Thames, when I met a
friend, who asked,—
“Aren't you going to-day to the Hampton races?”
“How far is it?”
“Just six miles. On Molesy Hurst.”
Six miles, and I had only six shillings in my pocket. I had some
curiosity to see this race, which is run on the Molesy Hurst, famous as
the great place for prize-fighting in the olden time, and which has
never been able to raise itself to respectability, inasmuch as the
local chronicler says that “the course attracts considerable and not
very reputable gatherings.” In fact, it is generally spoken of as the
Costermonger's race, at which a mere welsher is a comparatively
respectable character, and every man in a good coat a swell. I was
nicely attired, by chance, for the occasion, for I had come out,
thinking of a ride, in a white hat, new corduroy pantaloons and
waistcoat, and a velveteen coat, which dress is so greatly admired by
the gypsies that it may almost be regarded as their “national costume.”
There was certainly, to say the least, a rather bourgeois
tone at the race, and gentility was conspicuous by its absence; but I
did not find it so outrageously low as I had been led to expect. I
confess that I was not encouraged to attempt to increase my little
hoard of silver by betting, and the certainty that if I lost I could
not lunch made me timid. But the good are never alone in this world,
and I found friends whom I dreamed not of. Leaving the crowd, I sought
the gypsy vans, and by one of these was old Liz Buckland.
“Sarishan rye! And glad I am to see you. Why didn't you come
down into Kent to see the hoppin'? Many a time the Romanys says they
expected to see their rye there. Just the other night, your
Coopers was a-lyin' round their fire, every one of 'em in a new red
blanket, lookin' so beautiful as the light shone on 'em, and I says,
'If our rye was to see you, he'd just have that book of his out,
and take all your pictures.'”
After much gossip over absent friends, I said,—
“Well, dye, I stand a shilling for beer, and that's all I can
do to-day, for I've come out with only shove trin-grushi.”
Liz took the shilling, looked at it and at me with an earnest air,
and shook her head.
“It'll never do, rye,—never. A gentleman wants more than six
shillin's to see a race through, and a reg'lar Romany rye like you
ought to slap down his lovvo with the best of 'em for the credit
of his people. And if you want a bar [a pound] or two, I'll lend
you the money, and never fear about your payment.”
It was kind of the old dye, but I thought that I would pull
through on my five shillings, before I would draw on the Romany bank.
To be considered with sincere sympathy, as an object of deserving
charity, on the lowest race-ground in England, and to be offered
eleemosynary relief by a gypsy, was, indeed, touching the hard pan of
humiliation. I went my way, idly strolling about, mingling affably with
all orders, for my watch was at home. Vacuus viator cantabit. As
I stood by a fence, I heard a gentlemanly-looking young man, who was
evidently a superior pickpocket, or “a regular fly gonoff,” say to a
friend,—
“She's on the ground,—a great woman among the gypsies. What do they
call her?”
“Mrs. Lee.”
“Yes. A swell Romany she is.”
Whenever one hears an Englishman, not a scholar, speak of gypsies as
“Romany,” he may be sure that man is rather more on the loose than
becomes a steady citizen, and that he walks in ways which, if not of
darkness, are at least in a shady demi-jour, with a gentle down
grade. I do not think there was anybody on the race-ground who was not
familiar with the older word.
It began to rain, and before long my new velveteen coat was very
wet. I looked among the booths for one where I might dry myself and get
something to eat, and, entering the largest, was struck by the
appearance of the landlady. She was a young and decidedly pretty woman,
nicely dressed, and was unmistakably gypsy. I had never seen her
before, but I knew who she was by a description I had heard. So I went
up to the bar and spoke:—
“How are you, Agnes?”
“Bloomin'. What will you have, sir?”
“Dui curro levinor, yeck for tute, yeck for mandy.” (Two glasses for ale,—one for you, one for me.)
She looked up with a quick glance and a wondering smile, and then
said,—
“You must be the Romany rye of the Coopers. I'm glad to see you.
Bless me, how wet you are. Go to the fire and dry yourself. Here, Bill,
I say! Attend to this gentleman.”
There was a tremendous roaring fire at the farther end of the booth,
at which were pieces of meat, so enormous as to suggest a giant's roast
or a political barbecue rather than a kitchen. I glanced with some
interest at Bill, who came to aid me. In all my life I never saw a man
who looked so thoroughly the regular English bull-dog bruiser of the
lowest type, but battered and worn out. His nose, by oft-repeated
pummeling, had gradually subsided almost to a level with his other
features, just as an ancient British grave subsides, under the pelting
storms of centuries, into equality with the plain. His eyes looked out
from under their bristly eaves like sleepy wild-cats from a pig-pen,
and his physique was tremendous. He noticed my look of curiosity.
“Old Bruisin' Bill, your honor. I was well knowed in the prize-ring
once. Been in the newspapers. Now, you mus'n't dry your coat that way!
New welweteen ought always to be wiped afore you dry it. I was a
gamekeeper myself for six years, an' wore it all that time nice and
proper, I did, and know how may be you've got a thrip'ny bit for old
Bill. Thanky.”
I will do Mrs. Agnes Wynn the credit to say that in her booth the
best and most abundant meal that I ever saw for the price in England
was given for eighteen pence. Fed and dried, I was talking with her,
when there came up a pretty boy of ten, so neat and well dressed and
altogether so nice that he might have passed current for a gentleman's
son anywhere.
“Well, Agnes. You're Wynn by name and winsome by nature, and all the
best you have has gone into that boy. They say you gypsies used to
steal children. I think it's time to turn the tables, and when I take
the game up I'll begin by stealing your chavo.”
Mrs. Wynn looked pleased. “He is a good boy, as good as he looks,
and he goes to school, and don't keep low company.”
Here two or three octoroon, duodecaroon, or vigintiroon Romany
female friends of the landlady came up to be introduced to me, and of
course to take something at my expense for the good of the house. This
they did in the manner specially favored by gypsies; that is to say, a
quart of ale, being ordered, was offered first to me, in honor of my
social position, and then passed about from hand to hand. This rite
accomplished, I went forth to view the race. The sun had begun to shine
again, the damp flags and streamers had dried themselves in its
cheering rays, even as I had renewed myself at Dame Wynn's fire, and I
crossed the race-course. The scene was lively, picturesque, and
thoroughly English. There are certain pleasures and pursuits which,
however they may be perfected in other countries, always seem to belong
especially to England, and chief among these is the turf. As a fresh
start was made, as the spectators rushed to the ropes, roaring with
excitement, and the horses swept by amid hurrahs, I could realize the
sympathetic feeling which had been developed in all present by ancient
familiarity and many associations with such scenes. Whatever the moral
value of these may be, it is certain that anything so racy with local
color and so distinctly fixed in popular affection as the race
will always appeal to the artist and the student of national scenes.
I found Old Liz lounging with Old Dick, her husband, on the other
side. There was a canvas screen, eight feet high, stretched as a
background to stop the sticks hurled by the players at “coker-nuts,”
while the nuts themselves, each resting on a stick five feet high,
looked like disconsolate and starved spectres, waiting to be cruelly
treated. In company with the old couple was a commanding-looking,
eagle-eyed Romany woman, in whom I at once recognized the remarkable
gypsy spoken of by the pickpocket.
“My name is Lee,” she said, in answer to my greeting. “What is
yours?”
“Leland.”
“Yes, you have added land to the lee. You are luckier than I am. I'm
a Lee without land.”
As she spoke she looked like an ideal Meg Merrilies, and I wished I
had her picture. It was very strange that I made the wish at that
instant, for just then she was within an ace of having it taken, and
therefore arose and went away to avoid it. An itinerant photographer,
seeing me talking with the gypsies, was attempting, though I knew it
not, to take the group. But the keen eye of the Romany saw it all, and
she went her way, because she was of the real old kind, who believe it
is unlucky to have their portraits taken. I used to think that this
aversion was of the same kind as that which many good men evince in a
marked manner when requested by the police to sit for their photographs
for the rogues' gallery. But here I did the gypsies great injustice;
for they will allow their likenesses to be taken if you will give them
a shoe-string. That this old superstition relative to the binding and
loosing of ill-luck by the shoe-string should exist in this connection
is of itself curious. In the earliest times the shoe-latchet brought
luck, just as the shoe itself did, especially when filled with corn or
rice, and thrown after the bride. It is a great pity that the ignorant
Gentiles, who are so careful to do this at every wedding, do not know
that it is all in vain unless they cry aloud in Hebrew, “Peru urphu!” {159} with all their might when the shoe is cast, and that the shoe
should be filled with rice.
She went away, and in a few minutes the photographer came in great
glee to show a picture which he had taken.
“'Ere you are, sir. An elegant photograph, surroundin' sentimental
scenery and horiental coker-nuts thrown in,—all for a diminitive
little shillin'.”
“Now that time you missed it,” I said; “for on my honor as a
gentleman, I have only ninepence in all my pockets.”
“A gent like you with only ninepence!” said the artist.
“If he hasn't got money in his pocket now,” said Old Liz, speaking
up in my defense, “he has plenty at home. He has given pounds and
pounds to us gypsies.”
“Dovo's a huckaben,” I said to her in Romany. “Mandy
kekker delled tute kumi'n a trin-grushi.” (That is untrue. I never
gave you more than a shilling.)
“Anyhow,” said Liz, “ninepence is enough for it.” And the man,
assenting, gave it to me. It was a very good picture, and I have since
had several copies taken of it.
“Yes, rya,” said Old Liz, when I regretted the absence of my
Lady Lee, and talked with her about shoe-strings and old shoes, and how
necessary it was to cry out “Peru urphu!” when you throw
them,—“yes. That's the way the Gorgis always half does things. You see
'em get a horse-shoe off the roads, and what do they do with it! Goes
like dinneli idiots and nails it up with the p'ints down, which,
as is well beknown, brings all the bad luck there is flyin' in the air
into the house, and taders chovihanees [draws witches] like
anise-seed does rats. Now common sense ought to teach that the shoe
ought to be put like horns, with the p'ints up. For if it's lucky to
put real horns up, of course the horse-shoe goes the same drom
[road]. And it's lucky to pick up a red string in the morning,—yes, or
at any time; but it's sure love from a girl if you do,—specially silk.
And if so be she gives you a red string or cord, or a strip of red
stuff, that means she'll be bound to you and loves you.”