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It is perhaps almost needless to say that this is a sketch from life. I recall, however, that it was not a Smith, but one of the Matthews, who remarked to the Inspector that “We have no right to be anywhere.” Old Liz is the same Rommany who told me that she was sure the Shah was one of “the people.”

The incident embodied in this song was narrated to me in all seriousness by a Gipsy; and were it not for the rhyme and metre, I might say that it is here given almost in his words, “prettygraph” and “landskip” being used, under the impression that they were quite correct.

English Gipsies not only frequently burn or destroy all that belonged to their dead relations, but sometimes, when urged by strong emotions, make sacrifices like the one described

in the foregoing ballad. It is all literally true, even to the remark as to the hairs of the head being spangles. The only liberty taken with the truth has been in making the unfortunate man from whom the waggon was purchased a weeping eye-witness. It is, however, a fact that this highly interesting sacrifice was entirely “upon tick.” I have omitted to state that the mortified lover also broke his watch to fragments; but, with some of the inconsistency characteristic of Gipsies, Indians, and other grown-up children, he carefully collected and sold the fragments, as well as the iron portions of the waggon.

The incident here described is substantially the same as one narrated by an old Gipsy in Surrey as having occured to himself. In justice to the old man, it should be admitted that the theft of the donkey and horse is a poetic fiction.

This incident, for which I am indebted to a friend, occurred precisely as it is told. It is not unusual for a simple-minded Gipsy to form, after long study, some extraordinary compound of words, or some translation of them from English, on the strength of which invention he patents himself as deep Rommany. Sometimes a Gipsy is the possessor of one “deep” word, which he imparts only as a great favour. Jūkalo Rommanīs, or Dog-Gipsy, is a term like “Dog-Latin.” It is applied to mis-applied words. Thus lel, signifying to take or get, would become decidedly jūkalo if one were to say lel avrī for “get out,” or lel up pālī, apré the wárdo—“get up behind on the waggon.” “Mandy dūi” (i.e., I two), for I too, may be occasionally heard. The Old Professor, so frequently mentioned in “The English Gipsies,” on being asked the word for a daisy, suggested that “Spreadamengrō-adré-the-sāla-an'-pandamengro-adré-the-rātti” would be a very good word—its literal meaning being “A spreading thing (or umbrella) in the morning, and a shutting-up thing at night.” My friend, to whom this was said, had suggested that, for want of a better word, daisy might be literally translated dívvusko yāk, but the Professor would not hear of this—it lacked the dignity and poetry of his own formidable epithet.

Chirki, or shirki, a star in Rommany, may possibly have something in common with the Persian chirkh, meaning the sky, or chiragh, a lamp.

The idea here expressed is given very nearly in the words of an old Gipsy.

This ballad is founded on no especial incident, but may be set down as Rommany, having met with a cordial reception among tent-Gipsies.

This ballad was partly written one day while associating with Gipsies, and was drawn from their own remarks.

One fine day in Epping Forest I met a very jolly young Gipsy woman, and held with her a conversation which was, however, hardly to be called cheerful, since it turned principally on toads and snakes, with their relations to witchcraft. In illustration of their evil-nature, she told me the story which I have repeated very accurately in the foregoing

ballad. I have no doubt of its truth, but would state, in explanation, that toads take unaccountable fancies to certain places, and even to certain people, and that the Gipsies, who were well aware of this, ingeniously worked on the morbid fears and superstition of the sick woman. In fact, the Rommany chi, after telling the tale, mentioned incidentally that “people who live in the woods as we do, out of doors all the time, see and know a great deal about such creatures and their ways.”

Not wishing to be outdone, I signified my cordial assent, and promptly narrated a story which I had found originally in a strange and striking little ballad by a well-known American poet, R. H. Stoddard. There was once an old Gipsy woman, a witch. One day a gentleman going along the road accidentally trod on a great toad and killed it. Hearing a scream at that instant some way off in the woods, and after that a terrible outcry, he followed up the sounds, and found that they came from a Gipsy camp, and were lamentations over the old witch's child, who had just died very suddenly. On looking at the little corpse, he was horrified to find that it presented every appearance of having been trampled to death.

The simple credulity and awe expressed in the brown Gipsy face on hearing this little tale were as amusing as the puzzled look which succeeded them. She did not doubt the incident,—not in the least,—but inquired “how could it be?” —not being able to fathom the principle by which a soul could be in two places at once. I regret that I cannot report the discussion which probably ensued that night, around some fire, over this story, and the explanations given of it by the wiser and older fortune-tellers. It is not impossible that the next Rommany Rye or Gipsy-speaking gentleman who goes to Epping may, if he touch on the subject with due care,

be told the name of the infant thus killed, and learn many interesting details of the subsequent effect of the bereavement on its mother.

The word chóvihān in this poem should be correctly translated wizard, and not witch; chovihānī being the feminine.

This was the account which a Gipsy gave me of an honour which he had received. In narrating the event, he acted it to life, with great spirit and intense satisfaction, ending with a profound bow, in imitation of the one bestowed on him by the clergyman. It may be worth recalling on Hospital Sunday that Old Windsor Cooper, the Gipsy, once gave his only shilling to the good cause.

I do not know whether the laws passed in many European countries making it death to speak Rommany were also extended to England, or if so, whether they have been repealed. That the Gipsies themselves entertain the opinion that their language is forbidden, invariably manifests itself, even if talking it with gentlemen or ladies, when a policeman approaches. Many a time have I heard the rapidly spoken whispered warning: “Mā rākka Rómmanis, rýa—'dói vélla múscro! Don't talk Rommany, sir!—there comes a policeman!” More than once during my researches I have received such a kindly-meant warning.