He did, in fact, subsequently bring the artist as models for the picture two very pretty rats, which he had quite tamed while catching them.
“But what does the picture mean, sir?” he inquired, with curiosity.
“Once upon a time,” I replied, “there was a city in Germany which was overrun with rats. They teased the dogs and worried the cats, and bit the babies in the cradle, and licked the soup from the cook’s own ladle.”
“There must have been an uncommon lot of them, sir,” replied the tinker, gravely.
“There was. Millions of them. Now in those days there were no Rommanichals, and consequently no rat-catchers.”
“’Taint so now-a-days,” replied the Gipsy, gloomily. “The business is quite spiled, and not to get a livin’ by.”
“Āvo. And by the time the people had almost gone crazy, one day there came a man—a Gipsy—the first Gipsy who had ever been seen in dovo tem (or that country). And he agreed for a thousand crowns to clear all the rats away. So he blew on a pipe, and the rats all followed him out of town.”
“What did he blow on a pipe for?”
“Just for hokkerben, to humbug them. I suppose he had oils rubbed on his heels. But when he had drawn the rats away and asked for his money, they would not give it to him. So then, what do you think he did?”
“I suppose—ah, I see,” said the Gipsy, with a shrewd look. “He went and drew ’em all back again.”
“No; he went, and this time piped all the children away. They all went after him—all except one little lame boy—and that was the last of it.”
The Gipsy looked earnestly at me, and then, as if I puzzled, but with an expression of perfect faith, he asked—
“And is that all tácho—all a fact—or is it made up, you know?”
“Well, I think it is partly one and partly the other. You see, that in those days Gipsies were very scarce, and people were very much astonished at rat-drawing, and so they made a queer story of it.”
“But how about the children?”
“Well,” I answered; “I suppose you have heard occasionally that Gipsies used to chore Gorgios’ chavis—steal people’s children?”
Very grave indeed was the assent yielded to this explanation. He had heard it among other things.
My dear Mr Robert Browning, I little thought, when I suggested to the artist your poem of the piper, that I should ever retail the story in Rommany to a tinker. But who knows with whom he may associate in this life, or whither he may drift on the great white rolling sea of humanity? Did not Lord Lytton, unless the preface to Pelham err, himself once tarry in the tents of the Egyptians? and did not Christopher North also wander with them, and sing—
“Oh, little did my mother think,
The day she cradled me,
The lands that I should travel in,
Or the death that I should dee;
Or gae rovin’ about wi’ tinkler loons,
And sic-like companie”?
“You know, sir,” said the Gipsy, “that we have two languages. For besides the Rummany, there’s the reg’lar cant, which all tinkers talk.”
“Kennick you mean?”
“Yes, sir; that’s the Rummany for it. A ‘dolly mort’ is Kennick, but it’s juva or rákli in Rummanis. It’s a girl, or a rom’s chi.”
“You say rom sometimes, and then rum.”
“There’s rums and roms, sir. The rum is a Gipsy, and a rom is a husband.”
“That’s your English way of calling it. All the rest of the world over there is only one word among Gipsies, and that is rom.”
Now, the allusion to Kennick or cant by a tinker, recalls an incident which, though not strictly Gipsy in its nature, I will nevertheless narrate.
In the summer of 1870 I spent several weeks at Spa, in the Ardennes. One day while walking I saw by the roadside a picturesque old tinker, looking neither better nor worse than the grinder made immortal by Teniers.
I was anxious to know if all of his craft in Belgium could speak Gipsy, and addressed him in that language, giving him at the same time my knife to grind. He replied politely in French that he did not speak Rommany, and only understood French and Walloon. Yet he seemed to understand perfectly the drift of my question, and to know what Gipsy was, and its nature, since after a pause he added, with a significant smile—
“But to tell the truth, monsieur, though I cannot talk Rommany, I know another secret language. I can speak Argôt fluently.”
Now, I retain in my memory, from reading the Memoirs of Vidocq thirty years ago, one or two phrases of this French thieves’ slang, and I at once replied that I knew a few words of it myself, adding—
“Tu sais jaspiner en bigorne?”—you can talk argôt?
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Et tu vas roulant de vergne en vergne?”—and you go about from town to town?
Grave and keen, and with a queer smile, the tinker replied, very slowly—
“Monsieur knows the Gipsies” (here he shook his head), “and monsieur speaks argôt very well.” (A shrug.) “Perhaps he knows more than he credits himself with. Perhaps” (and here his wink was diabolical)—“perhaps monsieur knows the entire tongue!”
Spa is full not only of gamblers, but of numbers of well-dressed Parisian sharpers who certainly know “the entire tongue.” I hastened to pay my tinker, and went my way homewards. Ross Browne was accused in Syria of having “burgled” onions, and the pursuit of philology has twice subjected me to be suspected by tinkers as a flourishing member of the “dangerous classes.”
But to return to my rat-catcher. As I quoted a verse of German Gipsy song, he manifested an interest in it, and put me several questions with regard to the race in other lands.
“I wish I was a rich gentleman. I would like to travel like you, sir, and have nothing to do but go about from land to land, looking after our Rummany people as you do, and learnin’ everything Rummany. Is it true, sir, we come from Egypt?”
“No. I think not. There are Gipsies in Egypt, but there is less Rommany in their jib (language) than in any other Gipsy tribe in the world. The Gipsies came from India.”
“And don’t you think, sir, that we’re of the children of the lost Ten Tribes?”
“I am quite sure that you never had a drop of blood in common with them. Tell me, do you know any Gipsy gilis—any songs?”
“Only a bit of a one, sir; most of it isn’t fit to sing, but it begins—”
And here he sang:
“Jal ’drée the ker my honey,
And you shall be my rom.”
And chanting this, after thanking me, he departed, gratified with his gratuity, rejoiced at his reception, and most undoubtedly benefited by the beer with which I had encouraged his palaver—a word, by the way, which is not inappropriate, since it contains in itself the very word of words, the lav, which means a word, and is most antiquely and excellently Gipsy. Pehlevi is old Persian, and to pen lavi is Rommany all the world over “to speak words.”
CHAPTER IV. GIPSY RESPECT FOR THE DEAD.
Gipsies and Comteists identical as to “Religion”—Singular Manner of Mourning for the Dead, as practised by Gipsies—Illustrations from Life—Gipsy Job and the Cigars—Oaths by the Dead—Universal Gipsy Custom of never Mentioning the Names of the Dead—Burying valuable Objects with the Dead—Gipsies, Comteists, Hegelians, and Jews—The Rev. James Crabbe.
Comte, the author of the Positivist philosophy, never felt the need of a religion until he had fallen in love; and at the present day his “faith” appears to consist in a worship of the great and wise and good among the dead. I have already spoken of many Gipsies reminding me, by their entirely unconscious ungodliness, of thorough Hegelians. I may now add, that, like the Positivists, they seem to correct their irreligion through the influence of love; and by a strange custom, which is, in spirit and fact, nothing less than adoring the departed and offering to the dead a singular sacrifice.
He who has no house finds a home in family and friends, whence it results that the Gipsy, despite his ferocious quarrels in the clan, and his sharp practice even with near relations, is—all things considered—perhaps the most devoted to kith and kin of any one in the world. His very name—rom, a husband—indicates it. His children, as almost every writer on him, from Grellmann down to the present day, has observed, are more thoroughly indulged and spoiled than any non-gipsy can conceive; and despite all the apparent contradictions caused by the selfishness born of poverty, irritable Eastern blood, and the eccentricity of semi-civilisation, I doubt if any man, on the whole, in the world, is more attached to his own.
It was only three or four hours ago, as I write, on the fifth day of February 1872, that a Gipsy said to me, “It is nine years since my wife died, and I would give all Anglaterra to have her again.”
That the real religion of the Gipsies, as I have already observed, consists like that of the Comteists, in devotion to the dead, is indicated by a very extraordinary custom, which, notwithstanding the very general decay, of late years, of all their old habits, still prevails universally. This is the refraining from some usage or indulgence in honour of the departed—a sacrifice, as it were, to their manes—and I believe that, by inquiring, it will be found to exist among all Gipsies in all parts of the world. In England it is shown by observances which are maintained at great personal inconvenience, sometime for years, or during life. Thus, there are many Gipsies who, because a deceased brother was fond of spirits, have refrained, after his departure, from tasting them, or who have given up their favourite pursuits, for the reason that they were last indulged in, in company with the lost and loved one.
As a further illustration, I will give in the original Gipsy-language, as I myself took it down rapidly, but literally, the comments of a full-blooded Gipsy on this custom—the translation being annexed. I should state that the narrative which precedes his comments was a reply to my question, Why he invariably declined my offer of cigars?
“No; I never toovs cigaras, kek. I never toovs ’em kennā since my pal’s chavo Job mullered. And I’ll pooker tute how it welled.”
“It was at the boro wellgooro where the graias prasters. I was kairin the paiass of the koshters, and mandy dicked a rye an’ pookered him for a droppi levinor. ‘Āvali,’ he penned, ‘I’ll del you levinor and a kushto tuvalo too.’ ‘Parraco,’ says I, ‘rya.’ So he del mandy the levinor and a dozen cigaras. I pet em adrée my poachy an’ jailed apré the purge and latched odói my pal’s chavo, an’ he pook’d mandy, ‘Where you jāllin to, kāko?’ And I penned: ‘Job, I’ve lelled some covvas for tute.’ ‘Tácho,’ says he—so I del him the cigaras. Penned he: ‘Where did tute latcher ’em?’ ‘A rye del ’em a mandy.’ So he pet em adrée his poachy, an’ pookered mandy, ‘What’ll tu lel to pi?’ ‘A droppi levinor.’ So he penned, ‘Pauli the grais prasters, I’ll jāl atut the puvius and dick tute.’
“Eight or nine divvuses pauli, at the K’allis’s Gav, his pal welled to mandy and pookered mi Job sus naflo. And I penned, ‘Any thing dush?’ ‘Worse nor dovo.’ ‘What is the covvo?’ Says yuv, ‘Mandy kaums tute to jāl to my pal—don’t spare the gry—mukk her jāl!’ So he del mi a fino grai, and I kistered eight mee so sig that I thought I’d mored her. An’ I pet her drée the stanya, an’ I jālled a lay in the pūv and’ odói I dicked Job. ‘Thank me Duvel!’ penned he, ‘Kāko you’s welled acaï, and if mandy gets opré this bugni (for ’twas the bugni he’d lelled), I’ll del tute the kushtiest gry that you’ll beat sār the Romni chuls.’ But he mullered.
“And he pens as he was mullerin. ‘Kāko, tute jins the cigarras you del a mandy?’ ‘Avali,’ I says he, ‘I’ve got ’em acaï in my poachy.’ Mandy and my pens was by him, but his romni was avree, adrée the boro tan, bikinin covvas, for she’d never lelled the bugni, nor his chavos, so they couldn’t well a dickin, for we wouldn’t mukk em. And so he mullered.
“And when yuv’s mullo I pet my wast adrée his poachy and there mandy lastered the cigaras. And from dovo chairus, ryá, mandy never tooved a cigar.
“Āvali—there’s adusta Romni chuls that kairs dovo. And when my juvo mullered, mandy never lelled nokengro kekoomi. Some chairuses in her jivaben, she’d lel a bitti nokengro avree my mokto, and when I’d pen, ‘Deari juvo, what do you kair dovo for?’ she pooker mandy, ‘It’s kushti for my sherro.’ And so when she mullered mandy never lelled chichi sensus.
“Some mushis wont haw māss because the pal or pen that mullered was kāmmaben to it,—some wont pi levinor for panj or ten besh, some wont haw the kāmmaben matcho that the chavo hawed. Some wont haw puvengroes or pi tood, or haw pabos, and saw (sār) for the mullos.
“Some won’t kair wardos or kil the boshomengro—‘that’s mandy’s pooro chavo’s gilli’—and some won’t kel. ‘No, I can’t kel, the last time I kelled was with mandy’s poor juvo that’s been mullo this shtor besh.’
“‘Come pal, let’s jāl an’ have a drappi levinor—the boshomengri’s odói.’ ‘Kek, pal, kekoomi—I never pi’d a drappi levinor since my bibi’s jālled.’ ‘Kushto—lel some tuvalo pal?’ ‘Kek—kek—mandy never tooved since minno juvo pelled a lay in the panni, and never jālled avree kekoomi a jivaben.’ ‘Well, let’s jāl and kair paiass with the koshters—we dui’ll play you dui for a pint o’ levinor.’ ‘Kek—I never kaired the paiass of the koshters since my dádas mullered—the last chairus I ever played was with him.’
“And Léna, the juva of my pal’s chavo, Job, never hawed plums a’ter her rom mullered.”
(TRANSLATION).—“No, I never smoke cigars. No; I never smoke them now since my brother’s son Job died. And I’ll tell you how it came.
“It was at the great fair where the horses run (i.e., the races), I was keeping a cock-shy, and I saw a gentleman, and asked him for a drop of ale. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you ale, and a good smoke too.’ ‘Thank you,’ says I, ‘Sir.’ So he gave me the ale, and a dozen cigars. I put them in my pocket, and went on the road and found there my brother’s son, and he asked me, ‘Where (are) you going, uncle?’ And I said: ‘Job, I have something for you.’ ‘Good,’ says he—so I gave him the cigars. He said: ‘Where did you find them?’ ‘A gentleman gave them to me.’ So he put them in his pocket, and asked me, ‘What’ll you take to drink?’ ‘A drop of ale.’ So he said, ‘After the horses (have) run I’ll go across the field and see you.’
“Eight or nine days after, at Hampton Court, {53} his ‘pal’ came to me and told me that Job was ill. And I said, ‘Anything wrong?’ ‘Worse nor that.’ ‘What is the affair?’ Said he, ‘I want you to go to my pal,—don’t spare the horse—let her go!’ So he gave me a fine horse, and I rode eight miles so fast that I thought I’d killed her. And I put her in the stable, and I went down into the field, and there I saw Job. ‘Thank God!’ said he; ‘Uncle, you’ve come here; and if I get over this small-pox (for ’twas the smallpox he’d caught), I’ll give you the best horse that you’ll beat all the Gipsies.’ But he died.
“And he says as he was dying, ‘Uncle, you know the cigars you gave me?’ ‘Yes.’ Says he, ‘I’ve got ’em here in my pocket.’ I and my sisters were by him, but his wife was outside in the great tent, selling things, for she never had the smallpox, nor his children, so they couldn’t come to see, for we wouldn’t let them. And so he died.
“And when he was dead, I put my hand in his pocket, and there I found the cigars. And from that time, Sir, I never smoked a cigar.
“Yes! there are plenty of Gipsies who do that. And when my wife died, I never took snuff again. Sometimes in her life she’d take a bit of snuff out (from) my box; and when I’d say, ‘Dear wife, what do you do that for?’ she’d tell me, ‘It’s good for my head.’ And so when she died I never took any (none) since.
“Some men won’t eat meat because the brother or sister that died was fond of (to) it; some won’t drink ale for five or ten years; some won’t eat the favourite fish that the child ate. Some won’t eat potatoes, or drink milk, or eat apples; and all for the dead.
“Some won’t play cards or the fiddle—‘that’s my poor boy’s tune’—and some won’t dance—‘No, I can’t dance, the last time I danced was with my poor wife (or girl) that’s been dead this four years.’
“‘Come, brother, let’s go and have a drop of ale; the fiddler is there.’ ‘No, brother, I never drank a drop of ale since my aunt went (died).’ ‘Well, take some tobacco, brother?’ ‘No, no, I have not smoked since my wife fell in the water and never came out again alive.’ ‘Well, let’s go and play at cock-shy, we two’ll play you two for a pint o’ ale.’ ‘No, I never played at cock-shy since my father died; the last time I played was with him.’
“And Lena, the wife of my nephew Job, never ate plums after her husband died.”
This is a strange manner of mourning, but it is more effective than the mere wearing of black, since it is often a long-sustained and trying tribute to the dead. Its Oriental-Indian origin is apparent enough. But among the German Gipsies, who, I am firmly convinced, represent in language and customs their English brethren as the latter were three centuries ago, this reverence for the departed assumes an even deeper and more serious character. Mr Richard Liebich (Die Zigeuner, Leipzig, 1863), tells us that in his country their most sacred oath is Ap i mulende!—by the dead!—and with it may be classed the equally patriarchal imprecation, “By my father’s hand!”
Since writing the foregoing sentence a very remarkable confirmation of the existence of this oath among English Gipsies, and the sacredness with which it is observed, came under my own observation. An elderly Gipsy, during the course of a family difficulty, declared to his sister that he would leave the house. She did not believe he would until he swore by his dead wife—by his “mullo juvo.” And when he had said this, his sister promptly remarked: “Now you have sworn by her, I know you will do it.” He narrated this to me the next day, adding that he was going to put a tent up, about a mile away, and live there. I asked him if he ever swore by his dead father, to which he said: “Always, until my wife died.” This poor man was almost entirely ignorant of what was in the Bible, as I found by questioning him; but I doubt whether I know any Christian on whom a Bible oath would be more binding than was to him his own by the dead. To me there was something deeply moving in the simple earnestness and strangeness of this adjuration.
The German, like the older English Gipsies, carefully burn the clothes and bed of the deceased, and, indeed, most objects closely connected with them, and what is more extraordinary, evince their respect by carefully avoiding mentioning their names, even when they are borne by other persons or are characteristic of certain things. So that when a Gipsy maiden named Forella once died, her entire nation, among whom the trout had always been known only by its German designation, Forelle, at once changed the name, and, to this day it is called by them mulo madscho—the dead fish,—or at times lolo madscho—the red fish.
This is also the case among the English Gipsies. Wishing to have the exact words and views of a real Rommany on this subject, I made inquiry, and noted down his reply, which was literally as follows:—
“Āvali; when Rommany chals or juvos are mullos, their pals don’t kaum to shoon their navs pauli—it kairs ’em too bongo—so they’re purabend to waver navs. Saw don’t kair it—kek—but posh do, kennā. My chavo’s nav was Horfer or Horferus, but the bitti chavis penned him Wacker. Well, yeck divvus pré the wellgooro o’ the graias prasters, my juvo dicked a boro doll adrée some hev of a buttika and penned, ‘Dovo odöi dicks just like moro Wacker!’ So we penned him Wackerdoll, but a’ter my juvo mullered I rakkered him Wacker again, because Wackerdoll pet mandy in cāmmoben o’ my poor juvo.”
In English: “Yes. When Gipsy men or women die, their friends don’t care to hear their names again—it makes them too sad, so they are changed to other names. All don’t do it—no—but half of them do so still. My boy’s name was Horfer or Horferus (Orpheus), but the children called him Wacker. Well, one day at the great fair of the races, my wife saw a large doll in some window of a shop, and said, ‘That looks just like our Wacker!’ So we called him Wackerdoll, but after my wife died I called him Wacker again, because Wackerdoll put me in mind of my poor wife.”
When further interrogated on the same subject, he said:
“A’ter my juva mullered, if I dicked a waver rakli with lakis’nav, an’ mandy was a rākkerin lāki, mandy’d pen ajaw a waver geeri’s nav, an rakker her by a waver nav:—dovo’s to pen I’d lel some bongonav sar’s Polly or Sukey. An’ it was the sār covva with my dādes nav—if I dicked a mush with a nav that simmed leskers, mandy’d rākker him by a waver nav. For ’twould kair any mush wafro to shoon the navyas of the mullas a’t ’were cāmmoben to him.”
Or in English, “After my wife died, if I saw another girl with her name, and I was talking to her, I’d speak another woman’s name, and call her by another name; that’s to say, I’d take some nick-name, such as Polly or Sukey. And it was the same thing with my father’s name—if I saw a man with a name that was the same as his (literally, ‘that samed his’), I’d call him by another name. For ’twould make any man grieve (lit. ‘bad’) to hear the names of the dead that were dear to him.”
I suppose that there are very few persons, not of Gipsy blood, in England, to whom the information will not be new, that there are to be found everywhere among us, people who mourn for their lost friends in this strange and touching manner.
Another form of respect for the departed among Gipsies, is shown by their frequently burying some object of value with the corpse, as is, however, done by most wild races. On questioning the same Gipsy last alluded to, he spoke as follows on this subject, I taking down his words:—
“When Job mullered and was chivved adrée the puv, there was a nevvi kushto-dickin dui chākkas pakkered adrée the mullo mokto. Dighton penned a mandy the waver divvus, that trin thousand bars was gavvered posh yeck o’ the Chilcotts. An I’ve shooned o’ some Stanleys were buried with sonnakai wongashees apré langis wastos. ‘Do sar the Rommany chals kair adovo?’ Kek. Some chivs covvas pāsh the mullos adrée the puv, and boot adusta don’t.”
In English: “When Job died and was buried, there was a new beautiful pair of shoes put in the coffin (lit. corpse-box). Dighton told me the other day, that three thousand pounds were hidden with one of the Chilcotts. And I have heard of some Stanleys who were buried with gold rings on their fingers. ‘Do all the Gipsies do that?’ No! some put things with the dead in the earth, and many do not.”
Mr Liebich further declares, that while there is really nothing in it to sustain the belief, this extraordinary reverence and regard for the dead is the only fact at all indicating an idea of the immortality of the soul which he has ever found among the Gipsies; but, as he admits, it proves nothing. To me, however, it is grimly grotesque, when I return to the disciples of Comte—the Positivists—the most highly cultivated scholars of the most refined form of philosophy in its latest stage, and find that their ultimate and practical manifestation of la religion, is quite the same as that of those unaffected and natural Positivists, the Gipsies. With these, as with the others, our fathers find their immortality in our short-lived memories, and if among either, some one moved by deep love—as Auguste was by the eyes of Clotilda—has yearned for immortality with the dear one, and cursed in agony Annihilation, he falls upon the faith founded in ancient India, that only that soul lives for ever which has done so much good on earth, as to leave behind it in humanity, ineffaceable traces of its elevation.
Verily, the poor Gipsies would seem, to a humourist, to have been created by the devil, whose name they almost use for God, a living parody and satanic burlesque of all that human faith, doubt, or wisdom, have ever accomplished in their highest forms. Even to the weakest minded and most uninformed manufacturers of “Grellmann-diluted” pamphlets, on the Gipsies, their parallel to the Jews is most apparent. All over the world this black and God-wanting shadow dances behind the solid Theism of “The People,” affording proof that if the latter can be preserved, even in the wildest wanderings, to illustrate Holy Writ—so can gipsydom—for no apparent purpose whatever. How often have we heard that the preservation of the Jews is a phenomenon without equal? And yet they both live—the sad and sober Jew, the gay and tipsy Gipsy, Shemite and Aryan—the one so ridiculously like and unlike the other, that we may almost wonder whether Humour does not enter into the Divine purpose and have its place in the Destiny of Man. For my own part, I shall always believe that the Heathen Mythology shows a superiority to any other, in one conception—that of Loki, who into the tremendous upturnings of the Universe always inspires a grim grotesqueness; a laughter either diabolic or divine.
Judaism, which is pre-eminently the principle of religious belief:—the metaphysical emancipation and enlightenment of Germany, and the materialistic positivism of France, are then, as I have indicated, nowhere so practically and yet laughably illustrated as by the Gipsy. Free from all the trammels of faith, and, to the last degree, indifferent and rationalistic, he satisfies the demands of Feuerbach; devoted to the positive and to the memory of the dead, he is the ideal of the greatest French philosophy, while as a wanderer on the face of the earth—not neglectful of picking up things en route—he is the rather blurred facsimile of the Hebrew, the main difference in the latter parallel being that while the Jews are God’s chosen people, the poor Gipsies seem to have been selected as favourites by that darker spirit, whose name they have naïvely substituted for divinity:—Nomen et omen.
I may add, however, in due fairness, that there are in England some true Gipsies of unmixed blood, who—it may be without much reflection—have certainly adopted ideas consonant with a genial faith in immortality, and certain phases of religion. The reader will find in another chapter a curious and beautiful Gipsy custom recorded, that of burning an ash fire on Christmas-day, in honour of our Saviour, because He was born and lived like a Gipsy; and one day I was startled by bearing a Rom say “Miduvel hatch for mandy an’ kair me kushto.”—My God stand up for me and make me well. “That” he added, in an explanatory tone, “is what you say when you’re sick.” These instances, however, indicate no deep-seated conviction, though they are certainly curious, and, in their extreme simplicity, affecting. That truly good man, the Rev. James Crabb, in his touching little book, “The Gipsies’ Advocate,” gave numbers of instances of Gipsy conversions to religion and of real piety among them, which occurred after their minds and feelings had been changed by his labours; indeed, it would seem as if their lively imaginations and warm hearts render them extremely susceptible to the sufferings of Jesus. But this does not in the least affect the extraordinary truth that in their nomadic and natural condition, the Gipsies, all the world over, present the spectacle, almost without a parallel, of total indifference to, and ignorance of, religion, and that I have found true old-fashioned specimens of it in England.
I would say, in conclusion, that the Rev. James Crabb, whose unaffected and earnest little book tells its own story, did much good in his own time and way among the poor Gipsies; and the fact that he is mentioned to the present day, by them, with respect and love, proves that missionaries are not useless, nor Gipsies ungrateful—though it is almost the fashion with too many people to assume both positions as rules without exceptions.
CHAPTER V. GIPSY LETTERS.
A Gipsy’s Letter to his Sister.—Drabbing Horses.—Fortune Telling.—Cock Shys.—“Hatch ’em pauli, or he’ll lel sār the Covvas!”—Two German Gipsy Letters.
I shall give in this chapter a few curious illustrations of Gipsy life and character, as shown in a letter, which is illustrated by two specimens in the German Rommany dialect.
With regard to the first letter, I might prefix to it, as a motto, old John Willett’s remark: “What’s a man without an imagination?” Certainly it would not apply to the Gipsy, who has an imagination so lively as to be at times almost ungovernable; considering which I was much surprised that, so far as I know, the whole race has as yet produced only one writer who has distinguished himself in the department of fiction—albeit he who did so was a giant therein—I mean John Bunyan.
And here I may well be allowed an unintended digression, as to whether Bunyan were really a Gipsy. In a previous chapter of this work, I, with little thought of Bunyan, narrated the fact that an intelligent tinker, and a full Gipsy, asked me last summer in London, if I thought that the Rommany were of the Ten Tribes of Israel? When John Bunyan tells us explicitly that he once asked his father whether he and his relatives were of the race of the Israelites—he having then never seen a Jew—and when he carefully informs his readers that his descent was of a low and inconsiderable generation, “my father’s house being of that rank that is meanest and most despised of all the families of the land,” there remains no rational doubt whatever that Bunyan was indeed a Rom of the Rommany. “Applico” of which, as my own special and particular Gipsy is wont to say—it is worth noting that the magician Shakespeare, who knew everything, showed himself superior to many modern dramatists in being aware that the tinkers of England had, not a peculiar cant, but a special language.
And now for the letters. One day Ward’engro of the K’allis’s Gav, asked me to write him a letter to his daughter, in Rommany. So I began to write from his dictation. But being, like all his race, unused to literary labour, his lively imagination continually led him astray, and as I found amusement in his so doing, it proved to be an easy matter to induce him to wander off into scenes of gipsy life, which, however edifying they might be to my reader, would certainly not have the charm of novelty to the black-eyed lady to whom they were supposed to be addressed. However, as I read over from time to time to my Rommany chal what I had written, his delight in actually hearing his own words read from writing, partook of all the pride of successful authorship—it was, my dear sir, like your delight over your first proof sheet.
Well, this was the letter. A translation will be found following it.
THE PANNI GAV, Dec. 16, 1871.
MY KĀMLI CHĀVI,—Kushti bāk! My cāmmoben to turo mush an’ turo dādas an’ besto bāk. We’ve had wafri bak, my pen’s been naflo this here cooricus, we’re doin’ very wafro and couldn’t lel no wongur. Your dui pals are kairin kúshto, pràsturin ’bout the tem, bickinin covvas. {65} Your puro kāko welled acái to his pen, and hatched trin divvus, and jawed avree like a puro jucko, and never del mandy a poshéro.
Kek adusta nevvi. A rakli acai lelled a hóra waver divvus from a waver rakli, and the one who nashered it pens: “Del it pauli a mandi and I wont dukker tute! Del it apré!” But the waver rākli penned “kek,” and so they bitchered for the prastramengro. He lelled the juva to the wardo, and just before she welled odói, she hatched her wast in her poachy, an’ chiv it avree, and the prastramengro hatched it apré. So they bitchered her for shúrabun.
(Here my Gipsy suggested that stárdo or staramangro might be used for greater elegance, in place of shúrabun.)
I’ve got kek gry and can’t lel no wongur to kin kek. My kāmli chāvi, if you could bitch me a few bars it would be cammoben. I rikkers my covvas apré mi dumo kennā. I dicked my kāko, waver divvus adrée a lot o Rommany chals, saw a pïin’. There was the juvas a koorin adói and the mushis a koorin an’ there was a boro chingarée, some with kāli yākkas an’ some with sherros chinned so the ratt jālled alay ’pré the drum. There was dui or trin bar to pessur in the sāla for the graias an’ mylas that got in pandamam (pandapenn).
Your pal’s got a kushti gry that can jāl alangus the drum kúshto. L--- too’s got a bāro kushto gry. He jawed to the wellgooro, to the boro gav, with a poggobavescro gry an’ a nokengro. You could a mored dovo gry an’ kek penn’d a lav tute. I del it some ballovas to hatch his bavol and I bikened it for 9 bar, to a rye that you jins kushto. Lotti was at the wellgooro dukkerin the rānis. She lelled some kushti habben, an’ her jellico was saw porder, when she dicked her mush and shelled. “Hāvacäi! I’ve got some fine habben!” She penned to a rakli, “Pet your wonger adrée turo wast an I’ll dukker tute.” An’ she lelled a pāsh bar from the rāni. She penned her: “You kaums a rye a longo dūros. He’s a kaulo and there’s a wáver rye, a pauno, that kaums you too, an’ you’ll soon lel a chinamangree. Tute’ll rummorben before dui besh, an’ be the dye of trin chavis.’
There was a gry jāllin with a wardo langus the drum, an’ I dicked a raklo, an’ putsched (pootched) him. “How much wongur?” an’ he pookered man’y “Desh bar;” I penned: “Is dovo, noko gry?” “Āvali.” Well, a Rommany chul del him desh bar for the gry an’ bikined it for twelve bar to a boro rye. It was a fino kaulo gry with a boro herree, but had a naflo piro; it was the nearo piro an’ was a dellemescro. He del it some hopium drab to hatch adöi, and tooled his solivengro upo the purgis.
At the paiass with the koshters a rye welled and Wantelo shelled avree: “Trin kosters for a horra, eighteen for a shekóri!” An’ the rye lelled a koshter an’ we had pange collos for trin dozenos. The rye kaired paiass kushto and lelled pange cocoanuts, and lelled us to his wardo, and dell’d mandy trin currus of tatty panni, so that I was most mātto. He was a kushti rye and his rāni was as good as the rye.
There was a waver mūsh a playin, an’ mandy penned: “Pen the kosh paulier, hatch ’em odöi, don’t well adoorer or he’ll lel saw the covvos! Chiv ’em pauli!” A chi rakkered the ryes an’ got fifteen cullos from yeck. And no moro the divvus from your kaum pal,
M.
TRANSLATION.
THE WATER VILLAGE, Dec. 16, 1871.
MY DEAR DAUGHTER,—Good luck! my love to your husband and your father, and best luck! We’ve had bad fortune, my sister has been sick this here week, we’re doing very badly and could not get any money. Your two brothers are doing well, running about the country selling things. Your old uncle came to his sister and stayed three days, and went away like an old dog and never gave me a penny.
Nothing much new. A girl here took a watch the other day from another girl, and the one who lost it said: “Give it back to me and I won’t hurt you.” But the other girl said “No,” and so they sent for the constable. He took the girl to the station (or carriage), and just before she got there she put her hand in her pocket and threw it away, and the policeman picked it up. So they sent her to prison.
I have no horse, and can’t get any money to buy none. My dear daughter, if you could send me a few pounds it would be agreeable. I carry my traps on my back now. I saw my uncle the other day among a lot of Gipsies, all drinking. There were the women fighting there, and the men fighting, and there was a great shindy, some with black eyes, and some with heads cut so that the blood ran down on the road. There were two or three pounds to pay in the morning for the horses and asses that were in the pound.
Your brother has got a capital horse that can go along the road nicely. L---, too, has a large fine horse. He went to the fair in --- with a broken-winded horse and a glandered. You could have killed that horse and nobody said a word to you. I gave it some lard to stop his breathing, and I sold it for nine pound to a gentleman whom you know well.
Lotty was at the fair telling fortunes to the ladies. She got some excellent food, and her apron was quite full, when she saw her husband and cried out: “Come here! I’ve got some nice victuals!” She said to a girl: “Put you money in your hand and I’ll tell you your fortune.” And she took half a sovereign from the lady. She told her: “You love a gentleman who is far away. He is dark, and there is another gentleman, a fair-haired man that loves you, and you’ll soon get a letter. You’ll marry before two years, and be the mother of three children.”
There was a horse going with a waggon along the road; and I saw a youth, and asked him, “How much money?” (for the horse), and he replied to me, “Ten pounds.” I said, “Is that your horse?” “Yes.” Well, a Gipsy gave him ten pounds for the horse, and sold it for twelve pounds to a great gentleman. It was a good black horse, with a (handsome) strong leg (literally large), but it had a bad foot; it was the near foot, and it was a kicker. He gave it some opium medicament to keep quiet (literally to stop there), and held his rein (i.e., trotted him so as to show his pace, and conceal his faults) on the road.
At the cock-shy a gentleman came, and Wantelo halloed out, “Three sticks for a penny, eighteen for a sixpence!” And the gentleman took a stick, and we had five shillings for three dozen throws! The gentleman played well, and got five cocoanuts, and took us to his carriage and gave me three glasses of brandy, so that I was almost drunk. He was a good gentleman, and his lady was as good as her husband.
There was another man playing; and I said, “Set the sticks more back, set ’em there; don’t go further or he’ll get all the things! Set ’em back!” A Gipsy girl talked to the gentlemen (i.e., persuaded them to play), and got fifteen shillings from one. And no more to-day from your dear brother,
M.
* * * * *
One thing in the foregoing letter is worth noting. Every remark or incident occurring in it is literally true—drawn from life—pur et simple. It is, indeed, almost the resumé of the entire life of many poor Gipsies during the summer. And I may add that the language in which it is written, though not the “deep” or grammatical Gipsy, in which no English words occur—as for instance in the Lord’s Prayer, as given by Mr Borrow in his appendix to the Gipsies in Spain {70}—is still really a fair specimen of the Rommany of the present day, which is spoken at races by cock-shysters and fortune-tellers.
The “Water Village,” from which it is dated, is the generic term among Gipsies for all towns by the sea-side. The phrase kushto (or kushti), bak!—“good luck!” is after “Sarishan!” or “how are you?” the common greeting among Gipsies. The fight is from life and to the life; and the “two or three pounds to pay in the morning for the horses and asses that got impounded,” indicates its magnitude. To have a beast in pound in consequence of a frolic, is a common disaster in Gipsy life.
During the dictation of the foregoing letter, my Gipsy paused at the word “broken-winded horse,” when I asked him how he could stop the heavy breathing?
“With ballovas (or lard and starch)—long enough to sell it.”
“But how would you sell a glandered horse?”
Here he described, with great ingenuity, the manner in which he would tool or manage the horse—an art in which Gipsies excel all the world over—and which, as Mr Borrow tells us, they call in Spain “de pacuaró,” which is pure Persian.
“But that would not stop the running. How would you prevent that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then I am a better graiengro than you, for I know a powder, and with a penny’s worth of it I could stop the glanders in the worst case, long enough to sell the horse. I once knew an old horse-dealer who paid sixty pounds for a nokengro (a glandered horse) which had been powdered in this way.”
The Gipsy listened to me in great admiration. About a week afterwards I heard he had spoken of me as follows:—
“Don’t talk about knowing. My rye knows more than anybody. He can cheat any man in England selling him a glandered horse.”
Had this letter been strictly confined to the limits originally intended, it would have spoken only of the sufferings of the family, the want of money, and possibly, the acquisition of a new horse by the brother. In this case it bears a decided family-likeness to the following letter in the German-Gipsy dialect, which originally appeared in a book entitled, Beytrag zur Rottwellischen Grammatik, oder Wörterbuch von der Zigeuner Spracke, Leipzig 1755, and which was republished by Dr A. F. Pott in his stupendous work, Die Zigeuner in Europa und Asien. Halle, 1844.
GERMAN GIPSY.
MIRI KOMLI ROMNI,—Ertiewium Francfurtter wium te gajum apro Newoforo. Apro drum ne his mange mishdo. Mare manush tschingerwenes ketteni. Tschiel his te midschach wettra. Tschawe wele naswele. Dowa ker, kai me gaijam medre gazdias tele; mare ziga t’o terno kalbo nähsle penge. O flachso te hanfa te wulla te schwigarizakri te stifftshakri ho spinderde gotshias nina. Lopennawa, wium ke tshorero te wiam hallauter nange Denkerdum tschingerwam mangi kasht te mre wastiengri butin, oder hunte di kaw te kinnaw tschommoni pre te bikkewaw pale, te de denkerwaw te ehrnährwaw man kiacke. Me bium kiacke kuremangrender pene aper mande, buten tschingerde buten trinen marde te man, tshimaster apri butin tshidde. O bolloben te rackel tutt andre sawe kolester, kai me wium adre te me tshawa tiro rum shin andro meraben.
TRANSLATION.
MY DEAR WIFE,—Before I came to Frankfort I went to Neustadt. On the way it did not go well with me. Our men quarrelled together. It was cold and wet weather. The children were ill. That house into which we had gone burnt down; our kid and the young calf run away. The flax and hemp and wool [which] the sister-in-law and step-daughter spun are also burned. In short, I say I became so poor that we all went naked. I thought of cutting wood and working by hand, or I should go into business and sell something. I think I will make my living so. I was so treated by the soldiers. They fell on us, wounded many, three they killed, and I was taken to prison to work for life. Heaven preserve you in all things from that into which I have fallen, and I remain thy husband unto death.
* * * * *
It is the same sad story in all, wretchedness, poverty, losses, and hunger. In the English letter there was a chingari—a shindy; in the German they have a tshinger, which is nearly the same word, and means the same. It may be remarked as curious that the word meraben at the end of the letter, meaning death, is used by English Gipsies to signify life as well.
“Dick at the gorgios,
The gorgios round mandy;
Trying to take my meripon,
My meripon away.”
The third letter is also in the German-Gipsy dialect, and requires a little explanation. Once a man named Charles Augustus was arrested as a beggar and suspected Gipsy, and brought before Mr Richard Liebich, who appears to have been nothing less in the total than the Fürstlich Reuss-Plauenschem Criminalrathe und Vorstande des Fürstlichen Criminalgerichts zu Lobenstein—in fact, a rather lofty local magistrate. Before this terrible title Charles appeared, and swore stoutly that he was no more a Rommany chal than he was one of the Apostles—for be it remembered, reader, that in Germany at the present day, the mere fact of being a Gipsy is still treated as a crime. Suddenly the judge attacked him with the words—“Tu hal rom, me hom, rakker tschatschopenn!”—“Thou art a Gipsy, I am a Gipsy, speak the truth.” And Charles, looking up in amazement and seeing the black hair and brown face of the judge, verily believed that he was of the blood of Dom. So crossing his arms on his breast in true Oriental style, he salaamed deeply, and in a submissive voice said—“Me hom rom”—“I am a Gipsy.”
The judge did not abuse the confidence gained by his little trick, since he appears to have taken Charles under his wing, employed him in small jobs (in America we should say chores, but the word would be frightfully significant, if applied to a Gipsy), {75} and finally dismissed him. And Charles replied Rommanesquely, by asking for something. His application was as follows:—
GERMAN GIPSY.
“LICHTENBERG ANE DESCHE OCHDADO, Januar 1859.
“LADSCHO BARO RAI,—Me hunde dschinawe duge gole dui trin Lawinser mire zelle gowe, har geas mange an demaro foro de demare Birengerenser. Har weum me stildo gage lean demare Bírengere mr lowe dele, de har weum biro gage lean jon man dran o stilibin bri, de mangum me mr lowe lender, gai deum dele. Jon pendin len wellen geg mander. Gai me deum miro lowe lende, naste pennene jon gar wawer. Brinscherdo lowe hi an i Gissig, o baro godder lolo paro, trin Chairingere de jeg dschildo gotter sinagro lowe. Man weas mr lowe gar gobe dschanel o Baro Dewel ani Bolebin. Miro baaro bargerbin vaschge demare Ladschebin bennawe. O baro Dewel de pleisserwel de maro ladscho sii i pure sasde Tschiwaha demende demaro zelo Beero. De hadzin e Birengere miro lowe, dale mangawa me len de bidschin jon mire lowe gadder o foro Naile abbi Bidschebasger wurtum sikk. Gai me dschingerdum ab demende, hi gar dschadscho, gai miri romni hass mando, gowe hi dschadscho. Obaaro Dewel de bleiserwel de mange de menge demaro Ladscho Sii. Miero Bargerbin. De me dschawe demaro gandelo Waleddo.
CHARLES AUGUSTIN.”
TRANSLATION.
“LICHTENBERG, January 18, 1859.
“GOOD GREAT SIR,—I must write to you with these two or three words my whole business (gowe, English Gipsy covvo, literally ‘thing,’) how it happened to me in your town, by your servants (literally ‘footmen’). When I was arrested, your servants took my money away, and when I was freed they took me out of prison. I asked my money of them which I had given up. They said they had got none from me. That I gave them my money they cannot deny. The said (literally, known) money is in a purse, a great piece, red (and) old, three kreutzers, and a yellow piece of good-for-nothing money. I did not get my money, as the great God in heaven knows. My great thanks for your goodness, I say. The great God reward your good heart with long healthy life, you and your whole family. And if your servants find my money, I beg they will send it to the town Naila, by the post at once. That I cursed you is not true; that my wife was drunk is true. The great God reward your good heart. My thanks. And I remain, your obedient servant,
CHARLES AUGUSTIN.”
Those who attempt to read this letter in the original, should be informed that German Gipsy is, as compared to the English or Spanish dialects, almost a perfect language; in fact, Pott has by incredible industry, actually restored it to its primitive complete form; and its orthography is now settled. Against this orthography poor Charles Augustin sins sadly, and yet it may be doubted whether many English tramps and beggars could write a better letter.
The especial Gipsy characteristic in this letter is the constant use of the name of God, and the pious profusion of blessings. “She’s the blessing-est old woman I ever came across,” was very well said of an old Rommany dame in England. And yet these well-wishings are not always insincere, and they are earnest enough when uttered in Gipsy.
CHAPTER VI. GIPSY WORDS WHICH HAVE PASSED INTO ENGLISH SLANG.
Jockey.—Tool.—Cove or Covey.—Hook, Hookey, and Walker, Hocus, Hanky-Panky, and Hocus-Pocus.—Shindy.—Row.—Chivvy.—Bunged Eye.—Shavers.—Clichy.—Caliban.—A Rum ’un.—Pal.—Trash.—Cadger.—Cad.—Bosh.—Bats.—Chee-chee.—The Cheese.—Chiv Fencer.—Cooter.—Gorger.—Dick.—Dook.—Tanner.—Drum.—Gibberish.—Ken.—Lil.—Loure.—Loafer.—Maunder.—Moke.—Parny.—Posh.—Queer. Raclan.—Bivvy.—Rigs.—Moll.—Distarabin.—Tiny.—Toffer.—Tool.—Punch.—Wardo.—Voker (one of Mr Hotten’s Gipsy words).—Welcher.—Yack.—Lushy.—A Mull.—Pross.—Toshers.—Up to Trap.—Barney.—Beebee.—Cull, Culley.—Jomer.—Bloke.—Duffer.—Niggling.—Mug.—Bamboozle, Slang, and Bite.—Rules to be observed in determining the Etymology of Gipsy Words.
Though the language of the Gipsies has been kept a great secret for centuries, still a few words have in England oozed out here and there from some unguarded crevice, and become a portion of our tongue. There is, it must be admitted, a great difficulty in tracing, with anything like accuracy, the real origin or identity of such expressions. Some of them came into English centuries ago, and during that time great changes have taken place in Rommany. At least one-third of the words now used by Scottish Gipsies are unintelligible to their English brothers. To satisfy myself on this point, I have examined an intelligent English Gipsy on the Scottish Gipsy vocabularies in Mr Simpson’s work, and found it was as I anticipated; a statement which will not appear incredible when it is remembered, that even the Rommany of Yetholm have a dialect marked and distinct from that of other Scotch Gipsies. As for England, numbers of the words collected by William Marsden, and Jacob Bryant, in 1784-5, Dr Bright in 1817, and by Harriott in 1830, are not known at the present day to any Gipsies whom I have met. Again, it should be remembered that the pronunciation of Rommany differs widely with individuals; thus the word which is given as cumbo, a hill, by Bryant, I have heard very distinctly pronounced choomure.
I believe that to Mr Borrow is due the discovery that the word JOCKEY is of Gipsy origin, and derived from chuckni, which means a whip. For nothing is more clearly established than that the jockey-whip was the original term in which this word first made its appearance on the turf, and that the chuckni was a peculiar form of whip, very long and heavy, first used by the Gipsies. “Jockeyism,” says Mr Borrow, “properly means the management of a whip, and the word jockey is neither more nor less than the term, slightly modified, by which they designate the formidable whips which they usually carry, and which are at present in general use among horse-traffickers, under the title of jockey-whips.” In Hungary and Germany the word occurs as tschuckini or chookni, and tschupni.
Many of my readers are doubtless familiar with the word to TOOL as applied to dexterously managing the reins and driving horses. ‘To tool the horses down the road,’ is indeed rather a fine word of its class, being as much used in certain clubs as in stables, and often denotes stylish and gentlemanly driving. And the term is without the slightest modification, either of pronunciation or meaning, directly and simply Gipsy, and is used by Gipsies in the same way. It has, however, in Rommany, as a primitive meaning—to hold, or to take. Thus I have heard of a feeble old fellow that “he could not tool himself togetherus”—for which last word, by the way, kettenus might have been more correctly substituted.
COVE is not an elegant, though a very old, word, but it is well known, and I have no doubt as to its having come from the Gipsy. In Rommany, all the world over, cova means “a thing,” but it is almost indefinite in its applicability. “It is,” says Pott, “a general helper on all occasions; is used as substantive and adjective, and has a far wider scope than the Latin res.” Thus covo may mean “that man;” covi, “that woman;” and covo or cuvvo, as it very often does in English, “that, there.” It sometimes appears in the word acovat, or this. There is no expression more frequent in a Gipsy’s mouth, and it is precisely the one which would be probably overheard by “Gorgios” and applied to persons. I believe that it first made its appearance in English slang as covey, and was then pronounced cúvvy, being subsequently abbreviated into cove.
Quite a little family of words has come into English from the Rommany, Hocben, huckaben, hokkeny, or hooker, all meaning a lie, or to lie, deception and humbug. Mr Borrow shows us that hocus, to “bewitch” liquor with an opiate, and hoax, are probably Rommany from this root, and I have no doubt that the expression, “Yes, with a hook,” meaning “it is false,” comes from the same. The well-known “Hookey” who corresponds so closely with his untruthful and disreputable pal “Walker,” is decidedly of the streets—gipsy. In German Gipsy we find chochavav and hochewawa, and in Roumanian Gipsy kokao—a lie. Hanky-panky and Hocus-pocus are each one half almost pure Hindustani. {81}
A SHINDY approaches so nearly in sound to the Gipsy word chingaree, which means precisely the same thing, that the suggestion is at least worth consideration. And it also greatly resembles chindi, which may be translated as “cutting up,” and also quarrel. “To cut up shindies” was the first form in which this extraordinary word reached the public. In the original Gipsy tongue the word to quarrel is chinger-av, meaning also (Pott, Zigeuner, p. 209) to cut, hew, and fight, while to cut is chinav. “Cutting up” is, if the reader reflects, a very unmeaning word as applied to outrageous or noisy pranks; but in Gipsy, whether English, German, or Oriental, it is perfectly sensible and logical, involving the idea of quarrelling, separating, dividing, cutting, and stabbing. What, indeed, could be more absurd than the expression “cutting up shines,” unless we attribute to shine its legitimate Gipsy meaning of a piece cut off, and its cognate meaning, a noise?
I can see but little reason for saying that a man cut away or that he shinned it, for run away, unless we have recourse to Gipsy, though I only offer this as a mere suggestion.
“Applico” to shindy we have the word ROW, meaning nearly the same thing and as nearly Gipsy in every respect as can be. It is in Gipsy at the present day in England, correctly, rov, or roven—to cry—but v and w are so frequently transposed that we may consider them as the same letter. Rāw or me rauaw, “I howl” or “cry,” is German Gipsy. Rowan is given by Pott as equivalent to the Latin ululatus, which constituted a very respectable row as regards mere noise. “Rowdy” comes from “row” and both are very good Gipsy in their origin. In Hindustani Rao mut is “don’t cry!”
CHIVVY is a common English vulgar word, meaning to goad, drive, vex, hunt, or throw as it were here and there. It is purely Gipsy, and seems to have more than one root. Chiv, chib, or chipe, in Rommany, mean a tongue, inferring scolding, and chiv anything sharp-pointed, as for instance a dagger, or goad or knife. But the old Gipsy word chiv-av among its numerous meanings has exactly that of casting, throwing, pitching, and driving. To chiv in English Gipsy means as much and more than to fix in America, in fact, it is applied to almost any kind of action.
It may be remarked in this connection, that in German or continental Gipsy, which represents the English in a great measure as it once was, and which is far more perfect as to grammar, we find different words, which in English have become blended into one. Thus, chib or chiv, a tongue, and tschiwawa (or chiv-ava), to lay, place, lean, sow, sink, set upright, move, harness, cover up, are united in England into chiv, which embraces the whole. “Chiv it āpré” may be applied to throwing anything, to covering it up, to lifting it, to setting it, to pushing it, to circulating, and in fact to a very great number of similar verbs.
There is, I think, no rational connection between the BUNG of a barrel and an eye which has been closed by a blow. One might as well get the simile from a knot in a tree or a cork in a flask. But when we reflect on the constant mingling of Gipsies with prizefighters, it is almost evident that the word BONGO may have been the origin of it. A bongo yakko or yak, means a distorted, crooked, or, in fact, a bunged eye. It also means lame, crooked, or sinister, and by a very singular figure of speech, Bongo Tem or the Crooked Land is the name for hell. {83}
SHAVERS, as a quaint nick-name for children, is possibly inexplicable, unless we resort to Gipsy, where we find it used as directly as possible. Chavo is the Rommany word for child all the world over, and the English term chavies, in Scottish Gipsy shavies, or shavers, leaves us but little room for doubt. I am not aware to what extent the term “little shavers” is applied to children in England, but in America it is as common as any cant word can be.
I do not know the origin of the French word CLICHY, as applied to the noted prison of that name, but it is perhaps not undeserving the comment that in Continental Gipsy it means a key and a bolt.
I have been struck with the fact that CALIBAN, the monster in “The Tempest,” by Shakespeare, has an appellation which literally signifies blackness in Gipsy. In fact, this very word, or Cauliban, is given in one of the Gipsy vocabularies for “black.” Kaulopen or Kauloben would, however, be more correct.
“A regular RUM ’un” was the form in which the application of the word “rum” to strange, difficult, or distinguished, was first introduced to the British public. This, I honestly believe (as Mr Borrow indicates), came from Rum or Rom, a Gipsy. It is a peculiar word, and all of its peculiarities might well be assumed by the sporting Gipsy, who is always, in his way, a character, gifted with an indescribable self-confidence, as are all “horsey” men characters, “sports” and boxers, which enables them to keep to perfection the German eleventh commandment, “Thou shall not let thyself be bluffed!”—i.e., abashed.
PAL is a common cant word for brother or friend, and it is purely Gipsy, having come directly from that language, without the slightest change. On the Continent it is prala, or pral. In England it sometimes takes the form “pel.”
TRASH is derived by Mr Wedgwood (Dictionary of English Etymology, 1872) from the old word trousse, signifying the clipping of trees. But in old Gipsy or in the German Gipsy of the present day, as in the Turkish Rommany, it means so directly “fear, mental weakness and worthlessness,” that it may possibly have had a Rommany origin. Terror in Gipsy is trash, while thirst is trush, and both are to be found in the Hindustani. Tras, which means thirst and alarm or terror.
It should be observed that in no instance can these Gipsy words have been borrowed from English slang. They are all to be found in German Gipsy, which is in its turn identical with the Rommany language of India—of the Nāts, Bhazeghurs, Doms, Multanee or Banjoree, as I find the primitive wandering Gipsies termed by different writers.
I am aware that the word CAD was applied to the conductor of an omnibus, or to a non-student at Universities, before it became a synonym for vulgar fellow, yet I believe that it was abbreviated from cadger, and that this is simply the Gipsy word Gorgio, which often means a man in the abstract. I have seen this word printed as gorger in English slang. CODGER, which is common, is applied, as Gipsies use the term Gorgio, contemptuously, and it sounds still more like it.
BOSH, signifying nothing, or in fact empty humbug, is generally credited to the Turkish language, but I can see no reason for going to the Turks for what the Gipsies at home already had, in all probability, from the same Persian source, or else from the Sanskrit. With the Gipsies, bosh is a fiddle, music, noise, barking, and very often an idle sound or nonsense. “Stop your bosherin,” or “your bosh,” is what they would term flickin lav, or current phrase.
“BATS,” a low term for a pair of boots, especially bad ones, is, I think, from the Gipsy and Hindustani pat, a foot, generally called, however, by the Rommany in England, Tom Pats. “To pad the hoof,” and “to stand pad “—the latter phrase meaning to stand upright, or to stand and beg, are probably derived from pat. It should be borne in mind that Gipsies, in all countries, are in the habit of changing certain letters, so that p and b, like l and n, or k and g hard, may often be regarded as identical.
“CHEE-CHEE,” “be silent!” or “fie,” is termed “Anglo-Indian,” by the author of the Slang Dictionary, but we need not go to India of the present day for a term which is familiar to every Gipsy and “traveller” in England, and which, as Mr Simson discovered long ago, is an excellent “spell” to discourage the advances of thimble-riggers and similar gentry, at fairs, or in public places.
CHEESE, or “THE CHEESE,” meaning that anything is pre-eminent or superior; in fact, “the thing,” is supposed by many to be of gipsy origin because Gipsies use it, and it is to be found as “chiz” in Hindustani, in which language it means a thing. Gipsies do not, however, seem to regard it themselves, as tacho or true Rommanis, despite this testimony, and I am inclined to think that it partly originated in some wag’s perversion of the French word chose.
In London, a man who sells cutlery in the streets is called a CHIVE FENCER, a term evidently derived from the Gipsy chiv, a sharp-pointed instrument or knife. A knife is also called a chiv by the lowest class all over England.
COUTER or COOTER is a common English slang term for a guinea. It was not necessary for the author of the Slang Dictionary to go to the banks of the Danube for the origin of a word which is in the mouths of all English Gipsies, and which was brought to England by their ancestors. A sovereign, a pound, in Gipsy, is a bar.
A GORGER, meaning a gentleman, or well-dressed man, and in theatrical parlance, a manager, is derived by the author of the Slang Dictionary—absurdly enough, it must be confessed—from “gorgeous,”—a word with which it has no more in common than with gouges or chisels. A gorger or gorgio—the two are often confounded—is the common Gipsy word for one who is not Gipsy, and very often means with them a rye or gentleman, and indeed any man whatever. Actors sometimes call a fellow-performer a cully-gorger.
DICK, an English slang word for sight, or seeing, is purely Gipsy in its origin, and in common use by Rommanis over all the world.
DOOK, to tell fortunes, and DOOKING, fortune-telling, are derived by the writer last cited, correctly enough, from the Gipsy dukkerin,—a fact which I specify, since it is one of the very rare instances in which he has not blundered when commenting on Rommany words, or other persons’ works.
Mr Borrow has told us that a TANNER or sixpence, sometimes called a Downer, owes its pseudonym to the Gipsy word tawno or tano, meaning “little”—the sixpence being the little coin as compared with a shilling.
DRUM or DROM, is the common English Gipsy word for a road. In English slang it is applied, not only to highways, but also to houses.
If the word GIBBERISH was, as has been asserted, first applied to the language of the Gipsies, it may have been derived either from “Gip,” the nickname for Gipsy, with ish or rish appended as in Engl-ish, I-rish, or from the Rommany word Jib signifying a language.
KEN, a low term for a house, is possibly of Gipsy origin. The common word in every Rommany dialect for a house is, however, neither ken nor khan, but Ker.
LIL, a book, a letter, has passed from the Gipsies to the low “Gorgios,” though it is not a very common word. In Rommany it can be correctly applied only to a letter or a piece of paper, which is written on, though English Gipsies call all books by this name, and often speak of a letter as a Chinamāngri.
LOUR or LOWR, and LOAVER, are all vulgar terms for money, and combine two Gipsy words, the one lovo or lovey, and the other loure, to steal. The reason for the combination or confusion is obvious. The author of the Slang Dictionary, in order to explain this word, goes as usual to the Wallachian Gipsies, for what he might have learned from the first tinker in the streets of London. I should remark on the word loure, that Mr Borrow has shown its original identity with loot, the Hindustani for plunder or booty.
I believe that the American word loafer owes something to this Gipsy root, as well as to the German laufer (landlaufer), and Mexican Spanish galeofar, and for this reason, that when the term first began to be popular in 1834 or 1835, I can distinctly remember that it meant to pilfer. Such, at least, is my earliest recollection, and of hearing school boys ask one another in jest, of their acquisitions or gifts, “Where did you loaf that from?” A petty pilferer was a loafer, but in a very short time all of the tribe of loungers in the sun, and disreputable pickers up of unconsidered trifles, now known as bummers, were called loafers. On this point my memory is positive, and I call attention to it, since the word in question has been the subject of much conjecture in America.
It is a very curious fact, that while the word loot is unquestionably Anglo-Indian, and only a recent importation into our English “slanguage,” it has always been at the same time English-Gipsy, although it never rose to the surface.
MAUNDER, to stroll about and beg, has been derived from Mand, the Anglo-Saxon for a basket, but is quite as likely to have come from Maunder, the Gipsy for “to beg.” Mumper, a beggar, is also from the same source.
MOKE, a donkey, is said to be Gipsy, by Mr Hotten, but Gipsies themselves do not use the word, nor does it belong to their usual language. The proper Rommany word for an ass is myla.
PARNY, a vulgar word for rain, is supposed to have come into England from the “Anglo-Indian” source, but it is more likely that it was derived from the Gipsy panni or water. “Brandy pawnee” is undoubtedly an Anglo-Indian word, but it is used by a very different class of people from those who know the meaning of Parny.
POSH, which has found its way into vulgar popularity, as a term for small coins, and sometimes for money in general, is the diminutive of the Gipsy word pāshero or poshero, a half-penny, from pāsh a half, and haura or hārra, a penny.
QUEER, meaning across, cross, contradictory, or bad, is “supposed” to be the German word quer, introduced by the Gipsies. In their own language atut means across or against, though to curry (German and Turkish Gipsy kurava), has some of the slang meaning attributed to queer. An English rogue will say, “to shove the queer,” meaning to pass counterfeit money, while the Gipsy term would be to chiv wafri lovvo, or lovey.
“RAGLAN, a married woman, originally Gipsy, but now a term with English tramps” (The Slang Dictionary, London 1865). In Gipsy, raklo is a youth or boy, and rakli, a girl; Arabic, ragol, a man. I am informed, on good authority, that these words are known in India, though I cannot find them in dictionaries. They are possibly transposed from Lurka a youth and lurki a girl, such transpositions being common among the lowest classes in India.
RUMMY or RUMY, as applied to women, is simply the Gipsy word romi, a contraction of romni, a wife; the husband being her rom.
BIVVY for beer, has been derived from the Italian bevere, but it is probably Gipsy, since in the old form of the latter language, Biava or Piava, means to drink. To pivit, is still known among English Gipsies.
RIGS—running one’s rigs is said to be Gipsy, but the only meaning of rig, so far as I am able to ascertain in Rommany, is a side or an edge. It is, however, possible that one’s side may in earlier times have been equivalent to “face, or encounter.” To rikker or rigger in Gipsy, is to carry anything.
MOLL, a female companion, is probably merely the nickname for Mary, but it is worth observing, that Mal in old Gipsy, or in German Gipsy, means an associate, and Mahar a wife, in Hindustani.
STASH, to be quiet, to stop, is, I think, a variation of the common Gipsy word hatch, which means precisely the same thing, and is derived from the older word atchava.
STURABAN, a prison, is purely Gipsy. Mr Hotten says it is from the Gipsy distarabin, but there is no such word beginning with dis, in the English Rommany dialect. In German Gipsy a prison is called stillapenn.