how she could caur--that is, filch gold rings and trinkets from jewellers' cases; the kind of thing which the Spanish Gypsy women call ustilar pastesas, filching with the hands. Frequently she would disappear, and travel about England, and Scotland too, dukkering, hokking, and cauring, and after the lapse of a month return and deliver to her husband, like a true and faithful wife, the proceeds of her industry. So no wonder that the Flying Tinker, as he was called, was enabled to cut a grand appearance. He was very fond of hunting, and would frequently join the field in regular hunting costume, save and except that, instead of the leather hunting-cap, he wore one of fur with a gold band around it, to denote that though he mixed with Gorgios he was still a Romany-chal. Thus equipped and mounted on a capital hunter, whenever he encountered a Gypsy encampment he would invariably dash through it, doing all the harm he could, in order, as he said, to let the juggals know that he was their king and had a right to do what he pleased with his own.
Things went on swimmingly for a great many years, but, as prosperity does not continue for ever, his dark hour came at last. His wives got into trouble in one or two expeditions, and his dealings in wafodu luvvu began to be noised about. Moreover, by his grand airs and violent proceedings he had incurred the hatred of both Gorgios and Gypsies, particularly of the latter, some of whom he had ridden over and lamed for life. One day he addressed his two wives:-"The Gorgios seek to hang me, The Gypsies seek to kill me:
This country we must leave."
Shuri.
I'll jaw with you to heaven, I'll jaw with you to Yaudors -But not if Lura goes."Lura.
"I'll jaw with you to heaven, And to the wicked country, Though Shuri goeth too."Ryley.
"Since I must choose betwixt ye, My choice is Yocky Shuri, Though Lura loves me best."Lura.
"My blackest curse on Shuri!
Oh, Ryley, I'll not curse you, But you will never thrive."She then took her departure with her cart and donkey, and Ryley remained with Shuri.
Ryley.
"I've chosen now betwixt ye;
Your wish you now have gotten, But for it you shall smart."He then struck her with his fist on the cheek, and broke her jawbone.
Shuri uttered no cry or complaint, only mumbled:
"Although with broken jawbone, I'll follow thee, my Ryley, Since Lura doesn't jal."Thereupon Ryley and Yocky Shuri left Yorkshire, and wended their way to London, where they took up their abode in the Gypsyry near the Shepherd's Bush. Shuri went about dukkering and hokking, but not with the spirit of former times, for she was not quite so young as she had been, and her jaw, which was never properly cured, pained her much. Ryley went about tinkering, but he was unacquainted with London and its neighbourhood, and did not get much to do. An old Gypsy-man, who was driving about a little cart filled with skewers, saw him standing in a state of perplexity at a place where four roads met.
Old Gypsy.
"Methinks I see a brother!
Who's your father? Who's your mother?
And what may be your name?"
Ryley.
"A Bosvil was my father;
A Bosvil was my mother;
And Ryley is my name."
Old Gypsy.
"I'm glad to see you, brother!
I am a Kaulo Camlo.
What service can I do?"
Ryley.
"I'm jawing petulengring,
But do not know the country;
Perhaps you'll show me round."
Old Gypsy.
"I'll sikker tute, prala!
I'm bikkening esconyor;
Av, av along with me!"
The old Gypsy showed Ryley about the country for a week or two, and Ryley formed a kind of connection, and did a little business. He, however, displayed little or no energy, was gloomy and dissatisfied, and frequently said that his heart was broken since he had left Yorkshire.
Shuri did her best to cheer him, but without effect. Once, when she bade him get up and exert himself, he said that if he did it would be of little use, and asked her whether she did not remember the parting prophecy of his other wife that he would never thrive. At the end of about two years he ceased going his rounds, and did nothing but smoke under the arches of the railroad, and loiter about beershops. At length he became very weak, and took to his bed; doctors were called in by his faithful Shuri, but there is no remedy for a bruised spirit. A Methodist came and asked him, "What was his hope?" "My hope," said he, "is that when I am dead I shall be put into the ground, and my wife and children will weep over me." And such, it may be observed, is the last hope of every genuine Gypsy. His hope was gratified. Shuri and his children, of whom he had three--two stout young fellows and a girl--gave him a magnificent funeral, and screamed, shouted, and wept over his grave. They then returned to the "Arches," not to divide his property amongst them, and to quarrel about the division, according to Christian practice, but to destroy it. They killed his swift pony--still swift, though twenty-seven years of age--and buried it deep in the ground, without depriving it of its skin. They then broke the caravan and cart to pieces, making of the fragments a fire, on which they threw his bedding, carpets, curtains, blankets, and everything which would burn. Finally, they dashed his mirrors, china, and crockery to pieces, hacked his metal pots, dishes and what-not to bits, and flung the whole on the blazing pile. Such was the life, such the death, and such were the funeral obsequies of Ryley Bosvil, a Gypsy who will be long remembered amongst the English Romany for his buttons, his two wives, his grand airs, and last, and not least, for having been the composer of various stanzas in the Gypsy tongue, which have plenty of force, if nothing else, to recommend them. One of these, addressed to Yocky Shuri, runs as follows:
Tuley the Can I kokkeney cam Like my rinkeny Yocky Shuri:
Oprey the chongor in ratti I'd cour For my rinkeny Yocky Shuri!
Which may be thus rendered:
Beneath the bright sun, there is none, there is none, I love like my Yocky Shuri:
With the greatest delight, in blood I would fight To the knees for my Yocky Shuri!
KIRK YETHOLM
