Gipsies

What's that to absolute freedom, such as the very beggars
have; to feast and revel here to-day, and yonder to-morrow;
next day where they please; and so on still, the whole country
or kingdom over? There's liberty! the birds of the air can
take no more.

JOVIAL CREW.

Since the meeting with the gipsies, which I have related in a former
paper, I have observed several of them haunting the purlieus of the
Hall, in spite of a positive interdiction of the squire. They are part
of a gang that has long kept about this neighbourhood, to the great
annoyance of the farmers, whose poultry-yards often suffer from their
nocturnal invasions. They are, however, in some measure, patronised by
the squire, who considers the race as belonging to the good old times;
which, to confess the private truth, seem to have abounded with
good-for-nothing characters.

This roving crew is called "Starlight Tom's Gang," from the name of its
chieftain, a notorious poacher. I have heard repeatedly of the misdeeds
of this "minion of the moon;" for every midnight depredation that takes
place in park, or fold, or farm-yard, is laid to his charge. Starlight
Tom, in fact, answers to his name; he seems to walk in darkness, and,
like a fox, to be traced in the morning by the mischief he has done. He
reminds me of that fearful personage in the nursery rhyme:

"Who goes round the house at night?
None but bloody Tom!
Who steals all the sheep at night?
None but one by one!"

In short, Starlight Tom is the scapegoat of the neighbourhood; but so
cunning and adroit, that there is no detecting him. Old Christy and the
gamekeeper have watched many a night in hopes of entrapping him; and
Christy often patrols the park with his dogs, for the purpose, but all
in vain. It is said that the squire winks hard at his misdeeds, having
an indulgent feeling towards the vagabond, because of his being very
expert at all kinds of games, a great shot with the cross-bow, and the
best morris dancer in the country.

The squire also suffers the gang to lurk unmolested about the skirts of
his estate, on condition that they do not come about the house. The
approaching wedding, however, has made a kind of Saturnalia at the Hall,
and has caused a suspension of all sober rule. It has produced a great
sensation throughout the female part of the household; not a housemaid
but dreams of wedding favours, and has a husband running in her head.
Such a time is a harvest for the gipsies: there is a public footpath
leading across one part of the park, by which they have free ingress,
and they are continually hovering about the grounds, telling the servant
girls' fortunes, or getting smuggled in to the young ladies.

I believe the Oxonian amuses himself very much by furnishing them with
hints in private, and bewildering all the weak brains in the house with
their wonderful revelations. The general certainly was very much
astonished by the communications made to him the other evening by the
gipsy girl: he kept a wary silence towards us on the subject, and
affected to treat it lightly; but I have noticed that he has since
redoubled his attentions to Lady Lillycraft and her dogs.

I have seen also Phoebe Wilkins, the housekeeper's pretty and love-sick
niece, holding a long conference with one of these old sibyls behind a
large tree in the avenue, and often looking round to see that she was
not observed. I make no doubt that she was endeavouring to get some
favourable augury about the result of her love quarrel with young
Ready-Money, as oracles have always been more consulted on love affairs
than upon anything else. I fear, however, that in this instance the
response was not so favourable as usual, for I perceived poor Phoebe
returning pensively towards the house; her head hanging down, her hat in
her hand, and the riband trailing along the ground.

At another time, as I turned a corner of a terrace, at the bottom of the
garden, just by a clump of trees, and a large stone urn, I came upon a
bevy of the young girls of the family, attended by this same Phoebe
Wilkins. I was at a loss to comprehend the meaning of their blushing and
giggling, and their apparent agitation, until I saw the red cloak of a
gipsy vanishing among the shrubbery. A few moments after, I caught sight
of Master Simon and the Oxonian stealing along one of the walks of the
garden, chuckling and laughing at their successful waggery; having
evidently put the gipsy up to the thing, and instructed her what to say.

After all, there is something strangely pleasing in these tamperings
with the future, even where we are convinced of the fallacy of the
prediction. It is singular how willingly the mind will half deceive
itself, and with what a degree of awe we will listen even to these
babblers about futurity. For my part, I cannot feel angry with these
poor vagabonds that seek to deceive us into bright hopes and
expectations. I have always been something of a castle-builder, and have
found my liveliest pleasures to arise from the illusions which fancy has
cast over commonplace realities. As I get on in life, I find it more
difficult to deceive myself in this delightful manner; and I should be
thankful to any prophet, however false, that would conjure the clouds
which hang over futurity into palaces, and all its doubtful regions into
fairyland.

The squire, who, as I have observed, has a private goodwill towards
gipsies, has suffered considerable annoyance on their account. Not that
they requite his indulgence with ingratitude, for they do not depredate
very flagrantly on his estate; but because their pilferings and misdeeds
occasion loud murmurs in the village. I can readily understand the old
gentleman's humour on this point; I have a great toleration for all
kinds of vagrant, sunshiny existence, and must confess I take a
pleasure in observing the ways of gipsies. The English, who are
accustomed to them from childhood, and often suffer from their petty
depredations, consider them as mere nuisances; but I have been very much
struck with their peculiarities. I like to behold their clear olive
complexions, their romantic black eyes, their raven locks, their lithe,
slender figures, and to hear them, in low, silver tones, dealing forth
magnificent promises, of honours and estates, of world's worth, and
ladies' love.

Their mode of life, too, has something in it very fanciful and
picturesque. They are the free denizens of nature, and maintain a
primitive independence, in spite of law and gospel; of county gaols and
country magistrates. It is curious to see the obstinate adherence to the
wild, unsettled habits of savage life transmitted from generation to
generation, and preserved in the midst of one of the most cultivated,
populous, and systematic countries in the world. They are totally
distinct from the busy, thrifty people about them. They seem to be like
the Indians of America, either above or below the ordinary cares and
anxieties of mankind. Heedless of power, of honours, of wealth; and
indifferent to the fluctuations of the times, the rise or fall of grain,
or stock, or empires, they seem to laugh at the toiling, fretting world
around them, and to live according to the philosophy of the old song:

"Who would ambition shun,
And loves to lie i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather."

In this way they wander from county to county, keeping about the
purlieus of villages, or in plenteous neighbourhoods, where there are
fat farms and rich country seats. Their encampments are generally made
in some beautiful spot; either a green shady nook of a road; or on the
border of a common, under a sheltering hedge; or on the skirts of a fine
spreading wood. They are always to be found lurking about fairs and
races, and rustic gatherings, wherever there is pleasure, and throng,
and idleness. They are the oracles of milkmaids and simple serving
girls; and sometimes have even the honour of perusing the white hands
of gentlemen's daughters, when rambling about their father's grounds.
They are the bane of good housewives and thrifty farmers, and odious in
the eyes of country justices; but, like all other vagabond beings, they
have something to commend them to the fancy. They are among the last
traces, in these matter-of-fact days, of the motley population of former
times; and are whimsically associated in my mind with fairies and
witches, Robin Goodfellow, Robin Hood, and the other fantastical
personages of poetry.