Romano Lavo-Lil Part 39

"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. {4} What service can I do?"

Ryley.

"I'm jawing petulengring, {5} But do not know the country; Perhaps you'll show me round."

Old Gypsy.

"I'll sikker tute, prala!

I'm bikkening esconyor; {6} 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 b.u.t.tons, 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

There are two Yetholms--Town Yetholm and Kirk Yetholm. They stand at the distance of about a quarter of a mile from each other, and between them is a valley, down which runs a small stream, called the Beaumont River, crossed by a little stone bridge. Of the town there is not much to be said. It is a long, straggling place, on the road between Morb.u.t.tle and Kelso, from which latter place it is distant about seven miles. It is comparatively modern, and sprang up when the Kirk town began to fall into decay. Kirk Yetholm derives the first part of its name from the church, which serves for a place of worship not only for the inhabitants of the place, but for those of the town also. The present church is modern, having been built on the site of the old kirk, which was pulled down in the early part of the present century, and which had been witness of many a strange event connected with the wars between England and Scotland. It stands at the entrance of the place, on the left hand as you turn to the village after ascending the steep road which leads from the bridge. The place occupies the lower portion of a hill, a spur of the Cheviot range, behind which is another hill, much higher, rising to an alt.i.tude of at least 900 feet. At one time it was surrounded by a stone wall, and at the farther end is a gateway overlooking a road leading to the English border, from which Kirk Yetholm is distant only a mile and a quarter; the boundary of the two kingdoms being here a small brook called Shorton Burn, on the English side of which is a village of harmless, simple Northumbrians, differing strangely in appearance, manner, and language from the people who live within a stone's throw of them on the other side.

Kirk Yetholm is a small place, but with a remarkable look. It consists of a street, terminating in what is called a green, with houses on three sides, but open on the fourth, or right side to the mountain, towards which quarter it is gra.s.sy and steep. Most of the houses are ancient, and are built of rude stone. By far the most remarkable-looking house is a large and dilapidated building, which has much the appearance of a ruinous Spanish posada or venta. There is not much life in the place, and you may stand ten minutes where the street opens upon the square without seeing any other human beings than two or three women seated at the house doors, or a ragged, bare-headed boy or two lying on the gra.s.s on the upper side of the Green. It came to pa.s.s that late one Sat.u.r.day afternoon, at the commencement of August, in the year 1866, I was standing where the street opens on this Green, or imperfect square. My eyes were fixed on the dilapidated house, the appearance of which awakened in my mind all kinds of odd ideas. "A strange-looking place," said I to myself at last, "and I shouldn't wonder if strange things have been done in it."

"Come to see the Gypsy toon, sir?" said a voice not far from me.

I turned, and saw standing within two yards of me a woman about forty years of age, of decent appearance, though without either cap or bonnet.

"A Gypsy town, is it?" said I; "why, I thought it had been Kirk Yetholm."

Woman.--"Weel, sir, if it is Kirk Yetholm, must it not be a Gypsy toon? Has not Kirk Yetholm ever been a Gypsy toon?"

Myself.--"My good woman, 'ever' is a long term, and Kirk Yetholm must have been Kirk Yetholm long before there were Gypsies in Scotland, or England either."

Woman.--"Weel, sir, your honour may be right, and I dare say is; for your honour seems to be a learned gentleman. Certain, however, it is that Kirk Yetholm has been a Gypsy toon beyond the memory of man."

Myself.--"You do not seem to be a Gypsy."

Woman.--"Seem to be a Gypsy! Na, na, sir! I am the bairn of decent parents, and belong not to Kirk Yetholm, but to Haddington."

Myself.--"And what brought you to Kirk Yetholm?"

Woman.--"Oh, my ain little bit of business brought me to Kirk Yetholm, sir."

Myself.--"Which is no business of mine. That's a queer-looking house there."

Woman.--"The house that your honour was looking at so attentively when I first spoke to ye? A queer-looking house it is, and a queer kind of man once lived in it. Does your honour know who once lived in that house?"

Myself.--"No. How should I? I am here for the first time, and after taking a bite and sup at the inn at the town over yonder I strolled hither."

Woman.--"Does your honour come from far?"

Myself.--"A good way. I came from Strandraar, the farthest part of Galloway, where I landed from a ship which brought me from Ireland."

Woman.--"And what may have brought your honour into these parts?"

Myself.--"Oh, my ain wee bit of business brought me into these parts."

"Which wee bit of business is nae business of mine," said the woman, smiling. "Weel, your honour is quite right to keep your ain counsel; for, as your honour weel kens, if a person canna keep his ain counsel it is nae likely that any other body will keep it for him. But to gae back to the queer house, and the queer man that once 'habited it.

That man, your honour, was old Will Faa."

Myself.--"Old Will Faa!"

Woman.--"Yes. Old Will Faa, the Gypsy king, smuggler, and innkeeper; he lived in that inn."