The Pocket George Borrow | Page 6

of a hog which they
themselves have poisoned, it has been asserted that they prefer carrion
which has perished of sickness to the meat of the shambles; and
because they have been seen to make a ragout of boror (snails), and to
roast a hotchiwitchu or hedgehog, it has been supposed that reptiles of
every description form a part of their cuisine. It is high time to
undeceive the Gentiles on these points. Know, then, O Gentile, whether
thou be from the land of the Gorgios or the Busne, that the very
Gypsies who consider a ragout of snails a delicious dish will not touch
an eel, because it bears resemblance to a snake; and that those who will
feast on a roasted hedgehog could be induced by no money to taste a
squirrel, a delicious and wholesome species of game, living on the
purest and most nutritious food which the fields and forests can supply.
I myself, while living among the Roms of England, have been regarded
almost in the light of a cannibal for cooking the latter animal and
preferring it to hotchiwitchu barbecued, or ragout of boror. 'You are but
half Rommany, brother,' they would say, 'and you feed gorgiko-nes
(like a Gentile), even as you talk. Tchachipen (in truth), if we did not
know you to be of the Mecralliskoe rat (royal blood) of Pharaoh, we
should be justified in driving you forth as a juggel-mush (dog man),
one more fitted to keep company with wild beasts and Gorgios than
gentle Rommanys.'

* * * * *
One fact has always struck us with particular force in the history of
these people, namely, that Gitanismo--which means Gypsy villainy of
every description--flourished and knew nothing of decay so long as the
laws recommended and enjoined measures the most harsh and severe
for the suppression of the Gypsy sect; the palmy days of Gitanismo
were those in which the caste was proscribed, and its members, in the
event of renouncing their Gypsy habits, had nothing farther to expect
than the occupation of tilling the earth, a dull hopeless toil; then it was
that the Gitanos paid tribute to the inferior ministers of justice, and
were engaged in illicit connection with those of higher station and by
such means baffled the law, whose vengeance rarely fell upon their
heads; and then it was that they bid it open defiance, retiring to the
deserts and mountains, and living in wild independence by rapine and
shedding of blood; for as the law then stood they would lose all by
resigning their Gitanismo, whereas by clinging to it they lived either in
the independence so dear to them, or beneath the protection of their
confederates. It would appear that in proportion as the law was harsh
and severe, so was the Gitano bold and secure.
* * * * *
Many of them reside in caves scooped in the sides of the ravines which
lead to the higher regions of the Alpujarras, on a skirt of which stands
Granada. A common occupation of the Gitanos of Granada is working
in iron, and it is not unfrequent to find these caves tenanted by Gypsy
smiths and their families, who ply the hammer and forge in the bowels
of the earth. To one standing at the mouth of the cave, especially at
night, they afford a picturesque spectacle. Gathered round the forge,
their bronzed and naked bodies, illuminated by the flame, appear like
figures of demons, while the cave, with its flinty sides and uneven roof,
blackened by the charcoal vapours which hover about it in festoons,
seems to offer no inadequate representation of fabled purgatory.
* * * * *
It has always struck me that there is something highly poetical about a

forge I am not singular in this opinion: various individuals have assured
me that they can never pass by one, even in the midst of a crowded
town, without experiencing sensations which they can scarcely define,
but which are highly pleasurable. I have a decided penchant for forges,
especially rural ones, placed in some quaint, quiet spot--a dingle for
example, which is a poetical place, or at a meeting of four roads, which
is still more so, for how many a superstition--and superstition is the
soul of poetry--is connected with these cross roads! I love to light upon
such a one, especially after nightfall, as everything about a forge tells to
most advantage at night, the hammer sounds more solemnly in the
stillness, the glowing particles scattered by the strokes sparkle with
more effect in the darkness, whilst the sooty visage of the sastramescro,
half in shadow, and half illumined by the red and partial blaze of the
forge, looks more mysterious and strange. On such occasions I draw in
my horse's