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 kenna 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. ‘Avali,’ 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 adree my poachy an’ jailed apre the purge and latched odoi my pal’s chavo, an’ he pook’d mandy, ’Where you jallin to, kako?’ And I penned:  ‘Job, I’ve lelled some covvas for tute.’  ‘Tacho,’ 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 adree his poachy, an’ pookered mandy, ‘What’ll tu lel to pi?’ ‘A droppi levinor.’  So he penned, ’Pauli the grais prasters, I’ll jal atut the puvius and dick tute.’