origin of the gypsies, though
it may be known to the reviewer in question, has at least never been set
before the public by anybody but myself, and that it deserves further
investigation. No account of the tribes of the East mentions the Rom or
Trablus, and yet I have personally met with and thoroughly examined one
of them. In like manner, the "Shelta Thari" has remained till the
present day entirely unknown to all writers on either the languages or
the nomadic people of Great Britain. If we are so ignorant of the
wanderers among us, and at our very doors, it is not remarkable that we
should be ignorant of those of India.

INTRODUCTION.

I have frequently been asked, "Why do you take an interest in gypsies?"

And it is not so easy to answer. Why, indeed? In Spain one who has been
fascinated by them is called one of the _aficion_, or affection, or
"fancy;" he is an _aficionado_, or affected unto them, and people there
know perfectly what it means, for every Spaniard is at heart a Bohemian.
He feels what a charm there is in a wandering life, in camping in lonely
places, under old chestnut-trees, near towering cliffs, _al pasar del
arroyo_, by the rivulets among the rocks. He thinks of the wine skin and
wheaten cake when one was hungry on the road, of the mules and tinkling
bells, the fire by night, and the _cigarito_, smoked till he fell asleep.
Then he remembers the gypsies who came to the camp, and the black-eyed
girl who told him his fortune, and all that followed in the rosy dawn and
ever onward into starry night.

"Y se alegre el alma llena
De la luz de esos luceros."

And his heart is filled with rapture
At the light of those lights above.

This man understands it. So, too, does many an Englishman. But I cannot
tell you why. Why do I love to wander on the roads to hear the birds; to
see old church towers afar, rising over fringes of forest, a river and a
bridge in the foreground, and an ancient castle beyond, with a modern
village springing up about it, just as at the foot of the burg there lies
the falling trunk of an old tree, around which weeds and flowers are
springing up, nourished by its decay? Why love these better than
pictures, and with a more than fine-art feeling? Because on the roads,
among such scenes, between the hedge-rows and by the river, I find the
wanderers who properly inhabit not the houses but the scene, not a part
but the whole. These are the gypsies,