The Gypsies Charles Godfrey Leland 9781545203460 Books
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The Gypsies is an overview of gypsy people in many countries.
The Gypsies Charles Godfrey Leland 9781545203460 Books
This is a beautifully written and quite digressive book by a master folklorist. It is not a sociological treatise or linguistic study but a romantic personal narrative enriched by anecdotes drawn from the author's encounters with the Gypsies. Here are a few passages that you might enjoy. If not, you probably will not like this book."As I went forth by the river into the night, and the stars looked down like loving eyes, there shot a meteor across the sky, one long trail of light, out of darkness into darkness, one instant bright, then dead forever. And I remembered how I once was told that stars, like mortals, often fall in love."
"There are many ways among gypsies of making such bargains, but the motive power of them all is táderin, or drawing the eye of the purchaser, a game not unknown to Gorgios. I have heard of a German yahūd in Philadelphia, whose little boy Moses would shoot from the door with a pop-gun or squirt at passers-by, or abuse them vilely, and then run into the shop for shelter. They of course pursued him and complained to the parent, who immediately whipped his son, to the great solace of the afflicted ones. And then the afflicted seldom failed to buy something in that shop, and the corrected son received ten per cent of the profit. The attention of the public had been drawn."
"There is not much in life pleasanter than a long ramble on the road in leaf-green, sun-gold summer. Then it is Nature’s merry-time, when fowls in woods them maken blithe, and the crow preaches from the fence to his friends afield, and the honeysuckle winketh to the wild rose in the hedge when she is wooed by the little buzzy bee. In such times it is good for the heart to wander over the hills and far away . . . "
"He did not disturb himself that his first speeches did not agree with his last; he was not in the habit of being disturbed about anything, and he knew that no one ever learned . . . "
"Any man of them could talk well if he tried; but none of them will try, and as they go through life, telling you how clever they’d have been if somebody else had only done something for them, instead of doing something for themselves."
"We sat and talked on in the monotone in which Romany is generally spoken, like an Indian song, while, like an Indian drum, the rain pattered an accompaniment on the tightly drawn tent. Those who live in cities, and who are always realizing self, and thinking how they think, and are while awake given up to introverting vanity, never live in song. To do this one must be a child, an Indian, a dweller in fields and green forests, a brother of the rain and road-puddles and rolling streams, and a friend of the rustling leaves and the summer orchestra of frogs and crickets and rippling grass. Those who hear this music and think to it never think about it; those who live only in books never sing to it in soul. As there are dreams which will not be remembered or known to reason, so this music shrinks from it. It is wonderful how beauty perishes like a shade-grown flower before the sunlight of analysis. It is dying out all the world over in women, under the influence of cleverness and “style;” it is perishing in poetry and art before criticism; it is wearing away from manliness, through priggishness; it is being crushed out of true gentleness of heart and nobility of soul by the pessimist puppyism of miching Mallockos. But nature is eternal and will return. When man has run one of his phases of culture fairly to the end, and when the fruit is followed by a rattling rococo husk, then comes a winter sleep, from which he awakens to grow again as a child-flower. We are at the very worst of such a time; but there is a morning redness far away, which shows that the darkness is ending, the winter past, the rain is over and gone. Arise, and come . . . "
"For all things are relative, and many a gypsy whom the begged-from pity sincerely, is as proud and happy in a van as any lord in the land. A very nice, neat young gypsy woman, camped long before just where the Browns were, once said to me, “It isn’t having everything fine and stylish that makes you happy. Now we’ve got a van, and have everything so elegant and comfortable, and sleep warm as anybody; and yet I often say to my husband that we used to be happier when we used to sleep under a hedge with, may be, only a thin blanket, and wake up covered with snow.” Now this woman had only a wretched wagon, and was always tramping in the rain, or cowering in a smoky, ragged tent and sitting on the ground, but she had food, fire, and fun, with warm clothes, and believed herself happy. Truly, she had better reason to think so than any old maid with a heart run to waste on church gossip, or the latest engagements and marriages; for it is better to be a street-boy in a corner with a crust than one who, without it, discusses, in starvation, with his friend the sausages and turtle-soup in a cook-shop window, between which and themselves there is a great pane of glass fixed, never to be penetrated."
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The Gypsies Charles Godfrey Leland 9781545203460 Books Reviews
This is a terrible book, poorly written and not at all engaging. Don't waste your time with it at all.
Used for researching the Roma heritage and it did have a listing of surnames in England about 1880as well as the authors view of the people as a whole - good and not so good traits. Worth reading for historical research of the Roma heritage.
too much emphasis on music and group recreation, not enough nuts and bolts as to how gypsy life works. the age of the book precludes the WW2 and communist era impacts. "Bury Me Standing" is a much better study of gypsy life.
Met up with gypsies in my travels. A very interesting people. The book has answered many questions I had. Although written late 1800's I would highly recommend it.
Very enjoyable look at a misunderstood and victimized culture and people, with many interesting anecdotes.
My wife and I stumbled into a Gypsy brothel while hiking near a small town in rural eastern Turkey. At first we thought it was a migrant workers camp. After everyone realized it was a mistake, we had an interesting time conversing in pidgin Turkish and English with a dozen beautiful young ladies dressed in see-through harem outfits, and about two dozen men. Initial embarrassment aside, it was an interesting and intriquing encounter.
This piqued my interest in Gypsies Their history, distribution and current status. With this in mind, I ordered "The Gypsies" -- and was greatly disappointed.
The author has had extensive experience with Gypsies in different countries, but chose to write in a rambling style, with little of interest to me. I read about 25%, skimmed the rest, and deleted it.
Someone with more of a poetical interest, no interest in history, and great deal of perseverence might make sense of this. In fact, he might even enjoy it. For me, it was a waste of time.
A wonderful first person account from an author who had been there and done that.
This is a beautifully written and quite digressive book by a master folklorist. It is not a sociological treatise or linguistic study but a romantic personal narrative enriched by anecdotes drawn from the author's encounters with the Gypsies. Here are a few passages that you might enjoy. If not, you probably will not like this book.
"As I went forth by the river into the night, and the stars looked down like loving eyes, there shot a meteor across the sky, one long trail of light, out of darkness into darkness, one instant bright, then dead forever. And I remembered how I once was told that stars, like mortals, often fall in love."
"There are many ways among gypsies of making such bargains, but the motive power of them all is táderin, or drawing the eye of the purchaser, a game not unknown to Gorgios. I have heard of a German yahūd in Philadelphia, whose little boy Moses would shoot from the door with a pop-gun or squirt at passers-by, or abuse them vilely, and then run into the shop for shelter. They of course pursued him and complained to the parent, who immediately whipped his son, to the great solace of the afflicted ones. And then the afflicted seldom failed to buy something in that shop, and the corrected son received ten per cent of the profit. The attention of the public had been drawn."
"There is not much in life pleasanter than a long ramble on the road in leaf-green, sun-gold summer. Then it is Nature’s merry-time, when fowls in woods them maken blithe, and the crow preaches from the fence to his friends afield, and the honeysuckle winketh to the wild rose in the hedge when she is wooed by the little buzzy bee. In such times it is good for the heart to wander over the hills and far away . . . "
"He did not disturb himself that his first speeches did not agree with his last; he was not in the habit of being disturbed about anything, and he knew that no one ever learned . . . "
"Any man of them could talk well if he tried; but none of them will try, and as they go through life, telling you how clever they’d have been if somebody else had only done something for them, instead of doing something for themselves."
"We sat and talked on in the monotone in which Romany is generally spoken, like an Indian song, while, like an Indian drum, the rain pattered an accompaniment on the tightly drawn tent. Those who live in cities, and who are always realizing self, and thinking how they think, and are while awake given up to introverting vanity, never live in song. To do this one must be a child, an Indian, a dweller in fields and green forests, a brother of the rain and road-puddles and rolling streams, and a friend of the rustling leaves and the summer orchestra of frogs and crickets and rippling grass. Those who hear this music and think to it never think about it; those who live only in books never sing to it in soul. As there are dreams which will not be remembered or known to reason, so this music shrinks from it. It is wonderful how beauty perishes like a shade-grown flower before the sunlight of analysis. It is dying out all the world over in women, under the influence of cleverness and “style;” it is perishing in poetry and art before criticism; it is wearing away from manliness, through priggishness; it is being crushed out of true gentleness of heart and nobility of soul by the pessimist puppyism of miching Mallockos. But nature is eternal and will return. When man has run one of his phases of culture fairly to the end, and when the fruit is followed by a rattling rococo husk, then comes a winter sleep, from which he awakens to grow again as a child-flower. We are at the very worst of such a time; but there is a morning redness far away, which shows that the darkness is ending, the winter past, the rain is over and gone. Arise, and come . . . "
"For all things are relative, and many a gypsy whom the begged-from pity sincerely, is as proud and happy in a van as any lord in the land. A very nice, neat young gypsy woman, camped long before just where the Browns were, once said to me, “It isn’t having everything fine and stylish that makes you happy. Now we’ve got a van, and have everything so elegant and comfortable, and sleep warm as anybody; and yet I often say to my husband that we used to be happier when we used to sleep under a hedge with, may be, only a thin blanket, and wake up covered with snow.” Now this woman had only a wretched wagon, and was always tramping in the rain, or cowering in a smoky, ragged tent and sitting on the ground, but she had food, fire, and fun, with warm clothes, and believed herself happy. Truly, she had better reason to think so than any old maid with a heart run to waste on church gossip, or the latest engagements and marriages; for it is better to be a street-boy in a corner with a crust than one who, without it, discusses, in starvation, with his friend the sausages and turtle-soup in a cook-shop window, between which and themselves there is a great pane of glass fixed, never to be penetrated."
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