"Some men won't eat meat because the brother or sister that died was fond
of (to) it; some won't drink ale for five or ten years; some won't eat
the favourite fish that the child ate. Some won't eat potatoes, or drink
milk, or eat apples; and all for the dead.

"Some won't play cards or the fiddle--'that's my poor boy's tune'--and
some won't dance--'No, I can't dance, the last time I danced was with my
poor wife (or girl) that's been dead this four years.'

"'Come, brother, let's go and have a drop of ale; the fiddler is there.'
'No, brother, I never drank a drop of ale since my aunt went (died).'
'Well, take some tobacco, brother?' 'No, no, I have not smoked since my
wife fell in the water and never came out again alive.' 'Well, let's go
and play at cock-shy, we two'll play you two for a pint o' ale.' 'No, I
never played at cock-shy since my father died; the last time I played was
with him.'

"And Lena, the wife of my nephew Job, never ate plums after her husband
died."

This is a strange manner of mourning, but it is more effective than the
mere wearing of black, since it is often a long-sustained and trying
tribute to the dead. Its Oriental-Indian origin is apparent enough. But
among the German Gipsies, who, I am firmly convinced, represent in
language and customs their English brethren as the latter were three
centuries ago, this reverence for the departed assumes an even deeper and
more serious character. Mr Richard Liebich (_Die Zigeuner_, _Leipzig_,
1863), tells us that in his country their most sacred oath is _Ap i
mulende_!--by the dead!--and with it may be classed the equally