Sophia Stanley
Sophia Stanley
Sophia Stanley * American Gypsies From Leighlani Hemmerling
And Transcibed by Diane Shaw
Transcription of article in the Missouri Republican 20 August 1893.
This article resulted from an interview with George McGoldrick
and his wife Sophia Stanley. George gives his name as John.
I don’t know for sure who the child is. George was born 24/6/1865.
He married Sophia on the 26 of October 1886. They had four children:
Margaret E. McGoldrick born in 1888 Hugh T. McGoldrick b 2/5/1889
Mary McGoldrick born in 1893 and Ardelia McGoldrick b19/10/1896.
ROMANY ROYALTY
The Baby Heir to the Gypsy Throne
Born Only Four Months Ago in St. Louis
The Father a Former Irish News-boy in St. Louis
The Mother a Stanley, Grand-daughter of the Gypsy Queen
Queer Scenes in a Camp Out on Easton Avenue
A Little Community of Sixteen People Doing a Thriving Fortune Telling and Horse Trading Business
Out on Easton Avenue where the houses, if there were any houses would be Nos. 5949 to 5960 stand in the shade of a somewhat thinly planted grove, six small white canvas tents. From the chimneys of three of these, of an early morning, you may see smoke curl up and lose itself in the spreading branches above. Within, the morning meal is preparing. Close at hand on either side of the separate tents, stand a number of covered wagons and at the rear , about 200 feet north of Easton Avenue graze upon such grass and stubble as may be left, the 40 odd horses which belong to the camp. The occupants of these tents claim to be gypsies. Under the trees about, but always within the limits of the wire fence that surrounds the tents, scamper little children, some of them dusky skinned and black eyed, plainly the offspring of the mothers whose lives are willingly cast with the lot of their pilgrim husbands.
The object of the people is settling temporarily in St. Louis as stated by themselves is to trade horses. At the same time the women tell fortunes, some by cards, some by palm reading. Every American boy remembers the gypsies of his childhood. The sight of their moving train and white camp is still a fresh picture in the memory. The scene is of a long line of white-topped canvas wagons curved into the shape of almost a cylinder, filled with bundles of quilts and comforts boxes and trunks and trappings of all kinds, in the middle of which sits a gypsy woman combing her hair with a diminutive mirror hanging before her. About her, if we ever looked in, were several children asleep. As memory sees them, there, they go, the long line of wagons leaving a cloud of dust to settle over the fences and the grass that edges the way. Underneath the wagons were strung swinging pots, kettles and pans. Behind, beside and under the wagons, trotted a number of dogs. Tied on behind, lagged a number of decrepit equines upon whose blistered shoulders and sore-????? pe???? burden was imposed. It was always believed, somewhat wisely, perhaps that those were the horses for trade. A cloud of slowly rolling dust was not all the train left. Through many a village gate and farm yard fence, from over window sills and door cracks where had fled the invisible portion of the community, the children peeped again at the moving caravan, fearful lest some unseemly gypsy man should return and take them one and all along. It was even with some
uncertainty long after the last white bird of the gypsy flock had disappeared beyond the crest of the distant hill, that this same infantile population returned to its mud pie industry by the roadside near the fence.
Daring boyhood recollects the gypsy camp with its dozen white tents and its drove of horses, its night fires and loitering addenda gathered during the early hours of evening to enjoy the sight of real camping out. To all those youths, the Jacks and the Toms of the lawn who had ambition to run away and become Indian millers, but never could afford the expense of logging up is respectable kin??fashion, the sign of a gypsy camp was most refreshing. Those night fires and foreign table served their purpose as near as could be expected, and from a log, as close as due owe and reverence would permit, Jack and Tom sat and dreamed over all the dime novel series of their long literary career, such was their ideal life, sad sometimes, when the gypsy camp moved away, Jack and Tom disappeared. The occupants of the six tents on Easton avenue have some such recollections of boys who wanted to go along.
The six tents ?? quietly nestled in that well populated portion of the city contain three families, the wives and mothers of which lay claim to gypsy origin. The men ?????? their plebeian ancestry and acknowledge themselves to be plain American citizens. The patron families feel duly honored by the titles of Brewer, McGolderick and Evans. They have among them a ???st descendant of the last Queen of the Gypsies is Miss Mary Brewer, alias Mary Jones, who came to this country when but a child. John Brewer her husband as well as herself, was born in England of gypsy parents. Mrs. Johns is a cousin of Levi Stanley husband of the last Gypsy Queen. After her death, which occurred 15 years ago, at Vicksburg, Miss., there has been no ???? ??? head among the gypsies in America. The Stanleys claim to have been the first of their race to settle in America and several fine farms are owned by them a few miles northeast of Dayton, O.
John McGolderick, who looks after the interests of the second family, is, as the name would indicate, of Irish extraction. His father was born in Ireland and came to St. Louis when John was but an infant. The latter was a rampant member of Kerry Patch, blacked boots about town and sold the old Missouri Republican as a newsboy. Later he joined with a strolling band of gypsies – the Stanleys – and married Sophia Stanley, the granddaughter of the last queen of the Gypsies. The only scion of the McGolderick family and as is claimed heir to the gypsy throne was born in camp some four months since.
Evans, the third member of the group, was born at Merom, Ind., and looks the typical Indian. He, however, has married a dark-skinned beauty of the camp and has three children who are thoroughly gypsy as their make-up.
The population of the camp numbers 10 souls, 40 horses and forty loose dogs, more or less. Within three small tents, used as sleeping apartments, the different families have arranged their necessary utensils and ornaments. A kind of wooden floor has been put down and spread over with pieces of carpets and rugs – the latter of no great value. In the corner stands a small bed, made up of fat feather ticks and a plenteous spread of blankets. At its foot stands a table covered with a scarlet cloth, worked over with beads and fringed with a furry cotton chain. A great store box or trunk occupies the additional space between the table and the tent wall. This, too is covered over with a mantel of wove cloth, fantastically dyed and beaded. The remaining furniture consists of a rocking-chair, several wooden chairs, and lithographs, framed and unframed, gathered up here an there and hanging lamp suspended from the center of the tent, which lights up the interior but feebly. All three tents are furnished alike, and the order of arrangement is much the same.
The cooking tents contain all the paraphernalia that well adorns a commissary department. There are a square boxes arranged in the interior with shelves which serve as sideboards. On those are lined up a row of well polished tin plates and dinner pieces some few pieces of crockery and pottery were among them, but the breakable quality of earthenware has long since become too apparent to those who travel the average American country road.
So they live, trade horses, tell fortunes and probably die, although so far none have perished at the camp.
According to her statements and those of the other members of the camp, Mrs. Mary Jones is the presiding mother, the Queen Regent and advisor of all the other members of the camp. Being about 60 years of age, and of great wisdom and experience in the matters about camp, she is duly looked up to in such matters the mystery lady has light gray hair and blue gray eyes. Omission and addition of b’s in the wrong places add somewhat in the idea that she is of English extraction. She pretends to a knowledge of the stars, and claims all but perfection in the knowledge of palmistry. As is a matter of history or knowledge of current events, like most of her kind, she lacks information.
The other women of the camp may be genuine gypsies or of Asiatic extraction. It is plainly evident that they are not English. Little mixture of bright color and fearful display of jewelry is testament to their tastes. Their small dark brown ears are weighed down with heavy ear-rings and their fingers are encircled with outrageous bands of silver, brass and gold.
the men are shrewd Americans, much imagined however by the new language they use, the associations they keep and the rather primitive camp life they follow.
Of course the camp is in great favor with a certain class – especially of feminine human nature, lacking in insight into coming or prayed for events, longing to hear from a lover, to learn of a happy marriage or some other event in the future. Many girls and women and a few men and boys flock to camp as to a sacred shrine. These attach great value to prophecies coming from the dusky people. A gaily striped shawl drawn over straight black hair, with bright eyes shining out and heavy ear-rings of silver visi?le, little brows, jeweled heads encased in beaded sleeves – that about describes the guise of the fortune teller as she starts out on Easton avenue of a morning to receive the shining sheckles of the day. Then she enters her sleeping tent – separate is a portion of it by hanging draperies about a small square – and behold the shrine of wisdom the oracle of fate fully completed and ready to receive supplicants at one dollar each. Then they come – females. The elderly lady, the middle-aged lady, the lady just turned 30, still they come, the young wife, the “about to be married” young woman and the first possessed – of –a – sweetheart young girl. They all have sorrows, joys, expectations: and they are all positively certain that real gypsies know more about cards, palms and future events than the plain everyday clairvoyant who rolled in from Paris almost a year ago and hasn’t pulled out yet. Gypsies are better because they come and go away soon and you can’t get to see them often.
So out on Easton avenue the women of St. Louis, anxious to know the unknowable come and bring their dollars. They prefer the shadow of the evening for their visits, because, perhaps, they fear recognition or detection. Maybe they only dislike public gaze.
At any rate, many of them come of a night time. These gypsy women are wise in their art, their knowledge is almost kind. It is a pleasure to watch them. Wonder a form is approaching in the shadow, coming towards the light. It comes faltering, slow and one can dimly make out the form of a woman, but not the face. At the approach, one of the gypsy girls or wives will rise up and go out to meet the stranger. They know she is timid and shuns the firelight and they will save her the embarrassment by going out, greeting her, learning of her desire and showing her by some roundabout shadowy path where is the shrine and where the giver of knowledge. The whole is most charitable to witness and makes one feel good-natured toward those gypsy women, even though the whole arrangement is fraudful.
It is difficult to tell much about these women who seem to have their fortunes told. Some look old and poor, just as though they couldn’t afford the luxury of future knowledge, but, like the whiskey fiend, have become addicted to it. Another looks as though she might be wealthy, but has come disguised for the purpose of obtaining correct knowledge. A third is a girl, young and giddy, who has obtained the money from a big brother and now wastes it upon inquiry after a worthless lover, so they come, great and small, rich and poor, perhaps, each bringing a dollar and helping to support the otherwise idle band.
It’s the same old story – the land, the world, over this story of gypsy life. Up innumerable ???? climbs the long white cavalcade of wagons, horses and dogs throughout all lands. Down innumerable dusty slopes to green vales and cozy villages travel these bands and deck the emerald richness of the valley with the snowy whiteness of their habitations. They have been doing it through long centuries – they are doing it now. The medium of shiftlessness is upon them. Laws and edicts have been pronounced against them. Fogland, France, Germany and the nations of Europe generally have branded them as fakers, thieves and plunderers. They have been compelled to hurry away from village to village, city to city, and yet here they are, still gypsies, still telling fortunes.
Writers declare that long since has their blood been contaminated and purity of their lineage defiled – that none of them are of full-blood and that all are now beginning to look
like Europeans. Writers wrote that 150 years ago. Yet one way to look into a gypsy camp and there see faces that are distinctly of an Asiatic race, hear a language far removed from any Aryan tongue. They live, travel about, trade horses and tell fortunes and despite the later, marriages recounted remain distinctly interestingly gypsies. The women of the camp on Easton avenue are at least worth looking at.
Whew! That is it! the John McGolderick and Sophia Stanley are my 2nd Great grandparents. The baby scion listed is their daughter Mary McGoldrick who married Harry Stanley. Sophia's parents were Paul Stanley and Mizella/Ellen Cooper. Paul was the son of Levi Stanley and Matilda Joles. If nothing else I hope I help to connect another link to the Stanley Family Tree!
