." "Of hard old ale," I interposed, "which, according to my mind, is better than all the wine in the world." "Well said, Romany Rye," said the jockey, "just my own opinion; now, William, make yourself scarce." The waiter withdrew, and I said to the jockey, "How did you become acquainted with the Romany chals ?" "I first became acquainted with them," said the jockey, "when I lived with old Fulcher the basket-maker, who took me up when I was adrift upon the world; I do not mean the present Fulcher, who is likewise called old Fulcher, but his father, who has been dead this many a year; while living with him in the caravan, I frequently met them in the green lanes, and of latter years I have had occasional dealings with them in the horse line." "And the gypsies have mentioned me to you ?" said I.
"Frequently," said the jockey, "and not only those of these parts; why, there's scarcely a part of England in which I have not heard the name of the Romany Rye mentioned by these people.

The power you have over them is wonderful; that is, I should have thought it wonderful, had they not more than once told me the cause." "And what is the cause ?" said I, "for I am sure I do not know." "The cause is this," said the jockey, "they never heard a bad word proceed from your mouth, and never knew you do a bad thing." "They are a singular people," said I.
"And what a singular language they have got," said the jockey.
"Do you know it ?" said I.
"Only a few words," said the jockey; "they were always chary in teaching me any." "They were vary sherry to me too," said the Hungarian, speaking in broken English; "I only could learn from them half-a-dozen words, for example, gul eray, which, in the czigany of my country, means sweet gentleman; or edes ur in my own Magyar." "Gudlo Rye, in the Romany of mine, means a sugar'd gentleman," said I; "then there are gypsies in your country ?" "Plenty," said the Hungarian, speaking German, "and in Russia and Turkey too; and wherever they are found, they are alike in their ways and language.

Oh, they are a strange race, and how little known.

I know little of them, but enough to say that one horse-load of nonsense has been written about them; there is one Valter Scott.

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