“And when my juva dickt’omandy pash-nango, she pens, ’Dovo’s tute’s heesis?’ an’ I pookered her I’d been a-koorin’.  But she penned, ’Why, you haven’t got your hovalos an; you didn’t koor tute’s hovalos avree?’ ‘No,’ I rakkered; ’I taddered em offus. (The mush played me with a dui-sherro poshero.)

“But dree the sala, when the mush welled to lel avree the jucko (for I’d nashered dovo ajaw), I felt wafrodearer than when I’d nashered saw the waver covvas.  An’ my poor juva ruvved ajaw, for she had no chavo.  I had in those divvuses as kushti coppas an’ heesus as any young Gipsy in Anglaterra—­good chukkos, an’ gads, an’ pongdishlers.

“An’ that mush kurried many a geero a’ter mandy, but he never lelled no bak.  He’d chore from his own dadas; but he mullered wafro adree East Kent.”

“Once when I was a young man, thirty years ago (now)—­married about five years, but with no children—­I went to the races at Brighton.  There was tossing halfpence for money, and I took part in the game, and at first (first time) I took a good bit—­twelve or thirteen pounds.  Then I lost my money, and said I would play no more, and would keep what I had in my pocket.  Then I went from the noise in the toss-ring for half an hour, when I saw another man, and he asked me, ‘What luck?’ and I replied, ’No luck; but I’ve a little left yet.’  So I tossed with him and lost all my things—­my coat, my shirt, and all, except my breeches.  Then I went home with nothing but my breeches on—­I borrowed a coat of my sister’s boy.

“And when my wife saw me half-naked, she says, ’Where are your clothes?’ and I told her I had been fighting.  But she said, ’Why, you have not your stockings on; you didn’t fight your stockings off!’ ‘No,’ I said; ‘I drew them off.’ (The man played me with a two-headed halfpenny.)

“But in the morning when the man came to take away the dog (for I had lost that too), I felt worse than when I lost all the other things.  And my poor wife cried again, for she had no child.  I had in those days as fine clothes as any young Gipsy in England—­good coats, and shirts, and handkerchiefs.

“And that man hurt many a man after me, but he never had any luck.  He’d steal from his own father; but he died miserably in East Kent.”

It was characteristic of the venerable wanderer who had installed himself as my permanent professor of Rommany, that although almost every phrase which he employed to illustrate words expressed some act at variance with law or the rights of property, he was never weary of descanting on the spotlessness, beauty, and integrity of his own life and character.  These little essays on his moral perfection were expressed with a touching artlessness and child-like simplicity which would carry conviction to any one whose heart had not been utterly hardened, or whose eye-teeth had not been remarkably well cut, by contact with the world.  In his delightful naivete and simple earnestness, in his ready confidence in strangers and freedom from all suspicion—­in fact, in his whole deportment, this Rommany elder reminded me continually of one—­and of one man only—­whom I had known of old in America.  Need I say that I refer to the excellent —–­ —–?