“And the groom’s?”

“I don’t know.”

“And he made a good king?”

“First-rate.”

“Only think! well, if he made a good king, what a wonderful king the groom would have made, through whose knowledge of ’orses he was put on the throne.  And now another question, Mr. Romany Rye, have you particular words which have power to soothe or aggravate horses?”

“You should ask me,” said I, “whether I have horses that can be aggravated or soothed by particular words.  No words have any particular power over horses or other animals who have never heard them before—­how, should they?  But certain animals connect ideas of misery or enjoyment with particular words which they are acquainted with.  I’ll give you an example.  I knew a cob in Ireland that could be driven to a state of kicking madness by a particular word, used by a particular person, in a particular tone; but that word was connected with a very painful operation which had been performed upon him by that individual, who had frequently employed it at a certain period whilst the animal had been under his treatment.  The same cob could be soothed in a moment by another word, used by the same individual in a very different kind of tone; the word was deaghblasda, or sweet tasted.  Some time after the operation, whilst the cob was yet under his hands, the fellow—­who was what the Irish call a fairy smith—­had done all he could to soothe the creature, and had at last succeeded by giving it gingerbread-buttons, of which the cob became passionately fond.  Invariably, however, before giving it a button, he said, ‘Deaghblasda,’ with which word the cob by degrees associated an idea of unmixed enjoyment:  so if he could rouse the cob to madness by the word which recalled the torture to its remembrance, he could as easily soothe it by the other word, which the cob knew would be instantly followed by the button, which the smith never failed to give him after using the word deaghblasda.”

“There is nothing wonderful to be done,” said the jockey, “without a good deal of preparation, as I know myself.  Folks stare and wonder at certain things which they would only laugh at if they knew how they were done; and to prove what I say is true, I will give you one or two examples.  Can either of you lend me a handkerchief?  That won’t do,” said he, as I presented him with a silk one.  “I wish for a delicate white handkerchief.  That’s just the kind of thing,” said he, as the Hungarian offered him a fine white cambric handkerchief, beautifully worked with gold at the hems; “now you shall see me set this handkerchief on fire.”  “Don’t let him do so by any means,” said the Hungarian, speaking to me in German, “it is the gift of a lady whom I highly admire, and I would not have it burnt for the world.”  “He has no occasion to be under any apprehension,” said the jockey, after I had interpreted to him what the Hungarian had said, “I will restore it to him uninjured,