itely in apology. I laughed and passed on. But I thought
it a little strange, for neither of the men had the slightest indication
of gypsiness. I met the one who had said _sarishan ba_ again, soon
after. I found that he and the one of the wagon were not of gypsy blood,
but of a class not uncommon in England, who, be they rich or poor, are
affected towards gypsies. The wealthy one lived with a gypsy mistress;
the poorer one had a gypsy wife, and was very fond of the language.
There is a very large class of these mysterious men everywhere about the
country. They haunt fairs; they pop up unexpectedly as Jack-in-boxes in
unsuspected guise; they look out from under fatherly umbrellas; their
name is Legion; their mother is Mystery, and their uncle is Old Tom,--not
of Virginia, but of Gin. Once, in the old town of Canterbury, I stood in
the street, under the Old Woman with the Clock, one of the quaintest
pieces of drollery ever imagined during the Middle Ages. And by me was a
tinker, and as his wheel went _siz-'z-'z-'z_, _uz-uz-uz-z-z_! I talked
with him, and there joined us a fat, little, elderly, spectacled,
shabby-genteel, but well-to-do-looking sort of a punchy, small tradesman.
And, as we spoke, there went by a great, stout, roaring Romany woman,--a
scarlet-runner of Babylon run to seed,--with a boy and a hand-cart to
carry the seed in. And to her I cried, "_Hav akai te mandy'll del tute a
shaori_!" (Come here, and I'll stand a sixpence!) But she did not
believe in my offer, but went her way, like a Burning Shame, through the
crowd, and was lost evermore. I looked at the little old gentleman to
see what effect my outcry in a strange language had upon him. But he
only remarked, soberly, "Well, now, I _should_ 'a' thought a sixpence
would 'a' brought her to!" And the wheel said, "Suz-zuz-zuz-z-z I should
'a' suz-suz 'a' thought a suz-z-zixpence would 'a' suz-zuz 'a' brought
her, too-z-z-z!" And I looked at the Old Woman with the Clock, and she
ticked,
"A--six--pence--would--have--brought--_me_--two--three--four"--and I
began to dream that all Canterbury was Romany.

We came to the house, the landlord was up-stairs, ill in bed, but would
be glad to see us; and he welcomed us warmly, and went deeply into Romany
family matters with my friend, the Oxford scholar. Meanwhile, his
daughter, a nice brunette, received and read a letter; and he tried to
explain to me the mystery of the many men who are not gypsies, yet