speak
Romany, but could not do it, though he was one of them. It appeared from
his account that they were "a kind of mixed, you see, and dusted in, you
know, and on it, out of the family, it peppers up; but not exactly, you
understand, and that's the way it is. And I remember a case in point,
and that was one day, and I had sold a horse, and was with my boy in a
_moramengro's buddika_ [barber's shop], and my boy says to me, in
Romanes, 'Father, I'd like to have my hair cut.' 'It's too dear here, my
son,' said I, Romaneskes; 'for the bill says threepence.' And then the
barber, he ups and says, in Romany, 'Since you're Romanys, I'll cut it
for _two_pence, though it's clear out of all my rules.' And he did it;
but why that man _rakkered Romanes_ I don't know, nor how it comes about;
for he hadn't no more call to it than a pig has to be a preacher. But
I've known men in Sussex to take to diggin' truffles on the same
principles, and one Gorgio in Hastings that adopted sellin' fried fish
for his livin', about the town, because he thought it was kind of
romantic. That's it."

Over the chimney-piece hung a large engraving of Milton and his
daughters. It was out of place, and our host knew it, and was proud. He
said he had bought it at an auction, and that it was a picture of
Middleton,--a poet, he believed; "anyhow, he was a writing man." But, on
second thought, he remembered that the name was not Middleton, but
Millerton. And on further reflection, he was still more convinced that
Millerton _was_ a poet.

I once asked old Matthew Cooper the Romany word for a poet. And he
promptly replied that he had generally heard such a man called a
_givellengero_ or _gilliengro_, which means a song-master, but that he
himself regarded _shereskero-mush_, or head-man, as more elegant and
deeper; for poets make songs out of their heads, and are also ahead of
all other men in head-work. There is a touching and unconscious tribute
to the art of arts in this definition which is worth recording. It has
been said that, as people grow polite, they cease to be poetical; it is
certain that in the first circles they do not speak of their poets with
such respect as this.

Out again into the fresh air and the frost on the crisp, crackling road
and in the sunshine. At such a time, when cold inspires life, one can
understand why the old poets and mystics believed that there was fire in
ice. Therefore, Saint Sebaldus, coming into the hut