from illuminations
of Paris to the Khedive's fifteen-million-dollar spree in 1873 and the
last grand flash of the Roman-candle carnival of 1846, but for true,
hearty enjoyment and quiet beauty give me a merry party on the Thames.
Give me, I say, its sparkling waters, its green banks, the joyous,
beautiful girls, the hearty, handsome men. Give me the boats, darting
like fishes, the gay cries. And oh--oh!--give me the Alsopp's ale in a
quart mug, and not a remark save of approbation when I empty it.

I had met Sir Patrick in the crowd, and our conversation turned on
gypsies. When living before-time in Roumania, he had Romany servants,
and learned a little of their language. Yes, he was inclined to be
"affected" into the race, and thereupon we went gypsying. Truly, we had
not far to seek, for just outside the crowd a large and flourishing
community of the black-blood had set itself up in the _pivlioi_
(cocoa-nut) or _kashta_ (stick) business, and as it was late in the
afternoon, and the entire business-world was about as drunk as mere beer
could make it, the scene was not unlively. At that time I was new to
England, and unknown to every gypsy on the ground. In after-days I
learned to know them well, very well, for they were chiefly Coopers and
their congeners, who came to speak of me as _their_ rye and own special
property or proprietor,--an allegiance which involved on one side an
amount of shillings and beer which concentrated might have set up a
charity, but which was duly reciprocated on the other by jocular tenures
of cocoa-nuts, baskets, and choice and deep words in the language of
Egypt.

As we approached the cock-shy, where sticks were cast at cocoa-nuts, a
young gypsy _chai_, whom I learned to know in after-days as Athalia
Cooper, asked me to buy some sticks. A penny a throw, all the cocoa-nuts
I could hit to be my own. I declined; she became urgent, jolly, riotous,
insistive. I endured it well, for I held the winning cards. _Qui minus
propere_, _minus prospere_. And then, as her voice rose _crescendo_ into
a bawl, so that all the Romanys around laughed aloud to see the green
Gorgio so chaffed and bothered, I bent me low, and whispered softly in
her ear a single monosyllable.

Why are all those sticks dropped so suddenly? Why does Athalia in a
second become sober, and stand up staring at me, all her chaff and
urgency forgotten. Quite polite and earnest now. But there is joy
behind in her heart.