“And what is the cause?” said I, “for I am sure I do not know.”
“The cause is this,” said the jockey, “they never heard a bad word proceed from your mouth, and never knew you do a bad thing.”
“They are a singular people,” said I.
“And what a singular language they have got,” said the jockey.
“Do you know it?” said I.
“Only a few words,” said the jockey, “they were always chary in teaching me any.”
“They were vary sherry to me too,” said the Hungarian, speaking in broken English; “I only could learn from them half-a-dozen words, for example, gul eray, which, in the czigany of my country, means sweet gentleman; or edes ur in my own Magyar.”
“Gudlo Rye, in the Romany of mine, means a sugar’d gentleman,” said I; “then there are gypsies in your country?”
“Plenty,” said the Hungarian, speaking German, “and in Russia and Turkey too; and wherever they are found, they are alike in their ways and language. Oh, they are a strange race, and how little known! I know little of them, but enough to say, that one horse-load of nonsense has been written about them; there is one Valter Scott—”
“Mind what you say about him,” said I; “he is our grand authority in matters of philology and history.”