"Rommany Chals! I should not wonder after all," said I, "that these people had something to do with the founding of Rome. Rome, it is said, was built by vagabonds; who knows but that some tribe of the kind settled down thereabouts, and called the town which they built after their name? but whence did they come originally? ah! there is the difficulty." {169a} But abandoning these questions, which at that time were far too profound for me, I went on studying the language, and at the same time the characters and manners of these strange people. My rapid progress in the former astonished, while it delighted, Jasper. "We'll no longer call you Sap-engro, brother," said he; "but rather Lav-engro, which in the language of the Gorgios meaneth Word Master." "Nay, brother," said Tawno Chikno, with whom I had become very intimate, "you had better call him Cooro-mengro. {169b} I have put on _the gloves_ with him, and find him a pure fist master; I like him for that, for I am a Cooro-mengro myself, and was born at Brummagem." "I likes him for his modesty," said Mrs. Chikno; "I never hears any ill words come from his mouth, but, on the contrary, much sweet language. His talk is golden, and he has taught my eldest to say his prayers in Rommany, which my rover had never the grace to do." "He is the pal of my rom," {170a} said Mrs. Petulengro, who was a very handsome woman, "and therefore I likes him, and not the less for his being a rye; {170b} folks calls me high-minded, and perhaps I have reason to be so; before I married Pharaoh I had an offer from a lord. I likes the young rye, and, if he chooses to follow us, he shall have my sister. What say you, mother? should not the young rye have my sister Ursula?" "I am going to my people," said Mrs. Herne, placing a bundle upon a donkey, which was her own peculiar property; "I am going to Yorkshire, for I can stand this no longer. You say you like him: in that we differs; I hates the Gorgio, and would like, speaking Romanly, to mix a little poison with his waters. And now go to Lundra, {170c} my children; I goes to Yorkshire. Take my blessing with ye, and a little bit of a gillie {170d} to cheer your hearts with when ye are weary. In all kinds of weather have we lived together; but now we are parted. I goes broken- hearted--I can't keep you company; ye are no longer Rommany. To gain a bad brother, ye have lost a good mother." CHAPTER XVIII What Profession?--Not Fitted for a Churchman--Erratic Course--The Bitter Draught--Principle of Woe--Thou Wouldst be Joyous--What Ails You?--Poor Child of Clay.