A half-caste gypsy once attempted to bring discredit on my knowledge of the Romany tongue by speaking in what he afterwards informed me was “foreign Romany.” I regret that while I have a distinct recollection of the jumble of sounds, I am not able to reproduce it. Strangely enough, this man prided himself on being able to talk in a tongue no one else understood, and I confess I am still incapable of seeing just how he or any one else benefited thereby. Probably it is the “Romany” of the Chorodies and low-lived half-castes that has induced writers to describe the gypsy tongue in England as having become sadly mutilated; certainly, such folk present no exception to the rule that the language of a people becomes, almost invariably, degraded in the ratio that their life is debased, the lowest of them seeming even to select inharmonious, and often foul and repulsive words to express their daily needs. Language would, indeed, appear to be to them little more than the bark of a dog, or the neighing of a horse, for, obviously, the melody of pure Romany does not in the least appeal to them as it undoubtedly does to the true Romanichal, whose language conjures up visions of trees and birds, furze-covered commons and heather-clad moors. Romany is a poetical language, and, as might be expected, gypsy poetry is not rare. When well recited it is very musical although much of it does not rhyme; I have, however, found that a mixed Romany audience invariably prefers such as has both rhythm and rhyme. One evening towards the end of the hop-picking, I attended a concert which had been organized for the entertainment of the gypsies, the artistes for the most part being the Romanies themselves, while the programme might fittingly be described as “scratch.” [Illustration: “TATCHEY ROMANIES.”]