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"You know, sir," said the Gipsy, "that we have two languages. For besides the Rummany, there's the reg'lar cant, which all tinkers talk." "Kennick you mean?" "Yes, sir; that's the Rummany for it. A 'dolly mort' is Kennick, but it's juva or rakli in Rummanis. It's a girl, or a rom's chi." "You say rom sometimes, and then rum." "There's rums and roms, sir.
If he is a tinker, he knows Kennick, or cant, or thieves' slang by nature, but the Rommany, which has very few words in common with the former, is the true language of the mysteries; in fact, it has with him become, strangely enough, what it was originally, a sort of sacred Sanscrit, known only to the Brahmins of the roads, compared to which the other language is only commonplace Prakrit, which anybody may acquire.
The rum is a Gipsy, and a rom is a husband." "That's your English way of calling it. All the rest of the world over there is only one word among Gipsies, and that is rom." Now, the allusion to Kennick or cant by a tinker, recalls an incident which, though not strictly Gipsy in its nature, I will nevertheless narrate. In the summer of 1870 I spent several weeks at Spa, in the Ardennes.
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