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professional jealousy among them, and so many quarrels. Would you have believed it?"

I thought of the feuds between sundry sturdy Rommanies in England, and felt that I could suppose such a thing, without dangerously stretching my faith, and I began to believe in Russian gyp

sies.

"Well, then, I shall call for you to-morrow night with a troika—I will come early—at ten. They never begin to sing before company arrive at eleven, so that you will have half an hour to

talk to them."

It is on record that the day on which the General gave me this kind invitation was the coldest known in St. Petersburg for thirty years, the thermometer having stood, or rather having lain down and groveled that morning at 40° below zero, Fahr. At the appointed hour the troika, or three-horse sleigh, was before the Hôtel d'Europe. It was, indeed, an Arctic night, but, well wrapped in fur-lined shubas with immense capes which fall to the elbow, or rise far above the head, as required, and wearing fur caps and fur-lined gloves, we felt no cold. The beard of our istvostshik, or driver, was a great mass of ice, giving him the appearance of an exceedingly hoary youth, and his small horses, being very shaggy and thoroughly frosted, looked in the darkness like immense polar bears. If the General and myself could only have been considered as gifts of the slightest value to anybody, I should have regarded our turn-out with the driver in his sheepskin coat, as coming within a miracle of resemblance to that of Santa Claus, the American Father Christmas.

On, at a tremendous pace, over the snow, which gave out under our runners that crunching, irony sound only heard when the thermometer touches zero. There is a peculiar fascination about the troika and the sweetest, saddest melody, and most plaintive song of Russia belong to it.

THE TROIKA.

Vot y'dit troika udalaiya.

Hear ye the troika-bell a-ringing,
And see the peasant driver there;
Hear ye the mournful song he's singing,
Like distant tolling through the air?

"O eyes, blue eyes, to me so lonely, O eyes-alas!—ye give me pain, O that once looked at me only, eyes, I ne'er shall see your like again.

"Farewell, my darling, now in heaven, And still the heaven of my soul; Farewell, thou father town, O Moscow ! Where I have left my life, my all."

And ever at the rein still straining,

One backward glance the driver gave;
Sees but once more a green low hillock,

Sees but once more his loved one's grave.

“ Stoi!”—Halt! We stopped at a stylishlooking building, entered a hall, left our shubas, and I heard the General ask, "Are the gypsies here?" An affirmative being given, we entered a large room, and there, sure enough, stood six or eight girls and two men, all very well dressed, and all unmistakably Rommany, though smaller and of much slighter or more delicate frame than the powerful gypsy "travelers" of England. In an instant every pair of great, wild eyes was fixed on me. The General was in every way a more striking figure, but I was manifestly a fresh stranger, who knew nothing of the country, and certainly nothing of gypsies or gypsydom. Such a verdant visitor is always most interesting. It was not by any means my first reception of the kind, and, as I reviewed at a glance the whole party, I said within myself:

"Wait an instant, you black snakes, and I will give you something to make you stare."

Which I did beyond dispute, for immediately a young man, who looked like a handsome light Hindoo, stepped up and addressed me in Russian. I looked long and steadily at him before I spoke, and then said:

er).

"Latcho divvus prala!" (Good day, broth

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And in an instant they were all around me, marveling greatly, and earnestly expressing their marvel, at what new species of gypsy I might be, being in this quite unlike those of England, who, even when they are astonished "out of their senses at being addressed in Rommany by a gentleman, make the most Red-Indian efforts to conceal their amazement. But I speedily found that these Russian gypsies were as unaffected and childlike as they were gentle in manner, and that they compared with our own prize-fighting, sturdy-begging, always-suspecting Rommany roughs and rufianas, as a delicate greyhound might compare with a very shrewd old bull-dog, trained by an unusually "fly" tramp.

That the girls were first to the fore in questioning me will be doubted by no one. But we had great trouble in effecting a mutual understanding. Their Rommany was full of Russian; their pronunciation puzzled me; they "bit off

their words," and used many in a strange or false sense. Yet, notwithstanding this, I contrived to converse pretty readily with the men-very readily with the captain, a man as dark as Ben Lee, to those who know Benjamin-or as mahogany, to those who know him not. But with the women it was very difficult to converse. There is a theory current that women have a specialty of tact and readiness in understanding a foreigner, or in making themselves understood-it may be so with cultivated ladies, but it is my experience that, among the uneducated, men have a monopoly of such quick intelligence. In order fully to convince them that we really had a tongue in common, I repeated perhaps a hundred nouns, giving, for instance, the names of various parts of the body, of articles of apparel, and objects in the room, and I believe that we did not find a single word which, when pronounced distinctly by itself, was not intelligible to us all. I had left in London a Russo-Rommany vocabulary, once published in "The Asiatic Magazine," and I had met with Böhtlinghk's article on the dialect, as well as specimens of it in the works of Pott and Miklosich, but had unfortunately learned nothing of it from them. I soon found, however, that I knew a great many more gypsy words than did my new friends, and that our English Rommany far excels the Russian in copia verborum.

"But I must sit down." I observed on this and other occasions that Russian gypsies are very naïf. And as it is in human nature to prefer sitting by a pretty girl, these Slavonian Rommanies so arrange it according to the principles of natural selection—or natural politeness-that, when a stranger is in their gates, the two prettiest girls in their possession sit at his right and left, the two next attractive next again, et seriatim. So at once a damsel of comely mien, arrayed in black silk attire, of faultless elegance, cried to me, pointing to a chair by her side, “Bersh tu alay, rya !" (Sit down, sir)—a phrase which would be perfectly intelligible to any Rommany in England. I admit that there was another damsel, who is generally regarded by most people as the true gypsy belle of the party, who did not sit by me. But, as the one who had "voted herself into the chair," by my side, was more to my liking, being the most intelligent and most gypsy, I had good cause to rejoice.

I was astonished at the sensible curiosity as to gypsy life in other lands which was displayed, and at the questions asked. I really doubt if I ever met with an English gypsy who cared a farthing to know anything about his race as it exists in foreign countries, or whence it came. Once, and once only, I thought I had interested White George, at East Moulsey, in an account of Egypt, and the small number of Rommanies there; but

VOL. VIII.-II

his only question was to the effect that, if there were so few gypsies in Egypt, wouldn't it be a good place for him to go to sell baskets? These of Russia, however, asked all kinds of questions about the manners and customs of their congeners, and were pleased when they recognized familiar traits. And every gypsyism, whether of word or way, was greeted with delighted laughter. In one thing I noted a radical difference between these gypsies and those of the rest of Europe and of America. There was none of that continually assumed mystery and Rommany freemasonry, of superior occult knowledge and 'deep" information, which is often carried to the depths of absurdity and to the height of humbug. I say this advisedly, since, however much it may give charm to a novel or play, it is a serious impediment to a philologist. Let me give an illustration:

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Once, during the evening, these Russian gypsies were anxious to know if there were any books in their language. Now I have no doubt that Mr. Tom Taylor, or Professor E. H. Palmer, or any other of the initiated, will perfectly understand when I say that by mere force of habit I shivered and evaded the question. When a gentleman, who manifests a knowledge of Rommany among gypsies in England, is suspected of "dixonary" studies, it amounts to lasciate ogni speranza-give up all hope of learning any more.

"I'm glad to see you here, rya, in my tent," said the before-mentioned Ben Lee to me one night in camp near Weybridge, "because I've heard, and I know, you didn't pick up your Rommany out of books."

The silly dread, the hatred, the childish antipathy, real or affected, but always ridiculous, which is felt in England, not only among gypsies, but even by aficionado, gentlemen scholars, to having the Rommany language published is indescribable. Vambery was not more averse to show a lead-pencil among Tartars than I am to take notes of words among strange English gypsies. I might have spared myself any annoyance from such a source among the Russian Rommanies. They had not heard of Mr. George Borrow; nor were there ugly stories current among them, to the effect that Dr. Smart, Professor E. H. Palmer, and Miss Janet Tuckey, had published works, the direct result of which would be to facilitate their little paths to the jail, the gallows, and the grave.

"Would we hear some singing?" We were ready, and for the first time in my life I listened to the long-anticipated, far-famed magical melody of Russian gypsies. And what was it like? May I preface my reply to the reader with the remark that there are, roughly speaking, two kinds of music in the world-the wild and the tame-and

the rarest of human beings is he who can appreciate both. Only one such man ever wrote a book, and his nomen et omen is Engel, like that of the little English boys who were non Angli, sed angeli. I have in my time been deeply moved by the choruses of Nubian boatmen; I have listened with great pleasure to Chinese and Japanese music-Ole Bull once told me he had done the same-I have delighted by the hour in Arab songs; and I have felt the charm of our Red Indian music. If this seem absurd to those who characterize all such sound and song as 'caterwauling," let me remind the reader that in all Europe there is not one man fonder of music than an average Arab, a Chinese, or a Red Indian, for any of these people, as I have seen and know, will sit twelve or fifteen hours, without the least weariness, listening to what cultivated Europeans all consider as a mere charivari. When London gladly endures fifteen-hour concerts, composed of morceaux by Wagner, Chopin, and Liszt, I will believe that art can charm as much

"

as nature.

The medium point of intelligence in this puzzle may be found in the extraordinary fascination which many find in the monotonous tum-tum of the banjo, and which reappears somewhat refined, or at least somewhat Frenchified, in the Bamboula and other Creole airs. Thence, in an ascending series, but connected with it, we have Old Spanish melodies, then the Arabic, and here we finally cross the threshold into mystery, midnight, and "caterwauling." I do not know that I can explain the fact why the more "barbarous" music is, the more it is beloved of man; but I think that the principle of the refrain, or repetition in music, which as yet governs all decorative art, and which Mr. Whistler and others are endeavoring desperately to break, acts in music as a sort of animal magnetism or abstraction, ending in an extase. As for the fascination which such wild melodies exert, it is beyond description. The most enraptured audience I ever saw in my life was at a Coptic wedding in Cairo, where one hundred and fifty guests listened, from 7 P. M. till 3 A. M., and Heaven knows how much later, to what a European would call absolute jangling, yelping, and howling.

The real medium, however, between what I have, for want of better words, called wild and tame music, exists only in that of the Russian gypsies. These artists, with wonderful tact and untaught skill, have succeeded in all their songs in combining the mysterious and maddening charm of the true, wild Eastern music with that of regular and simple melody, intelligible to every Western ear. I have never listened to the singing or playing of any distinguished artist-and certainly never of any far-famed amateur-with

out realizing that neither words nor melody was of the least importance, but that the manner of performance or display was everything. Now, in listening to gypsy singing, one feels at once as if the vocalists had entirely forgotten self, and were carried away by the bewildering beauty of the air and the charm of the words. There is no self-consciousness, no vanity-all is real. The listener feels as if he were a performer-the performer is an enraptured listener. There is no soulless "art for the sake of art," but art for direct pleasure.

"We intend to sing only Rommany for you, rya," said the young lady to my left, "and you will hear our real gypsy airs. The Gaji (Russians) often ask for songs in our language and don't get them. But you are a Romanichal, and when you go home, far over the baro kālo pāni (the broad black water, i. e., the ocean), you shall tell the Rommany how we can sing. Listen!"

And I listened to the strangest, wildest, and sweetest singing I ever had heard-the singing of Lurleis, of sirens, of witches. First, one damsel, with an exquisitely clear, firm voice, began to sing a verse of a love-ballad, and as it approached the end the chorus stole in, softly and unperceived, but with exquisite skill, until, in a few seconds, the summer breeze, murmuring melody over a rippling lake, seemed changed to a midnight tempest roaring over a stormy sea— in which the basso of the kālo shureskro (the black captain) pealed like thunder. And as it died away a second girl took up the melody, very sweetly, but with a little more excitement-it was like a gleam of moonlight on the still agitated waters, a strange contralto witch-gleam—and then again the chorus and the storm, and then another solo yet sweeter, sadder, and stranger— the movement continually increasing, until all was fast, and wild, and mad—a locomotive quickstep, and then a sudden silence-sunlight—the storm had blown away.

In Arab singing, such effects are applied simply to set forth erotomania; in negro minstrelsy, they are degraded to the lowest humor; in higher European music, when employed, they simply illustrate the skill of composer and musician. The spirit of gypsy singing recalled by its method and sweetness that of the Nubian boatmen, but in its general effect I could think only of those strange fits of excitement which thrill the Red Indian and make him burst into song. The Abbé Domenech * has observed that the American savage pays attention to every sound that strikes upon his ear when the leaves softly shaken by the evening breeze seem to sigh through the air, or when the tempest bursting forth with fury

* "Seven Years in the Deserts of America."

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shakes the gigantic trees that crack like reeds. "The chirping of the birds, the cry of the wild beasts-in a word, all those sweet, grave, or imposing voices that animate the wilderness are so many musical lessons which he easily remembers." In illustration of this, the missionary describes the singing of a Chippewa chief, and its wild inspiration, in a manner which vividly illustrates all music of the class of which I write.

“It was," he says, "during one of those long winter nights, so monotonous and so wearisome in the woods. We were in a wigwam, which afforded us but miserable shelter from the inclemency of the season. The storm raged without; the tempest roared in the open country; the wind blew with violence, and whistled through the fissures of the cabin; the rain fell in torrents, and prevented us from continuing our route. Our host was an Indian, with sparkling and intelligent eyes, clad with a certain elegance, and wrapped majestically in a large fur cloak. Seated close to the fire, which cast a reddish gleam through the interior of his wigwam, he felt himself all at once seized with an irresistible desire to imitate the convulsions of nature, and to sing his impressions. So, taking hold of a drum which hung near his bed, he beat a slight rolling, resembling the distant sounds of an approaching storm, then, raising his voice to a shrill treble, which he knew how to soften when he pleased, he imitated the whistling of the air, the creaking of the branches dashing against one another, and the particular noise produced by dead leaves when accumulated in compact masses on the ground. By degrees the rollings of the drum became more frequent and louder, the chants more sonorous and shrill, and at last our Indian shrieked, howled, and roared in a most frightful manner; he struggled and struck his instrument with extraordinary rapidity; it was a real tempest, to which nothing was wanting, not even the distant howling of the dogs, nor the bellowing of the affrighted buffaloes."

I have observed the same musical inspiration of a storm upon Arabs, who during their singing also accompanied themselves on a drum. I once spent two weeks in a Mediterranean steamboat, on board of which were more than two hundred pilgrims, for the greater part wild Bedouins, going to Mecca. They had a minstrel who sang and played on the darabuka, or earthenware drum, and he was aided by another with a simple nai, or reed-whistle, the same orchestra, in fact, which is in universal use among all Red Indians. To these performers the pilgrims listened with indescribable pleasure, and I soon found that they regarded me favorably because I did the same, being, of course, the only Frank on board who paid any attention to the singing-or

any money for it. But it was at night and during storms that the spirit of music always seemed to be strongest on the Arabs, and then amid roaring of wild waters and thundering, and in dense darkness, the rolling of the drum, and the strange, bewildering ballads never ceased. It was the very counterpart, in all respects, of the Chippewa storm-song.

After the first gypsy lyric there came another, to which the Captain especially directed my attention as being what Sam Petulengro calls "reg'lar Rommany." It was I rakli adro o lolo gad-"The girl in the red chemise "—as well as I can recall his words, a very sweet song with a simple but spirited chorus, and as the sympathetic electricity of excitement seized the performers we were all in minute "going down the rapids in a spring freshet."

"Bagan tu rya, bagan !" ("Sing, sir-sing!") cried my handsome neighbor, with her black gypsy eyes sparkling fire. "Fines bagan eto-eto latcho Romanes” (“You can sing that-it's real Rommany"). It was evident that she and all were singing with thorough enjoyment, and with a full and realizing consciousness of gypsyism, being greatly stimulated by my presence and sympathy. I felt that the gypsies were taking unusual pains to please the Rommany Rye from the dur' tem, or far country, and they had attained the acme of success by being thoroughly delighted with themselves, which is all that can be hoped for in art, where the aim is pleasure and not criticism.

There was a pause in the performance, but none in the chattering of the young ladies, and during this a curious little incident occurred. Wishing to know if my pretty friend could understand an English gypsy lyric, I sang in an undertone a ballad, taken from George Borrow's "Lavengro," and which begins with these words:

"Pende Romani chai ke laki dye;

'Miri diri dye, mi shom kāmeli.'"

I never knew whether this was really an old gypsy poem or one written by Mr. Borrow. Once when I repeated it to old Henry James as he sat making baskets, I was silenced by being told: "That ain't no real gypsy gilli. That's one of the kind made up by gentlemen and ladies.” However, as soon as I repeated it, the Russian gypsy girl cried eagerly, "I know that song," and actually sang me a ballad which was essentially the same, in which a damsel describes her fall, owing to a Gajo (Gorgio, a Gentile—not gypsy) lover, and her final expulsion from the tent. It was adapted to a very pretty melody, and as soon as she had sung it, sotto voce, my pretty friend exclaimed to another girl, "Only think, the rye

from America knows that song!" Now, as many centuries must have passed since the English and Russian gypsies parted from the parent stock, the preservation of this song is very remarkable, and its antiquity must be very great. I did not take it down, but any resident in St. Petersburg can, if so inclined, do so among the gypsies at Dorat, and verify my statement.

Then there was a pretty dance of a modified Oriental character by one of the damsels. For this, as for the singing, the only musical instrument used was a guitar, which had seven strings tuned in Spanish fashion, and was rather weak in tone. I wished it had been a powerful Panormo, which would have exactly suited the timbre of these voices. The gypsies were honestly interested in all I could tell them about their kind in other lands; while the girls were professionally desirous to hear more Anglo-Rommany songs, and were particularly pleased with one by Miss Janet Tuckey, beginning with the words:

"Me shom akonyo,' gildas yoi,
Men būti ruzhior,
Te sar i chiriclia adoi

Pen mengy gilior.'"

Though we "got on " after a manner in our Rommany dialects, I was often obliged to have recourse to my friend the General to translate long sentences into Russian, especially when some sand-bar of a verb or some log of a noun impeded the current of our conversation. Finally, a formal request was made by the Captain, that I would, as one deep beyond all their experience in Rommany matters, kindly tell them what kind of people they really were, and whence they came. With this demand I cheerfully complied, every word being listened to with breathless interest. So I told them what I knew or had conjectured relative to their Indian origin, how their fathers had wandered forth through Persia, how their travels could be traced by the Persian, Greek, or Roumanian words in the language, how in 1417 a band of them appeared in Europe, led by a few men of great diplomatic skill, who, by crafty dealing, obtained from the Pope, the Emperor of Germany, and all the kings of Europe, except that of England, permission to wander for fifty years as pilgrims, declaring that they had been Christians, but, having become renegades, the King of Hungary had imposed a penance on them of half a century's exile. Then I informed them that precisely the same story had been told by them to the rulers in Syria and Egypt, only that in the Mohammedan countries they pretended to be good followers of Islam. I said there was reason to believe that some of their people had been in Poland and the other Slavonic countries ever since the eleventh cen

tury, but that those of England must have gone directly from this part of the world to Great Britain, for, although they had many Slavic words, such as krallis (king) and shuba, there were no French terms, and very few traces of German or Italian, in our dialect. I observed that the men all understood the geographical allusions which I made, knowing apparently where India, Persia, and Egypt were situated—a remarkable contrast to our own English "travelers," one of whom once informed me that he would like to go" on the road" in America, "because you know, sir, as America lays along into France, we could get our French baskets cheaper there."

I found on inquiry that the Russian gypsies profess Christianity; but, as the religion of the Greek Church, as I saw it, appears to be practically something very little better than fetich-worship, I can not exalt them as models of evangelical piety. They are, however, according to a popular proverb, not far from godliness in being very clean in their persons, and not only did they appear so to me, but I was assured by several Russians that, as regarded these singing gypsies, it was invariably the case. As for morality in gypsy girls, their principles are very peculiar. Not a whisper of scandal attaches to these Russian Rommany women as regards transient amours. But if a wealthy Russian gentleman falls in love with one, and will have and hold her permanently, or for a durable connection, he may take her to his home if she likes him, but must pay monthly a sum into the gypsy treasury, for these people apparently form an artel, or society-union, like all other classes of Russians. It may be suggested, as an explanation of this apparent incongruity, that gypsies all the world over regard steady cohabitation, or agreement, as marriage, binding themselves, as it were, by Gandharbavivaha, as the saint married Vasantasena, which is an old Sanskrit way of wedding. remark that, if one tenth of what I heard in Russia about "morals" in the highest or lowest or any other class be true, the gypsies of that country are shining lights and brilliant exemplars of morality to all by whom they are surrounded. Let me also add that never on any occasion did I hear or see among them anything in the slightest degree improper or unrefined. I knew very well that I could if I chose talk to such naïve people about subjects which would shock an English lady, and, as the reader may remember, I did quote Mr. Borrow's song which he has not translated. But a European girl who would have endured allusions to tabooed subjects would have at all times shown vulgarity or coarseness, while these Russian Rommany girls were invariably ladylike. It is true that the St. Petersburg party had a dissipated air; three or four of them looked

And let me

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