stranger is in their gates, the two prettiest girls in their possession sit at his right and left, the two less 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 Romany 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 Romanys there; but 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 Romany 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.

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 Dr. Bath Smart, or Prof. 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 Romany 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 Romany 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 many gentlemen scholars, to having the Romany language published is indescribable.  Vambéry 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 Romanys.  They had not heard of Mr. George Borrow; nor were there ugly stories current among them to the effect that Dr. Smart and Prof. E. H. Palmer 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 slaves 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 seems 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 destroy, 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 seven p.m. till three 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—without realizing that neither words nor melody was of the least importance, but that the man’s manner of performance or display was everything.  Now, in enjoying 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 Romany 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, that is, the ocean], you shall