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, 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 Romany.”  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 a 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.  “Jines hi bagan eto—eto latcho Romanes.”  (You can sing that,—it’s real Romany.)  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 Romany 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 Eomani 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-Romany songs, and were particularly pleased with one beginning with the words:—

“‘Me shom akonyo,’ gildas yoi,
  Men būti ruzhior,
Te sār i chiriclia adoi
  Pen mengy gilior.’”

Though we “got on” after a manner in our Romany talk, 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 Romany 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