V. A GYPSY LETTER.

     
      All the gypsies in the country are not upon the roads. Many of them live in houses, and that very respectably, nay, even aristocratically. Yea, and it may be, O reader, that thou hast met them and knowest them not, any more than thou knowest many other deep secrets of the hearts and lives of those who live around thee. Dark are the ways of the Romany, strange his paths, even when reclaimed from the tent and the van. It is, however, intelligible enough that the Rom converted to the true faith of broadcloth garments by Poole, or dresses by Worth, as well as to the holy gospel of daily baths and savon au violet, should say as little as possible of his origin. For the majority of the world being snobs, they continually insist that all blood unlike their own is base, and the child of the kalorat, knowing this, sayeth naught, and ever carefully keeps the lid of silence on the pot of his birth. And as no being that ever was, is, or will be ever enjoyed holding a secret, playing a part, or otherwise entering into the deepest mystery of life—which is to make a joke of it—so thoroughly as a gypsy, it follows that the being respectable has to him a raciness and drollery and pungency and point which passeth faith. It has often occurred to me, and the older I grow the more I find it true, that the real pleasure which bank presidents, moral politicians, not a few clergymen, and most other highly representative good men take in having a high character is the exquisite secret consciousness of its being utterly undeserved. They love acting. Let no man say that the love of the drama is founded on the artificial or sham. I have heard the Reverend Histriomastix war and batter this on the pulpit; but the utterance per se was an actual, living lie. He was acting while he preached. Love or hunger is not more an innate passion than acting. The child in the nursery, the savage by the Nyanza or in Alaska, the multitude of great cities, all love to bemask and seem what they are not. Crush out carnivals and masked balls and theatres, and lo, you! the disguising and acting and masking show themselves in the whole community. Mawworm and Aminidab Sleek then play a role in every household, and every child becomes a wretched little Roscius. Verily I say unto you, the fewer actors the more acting; the fewer theatres the more stages, and the worse. Lay it to heart, study it deeply, you who believe that the stage is an open door to hell, for the chances are ninety and nine to one that if this be true you will end by consciously or unconsciously keeping a private little gate thereunto. Beloved, put this in thy pipe and fumigate it, that acting in some form is a human instinct which cannot be extinguished, which never has been and never will be; and this being so, is it not better, with Dr. Bellows, to try to put it into proper form than to crush it? Truly it has been proved that with this, as with a certain other unquenchable penchant of humanity, when you suppress a score of professionals you create a thousand zealous amateurs. There was never in this world a stage on which mere acting was more skillfully carried out than in all England under Cromwell, or in Philadelphia under the Quakers. Eccentric dresses, artificial forms of language, separate and “peculiar” expressions of character unlike those of “the world,” were all only giving a form to that craving for being odd and queer which forms the soul of masking and acting. Of course people who act all the time object to the stage. Le diable ne veut pas de miroir.
      The gypsy of society not always, but yet frequently, retains a keen interest in his wild ancestry. He keeps up the language; it is a delightful secret; he loves now and then to take a look at “the old thing.” Closely allied to the converted sinners are the aficionados, or the ladies and gentlemen born with unconquerable Bohemian tastes, which may be accounted for by their having been themselves gypsies in preexistent lives. No one can explain how or why it is that the aficion comes upon them. It is in them. I know a very learned man in England, a gentleman of high position, one whose name is familiar to my readers. He could never explain or understand why from early childhood he had felt himself drawn towards the wanderers. When he was only ten years old he saved up all his little store of pence wherewith to pay a tinker to give him lessons in Romany, in which tongue he is now a Past Grand. I know ladies in England and in America, both of the blood and otherwise, who would give up a ball of the highest flight in society, to sit an hour in a gypsy tent, and on whom a whispered word of Romany acts like wild-fire. Great as my experience has been I can really no more explain the intensity of this yearning, this rapport, than I can fly. My own fancy for gypsydom is faint and feeble compared to what I have found in many others. It is in them like the love for opium, for music, for love itself, or for acting. I confess that there is to me a nameless charm in the strangely, softly flowing language, which gives a sweeter sound to every foreign word which it adopts, just as the melody of a forest stream is said to make more musical the songs of the birds who dwell beside it. Thus Wentzel becomes Wenselo and Anselo; Arthur, Artaros; London, Lundra; Sylvester, Westaros. Such a phrase as “Dordi! dovelo adoi?” (See! what is that there?) could not be surpassed for mere beauty of sound.
      It is apropos of living double lives, and playing parts, and the charm of stealing away unseen, like naughty children, to romp with the tabooed offspring of outlawed neighbors, that I write this, to introduce a letter from a lady, who has kindly permitted me to publish it. It tells its own story of two existences, two souls in one. I give it as it was written, first in Romany, and then in English:—
                           Febmunti 1_st.
          MIRO KAMLO PAL,—Tu tevel mishto ta shun te latcherdum me akovo
    kurikus tacho Romany tan akai adre o gav. Buti kamaben lis sas ta
    dikk mori foki apopli; buti kushti ta shun moro jib. Mi-duvel atch
    apa mande, si ne shomas pash naflo o Gorginess, vonk' akovo vias. O
    waver divvus sa me viom fon a swell saleskro haben, dikdom me dui
    Romani chia beshin alay apre a longo skamin adre —-Square. Kalor
    yakkor, kalor balyor, lullo diklas apre i sherria, te lender trushnia
    aglal lender piria. Mi-duvel, shomas pash divio sar kamaben ta dikav
    lender! Avo! kairdum o wardomengro hatch i graia te sheldom avri,
    “Come here!” Yon penden te me sos a rani ta dukker te vian sig
    adosta. Awer me saldom te pendom adre Romanis: “Sarishan miri
    dearis! Tute don't jin mandy's a Romany!” Yon nastis patser lende
    kania nera yakkor. “Mi-duvel! Sa se tiro nav? putchde yeck. “Miro
    nav se Britannia Lee.” Kenna-sig yon diktas te me sos tachi, te
    penden amengi lender navia shanas M. te D. Lis sos duro pa lende ta
    jin sa a Romani rani astis jiv amen Gorgios, te dikk sa Gorgious,
    awer te vel kushti Romani aja, te tevel buoino lakis kaloratt. Buti
    rakkerdem apre mori foki, buti nevvi, buti savo sos rumado, te beeno,
    te puredo, savo sos vino fon o puro tem, te butikumi aja kekkeno sos
    rakkerben sa gudli. M. pende amengi, “Mandy don't jin how tute can
    jiv among dem Gorgies.” Pukerdom anpali: “Mandy dont jiv, mandy mers
    kairin amen lender.” Yon mangades mande ta well ta dikk a len, adre
    lendes ker apre o chumba kai atchena pa o wen. Pende M., “Av miri
    pen ta ha a bitti sar mendi. Tute jins the chais are only kerri
    aratti te Kurrkus.”
          Sunday sala miri pen te me ghion adoi te latchedon o ker. O tan sos
    bitto, awer sa i Romanis pende, dikde boro adosta paller jivin adre o
    wardo. M. sos adoi te lakis roms dye, a kushti puri chai. A. sar
    shtor chavia. M. kerde haben sa mendui viom adoi. I puri dye sos
    mishto ta dikk mande, yoi kamde ta jin sar trustal mande. Rakkerdem
    buti aja, te yoi pende te yoi ne kekker latchde a Romani rani denna
    mande. Pendom me ke laki shan adre society kumi Romani rania, awer i
    galderli Gorgios ne jinena lis.
          Yoi pende sa miri pen dikde simlo Lusha Cooper, te siggerde lakis
    kaloratt butider denna me. “Tute don't favor the Coopers, miri
    dearie! Tute pens tiri dye rummerd a mush navvered Smith. Was adovo
    the Smith as lelled kellin te kurin booths pasher Lundra Bridge? Sos
    tute beeno adre Anglaterra?” Pukkerdom me ke puri dye sar jinav me
    trustal miri kokeri te simensi. Tu jinsa shan kek Gorgies sa
    longi-bavoli apre genealogies, sa i puri Romani dyia. Vonka foki
    nastis chin lende adre lilia, rikkerena lende aduro adre lendros
    sherria. Que la main droit perd recueille la gauche.
          “Does tute jin any of the —-'s?” pende M. “Tute dikks sim ta —-'s
    juva.” “Ne kekker, yois too pauno,' pens A. “It's chomani adre the
    look of her,” pende M.
          Dikkpali miro pal. Tu jinsa te —-sos i chi savo dudikabinde
    manush, navdo —-buti wongur. Vanka yoi sos lino apre, o
    Beshomengro pende ta ker laki chiv apre a shuba sims Gorgios te
    adenne lelled laki adre a tan sar desh te dui gorgi chaia. —-
    astissa pen i chai savo chorde lestis lovvo. Vanka yoi vias adre o
    tan, yoi ghias sig keti laki, te pende: “Jinava me laki talla lakis
    longi vangusti, te rinkeni mui. Yoi sos stardi dui beshya, awer o
    Gorgio kekker las leski vongur pali.”
          Savo-chirus mendi rakkerden o wuder pirido, te trin manushia vian
    adre. . . . Pali lenders sarishans, M. shelde avri: “Av ta misali,
    rikker yer skammins longo tute! Mrs. Lee, why didn't tute bring yer
    rom?” “Adenna me shom kek rumadi.” “Mi-duvel, Britannia!” pende —-
    “M. pende amengy te tu sos rumado.” “M. didn't dukker tacho vonka
    yoi dukkerd adovo. Yois a dinneli,” pendom me. Te adenne sar mendi
    saden atut M. Haben sos kushto, loim a kani, ballovas te puvengros,
    te kushto curro levina. Liom mendi kushto paiass dre moro puro
    Romany dromus. Rinkenodiro sos, kerde mande pash ta ruv, shomas sa
    kushto-bakno ta atch yecker apopli men mori foki. Sos “Britannia!”
    akai, te “Britannia!” doi, te sar sa adre o puro cheirus, vonka chavi
    shomas. Ne patserava me ta Dante chinde:—
          “Nessun maggior dolore
    Che ricordarsi dei tempi felici.”
          Talla me shomas kushto-bakno ta pen apre o puro chirus. Sar lende
    piden miro kamaben Romaneskaes, sar gudlo; talla H. Yov pende nastis
    ker lis, pa yuv kenna lias tabuti. Kushto dikin Romnichal yuv. Tu
    tevel jin lesti sarakai pa Romani, yuv se sa kalo. Te avec l'air
    indefinnissable du vrai Bohemien
. Yuv patserde me ta piav miro
    sastopen wavescro chirus. Kana shomas pa misali, geero vias keti
    ian; dukkeriben kamde yov. Hunali sos i puri dye te pendes amergi,
    “Beng lel o puro jukel for wellin vanka mendi shom hain, te kenna tu
    shan akai, miri Britannia Yov ne tevel lel kek kushto bak. Mandy'll
    pen leste a wafedo dukkerin.” Adoi A. putcherde mengy, “Does tute
    dukker or sa does tute ker.” “Miri pen, mandy'll pen tute tacho.
    Mandy dukkers te dudikabins te kers buti covvas. Shom a tachi Romani
    chovihani.” “Tacho! tacho!” saden butider. Miri pen te me rikkerdem
    a boro matto-morricley pa i chavis. Yon beshden alay apre o purj,
    hais lis. Rinkeno picture sas, pendom dikkav mande te miri penia
    te pralia kenna shomas bitti. Latcherdom me a tani kali chavi of
    panj besh chorin levina avri miro curro. Dikde, sar lakis bori kali
    yakka te kali balia simno tikno Bacchante, sa yoi prasterde adrom.
          Pendom parako pa moro kushto-bakeno chirus—“kushto bak” te “kushto
    divvus.” Mendi diom moro tachopen ta well apopli, te kan viom kerri.
    Patserava dikk tute akai talla o prasterin o ye graia. Kushto bak te
    kushto ratti.
          Sarja tiro pen,
                           BRITANNIA LEE.
          TRANSLATION.
                           February 1_st.
          MY DEAR FRIEND,—You will be glad to learn that I, within the week,
    found a real Romany family (place) here in this town. Charming it
    was to find our folk again; pleasant it was to listen to our tongue.
    The Lord be on me! but I was half sick of Gentiles and their ways
    till this occurred. The other day, as I was returning from a highly
    aristocratic breakfast, where we had winter strawberries with the
    creme de la creme, I saw two gypsy women sitting on a bench in —-
    Square. Black eyes, black hair, red kerchiefs on their heads, their
    baskets on the ground before their feet. Dear Lord! but I was half
    wild with delight at seeing them. Aye, I made the coachman stop the
    horses, and cried aloud, “Come here!” They thought I was a lady to
    fortune-tell, and came quickly. But I laughed, and said in Romany,
    “How are you, my dears? You don't know that I am a gypsy.” They
    could not trust their very ears or eyes! At length one said, “My
    God! what is your name?” “My name's Britannia Lee,” and, at a
    glance, they saw that I was to be trusted, and a Romany. Their
    names, they said, were M. and D. It was hard (far) for them to
    understand how a Romany lady could live among Gentiles, and look so
    Gorgious, and yet be a true gypsy withal, and proud of her dark
    blood. Much they talked about our people; much news I heard,—much
    as to who was married and born and buried, who was come from the old
    country, and much more. Oh, never was such news so sweet to me!
    M. said, “I don't know how you can live among the Gentiles.” I
    answered, “I don't live; I die, living in their houses with them.”
    They begged me then to come and see them in their home, upon the
    hill, where they are wintering. M. said, “Come, my sister, and eat a
    little with us. You know that the women are only at home at night
    and on Sunday.”
          Sunday morning, sister and I went there, and found the house. It was
    a little place, but, as they said, after the life in wagons it seemed
    large. M. was there, and her husband's mother, a nice old woman;
    also A., with four children. M. was cooking as we entered. The old
    mother was glad to see us; she wished to know all about us. All
    talked, indeed, and that quite rapidly, and she said that I was the
    first Romany lady {279} she had ever seen. I said to her that in
    society are many gypsy ladies to be found, but that the wretched
    Gentiles do not know it.
          She said that my sister looked like Lusha Cooper, and showed her dark
    blood more than I do. “You don't favor the Coopers, my dearie. You
    say your mother married a Smith. Was that the Smith who kept a
    dancing and boxing place near London Bridge? Were you born in
    England?” I told the old mother all I knew about myself and my
    relations. You know that no Gorgios are so long-winded on
    genealogies as old mothers in Rom. When people don't write them down
    in their family Bibles, they carry them, extended, in their heads.
    Que la main droit perd recueille la gauche.
          “Do you know any of the —-'s?” said M. “You look like —-'s wife.”
    “No; she's too pale,” said A. “It's something in the look of her,”
    said M.
          Reflect, my brother. You know that —-was the woman who “cleaned
    out” a man named —-of a very large sum {280} by “dukkeripen” and
    “dudikabin.” “When she was arrested, the justice made her dress like
    any Gorgio, and placed her among twelve Gentile women. The man who
    had been robbed was to point out who among them had stolen his money.
    When she came into the room, he went at once to her, and said, 'I
    know her by her long skinny fingers and handsome face.' She was
    imprisoned for two years, but the Gorgio never recovered his money.”
          What time we reasoned thus, the door undid, and three men entered.
    After their greetings, M. cried, “Come to table; bring your chairs
    with you!” “Mrs. Lee, why didn't you bring your husband?” “Because
    I am not married.” “Lord! Britannia! Why, M. told me that you
    were.” “Ah, M. didn't fortune right when she fortuned that. She's a
    fool,” quoth I. And then we all laughed like children. The food was
    good: chickens and ham and fried potatoes, with a glass of sound ale.
    We were gay as flies in summer, in the real old Romany way. 'T was
    “Britannia” here, “Britannia” there, as in the merry days when we
    were young. Little do I believe in Dante's words,—
          “Nessun maggior dolore,
    Che ricordarsi dei tempi felici.”
          “There is no greater grief
    Than to remember by-gone happy days.”
          For it is always happiness to me to think of good old times when I
    was glad. All drank my health, Romaneskaes, together, with a
    shout,—all save H., who said he had already had too much.
    Good-looking gypsy, that! You'd know him anywhere for Romany, he is
    so dark,—avec l'air indefinissable du vrai Bohemien. He promised
    to drink my health another time.
          As we sat, a gentleman came in below, wishing to have his fortune
    told. I remember to have read that the Pythoness of Delphian oracle
    prepared herself for dukkerin, or presaging, by taking a few drops
    of cherry-laurel water. (I have had it prescribed for my eyes as R
    aq. laur. cerasi. fiat lotio,—possibly to enable me to see into
    the future.) Perhaps it was the cherry-brandy beloved of British
    matrons and Brighton school-girls, taken at Mutton's. Mais revenons
    a nos moutons
. The old mother had taken, not cherry-laurel water,
    nor even cherry-brandy, but joly good ale, and olde, which, far from
    fitting her to reveal the darksome lore of futurity, had rendered her
    loath to leave the festive board of the present. Wrathful was the
    sybil, furious as the Vala when waked by Odin, angry as Thor when he
    missed his hammer, to miss her merriment. “May the devil take the
    old dog for coming when we are eating, and when thou art here, my
    Britannia! Little good fortune will he hear this day. Evil shall be
    the best I'll promise him.” Thus spake the sorceress, and out she
    went to keep her word. Truly it was a splendid picture this of “The
    Enraged Witch,” as painted by Hexenmeister von Teufel, of
    Hollenstadt,—her viper eyes flashing infernal light and most
    unchristian fire, shaking les noirs serpents de ses cheveux, as she
    went forth. I know how, in an instant, her face was beautiful with
    welcome, smiling like a Neapolitan at a cent; but the poor believer
    caught it hot, all the same, and had a sleepless night over his
    future fate. I wonder if the Pythoness of old, when summoned from a
    petit souper, or a holy prophet called out of bed of a cold night,
    to decide by royal command on the fate of Israel, ever “took it out”
    on the untimely king by promising him a lively, unhappy time of it.
    Truly it is fine to be behind the scenes and see how they work the
    oracle. For the gentleman who came to consult my witch was a man of
    might in the secrets of state, and one whom I have met in high
    society. And, oh! if he had known who it was that was up-stairs,
    laughing at him for a fool!
          While she was forth, A. asked me, “Do you tell fortunes, or what?”
    “My sister,” I replied, “I'll tell thee the truth. I do tell
    fortunes. I keep a house for the purchase of stolen goods. I am
    largely engaged in making counterfeit money and all kinds of forgery.
    I am interested in burglary. I lie, swear, cheat, and steal, and get
    drunk on Sunday. And I do many other things. I am a real Romany
    witch.” This little confession of faith brought down the house.
    “Bravo! bravo!” they cried, laughing.
          Sister and I had brought a great tipsy-cake for the children, and
    they were all sitting under a table, eating it. It was a pretty
    picture. I thought I saw in it myself and all my sisters and
    brothers as we were once. Just such little gypsies and duckling
    Romanys! And now! And then! What a comedy some lives are,—yea,
    such lives as mine! And now it is you who are behind the scenes;
    anon, I shall change with you. Va Pierre, vient Pierette. Then
    I surprised a little brown maiden imp of five summers stealing my
    beer, and as she was caught in the act, and tore away shrieking with
    laughter, she looked, with her great black eyes and flowing jetty
    curling locks, like a perfect little Bacchante.
          Then we said, “Thank you for the happy time!” “Good luck!” and “Good
    day!” giving our promises to come again. So we went home all well.
    I hope to see you at the races here. Good luck and good-night also
    to you.
          Always your friend,
                           BRITANNIA LEE
      I have somewhat abbreviated the Romany text of this letter, and Miss Lee herself has somewhat polished and enlarged the translation, which is strictly fit and proper, she being a very different person in English from what she is in gypsy, as are most of her kind. This letter may be, to many, a strange lesson, a quaint essay, a social problem, a fable, an epigram, or a frolic,—just as they choose to take it. To me it is a poem. Thou, my friend, canst easily understand why all that is wild and strange, out-of-doors, far away by night, is worthy of being Tennysoned or Whitmanned. If there be given unto thee stupendous blasted trees, looking in the moonlight like the pillars of a vast and ghostly temple; the fall of cataracts down awful rocks; the wind wailing in wondrous language or whistling Indian melody all night on heath, rocks, and hills, over ancient graves and through lonely caves, bearing with it the hoot of the night-owl; while over all the stars look down in eternal mystery, like eyes reading the great riddle of the night which thou knowest not,—this is to thee like Ariel's song. To me and to us there are men and women who are in life as the wild river and the night-owl, as the blasted tree and the wind over ancient graves. No man is educated until he has arrived at that state of thought when a picture is quite the same as a book, an old gray-beard jug as a manuscript, men, women, and children as libraries. It was but yester morn that I read a cuneiform inscription printed by doves' feet in the snow, finding a meaning where in by-gone years I should have seen only a quaint resemblance. For in this by the ornithomanteia known of old to the Chaldean sages I saw that it was neither from arrow-heads or wedges which gave the letters to the old Assyrians. When thou art at this point, then Nature is equal in all her types, and the city, as the forest, full of endless beauty and piquancy,—in saecula saeculorum.
      I had written the foregoing, and had enveloped and directed it to be mailed, when I met in a lady-book entitled “Magyarland” with the following passages:—
          “The gypsy girl in this family was a pretty young woman, with masses
    of raven hair and a clear skin, but, notwithstanding her neat dress
    and civilized surroundings, we recognized her immediately. It is, in
    truth, not until one sees the Romany translated to an entirely new
    form of existence, and under circumstances inconsistent with their
    ordinary lives, that one realizes how completely different they are
    from the rest of mankind in form and feature. Instead of disguising,
    the garb of civilization only enhances the type, and renders it the
    more apparent. No matter what dress they may assume, no matter what
    may be their calling, no matter whether they are dwellers in tents or
    houses, it is impossible for gypsies to disguise their origin. Taken
    from their customary surroundings, they become at once an anomaly and
    an anachronism, and present such an instance of the absurdity of
    attempting to invert the order of nature that we feel more than ever
    how utterly different they are from the human race; that there is a
    key to their strange life which we do not possess,—a secret free
    masonry that renders them more isolated than the veriest savages
    dwelling in the African wilds,—and a hidden mystery hanging over
    them and their origin that we shall never comprehend. They are
    indeed a people so entirely separate and distinct that, in whatever
    clime or quarter of the globe they may be met with, they are
    instantly recognized; for with them forty centuries of association
    with civilized races have not succeeded in obliterating one single
    sign.”
                           * * * * *
          “Alas!” cried the princess; “I can never, never find the door of the
    enchanted cavern, nor enter the golden cavern, nor solve its
    wonderful mystery. It has been closed for thousands of years, and it
    will remain closed forever.”
          “What flowers are those which thou holdest?” asked the hermit.
          “Only primroses or Mary's-keys, {285} and tulips,” replied the
    princess.
          “Touch the rock with them,” said the hermit, “and the door will
    open.”
                           * * * * *
      The lady writer of “Magyarland” held in her hand all the while, and knew it not, a beautiful primrose, which might have opened for her the mysterious Romany cavern. On a Danube steamboat she saw a little blind boy sitting all day all alone: only a little Slavonian peasant boy, “an odd, quaint little specimen of humanity, with loose brown garments, cut precisely like those of a grown-up man, and his bits of feet in little raw-hide moccasins.” However, with a tender, gentle heart she began to pet the little waif. And the captain told her what the boy was. “He is a guslar, or minstrel, as they call them in Croatia. The Yougo-Slavs dedicate all male children who are born blind, from infancy, to the Muses. As soon as they are old enough to handle anything, a small mandolin is given them, which they are taught to play; after which they are taken every day into the woods, where they are left till evening to commune in their little hearts with nature. In due time they become poets, or at any rate rhapsodists, singing of the things they never saw, and when grown up are sent forth to earn their livelihood, like the troubadours of old, by singing from place to place, and asking alms by the wayside.
      “It is not difficult for a Slav to become a poet; he takes in poetic sentiment as a river does water from its source. The first sounds he is conscious of are the words of his mother singing to him as she rocks his cradle. Then, as she watches the dawning of intelligence in his infant face, her mother language is that of poetry, which she improvises at the moment, and though he never saw the flowers nor the snow-capped mountains, nor the flowing streams and rivers, he describes them out of his inner consciousness, and the influence which the varied sounds of nature have upon his mind.”
      Rock and river and greenwood tree, sweet-spiced spring flower, rustling grass, and bird-singing nature and freedom,—this is the secret of the poets' song and of the Romany, and there is no other mystery in either. He who sleeps on graves rises mad or a poet; all who lie on the earth, which is the grave and cradle of nature, and who live al fresco, understand gypsies as well as my lady Britannia Lee. Nay, when some natures take to the Romany they become like the Norman knights of the Pale, who were more Paddyfied than the Paddies themselves. These become leaders among the gypsies, who recognize the fact that one renegade is more zealous than ten Turks. As for the “mystery” of the history of the gypsies, it is time, sweet friends, that 't were ended. When we know that there is to-day, in India, a sect and set of Vauriens, who are there considered Gipsissimae, and who call themselves, with their wives and language and being, Rom, Romni, and Romnipana, even as they do in England; and when we know, moreover, that their faces proclaim them to be Indian, and that they have been a wandering caste since the dawn of Hindu history, we have, I trow, little more to seek. As for the rest, you may read it in the great book of Out-of Doors, capitulo nullo folio nigro, or wherever you choose to open it, written as distinctly, plainly, and sweetly as the imprint of a school-boy's knife and fork on a mince-pie, or in the uprolled rapture of the eyes of Britannia when she inhaleth the perfume of a fresh bunch of Florentine violets. Ite missa est.