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gypsies has set down all he knows and he learned from them. They have few traditions, and those of no importance; their literature is the very scantiest that ever adorned a people, and their proverbs, though some of them, as we have seen, are good, amount, when they are all written down, to no more than Sancho Panza would reel off in the course of a ten minutes' sitting on the seat of Justice in Barataria. Their latest admirers, Messrs. Leland and Palmer, doubtless feeling that the belongings of gypsydom wanted completeness, have attempted to remedy this baldness by the creation of a purely Rommany literature. There was once a French

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poet who married, not all at once, but in succession, no fewer than three servant-girls. Partly to escape the obvious ridicule which attached to sq. literal an obedience to the well-known Horatian advice,

this divine bard gave out that his third wife was a genius,

and published verses, written by himself, under his wife's name. No one failed to see through the trick, but the poet's vanity was gratified.

This is not quite what Charles Leland, Professor Palmer, and Miss Janet Tuckey have done,

but it is something like it.

We could almost have wished

that they had published these volumes as a professed collection of genuine Rommany

songs, translated by three Gorgios. Then we might have had a very pretty controversy like that over Ossian.

It may not yet be too late.

Meantime they have produced a book full of their own poems in Rommany and English,

which reminds one of Sterne's celebrated tale from the collections of Slawkenbergius, inasmuch as it is impossible

to tell whether the English or the Rommany was written first. Let us take one as an example of the poetry a gypsy might make—if he was not a gypsy, and knew how. It is a spirited little sketch by that learned pundit, who, when he is not reading Sinaitic inscriptions, loves to sit on the grass and talk to the Rommany folk :

“Mebbe you've heard it's the Rommany way

To say that religion lies;

But I know it's all true what the parsons say,

For I saw the Devil himself one day,

With these 'ere blessed eyes.

nung ARIAN GYP8ies on The mowe.

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"I was campin' out in a field one night,

“But-hang them magistrates, I suyl-
But I couldn't sleep one wink;

By my dead father this I swears:
For I suddenly got a sort of a fright,

The chap as took that horse away
And I fancied the donkey warn't all right-

Ain't in the shirt that Matthew wears!
Now 'twas prophecy, that, I think.

Why didn't I give evidence,
“Then I says, 'I'll take a look around,'

If I knew that? Ah, there's the rub;
So out in the air I went,

I couldn't speak for the defense,
And then in the dim half light I found

'Cos my old man had done the job.
That the donkey was standin' safe and sound,
A-grazin' outside the tent.

" He oughter proved a hali bi,

Said where he'd been and what about?
Come up,' I says, says I to the moke,

Poor fellow! Ah, he dursn't try;
For him and me was friends;

They'd hang him if they found that out."
An' he allus knew me when I spoke,
An' he used to canter up and peko

I think these verses unrivaled in their suggestiveness,
His nose into my hands.

especially the last

Mr. Leland's contributions to this unique volúme par" But this 'ere time, and I needn't say That I thought it rather rum,

take of Professor Palmer's realism and Miss Tuckey's senThough he stood as still as a lump of clay,

timent. He is the pbilosopber of Rommany; he thinks, Yet the furder he seemed to get away

which no gypsy ever did yet. Thus, is this a likely sort The nigher I tried to come.

of thing to find in Rommany? The gypsies, turned out * At last he wandered out of sight,

of one encampment, make themselves equally happy in And I know when day came round,

another. That the donkey I'd followed all through the night

" And as they settled down below,
Was the Devil himself-for when 'twas light

I could but think upon the bliss
I saw my own in the pound.

'Twould be to many men I know,

To move as lightly 'out of this.'
“It's a wrong idea, most folks have got,

Out of this life of morning calls,"
That Rommany chaps like me

And weary work and wasted breath;
Haven't any dear God to look after the lot;

Thəso prison cells of pictured walls,
For the Devil ho tempts us quite as hot

When they are always bored to death.""
As any one else you 200."

Charles Leland tells his stories-racy stories, too, most This is a real story, told by a gypsy in Suffolk, who of them—with the entrain and vigor which belong to him, firmly believed that he had actually seen the devil in the but he adds to the gypsy narrative that indescribable likeness of his own donkey. Why not?

touch which marks the Gorgio. He has not been able to This little volume of verse is full of good reading. The escape from himself. three writers' seem to have divided their work on a regular We can scarcely hope that the. Rommany folk will take plan. Miss Tuckey took the sentiment. She tells how this book to themselves and assimilate its contents. That the lady of the Gorgios, the Queen, sent knitted socks and would be a literary phenomenon without a parallel. blankets for the twins born in Windsor Park. She touches Poems have been written in the Creole patois of Maurithe fountain of tears, and tries, not unsuccessfully, to show tius, Bourbon, and Trinidad, but the negroes and mulathow these ignorant wanderers may feel what beauty, pictoes have not taken to singing them. Still the work turesqueness and pathos liealong their lives. It is overdone, deserves to live as a monument of literary ingenuity, and perhaps ; if gypsies talked and felt as Miss Tuckey does, a tribute to the possibilities of the Rommany tongue. they would not be gypsies any longor. Professor Palmer, Before many years the book will be a funeral monuon the other hand, gives his gypsies as they are, without ment, a sepulchre in which the language of an extinct any varnish. The Roman folk, with him, are the grown- race will lie enshrined. Our grandchildren will never see up children which Leland calls them. One of them has the gypsy tent; that kettle which suggests unbounded his hatchet taken from him, and cries over it like a child richness of flavor-slung up over the fire of sticks; the over a toy. They tell their tricks and cheateries to each barefooted, brown little children ; the black-eyed "juvas "; other, and look for applause :

the old crone who hobbled to the front, equally ready with

a blessing or a curse; the donkey and the cart. What will “Oh! where have you been, my bonny lad ?"

they sigh after, those bereaved grandchildren, when their *Oh! I have been up at the fair, my boys, With a hack to well,

civilization sits heavy as lead upon them, heavier than it And I cheated sweli,

is upon us ? And all for the love of the gypsy boys."

In these times, when the "world is too much with us," **Oh! where have you been, old mother, to-day ?

we can turn our thoughts to the careless rovers who have on! I have been up at the farm, my boys;

no care about getting or spending, who live for the day, And I needn't say how

and perish like the leaves ; but in what vague envy will doctored a sow,

posterity take refuge? Perhaps there will be no moro Dit all for the love of the gypsy boys.?"

leafy lanes allowed by farmers ; perhaps there will be no they show themselves in their true colors, as innocent of a doubt, there will be no more tramps, Abraham men, They have a dance, and a most enjoyable free fight; green spaces left uncultivated ; perhaps there will be no

forest glades in England; certainly, and without any conscience or a soul as Panurge; as utterly devoid of routers, or Rommany folk. They will all belong to that morality, shame, or religion as any animal of the field; land of shadows where the sonlless Autolycus chants his they live in terror of the law, and lament the absence of

ditty. friends who are in trouble :

* You knows Mat Lovell, sir, of course,
Who lost his wife some years ago ?

WORK is a necessity in one way or another to all of us.
He's took for stealin' of a horse,

Overwork is of our own making, and, like all self-imposed And got three years for doin' so.

burdens, is beyond our strength.


AMONG the countless throng who daily pass and repass Trinity Church, New York, how many know that within a few feet of the crowded thoroughfare of Broadway is a grave which covers all that remains of a once beautiful and fascinating woman, the record of whose sorrows has dimmed the eyes of thousands. No date of birth, no indication of family, and no date of death appear on the stone that covers the grave of Charlotte Temple, whose tragic story, once the theme of every circle, is probably unknown to the greater number of young readers.

The most beautiful girl in New York—so it is claimed— lad attracted the attention of a young officer, a member of one of England's oldest and proudest families, who, with his regiment, entered the city when the British entered New York after the battle of Long Island. Charlotte, then only seventeen, was wooed and won by the young officer. He deserted, and then—the old story—she soon after died of a broken heart. A little daughter which she left was tenderly cared for, and at a proper age was taken to England, had a fortune of $10,000 settled upon her by the head of her father's family, the late Earl of Derby, grandfather of the present Lord Stanley. She, like a true daughter and true woman, returned to New York and erected the monument that now marks the mother's grave. The inscription upon it was engraved upon a solid tablet of brass, an inch in thickness, heavily plated with silver, and thus it read:


The filial duty performed, she returned to England and lived a life of unobtrusive piety and usefulness. The plate placed upon the stone that marked the grave was supposed to be of solid silver, and tempted the cupidity of certain vandals, who, with hammers and chisels, succeeded in prying it from the slab. They were never detected. Many years afterward some good Samaritan caused the simple name of Charlotte Temple to be cut underneath the excavation. There it may be seen, within a few feet of Broadway, by any one who will take the trouble to look through the iron-railing.

THE EAR-SHELL AND THE WOMEN-DIWERS OF JAPAN, THE daily food of 35,000,000 of people who inhabit the Japanese archipelago is fish and cereals. Animal flesh is not a regular article of diet. Millet in the north, rice in the south, with fish for the staple. The good daily food of Ebisu, who was once a fisherman. His idol is found in most houses among the lower classes. All is fish that comes to the Japanese net. Rare is the living thing in the sea that is not put to use. Shark's flesh is chopped into a kind of paste, and sliced carp is eaten raw. Shell-fish are delicacies, and the awabi, or “sea-ear,” is a favorite article of fresh and dried food. It is something like an immense clam, except that it has but one shell, and fastens itself to the rocks below tidewater. Through a row of holes which perforate the shoulder or convex ridge of the shell, it sends out its tentacles, and breathes. From the fact that it holds on to the rock with its stomach, which also serves as a foot, it is called a gastero-pod. Cleansed of its fleshy pulp, the “ear-shell” is often seen in our country, the iridescent surface being used for inlaying fine articles, and for making buttons. It is “mother-o'-pearl,” though in this case the mother has no

children; for I never heard of any gems being found in the haliotis.

Why the men do not go after this kind of game, but leave the women to do the diving, I have never understood. Certain it is that the girls and women excel as divers.

While living in Echizen, on the west coast of Japan, in 1870, I accompanied a party of fishermen to their grounds, and watched the mermaids at their work. Spite of the cold and wind, the women stripped to the waist, being covered below with a short garment of woven straw. Those who went among the rocks, where the boat could not follow, had each a basket strapped to her back, and a knife in her belt.

Deftly plunging into the deep water, they remained under a full minute. Sliding their knives under the shells they tossed them into their baskets, and after a short time swam to the boats and emptied their loads. When the boats could follow them the sculls were shipped, and the waiting-men relieved the divers of their spoil as fast as they came up.


THE two oysters in question measure, one seven inches long and three and a half wide, the other seven and a half inches long and four inches wide. The shells are quite heavy, and for their size the oysters are not so large as might be inferred ; but they were eaten, and the verdict was that one was good and the other fair. The age of an oyster may be reckoned by counting the lines in the depression or groove of the hinge of the bivalve. These

lines truly indicate the layers or annual shell growths, being

really the anterior extremity of the annual shell deposits. Now, in the upper groove there were five of these annual layer-lines in a quarter of an inch, and in the lower groove there were, as nearly as we could make out, three lines and a third of a line in a quarter of an inch, which would give thirty of these annual lines for the upper groove and thirty in the lower groove, all of which would tally with the tradition that the bivalve was thirty years old.

Two points are established by the above : First, the great longevity of the oyster—the specimens were in excellent condition, and there was nothing about them to disprove the belief that if allowed to lie undisturbed they might have lived and grown ten years longer—and second, that an oyster may be good and palatable food at a great age.

CHINESE BEDs.-There are two kinds of Chinese beds, and both are arranged for a complete shutting in by means of hanging-curtains and tapestry. The expensive kind is like a sort of cage, having a flat wooden roof, just the size of the bed proper, supported at a height of about eight feet from the floor on four corner posts and two intermediate ones. Then there is a sort of frieze, or entablature work running around horizontally, above and below, so that when you are in bed you are safely penned in a sort of cage, and cannot possibly tumble out. The carvings on these beds are sometimes very rich, and they cost much ; but the ordinary and cheaper kind is made of two frames of wood, shaped something like the skeleton of an old-fashioned “settle,” which are stood up on the floor, facing each other. A mattress is placed on the projecting parts of these frames, and a couple of slight sticks across the top ; then curtains and hangings shut all in. Inside there is a cotton quilt, laid on the mattress frame. The occupant of the bed lies on this, having a little roll of stuff for the head, and for a covering a thick cotton quilt.


WHEN the ship is but a speck

To the landsman's feeble eye, Sailors, lying on the deck,

Feel at home with sea and sky: When the land's no longer seen

Light of heart the sailor is; Nothing sea and sky between

But that gallant ship of his !

If you ask the truth of Jack

Did he faint, or was he dead ? Was his little soul brought back

By the earnest prayer of Ned ?

Is Jack only in a faint

That his blue eyes open wide
At this rough-and-ready saint

Who, to save him, would have died?
In amazement all start back;

How they look, and listen, too-
"Ned, don't die," says little Jack;

“Who'll masthead me, if you do ?”
So both lived to play their parts;

Death retreated from them far
Sailors have such tender hearts

And such simple creatures are !
And I doubt, when all is said,

Which shows best in white and black:
An old sailor like our Ned

Or a sailor-boy liko Jack !


Pretty Jack, with curly hair,

Sunny eye and sauoy lip, Heart to love and soul to dare,

Is the darling of the ship! Mother's pet at mother's knea

Only yesterday, it seems Now a gailor-boy is he,

Mother seus him but in dreams!

Such a dashing little rogue !

Such a loving little coax! With a tiny touch of brogue,

To enhance his funny jokes; With his childhood's innocence,

And the color of the skies, And a charming impudence

Lighting his audacious eyes !

In a cottage that I know

Both are welcome as the sun;
One, because it must be so-

T'other, for the sake of one:
In the mother's heart and home

Ned may to the best aspire-
I have often seen him come

To his corner by the fire.

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Jack is ailing-all deplore!

Jack is ill and joy has fled;
Jack is dying-ah, no more!

Yes, alas ! for-Jack is dead!
Gray old heads hang down in grief,

O'er rough cheeks tears trickle fast;
Strapping oaths give no relief-

So they turn to prayer at last.
Then an aged seaman said,

“Let me die instead of him;
Take a worn-out craft instead

of a wherry tight and trim:
All my spars are getting loose-

Ropes and rigging are not taut;
Ned is useless-Jack's of use-

Give the thing a moment's thought!"

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