few, some weaknesses of their own. The Gi-guage. Jockeyism, and, as Mr. Borrow contanos, for instance, laugh at the superstitions ceives, horse-racing, are of gypsy origin. Jocof the Sqaniards, and yet they themselves at- keyism means properly the management of the tribute to the loadstone-La Bar Lachi-all whip; and the word "jockey," slightly altered, sorts of miraculous powers. Its quality of at- is their term for the large whip, with which tracting steel probably excited the wonder of they are generally seen. Horse-racing, as practhe early gypsies, and hence, perhaps, their tised in England, has so much of the gypsy traditional regard for it. They believe that stamp about it, that we think its descent is eviwhoever is possessed of it, has "nothing to dent. The words hoax and hocus, now fixed fear from steel or lead, from fire or water; in our language, are directly taken from the and that death itself has no power over him." gypsy, and the practice which they describe Hence, horse-stealers and gypsy contrabandistas, seems to be of the same parentage. The slang of every sort, are anxious to have one about expressions are mostly gypsy. "Rum chap," them when on duty. There is in the museum is from 66 rom chabo," a gypsy lad. The word of natural curiosities at Madrid, a large piece" "castor" is from "castorro,' a hat. And of loadstone, brought from the mines of Ame-"ninny," from "ninelo," a fool. rica. Every Gitano there is well aware of this, and, accordingly, numberless have been the attempts to steal it. The prevalence of such a gross credulity amongst those, who in other respects are devoid alike of faith and superstition, appears to afford quite a new illustration of mental infirmity. Our readers may possibly elevate their eyebrows, while we apprise them, that the gypsies have exerted a very material influence on certain sections of the upper classes in England; and have, besides, made accessions to our lan In closing our account of the gypsies, we would fain hope, that when many read of these mysterious tribes, who, without the bond of religion, the remnant of a literature, the memory of any thing-still live in the midst of other nations, separate and distinct; that they are numerous and far-diffused; that they are wretched, godless, and depraved-we try to hope, that when numbers read what is so well put forward in the work of Mr. Borrow, some may be moved to efforts, as earnest as his, for the amelioration of their condition. ORIGINAL ARTICLES. SELECTED FROM THE MAGAZINES. THE LAST OF THE SHEPHERDS. I WISH I had lived in France in 1672! It was the age of romances in twenty volumes, and flowing periwigs, and high-heeled shoes, and hoops, and elegance, and wit, and rouge, and literary suppers, and gallantry, and devotion. What names are those of La Calprenède, and D'Urfé, and De Scuderi, to be the idols and tutelary deities of a circulating library!and Sevigné, to conduct the fashionable correspondence of the Morning Post!-and Racine, to contribute to the unacted drama!-and ladies skipping up the steepest parts of Parnassus, with petticoats well tucked up, to show the beauty of their ancles, and their hands filled with artificial flowers-almost as good as natural-to show the simplicity of their tastes! I wish I had lived in France in 1672; for in that year Madame Deshoulieres, who had already been voted the tenth muse by all the freeholders of Pieria, and whose pastorals were lisped by all the fashionable shepherdesses in Paris, left the flowery banks of the Seine to rejoin her husband. Monsieur Deshoulieres was in Guyenne: Madame Deshoulieres went into Dauphiné. Matrimony seems to be rather hurtful to geographical studies; but Madame Deshoulieres was a poetess; and in spite of the thirty-eight summers that shaded the lustre of her cheek, she was beautiful, and was still in the glow of youth by her grace and her talent, and her heart. Wherever she moved she left crowds of Corydons and Alexises; but, luckily for M. Deshoulieres, their whole conversation was about sheep. The two Mesdemoiselles Deshoulieres, Madeleine and Bribri, were beautiful girls of seventeen or eighteen, brought up in all the innocent pastoralism of their mother. They believed in all the poetical descriptions they read in her eclogues. They expected to see shepherds playing on their pipes, and shepherdesses dancing, and naiads reclining on the shady banks of clearrunning rivers. They were delighted to get out of the prosaic atmosphere of Paris; and all the three were overjoyed when they sprang from their carriage, one evening in May, at the chateau of Madame d'Urtis on the banks of the Lignon. Though there were occasional showers at that season, the mornings were splendid; and accordingly the travellers were up almost by daylight, to tread the grass still trembling 'neath the steps of Astrea-to see the fountain, that mirror where the shepherdesses wove wild-flowers into their hair-and to explore the wood, still vocal with the complaints of Celadon. In one of their first excursions, Madeleine Deshoulieres, impatient to see some of the scenes so gracefully described by her mother, asked if they were really not to encounter a single shepherd on the banks of the Lignon? Madame Deshoulieres perceived, at no great distance, a herdsman and cow-girl playing at chuckfarthing; and, after a pause, replied "Behold upon the verdant grass so sweet, The shepherdess is at her shepherd's feet! Her arms are bare, her foot is small and white, The very oxen wonder at the sight; Her locks half bound, half floating in the air, And gown as light as those that satyrs wear." While these lines were given in Madame Deshoulieres' inimitable recitative, the party had come close to the rustic pair. "People may well say," muttered Madeleine, "that the pictures of Nature are always best at a distance. Can it be pos sible that this is a shepherdess-a shepherdess of Lignon?" The shepherdess was in reality a poor little peasant girl, unkempt, unshorn, with hands of prodigious size, a miraculous squint, and a mouth which probably had a beginning, but of which it was impossible to say where it might end. The shepherd was worthy of his companion; and yet there was something in the extravagant stupidity of his fat and florid countenance that was interesting to a Parisian eye. Madame Deshoulieres, who was too much occupied with the verses of the great D'Urfé to attend to what was before her, continued her description"The birds all round her praises ever sing, And 'neath her steps the flowers incessant spring." "Your occupation here is delightful, isn't it?” said Madeleine to the peasant girl. "No, 'tain't, miss-that it ain't. I gets nothing for all I does, and when I goes hoam at night I gets a good licking into the bargain." "And you?" enquired Madeleine, turning to the herdsman, who was slinking off. "I'm a little b-b-b-etter off nor hur," said the man, stuttering, "for I gets board and lodging dasht if I doesn't-but I gets bread like a stone, and s-s-sleeps below a hedge-dasht if I doesn't." "But where are your sheep, shepherd?" said Bribri. "Hain't a got none," stuttered the man again, "dasht if I has." and skipping in the meadows on the banks of the Lignon, O Celadon?" But Madame Deshoulieres was too much of a poetess to hear or see what was going on. She thought of nothing but the loves of Astrea, and heard nothing but the imaginary songs of contending Damons. On their return to the chateau, Madeleine and Bribri complained that they had seen neither flock nor shepherdess. "And are you anxious to see them?" enquired Madame D'Urtis, with a smile. "Oh, very," exclaimed Bribri;" "we expected to live like shepherdesses when we came here. I have brought every thing a rustic wants." "And so have I," continued Madeleine; "I have brought twenty yards of rose-coloured ribands, and twenty yards of blue, to ornament my crook and the handsomest of my ewes." "Well then," said the Duchess d'Urtis, goodnaturedly, "there are a dozen of sheep feeding at the end of the park. Take the key of the gate, and drive them into the meadows beyond." Madeleine and Bribri were wild with joy, while their mother was labouring in search of a rhyme, and did not attend to the real eclogue which was about to be commenced. They scarcely took time to breakfast. They dressed themselves coquettishly"-so Madame Deshoulieres wrote to Mascaron-"they cut with their own hands a crook a-piece in the park-they beautified them with ribands. Madeleine was for the blue ribands, Bribri for the rose colour. Oh, the gentle shepherdesses! they spent a whole hour in finding a name they liked. At last, Madeleine fixed on Amaranthe, Bribri on Daphne. I have just seen them gliding among the trees that overshadow the lovely stream. -Poor shepherdesses! be on your guard against the wolves:" At noon that very day Madeleine and Bribri, or rather Amaranthe and Daphneè, in grey silk petticoats and satin bodies, with their beautiful hair in a state of most careful disorder, and with their crooks in hand, conducted the twelve sheep out of the park into the meadows. The flock, which seemed to be very hungry, were rather troublesome and disobedient. The shepherdesses did all they could to keep them in the proper path. It was a delicious mixture of bleatings, and laughter, and baaings, and pastoral songs. The happy girls inhaled the soul of nature, as their poetical mamma expressed it. They ran-they threw themselves on the blooming grass-they looked at themselves in the limpid waters of the Lignon-they gathered lapfulls of primroses. The flock made the best use of their time: and every now and then a sheep of more observation than the rest, perceiving they were guarded by such extraordinary shepherdesses, took half an hour's diversion among the fresh-springing corn. "That's one of yours," said Amaranthe. "No: 'tis yours," replied Daphne; but, by way of having no difficulties in future, they resolved to divide the flock, and ornament one-half with blue collars, and the other with rose-colour. And they gave a name also to each of the members of their flock, such as Melibus, and Jeannot, and Robin, and Blanchette. Twelve more poetical sheep were never fed on grass before. When the sun began to sink, the shepherdesses brought back their flocks. Madame Deshoulieres cried with joy. "Oh, my dear girls!" she said, kissing their fair foreheads; "it is you that have composed an eclogue, and not I." "Nothing is wanting to the picture," said the Duchess, seating herself under the willows of the watering-place, and admiring the graceful girls. "I think we want a dog," said Daphne. "No; we are rather in want of a wolf," whispered the beautiful Amaranthe-and blushed. CHAPTER II. Not far from the Chateau d'Urtis, the old manor-house of Langevy raised its pointed turrets above the surrounding woods. There, in complete isolation from the world, lived Monsieur de Langevy, his old mother, and his young son. M. de Langevy had struggled against the storms and misfortunes of human life; he now reposed in the bosom of solitude, with many a regret over his wife and his youth his valiant sword and his adventures. His son, Hector Henri de Langevy, had studied under the Jesuits at Lyons till he was eighteen. Accustomed to the indulgent tenderness of his grandmother, he had returned, about two years before, determined to live in his quiet home without troubling himself about the military glories that had inspired his father. M. de Langevy, though he disapproved of the youth's choice, did not interfere with it, except that he insisted on his sometimes following the chase, as the next best occupation to actual war. The chase had few charms for Hector. It perhaps might have had more, if he had not been forced to arm himself with an enormous fowling-piece that had belonged to one of his ancestors, the very sight of which alarmed him a mighty deal more than the game. He was so prodigious a sportsman, that, after six months' practice, he was startled as much as ever by the whirr of a partridge. But don't imagine, on this account, that Hector's time was utterly wasted. He mused and dreamed, and fancied it would be so pleasant to be in love; for he was at that golden age-the only golden age the world has ever seen-when the heart passes from vision to vision (as the bee from flower to flower) -and wanders, in its dreams of hope, from earth to heaven, from sunshine to shade -from warbling groves to sighing maidens. But, alas! the heart of Hector searched in vain for sighing maidens in the woods of Langevy. In the chateau, there was no one but an old housekeeper, who had probably not sighed for thirty years, and a chubby scullion-maid—all unworthy of a soul that dreamed romances on the banks of the Lignon. He counted greatly on a cousin from Paris, who had promised them a visit in the spring. In the meantime, he paced up and down with a gun on his shoulder, pretending to be a sportsman-happy We will give him a crook and a bouquet of flowers." "Oh, just the thing!" exclaimed the innocent Daphne. "We need a shepherd: and yet, no, no”- she added, for she was a little jealous of her sister-tis a lucky thing there is a river between us." "I hope he will find a bridge per passar il rio d'amor." Now, just at that moment Hector's mind was set on passing the river of Love. In casting his eyes all round in search of a passage, he perceived an old willow half thrown across the stream. With a little courage and activity, it was a graceful and poetical bridge. Hector resolved to try it. He rose and went right onward towards the tree; but, when he arrived, he could'nt help reflecting that, at that season, the river was immensely deep. He disdained the danger-sprang lightly up the trunk, and flung himself along one of the branches, dropping, happily without any accident, on the meadow of the Chateau d'Urtis. Little more was left for him to do; and that little he did. He went towards the fair shepherdesses. He tried to overcome his timidity-he overwhelmed the first sheep of the flock with his insidious caresses-and then, finding himself within a few feet of Amaranthe-he bowed, and smiled, and said, "Mademoiselle." in his hopes, happy in the clear sunshine, happy | because he knew no better-as happens to a great many other people in the gay days of their youth, in this most unjustly condemned and vilipended world. And now you will probably guess what occurred one day he was walking in his usual dreamy state of abstraction, and as nearly as possible tumbled head foremost into the Lignon. By dint of marching straight on, without minding either hedge or ditch, he found himself, when he awakened from his reverie, with his right foot raised, in the very act of stepping off the bank into the water. He stood stock-still, in that somewhat unpicturesque attitude-his mouth wide open, his eyes strained, and his cheek glowing with all the colours of the rainbow. He had caught a glimpse of our two enchanting shepherdesses on the other side of the stream, who were watching his movements by stealth. He blushed far redder than he had ever done before, and hesitated whether he should retreat or advance. To retreat, he felt, would look rather awkward: at the same time, he thought it would be too great a price to pay for his honour to jump into the river. And, besides, even if he got over to the other side, would he have courage to speak to them? Altogether, I think he acted more wisely, though less chivalrously, than some might have done in his place. He laid down his gun, and seated himself on the bank, and looked at the sheep as they fed on the opposite side. At twenty years of age, love travels at an amazing pace; and Hector felt that he was already over head and ears with one of the fair shep-| herdesses. He did not stop to examine which of Hector had prepared a complimentary speech them it was; it was of no consequence-suf- for a young lady attending a flook of sheep ficient for him that he knew he was in love--but he hadn't a word to say to a shepgone-captivated. If he had been twenty years herdess. older, he would perhaps have admired them both: it would have been less romantic, but decidedly more wise. It is not to be denied that Amaranthe and Daphne blushed a little, too, at this sort of half-meeting with Hector. They hung down their heads in the most captivating manner, and continued silent for some time. But at last Amaranthe, more lively than her sister, recommenced her chatter. "Look, Bribri," she said -"Daphne I mean he is one of the silvan deities, or perhaps Narcissus looking at himself in the water. "Rather say, looking at you," replied Daphne, with a blush. "Tis Pan hiding himself in the oziers till you are metamorphosed into a flute, dear Daphne." "Not so, fair sister," replied Daphne; "tis Endymion in pursuit of the shepherdess Amaranthe." "At his present pace, the pursuit will last some time. If he weren't quite so rustic, he would be a captivating shepherd, with his long brown ringlets. He has not moved for an hour. What if he has taken root like a hamadryad?" "Poor fellow!" said Daphne, in the simplest tone in the world; "he looks very dull all by himself." "He must come over to us-that's very plain. He was suddenly interrupted by a clear and silvery voice. "There are no Mesdemoiselles here-there are only two shepherdesses, Amaranthe and Daphne." He bowed again, and there was a pause. "Fair Amaranthe," he said-"and fair Daphne, will you permit a mortal to tread these flowery plains?' Amaranthe received the speech with a smile, in which a little raillery was mingled. You speak like a true shepherd," she said. But Daphne was more good-natured, and more touched with the politeness of the sportsman. She cast her eyes on the ground and blushed. "Oh-if you wish to pass through these meadows," she said-"we shall be"- 66 We were going to do the honours of our reception room," continued Amaranthe, "and offer you a seat on the grass." "Tis too much happiness to throw myself at your feet," replied Hector, casting himself on one knee. But he had not looked where he knelt; and he broke Daphne's crook. "Oh, my poor crook!" she said—and sighed. "What have I done?" cried Hector. "I am distressed at my stupidity-I will cut you another from the ash grove below. But you loved this crook," he added-"the gift, perhaps, of some shepherd-some shepherd?- no, some prince: for you yourselves are princesses-or fairies." "We are nothing but simple shepherdesses," said Amaranthe. "You are nothing but beautiful young ladies from the capital," said Hector, "on a visit at the Chateau d'Urtis. Heaven be praised-for in my walks I shall at least catch glimpses of you at a distance, if I dare not come near. I shall see you glinting among the trees like enchantresses of old." "Yes, we are Parisians, as you have guessed -but retired for ever from the world and its deceitful joys." Amaranthe had uttered the last words in a declamatory tone; you might have thought them a quotation from her mamma. "You complain rather early, methinks," replied Hector, with a smile; "have you indeed much fault to find with the world?" "That is our secret, fair sportsman," answered Amaranthe; "but it seems you also live retired -an eremite forlorn." "I? fair Amaranthe? I have done nothing but dream of the delights of a shepherd's life though I confess I had given up all hopes of seeing a good-looking shepherdess - but now I shall go back more happily than ever to my day-dreams. Ah! why can't I help you to guard your flock?" The two young girls did not know what to say to this proposition, Daphne at last replied"Our flock is very small- and quite ill enough attended to as it is." "What joy for me to become Daphnis-to sing to you, and gather roses, and twine them in your hair!" "Let us say no more," interrupted Amaranthe, a little disquieted at the sudden ardour of Daphnis; "the sun is going down: we must return to the park. Adieu," she added, rising to go away. "Adieu, Daphnis!" murmured the tender Daphne, confushed and blusing. Hector did not dare to follow them. He stood for a quarter of an hour with his eyes fixed first on them, and then on the door of the park. His heart beat violently, his whole soul pursued the steps of the shepherd esses. "Adieu, Daphnis,' the lovely Daphne said to me. I hear her sweet voice still! How beautiful she is! how beautiful they are, bothAmaranthe is more graceful, but Daphne is more winning-bright eyes-white hands! sweet smiles! and the delicious dress, so simple, yet so captivating! the white corset that I could not venture to look at-the gown of silk that couldn't hide the points of the charming little feet. 'Tis witchery-enchantment-Venus and Diana-I shall inevitably go mad. Ah, cousin! you ought to have come long ago, and all this might never have occurred." The sun had sunk behind a bed of clouds--the nightingale began its song, and the fresh green leaves rustled beneath the mild breath of the evening breeze. The bee hummed joyously on its homeward way, loaded with the sweets of the spring flowers. Down in the valley, the voice of the hinds driving their herds to rest, increased the rustic concert; the river rippled on beneath the mysterious shade of old fantastic trees, and the air was filled with soft noises, and rich perfumes, and the voice of birds. There was no room in Hector's heart for all these natural enjoyments. "To-morrow," he said, kissing the broken crook-"I will come back again to-morrow." CHAPTER III. alarming extent-and-in short-he held out his crook to Daphne. As that young shepherdess had no crook of her own, and did not know how to refuse the one he offered, she took it, though her hand trembled a little, and looked at Madame Deshoulieres. Early in the following morning, Hector wan- age! 'Twas too much; but his retreat was indered along the banks of the Lignon, with a stantly cut off. He stood at bay, blushed with fresh-cut crook in his hand. He looked to the all his might, but saluted the ladies as manfully door of the Park d'Urtis, expecting every moas if he had been a page. He received three ment to see the glorious apparitions of the day most gracious curtsies in return-only three; before. And at stroke of noon, a lamb rushing for Daphne wished to pass on without taking through the gate, careered along the meadow, any notice-which he considered a very favourand the eleven others ran gayly after it, amidst able omen. He did not know how to begin a a peal of musical laughter from Amaranthe. conversation; and besides, he began to get conDaphne did not laugh. The moment she cross-fused; and his blushing increased to a most ed the threshold, she glanced stealthily towards the river. "I thought so," she murmured; Daphnis, in a transport of joy, was hurrying to the shepherdesses, when he was suddenly interrupted by Madame Deshoulieres and the Duchess d'Urtis. When the sisters had returned, on the evening before, Amaranthe, to Daphne's great discomfiture, had told word for word all that had occurred; how that a young sportsman had joined them, and how they had talked and laughed; and Madame d'Urtis had no doubt, from the description, that it was Hector de Langevy. Amaranthe having added to the story, that she felt certain, in spite of Daphne's declarations to the contrary, that he would meet them again, the seniors had determined to watch the result. Hector would fain have made his escape; two ladies he might have faced, but four-and two of them above thirty years of "I broke your crook yesterday, fair Daphne," said Hector, "but it is not lost. I shall make a relic of it-more precious than-than-” but the bones of the particular saint he was about to name stuck in his throat, and be was silent. "Monsieur de Langevy," said Madame d'Urtis kindly, "since you make such a point of aiding these shepherdesses in guarding the flock, I hope in an hour you will accompany them to the castle to lunch." "I'll go with them wherever you allow me, madam," said Hector. (I wonder if the impu |