Some first-rate songsters and musicians have been produced among the Gipsies, and whose merits have been acknowledged. Perhaps the highest compliment ever paid to a singer was paid by Catalini herself to one of the daughters of a tanned and tawny skin. It is well known in Russia that the celebrated Italian was so enchanted with the voice of a Moscow Gipsy (who, after the former had displayed her noble talent before a splendid audience in the old Russian capital, stepped forward and poured forth one of her national strains) that she tore from her own shoulders a shawl of cashmere which had been presented to her by the Pope, and, embracing the Gipsy, insisted on her acceptance of the splendid gift, saying that it was intended for the matchless songster, which she now perceived she herself was not. No doubt there are many good voices among our Gipsies; what is required to bring them out is education and culture. Our best Gipsy songsters and musicians are in Wales. The following is a specimen of a Gipsy poetic effusion, which my Gipsy admirers will not consider an extraordinarily high-flown production—the outcome of nearly one million Gipsies who have wandered up and down Europe for more than three hundred years, as related by Borrow. TWO GIPSIES. “Two Gipsy lads were transported, Were sent across the great water; Plato was sent for rioting, And Louis for stealing the purse Of a great lady. “And when they came to the other country, The country that lies across the water, Plato was speedily hung, But Louis was taken as a husband By a great lady. “You wish to know who was the lady: ’Twas the lady from whom he stole the purse; The Gipsy had a black and witching eye, And on account of that she followed him Across the great water.” Smart and Crofton, speaking poetically and romantically of Gipsy life, say as follows:— “With the first spring sunshine comes the old longing to be off, and soon is seen, issuing from his winter quarters, a little cavalcade, tilted cart, bag and baggage, donkeys and dogs, rom, romni, and tickni, chavis, and the happy family is once more under weigh for the open country. With dark, restless eye and coarse, black hair fluttered by the breeze, he slouches along, singing as he goes, in heart, if not in precise words— “I loiter down by thorpe and town, For any job I’m willing; Take here and there a dusty brown, And here and there a shilling.