YANKEE GYPSIES by John Greenleaf Whittier "Here's to budgets, packs, and wallets; Here's to all the wandering train. " BURNS. (1) I CONFESS it, I am keenly sensitive to "skyey influences. " (2) I professno indifference to the movements of that capricious old gentlemanknown as the clerk of the weather. I cannot conceal my interest in thebehavior of that patriarchal bird whose wooden similitude gyrates on thechurch spire. Winter proper is well enough. Let the thermometer goto zero if it will; so much the better, if thereby the very winds arefrozen and unable to flap their stiff wings. Sounds of bells in the keenair, clear, musical, heart-inspiring; quick tripping of fair moccasinedfeet on glittering ice pavements; bright eyes glancing above theuplifted muff like a sultana's behind the folds of her _yashmak;_(3)schoolboys coasting down street like mad Greenlanders; the coldbrilliance of oblique sunbeams flashing back from wide surfaces ofglittering snow, or blazing upon ice jewelry of tree and roof: there isnothing in all this to complain of. A storm of summer has its redeemingsublimities, --its slow, upheaving mountains of cloud glooming in thewestern horizon like new-created volcanoes, veined with fire, shatteredby exploding thunders. Even the wild gales of the equinox have theirvarieties, --sounds of wind-shaken woods and waters, creak and clatterof sign and casement, hurricane puffs, and down-rushing rain-spouts. Butthis dull, dark autumn day of thaw and rain, when the very clouds seemtoo spiritless and languid to storm outright or take themselves out ofthe way of fair weather; wet beneath and above, reminding one ofthat rayless atmosphere of Dante's Third Circle, where the infernalPriessnitz(4) administers his hydropathic torment, -- "A heavy, cursed, and relentless drench, -- The land it soaks is putrid;" or rather, as everything animate and inanimate is seething in warm mist, suggesting the idea that Nature, grown old and rheumatic, is trying theefficacy of a Thomsonian steam-box(5) on a grand scale; no soundssave the heavy plash of muddy feet on the pavements; the monotonous, melancholy drip from trees and roofs; the distressful gurgling ofwaterducts, swallowing the dirty amalgam of the gutters; a dim, leaden-colored horizon of only a few yards in diameter, shutting downabout one, beyond which nothing is visible save in faint line ordark projection; the ghost of a church spire or the eidolon of achimney-pot, --he who can extract pleasurable emotions from thealembic of such a day has a trick of alchemy with which I am whollyunacquainted. (1) From the closing air in _The Jolly Beggars, _ a cantata. (2) "A breath thou art Servile to all the skyey influences, That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st Hourly afflict. " Shakespeare: _Measure for Measure, _ act III. Scene 1. (3) "She turns and turns again, and carefully glances around her on all sides, to see that she is safe from the eyes of Mussulmans, and then suddenly withdrawing the yashmak she shines upon your heart and soul with all the pomp and might of her beauty. " Kinglake's _Eothen, _ chap. Iii. In a note to _Yashmak_ Kinglake explains that it is not a mere semi-transparent veil, but thoroughly conceals all the features except the eyes: it is withdrawn by being pulled down. (4) Vincenz Priessnitz was the originator of the water-cure. After experimenting upon himself and his neighbors he took up the profession of hydropathy and established baths at his native place, Grafenberg in Silesia, in 1829. He died in 1851. (5) Dr. Samuel Thomson, a New Hampshire physician, advocated the use of the steam bath as a restorer of system when diseased. He died in 1843 and left behind an autobiography (_Life and Medical Discoveries_) which contains a record of the persecutions he underwent. Hark! a rap at my door. Welcome anybody just now. One gains nothing byattempting to shut out the sprites of the weather. They come in at thekeyhole; they peer through the dripping panes; they insinuate themselvesthrough the crevices of the casement, or plump down chimney astride ofthe raindrops. I rise and throw open the door. A tall, shambling, loose-jointed figure;a pinched, shrewd face, sun-brown and wind-dried; small, quick-winkingblack eyes, --there he stands, the water dripping from his pulpy hat andragged elbows. I speak to him; but he returns no answer. With a dumb show of misery, quite touching, he hands me a soiled piece of parchment, whereon I readwhat purports to be a melancholy account of shipwreck and disaster, tothe particular detriment, loss, and damnification of one Pietro Frugoni, who is, in consequence, sorely in want of the alms of all charitableChristian persons, and who is, in short, the bearer of this veraciousdocument, duly certified and indorsed by an Italian consul in one ofour Atlantic cities, of a high-sounding, but to Yankee organsunpronounceable, name. Here commences a struggle. Every man, the Mahometans tell us, has twoattendant angels, --the good one on his right shoulder, the bad on hisleft. "Give, " says Benevolence, as with some difficulty I fish up asmall coin from the depths of my pocket. "Not a cent, " says selfishPrudence; and I drop it from my fingers. "Think, " says the good angel, "of the poor stranger in a strange land, just escaped from the terrorsof the sea-storm, in which his little property has perished, thrownhalf-naked and helpless on our shores, ignorant of our language, andunable to find employment suited to his capacity. " "A vile impostor!"replies the left-hand sentinel; "his paper purchased from one of thoseready-writers in New York who manufacture beggar-credentials at the lowprice of one dollar per copy, with earthquakes, fires, or shipwrecks, tosuit customers. " Amidst this confusion of tongues I take another survey of my visitant. Ha! a light dawns upon me. That shrewd, old face, with its sharp, winking eyes, is no stranger to me. Pietro Frugoni, I have seen theebefore. _Si, signor, _ that face of thine has looked at me over a dirtywhite neckcloth, with the corners of that cunning mouth drawn downwards, and those small eyes turned up in sanctimonious gravity, while thou wastoffering to a crowd of half-grown boys an extemporaneous exhortation inthe capacity of a travelling preacher. Have I not seen it peering outfrom under a blanket, as that of a poor Penobscot Indian, who had lostthe use of his hands while trapping on the Madawaska? Is it not the faceof the forlorn father of six small children, whom the "marcury doctors"had "pisened" and crippled? Did it not belong to that down-eastunfortunate who had been out to the "Genesee country"(1) and got the"fevernnager, " and whose hand shook so pitifully when held out toreceive my poor gift? The same, under all disguises, --Stephen Leathers, of Barrington, --him, and none other! Let me conjure him into his ownlikeness:-- (1) The _Genesee country_ is the name by which the western part of NewYork, bordering on Lakes Ontario and Erie, was known, when, at theclose of the last and beginning of this century, it was to people onthe Atlantic coast the Great West. In 1792 communication was opened bya road with the Pennsylvania settlements, but the early settlers werealmost all from New England. "Well, Stephen, what news from old Barrington?" "Oh, well, I thought I knew ye, " he answers, not the least disconcerted. "How do you do? and how's your folks? All well, I hope. I took this'ere paper, you see, to help a poor furriner, who could n't make himselfunderstood any more than a wild goose. I though I'd just start himfor'ard a little. It seemed a marcy to do it. " Well and shiftily answered, thou ragged Proteus. One cannot be angrywith such a fellow. I will just inquire into the present state of hisGospel mission and about the condition of his tribe on the Penobscot;and it may be not amiss to congratulate him on the success of thesteam-doctors in sweating the "pisen" of the regular faculty out of him. But he evidently has no wish to enter into idle conversation. Intentupon his benevolent errand he is already clattering down stairs. Involuntarily I glance out of the window just in season to catch asingle glimpse of him ere he is swallowed up in the mist. He has gone; and, knave as he is, I can hardly help exclaiming, "Luckgo with him!" He has broken in upon the sombre train of my thoughtsand called up before me pleasant and grateful recollections. The oldfarm-house nestling in its valley; hills stretching off to the south andgreen meadows to the east; the small stream which came noisily down itsravine, washing the old garden-wall and softly lapping on fallen stonesand mossy roots of beeches and hemlocks; the tall sentinel poplars atthe gateway; the oak-forest, sweeping unbroken to the northern horizon;the grass-grown carriage-path, with its rude and crazy bridge, --thedear old landscape of my boyhood lies outstretched before me like adaguerreotype from that picture within, which I have borne with me inall my wanderings. I am a boy again, once more conscious of the feeling, half terror, half exultation, with which I used to announce the approachof this very vagabond and his "kindred after the flesh. " The advent of wandering beggars, or "old stragglers, " as we were wontto call them, was an event of no ordinary interest in the generallymonotonous quietude of our farm-life. Many of them were well known; theyhad their periodical revolutions and transits; we would calculate themlike eclipses or new moons. Some were sturdy knaves, fat and saucy; and, whenever they ascertained that the "men folks" were absent, would orderprovisions and cider like men who expected to pay for them, seatingthemselves at the hearth or table with the air of Falstaff, --"ShallI not take mine ease in mine inn?" Others, poor, pale, patient, likeSterne's monk, (1) came creeping up to the door, hat in hand, standingthere in their gray wretchedness with a look of heartbreak andforlornness which was never without its effect on our juvenilesensibilities. At times, however, we experienced a slight revulsion offeeling when even these humblest children of sorrow somewhat petulantlyrejected our proffered bread and cheese, and demanded instead a glass ofcider. Whatever the temperance society might in such cases have done, it was not in our hearts to refuse the poor creatures a draught oftheir favorite beverage; and was n't it a satisfaction to see their sad, melancholy faces light up as we handed them the full pitcher, and, onreceiving it back empty from their brown, wrinkled hands, to hear them, half breathless from their long, delicious draught, thanking us for thefavor, as "dear, good children"! Not unfrequently these wandering testsof our benevolence made their appearance in interesting groups of man, woman, and child, picturesque in their squalidness, and manifestinga maudlin affection which would have done honor to the revellers atPoosie-Nansie's, immortal in the cantata of Burns. (2) I remember somewho were evidently the victims of monomania, --haunted and hunted by somedark thought, --possessed by a fixed idea. One, a black-eyed, wild-hairedwoman, with a whole tragedy of sin, shame, and suffering written in hercountenance, used often to visit us, warm herself by our winter fire, and supply herself with a stock of cakes and cold meat; but was neverknown to answer a question or to ask one. She never smiled; the cold, stony look of her eye never changed; a silent, impassive face, frozenrigid by some great wrong or sin. We used to look with awe upon the"still woman, " and think of the demoniac of Scripture who had a "dumbspirit. " (1) Whom he met at Calais, as described in his _Sentimental Journey. _ (2) The _cantata_ is _The Jolly Beggars, _ from which the motto heading this sketch was taken. _Poosie-Nansie_ was the keeper of a tavern in Mauchline, which was the favorite resort of the lame sailors, maimed soldiers, travelling ballad-singers, and all such loose companions as hang about the skirts of society. The cantata has for its theme the rivalry of a "pigmy scraper with his fiddle" and a strolling tinker for a beggar woman: hence the _maudlin affection. _ One--I think I see him now, grim, gaunt, and ghastly, working his slowway up to our door--used to gather herbs by the wayside and calledhimself doctor. He was bearded like a he-goat, and used to counterfeitlameness; yet, when he supposed himself alone, would travel on lustily, as if walking for a wager. At length, as if in punishment of his deceit, he met with an accident in his rambles and became lame in earnest, hobbling ever after with difficulty on his gnarled crutches. Anotherused to go stooping, like Bunyan's pilgrim, under a pack made of an oldbed-sacking, stuffed out into most plethoric dimensions, tottering ona pair of small, meagre legs, and peering out with his wild, hairy facefrom under his burden like a big-bodied spider. That "man with the pack"always inspired me with awe and reverence. Huge, almost sublime, in itstense rotundity, the father of all packs, never laid aside and neveropened, what might there not be within it? With what flesh-creepingcuriosity I used to walk round about it at a safe distance, halfexpecting to see its striped covering stirred by the motions of amysterious life, or that some evil monsters would leap out of it, likerobbers from Ali Baba's jars or armed men from the Trojan horse! There was another class of peripatetic philosophers--half pedler, halfmendicant--who were in the habit of visiting us. One we recollect, alame, unshaven, sinister-eyed, unwholesome fellow, with his basket ofold newspapers and pamphlets, and his tattered blue umbrella, servingrather as a walking-staff than as a protection from the rain. He toldus on one occasion, in answer to our inquiring into the cause of hislameness, that when a young man he was employed on the farm of the chiefmagistrate of a neighboring State; where, as his ill luck would have it, the governor's handsome daughter fell in love with him. He was caughtone day in the young lady's room by her father; whereupon the irascibleold gentleman pitched him unceremoniously out of the window, laminghim for life, on a brick pavement below, like Vulcan on the rocks ofLemnos. (1) As for the lady, he assured us "she took on dreadfully aboutit. " "Did she die?" we inquired, anxiously. There was a cunning twinklein the old rogue's eye as he responded, "Well, no she did n't. She gotmarried. " (1) It was upon the Isle of Lemnos that Vulcan was flung by Jupiter, according to the myth, for attempting to aid his mother Juno. Twice a year, usually in the spring and autumn, we were honored with acall from Jonathan Plummer, maker of verses, pedler and poet, physicianand parson, --a Yankee troubadour, --first and last minstrel of the valleyof the Merrimac, encircled, to my wondering young eyes, with the verynimbus of immortality. He brought with him pins, needles, tape, andcotton-thread for my mother; jack-knives, razors, and soap formy father; and verses of his own composing, coarsely printed andillustrated with rude wood-cuts, for the delectation of the youngerbranches of the family. No love-sick youth could drown himself, nodeserted maiden bewail the moon, no rogue mount the gallows, withoutfitting memorial in Plummer's verses. Earthquakes, fires, fevers, andshipwrecks he regarded as personal favors from Providence, furnishingthe raw material of song and ballad. Welcome to us in our countryseclusion, as Autolycus to the clown in "Winter's Tale, "(1) we listenedwith infinite satisfaction to his reading of his own verses, or to hisready improvisation upon some domestic incident or topic suggested byhis auditors. When once fairly over the difficulties at the outset of anew subject his rhymes flowed freely, "as if he had eaten ballads, andall men's ears grew to his tunes. " His productions answered, asnearly as I can remember, to Shakespeare's description of a properballad, --"doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant themesung lamentably. " He was scrupulously conscientious, devout, inclinedto theological disquisitions, and withal mighty in Scripture. He wasthoroughly independent; flattered nobody, cared for nobody, trustednobody. When invited to sit down at our dinner-table he invariably tookthe precaution to place his basket of valuables between his legs forsafe keeping. "Never mind they basket, Jonathan, " said my father;"we shan't steal thy verses. " "I 'm not sure of that, " returned thesuspicious guest. "It is written, 'Trust ye not in any brother. '" (1) "He could never come better, " says the clown in Shakespeare's _The Winter's Tale, _ when Autolycus, the pedler, is announced; "he shall come in. I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably. " Act IV. Scene 4. Thou, too, O Parson B. , --with thy pale student's brow and rubicundnose, with thy rusty and tattered black coat overswept by white, flowinglocks, with thy professional white neckcloth scrupulously preservedwhen even a shirt to thy back was problematical, --art by no means tobe overlooked in the muster-roll of vagrant gentlemen possessing the_entree_ of our farmhouse. Well do we remember with what grave anddignified courtesy he used to step over its threshold, saluting itsinmates with the same air of gracious condescension and patronage withwhich in better days he had delighted the hearts of his parishioners. Poor old man! He had once been the admired and almost worshippedminister of the largest church in the town where he afterwards foundsupport in the winter season, as a pauper. He had early fallen intointemperate habits; and at the age of three-score and ten, when Iremember him, he was only sober when he lacked the means of beingotherwise. Drunk or sober, however, he never altogether forgot theproprieties of his profession; he was always grave, decorous, andgentlemanly; he held fast the form of sound words, and the weakness ofthe flesh abated nothing of the rigor of his stringent theology. He hadbeen a favorite pupil of the learned and astute Emmons, (1) and was tothe last a sturdy defender of the peculiar dogmas of his school. The last time we saw him he was holding a meeting in our districtschool-house, with a vagabond pedler for deacon and travellingcompanion. The tie which united the ill-assorted couple was doubtlessthe same which endeared Tam O'Shanter to the souter:(2)-- "They had been fou for weeks thegither. " He took for his text the first seven verses of the concluding chapter ofEcclesiastes, furnishing in himself its fitting illustration. The evildays had come; the keepers of the house trembled; the windows of lifewere darkened. A few months later the silver cord was loosed, the goldenbowl was broken, and between the poor old man and the temptations whichbeset him fell the thick curtains of the grave. (1) Nathaniel Emmons was a New England theologian of marked character and power, who for seventy years was connected with a church in that part of Wrentham, Mass. , now called Franklin. He exercised considerable influence over the religious thought of New England, and is still read by theologians. He died in 1840, in his ninety-sixth year. (2) Souter (or cobbler) Johnny, in Burns's poetic tale of _Tam O'Shanter, _ had been _fou_ or _full_ of drink with Tam for weeks together. One day we had a call from a "pawky auld carle"(1) of a wanderingScotchman. To him I owe my first introduction to the songs of Burns. After eating his bread and cheese and drinking his mug of cider he gaveus Bonny Doon, Highland Mary, and Auld Lang Syne. He had a rich, fullvoice, and entered heartily into the spirit of his lyrics. I have sincelistened to the same melodies from the lips of Dempster(2) (than whomthe Scottish bard has had no sweeter or truer interpreter), butthe skilful performance of the artist lacked the novel charm of thegaberlunzie's singing in the old farmhouse kitchen. Another wanderermade us acquainted with the humorous old ballad of "Our gude man camhame at e'en. " He applied for supper and lodging, and the next morningwas set at work splitting stones in the pasture. While thus engagedthe village doctor came riding along the highway on his fine, spiritedhorse, and stopped to talk with my father. The fellow eyed the animalattentively, as if familiar with all his good points, and hummed over astanza of the old poem:-- "Our gude man cam hame at e'en, And hame cam he; And there he saw a saddle horse Where nae horse should be. 'How cam this horse here? How can it be? How cam this horse here Without the leave of me?' 'A horse?' quo she. 'Ay, a horse, ' quo he. 'Ye auld fool, ye blind fool, -- And blinder might ye be, -- 'T is naething but a milking cow My mamma sent to me. ' 'A milch cow?' quo he. 'Ay, a milch cow, ' quo she. 'Weel, far hae I ridden, And muckle hae I seen; But milking cows wi' saddles on Saw I never nane. '"(3) (1) From the first line of _The Gaberlunzie Man, _ attributed to King James V. Of Scotland, -- "The pawky auld carle came o'er the lee. " The original like Whittier's was a sly old fellow, as an English phrase would translate the Scottish. _The Gaberlunzie Man_ is given in Percy's _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_ and in Child's _English and Scottish Ballads, _ viii. 98. (2) William R. Dempster, a Scottish vocalist who had recently sung in America, and whose music to Burns's song "A man 's a man for a' that" was very popular. (3) The whole of this song may be found in Herd's _Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, _ ii. 172. That very night the rascal decamped, taking with him the doctor's horse, and was never after heard of. Often, in the gray of the morning, we used to see one or more"gaberlunzie men, " pack on shoulder and staff in hand, emerging from thebarn or other outbuildings where they had passed the night. I was oncesent to the barn to fodder the cattle late in the evening, and, climbinginto the mow to pitch down hay for that purpose, I was startled by thesudden apparition of a man rising up before me, just discernible in thedim moonlight streaming through the seams of the boards. I made a rapidretreat down the ladder; and was only reassured by hearing the objectof my terror calling after me, and recognizing his voice as that of aharmless old pilgrim whom I had known before. Our farmhouse was situatedin a lonely valley, half surrounded with woods, with no neighbors insight. One dark, cloudy night, when our parents chanced to be absent, we were sitting with our aged grandmother in the fading light of thekitchen fire, working ourselves into a very satisfactory state ofexcitement and terror by recounting to each other all the dismal storieswe could remember of ghosts, witches, haunted houses, and robbers, whenwe were suddenly startled by a loud rap at the door. A strippling offourteen, I was very naturally regarded as the head of the household;so, with many misgivings, I advanced to the door, which I slowly opened, holding the candle tremulously above my head and peering out into thedarkness. The feeble glimmer played upon the apparition of agigantic horseman, mounted on a steed of a size worthy of such arider, --colossal, motionless, like images cut out of the solid night. The strange visitant gruffly saluted me; and, after making severalineffectual efforts to urge his horse in at the door, dismounted andfollowed me into the room, evidently enjoying the terror which his hugepresence excited. Announcing himself as the great Indian doctor, hedrew himself up before the fire, stretched his arms, clinched his fists, struck his broad chest, and invited our attention to what he calledhis "mortal frame. " He demanded in succession all kinds of intoxicatingliquors; and on being assured that we had none to give him, he grewangry, threatened to swallow my younger brother alive, and, seizing meby the hair of my head as the angel did the prophet at Babylon, (1) ledme about from room to room. After an ineffectual search, in the courseof which he mistook a jug of oil for one of brandy, and, contrary to myexplanations and remonstrances, insisted upon swallowing a portion ofits contents, he released me, fell to crying and sobbing, and confessedthat he was so drunk already that his horse was ashamed of him. Afterbemoaning and pitying himself to his satisfaction he wiped his eyes, andsat down by the side of my grandmother, giving her to understand that hewas very much pleased with her appearance; adding that, if agreeable toher, he should like the privilege of paying his addresses to her. Whilevainly endeavoring to make the excellent old lady comprehend his veryflattering proposition, he was interrupted by the return of my father, who, at once understanding the matter, turned him out of doors withoutceremony. (1) See Ezekiel viii. 3. On one occasion, a few years ago, on my return from the field atevening, I was told that a foreigner had asked for lodgings during thenight, but that, influenced by his dark, repulsive appearance, mymother had very reluctantly refused his request. I found her by no meanssatisfied with her decision. "What if a son of mine was in a strangeland?" she inquired, self-reproachfully. Greatly to her relief, Ivolunteered to go in pursuit of the wanderer, and, taking a cross-pathover the fields, soon overtook him. He had just been rejected at thehouse of our nearest neighbor, and was standing in a state of dubiousperplexity in the street. He was an olive-complexioned, black-beardedItalian, with an eye like a live coal, such a face as perchance looksout on the traveller in the passes of the Abruzzi, (1)--one of thosebandit visages which Salvator(2) has painted. With some difficulty Igave him to understand my errand, when he overwhelmed me with thanks, and joyfully followed me back. He took his seat with us at thesupper-table; and, when we were all gathered around the hearth that coldautumnal evening, he told us, partly by words and partly by gestures, the story of his life and misfortunes, amused us with descriptions ofthe grape-gatherings and festivals of his sunny clime, edified my motherwith a recipe for making bread of chestnuts; and in the morning, when, after breakfast, his dark sullen face lighted up and his fierce eyemoistened with grateful emotion as in his own silvery Tuscan accent hepoured out his thanks, we marvelled at the fears which had so nearlyclosed our door against him; and, as he departed, we all felt that hehad left with us the blessing of the poor. (1) Provinces into which the old Kingdom of Naples was divided. (2) Salvator Rosa was a Neapolitan by birth, and was said to have been himself a bandit in his youth; his landscapes often contain figures drawn from the wild life of the region. It was not often that, as in the above instance, my mother's prudencegot the better of her charity. The regular "old stragglers" regarded heras an unfailing friend; and the sight of her plain cap was to them anassurance of forthcoming creature-comforts. There was indeed a tribeof lazy strollers, having their place of rendezvous in the town ofBarrington, New Hampshire, whose low vices had placed them beyond eventhe pale of her benevolence. They were not unconscious of their evilreputation; and experience had taught them the necessity of concealing, under well-contrived disguises, their true character. They came to usin all shapes and with all appearances save the true one, with mostmiserable stories of mishap and sickness and all "the ills which fleshis heir to. " It was particularly vexatious to discover, when too late, that our sympathies and charities had been expended upon such gracelessvagabonds as the "Barrington beggars. " An old withered hag, known by theappellation of Hopping Pat, --the wise woman of her tribe, --was in thehabit of visiting us, with her hopeful grandson, who had "a gift forpreaching" as well as for many other things not exactly compatiblewith holy orders. He sometimes brought with him a tame crow, a shrewd, knavish-looking bird, who, when in the humor for it, could talk likeBarnaby Rudge's raven. He used to say he could "do nothin' at exhortin'without a white handkercher on his neck and money in his pocket, "--afact going far to confirm the opinions of the Bishop of Exeter and thePuseyites generally, that there can be no priest without tithes andsurplice. These people have for several generations lived distinct from the greatmass of the community, like the gypsies of Europe, whom in many respectsthey closely resemble. They have the same settled aversion to labor andthe same disposition to avail themselves of the fruits of the industryof others. They love a wild, out-of-door life, sing songs, tellfortunes, and have an instinctive hatred of "missionaries and coldwater. " It has been said--I know not upon what grounds--that theirancestors were indeed a veritable importation of English gypsyhood; butif so, they have undoubtedly lost a good deal of the picturesque charmof its unhoused and free condition. I very much fear that my friendMary Russell Mitford, --sweetest of England's rural painters, --who has apoet's eye for the fine points in gypsy character, would scarcelyallow their claims to fraternity with her own vagrant friends, whosecamp-fires welcomed her to her new home at Swallowfield. (1) (1) See in Miss Mitford's _Our Village. _ "The proper study of mankind is man;" and, according to my view, nophase of our common humanity is altogether unworthy of investigation. Acting upon this belief two or three summers ago, when making, incompany with my sister, a little excursion into the hill-country of NewHampshire, I turned my horse's head towards Barrington for the purposeof seeing these semi-civilized strollers in their own home, andreturning, once for all, their numerous visits. Taking leave of ourhospitable cousins in old Lee with about as much solemnity as we maysuppose Major Laing(1) parted with his friends when he set out in searchof desert-girdled Timbuctoo, we drove several miles over a rough road, passed the Devil's Den unmolested, crossed a fretful little streamletnoisily working its way into a valley, where it turned a lonely, half-ruinous mill, and, climbing a steep hill beyond, saw before us awide, sandy level, skirted on the west and north by low, scraggy hills, and dotted here and there with dwarf pitch-pines. In the centre of thisdesolate region were some twenty or thirty small dwellings, groupedtogether as irregularly as a Hottentot kraal. Unfenced, unguarded, opento all comers and goers, stood that city of the beggars, --no wallor paling between the ragged cabins to remind one of the jealousdistinctions of property. The great idea of its founders seemed visiblein its unappropriated freedom. Was not the whole round world their own?and should they haggle about boundaries and title-deeds? For them, ondistant plains, ripened golden harvests; for them, in far-off workshops, busy hands were toiling; for them, if they had but the grace to note it, the broad earth put on her garniture of beauty, and over them hung thesilent mystery of heaven and its stars. That comfortable philosophywhich modern transcendentalism has but dimly shadowed forth--that poeticagrarianism, which gives all to each and each to all--is the real lifeof this city of unwork. To each of its dingy dwellers might be notunaptly applied the language of one who, I trust, will pardon me forquoting her beautiful poem in this connection:-- "Other hands may grasp the field and forest, Proud proprietors in pomp may shine, . . . . . . . Thou art wealthier, --all the world is thine. "(2) (1) Alexander Gordon Laing was a major in the British army, who served on the west coast of Africa and made journeys into the interior in the attempt to establish commercial relations with the natives, and especially to discover the sources of the Niger. He was treacherously murdered in 1826 by the guard that was attending him on his return from Timbuctoo to the coast. His travels excited great interest in their day in England and America. (2) From a poem, _Why Thus Longing?_ by Mrs. Harriet Winslow Sewall, preserved in Whittier's _Songs of Three Centuries. _ But look! the clouds are breaking. "Fair weather cometh out of thenorth. " The wind has blown away the mists; on the gilded spire of JohnStreet glimmers a beam of sunshine; and there is the sky again, hard, blue, and cold in its eternal purity, not a whit the worse for thestorm. In the beautiful present the past is no longer needed. Reverentlyand gratefully let its volume be laid aside; and when again the shadowsof the outward world fall upon the spirit may I not lack a good angel toremind me of its solace, even if he comes in the shape of a Barringtonbeggar.