These people have for several generations lived distinct from
the great mass of the community, like the gypsies of Europe,
whom in many respects they closely resemble. They have the
same settled aversion to labor and the same disposition to avail
themselves of the fruits of the industry of others. They love a
wild, out-of-door life, sing songs, tell fortunes, and have an
instinctive hatred of "missionaries and cold water." It has been
said--I know not upon what grounds--that their ancestors were
indeed a veritable importation of English gypsyhood; but if so,
they have undoubtedly lost a good deal of the picturesque
charm of its unhoused and free condition. I very much fear that
my friend Mary Russell Mitford,--sweetest of England's rural
painters,--who has a poet's eye for the fine points in gypsy
character, would scarcely allow their claims to fraternity with
her own vagrant friends, whose camp-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, no phase of our common humanity is altogether
unworthy of investigation. Acting upon this belief two or three
summers ago, when making, in company with my sister, a little
excursion into the hill-country of New Hampshire, I turned my
horse's head towards Barrington for the purpose of seeing these
semi-civilized strollers in their own home, and returning, once
for all, their numerous visits.
Pages:
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30