You have in him, to begin with, a being whose every condition of life is in direct contradiction to what you suppose every man's life in England must be.

"I was born in the open air," said a Gipsy to me a few days since; "and put me down anywhere, in the fields or woods, I can always support myself." Understand me, he did not mean by pilfering, since it was of America that we were speaking, and of living in the lonely forests.

We pity with tears many of the poor among us, whose life is one of luxury compared to that which the Gipsy, who despises them, enjoys with a zest worth more than riches.
"What a country America must be," quoth Pirengro, the Walker, to me, on the occasion just referred to.

"Why, my pal, who's just welled apopli from dovo tem--( my brother, who has just returned from that country), tells me that when a cow or anything dies there, they just chuck it away, and nobody ask a word for any of it." "What would _you_ do," he continued, "if you were in the fields and had nothing to eat ?" I replied, "that if any could be found, I should hunt for fern-roots." "I could do better than that," he said.

"I should hunt for a _hotchewitchi_,--a hedge-hog,--and I should be sure to find one; there's no better eating." Whereupon assuming his left hand to be an imaginary hedge-hog, he proceeded to score and turn and dress it for ideal cooking with a case- knife.
"And what had you for dinner to-day ?" I inquired.
"Some cocks' heads.