THE GIPSY-CAMP. 



ONE autumnal evening, while travelling through Lincolnshire, I 

 halted at a lonely inn, which stood at least three miles from the nearest 

 village. There was something peculiarly remarkable in its solitari- 

 ness, situated on a long broken line of rugged hills, called the cliffs, 

 and beautifully relieved by sweeping woods, extending far as the eye 

 could measure. Below, spread a fertile valley dotted with kine and 

 sheep, while in the distance rose a spire, as if looking upon the silent 

 sky. At intervals, the cold boom of a passing-bell smote my ear, 

 broken by the low tones of ring-doves, that cooed from the neighbour- 

 ing woods. 



There is an awful calmness in the dim-striding hours of twilight, 

 amid the hush of darkening trees ; the stealthy gliding of a fox, the 

 rustle of an affrighted hare, or the whurring of a startled pheasant, in 

 my mind, always adds to the loneliness of the time and scenery, as if 

 they seemed conscious that the unwelcome foot of man had no 

 right to intrude upon their solitude. As I wandered on in the dreary 

 stillness of a grassy lane that abruptly separated two mighty woods, 

 I was surprised, by seeing in the distance, the ruddy glare of an im- 

 mense fire, which cast its red light upon the variegated foliage. 

 While hesitating whether to proceed or return, the rich swell of min- 

 gled voices came floating on the air in sweetest harmony ; the stilly 

 night, the echoing woods, and the murmuring of a brook, were all in 

 beautiful accord, and sank deeply into my soul, like mysterious music 

 which fancy hears alone in dreams. The song ceased, and a merry 

 peal of laughter followed the chorus ; then it died away in faint 

 echoes among the distant hills. As I neared the cheerful fire which 

 illuminated the dusky scenery far around, I could perceive various, 

 figures moving to and fro, or standing in dark relief before its crim- 

 son light. 



Mine host had cautioned me against wandering too far, as a gang 

 of gipsies had encamped somewhere in the neighbourhood. "If," 

 said he, " yo get among them chaps, an happen to hev any muny on 

 you, they'll hev it afore yo know where yo are. They're rum fellows; 

 one dosent deny 'em ought, cos if they axe for any mander o thing, 

 an we'll not give 'em it, it's allos wos for us i'th' end; but there's some 

 good-ens among 'em, an when they hev muny, they spend it as free 

 as rain. I wonder where the devil they allos pick up sich a lot o' 

 pretty lasses ; I think ta* wenches must be mad to leav their humes, 

 an gue wi' them, sleeping i' camps, in woods, and lanes, as they du." 



There is a wild freedom in the unstudied motions of the gipsies, 

 which I greatly admire ; an untamed lordliness in their erect deport- 

 ment, nowhere met with in the busy city. They are seen to advan- 

 tage but in the solitude of grassy lanes and silent heaths. They have 

 always an eye to the romantic, erecting their camps in situations the 

 most beautiful ; the wind-shaded glen, the hawthorn-screened hollow, 

 or the oak-sheltered corner of a common, is to them, a welcome home. 



M. M. No. 98. 11 



