130 The Young Gipsy: a Village Sketch. [Feb. 



with an air ot" gix-at j'outlifiilncss. In her dress slie was, for a gipsy, 

 surprisingly tid3^ For tlie most part, that ambulatory race have a 

 preference for rags, as forming their most appropriate wardrobe, being 

 a part of their tools of trade, their insignia of office. I do not imagine 

 that Harriet's friend, the fortune-teller, would have exchanged her 

 stained tattered cloak for the thickest and brightest red cardinal that 

 ever came out of a woollen-draper's shop. And she would have been 

 a loser if she had. Take away that mysterious mantle, and a great part 

 of her reputation would go too. There is much virtue in an old cloak. 

 I question if the simplest of her clients, even Harriet herself, would 

 have consulted her in a new one. But the young girl was tidy ; not 

 only accurately clean, and with clothes neatly and nicely adjusted to 

 her trim little form, but with the rents darned, and the holes patched, 

 in a way that I should be glad to see equalled by our own villagers. 



Her manners were quite as ungipsy-like as her apparel, and so was 

 her conversation ; for I could not help talking to her, and was much 

 pleased with her frankness and innocence, and the directness and sim- 

 plicity of her answers. She was not the least shy ; on the contrary, there 

 was a straight-forward look, a fixing her sweet eyes full of pleasure and 

 reliance right u})on you, which, in the description, might seem almost 

 too assured, but which, in reality, no more resembled vulgar assurance 

 tiian did the kindred artlessness of Shakspeare's Miranda. It seems 

 strange to liken a gipsy girl to that loveliest creation of genius ; but I 

 never saw that innocent gaze without being sure that just with such a 

 look of pleased attention, of affectionate curiosity, did the island prin- 

 cess listen to Ferdinand. 



All that she knew of her little storj' she told without scruple, in a 

 young liquid voice, and with a little curtsy between every answer that 

 became her extremely. " Her name," she said, " was Fanny. She 

 had no father or mother ; they were dead ; and she and her brothers 

 lived with her grandmother. They lived always out of doors, sometimes 

 in one place — sometimes in another ; but she should like always to 

 live under that oak-tree, it was so pleasant. Her grandmother was 

 very good to them all, only rather particular. She loved her very 

 much; and she loved Dick (her eldest brother), though he was a sad 

 unlucky boy, to be sure. She was afraid he would come to some bad 

 end" — 



And, indeed, Dick at that moment seemed in imminent danger of 

 verifying his sister's prediction. He had been trying for a gleaning of 

 nuts amongst ihe tall hazels on the top of a bank, which, flanked by a 

 deep ditch, separated the coppice from the green. We had heard him 

 for the last five minutes smashing and crashing away at a prodigious 

 rate, swinging himself from stalk to stalk, and tugging and climbing like 

 a sailor or a monkey ; and now, at the very instant of Fanny's uttering 

 this prophecy, having missed a particularly venturesome grasp, he was 

 impelled forward by the rebound of the branches, and fell into the ditch 

 witli a tremendous report, bringing half the nuttery after him, and 

 giving us all the notion that he had broken his neck. His time, how- 

 ever, was not yet come ; he was on his feet again in half a minute, and 

 in another half minute we again heard him rustling amongst the hazel 

 boughs ; and Fanny and I went on with our talk, which the fright and 

 scolding, consequent on this accident, had interrupted. My readers 

 are of course aware, that ivher any one meets with a fall, the ap- 



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