The author has seldom met with instances of ingratitude, though he is obliged to record one. He was interested in the reformation of a Gipsy family that encamped, a short time since, about five miles from Southampton, whom he visited early on a Monday morning. Reaching the camp, accompanied by the old Gipsy he has often mentioned in the course of this work, he said to them, "Since you would not come to see me, I am come to see you." The camp, consisting of eight persons, gave him a cordial reception, the husband excepted, who said, he did not want his company. "You certainly do not mean what you say," said his friend; to which he ungratefully replied, "I never speak words without meaning." In a good-natured way he was questioned as to the truth of his being a Gipsy, accompanied with the remark, that Gipsies were seldom ungrateful for the favours which were shown them. In half an hour after, he left the camp very angrily. This man had been released from many years' imprisonment, through the author's intercession; but having associated with thieves so long, the worst principles of his heart were drawn forth. Before he left the camp, he said he had no care about his children, but to feed and clothe them. "Then you only treat your children as a man does his dogs and pigs." He replied, that "such treatment was good enough." This is a common sentiment; for the generality of parents have no further care about their children than to feed and clothe them. Such persons are not perhaps aware how nearly they come to that dreadful state of mind and heart, of which this ungrateful Gipsy so wickedly boasted. After he had left the party, those who remained attended to conversation and prayer, when one of the women wept bitterly on account of her sin of fortune-telling. The author has since been informed that this poor man expresses his sorrow for his uncalled-for behaviour.