We found a Will Faa still the reputed king of the tribe. He was an old man, having none of the common features of the gipsy--his Border blood having done away with the black eyes and swarthy skin; but Will had all the propensities of the gipsy, except that of encamping; smuggling, fishing, and shooting appeared to have been the business of his life. We were told that in an affray with the revenue officers he had defended a narrow bridge somewhere near Bamborough Castle, while his party made their escape, and had stood fighting singly with his cudgel, till it was cut down by the cutlasses of the officers to “twa nieves lang,” and till he finally got a cut across the arm which disabled him. When we asked him of the truth of this story, his grey eyes kindled up into a wild fire, and stretching out his two arms together, he shewed us, with a significant gesture, that one was still at least two inches longer than the other. Old Will Faa had risen into great importance through the writings of Sir Walter Scott. He told us that Sir Martin Archer Shee had been down to take his likeness. He was in daily request at the houses of the neighbouring nobility and gentry to catch trout for them, being intimately acquainted with all the streams of the country round, and all the arts of filling his creel out of them. Will, therefore, is sure to be found either by the side of one of the trout streams, or in the kitchen of some of the neighbouring halls, telling his exploits and drinking his toddy. His niece, who was absent with the tribe, was said to be the belle of the camp; a true gipsy beauty, dark and “weel fa’ured.” Such is the present state of the gipsies of England and Scotland. Their numbers are evidently everywhere on the decrease; yet what do remain in England retain all their ancient characteristics. These characteristics have never been more accurately delineated than by Richard Howitt, in his poem of the “Gipsy King,” in the Metropolitan Magazine for June 1836. The groups proceeding to the coronation of their king are living. Now come in groups the gipsy tribes, From northern hills, from southern plains; And many a panniered ass is swinging The child that to itself is singing Along the flowery lanes. Stout men are loud in wrangling talk, Where older tongues are gruff and tame; Keen maiden laughter rings aloft, Whilst many an undervoice is soft From many a talking dame. Their beaver hats are weather stained,-- The one black plume is sadly gay; Their squalid brats are slung behind, In cloaks that flutter to the wind, Of scarlet, brown, and grey. The king himself is distinguished by some touches that are the life itself, but which I never recollect seeing elsewhere introduced. The slouching hat our hero wore, The crown wherewith he king was crowned; Wherein a pipe and a crow’s feather Were stuck in fellowship together, Was by a hundred winters browned.