His sceptre was a stout oak sapling, Round which a snake well-carved was wreathed; Cunning and strength that well bespoke, Whilst from his frame, as from an oak, “Deliberate valour breathed.” His footstool was the solid earth; His court spread out in pomp before him, The heath arrayed in summer’s smiles; His empire broad the British isles; His dome the heaven’s arched o’er him. Antique and flowing was his dress; And from his temples, bold and bare, Fell back in many a dusky tress, As liberal as the wilderness, His ample growth of hair. Like Cromwell’s was his hardy front, Where thought but feeling none was shewn; Where underneath a flitting grace, Was firmly built up in his face, A hardness as of stone. They are not to be confounded with a tribe of wandering potters, who live in tents like them. The true gipsies are readily distinguished by their invariable jet-black hair, black sparkling eyes, Indian complexions, and their genuine oriental language. On the extensive heaths of Surrey, since my residence in that county, I have met with frequent camps of them. In the midland counties, although there is less waste land, they are not unfrequently to be seen. They are there chiefly the Lovell, Boswell, and Kemp gangs. They are great people still for kings and chiefs. Every district has its king. One of these died in the summer of 1835, in their camp in Bestwood Park, in Nottinghamshire; and thousands of people went to see him lie in state. They conveyed his body in a cart to Eastwood, a distance of nine miles, and would fain have stipulated with the clergyman for his interment in the church; not on account of any notion of the sanctity of the place, but for its security. This being refused, they chose a place in the churchyard, for which they paid a handsome sum, and ordered it to be fenced off with iron railings. An old beldame of the tribe said to me, that it was hard that he could not be buried in a church, as most of his ancestors had been before him.