This gang had no less than nine horses, which in the day time grazed in the bare lanes; but if they were not turned into the fields at night, they throve wonderfully on bad commons. The farmers complained dreadfully of their pulling up their hedges for fuel. The whole race seems to have no fear of man; they are troubled with no _mauvaise honte_. The men seldom condescend to solicit you, but the women are always anxious to lay hold of your money under pretence of telling your fortune; and the moment you approach their encampment, out comes a troop of little impudent, though not insolent, rogues, to beg every thing and any thing they can. The women, many of them, in their youth, are fine strapping figures, with handsome brown faces and most brilliant and speaking eyes,--they have a peculiar _poco-curante_ air and jaunty gait, and are extremely fond of finery. Their costume is unique, and pretty uniform,--scarlet cloaks, black beaver hats with broad slouching brims, or black velvet bonnets with large wide pokes trimmed with lace; a handkerchief thrown over the head under the bonnet, and tied beneath the chin; long pendant ear-rings, black stockings, and ankle-boots. So far from shunning any intercourse or inquiries, they approach you with a ready smile and a style of flattery peculiar to them. “A good day to you, sir; your honour is born to fortune. I see that by the cast of your countenance. It was a right luckly planet that shone on your honour’s birth!” If you know any thing of their language, they are only too glad to talk to you in it. Accost a gipsy with “Shaushan, Palla?” “how do you do, brother?” and you will see the effect.