“George III. being out one day hunting, the chase lay through the skirts of the forest. The stag had been hard run, and to escape the dogs, had crossed the river in a deep part. The dogs could not be brought to follow; and it became necessary, in order to come up with it, to make a circuitous route along the banks of the river, through some thick and troublesome underwood. The roughness of the ground, the long grass, and frequent thickets, obliged the sportsmen to separate from each other; each one endeavouring to make the best and speediest route he could. Before they had reached the end of the forest, the king’s horse manifested signs of fatigue and uneasiness, so much so, that his Majesty resolved upon yielding the pleasures of the chase to those of compassion for his horse. With this view he turned down the first avenue of the forest, and determined on riding quietly to the oaks, there to wait for some of his attendants. The king had only proceeded a few yards, when, instead of the cry of the hounds he fancied he heard the cry of human distress. As he rode forward, he heard it more distinctly:--‘Oh, my mother! my mother! God pity and bless my poor mother!’ The curiosity and kindness of the sovereign led him instantly to the spot. It was a little green plot on one side of the forest, where was spread on the grass, under a branching oak, a little pallet, half covered with a kind of tent; and a basket or two with some packs, lay on the ground at a few paces distant from the tent. Near to the root of the tree he observed a little swarthy girl about eight years of age, on her knees praying, while her little black eyes ran down with tears. Distress of any kind was always relieved by his Majesty, for he had a heart which melted at human woe. ‘What my child, is the cause of your weeping?’ he asked, ‘For what do you pray?’ The little creature at first started, then rose from her knees; and pointing to the tent, said,--‘Oh sir, my dying mother!’ ‘What?’ said his Majesty, dismounting, and fastening his horse up to the branches of the oak, ‘what, my child? tell me all about it.’ The little creature now led the king to the tent; where lay, partly covered, a middle-aged female gipsy in the last stages of a decline, and in the last moments of life. She turned her dying eyes expressively to the royal visiter, then looked up to heaven, but not a word did she utter; the organs of speech had ceased their office; _the silver cord was loosed, and the wheel broken at the cistern_. The little girl then wept aloud, and stooping down, wiped the dying sweat from her mother’s face. The king, much affected, asked the child her name, and of her family, and how long her mother had been ill. Just at that moment another gipsy girl, much older, came out of breath to the spot. She had been to the town of W------, and brought some medicine for her dying mother. Observing a stranger, she curtsied modestly, and hastening to