The camp was, indeed, of a novel and somewhat strange description. Over a brawling current, which, as I was told, at this point separated England from Scotland, there were extended from rock to rock, poles and branches of dwarf-elder and saughs, which were growing, or rather decaying, on each side of the glen or linn. These branches and poles were again traversed by cords, which kept them in close order and regular position. Over all, were laid turf, and spret, and bog-hay, which formed a kind of isthmus betwixt the two kingdoms. When you stood in the middle of this erection, you were neither in England nor in Scotland, but _medio tutissimus_; and, should the civil power show its miscreant front on the one side, you could immediately retreat to the other, and _vice versa_ with regard to that of England. The gipsies were the famous Yetholm band, and had lived here for some time past, disposing during the day-time, of their pots, pans, ram-horn spoons, and other kitchen conveniences; and spending the night under shelter of their tents, located, or rather suspended, as above-mentioned, in riot, uproar, revelment, and debauchery. There were about an equal number of men and women, but no children--these being left at Yetholm, where they remained stationary during the winter months. Their king or leader was at this time Cuthbert, or Cubby Elliot, who boasted of his long descent and connection with the laird of Whithaugh, on the skirts of whose property he was now encamped. The use which Cubby made of his relationship with Whithaugh, was to amerce him in a fat wedder every time he came round, together with a gallon of whisky, in consideration for which voluntary donation he protected his hen-roost and barn-yard from all manner of gipsy depredation. This was sheep-night, as it was called--the evening, namely, on which the Whithaugh wedder was to be discussed, and the whisky was to be drunk; and the whole company was in the middle of the wassail, when I stumbled upon their retreat.