A FRIEND’S MISGIVING—DARK FOREBODINGS—A SLEEPLESS NIGHT—THE RAILWAY STATION—THE ALBION—A PHILOSOPHER—THE STREET BOY—DISTINGUISHED TRAVELLERS.

We had nearly completed our preparations, and were leaving town, when we dined one evening with a friend whom we had not seen for some time. He seemed interested in our approaching excursion, but his astonishment was great, when our plan was divulged.

“What! going to Norway with gipsies?” said he in amazement, as he poised in his hand, a glass of champagne. “Why I don’t believe my friend Tom Taylor, who has taken a great interest in the gipsy language, ever went so far as to camp with them. You’ll be robbed, and murdered—not the slightest doubt. Travel with gipsies!” exclaimed our friend, and he seemed to shudder at the thought

We were quite unable to say how much self-sacrifice Mr. Tom Taylor may have made. We had read his interesting collection of Breton Ballads. He writes well on a great variety of subjects, and is an excellent art critic; but we could not give any opinion upon his camp experience. My friend shook his head, “Write to me when you get there,—promise to write me a letter,” said he earnestly. “Yes, you will be certainly robbed, and murdered,” and he silently emptied his glass.

There was something touching in his manner, as he gulped down the effervescent draught, with a look which showed plainly that he had no hope for our safe return.

In the drawing-room the subject seemed one of interest. We gave our friend a promise to write. As we left the house, his adieux were those of separation, for the last time.

It had been a wild rainy night. What with packing, and writing letters, we never went to bed. Mes gens de la maison remained up also. After a very early breakfast we were en route. As we drove up to the railway station of a large populous town, we caught sight of our gipsies. They were waiting for us with the three donkeys in the shelter of some open building of the station. The gipsies looked wet, draggled, and miry, but full of spirits. As we stepped from the carriage, a porter took charge of our twelve packages.

We had received previously full and explicit information from the passenger department as to the trains and expense of transit, and had engaged a horse box to Hull. One of the officials, seemed rather astonished, when he found three donkeys, were to be conveyed in the horse-box, he scarcely seemed able to connect a horse-box, with the proposed freight.

A stray policeman seemed puzzled at the retinue. The three gipsies, saluting us with Shawshon baugh, Sir? (How do you do, Sir?) marched up and down the platform, apparently much pleased at our arrival. The stray policeman wandered about, as if he was up, and down, and nohow, as to what it all meant, or whether the gipsies, belonged to us, or themselves. He was lingering near, when we produced a 10l. Bank of England note at the booking-office, in payment for our tickets. A new light then beamed on his mind, and we did not see him again. The horse-box was paid for. The porter got labels for all our packages, and timidly ventured to inquire the use of the tent-rods, which he had curiously regarded for some time. We secured a second-class, and a first-class compartment in the same carriage, all was arranged, the signal was given, and we were off. We had only one change—at Leeds—and no stoppage. The horse-box went right through. A pleasant compagnon de voyage, accompanied us most of the journey; he had lately come from the blue skies of Italy.

The gipsies were joined by an inquisitive fellow-traveller, in a white hat. Some people trouble themselves about everybody else’s business but their own. He cross-examined them, as to who we were, and where we came from. “Gloucestershire,” said Noah—“we all came from Gloucestershire this morning.” “You must have started very early,” said the inquisitive traveller. “Oh, yes,” said Noah with emphasis—“very early.”

It was a damp, wet morning, as we arrived on Friday, the 17th June, 1871, at the Hull station, and found ourselves on the platform. We left the gipsies, to look after the donkeys, which were put in some stables at the station; and taking all our things in a cab to the Albion steamer, we put them on board. Messrs. Wilson were called upon. They are prompt men of business; to their word in all things. Ample arrangements would be made to shelter the donkeys during the voyage, and we paid our fare. At the station on our return we found a civil porter waiting for us, and having paid the stout stableman 1s. for each donkey, the gipsies took them on board about one or two o’clock in the day.

Much curiosity was created when the gipsies came on deck. The steward of the vessel said, they seemed to have lately come from a warm country.

The Albion steamer had small, but comfortable second-class accommodation. No meal could be had until seven o’clock; but the second steward managed to get the gipsies some sandwiches and ale. They had been fed en route in the morning, and were quite satisfied, with the refreshments so provided.

During the previous wet night, they had camped some distance from the starting point, and had ridden the donkeys through the rain to the railway station. Noah and Zacharia had no great-coats, but Esmeralda was dressed in her long Alpine cloak, and treble necklace of blue, and white beads. Her straw hat was surmounted by a small plume of feathers, dyed blue, by one of her brothers. She did not wear earrings, and had no other ornament.

We had left the steamer to obtain some methylated spirit for our Russian lamp, and to call at Messrs. Wilson and Co.‘s, when we remembered, that we had forgotten our watch-keys. A watchmaker’s shop was soon found. The watchmaker was a merry-looking man. The watch had always been provided with one key to wind it up, and another to regulate the hands. We had always been assured, that two different keys, were required. “Ha! ha!! ha!!!” laughed the watchmaker, who was apparently a German, “I will give you one key which will do the same thing—ha! ha!! ha!!!”

It was a beautifully formed key, nor had we ever met with one like it before.

The watchmaker appeared to us as a second Jean Batiste SchwilguÉ of Strasbourg.11 “Ha! ha!! ha!!!” laughed the merry little man, “all is mystery. We eat and drink, but we comprehend nothing. Ah! we often end in believing nothing.” We remarked that no one who contemplated with attention the works of Nature could overlook the design of a great Creator. The watchmaker went to an inner door. A pretty girl probably his daughter, changed a shilling for him. “Ah!” continued he, “you see by travel; you take in through the eyes; they are the great vehicles of human life. I laugh at them, ha! ha!! ha!!!” and he bowed as I left the shop.

We were now nearly ready for the voyage; as we passed from the gates of the railway station an interesting-looking boy, pleaded hard to black our boots. It is an honest way of making a livelihood. In this instance we stepped aside—one boot was just finished, when he suddenly bolted. Although he did not wait for his money, he did not forget the paraphernalia of his business. Another boy explained, that he was not allowed to black boots so near the station, and a policeman in the distance had caused his hasty disappearance.

The boy again met us soon after, and completed his work; we were glad to have the chance of paying him.

When we went on board the steamer, all was confusion. On the wharf, we had 1s. wharfage, to pay for each animal. The total expenses of our party to join the steamer amounted to 10l. 9s. 6d. including 6s. 11d. for hay, supplied to the donkeys for the voyage.

The evening was damp and gloomy. An old weather-beaten Norwegian pilot wandered about the deck. Men in oilskin coats, smelling strongly of tar and tobacco-quid, hustle and bustle, against everything. Very comfortable accommodation, had been erected specially for the animals near the engines, in the waist of the steamer. Esmeralda was feeding them with hay.

When the gipsies were afterwards looking over the side of the vessel, they formed an interesting group. Then came the active steward, of the second cabin, who promised us to take care of them. The second steward was a small, but firmly-knit, active young fellow, who said he had been wrecked twice, in the old coat he was then wearing, and for which, therefore, he had a strong affection; after saying he should go next winter to California, he left us to look after his many arrangements.

We were informed that Sir Charles Mordaunt and also Lord Muncaster,12 who had so narrowly escaped the Athenian brigands, had left Hull in the special steamer for Throndhjem on the previous evening.