Onward through the gorsy lanes we travelled together as far as Mansfield, where our merry party became divided, the Boswells taking the highway leading through North Derbyshire to Sheffield, the Shaws going westward towards Matlock, and myself setting off in a southerly direction.
Just where Robin Hood’s Hills begin to rise beyond the red-stemmed pines of the Thieves’ Wood, I came upon a resplendent caravan of the Pulman type drawn up on the wayside turf a long way from any village. Near by sat two persons, a man past middle age, wearing a kilt and tam-o’-shanter, who had for companion a pretty lass in her teens, with long brown hair. On the ground between them stood a big crystal jar, and with long forks the two were spearing cubes of preserved ginger. Their backs being turned towards me, they gave a little start of surprise as I went up, and, raising my hat, inquired, “Dr. Gordon Stables?”
“That’s my name,” said he, and, inviting me to join them on the grass, he dispatched the girl for another fork, with which very soon I, too, was spearing for ginger.
Here before me was the “Gentleman Gypsy,” whose writings had been familiar to me since boyhood.
“You’ll think it strange,” said he, “when I tell you that I have no memory for faces, but I rarely fail to remember the look of any tree I have once seen by the roadside.”
When Gypsies were mentioned, the good doctor had grateful reminiscences of them. During many years of road-travel he had often come upon the wandering folk, and he liked them. They were cheerful people who never forgot a kindness. They were most obliging withal, and readily lent their horses to pull his somewhat heavy “house on wheels” up the stiff inclines. Altogether, he had a very good word for the Gypsies.
By mid-afternoon I was standing in the churchyard at Selston, where lay the fragments of the headstone of a Romany chief, Dan Boswell. An irreverent bull was declared to have been responsible for the shattered condition of the stone upon which a quaint epitaph was now faintly visible. It ran as follows:—
“I’ve lodged in many a town,
I’ve travelled many a year,
But death at length hath brought me down
To my last lodging here.”
My late father-in-law, formerly a curate of Selston, remembered how Gypsies paid visits to this grave and poured libations of ale upon it. The adjacent common, long since enclosed, was once much frequented by the nomad tribes.
My resting-place that evening was the pleasant Midland town of Nottingham, and right soundly I slept after my long day on the road.