The other day I was witness to a spectacle which made me feel a doubt as
to whether I was living in the nineteenth century. I was, as it were,
within the shadow of that mighty London where Royalty resides; where the
richest Church in Christendom rejoices in its abbey and cathedral, and
its hundreds of churches; where an enlightened and energetic Dissent has
not only planted its temples in every district, but has sent forth its
missionary agents into every land; where the fierce light of public
opinion, aided by a press which never slumbers, is a terror to them that
do evil, and a praise to them that do well; a city which we love to boast
heads the onward march of man; and yet the scene before me was as
intensely that of savage life as if I had been in a Zulu kraal, and
savage life destitute of all that lends it picturesque attractions or
ideal charms. I was standing in the midst of some twenty tents and vans,
inhabited by that wandering race of whose origin we know so little, and
of whose future we know less. The snow was on the ground, there was
frost in the very air. Within a few yards was a great Board school;
close by were factories and workshops, and the other concomitants of
organised industrial life. Yet in that small area the gipsies held
undisputed sway. In or about London there are, it is calculated, some
two thousand of these dwellers in tents. In all England there are some
twenty thousand of these sons of Ishmael, with hands against everyone,
or, perhaps, to put it more truly, with everyone’s hands against them.
In summer-time their lot is by no means to be envied; in winter their
state is deplorable indeed.
We entered, Mr. George Smith and I, and were received as friends. Had I
gone by myself I question whether my reception would have been a pleasant
one. As gipsies pay no taxes they can keep any number of dogs, and these
dogs have a way of sniffing and snarling anything but agreeable to an
unbidden guest. The poor people complained to me that no one ever came
to see them. I should be surprised if anyone did; but Mr. George Smith,
of Coalville, is no common man; and having secured fair-play for the poor
children of the brick-fields—he himself was brought up in a
brick-yard—and for the poor and sadly-neglected inmates of the canal
boats, he has now turned his attention to the gipsies. His idea is—and
it is a good one—that an Act of Parliament should be passed for their
benefit, something similar to that he has been the means of carrying for
the canal and brick-field children. In a paper read before the Social
Science Congress at Manchester, Mr. Smith argued that all tents, shows,
caravans, auctioneer vans, and like places, used as dwellings, should be
registered and numbered, and under proper sanitary arrangements, with
sanitary inspectors and School Board officers in every town and village.
Thus in every district the children would have their names and attendance
registered in a book, which they could take with them from place to
place, and, when endorsed by the schoolmaster, it would show that the
children were attending school. In carrying out this idea, it is a pity
that Mr. Smith should have to bear all the burden. As it is, he has
suffered greatly in his pocket by his philanthropic effort. At one time
he had a well-paid situation, which he had to relinquish, as he declined
to keep silence when the wrongs of the children of the brick-yards were
to be proclaimed and redressed. He not only did this, but he parted with
what little property he had rather than the battle should be lost; and I
am glad to see that a George Smith Fund has been formed, of which Lord
Aberdeen is chairman; and as Mr. Smith is now without business or
occupation, or means of livelihood, if I had five pounds to spare—which,
alas! I have not—I know where it would go. As to the gipsies, they
evidently hail Mr. Smith as a friend in need and a friend indeed.
It is no joke, going into a gipsy yard, and it is still less so when you
go down on your hands and knees and crawl into the gipsy’s wigwam; but
the worst of it is, when you have done so there is little to see after
all. In the middle, on a few bricks, is a stove or fireplace of some
kind. On the ground is a floor of wood-chips, or straw, or shavings, and
on this squat some two or three big, burly men, who make linen-pegs and
skewers, and mend chairs and various articles, the tribe, as they wander
along, seek to sell. The women are away, for it is they who bring the
grist to the mill, as they tell fortunes, or sell their wares, or follow
their doubtful trade; but the place swarms with children, and it was
wonderful to see with what avidity they stretched out the dirtiest little
hand imaginable as Mr. Smith prepared to distribute some sweets he had
brought with him for that purpose. As we entered, all the vans were shut
up, and the tents only were occupied, the vans being apparently deserted;
but presently a door was opened half-way, and out popped a little gipsy
head, with sparkling eyes and curly hair; and then another door opened,
and a similar spectacle was to be seen. Let us look into the van, about
the size of a tiny cabin, and chock full, in the first place, with a
cooking-stove; and then with shelves, with curtains, and some kind of
bedding, apparently not very clean, on which the family repose. It is a
piteous life, even at the best, in that van; even when the cooking-pot is
filled with something more savoury than cabbages or potatoes, the usual
fare; but the children seem happy, nevertheless, in their dirty rags, and
with their luxurious heads of curly hair. All of them are as ignorant as
Hottentots, and lead a life horrible to think of. I only saw one woman
in the camp, and I only saw her by uncovering the top and looking into
the tent in which she resides. She is terribly poor, she says, and
pleads earnestly for a few coppers; and I can well believe she wants
them, for in this England of ours, and especially in the outskirts of
London, the gipsy is not a little out of place. Around us are some
strapping girls, one with a wonderfully sweet smile on her face, who, if
they could be trained to domestic service, would have a far happier life
than they can ever hope to lead. The cold and wet seem to affect them
not, nor the poor diet, nor the smoke and bad air of their cabins, in
which they crowd, while the men lazily work, and the mothers are far
away. The leading lady in this camp is absent on business; but she is a
firm adherent of Mr. George Smith, and wishes to see the children
educated; and as she is a Lee, and Lee in gipsy annals takes the same
rank as a Norfolk Howard in aristocratic circles, that says a good deal;
but then, if you educate a gipsy girl, she will want to have her hands
and face, at any rate, clean; and a gipsy boy, when he learns to read,
will feel that he is born for a nobler end than to dwell in a stinking
wigwam, to lead a lawless life, to herd with questionable characters, and
to pick up a precarious existence at fairs and races; and our poets and
novelists and artists will not like that. However, just now, by means of
letters in the newspapers, and engravings in the illustrated journals, a
good deal of attention is paid to the gipsies, and if they can be
reclaimed and turned into decent men and women, a good many farmers’
wives will sleep comfortably at night, especially when geese and turkeys
are being fattened for Christmas fare; and a desirable impulse will be
given to the trade in soap.