Part 1

# I've been a Gipsying: or, Rambles among our Gipsies and their children in their tents and vans ### By Smith, George

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Transcribed from the 1885 T. Fisher Unwin edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

[Picture: Book cover]

[Picture: My visit to English Gipsy children on the outskirts of London]

I’VE BEEN A GIPSYING

OR _RAMBLES AMONG_ _OUR GIPSIES AND THEIR CHILDREN_ _IN THEIR TENTS AND VANS_

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BY GEORGE SMITH _of Coalville_.

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POPULAR EDITION, ILLUSTRATED.

[Picture: Decorative graphic]

London T. FISHER UNWIN 26, PATERNOSTER SQUARE, E.C. 1885

_All Rights Reserved_.

* * * * *

_Other Works by GEORGE SMITH of Coalville_.

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN FROM THE BRICKYARDS OF ENGLAND. HAUGHTON & CO., Paternoster Row, London. Cloth gilt, Illustrated, 3s. 6d.

OUR CANAL POPULATION. HAUGHTON & CO. Cloth gilt, Illustrated, 3s. 6d.

GIPSY LIFE. HAUGHTON & CO. Cloth gilt, profusely illustrated, 5s.

CANAL ADVENTURES BY MOONLIGHT. HODDER & STOUGHTON. Paternoster Row, London. Cloth gilt, Illustrated, 3s. 6d.

* * * * *

To

THE RIGHT HON. LORD ABERDARE. THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF STANHOPE. THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF SHAFTSBURY. THE RIGHT HON. THE MARQUIS OF TWEEDDALE. THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF ABERDEEN. THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF DERBY, K.G. THE RIGHT HON. EARL GRANVILLE, K.G. THE RIGHT HON. THE MARQUIS OF SALISBURY, K.G. THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF HARROWBY. THE RIGHT HON. LORD CARRINGTON. THE RIGHT HON. EARL CAIRNS. THE RIGHT HON. W. E. GLADSTONE, M.P. (First Lord of the Treasury.) THE RIGHT HON. SIR STAFFORD NORTHCOTE, M.P. THE RIGHT HON. SIR WILLIAM V. HARCOURT, M.P. THE RIGHT HON. W. E. FORSTER, M.P. THE RIGHT HON. SIR RICHARD A. CROSS, M.P. THE RIGHT HON. SIR CHARLES W. DILKE, M.P. THE RIGHT HON. A. J. MUNDELLA, M.P. THE RIGHT HON. LORD JOHN MANNERS, M.P. THE RIGHT HON. GEN. SIR H. F. PONSONBY, K.C.B. THE RIGHT HON. LORD RICHARD GROSVENOR, M.P. THE RIGHT HON. LORD KENSINGTON, M.P. THE RIGHT HON. SIR M. H. BEACH, BART., M.P. THE RIGHT HON. JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN, M.P. THE HON. LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL, M.P. THE RIGHT HON. G. SCLATER-BOOTH, M.P. SIR H. J. SELWIN-IBBETSON, BART., M.P. SIR HENRY T. HOLLAND, BART., M.P. SIR JAMES C. LAWRENCE, BART, M.P. SIR E. A. H. LECHMERE, BART., M.P. J. T. HIBBERT, ESQ., M.P. T. SALT, ESQ., M.P. SAMUEL MORLEY, ESQ., M.P. JOHN WALTER, ESQ., M.P. WILLIAM RATHBONE, ESQ., M.P. THOMAS BURT, ESQ., M.P. ALEX. MCARTHUR, ESQ., M.P. COL. W. T. MAKINS, M.P. A. PELL, ESQ., M.P. J. CORBETT, ESQ., M.P. HENRY BROADHURST, ESQ., M.P.; AND FRANK A. BEVAN, ESQ.

* * * * *

MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN,—I have taken the liberty of dedicating this volume to you as being a few of the right-minded and right-hearted friends of neglected children in our midst; and also to all well-wishers of our highly favoured country, irrespective of sect, class, or party. May its voice be heard!

With the cries of the gipsy children and many prayers, I send it forth on its mission.

Very respectfully yours, GEORGE SMITH, _of Coalville_.

WELTON, DAVENTRY, _Michaelmas_, 1884.

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“GENERAL SIR HENRY F. PONSONBY _has received the Queen’s commands to thank Mr. George Smith for sending the copy of his book for Her Majesty’s acceptance_, _which accompanied his letter_.

“PRIVY PURSE OFFICE, BUCKINGHAM PALACE, _June_ 20, 1883.”

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“10, DOWNING STREET, WHITEHALL. _May_ 29, 1883.

“_Sir_,

“_I am directed by_ MR. GLADSTONE _to thank you for sending him your work entitled_ ‘_I’ve Been a Gipsying_.’

“_I am Sir_, _Your obedient servant_, F. LEVESON GOWER.

“GEORGE SMITH, ESQ.”

* * * * *

“30, ST. JAMES’S PLACE, S.W. _May_ 25, 1883.

“_Dear Sir_,

“_Accept my best thanks for your book_, _which cannot fail to be most interesting_, _both on account of the subject and of the writer_. _Your good works will indeed live after you_.

“_I remain_, _faithfully yours_, STAFFORD H. NORTHCOTE.

“GEORGE SMITH, ESQ., _of Coalville_.”

PREFATORY NOTE.

MY strong sympathy with the gipsies and their children would not allow of my following the example of daisy-bank sentimental backwood gipsy writers, whose special qualification is to flatter the gipsies with showers of misleading twaddle to keep them in ignorance; but I have preferred for my country’s welfare the path that has been rough, steep, trying, and somewhat dangerous, and open to the misconception of those little souls who look only at gipsy life through tinted or prismatic spectacles.

I have throughout tried to give both the lights and shades of a gipsy wanderer’s life, and must leave the result for God to work out as He may think well.

There may be within these pages smiles for the simple, sighs for the sad, tears for the sorrowful, joys for the joyous, ideas for the author, simple hints for the thoughtful, problems for the inquisitive, prayers for the prayerful, meditations for the Christian, plans of action for the philanthropist, and suggestions for the statesman and lawgiver.

The Brickyard, Canal, and Gipsy Children—as well as my humble self—will, as they grow up into a better state of things, ever have cause to feel thankful for the kindly help rendered to the cause by the publications of the various sections of the Christian Church, including the Church of England, the Presbyterians, the Wesleyans, Congregationalists, Baptists, Primitive Methodists, Unitarians, Methodist Free Churches, Methodist New Connexion, Roman Catholics, The Friends, Bible Christians, The Religious Tract Society, Christian Knowledge Society, Sunday School Union, Messrs. Cassell, and other Publishers, the Weekly and Daily Press throughout the country, almost without exception, together with the various editors and other writers whose name is Legion.

NOTE TO SECOND EDITION.

FOR the additional illustrations in this edition I owe my best thanks to Mr. W. Weblyn, the proprietor and art editor of the _Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News_; Mr. A. Watson, the literary editor; and also to the Rev. Edward Weldon, M.A., who accompanied me on one of my visits to the gipsies to take the sketches, which appeared with an encouraging and helpful notice on March 1, 1884.

I am also much indebted to the Editor of the _Pall Mall Gazette_ for his sketch and valuable help, and also to others with kind heart and ready pen, whose names would fill a volume, for assisting me to place upon the statute book the Canal Boats Act of 1884, which will, when the whole of my plans are carried out, bring education and protection to 60,000 canal and gipsy children, with but little cost or inconvenience to the van and cabin dwellers.

GEORGE SMITH, _of Coalville_.

_Michaelmas_, 1884.

CONTENTS.

I.

SUNDAY RAMBLES AMONG THE GIPSIES UPON PUMP HILL. Gipsy Smith’s quarters—Gipsy Brown’s wigwam—What I saw _p._ 1–20 at the “Robin Hood”—Tea at Pethers’—Pethers’ trials and reception by his mother II.

RAMBLES AMONG THE GIPSIES IN EPPING FOREST. My companion “on the road”—The widow—Telling fortunes—My 20–33 reception—A youth who had taken to gipsying—A drunken lot—The Forest hotel—A gipsy hunt—Back to my lodgings III.

RAMBLES AMONG THE GIPSIES UPON WANSTEAD FLATS. The Philanthropic Institution, Southwark—Mary 39–59 Carpenter—Mr. Stevenson—Meeting with “an old fool”—A fire king—A showman’s introduction—A school teacher—A gipsy convert’s story—A flat’s row—My lodgings—Return home IV.

RAMBLES AMONG THE GIPSIES AT NORTHAMPTON. “On the road”—Upon the course—Seeds of thought—My 60–74 salutation—A gipsy drinking rum out of a coffin—A communist—A gipsy’s earnings—A gipsy child—A gipsy steam-horse owner’s tale V.

RAMBLES AMONG THE GIPSIES AT WARWICK RACES. What I saw and heard in the train—My lodgings—Germs of 75–91 thought—A race after a dog—Meeting with the gipsy Hollands and Claytons—Alfred Clayton’s trials and change for good—The death of his child—Meets with an educated youth—Clayton begins to pray—Race-goers VI.

RAMBLES AMONG THE GIPSIES AT BOUGHTON GREEN. Polls, Jims, and Sals—Drawn to the Green—_Northampton 92–121 Mercury_—Cowper’s poem—History of the Green—Spectacle lane—Gipsy murders—Rows—Captain Slash—Sights upon the Green—Gipsy dodges—My lodgings—At tea—Gipsy fight—Mine hostess sings—My bed VII.

RAMBLES AMONG THE GIPSIES AT OXFORD FAIR. Woman and child in the arms of death—Tramping with my 122–164 loads—What I saw on the way—Travellers at Paddington—Arriving at Oxford—What I saw on Sunday—My lodging—Meet with Jenny Smith—Number of gipsies at Oxford—Sights at Oxford—My visions during the night—A gipsy showman—A walk with Nabob Brown—Gipsy fairies—Gambling stalls—Boscoe—Backsliders turned gipsies—My last peep—Letter in _The Daily News_—A gipsy teaching her children to pray VIII.

RAMBLES AMONG THE GIPSIES AT HINCKLEY. My tramp—A gipsy woman’s hardships—Row—Gipsy 165–196 horse-dealing—A gipsy Smith—Salvation Army—My lodgings—Aphorisms—A Sunday morning turn-out—Meeting with the gipsies Bedman—Breakfast—A gipsy’s creeds—Present-day gipsies—Burden’s poems IX.

AMONG THE GIPSIES AT LONG BUCKBY. Romany—In the bye-lanes—By the side of the 197–225 canal—Aphorisms—In the meadows near Murcott, and what I saw—Scissor-grinding gipsy—A gipsy with her basket—A stolen child among the gipsies—Friends—At the gate—Coronation pole—G. Flash—Tear-fetching scene—An engineer gipsy—His wife’s sufferings—Tramp from Heckington to Spilsby X.

RAMBLES AT BULWELL AND NOTTINGHAM. On the way to Leicester—My train experiences—A Sunday 226–251 evening at Leicester—My lodgings—Meeting with gipsies Winters and Smith at Nottingham—A child stolen—Congress papers—Return home—Gipsies spreading disease—_Morning Post_ XI.

RAMBLES AMONG THE GIPSIES AT DAVENTRY AND BANBURY. My companions—Meeting with gipsy Mott—Gipsy 252–277 horse-stealing—Gipsy showmen—Gipsy Smith’s experiences—Start to Banbury—Gossip on the road—Children’s revival at Byfield—My lodgings—My hostess’s cats—My bed—What I saw on the way to Banbury—Gipsy shows—Number of vans attending Banbury fairs—Solo needed XII.

SHORT EXCURSIONS AND RAMBLES. Gipsy sham—On the way to Edinburgh—What I saw at 278–303 Leicester—Cherry Island—Hackney Marshes—Bedford—Leicester fair—What others say—Letter from Mr. Mundella—Essex quarter sessions—Question put to the Government—How they treat gipsies in Hungary—Question put to the Government through Mr. Burt—My Bill—Visit to Turnham Green—Fortune-telling—Gipsies round London XIII.

RAMBLES AMONG THE SCOTCH GIPSIES. Wanderings of the brain—My start from Leicester—On the 304–338 way to Carlisle—Germs of thought grown on the way—Arrival at Kelso—My lodgings—A cold night—Aphorisms—Start to Yetholm—Lovely snow—Arrival at Yetholm—Leydon’s poems—Introduction to Blythe—Parting—Meeting an old gipsy—Gipsy queens—Return to my quarters—Baird’s work—Child sold to the gipsies—Gipsy frozen to the ground—What England has done—What she ought to do—Poem: Zutilla APPENDIX A. My plans _explained_ and _objections_ answered 339–351 APPENDIX B. Letter to the Right Hon. Earl Aberdare 352–355

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

MY VISIT TO ENGLISH GIPSY CHILDREN ON THE OUTSKIRTS _Frontispiece_ OF LONDON (_by E. Weldon_) A HOUSE-DWELLING GIPSY’S WIGWAM NEAR LOUGHTON 1 INSIDE A HOUSE-DWELLING GIPSY’S WIGWAM, PUMP HILL, 7 EPPING FOREST AN ENGLISH GIPSY COUNTESS ON THE “LOOK-OUT” (_by E. 35 Weldon_) TWO ENGLISH GIPSY PRINCESSES “AT HOME” (_by F. 51 Weldon_) AN ENGLISH GIPSY DUCHESS—SMITH—“RHEUMATICKY AND 69 LAME” (by _E. Weldon_) THE “SWEETS” AND “SOURS” OF GIPSY MARRIED LIFE (_by 116 E. Weldon_) “ON THE ROAD” TO OXFORD FAIR 123 A SCISSOR-GRINDING GIPSY. “SCISSORS TO GRIND” 207 GIPSY QUARTERS, PLAISTOW MARSHES 281 AN ENGLISH GIPSY KING—“KRÁLIS”—LYING IN WAIT IN HIS 283 PALACE, KRÁLISKO-KAIR (_by E. Weldon_) GIPSY WINTER QUARTERS, YETHOLM 321 ESTHER FAA BLYTHE—A SCOTCH GIPSY QUEEN 328

[Picture: A house-dwelling Gipsy’s wigwam near Loughton]

A Sunday Ramble among the Gipsies upon Pump Hill and Loughton.

SUNDAY, April 23, 1882, opened with a wet morning. The clouds were thick and heavy. The smoke seemed to hover, struggle and rise again as if life depended on its mounting higher than the patched and broken roofs of London houses. The rain came down drearily, dribbly, and drizzly. It hung upon my garments with saturating tendencies, and I really got wet through before I was aware of it. The roads were very uncomfortable for feet in non-watertight boots. Umbrellas were up. Single “chaps,” and others in “couples” were wending their way across Victoria Park. The school bells were chiming out in all directions “Come to school,” “It is time,” “Do not delay,” “Come to school.” In response to the bell-calls the little prattlers and toddlers were hurrying along to school. Their big sisters, with “jerks and snatches,” frequently called out, “Now, then, come along; we shall be too late; singing will be over, and if it is I’ll tell your mother.”

At Victoria Park Station the platelayers were at work, and when I inquired the cause, I was told that the Queen’s carriages were to pass over the line to Loughton at eleven o’clock “to try the metals,” and to see that the platform was back enough to allow sufficient space for the footboards of the royal carriages. In some cases there was not sufficient space, and the line had to be swung a little to enable the carriages to pass.

At Stratford I had a few minutes to wait, and a little conversation with the stationmaster soon satisfied me that he was an observing and common-sense Christian, with a kind heart and good wishes for the poor gipsy children.

I arrived at Loughton in time to join in the morning service conducted by the Wesleyans in a neat iron chapel. The service was good, plain, and homely, and as such I enjoyed it. Of course, being a stranger in “these parts,” I was eyed o’er with “wondering curiosity.” In the chapel there was a tall old man who sat and stood pensively, with his head bending low, during the services, and whom, without much hesitation, I set down as a gipsy. He did not seem to enjoy the service. On inquiry afterwards, I found that my surmise was correct, and that the tall man was a gipsy Smith, of some seventy winters, who was born under a tent upon Epping Forest, amongst the brambles, furze, and heather, with the clouds for a shelter from the sun’s fierce rays in summer, and the slender tent covering, with the dying embers of a stick fire, to keep body and soul together in the midst of the wintry blasts, drifting hail, snow, and sleet, and keen biting frosts to “nip the toes.”

After climbing the steep and rugged hill, I made my way to find out a cocoa-nut gambler, who once gave me an invitation to call upon him when I happened to pass that way. With much ado and many inquiries I found the man and his wife just preparing to go with a donkey and a heavy load of nuts to some secluded spot a few miles away, to “pick up a little money” for their “wittles.” My visit having ended in moonshine, I now began in earnest to hunt up the gipsies. A few minutes’ wandering among the bushes and by-lanes brought me upon a group of half-starved, dirty, half-naked, lost little gipsy children, who were carrying sticks to their wretched dwellings, which were nothing better than horribly stinking, sickening, muddy wigwams.

On making my way through mud and sink-gutter filth, almost over “boot-tops,” I came upon a _duelling_ which, were I to live to the age of Methuselah, I could never forget.

Sitting upon an old three-legged chair, and with a bottom composed of old rags, cord, and broken rushes, was a bulky, dirty, greasy, idle-looking fellow, who might never have been washed in his life. I put a few questions to him about the weather and other trifling matters; but the answers I got from him were such that I could not understand. To “roker” Romany was a thing he could not do. Mumble and grumble were his scholastic attainments.

At the door stood a poor, old, worn-out pony, which they said was as “dodgy and crafty as any human being. It was a capital animal in a cart, but would not run at fairs with children on its back. Immediately you put a child upon its back it stood like a rock, and the devil could not move it.”

In the room were five children as ragged as wild goats, as filthy as pigs, and quite as ignorant. On an old “squab bed”—the only bed in the room—sat a big, fat, aged gipsy woman, on a par with the man and children. A young gipsy of about eighteen years stood at the bottom of the squab bed enjoying his Sunday dinner. In one hand he held the dirty plate, and the other had to do duty in place of a knife and fork. Of what the dinner was composed I could not imagine. It seemed to be a kind of mixture between meat, soup, fish, broth, roast and fry, thickened with bones and flavoured with snails and bread. Upon a very rickety stool sat a girl with a dirty bare bosom suckling a poor emaciated baby, whose father nobody seemed to know—and, if report be true, the less that is said about paternity the better. In this one little hole, with a boarded floor, covered with dirt and mud at least half an inch thick, one bed teeming with vermin, which I saw with my own eyes, and walls covered with greasy grime, there were a man, woman, girl, young man, and five children, huddling together on a Christian Sabbath, in Christian England, within a stone’s throw of a Christian Church and the Church of England day and Sunday school. None of them had ever been in a day or Sunday school or place of worship in their lives. They were as truly heathens as the most heathenish in the world, and as black as the blackest beings I have ever seen. The only godly ray manifest in this dark abode was that of gratitude and thankfulness. A pleasing trait is this. It was a vein embedded in their nature that only required the touch of sympathy, brotherhood, and kindness to light up the lives of these poor lost creatures living in darkness. Natural beauty I saw none inside; but the marks of sin were everywhere manifest. Just outside this miserable hive, notwithstanding the stench, the bees were buzzing about seeking in vain for honey, the butterflies were winging fruitlessly about trying to find flowers to settle upon; and across the beautiful forest valley the cuckoo was among the trees piping forth its ever beautiful, lovely, enchanting, and never-tiring “cuck-coo,” “cuck-coo,” “cuck-coo;” throstles, linnets, blackbirds, and woodpeckers were hopping about from tree to tree within a stone’s throw, sending forth heavenly strains, echoing and re-echoing in the distance among the wood foliage on this bright spring Sunday afternoon. I could almost hear with Dr. James Hamilton, in his “Pearl of Parables” (_Sunday at Home_, 1878), a poor gipsy girl singing with tears in her eyes—

“Some angel in the land of love For love should pity me, And draw me in like Noah’s dove From wastes of misery.”

The lark echoes in the air—

“But I would seek on earth below A space for heaven to win, To cheer one heart bowed down by woe, To save one soul from sin.”

I left this hut, after taking a breath of fresh air, for another gipsy _dwelling_ round the corner, picking my way among the masses of filth as well as I could. Here another sight, not quite so sickening, but equally heartrending, presented itself. A gipsy woman was squatting upon the filthy boards, the father was sitting upon a rickety old chair without any bottom in it; _i.e._, there were a few cords tied across which served to hold up one or two dirty rags, and these were sunk so low that any one sitting upon the chair could feel nothing but the rims, which were not at all comfortable. Round the man and woman were six children of all ages and sizes, partially dressed in filthy rags and old shoes, which seemed to have been picked out of the ashes upon Hackney Marshes, all of which were much too large for their little feet, and were stuffed with rags. One little girl had a pair of cast-off woman’s shoes, possessing little sole and almost less “uppers.”

The gipsy father was partially blind through having been in so many gipsy combats. A kick over the eyes had not only nearly blinded him, but as B. said, “I feel at times as if my senses were nearly gone. Thank the Lord, I can see best when the sun shines clear.” On my approaching nearer to where they were sitting the man got up and kindly offered me his _chair_, which I accepted, notwithstanding the disagreeable surroundings. On the walls of their _dwelling_ pieces of pictures and old newspapers were pasted. There were parts of _The British Workman_, _Band of Hope Review_, _Old Jonathan_, _The Cottager and Artizan_, _Churchman’s Almanack_; in fact, they seemed to have upon the greasy walls a scrap of some of the pictorial publications published by the Wesleyans, Baptists, Church of England, the Unitarians, Congregationalists, the Religious Tract Society, Cassell, Sunday School Union, Haughton and Co., Partridge and Co., Dr. Barnardo, and others. I said to the poor man, “This is a very tumbledown old place.” “Yes,” he said, “people say that it has been built nine hundred years; and I believe it has, for the man who owns it now says he cannot remember it being built.” I said, “How old do you think the man is who owns it?” He answered, “Well, I should think that he is fifty, for he has great grand-children.” Their only table consisted of an old box, upon which, in a wicker basket, there were a young jay and a blackbird which the gipsy woman was trying to rear. As the young birds opened their beaks, almost wide enough to swallow each other, the woman kept thrusting into their mouths large pieces of stinking meat of some kind, about which I did not ask any particulars. These little gipsy attractions and observations being over, I began to inquire about things concerning their present and eternal welfare. I found on inquiry that the only food this family had had to live upon during the last two days had been a threepenny loaf and half an ounce of tea. When I asked them what they did for a living they could scarcely tell me. The man said, “I go out sometimes with a basket and a few oranges in it, and I picks up a bit of a living in this way. Some of the people are pretty good to me. As a rule we begs our clothes. Occasionally I catches a rabbit or picks up a hedgehog. If I can scrape together a shilling to buy oranges I generally manages pretty well for that day. Our firing does not cost us anything, and in summer-time the young uns picks up a lot of birds’ eggs out of the forest, which are very nice for them if they are not too far hatched.” Just at this juncture a practical demonstration took place as to how they dealt with the birds’ eggs. One of the boys, I should think of about seven years, came with a nest of blackbirds’ eggs—poor little fellow he was no doubt hungry, for he had had no Sunday dinner—which he placed into his mother’s hands. The mother was not long before she began to crack them, and into the children’s mouths they went, half hatched as they were, just as she fed the young jay. I really thought that one of the youngsters would have been choked by one of the half-hatched young blackbirds. With a little crushing, cramming, and tapping on the back the poor Sunday dinnerless gipsy child escaped the sad consequences I at one time feared would be the result. To see a woman forcing food of this description down a child’s throat is a sight I never want to see again. Hunger opens a mouth that turns sickening food into dainty morsels. None of these poor gipsy children had ever lisped a godly prayer or read a word in their lives. The father said he would be glad to send the children to school if they would be received there and they could go free. The whole of these children were born in a tent upon a bit of straw among the low bushes of Epping Forest. Some in the depth of severe winter, others in the midst of drenching rains, and even when the larks were singing overhead, with “roughish nurses and midwives” as attendants.