“Up! a great work lies before you,
Duty’s standard waveth o’er you.Stretch a hand to save the sinking
Carried down sin’s tide unthinking.”
“The pangs of hell,” as the Rev. C. H. Spurgeon says in the Christian Herald, March 31, 1880, “do not alarm them, and the joys of heaven do not entice them” to do their duty. With tears of blood I would say, Oh that the voice of Parliament and the action of the Government were seen and heard taking steps to educate the poor gipsy children, so that they may be enabled to read and repeat prayers—even if their parents have lost parental regard and affection for their own offspring.
The business of the day was now over, and it was evident that the time had arrived for “paying off old scores.” The men and women had begun to collect together in groups. Murmurings and grumblings were heard. The tumult increased, and presently from one group shouts of “Give it him, Jock” were echoing in the air, disturbing the stillness of the night. Thumps, thuds, and shrieks followed each other in rapid succession. I closed in with the bystanders. Blood began to flow from the “millers,” who looked murderously savage at each other. Thus they went on “up and down Welsh fashion” for a few minutes, till one gipsy woman cried out, “He’s broken Jock’s nose, a beast him.” The policeman came now quietly along as if his visit would have done on the morrow. One woman shouted out, “Bobby is coming, now it is all over.” To me it looked as if “Bobby” did not like the job of quelling gipsy rows; if he had to quell them it would seem that he had rather they let off some of the steam got up by revenge, spite, and beer before he tackled them.
While this gang of gipsies were separating, another row was going on near to a large public-house, to which I hastened, and arrived in time to see one of them “throw up the sponge.” There were no less than half a dozen fights in less than half an hour. It was now half-past eleven, and I began to think that it was quite time that I looked out for my night’s lodging, so I entered into council with the policeman. We visited eating-houses, coffee-houses, lodging-houses, public-houses, and shops in Forest Gate without success. The policeman advised me to walk to Stratford. This I could not do, for I began to feel rather queer and giddy; my only prospect was either to pass the night at the station, on the “Flats,” or return by the last train. No time was to be lost. I hastily took my ticket, and almost rolled and tumbled down the steps and into the train, which took me to Fenchurch Street Station, in a somewhat bewildered state as to my next move forward. For a minute or two I stood still, lost in wonder. The policeman soon appeared on the scene with his “Please move on” and gruff voice. I told him I wanted to “move on,” if he would tell me where to move to. “There are,” answered the policeman, “plenty of shops to move into in London, if that is what you mean. It depends what sort of shop you want. If you have got plenty of money, there is the ‘Three Nuns.’” And he also pointed out one or two other first-class places in Aldgate. I bade the policeman good night, and went across the street to look at the “Three Nuns,” which was being closed for the night. The outside of the place indicated to me that I should have to dip more deeply into my pocket than my financial position would allow, and I turned to look for fresh quarters in Aldgate. It was now past twelve o’clock, and all the places, except one or two, were closed. On the door of an eating-house and coffee-shop I espied a light, and thither I went. Fortunately the servants were about, and the landlady was enjoying her midnight meal. A bed was promised, and after a long chat with the landlady and some supper, I was shown into my room, the appearance of which I did not like; but it was “Hobson’s choice, that or none.” There were two locks upon the door, and I had taken the precaution to have plenty of candles and matches with me. It looked as if a broken-down gentleman had been occupying it for some time, who had suddenly decamped, leaving no traces of his whereabouts. There was but little clothing upon the bed, and the springs were broken and “humpy.” I turned into it to do the best I could till morning. The smell of the room was that of sin. The rattling about the stairs during the whole of the night was not of a nature to produce a soothing sensation. I felt with Charles Wesley, when he wrote
“God of my life, whose gracious power
Through varied deaths my soul hath led,
Or turned aside the fatal hour,
Or lifted up my sinking head.”
It would have been helpful if I could have sung out in this miserable abode, for such it was to me—
“My song shall wake with opening light,
And cheer the dark and silent night.”
I tossed about nearly all night, and at seven o’clock I turned out to get an early breakfast, and to make my way back to “Wanstead Flats” to have a last peep at my gipsy friends. I arrived about eight o’clock. Some of the show folks and show keepers must have had but little sleep, for I found them moving off the Flats for a run out to their country seats, leaving behind them the seeds of sin, sown by ignorance, fostered by an evil heart, and watered by oaths and curses.
I turned in to have another chat with my gipsy friends, who had taken to house-dwelling, and to listen to their pretty little girl singing as only children can sing
“Whither, pilgrims, are you going?”