The following brief account of a visit—one of many I have made to Gipsy encampments at Hackney Marshes and other places during the present winter—will give some faint idea of what Gipsy life is in this country, as seen by me during my interviews with the Gipsies. The morning was dark; the snow was falling fast; about six inches of snow and slush were upon the ground—my object being in this case, as in others, viz., to visit them at inclement seasons of the weather to find as many of the Gipsies in their tents as possible, and as I closed my door I said, “Lord, direct me,” and off I started, not knowing which way to go. Ultimately I found my way to Holborn, and took the ’bus, and, as I thought, to Hackney, which turned out to be “a delusion and a snare,” for at the terminus I found myself some two and a half miles from the Marshes; however, I was not going to turn back if the day was against me, and after laying in a stock of sweets for the Gipsy children, and “baccy” for the old folks, I commenced my squashy tramp till I arrived at the Marshes; the difficulty here was the road leading to the tents being covered ankle deep with snow and water, but as my feet were pretty well wet I could be no worse off if I paddled through it. Consequently, after these little difficulties were overcome, I found myself in the midst of about a score of tents and vans of all sizes and descriptions, connected with which there were not less than thirty-five grown-up Gipsies and about sixty poor little Gipsies. The first van I came to was a kind of one-horse cart with a cover over it; inside was a strong, hulking-looking fellow and a poor, sickly-looking woman with five children. The woman had only been confined a few days, and looked more fit for “the box” than to be washing on such a cold, wintry day. On a bed—at least, some rags—were three poor little children, one of whom was sick, which the mother tried to prevent by putting her dirty apron to the child’s mouth. The large, piercing eyes of this poor, death-looking Gipsy child I shall never forget; they have looked into my innermost soul scores of times since then, and every time I think about this sight of misery the sickly child’s eyes seem to cry out, “Help me! Help me!” The poor woman said it was the marshes that caused the illness, but my firm opinion is that it was neither more nor less than starvation. The poor woman seemed to be given up to despair. A few questions put to her in the momentary absence of the man elicited the fact that she was no Gipsy. She had been brought up as a Sunday-school scholar and teacher, and had been beguiled away from her home by this “Gipsy man.” She said she could tell me a lot if I would come some other time. She also said, “Gipsy life as it is at present carried out ought to be put a stop to, and would be if people knew all.” With a few coppers given to her and the children we parted. In another tent on the marshes there was a man, woman, and six children.