Imagine, if you please, about three-quarters of an acre of waste land, bounded on one side by an unsavoury canal, on another by chemical works, which were closed in by a high wooden fence, at the back by the streets of Hackney Wick, whilst on another side a huge workhouse frowned. Here and there upon the ground were heaps of ashes and general rubbish. Decaying vegetable matter, a dead dog far gone in decomposition, and two cats in a similar condition, all contributed their sweetness to the desert air. A couple of melancholy-looking horses of extreme age were trying to eat a handful of hay, which the condition of their poor old teeth prevented. Here was salubrious Arcadia and its inhabitants, of whom I counted eighty-seven. There were twelve tents and six caravans to house the Arcadians. The caravans need no description, for they were of the ordinary gipsy kind, but the nature of the tents needs some explanation. Four of these were of the usual kind, made out of old sheeting, shaped like half an orange, and standing about four feet in height. The other tents were ranged along by the wooden fence. A description of one will stand for them all: Four feet from the fence a low wall three feet high had been built of stones, bricks, or clods loosely piled together; some old boards had been placed on the little wall, and allowed to fall against the fence, to which they were secured by nails. One end of the tent was made of old sacks, etc., which were secured at the top and loose at the bottom, allowing for ingress and egress. The other end was formed of pieces of wood, scraps of rusty sheet-iron, etc.; there was no attempt, so far as I could see, to make any of them impervious to wind or wet. It was April when I visited them, but all these people had lived under these conditions since the beginning of the previous November. It was dinner-time, for I saw family parties, and there was a strong scent of fried bacon in the air.