Part 16

As usual there were gipsy Smiths in the fair, and without much difficulty I ran against one who was the proprietor of a popgun establishment and two shillings’ worth of “toffy” stuck round a wheel of fortune. I had a long chat with him between the “cracks,” and elicited the fact that he had twice tried gipsying in Ireland, but it resulted each time in a drawn game. He only visited four fairs. Irish soil and poverty are not suited for the development of gipsying. The fact is, Irishmen are too wide awake for the vagabond gipsies, and they are too much taken up with the matter-of-fact everyday life to listen to idle lying, misleading, romantic, wheedling tales designed to draw the money out of their pockets. At one of the fairs in Ireland my gipsy friend took four shillings, with a prospect of losing his tent, bag and baggage. If he had been one of Arabi’s Egyptian ragamuffin soldiers frightened from Tel-el-Kebir he could not have decamped more quickly from the land of St. Patrick. The pleasure fairs of England and the fashionable squares of London, and the watering-places on the coasts are places and palaces where gipsy _kings_ and _queens_ thrive best.

They fatten and thrive fairly well in some places in Scotland. One cannot but smile sometimes at the ease with which some of them go through the world. If their cleverness was turned into legitimate channels and honourable business transactions, they would soon be a credit to themselves and to us as a nation. It is a thousand pities that in these educational days there are narrow-minded croakers who, under the guise of friends—though in reality their worst enemies—are trying to keep the gipsy children in ignorance; but their object is easily seen by those who stand by and are looking quietly and thoughtfully on. These false friends smile in gipsy faces while they are robbing them of their lore to fill their empty coffers, and this the gipsies will see some day.

Gipsy Smith and myself began to enumerate all the vans in the fair, together with those living in them. There were about thirty gipsy vans, shows, covered carts, &c. In one of the vans there were eight children besides adults. In another van there were seven children besides adults. Altogether we counted over one hundred travelling children in the fair, not three of whom could read and write. Smith said that in all his travelling experience he had not known either gipsy, showman, auctioneer, or traveller ever attend a place of worship from fair grounds. “Sundays as a rule,” said Smith, “are spent in travelling with their families from town to town and from place to place.” Gipsy Smith lived and travelled with his wife in a covered pony-cart. There were four “Aunt Sally” stalls, which dealt out cigars to children for successful “throws.” The gipsies are to-day doing more to encourage gambling and smoking than is imagined by ninety-nine out of every hundred Englishmen. The former saps the morals and the latter the minds and constitutions of those who are simple enough to indulge in them.

Before I had done talking with gipsy Smith the Salvation Army brass band from Leicester, with “Captain” Roberts from the headquarters, one of the staff officers, hailed within sight and sound, and as I had not had the opportunity to spend an evening with the Salvation Army, to see and hear for myself something of the proceedings, I joined in the procession as an outsider. Some of the people made an eye-butt of me at which they stared. Crowds were gathering round the band as it played in martial strains—if Mr. Inspector Denning had been there from the House of Commons better order could not have been kept—

“Hark! hark! my soul, what warlike songs are swelling Through all the streets and on from door to door; How grand the truths these burning strains are telling Of that great war till sin shall be no more.”

And then the vocal band with their voices would join in singing the choruses with exciting strains and gesture—

“Salvation Army, Army of God, Onward to conquer the world with fire and blood.”

After this the brass band led the next verse—

“Onward we go, the world shall hear our singing,” &c.

After they had played this up the street for a time, the Army halted, and Captain Roberts and one of the lieutenants addressed some words to the “band” with fire and vigour running through them, to which the lads and lasses, young men and maidens, saints and sinners, responded with the “Old Methodist” and Primitive Methodist “Glory! glory! bless the Lord!” “Hallelujah!” “Religion is the best thing in the world!” “Glory!” another called out at the top of his voice. While the Army was giving out no uncertain sound the brass band commenced, under marching orders and exciting surroundings, reminding me of old times—

“We are marching home to glory, Marching up to mansions bright, Where bright golden harps are playing, Where the saints are robed in white.”

And then, in obedience to the captain’s arms and orders, the lads and lasses struck up with the chorus—

“There’s a golden harp in glory, There’s a spotless robe for you— March with us to the hallelujah city, To the land beyond the blue.”

And in this way we kept on till we arrived at the “Salvation Warhouse.”

A drunken man dressed in rags, but with an intelligent-looking face and a high forehead, must of needs have a word to say, and for a time a “branglement” seemed inevitable. However, with a little tact the storm blew over. After a little work at “knee drill” in the warhouse the Army rested for a short time to recruit their animal strength. While this was going on I looked out for a couch upon which to rest my bones for the night, and this I found out at Mr. Atkins’, in the market-place. I then retired to get my dinner and tea in a coffee-tavern, of pork pie and coffee, among “chaps and their girls” who had come to Hinckley for a “fairing.” From thence I strolled to some gipsy vans on the green, to find a number of the women washing clothes. My reception was in anything but heavenly language. The gipsies at this fair were from Staffordshire, nearly all of whom were unknown to me. If two of the women had wanted to impress a stranger with the idea that they were of the poor unfortunate gutter-scum class, they could not have used more disgusting language than they did. I chatted with them and gave the children some books and pennies, which brought sorrow from the lips of the gipsy parents for having insulted me. After strolling about among the gipsies and vans in the fair for a time, and distributing some cards and picture-books among the gipsy, show, and other travelling children, I wended my way, guided by the sound of “the light and leading” of the Salvation band, to the “Salvation shop,” to spend a happy hour or two. I sat in one corner and looked quietly on, which seemed to puzzle them. The leaders all had a good stare at me; and first one and then the other would try to draw me out with the usual question, to which I replied very politely and left them in a maze. Captain Roberts told me over breakfast on the Sunday morning that I had been a puzzle to the “band” all the previous evening; and, except to “Captain Roberts” and the good family with whom I was staying, I still remain so, for aught I know.

The Army had commenced proceedings, and at the word of command began to “fire red-hot shot at the devil.” It was a lively, exciting time. The band struck up while they were sitting down—

“My rest is in heaven, my rest is not here, Then why should I murmur when trials are near? Be hushed, my dark spirit, the worst that can come But shortens my journey and hastens me home.”

After this the “command” was for “knee-drill.” Certainly some of the language and action of the soldiers was a little out of the “Friends’” style of doing things. One soldier shouted out at the top of his voice, with a large amount of enthusiasm, “Lord, help us to kill the devil, he has troubled us long enough.” Another would call out, “Lord, the devil has got some powder in his breast; light it with a match and blow his head off;” to which another soldier would reply, “Give the devil string enough and he will hang himself.” “Glory!” they all shouted.

They now got off their knees, and big and little began to relate their experiences, and to “tell what the Lord had done for them.” Our “good brother” in his experiences said, “While I was serving the devil, he made a sign-post of me for a rogue’s shop. Now I am a member of the Salvation Army, with a bit of blue in my coat, which is better than having red on the end of your nose.” “Thank God, it is good, brother; hallelujah!” shouted a number of volunteers.

One little boy said, in his experience with moistened cheeks, “Thank the Lord; before I joined the Salvation Army I was a bad boy; but now I say my prayers, and am trying to be good, and mean to get to heaven! Amen.”

One little girl, with tears in her eyes, said, “Before I joined the Salvation Army I used to be a naughty, bad girl; now I am praying to God, and try to be good. O Lord, do save my poor mother, and my brothers and sisters, for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.” A number of girls and boys related their experiences in similar strains. One grey-headed old man, with wet eyes and trembling emotion, thanked “God that He had put it into the mind of one of the boys in the room to leave him a tract, and to invite him to join the Salvation Army. It was the best thing that had ever been done to him. Instead of serving the devil, who was a bad master, he was serving God, and hoped to get to heaven. Bless God, and the lads and lasses. Amen.”

The captain now called on the “band” to strike up one of their “marches,” which they did:

“There is a better world, they say, oh so bright! Where sin and woe are done away, oh so bright! And music fills the balmy air, And Angels with bright wings are there, And harps of gold, and mansions fair, oh so bright!”

And

“The Lion of Judah shall break my chain, And give us the victory again and again,” &c.

I then wended my way to my lodging at Mr. Atkins’, all the better for having spent a couple of hours with the “Salvation Army;” and with good wishes for its success, I dozed away, with a “captain” of the Salvation Army for a neighbour on one side, and a clergyman of the Church of England on the other, feeling sure that between these two good Christian centurion brothers, and under the eye of my Master, I was pretty sure to land safely, after the tossings of the night, at the breakfast table in the morning. During my midnight wandering in mist and dreamland, the following aphorisms, thoughts, and suggestions floated before my brain.

As the beautiful colours of the field, forest, dell, garden, and bower are produced by the rays of the sun, so are the beautiful traits of Christian life produced by the rays of Divine love, as exemplified and manifested by the Son of God, our blessed Lord.

The nation that allows her children of tender years to drift about at sea without rescuing them from ruin, has decay, or “dry rot,” at work among her timbers, and will before long become a wreck.

The country that cannot find time to see to the interest of its little children within its borders, has allowed the devil to throw dust into the eyes of its leaders, to blind them against its happiness and prosperity by leading all into the dark.

Why are some Christians little-loved, weak-kneed, and sickly? Because they, like babies, live on “sop”—_i.e._, trashy fiction, shows, sights, sounds, and unrealities, instead of the love of God and the pure milk of His word.

When you see a Christian with the love of God burning deadly within his soul, and without either light or heat being the outcome, it may be taken for granted that a lot of worldly ashes are in the way choking up the ventilation and air passages; and if he will not set to work at once to clear out the ashes and dust of sin God will do it for him, either by the chastening rod of affliction or losses and crosses in other forms.

Cloaks of deception and fraud are made out of the fibres of disease and putrefaction, and those who wear them are exposed to the disgust and loathing of all upright observers.

Cloaks of honesty and uprightness are made out of the fibres of love and truthfulness, and the wearers of them are received with the smiles and loving embraces of all classes of society.

When you see a Christian without either life or soul within him, you may rest satisfied that bank-notes, musty-fusty deeds, or other things upon which he has set his affections, are clinging round and coming across the ventricles of his heart, and unless removed they will cause death both to the body and to the soul. If the earth-bound Christian will set fire to them by exposing them and his heart to a ray of Divine love, he will be able to jump over a mountain and scale the battlements of heaven, and with flag in hand shout, “Victory!”

Some dashing, flashing wicked men are like a balloon without a vent-hole filled with the devil’s gas, which expands the higher it rises; and for a time they float upon the surface of humanity, finally seeking pleasure among the clouds of fascination and frivolity; and in this region they burst and come down to earth and their senses with a tremendous crash, to find when it is too late that they have been making fools of themselves, and that their grappling irons will not save them from oblivion and ruin.

A clever, wise, thoughtful, sagacious, and Christian statesman may be compared to an aeronaut, who sits in his balloon-car carried by public opinion and pulling the strings of popular applause. Popular applause is the gas by which a statesman floats in the air above his followers; the cords and netting that hold the bottom together are his friends; the treasury bench is his car and the press his strings, which, wisely handled, enable him to land upon the desired spot. Poor wayward and wrong-doing relations are the grappling irons that hold him to the earth; hangers are paupers, and loafers are his sandbags. Infidels, Fenians, Sceptics, and Communists are matches, fusees, and percussion caps, thrown into his car by disappointed office-seekers and courtiers with the object of sending him to Jamaica before his work is done. When those various elements have either been thrown out of the car, stamped out, or brought under proper control, he will then mount higher and higher till he finally quits his car and finds himself seated by the throne of God.

The best stimulating food for an overworked brain, and containing more phosphorus than a thousand fish, is the essence of Divine love, and grace and truth in equal quantities, to be taken upon the knees as often as circumstances need. Before applying to the Great Physician for this medicine the patient should spend an hour in meditation and solitude.

When you see professing Christian parents setting their children to ferret into other people’s affairs, it is a sure sign that they are fonder of rat-catching than filling their souls with good things; and the unwary should be on the look-out, or they will be trapped by these godly rat-catchers and their skins taken to be made into purses.

The various denominations of Christian churches in the country may be likened to an orchard of apple trees, most of which are bearing fruit in one form or other. Some are just beginning to bear fruit, and there are others dead or dying, while there are some trees producing larger quantities of ripe, healthy fruit. In some cities, towns, and villages the best kinds of fruit are to be seen, and in other places the little hard sour crabs, which almost set one’s teeth on edge to look at them, much less to taste. The best and largest fruit in any case is that which grows upon the most healthy trees and branches, exposed to the sun’s rays, and draws its nourishment the most direct from the parent trunk. Fruit upon almost dead branches does not so soon get ripe as the fruit upon healthy branches, and it is small and shrivelled up. In some localities we shall see what we may call “Blenheim” churches, “Russett” churches, “Crab” churches, “Keswick” churches, “Northern Green” churches, “Whiting Pippin” churches, “Winter” churches, &c., growing side by side. The “Crab” church is little, hard, and sour; the “Blenheim” church is rich, large, delicious, and healthy; the “Russett” church is uninviting, but juicy, and much better than it looks. So in like manner with other kinds of Christian churches. The name of the churches answering under these various names must be answered by the members themselves. As digging, dunging, pruning, and grafting improves the trees and the quality of the fruit, so in like manner our heavenly Father has to deal with His churches, or they would all die together. Conscience, surrounded with death-like stillness, asks the question, “To which do you belong?”

A man who has forsaken the path God has marked out for him has stuffed his ears with wool, and jumped upon the devil’s steam tug, and is being taken into a long, dark, dark tunnel, with no light at the other end; and the light of heaven and the gospel which he has left behind him are, through distance, smoke, and steam, and his own bad actions, getting gradually less. The only light he can see, and which will not help him to grope his way in his wretched condition, is derived from farthing rush-lights called science, made and placed in the dark watery cavern by men’s hands; and these get fewer as he is being pulled along by evil influences, until he is lost in despair, with horror upon his face and wringing his hands in grief he passes away.

As children sitting upon a swing gate rocking to and fro are in some degree being prepared for the storms of a life at sea, so are the little foretastes of heavenly pleasure enjoyed by His children from time to time, filling, preparing, and nerving them for the tempestuous ocean which awaits them.

People without gratitude for God’s mercies may be compared to swine eating chestnuts as they fall from the trees. Their refined senses are only manifested in grunts and grumbles. Wise are the people who take lessons from the little birds, and sing God’s praises while they enjoy His blessings.

Gamblers are the devil’s cats set by his Satanic majesty to catch children and fools, and woe be to those who are caught within their clutches.

Those who cling to forms and ceremonies entirely as a means of getting to heaven, will have their eyes opened some day to find out that they are hugging and fondling an illegitimate child of a parent of a very questionable character. The more they know of the child they have been fondling and its mother, the more they will be disgusted with themselves at having been such dupes and fools.

Those who disobey their parents will find that they are putting a noose round their necks, and tying the other end of the rope to a gate post; and when they have done this the words “love” and “duty” in letters of fire will spring up as from the ground, which will keep getting larger and hotter until the wrong-doers are strangled.

The devil’s butterfly is an unconverted clergyman, who gets upon the back of a horse to gallop a fox to death on the week day, dresses in fantastical colours on Sundays, dances before his congregation with incense in his hands, and with his face towards the east, tries to carry his congregation on his wings to a place he knows not where; hypocritically singing the _Te Deum_ in Latin as they go from “pillar to post.”

Those landlords who object to the cultivation of their waste lands for food for man and beast will find that the scent of the gorse, perfume of the heather, contains the fragrance of the bankruptcy court, with the hares, rabbits, partridges, pheasants, woodcock and snipe flapping about the doors uttering horrible noises for their folly. The horrors of the court will be increased by hearing the cries of the children asking for bread with none to give.

Those people who, with the aid of a glib tongue, cunning, and deception, are weaving a cloak of soft words to cover a mass of iniquity, will find out too late, unless very careful, that the mass of corruption they have been hiding will burst out with a more horrible stench than that of a dead corpse.

Infidels and sceptics who rest entirely upon science and nature as a lever by which they hope to lift humanity into paradise, have only to look into a bright black earthenware teapot to discover what sort of wry and contortious faces they are pulling before the public.

The most powerful magnet in the world is the love of God. It can draw the sting of the devil, disarm enemies, and lift all the human beings in the universe into heaven. The more it is used the stronger and more powerful it gets.

Sceptics and infidels, seeking for the so-called errors in the Divine Word, may be compared to blind and foot-tied weasels, trying to catch “Jack Sharps” in a broad, deep, clear stream of pure water. They leave their sickening scent on their trail behind them, to be carried forward to be lost in the great stream of truth from whence all our blessings flow.

Children’s gifts to children produce more blessed, lasting, and Christ-like results than any other gifts in the universe. Children’s gifts to poor little outcast, forgotten, and neglected children are seeds of kindness that will live as long as this world endures, and they will then bloom in Paradise for ever.

Christians who receive their strength for the conflicts and trials of life from reading light books while sitting in drawing-room slippers, and under the sound of frothy conversation, instead of from closet prayer and faith, and the rain and sunshine of heaven, are like window plants, which derive their strength from cold and poisonous water put to their roots. Plants, whether in nature or grace, grown under such circumstances soon become unhealthy and drooping, and unable to stand the bare breath of opposition.

Christians living upon the church roll in name only, without the cheering and enlivening influence of the Holy Spirit, will become like plants grown in a dark room, pale and feeble. Some Christian lives are weeds, and may be known by their crotchets, tempers, and wrinkles.

The first signs of a withering church may be said to have manifested themselves when the living members extend the dead hand of sympathy to the suffering members of their own flock.