Part 23

The sound of the thresher’s flail was heard in the barn, calling out “Clank,” “Clank,” “Clank,” “Thud,” as it struck the corn and barn floor, causing the precious grain to fly like a shower of small pellets against the doors. Not a gleam of sunshine was to be seen. Summer and winter seemed during the last fortnight to have been struggling with each other, in the death-throes of nature for the mastery. Genial summer had to give way to savage winter, and little robins piped forth the victory. Everywhere seemed cold, damp, and covered with melancholy. As we meditated upon the surroundings, our carrier drove to our door with his van, into which I got, and seated myself in one of the corners almost out of sight. A patent “four-wheeler” of this kind I had not been used to, and our little folks did their best to try to persuade me not to try the experiment. We had not gone many yards before eggs, boxes, whiskey bottles, butter, and onions were handed to our carrier for carriage and safe custody to Daventry fair. Fat and thin women were closely packed round me. Welton is a noted village for fat women, which may be the result of the excellent water. While our village blacksmith was putting some of his handiwork into the carrier’s van, the scene brought vividly to my mind Longfellow’s poem. He might have seen the very spot.

“Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.”

I mumbled the verse over to myself as we jogged along. To have repeated or bawled it out in such “close quarters” would have been worse than putting one’s head into a hatbox.

After the usual “picking up” and “calling” we began to slowly trot off with our load. We had not got far before our village dames, damsels, and companions began to indulge more or less in the usual village gossip and jokes. Big heavy old women could indulge in sprightly conversation as freely as if they were “four-year-olds.” Pleasantry was exchanged as to who was to sit next to our driver, so as to keep his back warm. Village parsons and squires were the first upon the programme. Then came a long rigmarole about the old maids and maidens, poachers, slovens, slatterns, fashions, Jacks, Jims, and Pollies. Everybody knew everybody’s business, ranging from the death of Polly Jones’s cat to Squire Brown’s fine horse. Good masters were passed over with “He’s not a bad sort of man to work for, and he’d be better if he had more to do with.” Bad masters were mentioned with a curl of the lip, a scowl and a shake of the head, ending with “He’s a bad ’un; my man shouldn’t work for him at any price, if I could help it.” Mrs. So-and-So, and Miss So-and-So were “snappy old things,” “niggardly, mean, and miserable;” “nobody has a moment’s comfort near them.” “Oh!” said one, on the road, “did you see Miss Jenny Starch on Sunday with her new bonnet on? Didn’t she look mighty fine? Wasn’t she a stuck-up thing? Nobody could come near her with a fork.” “Did you see,” said another, “the three poor little children running about the streets this morning, almost naked, in rags and dirt? The mother is idle, and the father drinks. They both want horsewhipping, and if I could have my own way I would give it them.” “Yes,” said another, “and serve them right.” “Did you see,” said another, “the Misses So-and-So in church on Sunday? They looked quite pretty. When you can just catch them in the right temper, they are so nice and pleasant. What a thing this money is, isn’t it? Money buys fine feathers, and fine feathers make fine birds.” “Anybody can be made pretty, nowadays, if they have only the money,” said a stout dame, who had a big red face under a little bonnet, and must have weighed little short of eighteen stone. We were passed on the road by two “screwy” old maids from Bonnybrook, “trotting off to market” in a green pony carriage, sitting like Jack and Jill, one before and the other behind, bolt upright and as still as posts, looking out of the corner of their eyes. As we were mounting the hill going into Daventry the question of “leaving” was brought upon the carpet, and it came out that all of them were satisfied with their “old masters,” and were going to “stop again at the old wages.” I am afraid their “old masters”—husbands—will have a little difficulty in getting rid of them. They like the “old shop” too well to budge. The process of riddance, “My dear husband,” and a stream of tears would have to be faced before they “cleared out.”

I had not been long in the “mop” before I was face to face with a good-looking, but somewhat eccentric, and good-natured popgun owner, named Mott, at one of the stalls. One passage of Scripture after another he repeated in rapid succession with breathless speech, until quite a crowd gathered round us in the drizzling rain. After my friend—who has been on the road attending fairs for forty years—had finished his speech, his wife handed to him a newspaper, out of which he read my letter as it appeared in the _Daily News_, bearing date September 5th, 1882, which will also be found in page 161. The newspaper had been given to them by a dirty, wretched, filthy-looking family of travelling show folks from London, whose corns and consciences had been touched to the quick. After he had read it, and had given it to his wife again, I expected a “rather hot reception,” especially after a paragraph which has been going the round of a few of the papers, to the effect that I must look out for trouble from “light and dark gentlemen.” As the paper passed from his hands I looked rather anxiously into his face to see what the effect would be. To my surprise, the index of his soul showed pleasure, and not anger; and in unmistakable tones he said, “You are quite right, sir, and I thank you for it. It is rather warm, but your object is right—there is no mistaking that. I quite agree with your plans, and so does every right-thinking man. The traveller’s and other gipsy children ought to be educated. God bless you, sir, I know what religion is; I am an old backslider. I was once a leading member among the Baptists, but I chipped out over a little thing, and now me and my old woman are travelling the country in our van, and doing this sort of thing. There is one thing I should like to say, sir; I never creep into my bed in the van without saying my prayers to my heavenly Father. I feel to sleep better after it. It soothes me a little.” Tears were making their way down the grey-haired traveller’s face; and I think it would have been a blessed thing for him if I could have introduced him into a Methodist prayer-meeting, as a stepping stone that would lead him out and on to the paths he trod in the days of yore, crying out from the depths of his soul, in the language of a writer in the _Christian Life_ for October 14th, 1882—

“Thou art a rock, to which I flee; With all my sins I come to Thee, And lay them down, Lord, at Thy feet, Before the shining mercy-seat. Thou art a fortress strong and high, To which for shelter all may fly, Sure there to find a safe retreat, Beneath the sacred mercy-seat.”

After shaking hands with this couple I bade them goodbye, and gave them something to read during the dark hours of winter, something in which are buried seeds of a bright spring-time for them both, if they will only follow out the directions given. I then strolled into the fair. I had not gone far before I came upon an old brickmaker, and from him I gleaned some facts showing how wretchedly the Brickyard Act of 1871 is being carried out. After chatting with him for some minutes he apparently took stock of my hair, which has, thank God, grown almost white in the cause of suffering children. Mr. Brickmaker turned quite poetical, and in

## parting said—

“Take stock, Mr. Knock, That’s what I have to say, Mr. Grey,”

and he then sidled and smiled away into the crowd.

I had not been long moving to and fro among the gipsies before I learned that two gipsies, whose head-quarters were a few miles from Daventry, were undergoing transportation, one for sheep-stealing, and the other for horse-stealing. The horse-stealing gipsy was caught in his own trap, owing to his being too clever and daring. It came about as follows: A publican and farmer a few miles from here had a fine, beautiful, young black horse, to which the gipsy took a fancy; and it so happened with this gipsy, as with other gipsies of this class, that he had not too much money to spare for purchasing purposes. An old idea ran fresh through his brain, which was, that he could with but little trouble make the horse his own, without money and the bother and trouble of giving back the “shilling for luck” on the completion of the purchase. Accordingly he sallied forth one dark night and took the beautiful animal out of the field, not far from Daventry, and kept it “in close confinement” for three days to undergo doctoring, at the end of which time the stolen horse was quite a different looking animal. The horse now had a white star upon its forehead, and two white fetlocks. Its tail and mane were shortened, and, with the assistance of “ginger,” it put on quite a sharp, frisky appearance. In the meantime he heard that the owner of the horse was much in want of one. “Now,” thought the gipsy, “here’s a fine chance for turning money over quickly, and getting rid of an animal that would turn ‘a tell-tale’ if kept too long.” Consequently the gipsy mounted his steed, and off he trotted to the publican. On arriving at the door he called the innkeeper out to look at a horse that he had for sale, “good, quiet in harness, sound in wind and limb, a good worker, without a blemish, and cheap.” The publican liked the looks of the horse very much, and he asked the gipsy to trot him up and down the road; and off the horse bounded, frisked, and danced about quite lively. The action of the horse was all that was desirable, and the price “right.” In the end the horse was sold, glasses round given, the “luck shilling” returned, the horse was put into the stable, and the gipsy became scarce.

Three days after the “white star” and “white fetlocks” were not to be seen, and the horse began to look “quite different.”

It was brought plainly home to the publican that he had bought back his stolen horse. The gipsy was “hunted up,” tried, and sentenced to a “long term,” where horses are not to be had.

In the fair, or “mop,” there were eight vans, in which there would be about sixteen men and women and thirty children living and sleeping; and, so far as I could gather, only about four could read and write, and these were adults, none of whom were teaching their children anything that would be helpful to them in after life.

Connected with one of the “Aunt Sally” establishments there were man, woman, and three little neglected children, with no other sleeping accommodation than a “bottom” of straw spread under the stall, covered with an old sheet, and warmed in the winter by an oil lamp. The poor woman was the picture of poverty, despair, degradation, and misery. Their stall and “Aunt Sally” were pushed through the country on a small “hand cart.” The family hailed from Leicester, and were in a most wretched, dirty, and ignorant condition. As soon as I saw the man I thought I could recognize his features as those of a _posh_ gipsy I had seen before; and it turned out to be true, for he was no other than a “fishman” who had more than once carried my fish to the station.

In the “mop” I came across a man and woman with four children who hailed from a village a few miles from Daventry, and who had taken to gipsying and were singing in the streets in the midst of mud and drenching rain—

“Beautiful Zion, built above, Beautiful city that I love, Beautiful gates of pearly white, Beautiful temple, God its light.”

Three of these children were of school age, but could not read or write a letter.

When I questioned the man about putting the children into the union workhouse, and the wrong he was doing to them in bringing them up as tramps, he said “he could not help that; they must look out for themselves as they got bigger, and help to do a little for him.” By singing about the streets they got him some “baccer and a little vittles.” In 1882 at the “mop” I met with a showman, named S—, and his wife and six children, living in a wretched tumbledown van; the small windows were broken, and rags, dirt, and filth abounded in every nook and corner. The father had had a religious “bringing-up” by Christian parents in Cornwall, and for many years earned a good living in Wales as a miner, and was a member of a Christian Church. The sharp, good-looking woman, although dirty and dejected enough to banish looks and spirits to the winds, waves, and realities of eternity, bore up fairly well under the wretched surroundings. She had, previous to her marriage, for many years been a “lady’s maid” in a good “religious family,” and was well educated. The man was ingenious and clever, and had during his spare moments and hours in Wales made the working model of a coal-mine, which, at the instigation of “_religious friends_,” he began to exhibit in public. The success that attended him in the first instance led him to think that he was on the high way to a fortune. He acted upon the advice of his “_Christian friend_” and others, instead of his own common sense, and bought a van in which to place his handiwork, and “took to the road.” A downhill one for himself and his large family it has been ever since, and they are now gipsying, and cursing the day upon which he took and followed the advice of a shortsighted—to say the least—“_Christian friend_.”

In giving advice, God-fearing Christian men and women above all others should look well ahead, and to all the surroundings of the case, before deciding the fate of a family. Advising a parent to break up a settled home and comfortable livelihood to tramp the country among gipsy vagabonds and tramps, I consider little less than murder.

In making their way one Sunday from a village to attend the “mop,” they got stuck fast at the bottom of a hill with an old bony emaciated horse that would not draw “a man’s hat off his head.” The poor little children dressed in dirt and rags, and scarcely able to toddle, had to set to work to drag and carry the old boards, rags, and other things belonging to their “show” to the top of the hill. After hours of toil, interrupted by the constant striking and chiming of church bells on the bright autumn Sunday morning, they were able to make another move.

Their show consisted of the working model of the mine, one of their youngest children, nearly naked, with a Scotch plaid over its shoulder being exhibited as a “prize baby.” In addition it included a boxing establishment. The man had not the build and stamina to lead the “ring,” and they had to wait for the “millers” to pair themselves before a boxing exhibition could take place.

They had not been in Daventry long before this backsliding showman, who had taken to gipsying, was wanted by _Shórokno gáiro Garéngro_ for cruelty to his horses. The result was that he had to “do a month” in Northampton gaol. No doubt the poor misguided showman would feel in his cell as John Harris puts it—

“Here bees and beetles buzz about my ears Like crackling coals, and frogs strut up and down Like hissing cinders: wasps and waterflies Scorch deep like melting mineral. Murther! save! What shall a sinner do?”

To which I would have answered—

“Pray to thy God To help thee in thy trouble.”

A week or two after I saw the woman and her six children in a most destitute condition. I gave the poor little things a good tea and cake in my house, and subscribed my mite towards buying them another horse, and advised them to make their way to Aberdare, in Wales, and take to mining again, to send their children to school, for none of them could tell a letter, and they were growing up worse than heathens.

Their first venture at a showman’s life was to exhibit the model and paintings, and they hired a donkey-cart and set off to Aberdare. When they got there the showman wrote to me, “I am sure you would have been amused if you had been there to have seen us; for when we had our establishment erected—which, by the way, was very small—we were too shy at first to make an appearance outside; at last we made a resolution, and began to shout. So we found out after we had broken the ice that we were landed. On the first night we took enough to pay our month’s rent. This gave us encouragement. We made a good many friends, and I became notorious among my fellow workmen. They thought me an extraordinary man. In three years I painted in oil colours thirteen pictures, three feet square, of the interior of a coal-mine and different other subjects. . . . The waxwork show owners we had accompanied left Wales for London. Afterwards my wife went to Bristol and bought a barrel organ, and I had what we thought a very nice little show, and a nice van and horse. But alas! we did not know what travelling in the winter meant. We found very soon that we could not show every night on account of the weather, and also found that we could not get any credit. If we had no money there was no bread. I shall never forget the first night we got ‘hard up.’ Dear sir, just fancy yourself going into a large town about eight o’clock at night, and the rain coming down in torrents in the cold January month; the houses shining with wet, and a horse to be fed and stabled—for we kept it in a stable then—and six children to get a supper for, let alone yourself, and not a penny in your pocket, and not a friend in the world to speak to or to give you counsel. Well, that is just how we were situated in the first January that we travelled. Dear sir, perhaps you would say, ‘Why did you not make for your home?’ That would have been the wisest plan, but we thought we would endure anything rather than go back to be laughed at. Well, after my good wife had had a good cry, we went to the pawnbroker’s and pledged my watch, thinking that we should be able to redeem it again in a few weeks. We borrowed fifteen shillings, so that with opening the show we could be helped on for a few weeks, instead of which we met with a worse misfortune than ever. We lost our horse at Pontypool. We pledged our organ for £2, and then trailed our van to Swansea for Llanefni fair, thinking we should get money enough to buy another. More next week. The children all send their love to you, wishing you a merry Christmas.”

This man was at one time earning nearly £2 per week, and had a good home. It will be found on close inquiry that nearly all our present-day showmen have been in better circumstances, and rather than be laughed at for their silly adventures by their friends, they are content to wander up and down the world little better than vagabonds, and to train their children for a tramp’s life. By travelling in vans, carts, and tents they escape the school boards, sanitary officers, rent and rate collectors; and to-day they are—unthinkingly, no doubt—undermining all our social privileges, civil rights, and religious advantages, and will, if encouraged by us, bring decay to the roots. I speak that which I do know, from what I have seen and heard.