Part 24

I had heard of a gipsy Smith who had settled down, and was now residing in one of the “courts” of Daventry. I hunted him up, and found him in a little cottage residing by himself. The cottage was nice and clean. When I went in I was invited to sit upon a chair. The old gipsy had just come home with some work. He was lighting the fire, and I said to him, “I suppose you could do very well with a _Hotchi-witchi_ just now, could you not, Mr. Smith?” The old man turned up his bronzed face, and with a laugh said, “I just could, my dear good gentleman. I was looking for one this morning, but could not find one.” I said, “Could you do with a _Kanéngro_?” The old man replied, “I could if I had one; but I never goes after them now. I don’t much care for them. I would rather have _Hotchi-witchi_.” After a general conversation for a few minutes, I said, “How long have you given up travelling?” He replied, “Nearly thirty years. I like it better now.” “How long have you lived by yourself?” The old man’s lips began to pucker and tears came into his eyes. After wiping his face, he said falteringly, “It is nearly four years since I lost my dear good bedfellow. We had lived together over forty years. She was a good creature, and I mean to meet her in heaven, bless the Lord. I’ve been a bad one in my time, but I’ve given up all bad ways, and have attended the Wesleyan chapel and the Salvation Army nearly two years, bless the Lord; it was the best day’s work that ever I did when I found Him.” The old gipsy now gave me a little of his history. “My grandfather was a Welsh gipsy, and used to attend Northampton and Daventry market and fairs with horses and ponies, and in course of time my father and grandfather began to travel round the midland counties and the Staffordshire Potteries. I was born under the hedge in Gayton Lane, between Kingsthorpe and Boughton Green. The gipsy’s lot is a hard one, I can assure you, my good gentleman. I’ve seen a deal in my time. I attended Boughton Green fair for thirty years, and for eighteen years of this time in succession I never knew two of my cousins to leave the fair without fighting. I’ve seen murder upon the ‘Green’ more than once. It will never be known in this world how many murders have been committed upon the ‘Green.’ There has been some fearful bloodshed and rows done, I can assure you. The gipsies are very vengeful and spiteful, if they ever take it in their heads to be so. Two of my cousins, D— and N—, quarrelled, when they were children down ‘Spectacle Lane,’ over a few sticks.

“They parted, and never met each other again for twenty years, and then it was at a Boughton Green fair. When the fair was over they went into a field to have their old grievance out in blows. They had not been fighting long before D— was put senseless upon the ground. N— went to his tent, and after a few minutes I followed him, and said to my cousin, ‘N—, you have killed D—; you had better be off.’ He went then and there, and has never been took. We buried my cousin, and the day I shall never forget. It was a day, I can assure you. I don’t know where my cousin is now, but I have seen him lots of times since then. The past is a blank, but I mean to get to heaven to meet my dear good old creature. I wish I could read; what a great pity it is that none of us poor gipsies can read. Bless the Lord, although I cannot read I prize the Bible, God’s book; it’s the best book in the world.” The old man now took down a small pocket Bible off his kitchen shelf, and clasped it to his breast and said, “Although I cannot read I puts it in my chair when I says my prayers, and the dear Lord blesses it to my soul and makes me feel happy.”

After partaking of a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter in the humble “British Workman” in High Street, I made my way to the Byfield carrier, Mr. W—, to secure my “berth” in his cart, which was pretty closely packed with groceries, servants’ boxes and trunks, nails, balms, and paraffin, “chaps,” girls, and their mothers. There seemed to be no “cousins” in our party. I was pretty well wet through from head to foot, and it was perhaps fortunate that we were closely packed, as by which means I was, in all probability, prevented taking a severe cold. At a jog-trot rate we began to move out of Daventry at the heels of a grey horse, whose sides stuck out with fatness and with a “coat” as sleek as a mole. Mr. W— looked well to his steed, while Mrs. W— chatted, joked, and chaffed with her company inside. Up hills and down dales lay our course. Parsons and squires, as usual, were the theme, in the first instance, for conversation and gossip. The Rev. Mr. So-and-So was a very good man in the pulpit but a bad one out of it, and a worse landlord. And they began to enumerate cases of hardship inflicted by him. I must confess that I should not like to be a clergyman with a large family in a small poor parish with a small stipend, and with “charity money” to deal out to a number of dissatisfied, idle, grumbling poor people. A clergyman nowadays has to mix up with the grand and fashionable, to visit the poor, dispense charity with smiles, write any number of letters for the parishioners, assist the sexton, take a lead in the choir, preach his own sermons, superintend the bell-ringers, keep the parish accounts, blow up the roadmen, visit “new comers,” allay scandal, hush gossip, settle squabbles, be liberal, stand insults, know everybody’s business, and know nobody’s business. Must not pay too much attention to young ladies for fear of trouble at home. He must be handsome, lovely, and charming, with a rich melodious voice; hide the faults of evil-doers occupying big pews, lecture evil-doers in little pews; never enter a “dissenting” chapel, give Methodists the “cold shoulder” privately, fraternize with them publicly; take wine with the rich, be teetotal among the poor; give the “tip-top” price for his goods; and above all things, and under all circumstances, the parson must never look cross. If at any time he feels angry he must “keep it to himself inwardly and never show it.” These are the qualifications for a minister of the gospel according to the ideas and motives of Church dwarfs and Sunday saints.

Parsons were now dispensed with, and darkness was creeping over us as we passed by Sir Charles Knightly, Baronet’s, beautiful estate at Fawsly. The next leading topic of our dames and damsels was, as might be expected, the appearance of certain ladies at the usual maidenhood ages. We had not gone far before I knew most of the ages of the “young” dames in the cart, who were much surprised to find that I was younger than they were. “Lor bless me!” said one, “there is no accounting for looks nowadays, for I was talking to a lady the other day, and telling her how young she looked, and that I wished I had as good a black head of hair as she had; but lor and behold you, when I went home with her, I found out that the black hair was a wig, and her own hair was as white as mine. I never was more astonished and surprised in all my life. I could not help but stare at her, she did not look like the same woman, Mrs. W—; I should not have known her if I had not known her so well, and what had made the change. Since then I have guessed but little at women’s ages.” We now pulled up to allow one or two of our party to get out. Our legs had been so crushed and mixed up with each other’s that we were almost left in doubt as to whose legs we were standing upon, Mrs. W— naïvely remarking, as the young damsels were stepping down, “Now mind and see that you got out upon your own legs; don’t run away with some one else’s.”

We were now seated, and off we began to jog again. We had not got far before the company began to ask each other if they were “saved.” The word “saved” is a word well known to me from childhood, and at its sound I pricked up my ears, and began to ask questions about it. And the answers I received were as follows: “Why, bless you, dear sir, have you not heard of the great stir that has been going on among the children connected with the Methodist and Congregational chapels in Byfield? We are woke up at eleven o’clock at night by the children singing about the streets Moody and Sankey’s and Salvation hymns—

“‘Only an armour-bearer, firmly I stand, Waiting to follow at the King’s command,’ &c.

“‘I love to tell the story Of unseen things above,’ &c.

“‘Who are these beside the chilly wave, Just on the borders of the silent grave?’ &c.—

and away they go all round the village disturbing everybody. The young things ought to be in bed. The girls have got so excited that they go about shouting and singing in the daytime. One girl I knew went into the garden to get some cabbages, and while she was getting them up, the devil came to her, and told her that she was not ‘saved,’ and the girl knelt down in the middle of the garden at dinner-time, and there and then began to pray, cry, sing, and shout. After a time she jumped up and said she was saved. ‘Then,’ said the girl, ‘Master Devil, I am saved.’ Another girl went into the garden to get some potatoes, and the good, or some other spirit, came to her, and said that unless she was saved all the potatoes in the garden would go rotten. She there and then stuck the fork into the ground, and began to pray to God to save her. She had not prayed long before she got up and shouted out, ‘I am saved! bless the Lord!’”

I asked how all this was brought about, and the answer I got was, that “The children began to sing in the streets some hymns, and to hold children’s prayer-meetings, under the direction of nobody but themselves; and the movement began to spread about, and bigger folks attended the meetings, and now the place is almost in an uproar; everybody is asking each other, or nearly so, if they are saved.”—I kept putting in a word for the children, bless their little hearts!—“Tea-meetings and prayer-meetings are held, the chapels are filled, and it is all through the children. I don’t like so much shouting and going on in this way.” I hope the good work is still going on, notwithstanding the old woman’s cold water.

It was now pitch dark, and we were winding our way down the narrow lanes in Byfield to the carrier’s home, with whom and his good wife I was to stay for the night, where we arrived “safe and sound,” but cold and damp.

On the hearth there were six beautiful cats, named after her husband’s friends. A month before this they had eight cats; and Mrs. W— says next year she hopes to keep a dozen. The big-hearted, genial woman is an ardent admirer of animals. She said she never had but one valentine in her life, inside of which were pictures of cats, dogs, rabbits, and birds; and it was addressed to her as “Mrs. W—, Cat and Dog Fancier.”

After a good warming and an excellent supper, “the good woman of the house,” Mrs. W—, began to tell me a little of their family history, while her good husband was seeing to his horses, which were petted like children. My hostess related her story as follows: “My father lived to be ninety-four years of age, and my mother died last August at the age of ninety-two. I have had fifteen brothers and sisters, all of whom are dead but three. I have not been out of mourning for sixteen years.” She now fetched the photographs, walking-sticks, and other things of her parents, for me to look at, and then continued her sorrowful story. “My mother,” she said, “was a great sufferer for some years, but she bore it all so meekly. She never murmured once during her illness, and was always talking about heaven. Once she said to me, ‘Why don’t you kiss your father? He is in the room and wants to shake hands with you; why don’t you kiss him?’ Just before she died she called me to her and said, ‘I am going to die, my child. I am going to your father.’ And then she said, faintly, ‘“Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” “I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.” My girl, trust in Jesus. Come a little nearer to me.’ And she then whispered in my ear, ‘Meet me in heaven,’ and passed away like a child going to sleep.”

“What is this that steals upon my frame? Is it death? Is it death?”

Tears were now forcing their way down the good woman’s face, and in the midst of sobs and sighs a tremulousness was manifest, and she quietly stole upstairs to pray, and to ask Jesus to dry her tears.

After she had left me I was upon the hearthstone alone. The ring-dove, nineteen years old, perched in its cage by the fireside, began to “coo—coo—coo;” the cats began to “pur—pur—pur;” the dog to snore; the kettle to sing; and the lamp shed a cheerful light upon the whole. I stole away to rest my weary bones upon a snowy-white feather bed, and under an extra lot of blankets and fine linen sheets. How different, I thought, as I wandered into dreamland, from the lot of the poor gipsy child, whose sheets are old rags, and whose feathers are damp and almost rotten straw, with mother earth for a bedstead, and the canopy of heaven for curtains.

At seven o’clock I turned out and got my breakfast, and with the morning dawn and a lovely sun shining in my face, I took a stroll through the ancient village to stare at the loitering villagers, gaze at the thatched roofs, eye over the tradesmen, to peep at a very ancient, curious, antiquated stone upon the green, which the roots of a huge tree were toppling over, enjoy the feast of some beautiful scenery, and make some inquiries about the empty house pleasantly situated in the village. I paid my bill—two shillings—and gave the little servant and mine hostess some picture-cards and little books, and then seated myself in the carrier’s cart to be drawn round the village before we trotted off to Banbury fair. Out in the way, the nurse-girls, mothers, and children shrieked out with laughter as they tossed upon their knees the round-faced, chubby, live, kicking, squeaking balls of love, embodiments of pleasure and trouble, singing and shouting—

“Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, To see a fine lady get on a white horse, With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, And she shall have music wherever she goes.”

On the way and in carts there were crowds of human beings, pretty and plain, big and little, tall and thin, short and stout, some dressed in silks and black cloth, some in rags and tatters; some were smiling all over their faces, and others looked as cross and sour as if they lived on nothing but vinegar and crabs and slept on thorns and thistles. Lovers and haters, pleasure-seekers and thieves, labourers, farmers, tradesmen, and gentlemen, were hurrying helter-skelter to Banbury fair. Some were crying, some were laughing, some were shouting, roaring, puffing, and panting; others were in carriages, with liveried servants as attendants; some were on horseback and donkeyback; others were in horse-carts, donkey-carts, and waggons; and among the number there was a little thin man of sixty winters, standing about two feet six high with his boots on, and by his side was his wife, about five feet high, stout, plump, and about thirty years old. I should not be surprised to hear that she had “not agreed to stop again.” She was well able to carry him on her back, as gipsies do their children, instead of which she looked down upon him and allowed him to trudge along in the mud and rain. She had no love for the little fellow, or she would have carried him in her arms; in fact, she seemed inclined to walk on the other side of the road.

In the throng and crush we arrived at Banbury. I paid my fare—all the way from Daventry, one shilling and sixpence—shook hands with my kind friends, and made my way into the crowd of sightseers, gipsies, mendicants, tramps, the fashionable, and the gay.

The first gipsy I met with was an old friend, “Righteous Smith”—which name was printed on the van—and his large family, at a cocoa-nut establishment. One of the daughters, dressed in lively colours, was in charge of the balls, and shouting out to the “chaps” as they passed forward, “Try your luck, gentlemen!” and the father shouted out, “Now, gentlemen, bowl away! all bad nuts returned.” In response to their bewitching entreaties some old cricketers tried their hand, and, much to the chagrin of “Righteous Smith,” they sent the nuts “spinning away” rather more freely than was profitable and pleasant for “Righteous,” to the extent of putting his good name in the shade. This family of gipsies have, I should think, about three parts of Romany blood in their veins. Their van was a good one, and beautifully clean, and will pass muster when the new order of things comes about, for which I am working night and day, and which, I am thankful to say, is casting its shadows before it. The eight cocoa-nut establishments were owned by cross-bred Romanies, and one or two of the families lived in vans fairly clean. There were over thirty families living in the vans attending the fair, in which there would be an average of three children, one man, and one woman in each van. In five of the vans there were two men and two women in each. A number of those who owned small short shooting galleries and “rock stalls” slept with their children under the stalls.

From this cocoa-nut going “concern” I strolled among the shows, bosh, nonsense, and cheap Jacks. The introduction to one of the sparring establishments was by an old woman screaming out, “We are just going to begin.” By her side was a dandily dressed and painted doll, setting herself off to the best advantage. On some steps between the two women there stood a man painted as a fool, and dressed in tight indecent sparring costume. “Darkey,” with his pug nose, short hair, low narrow forehead, high cheekbones, deep sunken eyes, glistening fire like a black glass bead in the centre of a white china button under the glare of a lamp, which he frequently turned sharply, quickly, and inquisitively to me as if anxious to know my movements. If he had been an uncaught thief, and conscience was telling him that I was a detective, he could not have eyed me over more quickly and closely than he did.

_Gentlemen_ with diamond rings, poachers, and blackguards formed the company. A ring was formed, and “Darkey” and a “Johnny Straw” set to work with their gloves “milling” each other, and just as their “savage” was getting up, the curtain to outsiders was drawn. How long the big and little fools kept at the “milling” process I did not stay to see. What fools there are passing through the world as gentlemen, to be sure, to witness such debasing exhibitions with “pure frolic” and laughter, while their money is being drawn out of their pocket imperceptibly by idle vagabonds.

Not far from this “boxing establishment” there was another “set-out” waiting for a second dose of fools, with a “champion boxer” as a “draw.” Money went freely into the coffers, while the owners of stalls upon which useful articles were exposed for sale “had a bad time of it;” even the celebrated “Banbury cake” was “a drug in the market.”

Over the door, as a sign at one of the shows belonging to Mr. Great Frederick Little, where a nude man was exhibiting himself—“girls and ladies not allowed to enter”—stood two calves’ heads over a skeleton, and what surprised me most was that the good Banbury folks and country Johnnies could not see the satire that was being played upon them. “Calves and bones” for a sign; and I think, judging from the dejected appearance of the people as they came out of the establishment, they felt like “calves and bones” themselves; at any rate they did not look any the wiser—certainly they looked sadder.

Turning from this concern, I was jostled into a crowd of folks to witness a man named Turnover Snuff, Esq., dressed in best blue cloth, with gold watches, guards, and rings, making fools of two well-dressed innocent youths, whom he had called up from the crowd and dressed in rags to eat buns for a prize, to be used as a “draw,” to enable him to pass off his showy goods under various colours, dodges, and pretexts. While the youths were forcing the buns down their throats he was cracking jokes, which the people, with their mouths open, swallowed as gospel. What this “Cheap Jack” said in action, if not in words, was, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, you see that these two youths have come up here at my bidding, to make fools of themselves, and to eat these buns I am forcing down their throats, to cause you to twitter and laugh with your eyes shut to the things that are to follow; so in like manner I want all of you to shut your eyes and open your mouths to receive all the lies I want to force down your throats, that I may extract the coin from your pockets for my ‘Cheap Jack’ articles; so we will now proceed to business, ladies and gentlemen.”

There were one or two exhibitions in the fair of a good genuine character, and the rest were “rubbish,” of which it might be said of the performers, as a writer in the _Sword and Trowel_ for 1876 says:

“See, I am as black as night; See, I am darkness, dark as hell.”

In the fair I ran against the sanitary and local canal boat inspector—Mr. Daniel Dixon—whom I asked to give me his independent views of the gipsies and show-people attending the fair. In company with the medical officer of health he visited the vans, and the following particulars may be taken as a fair sample and average of the thirty vans in the fair, in accordance with what he says: