Part 9

“O Lord Jesus, Thou knowest that I have been a bad sinner. O God, thou knowest I have been very wicked in many ways, and done many things I should not have done; but Thou hast told me to come to Thee and Thou wilt forgive me. Do my God forgive me for all the wrong I have done, and help me to be a better man, and never touch drink again any more, for Thou knowest it has been my ruin. Help me to live a good life, so that I may meet my little darling in heaven, who lies in Polesworth churchyard. Do, O Lord, bless my wife and my other little children, and make them all good. Oh do, my heavenly Father help my mother to give over swearing and bad things. Thou canst do it. Do Thou bless my father, and my brothers, and all my relations, and Mr. Smith in his work, and for being so good to us, so that we may all meet in heaven, for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.

“Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”

After Clayton had dried his eyes we got up, to behold, over the top of the bottom half of his van door, the riders, dressed in red, scarlet, yellow, green, blue, crimson, and orange, with a deep _black shade_ to be seen _underneath_, galloping to hell with hordes of gamblers at their heels as fast as their poor, cruelly treated steeds could carry them, all leaving footprints behind them for young beginners to follow. I said to Clayton, “Are you not tired of this kind of life?” And he said he was. “It is no good for anybody,” said Clayton, “and I am going to leave it. This is my last day with the ‘cocoa-nuts.’ I shall start in the morning—Saturday—for Coventry and Atherstone, where I mean to settle down and bring my children up like other folks. I have taken a house and am going to furnish it, and a gentleman is going to give me a chance of learning a trade, for which I thank God.”

As the shouts of the hell-bound multitude were dying away, and the gains and losses reckoned up, Clayton’s three little gipsy children, with their lovely features, curls, and bright blue eyes, came toddling up the steps to the van door, calling out, “Dad, let us in; dad, let us in.” The door was opened, and the little dears comfortably seated by our side. I gave them a few pictures, some coppers, stroked their hair, and “chucked their chin,” and bade them good-bye in the midst of a shower of rain, to meet again some day with the bright sun shining overhead and a clear sky without a cloud to be seen anywhere. For the present I must say with John Harris in his _Wayside Pictures_—

“Where Thou leadest it is best; Cheer me with the thought of rest, Till I gain the upper shore, And my _tent_ is struck no more.”

Rambles among the Gipsies at Boughton Green Fair.

I HAD heard much and often about the Boughton Green Fair, and the vast number of gipsies, semi-gipsies, and other tramps, scamps, vagabonds, hawkers, farmers, tradesmen, the fast and loose, riff-raff and respectable, gathered together from all quarters once a year upon this ancient Green for a “fairing.” Tradesmen and farmers exhibited their wares, live stock, and implements of husbandry; and others set forth their articles of torture, things of fashion, painted faces, “tomfoolery,” and “bosh,” to those who like to tramp thither in sunshine and storm with plenty of money in their pockets for revel and debauch.

Bidding the sparrows, linnets, swallows, and wagtails, fluttering and darting round our dwelling, good-bye as they were hopping, chirping, twittering, and gathering a variety of materials upon which to build their nests; and with my little folks at the door, I wended my way to the station.

“Then he kissed his olive branches, Bade his wife good-bye, And said, . . . ‘Heaven preserve you all!’”

_Wayside Pictures_ (HARRIS).

The sun was shining warmly, the roads dusty, and a few red faces covered with perspiration were to be seen panting along. Many of the men were dressed in black cloth, a little faded, of the “cut” and fashion out of date many years ago. Some had their coats hung upon their arm, with white shirt sleeves and heavy boots everywhere visible. Most fairly well-to-do farm labourers have for Sundays and mourning days a black suit, which lasts them for many years. In some instances the father’s black clothes become family “heirlooms”—at any rate, for a time—and then, when the father dies, they are turned into garments for the little children. Of course the father’s “black silk furred hat” cannot be made less, and to pad it to make it fit little Johnny’s head is an awkward process. I have seen many _little boys_ with big hats upon their heads in my time. I suppose they have imagined that people would infer that they had big heads under the hats with plenty of brain power. This is a mistake. Big hats, with little brain and less common sense, and No. 10 rather high, often go together. Upon the road would be “Our Sal” with her “chap,” and his brother Jim, yawning, shouting, and gaping along, and, as my friends the boatmen would say, “a little beerish.” Some of the country labouring girls would have their shawls upon their arms, and they would be stalking along in their strong boots at the rate of four miles an hour, frolicking and screaming as Bill Sands, Jack Jiggers, Joe Straw, Matt Twist, and Ben Feeder jostled against them. They seemed to delight in showing the tops of their boots, with crumpled and overhanging stockings. There were other occupants of the road trudging limpingly after the cows, sheep, horses, donkeys, and mules, called “tramps” and “drovers,” who seemed to be, and really are, the “cast-offs” of society. These poor mortals were, as a rule, either as thin as herrings or as bloated as pigs, with faces red with beer-barrel paint; and they wore gentlemen’s “cast-off” clothing in the last stages of consumption, with rags flying in the wind. Their once high-heeled boots were nearly upside down, while dirty toes, patches, and rag-stuffing were everywhere visible.

In the train there was the usual jostle, bustle, and crush, and gossip. At Northampton station there was no little commotion, owing to the station-master having closed the station-yard against all cabs except those who ply regularly between the station and the town.

One cabman came to me and said that he would take me to the Green for a less fare than he charged others if I would get into his cab the first. I asked him his reason. “Because,” he said, “if you get in first others will follow, and I shall soon have a load.” I could not see the force of his argument, and found my way to another cab. I had no sooner seated myself than the cabman took off, or hid, his number. I asked him why he did that. His answer was, “So that if I drive fast the Bobbies shan’t catch the sight of my number. If they get my number and I am caught driving fast there will be either thirty ‘bob’ for me to pay, or I shall have to go to ‘quad’ for a fortnight.”

Some of the poor horses attached to the vehicles—cabs, waggonettes, carriers carts, carriages—were heavily laden with human beings, till they could scarcely crawl. Uphill, down dale, slashing, dashing, banging, whipping, kicking, and shouting seemed to be the order of the day; and on this vast mass of human and animal life poured—and myself among the crowd—till I found we were fairly among the gipsies upon the Green.

Having partaken of a starvation lunch in one of the booths, consisting of “reecy” fat ham, with a greasy knife and fork, dried bread and lettuce, served upon plates not over clean, and studded and painted with patches of mustard left by a former customer, and with warm ginger-beer as tame as skim milk to take the place of champagne, I began to take stock of the Green, which natural formation, together with those made apparently hundreds of years ago, seemed to excite my first attention.

The large circular holes, of about thirty feet diameter and one foot below the level of the surrounding ground, reminded me very much of ancient gipsy encampments. Boughton Green has been a favourite annual camping ground for generations, and may to-day be considered as the fluctuating capital of gipsydom in the Midlands, where the gipsies from all the Midland and many other counties do annually congregate to fight, quarrel, brawl, pray, sing, rob, steal, cheat, and, in past times, murder.

According to Wetton’s “Guide to Northamptonshire,” published some fifty-six years ago, it seems probable that the fair was formerly set out in canvas streets, after the manner of a maze, shepherd’s-race, or labyrinth; and as Boughton Green was close to a Roman station, this seems probable. This was the custom of the Roman fairs held close to their stations. This much seems to be inferred from Baker’s “History of Northamptonshire,” where he says, “The stretching canvas forms the gaudy streets.”

In the _Northampton Mercury_, June 5, 1721, the following advertisement appears: “The Right Hon. the Earl of Strafford has been pleased to give a bat, value one guinea, to be played for on Monday at cudgels, and another of the same price; and also 6 pairs of buckskin gloves at 5s. a pair, to be wrestled for on Tuesday; and a silver cup of the value of 5 guineas price to be run for on Wednesday by maiden galloways not exceeding 14 hands high, during the time of Boughton Fair. The ladies of the better rank to meet to raffle, see the shows, and then to adjourn to a ball at the Red Lion Inn, Northampton, in the evening.”

In Baker’s “History of Northamptonshire” the following poem appears relative to the fair—

“From every part stretched o’er the sultry way, The labouring team the various stores convey. Vessels of wood and brass, all bright and new, In merry mixture rise upon the view. See! pots capacious lesser pots entomb, And hogsheads barrels gorge for want of room; From their broad base part in each other hid The lessening tubs shoot up like a pyramid. Pitchforks and axes and the deepening spade Beneath the pressing load are harmless laid; Whilst out behind, where pliant poles prevail, The merry waggon seems to wag her tail.”

Looked at from rising ground, far in the distance and with a keen sense for the picturesque and romantic, the moral and physical aspects of nature, and love of liberty, which gipsy life presents to those few unacquainted with its dark, degrading side—thank God, only a few—are food for admiration and wonder; to others the objects of pity and suggestive reflection. There can be no doubt that Cowper, the immortal poet, who lived at Olney, a few miles from Boughton Green and Higham Ferrers, as he was wont to take his daily walks, would often cross the path of the Northamptonshire gipsies. Sometimes there would accompany him his two lady friends who were jealous of each other’s influence—Lady Austin and Mrs. Unwin. Occasionally Lady Hesketh and some of the Throckmortons would be the cheerful companions in his despondency and gloom, and at other times he would sally forth single-handed in quest of food for his hares and leverets, in silent meditation upon the grand and beautiful surroundings. It is more than probable that while he saw from the beautiful elevation, a few miles outside Olney and Weston, the grey smoke rising from the gipsy encampment in the distance silently and quietly whirling, twirling, and ascending among the trees, to be lost among the daisies and hedgerows, the muses danced before him and brought forth the truthful, characteristic poem relating to gipsies—

“I see a column of slow rising smoke O’ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle Slung between two poles, upon a stick transverse Receives the morsel; flesh _obscene_ hog Or vermin; or at best of cock purloined From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race They pick their fuel out of every hedge Which, kindled with dry leaves and wood, just saves The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin The vellum of the pedigree they claim.”

The publication of this poem, and the fact that large numbers of gipsy tramps were flitting about the country, with their wretched equipages, may have been the means of stirring the kind hearts of Smith, Crabb, Hoyland, William Allen, of Higham Ferrers, solicitor, and steward to Earl Fitzwilliam, and many others, some eighty or one hundred years ago, to try to reclaim the gipsies from their debasing habits and customs.

It has generally been supposed that the term “green,” given to the land upon which the annual fair is held, comes to us at this date on account of its greensward. This is an error. According to Baker’s and other histories of Northamptonshire, Boughton Green derives its name and title as follows. “In the time of Edward I., William de Nutricilla, abbot of St. Wandegisile, conveyed the lands to John de Boketon or Boughton, from whom they descended to Sir Thomas de Boketon his grandson, and who was succeeded by Sir Henry Green his son and heir, who was Lord Chief Justice of England.” Thus we see the probability of it being called at this ancient date, on account of the close relationship existing between the Boketon or Boughton and Green, Boughton and Green’s wake or fair. In course of time the “and” has been dropped, and we have now “Boughton Green fair.”

“Sir Henry Green obtained a grant or charter, dated 28th February, 1351 (25 of Edward III.), for an annual fair to be held on the manor for the space of three days, beginning with the vigil of the nativity of St. John the Baptist (June 23rd), and ending the day after it.” This being so, the adding of “green” to the fair can be easily accounted for. The site upon which the fair is held is seventeen acres.

Outside, and at the east end of the fair grounds, stands the remains of what was once, no doubt, a fine old Gothic church, dedicated then, as the new church in the village is now, to St. John the Baptist. The tower and spire of the old church fell about a century ago upon a gipsy Smith and his wife, whose sleeping quarters—instead of the gipsy tent—had been for some time beneath its crumbling ruins. The old villagers will tell you, with pride and pleasure upon their faces, that Boughton old church was, before Cromwell destroyed it, one of the seven oldest churches in England. Of course, this is a subject upon which I do not feel to be “master of the situation.” Such was the odium attached to gipsies a century ago, that it was not thought worthwhile to dig them out from beneath the mass of ruins that had fallen upon them; and from the time when the tower and spire fell, to the time when the crumbling refuse was cleared away a few years since, the bones of poor gipsy Smith and his wife had crumbled into dust and been scattered to the winds. It touches a tender and sympathetic chord, and draws forth a scalding tear down one’s face when one ponders over the many evenings the old gipsy couple had enjoyed their frugal meal—maybe of hedgehogs and snails, or the piece of a decaying pig—beneath the belfry, when the bells were pealing forth, soft and low, as the shades of evening were gathering round them, and they were preparing to rest their aimless and useless bones upon the straw in their dark, at times musical, and at other times dismal, abode among the dead. The churchyard and burial ground round the old church is well fenced in, and kept in beautiful order. Several gipsies are buried in the churchyard; but there is no stone to mark the exact spot. They are pretty close to each other, so I am told, at the east end of the church.

Close to the churchyard there is a spring of excellent water, called St. John’s Spring. So highly did our forefathers value it, that it was preserved specially as a rippling little fountain for supplying water for the holy rite of baptism. When I saw it, gipsies, tramps, show people, vagabonds, and all kinds of dirty and clean travellers, with their wretched companions, steeds, and poor bony beasts of burden, were quenching their thirst at this living stream, forcing its way out of the hillside. It seemed, as I stood by, looking at the pails put under its mouth for a filling, to force its way faster, and with greater gusto, delight, and pleasure into the dirty pails, owned by dirty hands and dirtier faces, whose filthy bodies were covered with stinking rags, than into clean pails carried by white hands and lovely smiling faces peering over them. One little dirty urchin put his mouth under it for “a drink.” No sooner was this done, than the holy spring covered his unholy dirty face with more clear water than he wanted, some of which found its way down his bosom and into his breeches; at this he “sobbed,” and sobbed right out that I could not help laughing. He turned up his piebald watery face as if in anger at my laughing at him. I said to him, “What is the matter with you?” “No—no—no—no—nought is the matter wi me. It’s co—co—co—cold, and you woodner laugh if you were like me. It’s wet my belly.”

The little fellow for once received a washing, contrary, no doubt, to his wish. After he had dried his face with the ragged remains of a dirty sleeve, he found his way back to the green—I expect his mother would scarcely know him—and I went for a stroll down “Spectacle Lane,” where gipsies formerly tented and camped in large numbers.

Down this pretty country lane there was a pleasant recess, a little higher than the road, under the trees, evidently formed by the gipsies on purpose to have their “tents high and dry.” Several tents could be nicely sheltered and partly secluded under the trees in each recess. Water and game would be plentiful in these lanes a century ago; in fact, I should imagine such was the case now.

At the bottom of “Spectacle Lane” stood a large, fine, old Gothic archway, called by the inhabitants in the neighbourhood “Spectacle Tower.” The object and purpose for which it was built has never been clearly made out. Judging from all the surrounding circumstances, it appeared to me that it had at one time been intended as a gateway to a mansion, abbey, or nunnery which has not been built; or, what is still more probable, it may have been erected as a flag-tower for Fairfax’s army on its way from Oxford through Northampton to the battle of Naseby, and from thence to Leicester. Prince Rupert had gone as far as Daventry to meet General Fairfax and his army, expecting, of course, that they would come by Daventry; instead of which Fairfax left Daventry to the left, and pushed on his way through Northampton and to Boughton Green, hoping to arrive in Leicester before Prince Rupert and the King. Fairfax may have expected that the memorable battle would have been fought in the neighbourhood of Boughton; if so, he, at any rate, reckoned without his host, as both armies came together at Naseby, and with what result any schoolboy knows.

Report says that Boughton Green church was razed to the ground by Cromwell’s army.

The fact of gipsies flocking to this, which was once a fine old Roman Catholic church, and nestling in tents under its shadows, together with the fact that old, monastic-looking farm-houses are to be seen in the neighbourhood, confirms the idea I set forth in my “Gipsy Life,” p. 146, viz., that on the gipsies landing in Scotland, about the year 1514, from the continent, some of them hypocritically professed the Roman Catholic faith in order to inveigle themselves into the good graces of the nobility, so that their pockets and pouches might be filled with as little trouble as possible; in fact, righteous gipsy Smith having come from India, he knew well, and does so still, how to turn religious sentiment to advantage, and hence he landed in Scotland from France as above instead of Dover and London, and wended his way through the Midland counties and southward; and hence we find Northamptonshire, in times later on, a central camping ground for these lawless tribes of aimless vagabonds.

About a century ago a number of gipsies were brought before the magistrates at Northampton; upon what charge has not been stated. This so enraged the gipsies upon Boughton Green and other parts of Northamptonshire, that they threatened to set fire to the town of Northampton. The end of it was that several of the gipsies, for their riotous conduct, forfeited their lives upon the gallows. See “Gipsy Life,” p. 154.

To come back to Boughton Green fair. After having wandered about “Spectacle Lane” I called upon a gentleman, Mr. Jeys, who has resided for many years close to the green, and he told me that he has seen as many as forty to fifty tents and vans of gipsies camping in the lanes near to his house. It was down this lane that small-pox raged among the gipsies. Righteous Smith, with his two wives, Constant and Comfort, and a number of their twenty children, died of small-pox. Births, deaths, and murders have taken place upon the green. How many nobody knows, nor can any idea be formed of the number. Mr. Jeys told me of one case, being a gipsy row, ending in murder. Who had done it no one could tell, and where the gipsy was buried was a mystery. They hunted and searched, but, like the body of the Earl of Crauford and Balcarres, it could not be found, until Mr. Jeys’ gardener came across it in the garden. When the body of the gipsy was found it was laid straight out between two flag stones reared edgewise, and a large flagstone as a covering. The arms were folded, and upon the breast of the gipsy there was a pair of scissors, which had been carefully placed there by those who had buried the gipsy in the dark; for what purpose I cannot make out. Gipsies have queer notions about the death and burial of those belonging to them. The old-fashioned gipsies of bygone days, more than they do now, paid special regard to the dead, and on this account they carried the dead body of the gipsy nearly half a mile to bury it in a gentleman’s garden. The murdered gipsy in his lifetime was, no doubt, a scissor-grinder, and the placing of the scissors upon his breast was to remind them when he got to the other country of what trade the gipsy was—_i.e._, if skulking about the country with an old barrow grinding a few knives and scissors can be called a trade.