At the first interview they suspect that every stranger has some design upon them, and, as a consequence of ignorance and suspicion, they appear to be sullen and reserved. This feature of gipsy life wears off as they find out that you are a friend to them.
I accepted their invitation to tea in the midst of cocoa-nut establishments, steam horses, screeching of the whistles, horrifying music of a “hurdy-gurdy” organ, swing boats, and the screams of giddy girls and larking chaps, trotting donkeys, the galloping of “roaring horses and broken-winded ponies,” whose riders were half drunk and mad with rage, beating, kicking, slashing, swearing, and banging, till both the poor animals and their riders foamed at their mouths like mad dogs.
The old china was fetched up for me, which, Mrs. Smith said, was over a hundred years old. A good cup of tea was poured out, the thin bread and butter cut and laid upon a clean cloth, and I was just about to sit upon an old piece of dirty flannel that lay upon the grass—for the grass was at this time getting a little damp—when the good woman cried out, loud enough to shake one’s nerves, “My dear good gentleman, you must not sit down upon that.” “No, no,” Smith, the ungracious-nosed gipsy cried out in a voice as loud as his wife’s. “If you do you’ll get more than you bargained for. It’s all alive, don’t you see it?” Mrs. Smith saw that I was anxious to change quarters to the other side of the tent, and apologized for the filthy rag being there, by saying that “one of the children from one of the other vans had brought it, and had not taken it back again.” We were now seated, and I was enjoying my tea as well as I could—they said that “they hoped that I should look upon the tea as a fairing,” and as such I looked upon it and enjoyed it, for I was both hungry and thirsty—when a Northampton baker appeared upon the scene vending his bread. A little pleasantry was exchanged between the bread-seller, the gipsies, and myself about the size of the loaves, the dearness of the bread, and what was put into the flour before baking to make the loaves white, large, and showy. The conversation turned upon potatoes and alum, and the gipsy Smith discussed the quantity of potato and alum there was in the bread the baker had sold to them. This nettled the baker, and he said, “Bread mixed with potatoes and alum was good enough for pigs, but it—” The gipsy would not let him finish his sentence, but instantly sprang to his feet, and ran at the baker, and struck him on the breast with his tightened fist, calling out, “Do you mean to say that bread mixed with potatoes is good enough for pigs, and do you call us pigs? You reckon us as pigs, do you? You shall remember this or I am not Righteous Gipsy Smith.” And just as he was running at the half-frightened baker again Mrs. Smith stepped between them. An altercation took place, one of the most disgusting and sickening I ever knew. The baker’s wife now came up, and for a few minutes there was such a storm over the pot as I had never seen in my life. It bid fair to become a general melée. I was called in to decide who was in the wrong. This was no little difficulty, as the gipsy was excited by beer, and the baker by rage and fear. The end of it was I calmed them both down. The baker and his wife sped their way to Northampton, and the gipsy to the back of his van, to vent his bile and calm his passion, after which we sat down to finish our tea. This being over, and calm, peace, and quietness reigning, I gave the children some coppers and shook hands warmly with the gipsies, and thanked them, and then turned to another phase of gipsy life.
I began to think that it was quite time to look after my lodging for the night, and wended my way to Boughton village, some half-mile or more away. This was a work of no light undertaking. I first tried to find a clean bed in a quiet cottage, which, after tramping about from house to house, knocking, inquiring, had to be given up as impossible. The poor folks eyed me over from head to foot with wondering curiosity. They seemed to be puzzled as to my movements, and as to whether they should reckon me as a gentleman, or a bailiff, who had secreted in my pockets either a county-court summons or an execution. I next tried the “publicans and sinners.” At first they hesitated about giving me an answer; especially the innkeeper at the “Griffin.” They seemed to wonder whether I was or was not a parson, spying out the land. The landlady at the “Red Lion” was holding out encouragement, until the landlord, who might be made of vinegar and crabs, appeared upon the scene, calling out gruffly, “No, we can’t do wi anybodys;” and out I went, expecting to have a stone for my pillow under some wall or hedge-bottom upon the green. Fortunately I called at a cottage on the roadside, about a hundred and fifty yards from the green, to see if they could oblige me with a bed. After a minute’s hesitation, the good woman, who seemed to have a large heart and a good-natured face, said, “Yes, you look to be a gentleman, and we will try to accommodate you. Come in and make yourself at home. Will you have some tea?”
After a rest for a few minutes, and as the shades of evening were gathering round, I strolled upon the “green” and found Bacchus was on his throne with Atè, Discordia, Momus, and Mars as his attendants. Concordia, Harpocrates, and Pudicitia had not been upon the “green,” or, if so, they had been only for a very short time. Broken glasses, empty beer barrels, corks, pieces of paper, and stools upside down were to be seen on every hand. The perfume of burning paraffin, aroma of the beer barrel, and stench of the brandy bottle met me at every turn as I wended my way among the wicked, silly, larking, and foolish. Here and there could be seen girls scarcely in their teens, with the arms of half-drunk “chaps” round their waists—upon the table before them were “jugs of beer”—and opening their mouths wide as if they would be delighted at any one looking down their throats as they bawled out most disgusting songs. In one of the booths between forty and fifty boys and girls were larking together in a manner that made one shudder to think of the results. Some of them were threatening vengeance to their “Bills,” “Jacks,” or “Toms,” if they said a word to them when they got home.
One of the women struck up, as if she was determined to contribute her share to the debauch, in squeaking tones resembling that of a cracked tin whistle—
“We won’t go home till morning,
Till daylight does appear.”
A little ahead a rustle, commotion, and hubbub was going on; of course I must join in the crush. I could not get very near. When I inquired what was the matter, I was coolly told that “it was only a man and woman fight.” Thanks to the excellent body of policemen at hand, it was soon stopped. Another “turn” in the distance was taking place. A gipsy—a big, cowardly, hulking fellow—and an Englishman had long had a grudge against each other. The Englishman could not get the cowardly gipsy to “fight it out.” At last the Englishman offered the gipsy half a crown and a gallon of beer to let him have one “round” with him. The gipsy consented to this condition. The money was paid and the beer drunk, after which the gipsy wanted to back out of the bargain. Before the big gipsy would at the last minute undertake to fight the little Englishman, the gipsy stipulated that there was to be “no hitting upon the noses.” The Englishman did not like this shuffling, but he agreed to it, and they stripped for the encounter. For a few minutes they sparred about until the gipsy saw his opportunity to hit the Englishman full tilt upon his nose, which he did with a tremendous force sufficient to break it. When the gipsy was asked why he did it, he said, “I could not help it, my hand slipped.” A little farther on still, I came upon a policeman rolling an empty beer barrel from the policemen’s tent towards the beer stores.
During the day I did not observe one “blue ribbon” policeman upon the grounds—nor, in fact, did I see one upon the course. No doubt there were many good and true men and women upon the “green” who had gone there purposely to sell their wares. Would to God that there had been more of them, and then there would have been less rows, and less cause for such a body of policemen. The pure gipsy rows—i.e., a number of gipsies joining in a general melée of an “up-and-down fight,” paying off old scores—were less this year than they have been known for a long time. Several times a row was imminent, but with a little tact and the common sense of the women—aye, and of the men too—it was averted. I observed a little more sulkiness than usual on the part of a few of the gipsies, but with a little pleasantry this passed off.