Among this mile and a half of gipsy vans there were some “nice and clean” travelling homes. In one I found a good woman reading to her children by the evening fire, and the kettle “singing on the hob.” As I paddled and waddled over boot-tops in mud, in the midst of this vast concourse of people young and old, never in my life did I so fully realize the case of the poor man who had fallen among thieves, and the action of the priest and Levite, and also that of the Samaritan. The whole scene depicted in the good old book seemed to come before me as one vast panorama, exhibiting human life under a variety of aspects. On the one hand, drawn along the side of the road in the ditch for more than a mile and a half, there were two hundred vans, carts, and tents, inhabited by a thousand gipsy men, women, and children of all ages, mostly in the deepest depths of wretchedness, ignorance, misery, and dirt—of many of whom it might be said that they were thieves among thieves—had been travelling all Saturday night or on Sunday morning to be at the fair in time for a good place. Gipsies, showpeople, and others of this wandering class travel chiefly on Sundays. Saturday nights and Monday nights are, as a rule, their best nights. Some of them had with their poor bony horses, from “shutting-up time” on Saturday night to Sunday afternoon, travelled over forty miles, and most wretched spectacles they were. On the other hand, and on the footpath, there were thousands of gentle and simple, rich and poor, young and old, saints and sinners, ministers and their flocks, moving to and fro, some of whom sneered at the gipsies, others mocked, laughed, and joked. Some were disgusted, and others looked pensive and sorrowful at the picture of an Oxford Lent carnival being spent in this way on a Christian Sabbath in the centre of Christendom and civilization, with its hundreds of Christian ministers within sight and call, who did not answer to the voice of love or duty. Well might Washbourne cry out—
“Our hearts are broke, our harps unstringèd be,
Our only musick’s sighs and groans,
Our songs are to the tune of lachrymose,
We are fretted all to skin and bones.”Dr. Grosart’s “Fuller Worthies.”
After I had distributed my books, and wended my way to the end of this long lane of sin and iniquity, I turned to look at the heartrending sight. There were hundreds of gipsy men and women, some few of whom had fallen from the paths of virtue, uprightness, and honesty, and some six hunched to seven hundred poor gipsy children of all ages weltering in the ditch. Not twenty children out of this vast number had been taught at the knee of a kind, gentle, loving mother to lisp in tender, trembling simple tones, to which heaven and the whole angelic host stoop to listen with open ears, for fear one word might be lost—
“Lord Jesus teach a child to pray,
Who humbly kneels to Thee,
And every night and every day
My Friend and Saviour be.“While here I live, give me Thy grace,
And when I’m called to die,
Oh, take my soul to see Thy face,
And sing Thy praise on high.”
My heart was almost ready to break, and the big teardrop forced its way down my face. Just as I was turning away with a sad and aching heart, a little sharp gipsy girl dark-eyed, of ten summers, clutched hold of my hand and coat. She looked up into my face and said, “Eh, Mr. Smith, don’t you know me? Don’t you remember giving me a little book and a penny when I was very ill in our van upon the Leicester racecourse last year? Mother and doctor said I should die, but you see I’m not dead yet. My name is Smith. There are lots of gipsy Smiths.” Before she had finished her interesting little story a large number of little gipsies had gathered round me, among whom I had to distribute, with care and tact, all the pictures and little books I had left. It was now dark. Fires in old gipsy tin buckets and on the wet ground were to be seen; sticks were crackling; lights shining under the vans and in the small windows and through the crevices and over the top half of their doors; their evening meals sent forth a variety of odours, ranging from snail soup to red herrings, dead pig, and hashed venison. The barking and growling of their lurcher dogs were heard more frequently and savagely. The thousands of dripping star-gazers and sightseers, rough and smooth, drunk and sober, had begun to get pleasingly less; rain was coming down almost in torrents; nevertheless the children felt loath to leave me. To the onlookers I could have said, with George Herbert—
“Rain, do not hurt my flowers, but gently spend
Your lovely drops. Press not to smell them here;
When they are ripe their odour will ascend,
And at your lodging with their thanks appear.”“Fuller Worthies.”
With many caresses, thanks, and good wishes from the children, I groped my way to my lodging with thankfulness, but in a wretched plight, suffering from my lifelong enemy—giddiness. After five minutes’ chat with my round-faced host I mounted, with a hot head, and cold wet feet, “wooden hills,” and amongst the blankets and feathers I snoozed into a fitful sleep, to be startled by wild dreams and nocturnal noises. In one of my strange flights I found myself in a dark and dismal-looking place like a chimney-sweep’s underground soot storehouse. How I got there was a mystery I have never been able to solve. The only things I remember in connection with my visit to this dark abode was, the good spirit led me through alleys, by colleges, churches, chapels, synagogues, and schools of every grade. Marks of civilization were everywhere visible on my path. There were ministers and teachers on every hand. One little narrow backway led me to a small narrow opening down some narrow, rugged steps. As soon as I entered, a small door of the colour of the walls instantly closed upon me as with a spring, and before I had time to look back at the way by which I entered, I was in worse than a Roman or gipsy maze. At first a cold, chilly sensation of fright and terror crept over me. My hair seemed to rear bolt upright in a twinkle; but this soon passed away after realizing the fact that I was among friends. There were no windows except one dismal pane, through which the moonlight gleamed. There were no candles. The grate was made up of bricks and rusty crooked old bars of iron put loosely together without mortar. The fender was of two long shin-bones, and the ends of it two thigh-bones of a man. The fire was crackling with sticks and the bones of rabbits, partridges, pheasants, and fowls. Beetles, cockroaches, toads, and spiders were as thick as they could creep and stick. A dead pig’s skin badly cured, with the bristles sticking on it in patches, was laid upon the broken stones on the floor as a hearth-rug. In a large pot over the fire there were boiling large pieces of diseased pork in a thickish liquid, which was stirred every few minutes by an old “hag” with a ham-bone. The uneven, broken walls of the room were covered with greasy grime and filth, upon which were hung pictures of skeletons, death, coffins, and cross-bones, and most horrible, murderous-looking men and women.
In the centre of this large, deathly room there was a kind of long, low, tumble-down table propped up with bricks, old tressels, and stones. The top was sickly, dirty, loose, and uneven. Round the room there were scores of men, women, and children, blackened with dirt, grease, and grime, who had never been washed since they were ushered into the world, sitting and squatting upon the floor. Their language was that of thieving, robbing, cheating, lying, &c.; and their spare time—at least some of them—while the cooking was going on, was passed with the devil’s cards. For a few minutes all was as silent as death, and then the old “hag” placed upon the table the pot which had been hanging over the fire, after which she handed to each of us in the room an old broken mug, and told us to help ourselves to what was in the pot. At this a general rush took place; swearing and fighting was about to begin in earnest, with the probability of it ending in murder without the outside world knowing of it. I was about to begin my sickening share when I said to the lot of them, “Now, chaps, women, and children, in my country it is usual for us to say ‘grace’ before meat and thanks after it on occasions like this, and, if you don’t mind, I’ll follow out the practice now.” Several of the poor little lost creatures cried out, “That’s capital! if it’s anything nice we shall like it. We’ve not had anything we like for a long time.” I told them to be quiet, and then proceeded with, “Be pleased, O Lord, to grant us—” “Stop! stop!” cried out the old “hag.” “What did you say? ‘O Lord?’ What do you mean? What is it? who is it? and where does He come from? We’ve never heard the name before.” I said, “Let me finish, and then I will tell you afterwards.” I began again to say grace, and proceeded as follows: “Be pleased, O Lord, to grant us Thy blessing with this food, for Jesus—” They now all jumped upon their feet, and an old, grey-headed man, the picture of a Cabul murderer, with Satan in his face and the devil in his eyes, along with the wretched, ragged, lost, and emaciated little creatures, cried out, “Who is Jesus? We have never heard of Him before. Does He live in a big house? and has He plenty of rabbits, hares, game, and fowls in His plantations? because we should like to know.” I told them, in a way that excited their curiosity, as to who God was, and also as to who Jesus was. They set to their midnight supper like a lot of pigs. I took a little, but was far from enjoying it. When they had finished their supper they put their mugs upon the floor, and the bones they gave to a number of bony, hungry-looking dogs, a kind of cross between bulldogs, bloodhounds, and greyhounds, which were ready for any kind of work between the death of a keeper and a young rabbit. They reminded me very much of the big, hungry wretch of a dog in Landseer’s “Jack in Office”—
“His lean dog scanned him by the three-legged stool.”
Harris.
The conversation after supper took place in a language which they thought I could not understand, as to what was to be done on the morrow. I was mute now for a time. The children were to look after and bring home all the eggs, chickens, and fowls they could lay their hands upon. The men were to bring in larger game; and the women were to hunt up the servant girls. Each one had their work allotted them. As a kind of relief, and in broken English, in which they thought I would gladly join them, a number of the elder ones related how many times they had been “nabbed” and sent to “quod.” Some of them related that they had been in the “stone jug” three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and up to a score times; yea, even with glee some of the children gave me an account of the things they had stolen as they had passed from door to door on their thieving rambles. Now was the opportunity, I thought, during a lull in the conversation, to change the subject, and began to relate some of the beautiful things I had seen and lovely countries I had passed through; the loving smiles, gentle looks, and kind actions I had been brought in contact with; the many real, good-hearted friends I had; the many lovely flowers, delightful walks, and pleasant companions there were ready to join the travellers travelling in my country; water was rippling, birds were singing, sun was shining, and a land flowing with milk and honey in view, with long life into the bargain. As I recited these things to them they all—poor things!—stared with open mouths as they had never stared before. They now drew close to me. Although the odour was anything but agreeable, I kept on relating to them the blessings and advantages of my country, till they one and all cried out, with bated breath, “How far is it to your country, governor? Will it be the same for us if we go?” I said, “Yes, my good friends, it will be so for you and more. Will you go?” They now cried out, “We will go; but we shall have to trust you to get us out of this place.” “All right,” I said; “I will try to find a way out of this miserable hole somehow or other for you.”