In the fair there were over fifteen gambling tables—i.e. tables upon which there were all kinds of gipsy nick-nacks and fairy trifles, some of which were sold and others gambled for. On the table there was a large painted wheel, something like a clock-face or compass, with a swinging finger or hand. Round the outer edge of the wheel stood a lot of things, chiefly ornamental children’s toys in fern cases, fancy boxes, and other ornaments. Those who wanted to “try their luck” had to put down a penny opposite the thing they fancied. When several had done this, and the pennies were studded about the wheel, then swing went the finger round and round till it stopped—seldom where the pennies were. The finger seemed to either just go past the mark or to stop short of it. All blanks and no prizes seemed to be the order of the day. I saw one lady dressed in silk, with a lot of young women, girls, and boys round her, gamble several shillings away on the “wheel of fortune.” It was a most pitiable sight to see the vast numbers of well-dressed young persons and children receiving their first lessons in gambling, in the shadows of churches and colleges. I was told, by those who knew, that the “wheels of fortune” and “shows” made more money than all the other things in the fair put together. It was a sunny fair for the gambling stall-keepers, but not for the patron saint under whose auspices it was held. I rather fancy the saints of bygone days, to whom the colleges and churches were dedicated, would look down upon the assembly with abashed countenances at the work of sin going on under the shadow of the Oxford sacred precincts, and, it would seem, had retired in favour of Discordia, Momus, Mars, et Pluto. The big and little gamblers could win when the proprietors thought well to allow the smiles of fortune to descend upon them. Fortune’s smiles consisted in the pressing of the stall-keeper’s thigh against a stud, that operated underneath the top of the table against the swivel upon which the finger or hand was placed, and he could stop it whenever he liked. After many blanks he would let one of his fools occasionally win, just to encourage others.
I was put up to this move by one of the gipsies, but with strict injunctions that I was not to let the “cat”—i.e., my informant—“out of the bag.” When I told my friend the gipsy that gambling of this kind was against the law, “Yes,” he said, “and the ‘bobbies’ are down upon us in some places for it; and they would no doubt have been so here, but they have been ‘squared.’” When he talked about “squaring,” I thought I would “try” him and “prove” him, but found him to be blank. I found out that this “squaring” process consisted in blinding the policemen with “silver-dust.” The fact is this kind of gambling is growing to an alarming extent in the country under the policemen’s noses, and this they know right well, and take no steps to stop it. Of course the Oxford police as a body of men could not be held accountable for the dereliction of duty by a few of them. As a whole they are a fine lot of village soldiers.
I next turned my step towards one of the shows. There was upon the platform, or stage, a sharp little fiery woman beating the drum—which sounded like a kitchen table—and bawling out till she was hoarse, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you want to see the best show in the fair, now is your time; they are just going to begin. Come up quick, and take your places,” and she banged again at the old drum as if she was going to knock the bottom out. Beside the sharp, ready-tongued woman stood “Boscoe,” dressed, daubed, and painted like a Red Indian, whose rough visage and broken nose had the appearance of having been in many a “fisticuffing” encounter. Although he was daubed over, I recognized him as one with whom I had had a long chat on Sunday afternoon, and who pleasantly received some of my books for his children. Boscoe noticed me in the crowd, and gave me a few of his sly winks while the megrims were going on. Close to “Boscoe” stood a tall, wretched, half-starved, red-faced looking man, the picture of a beer-barrel in his face, with red-herring tendencies from the shoulders downwards. On the ground there were his wretched, lantern-jawed wife and their six ragged children. Their home was a donkey cart covered over with rags, and a bed of rags was what those eight human beings had to lie upon, and I could have said with Burns—
“Oh, drooping wretch, oppressed with misery!”
and as she stood cowering and trembling I could have said with Crashaw, “Oh, woman!—
“‘Upwards thou dost weep;
Heaven’s bosom drinks the gentle stream.’”
I should like to have whispered in her ear, “Weep on, poor woman, weep on. Weep on, poor children, weep on. Your tears will bring down the mighty arm of the Great Living Father, which shall deliver you from this wretched tramping life of misery and degradation. Look up! look up! His hand draweth nigh. The Friend of the children hears the children’s cries, and woe be to the nation or people who step in to prevent the gipsy children receiving the embraces of a loving heavenly Father.”
After the performance “Boscoe” came off the stage and invited me to go into the “show,” which invitation I accepted, and was led in by the side door. I witnessed “Boscoe’s” tricks, such as eating fire, making leaden bullets, putting a red-hot poker down his throat, and drawing a red-hot bar across his tongue, and the bending of red-hot iron bars with his feet. “There are dodges in every trade, except rag-gathering,” said the old rag-woman the other day, as she sat by the side of the brook, wetting her rags before she sold them. The acrobat performances of a poor boy about twelve were cruel in the extreme. After one of his movements I could see that the poor thin-faced lad was suffering intense pain by his twinging and limpy walk. This poor specimen of humanity could not read or write a sentence. To bend, twist, twirl, and contort the limbs and bones of a poor child to bring smiles upon the faces of fools—for they are no better who witness such exhibitions—is hellish, and money gotten in this way provides those engaged in it with “workhouse” and “spittles” uniform. Other performances, such as a pony telling fortunes, &c., brought the entertainment to a close. On coming away old “Boscoe” came off the stage to shake hands with me among the crowd, which circumstance seemed to puzzle some of the bystanders.
I had a turn round with the gingerbread and toy stall-keepers, and I was not long among them before I found out two old “backsliders,” one of whom was from Northampton, and until two years ago was a “member of a class.” Now, with her son, she was tramping the country, and attending fairs and races in the daytime, and sleeping under their stall at night! A chat with her about old times, and the “blessed seasons” she once had, and the peace of mind she once enjoyed, brought scalding tears to her eyes, as copiously as if I had been talking to her of the death of a darling rosy-checked, curly-headed little boy, whose little wax taper flickered out as its soul was being wafted to Paradise in the midst of a convoy of angels. The good woman with quivering lips said, “Do you remember giving me, sir, at Long Buckby, a little book and a picture card?” I said, “Yes.” “Well, I sent them to my son, who is a soldier in South Africa, and they pleased him very much.” I could see that I could press the subject a little nearer home, and I said to her, “How do you get on with this kind of life? How do you manage to say your prayers at night?” “Well,” she said, “this kind of life is not the right thing, and I am not what I ought to be; but somehow or other I say my prayers at night, and feel safer after it. I hope to give up travelling and settle down again.” While moistened sorrow was reddening her eyes, I said in substance if not in words—
“’Tis a star about to drop
From thine eye, its sphere;
The sun will stoop to take it up.”