“’Tis not the work of force, but skill,
To find the way into man’s will:
’Tis love alone can hearts unlock;
Who knows the Word he needs not knock.”Richard Crashaw, “Fuller Worthies.”
Rambles Among the Gipsies at Daventry and Banbury Fairs.
The eleventh of October, one thousand eight hundred and eighty-two dawned upon “Old England” while rain was coming down too drearily, drizzly, and freely for either man or beast to be comfortable. Foggy, cold, and murky November seemed desirous of making its advent earlier than usual. Not a songster was to be seen nor an autumnal chirp heard round our dwelling. Long dark nights had begun to creep over nature. “The last rose of summer,” the Queen of English flowers, was drooping its head and withering up, and the leaves were dwindling down to nothingness. The lanes were strewn with dying leaves which had done their duty nobly and well.
Through the low and heavy clouds the voice and footsteps of children, as they trotted off with their milk tins, seemed to echo in my ears, and other sounds to hover round me, carrying with them a kind of hollow sepulchral sensation, telling me that summer was dead and autumn was preparing nature for the winter shroud, which was undergoing the process of weaving by angelic hands.
The sound of the thresher’s flail was heard in the barn, calling out “Clank,” “Clank,” “Clank,” “Thud,” as it struck the corn and barn floor, causing the precious grain to fly like a shower of small pellets against the doors. Not a gleam of sunshine was to be seen. Summer and winter seemed during the last fortnight to have been struggling with each other, in the death-throes of nature for the mastery. Genial summer had to give way to savage winter, and little robins piped forth the victory. Everywhere seemed cold, damp, and covered with melancholy. As we meditated upon the surroundings, our carrier drove to our door with his van, into which I got, and seated myself in one of the corners almost out of sight. A patent “four-wheeler” of this kind I had not been used to, and our little folks did their best to try to persuade me not to try the experiment. We had not gone many yards before eggs, boxes, whiskey bottles, butter, and onions were handed to our carrier for carriage and safe custody to Daventry fair. Fat and thin women were closely packed round me. Welton is a noted village for fat women, which may be the result of the excellent water. While our village blacksmith was putting some of his handiwork into the carrier’s van, the scene brought vividly to my mind Longfellow’s poem. He might have seen the very spot.
“Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.”
I mumbled the verse over to myself as we jogged along. To have repeated or bawled it out in such “close quarters” would have been worse than putting one’s head into a hatbox.
After the usual “picking up” and “calling” we began to slowly trot off with our load. We had not got far before our village dames, damsels, and companions began to indulge more or less in the usual village gossip and jokes. Big heavy old women could indulge in sprightly conversation as freely as if they were “four-year-olds.” Pleasantry was exchanged as to who was to sit next to our driver, so as to keep his back warm. Village parsons and squires were the first upon the programme. Then came a long rigmarole about the old maids and maidens, poachers, slovens, slatterns, fashions, Jacks, Jims, and Pollies. Everybody knew everybody’s business, ranging from the death of Polly Jones’s cat to Squire Brown’s fine horse. Good masters were passed over with “He’s not a bad sort of man to work for, and he’d be better if he had more to do with.” Bad masters were mentioned with a curl of the lip, a scowl and a shake of the head, ending with “He’s a bad ’un; my man shouldn’t work for him at any price, if I could help it.” Mrs. So-and-So, and Miss So-and-So were “snappy old things,” “niggardly, mean, and miserable;” “nobody has a moment’s comfort near them.” “Oh!” said one, on the road, “did you see Miss Jenny Starch on Sunday with her new bonnet on? Didn’t she look mighty fine? Wasn’t she a stuck-up thing? Nobody could come near her with a fork.” “Did you see,” said another, “the three poor little children running about the streets this morning, almost naked, in rags and dirt? The mother is idle, and the father drinks. They both want horsewhipping, and if I could have my own way I would give it them.” “Yes,” said another, “and serve them right.” “Did you see,” said another, “the Misses So-and-So in church on Sunday? They looked quite pretty. When you can just catch them in the right temper, they are so nice and pleasant. What a thing this money is, isn’t it? Money buys fine feathers, and fine feathers make fine birds.” “Anybody can be made pretty, nowadays, if they have only the money,” said a stout dame, who had a big red face under a little bonnet, and must have weighed little short of eighteen stone. We were passed on the road by two “screwy” old maids from Bonnybrook, “trotting off to market” in a green pony carriage, sitting like Jack and Jill, one before and the other behind, bolt upright and as still as posts, looking out of the corner of their eyes. As we were mounting the hill going into Daventry the question of “leaving” was brought upon the carpet, and it came out that all of them were satisfied with their “old masters,” and were going to “stop again at the old wages.” I am afraid their “old masters”—husbands—will have a little difficulty in getting rid of them. They like the “old shop” too well to budge. The process of riddance, “My dear husband,” and a stream of tears would have to be faced before they “cleared out.”
I had not been long in the “mop” before I was face to face with a good-looking, but somewhat eccentric, and good-natured popgun owner, named Mott, at one of the stalls. One passage of Scripture after another he repeated in rapid succession with breathless speech, until quite a crowd gathered round us in the drizzling rain. After my friend—who has been on the road attending fairs for forty years—had finished his speech, his wife handed to him a newspaper, out of which he read my letter as it appeared in the Daily News, bearing date September 5th, 1882, which will also be found in page 161. The newspaper had been given to them by a dirty, wretched, filthy-looking family of travelling show folks from London, whose corns and consciences had been touched to the quick. After he had read it, and had given it to his wife again, I expected a “rather hot reception,” especially after a paragraph which has been going the round of a few of the papers, to the effect that I must look out for trouble from “light and dark gentlemen.” As the paper passed from his hands I looked rather anxiously into his face to see what the effect would be. To my surprise, the index of his soul showed pleasure, and not anger; and in unmistakable tones he said, “You are quite right, sir, and I thank you for it. It is rather warm, but your object is right—there is no mistaking that. I quite agree with your plans, and so does every right-thinking man. The traveller’s and other gipsy children ought to be educated. God bless you, sir, I know what religion is; I am an old backslider. I was once a leading member among the Baptists, but I chipped out over a little thing, and now me and my old woman are travelling the country in our van, and doing this sort of thing. There is one thing I should like to say, sir; I never creep into my bed in the van without saying my prayers to my heavenly Father. I feel to sleep better after it. It soothes me a little.” Tears were making their way down the grey-haired traveller’s face; and I think it would have been a blessed thing for him if I could have introduced him into a Methodist prayer-meeting, as a stepping stone that would lead him out and on to the paths he trod in the days of yore, crying out from the depths of his soul, in the language of a writer in the Christian Life for October 14th, 1882—
“Thou art a rock, to which I flee;
With all my sins I come to Thee,
And lay them down, Lord, at Thy feet,
Before the shining mercy-seat.
Thou art a fortress strong and high,
To which for shelter all may fly,
Sure there to find a safe retreat,
Beneath the sacred mercy-seat.”