Their first venture at a showman’s life was to exhibit the model and paintings, and they hired a donkey-cart and set off to Aberdare. When they got there the showman wrote to me, “I am sure you would have been amused if you had been there to have seen us; for when we had our establishment erected—which, by the way, was very small—we were too shy at first to make an appearance outside; at last we made a resolution, and began to shout. So we found out after we had broken the ice that we were landed. On the first night we took enough to pay our month’s rent. This gave us encouragement. We made a good many friends, and I became notorious among my fellow workmen. They thought me an extraordinary man. In three years I painted in oil colours thirteen pictures, three feet square, of the interior of a coal-mine and different other subjects. . . . The waxwork show owners we had accompanied left Wales for London. Afterwards my wife went to Bristol and bought a barrel organ, and I had what we thought a very nice little show, and a nice van and horse. But alas! we did not know what travelling in the winter meant. We found very soon that we could not show every night on account of the weather, and also found that we could not get any credit. If we had no money there was no bread. I shall never forget the first night we got ‘hard up.’ Dear sir, just fancy yourself going into a large town about eight o’clock at night, and the rain coming down in torrents in the cold January month; the houses shining with wet, and a horse to be fed and stabled—for we kept it in a stable then—and six children to get a supper for, let alone yourself, and not a penny in your pocket, and not a friend in the world to speak to or to give you counsel. Well, that is just how we were situated in the first January that we travelled. Dear sir, perhaps you would say, ‘Why did you not make for your home?’ That would have been the wisest plan, but we thought we would endure anything rather than go back to be laughed at. Well, after my good wife had had a good cry, we went to the pawnbroker’s and pledged my watch, thinking that we should be able to redeem it again in a few weeks. We borrowed fifteen shillings, so that with opening the show we could be helped on for a few weeks, instead of which we met with a worse misfortune than ever. We lost our horse at Pontypool. We pledged our organ for £2, and then trailed our van to Swansea for Llanefni fair, thinking we should get money enough to buy another. More next week. The children all send their love to you, wishing you a merry Christmas.”
This man was at one time earning nearly £2 per week, and had a good home. It will be found on close inquiry that nearly all our present-day showmen have been in better circumstances, and rather than be laughed at for their silly adventures by their friends, they are content to wander up and down the world little better than vagabonds, and to train their children for a tramp’s life. By travelling in vans, carts, and tents they escape the school boards, sanitary officers, rent and rate collectors; and to-day they are—unthinkingly, no doubt—undermining all our social privileges, civil rights, and religious advantages, and will, if encouraged by us, bring decay to the roots. I speak that which I do know, from what I have seen and heard.
I had heard of a gipsy Smith who had settled down, and was now residing in one of the “courts” of Daventry. I hunted him up, and found him in a little cottage residing by himself. The cottage was nice and clean. When I went in I was invited to sit upon a chair. The old gipsy had just come home with some work. He was lighting the fire, and I said to him, “I suppose you could do very well with a Hotchi-witchi just now, could you not, Mr. Smith?” The old man turned up his bronzed face, and with a laugh said, “I just could, my dear good gentleman. I was looking for one this morning, but could not find one.” I said, “Could you do with a Kanéngro?” The old man replied, “I could if I had one; but I never goes after them now. I don’t much care for them. I would rather have Hotchi-witchi.” After a general conversation for a few minutes, I said, “How long have you given up travelling?” He replied, “Nearly thirty years. I like it better now.” “How long have you lived by yourself?” The old man’s lips began to pucker and tears came into his eyes. After wiping his face, he said falteringly, “It is nearly four years since I lost my dear good bedfellow. We had lived together over forty years. She was a good creature, and I mean to meet her in heaven, bless the Lord. I’ve been a bad one in my time, but I’ve given up all bad ways, and have attended the Wesleyan chapel and the Salvation Army nearly two years, bless the Lord; it was the best day’s work that ever I did when I found Him.” The old gipsy now gave me a little of his history. “My grandfather was a Welsh gipsy, and used to attend Northampton and Daventry market and fairs with horses and ponies, and in course of time my father and grandfather began to travel round the midland counties and the Staffordshire Potteries. I was born under the hedge in Gayton Lane, between Kingsthorpe and Boughton Green. The gipsy’s lot is a hard one, I can assure you, my good gentleman. I’ve seen a deal in my time. I attended Boughton Green fair for thirty years, and for eighteen years of this time in succession I never knew two of my cousins to leave the fair without fighting. I’ve seen murder upon the ‘Green’ more than once. It will never be known in this world how many murders have been committed upon the ‘Green.’ There has been some fearful bloodshed and rows done, I can assure you. The gipsies are very vengeful and spiteful, if they ever take it in their heads to be so. Two of my cousins, D— and N—, quarrelled, when they were children down ‘Spectacle Lane,’ over a few sticks.
“They parted, and never met each other again for twenty years, and then it was at a Boughton Green fair. When the fair was over they went into a field to have their old grievance out in blows. They had not been fighting long before D— was put senseless upon the ground. N— went to his tent, and after a few minutes I followed him, and said to my cousin, ‘N—, you have killed D—; you had better be off.’ He went then and there, and has never been took. We buried my cousin, and the day I shall never forget. It was a day, I can assure you. I don’t know where my cousin is now, but I have seen him lots of times since then. The past is a blank, but I mean to get to heaven to meet my dear good old creature. I wish I could read; what a great pity it is that none of us poor gipsies can read. Bless the Lord, although I cannot read I prize the Bible, God’s book; it’s the best book in the world.” The old man now took down a small pocket Bible off his kitchen shelf, and clasped it to his breast and said, “Although I cannot read I puts it in my chair when I says my prayers, and the dear Lord blesses it to my soul and makes me feel happy.”
After partaking of a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter in the humble “British Workman” in High Street, I made my way to the Byfield carrier, Mr. W—, to secure my “berth” in his cart, which was pretty closely packed with groceries, servants’ boxes and trunks, nails, balms, and paraffin, “chaps,” girls, and their mothers. There seemed to be no “cousins” in our party. I was pretty well wet through from head to foot, and it was perhaps fortunate that we were closely packed, as by which means I was, in all probability, prevented taking a severe cold. At a jog-trot rate we began to move out of Daventry at the heels of a grey horse, whose sides stuck out with fatness and with a “coat” as sleek as a mole. Mr. W— looked well to his steed, while Mrs. W— chatted, joked, and chaffed with her company inside. Up hills and down dales lay our course. Parsons and squires, as usual, were the theme, in the first instance, for conversation and gossip. The Rev. Mr. So-and-So was a very good man in the pulpit but a bad one out of it, and a worse landlord. And they began to enumerate cases of hardship inflicted by him. I must confess that I should not like to be a clergyman with a large family in a small poor parish with a small stipend, and with “charity money” to deal out to a number of dissatisfied, idle, grumbling poor people. A clergyman nowadays has to mix up with the grand and fashionable, to visit the poor, dispense charity with smiles, write any number of letters for the parishioners, assist the sexton, take a lead in the choir, preach his own sermons, superintend the bell-ringers, keep the parish accounts, blow up the roadmen, visit “new comers,” allay scandal, hush gossip, settle squabbles, be liberal, stand insults, know everybody’s business, and know nobody’s business. Must not pay too much attention to young ladies for fear of trouble at home. He must be handsome, lovely, and charming, with a rich melodious voice; hide the faults of evil-doers occupying big pews, lecture evil-doers in little pews; never enter a “dissenting” chapel, give Methodists the “cold shoulder” privately, fraternize with them publicly; take wine with the rich, be teetotal among the poor; give the “tip-top” price for his goods; and above all things, and under all circumstances, the parson must never look cross. If at any time he feels angry he must “keep it to himself inwardly and never show it.” These are the qualifications for a minister of the gospel according to the ideas and motives of Church dwarfs and Sunday saints.
Parsons were now dispensed with, and darkness was creeping over us as we passed by Sir Charles Knightly, Baronet’s, beautiful estate at Fawsly. The next leading topic of our dames and damsels was, as might be expected, the appearance of certain ladies at the usual maidenhood ages. We had not gone far before I knew most of the ages of the “young” dames in the cart, who were much surprised to find that I was younger than they were. “Lor bless me!” said one, “there is no accounting for looks nowadays, for I was talking to a lady the other day, and telling her how young she looked, and that I wished I had as good a black head of hair as she had; but lor and behold you, when I went home with her, I found out that the black hair was a wig, and her own hair was as white as mine. I never was more astonished and surprised in all my life. I could not help but stare at her, she did not look like the same woman, Mrs. W—; I should not have known her if I had not known her so well, and what had made the change. Since then I have guessed but little at women’s ages.” We now pulled up to allow one or two of our party to get out. Our legs had been so crushed and mixed up with each other’s that we were almost left in doubt as to whose legs we were standing upon, Mrs. W— naïvely remarking, as the young damsels were stepping down, “Now mind and see that you got out upon your own legs; don’t run away with some one else’s.”
We were now seated, and off we began to jog again. We had not got far before the company began to ask each other if they were “saved.” The word “saved” is a word well known to me from childhood, and at its sound I pricked up my ears, and began to ask questions about it. And the answers I received were as follows: “Why, bless you, dear sir, have you not heard of the great stir that has been going on among the children connected with the Methodist and Congregational chapels in Byfield? We are woke up at eleven o’clock at night by the children singing about the streets Moody and Sankey’s and Salvation hymns—
“‘Only an armour-bearer, firmly I stand,
Waiting to follow at the King’s command,’ &c.“‘I love to tell the story
Of unseen things above,’ &c.“‘Who are these beside the chilly wave,
Just on the borders of the silent grave?’ &c.—
and away they go all round the village disturbing everybody. The young things ought to be in bed. The girls have got so excited that they go about shouting and singing in the daytime. One girl I knew went into the garden to get some cabbages, and while she was getting them up, the devil came to her, and told her that she was not ‘saved,’ and the girl knelt down in the middle of the garden at dinner-time, and there and then began to pray, cry, sing, and shout. After a time she jumped up and said she was saved. ‘Then,’ said the girl, ‘Master Devil, I am saved.’ Another girl went into the garden to get some potatoes, and the good, or some other spirit, came to her, and said that unless she was saved all the potatoes in the garden would go rotten. She there and then stuck the fork into the ground, and began to pray to God to save her. She had not prayed long before she got up and shouted out, ‘I am saved! bless the Lord!’”
I asked how all this was brought about, and the answer I got was, that “The children began to sing in the streets some hymns, and to hold children’s prayer-meetings, under the direction of nobody but themselves; and the movement began to spread about, and bigger folks attended the meetings, and now the place is almost in an uproar; everybody is asking each other, or nearly so, if they are saved.”—I kept putting in a word for the children, bless their little hearts!—“Tea-meetings and prayer-meetings are held, the chapels are filled, and it is all through the children. I don’t like so much shouting and going on in this way.” I hope the good work is still going on, notwithstanding the old woman’s cold water.