It was now pitch dark, and we were winding our way down the narrow lanes in Byfield to the carrier’s home, with whom and his good wife I was to stay for the night, where we arrived “safe and sound,” but cold and damp.
On the hearth there were six beautiful cats, named after her husband’s friends. A month before this they had eight cats; and Mrs. W— says next year she hopes to keep a dozen. The big-hearted, genial woman is an ardent admirer of animals. She said she never had but one valentine in her life, inside of which were pictures of cats, dogs, rabbits, and birds; and it was addressed to her as “Mrs. W—, Cat and Dog Fancier.”
After a good warming and an excellent supper, “the good woman of the house,” Mrs. W—, began to tell me a little of their family history, while her good husband was seeing to his horses, which were petted like children. My hostess related her story as follows: “My father lived to be ninety-four years of age, and my mother died last August at the age of ninety-two. I have had fifteen brothers and sisters, all of whom are dead but three. I have not been out of mourning for sixteen years.” She now fetched the photographs, walking-sticks, and other things of her parents, for me to look at, and then continued her sorrowful story. “My mother,” she said, “was a great sufferer for some years, but she bore it all so meekly. She never murmured once during her illness, and was always talking about heaven. Once she said to me, ‘Why don’t you kiss your father? He is in the room and wants to shake hands with you; why don’t you kiss him?’ Just before she died she called me to her and said, ‘I am going to die, my child. I am going to your father.’ And then she said, faintly, ‘“Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” “I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.” My girl, trust in Jesus. Come a little nearer to me.’ And she then whispered in my ear, ‘Meet me in heaven,’ and passed away like a child going to sleep.”
“What is this that steals upon my frame?
Is it death? Is it death?”
Tears were now forcing their way down the good woman’s face, and in the midst of sobs and sighs a tremulousness was manifest, and she quietly stole upstairs to pray, and to ask Jesus to dry her tears.
After she had left me I was upon the hearthstone alone. The ring-dove, nineteen years old, perched in its cage by the fireside, began to “coo—coo—coo;” the cats began to “pur—pur—pur;” the dog to snore; the kettle to sing; and the lamp shed a cheerful light upon the whole. I stole away to rest my weary bones upon a snowy-white feather bed, and under an extra lot of blankets and fine linen sheets. How different, I thought, as I wandered into dreamland, from the lot of the poor gipsy child, whose sheets are old rags, and whose feathers are damp and almost rotten straw, with mother earth for a bedstead, and the canopy of heaven for curtains.
At seven o’clock I turned out and got my breakfast, and with the morning dawn and a lovely sun shining in my face, I took a stroll through the ancient village to stare at the loitering villagers, gaze at the thatched roofs, eye over the tradesmen, to peep at a very ancient, curious, antiquated stone upon the green, which the roots of a huge tree were toppling over, enjoy the feast of some beautiful scenery, and make some inquiries about the empty house pleasantly situated in the village. I paid my bill—two shillings—and gave the little servant and mine hostess some picture-cards and little books, and then seated myself in the carrier’s cart to be drawn round the village before we trotted off to Banbury fair. Out in the way, the nurse-girls, mothers, and children shrieked out with laughter as they tossed upon their knees the round-faced, chubby, live, kicking, squeaking balls of love, embodiments of pleasure and trouble, singing and shouting—
“Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross,
To see a fine lady get on a white horse,
With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,
And she shall have music wherever she goes.”
On the way and in carts there were crowds of human beings, pretty and plain, big and little, tall and thin, short and stout, some dressed in silks and black cloth, some in rags and tatters; some were smiling all over their faces, and others looked as cross and sour as if they lived on nothing but vinegar and crabs and slept on thorns and thistles. Lovers and haters, pleasure-seekers and thieves, labourers, farmers, tradesmen, and gentlemen, were hurrying helter-skelter to Banbury fair. Some were crying, some were laughing, some were shouting, roaring, puffing, and panting; others were in carriages, with liveried servants as attendants; some were on horseback and donkeyback; others were in horse-carts, donkey-carts, and waggons; and among the number there was a little thin man of sixty winters, standing about two feet six high with his boots on, and by his side was his wife, about five feet high, stout, plump, and about thirty years old. I should not be surprised to hear that she had “not agreed to stop again.” She was well able to carry him on her back, as gipsies do their children, instead of which she looked down upon him and allowed him to trudge along in the mud and rain. She had no love for the little fellow, or she would have carried him in her arms; in fact, she seemed inclined to walk on the other side of the road.
In the throng and crush we arrived at Banbury. I paid my fare—all the way from Daventry, one shilling and sixpence—shook hands with my kind friends, and made my way into the crowd of sightseers, gipsies, mendicants, tramps, the fashionable, and the gay.