“The darkness falls, the wind is high,
Dense black clouds till the western sky,
The storm will soon begin.
The thunders roar, the lightnings flash,
I hear the great round rain drops dash;
Are all the children in?”The Christian Freeman, 1877 and 1878.
I answer, “No! no!” and with a tear-fetching pang I again say, “No!” The canal and gipsy children are still outside the door, and our legislators do not care to open it, owing to the “difficulties” which prevent the latch from being lifted up. The nail is in the way, and the door is locked—
“Nobody kind words pouring
In that gipsy heart’s sad ear,
But all of us ignoring
What lies at our door so near.”The Christian Freeman.
Rambles among the Scotch Gipsies at Yetholm.
The 18th of December, 1882, was a bitterly shil (cold) divvus (day), partly frozen ghie (snow) lay several inches on the chik (ground). The dúvel (sky) was gloomy and overcast as if threatening this doŏvelesto-chairos (world) of ours with a fresh outburst of vénlo (wintry) vengeance. Not a patrin (leaf) was to be seen upon the rook (tree). The bával (wind) seemed at times to engage in a chorus of shoolo (whistling) and howling, and other discordant gúdli (noises). The few linnets, sparrows, bullfinches to be seen hopping about the drom (road) in quest of kóben (food), were almost starved to méripen (death); shil (cold) and bok (hunger) had made them tame and posh (half) moólo (dead).
In a few minutes I stood at our door with my old grey coat over my arm, wondering whether I should in my state of health face my cold journey to Scotland. After a little reflection, quickened by “the path of duty is the path of safety,” which seemed to be more beautiful than ever, I started with my bag in hand to tramp my way to the railway station. I did not feel on the way in a humour for singing, with cap in hand, and in joyous strains, “Oh! this will be joyful,” but could have said with Wesley,
“If in this darksome wild I stray,
Be Thou my Light, be Thou my Way.”
In the train I duly seated myself, and we sped on till I arrived at Leicester, the seat of stockings and leather.
Leicester is a pleasant town, but, as in the case of other towns, there are a few—only a few, thank God!—fools in it whose light from farthing candles will become less as her wise men, good and true, increase. After my landing upon the platform I made my way to the house of my sister-in-law, and there rested my bones for the night. During my restless night, with the full blaze of a lamp shining in my face, some of the following aphorisms were entered in my notebook:—
The books of infidels, sceptics, socialists, and atheists may be compared to handfuls of sulphur cast into the fire of public opinion. They give a bluish flash for a moment, reflecting deathly and ghastly hues upon those who stand near; which sometimes cause children, and those of weak minds, narrow vision, and short sight to put their hands into the fire to see where the deathly colours come from.