Hinckley September fair has for many long years been regarded as one of the greatest “screw” fairs in England, and as a place where many gipsies annually gather together to follow their usual and profitable occupation of horse-dealing. At this fair they buy all the good-looking “screws” they can put their hands upon, and palm and physic them off, temporarily, as sound horses. They both, as one told me, “make their market” and “make hay while the sun shines” at this fair. A thorough old “screw” knows as if by instinct the scent of gipsy pantaloons; and by some means, known only to a few, the horses find their way back into gipsy hands again.

With these facts before me, I was prompted to pay the gipsies a visit at their Eldorado. The morning was like a spring morning. The sun shone cheerfully, lovely, and warmingly, and was fast drying up the mud. On my way to the station some slovenly waggoner had left some thorns in the way, which I threw over the fence and passed on. I had not gone far before I found, on a rising hill, a large piece of granite in the centre of the road, which some idle and careless Johnny had left behind him. I rolled it out of the way and sped along. On the top of the hill a coal higgler had left a large lump of coal in the way—or it had jolted off while he was asleep, or akin to it. This I deposited among the thistles and nettles in the ditch, where it remained for some weeks. While I was clearing these little troublesome and somewhat dangerous things out of the way, the skylark was singing cheeringly and sweetly overhead as of spring-time. My gipsy friends would say that these were forebodings and prognostications, ruled by the planets, which indicated joys and troubles, pleasure or sorrows for the travellers, according to the amount of silver and gold there was floating about within their reach. How I was guided by the Creator and the planets, and with what success I pursued my course, will be seen before I have done rambling.

At the station a poor woman was in a difficulty. She had promised to have tea with her long-absent daughter, at the “feast” at four o’clock the same day; but, unfortunately, the train would not take her to the “feast.” Notwithstanding the remonstrances of the porters, the good woman got into the train and said, “I shall go,” and she sped her way, but not to the “feast.”

A mother’s love sees no difficulties and fears no dangers, and will draw more tears from the human fountain than any other force on this side heaven.

At Nuneaton there was the usual long time to wait; after which I duly arrived at the “screw fair.”

At the entrance there was gipsy — and his wife—with their six lost little children, and the probability of a seventh being soon added—setting up their stall.

As I neared them, the poor woman met me and said, “I don’t know what to do; I ought not to be here in this market-place like this. I am liable to be down at any minute, and I don’t know one in the place. I wish our Jim had settled down last spring. It is a hard lot to be a gipsy’s wife,” and she began to cry. “Nobody knows what I have had to put up with since I took to travelling. Why, bless you, dear sir, it would make your heart ache if I were to tell you a tenth part of what myself and the children have gone through. Between Hilmorton and Ashby St. Ledgers will never be forgotten by me. It was a cold night, at the back end of the year; rain came down in torrents. We had only an uncovered cart for all of us to sleep in down one of the lanes. The children crouched under the cart upon the ground like dogs. Our Jim, myself, and three of the children slept, or lay down, in the body of the cart with our dripping clothes on us. We drew an old torn woollen rug over us, and did the best we could, shivering and shaking till morning. The children cried, and were half starved to death. I cannot tell you, if I went down upon my knees, of a twentieth part of our sufferings and hardships on that night, and hundreds of other nights besides. I had a black eye, and was black and blue on many parts of my body. Our Jim was very cruel at that time; but he has not been so bad lately.” Her husband, Jim, is about three parts a gipsy, or between a posh and a Romany chal. He has six children by his first wife, living with their grandmother near Epping Forest, who are left to gipsy and take care of themselves. I don’t think that he would be a bad sort of a man if it were not for “drink” and gipsy companies. The only one who can read in this family is the poor woman, and that is only very little. With tears in her eyes she said, “I often read the little books you gave me, to our Jim at bedtime, till he cries, sometimes like a baby. My heart is at times ready to break when I see how our children are being brought up.” Business was beginning to look up with them, and I made myself scarce for a time. Such sad, heartrending instances of gipsy neglect, depravity, poverty, and wretchedness would be impossible if our Government would carry out my plans for reclaiming them, and Christians and philanthropists would do their duty towards drawing them into the arms of the State and the fold of God.

I had not gone far before a terrible row was echoing in the air from a stall lower down the market, between two gipsy women and a “potato master.” The gipsy women said the potato master had promised them three roasted potatoes for a halfpenny, and he had only given them two. A fight, hair-pulling, and bloodshed seemed to be in a fair way for being the outcome of this trumpery dispute, and would have taken place if the policeman had not put in an appearance. As it was the fracas ended, for the present, in nothing worse than threats of vengeance, oaths and curses being poured upon the head of the potato seller without stint or measure.

I now turned into the horse fair, and had scarcely got many yards before I found myself roughly jostled in the midst of a gipsy row over a dog. The gipsy horse-dealer had a lurcher dog with him, which was owned by a collier. The collier said his dog had been stolen by some gipsies about two months ago. High words, carrying mischief and blows, were flying about thick and fast, and bade fair to end in bloodshed and the pulling of the dog limb from limb. The dog preferred his old master to the gipsy. This the gipsy saw, and at the approach of the police the pair withdrew to a public-house to “square” matters. In the end the collier came out with his dog, which he said “had won more handicaps than any dog in the county,” and off he started home, with a smile instead of blood and bruises upon his face, and the dog wagging its tail with delight at his heels, much to the chagrin and discomfiture of the gipsy.

While I was among gipsy horse-dealers I made the best use of my eyes for a little time, and one of the first dodges of the gipsies was to hire a country Johnny to ride one of their “screws” up and down the fair. Of course the gipsies kept clear away, hoping thereby to draw the attention of customers to the horse as one that a farmer had no further use for. Johnny had very nearly sold the horse to a higgler, but “at the last pinch” the question of reducing the amount Johnny was to sell it for, by one pound, necessitated an appeal to the gipsy owner, who was not far away. The higgler saw the dodge of the gipsy and he withdrew his offer. The gipsy’s blessing was given, but the higgler did not mind it, and he went to seek other quarters for horseflesh.

A little higher up the fair there stood a man with two horses, who was evidently a small farmer in somewhat needy circumstances. It might be, for anything I knew, that he was wanting some money to pay for the cutting of his corn, which was ripening very fast. The horses looked like two thoroughly good sound horses, although aged. The price he asked for the best-looking was £25, and £20 for the other. The gipsies saw that this farmer was very anxious to sell. A big, good-looking gipsy came up to him and said, “What for the big horse? Now, then, speak the lowest price you will take for it in a word.” The farmer said, “£25.” “Nonsense,” said the gipsy; “you must think everybody is either a fool or asleep. I’ll give you a ‘fiver’ for it, and it is dear at that price.” To one of his gipsy mates he said, “Jack, jump across it and ride it up the fair.” Jack jumped across the horse, and off they started at a rattling pace, almost frightening people out of their wits who were in the way. After going up and down a few times several gipsies clustered round the horse when it and its gipsy rider had cleared to outside the throng of the fair. The group stood for a few minutes, and then the horse was brought back and given up to the owner. The bargain was not struck, and the gipsies cleared away. In the course of ten minutes the horse began to get very restless, kick, and plunge about. Sometimes it seemed as if it wanted to lie down. It would then begin to cringe and kick, much to the danger of the lookers on. The owner said that a horse-fly was on it somewhere. He stroked and tapped it, but all to no purpose. Presently another gipsy came up, evidently one of the gang, and said to the farmer, “Why, governor, your horse has either got the ‘bellyache’ or an inflammation; it will be dead in half an hour; what will you take for it at all risks? Now, speak your lowest figure at once.” The farmer said, very much “chopfallen,” “A little time ago I asked £25, but I suppose I must take less than that now.” The gipsy saw his chance, and at once said, “I will give you a ‘tenner,’ and not a farthing more; say either ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ and I’m off.” The horse was still kicking about. The farmer, much dejected, said, “I suppose you may as well have it.” The bargain was struck and the kicking horse led away. In going up the fair a group of gipsies clustered round it with evident glee. A few hours afterwards I saw the horse led off quietly enough from Hinckley fair at the heels of a gipsy. No doubt the horse had been doctored by the gipsies in some way when they first took it in hand and while it was surrounded by the first group.

In another instance a countryman bought a horse of a “farmer-looking” gipsy and paid the money, when, just before the horse was handed over to the purchaser, another gipsy came upon the scene and claimed the horse as his own, and, apparently, threatened vengeance and the gaol to be the doom of the man who had sold the horse. The two gipsies now began to pull each other about—without any bones being broken or blood flowing—and to wrestle and struggle for the possession of the horse. The country man had parted with his money and he had not got the horse, nor any prospect of it. Another gipsy came up and suggested that the whole business should be ended by the countryman having his money back except ten shillings and the payment of “glasses round.” To this arrangement the countryman assented, and they turned into the public-house to carry out the bargain. What sharp men and fools there are in the world, to be sure, to be met with on gipsy fair ground!

As usual there were gipsy Smiths in the fair, and without much difficulty I ran against one who was the proprietor of a popgun establishment and two shillings’ worth of “toffy” stuck round a wheel of fortune. I had a long chat with him between the “cracks,” and elicited the fact that he had twice tried gipsying in Ireland, but it resulted each time in a drawn game. He only visited four fairs. Irish soil and poverty are not suited for the development of gipsying. The fact is, Irishmen are too wide awake for the vagabond gipsies, and they are too much taken up with the matter-of-fact everyday life to listen to idle lying, misleading, romantic, wheedling tales designed to draw the money out of their pockets. At one of the fairs in Ireland my gipsy friend took four shillings, with a prospect of losing his tent, bag and baggage. If he had been one of Arabi’s Egyptian ragamuffin soldiers frightened from Tel-el-Kebir he could not have decamped more quickly from the land of St. Patrick. The pleasure fairs of England and the fashionable squares of London, and the watering-places on the coasts are places and palaces where gipsy kings and queens thrive best.

They fatten and thrive fairly well in some places in Scotland. One cannot but smile sometimes at the ease with which some of them go through the world. If their cleverness was turned into legitimate channels and honourable business transactions, they would soon be a credit to themselves and to us as a nation. It is a thousand pities that in these educational days there are narrow-minded croakers who, under the guise of friends—though in reality their worst enemies—are trying to keep the gipsy children in ignorance; but their object is easily seen by those who stand by and are looking quietly and thoughtfully on. These false friends smile in gipsy faces while they are robbing them of their lore to fill their empty coffers, and this the gipsies will see some day.

Gipsy Smith and myself began to enumerate all the vans in the fair, together with those living in them. There were about thirty gipsy vans, shows, covered carts, &c. In one of the vans there were eight children besides adults. In another van there were seven children besides adults. Altogether we counted over one hundred travelling children in the fair, not three of whom could read and write. Smith said that in all his travelling experience he had not known either gipsy, showman, auctioneer, or traveller ever attend a place of worship from fair grounds. “Sundays as a rule,” said Smith, “are spent in travelling with their families from town to town and from place to place.” Gipsy Smith lived and travelled with his wife in a covered pony-cart. There were four “Aunt Sally” stalls, which dealt out cigars to children for successful “throws.” The gipsies are to-day doing more to encourage gambling and smoking than is imagined by ninety-nine out of every hundred Englishmen. The former saps the morals and the latter the minds and constitutions of those who are simple enough to indulge in them.

Before I had done talking with gipsy Smith the Salvation Army brass band from Leicester, with “Captain” Roberts from the headquarters, one of the staff officers, hailed within sight and sound, and as I had not had the opportunity to spend an evening with the Salvation Army, to see and hear for myself something of the proceedings, I joined in the procession as an outsider. Some of the people made an eye-butt of me at which they stared. Crowds were gathering round the band as it played in martial strains—if Mr. Inspector Denning had been there from the House of Commons better order could not have been kept—

“Hark! hark! my soul, what warlike songs are swelling
Through all the streets and on from door to door;
How grand the truths these burning strains are telling
Of that great war till sin shall be no more.”

And then the vocal band with their voices would join in singing the choruses with exciting strains and gesture—

“Salvation Army, Army of God,
Onward to conquer the world with fire and blood.”

After this the brass band led the next verse—

“Onward we go, the world shall hear our singing,” &c.

After they had played this up the street for a time, the Army halted, and Captain Roberts and one of the lieutenants addressed some words to the “band” with fire and vigour running through them, to which the lads and lasses, young men and maidens, saints and sinners, responded with the “Old Methodist” and Primitive Methodist “Glory! glory! bless the Lord!” “Hallelujah!” “Religion is the best thing in the world!” “Glory!” another called out at the top of his voice. While the Army was giving out no uncertain sound the brass band commenced, under marching orders and exciting surroundings, reminding me of old times—

“We are marching home to glory,
Marching up to mansions bright,
Where bright golden harps are playing,
Where the saints are robed in white.”

And then, in obedience to the captain’s arms and orders, the lads and lasses struck up with the chorus—

“There’s a golden harp in glory,
There’s a spotless robe for you—
March with us to the hallelujah city,
To the land beyond the blue.”

And in this way we kept on till we arrived at the “Salvation Warhouse.”

A drunken man dressed in rags, but with an intelligent-looking face and a high forehead, must of needs have a word to say, and for a time a “branglement” seemed inevitable. However, with a little tact the storm blew over. After a little work at “knee drill” in the warhouse the Army rested for a short time to recruit their animal strength. While this was going on I looked out for a couch upon which to rest my bones for the night, and this I found out at Mr. Atkins’, in the market-place. I then retired to get my dinner and tea in a coffee-tavern, of pork pie and coffee, among “chaps and their girls” who had come to Hinckley for a “fairing.” From thence I strolled to some gipsy vans on the green, to find a number of the women washing clothes. My reception was in anything but heavenly language. The gipsies at this fair were from Staffordshire, nearly all of whom were unknown to me. If two of the women had wanted to impress a stranger with the idea that they were of the poor unfortunate gutter-scum class, they could not have used more disgusting language than they did. I chatted with them and gave the children some books and pennies, which brought sorrow from the lips of the gipsy parents for having insulted me. After strolling about among the gipsies and vans in the fair for a time, and distributing some cards and picture-books among the gipsy, show, and other travelling children, I wended my way, guided by the sound of “the light and leading” of the Salvation band, to the “Salvation shop,” to spend a happy hour or two. I sat in one corner and looked quietly on, which seemed to puzzle them. The leaders all had a good stare at me; and first one and then the other would try to draw me out with the usual question, to which I replied very politely and left them in a maze. Captain Roberts told me over breakfast on the Sunday morning that I had been a puzzle to the “band” all the previous evening; and, except to “Captain Roberts” and the good family with whom I was staying, I still remain so, for aught I know.

The Army had commenced proceedings, and at the word of command began to “fire red-hot shot at the devil.” It was a lively, exciting time. The band struck up while they were sitting down—

“My rest is in heaven, my rest is not here,
Then why should I murmur when trials are near?
Be hushed, my dark spirit, the worst that can come
But shortens my journey and hastens me home.”

After this the “command” was for “knee-drill.” Certainly some of the language and action of the soldiers was a little out of the “Friends’” style of doing things. One soldier shouted out at the top of his voice, with a large amount of enthusiasm, “Lord, help us to kill the devil, he has troubled us long enough.” Another would call out, “Lord, the devil has got some powder in his breast; light it with a match and blow his head off;” to which another soldier would reply, “Give the devil string enough and he will hang himself.” “Glory!” they all shouted.

They now got off their knees, and big and little began to relate their experiences, and to “tell what the Lord had done for them.” Our “good brother” in his experiences said, “While I was serving the devil, he made a sign-post of me for a rogue’s shop. Now I am a member of the Salvation Army, with a bit of blue in my coat, which is better than having red on the end of your nose.” “Thank God, it is good, brother; hallelujah!” shouted a number of volunteers.

One little boy said, in his experience with moistened cheeks, “Thank the Lord; before I joined the Salvation Army I was a bad boy; but now I say my prayers, and am trying to be good, and mean to get to heaven! Amen.”

One little girl, with tears in her eyes, said, “Before I joined the Salvation Army I used to be a naughty, bad girl; now I am praying to God, and try to be good. O Lord, do save my poor mother, and my brothers and sisters, for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.” A number of girls and boys related their experiences in similar strains. One grey-headed old man, with wet eyes and trembling emotion, thanked “God that He had put it into the mind of one of the boys in the room to leave him a tract, and to invite him to join the Salvation Army. It was the best thing that had ever been done to him. Instead of serving the devil, who was a bad master, he was serving God, and hoped to get to heaven. Bless God, and the lads and lasses. Amen.”

The captain now called on the “band” to strike up one of their “marches,” which they did:

“There is a better world, they say, oh so bright!
Where sin and woe are done away, oh so bright!
And music fills the balmy air,
And Angels with bright wings are there,
And harps of gold, and mansions fair, oh so bright!”

And

“The Lion of Judah shall break my chain,
And give us the victory again and again,” &c.

I then wended my way to my lodging at Mr. Atkins’, all the better for having spent a couple of hours with the “Salvation Army;” and with good wishes for its success, I dozed away, with a “captain” of the Salvation Army for a neighbour on one side, and a clergyman of the Church of England on the other, feeling sure that between these two good Christian centurion brothers, and under the eye of my Master, I was pretty sure to land safely, after the tossings of the night, at the breakfast table in the morning. During my midnight wandering in mist and dreamland, the following aphorisms, thoughts, and suggestions floated before my brain.

As the beautiful colours of the field, forest, dell, garden, and bower are produced by the rays of the sun, so are the beautiful traits of Christian life produced by the rays of Divine love, as exemplified and manifested by the Son of God, our blessed Lord.

The nation that allows her children of tender years to drift about at sea without rescuing them from ruin, has decay, or “dry rot,” at work among her timbers, and will before long become a wreck.

The country that cannot find time to see to the interest of its little children within its borders, has allowed the devil to throw dust into the eyes of its leaders, to blind them against its happiness and prosperity by leading all into the dark.

Why are some Christians little-loved, weak-kneed, and sickly? Because they, like babies, live on “sop”—i.e., trashy fiction, shows, sights, sounds, and unrealities, instead of the love of God and the pure milk of His word.

When you see a Christian with the love of God burning deadly within his soul, and without either light or heat being the outcome, it may be taken for granted that a lot of worldly ashes are in the way choking up the ventilation and air passages; and if he will not set to work at once to clear out the ashes and dust of sin God will do it for him, either by the chastening rod of affliction or losses and crosses in other forms.

Cloaks of deception and fraud are made out of the fibres of disease and putrefaction, and those who wear them are exposed to the disgust and loathing of all upright observers.

Cloaks of honesty and uprightness are made out of the fibres of love and truthfulness, and the wearers of them are received with the smiles and loving embraces of all classes of society.

When you see a Christian without either life or soul within him, you may rest satisfied that bank-notes, musty-fusty deeds, or other things upon which he has set his affections, are clinging round and coming across the ventricles of his heart, and unless removed they will cause death both to the body and to the soul. If the earth-bound Christian will set fire to them by exposing them and his heart to a ray of Divine love, he will be able to jump over a mountain and scale the battlements of heaven, and with flag in hand shout, “Victory!”

Some dashing, flashing wicked men are like a balloon without a vent-hole filled with the devil’s gas, which expands the higher it rises; and for a time they float upon the surface of humanity, finally seeking pleasure among the clouds of fascination and frivolity; and in this region they burst and come down to earth and their senses with a tremendous crash, to find when it is too late that they have been making fools of themselves, and that their grappling irons will not save them from oblivion and ruin.

A clever, wise, thoughtful, sagacious, and Christian statesman may be compared to an aeronaut, who sits in his balloon-car carried by public opinion and pulling the strings of popular applause. Popular applause is the gas by which a statesman floats in the air above his followers; the cords and netting that hold the bottom together are his friends; the treasury bench is his car and the press his strings, which, wisely handled, enable him to land upon the desired spot. Poor wayward and wrong-doing relations are the grappling irons that hold him to the earth; hangers are paupers, and loafers are his sandbags. Infidels, Fenians, Sceptics, and Communists are matches, fusees, and percussion caps, thrown into his car by disappointed office-seekers and courtiers with the object of sending him to Jamaica before his work is done. When those various elements have either been thrown out of the car, stamped out, or brought under proper control, he will then mount higher and higher till he finally quits his car and finds himself seated by the throne of God.

The best stimulating food for an overworked brain, and containing more phosphorus than a thousand fish, is the essence of Divine love, and grace and truth in equal quantities, to be taken upon the knees as often as circumstances need. Before applying to the Great Physician for this medicine the patient should spend an hour in meditation and solitude.

When you see professing Christian parents setting their children to ferret into other people’s affairs, it is a sure sign that they are fonder of rat-catching than filling their souls with good things; and the unwary should be on the look-out, or they will be trapped by these godly rat-catchers and their skins taken to be made into purses.

The various denominations of Christian churches in the country may be likened to an orchard of apple trees, most of which are bearing fruit in one form or other. Some are just beginning to bear fruit, and there are others dead or dying, while there are some trees producing larger quantities of ripe, healthy fruit. In some cities, towns, and villages the best kinds of fruit are to be seen, and in other places the little hard sour crabs, which almost set one’s teeth on edge to look at them, much less to taste. The best and largest fruit in any case is that which grows upon the most healthy trees and branches, exposed to the sun’s rays, and draws its nourishment the most direct from the parent trunk. Fruit upon almost dead branches does not so soon get ripe as the fruit upon healthy branches, and it is small and shrivelled up. In some localities we shall see what we may call “Blenheim” churches, “Russett” churches, “Crab” churches, “Keswick” churches, “Northern Green” churches, “Whiting Pippin” churches, “Winter” churches, &c., growing side by side. The “Crab” church is little, hard, and sour; the “Blenheim” church is rich, large, delicious, and healthy; the “Russett” church is uninviting, but juicy, and much better than it looks. So in like manner with other kinds of Christian churches. The name of the churches answering under these various names must be answered by the members themselves. As digging, dunging, pruning, and grafting improves the trees and the quality of the fruit, so in like manner our heavenly Father has to deal with His churches, or they would all die together. Conscience, surrounded with death-like stillness, asks the question, “To which do you belong?”

A man who has forsaken the path God has marked out for him has stuffed his ears with wool, and jumped upon the devil’s steam tug, and is being taken into a long, dark, dark tunnel, with no light at the other end; and the light of heaven and the gospel which he has left behind him are, through distance, smoke, and steam, and his own bad actions, getting gradually less. The only light he can see, and which will not help him to grope his way in his wretched condition, is derived from farthing rush-lights called science, made and placed in the dark watery cavern by men’s hands; and these get fewer as he is being pulled along by evil influences, until he is lost in despair, with horror upon his face and wringing his hands in grief he passes away.

As children sitting upon a swing gate rocking to and fro are in some degree being prepared for the storms of a life at sea, so are the little foretastes of heavenly pleasure enjoyed by His children from time to time, filling, preparing, and nerving them for the tempestuous ocean which awaits them.People without gratitude for God’s mercies may be compared to swine eating chestnuts as they fall from the trees. Their refined senses are only manifested in grunts and grumbles. Wise are the people who take lessons from the little birds, and sing God’s praises while they enjoy His blessings.

Gamblers are the devil’s cats set by his Satanic majesty to catch children and fools, and woe be to those who are caught within their clutches.

Those who cling to forms and ceremonies entirely as a means of getting to heaven, will have their eyes opened some day to find out that they are hugging and fondling an illegitimate child of a parent of a very questionable character. The more they know of the child they have been fondling and its mother, the more they will be disgusted with themselves at having been such dupes and fools.

Those who disobey their parents will find that they are putting a noose round their necks, and tying the other end of the rope to a gate post; and when they have done this the words “love” and “duty” in letters of fire will spring up as from the ground, which will keep getting larger and hotter until the wrong-doers are strangled.

The devil’s butterfly is an unconverted clergyman, who gets upon the back of a horse to gallop a fox to death on the week day, dresses in fantastical colours on Sundays, dances before his congregation with incense in his hands, and with his face towards the east, tries to carry his congregation on his wings to a place he knows not where; hypocritically singing the Te Deum in Latin as they go from “pillar to post.”

Those landlords who object to the cultivation of their waste lands for food for man and beast will find that the scent of the gorse, perfume of the heather, contains the fragrance of the bankruptcy court, with the hares, rabbits, partridges, pheasants, woodcock and snipe flapping about the doors uttering horrible noises for their folly. The horrors of the court will be increased by hearing the cries of the children asking for bread with none to give.

Those people who, with the aid of a glib tongue, cunning, and deception, are weaving a cloak of soft words to cover a mass of iniquity, will find out too late, unless very careful, that the mass of corruption they have been hiding will burst out with a more horrible stench than that of a dead corpse.

Infidels and sceptics who rest entirely upon science and nature as a lever by which they hope to lift humanity into paradise, have only to look into a bright black earthenware teapot to discover what sort of wry and contortious faces they are pulling before the public.

The most powerful magnet in the world is the love of God. It can draw the sting of the devil, disarm enemies, and lift all the human beings in the universe into heaven. The more it is used the stronger and more powerful it gets.

Sceptics and infidels, seeking for the so-called errors in the Divine Word, may be compared to blind and foot-tied weasels, trying to catch “Jack Sharps” in a broad, deep, clear stream of pure water. They leave their sickening scent on their trail behind them, to be carried forward to be lost in the great stream of truth from whence all our blessings flow.

Children’s gifts to children produce more blessed, lasting, and Christ-like results than any other gifts in the universe. Children’s gifts to poor little outcast, forgotten, and neglected children are seeds of kindness that will live as long as this world endures, and they will then bloom in Paradise for ever.

Christians who receive their strength for the conflicts and trials of life from reading light books while sitting in drawing-room slippers, and under the sound of frothy conversation, instead of from closet prayer and faith, and the rain and sunshine of heaven, are like window plants, which derive their strength from cold and poisonous water put to their roots. Plants, whether in nature or grace, grown under such circumstances soon become unhealthy and drooping, and unable to stand the bare breath of opposition.

Christians living upon the church roll in name only, without the cheering and enlivening influence of the Holy Spirit, will become like plants grown in a dark room, pale and feeble. Some Christian lives are weeds, and may be known by their crotchets, tempers, and wrinkles.

The first signs of a withering church may be said to have manifested themselves when the living members extend the dead hand of sympathy to the suffering members of their own flock.

With the seeds of life are the seeds of death, and at the birth of any child the mortal conflict begins, never to result in a “drawn game.”

Big Christians, like big plants, require more water than small ones; and so in like manner Christians who have many cares, troubles, business and state responsibility require more grace than little Christians, and those who have it not will soon become bankrupt.

The “will” and “principle” are man’s own twin-sisters, the offspring of life, and run side by side through the marrow of man’s nature; and who derive their vitality, life, and power from the unseen spiritual influences by which they are surrounded for good or for evil; and every action that tends to cripple either the one or deform the other is soon manifested in the crooked actions of a man’s life, shaping immortality.

Crooked Christians, like crooked trees, are neither so profitable nor beautiful to behold as those who grow straight and stately.Under the guise of an angel of light, Satan dangles false hope before some Christians, as a basket made of finely-wrought and tender twigs, a bouquet of delicate, beautiful, lovely, and richly scented greenhouse plants, as a foretaste of what is before, or in reserve for those who follow his advice—i.e., the influence of the ball-room, theatre, gay living, high life, fashion, and fancy, &c.; and so dexterously does the arch enemy hold these things before the simple ones, or entwine them round their hearts, that they are ready to cry out, “hell” is heaven and “heaven” is hell; and in this way the simple are groping after shadows till they find themselves surrounded by a darkness blacker than midnight, and without a friend in the world, with the devil laughing in their face for having been such fools.

The best antidote against beer and hellish swears is cold water and upward prayers.

To a troubled conscience, at midnight hour the ticking of a clock sounds as loud as the death knell of the church bell.

Every act of good or ill we perform makes an indent upon the coil of future life, which will speak and re-speak to us through the never-ending ages of eternity as they roll along.

Every time a Christian looks at sin with a longing eye, the devil draws a thin beautiful tinted film before his eyes, through which film, in process of time, the fire in his conscience eye, kindled at the time of his conversion, is unable to penetrate, or see the dangers lying across his path.

Tears of penitence, joy, and gladness are the best eye-salve for those whose eyes are growing dim.

Christians who have to live in and wade through the mud of slander and lying pools of deceit have need to wear watertight boots, of the kind described in the good old book.

By listening attentively to the prayers of a Christian, you will soon discover whether he wants—like a run-down clock—winding up. Losses and crosses, the death of a darling child, affliction, and a thousand other things, God useth as He seemeth well to wind him up and set him a-going again with fresh vigour.

A man who has a heart full of prejudice, spite, malice, and envy has an extra eye upon his nose, eclipsing his other eyes, which can both smell and see the dark side of a man’s character. So sensitive is this nose-eye that it can detect faults and failings when there are none to be detected.

The most lovely Christians are those who, like the beautiful butterfly and charming songsters, live in the sunlight of His throne.

The more miserable Christians are those who, like bats, buzz about in the dark.

Some Christians are like London dogs galloping about the streets after froth, losing their masters, and then they howl out, “Oh that I knew where I might find him!”

When the benevolent action of drawing-room philanthropy ends in nothing but tall talk and carpet gossip, it may be compared to soap bubbles piped forth for show.

Youths receiving their habits, nourishment, character, and stamina from the pothouse and gin-palace may be compared to plants grown in a room lighted and warmed with gas, which sicken and die.

Artificial Christians are like wax flowers, pretty to look upon; but without scent and perfume, difficult to handle, and they will not stand the fire.

Society is like a book of poems, and those members with the most sentiment, poetry, or sympathy in their natures will be the most sought after, prized, and used.

To a man who has done wrong, and has a troubled conscience, a louse upon the window pane appears as an ugly monster.

Conscience is the soul’s looking-glass, and blessed is the man who has courage to hold it up to behold what manner of man he is.

A sick room is often God’s pinfold, where He places in naughty wandering children; and there they will lie until either our blessed Saviour unlocks the gate or takes them over the top of the walls to heaven.

Authors and their books are like flowers: some are small, but send out a rich fragrance, and may be used as button-holes in the drawing-room; others are lovely to look upon, but as sour as crabs to handle and taste. There are others as large and showy as the sunflower, with a perfume anything but paradisical; and there are others with heavenly virtues running through themselves and their books to such an extent that a child will have no difficulty in gathering sufficient flowers to form a beautiful bouquet; and not a few in this our day are actually poisonous, and dangerous to meddle with.

Strong conviction, the offspring of thought and reflection, is the handmaid of inspiration, and the agent through which this heavenly soul-impelling power works out the Divine ends and decrees of Providence in carrying on the affairs of the world; and those who are heavenly inspired by means of the golden cord of love and sympathy, in full action between themselves and God, may be said to be His cabinet ministers.

The food eaten by an idle man warps his body, stunts his mind, and sends his soul to ruin.

An oak tree, or any other tree which stands the storms with defiance, are those whose roots have hold of mother earth with the firmest grip; and as in nature so in grace. A man to withstand all the storms of life must have firm hold upon the Deity.

A crooked tree may be said to be faulty; and it is neither so valuable nor beautiful as those that are straight and stately; so in like manner it may be said of the crooked members of Christian churches and social societies.

Some members of the community may he properly called “creepers,” for they very much resemble the ivy. They have neither backbone nor principle. Their object is to creep into religious communities and social societies, so as to entwine themselves round the members. They harbour filth, impede growth, hide beauty, and climb by the strength they steal from others.

A church whose members are tipsters may be compared to a marsh with too much water at the roots, bringing forth rushes, sedges, and buttercups.

Upon the tail of a snail a farmer’s weather glass is to be seen; so in like manner the footsteps of an enemy will reveal to an observing mind the dangers to be avoided.

Some Christian ministers are like the gas stove, warm-looking in the pulpit, but cold at home.

A man with all sorts of wrong ideas, crotchets, and queer notions in his head exhibits himself as a marsh with spots of green grass and daisies, to get at which mud and quagmire will have to be faced and got through before they are reached, and when this has been done the trouble will have been wasted.

Selfish men and misers engaged in grubbing after mammon may be compared to a swarm of flies feeding upon a dung-heap; and so long as the sun of prosperity shines they can feed, buzz, annoy, and sting.

A man who kisses his wife to hide his sins is sowing seeds that will produce a crop of anguish and despair that will hang heavier round his neck than a millstone. A kissing deceiver is the devil’s major-general.

Every time a man or woman does a deceitful action they make and deposit a grain of gunpowder, that only requires the light of public opinion and truth to send the maker, according to the number of grains deposited, into eternity to reap his folly.

Hungry-bellied politicians, whose object is to sting in order to feed, are the gadflies of English society, settling upon John Bull to fill their pockets and rob for fame.

Paupers and lawyers are leeches which fasten upon social life, often sucking the blood of those who are the least able to stand them.

A wife who cooks her husband’s meals five minutes behind time is carving furrows upon his forehead.

A mother who sends her children unwashed to school is embedding in the child’s nature seeds that will one day bring a crop of poverty, wretchedness, and despair.

A man who sits playing with his thumbs, hoping that something will turn up to put him upon the pedestal of fame and fortune, is hatching addled eggs, and the longer he sits upon them the worse they will stink.

Infidelity is a thick, muddy canal made by men’s hands, the bosom of which is covered with the weeds of idiosyncrasies and Satanic doubts; and beneath its surface it teems with all kinds of big and little, prickly, dead, and dying venomous reptiles; and woe be to the man who trusts his barque upon its stinking and putrefying surface with the hope that it will carry him to the crystal river and sea of glass.

Something of the wonderful infinitude, love, and power of God, in regulating and governing the external and internal relation of myriads upon myriads of millions of worlds teeming with life, variety, and beauty, may be gathered if we can grasp the idea that the separate particles of the rays of light sent forth by the sun to illumine our world each morning are, after they have done their work, whirled into unknown and unbounded space, and transformed as they fly, at a rate faster than imagination can travel, into suns to light up other worlds and other systems. And yet He finds time to number the hairs upon our heads; yea, a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without His notice. Wonderful! most wonderful! Past comprehension. None can fathom.

As the twelve precious stones—jasper, sapphire, chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sardius, chrysolyte, beryl, topaz, chrysoprasus, jacinth, and an amethyst formed the foundation of the heavenly Jerusalem, the future home of His saints, with pearly gates, as seen by John the divine in apostolic days; so do hopeful, believing, fighting, wrestling, joyous, singing, patient, benevolent, praying, working, and conquering Christians form the foundation of the present-day heavenly temple, with love and concord as doors, and walls of virtue, wherein God delights to dwell among His children, witnessing adoration with loving eyes, and listening to hymns of praise and thanksgiving with melodious ears.

A man may be said to be in a fog when he cannot see the hand of Providence in all his dealings, or God’s finger pointing out his way.

A closet is a burrow into which a Christian who is hounded to death by the dogs of hell can run and be safe. When once there, Christians can smile at their howls and sing while they show their teeth with rage.

At seven o’clock I was unbolting the door, making my way out of the house to a number of gipsy vans in an orchard on the outskirts of the town. On going to the place I met a little posh gipsy dressed in “rags and trashes,” with the heels—what was left of the “trashes”—upside down. He had just turned out of his bed, he said, and from his bed followed the dog, both having snoozled under the van—in which his uncle and aunt lay—on the ground, with a wet, damp rug as a covering. “Master,” said the little posh gipsy boy, “can you tell me where I can get a bottle of ginger beer? I am so thirsty and hungry. I’ve had nothing since my dinner yesterday.” I went with the boy to several houses where “Ginger-beer sold here” was displayed in the window, but without success. I gave the boy the price of a bottle and trotted him off lower down the town to quench his thirst and satisfy his appetite.

The gipsies were just beginning to “turn out,” and the little gipsies, half naked, were hunting up sticks out of the hedge-bottom to light the fire to boil the water for breakfast. The men and dogs were collecting together in groups, half-dressed, to relate to each other their successes at the fair. Apart from the rest of the gipsies, owning a van of a better kind than the others, two old gipsies were enjoying their breakfast upon the ground. As soon as the old gipsy woman—whose face betokened that it had figured in many an encounter, and was somewhat highly coloured—saw me, she began to get excited, and called me to them. I thought, “Now is the time for squalls; look out.” I drew near to the old woman with a strange mixture of feelings. It was early in the morning. There were now about a score of gipsy men and women looking on, and a few of the dogs came sniffing at my heels. I tried to screw a smile upon my face, and to dig and delve low for a pleasant joke, but it would not come from the “vasty deep.” On my approach the old woman jumped up from the ground, and with both hands clasped mine in hers, which felt as rough as a navvy’s, saying while griping them tightly, “Bless yer, my good mon, I’ve wanted to see yer for a long while. I’ve long ’erd abaut yer, and ha’ never had th’ pleasure o’ puttin’ my een on yer till this mornin’. Sit yer down on th’ gress, I want to tawke to yer. Dunner yer be freetened, I’m not goin’ to swaller yer, bless yer, master mon. Yer’ll ha’ sum brekust, wonner yer?” “Yes,” I said, “I did not mind.” Although I did not exactly like the appearance of things, I thought it would not do to say “no,” and I knelt upon the damp grass. In a pan over their fiery embers were the remnants of bacon and red herrings. There was only one large cup and saucer, without a handle, for the pair of them. I thought most surely she would fetch a cup and saucer out of the van for me. Such was not to be the case. A group of some ten or twelve working men of Hinckley stood looking over the hedge only a few yards away, at the old woman’s “megrims.” She handed me in the first place a piece of bread, upon which was some bacon and herring. It took me all the time to swallow this uninviting morsel. I munched a little of it, and some I put into my pocket for another time. She now filled up her cup with tea, and made her fingers do duty for sugar tongs. I could see no teaspoons about, except one that was among the herrings and bacon. This was fetched out and plunged into the tea, and round and round it went, leaving upon the top of the dark-coloured tea—which I could now see by the bright morning sun shining upon the scene—stars floating about. The old woman first drank herself, and then handed the cup of tea to me. I supped and nibbled the crust. I supped again, till between us the cup was nearly emptied. She had a strong scent of “Black Jack,” and I kept a very sharp eye upon what parts of the cup the old woman drank from. “Now then to bisness,” said the old gipsy. “Yer see none o’ we gipsies con read an’ write. I’ll show yer I con, if none o’ them conner. Han yer got anythin’ wi yer for me to read?” I had a few copies of “Our Boys and Girls,” with me, given to me by the Wesleyan Sunday School Union, and I handed one to the old woman, dated September 1880, and she began stammering at some of the verses in an excited frame of mind between anger and pleasure, as if determined to read them whether she could or not. “Ha—ha—ha,—Haste traveller—ha—ha,—haste! the night comes on.” She got through one or two of the verses pretty well. I then gave her another verse, which she read fairly well:

“He is our best and kindest Friend,
And guards us night and day.”

I gave her another verse, but I could see tears in her eyes, which prevented her getting through it as well as she desired. She laid the fault to her being without spectacles. Her reading these lines touched her very much, and she became quite excited again, and jumped up and clutched hold of both of my hands and said, “Yer see, my good mon, if none o’ the t’other gipsies con read, I con, conner I? But I con do more than read, I con say a lot o’ the Bible off by heart. The Creeds, Church Catechism, Belief, and Sacraments, which I larnt by heart when I was a girl. I went to the Church Sunday School at Uttoxeter. Yer’ll see by that I have not allus been a gipsy. When I got married to my old mon I had to go a-gipsying wi’ him, and have never been in th’ church since. My name’s Bedman, of ‘Ucheter,’ and am well known.”

She knelt upon the grass again, and supped a little more of her strong tea. The number of Hinckley working people and gipsies was increasing, and up she jumped again, clutching both of my hands, after which she laid her hand in navvy fashion upon my shoulder, and began to repeat the Creed: “I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, and in all things visible and invisible. And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of God,” and on she went to the end in her fashion. After this she knelt down again and began with the Decalogue; “God spake these words and said, I am the Lord thy God; thou shalt have none other gods but me,” and with a red face, and tears in her eyes, trembling with emotion, she sung in the usual chanting tone, “Lord have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law.” The old gipsy woman went on to the end, to which I responded, “Amen.” Some portions of the Litany were repeated, and then she struck off at a tangent into the Catechism, commencing with “What is your name? May Bedman. Who gave you that name? My godfathers and godmothers in my baptism, wherein I was made a member of Christ, the child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven. What did your godfathers and godmothers then for you? They did promise and vow three things in my name. First, that I should renounce the devil and all his works, the pomps and vanities of this wicked world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh. Secondly, that I should believe all the Articles of the Christian Faith. And thirdly, that I should keep God’s holy will and commandments, and walk in the same all the days of my life;” and then she sung out, “Amen.” “Ah!” said the old woman, “you see, my good master mon, I know a little, don’t I?” “Yes,” I said, “you know a little, and he that knoweth his Master’s will, and doeth it not, ‘shall be beaten with many stripes.’” “Yes,” said the old gipsy, “I do know my Master’s will, and I have not done it, and I’ve been beaten with many stripes during the last forty years, and here I am. Never mind, let bygones be bygones. ‘Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts: and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.’” And I replied, “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.” “Yes, you are right, bless you,” said the old backsliding gipsy, and with wet knees and wet eyes she sang out again, “Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law,” to which I responded, “Amen.” I then left this penitent gipsy’s strong grips, the gipsy gang, and the number of lookers-on to go to my “quarters” for my breakfast. I then spent another half-hour with the Salvation Army. After a pleasant conversation with the clergyman at my lodgings, I started homeward, and on my way to the station I came upon one of my old gipsy families, who were just having their breakfast in a very filthy, tumbledown van, with their six poor ragged, dirty little children squatting about on the bottom of it. The good-hearted posh gipsy woman seemed to have lost all spirit in her struggles to live a respectable traveller’s life, and was now with her children in the depths of despair and poverty. She would insist on my having a cup of tea as I sat upon the doorstep. I could not drink all of it, but did the best I could under the circumstances. She persisted in pressing me to take a cocoa-nut and a sponge for my little folk at home, the cocoa-nut to eat and the sponge to clean their slates with.

It is from two adjoining villages in the neighbourhood of Hinckley that two of our present-day English tribes of gipsies spring. Many years ago the father of one tribe was a “stockinger”—i.e., one who makes stockings—and he conceived the idea that he would like to be a gipsy. Accordingly he set up a pedlar’s “basket of trifles” and began to stump the country. From this small beginning there are now between forty and fifty “real gipsies,” as some backwood gipsy writers—who would delight in seeing this country dragged backward into Druidism as a retaliation for their own failure in the battle of life—would call them. Poor little-souled mortals! they are to be pitied, or my feeling of disgust at their wrong-doing would lead me to say hard things about them. To be laughed out of school is a start bad enough in the wrong road in all conscience, without a severe probe from me. My pleasure would be to put out the hand to lead wrong-doers back to the wise counsel of a loving Christian father, the decalogue, and the teaching of Christ.

The success of the first gipsies in their “rounds” led the second lot to take up the “profession,” and to-day we have two full-blown tribes of English gipsies in full swing, tramping the country in vans, carts, surrounded in many instances with dogs, dirt, wretchedness, and misery. Sometimes they will be fraternizing with kisses, and other times they will be quarrelling and fighting with each other to the extent of almost “eating each other’s heads off.” In these two families there will be close upon one hundred and fifty men, women, and children, and not more than three or four out of the whole able to read and write a sentence. It is truly heartrending to contemplate the amount of evil that has been done in the country by these two families of artificially-trained gipsies. Thank God, some of them are beginning to see the error of their ways.

I bade the Hinckley gipsies good-bye, and having dined off a slice of bread-and-butter fetched out of the corner of my bag, at Nuneaton station, I made my way homeward. As I was mounting the last hill on this bright, lovely Christian Sabbath day the church bells were pealing forth—

“Come to church and pray
On this blessed day.”

Mr. George Burden, the Leicester poet, author of “The Months,” had heard something of the cry of the gipsy children when he was prompted to send me the following touching little poem:—

“THE GIPSY CHILDREN.

“From the remotest ages,
From many a lovely lane,
The cry of gipsy children
To heaven hath risen in vain.

“Chorus. Then rescue gipsy children,
Who roam our country lanes.
Break off their moral thraldom,
That keeps each life in chains.“Through many a bitter hardship
Their little lives have passed;
Round them the robes of kindness
As yet have ne’er been cast.

“From city, town, and village
They wander wild and free,
Too long despised, forsaken,
Amid their revelry.

“No influence pure and heavenly
Protects them night and day;
Nor wise and blest instruction
To help them on their way.

“From vice and shame and ruin,
That taint their early youth,
Ye English hearts deliver—
Shield them with love and truth.

“One hastens to their rescue
With earnest heart and will;
God bless the noble mission
Of George Smith of Coalville!”