THE LIFE STORY
OF
GIPSY
CORNELIUS SMITH.
[COPYRIGHT.]
JOHN HEYWOOD,
DEANSGATE AND RIDGEFIELD, MANCHESTER;
1, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS,
LONDON.
PREFACE.
————
I HAVE frequently been asked by many friends to give some account,
in book form, of God’s dealings with me. I do so after much prayer,
trusting that, as these pages are read, many may be led to magnify the
grace of God, and consecrate all their powers to the service of Jesus
Christ.
CORNELIUS SMITH.
Sedgwick Street, Mill Road,
Cambridge.
CONTENTS.
————
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
EARLY DAYS … … … … … … … … … … 9
CHAPTER II.
SHADOWS GATHERING—SMALLPOX AND DEATH … … … … 28
CHAPTER III.
CONVERSION OF MYSELF, TWO BROTHERS, AND MANY OTHER
GIPSIES … … … … … … … … … … 35
CHAPTER IV.
WORK AMONG THE CHURCHES … … … … … … … 50
CHAPTER V.
THE TRIUMPHANT DEATH OF MY DEAR BROTHERS WOODLOCK
AND BARTHOLOMEW … … … … … … … … 69
THE LIFE STORY OF GIPSY CORNELIUS
SMITH.
————————————
CHAPTER I.
EARLY DAYS.
I CORNELIUS SMITH was born in a gipsy’s tent, on May the 8th, 1831,
in the parish of Burwell, Cambridgeshire, in a country lane known as
Burwell Nest. My father and mother, James and Elizabeth Smith, were
married at Longstanton, Cambridgeshire, their occupation being chair
caners and basket makers. It was their custom to travel from place to
place; thus rambling to fairs, feasts, and races, I was dragged up in
darkness, misery, and sin, and became very daring and wicked, and loved
the roaming life intensely. My father was a drunkard, and when he drank
and smoked I tried to imitate him, and eventually succeeded. When quite
a boy an elder brother taught me to play the violin. Being passionately
fond of music (which is characteristic of the gipsy race), I soon
became an accomplished player, and was sought for on every hand. This
led me into further worldliness and sin.
About this time my brother went to Romford market, Essex, to buy a
horse, and on returning home he was seized with sudden illness. The
doctor was sent for, and on his arrival said there was no hope for
him. My mother being a moral woman never would (though a gipsy) allow
us to go to bed without saying the Lord’s Prayer. I shall never forget
the scene around the bed in that gipsy tent in Fairlop Forest, near
Chigwell Row. My mother said to my brother, “Do you think about the
Lord, my dear?” He looked up and said, “Yes; that is all my study.”
On Friday there was a very great change in him—the pain had ceased,
and mortification set in on Saturday morning. We were all called to
his bedside, when he stretched out his hands and said “Good-bye” three
times; “I am not afraid to die,” and so passed away. He was a loving
son and brother, and left a void in our gipsy home that nothing seemed
to fill up. My father rushed to drink to drown his sorrow. Had he known
the plan of salvation, and God’s love to poor troubled souls, he would
have taken his burden to Him.
One night, my father, coming home the worse for drink, sitting on the
front of his van, fell off, and both wheels passed over his body. He
was brought home, and we thought he would die. I have since thought
that God allowed this to happen to work out His own purposes. My father
was so very ill that he wished my mother to take a cottage in Cambridge
that he might go to the hospital. She did so, and he was somewhat
restored, but through this accident was a sufferer for life.
As far as I can remember, I was then about ten years of age, and having
been brought up in lanes and wayside roads, coming to a town to live
in a cottage was quite a new life to me. I eagerly watched the boys
with their slates round their necks and their dinner bags over their
shoulders, and wondered where they were going. I followed them, until I
found myself at the ragged school. For some time I was afraid to enter,
they stared at me so. Gaining courage, however, I crept inside. My
little heart was panting for something I had not got. I wept while they
sang the praises of God. I can never forget the words they sang—
“God is in heaven. Would He hear
A little prayer like mine?
Yes, dearest child, you need not fear,
He’d listen unto thine.
God is in heaven. Would He know
If I should tell a lie?
Yes, though you said it very low,
He’d hear it in the sky.”
I then felt that I was a sinner, and that God knew everything about me.
My heart seemed broken as I thought of my wickedness. I have discovered
since that it was the Spirit of God working even in a poor little gipsy
lad’s heart. I found out that God is no respecter of persons, and that
down in the human heart there are chords that once touched, will yield
responsively. The governess came to me and asked what I was crying for.
I told her I felt that I was a very wicked boy; but instead of telling
me of Jesus’s love she gave me the cane.
The winter passed away, and my father being better, we resumed our
roaming gipsy life. On reaching Morden, in Cambridgeshire (it was on
the Sunday), the Primitive Methodists were holding camp meetings close
to our tents, and the Spirit of God drew me near to hear them. At night
they held a prayer meeting in a cottage, and I found myself in their
midst on my knees crying, when an old lady put her hand on my shoulder
and said, “Jesus loves you, my boy,” and talked to me very kindly about
“His love.” I did not find Him then—I could not understand. I had never
been sent to school or taught to read, but the conviction was deep in
my soul in those early days. “Bless the Lord O my soul,” for His love
to me a poor wandering gipsy boy. This is the fulfilment of John xvi.,
8, 9 verses. When He shall come “He will reprove the world of sin, and
of righteousness, and of judgment: of sin, because they believe not on
me.”
As I got older the passion for my fiddle and company grew, and I often
frequented the dance room. The publican’s flattery and “treats” made
me think a great deal of myself. Of course I can see it now. I was
bringing the publican gain, and helping to drag young and old further
down into misery and sin. I was soon a great attraction, and sought for
far and near, and in many places they would have no one else to play in
their dancing and club rooms.
I remember one morning saying to my dear mother, “I am going to leave
you, and shall go to London.” She looked at me with astonishment.
Putting her hands together, while tears rolled down her cheeks, she
looked up to heaven and said, “My child will break my heart.” I
have never forgotten that look. It burnt its way into my soul, and
left an impression there that lives to-day. In the public-house and
skittle-alley, at card table, theatre, or boxing booth, the words, “You
will break your mother’s heart,” were constantly ringing in my ears. I
have often gone from these dens asking God to have mercy on a wretch
like me, but sin had so tightly bound its chains around me that I had
no power to break away. I was led captive by the devil at his will, and
often knew with bitterness that “the way of transgressors is hard.” I
did not stay in London very long but made my way through the villages
and towns to Cambridge, spending my time in riotous living—some nights
sleeping in a bed and others on a straw stack. When I awoke from my bed
on the hayrick I had to run up and down the road to promote circulation
of the blood, my limbs being numbed with cold. I often said, like the
prodigal, “I will arise and go to my father,” for there was bread
enough and to spare, while I was without shelter and perishing in the
cold. But my poor soul had no refuge in the time of storm. How good God
was to suffer me to live in utter rebellion against Him. He might have
cut me down as a cumberer of the ground, but He willeth not the death
of a sinner, but rather that he should repent and live.
I have been at the point of death several times—three times with fever;
and once I was so very low that the power of speech deserted me for
three weeks, and they had to put on me a strait jacket. The doctor said
that if I lived until he got to his surgery and back it would be a
miracle, but before he returned a change had taken place, and God had
opened my mouth. I called “Mother.” My mother cried out with much joy,
“My boy has revived.” From that hour I rapidly grew better. How good
God is! He has indeed dealt with me in mercy and not in wrath.
After that severe illness I had to go about on crutches for three
weeks or a month; and as I gained strength from day to day, I formed
resolutions in my mind to be better than I had been, but, alas, only
to break them again and again—indeed, human nature in its best form is
helpless until it brings its helplessness to God’s almightiness. Should
this book fall into the hands of any who are continually resolving and
breaking their vows I would say, cast yourself in faith at His feet
until He speaks the word of power.
After that long illness I stayed at home with my father and mother,
and although it was only a gipsy’s tent it was as much a home to me as
your house is to you, or as a palace to a king. With all our wanderings
we had this advantage—we took our home with us. My father taught me
the same trade as himself, viz., mending cane chairs, and hawking. In
the summer months we worked in the harvest field, my father having
taught me to reap also. We worked for fifteen seasons for a Mr. Iviet,
Hadenham, Cambridgeshire, and were known in that neighbourhood for
upwards of twenty-five years. Since that time God has helped me and my
two brothers to go there and preach Christ, and many have professed to
find the gift of God, which is Christ Himself.
On one occasion we arrived at Newmarket during the fair time. After
three days’ frolic and drinking (by this time I had become a slave to
drink and sin) my father fell in with a man who offered, if he desired
company, to show him the way to Norwich. Agreeing to his proposal we
started off, hawking our goods as we travelled through the villages and
towns. On Saturday we arrived at a town called Swaffham, in Norfolk. It
was market day, and as usual we commenced drinking, and I played the
fiddle. The horses and carts stood outside the public-house. Towards
evening my father said to me, “If we are to have any tents pitched
to-night, and if we have any love for mother, we must go and do it at
once.” We at once left for one of the commons close by. My brother and
the man that had been our guide stayed in the village drinking, coming
home to us after the public-house was closed. On their way home they
met a cart, and going behind it took out a basket of shop goods. My
brother asked the man not to take it. He would have nothing to do with
it, as my father was very strict about such things. The basket however
was hidden somewhere close by. The first thing on Sunday morning one
of the people who came to our tent said the policeman was coming, as
the owner of the basket maintained that the gipsies had stolen it out
of his cart. I asked my brother if he had taken it, and he said he had
not, but went off with the thief, leaving us to get out of the charge
the best way we could. I stayed with my father and mother, little
thinking that they would take me, being perfectly innocent. In about
an hour the policeman and the man who had lost his basket drew up to
the tent in a trap, and declared that I was one who was “wanted.” My
parents protested against my arrest, knowing that I was innocent, but
to no purpose. The handcuffs were put on, and I was compelled to go
to the police station, along with a younger brother. We were brought
before the magistrates and sent for trial to Swaffham, where we were
detained a whole month before the trial took place. That was the first
time I had been locked up. I was then between eighteen and nineteen
years of age. Someone had told me that if I betrayed the man who had
stolen the goods my brother would become involved in the crime; and
rather than bring him in (for I loved my brother) I determined to bear
the punishment instead. Being innocent, I felt I could bear it better
than the guilty. At length my trial came on, and I received sentence,
which was two months’ hard labour, my younger brother being acquitted.
The man who gave evidence against me declared on oath that I was the
man who took the basket out of his cart. My dear father put his hands
together in the court and declared my innocence, and said, “God will be
your friend, my child.” So you see, dear reader, that I suffered—the
innocent for the guilty. So has Christ our Saviour suffered, the just
for the unjust, that He might bring us to God. Oh what love, what
boundless love! It is immeasurable! May you appreciate it, and love and
serve Him in return.
I have heard men say that they could not leave off smoking and
drinking; but a gaol is the place to wean them. They there make you
non-smokers and abstainers from intoxicants by Act of Parliament, and
without a pledge-book—at least I found it so. I had to leave it off
whether I would or no.
The next morning they put me on the treadmill. I did not understand it,
and soon fell down and hurt myself, while they stood round laughing at
me. The weather was bitterly cold, and the prison clothing so thin that
the wind seemed to pierce me through. Being afterwards put to work at
an iron crank, I shammed bad and let go, which upset the machinery. The
officers, with great consideration, took me before the doctor, who said
I was not well, and gave me two pills, which I have cause to remember,
and I was then sent to my cell. The prison rules required that at night
our shoes and stockings should be placed at the head of the bed; but
owing to the extreme cold I kept mine on to keep my feet warm. The
warder on night duty coming round and missing both stockings and shoes,
stripped the bed and drew me on to the flagstones, and left me in the
dark to do the best I could. I shouted for a light to make my bed, but
without any response.
In the morning I was again removed—this time to another cell, where
there were five other prisoners. I there had to lie in a hammock, and
I slept between the blankets instead of the sheets, experience having
taught me which would be most comfortable. They tried to drag me out,
but like a badger in a box, being in I had no inclination to come
out—another thing they could not get me out. They reported me the next
morning. I was then shut up in my cell, and my skilley was stopped. Oh,
how I wept and reflected on my past life. I fell upon my knees, and
promised God that if He spared me to come out of this horrible place I
would lead a different life, and be careful as to the company I kept in
the future.
Sunday morning came, and we were marched round the yard to the chapel,
taking our different places in a little box arranged so that the
prisoners could not see each other. My eyes were fixed on the chaplain.
Taking up the Bible, he read the tenth chapter of St. John’s Gospel.
The fourteenth verse says, “I am the Good Shepherd, and know my sheep,
and am known of mine.” He made a running comment on this verse. He
asked who was the Good Shepherd, and then said it was Jesus, that we
were the sheep and that He laid down His life for us. I could not then
understand it, but the Spirit of God was working in my heart. He then
proceeded with the lesson, and commented on the sixteenth verse, “Other
sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must bring.”
The service being ended I went back to my cell, and my reflections
ran thus: Christ has sheep in the fold, but I am one of those that
are outside. But He meant to bring me in I felt sure. I was so deeply
distressed, and cried to God to save me, that had there been anyone
there to have pointed me to Christ, to rest on the promise of God, I
most assuredly should have been converted. As it was I did not get
peace. My term of imprisonment having passed away, both father and
mother met me on being discharged. But alas! good resolutions formed in
prison were soon again drowned in drink and bad company. Forgetting God
in my wildest moments, I can truly say in the midst of it all the Holy
Spirit continually strove with me. I became altogether reckless at this
time, caring for nothing only the pleasures of this life, and spending
my money as fast as I got it.
I remember, on one occasion, my sweetheart came to see me, and I was in
such a state that I was ashamed to meet her. There was a field of cole
and mustard seed close by, in which I lay down and hid myself, but by
peering through the hedge I could see her and hear the conversation.
Bad as I was I wanted to see her. My clothes, however, were so ragged
that I feared to make an appearance. The following morning I went to
Newmarket with seven shillings in my pocket—all the money I had. I
entered a second-hand clothes shop and spent the money as best I could.
When I saw my sweetheart she said I looked like a jockey. I began to be
diligent from that day, as I thought of taking to myself a wife. This I
did when we had got on a little, so that we were comfortably fixed.
One day, soon after our marriage, I went to Baldock, Hertfordshire,
to a fair, and took a nice donkey with me to sell. Having sold it, I
spent the money in drink. When I got home my wife asked me for the
money, and I told her it had all been spent in drink. She scolded me,
and I promised to do better, but I soon forgot my vows, and broke them,
because they were made in my own strength. I had regular places where I
played the fiddle for dancing and the amusement of the drunkards at the
fairs and feasts, and was paid well, but the money came easily and it
went freely. In those days I was called a jolly fellow—a nickname for a
fool.
We travelled on to London, and keeping steady I soon got another donkey
and cart to carry my tent and all the goods I had. Then we went into
Kent for the hop-picking season, which was our harvest. There our
first child was born. After the hopping season we made our way back to
Cambridge, then to Newmarket fair, where revelling in drink was the
order of the day. Here a row began. A young gipsy struck my father,
and the devil worked me up to such a pitch that I would fight him. We
fought until the blood ran like water. I have often thought of that
battle. If one of us had been killed, what would the end have been?
For me it would have been banishment from the presence of the Lord. In
that battle I broke the small bone of my hand, the effect of which is
felt and seen to this day. Again I knew that “the way of transgressors
is hard.” Years afterwards, when God had converted me, I went to this
man and told him that God had saved me, and how I loved him and wanted
to be saved too. He wept like a child, and cried for mercy, and then
and there with his wife trusted Christ as his Saviour. They had lived
together many years unmarried, and as soon as the Lord opened their
eyes they set their home in order, and were married, living godly
lives. He, poor fellow, went to heaven through much affliction. In his
dying moments he took my hand and pointed upward. Although he could
not speak he made us know it was all right. Like myself he was a brand
plucked from the burning. Oh, the joy of bringing lost souls to Christ.
We were now at Melbourne, in Cambridgeshire. I was out one morning
early after my horses. Coming home I picked up a few sticks and some
straw to make a fire. The policeman saw me, and he said I had stolen
them, and I was his prisoner. He took hold of me by the handkerchief
round my neck. I then thought it was my turn, and I threw him on his
back into the ditch. He got up and went away, saying he would have me
dead or alive. He fetched some help, and I was taken to Cambridge,
and placed in a cell next to a man who was condemned to be hung, for
burning a woman to death. He had pleaded “not guilty,” which caused the
authorities much anxiety. The governor put me to walk with him in the
yard, as they wanted me to hear what he had to say about the crime.
I found out by his conversation he was guilty, for he told me he was
with the woman, and four of them drank a little bucket of gin. Here
again you see the evil of strong drink—“it biteth like a serpent, and
stingeth like an adder.” Young men, shun it! One day his poor wife came
in to see him for the last time. She had a little baby in her arms.
Holding it up to him she said, “Look at your baby,” and then asked,
“What is to become of me, John, and my three children?” He put up his
hands and said, “Have mercy upon me, for my wife and children’s sake!
I never thought it would come to this.” How true it is, “The wages of
sin is death.” I wept at that scene, and being taken back to my cell,
I cried to God to have mercy on a guilty sinner like me. My relief was
great after I had my trial, and was told that I was to have a month
with hard labour. My prison occupation was that of winding string
into balls, for the purpose of mat making. As it was extremely cold,
I formed them into an armchair, in which I sat, to keep myself warm.
Reflection again seized me, for there is plenty of time to think there.
My sins again seemed as if they would crush me, and I was again on my
knees before God, crying for deliverance, and obtained some relief.
Just then the keeper came in, and told me to hold my noise. Being
ignorant of the plan of salvation, and having no one to instruct me,
the good impressions soon passed away, and I returned to my old habits
of sin and waywardness. How good of God it was to spare me, and not to
cut me off as a cumberer of the ground! But He had compassion, that He
might show forth His glory in me, and at length enable me to witness
a good profession before many witnesses. Bless Him for ever! He is my
refuge and strength.