ABOUT PASTIMES
One cannot help wondering how the early inhabitants of Dartmoor spent
their time. Possibly the men found plenty of work for their hands, while
the ladies talked of their babies, though they could hardly talk of
their clothes. Chapel teas and beer-houses were unknown, and the people
may have led a wandering existence, following their cattle and goats
from place to place, and merely erecting rough shelters at every pasture
ground. It is said that they appeared before the Roman agents, who came
to the Cassiterides, which no doubt included the Dartmoor region, to
procure the precious white metal, clad in black cloaks, with tunics
reaching to their feet, and girdles round their waist. A more unsuitable
costume for the moor could not have been devised, but it is probable
that they were then in holiday attire. They were simple, taciturn,
heavily-bearded men. Of their women nothing is known, because the
historians of those days did not trouble themselves about inferior
details, and ladies had not then commenced to brawl in the streets for
their rights. The numerous hut-circles about the moor were no doubt
built by these men, utilised more as temporary sheltering-places than
permanent homes, and were possibly regarded as common property. The
stone avenues may have been boundaries, and the circles are more likely
to be the remains of pounds than the ruins of temples. The lamp of
architecture had not then been lighted in Britain, and sun-worship is by
its very nature antagonistic to temples. So much is conjecture, and
cannot be anything else. Light is reached when we regard the great
mounds beside the rivers, and the huge stone slabs which span them; and
we know that prehistoric man was a miner, and that he objected to
getting his feet wet. These rivers are mere streams to-day, which any
one can wade across, and they could not have been larger when the
bridges were erected. We know also by the presence of these slabs of
granite, and various other stone remains, that the system of the corvée
must have been practised upon Dartmoor; a good custom which disappeared
centuries ago as an obligation on free people, but is still retained as
an obligation on prisoners in such penal establishments as Princetown.
The existence of rates for the maintenance of roads is a survival of the
corvée in a form of demand upon those who can afford to pay, and not a
few who cannot, for the upkeep of roads which many of them do not use;
the idea of the rate being that the householder pays a sum which shall
exempt him from the labours of the corvée, although without being given
the option of offering his labour in lieu of cash.
We may safely conjecture that prehistoric men attended to their duties
of obligation as well as to their pastoral affairs; and made a little
profit at odd times in the form of tin which they bartered for salt,
vases, and domestic utensils, with the Roman agents, very much as
Brightly, who was their descendant, bartered his vases for rabbit-skins.
But what about their pastimes?
History and tradition are alike silent on that point. They could not
have been making love to their wives all their spare time. There must
have been something to take the place of the beer-house, the chapel tea,
the sing-songs, the rough-and-ready carnival. If tradition does not
exactly speak it gives an echo. We listen to that echo, we put against
it our knowledge of human nature, which does not change, and to that we
add our experience of the desires, customs, and pastimes of the men who
have passed into their places and live upon what was their ground; and
then we get near the truth, possibly at the very heart of it. Their
pastime was the shedding of blood. They fought together for the mere
pleasure of inflicting wounds upon each other. They tortured inoffensive
creatures because they were strong, the animals were weak, and the sight
of suffering gave them a kind of pleasure. Since that barbaric age more
than a thousand years of Christianity have done their civilising and
humane work; have taught until there can be surely nothing left to
teach; have practised until the virtues would have been pretty well worn
out had they been practised less theoretically. And to-day one finds--
There were notices posted all over the place, upon walls and doors and
gate-posts, little bills announcing a great pigeon- and rabbit-shoot,
with money prizes for the three most successful competitors; the sport
to conclude with a big feed at the inn at so much a head, drinks being
extra. These shoots are among the most ordinary features of village life
upon Dartmoor, and they are usually organised by the landlord of
licensed premises, because at the conclusion of the sporting event the
men gather together for the feed in a state of feverish excitement and
soon drink themselves mad. That sort of thing means a handsome profit
for the landlord. The men's passions are gratified, the victualler's
pockets are filled, so every one is satisfied, and shoots do not lose in
popularity year by year.
The event was held in a field upon the side of the moor, and all
sportsmen of the district were gathered together, with a few women, and
as many children as could possibly get there. It was a great time for
the small boys; better than a Sunday-school tea or chapel anniversary;
no self-control was required of them at the shoot, they could let
themselves go, and release every one of the seven little devils in them.
Farmer Chegwidden was there, completely restored to health, though he
had an ugly black scar on the side of his head. He was half drunk before
proceedings commenced, because he said he could shoot better when in
that condition, Pendoggat was there, silent and gloomy, but handling his
gun as if he loved it. The old Master was there, tottering about with
two sticks, beaming upon every one, and wishing the young men good-luck;
and the landlord of the inn, who presided over the safe conveyance of
the victims from his barn to the place of massacre, jumped here and
there in a wild state of excitement, explaining the programme and
issuing instructions to competitors. The constable was there, dropping
fatness; and near him Pezzack, with grave and reverend aspect and new
clothes, stood and made the thing respectable with his blessing.
Two others were there who looked singularly out of place, and stood
apart from the noisy crowd, both of them nervous and uncomfortable. They
were Boodles and old Weevil. Close to them were crates stuffed full of
pigeons, uttering from time to time little mournful notes, and bulging
sacks filled with healthy rabbits.
"It is so silly," said Boodles, rather petulantly. "You will only be
ill. We had much better go away."
"I must see it, darling--as much as I can bear. I am going to prepare a
petition about these things, and I want to be fair. I must see for
myself. It may not be so brutal as I believe it is."
"Yes, it is, and worse. I know I shall be ill," said Boodles.
"Go home, little girl. There is no reason why you should stay."
"I'm not going to leave you," declared Boodles bravely. "Only do let's
go further away from those poor things in the sacks. They keep on
heaving so."
"I must see it all," said the old man stubbornly. "Look the other way."
"I can't. It fascinates me," she said.
"Willum!" yelled the landlord. "Come along, my lad. Pigeons first. Dra'
first blood, Willum."
A young man stepped out, smiling in a watery fashion, handling his gun
nervously. The landlord plunged his hand into a crate, caught a pigeon
by the neck, and dragged it out. The trap was merely a basket with a
string fastened to it, and it was placed scarcely a dozen yards from the
shooter.
"Kill 'en, Willum!" shouted the landlord as he pulled the string.
Willum fired and missed. The bird flew straight at him, and with the
second shot he broke its wing. The pigeon fell on the grass, fluttering
helplessly, and Willum walked up to it with a solemn grin, gave it a
kick, then flung it aside to die at its leisure. The small boys pounced
upon it, and assisted its departure from the world.
"Little devils," murmured Boodles, beginning to bite her handkerchief.
"I think we are all devils here," said old Weevil.
"This field is full of them. It is the field-day of the Brute, the
worship of the Brute, the deification of the Brute."
The shoot proceeded, and the men began to get warmed up. Not a single
pigeon escaped, because those that got away from the field with the loss
of only a few feathers were bound to fall victims to the men who had
posted themselves all round with the idea of profiting by the
competitors' bad shots. The only man who was perfectly composed was
Pendoggat. He shot at the pigeons, and killed them, as if he had been
performing a religious duty. Chegwidden, on the other hand, shouted all
the time and fired like a madman. The little boys were kept hard at work
torturing the maimed birds to death, with much joyous and innocent
laughter.
"How be ye, Master? Purty fine shooting, I reckon," cried an old crony,
hobbling up with a holiday air.
"Butiful," said Master. "Us be too old vor't, I reckon."
"Us bain't too old to enjoy it," said the old crony,
"Sure 'nuff, man. Us bain't too old to enjoy it. 'Tis a brave sight to
see 'em shoot."
Then there was a pause. The string had been pulled, the basket had
tumbled aside, but the pigeon would not stir. Possibly it had been
maimed in the crate, or by the rough hand which had dragged it out.
Everybody shouted wildly, waving arms and hats, but the bird did nothing
except peck at the grass to get a little food into its hungry body. The
landlord ran up and kicked it. The pigeon merely fell over, then hopped
a little way feebly, but still refusing to fly, so the landlord kicked
it again, shouting: "He be contrairy. There be no doing nought wi' 'en."
"Tread on 'en, landlord," shouted a voice.
"What be I to du?" asked the man whose turn it was to kill.
"Shoot 'en on the ground. Shoot 'en, man! Don't let 'en get away. Kill
'en, man!" screamed the landlord.
The competitor grinned contentedly, and at a distance of half-a-dozen
paces blandly riddled the creature with pellets. This was the funniest
thing which had happened yet, and the crowd could not stop laughing for
a long time.
"Now the rabbits! Fetch out two or dree," shouted the landlord. "Kill
'en quick, lads!" The worthy soul was anxious to have the massacre over,
and start the real business of the day at the bar.
With the rabbits fun began in earnest. All that had gone before was tame
in comparison, for pigeons die quickly, but rabbits continue to run
after being shot, and still provide excellent amusement, if the vital
parts are untouched. It was not shooting at all; not a particle of skill
was required, as the basket was close to the competitor, and he shot
immediately the animal began to run, and sometimes before; but it was
killing, it was a sort of bloodshed, and nothing more was asked for.
Hardly a rabbit was killed cleanly, as the moormen are, as a rule,
awkward with the gun. As the creatures invariably ran straight away from
the crowd, they were usually shot in the hinder parts, and then would
drag themselves on, until they were seized, either by the man who had
fired, or by the small boys, and carried back to be flung upon the heap
of bodies, some of them dead, and some not. Even feeble old Master
entered into the fun of the thing, and begged permission to break a
rabbit's neck with his own hands, so that he might still call himself a
sportsman.
"Come away, daddy. I'm getting queer," said Boodles.
Weevil woke from a sort of trance, and shook his head oddly, but said
nothing. Power of speech was not his just then. He had hitherto kept
himself scrupulously apart from such innocent village pleasures, afraid
to trust himself at them, but what he saw quite confirmed what he had
believed. It was not sport in any sense of the word. It was mere animal
passion and lust for blood. It was love of cruelty, not any ambition to
take a prize, which animated the competitors. It would have meant small
enjoyment for them had the pigeons been made of clay and the rabbits of
clockwork. Because the creatures they shot at could feel, could shed
blood, and were feeling pain, were shedding blood, the men were happy;
not only happy, but drunk with the passion, and half mad with the lust,
of their bloody game.
Weevil looked about, fighting down his weakness, which was not then
altogether eccentric. He saw the transformed faces of the crowd. Not
only the competitors but the spectators had the faces that a London mob
of old might have presented, watching the hanging, drawing, and
quartering of criminals, and finding the spectacle very much to their
taste. They had become so excited as to be inarticulate. They could not
make their shoutings intelligible to one another. They were
gesticulating like so many Italian drunkards. Their boots were marked
with blood, and it was also upon their hands, and smeared upon their
faces. Blood was upon the ground too, with other matter more offensive.
The ghastly pile of pigeons and rabbits, which were supposed to be done
for, was not without motion. Sometimes it heaved; but there was no
sound. Two little boys were enjoying a rare game of tug-of-war with a
living rabbit. Another youngster was playfully poking out the eyes of a
fluttering pigeon. They would make good sportsmen when they grew up. A
tiny little fellow, nothing more than a baby, was begging a bigger boy
to instruct him in the art of killing rabbits. A little girl was
practising the deed upon her own account. The constable who had arrested
Brightly looked on and said it was "brave sport." There were other
things which Weevil saw, but he did not mention them afterwards, because
he tried to forget them; but the sight made him feel faint, not being a
sportsman, but a rather ignorant, somewhat foolish, and decidedly
eccentric old man.
"I think I must go. Boodles," he said feebly.
He turned away, and his eyes fell upon the village. There was a church,
and there was Ebenezer, and a meeting-house also. Surely so many
religious houses were hardly necessary in one small village. Church and
chapels dominated the place; and in those buildings a vast amount of
theory was preached concerning ancient literature, and a place of morbid
imagination called Hell, and a place of healthier imagination called
Heaven; and upon that field on the side of the moor the regular
worshippers at those buildings were enjoying themselves. There was a
failure somewhere, only Weevil had not the sense to find out where. High
above were the tors, and it was there, no doubt, that the early
inhabitants stood to worship Baal; and there possibly a vast amount of
theory was preached concerning the whole duty of man, and a twofold
future state; and then the men went down to fight and plunder. It seemed
to have been a theoretical religion then. It is a theoretical religion
now. Theories have swamped the world, submerging the practical side like
the lost Atlantis. It is not religion which compels men to cease from
doing murder. It is the fear of vengeance.
Boodles and Weevil left the field, pale and miserable. When they were
outside the old man went away and was violently sick. They abandoned the
field in time, for the men were getting beyond control. When the rabbits
were slaughtered they sought for small birds and shot at them until
their cartridges were exhausted. Even Pendoggat had lost his
self-restraint, although he did not show it like the rest. The smell of
blood was in his nostrils, and he wanted to go on killing. He longed to
shoot at the men around him. The victims were all dead at last. The
happy children had seen to that, and went off home to get their hands
and faces washed, tired out with the day's fun. That clever painter of
human nature, Hogarth, missed something during his lifetime. He could
not have seen a rabbit-shoot in a Dartmoor village. Had he done so,
there might have been a fifth plate added to his Four Stages of Cruelty.
"I must drink something," said Weevil, when he reached home. "You were
right, little maid. I ought not to have gone."
"Haunted water, daddy?" suggested Boodles, with a wan little smile.
"Yes, darling. I think I have earned it. But not badly haunted."
"Just a gentle rapping, not groans and chain-rattling," she said, trying
to be merry, having no reason to feel unhappy, as she went for the
brandy bottle. That was how the water was to be haunted. Weevil was
practically a teetotaler, in a different sense from Farmer Chegwidden,
but he sometimes took a suspicion of brandy when he was run down, as
then.
"Boodle-oodle," he said in a feeble way, after refreshing himself, "you
have seen the Brute rampant. What do you think of it?"
"I don't think, daddy-man. It's no use when you can't do anything. I
just label it a queer puzzle, and put it away along with all the other
queer puzzles. And you would be much happier if you would do the same."
"I cannot," he groaned. "I suppose those men were enjoying themselves,
but what right have they to an enjoyment which makes other people
suffer? I say they have no right. Animals have to be killed for food;
but what would be done to a butcher who slaughtered his beasts in the
middle of the street? Those men were not killing for any purpose apart
from the love of killing, and they were doing it publicly. They were
mad. They had the faces one sees in a bad dream. And now they have gone
to stuff themselves with food, and then they will swill liquor until
they are mad again."
"Don't," said Boodles. "It's not fair on me. You will be giving me
umpy-umpy feelings, and I'm going to see Aubrey to-morrow, and it may be
the last time for ages, and I shall feel quite bad enough without having
your worries to carry as well. Let's light up, and draw the curtains,
and make believe that every one is as nice as we are, and that there are
no troubles or worries in the whole wide world."
Old Weevil only moaned and shuffled about the room in a miserable
fashion. "I can't get rid of the Brute, darling. He sits upon my
shoulders and strangles me. Why should these people be outside the law
because they are commoners? One hundred years ago you might have seen
horrible deeds of cruelty in every London street. There are none to be
seen now, because townsfolk have become civilised, and law-makers have
recognised that what may please the few is distressing to the many. But
in these wild lonely places people may be fiends, and the law does not
touch them. It exists for the populous centres, not for the solitudes."
"I'm going to get supper. Mind you are good when I come back," said the
little housewife quickly.
"That is not all," raved the poor old man, still shuffling to and fro,
heedless that he was alone. "The cry of the animals goes up to Heaven.
There are the ponies and bullocks turned out upon the moor all winter,
in weather which would kill the hardiest man, if he was exposed to it,
in a few hours. They get no food. There is not a bit of grass for them.
Many of them are done to death by cruel weather and starvation. In
spring their carcases are found lying upon the moor."