A WRESTLING BOUT.
Valentine's Day was on Sunday that year, and a violent gale from the
south and west set in before daylight, and lasted until the evening,
without bringing any rain. Anxiety was felt about the Chancel roof,
which had only been patched up temporarily, and waterproofed with thick
tarpaulins; for the Exeter builders had ceased work entirely during that
December frost, and as yet had not returned to it. To hurry them, while
engaged elsewhere, would not have been just, or even wise, inasmuch as
they might very fairly say, "let us have a little balancing of books
first, if you please."
However, the old roof withstood the gale, being sheltered from the worst
of it, and no further sinking of the wall took place; but at the Abbey,
some fifty yards eastward, a very sad thing came to pass. The
south-western corner and the western end (the most conspicuous part
remaining) were stripped, as if by a giant's rip-hook, of all their dark
mantle of ivy. Like a sail blown out of the bolt-ropes, away it all went
bodily, leaving the white flint rough and rugged, and staring like a
suburban villa of the most choice effrontery. The contrast with the
remainder of the ruins and the old stone church was hideous; and Mr.
Penniloe at once resolved to replace and secure afresh as much of the
fallen drapery as had not been shattered beyond hope of life. Walter
Haddon very kindly offered to supply the ladders, and pay half the cost;
for the picturesque aspect of his house was ruined by this bald
background. This job was to be put in hand on Thursday; but worse things
happened before that day.
"Us be going to have a bad week of it," old Channing, the clerk,
observed on Monday, as he watched the four vanes on the tower (for his
eyes were almost as keen as ever) and the woodcock feathers on the
western sky; "never knowed a dry gale yet, but were follered by a wet
one twice as bad; leastways, if a' coom from the Dartmoor mountains."
However, things seemed right enough on Tuesday morning, to people who
seldom think much of the sky; and the rustics came trooping in to the
Fair, as brave as need be, and with all their Sunday finery. A prettier
lot of country girls no Englishman might wish, and perhaps no other man
might hope to see, than the laughing, giggling, blushing, wondering,
simpering, fluttering, or bridling maidens, fresh from dairy, or churn,
or linhay, but all in very bright array, with love-knots on their
breasts, and lavender in their pocket-handkerchiefs. With no depressing
elegance perhaps among them, and no poetic sighing for impossible
ideals; and probably glancing backwards, more than forwards on the path
of life, because the rule and the practice is, for the lads of the party
to walk behind.
Louts are these, it must be acknowledged, if looked at from too high a
point; and yet, in their way, not by any means so low, as a topper on
the high horse, with astral spurs, and a banner of bad Latin, might
condemn them for to be. If they are clumsy, and awkward, and sheepish,
and can only say--"Thank 'e, sir! Veyther is quite well," in answer to
"How are you to-day, John?"--some of it surely is by reason of a very
noble quality, now rarer than the great auk's egg; and known, while it
was a noun still substantive, as modesty. But there they were, and
plenty of them, in the year 1836; and they meant to spend their money in
good fairing, if so be their girls were kind.
Mr. Penniloe had a lot of good heart in him; and when he came out to
stand by the bellman, and trumpeter who thrilled the market-place, his
common sense, and knowledge of the darker side, had as much as they
could do to back him up against the impression of the fair young faces,
that fell into the dumps, at his sad decree. The strong evil-doers were
not come yet, their time would not begin till the lights began to flare,
and the dark corners hovered with temptation. Silence was enjoined three
times by ding-dong of bell and blare of trump, and thrice the fatal
document was read with stern solemnity and mute acceptance of every
creature except ducks, whom nothing short of death can silence, and
scarcely even that when once their long valves quiver with the elegiac
strain.
The trumpeter from Exeter, with scarlet sash and tassel, looked down
from an immeasurable height upon the village bellman, and a fiddler in
the distance, and took it much amiss that he should be compelled to time
his sonorous blasts by the tinkle tinkle of old nunks.
"Truly, I am sorry," said the Curate to himself, while lads and lasses,
decked with primrose, and the first white violets, whispered sadly to
one another--"no more fairing after this"--"I am sorry that it should be
needful to stop all these innocent enjoyments."
"Then why did you send for me, sir?" asked the trumpeter rather
savagely, as one who had begged at the rectory for beer, to medicate his
lips against the twang of brass, but won not a drop from Mrs. Muggridge.
Suddenly there came a little volley of sharp drops--not of the liquid he
desired--dashed into the trumpeter's red face, and against the back of
the Parson's hat--the first skit of rain, that seemed rather to rise, as
if from a blow-pipe, than fall from the clouds. Mr. Penniloe hastened to
his house close by, for the market-place was almost in a straight line
with the school, and taking his old gingham umbrella, set off alone for
a hamlet called Southend, not more than half a mile from the village.
Although not so learned in the weather as his clerk, he could see that
the afternoon was likely to prove wet, and the longer he left it the
worse it would be, according to all indications. Without any thought of
adversaries, he left the village at a good brisk pace, to see an old
parishioner of whose illness he had heard.
Crossing a meadow on his homeward course he observed that the footpath
was littered here and there with strips and patches of yellow osier
peel, as if, since he had passed an hour or so ago, some idle fellow had
been "whittling" wands from a withy-bed which was not far off. For a
moment he wondered what this could mean; but not a suspicion crossed his
mind of a rod in preparation for his own back.
Alas, too soon was this gentleman enlightened. The lonely footpath came
sideways into a dark and still more lonesome lane, deeply sunk between
tangled hedges, except where a mouldering cob wall stood, sole relic of
a worn-out linhay. Mr. Penniloe jumped lightly from the treddled stile
into the mucky and murky lane, congratulating himself upon shelter
here, for a squally rain was setting in; but the leap was into a den of
wolves.
From behind the cob wall, with a yell, out rushed four hulking fellows,
long of arm and leg, still longer of the weapons in their hands. Each of
them bore a white withy switch, flexible, tough, substantial, seemly
instrument for a pious verger--but what would pious vergers be doing
here, and why should their faces retire from view? Each of them had tied
across his most expressive, and too distinctive part, a patch of white
muslin, such as imparts the sweet sense of modesty to a chamber-window;
but modesty in these men was small.
Three of them barred the Parson's road, while the fourth cut off his
communications in the rear; but even so did he not perceive the full
atrocity of their intentions. To him they appeared to be inditing of
some new form of poaching, or some country game of skill perhaps, or
these might be rods of measurement.
"Allow me to pass, my friends," he said; "I shall not interfere with
your proceedings. Be good enough to let me go by."
"Us has got a little bit o' zummat," said the biggest of them, with his
legs astraddle, "to goo with 'e, Passon, and to 'baide with 'e a bit. A
choice bit of fairing, zort o' peppermint stick, or stick lickerish."
"I am not a fighting man; but if any man strikes me, let him beware for
himself. I am not to be stopped on a public highway, like this."
As Mr. Penniloe spoke, he unwisely closed his umbrella, and holding it
as a staff of defence, advanced against the enemy.
One step was all the advance he made, for ere he could take another, he
was collared, and tripped up, and cast forward heavily upon his
forehead. There certainly was a great stone in the mud; but he never
knew whether it was that, or a blow from a stick, or even the ebony knob
of his own umbrella, that struck him so violently as he fell; but the
effect was that he lay upon his face, quite stunned, and in danger of
being smothered in the muck.
"Up with's coat-tails! Us'll dust his jacket. Ring the bull on 'un--one,
two, dree, vour."
The four stood round, with this very fine Christian, ready--as the
Christian faith directs, for weak members, not warmed up with it,--ready
to take everything he could not help; and the four switches hummed in
the air with delight, like the thirsty swords of Homer; when a rush as
of many winds swept them back to innocence. A man of great stature, and
with blazing eyes, spent no words upon them, but lifted up the biggest
with a chuck below his chin, which sent him sprawling into the ditch,
with a broken jaw, then took another by the scruff of his small clothes,
and hefted him into a dog-rose stool, which happened to stand on the top
of the hedge with shark's teeth ready for their business; then he leaped
over the prostrate Parson, but only smote vacant air that time. "The
devil, the devil, 'tis the devil himself!" cried the two other fellows,
cutting for their very lives.
"Reckon, I were not a breath too soon;" said the man who had done it, as
he lifted Mr. Penniloe, whose lips were bubbling and nose clotted up;
"why, they would have killed 'e in another minute, my dear. D--d if I
bain't afeared they has done it now."
That the clergyman should let an oath pass unrebuked, would have been
proof enough to any one who knew him that it never reached his mind. His
silver hair was clogged with mud, and his gentle face begrimed with it,
and his head fell back between the big man's knees, and his blue eyes
rolled about without seeing earth or heaven.
"That doiled Jemmy Fox, we wants 'un now. Never knowed a doctor come,
when a' were wanted. Holloa, you be moving there, be you? You dare stir,
you murderer!" It was one of the men lately pitched into the hedge; but
he only groaned again, at that great voice.
"Do 'e veel a bit better now, my dear? I've a girt mind to kill they two
hosebirds in the hedge; and what's more, I wull, if 'e don't came round
pretty peart."
As if to prevent the manslaughter threatened, the Parson breathed
heavily once or twice, and tried to put his hand to his temples; and
then looked about with a placid amazement.
"You 'bide there, sir, for a second," said the man, setting him
carefully upon a dry bank with his head against an ash-tree. "Thy soul
shall zee her desire of thine enemies, as I've a'read when I waz a
little buy."
To verify this promise of Holy Writ, he took up the stoutest of the
white switches, and visiting the ditch first, and then the hedge-trough,
left not a single accessible part of either of those ruffians without a
weal upon it as big as his thumb, and his thumb was not a little one.
They howled like a couple of pigs at the blacksmith's, when he slips the
ring into their noses red-hot; and it is lawful to hope that they felt
their evil deeds.
"T'other two shall have the very same, bumbai; I knows where to put
hands on 'em both;" said the operator, pointing towards the village; and
it is as well to mention that he did it.
"Now, sir, you come along of I." He cast away the fourth rod, having
elicited their virtues, and taking Mr. Penniloe in his arms, went
steadily with him to the nearest house. This stood alone in the
outskirts of the village; and there two very good old ladies lived, with
a handsome green railing in front of them.
These, after wringing their hands for some minutes, enabled Mr. Penniloe
to wash his face and head, and gave him some red currant wine, and sent
their child of all work for Mrs. Muggridge. Meanwhile the Parson began
to take a more distinct view of the world again, his first emotion being
anxiety about his Sunday beaver, which he had been wearing in honour of
the Proclamation--the last duty it was ever destined to discharge. But
the "gigantic individual," as the good ladies called him, was nowhere to
be seen, when they mustered courage to persuade one another to peep
outside the rails.
By this time the weather was becoming very bad. Everybody knows how a
great gale rises; not with any hurry, or assertion of itself, (as a
little squall does, that is limited for time) but with a soft
hypocritical sigh, and short puffs of dissimulation. The solid great
storm, that gets up in the south, and means to make every tree in
England bow, to shatter the spray on the Land's-end cliffs while it
shakes all the towers of London, begins its advance without any broad
rush, but with many little ticklings of the space it is to sweep. A
trumpery frolic where four roads meet, a woman's umbrella turned inside
out, a hat tossed into a horse-pond perhaps, a weather-cock befooled
into chace of head with tail, and a clutch of big raindrops sheafed into
the sky and shattered into mist again--these, and a thousand other
little pranks and pleasantries, are as the shrill admonitions of the
fife, in the vanguard of the great invasion of the heavens.
But what cares a man, with his money in his pockets, how these larger
things are done? And even if his money be yet to seek, still more shall
it preponderate. A tourney of wrestlers for cash and great glory was
crowding the courtyard of the _Ivy-bush_ with every man who could raise
a shilling. A steep roof of rick-cloth and weatherproof canvas,
supported on a massive ridge-pole would have protected the enclosure
from any ordinary storm; but now the tempestuous wind was tugging,
whistling, panting, shrieking, and with great might thundering, and the
violent rain was pelting, like the rattle of pebbles on the Chessil
beach, against the strained canvas of the roof; while the rough hoops of
candles inside were swinging, with their crops of guttering tallow
welted, like sucked stumps of Asparagus. Nevertheless the spectators
below, mounted on bench, or stool, or trestle, or huddled against the
rope-ring, were jostling, and stamping, and craning their necks, and
digging elbows into one another, and yelling, and swearing, and waving
rotten hats, as if the only element the Lord ever made was mob.
Suddenly all jabber ceased, and only the howls of the storm were heard,
and the patter from the sodden roof, as Polwarth of Bodmin, having taken
formal back from Dascombe of Devon, (the winner of the Standards, a very
fine player, but not big enough for him) skirred his flat hat into the
middle of the sawdust, and stood there flapping his brawny arms, and
tossing his big-rooted nose, like a bull. In the flare of the lights,
his grin looked malignant, and the swing of his bulk overweening; and
though he said nothing but "Cornwall for ever!" he said it as if it
meant--"Devonshire be d--d!"
After looking at the company with mild contempt, he swaggered towards
the umpires, and took off his belt, with the silver buckles and the red
stones flashing, and hung it upon the cross-rail for defiance. A shiver
and a tremble of silence ran through the hearts, and on the lips of
three hundred sad spectators. Especially a gentleman who sate behind the
umpires, dressed in dark riding-suit and a flapped hat, was swinging
from side to side with strong feeling.
"Is there no man to try a fall for Devonshire? Won't kill him to be
beaten. Consolation money, fifty shillings." The chairman of the
Committee announced; but nobody came forward.
A deep groan was heard from old Channing the Clerk, who had known such
very different days; while the Cornishman made his three rounds of the
ring, before he should buckle on the belt again; and snorted each time,
like Goliath. Gathering up the creases of his calves, which hung like
the chins of an Alderman, he stuck his heels into the Devonshire earth,
to ask what it was made of. Then, with a smile, which he felt to be
kind, and heartily large to this part of the world, he stooped to pick
up the hat gay with seven ribbons, wrung from Devonshire button-holes.
But behold, while his great hand was going to pick it up thus
carelessly, another hat struck it, and whirled it away, as a quoit
strikes a quoit that appears to have won.
"Devon for ever! And Cornwall to the Devil!" A mighty voice shouted, and
a mighty man came in, shaking the rain and the wind from his hair. A
roar of hurrahs overpowered the gale, as the man taking heed of nobody,
strode up to the belt, and with a pat of his left hand, said--"I wants
this here little bit of ribbon."
"Thee must plai for 'un fust," cried the hero of Cornwall.
"What else be I come for?" the other enquired.
When formalities had been satisfied, and the proper clothing donned, and
the champions stood forth in the ring, looking at one another, the roof
might have dropped, without any man heeding, until it came across his
eyes.
The challenger's name had been announced--"Harvey Tremlett, of
Devonshire"--but only one or two besides old Channing had any idea who
he was; and even old Channing was not aware that the man had been a
wrestler from early youth, so seldom had he visited his native place.
"A' standeth like a man as understood it," "A' be bigger in the back
than Carnishman," "Hope 'a hath trained, or 's wind won't hold;" sundry
such comments of critical power showed that the public, as usual, knew
ten times as much as the performers.
These, according to the manner of the time, were clad alike, but wore no
pads, for the brutal practice of kicking was now forbidden at meetings
of the better sort. A jacket, or jerkin, of tough sail-cloth,
half-sleeved and open in front afforded firm grasp, but no clutch for
throttling; breeches of the stoutest cord, belted at waist and strapped
at knee, red worsted stockings for Devonshire, and yellow on behalf of
Cornwall, completed their array; except that the Cornishman wore
ankle-boots, while the son of Devon, at his own request, was provided
only with sailor's pumps. The advantage of these, for lightness of step
and pliancy of sole, was obvious; but very few players would venture
upon them, at the risk of a crushed and disabled foot. "Fear he bain't
nim' enough for they pea-shells. They be all very well for a boy;" said
Channing.
The Cornishman saw that he had found his match, perhaps even his master
in bodily strength, if the lasting power could be trusted. Skill and
endurance must decide the issue, and here he knew his own pre-eminence.
He had three or four devices of his own invention, but of very doubtful
fairness; if all other powers failed, he would have recourse to them.
For two or three circuits of the ring, their mighty frames and limbs
kept time and poise with one another. Each with his left hand grasped
the other by the shoulder lappet; each kept his right hand hovering like
a hawk, and the fingers in ply for a dash, a grip, a tug. Face to face,
and eye to eye, intent upon every twinkle, step for step they marched
sideways, as if to the stroke of a heavy bell, or the beating of slow
music. Each had his weight thrown slightly forwards, and his shoulders
slouched a little, watching for one unwary move, and testing by some
subtle thrill the substance of the other, as a glass is filliped to try
its ring.
By a feint of false step, and a trick of eye, Polwarth got an opening.
In he dashed, the other's arm flew up, and the Cornish grip went round
him. In vain he put forth his mighty strength, for there was no room to
use it. Down he crashed, but turned in falling, so that the back was
doubtful.
"Back"! "Fair back"! "No back at all." "Four pins." "Never, no, three
pins." "See where his arm was?" "Foul, foul, foul!" Shouts of wrath, and
even blows ensued; for a score or two of Cornishmen were there.
"Hush for the Umpires!" "Hold your noise." "Thee be a liar." "So be
you." The wind and the rain were well out-roared, until the Umpires,
after some little consultation gave award.
"We allow it true back, for Cornwall. Unless the fall claims foul below
belt. If so, it will be for Referee." Which showed that they differed
upon that point.
"Let 'un have it. I won't claim no foul. Let 'un do it again, if 'a
can." Thus spake the fallen man, striding up to the Umpires' post. A
roar of cheers rang round the tent, though many a Devonshire face looked
glum, and a few groans clashed with the frank hurrahs.
The second bout was a brief one, but afforded much satisfaction to all
lovers of fair play, and therefore perhaps to the Cornishmen. What
Tremlett did was simply this. He feigned to be wholly absorbed in
guarding against a repetition of the recent trick. The other expecting
nothing more than tactics of defence was caught, quite unawares, by his
own device, and down he went--a very candid four-pin fall.
Now came the final bout, the supreme decision of the tie, the crowning
struggle for the palm. The issue was so doubtful, that the oldest and
most sage of all palæstric oracles could but look,--and feared that
voice might not prove--wise. Skill was equally divided, (setting dubious
tricks aside), strength was a little in favour of Devon, but not too
much turn of the balance, (for Cornwall had not produced a man of such
magnitude for many years) experience was on Cornwall's side; condition,
and lasting power, seemed to be pretty fairly on a par. What was to
settle it? Devonshire knew.
That is to say, the fair County had its hopes,--though always too modest
and frugal to back them--that something which it produces even more
freely than fair cheeks and kind eyes, and of which the corner land is
not so lavish--to wit fine temper, and tranquillity of nature, might
come to their mother's assistance. Even for fighting, no man is at the
best of himself, when exasperated. Far less can he be so in the gentler
art.
A proverb of large equity, and time-honoured wisdom, declares (with the
bluntness of its race) that "sauce for the goose is sauce for the
gander." This maxim is pleasant enough to the goose; but the gander
sputters wrathfully when it comes home to his breast. Polwarth felt it
as a heinous outrage, that he had been the victim of his own device. As
he faced his rival for the last encounter, a scowl came down upon his
noble knobby forehead, his keen eyes glowered as with fire in his chest,
and his wiry lips closed viciously. The Devonshire man, endowed with
larger and less turbid outlook, perceived that the other's wrath was
kindled, and his own duty was to feed the flame.
Accordingly, by quiet tricks, and flicks, such as no man would even feel
unless already too peppery, he worked the moral system hard, and roused
in the other's ample breast--or brain, if that be the combative part--a
lofty disdain of discretion. Polwarth ground his teeth, and clenched his
fist, spat fire--and all was up with him. One savage dash he made, which
might have swept a milestone backward, breast clashed on breast, he
swung too high, the great yellow legs forsook the earth, and the great
red ones flashed between them, then the mighty frame span in the air
like a flail, and fell flat as the blade of a turf-beater's spade.
"All over! All up! Needn't ask about that. Three times three for
Devonshire! Again, again, again! Carnies, what can 'e say to that now?"
Wild triumph, fierce dejection, yearning to fight it out prevailed;
every man's head was out of the government of his neck--when these two
leading Counties were quenched alike. The great pole of red pine, fit
mast for an Admiral, bearing all the structure overhead, snapped, like a
carrot, to a vast wild blast. In a weltering squash lay victor and
vanquished, man with his fists up, and man eager to go at him, hearts
too big to hold themselves for exultation, and hearts so low that wifely
touch was needed to encourage them, glorious head that had won fifty
shillings, and poor numskull that had lost a pot of beer. Prostrate
all, with mouths full of tallow, sawdust, pitch, and another fellow's
toes. Many were for a twelvemonth limpers; but nobody went to
Churchyard.