THE LANGUAGE OF THE COTSWOLDS, WITH SOME ANCIENT SONGS AND LEGENDS.
A very marked characteristic of the village peasant is his extraordinary
honesty. Not one in ten would knock a pheasant on the head with his
stick if he found one on his allotment among the cabbages. Rabbit
poachers there are, but even these are rare; and as for housebreaking
and robbery, it simply does not exist. The manor house has a tremendous
nail-studded oak door, which is barred at night by ponderous clamps of
iron and many other contrivances; but the old-fashioned windows could be
opened by any moderately skilful burglar in half a minute. There is
absolutely nothing to prevent access to the house at night, whilst in
the daytime the doors are open from "morn till dewy eve." Most of the
windows are innocent of shutters. When in Ireland recently, I noticed
that the gates in every field were immensely strong, generally of iron,
with massive pillars of stone on either side; but in spite of these
precautions there was usually a gap in the hedge close by, through which
one might safely have driven a waggon. This reminded one of the Cotswold
manor house and its strongly barricaded oak door, surrounded by windows,
which any burglar could open "as easy as a glove," as Tom Peregrine
would say.
A strange-looking traveller, with slouching gait and mouldy wideawake
hat, passes through the hamlet occasionally, leading a donkey in a cart.
This is one of the old-fashioned hawkers. These men are usually poachers
or receivers of poached goods. They are not averse to paying a small sum
for a basket of trout or a few partridges, pheasants, hares or rabbits
in the game season; whilst in spring they deal in a small way in the
eggs of game birds. As often as not this class of man is accompanied by
a couple of dogs, marvellously trained in the art of hunting the coverts
and "retrieving" a pheasant or a rabbit which may be crouching in the
underwood. Hares, too, are taken by dogs in the open fields. One never
finds out much about these gentry from the natives. Even the keeper is
reticent on the subject. "A sart of a harf-witted fellow" is Tom
Peregrine's description of this very suspicious-looking traveller.
The better sort of carrier, who calls daily at the great house with all
kinds of goods and parcels from the big town seven miles off, is
occasionally not averse to a little poaching in the roadside fields
among the hares. The carriers are a great feature of these rural
villages; they are generally good fellows, though some of them are a bit
too fond of the bottle on Saturday nights.
The dogs employed by poachers are taught to keep out of sight and avoid
keepers and such-like folk. They know as well as the poacher himself the
nature of their trade, and that the utmost secrecy must be observed. To
see them trotting demurely down the road you would never think them
capable of doing anything wrong. A wave of the hand and they are into
the covert in a second, ready to pounce like a cat on a sitting
pheasant. One short whistle and they are at their master's heels again.
If in carrying game in their mouths they spied or winded a keeper, they
would in all probability contrive to hide themselves or make tracks for
the high road as quickly as possible, leaving their spoil in the thick
underwood, "to be left till called for."
But to return once more to the honest Cotswold labourer. Occasionally a
notice is put up in the village as follows:--
"There will be a dinner in the manor grounds on July--. Please bring
knives and forks."
These are great occasions in a Cotswold village. Knives and forks mean
meat; and a joint of mutton is not seen by the peasants more than "once
in a month of Sundays." Needless to say, there is not much opportunity
of studying the language of the country as long as the feast is
progressing. "Silence is golden" is the motto here whilst the viands are
being discussed; but afterwards, when the Homeric desire of eating and
drinking has been expelled, an adjournment to the club may lead to a
smoking concert, and, once started, there are very few Cotswold men who
cannot sing a song of at least eighteen verses. For three hours an
uninterrupted stream of music flows forth, not only solos, but
occasionally duets, harmoniously chanted in parts, and rendered with the
utmost pathos. It cannot be said that Gloucestershire folk are endowed
with a large amount of musical talent; neither their "ears" nor their
vocal chords are ever anything great, but what they lack in quality they
make up in quantity, and I have listened to as many as forty songs
during one evening--some of them most entertaining, others extremely
dull. The songs the labourer most delights in are those which are
typical of the employment in which he happens to be engaged. Some of the
old ballads, handed down from father to son by oral tradition, are very
excellent. The following is a very good instance of this kind of song;
when sung by the carter to a good rollicking tune, it goes with a rare
ring, in spite of the fact that it lasts about a quarter of an hour.
There would be about a dozen verses, and the chorus is always sung twice
at the end of each verse, first by the carter and then by the
whole company.
"Now then, gentlemen, don't delay harmony," Farmer Peregrine keeps
repeating in his old-fashioned, convivial way, and thus the ball is kept
a-rolling half the night.
JIM, THE CARTER LAD.
"My name is Jim, the carter lad--
A jolly cock am I;
I always am contented,
Be the weather wet or dry.
I snap my finger at the snow,
And whistle at the rain;
I've braved the storm for many a day,
And can do so again."
(_Chorus_.)
"Crack, crack, goes my whip,
I whistle and I sing,
I sits upon my waggon,
I'm as happy as a king.
My horse is always willing;
As for me, I'm never sad:
There's none can lead a jollier life
Than Jim, the carter lad."
"My father was a carrier
Many years ere I was born,
And used to rise at daybreak
And go his rounds each morn.
He often took me with him,
Especially in the spring.
I loved to sit upon the cart
And hear my father sing.
Crack, crack, etc."
"I never think of politics
Or anything so great;
I care not for their high-bred talk
About the Church and State.
I act aright to man and man,
And that's what makes me glad;
You'll find there beats an honest heart
In Jim, the carter lad.
Crack, crack, etc."
"The girls, they all smile on me
As I go driving past.
My horse is such a beauty,
And he jogs along so fast.
We've travelled many a weary mile,
And happy days have had;
For none can lead a jollier life
Than Jim, the carter lad.
Crack, crack, etc."
"So now I'll wish you all good night
It's time I was away;
For I know my horse will weary
If I much longer stay.
To see your smiling faces,
It makes my heart quite glad.
I hope you'll drink your kind applause
To Jim, the carter lad.
Crack, crack, etc."
The village choirs do very well as long as their organist or vicar is
not too ambitious in his choice of music. There is a fatal tendency in
many places to do away with the old hymns, which every one has known
from a boy, and substitute the very inferior modern ones now to be found
in our books. This is the greatest mistake, if I may say so. A man is
far more likely to sing, and feel deeply when he is singing, those
simple words and notes he learnt long ago in the nursery at home. And
there is nothing finer in the world than some of our old English hymns.
I appeal to any readers who have known what it is to feel deeply; and
few there are to whom this does not apply, if some of those moments of
their lives, when the thoughts have soared into the higher regions of
emotion, have not been those which followed the opening strain of the
organ as it quietly ushered in the old evening hymn, "Abide with me,
fast falls the eventide," or any other hymn of the same kind. It is the
same in the vast cathedral as in the little Norman village church. There
are fifty hymns in our book which would be sufficient to provide the
best possible music for our country churches. The best organists realise
this. Joseph Barnby always chose the old hymns; and you will hear them
at Westminster and St. Paul's. The country organist, however, imagines
that it is his duty to be always teaching his choir some new and
difficult tune; the result in nine cases out of ten being "murder" and a
rapid falling off in the congregation.
The Cotswold folk on the whole are fond of music, though they have not a
large amount of talent for it. The Chedworth band still goes the round
of the villages once or twice a year. These men are the descendants of
the "old village musicians," who, to quote from the _Strand Musical
Magazine_ for September 1897, "led the Psalmody in the village church
sixty years ago with stringed and wind instruments. Mr. Charles Smith,
of Chedworth, remembers playing the clarionet in Handel's _Zadok the
Priest_, performed there in 1838 in honour of the Queen's accession." He
talks of a band of twelve, made up of strings and _wood-wind_.
I am bound to say that the music produced by the Chedworth band at the
present day, though decidedly creditable in such an old-world village,
is rather like the Roman remains for which the district is so famous; it
savours somewhat of the prehistoric. But when the band comes round and
plays in the hall of our old house on Christmas Eve, I have many a
pleasant chat with the Chedworth musicians; they are so delightfully
enthusiastic, and so grateful for being allowed to play. When I gave
them a cup of tea they kept repeating, "A thousand thanks for all your
kindness, sir."
It is inevitable that men engaged day by day and year by year in such
monotonous employ as agricultural labour should be somewhat lacking in
acuteness and sensibility; in no class is the hereditary influence so
marked. Were it otherwise, matters would be in a sorry pass in country
places, for discontent would reign supreme; and once let "ambition mock
their useful toil," once their sober wishes learn to stray, how would
the necessary drudgery of agricultural work be accomplished at all? In
spite, however, of this marked characteristic of inertness--hereditary
in the first place, and fostered by the humdrum round of daily toil on
the farm--there is sometimes to be found a sense of humour and a love of
merriment that is quite astonishing. A good deal of what is called
knowledge of the world, which one would have thought was only to be
acquired in towns, nowadays penetrates into remote districts, so that
country folk often have a good idea of "what's what" I once overheard
the following conversation:
"Who's your new master, Dick? He's a bart., ain't he?"
"Oh no," was the reply; "he's only a _jumped-up jubilee knight_!"
Sense of humour of a kind the Cotswold labourer certainly has, even
though he is quite unable to see a large number of apparently simple
jokes. The diverting history of John Gilpin, for instance, read at a
smoking concert, was received with scarce a smile.
Old Mr. Peregrine lately told me an instance of the extraordinary
secretiveness of the labourer. Two of his men worked together in his
barn day after day for several weeks. During that time they never spoke
to each other, save that one of them would always say the last thing at
night, "Be sure to shut the door."
Oddly enough they thoroughly appreciate the humour of the wonderful
things that went on fifty and a hundred years ago. The old farmer I have
just mentioned told me that he remembers when he used to go to church
fifty years ago, how, after they had all been waiting half an hour, the
clerk would pin a notice in the porch, "No church to-day; Parson C----
got the gout."
As with history so also with geography, the Cotswold labourer sometimes
gets "a bit mixed."
"'Ow be they a-gettin' on in Durbysher?" lately enquired a man at
Coln-St-Aldwyns.
To him replied a righteously indignant native of the same village, "I've
'eard as 'ow the English army 'ave killed ten thousand Durvishers
(Dervishes)."
"Bedad!" answered his friend, "there won't be many left in Durbysher if
they goes on a-killin' un much longer."
Another story lately told me in the same village was as follows:--
An old lady went to the stores to buy candles, and was astonished to
find that owing to the Spanish-American war "candles was riz."
"Get along!" she indignantly exclaimed. "_Don't tell me they fights by
candlelight_"
One of the cheeriest fellows that ever worked for us was a carter called
Trinder. He was the father of _twenty-one children_--by the same wife.
He never seemed to be worried in the slightest degree by domestic
affairs, and was always happy and healthy and gay. This man's wages
would be about twelve shillings a week: not a very large sum for a man
with a score of children. Then it must be remembered that the boys would
go off to work in the fields at a very early age, and by the time they
were ten years old they would be keeping themselves. A large family like
this would not have the crushing effect on the labouring man that it has
on the poor curate or city clerk. Nevertheless, one cannot help looking
upon the man as a kind of hero, when one considers the enormous number
of grandchildren and descendants he will have. On being asked the other
day how he had contrived to maintain such a quiverful, he answered,
"I've always managed to get along all right so far; I never wanted for
vittals, sir, anyhow." This was all the information he would give.
Talking of "vittals," the only meat the labouring man usually indulges
in is bacon. His breakfast consists of bread and butter, and either tea
or cocoa. For his dinner he relies on bread and bacon, occasionally
only bread and cheese. In the winter he is home by five, and once more
has tea, or cocoa, or beer. Coffee is very seldom seen in the cottages.
During the short days there is nothing to do but go to bed in the
evening, unless a walk of over a mile to the village inn is considered
worth the trouble. But being tired and leg weary, a long walk does not
usually appeal to the men after their evening meal; so to bed is the
order of the day,--and, thank Heaven! "the sleep of a labouring man is
sweet." In the longer days of spring and summer there is plenty to do in
the allotments; and on the whole the allotments acts have been a great
blessing to the labourers.
It is during the three winter months that penny readings and smoking
concerts are so much appreciated in the country. Too much cannot be done
in this way to brighten the life of the village during the cold, dark
days of December and January, for the labouring man hates reading above
all things.
Perhaps the fact that these simple folk do not read the newspapers, or
only read those parts in which they have a direct interest--such as
paragraphs indulging in socialistic castles in the air--has its
advantages, inasmuch as it allows their common sense full play in all
other matters, unhampered as it is (except in this one weak point of
socialism) by the prejudices of the day. So that if one wanted to get an
unprejudiced opinion on some great question of right or wrong, in the
consideration of which common sense alone was required--such a question,
for instance, as is occasionally cropping up in these times in our
foreign policy--one would have to go to the very best men in the
country, namely, those amongst the educated classes who think for
themselves, or to men of the so-called lowest strata of society, such as
these honest Cotswold labourers; because there is scarcely one man in
ten among the reading public who is not biassed and confused by the
manifold contradictions and political claptrap of the daily papers, and
led away by side issues from a clear understanding of the rights of
every case. Our free press is doubtless a grand institution. As with
individuals, however, so ought it to be with nations. Let us, in our
criticisms of the policy of those who watch over the destinies of other
countries, whilst firmly upholding our rights, strictly adhere to the
principle of _noblesse oblige_. The press is every day becoming more and
more powerful for good or evil; its influence on men's minds has become
so marked that it may with truth be said that the press rules public
opinion rather than that public opinion rules the press. But the writers
of the day will only fulfil their destiny aright by approaching every
question in a broad and tolerant spirit, and by a firm reliance, in
spite of the prejudices of the moment, on the ancient faith of _noblesse
oblige_. However, the unanimity recently shown by the press in upholding
our rights at Fashoda was absolutely splendid.
The origin of the names of the fields in this district is difficult to
trace. Many a farm has its "barrow ground," called after some old burial
mound situated there; and many names like Ladbarrow, Cocklebarrow, etc.,
have the same derivation. "Buryclose," too, is a name often to be found
in the villages; and skeletons are sometimes dug up in meadows so
called. A copse, called Deadman's Acre, is supposed to have received its
name from the fact that a man died there, having sworn that he would
reap an acre of corn with a sickle in a day or perish in the attempt. It
is more likely, however, to be connected with the barrows, which are
plentiful thereabouts.
Oliver Cromwell's memory is still very much respected among the
labouring folk. Every possible work is attributed to his hand, and even
the names of places are set down to his inventive genius. Thus they tell
you that when he passed through Aldsworth he did not think very much of
the village (it is certainly a very dull little place), so he snapped
his fingers and exclaimed, "That's all 'e's worth!" On arriving at Ready
Token, where was an ancient inn, he found it full of guests; he
therefore exclaimed, "It's already taken!" Was ever such nonsense heard?
Yet these good folk believe every tradition of this kind, and delight in
telling you such stories. Ready Token is a bleak spot, standing very
high, and having a clump of trees on it; it is therefore conspicuous for
miles; so that when this country was an open moor, Ready Token was very
useful as a landmark to travellers. Mr. Sawyer thinks the name is a
corruption from the Celtic word "rhydd" and the Saxon "tacen," meaning
"the way to the ford," the place being on the road to Fairford, where
the Coln is crossed.
One of the chief traditions of this locality, and one that doubtless has
more truth in it than most of the stories the natives tell you, relates
that two hundred years ago people were frequently murdered at Ready
Token inn when returning with their pockets full of money from the big
fairs at Gloucester or Oxford. A labouring friend of mine was telling me
the other day of the wonderful disappearance of a packman and a
"jewelrer," as he called him. For very many years nothing was heard of
them, but about twenty years ago some "skellingtons" were dug up on the
exact spot where the inn stood, so their disappearance was
accounted for.
This same man told me the following story about the origin of Hangman's
Stone, near Northleach:--
"A man stole a 'ship' [sheep], and carried it tied to his neck and
shoulders by a rope. Feeling rather tired, he put the 'ship' down on top
of the 'stwun' [stone] to rest a bit; but suddenly it rolled off the
other side, and hung him--broke his neck."
Hangman's Stone may be seen to this day. The real origin of the name may
be found in Fozbrooke's History of Gloucestershire. It was the place of
execution in Roman times.
"As illuminations in cases of joy, dismissal from the house in quarrels,
wishing joy on New Year's Day, king and queen on twelfth day (from the
Saturnalia), holding up the hand in sign of assent, shaking hands, etc.,
are Roman customs, so were executions just out of the town, where also
the executioner resided. In Anglo-Saxon times this officer was a man of
high dignity."
A very common name in Gloucestershire for a field or wood is "conyger"
or "conygre." It means the abode of conies or rabbits.
Some farms have their "camp ground"; and there, sure enough, if one
examines it carefully, will be found traces of some ancient British
camp, with its old rampart running round it. But what can be the
derivation of such names as Horsecollar Bush Furlong, Smoke Acre
Furlong, West Chester Hull, Cracklands, Crane Furlong, Sunday's Hill,
Latheram, Stoopstone Furlong, Pig Bush Furlong, and Barelegged Bush?
Names like Pitchwells, where there is a spring; Breakfast Bush Ground,
where no doubt Hodge has had his breakfast for centuries under shelter
of a certain bush; Rickbushes, and Longlands are all more or less easy
to trace. Furzey Leaze, Furzey Ground, Moor Hill, Ridged Lands, and the
Pikes are all names connected with the nature of the fields or
their locality.
Leaze is the provincial name for a pasture, and Furzey Leaze would be a
rough "ground," where gorse was sprinkled about. The Pikes would be a
field abutting on an old turnpike gate. The word "turnpike" is never
used in Gloucestershire; it is always "the pike." A field is a "ground,"
and a fence or stone wall is a "mound." The Cotswold folk do not talk
about houses; they stick to the old Saxon termination, and call their
dwellings "housen"; they also use the Anglo-Saxon "hire" for hear. The
word "bowssen," too, is very frequently heard in these parts; it is a
provincialism for a stall or shed where oxen are kept. "Boose" is the
word from which it originally sprang. A very expressive phrase in common
use is to "quad" or "quat"; it is equivalent to the word "squat." Other
words in this dialect are "sprack," an adjective meaning quick or
lively; and "frem" or "frum," a word derived from the Anglo-Saxon
"fram," meaning fresh or flourishing. The latter word is also used in
Leicestershire. Drayton, who knew the Cotswolds, and wrote poetry about
the district, uses the expression "frim pastures." "Plym" is the
swelling of wood when it is immersed in water; and "thilk," another
Anglo-Saxon word, means thus or the same.
A mole in the Gloucestershire dialect is an "oont" or "woont." A barrow
or mound of any kind is a "tump." Anything slippery is described as
"slick"; and a slice is a "sliver." "Breeds" denotes the brim of a hat,
and a deaf man is said to be "dunch" or "dunny." To "glowr" is to
stare--possibly connected with the word "glare."
Two red-coated sportsmen, while hunting close to our village the other
day, got into a small but deep pond. They were said to have fallen into
the "stank," and got "zogged" through: for a small pond is a "stank,"
and to be "zogged" is equivalent to being soaked.
"Hark at that dog 'yoppeting' in the covert! I'll give him a nation good
'larroping' when I catch him!" This is the sort of sentence a
Gloucestershire keeper makes use of. To "larrop" is to beat. Oatmeal or
porridge is always called "grouts"; and the Cotswold native does not
talk of hoisting a ladder, but "highsting" is the term he uses. The
steps of the ladder are the "rongs." Luncheon is "nuncheon." Other words
in the dialect are "caddie" = to humbug; "cham" = to chew; "barken" = a
homestead; and "bittle" = a mallet.
Fozbrooke says that the term "hopping mad" is applied to people who are
very angry; but we do not happen to have heard it in Gloucestershire.
Two proverbs that are in constant use amongst all classes are, "As sure
as God's in Gloucestershire," and, "'Tis as long in coming as Cotswold
'berle'" (barley). The former has reference to the number of churches
and religious houses the county used to possess, the latter to the
backward state of the crops on the exposed Cotswold Hills. To meet a man
and say, "Good-morning, nice day," is to "pass the time of day with
him." Anything queer or mysterious is described as "unkard" or "unket";
perhaps this word is a provincialism for "uncouth." A narrow lane or
path between two walls is a "tuer" in Gloucestershire vernacular.
Another local word I have not heard elsewhere is "eckle," meaning a
green woodpecker or yaffel. The original spelling of the word was
"hic-wall." In these days of education the real old-fashioned dialect is
seldom heard; among the older peasants a few are to be found who speak
it, but in twenty years' time it will be a thing of the past.
The incessant use of "do" and "did," and the changing of _o_'s into
_a_'s are two great characteristics of the Gloucestershire talk. Being
anxious to be initiated into the mysteries of the dialect, I buttonholed
a labouring friend of mine the other day, and asked him to try to teach
it to me. He is a great exponent of the language of the country, and,
like a good many others of his type, he is as well satisfied with his
pronunciation as he is with his other accomplishments. The fact is that
"His favourite sin
Is pride that apes humility."
It is _your_ grammar, not his, which is at fault. In the following
verses will be found the gist of what he told me:--
"If thee true 'Glarcestershire' would know,
I'll tell thee how us always zays un;
Put 'I' for 'me,' and 'a' for 'o'.
On every possible occasion.
When in doubt squeeze in a 'w'--
'Stwuns,' not 'stones.' And don't forget, zur,
That 'thee' must stand for 'thou' and 'you';
'Her' for 'she,' and _vice versâ_.
Put 'v' for 'f'; for 's' put 'z';
'Th' and 't' we change to 'd,'--
So dry an' kip this in thine yead,
An' thou wills't talk as plain as we."
The student in the language of the Cotswolds should study a very ancient
song entitled "George Ridler's Oven." Strange to say, there is little or
nothing in it about the oven, but a good deal of the old Gloucestershire
talk may be gleaned from it. It begins like this:
GEORGE RIDLER'S OVEN.
A RIGHT FAMOUS OLD GLOUCESTERSHIRE BALLAD.
"The stwuns, the stwuns, the stwuns, the stwuns,
The stwuns, the stwuns, the stwuns, _the stwuns_."
This is sung like the prelude to a grand orchestral performance.
Beginning somewhat softly, Hodge fires away with a gravity and emotion
which do him infinite credit, each succeeding repetition of the word
"stwuns" being rendered with ever-increasing pathos and emphasis, until,
like the final burst of an orchestral prelude, with drums, trumpets,
fiddles, etc, all going at the same time, are at length ushered in the
opening lines of the ballad.
"The stwuns that built Gaarge Ridler's oven,
And thauy qeum from the Bleakeney's Quaar;
And Gaarge he wur a jolly ould mon,
And his yead it graw'd above his yare.
"One thing of Gaarge Ridler's I must commend.
And that wur vor a notable theng;
He mead his braags avoore he died,
Wi' any dree brothers his zons zshou'd zeng.
"There's Dick the treble and John the mean
(Let every mon zing in his auwn pleace);
And Gaarge he wur the elder brother,
And therevoore he would zing the beass.
"Mine hostess's moid (and her neaum 'twur Nell)
A pretty wench, and I lov'd her well;
I lov'd her well--good reauzon why,
Because zshe lov'd my dog and I.
"My dog has gotten zitch a trick
To visit moids when thauy be zick;
When thauy be zick and like to die,
Oh, thether gwoes my dog and I.
"My dog is good to catch a hen,--
A duck and goose is vood vor men;
And where good company I spy,
Oh, thether gwoes my dog and I.
"Droo aal the world, owld Gaarge would bwoast,
Commend me to merry owld England mwoast;
While vools gwoes scramblin' vur and nigh,
We bides at whoam, my dog and I.
"Ov their furrin tongues let travellers brag,
Wi' their vifteen neames vor a puddin' bag;
Two tongues I knows ne'er towld a lie,
And their wearers be my dog and I.
"My mwother told I when I wur young,
If I did vollow the strong beer pwoot,
That drenk would pruv my auverdrow,
And meauk me wear a thzreadbare cwoat.
"When I hev dree zixpences under my thumb,
Oh, then I be welcome wherever I qeum;
But when I hev none, oh, then I pass by,--
'Tis poverty pearts good company.
"When I gwoes dead, as it may hap,
My greauve shall be under the good yeal tap
In vouled earms there wool us lie,
Cheek by jowl, my dog and I."
GLOSSARY.
_stwuns_ = stones.
_quaar_ = quarry.
_yare_ = hair.
_avoor_ = before.
_auwn_ = own.
_furrin_ = foreign.
_greauve_ = grave.
_thauy_ = they.
_yead_ = head.
_mead_ = made.
_dree_ = three.
_pleace_ = place.
_pwoot_ = pewter.
_yeal_ = ale.
_qeum_ = come.
_graw'd_ = grew.
_braags_ = brag.
_zshou'd_ = should.
_beass_ = bass.
_auverdrow_ = overthrow.
_vouled earms_ = folded arms.
_zitch_ = such.
The song itself is as old as the hills, but I have taken the liberty of
appending a glossary, in order that my readers may be spared the
trouble of making out the meaning of some of the words. It was a long
time before it dawned upon me that "vouled earms" meant "folded arms ";
"auverdrow" likewise was very perplexing. Like many of the old ballads,
it sounds like a rigmarole from beginning to end; but there is really a
great deal more in it than meets the eye. George Ridler is no less a
personage than King Charles I., and the oven represents the cavalier
party. (See Appendix.)
Such songs as these are deeply interesting from the fact that they are
handed down by oral tradition from father to son, and written copies are
never seen in the villages. The same applies to the play the mummers act
at Christmas-time; all has to be learnt from the preceding generation of
country folk. But the great feature of our smoking concerts and village
entertainments has always been the reading of Tom Peregrine. This noted
sportsman, who writes one of the best hands I ever saw, has kindly
copied out a recitation he lately gave us. It relates to the adventures
of one Roger Plowman, a Cotswold man who went to London, and is taken
from a book, compiled some years ago by some Ciceter men, entitled
"Roger Plowman's Excursion to London." It was read at a harvest home
given by old Mr. Peregrine in his huge barn, an entertainment which
lasted from six o'clock till twelve. I trust none of my readers will be
any the worse for reading it. Tom Peregrine declares that when he first
gave it at a penny reading some years ago, one or two of the audience
had to be carried out in hysterics--they laughed so much; and another
man fell backwards off his chair, owing to the extreme comicality of it.
The truth is, our versatile keeper is a wonderful reader, and speaking
as he does the true Gloucestershire accent, in the same way as some of
the squires spoke it a century or more ago, it is extremely amusing to
hear him copying the still broader dialect of the labouring class. He
has a tremendous sense of humour, and his epithet for anything amusing
is "Foolish." "'Tis a splendid tale; 'tis so desperate foolish," he
would often say.
ROGER PLOWMAN'S JOURNEY TO LONDON.
Monday marnin' I wur to start early. Aal the village know'd I wur
a-gwain, an' sum sed as how I shood be murthur'd avoor I cum back. On
Sunday I called at the manur 'ouse an' asked cook if she hed any message
vor Sairy Jane. She sed:
"Tell Sairy Jane to look well arter 'e, Roger, vor you'll get lost, tuck
in, an' done vor."
"Rest easy in yer mind, cook," I zed; "Roger is toughish, an' he'll see
thet the honour o' the old county is well show'd out and kep' up."
Cook wished me a pleasant holiday.
I started early on Monday marnin', 'tarmined to see as much as possible.
I wur to walk into Cizzeter, an' vram thur goo by train to Lunnon.
I wur delighted wi' Cizzeter. The shops an' buildin's round the
market-pleace wur vine; an' the church wur grand; didn't look as how he
wur built by the same sort of peeple as put the shops up.
When the Roomans an' anshunt Britons went to church arm-in-arm it wur
always Whitsuntide, an' arter church vetched their banners out wi' brass
eagles on, an' hed a morris dance in the market-pleace. The anshunt
Britons never hed any tailory done, but thay wur all artists wi' the
paint pot. The Consarvatives painted thurselves bloo, and the Radicals
yaller, an' thay as danced the longest, the Roomans sent to Parlyment to
rool the roost.
I wur show'd the pleace wur the peeple started vor Lunnon. I walked in,
an' thur wur a hole in the purtition, an' I seed the peeple a-payin'
thur money vor bits o' pasteboord. I axed the mon if he could take I
to Lunnon.
He sed, "Fust, second, or thurd?"
I sed, "Fust o' course, not arter; vor Sairy Jane ull be waitin'."
He sed 'twer moor ner a pound to pay.
I sed the paason sed 'twer about eight shillin'.
"That's thurd class," he sed; an' that thay ud aal be in Lunnon at the
same time.
So I paid thurd class, an' he shuved out sum pasteboord, an' I put it in
my pocket, an' walked out; an' thur wur a row o' carridges waitin' vor
Lunnon; an' off we went as fast as a racehoss.
I heerd sum say thay wur off to Cheltenham, Gloucester, Tewkesbury,
North Wales; an' I sed to meself, "I be on the rong road. Dang the
buttons o' that little pasteboord seller! he warn't a 'safe mon' to hev
to do wi'."
I enquired if the peeple hed much washin' to do for the railway about
here, an' thay wanted to know what I required to know vor.
I sed because thur war such a long clothesline put up aal the way
along. An' thay aal bust out a-larfin,' an' sed 'twur the tallergraph;
an' one sed as how if the Girt Western thought as how 'twould pay
better, thay ud soon shet up shop, an' take in washin'.
Never in aal me life did I go at such a rate under and awver bridges an
droo holes in the 'ills. We wur soon at Swindon, wur a lot wur at work
as black as tinkers. We aal hed to get out, an' a chap in green clothes
sed we shood hev to wait ten minits.
Thur wur a lot gwain into a room, an' I seed they wur eatin' and
drinkin'; so I ses to meself, "I be rayther peckish, I'll go in an' see
if I can get summut." So in I goes; an' 'twer a vine pleace, wi' sum
nation good-looking gurls a-waitin'.
"I'll hev a half-quartern loaf," I sed.
"We doan't kip a baker's shop," she sed. "Thur's cakes, an' biskits, an'
sponge cakes."
"Hev 'e got sum good bacon, raythur vattish?" I sed.
"No, sur; but thur's sum good poork sausingers at sixpence."
"Hand awver the pleat, young 'ooman," I sed, "an' I'll trubble you vor
the mustard, an' salt, an' that pleat o' bread an' butter, an' I'll set
down an' hev a bit of a snack."
The sausingers wur very good, an' teasted moorish aal the time; but the
bread an' butter wur so nation thin that I had to clap dree or vour
pieces together to get a mouthful. I didn't seem to want a knife or
vork, but the young 'ooman put a white-handled knife an' silver
vork avoor me.
The pleat o' bread an' butter didn't hold out vor the sausingers, so I
hed another pleat o' bread an' butter, an' wur getting on vine. I seem'd
to want summut to wet me whistle, an' wur gwain to order a quart o' ale,
when I heers a whistle an' a grunt vram a steamer, an' out I goos; an',
begum! he wur off.
I beckuned to the chap to stop the train, wi' me vork as I hed jest
stuck into the last sausinger. I hed clapt a good mouthful in, or I
could hev hollur'd loud enough vor him to heer. The train didn't stop,
an' the vellers in green laughed to see I wur left in the lurch, as I
tell'd them that Sairy Jane would be sure to meet the Lunnon train. Thay
sed I could go in an' vinish the sausingers now, an' that wur what I
intended to do.
I asked the young 'ooman for a bottle o' ale, when she put a tallish
bottle down wi' a beg head; an' as I wur dry I knocked the neck off, an'
the ale kum a-fizzing out like ginger pop,--an' 'twer no use to try to
stop the fizzle. I had aal I could get in a glass, an' it zeemed
goodish. She soon run back wi' another bottle in her hand, an' I tell'd
her 'twer pop she hed put down.
"What hev you bin an' dun, sur?" she sed; "that wur a bottle o' Moses's
shampane, at seven shillin's an' sixpence a bottle."
I tell'd her I know'd 'twer nothin' but pop, as it fizzled so. Thur wur
two or dree gentlemen in, an' thay larfed at the fizzle an' I. It seemed
to meak me veel merryish, an' I zed, "What's to pay, young 'ooman?"
She sed, "Thirteen shillin's, sur."
"Thirteen scaramouches!" I sed. "What vor?"
"Seven sausingers, dree and sixpence; twenty-vour slices o' bread an'
butter, two shillin's; an' a bottle of shampane, seven and
sixpence;--kums to thirteen shillin's," she sed.
"Yer tell'd me as how the sausingers wur sixpence," I sed; "an' the
slices o' bread ud cut off a tuppeny loaf."
She sed the sausingers wur sixpence each, an' twenty-vour slices o'
bread an' butter wur a penny each--two shillin's.
I sed, "Do 'e call that reysonable, young 'ooman? 'cause I bain't
a-gwain to pay thirteen shillin's vor't, an' lose me train, an'
disappoint Sairy Jane. Thirteen shillin's vor two or dree sausingers, a
few slices o' bread an' butter, an' a bottle o' pop--not vor Roger, if
he knows it"
Up kums a chap an' ses, "Be you gwain to pay vor wat you hev hed?"
"To be sure I be. Thur's sixpence vor the sausingers, tuppence vor bread
an' butter, an' dreppence the pop,--that meaks 'levenpence"; an' I drows
down a shillin', and ses, "Thur's the odd penny vor the young 'ooman as
waited upon me."
"You hed thirteen shillin's worth o' grub an' shampane, an' you'll hev
to pay twelve shillin's moor or I shall take 'e away an' lock 'e up vor
the night," he sed.
"Do 'e thenk as how you could do aal that, young man?" I sed. "No
disrespect to 'e though, vor that don't argify; but I could ketch hold
on 'e by the scroff o' yer neck an' the seat o' yer breeches, an' pitch
'e slick into the roadway among the iron."
"Look heer, Meyster Turmot, you'll hev to pay twelve shillin' moor avoor
you gwoes out o' heer, or Lunnon won't hold 'e to-night."
I know'd Sairy Jane ud be a-waitin', an' as he sed the train were moast
ready, I drows down a suverin', an' hed the change, an' as I wur a-gwain
out I hollurs out as how I shood remember Swindleum stashun. I heer'd
the lot a-larfin, an' hed moast a mind to go in an' twirl me ground ash
among um vor thur edification.
I wur soon on the road agen, a-gwain like a house a-vire, an' thur wur
more clotheslines aal the way along on pwosts.
W'en we got nearish to Lunnon I seed sum girt beg round barrels painted
black.[3] I axed a chap what thay wur, an' he sed that thay wur beg
barrels o' stingo, an' thur wur pipes laid on to the peeple's housen vor
thay to draw vram.
[Footnote 3: Gasometers.]
I sed that wur very good accommodashun to hev XXX laid on vor use.
We soon druv into the beggest pleace I wur ever in since I wur born'd.
Thay sed 'twer Paddington, an' that I wur to get out, vor they wurn't
a-gwain to drive no furder. I hed paid to go to Lunnon, an' thay shood
drive all the way when thay wur paid avoor'and.
I wur tell'd Paddington wur the Lunnon stashun by a porter, an' I look'd
round vor Sairy Jane, as she sed as how her ud be heer at one o'clock;
and porter sed 'twer then dree o'clock, an' likely Sairy Jane had gone
away. Drat thay sausingers as mead I too late vor the train!
I set down to wait for Sairy Jane, as I didn't know her directions, an'
hed left the letter she sent at whoam. Arter waitin' for a long while I
started out, an' 'oped to see her in sum part o' Lunnon.
* * * * *
Another story Tom Peregrine is fond of reading to us relates how a
labouring man was recommended to get some oxtail soup to strengthen him.
He goes into the town and sees "Oxikali Soap" written up on a shop
window. He buys a cake of it, makes his wife boil it up in the pot, and
then proceeds to drink it for his health. When he has taken a spoonful
or two and found it very unpleasant, his wife makes him finish it up,
saying it is sure to do him good; and she consoles him with the
assurance that all medicine is nasty.
At the harvest home in the big barn, after the applause which followed
Tom Peregrine's recitation had died away, a sturdy carter stood up and
sang a very old Gloucestershire song, which runs as follows:--
THE TURMUT HOWER.
"I be a turmut hower,
Vram Gloucestershire I came;
My parents be hard-working folk,
Giles Wapshaw be my name.
The vly, the vly,
The vly be on the turmut,
An' it be aal me eye, and no use to try
To keep um off the turmut.
"Zum be vond o' haymakin',
An' zum be vond o' mowin',
But of aal the trades thet I likes best
Gie I the turmut howin'.
The vly, etc.
"'Twas on a summer mornin',
Aal at the brake o' day,
When I tuck up my turmut hower,
An' trudged it far away.
The vly, etc.
"The vust pleace I got work at,
It wus by the job,
But if I hed my chance agen,
I'd rayther go to quod.
The vly, etc.
"The next pleace I got work at,
'Twer by the day,
Vor one old Varmer Vlower,
Who sed I wur a rippin' turmut hower.
The vly, etc.
"Sumtimes I be a-mowin',
Sumtimes I be a-plowin',
Gettin' the vurrows aal bright an' clear
Aal ready vor turmut sowin'.
The vly, etc.
"An' now my song be ended
I 'ope you won't call encore;
But if you'll kum here another night,
I'll seng it ye once more.
The vly, etc."
[Illustration: On the Wolds. 116.png]