THE SCOURING OF THE WHITE HORSE.
[Illustration]
THE
SCOURING OF THE WHITE HORSE;
OR, THE
LONG VACATION RAMBLE OF A LONDON CLERK.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF “TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.”
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATED BY RICHARD DOYLE.
BOSTON:
TICKNOR AND FIELDS.
MDCCCLIX.
AUTHOR’S EDITION.
FIFTH THOUSAND.
RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.
OLD AND NEW.
See how the Autumn leaves float by, decaying,
Down the red whirls of yon rain-swollen stream;
So fleet the works of men, back to their earth again;
Ancient and holy things fade like a dream.
Nay! see the Spring blossoms steal forth a-maying,
Clothing with tender buds orchard and glen;
So, though old forms go by, ne’er can their spirit die.
Look! England’s bare boughs show green leaf again.
KINGSLEY.
[Illustration]
PREFACE.
The great success of the festival (or “pastime,” as it is called in the
neighbourhood) which was held on White Horse Hill on the 17th and 18th
of September, 1857, to celebrate the “Scouring of the Horse,” according
to immemorial custom, led the Committee of Management to think that our
fellow-county-men at least, if not our countrymen generally, would be
glad to have some little printed memorial, which should comprise not
only an account of the doings on the Hill on the late occasion, but
should also endeavour to gather up the scattered legends and traditions
of the country side, and any authentic historical notices relating to
the old monument, of which we west-countrymen are all so fond and proud.
I had the good or ill luck (as the case may be) to be the only member
of the Committee whose way of life had led him into the perilous paths
of literature; so the task of compiling and editing our little book was
laid on my shoulders.
Installed as chronicler to the White Horse, I entered with no ill will
on my office, having been all my life possessed, as is the case with
so many Englishmen, by intense local attachment, love for every stone
and turf of the country where I was born and bred. But it is one
thing to have zeal, and another to have discretion; and when I came to
consider my materials, I found that the latter quality would be greatly
needed. For, what were they? One short bright gleam of history from the
writings of old monks a thousand years ago; traditions and dim legends,
which I and most Berkshire men have always faithfully believed from
our youth up, and shall go on believing to our dying day, but which
we could hardly put before general readers in serious narrative; a
dry notice here and there by some old antiquary of the seventeenth or
eighteenth century; stories floating in the memories of old men still
living; small broad-sheets from country town presses, with lists of the
competitors for prizes at rustic games, newspaper articles, remarks by
Committee-men and umpires, scraps of antiquarian lore; abuse of the
Great Western Railway for not allowing the trains to stop, bits of
vernacular dialogue, and odd rhymes. What could be done with them all?
How out of the mass could a shapely book be called out, fit to be laid
before a fastidious British public, not born in Berkshire?
Not exactly seeing how this was to be done, the only honest course
which remained, was to follow the example of a good housewife in the
composition of that excellent food called “stir-about”--throw them
altogether into the pot, stir them round and round with a great spoon,
and trust that the look of the few great raisins, and the flavour of
the allspice, may leaven the mass, and make it pleasing to the eye and
palate; and so, though the stir-about will never stand up in a china
dish by itself, it may, we hope, make a savoury and pleasant side dish,
in a common soup tureen.
The raisins, and those of the best quality, have been furnished by the
great artist[1] who has kindly undertaken to give us pictures; the
allspice has been contributed by the Committee and other kind friends,
and I have done the milk and meal, and the stirring. The responsibility
therefore rests with me, though the credit, whatever it may be, rests
with others. But let me insist here, at once, that if there be any
failure in the dish, it is the fault of the dresser and not of the
subject-matter.
For, suppose an intelligent Englishman to be travelling in France, and
to find the whole population in the neighbourhood of Tours turning
out in their best clothes for a two days’ holiday on a high hill,
upon which the rude figure of a huge hammer is roughly sculptured.
On inquiry, he finds that the figure has been there long before the
memory of the oldest man living, but that it has always been carefully
preserved and kept fresh; and although there is no printed history of
how it came there, yet that all neighbouring men, of whatever degree,
associate it with the name of Charles Martel and his great victory over
the Saracens, and are ready one and all to rejoice over it, and to work
and pay that it may go down to their children looking as it does now.
Or, to come to much later times, let our traveller find an eagle cut
out on a hill in Hungary, similarly honoured, and associated with the
name of Eugene, and the memory of the day
“When, the old black eagle flying,
All the Paynim powers defying,
On we marched, and stormed Belgrade.”
Should we not all thank him for giving us the best account he could of
the figure, the festival, and all traditions connected with them; and
think he had fallen on a very noteworthy matter, and well worth the
telling when he got back to England?
Well, here we have the same thing at our own doors; a rude colossal
figure cut out in the turf, and giving the name to a whole district;
legends connecting it with the name of our greatest king, and with his
great victory over the Pagans, and a festival which has been held at
very short intervals ever since the ninth century. Rich as our land is
in historical monuments, there is none more remarkable than the White
Horse; and in this belief we put forth this little book in his honour,
hoping that it may perhaps fix upon him, and the other antiquities
which surround him, the attention of some one who can bring science and
knowledge to bear upon the task to which we can only bring good will.
For, alas! let me confess at once, that in these qualities our book
is like to be sadly deficient. The compiler has no knowledge whatever
of the Anglo-Saxon tongue, or of Saxon or other antiquities. There
is indeed of necessity a semblance of learning and research about the
chapter which tells the history of the battle of Ashdown, because the
materials for it had to be collected from a number of old chroniclers,
whose names will be found in the foot-notes. But any fifth-form
boy, with industry enough to read about 200 small pages of monkish
Latin, may master the whole for himself in the originals in a week;
and for those who cannot do this, there is the jubilee edition of
the chroniclers, put forth by the Alfred Committee in 1852, where a
translation of the old fellows will be found in parallel columns,
together with much learning concerning them and their times, in
foot-note, preface, and appendix. This translation I have followed
in all but a few passages, in which the text used by the translators
has probably differed from the one which I have seen. For the Saxon
Chronicle, I have used Ingram’s translation.
But while we do not pretend to be antiquaries, or historians, or
learned men, we do claim to be honest average Englishmen, and will
yield to no man in our love for our own quiet corner of the land of our
birth. We do think, that whatever deeply interests us cannot fail in a
degree to interest our countrymen. We are sure that reverence for all
great Englishmen, and a loving remembrance of the great deeds done by
them in old times, will help to bring to life in us the feeling that we
are a family, bound together to work out God’s purposes in this little
island, and in the uttermost parts of the earth; to make clear to us
the noble inheritance which we have in common; and to sink into their
proper place the miserable trifles, and odds and ends, over which we
are so apt to wrangle. We do hope that our example will lead Englishmen
of other counties, to cherish every legend and story which hangs round
any nook of their neighbourhood, connecting it with the times and the
men who have gone before; to let no old custom, which has a meaning,
however rude, die out, if it can be kept alive; and not to keep either
legend or custom to themselves, but (like us) to put them in the best
shape they can, and publish them for the benefit of their countrymen;
we of the White Horse Committee, at any rate, hereby pledging ourselves
to read all such publications.
I must here take the opportunity of specially thanking three of my
fellow Committee-men, and two other friends, for the trouble they have
taken in various ways to lighten my work. If this book at all fulfils
the objects for which it has been written, the thanks of my readers, as
well as my own, will be due to
E. M. ATKINS, Esq., of Kingstone Lisle.
Mr. WILLIAM WHITFIELD of Uffington.
Mr. HEBER HUMFREY of Kingstone Farm; and to
JOHN Y. AKERMAN, Esq., Secretary of the Society of Antiquaries;
and
Mr. LUKE LONSLEY, of Hampsted Norris, Berks.
And now, without further preface, we commend our “stir-about” to
Englishmen in general, and west-countrymen in particular.
[1] Doyle.
THE SCOURING OF THE WHITE HORSE.
CHAPTER I.
“Richard,” said our governor, as I entered his room at five o’clock on
the afternoon of the 31st of August, 1857, running his pen down the
columns of the salary-book, “your quarter-day to-day, I think? Let
me see; you were raised to £-- a-year in February last,--so much for
quarter’s salary, and so much for extra work. I am glad to see that you
have been working so steadily; you’ll deserve your holiday, and enjoy
it all the more. You’ll find that all right, I think;” and he pushed a
small paper across the table towards me, on which my account was stated
in our cashier’s hand, and looked at me over his spectacles.
My heart jumped at the mention of my holiday; I just ran my eye down
the figures, and was glad to find the total a pound or two higher than
I had expected. For I had lately learnt shorthand, and had been taking
notes for our firm, for which I found they allowed me extra pay.
“Quite right, Sir,” I said; “and I’m sure I’m much obliged to you, Sir,
for letting me do the extra work, because--”
“Well, never mind that,” said he, with a little laugh; “I shouldn’t
give you the extra work, Richard, if it didn’t suit me, or if I could
get it better done anywhere else; so the account’s all square on that
point. There’s your money.”
And he pushed over to me a very nice sum of money. I dare say you would
like to know what it was, reader. Now, I’m not going to tell you. Why
should you know just what my income is? I don’t owe you or any one else
five shillings, and have a very tidy account at the savings’ bank,
besides having paid for all the furniture and books in my room, not
very far from Lambsconduit Street, which I reckon to be worth fifty
pounds of any man’s money; so you see my income is enough to keep me
before the world, and I wish more of you could say as much.
“I’m very much obliged, Sir,” said I again, as I wrote a receipt over a
stamp which I took out of my pocket-book, and stuck on to the bottom of
the account.
“No, you’re not,” said our governor, quite short; “it’s your own money,
fairly earned. You’re not obliged to any man for giving you what’s your
own.” He is such an odd fellow about these things. But mind you, I
think he’s quite right, too; for, after all, no doubt each of us earns
a good penny for him over and above what he pays us, else why should he
keep us on? but, somehow, one can’t help thanking any one who pays one
money; at least, I can’t.
“Now, as to your holiday,” went on our governor. “There’s Jobson went
for his fortnight on the 30th; he’ll be back on the 14th of September,
at latest. You can take any time you like, after that.”
“Then, Sir,” said I directly, “I should like it as soon as possible.”
“Very well,” said he; “Tuesday the 16th to Tuesday the 29th of
September, both inclusive;” and he made a note in another book which
lay on his desk. “Good evening, Richard.”
“Good evening, Sir,” said I; and away I went down to our room in as
good spirits as any young fellow in our quarter of London.
Of course all the other clerks began shouting out at once to know how
much money I’d got, and when I was going to have my holiday. Well, I
didn’t tell them what money I had, any more than I’ve told you, because
I like to keep my own counsel about such matters. Besides, there are
several of our clerks whose ways I don’t at all like; so I don’t do any
thing I can help which might look as if I liked them. No! hands off, is
my motto with these sort of chaps.
I’m sure there’s no pride about me, though. My name’s Easy, and always
was; and I like every fellow, whatever his coat is, who isn’t always
thinking about the cut of it, or what he has in the pocket of it. But,
goodness knows, I can’t stand a fellow who gives himself airs, and
thinks himself a chalk above everybody who can’t dress and do just as
he can. Those chaps, I always see, are just the ones to do lick-spittle
to those that they think have more in their pockets than themselves.
But I must get on with my story, for you don’t all want to know my
opinions about the clerks in our office, I dare say.
Well, when I got down, as I said before, we were all just on the move,
(business hours being from nine till six in our office,) taking down
coats and hats, and clearing desks for the night, so I just sidled up
to Jem Fisher, and little Neddy Baily, who are the two I like best, and
told them to come up to my room to supper at eight o’clock, which they
of course were very glad to promise to do, and then I went off to get
ready for them.
Jem Fisher and I are very fond of a dish which I believe very few
of you ever heard of. One Sunday in May, a year or two back, he and
I had been down beyond Notting Hill, listening to the nightingales;
and coming back, we walked through Kensington Gardens, and came out
at the gate into the Notting Hill Road, close to Hyde Park. We were
late, for us, so we hailed a ’bus, and got on the box. The driver was
full of talk about all the fine people he had been seeing walking in
the gardens that afternoon, and seemed to think it hard he couldn’t
enjoy himself just as they did. “However, gentlemen,” said he at
last, “there’s some things as the haristocracy ain’t alive to. Did
you ever eat cow-heel?” Perhaps Jem, who had all his best clothes on,
didn’t mind being taken for one of the aristocracy; at least just for
a minute, for he’s too good a fellow to like being taken for anybody
but himself when he comes to think of it; at any rate, he and I took to
eating cow-heel from that time. So the first thing I did, after going
home and locking up most of my money, and speaking to my landlady, who
is the best old soul alive if you take her in her own way, was, to set
off to Clare Market, and buy some cow-heel and sausages; and on my
way back through the Turnstile, I thought, as it was so hot, I would
have some fruit too; so I bought a pottle of plums and a piece of a
pine-apple, and got home.
They came in sharp to time, and I and my landlady had every thing
ready, and two foaming pewter pots full of bitter beer and porter. So
we had a capital supper, and then cleared it all away, and sat down to
eat the fruit and have a quiet pipe by the time it began to get dark.
“And so,” said little Neddy, (he is only just eighteen, and hasn’t
been in our office a year yet; but he’s such a clever, industrious
little chap, that he has gone over the heads of half a dozen of our
youngsters, and hasn’t stopped yet by a long way,) “you’re off on the
15th! wish I was. Well, here’s luck any how,” said he, nodding to me,
and taking a bite out of a slice of pine-apple.
“Gentle Shepherd, tell me where?” said Jem Fisher. (Jem is very fond of
quoting poetry; not that I think half that he quotes is real poetry,
only how is one to find him out? Jem is a tall, good-looking fellow,
as old as I am, and that’s twenty-one last birthday; we came into the
office together years ago, and have been very thick ever since, which
I sometimes wonder at, for Jem is a bit of a swell--Gentleman Jem they
call him in the office.) “Now, Dick, where are you bound for?”
“Well, that’s more than I know myself,” said I.
“Then,” said he, taking his pipe out of his pocket and filling it, “I
vote we settle for him, eh, Neddy?”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” said Neddy, stretching over for the pottle; “but, I
say, Jem, you haven’t finished all those plums?” and he poked about in
the leaves with his fingers.
“Every mother’s son of them,” said Jem, lighting a lucifer; “if you
come to that, Master Ned, hand me over some of that pine-apple. But
now, about the tour; how much money are you going to spend on it, Dick?”
“Well, I haven’t quite settled,” said I; “but I shouldn’t mind, now,
going as high as four or five pounds, if I can suit myself.”
“You may go pretty near to Jericho for that now-a-days,” said Neddy.
“As I came along Holborn to-night, I saw a great placard outside the
George and Blue Boar, with ‘to Llangollen and back 15_s._’ on it. What
do you think of that? You’ll be turned out at the station there with £4
5_s._ in your pocket.”
“Where’s Llangollen?” said I.
“Not half-way to Jericho,” shouted Jem, with a laugh. “Where’s
Llangollen? Why didn’t you ever hear the song of Kitty Morgan, the maid
of Llangollen? You’re a pretty fellow to go touring.”
“Yes, fifty times,” said I; “only the song don’t tell you where the
place is--where is it now?”
“In Wales, of course,” said he, thinking he had me.
“Yes, I know that; but whereabouts in Wales,” said I, “for Wales is a
biggish place. Is it near any thing one reads about in books, and ought
to go and see?”
“Hanged if I know exactly,” said Jem, puffing away; “only of course
Wales is worth seeing.”
“So is France,” struck in Neddy; “why, you may go to Paris and stay a
fortnight for I don’t know how little.”
“Aye, or to Edinburgh or the Lakes,” said Jem.
“I want to have the particulars though,” said I; “I’m not going to
start off to some foreign place, and find myself with no money to spend
and enjoy myself with, when I get there.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Neddy, jumping up, “I’ll just run round to
the Working Men’s College, and borrow a Bradshaw from the secretary. We
shall find all the cheap excursions there;” and away he went before we
could say a word.
“I say,” said Jem to me, “how fond he is of bringing up that place;
he’s always at me to go and enter there.”
“So he is at me,” said I, “and I think I shall, for he seems to pick
up a lot of things there. How sharp he is at figures! and he knows
more history and geography ten to one than I do. I’ll bet he knew what
county Llangollen is in, and something about it too. Let’s ask him when
he comes back.”
“Catch me!” said Jem; “he’ll look it out on the map on his way back, or
ask one of the lecturers.”
“Here you are! look here!” said Neddy, tumbling in with two Bradshaws
and a great atlas under his arm; “‘unprecedented attraction, pleasure
excursions,’ let me see--Return tickets for Ireland, available for a
fortnight. Waterford, 1_l._ 16_s._; Cork, 2_l._”
“Nonsense!” cried Jem, who had got the other Bradshaw; “listen here:
‘Channel Islands, (remarkable as being the only remaining Norman
possessions of the British crown,) second class and fore cabin, 21_s._”
“‘London to Dieppe, return tickets available for fourteen days, second
class, 21_s._,’” sung out Ned, from the other Bradshaw.
And away they went, with Brussels, and Bangor, and the Manchester
Exhibition, and Plymouth and Glasgow, and the Isle of Man, and Margate
and Ramsgate, and the Isle of Wight; and then to Gibraltar and Malta
and New York, and all over the world. I sat and smoked my pipe, for
’twas no use trying to settle any thing; but presently, when they got
tired, we set to work and began to put down the figures. However, that
wasn’t much better, for there were such a lot of tours to go; and one
was a bit too short, and the other too long, and this cost too much,
and that too little; so all the beer was gone, and we were no nearer
settling any thing when eleven o’clock struck.
“Well,” said Jem, getting up and knocking the ashes out of his third
pipe, “I declare it’s almost as good as going a tour one’s self,
settling it for Dick here.”
“I just wish you had settled it,” said I; “I’m more puzzled than when
we began.”
“Heigh-ho, fellows never know when they’re well off,” said Neddy; “now
I never get a chance. In my holiday I just go down to the old folk at
Romford, and there I stick.”
“They don’t indeed,” said I; “I wonder to hear you talk like that,
Ned. Some folks would give all they’re worth to have old folk to go to.”
“Well, I didn’t mean it,” said he, looking hurt. And I don’t believe he
did, for a kinder hearted fellow don’t live; and I was half sorry I had
said what I did say.
“Further deliberation will be necessary,” said Jem, lighting his fourth
pipe; “we’ll come again to-morrow night; your bacchy’s nearly out,
Dick; lay in some bird’s eye for to-morrow; real Bristol, do you hear?”
“Time to go, I suppose,” said Ned, getting up and gathering the
Bradshaws and atlas together; “are we to come again to-morrow, Dick?”
“To-morrow, didst thou say? methought I heard Horatio say to-morrow.
Go to; it is a thing of naught,” and Jem clapped on his hat and began
ranting in his way; so I broke in--
“I wish you’d hold that noise, and talk sense,” said I.
“Shakspeare!” said Jem, stopping short and pulling up his collar.
“Gammon!” said Neddy, bursting out laughing.
“That’s right, Neddy,” said I; “he’s always going off with some of his
nonsense, and calling it poetry.”
“I didn’t say it was poetry, did I?” said Jem.
“What is it then?” said I.
“Blank verse,” said he.
“What’s the difference?” said I.
“Go up the mill-dam, fall down slam, dat poetry; go up the mill-dam,
fall down whoppo’, dat plank verse,” said he. “Go along nigger--had
him dere, nigger,” and he turned in his knees and grinned, like one of
those poor beggars who black their faces and go about the streets with
red striped trowsers, white ties, and banjos.
“You ought to be a nigger yourself, Jem,” said I, “and I should just
like to have the driving of you. There, tumble out with you; it’s time
for steady folks to turn in.”
So I turned them out and held the candle, while they floundered down
stairs, that wretch, Jem, singing, “There’s some ’un in de house wid
Dinah,” loud enough to be heard at the Foundling. I was glad to hear my
landlady catch him at the bottom of the stairs, and give it him well
about “a respectable house,” and “what she was used to with her gents,”
while she opened the door; only I don’t see what right she had to give
it me all over again next morning at breakfast, and call Jem Fisher a
wild young man, and bad company, because that’s just what he isn’t,
only a little noisy sometimes. And as if I’m not to have who I please
up to my room without her interfering! I pay my rent regular every
month, I know. However, I didn’t mind much what she said at breakfast
time, because I had got a letter from the country. I don’t get a letter
once a month, and it’s very odd this one should have come on this very
morning, when I was puzzling where to go for my holiday; and I dare say
you’ll think so too, when I tell you what it was about. Let’s see--here
it is in my pocket, so you shall have it whole:--
“Elm Close Farm, Berks, August 31, 1857.
“DEAR DICK,--You know you owe me a visit, for you’ve never been
down here, often as I’ve asked you, since we was at school
together--and I have been up to you four or five times. Now,
why I particularly want you to come this month is, because
we’ve got some sport to show you down in these quiet parts,
which don’t happen every day. You see there’s an old White
Horse cut out in the side of the highest hill hereabouts, (a
regular break-neck place it is, and there ain’t three men in
the country as’ll ride along the hill-side under the Horse,)
and many folks sets a good deal of store by it, and seems to
think the world’d come to an end if the horse wasn’t kept all
straight. May be I’m a bit of that mind myself--anyhow you’ll
see by the paper inside what’s going on; and being a scholar,
may be you’ll know about the White Horse, and like to come down
to a scouring. And I can tell you it will be good fun; for I
remember the last, when I was quite a little chap, before I
went to school, and I’ve never seen such games since. You’ve
only got to write and say what train you’ll come by, and I’ll
meet you at the Farringdon-road station in my trap. So, as I
ain’t much of a penman, excuse mistakes, and remember me to
Fisher and the others I met at your place; and no more at
present from yours truly.
“JOSEPH HURST.
“P. S.--You must stay as long as you can, and I’ll mount you on
my young bay colt to see a cub killed.”
I shouldn’t print Joe’s letter whole, (and as it is I’ve put a good
deal of the spelling right,) only I’m quite sure he’ll never read this
book, and I hope it may serve as a warning to young fellows to keep up
their learning when they go and settle down in the country. For when
Joe left the Commercial Academy at Brentford, he could write just as
good English as I, and if he had put “many folks seems to think,” or
“you’ve only got to write,” in a theme, old Hopkins would have given
him a good caning. But nothing wears out learning so quick as living
in the country and farming, and Joe came into his farm when he was
nineteen, and has been at it ever since. And after all, perhaps, it
doesn’t much signify, because nobody makes himself better understood
than Joe, in one way or another; and if he wasn’t a little behindhand
in his grammar, he wouldn’t think much of me perhaps--and one don’t
mind being taken for a scholar, even by those who are not the best
judges in the world.
Well, thinks I to myself, as I finished my breakfast, this seems like
business. If I go down to Joe’s, and stay there all my holiday, the
fares will be only seventeen shillings; and, say a pound for expenses
down there; one pound seventeen shillings, say two pounds in all. I
shall put three pounds into my pocket, and please an old friend, which
will be much better than any thing Jem Fisher and little Neddy Baily
will hit out for me in a week from the end of Bradshaw. Besides, it
will look well to be able to talk of going to a friend in Berkshire.
I’ll write to Joe, and say I’ll be with him in good time on the 15th.
So I went down to the office and told Jem Fisher and little Neddy, that
I had made up my mind to go and see my old friend Joe, in Berkshire,
before they had had time to get their office coats on.
“What? that jolly fellow with the brown face and red whiskers,” said
Jem, “who came up and slept in your room last Christmas cattle-show,
and wanted to fight the cabman for a gallon of beer, who charged him
half-a-crown from Baker Street to Gray’s Inn Lane?”
“Yes,” said I, “that’s the man.”
“I remember him well,” said Neddy; “and I’m sure you’ll have a good
time of it if you go to see him. But, I say, how about supper to-night?
You won’t want us and the Bradshaws any more, eh?”
“Oh, he isn’t going to get out of it like that,” said Jem, as he
settled to his desk, and got his work out. “I say, Dick, you’re not
going to be off now, are you? I know better.”
“I never was on that I know of,” said I; “however, I don’t mind
standing supper at the Cheshire Cheese; but I won’t have you fellows
up in my room again to-night, kicking up a row on the stairs. No! just
catch me at it!”
So I gave them a supper that night, and another the night after I came
back from my holiday.
They seemed just the same, but how different I felt. Only two short
weeks had passed, but I was as much changed as if it had been ten
years. I had found something which I never could get rid of, day or
night, and which kept me always in a fret and a struggle. What a life
I led with it! Sometimes it cast me down and made me ready to hang
myself; and then, again, it would lift me up, and seem to fill me with
warmth and sunshine. But, somehow, even when I was at the worst, if an
enchanter had come and offered to wipe it all out, and to put me back
just where I was the night before my holiday, I should have said “No;”
and at all other times I felt that it was the most precious part of my
life. What was it? Ah, what was it? Some of you will smile, and some
of you will sneer, when you find out, as you will (if you don’t skip)
before you get to the end of my story. And I can’t see the least reason
why I should help you to it a minute sooner.