Next morning I got up early, for I wasn’t quite easy in my mind about
riding Joe’s old horse, and so I thought I would just go round and
look at him, and ask the fogger something about his ways. It was a
splendid morning, not a cloud to be seen. I found the fogger strapping
away at the horses. Everybody had been up and about since daylight, to
get their day’s work done, so that they might get away early to the
pastime. All the cows had been milked and turned out again, and Joe was
away in the fields, looking after his men.
I stood beating about the bush for some time, for I didn’t want to let
the man see what I was thinking of if I could help it. However, when he
brought out the old brown horse to clean him down, I went up and patted
him, and asked whether he was a good saddle horse.
[Illustration]
“Ees, there warn’t much fault to find wi’ un,” said the fogger,
stopping his hissing and rubbing for a moment, “leastways for them as
didn’t mind a high goer.”
I didn’t quite know what he meant by a high goer, so I asked him if the
brown was up to my weight.
“Lor’ bless ’ee, ees. He’d make no account o’ vivteen stun. Be you to
ride un up the hill, Sir, make so bold?” said he.
“Yes, at least I think so,” said I.
“Hev ’ee got arra loose tooth, Sir?” said he, grinning.
“No,” said I, “why?”
“’Cause he’ll be as likely as not to shake un out for ’ee, Sir, if you
lets un hev his head up on the downs.”
I didn’t like this account of the brown horse, for as I hadn’t ridden
much, he might take his head perhaps whether I let him have it or not.
So I made up my mind not to ride. I thought I would go behind in the
four-wheel, for I didn’t like to leave Miss Lucy all alone with the
Parson for so long; but then I found out that one of the carter-boys
was to go behind to look after the horses, and I didn’t choose to be
put up side by side with him, to look ridiculous. There was a big
wagon going up, too, full of the farm servants, but that didn’t seem to
suit me any better, so I settled with myself that I would just start
and walk up.
Joe, luckily for me, thought he had settled every thing, and so at
breakfast said nothing more about the old horse; though I was afraid
he would every minute, and then I should have had to pretend I was
going to ride, or they might have found out that I didn’t quite like
the notion. I was very glad when I saw him fairly off after breakfast,
cantering away on the chestnut; and, very soon afterwards, I took a
good stout stick of Joe’s in my hand, put my note-book in my pocket,
and started off quietly by myself.
At first as I walked along I didn’t enjoy myself much for thinking of
the four-wheel, and I was almost getting jealous of the Parson again.
But I soon got over it, when I remembered how kind he had been the
night before. And I felt, too, that if he really was making up to her
there was very little chance for me, so I had better make up my mind
anyhow to see and enjoy every thing I could. I don’t think I was very
much in love at the time; if it had been a week later I should have
found it much harder perhaps.
I kept along the shady side of the road, for it was getting hot
already, and crossed the canal, and kept making up towards the hills.
I wasn’t sure of the way, but I knew that if once I got up the hill I
should find the Ridgeway, and could follow it all the way up to the
Castle. After a bit I fell in with groups of people, all going the same
way; and so, following on with them, after about an hour’s walk, I came
to the foot of the hills; and found a pretty little inn, standing back
from the road, nestled into a plantation, where everybody else seemed
to be stopping; and so I stopped too, and sat down on the bench before
the door to have a glass of beer before facing the pull up to the top.
In front of the door was an oak tree, and under the tree a big stone
with some curious holes in it, into which pieces of wood were fitted,
secured by a padlock and chain. I was wondering what it could be, when
the landlord came out with some of his guests, and pulling out a key
unlocked the padlock, and took the pieces of wood out of the holes.
Then there was some talk between the young men and their sweethearts,
and first one and then another stooped down and blew into the hole at
the top, and the stone made a dull moaning sound, unlike any thing I
had ever heard. The landlord told me that when it was well blown on a
still day, it could be heard for four or five miles, and I should think
it could; for I left them blowing away when I started again, and heard
the sound every now and then until I was close up to the Castle, though
the wind blew from the south, and down the hill.
I should think a dozen parties, in all sorts of odd go-carts and other
vehicles, or on foot, must have passed the Blowing-Stone in the ten
minutes which I spent on the bench. So I got quite eager to be up at
the Castle, and paid for my beer and started again. It is a very long
stiff pull up Blowing-Stone Hill, and the road is not a very good
one; so I soon began to pass the gigs and carts, most of which had
to stop every hundred yards or so, to let the horses and donkeys get
their wind. Half-way up, in the worst part of the hill, I found an old
huckstering woman and a boy in great trouble. They had a little cart
laden with poles and boards for a stall, and two great sacks of nuts
and sweet-stuff; and only one donkey in the shafts, who had got one
wheel of the cart into a deep chalk rut, and stood there like a post.
The woman and boy were quite beat with dragging at his head, and trying
to lift the wheel out of the rut, and as I came up she was “fairly
giving out.”
“Lawk-a-massy! how ever be I to scawt[29] up? Do’ee lend a help,
there’s a good soul,” said she to me.
Well, I couldn’t go by and leave her there, though I didn’t half like
having to stop; so I helped to lift the wheel out, and then we pushed
the cart up a few yards, and the old donkey tried to sidle it into
another rut, and we had another fight with him. My blood got up at his
obstinacy; I don’t believe there ever was another such a donkey in the
world; so the more he backed and sidled, the more I and the old woman
and the boy fought. And then the people that passed us began to laugh
and joke at us, and I got very angry at them, and the old woman, and
everybody; but I set my teeth, and made up my mind to get him up to the
top if I stayed there all day.
I should think we must have been nearly half an hour at work, and had
got on about three hundred yards or so, when a fine dog-cart on high
wheels came up. I heard the gentlemen in it talking and laughing as
they came near us; but I didn’t look up, and kept working away at the
donkey, for I was afraid they would only joke at us.
“Oh deary me, deary me, Master Gaarge, be that you?” I heard the old
woman call out; “now do’ee stop some o’ the chaps, and tell ’em to
help. I be nigh caddled to death wi’ this drattled old jackass--oh
dear, oh dear!”
“Why, Betty! what in the world are you after?” said a merry voice,
which I thought I had heard before; and, looking up, I saw the young
gentleman who had promised me the song.
“Oh, you see, Master Gaarge, I thought as I might turn a honest penny
if I could only win up to the pastime wi’ some nuts and brandy-balls.
So I loaned neighbour Tharne’s cart as he fetches coals from the canal
wi’, and his ass--and if ’twas Balaam’s ass hisself he couldn’t be no
wus--and here I be; and if it hadn’t a been for this kind gentleman”--
“Well, stop your talk, Betty, and take hold of his head,” said he,
jumping out of his dog-cart and giving the reins to the one who was
beside him. “Ah, good morning,” nodding to me, as he came to the back
of the cart, “now then, with a will! shove away!”
So we shoved the cart hard against the donkey’s legs. “Don’t pull,
Betty, let him have his head; just keep hold of the reins. Look out,
boy; stop him making for the ditch;” and away went Master Neddy
scrambling up hill, for he found that the cart was coming over his back
if he didn’t move on. Master George was as strong as a ballast heaver,
and the donkey seemed to find it out quick enough, for we were up the
hill in no time.
“Bless your kind heart, Master Gaarge!” almost sobbed the old woman; “I
be all straight now. Do’ee hev summat to suck now, or some nuts, and
this kind gentleman too; you allus wur fond o’ suck;” and she began
untying the neck of one of her sacks.
“Oh, Betty, you wicked old lone woman!” said he, “haven’t you made me
ill often enough with your nastinesses fifteen years ago?”
“Dwont’ee, now, call ’em names, Master Gaarge.”
“Good-bye, Betty, and make haste up to the Castle before all the small
boys are poisoned. I can give you a lift, Sir,” said he to me, “if
you’ll jump up behind.”
I thanked him, and got up behind, by the side of one of the other young
gentlemen, who I thought didn’t seem much to like having me there; and
I felt very pleased, as we bowled along the Ridgeway, passing all the
people who had been laughing at me and the donkey, that they should see
that I was in such good company, and should be up at the Castle before
any of them.
The whole Ridgeway was alive with holiday folk, some walking with
their coats and bonnets off, some in great wagons, some in all sorts
of strange vehicles, such as I had never seen before (many of which
Master George declared had been impressed by Alfred’s commissariat
and hospital staff, in his wars against the Danes, when they were
strong young traps); but from one and all there rose up a hum of broad
Berkshire, and merry laughter, as we shot by them. Sometimes a yeoman
in his gig, or on his stout hackney, would try to keep up with us, or
to stop us from passing him, but Master George was a reckless driver,
and somehow or another, galloping or trotting, on the right side or the
wrong, he _would_ pass; so in about ten minutes we had got over the two
miles of downs, and were close up to the Castle.
Here the first thing I saw was Joe, with two other farmers, carrying a
lot of little white and pink flags, and measuring ground.
“Please put me down, Sir,” said I, “there’s my friend.”
“Ah, yes,” said Master George, pulling up, “I see--you’re staying
with Farmer Hurst. Well, I’m much obliged to you for helping poor old
Betty--she’s a good struggling old widow body in our village; I’ve
known her ever since I could walk and suck. Good morning, Mr. Hurst;
likely to be a good muster to-day.”
“Mornin’, Sir,” said Joe, touching his hat, “I think so--there’s a
smart lot of folk in the Castle already.”
“Well, I hope we may meet again,” said Master George to me, “I won’t
forget the song for you,”--and away he drove towards the Castle.
“Why, Dick man, where’s the old horse?” said Joe, looking as if I had
come from the moon.
“Oh, I walked,” said I, “I prefer it, when I have time.”
“Come own it, Dick,” said he, “thou wast ashamed of the old horse’s
long rough coat--I didn’t think thou hadst been such a dandy.”
“Upon my honour it was nothing of the sort,” said I, glad enough that
he wasn’t on the right scent.
“And how did you get along with one of our young squires?” said he.
“Oh, he offered me a lift,” said I; and then I told him my story.
“Well, you always seem to fall on your legs,” said he; “who are they
with him?”
“Oxford scholars, I think,” said I, “from their talk; but I didn’t get
on much with them, they’re not so free spoken as he is. But what are
you about here, Joe?”
“Oh, helping the umpires to measure out the course for the cart-horse
race; look, there are the flags right along for half a mile, and the
finish is to be up there by the side of the Castle, for all the folk to
see. But come along, for I must be after the umpires; I see they want
me.”
“I think,” said I, “I should like to go and see what’s going on in the
Castle.”
“Very good,” said he, “then I’ll look after you when we’ve done this
job;” and away he went.
I wouldn’t take time to go round by either of the entrances, but made
straight across to the nearest point of the great earthworks, and
scrambled over the outer bank, and down into the deep ditch, and up the
inner bank, and stood there on the top, looking down on all the fun
of the fair; for fair it was already, though it was very little past
eleven o’clock in the morning.
There was the double line of booths and stalls which I had seen putting
up the day before, making a long and broad street, and all decked out
with nuts and apples, and ginger-bread, and all sorts of sucks and
food, and children’s toys, and cheap ribbons, knives, braces, straps,
and all manner of gaudy-looking articles. Opposite, on the north side,
all the shows had got their great pictures up of the wonders which
were to be seen inside, and the performers were strutting about on
the stages outside, and before one of them an acrobat was swinging
backwards and forwards on the slack rope, and turning head over heels
at the end of each swing. And every show had its own music, if it were
only a drum and pan pipes, and all the musicians were playing, as loud
as they could play, different tunes. Then, on the east side, were the
great booths of the publicans, all decked out now with flowers and
cheap flags, with their skittle-grounds behind; and lots of gypsies,
and other tramps, with their “three sticks a penny,” and other games.
The west side was only occupied, as I said before, by the great white
tent of the County Police, where the Committee were sitting, and Lord
Craven’s tents some way in front; but these looked pretty and gay now,
for they had hoisted some good flags; and there in the middle stood
the great ugly stage, and the greasy pole. The whole space was filled
with all sorts of people, from ladies looking as if they had just come
from Kensington Gardens, down to the ragged little gypsy children, with
brown faces and brick-coloured hair, all moving about, and looking very
much as if they were enjoying themselves. So after looking a minute, I
got down into the crowd, and set to work to see every thing I could.
I hadn’t been pushing about amongst the rest above five minutes, when
two men stopped close by me, one (who was the Wantage crier, I found
out afterwards) with his hand full of papers, and the other carrying a
gong, which he began to beat loud enough to deafen one. When the crowd
had come round him, the crier began, and I should think he might have
been heard at Elm Close:--
“Oh yes! oh yes! by order of the Committee, all persons who mean to
play for prizes, must enter their names on the umpires’ lists. Oh yes!
oh yes! the umpires’ lists are open in the tent, and names may be
entered from now till half-past twelve. Oh yes! a list of the umpires
for the different games and sports may be seen on the board outside the
tent-door. God save the Queen!”
As soon as he had done, he and the man with the gong went off to
another part of the Castle, but I could see some of the men and boys,
who had been standing round, sidling off towards the great tent to
enter for some of the games, as I guessed. So I followed across the
Castle to the space in front of the tent.
I could see, through the entrance, two or three of the Committee
sitting at a table, with paper and pens and ink before them; and every
now and then, from the little groups which were standing about, some
man would make a plunge in, and go up to the table; and, after a word
or two with them, would enter his name on one or more of the lists, and
then come out, sometimes grinning, but generally looking as if he were
half ashamed of himself. I remarked more and more through the day what
a shy, shamefaced fellow the real countryman was, while the gypsies
and racing boys and tramps, who entered for the races, but not for the
backsword or wrestling prizes, were all as bold as brass, and stood
chattering away to the Committee-men, till they were almost ordered out
of the tent.
I sat down on the turf outside the tent to watch; for I felt very
much interested in the games, and liked to see the sort of men who
came to enter. There were not many very stout or tall men amongst
them; I should say they averaged about eleven stone in weight, and
five feet eight inches in height; but they looked a very tough race;
and I could quite believe, while looking at them, what Joe told me
one day--“Though there’s plenty of quicker men, and here and there
stronger ones, scarce any man that ever comes down our way--either at
navigator’s work or loafing about, like the gypsies and tramps--can
ever come up to our chaps in _last_, whether at fighting or working.”
There was one man amongst them who struck me particularly, I suppose
because he wore a Crimean medal with four clasps, and went quite lame
on a crutch. I found out his history. Old Mattingly, the blacksmith of
Uffington, had three sons when the Russian war broke out. They all went
for soldiers. The first was shot through the hand, as that gray, deadly
dawn broke over Inkermann, on the 5th of November, 1854. Had he gone to
the rear he would probably have lived. He fought till the last Russian
vanished along the distant road, and over the bridge heaped with slain,
like a gallant Berkshire lad--and then went to hospital and died of his
wounds within a week. The second lies before Sebastopol in the advanced
trenches of the right attack. The third, the young artilleryman, went
through the whole war, and after escaping bayonet and shot and shell,
was kicked by the horse of a wounded officer, and probably lamed for
life. According to the rules of the service, my informant seemed to
think, he was not entitled to a pension for life, “but they had given
him one for eighteen months after his discharge, so that he had almost
a year of it to run; and perhaps he might learn blacksmith-work in that
time, if he could stand at all, for that was mostly arm-work.”
I didn’t know what the regulations as to pensions were, or how long
young Mattingly would take to learn blacksmith-work, but I did feel
rather ashamed that England couldn’t afford to do a little more for
such as he; and should be glad for my part to pay something towards it,
if the Chancellor of the Exchequer, or somebody, would find out a way
to set this right. Or perhaps if this should ever meet the eye of the
Commander-in-Chief, or of any of the gentlemen who were made K.C.B’s in
the war-time, or of any other person who has interest in the army, they
may see whether any thing more can be done for young Mattingly.
Many of the younger ones I could see hadn’t made up their minds whether
or no they should enter, and were larking and pushing one another
about; and I saw several good trials of strength, and got an idea of
what the wrestling was like before the lists were closed.
“Bi’st in for young geamsters prize at wrastlin’, shepherd?” asked
a young carter with his hat full of ribbons, of a tight-made,
neatly-dressed fellow, who had already won a second prize, I heard, at
his village revel.
The shepherd nodded.
“Mose, mun,” went on the carter, “thee shouldst go in. Thee bi’st big
enough.”
Moses was an overgrown, raw-boned fellow, of about eighteen, in a short
smock-frock and a pair of very dilapidated militia-trousers. He had
been turning the matter over in his own mind for some time, and now,
after looking the shepherd over for a minute, pulled his great hands
out of his pockets, hunched up his shoulders, and grunted out--
“’Zay! Try a file[30] wi’ thee, shepherd.”
The bystanders all cheered. Moses, the militiaman, was rather a joke to
them. The shepherd looked scornful, but was ready to try a file; but
he stipulated that Mose must borrow some shoes instead of his great,
iron-clouted high-lows, (no man is allowed to wrestle, I found, with
any iron on his shoes.)
This seemed likely to stop the fun. Moses pulled off his high-lows,
and appeared in sinkers,[31] at which everybody roared; but no shoes
were to be had. Then he offered to wrestle without shoes; but at last
a pair were found, and Moses advanced with his great hands stretched
out towards the shepherd, who, not deigning to take one hand out of his
pocket, caught Mose’s elbow with the other. After one or two awkward
attempts, and narrowly escaping some well-meant trips, Mose bored in;
and before the shepherd could seize the militiaman’s collar with his
second hand, over he went, and Mose was proclaimed winner of a file,
amid shouts of laughter. Then they buckled to again, the shepherd doing
his best; but somehow Mose managed to keep his legs; and when they went
down, both fell on their sides, and it was only a dog-fall.
In another minute I saw the militiaman in the tent before the table.
“Plaze, Sur, put down Moses Tilling--young geamster--wrastlin’.”
After watching the tent till the lists were just closing, I started
off to see if I could find Miss Lucy, who ought to have been up by
this time, and to get something to eat before the sports began. The
luncheon I managed easily enough, for I went over to the great booth in
which I had dined the day before, and sat down at the long table, where
Peter welcomed me, and soon gave me as much as I could eat and drink.
But when I had finished, and went out to look for my friends, I found
it a very difficult business, and no wonder, for there were more than
20,000 people up on the Hill.
First I went to the outside of the Castle, where all the carriages were
drawn up in long rows, to see if I could find the four-wheel amongst
them. As I was poking about, I came close to a fine open carriage,
and hearing a shout of merry laughter, looked up. There were a party
at lunch; two ladies and some quite young girls inside, some boys on
the box, and several gentlemen standing round, holding bottles and
sandwiches; and they were all eating and drinking, and laughing at an
old gypsy woman, who was telling the fortune of one of the ladies.
“Love’ll never break your heart, my pretty lady,” said the old woman;
“let the Norwood gypsy see your hand, my pretty lady.”
The lady held out her right hand, and the little girls glanced at the
lady, and one another, brimming with fun.
“It’s the other hand the gypsy ought to see. Ah, well, then, never
mind,” she went on, as the lady looked quietly in her face, without
moving a muscle, “the old Norwood gypsy can read it all in your eyes.
There’s a dark gentleman, and a light gentleman, who’ll both be coming
before long; there’ll be sore hearts over it, but the richest will win
before a year’s out--” Here the girls clapped their hands, and burst
into shouts, and the lady showed her other hand with a wedding-ring on,
and went on quietly with her lunch.
“Ah! I never said she wasn’t married!” said the gipsy to the girls,
who only laughed the more. I had got quite close up to the carriage,
and at this moment caught the eye of the lady, who was laughing too;
then I felt awkward all at once, and as if I was where I had no right
to be. But she didn’t look the least annoyed, and I was passing on,
when I saw that Mr. Warton was amongst the gentlemen on the other side
of the carriage. “Ah,” thought I, “I wonder if he’ll know me now he’s
with his fine friends?” But the next minute I was ashamed of myself
for doubting, for I heard him wish them good-bye, and before I was ten
yards from the carriage, he put his arm in mine.
“Well, you never rode after all,” he began.
“No, Sir,” said I. “But where are they? I haven’t seen Joe this two
hours.”
“Oh, not far off,” said he; “feeding, like the rest of us.”
And further down the line we found Joe, and Miss Lucy, and several
friends of theirs, lunching on the turf by the four-wheel. So we sat
down with them, but I didn’t half like the way in which Miss Lucy was
running on with two young farmers, one on each side of her. She told
me afterwards that she had known them ever since they were children
together, but somehow that didn’t seem to me to mend the matter much.
And then again, when Joe got up, and said it was time to move, for the
sports would be just beginning, nothing would serve her but to walk
off to Wayland Smith’s cave. I wonder whether she did it a little bit
to provoke me; for she knew that I had been to see it the day before,
and that I wanted particularly to see all the sports. But I don’t think
it could have been that after all, for when I said I should stay with
Joe, she was just as pleasant as ever, and didn’t seem to mind a bit
whether I or any one else went with her or not.
I am afraid I shall make a very poor hand at telling about the sports,
because I couldn’t be in five or six places at once; and so I was kept
running about, from the stage in the middle of the Castle out on to
the downs to see the cart-horse race, and then back again into the
Castle for the jingling match, and then out on the other side to the
manger for the cheese races, and so on backwards and forwards; seeing
the beginning of one sport, and the end of another, and the middle of
a third. I wish the Committee would let the sports begin earlier, and
then one might be able to see them all. However I must do the best I
can, and just put down what I saw myself.
The first move for the sports was made a little before one, just as
I got back into the Castle, after seeing Miss Lucy start for Wayland
Smith’s cave. The Committee came out of their tent in a body, each
man carrying the lists of the entries for the sports over which he
was to preside. But instead of going different ways, each to his own
business, they walked across in a body to the stage, and stopped just
underneath it, in the middle of a great crowd of men and boys; and then
they shouted for silence, and the chairman spoke:--
“We wish to say a few words, my men, to those who are going to play
with the sticks or wrestle to-day. There has been a good deal of talk
about these sports, as you all know; and many persons think they
shouldn’t be allowed at all now-a-days--that the time for them has
gone by. They say, that men always lose their tempers and get brutal
at these sports. We have settled, however, to give the old-fashioned
games a fair trial; and it will rest with yourselves whether we shall
ever be able to offer prizes for them again. For, depend upon it, if
there is any savage work to-day, if you lose your tempers, and strike
or kick one another unfairly, you will never see any more wrestling or
backsword on White Horse Hill. But we are sure we can trust you, and
that there won’t be any thing to find fault with. Only remember again,
you are on your trial, and the stage will be cleared at once, and no
prizes given, if any thing objectionable happens. And now, you can put
to as soon as you like.”
The Committee then marched off, leaving a very large crowd round the
stage, all eager for the play to begin.
The two umpires got up on to the stage, and walked round, calling out,
“Two old gamesters at backsword, and two old gamesters at wrastlin’,
wanted to put to.” But I suppose the chairman’s speech had rather taken
the men by surprise, for no one came forward, though there was a crowd
twenty deep round the stage.
“Who are the old gamesters?” I asked of the man next me.
“Them as has won or shared a first prize at any revel,” answered he,
without looking round.
After a minute the chairman’s brother, who didn’t seem to have much
scruple about these sports, jumped up on the stage, and blew an old
French hunting-horn, till the young ones began to laugh; and then told
the men not to be afraid to come up, for if they didn’t begin at once
there wouldn’t be light to play out the ties.
At last there was a stir amongst the knot of Somersetshire men, who
stood together at one corner of the stage; and one of them, stepping
up, pitched on to it his stumpy black hat, and then climbed up after it
himself, spoke a word to the umpires, and began handling the sticks, to
choose one which balanced to his mind, while the umpires proclaimed,
“An old gamester wanted, to play with John Bunn of Wedmore.”
“There he stands, you see,” said Master George, who was close by me,
though I hadn’t seen him before, “the only remaining representative of
the old challenger at tourneys ready to meet all comers. He ought to
have a herald to spout out his challenge in verse. Why not?”
“I don’t know what he could say more than the umpire has, Sir,” said I.
“He might blow his own trumpet at any rate,” said he; “somehow thus;”
and he repeated, after a false start or two,--
THE ZONG OF THE ZUMMERZETSHIRE OWLD GEAMSTER.
I.
“Cham[32] a Zummerzetshire mun
Coom her to hev a bit o’vun.
Oo’lt[33] try a bout? I be’ant aveard
Ov any man or mother’s zun.
II.
“Cham a geamster owld and tough,
Well knowed droo all the country zide,
And many a lusty Barkshire man
To break my yead hev often tried.
III.
“Who’s vor a bout o vriendly plaay,
As never should to anger move?
Zich spwoorts wur only meaned vor thaay
As likes their mazzards broke for love.”
John Bunn looked by no means a safe man to play with. He stood about
five feet eleven, with spare long muscular limbs, a sallow complexion,
and thick shock head of black hair,--a good defence in itself against
any common blow of a stick. But now that the ice was broken, his
challenge was soon answered; and George Gregory, of Stratton, one of
the best mowers in the Vale, appeared to uphold the honour of Berks
and Wilts. He stood half a head shorter than his opponent, but was,
probably, the stronger man of the two, and had a sturdy and confident
look, which promised well, and was fair-haired, and, like David,
ruddy to look upon.
[Illustration]
While they were taking off coats and waistcoats, and choosing sticks,
two wrestlers got up on the stage, and showed the shoes in which they
were going to wrestle to the umpires, for approval; and stood at the
ropes, ready to begin as soon as the first bout at backsword was over.
The crowd drew a long breath, while Bunn and Gregory came forward,
shook hands; and then throwing up their guards, met in the middle of
the stage.
At the first rattle of the sticks, the crowd began cheering again,
and pressed in closer to the stage; and I with them, for it was very
exciting, _that_ I felt at once. The coolness and resolution in the
faces of the two men, as they struck and parried with those heavy
sticks, trying all the points of each other’s play in a dozen rapid
exchanges; the skill and power which every turn of the wrist showed;
and the absolute indifference with which they treated any chance blow
which fell on arm or shoulder, made it really a grand sight; and with
all my prejudices I couldn’t help greatly admiring the players. “Bout,”
cried Bunn, after a minute or so, and down came their guards, and they
walked to the side of the stage to collect coppers from the crowd below
in the baskets of their sticks, while the two first wrestlers put to in
the middle.
I suppose there are more unsettled points in wrestling, or it is harder
to see whether the men are playing fair, for the crowd was much more
excited now than at the backsword play, a hundred voices shouting to
the umpires every moment to stop this or that practice. Besides, the
kicking, which is allowed at elbow and collar wrestling, makes it look
brutal very often; and so I didn’t like it so much as the backsword
play, though the men were fine, good-tempered fellows, and, when most
excited, only seemed to want what they called “fair doos.”
I stopped by the stage until Gregory had lost his head. How it happened
I couldn’t see, but suddenly the umpires cried out “Blood!” The men
stopped; Gregory put up his hand to his hair, found that the blood was
really coming, and then dropped his stick and got down, quite as much
surprised as I was. And two more old gamesters were called up, the
first head being to Somersetshire.
But now I heard that the cart-horse race was just coming off, and so
following the crowd, made my way across to the east of the Castle.
I scrambled up to the highest part of the bank, and so got a capital
view of the scene below. The course was marked out all the way down
to the starting-post by rows of little pink and white flags, and the
Committee-men were riding slowly up and down, trying to get the people
to keep back behind the flags. The line was, on the whole, pretty
well kept; but as the crowd got thicker every minute, every now and
then a woman with two or three children would wander out to escape
the pressure from behind; or a young couple keeping company would run
across, hoping to better their position; or a lot of uproarious boys
would start out for a lark, to try the tempers, and very possibly the
whips, of the Committee.
Joe presently rode by the place where I was standing, and called out to
me to come down and see the mounting. So I slipped out of the crowd,
and ran down the back of the line to the starting-place. There I found
the Squire and the umpires, passing the men and horses. Five or six
were all ready; the great horses in their thill harness, which jingled
and rattled with every movement; and the carters perched up in the
middle of the wood and leather and brass, in their white smock-frocks,
with the brims of their break-of-days turned up in front, and a bunch
of ribbons fluttering from the side, and armed with the regular long
cart-whip. Just as I came up, Mr. Avery Whitfield’s bay horse, “King of
the Isle,” was passed, and took his place with the others. He was one
of the three favourites, I heard people say.
“Call the next horse.”
“Mr. Davenport’s gray mare, Dairymaid,” shouts the umpire. Here she
comes with old Joe Humphries, the jockey and horse breaker, on her
back. He is in full jockey costume--cap, jacket, and tops, with a
racing whip and spurs. The umpires look doubtfully at him, and consult
the Squire. At first they seem inclined not to let Joe ride at all, but
as the owners of the other horses don’t object, they only insist on his
taking off his spurs and changing his whip for a common long carter’s
whip. Then Dairymaid is passed, and then one other horse; eight in all.
Two of the Committee gallop down in front to clear the course for the
last time; the word “Off” is given; and away go the great steeds in
furious plunging gallop, making the whole hill shake beneath them, and
looking (as I heard one of the Oxford scholars remark) like a charge of
German knights in some old etching. Close after them came the umpires,
the Committee-men, and all the mounted farmers, cheering and shouting
pieces of advice to the riders; and the crowd, as they pass, shout and
wave their hats, and then rush after the horses. How everybody isn’t
killed, and how those men can sit those great beasts in the middle of
that rattling mass of harness, were my puzzles, as I scrambled along
after the rest.
Meantime, in the race, Dairymaid shoots at once some yards ahead,
and improves her lead at every stride; for she is a famous mare, and
old Joe Humphries understands the tricks of the course, and can push
her and lift her in ways unknown to the honest carters and foggers,
who come lumbering behind him--Joe even has time for a contemptuous
glance over his shoulder at his pursuers. But the race is not always
to the swift, at least not to those who are swiftest at starting.
Half-way up the course, Dairymaid ceases to gain; then she shows signs
of distress, and scarcely answers to Joe’s persuasions. “King of the
Isle” is creeping up to her--the carter shakes his bridle, and begins
to ply his long cart-whip--they are crossing the Ridgeway, where
stand the carter’s fellow-servants, Mr. Whitfield’s fogger, shepherd,
ploughboys, &c. who set up a shout as he passes, which sends the bay
right up abreast of the mare. No wonder they are excited, for the
master has promised that the three guineas, the price of the new thill
harness, shall be divided between them, if the bay wins.
In another fifty yards he is drawing ahead. All old Joe’s efforts are
in vain; his jockeyship has only done him harm, whereas the carter’s
knowledge of what his steed’s real powers are, has been the making of
him, and he rides in, brandishing his long cart-whip, an easy winner.
Dairymaid is second, but only just before the ruck; and old Joe creeps
away, let us hope, a humbler and a wiser man.
Of course I couldn’t see all this myself, because I was behind, but Joe
told me all about the race directly afterwards. When I got up there was
a great crowd round “King of the Isle,” from whose back the carter was
explaining something about the race. But I couldn’t stay to listen,
for I heard that the races for the “prime coated Berkshire fives” (as
they called the cheeses), were just coming off; so I hurried away to
the brow of the hill, just above the Horse, where it is steepest; for I
wanted of all things to see how men could run down this place, which I
couldn’t get up without using both hands.
There stood Mr. William Whitfield, of Uffington, the umpire who had
to start the race, in his broad-brimmed beaver, his brown coat and
waistcoat with brass buttons, and drab breeches and gaiters. I thought
him a model yeoman to look at, but I didn’t envy him his task. Two
wild-looking gypsy women, with their elf-locks streaming from under
their red handkerchiefs, and their black eyes flashing, were rushing
about amongst the runners, trying to catch some of their relations who
were going to run; and screaming out that their men should never break
their limbs down that break-neck place. The gypsies dodged about, and
kept out of their reach, and the farmer remonstrated, but the wild
women still persevered. Then, losing all patience, he would turn and
poise the wheel, ready to push it over the brow, when a shout from the
bystanders warns him to pause, and, a little way down the hill, just in
the line of the race, appear two or three giggling lasses, hauled along
by their sweethearts, and bent on getting a very good view. Luckily at
this moment the Chairman appeared, and rode his white horse down to the
front of the line of men, where there seemed to me to be footing for
nothing but a goat. Then the course was cleared for a moment, he moved
out of the line, making a signal to the farmer, who pushed the wheel
at once over the brow, and cried, “Off.” The wheel gained the road in
three bounds, cleared it in a fourth monster bound which measured forty
yards, and hurried down far away to the bottom of the manger, where the
other two umpires were waiting to decide who is the winner of the race.
[Illustration]
Away go the fourteen men in hot pursuit, gypsies, shepherds, and
light-heeled fellows of all sorts, helter-skelter; some losing their
foothold at once, and rolling or slipping down; some still keeping
their footing, but tottering at every step; one or two, with their
bodies well thrown back, striking their heels firmly into the turf,
and keeping a good balance. They are all in the road together, but
here several fall on their faces, and others give in; the rest cross
it in a moment, and are away down the manger. Here the sheep-walks,
which run temptingly along the sides of the manger, but if they would
look forward will take the runners very little nearer the bottom where
the wheel lies, mislead many; and amongst the rest, the fleetest of
the gypsies, who makes off at full speed along one of them. Two or
three men go still boldly down the steep descent, falling and picking
themselves up again; and Jonathan Legg, of Childrey, is the first of
these. He has now gained the flat ground at the bottom, where after
a short stagger he brings himself up, and makes straight for the
umpires and the wheel. The gypsy now sees his error; and turning short
down the hill, comes into the flat, running some twenty yards behind
Jonathan. In another hundred yards he would pass him, for he gains at
every stride; but it is too late; and we, at the top of the hill, cheer
loudly when we see Jonathan, the man who had gone straight all the way,
touch the wheel a clear ten yards before his more active rival.
I should have liked to have seen the boys’ races down the manger, but
was afraid of missing some other sport, so I left farmer Whitfield
at his troublesome post, shouting out the names of the boys and
trying to get them into line, and went back into the Castle, where I
found a crowd round the greased pole; and when I got up to it, saw a
heavy-looking fellow, standing some five feet up the pole, with one
foot in a noose of cord depending from a large gimlet, and the other
leg hooked round the pole. He held in his right hand another large
gimlet, which he was preparing to screw into the pole to support
a second noose, and gazed stolidly down at a Committee-man, who
was objecting “that this wasn’t fair climbing--that if gimlets and
nooses were to be allowed, he could get up himself.” I thought he was
right; but public feeling seemed to side with the climber; so the
Committee-man gave in, declaring that there would be no more legs of
mutton to climb for, if any thing but arms and legs were to be used.
“Rather a slow bit of sport this,” I said to an old gray-headed
man, who was leaning on his stick at my side, and staring up at the
performer.
“Ees, Zur,” answered he, “I dwon’t knaow but what it be.”
“Do you call it fair climbing, now?”
“Auh, bless’ee, not I. I minds seein’ the young chaps when I wur a
buoy, climin’ maypowls a deal higher nor that, dree at a time. But
now-a-days ’um be lazy, and afraid o’ spwiling their breeches wi’ the
grase.”
“Are there any maypoles about here now?”
“Never a one as I knows on, Zur, for twenty mile round. The last as I
remembers wur the Longcott one, and Parson Watts of Uffington had he
sawed up nigh forty year ago, for fear lest there should ha’ been some
murder done about ’un.”
“Murder about a maypole! Why, how was that?”
“Auh! you see, Zur, this here Longcott maypowl wur the last in all
these parts, and a wur the envy of a zight o’ villages round about. Zo,
one cluttery[34] night in November, thirty of our Ashbury chaps thay
started down to Longcott, and dug ’un up, and brought ’un cler away on
handspikes, all the waay to the Crown’d Inn at Ashbury, and ’tis quite
vour mil’d.”
“On handspikes! Why, how big was he, then?”
“Augh! a fyeightish sized ’un. How big? whoy a sight bigger, bless’ee,
nor that ’un, and all the bottom half on ’un solid oak. When thay cum
to put ’un up afore the bar winder of the Crown’d, a reached right
up auver the tops o’ the housen. But zoon arter a wur put up, the
Uffington chaps cum up, and tuk and carried ’un down ther’. Ther’ was a
smartish row or two about ’un at Uffington arter that, but they watched
’un night and day; and when the Lambourn chaps cum arter ’un one night,
they chucked scaldin’ water right auver’m. Zo then Parson Watts, he
tuk and sawed ’un up, and guv ’un to the owld women at Christmas for
virewood.”
I walked away from the pole, turning over in my mind whether Parson
Watts was right or wrong in his summary method of restoring peace to
his parish, and, somehow or other, found myself again close under the
stage. Now, and throughout the day, I found no flagging there; whenever
I passed there was the crowd of men standing round, and the old and
young gamesters hard at work. So I began to believe what Joe had said,
that the countrymen thought more about these games than any thing else,
and wouldn’t care to go to the pastime if they were stopped.
I found that the Ashbury men were carrying it all their own way in the
wrestling, and that their champion, old Richens (the rat-catcher, an
old gamester in his fiftieth year), would probably not even have to
wrestle at all; for his own men were throwing all the gamesters of the
other parishes, and of course would give up to him when it came to the
last ties. The men all wrestle in sides, at least the old gamesters do;
so that a man generally plays for his parish, and not for his own head,
which is a better thing, I think.
As to the backsword play, the stage was strewed with splinters of
sticks and pieces of broken baskets, and many a young gamester has had
his first broken head in public. But, for the chief prize, matters are
going hard with Berks and Wilts. The Somersetshire old gamesters have
won two heads to one; and, as they have six men in, and Berks and Wilts
only four, the odds are all in favour of the cider county, and against
the beer drinkers.
In good time up gets an old gamester, who looks like the man to do
credit to the royal county. It is Harry Seeley, of Shrivenham, the only
Berkshire man in; for there has been some difference between Berks and
Wilts, and Harry’s two mates haven’t entered at all. So he, being one
of the true bull-dog breed, is in for his own head, against all odds,
and is up to play the next Somersetshire man.
Harry is a fine specimen of an Englishman. Five feet eight high, with
a bullet head, and light blue eye; high-couraged, cool, and with an
absolutely imperturbable temper. He plays in a blue shirt, thin from
age and wear, through which you may see the play of his splendid arms
and chest. His opponent is a much younger man, about the same size; but
a great contrast to Harry, for he has a savage and sly look about him.
They shake hands, throw themselves into position, and the bout begins.
Harry is clearly the finer player, and his adversary feels this at
once; and the shouts of anticipated victory, in the Berkshire tongue,
rouse his temper.
Now comes a turn of the savage play, which ought never to be seen on a
stage. The Somerset man bends far back, and strikes upper cuts at the
face and arms, and then savagely at the body. He is trying to maim and
cow, and not to win by fair brave play. The crowd soon begin to get
savage too; upper-cutting is not thought fair in Berks and Wilts; a
storm begins to brew, hard words are bandied, and a cry of “Foul,” and
“Pull him down,” is heard more than once, and the Committee man, who
watches from below, is on the point of stopping the bout.
But nothing puts out old Harry Seeley; no upper cut can reach his face,
for his head is thrown well back, and his guard is like a rock; and
though the old blue shirt is cut through and through, he makes no more
of the welts of the heavy stick than if it were a cat’s tail. Between
the bouts his face is cheery and confident, and he tells his friends to
“hold their noise, and let him alone to tackle the chap,” as he hands
round his basket for the abounding coppers.
Now I could see well enough why the parsons don’t like these games.
It gave me a turn, to watch the faces round the stage getting savage,
and I could see what it might soon get to if there was much of this
wild work. And there were Master George, and the two Oxford scholars,
at the opposite corner of the stage, shouting till they were hoarse
for old Seeley, and as savage and wicked-looking as any of the men
round them; setting such a bad example, too, as I thought,--whereas it
didn’t matter for a fellow like me, who was nobody,--so I shouted, and
threw my coppers to old Seeley, and felt as wild as any of them, I do
believe. Three bouts, four bouts pass; Harry’s stick gets in oftener
and oftener. Has the fellow no blood in him? There it comes at last!
In the fifth bout, Harry’s stick goes flashing in again, a fair down
blow from the wrist, which puts the matter beyond all question, as the
Somersetshire man staggers back across the stage, the blood streaming
from under his hair. Loud are the shouts which greet the fine-tempered
old gamester, as he pulls on his velveteen coat, and gets down from the
stage.
“Why, Harry, thou’dst broke his yead second bout, mun, surely!” shout
his admirers.
“No,” says Harry, dogmatically, “you see, mates, there’s no ’cumulation
of blood belongs to thay cider-drinking chaps, as there does to we
as drinks beer. Besides, thay drinks vinegar allus for a week afore
playin’, which dries up most o’ the blood as they _has_ got; so it
takes a ’mazin’ sight of cloutin’ to break their yeads as should be.”
After this bout all the other play seemed to be tasteless; so,
promising myself to come back and see the ties played off, (unless
Miss Lucy turned up in the mean time, in which case I shouldn’t have
dared to go near the stage, and in fact I felt rather nervous already,
lest she should have seen or heard of me there,) I marched off, and
joined the crowd which was collecting round the jingling ring. That
crowd was one of the pleasantest sights of the whole day. The jingling
match seemed a very popular sport, especially with the women. There
they were, of all ranks--for I’m certain I saw some young ladies in
riding habits, and others in beautiful muslins, whom I, and Jem Fisher,
and little Neddy have often seen riding with very great people in
the Park, when we have managed to get down to Rotten Row on summer
evenings--seated on the grass or standing round the ring, in all sorts
of dresses, from fine silks down to cottons at 2_d._ a yard, and all
looking pleasant and good-tempered, and as if they were quite used to
being mixed up like this every day--which I’m sure I wish they were,
for my part, especially if the men were allowed to join in the crowd
too, as we were round the jingling ring. For there were gentlemen, both
parsons and others, and farmers, and ploughboys, and all manner of
other men and boys.
I don’t know what sort of fun a jingling match is in general, but
I thought this one much the slowest game I saw. The ring must have
been forty yards across, or thereabouts, and there were only eight
blindfolded men running after the bellman. To make it good fun, there
should have been twenty-five or thirty at least. Then the bellman, who
has his hands tied behind him, ought to have the bell tied round his
neck, or somewhere where he can’t get at it to stop the ringing; but
our bellman had the bell tied to his waistband behind, so that he could
catch hold of it with his hands, and stop it when he was in danger.
Then half the men could see, I’m sure, by the way they carried their
heads up in the air, especially one gypsy, who, I think, won the prize
at last. The men who couldn’t see were worth watching, for they kept
catching and tumbling over one another. One time they made a rush to
the rope, just where some of the young ladies were sitting, and, as
nearly as could be, tumbled over among them. I thought there would have
been a great scrambling and screaming; not a bit of it--they never
flinched an inch, or made the least cry, and I was very proud to think
they were my countrywomen. After the bellman had been caught about a
minute, there was a great laugh at one of the blinded men, who made a
rush, and caught a Committee-man, who was standing in the ring, in his
arms. But on the whole, I thought the game a poor one, and was glad
when it was over.
I hurried away directly after the jingling match, and went across the
Castle, and out on to the down where the cart-horse race had been run
to see the foot-races, which were run over the last half of the same
course, on which ten good stiff sets of hurdles, at short distances
apart, had been set up. I found a debate going on between the umpires
and some of the men as to whether they were all to start together. The
regular agricultural labourers were remonstrating as to some of the
candidates.
“It bean’t narra mossel o’ use for we chaps to start along wi’ thay
light-heeled gentry,” said one,--“Whoy, look ’ee here, zur’s one, and
yander’s another, wi’ a kind o’ dancin’ pumps on, and that ’un at
tother end wi’ a cricketin’ waistcut.”
“And there’s two o’ them little jockey chaps amongst ’em, sumweres,
Zur,” said another, looking about for these young gentlemen, who dodged
behind some of the bigger candidates.
“How can we help that?” said the umpire.
“Auh, Zur, thay be all too nimble by half for we to be of any account
to ’em,” persisted the first speaker. “If twur for the sticks now, or
wrastling--”
“Well, but what shall we do then?” interrupted the umpire.
“Let I pick out ten or a dozen on ’em to run by theirselves.” The
umpires proposed this to the rest, and, no one objecting, told Giles,
the protester, to pick out the ten he was most afraid of. This Giles
proceeded to do with a broad grin on his face, and generally seemed to
make a good selection. But presently he arrived at, and after a short
inspection passed over, a young fellow in his blue shirt-sleeves and a
cloth cap, who to the umpire’s eye seemed a dangerous man.
“Why, Giles,” said he, “you’re never going to pass him over?”
“Auh, ees, Zur,” said Giles, “let he ’bide along wi’ we chaps. Dwont’ee
zee, he’s a tipped and naayled ’un?”
When Giles had finished his selection, the first lot were started, and
made a grand race; which was won by a Hampshire man from Kingsclere,
the second man, not two feet behind, being a young Wiltshire farmer,
who, having never been beaten in his own neighbourhood, had come to
lose his laurels honourably at the Scouring.
The running in the second race was, of course, not so good, but much
more amusing. The “tipped and naayled ’uns” were a rushing lot, but
very bad at rising. Hurdle after hurdle went down before them with a
crash, and the most wonderful summersaults were executed. The second
hurdle finished poor Giles, who charged it manfully, and found himself
the next moment on his broad back, gazing placidly up into the evening
sky. The cloth cap, notwithstanding his shoes, went easily ahead, and
won in a canter. I heard one of the umpires rallying Giles afterwards
at his want of eyes.
“Ees, Zur,” said Giles, hunching up his great shoulders, “I wur tuk in,
zure enough. He wur a town chap, arter all, as wouldn’t ha’ knowed a
piece o’ clumpers afore he cum across to White Hos Hill.”
I left the umpires now to start the other races, and got back once
again into the Castle. I was now beginning to get very tired in my
legs, though not in my spirits, so I went and sat down outside the
crowd, which was thicker than ever round the stage, for the ties were
being played out. I could hear the umpires call every now and then
for some gamester who was not forthcoming to play out his tie--“John
Giles, if you beant on the stage in five minutes, to put to with James
Higgins, you shall lose your head”--through all the cheers and shouts,
which rose louder and louder now that every blow or trip might decide
the prizes. And while I was sitting, the donkey races were run outside,
and I heard were very good fun; especially the last one, in which no
man rode his own donkey, and the last donkey had the prize. I hope my
friend, the old suck-woman, entered neighbour Thorne’s beast, for if
she did, I’ll be bound he carried off the prize for her. They were the
only sports that I didn’t manage to see something of.
It was now just five o’clock, the hour for the pig-race, which seemed
to be a most popular sport, for most of the lookers-on at the stage
went off to see it, leaving only a select crowd of old and young
gamesters, most of whom had been playing themselves, and whom nothing
could drag five yards from the posts until the ties were all played
out. I was just considering whether I should move or stay where I was,
when Master George came striding by and caught sight of me.
“Hullo,” said he, “how is it you’re not on the move? You must see the
pig-race; come along.” So I got up and shambled along with him.
The pig was to be started on the slope below the west entrance, where
the old gentleman had stood and lectured me the day before about Earl
Sidroc. There was the spring cart, covered with a net, with a fine
young Berkshire pig in it, just at the place where the Bersirkir (as
he called them) made their last stand. When we came up, the runners,
thirty in number, with their coats and waistcoats off, were just being
drawn up in line inside the Castle, from which place they were to be
started, and run down through the west entrance out on to the open
down, at the word “off.” It was thought that this rush down between
the double banks, covered thickly with the crowd, would be the finest
sight of the race. But the rush never came. Piggy was to have five
minutes law, and the Committee-man who went down to turn him out put
his snout towards Ashdown Park, and gave him a push in hopes that he
would take straight away over the downs, and so get a good start. Of
course, he turned right round and came trotting and grunting up towards
the Castle, to see what all the bustle could be about. Then the crowd
began to shout at him, and to press further and further down the outer
earthworks, though all the Committee were there to keep the course
clear for the regular runners; and at last, before half of the five
minutes were over, the whole line broke up with a great shout, and the
down was covered in a moment with countless men and boys in full chase
of Piggy. Then the lawful candidates could stand it no longer, and
away they went too, cleaving their way through the press, the Committee
riding after them as fast as was safe in such a crowd, to see fair play
if possible at the finish.
In a minute or two, Piggy was mobbed, surrounded, seized first by
one of the crowd, and then by a lawful runner. These tumbled over in
their struggle without loosing their hold and more of their friends
over them, and from the middle of the mass poor Piggy sent up the most
vigorous and dismal squeals, till the Committee-men rode in, laying
about with their whips; and Farmer Whitfield, springing off, seized
Piggy, and in another minute was cantering away with him towards
Wayland Smith’s cave. Here he was turned out again for a fair race,
and was won by Charles Ebury, of Fernham; who, fearing the results of
his racing performances, sold him at once for 10_s._ to the Woolston
carrier. But I am happy to say that he wasn’t really hurt, for I went
to see him some days afterwards, and found him as hearty as pig could
be.
Master George and I agreed, as we walked back to the Castle, that it is
a shame to have a pig-race.
“No,” said he, “let men run any risk they like of broken heads or limbs
for themselves; they may play or not as they like. But Piggy has no
choice, and to let him run the risk of having the legs pulled out of
his body before he is wanted for pork, isn’t fair.”
“He didn’t seem to think it was, certainly, Sir,” I said.
“No,” said he, laughing; “did you ever hear such a song as he made? No
animal can talk like a pig. He can scold or remonstrate just as well as
a Christian. Any one who knows the language can tell you just what he
is saying. Well,” he went on, “I see you don’t believe me; now I will
go and hear what he has to say about this proceeding, and give you it
word for word.”
[Illustration]
This was what he gave me afterwards, with the other songs he had
promised me:--
THE LAY OF THE HUNTED PIG.
“Vathers, mothers, mothers’ zons!
You as loves yer little wuns!
Happy pegs among the stubble,
Listen to a tale of trouble;
Listen, pegs in yeard and stye,
How the Barkshire chaps zard I.
“I wur barn at Kingstone-Lisle,
Wher I vrolicked var a while,
As vine a peg as e’er wur zeen
(One of a litter o’ thirteen)
Till zome chaps wi’ cussed spite
Aimed ov I to make a zite,
And to have a ‘bit o’ vun,’
Took I up to Uffington.
“Up, vorights[35] the Castle mound
They did zet I on the ground;
Then a thousand chaps, or nigh,
Runned and hollered arter I--
Ther, then, I till I wur blowed,
Runned and hollered all I knowed,
When, zo zure as pegs is pegs,
Eight chaps ketched I by the legs,
Two to each--’tis truth I tell ’ee--
Dree more clasped I round the belly!
Under all they fellers lyin’--
Pegs!--I thought as I wur dyin’.
“But the Squire (I thenks I zee un),
Varmer Whitfield ridin’ wi’ un,
Fot I out o’ all thuck caddle,
Stretched athurt the varmer’s zaddle--
Bless ’em, pegs in yeard and stye,
Them two vrends as stuck to I.
“Barkshire men, vrom Hill and Vale,
All as ever hears this tale,
If to spwoort you be inclined,
Plaze to bear this here in mind--
Pegs beant made no race to win,
Be zhart o’ wind, and tight o’ skin,
Dwont’ee hunt ’em, but instead
At backswyrd break each other’s yead
Cheezes down the manger rowl--
Or try and clim the greasy powl.
“Pegs! in stubble yeard and stye,
May you be never zard like I,
Nor druv wi greasy ears and tail,
By men and bwoys drough White Horse Vale.”
[29] “Scawt”--to get up.
[30] “File”--a fall.
[31] “Sinkers”--stockings without feet.
[32] “Cham”--“I am,” a form still used in parts of Somersetshire.
[33] “Oo’lt”--wilt thou.
[34] “Cluttery”--pelting with rain.
[35] “Vorights”--opposite.