HARVEST-HOME
It was the evening before Harvest-Home, September 29, 1793, that a
sailor called at the back-door of the Priory Farm, Downham Reach, to ask
for a draught of fresh water. It was no uncommon thing for sailors to
call for such a purpose. Downham Reach was the nearest point at which
ships of large tonnage would usually anchor, and shift their cargoes in
lighters for the town of Ipswich, whence it was distant about four
miles. The crews of vessels frequently had to walk up to the town from
this spot; so that it was no uncommon thing for them, upon landing near
the Priory Farm after a voyage, to be glad of a sparkling draught of
clear water. The desired draught was handed to the sailor by the
ever-ready hand of Margaret Catchpole, who always took an interest in
men belonging to the sea.
"Is dis de Priry Barm?" asked the man, in broken English.
"This is the Priory Farm," was the quick and eager reply of Margaret.
"How bar to Gipswitch?"
"Four miles to Ipswich. What country are you from?"
"Mynheer be brom Hamsterdam. I lept me bessel in de harber. Mynheer de
Captan did 'mand me up to Gipswitch. 'E 'mand me 'top at Priry Barm to
tale von Margaret Catchpole dad 'e vou'd come up 'ere to-morrow, at nine
o'clock in de eve."
"What is your captain's name?"
"Von Villiam Laud."
The reader need not be told the rest of the conversation, which of
course related to the Captain. How he was? How he got on? Whose service
he was in? How he would come up? And where Margaret was to meet him? It
was all arranged that she should be upon the shore at nine o'clock, and
look out for a small sail-boat, which should come up the river and run
ashore against the creek: that the watchword should be "Margaret," and
that punctuality should be observed.
Margaret's quick understanding soon construed all the sailor said into
proper English, though she could not perceive that the man only feigned
a foreign accent and manner. He was indeed one of Laud's crew, an
emissary sent on purpose to decoy the poor girl on to the strand, that
he might carry her off to a foreign shore, against her own determined
purpose.
It is not to be wondered at that she should be a little agitated. Whose
heart would not have been so under similar circumstances? The expected
arrival of some fashionable and insinuating man of fortune into the
saloon of fashion has not agitated the heart of an amiable and
interesting young lady more sensibly than poor Margaret felt herself
fluttering within at this peculiar time. It is a great question,
however, whether any high-spirited damsel could prevent the exposure of
her high feelings with more effect than this poor girl did hers, who not
only had her own interest to induce her so to do, but her lover's also.
The last day of September came, and with it all the bustle and pleasure
of Harvest-Home. No small share of work fell to Margaret's hands, who
had to prepare the harvest supper for fourteen men, besides women and
children.
At that time of day, all the single men lodged in the master's house,
and were expected to conform to all the rules, regulations, hours, and
work, of a well-regulated family.
Once in a year, the good farmer invited the married men, with their
wives and families, to supper; and this supper was always the
Harvest-Home. This was the day on which the last load of corn was
conveyed into the barn or stack-yard, covered with green boughs, with
shouting, and blowing of the merry harvest horn.
All the labourers upon the Priory Farm were assembled at six o'clock in
the evening: nine married men, and five single ones; the wives, and
those children who were old enough to come to the feast, together with
the boys, four in number, who had to work upon the land.
A picture fit for the hand of Wilkie was exhibited in that ancient
farm-house. It is surprising that no good artist should have painted The
Harvest Supper. The Rent-day, Blindman's-buff, The Fair, The Blind
Fiddler, or any of his celebrated works, could scarcely afford a more
striking subject for the canvas, or the printseller, than The
Harvest-Home. Such a scene may have been painted, but the writer of
these pages has never seen it described, though he has often witnessed
it in real life, and has shared with innocent pleasure in its rustic
joy.
Margaret received great assistance from some of the married women. One
pair of hands could not, indeed, have prepared sufficient eatables for
such a party:--smoking puddings, plain and plum; piles of hot potatoes,
cabbages, turnips, carrots, and every species of vegetable which the
farmer's lands could produce--beef, roast and boiled, mutton, veal, and
pork, everything good and substantial; a rich custard, and apple-pies,
to which the children did ample justice, for all were seated round this
well-furnished table in the old kitchen, celebrated for its curious roof
and antique chimney-piece.
The lord of the feast, or head man in the harvest-field, took his
station at the head of the table, whilst the master of the house, and
his wife, his sister, and even his daughter, were the servants of the
feast, and took every pains to gratify and satisfy the party.
Poor labourers are not the only class in England fond of a good dinner.
There are hundreds and thousands, with half the appetites of these
joyful sons and daughters of the sickle, who glory in a feast. How often
is the rich table spread with every delicacy, and at an enormous cost
the greatest rarities provided, and a group of lords and ladies seated
thereat! Things just tasted and dismissed, and all due ceremonies
performed, the company rise without any satisfaction, and return to
their homes grateful to nobody; sometimes hungry and dissatisfied, moody
and contentious; disappointed, disaffected, tired, and palled by the
very fashion of the thing, in which there has been no enjoyment and no
thankfulness.
It was not so at this rustic feast. Simplicity and pleasure sat upon
each face. Fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, felt thankful to God
for their master's prosperity, and received his attentions with
unaffected gratitude.
After the feast, and a flowing jug or two of brown ale had been emptied,
the wives and children were invited into the best parlour to tea and
cakes, whilst the merry reapers were left to themselves, to enjoy in
their own way the stronger harvest ale, which was just broached by the
hand of their master.
Margaret had done her duty well, and was busily engaged washing up the
dishes as fast as she could, that she might, in the midst of this
bustling evening get her work sufficiently forward not to be missed,
should she run down to the shore.
"Boy, take the can to the girl and have it filled"; for the master had
deputed Margaret to draw whatever ale was called for.
This was soon done, and the boy returned just as the old clock struck
eight.
Margaret heard with a fluttering heart the songs, according to custom,
commencing; and getting her work well forward, she resolved, after the
next can of ale was replenished, to be off.
Accordingly, she ran up the back stairs, and brought down her bonnet and
shawl, which she left behind the staircase-door, and anxiously awaited
the moment to be off duty. She had put every plate in the rack, laid all
the iron spoons in the drawer, cleaned the spit, and placed it, bright
and shining, over the chimney-piece. All the skewers had been strung,
all the knives and forks washed and wiped, boilers, saucepans,
gridirons, and the rest of the culinary utensils cleaned, and placed in
their proper places; in short, scarcely any one would have believed that
they had that day been used. Clean they were, and cleaner the
well-washed face and hands of the active girl, who had finished her
work, and prepared herself for an interview with one whose image had
been graven on her mind through every period of her short service.
At last she heard that welcome sound, more enchanting to her ear than
any song which the young men had sung: "Boy, take the can to Margaret!"
It was soon replenished; and scarcely was the kitchen-door closed, ere
the bonnet and shawl were put on, the latch of the door lifted up, and
the bright rising moon shining gloriously in at the door. Happy moment!
what pencil could portray the features of that face upon which the moon
so clearly shone on that September night?
Poor girl! 'twas a breathless moment of long anticipated pleasure to thy
good and honest heart, such as many a one, like thee, may have
experienced; but such as none, be she who she may, could have more
anxiously endured.
At last, Margaret is off.
The pleasure of the feast continued; and, as the foaming ale went round,
the spirits of the youths arose, and each bachelor who could not sing
had to toast his favourite lass.
There were singular disclosures made at this season, which generally
indicated the future destiny of the bachelor. It was amusing enough to
hear those who did not choose to tell their lover's name attempt to
sing, as "the lord" called upon him for a toast or song.
"We haven't had Jack Barry's song," said a sly fellow of the name of
Riches, who himself was one of the best singers in the party. "Please,
sir" (for such the lord of the feast was styled that night), "call upon
Jack for his song."
Now, the labourer at the head of the table knew that Jack could not
sing. He did not suppose, either, that he had any favourite lass; for no
one had seen Jack flirting, or directing his attentions towards any
favoured individual. The lord, however, was bound to do his duty, when
so urged; he therefore said, "John Barry, we call upon you for a song."
"I cannot sing, master: I wish I could," was the reply.
"Then you must give us a toast; and you know what it must be--'Your
favourite lass.'"
Jack hung down his head in solemn silence, for he felt extremely
awkward. He _had_ a favourite lass; he felt he had; and no one knew it
but himself; and if he should toast her, he felt that he should be
laughed at. He remained in a state of painful suspense, between doubt
and fear. A thousand thoughts revolved in his mind, whether he should
not give a fictitious name, or some one whom he had heard of, or only
knew by sight; but then appeared the certainty of some of them
congratulating the person he might happen to mention, and so bringing
him into a scrape. He thought also of dissimulation, and a lie, at which
Jack's honest nature revolted. But if he should really tell his
sweetheart's name! He felt for her, he felt for himself, and he remained
a long time without uttering a word.
"Come, Jack, my boy, what's the matter? Give us your favourite lass!
What makes you flinch, my lad?"
Jack remained silent, until some began to think he meant to shirk the
subject. The fact is, that Jack had really some notion of bolting, and
once or twice he cast a sidelong glance at the door, with the full
intention of an escape; but Will Riches, perceiving this, most
unceremoniously bolted the door; and, as the jug stood close by him, he
declared he would know Jack's sweetheart before another drop should be
drunk.
"Come, Jack," says he, "why not give us at once the girl you love
best?"
"Because she does not love me," was Jack's quick reply.
Here was a most significant glance from one to another round about the
room; and more than one whispered to his neighbour, "Who is it?" Not a
soul could tell, for no one had the slightest idea who the girl could be
who would refuse so honest a fellow as Jack Barry. Some began to think
that Jack had stepped out of his latitude, that he had dared to aspire
to the master's daughter; some, that it was Matilda Baker, the grocer's
girl; others set it down as Lucy Harper, of Stratton. But, be the damsel
whom she might, Jack's speech had set such a spirit of curiosity
a-working, that the married men hoped to know for their wives' sake, and
the single ones for their mistresses' amusement. Jack had got further
into the mire by his floundering, and every one saw that he was
struggling all he could to escape.
"Well, Jack, who is she? Who is she? Do we any of us know her?"
"Yes, all of you."
Here they were all out at sea again.
"It must be the master's fair daughter," said Ned Palmer to his
neighbour.
"I don't think it," was the reply; "but he is not willing to tell us,
and it's hardly fair to press him."
"It's a law, a positive law--I've told mine," says John Ruddock, "and I
don't see why he should flinch from the name. I must have it."
"The name! the name!" exclaimed one or two resolute fellows.
A tear stood in Jack's eye. This might be a good joke to some; but the
elders of the party, who saw it, especially honest Tom Keeble, the lord
of the evening, felt for the young man that respect which induced him to
make a sortie or parley, in the hope of giving him relief.
"Riches," said he, "as the jug stands by you, I shall call upon you for
a song. Our young friend may, by the time you have entertained us, have
recovered himself; and, after your song, I shall order the jug round to
drink your health, if we do not get the lass."
Now, Will prided himself upon his vocal powers, and was a bold, forward
fellow. He had no objection to sing, nor had any of the company any
objection to his song; and, truth to tell, all hoped the jug of brown
ale would not be stopped long, either for the song or for "the favourite
lass." So Will sang his song.
"I'll sing you a new song," says he. "I'll sing you one in which you can
all join in chorus in the house, as you have often done in the field.
I'll sing you--
'HALLO LARGESS.'"
Accordingly, he lifted up his voice, and sang this truly happy and
appropriate harvest song:--
Now the ripened corn
In sheaves is borne,
And the loaded wain
Brings home the grain,
The merry, merry reapers sing a bind,
And jocund shouts the happy harvest hind,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now the harvest's o'er,
And the grain we store,
And the stacks we pull,
And the barn is full,
The merry, merry reapers sing again,
And jocund shouts the happy harvest swain,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now our toil is done,
And the feast is won,
And we meet once more
As we did of yore,
The merry, merry reapers sing with glee,
And jocund shout their happy harvest spree,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now the feast we share--
'Tis our master's fare,
May he long, long live
Such a treat to give,
And merry, merry reapers sing with joy,
And jocund shouts the happy harvest boy,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now we join in song
With our voices strong,
And our hearts are high
With our good supply,
We merry, merry reapers joyful come
To shout and sing our happy Harvest-Home,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
The spirit of this song is in the chorus, which is peculiar to the
eastern counties of this kingdom. So "Hallo Largess!" may be well
understood here, but in many parts of the country is quite unknown. At
the time of harvest, when the men are reaping down the fields, should
their master have any friends visiting his fields, the head man among
the labourers usually asks a largess, which is generally a shilling.
This is asked not only of friends and visitors, but of strangers
likewise, should they pause to look at the reapers as they bind up the
sheaves.
At evening, when the work of the day is over, all the men collect in a
circle, and Hallo, that is, cry, Largess. Three times they say, in a low
tone, "Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Large!" and all, hand in hand,
bow their heads almost to the ground; but, after the third monotonous
yet sonorous junction, they lift up their heads, and, with one burst of
their voices, cry out, "Gess!"
Varieties of this peculiar custom may exist in some districts. Sometimes
the man with the most stentorian lungs will mount an eminence and lead
the rest, who join in chorus. They generally conclude the ceremony with
three shouts, and then "Thank Mr., Mrs., Miss, or Master" (as the case
of the donor may be) "for his largess." Whence the origin of this
practice, is not now easily to be ascertained. It was much more common
than it is. The habit of dividing the gains, too, at the harvest frolic,
is going fast out of fashion; nor is its substitute an amendment.
At the period here mentioned, and in the Priory Farm, it was customary
for the lord to divide the largess among the men, women, and children;
which formed a species of family nest-egg, to provide against some
urgent necessity. The custom has now degenerated into an ale-house
revel, and the money is all drunk out for the benefit of no one but the
publican.
"Will Riches, your health!" said the lord, as, at the same moment, he
turned the contents of a canvas-bag upon the table, which exhibited a
very good aspect of liberal contributions. The reader may suppose that
every master-tradesman who visited the farm had to give his share, and
that the lord had not been unmindful of his solicitations, when, upon
counting the contents of the bag, there were found one hundred shillings
and sixpence. This exactly gave five shillings a-piece to the fourteen
men, half-a-crown ditto to the nine women, and two shillings each to the
four boys.
The division of this sum gave great satisfaction; and our persecuted
friend, Jack Barry, had almost unperceived accomplished a successful
retreat in the interesting moment of pocketing the cash. But the
watchful songster had him in his eye; and, as he rose to thank the
company for the honour done him in drinking his health, he intercepted
Jack in the act of drawing back the bolt of the door.
"I think this is the best place I can speak from; and, as Jack is so
anxious to be off, perhaps to see his sweetheart, I hope he'll give me
the opportunity of proposing her health in his absence, for not until he
has given us her name shall the bolt be drawn."
The poor fellow had counted on his escape, but little thought of the
extremity of ridicule he was thus bringing upon himself. At length,
urged on all sides, he could resist no longer, but, in a kind of
ludicrous despair, he exclaimed--
"Well, then, I'll toast the health of Margaret Catchpole!"
The pencil of Wilkie could alone describe the wild burst of unrestrained
glee at this declaration.
"Margaret Catchpole!" was as suddenly responded in surprise by men,
women, and children; and such grinning countenances, and coarse
laughter, and joking congratulations, were beginning to show themselves,
that Jack, no longer able to endure their gibes, bolted to the door,
and, finding no resistance to his will, made his exit, amidst the roars
of his companions, who vociferated, with a cheer, "The health of
Margaret Catchpole!"
Jack fled precipitately from this scene of tumult and confusion, and, as
he passed the little foot-bridge over the stream from the moat, he still
heard the rude merriment he had excited. The moon rose brilliantly over
the little chapel in the dark background, and was reflected upon the
water in a line with the bridge, and showed Jack's figure in darkness
crossing the light plank; but he was soon in the shadow of those lofty
trees, which darkened the footpath towards the gamekeeper's cottage. He
had instinctively taken this path because it led to Levington, his
father's house; and he then remembered that parent's parting words--"If
ever you feel yourself unhappy, my boy, remember you have a home here,
in which, as long as your mother and I live, we shall be happy to give
you a welcome."
Jack was really unhappy, and he had some cause for feeling so, though he
felt that it lay not with himself. He knew that he had spoken the truth,
though it had cost him a severe pang; and whilst he felt much grief at
the thought of the jeers and quizzings he should meet with, and the
annoyances he might occasion the poor girl whom he really loved, he had
still spoken the truth, which he was not ashamed to confess. He was
arrested in his progress by the voice of John Gooding, the old
gamekeeper of the great Squire of Nacton--Philip Broke.
"Who goes there?" was his question.
"John Barry," was the reply.
"Where now, Jack--where now?"
"What, Mr. Gooding, is it you? Has the tide turned? Can I walk along the
shore to Levington?"
"The tide has only just turned; but, if you take the wood-path for a
while to Nacton, you may then, if you like it, keep the shore along
Orwell Park, and pass the old Hall to Levington. But what makes you
leave good company at this time o' night?"
"I have left them all very merry at the harvest supper, but I had a mind
to see my friends."
"Well, Jack, had it been any other man upon the farm, I should have been
suspicious of you as a poacher; but I know you well, and can believe
you. I should not trust some that you have left behind. I was just going
down to the Priory, to see how you lads fared to-night."
"Well, Mr. Gooding, you will find them all very glad to see you, and no
doubt they will make you welcome; but will you trouble yourself to let
master know where I am gone to-night, that he may close his doors
without expecting to see me?"
"That I will; and, when I get there, I will propose your health, Jack,
during your absence."
"Do so, Mr. Gooding; and tell them all, they have my hearty good wishes
for their health and happiness."
"Good-night."
"Good-night."