Chapter 62

“Where foliaged full in vernal prideRetiring winds thy favourite vale;And faint the moan of Avon’s tide,Remurmurs to the nightingale.”C. A. Elton’s Poems, Disappointment.

“Where foliaged full in vernal prideRetiring winds thy favourite vale;And faint the moan of Avon’s tide,Remurmurs to the nightingale.”

C. A. Elton’s Poems, Disappointment.

In a note, Mr.Eltoninforms us that this stanza alludes to the “Valley of Nightingales opposite St. Vincent’s rocks at Clifton.” The lovers of the picturesque will here find ample gratification. If, in the following poem, the truth in natural history be a little exceeded in reference to atroopof nightingales, it is hoped that the poetical licence will be pardoned. The vicinity of the Hotwells has been lately much improved by a carriage drive beneath and around those rocks.

Seest thou yon tallROCKSwhere, midst sunny light beaming,They lift up their heads and look proudly around;While numerouschoughs, with their cries shrill and screaming,Wheel from crag unto crag, and now o’er the profound?Seest thou yonderValleywhere gushes the fountain;Where thenightingalesnestling harmoniously sing;Where themavisandmerleand the merrylarkmounting,In notes of wild music, now welcome the spring.Seest thou yonder shade, where thewoodbineascending,Encircles thehawthornwith amorous twine,With thebryonyscandent, in gracefulness blending;What sweet mingled odours scarce less then divine!Hearest thou the bluering-dovein yonder tree cooing;Thered-breast, thehedge-sparrow, warble their song;Thecuckoo, with sameness of note ever wooing;Yet ever to pleasure such notes will belong!And this is theValley of Nightingales;—listenTo those full-swelling sounds, with those pauses between,Where the bright waving shrubs, midst the pale hazels, glisten,There oft may a troop of the songsters be seen.Seest thou yon proud ship on the stream adown sailing,O’er ocean, her course, to strange climes she now bends;Oh! who may describe the deep sobs or heart-wailingHer departure hath wrought amongst lovers and friends?The rocks now re-echo the songs of the sailorAs he cheerfully bounds on his watery way;But the maiden!—ah! what shall that echo avail her,When absence and sorrow have worn out the day?Behold her all breathless, still gazing, pursuing,And waving, at times, with her white hand adieu;On the rock now she sits, with fixed eye, the ship viewing;No picture of fancy—but often too true.Dost thou see yon flush’dHectic, of health poor remainder,With a dark hollow eye, and a thin sunken cheek;WhileAFFECTIONhangs o’er him with thoughts that have pained her,And that comfort and hope, still forbid her tospeak?[318]Yes,Friendships! Affections!ye ties the most tender!Fate, merciless fate, your connection will sever;To that tyrant remorseless—all, all must surrender!I once had aSon—herewe parted forever![319]Now the sun, o’er the earth, rides in glory uncloudThe rocks and the valleys delightedly sing;TheBirdsin wild concert, in yonder wood shrouded,Awake a loudCHORUSto welcome the spring.And this is the valley of nightingales;—listenTo those full-swelling sounds, with those pauses between,Where the bright waving shrubs, midst the pale hazels, glisten,There oft may a troop of the songsters be seen.J.

Seest thou yonderValleywhere gushes the fountain;Where thenightingalesnestling harmoniously sing;Where themavisandmerleand the merrylarkmounting,In notes of wild music, now welcome the spring.

Seest thou yonder shade, where thewoodbineascending,Encircles thehawthornwith amorous twine,With thebryonyscandent, in gracefulness blending;What sweet mingled odours scarce less then divine!

Hearest thou the bluering-dovein yonder tree cooing;Thered-breast, thehedge-sparrow, warble their song;Thecuckoo, with sameness of note ever wooing;Yet ever to pleasure such notes will belong!

And this is theValley of Nightingales;—listenTo those full-swelling sounds, with those pauses between,Where the bright waving shrubs, midst the pale hazels, glisten,There oft may a troop of the songsters be seen.

Seest thou yon proud ship on the stream adown sailing,O’er ocean, her course, to strange climes she now bends;Oh! who may describe the deep sobs or heart-wailingHer departure hath wrought amongst lovers and friends?

The rocks now re-echo the songs of the sailorAs he cheerfully bounds on his watery way;But the maiden!—ah! what shall that echo avail her,When absence and sorrow have worn out the day?

Behold her all breathless, still gazing, pursuing,And waving, at times, with her white hand adieu;On the rock now she sits, with fixed eye, the ship viewing;No picture of fancy—but often too true.

Dost thou see yon flush’dHectic, of health poor remainder,With a dark hollow eye, and a thin sunken cheek;WhileAFFECTIONhangs o’er him with thoughts that have pained her,And that comfort and hope, still forbid her tospeak?[318]

Yes,Friendships! Affections!ye ties the most tender!Fate, merciless fate, your connection will sever;To that tyrant remorseless—all, all must surrender!I once had aSon—herewe parted forever![319]

Now the sun, o’er the earth, rides in glory uncloudThe rocks and the valleys delightedly sing;TheBirdsin wild concert, in yonder wood shrouded,Awake a loudCHORUSto welcome the spring.

And this is the valley of nightingales;—listenTo those full-swelling sounds, with those pauses between,Where the bright waving shrubs, midst the pale hazels, glisten,There oft may a troop of the songsters be seen.

Mean Temperature 61·72.

Harvest-Home at Hawkesbury on Cotswold.

The last in-gathering of the cropIs loaded, and they climb the top,And there huzza with all their force,While Ceres mounts the foremost horse:“Gee-up!” the rustic goddess cries,And shouts more long and loud arise;The swagging cart, with motion slow,Reels careless on, and off they go!*

Harvest-homeis the great August festival of the country.

An account of this universal merry-making may commence with a communicationfrom a lady, which theengravingis designed to illustrate.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Westbury, Wiltshire, August 8, 1826.

Sir,—The journal from whence I extract the following scene was written nearly two years ago, during a delightful excursion I made in company with one “near and dear,” and consequently before your praiseworthy endeavours to perpetuate old customs had been made public. Had my journey taken place during the present harvest month, the trifle I now send should have been better worth your perusal, for I would have investigated foryoursatisfaction a local custom, thatto mewas sufficiently delightful in a passing glance.

I am, Sir, &c.I. J. T.

September, 1824.—After dinner, at Wotton-under-edge, we toiled up the side and then struck off again towards the middle of the hills, leaving all beauty in the rear; and from thence, until our arrival at Bath the next day, nothing is worth recording, but one little pleasing incident, which was the celebration of a harvest-home, at the village of Hawkesbury, on the top of Cotswold.

As we approached the isolated hamlet, we were “aware” of aMaypole—that unsophisticated trophy of innocence, gaiety, and plenty; and as we drew near, saw that it was decorated with flowers and ribands fluttering in the evening breeze. Under it stood a waggon with its full complement of men, women, children, flowers, and corn; and a handsome team of horses tranquilly enjoying their share of the finery and revelry of the scene; for scarlet bows and sunflowers had been lavished on their winkers with no niggard hand. On the first horse sat a damsel, no doubt intending to represent Ceres; she had on, of course, a white dress and straw bonnet—for could Ceres or any other goddess appear in a rural English festival in any other costume? A broad yellow sash encompassed a waist that evinced a glorious and enormous contempt for classical proportion and modern folly in its elaborate dimensions.

During the rapid and cordial glance that I gave this questionable scion of so graceful a stock, I ascertained two or three circumstances—that she was good-natured, that she enjoyed the scene as a downright English joke, and that she had the most beautiful set of teeth I ever beheld. What a stigma on all tooth-doctors, tooth-powders, and tooth-brushes. There was something very affecting in this simple festival, and I felt my heart heave, and that the fields looked indistinct for some minutes after we had lost sight of its primitive appearance; however it may now, I thought, be considered by the performers as a “good joke,” it had its origin, doubtless, in some of the very finest feelings that can adorn humanity—hospitality, sociality, happiness, contentment, piety, and gratitude.

Our fair correspondentadds:—

P.S.—Intelligence could surely be obtained from the spot, or the neighbourhood, of the manner of celebrating the festival; it is probably peculiar to the range of the Cotswold; and a more elaborate account of so interesting a custom would, doubtless, be valuable to yourself, sir, as well as to your numerous readers. I can only regret that my ability does not equal my will, on this or any other subject, that would forward your views in publishing your admirableEvery-Day Book.

The editor inserts this hint to his readers in the neighbourhood of Cotswold, with a hope that it will induce them to oblige him with particulars of what is passing under their eyes at this season every day. He repeats that accounts of these, or any other customs in any part of the kingdom, will be especially acceptable.

Another correspondent has obligingly complied with an often expressed desire on this subject.

London, August 4, 1826.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Sir,—As you request, on the wrapper of your last part, communications, &c., respecting harvest, I send you the following case of a very singular nature, that came before the synod of Glasgow and Ayr.

In the harvest of 1807, there was a great deal of wet weather. At the end of one of the weeks it brightened up, and a drying wind prepared the corn forbeing housed. The rev. Mr. Wright, minister of Mayhole, at the conclusion of the forenoon service on the following sabbath-day, stated to his congregation, that he conceived the favourable change of the weather might be made use of to save the harvest on that day, without violating the sabbath. Several of his parishioners availed themselves of their pastor’s advice. At the next meeting of presbytery, however, one of his reverend brethren thought proper to denounce him, as having violated the fourth commandment; and a solemn inquiry was accordingly voted by a majority of the presbytery. Against this resolution, a complaint and appeal were made to the synod at the last meeting. Very able pleadings were made on both sides, after which it was moved and seconded,—“That the synod should find that the presbytery of Ayr have acted in this manner, in a precipitate and informal manner, and that their sentence ought to be reversed.” It was also moved and seconded,—“That the synod find the presbytery of Ayr have acted properly, and that it should be remitted to them to take such further steps in this business as they may judge best.” After reasoning at considerable length, the synod, without a vote, agreed to set aside the whole proceedings of the presbytery in thisbusiness.[320]

This subject reminds me of the following verses to urge the use of “the time present.”

Delays.By Robert Southwell, 1595.Shun delays, they breed remorse;Take thy time, while time is lent thee;Creeping snails have weakest force;Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee;Good is best, when soonest wrought,Ling’ring labours come to naught.Hoist up sail while gale doth last,Tide and wind stay no man’s pleasure;Seek not time, when time is past,Sober speed is wisdom’s leisure.After wits are dearly bought,Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.Time wears all his locks behind;Take thou hold upon his forehead;When he flies, he turns no more,And behind his scalp is naked.Works adjourn’d have many stays;Long demurs breed new delays.

Delays.By Robert Southwell, 1595.

Shun delays, they breed remorse;Take thy time, while time is lent thee;Creeping snails have weakest force;Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee;Good is best, when soonest wrought,Ling’ring labours come to naught.Hoist up sail while gale doth last,Tide and wind stay no man’s pleasure;Seek not time, when time is past,Sober speed is wisdom’s leisure.After wits are dearly bought,Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.Time wears all his locks behind;Take thou hold upon his forehead;When he flies, he turns no more,And behind his scalp is naked.Works adjourn’d have many stays;Long demurs breed new delays.

Hoist up sail while gale doth last,Tide and wind stay no man’s pleasure;Seek not time, when time is past,Sober speed is wisdom’s leisure.After wits are dearly bought,Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.

Time wears all his locks behind;Take thou hold upon his forehead;When he flies, he turns no more,And behind his scalp is naked.Works adjourn’d have many stays;Long demurs breed new delays.

I am, Sir,

Your obliged and constant reader,R. R.

We are informed on the authority of Macrobius, that among the heathens, the masters of families, when they had got in their harvest, were wont to feast with their servants, who had laboured for them in tilling the ground. In exact conformity to this, it is common among Christians, when the fruits of the earth are gathered in, and laid in their proper repositories, to provide a plentiful supper for the harvest men and the servants of the family. At this entertainment, all are in the modern revolutionary idea of the word, perfectly equal. Here is no distinction of persons, but master and servant sit at the same table, converse freely together, and spend the remainder of the night in dancing, singing, &c., in the most easy familiarity. Bourne thinks the origin of both these customs is Jewish, and cites Hospinian, who tells us that the heathens copied after this custom of the Jews, and at the end of their harvest, offered up their first-fruits to the gods, for the Jews rejoiced and feasted at the getting in of the harvest.

This festivity is undoubtedly of the most remote antiquity. That men in all nations, where agriculture flourished, should have expressed their joy on this occasion by some outward ceremonies, has its foundation in the nature of things. Sowing is hope; reaping, fruition of the expected good. To the husbandman, whom the fear of wet, blights, &c. had harrassed with great anxiety, the completion of his wishes could not fail of imparting an enviable feeling of delight. Festivity is but the reflex of inward joy, and it could hardly fail of being produced on this occasion, which is a temporary suspension of everycare.[321]

Mr. Brand brings a number of passages to show the manner of celebrating this season.

One of the “Five hundred points of husbandry” relates to August.

Grant harvest-lord more, by a penny or twoo,To call on his fellowes the better to doo:Give gloves to thy reapers aLargesto crie,And daily to loiterers have a good eie.Tusser.

Grant harvest-lord more, by a penny or twoo,To call on his fellowes the better to doo:Give gloves to thy reapers aLargesto crie,And daily to loiterers have a good eie.

Tusser.

“Tusser Redivivus,” in 1744, says, “He that is the lord of harvest, is generally some stayed sober-working man, who understands all sorts of harvest-work.If he be of able body, he commonly leads the swarth in reaping and mowing. It is customary to give gloves to reapers, especially where the wheat is thistly. As to cryinga Largess, they need not be reminded of it in these our days, whatever they were in our author’s time.”

Stevenson, in his “Twelve Moneths,” 1661, mentions under August, that “the furmenty pot welcomes home the harvest cart, and the garland of flowers crowns the captain of the reapers; the battle of the field is now stoutly fought. The pipe and the tabor are now busily set a-work, and the lad and the lass will have no lead on their heels. O! ’tis the merry time wherein honest neighbours make good cheer; and God is glorified in his blessings on the earth.”

The Hock Cart, or Harvest Home.Come sons of summer, by whose toileWe are the Lords of wine and oile;By whose tough labours, and rough hands,We rip up first, then reap our lands,Crown’d with the eares of corne, now come,And, to the pipe, sing harvest home.Come forth, my Lord, and see the cart,Drest up with all the country art.See here a maukin, there a sheetAs spotlesse pure as it is sweet:The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,Clad, all, in linnen, white as lillies,The harvest swaines and wenches boundFor joy, to see the hock-cart crown’d.About the cart heare how the routOf rural younglings raise the shout;Pressing before, some coming after,Those with a shout, and these with laughter.Some blesse the cart; some kisse the sheaves;Some prank them up with oaken leaves:Some crosse the fill-horse; some with greatDevotion stroak the home-borne wheat:While other rusticks, lesse attentTo prayers than to merryment,Run after with their breeches rent.Well, on brave boyes, to your Lord’s hearthGlitt’ring with fire, where, for your mirth,You shall see first the large and cheefeFoundation of your feast, fat beefe:With upper stories, mutton, veale,Add bacon, which makes full the meale;With sev’rall dishes standing by,As here a custard, there a pie,And here all-tempting frumentie,And for to make the merrie cheereIf smirking wine be wanting here,There’s that which drowns all care, stout beere,Which freely drink to your Lord’s health,Than to the plough, the commonwealth;Next to your flailes, your fanes, your fattsThen to the maids with wheaten hats;To the rough sickle, and the crookt sytheDrink, frollick, boyes, till all be blythe,Feed and grow fat, and as ye eat,Be mindfull that the lab’ring neat,As you, may have their full of meat;And know, besides, ye must revokeThe patient oxe unto the yoke,And all goe back unto the ploughAnd harrow, though they’re hang’d up now.And, you must know, your Lord’s word’s true,Feed him ye must, whose food fils you.And that this pleasure is like raine,Not sent ye for to drowne your paine.But for to make it spring againe.Herrick.

The Hock Cart, or Harvest Home.

Come sons of summer, by whose toileWe are the Lords of wine and oile;By whose tough labours, and rough hands,We rip up first, then reap our lands,Crown’d with the eares of corne, now come,And, to the pipe, sing harvest home.Come forth, my Lord, and see the cart,Drest up with all the country art.See here a maukin, there a sheetAs spotlesse pure as it is sweet:The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,Clad, all, in linnen, white as lillies,The harvest swaines and wenches boundFor joy, to see the hock-cart crown’d.About the cart heare how the routOf rural younglings raise the shout;Pressing before, some coming after,Those with a shout, and these with laughter.Some blesse the cart; some kisse the sheaves;Some prank them up with oaken leaves:Some crosse the fill-horse; some with greatDevotion stroak the home-borne wheat:While other rusticks, lesse attentTo prayers than to merryment,Run after with their breeches rent.Well, on brave boyes, to your Lord’s hearthGlitt’ring with fire, where, for your mirth,You shall see first the large and cheefeFoundation of your feast, fat beefe:With upper stories, mutton, veale,Add bacon, which makes full the meale;With sev’rall dishes standing by,As here a custard, there a pie,And here all-tempting frumentie,And for to make the merrie cheereIf smirking wine be wanting here,There’s that which drowns all care, stout beere,Which freely drink to your Lord’s health,Than to the plough, the commonwealth;Next to your flailes, your fanes, your fattsThen to the maids with wheaten hats;To the rough sickle, and the crookt sytheDrink, frollick, boyes, till all be blythe,Feed and grow fat, and as ye eat,Be mindfull that the lab’ring neat,As you, may have their full of meat;And know, besides, ye must revokeThe patient oxe unto the yoke,And all goe back unto the ploughAnd harrow, though they’re hang’d up now.And, you must know, your Lord’s word’s true,Feed him ye must, whose food fils you.And that this pleasure is like raine,Not sent ye for to drowne your paine.But for to make it spring againe.

Herrick.

Hoacky is broughtHome with hallowin,Boys with plumb-cakeThe cart following.Poor Robin, 1676.

Hoacky is broughtHome with hallowin,Boys with plumb-cakeThe cart following.

Poor Robin, 1676.

Mr. Brand says, “the respect shown to servants at this season, seems to have sprung from a grateful sense of their good services. Every thing depends at this juncture on their labour and despatch. Vacina, (or Vacuna, so called as it is saidà vacando, the tutelar deity, as it were, of rest and ease,) among the ancients, was the name of the goddess to whom rustics sacrificed at the conclusion of harvest. Moresin tells us, that popery, in imitation of this, brings home her chaplets of corn, which she suspends on poles, that offerings are made on the altars of her tutelar gods, while thanks are returned for the collected stores, and prayers are made for future ease and rest. Images too of straw or stubble, he adds, are wont to be carried about on this occasion; and that in England he himself saw the rustics bringing home in a cart, a figure made of corn, round which men and women were singing promiscuously, preceded by a drum or piper.”

The same collector acquaints us that Newton, in his “Tryall of a Man’s owne Selfe,” (12mo. London, 1602,) under breaches of the second commandment, censures “the adorning with garlands, or presenting unto any image of any saint whom thou hast made speciall choice of to be thy patron and advocate, the firstlings of thy increase, as corne and graine, and other oblations.”

As we were returning, says Hentzner, in 1598, to our inn, we happened to meet some country people celebrating their harvest-home; their last load of corn they crown with flowers, having besides an image richly dressed, by which perhaps they would signify Ceres. This they keep moving about, while men and women, men and maid-servants, riding through the streets in the cart, shout as loud as they can till they arrive at the barn.

“I have seen,” says Hutchinson in his “History of Northumberland,” “in some places, an image apparelled in great finery, crowned with flowers, a sheaf of corn placed under her arm, and a scycle in her hand, carried out of the village in the morning of the conclusive reaping day, with music and much clamour of the reapers, into the field, where it stands fixed on a pole all day, and when the reaping is done, is brought home in like manner. This they call the harvest queen, and it represents the Roman Ceres.”

Mr. Brand says, “an old woman, who in a case of this nature is respectable authority, at a village in Northumberland, informed me that not half a century ago, they used every where to dress up something similar to the figure above described, (by Hutchinson,) at the end of harvest, which was called a harvest doll, orkern baby. This northern word is plainly a corruption of corn baby, or image, as is thekernsupper, of corn supper. In Carew’s ‘Survey of Cornwall,’ p. 20. b. ‘an ill kerned or saved harvest’ occurs.”

At Wellington in Devonshire, the clergyman of the parish informed Mr. Brand, that when a farmer finishes his reaping, a small quantity of the ears of the last corn are twisted or tied together into a curious kind of figure, which is brought home with great acclamations, hung up over the table, and kept till the next year. The owner would think it extremely unlucky to part with this, which is called “a knack.” The reapers whoop and hollow “a knack! a knack! well cut! well bound! well shocked!” and, in some places, in a sort of mockery it is added, “well scattered on the ground.” A countryman gave a somewhat different account, as follows: “When they have cut the corn, the reapers assemble together: ‘a knack’ is made, which one placed in the middle of the company holds up, crying thrice ‘a knack,’ which all the rest repeat: the person in the middle thensays—

‘Well cut! well bound!Well shocked! well saved from the ground.’

He afterwards cries ‘whoop,’ and his companions holloo as loud as they can.”

“I have not,” says Mr. Brand, “the most distant idea of the etymology of the ‘knack,’ used on this occasion. I applied for one of them. No farmer would part with that which hung over his table; but one was made on purpose for me. I should suppose that Moresin alludes to something like this when he says, ‘Et spiceas papatus (habet) coronas, quas videre est in domibus,’ &c.”

It is noticed by Mr. Brand, that Purchas in his “Pilgrimage,” speaking of the Peruvian superstitions, and quoting Acosta, tells us, “In the sixth moneth they offered a hundred sheep of all colours, and then made a feast, bringing the mayz from the fields into the house, which they yet use. This feast is made, coming from the farm to the house, saying certain songs, and praying that the mayz may long continue. They put a quantity of the mayz (the best that groweth in their farms) in a thing which they call pirva, with certain ceremonies, watching three nights. Then do they put it in the richest garment they have, and, being thus wrapped and dressed, they worship this pirva, holding it in great veneration, and saying, it is the mother of the mayz of their inheritance, and that by this means the mayz augments and is preserved. In this moneth they make a particular sacrifice, and the witches demand of this pirva if it hath strength enough to continue until the next year; and if it answers no, then they carry this maiz to the farm whence it was taken, to burn, and make another pirva as before: and this foolish vanity still continueth.”

On this Peruvian “pirva,” the rev. Mr. Walter, fellow of Christ’s-college, Cambridge, observes to Mr. Brand, that it bears a strong resemblance to what is called in Kent, anivy girl, which is a figure composed of some of the best corn the field produces, and made, as well as they can, into a human shape; this is afterwards curiously dressed by the women, and adorned with paper trimmings, cut to resemble a cap, ruffles, handkerchief,&c. of the finest lace. It is brought home with the last load of corn from the field upon the waggon, and they suppose entitles them to a supper at the expense of their employers.

This custom is mentioned by Mr. Brand as existing in Hertfordshire and Shropshire. The reapers tie together the tops of the last blades of corn, which they call “mare,” and standing at some distance, throw their sickles at it, and he who cuts the knot, has the prize, with acclamations and good cheer. Blount adds, respecting this custom, that “after the knot is cut, then they cry with a loud voice three times, ‘I have her.’ Others answer as many times, ‘what have you?’—‘A mare, a mare, a mare.’—‘Whose is she,’ thrice also.—‘J. B.’ (naming the owner three times.)—‘Whither will you send her?’—‘To J. a Nicks,’ (naming some neighbour who has not all his corn reaped;) then they all shout three times, and so the ceremony ends with good cheer. In Yorkshire, upon the like occasion, they have a harvest dame; in Bedfordshire, a Jack and a Gill.”

Having been preceded “into the bosom of the land” by a lady, and become acquainted with accounts from earlier chroniclers of harvest customs, we now pay our respects to the communications of other correspondents, who have been pleased to comply with our call for information.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Sir,—With pleasure I have read your entertaining and instructing collection from its commencement, and I perceive you have touched upon a subject in one of your sheets, which in my youth used to animate my soul, and bring every energy of my mind and of my body into activity; I mean, harvest.

Yes, sir, in my younger days I was introduced into the society of innocence and industry; but, I know not how it was, Dame Fortune kicked me out, and I was obliged to dwell in smoke and dirt, in noise and bustle, in wickedness and strife compared with what I left; but I forgive her, as you know she is blind. May I, Mr. Editor, converse with you in this way a little?

InGloucestershirethis interesting season is thus kept. Of course the good man of the house has informed the industrious and notable dame the day for harvest-home; and she, assisted by her daughters, makes every preparation to keep out famine and banish care—the neighbours and friends are invited, hot cakes of Betty’s own making, and such butter that Sukey herself had churned, tea, ale, syllabub, gooseberry wine, &c. And what say you? Why, Mr. Editor, this is nothing, this is but the beginning—the grand scene is out of doors. Look yonder, and see the whole of the troop of men, women, and children congregated together. They are about to bring home the last load. You have seen election chairings, Mr. Editor; these are mere jokes to it. This load should come from the furthest field, and that it should be the smallest only just above the rails, a large bough is placed in the centre, the women and children are placed on the load, boys on the horses, they themselves trimmed with cowslips and boughs of leaves, and with shouts of “harvest-home,” the horses are urged forward, and the procession comes full gallop to the front of the farm-house, where the before happy party are waiting to welcome home thelast load. Now, he who has the loudest and the clearest voice, mounts upon a neighbouring shed, and with a voice which would do credit to your city crier, shoutsaloud—

We have ploughed, we have sowed,We have reaped, we have mowed,We have brought home every load,Hip, hip, hip,Harvest home!

and thus, sir, the whole assembly shout “huzza.” The strong ale is then put round, and the cake which Miss made with her own hands:—the load is then driven round to the stack-yard or barn, and the horses put into the stable. John puts on a clean white frock, and William a clean coloured handkerchief: the boys grease their shoes to look smart, and all meet in the house to partake of the harvest supper, when the evening is spent in cheerfulness. Here, Mr. Editor, is pomp without pride, liberality without ostentation, cheerfulness without vice, merriment without guilt, and happiness without alloy.

They say that old persons are old foolsand although I am almost blind, yet I cannot resist telling you of what I have also seen in my boyish days inSuffolk. I do not mean to be long, sir, but merely to give you a few particulars of an ancient custom, which I must leave you to finish, so that while you take a hearty pinch of snuff (I know you don’t like tobacco) I shall have completed.

At the commencement of harvest one is chosen to be “my lord.” He goes first in reaping, and mowing, and leads in every occupation. Now, sir, if you were to pass within a field or two of this band of husbandmen, “my lord” would leave the company, and approaching you with respect, ask of you alargess. Supposing he succeeded, which I know he would, he would hail his companions, and they would thus acknowledge the gift: my lord would place his troop in a circle, suppose fifteen men, and that they were reaping, each one would have a hook in his hand, or, if hoeing of turnips, he would bring his hoe. My lord then goes to a distance, mounts the stump of a tree, or a gate post, and repeats a couplet (forgive the treachery of my memory, for I forget the words). The men still standing in the circle listen with attention to the words of my lord, and at the conclusion each with his reap-hook pointing with his right hand to the centre of the circle, and with intent as if watching and expecting, they utter altogether a groan as long as four of your breves (if you go by notes): then, as if impelled together, their eyes are lifted to the heavens above them, their hooks point in the same direction, and at the same time they change the doleful groan to a tremendous shout, which is repeated three distinct times.

The money thus got during harvest, is saved to make merry with at a neighbouring public-house, and the evening is spent in shouting of thelargess, and joyful mirth.

I am, Sir, &c.S. M.

Another correspondent presents an interesting description of usages in another county.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

—— Norfolk, August, 14, 1826.

Sir,—In this county it is a general practice on the first day of harvest, for the men to leave the field about four o’clock, and retire to the alehouse, and have what is here termed a “whet;” that is, a sort of drinking bout to cheer their hearts for labour. They previously solicit any who happen to come within their sight with, “I hope, sir, you will please to bestow alargesson us?” If the boon is conceded the giver is asked if he would like to have hislargesshalloed; if this is assented to, the hallooing is at his service.

At the conclusion of wheat harvest, it is usual for the master to give his men each a pot or two of ale, or money, to enable them to get some at the alehouse, where a cheerful merry meeting is held amongst themselves.

Thelast, or “horkey load” (as it is here called) is decorated with flags and streamers, and sometimes a sort ofkern babyis placed on the top at front of the load. This is commonly called a “ben;” why it is so called, I know not, nor have I the smallest idea of its etymon, unless a person of that name was dressed up and placed in that situation, and that, ever after, the figure had this name given to it. This load is attended by all the party, who had been in the field, with hallooing and shouting, and on their arrival in the farmyard they are joined by the others. The mistress with her maids are out to gladden their eyes with this welcome scene, and bestir themselves to prepare the substantial, plain, and homely feast, of roast beef and plumb pudding.

On this night it is still usual with some of the farmers to invite their neighbours, friends, and relations, to the “horkey supper.” Smiling faces grace the festive board; and many an ogling glance is thrown by the rural lover upon the nut-brown maid, and returned with a blushing simplicity, worth all the blushes ever made at court. Supper ended, they leave the room, (the cloth, &c. are removed,) and out of doors they go, and a hallooing “largess” commences—thus

music

The men and boys form a circle by taking hold of hands, and one of the party standing in the centre, having agotch[322]of horkey ale placed near him on the ground, with a horn or tin sort of trumpet in his hand, makes a signal, and “halloo! lar-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-ge-ess” is given as loud and as long as their lungs will allow, at the same time elevating their hands as high as they can, and still keeping hold. The person in the centre blows the horn one continued blast, as long as the “halloo-largess.” This is done three times, and immediately followed by three successive whoops; and then theglass, commonly ahornone, of spirit-stirring ale, freely circles. At this time the hallooing-largess is generally performed with three times three.

This done, they return to the table, where foaming nappy ale is accompanied by the lily taper tube, and weed of India growth; and now mirth and jollity abound, the horn of sparkling beverage is put merrily about, the song goes round, and the joke is cracked. The females are cheerful and joyous partakers of this “flow of soul.”

When the “juice of the barrel” has exhilarated the spirits, with eyes beaming cheerfulness, and in true good rustic humour, the lord of the harvest accompanied by his lady, (the person is so called who goes second in the reap, each sometimes wearing a sort of disguise,) with two plates in his hand, enters the parlour where the guests are seated, and solicits a largess from each of them. The collection made, they join their party again at the table, and the lord recounting to his company the success he has met with, a fresh zest is given to hilarity, a dance is struck up, in which, though it can hardly be said to be upon the “light fantastic toe,” the stiffness of age and rheumatic pangs are forgotten, and those who have passed the grand climactric, feel in the midst of their teens.

Another show ofdisguisingis commonly exhibited on these occasions, which creates a hearty rustic laugh, both loud and strong. One of the party habited as a female, is taken with a violent pang of the tooth ache, and the doctor is sent for. He soon makes his appearance, mounted on the back of one of the other men as a horse, having in his hands a common milking stool, which he bears upon, so as to enable him to keep his back in nearly a horizontal position. The doctor brings with him the tongs, which he uses for the purpose of extracting the tooth: this is a piece of tobacco pipe adapted to the occasion, and placed in the mouth; a fainting takes place from the violence of the operation, and the bellows are used as a means of causing a reviving hope.

When the ale has so far operated that some of the party are scarcely capable of keeping upon their seat, the ceremony of drinking healths takes place in a sort of glee or catch; one or two of which you have below. This health-drinking generally finishes the horkey. On the following day the party go round among the neighbouring farmers (having various coloured ribands on their hats, and steeple or sugar-loaf formed caps, decked with various coloured paper, &c.,) to tastetheir horkey beer, and solicit largess of any one with whom they think success is likely. The money so collected is usually spent at the alehouse at night. To this “largess money spending,” the wives and sweethearts, with the female servants of their late masters, are invited; and a tea table is set out for the women, the men finding more virtue in the decoction of Sir John Barleycorn, and a pipe of the best Virginia.

I have put together what now occurs to me respecting harvest-home, and beg to refer you to Bloomfield’s “Wild Flowers,” in a piece there called the “Horkey;” it is most delightfully described.

The glee or catch at the health-drinking is asfollows:—

Here’s a health unto our master,He is the finder of the feast:God bless his endeavours,And send him increase,And send him increase, boys,All in another year.Here’s your master’s good healthSo drink off your beer;I wish all things may prosper,Whate’er he takes in hand;We are all his servants,And are all at his command.So drink, boys, drink,And see you do not spill;For if you do,You shall drink two,For ’tis your master’s will.

Here’s a health unto our master,He is the finder of the feast:God bless his endeavours,And send him increase,And send him increase, boys,All in another year.

Here’s your master’s good healthSo drink off your beer;I wish all things may prosper,Whate’er he takes in hand;We are all his servants,And are all at his command.

So drink, boys, drink,And see you do not spill;For if you do,You shall drink two,For ’tis your master’s will.

Another Health Drinking.Behold, and see, his glass is full,At which he’ll take a hearty pull,He takes it out with such long wind,That he’ll not leave one drop behind.Behold and see what he can do,He has not put it in his shoe;He has not drank one drop in vain,He’ll slake his thirst, then drink again.Here’s a health unto my brother John,It’s more than time that we were gone;But drink your fill, and stand your ground,This health is called the plough-boys round.

Another Health Drinking.

Behold, and see, his glass is full,At which he’ll take a hearty pull,He takes it out with such long wind,That he’ll not leave one drop behind.Behold and see what he can do,He has not put it in his shoe;He has not drank one drop in vain,He’ll slake his thirst, then drink again.Here’s a health unto my brother John,It’s more than time that we were gone;But drink your fill, and stand your ground,This health is called the plough-boys round.

Behold, and see, his glass is full,At which he’ll take a hearty pull,He takes it out with such long wind,That he’ll not leave one drop behind.

Behold and see what he can do,He has not put it in his shoe;He has not drank one drop in vain,He’ll slake his thirst, then drink again.

Here’s a health unto my brother John,It’s more than time that we were gone;But drink your fill, and stand your ground,This health is called the plough-boys round.

To this may be added the following.

A Health Drinking.There was a man from London came,With a rum-bum-bum-bare-larum;Drink up your glass for that’s the game,And say ne’er a word, except—Mum.

A Health Drinking.

There was a man from London came,With a rum-bum-bum-bare-larum;Drink up your glass for that’s the game,And say ne’er a word, except—Mum.

The great object is to start something which will catch some unguarded reply in lieu of saying “Mum,” when the party so unguardedly replying, is fined to drink two glasses.

For the beginning of Harvest there is this

Harvest Song.Now Lammas comes in,Our harvest begin,We have done our endeavours to get the corn in;We reap and we mowAnd we stoutly blowAnd cut down the cornThat did sweetly grow.The poor old manThat can hardly stand,Gets up in the morning, and do all he can,Gets up, &c.I hope God will rewardSuch old harvest man.But the man who is lazyAnd will not come on,He slights his good masterAnd likewise his men;We’ll pay him his wagesAnd send him gone,For why should we keepSuch a lazy drone.Now harvest is overWe’ll make a great noise,Our master, he says,You are welcome, brave boys;We’ll broach the old beer,And we’ll knock along,And now we will sing an old harvest song.

Harvest Song.

Now Lammas comes in,Our harvest begin,We have done our endeavours to get the corn in;We reap and we mowAnd we stoutly blowAnd cut down the cornThat did sweetly grow.The poor old manThat can hardly stand,Gets up in the morning, and do all he can,Gets up, &c.I hope God will rewardSuch old harvest man.But the man who is lazyAnd will not come on,He slights his good masterAnd likewise his men;We’ll pay him his wagesAnd send him gone,For why should we keepSuch a lazy drone.Now harvest is overWe’ll make a great noise,Our master, he says,You are welcome, brave boys;We’ll broach the old beer,And we’ll knock along,And now we will sing an old harvest song.

Now Lammas comes in,Our harvest begin,We have done our endeavours to get the corn in;We reap and we mowAnd we stoutly blowAnd cut down the cornThat did sweetly grow.

The poor old manThat can hardly stand,Gets up in the morning, and do all he can,Gets up, &c.I hope God will rewardSuch old harvest man.

But the man who is lazyAnd will not come on,He slights his good masterAnd likewise his men;We’ll pay him his wagesAnd send him gone,For why should we keepSuch a lazy drone.

Now harvest is overWe’ll make a great noise,Our master, he says,You are welcome, brave boys;We’ll broach the old beer,And we’ll knock along,And now we will sing an old harvest song.

I shall be happy if this will afford the readers of theEvery-Day Bookany information concerning the harvest customs of this county.I am, Sir, &c.

G. H. I.

A valuable correspondent transmits a particular account of his country custom, which will be read with pleasure.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Sir,—As the harvest has now become very general, I am reminded of a circumstance, which I think worthy of communicating to you. After the wheat is all cut, on most farms in the north of Devon, the harvest people have a custom of “crying the neck.” I believe that this practice is seldom omitted on any large farm in that part of the country. It is done in this way. An old man, or some one else well acquainted with the ceremonies used on the occasion, (when the labourers are reaping the last field of wheat,) goes round to the shocks and sheaves, and picks out a little bundle of all the best ears he can find; this bundle he ties up very neat and trim, and plats and arranges the straws very tastefully. This is called “the neck” of wheat, or wheaten-ears. After the field is cut out, and the pitcher once more circulated, the reapers, binders, and the women, stand round in a circle. The person with “the neck” stands in the centre, grasping it with both his hands. He first stoops and holds it near the ground, and all the men forming the ring, take off their hats, stooping and holding them with both hands towards the ground. They then all begin at once in a very prolonged and harmonious tone to cry “the neck!” at the same time slowly raising themselves upright, and elevating their arms and hats above their heads; the person with “the neck” also raising it on high. This is done three times. They then change their cry to “wee yen!”—“way yen!”—which they sound in the same prolonged and slow manner as before, with singular harmony and effect, three times. This last cry is accompanied by the same movements of the body and arms as in crying “the neck.” I know nothing of vocal music, but I think I may convey some idea of the sound, by giving you the following notes in gamut.

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