music
Let these notes be played on a flute with perfectcrescendosanddiminuendoes, and perhaps some notion of this wild sounding cry may be formed. Well, after having thus repeated “the neck” three times, and “wee yen” or “way yen” as often, they all burst out into a kind of loud and joyous laugh, flinging up their hats and caps into the air, capering about and perhaps kissing the girls. One of them then gets “the neck,” and runs as hard as he can down to the farm-house, where the dairy-maid, or one of the young female domestics, stands at the door prepared with a pail of water. If he who holds “the neck” can manage to get into the house, in any way unseen, or openly, by any other way than the door at which the girl stands with the pail of water, then he may lawfully kiss her; but, if otherwise, he is regularly soused with the contents of the bucket. On a fine still autumn evening, the “crying of the neck” has a wonderful effect at a distance, far finer than that of the Turkish muezzin, which lord Byron eulogizes so much, and which he says is preferable to all the bells in Christendom. I have once or twice heard upwards of twenty men cry it, and sometimes joined by an equal number of female voices. About three years back, on some high grounds, where our people were harvesting, I heard six or seven “necks” cried in one night, although I know that some of them were four miles off. They are heard through the quiet evening air, at a considerable distance sometimes. But I think that the practice is beginning to decline of late, and many farmers and their men do not care about keeping up this old custom. I shall always patronise it myself, because I take it in the light of a thanksgiving. By the by, I was about to conclude, without endeavouring to explain the meaning of the words, “we yen!” I had long taken them for Saxon, as the people of Devon are the true Saxon breed. But I think that I am wrong. I asked an old fellow about it the other day, and he is the only man who ever gave me a satisfactory explanation. He says, that the object of crying “the neck” is to give the surrounding country notice of theendof harvest, and that they mean by “we yen!”we have ended. It may more probably mean “we end,” which the uncouth and provincial pronunciation has corrupted into “we yen!”
I am, Sir,Your obedient servant,R. A. R.
July, 1826.
P. S. In the above hastily written account, I should have mentioned that “the neck” is generally hung up in the farm-house, where it remains sometimes three or four years. I have written “we yen,” because I have always heard it so pronounced; they may articulate it differently in other parts of the country.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,—As harvest has began in various counties, I beg leave to give you a description of what is called the “harvest supper,” in Essex, at the conclusion of the harvest.
After the conclusion of the harvest, a supper is provided, consisting of roast beef and plum pudding, with plenty of strong ale, with which all the men who have been employed in getting in the corn regale themselves. At the beginning of the supper, the following is sung by the whole of them at the supper.
Here’s a health to our master,The lord of the feast,God bless his endeavours,And send him increase;May prosper his crops, boys,That we may reap another year,Here’s your master’s good health, boys,Come, drink off your beer.
Here’s a health to our master,The lord of the feast,God bless his endeavours,And send him increase;May prosper his crops, boys,That we may reap another year,Here’s your master’s good health, boys,Come, drink off your beer.
Here’s a health to our master,The lord of the feast,God bless his endeavours,And send him increase;May prosper his crops, boys,That we may reap another year,Here’s your master’s good health, boys,Come, drink off your beer.
After supper thefollowing:—
Now harvest is ended and supper is past,Here’s our mistress’s good health, boys,Come, drink a full glass;For she is a good woman, she provides us good cheer,Here’s your mistress’s good health, boys,Come, drink off your beer.
Now harvest is ended and supper is past,Here’s our mistress’s good health, boys,Come, drink a full glass;For she is a good woman, she provides us good cheer,Here’s your mistress’s good health, boys,Come, drink off your beer.
Now harvest is ended and supper is past,Here’s our mistress’s good health, boys,Come, drink a full glass;For she is a good woman, she provides us good cheer,Here’s your mistress’s good health, boys,Come, drink off your beer.
The night is generally spent with great mirth, and the merry-makers seldom disperse till “Bright Phœbus has mounted his chariot of day.”
I am, &c.An Essex Man and Subscriber.
It is the advice of the most popular of our old writers on husbandry,that—
In harvest time, harvest folke,servants and all,Should make, altogether,good cheere in the hall:And fill out the black bole,of bleith to their song,And let them be merryall harvest time long.Once ended thy harvest,let none be beguilde,Please such as did please thee,man, woman, and child.Thus doing, with alwaysuch help as they can,Thou winnest the praiseof the labouring man.Tusser.
In harvest time, harvest folke,servants and all,Should make, altogether,good cheere in the hall:And fill out the black bole,of bleith to their song,And let them be merryall harvest time long.Once ended thy harvest,let none be beguilde,Please such as did please thee,man, woman, and child.Thus doing, with alwaysuch help as they can,Thou winnest the praiseof the labouring man.
In harvest time, harvest folke,servants and all,Should make, altogether,good cheere in the hall:And fill out the black bole,of bleith to their song,And let them be merryall harvest time long.Once ended thy harvest,let none be beguilde,Please such as did please thee,man, woman, and child.Thus doing, with alwaysuch help as they can,Thou winnest the praiseof the labouring man.
Tusser.
“Tusser Redivivus” says, “This, the poor labourer thinks, crowns all; a good supper must be provided, and every one that did any thing towards the Inning must now have some reward, as ribbons, laces, rows of pins to boys and girls, if never so small, for their encouragement, and, to be sure, plumb-pudding. The men must now have some better than best drink, which, with a little tobacco and their screaming for theirlargesses, their business will soon be done.”
Harvest Goose.For all this good feasting,yet art thou not loose,Til Ploughman thou givesthisharvest home goose;Though goose goe in stubble,I passe not for that,Let goose have a goose,be she lean, be she fat.Tusser.
Harvest Goose.
For all this good feasting,yet art thou not loose,Til Ploughman thou givesthisharvest home goose;Though goose goe in stubble,I passe not for that,Let goose have a goose,be she lean, be she fat.
For all this good feasting,yet art thou not loose,Til Ploughman thou givesthisharvest home goose;Though goose goe in stubble,I passe not for that,Let goose have a goose,be she lean, be she fat.
Tusser.
Whereon “Tusser Redivivus” notes, that “the goose is forfeited, if they overthrow during harvest.” A MS. note on a copy of Brand’s “Antiquities,” lent to the editor, cites from Boys’s “Sandwich,” an item “35 Hen. VIII. Spent when we ete our harvyst goose iijs. vid. and the goose xd.”
In France under Henry IV. it is cited by Mr. Brand from Seward, that “after the harvest, the peasants fixed upon some holiday to meet together and have a little regale, (by them called theharvest gosling,) to which they invited not only each other, but even their masters, who pleased them very much when they condescended to partake of it.”
According to information derived by Mr. Brand, it was formerly the custom at Hitchin, in Hertfordshire, for each farmer to drive furiously home with the last load of his corn, while the people ran after him with bowls full of water in order to throw on it; and this usage was accompanied with great shouting.
Harvest-home.Who has not seen the cheerful harvest-home,Enliv’ning the scorch’d field, and greeting gayThe slow decline of Autumn. All aroundThe yellow sheaves, catching the burning beam,Glow, golden lustre; and the trembling stemOf the slim oat, or azure corn-flow’r,Waves on hedge-rows shady. From the hillThe day-breeze softly steals with downward wing,And lightly passes, whisp’ring the soft soundsWhich moan the death of Summer. Glowing scene!Nature’s long holiday! Luxuriant, rich,In her proud progeny, she smiling marksTheir graces, now mature, and wonder-fraught!Hail! season exquisite!—and hail, ye sonsOf rural toil!—ye blooming daughters!—yeWho, in the lap of hardy labour rear’d,Enjoy the mind unspotted! Up the plain,Or on the side-long hill, or in the glen,Where the rich farm, or scatter’d hamlet, showsThe neighbourhood of peace ye still are found,A merry and an artless throng, whose soulsBeam thro’ untutor’d glances. When the dawnUnfolds its sunny lustre, and the dewSilvers the out-stretch’d landscape, labour’s sonsRise, ever healthful,—ever cheerily,From sweet and soothing rest; for fev’rish dreamsVisit not lowly pallets! All the dayThey toil in the fierce beams of fervid noon—But toil without repining! The blithe songJoining the woodland melodies afar,Fling its rude cadence in fantastic sportOn Echo’s airy wing! the pond’rous loadFollows the weary team: the narrow laneBears on its thick-wove hedge the scatter’d corn,Hanging in scanty fragments, which the thornPurloin’d from the broad waggon.To the brookThat ripples, shallow, down the valley’s slope,The herds slow measure their unvaried way;—The flocks along the heath are dimly seenBy the faint torch of ev’ning, whose red eyeCloses in tearful silence. Now the airIs rich in fragrance! fragrance exquisite!Of new-mown hay, of wild thyme dewy wash’d,And gales ambrosial, which, with cooling breath,Ruffle the lake’s grey surface. All aroundThe thin mist rises, and the busy tonesOf airy people, borne on viewless wings,Break the short pause of nature. From the plainThe rustic throngs come cheerly, their loud dinAugments to mingling clamour. Sportive hinds,Happy! more happy than the lords ye serve!—How lustily your sons endure the hourOf wintry desolation; and how fairYour blooming daughters greet the op’ning dawnOf love-inspiring spring!Hail! harvest-home!To thee, the muse of nature pours the song,By instinct taught to warble! Instinct pure,Sacred, and grateful, to that pow’r ador’d,Which warms the sensate being, and revealsThe soul, self-evident, beyond the dreamsOf visionary sceptics! Scene sublime!Where the rich earth presents her golden treasures;Where balmy breathings whisper to the heartDelights unspeakable! Where seas and skies,And hills and vallies, colours, odours, dews,Diversify the work of nature’s God!Mrs. Robinson.
Harvest-home.
Who has not seen the cheerful harvest-home,Enliv’ning the scorch’d field, and greeting gayThe slow decline of Autumn. All aroundThe yellow sheaves, catching the burning beam,Glow, golden lustre; and the trembling stemOf the slim oat, or azure corn-flow’r,Waves on hedge-rows shady. From the hillThe day-breeze softly steals with downward wing,And lightly passes, whisp’ring the soft soundsWhich moan the death of Summer. Glowing scene!Nature’s long holiday! Luxuriant, rich,In her proud progeny, she smiling marksTheir graces, now mature, and wonder-fraught!Hail! season exquisite!—and hail, ye sonsOf rural toil!—ye blooming daughters!—yeWho, in the lap of hardy labour rear’d,Enjoy the mind unspotted! Up the plain,Or on the side-long hill, or in the glen,Where the rich farm, or scatter’d hamlet, showsThe neighbourhood of peace ye still are found,A merry and an artless throng, whose soulsBeam thro’ untutor’d glances. When the dawnUnfolds its sunny lustre, and the dewSilvers the out-stretch’d landscape, labour’s sonsRise, ever healthful,—ever cheerily,From sweet and soothing rest; for fev’rish dreamsVisit not lowly pallets! All the dayThey toil in the fierce beams of fervid noon—But toil without repining! The blithe songJoining the woodland melodies afar,Fling its rude cadence in fantastic sportOn Echo’s airy wing! the pond’rous loadFollows the weary team: the narrow laneBears on its thick-wove hedge the scatter’d corn,Hanging in scanty fragments, which the thornPurloin’d from the broad waggon.To the brookThat ripples, shallow, down the valley’s slope,The herds slow measure their unvaried way;—The flocks along the heath are dimly seenBy the faint torch of ev’ning, whose red eyeCloses in tearful silence. Now the airIs rich in fragrance! fragrance exquisite!Of new-mown hay, of wild thyme dewy wash’d,And gales ambrosial, which, with cooling breath,Ruffle the lake’s grey surface. All aroundThe thin mist rises, and the busy tonesOf airy people, borne on viewless wings,Break the short pause of nature. From the plainThe rustic throngs come cheerly, their loud dinAugments to mingling clamour. Sportive hinds,Happy! more happy than the lords ye serve!—How lustily your sons endure the hourOf wintry desolation; and how fairYour blooming daughters greet the op’ning dawnOf love-inspiring spring!Hail! harvest-home!To thee, the muse of nature pours the song,By instinct taught to warble! Instinct pure,Sacred, and grateful, to that pow’r ador’d,Which warms the sensate being, and revealsThe soul, self-evident, beyond the dreamsOf visionary sceptics! Scene sublime!Where the rich earth presents her golden treasures;Where balmy breathings whisper to the heartDelights unspeakable! Where seas and skies,And hills and vallies, colours, odours, dews,Diversify the work of nature’s God!
Who has not seen the cheerful harvest-home,Enliv’ning the scorch’d field, and greeting gayThe slow decline of Autumn. All aroundThe yellow sheaves, catching the burning beam,Glow, golden lustre; and the trembling stemOf the slim oat, or azure corn-flow’r,Waves on hedge-rows shady. From the hillThe day-breeze softly steals with downward wing,And lightly passes, whisp’ring the soft soundsWhich moan the death of Summer. Glowing scene!Nature’s long holiday! Luxuriant, rich,In her proud progeny, she smiling marksTheir graces, now mature, and wonder-fraught!Hail! season exquisite!—and hail, ye sonsOf rural toil!—ye blooming daughters!—yeWho, in the lap of hardy labour rear’d,Enjoy the mind unspotted! Up the plain,Or on the side-long hill, or in the glen,Where the rich farm, or scatter’d hamlet, showsThe neighbourhood of peace ye still are found,A merry and an artless throng, whose soulsBeam thro’ untutor’d glances. When the dawnUnfolds its sunny lustre, and the dewSilvers the out-stretch’d landscape, labour’s sonsRise, ever healthful,—ever cheerily,From sweet and soothing rest; for fev’rish dreamsVisit not lowly pallets! All the dayThey toil in the fierce beams of fervid noon—But toil without repining! The blithe songJoining the woodland melodies afar,Fling its rude cadence in fantastic sportOn Echo’s airy wing! the pond’rous loadFollows the weary team: the narrow laneBears on its thick-wove hedge the scatter’d corn,Hanging in scanty fragments, which the thornPurloin’d from the broad waggon.To the brookThat ripples, shallow, down the valley’s slope,The herds slow measure their unvaried way;—The flocks along the heath are dimly seenBy the faint torch of ev’ning, whose red eyeCloses in tearful silence. Now the airIs rich in fragrance! fragrance exquisite!Of new-mown hay, of wild thyme dewy wash’d,And gales ambrosial, which, with cooling breath,Ruffle the lake’s grey surface. All aroundThe thin mist rises, and the busy tonesOf airy people, borne on viewless wings,Break the short pause of nature. From the plainThe rustic throngs come cheerly, their loud dinAugments to mingling clamour. Sportive hinds,Happy! more happy than the lords ye serve!—How lustily your sons endure the hourOf wintry desolation; and how fairYour blooming daughters greet the op’ning dawnOf love-inspiring spring!Hail! harvest-home!To thee, the muse of nature pours the song,By instinct taught to warble! Instinct pure,Sacred, and grateful, to that pow’r ador’d,Which warms the sensate being, and revealsThe soul, self-evident, beyond the dreamsOf visionary sceptics! Scene sublime!Where the rich earth presents her golden treasures;Where balmy breathings whisper to the heartDelights unspeakable! Where seas and skies,And hills and vallies, colours, odours, dews,Diversify the work of nature’s God!
Mrs. Robinson.
It was formerly the custom in the parish of Longforgan, in the county of Perth North Britain, to give what was calleda maiden feast. “Upon the finishing of the harvest the last handful of corn reaped in the field was calledthe maiden. This was generally contrived to fall into the hands of one of the finest girls in the field, and was dressed up with ribands, and brought home in triumph with the music of fiddles or bagpipes. A good dinner was given to the whole band, and the evening spent in joviality and dancing, while the fortunate lass who took themaidenwas the queen of the feast; after which this handful of corn was dressed out generally in the form of a cross, and hung up with the date of the year, in some conspicuous part of the house. This custom is now entirely done away, and in its room each shearer is given sixpence and a loaf of bread. However, some farmers, when all their corns are brought in, give their servants a dinnerand a jovial evening, by way ofharvest-home.”[323]
The festival of the in-gathering in Scotland, is poetically described by the elegant author of the “British Georgics.”
The Kirn.Harvest Home.The fields are swept, a tranquil silence reigns,And pause of rural labour, far and near.Deep is the morning’s hush; from grange to grangeResponsive cock-crows, in the distance heard,Distinct as if at hand, soothe the pleased ear;And oft, at intervals, the flail, remote,Sends faintly through the air its deafened sound.Bright now the shortening day, and blythe its close,When to theKirnthe neighbours, old and young,Come dropping in to share the well-earned feast.The smith aside his ponderous sledge has thrown,Raked up his fire, and cooled the hissing brandHis sluice the miller shuts; and from the barnThe threshers hie, to don their Sunday coats.Simply adorned, with ribands, blue and pink,Bound round their braided hair, the lasses tripTo grace the feast, which now is smoking rangedOn tables of all shape, and size, and height,Joined awkwardly, yet to the crowded guestsA seemly joyous show, all loaded well:But chief, at the board-head, the haggis roundAttracts all eyes, and even the goodman’s gracePrunes of its wonted length. With eager knife,The quivering globe he then prepares to broach;While for her gown some ancient matron quakes,Her gown of silken woof, all figured thickWith roses white, far larger than the life,On azure ground,—her grannam’s wedding garb,Old as that year when Sheriffmuir was fought.Old tales are told, and well-known jests abound,Which laughter meets half way as ancient friends,Nor, like the worldling, spurns because thread bare.When ended the repast, and board and benchVanish like thought, by many hands removed,Up strikes the fiddle; quick upon the floorThe youths lead out the half-reluctant maids,Bashful at first, and darning through the reelsWith timid steps, till, by the music cheered,With free and airy step, they bound along,Then deftly wheel, and to their partner’s face,Turning this side, now that, with varying step.Sometimes two ancient couples o’er the floor,Skim through a reel, and think of youthful years.Meanwhile the frothingbickers,[324]soon as filled,Are drained, and to thegauntress[325]oft return,Where gossips sit, unmindful of the dance.Salubrious beverage! Were thy sterling worthBut duly prized, no more the alembic vastWould, like some dire volcano, vomit forthIts floods of liquid fire, and far and wideLay waste the land; no more the fruitful boonOf twice ten shrievedoms, into poison turned,Would taint the very life blood of the poor,Shrivelling their heart-strings like a burning scroll.Grahame.
The Kirn.Harvest Home.
The fields are swept, a tranquil silence reigns,And pause of rural labour, far and near.Deep is the morning’s hush; from grange to grangeResponsive cock-crows, in the distance heard,Distinct as if at hand, soothe the pleased ear;And oft, at intervals, the flail, remote,Sends faintly through the air its deafened sound.Bright now the shortening day, and blythe its close,When to theKirnthe neighbours, old and young,Come dropping in to share the well-earned feast.The smith aside his ponderous sledge has thrown,Raked up his fire, and cooled the hissing brandHis sluice the miller shuts; and from the barnThe threshers hie, to don their Sunday coats.Simply adorned, with ribands, blue and pink,Bound round their braided hair, the lasses tripTo grace the feast, which now is smoking rangedOn tables of all shape, and size, and height,Joined awkwardly, yet to the crowded guestsA seemly joyous show, all loaded well:But chief, at the board-head, the haggis roundAttracts all eyes, and even the goodman’s gracePrunes of its wonted length. With eager knife,The quivering globe he then prepares to broach;While for her gown some ancient matron quakes,Her gown of silken woof, all figured thickWith roses white, far larger than the life,On azure ground,—her grannam’s wedding garb,Old as that year when Sheriffmuir was fought.Old tales are told, and well-known jests abound,Which laughter meets half way as ancient friends,Nor, like the worldling, spurns because thread bare.When ended the repast, and board and benchVanish like thought, by many hands removed,Up strikes the fiddle; quick upon the floorThe youths lead out the half-reluctant maids,Bashful at first, and darning through the reelsWith timid steps, till, by the music cheered,With free and airy step, they bound along,Then deftly wheel, and to their partner’s face,Turning this side, now that, with varying step.Sometimes two ancient couples o’er the floor,Skim through a reel, and think of youthful years.Meanwhile the frothingbickers,[324]soon as filled,Are drained, and to thegauntress[325]oft return,Where gossips sit, unmindful of the dance.Salubrious beverage! Were thy sterling worthBut duly prized, no more the alembic vastWould, like some dire volcano, vomit forthIts floods of liquid fire, and far and wideLay waste the land; no more the fruitful boonOf twice ten shrievedoms, into poison turned,Would taint the very life blood of the poor,Shrivelling their heart-strings like a burning scroll.
The fields are swept, a tranquil silence reigns,And pause of rural labour, far and near.Deep is the morning’s hush; from grange to grangeResponsive cock-crows, in the distance heard,Distinct as if at hand, soothe the pleased ear;And oft, at intervals, the flail, remote,Sends faintly through the air its deafened sound.
Bright now the shortening day, and blythe its close,When to theKirnthe neighbours, old and young,Come dropping in to share the well-earned feast.The smith aside his ponderous sledge has thrown,Raked up his fire, and cooled the hissing brandHis sluice the miller shuts; and from the barnThe threshers hie, to don their Sunday coats.Simply adorned, with ribands, blue and pink,Bound round their braided hair, the lasses tripTo grace the feast, which now is smoking rangedOn tables of all shape, and size, and height,Joined awkwardly, yet to the crowded guestsA seemly joyous show, all loaded well:But chief, at the board-head, the haggis roundAttracts all eyes, and even the goodman’s gracePrunes of its wonted length. With eager knife,The quivering globe he then prepares to broach;While for her gown some ancient matron quakes,Her gown of silken woof, all figured thickWith roses white, far larger than the life,On azure ground,—her grannam’s wedding garb,Old as that year when Sheriffmuir was fought.Old tales are told, and well-known jests abound,Which laughter meets half way as ancient friends,Nor, like the worldling, spurns because thread bare.
When ended the repast, and board and benchVanish like thought, by many hands removed,Up strikes the fiddle; quick upon the floorThe youths lead out the half-reluctant maids,Bashful at first, and darning through the reelsWith timid steps, till, by the music cheered,With free and airy step, they bound along,Then deftly wheel, and to their partner’s face,Turning this side, now that, with varying step.Sometimes two ancient couples o’er the floor,Skim through a reel, and think of youthful years.
Meanwhile the frothingbickers,[324]soon as filled,Are drained, and to thegauntress[325]oft return,Where gossips sit, unmindful of the dance.Salubrious beverage! Were thy sterling worthBut duly prized, no more the alembic vastWould, like some dire volcano, vomit forthIts floods of liquid fire, and far and wideLay waste the land; no more the fruitful boonOf twice ten shrievedoms, into poison turned,Would taint the very life blood of the poor,Shrivelling their heart-strings like a burning scroll.
Grahame.
In the island of Minorca, “Their harvests are generally gathered by the middle of June; and, as the corn ripens, a number of boys and girls station themselves at the edges of the fields, and on the tops of the fence-walls, to fright away the small birds with their shouts and cries. This puts one in mind of Virgil’s precept in the first book of his ‘Georgics,’
‘Et sonitu terrebis aves,’——
‘Et sonitu terrebis aves,’——
‘Et sonitu terrebis aves,’——
and was a custom, I doubt not, among the Roman farmers, from whom the ancient Minorquins learned it. They also use for the same purpose, a split reed, which makes a horrid rattling, as they shake it with their hands.”
In Northamptonshire, “within the liberty of Warkworth is Ashe Meadow, divided amongst the neighbouring parishes, and famed for the following customs observed in the mowing of it. The meadow is divided into fifteen portions, answering to fifteen lots, which are pieces of wood cut off from an arrow, and marked according to the landmarks in the field. To each lot are allowed eight mowers, amounting to one hundred and twenty in the whole. On the Saturday sevennight after midsummer-day, these portions are laid out by six persons, of whom two are chosen from Warkworth, two from Overthorp, one from Grimsbury, and one from Nethercote. These are called field-men, and have an entertainment provided for them upon the day of laying out the meadow, at the appointment of the lord of the manor. As soon as the meadow is measured, the man who provides the feast, attended by the hay-ward of Warkworth, brings into the field three gallons of ale. After this the meadow is run, as they term it, or trod, to distinguish the lots; and, when this is over, the hay-ward brings into the field a rump of beef, six penny loaves, and three gallons of ale, and is allowed a certain portion of hay in return, though not of equal value with his provision. This hay-ward and the master of the feast have the name of crocus-men. In running the field each man hath a boy allowed to assist him. On Monday morning lots are drawn, consisting some of eight swaths and others of four. Of these the first and last carry the garlands. The two first lots are of four swaths, and whilst these are mowing, the mowers go double; and, as soon as these are finished, the following orders are read aloud:—‘Oyez, Oyez, Oyez, I charge you, under God, and in his majesty’s name, that you keep the king’s peace in the lord of the manor’s behalf, according to the orders and customs of this meadow. No man or men shall go before the two garlands; if youdo, you shall pay your penny, or deliver your scythe at the first demand, and this so often as you shall transgress. No man, or men, shall mow above eight swaths over their lots, before they lay down their scythes and go to breakfast. No man, or men, shall mow any farther than Monksholm-brook, but leave their scythes there, and go to dinner; according to the custom and manner of this manor. God save the king!’ The dinner, provided by the lord of the manor’s tenant, consists of three cheesecakes, three cakes, and a new-milk cheese. The cakes and cheesecakes are of the size of a winnowing-sieve; and the person who brings them is to have three gallons of ale. The master of the feast is paid in hay, and is farther allowed to turn all his cows into the meadow on Saturday morning till eleven o’clock; that by this means giving the more milk the cakes may be made the bigger. Other like customs are observed in the mowing of other meadows in thisparish.”[326]
Harvest time is as delightful to look on to us, who are mere spectators of it, as it was in the golden age, when the gatherers and the rejoicers were one. Now, therefore, as then, the fields are all alive with figures and groups, that seem, in the eye of the artist, to be made for pictures—pictures that he can see but one fault in; (which fault, by the by, constitutes their only beauty in the eye of the farmer;) namely, that they will not stand still a moment, for him to paint them. He must therefore be content, as we are, to keep them as studies in the storehouse of his memory.
Here are a few of those studies, which he may practise upon till doomsday, and will not then be able to produce half the effect from them that will arise spontaneously on the imagination, at the mere mention of the simplest words which can describe them:—The sunburnt reapers, entering the field leisurely at early morning, with their reaphooks resting on their right shoulders, and their beer-kegs swinging to their left hands, while they pause for a while to look about them before they begin their work.—The same, when they are scattered over the field: some stooping to the ground over the prostrate corn, others lifting up the heavy sheaves and supporting them against one another, while the rest are plying their busy sickles, before which the brave crop seems to retreat reluctantly, like a half-defeated army.—Again, the same collected together into one group, and resting to refresh themselves, while the lightening keg passes from one to another silently, and the rude clasp-knife lifts the coarse meal to the ruddy lips.—Lastly, the piled-up wain, moving along heavily among the lessening sheaves, and swaying from side to side as it moves; while a few, whose share of the work is already done, lie about here and there in the shade, and watch the near completion ofit.[327]
Kentish Hop Picking.Who first may fillThe bellying bin, and cleanest cull the hops.Nor ought retards, unless invited outBy Sol’s declining, and the evening’s calm,Leander leads Lætitia to the sceneOf shade and fragrance—Then th’ exulting bandOf pickers, male and female, seize the fairReluctant, and with boisterous force and brute,By cries unmov’d, they bury her in the bin.Nor does the youth escape—him too they seize,And in such posture place as best may serveTo hide his charmer’s blushes. Then with shoutsThey rend the echoing air, and from them both(So custom has ordain’d) alargessclaim.Smart.
Kentish Hop Picking.
Who first may fillThe bellying bin, and cleanest cull the hops.Nor ought retards, unless invited outBy Sol’s declining, and the evening’s calm,Leander leads Lætitia to the sceneOf shade and fragrance—Then th’ exulting bandOf pickers, male and female, seize the fairReluctant, and with boisterous force and brute,By cries unmov’d, they bury her in the bin.Nor does the youth escape—him too they seize,And in such posture place as best may serveTo hide his charmer’s blushes. Then with shoutsThey rend the echoing air, and from them both(So custom has ordain’d) alargessclaim.
Who first may fillThe bellying bin, and cleanest cull the hops.Nor ought retards, unless invited outBy Sol’s declining, and the evening’s calm,Leander leads Lætitia to the sceneOf shade and fragrance—Then th’ exulting bandOf pickers, male and female, seize the fairReluctant, and with boisterous force and brute,By cries unmov’d, they bury her in the bin.Nor does the youth escape—him too they seize,And in such posture place as best may serveTo hide his charmer’s blushes. Then with shoutsThey rend the echoing air, and from them both(So custom has ordain’d) alargessclaim.
Smart.
[314]Gentleman’s Magazine.[315]Bateman’s Doome.[316]Kirby and Spence’s Entomology.[317]From “Ornithologia; or the Birds, a Poem,with an introduction, to their natural history, and copious notes, byJames Jennings, author of Observations on the Dialects of the West of England,” &c. &c.This work has been for some time ready for the press, but its appearance is delayed in consequence of the depressed state of trade.[318]The hot wells are, unfortunately, too often the last resort of the consumptive.[319]A promising youth who died some years since at Berbice.[320]Literary Panorama, 1807.[321]Brand’s Popular Antiquities.[322]A large stone, or earthen pitcher.[323]Statistical Account of Scotland.[324]Beakers.[325]Wooden frames on which beer casks are set.—Johnson.[326]Bridges’ Northamptonshire.[327]Mirror of the Months.
[314]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[315]Bateman’s Doome.
[316]Kirby and Spence’s Entomology.
[317]From “Ornithologia; or the Birds, a Poem,with an introduction, to their natural history, and copious notes, byJames Jennings, author of Observations on the Dialects of the West of England,” &c. &c.This work has been for some time ready for the press, but its appearance is delayed in consequence of the depressed state of trade.
[318]The hot wells are, unfortunately, too often the last resort of the consumptive.
[319]A promising youth who died some years since at Berbice.
[320]Literary Panorama, 1807.
[321]Brand’s Popular Antiquities.
[322]A large stone, or earthen pitcher.
[323]Statistical Account of Scotland.
[324]Beakers.
[325]Wooden frames on which beer casks are set.—Johnson.
[326]Bridges’ Northamptonshire.
[327]Mirror of the Months.