CHAPTER VII.

THE ZONG OF THE ZUMMERZETSHIRE OWLD GEAMSTER.I.“Cham[32]a Zummerzetshire munCoom her to hev a bit o’vun.Oo’lt[33]try a bout? I be’ant aveardOv any man or mother’s zun.II.“Cham a geamster owld and tough,Well knowed droo all the country zide,And many a lusty Barkshire manTo break my yead hev often tried.III.“Who’s vor a bout o vriendly plaay,As never should to anger move?Zich spwoorts wur only meaned vor thaayAs likes their mazzards broke for love.”

THE ZONG OF THE ZUMMERZETSHIRE OWLD GEAMSTER.

I.“Cham[32]a Zummerzetshire munCoom her to hev a bit o’vun.Oo’lt[33]try a bout? I be’ant aveardOv any man or mother’s zun.II.“Cham a geamster owld and tough,Well knowed droo all the country zide,And many a lusty Barkshire manTo break my yead hev often tried.III.“Who’s vor a bout o vriendly plaay,As never should to anger move?Zich spwoorts wur only meaned vor thaayAs likes their mazzards broke for love.”

I.“Cham[32]a Zummerzetshire munCoom her to hev a bit o’vun.Oo’lt[33]try a bout? I be’ant aveardOv any man or mother’s zun.

I.

“Cham[32]a Zummerzetshire mun

Coom her to hev a bit o’vun.

Oo’lt[33]try a bout? I be’ant aveard

Ov any man or mother’s zun.

II.“Cham a geamster owld and tough,Well knowed droo all the country zide,And many a lusty Barkshire manTo break my yead hev often tried.

II.

“Cham a geamster owld and tough,

Well knowed droo all the country zide,

And many a lusty Barkshire man

To break my yead hev often tried.

III.“Who’s vor a bout o vriendly plaay,As never should to anger move?Zich spwoorts wur only meaned vor thaayAs likes their mazzards broke for love.”

III.

“Who’s vor a bout o vriendly plaay,

As never should to anger move?

Zich spwoorts wur only meaned vor thaay

As likes their mazzards broke for love.”

John Bunn looked by no means a safe man to play with. He stood about five feet eleven, with spare long muscular limbs, a sallow complexion, and thick shock head of black hair,—a good defence in itself against any common blow of a stick. But now that the ice was broken, his challenge was soon answered; and George Gregory, of Stratton, one of the best mowers in the Vale, appeared to uphold the honour of Berks and Wilts. He stood half a head shorter than his opponent, but was, probably, the stronger man of the two, and had a sturdy and confident look, which promised well,and was fair-haired, and, like David, ruddy to look upon.

Stick-wrestlers

While they were taking off coats and waistcoats, and choosing sticks, two wrestlers got up on the stage, and showed the shoes in which they were going to wrestle to the umpires, for approval; and stood at the ropes, ready to begin as soon as the first bout at backsword was over. The crowd drew a long breath, while Bunn and Gregory came forward, shook hands; and then throwing up their guards, met in the middle of the stage.

At the first rattle of the sticks, the crowd began cheering again, and pressed in closer to the stage; and I with them, for it was very exciting,thatI felt at once. The coolness and resolution in the faces of the two men, as they struck and parried with those heavy sticks, trying all the points of each other’s play in a dozen rapid exchanges; the skill and power which every turn of the wrist showed; and the absolute indifference with which they treated any chance blow which fell on arm or shoulder, made it really a grand sight; and with all my prejudices I couldn’t help greatly admiring the players. “Bout,” cried Bunn, after a minute orso, and down came their guards, and they walked to the side of the stage to collect coppers from the crowd below in the baskets of their sticks, while the two first wrestlers put to in the middle.

I suppose there are more unsettled points in wrestling, or it is harder to see whether the men are playing fair, for the crowd was much more excited now than at the backsword play, a hundred voices shouting to the umpires every moment to stop this or that practice. Besides, the kicking, which is allowed at elbow and collar wrestling, makes it look brutal very often; and so I didn’t like it so much as the backsword play, though the men were fine, good-tempered fellows, and, when most excited, only seemed to want what they called “fair doos.”

I stopped by the stage until Gregory had lost his head. How it happened I couldn’t see, but suddenly the umpires cried out “Blood!” The men stopped; Gregory put up his hand to his hair, found that the blood was really coming, and then dropped his stick and got down, quite as much surprised as I was. And two more old gamesters were called up, the first head being to Somersetshire.

But now I heard that the cart-horse race was just coming off, and so following the crowd, made my way across to the east of the Castle.

I scrambled up to the highest part of the bank, and so got a capital view of the scene below. The course was marked out all the way down to the starting-post by rows of little pink and white flags, and the Committee-men were riding slowly up and down, trying to get the people to keep back behind the flags. The line was, on the whole, pretty well kept; but as the crowd got thicker every minute, every now and then a woman with two or three children would wander out to escape the pressure from behind; or a young couple keeping company would run across, hoping to better their position; or a lot of uproarious boys would start out for a lark, to try the tempers, and very possibly the whips, of the Committee.

Joe presently rode by the place where I was standing, and called out to me to come down and see the mounting. So I slipped out of the crowd, and ran down the back of the line to the starting-place. There I found the Squire and the umpires, passing the men and horses. Five or six were all ready; the great horses in theirthill harness, which jingled and rattled with every movement; and the carters perched up in the middle of the wood and leather and brass, in their white smock-frocks, with the brims of their break-of-days turned up in front, and a bunch of ribbons fluttering from the side, and armed with the regular long cart-whip. Just as I came up, Mr. Avery Whitfield’s bay horse, “King of the Isle,” was passed, and took his place with the others. He was one of the three favourites, I heard people say.

“Call the next horse.”

“Mr. Davenport’s gray mare, Dairymaid,” shouts the umpire. Here she comes with old Joe Humphries, the jockey and horse breaker, on her back. He is in full jockey costume—cap, jacket, and tops, with a racing whip and spurs. The umpires look doubtfully at him, and consult the Squire. At first they seem inclined not to let Joe ride at all, but as the owners of the other horses don’t object, they only insist on his taking off his spurs and changing his whip for a common long carter’s whip. Then Dairymaid is passed, and then one other horse; eight in all. Two of the Committee gallop down in front to clear the course for thelast time; the word “Off” is given; and away go the great steeds in furious plunging gallop, making the whole hill shake beneath them, and looking (as I heard one of the Oxford scholars remark) like a charge of German knights in some old etching. Close after them came the umpires, the Committee-men, and all the mounted farmers, cheering and shouting pieces of advice to the riders; and the crowd, as they pass, shout and wave their hats, and then rush after the horses. How everybody isn’t killed, and how those men can sit those great beasts in the middle of that rattling mass of harness, were my puzzles, as I scrambled along after the rest.

Meantime, in the race, Dairymaid shoots at once some yards ahead, and improves her lead at every stride; for she is a famous mare, and old Joe Humphries understands the tricks of the course, and can push her and lift her in ways unknown to the honest carters and foggers, who come lumbering behind him—Joe even has time for a contemptuous glance over his shoulder at his pursuers. But the race is not always to the swift, at least not to those who are swiftest at starting. Half-way up the course, Dairymaid ceases to gain; then she shows signs of distress,and scarcely answers to Joe’s persuasions. “King of the Isle” is creeping up to her—the carter shakes his bridle, and begins to ply his long cart-whip—they are crossing the Ridgeway, where stand the carter’s fellow-servants, Mr. Whitfield’s fogger, shepherd, ploughboys, &c. who set up a shout as he passes, which sends the bay right up abreast of the mare. No wonder they are excited, for the master has promised that the three guineas, the price of the new thill harness, shall be divided between them, if the bay wins.

In another fifty yards he is drawing ahead. All old Joe’s efforts are in vain; his jockeyship has only done him harm, whereas the carter’s knowledge of what his steed’s real powers are, has been the making of him, and he rides in, brandishing his long cart-whip, an easy winner.

Dairymaid is second, but only just before the ruck; and old Joe creeps away, let us hope, a humbler and a wiser man.

Of course I couldn’t see all this myself, because I was behind, but Joe told me all about the race directly afterwards. When I got up there was a great crowd round “King of the Isle,” from whose back the carter was explainingsomething about the race. But I couldn’t stay to listen, for I heard that the races for the “prime coated Berkshire fives” (as they called the cheeses), were just coming off; so I hurried away to the brow of the hill, just above the Horse, where it is steepest; for I wanted of all things to see how men could run down this place, which I couldn’t get up without using both hands.

There stood Mr. William Whitfield, of Uffington, the umpire who had to start the race, in his broad-brimmed beaver, his brown coat and waistcoat with brass buttons, and drab breeches and gaiters. I thought him a model yeoman to look at, but I didn’t envy him his task. Two wild-looking gypsy women, with their elf-locks streaming from under their red handkerchiefs, and their black eyes flashing, were rushing about amongst the runners, trying to catch some of their relations who were going to run; and screaming out that their men should never break their limbs down that break-neck place. The gypsies dodged about, and kept out of their reach, and the farmer remonstrated, but the wild women still persevered. Then, losing all patience, he would turn and poise the wheel,ready to push it over the brow, when a shout from the bystanders warns him to pause, and, a little way down the hill, just in the line of the race, appear two or three giggling lasses, hauled along by their sweethearts, and bent on getting a very good view. Luckily at this moment the Chairman appeared, and rode his white horse down to the front of the line of men, where there seemed to me to be footing for nothing but a goat. Then the course was cleared for a moment, he moved out of the line, making a signal to the farmer, who pushed the wheel at once over the brow, and cried, “Off.” The wheel gained the road in three bounds, cleared it in a fourth monster bound which measured forty yards, and hurried down far away to the bottom of the manger, where the other two umpires were waiting to decide who is the winner of the race.

Men running down the hill

Away go the fourteen men in hot pursuit, gypsies, shepherds, and light-heeled fellows of all sorts, helter-skelter; some losing their foothold at once, and rolling or slipping down; some still keeping their footing, but tottering at every step; one or two, with their bodies well thrown back, striking their heels firmlyinto the turf, and keeping a good balance. They are all in the road together, but here several fall on their faces, and others give in; the rest cross it in a moment, and are away down the manger. Here the sheep-walks, which run temptingly along the sides of the manger, but if they would look forward will take the runners very little nearer the bottom where the wheel lies, mislead many; and amongst the rest, the fleetest of the gypsies, who makes off at full speed along one of them. Two or three men go still boldly down the steep descent, falling and picking themselves up again; and Jonathan Legg, of Childrey, is the first of these. He has now gained the flat ground at the bottom, where after a short stagger he brings himself up, and makes straight for the umpires and the wheel. The gypsy now sees his error; and turning short down the hill, comes into the flat, running some twenty yards behind Jonathan. In another hundred yards he would pass him, for he gains at every stride; but it is too late; and we, at the top of the hill, cheer loudly when we see Jonathan, the man who had gone straight all the way, touch the wheel a clear ten yards before his more active rival.

I should have liked to have seen the boys’ races down the manger, but was afraid of missing some other sport, so I left farmer Whitfield at his troublesome post, shouting out the names of the boys and trying to get them into line, and went back into the Castle, where I found a crowd round the greased pole; and when I got up to it, saw a heavy-looking fellow, standing some five feet up the pole, with one foot in a noose of cord depending from a large gimlet, and the other leg hooked round the pole. He held in his right hand another large gimlet, which he was preparing to screw into the pole to support a second noose, and gazed stolidly down at a Committee-man, who was objecting “that this wasn’t fair climbing—that if gimlets and nooses were to be allowed, he could get up himself.” I thought he was right; but public feeling seemed to side with the climber; so the Committee-man gave in, declaring that there would be no more legs of mutton to climb for, if any thing but arms and legs were to be used.

“Rather a slow bit of sport this,” I said to an old gray-headed man, who was leaning on his stick at my side, and staring up at the performer.

“Ees, Zur,” answered he, “I dwon’t knaow but what it be.”

“Do you call it fair climbing, now?”

“Auh, bless’ee, not I. I minds seein’ the young chaps when I wur a buoy, climin’ maypowls a deal higher nor that, dree at a time. But now-a-days ’um be lazy, and afraid o’ spwiling their breeches wi’ the grase.”

“Are there any maypoles about here now?”

“Never a one as I knows on, Zur, for twenty mile round. The last as I remembers wur the Longcott one, and Parson Watts of Uffington had he sawed up nigh forty year ago, for fear lest there should ha’ been some murder done about ’un.”

“Murder about a maypole! Why, how was that?”

“Auh! you see, Zur, this here Longcott maypowl wur the last in all these parts, and a wur the envy of a zight o’ villages round about. Zo, one cluttery[34]night in November, thirty of our Ashbury chaps thay started down to Longcott, and dug ’un up, and brought ’un cler away on handspikes, all the waay to the Crown’d Inn at Ashbury, and ’tis quite vour mil’d.”

“On handspikes! Why, how big was he, then?”

“Augh! a fyeightish sized ’un. How big? whoy a sight bigger, bless’ee, nor that ’un, and all the bottom half on ’un solid oak. When thay cum to put ’un up afore the bar winder of the Crown’d, a reached right up auver the tops o’ the housen. But zoon arter a wur put up, the Uffington chaps cum up, and tuk and carried ’un down ther’. Ther’ was a smartish row or two about ’un at Uffington arter that, but they watched ’un night and day; and when the Lambourn chaps cum arter ’un one night, they chucked scaldin’ water right auver’m. Zo then Parson Watts, he tuk and sawed ’un up, and guv ’un to the owld women at Christmas for virewood.”

I walked away from the pole, turning over in my mind whether Parson Watts was right or wrong in his summary method of restoring peace to his parish, and, somehow or other, found myself again close under the stage. Now, and throughout the day, I found no flagging there; whenever I passed there was the crowd of men standing round, and the old and young gamesters hard at work. So Ibegan to believe what Joe had said, that the countrymen thought more about these games than any thing else, and wouldn’t care to go to the pastime if they were stopped.

I found that the Ashbury men were carrying it all their own way in the wrestling, and that their champion, old Richens (the rat-catcher, an old gamester in his fiftieth year), would probably not even have to wrestle at all; for his own men were throwing all the gamesters of the other parishes, and of course would give up to him when it came to the last ties. The men all wrestle in sides, at least the old gamesters do; so that a man generally plays for his parish, and not for his own head, which is a better thing, I think.

As to the backsword play, the stage was strewed with splinters of sticks and pieces of broken baskets, and many a young gamester has had his first broken head in public. But, for the chief prize, matters are going hard with Berks and Wilts. The Somersetshire old gamesters have won two heads to one; and, as they have six men in, and Berks and Wilts only four, the odds are all in favour of the cider county, and against the beer drinkers.

In good time up gets an old gamester, who looks like the man to do credit to the royal county. It is Harry Seeley, of Shrivenham, the only Berkshire man in; for there has been some difference between Berks and Wilts, and Harry’s two mates haven’t entered at all. So he, being one of the true bull-dog breed, is in for his own head, against all odds, and is up to play the next Somersetshire man.

Harry is a fine specimen of an Englishman. Five feet eight high, with a bullet head, and light blue eye; high-couraged, cool, and with an absolutely imperturbable temper. He plays in a blue shirt, thin from age and wear, through which you may see the play of his splendid arms and chest. His opponent is a much younger man, about the same size; but a great contrast to Harry, for he has a savage and sly look about him.

They shake hands, throw themselves into position, and the bout begins. Harry is clearly the finer player, and his adversary feels this at once; and the shouts of anticipated victory, in the Berkshire tongue, rouse his temper.

Now comes a turn of the savage play, which ought never to be seen on a stage. The Somersetman bends far back, and strikes upper cuts at the face and arms, and then savagely at the body. He is trying to maim and cow, and not to win by fair brave play. The crowd soon begin to get savage too; upper-cutting is not thought fair in Berks and Wilts; a storm begins to brew, hard words are bandied, and a cry of “Foul,” and “Pull him down,” is heard more than once, and the Committee man, who watches from below, is on the point of stopping the bout.

But nothing puts out old Harry Seeley; no upper cut can reach his face, for his head is thrown well back, and his guard is like a rock; and though the old blue shirt is cut through and through, he makes no more of the welts of the heavy stick than if it were a cat’s tail. Between the bouts his face is cheery and confident, and he tells his friends to “hold their noise, and let him alone to tackle the chap,” as he hands round his basket for the abounding coppers.

Now I could see well enough why the parsons don’t like these games. It gave me a turn, to watch the faces round the stage getting savage, and I could see what it might soonget to if there was much of this wild work. And there were Master George, and the two Oxford scholars, at the opposite corner of the stage, shouting till they were hoarse for old Seeley, and as savage and wicked-looking as any of the men round them; setting such a bad example, too, as I thought,—whereas it didn’t matter for a fellow like me, who was nobody,—so I shouted, and threw my coppers to old Seeley, and felt as wild as any of them, I do believe. Three bouts, four bouts pass; Harry’s stick gets in oftener and oftener. Has the fellow no blood in him? There it comes at last! In the fifth bout, Harry’s stick goes flashing in again, a fair down blow from the wrist, which puts the matter beyond all question, as the Somersetshire man staggers back across the stage, the blood streaming from under his hair. Loud are the shouts which greet the fine-tempered old gamester, as he pulls on his velveteen coat, and gets down from the stage.

“Why, Harry, thou’dst broke his yead second bout, mun, surely!” shout his admirers.

“No,” says Harry, dogmatically, “you see, mates, there’s no ’cumulation of blood belongsto thay cider-drinking chaps, as there does to we as drinks beer. Besides, thay drinks vinegar allus for a week afore playin’, which dries up most o’ the blood as theyhasgot; so it takes a ’mazin’ sight of cloutin’ to break their yeads as should be.”

After this bout all the other play seemed to be tasteless; so, promising myself to come back and see the ties played off, (unless Miss Lucy turned up in the mean time, in which case I shouldn’t have dared to go near the stage, and in fact I felt rather nervous already, lest she should have seen or heard of me there,) I marched off, and joined the crowd which was collecting round the jingling ring. That crowd was one of the pleasantest sights of the whole day. The jingling match seemed a very popular sport, especially with the women. There they were, of all ranks—for I’m certain I saw some young ladies in riding habits, and others in beautiful muslins, whom I, and Jem Fisher, and little Neddy have often seen riding with very great people in the Park, when we have managed to get down to Rotten Row on summer evenings—seated on the grass or standing round the ring, in all sorts of dresses, from fine silks downto cottons at 2d.a yard, and all looking pleasant and good-tempered, and as if they were quite used to being mixed up like this every day—which I’m sure I wish they were, for my part, especially if the men were allowed to join in the crowd too, as we were round the jingling ring. For there were gentlemen, both parsons and others, and farmers, and ploughboys, and all manner of other men and boys.

I don’t know what sort of fun a jingling match is in general, but I thought this one much the slowest game I saw. The ring must have been forty yards across, or thereabouts, and there were only eight blindfolded men running after the bellman. To make it good fun, there should have been twenty-five or thirty at least. Then the bellman, who has his hands tied behind him, ought to have the bell tied round his neck, or somewhere where he can’t get at it to stop the ringing; but our bellman had the bell tied to his waistband behind, so that he could catch hold of it with his hands, and stop it when he was in danger. Then half the men could see, I’m sure, by the way they carried their heads up in the air, especially one gypsy, who, I think, won the prize at last. Themen who couldn’t see were worth watching, for they kept catching and tumbling over one another. One time they made a rush to the rope, just where some of the young ladies were sitting, and, as nearly as could be, tumbled over among them. I thought there would have been a great scrambling and screaming; not a bit of it—they never flinched an inch, or made the least cry, and I was very proud to think they were my countrywomen. After the bellman had been caught about a minute, there was a great laugh at one of the blinded men, who made a rush, and caught a Committee-man, who was standing in the ring, in his arms. But on the whole, I thought the game a poor one, and was glad when it was over.

I hurried away directly after the jingling match, and went across the Castle, and out on to the down where the cart-horse race had been run to see the foot-races, which were run over the last half of the same course, on which ten good stiff sets of hurdles, at short distances apart, had been set up. I found a debate going on between the umpires and some of the men as to whether they were all to start together. The regular agricultural labourers were remonstrating as to some of the candidates.

“It bean’t narra mossel o’ use for we chaps to start along wi’ thay light-heeled gentry,” said one,—“Whoy, look ’ee here, zur’s one, and yander’s another, wi’ a kind o’ dancin’ pumps on, and that ’un at tother end wi’ a cricketin’ waistcut.”

“And there’s two o’ them little jockey chaps amongst ’em, sumweres, Zur,” said another, looking about for these young gentlemen, who dodged behind some of the bigger candidates.

“How can we help that?” said the umpire.

“Auh, Zur, thay be all too nimble by half for we to be of any account to ’em,” persisted the first speaker. “If twur for the sticks now, or wrastling—”

“Well, but what shall we do then?” interrupted the umpire.

“Let I pick out ten or a dozen on ’em to run by theirselves.” The umpires proposed this to the rest, and, no one objecting, told Giles, the protester, to pick out the ten he was most afraid of. This Giles proceeded to do with a broad grin on his face, and generally seemed to make a good selection. But presently he arrived at, and after a short inspection passed over, a young fellow in his blue shirt-sleeves and acloth cap, who to the umpire’s eye seemed a dangerous man.

“Why, Giles,” said he, “you’re never going to pass him over?”

“Auh, ees, Zur,” said Giles, “let he ’bide along wi’ we chaps. Dwont’ee zee, he’s a tipped and naayled ’un?”

When Giles had finished his selection, the first lot were started, and made a grand race; which was won by a Hampshire man from Kingsclere, the second man, not two feet behind, being a young Wiltshire farmer, who, having never been beaten in his own neighbourhood, had come to lose his laurels honourably at the Scouring.

The running in the second race was, of course, not so good, but much more amusing. The “tipped and naayled ’uns” were a rushing lot, but very bad at rising. Hurdle after hurdle went down before them with a crash, and the most wonderful summersaults were executed. The second hurdle finished poor Giles, who charged it manfully, and found himself the next moment on his broad back, gazing placidly up into the evening sky. The cloth cap, notwithstanding his shoes, went easily ahead, and wonin a canter. I heard one of the umpires rallying Giles afterwards at his want of eyes.

“Ees, Zur,” said Giles, hunching up his great shoulders, “I wur tuk in, zure enough. He wur a town chap, arter all, as wouldn’t ha’ knowed a piece o’ clumpers afore he cum across to White Hos Hill.”

I left the umpires now to start the other races, and got back once again into the Castle. I was now beginning to get very tired in my legs, though not in my spirits, so I went and sat down outside the crowd, which was thicker than ever round the stage, for the ties were being played out. I could hear the umpires call every now and then for some gamester who was not forthcoming to play out his tie—“John Giles, if you beant on the stage in five minutes, to put to with James Higgins, you shall lose your head”—through all the cheers and shouts, which rose louder and louder now that every blow or trip might decide the prizes. And while I was sitting, the donkey races were run outside, and I heard were very good fun; especially the last one, in which no man rode his own donkey, and the last donkey had the prize. I hope my friend, the old suck-woman, enteredneighbour Thorne’s beast, for if she did, I’ll be bound he carried off the prize for her. They were the only sports that I didn’t manage to see something of.

It was now just five o’clock, the hour for the pig-race, which seemed to be a most popular sport, for most of the lookers-on at the stage went off to see it, leaving only a select crowd of old and young gamesters, most of whom had been playing themselves, and whom nothing could drag five yards from the posts until the ties were all played out. I was just considering whether I should move or stay where I was, when Master George came striding by and caught sight of me.

“Hullo,” said he, “how is it you’re not on the move? You must see the pig-race; come along.” So I got up and shambled along with him.

The pig was to be started on the slope below the west entrance, where the old gentleman had stood and lectured me the day before about Earl Sidroc. There was the spring cart, covered with a net, with a fine young Berkshire pig in it, just at the place where the Bersirkir (as he called them) made their last stand.When we came up, the runners, thirty in number, with their coats and waistcoats off, were just being drawn up in line inside the Castle, from which place they were to be started, and run down through the west entrance out on to the open down, at the word “off.” It was thought that this rush down between the double banks, covered thickly with the crowd, would be the finest sight of the race. But the rush never came. Piggy was to have five minutes law, and the Committee-man who went down to turn him out put his snout towards Ashdown Park, and gave him a push in hopes that he would take straight away over the downs, and so get a good start. Of course, he turned right round and came trotting and grunting up towards the Castle, to see what all the bustle could be about. Then the crowd began to shout at him, and to press further and further down the outer earthworks, though all the Committee were there to keep the course clear for the regular runners; and at last, before half of the five minutes were over, the whole line broke up with a great shout, and the down was covered in a moment with countless men and boys in full chase of Piggy. Then the lawful candidatescould stand it no longer, and away they went too, cleaving their way through the press, the Committee riding after them as fast as was safe in such a crowd, to see fair play if possible at the finish.

In a minute or two, Piggy was mobbed, surrounded, seized first by one of the crowd, and then by a lawful runner. These tumbled over in their struggle without loosing their hold and more of their friends over them, and from the middle of the mass poor Piggy sent up the most vigorous and dismal squeals, till the Committee-men rode in, laying about with their whips; and Farmer Whitfield, springing off, seized Piggy, and in another minute was cantering away with him towards Wayland Smith’s cave. Here he was turned out again for a fair race, and was won by Charles Ebury, of Fernham; who, fearing the results of his racing performances, sold him at once for 10s.to the Woolston carrier. But I am happy to say that he wasn’t really hurt, for I went to see him some days afterwards, and found him as hearty as pig could be.

Master George and I agreed, as we walked back to the Castle, that it is a shame to have a pig-race.

“No,” said he, “let men run any risk they like of broken heads or limbs for themselves; they may play or not as they like. But Piggy has no choice, and to let him run the risk of having the legs pulled out of his body before he is wanted for pork, isn’t fair.”

“He didn’t seem to think it was, certainly, Sir,” I said.

“No,” said he, laughing; “did you ever hear such a song as he made? No animal can talk like a pig. He can scold or remonstrate just as well as a Christian. Any one who knows the language can tell you just what he is saying. Well,” he went on, “I see you don’t believe me; now I will go and hear what he has to say about this proceeding, and give you it word for word.”

Lots of people chasing a pig

This was what he gave me afterwards, with the other songs he had promised me:—

THE LAY OF THE HUNTED PIG.“Vathers, mothers, mothers’ zons!You as loves yer little wuns!Happy pegs among the stubble,Listen to a tale of trouble;Listen, pegs in yeard and stye,How the Barkshire chaps zard I.“I wur barn at Kingstone-Lisle,Wher I vrolicked var a while,As vine a peg as e’er wur zeen(One of a litter o’ thirteen)Till zome chaps wi’ cussed spiteAimed ov I to make a zite,And to have a ‘bit o’ vun,’Took I up to Uffington.“Up, vorights[35]the Castle moundThey did zet I on the ground;Then a thousand chaps, or nigh,Runned and hollered arter I—Ther, then, I till I wur blowed,Runned and hollered all I knowed,When, zo zure as pegs is pegs,Eight chaps ketched I by the legs,Two to each—’tis truth I tell ’ee—Dree more clasped I round the belly!Under all they fellers lyin’—Pegs!—I thought as I wur dyin’.“But the Squire (I thenks I zee un),Varmer Whitfield ridin’ wi’ un,Fot I out o’ all thuck caddle,Stretched athurt the varmer’s zaddle—Bless ’em, pegs in yeard and stye,Them two vrends as stuck to I.“Barkshire men, vrom Hill and Vale,All as ever hears this tale,If to spwoort you be inclined,Plaze to bear this here in mind—Pegs beant made no race to win,Be zhart o’ wind, and tight o’ skin,Dwont’ee hunt ’em, but insteadAt backswyrd break each other’s yeadCheezes down the manger rowl—Or try and clim the greasy powl.“Pegs! in stubble yeard and stye,May you be never zard like I,Nor druv wi greasy ears and tail,By men and bwoys drough White Horse Vale.”

THE LAY OF THE HUNTED PIG.“Vathers, mothers, mothers’ zons!You as loves yer little wuns!Happy pegs among the stubble,Listen to a tale of trouble;Listen, pegs in yeard and stye,How the Barkshire chaps zard I.“I wur barn at Kingstone-Lisle,Wher I vrolicked var a while,As vine a peg as e’er wur zeen(One of a litter o’ thirteen)Till zome chaps wi’ cussed spiteAimed ov I to make a zite,And to have a ‘bit o’ vun,’Took I up to Uffington.“Up, vorights[35]the Castle moundThey did zet I on the ground;Then a thousand chaps, or nigh,Runned and hollered arter I—Ther, then, I till I wur blowed,Runned and hollered all I knowed,When, zo zure as pegs is pegs,Eight chaps ketched I by the legs,Two to each—’tis truth I tell ’ee—Dree more clasped I round the belly!Under all they fellers lyin’—Pegs!—I thought as I wur dyin’.“But the Squire (I thenks I zee un),Varmer Whitfield ridin’ wi’ un,Fot I out o’ all thuck caddle,Stretched athurt the varmer’s zaddle—Bless ’em, pegs in yeard and stye,Them two vrends as stuck to I.“Barkshire men, vrom Hill and Vale,All as ever hears this tale,If to spwoort you be inclined,Plaze to bear this here in mind—Pegs beant made no race to win,Be zhart o’ wind, and tight o’ skin,Dwont’ee hunt ’em, but insteadAt backswyrd break each other’s yeadCheezes down the manger rowl—Or try and clim the greasy powl.“Pegs! in stubble yeard and stye,May you be never zard like I,Nor druv wi greasy ears and tail,By men and bwoys drough White Horse Vale.”

THE LAY OF THE HUNTED PIG.

“Vathers, mothers, mothers’ zons!You as loves yer little wuns!Happy pegs among the stubble,Listen to a tale of trouble;Listen, pegs in yeard and stye,How the Barkshire chaps zard I.

“Vathers, mothers, mothers’ zons!

You as loves yer little wuns!

Happy pegs among the stubble,

Listen to a tale of trouble;

Listen, pegs in yeard and stye,

How the Barkshire chaps zard I.

“I wur barn at Kingstone-Lisle,Wher I vrolicked var a while,As vine a peg as e’er wur zeen(One of a litter o’ thirteen)Till zome chaps wi’ cussed spiteAimed ov I to make a zite,And to have a ‘bit o’ vun,’Took I up to Uffington.

“I wur barn at Kingstone-Lisle,

Wher I vrolicked var a while,

As vine a peg as e’er wur zeen

(One of a litter o’ thirteen)

Till zome chaps wi’ cussed spite

Aimed ov I to make a zite,

And to have a ‘bit o’ vun,’

Took I up to Uffington.

“Up, vorights[35]the Castle moundThey did zet I on the ground;Then a thousand chaps, or nigh,Runned and hollered arter I—Ther, then, I till I wur blowed,Runned and hollered all I knowed,When, zo zure as pegs is pegs,Eight chaps ketched I by the legs,Two to each—’tis truth I tell ’ee—Dree more clasped I round the belly!Under all they fellers lyin’—Pegs!—I thought as I wur dyin’.

“Up, vorights[35]the Castle mound

They did zet I on the ground;

Then a thousand chaps, or nigh,

Runned and hollered arter I—

Ther, then, I till I wur blowed,

Runned and hollered all I knowed,

When, zo zure as pegs is pegs,

Eight chaps ketched I by the legs,

Two to each—’tis truth I tell ’ee—

Dree more clasped I round the belly!

Under all they fellers lyin’—

Pegs!—I thought as I wur dyin’.

“But the Squire (I thenks I zee un),Varmer Whitfield ridin’ wi’ un,Fot I out o’ all thuck caddle,Stretched athurt the varmer’s zaddle—Bless ’em, pegs in yeard and stye,Them two vrends as stuck to I.

“But the Squire (I thenks I zee un),

Varmer Whitfield ridin’ wi’ un,

Fot I out o’ all thuck caddle,

Stretched athurt the varmer’s zaddle—

Bless ’em, pegs in yeard and stye,

Them two vrends as stuck to I.

“Barkshire men, vrom Hill and Vale,All as ever hears this tale,If to spwoort you be inclined,Plaze to bear this here in mind—Pegs beant made no race to win,Be zhart o’ wind, and tight o’ skin,Dwont’ee hunt ’em, but insteadAt backswyrd break each other’s yeadCheezes down the manger rowl—Or try and clim the greasy powl.

“Barkshire men, vrom Hill and Vale,

All as ever hears this tale,

If to spwoort you be inclined,

Plaze to bear this here in mind—

Pegs beant made no race to win,

Be zhart o’ wind, and tight o’ skin,

Dwont’ee hunt ’em, but instead

At backswyrd break each other’s yead

Cheezes down the manger rowl—

Or try and clim the greasy powl.

“Pegs! in stubble yeard and stye,May you be never zard like I,Nor druv wi greasy ears and tail,By men and bwoys drough White Horse Vale.”

“Pegs! in stubble yeard and stye,

May you be never zard like I,

Nor druv wi greasy ears and tail,

By men and bwoys drough White Horse Vale.”

[29]“Scawt”—to get up.[30]“File”—a fall.[31]“Sinkers”—stockings without feet.[32]“Cham”—“I am,” a form still used in parts of Somersetshire.[33]“Oo’lt”—wilt thou.[34]“Cluttery”—pelting with rain.[35]“Vorights”—opposite.

[29]“Scawt”—to get up.

[29]“Scawt”—to get up.

[30]“File”—a fall.

[30]“File”—a fall.

[31]“Sinkers”—stockings without feet.

[31]“Sinkers”—stockings without feet.

[32]“Cham”—“I am,” a form still used in parts of Somersetshire.

[32]“Cham”—“I am,” a form still used in parts of Somersetshire.

[33]“Oo’lt”—wilt thou.

[33]“Oo’lt”—wilt thou.

[34]“Cluttery”—pelting with rain.

[34]“Cluttery”—pelting with rain.

[35]“Vorights”—opposite.

[35]“Vorights”—opposite.

Master George slipped away from me somehow, after the pig-race, so I strolled up into the Castle again. The sports were all over, so the theatres and shows were making a greater noise than ever, but I didn’t feel inclined to go to any of them, and kept walking slowly round the bank on the opposite side, and looking down at the fair. In a minute or two I heard cheering, and saw an open carriage, with postilions, driving out of the Castle, and three or four young ladies and a gentleman or two cantering along with it. I watched them for some way across the downs, and thought how nice it must be to be able to ride well, and to have nice horses to go galloping over the springy downs, into the golden sunset, putting up the larks and beautiful little wheatears; and, besides all that, to have all the people cheering one too! So down I went into the crowd, to findout who they were. It was Lord Craven and his party, the first man I came across told me; and then I quite understood why this carriage should be the only one to come inside the Castle, and why the people should cheer; because, you see, the White Horse, and Dragon’s Hill, and the Manger, all belong to him, and he is very good-natured in letting everybody go there and do pretty much what they please. There were other carriages going off now from the row outside, and coachmen bringing up their horses to harness, and a few of the foot people who came from the longest distances, starting along the Ridgeway, or down the Uffington Road. I was standing watching all this, and thinking how I was to find my party, and whether I should go behind in the four-wheel (which I began to feel very much inclined to do, for I was getting tired, and it would be dark), when I saw Joe bustling about amongst the crowd, and looking out for some one; so I made across to him.

“Ah, there you are,” said he, as soon as he caught sight of me, “I’ve been hunting for you; it’s all over for to-day. Lu sent me after you to come and have some tea. If you like, youcan go home directly afterwards with her and Mr. Warton.”

I was much pleased to hear that Miss Lucy had sent after me, but I didn’t want to show it.

“What are you going to do?” said I.

“Oh,” said Joe, “I shan’t leave till all the Committee go; I must be at the giving away of the prizes in the tent; and then, if any thing should happen afterwards—any row, you know, or that sort o’ thing—I shouldn’t like to be gone.”

I didn’t say any thing more, as I thought I might just as well leave it open; so I followed him to the west side of the Castle, where the police tent stood, and it was quite quiet.

“Here they are,” said Joe, “over in the ditch;” and he scrambled up the bank, and I after him, and in the ditch below sure enough was a most cozy tea-party. Miss Lucy, with her bonnet off, was sitting cutting up a cake, and generally directing. Two other young women, nice fresh-looking girls, but not to be named with her, were setting out a few cups and saucers and plates, which they had borrowed from some of the stalls. Mr. Wartonwas on his knees with his hat off, blowing away till he was red in the face at a little fire made of chips and pieces of old hampers, over which the kettle, also borrowed, hung from three sticks driven into the ground so that their tops met above the fire. Two or three young farmers sat about looking on, or handing things as they were wanted, except one impudent young fellow of about eighteen, with scarcely a hair on his chin, who was almost in Miss Lucy’s pocket, and was meddling with every thing she was doing.

“Well, here you are, at last,” said she, looking up at us; “why, where have you been all day?”

“I am sure I have been hunting after you very often,” said I, which, perhaps, was rather more than I ought to have said; “but it isn’t easy for one who is a stranger to find people in such a crowd.”

“I don’t know that,” said she, with a pretty little toss of her head; “where there’s a will there’s a way. If I hadn’t found friends, I might have been alone all day—and there are three or four of the shows I have never seen, now.”

I began to look as sorry as I could, while Ithought what to answer, when the young man who was close to her tried to steal some of the cake; she turned round quickly, and rapped his fingers with the back of her knife, and he pretended to be hurt. She only laughed, and went on cutting up the cake, but she called him Jack, and seemed so intimate with him that it put me out, and I sat down on the other side of the circle, some way off.

“It’s all right,” said the Parson, looking up from the fire; “boils splendidly—give me the tea.”

Miss Lucy handed him a little parcel of tea from her bag, and he put it into the kettle.

“I declare we have forgotten the milk,” said she; “do run and fetch it, Jack—it’s in a bottle under the back seat of the four-wheel.”

I jumped up before Jack, who hardly moved, and ran off to fetch the milk; for which she gave me a pleasant smile when I came back, and I felt better pleased, and enjoyed the tea and cake and bread and butter, and all the talk over it, very much; except that I couldn’t stand this Jack, who was forcing her to notice him every minute, by stealing her teaspoon or her cake, or making some of his foolish remarks.

The sun set splendidly before we had finished, and it began to get a little chilly.

“Well,” said Joe, jumping up, “I’m off to get the horse put to. You’d better be starting, Lu; you won’t be down hill much before dark, now, and there’s no moon—worse luck.”

“Very well,” said she, taking up her bonnet, and putting it on; “we shall be ready in five minutes.”

“You’ll go behind with them, I suppose,” said Joe to me.

“I’m to have a seat, mind,” struck in that odious Jack; “Lucy promised me that an hour ago.” I could have given him a good kick; however, I don’t think I showed that I was put out.

“How can you tell such fibs, Jack?” said she; but I didn’t take any notice of that.

“Thank you, I wish to stay on the hill,” said I. “Besides, the four-wheel will be full without me.”

She didn’t seem to hear; and began talking to one of the other girls.

“But how are you to get down?” said Joe.

“Oh, I can walk,” said I, “or ride behind you.”

“Very good, if you like,” said he; “the chestnut would carry six, if her back was long enough;” and away he went to get the four-wheel ready.

We followed; Miss Lucy sticking close to her friend, and never saying a word to any of us. I walked with Mr. Warton, who was in the highest spirits, looking over his shoulder, and raving about the green tints in the sunset.

When we got to the carriages, there was kissing and shaking of hands, and the rest went off, while the parson and Miss Lucy packed into the front seat, and Jack and Jem the carter-boy into the hind seat of the four-wheel; and away they drove, wishing us “good night.” I watched them for some time, and could see Jack leaning forward close to her ear; and turned back with Joe into the Castle, more out of sorts than I had been since I left London.

Joe hurried off to the police tent, where the Committee were giving away the prizes, saying I should find him there when I wanted him; and I loitered away to see whatever was to be seen. At first nothing seemed to please me. I watched the men and boys playing at three sticks a penny, and thought I might as wellhave been on Primrose Hill. Then I went and looked at the shows; and there was the fellow in flesh-coloured tights, turning over and over on the slack rope, and the clarionet and French horn and drum, played by the three men in corduroys, all out of tune and louder than ever, as if they had only just begun, instead of having been screaming and rumbling away all day; and the man outside the pink-eyed lady’s caravan was shouting away for the hundredth time all about her, and then playing the pan-pipes, as if no other woman in the world had pink eyes.

I was determined they shouldn’t have any of my money at any rate, so I strolled further down the line, and looked into a low booth where a fiddle was going. Here several couples were dancing, with their arms a-kimbo, on some planks which had been put down on the grass, and all the rest of the booth was crowded with others looking on. This pleased me better, for the dancers seemed to enjoy themselves wonderfully, and made a sort of clattering accompaniment to the music with their hob-nailed shoes, which was merry and pleasant.

When I was tired of watching them, I thought I would go and find Joe; so I wentover to the tent, and there I got all right, and began to enjoy myself again.

In the further corner of the tent, the Squire and another justice were sitting, and hearing a charge of pocket-picking, of which there were only two during the whole day, the police told me. Opposite the door, the rest of the Committee were sitting at a table and giving away the prizes.

Joe beckoned me in, and I went round to the back of the table and looked on. As the men came up from the group round the door, when their names were called out, the umpires said a few words to each of them, and then gave them their prizes, and most of them made some sort of speech in answer; for they were much less shy than in the morning, I suppose from the sense of having earned their right to hold up their heads by winning. The owner of the successful donkey was just carrying out the flitch of bacon when I arrived; after him the Somersetshire backsword players were called in to take the first three prizes for that sport, they having beaten all the Wiltshire men; while old Seeley, the only Berkshire man entered, to everybody’s surprise had not played out histie, but had given his head (as they said) to his second opponent. Therefore, although entitled to the last prize for having won his first bout, he had not done all his duty in the eyes of the umpires, who gently complained, while handing him over his four half-crowns, and wondered that so gallant an old gamester, and a Yale man, should not have played out his ties for the honour of the county.

“Well, gen’l’men,” said old Seeley, giving a hitch with his shoulders, “I’ll just tell you how it was. You see, ther wur six Somersetshire old gamesters come up to play, and ther wur six of our side to play ’em; dree Wiltshire and dree Barkshire, if so be as we could have made a party. But the dree from Wiltshire they wouldn’t go in along wi’ we, and turned their backs on me and my two mates; so my two mates wouldn’t go in at all, and wanted me to give out too. But you see, gen’l’men, I’d a spent a matter of a pound over getting myself a little better food, and making myself lissom; so thinks I, I must go up and have a bout, let it be how t’wool. And you saw, gen’l’men, as I played a good stick. When it cum’ to playing off the ties, there wur dree Somersetshiretiers, and two of our side, that’s Slade and me. But when a man turns his back on me, gen’l’men, why I turns my back on him; so I guv my head to young Mapstone, and left Slade to win if he could. Though I thinks, if thay Wiltshire chaps had behaved theirselves as thay should, we might ha’ had the prize, for I knows as I never played freer in my life. And I hopes, gen’l’men, as you don’t think I wur afeard of any man as ever got on that stage. Bless you!” said old Seeley, warming up, “I be that fond o’ thay sticks, I assure you, gen’l’men, I’d as lief meet a man as is a man for a bout wi’ thay sticks, as I would—a joint of roast beef.”

Old Seeley’s speech carried conviction, for there could be no mistake about the tone in which he drew his last comparison, after a moment’s pause to think of the thing he liked best, and he retired from the tent in high favour, as I think he deserved to be.

After watching these doings for some time, I began to feel very hungry, for I had eaten hardly any thing at tea, so I told Joe that he would find me over in the great booth getting some supper, and went out. It was gettingquite dark, and the stage and poles looked black and melancholy as I passed by them. But the publicans’ booths were all lighted up inside, and looked very cheerful, and were full of holiday folk, fortifying themselves with all sorts of meat and drink before starting for the descent of the hill, and the walk home in the dark.

I pushed my way through the crowd round the door, and reached the bar, where the landlord recognized me directly, and handed me over to Peter, who soon landed me at the table in the recess, which was still well supplied with cold joints and bread and cheese. While he went off to get my plate and ale, I had time to look round. The booth was much gayer than the day before; every post was decked more or less with flowers and evergreens, and the flags had been brought inside. The whole place was lighted with dips and flickering oil lamps, which gave light enough to let one see all parts of the tent pretty clearly.

There were a good many tables ranged about; the one nearest to ours wasn’t yet occupied, but at all the others were groups of men drinking beer, and some smoking, and talking eagerly over the events of the day. Those nearest thehigh table seemed under some little restraint, and spoke low; but from the farther tables rose a loud hum of the broadest Berkshire, and an occasional scrap of a song. A few women were scattered here and there—mostly middle-aged, hard-working housewives—watching their good men, and anxious to carry them off in good time, and before too much of the harvest-savings had found its way to the landlord’s till. About the entrance was a continually-changing crowd, and the atmosphere of the whole was somewhat close, and redolent of not very fragrant tobacco.

At the supper-table where I was, were seven or eight men. The one just opposite me was a strong-built, middle-aged man, in a pepper-and-salt riding-coat and waistcoat, with an open, weather-beaten face, and keen, deep-set, gray eyes, who seemed bent on making a good supper. Next above him were the two Oxford scholars, but they didn’t take the least notice of me, which I thought they might have done, after our morning’s ride together. They had finished supper, and were smoking cigars, and chatting with one another, and with the pepper-and-salt man, whom they called Doctor. Butmy observations were soon cut short by Peter, who came back with my plate and knife and fork, and a foaming pewter of ale, and I set to work as heartily as the Doctor himself.

“You’ll find some of this lettuce and watercress eat well with your beef, Sir,” said he, pushing across a dish.

“Thank you, Sir,” said I; “I find that watching the games makes one very hungry.”

“The air, Sir, all the downs air,” said the Doctor; “I call them Doctor Downs. Do more for the appetite in six hours than I can in a week. Here, Peter, get this gentleman some of your mistress’s walnut pickles.”

And then the good-natured Doctor fell to upon his beef again, and chatted away with the scholars and me, and soon made me feel myself quite at home. I own that I had done my neighbours a little injustice; for they were pleasant enough when the ice was once broken, and I daresay didn’t mean to be rude after all.

As soon as I had finished my supper, the shorter of the scholars handed me a large cigar, the first whiff of which gave me a high idea of the taste of my contemporaries of the upper classes in the matter of tobacco.

Just then the verse of a song, in which two or three men were joining, rose from the other end of the tent, from amidst the hum of voices.

“I wish those fellows would sing out,” said the short scholar; “I can’t make out more than a word or two.”

“You wouldn’t be any the wiser if you could,” said the other; “we have ceased to be a singing nation. The people have lost the good old ballads, and have got nothing in their place.”

“How do you know?” said the short scholar; “I should like to hear for myself, at any rate.”

“What sort of ballads do you mean, Sir?” said I to the long scholar.

“Why, those in the Robin Hood Garland, for instance,” said he. “Songs written for the people, about their heroes, and, I believe, by the people. There’s nothing of the sort now.”

“What do you say to ‘There’s a Good Time Coming’?” asked the short scholar.

“Well, it’s the best of them, I believe,” said the other; “but you know it was written by Mackay, an LL.D. Besides, it’s essentially a town song.”

“It’s a tip-top one, at any rate,” said theshort scholar; “I wish I could write such another.”

“What I say, is, that the popular songs now are written bylitterateursin London, Is there any life or go in ‘Woodman spare that Tree,’ or ‘The Old Arm-Chair’? and they are better than the slip-slop sentimental stuff most in vogue.”

“What a discontented old bird you are!” said the short scholar; “you’re never pleased with any product of this enlightened century.”

“Let the century get a character, then; when it does, we shall get some good staves. I’m not particular; a brave story, or a quaint story, or a funny story, in good rough verse, that’s all I ask for. But, where to find one? Here’s the Doctor for umpire. I say, Doctor, don’t you agree with me, now?”

“Not quite,” said the Doctor, looking up from his cold beef. “I dare say you wouldn’t think them worth much; but there are plenty of ballads sung about which you never hear.”

“What! real modern ballads, written by some of the masses, in this century, for instance? Where did you ever hear one, Doctor? What are they like, now?”

“Well, my work takes me a good deal about in queer places, and at queer times, amongst the country folk, and I hear plenty of them. Will one about Lord Nelson suit you? There’s an old patient of mine at the next table who owns a little coal wharf on the canal; he fell into the lock one night, broke his arm, and was nearly drowned, and I attended him. He takes a trip in the barges now and then, which makes him fancy himself half a sailor. I dare say I can set him off, if he hasn’t had too much beer.”

So the Doctor walked over to a lower table, and spoke to a grisly-headed old man in a velveteen coat and waistcoat, and a blue birdseye-neckerchief, who seemed pleased, and drew his sleeve across his mouth, and cleared his throat. Then there was a rapping on the table, and the old bargee began in a rumbling bass voice:—

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