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"And the King
commandeth and forbiddeth,
that from henceforth neither
fairs nor markets be kept in
Churchyards, for the honour
of the Church." - STATUTES
: 13 Edw. I. Stat. II. cap.
vi. As that venerable
and learned poet (whose voluminous
works
we all think it the correct
thing to admire and talk about,
but don't read often) most
truly says, "The child
is father to the man;" a
fortiori, therefore, he must
be father to the boy. So as
we are going at any rate to
see Tom Brown through his boyhood,
supposing we never get any
farther (which, if you show
a proper sense of the value
of this history, there is no
knowing but what we may), let
us have a look at the life
and environments of the child
in the quiet country village
to which we were introduced
in the last chapter.
Tom, as has been already said,
was a robust and combative
urchin, and at the age of four
began to struggle against the
yoke and authority of his nurse.
That functionary was a good-
hearted, tearful, scatter-brained
girl, lately taken by Tom's
mother, Madam Brown, as she
was called, from the village
school to be trained as nurserymaid.
Madam Brown was a rare trainer
of servants, and spent herself
freely in the profession; for
profession it was, and gave
her more trouble by half than
many people take to earn a
good income. Her servants were
known and sought after for
miles round. Almost all the
girls who attained a certain
place in the village school
were taken by her, one or two
at a time, as housemaids, laundrymaids,
nurserymaids, or kitchenmaids,
and after a year or two's training
were started in life amongst
the neighbouring families,
with good principles and wardrobes.
One of the results of this
system was the perpetual despair
of Mrs. Brown's cook and own
maid, who no sooner had a notable
girl made to their hands than
missus was sure to find a good
place for her and send her
off, taking in fresh importations
from the school. Another was,
that the house was always full
of young girls, with clean,
shining faces, who broke plates
and scorched linen, but made
an atmosphere of cheerful,
homely life about the place,
good for every one who came
within its influence. Mrs.
Brown loved young people, and
in fact human creatures in
general, above plates and linen.
They were more like a lot of
elder children than servants,
and felt to her more as a mother
or aunt than as a mistress.
Tom's nurse was one who took
in her instruction very slowly
- she seemed to have two left
hands and no head; and so Mrs.
Brown kept her on longer than
usual, that she might expend
her awkwardness and forgetfulness
upon those who would not judge
and punish her too strictly
for them.
Charity Lamb
was her name. It had been
the immemorial
habit of the village to christen
children either by Bible names,
or by those of the cardinal
and other virtues; so that
one was for ever hearing in
the village street or on the
green, shrill sounds of "Prudence!
Prudence! thee cum' out o'
the gutter;" or, "Mercy!
drat the girl, what bist thee
a-doin' wi' little Faith?" and
there were Ruths, Rachels,
Keziahs, in every corner. The
same with the boys: they were
Benjamins, Jacobs, Noahs, Enochs.
I suppose the custom has come
down from Puritan times. There
it is, at any rate, very strong
still in the Vale.
Well, from
early morning till dewy eve,
when she had it out
of him in the cold tub before
putting him to bed, Charity
and Tom were pitted against
one another. Physical power
was as yet on the side of Charity,
but she hadn't a chance with
him wherever headwork was wanted.
This war of independence began
every morning before breakfast,
when Charity escorted her charge
to a neighbouring farmhouse,
which supplied the Browns,
and where, by his mother's
wish, Master Tom went to drink
whey before breakfast. Tom
had no sort of objection to
whey, but he had a decided
liking for curds, which were
forbidden as unwholesome; and
there was seldom a morning
that he did not manage to secure
a handful of hard curds, in
defiance of Charity and of
the farmer's wife. The latter
good soul was a gaunt, angular
woman, who, with an old black
bonnet on the top of her head,
the strings dangling about
her shoulders, and her gown
tucked through her pocket-holes,
went clattering about the dairy,
cheese-room, and yard, in high
pattens. Charity was some sort
of niece of the old lady's,
and was consequently free of
the farmhouse and garden, into
which she could not resist
going for the purposes of gossip
and flirtation with the heir-apparent,
who was a dawdling fellow,
never out at work as he ought
to have been. The moment Charity
had found her cousin, or any
other occupation, Tom would
slip away; and in a minute
shrill cries would be heard
from the dairy, "Charity,
Charity, thee lazy huzzy, where
bist?" and Tom would break
cover, hands and mouth full
of curds, and take refuge on
the shaky surface of the great
muck reservoir in the middle
of the yard, disturbing the
repose of the great pigs. Here
he was in safety, as no grown
person could follow without
getting over their knees; and
the luckless Charity, while
her aunt scolded her from the
dairy door, for being "allus
hankering about arter our Willum,
instead of minding Master Tom," would
descend from threats to coaxing,
to lure Tom out of the muck,
which was rising over his shoes,
and would soon tell a tale
on his stockings, for which
she would be sure to catch
it from missus's maid.
Tom had two
abettors, in the shape of
a couple of old boys,
Noah and Benjamin by name,
who defended him from Charity,
and expended much time upon
his education. They were both
of them retired servants of
former generations of the Browns.
Noah Crooke was a keen, dry
old man of almost ninety, but
still able to totter about.
He talked to Tom quite as if
he were one of his own family,
and indeed had long completely
identified the Browns with
himself. In some remote age
he had been the attendant of
a Miss Brown, and had conveyed
her about the country on a
pillion. He had a little round
picture of the identical gray
horse, caparisoned with the
identical pillion, before which
he used to do a sort of fetish
worship, and abuse turnpike-roads
and carriages. He wore an old
full-bottomed wig, the gift
of some dandy old Brown whom
he had valeted in the middle
of last century, which habiliment
Master Tom looked upon with
considerable respect, not to
say fear; and indeed his whole
feeling towards Noah was strongly
tainted with awe. And when
the old gentleman was gathered
to his fathers, Tom's lamentation
over him was not unaccompanied
by a certain joy at having
seen the last of the wig. "Poor
old Noah, dead and gone," said
he; "Tom Brown so sorry.
Put him in the coffin, wig
and all."
But old Benjy
was young master's real delight
and refuge. He
was a youth by the side of
Noah, scarce seventy years
old - a cheery, humorous, kind-hearted
old man, full of sixty years
of Vale gossip, and of all
sorts of helpful ways for young
and old, but above all for
children. It was he who bent
the first pin with which Tom
extracted his first stickleback
out of "Pebbly Brook," the
little stream which ran through
the village. The first stickleback
was a splendid fellow, with
fabulous red and blue gills.
Tom kept him in a small basin
till the day of his death,
and became a fisherman from
that day. Within a month from
the taking of the first stickleback,
Benjy had carried off our hero
to the canal, in defiance of
Charity; and between them,
after a whole afternoon's popjoying,
they had caught three or four
small, coarse fish and a perch,
averaging perhaps two and a
half ounces each, which Tom
bore home in rapture to his
mother as a precious gift,
and which she received like
a true mother with equal rapture,
instructing the cook nevertheless,
in a private interview, not
to prepare the same for the
Squire's dinner. Charity had
appealed against old Benjy
in the meantime, representing
the dangers of the canal banks;
but Mrs. Brown, seeing the
boy's inaptitude for female
guidance, had decided in Benjy's
favour, and from thenceforth
the old man was Tom's dry nurse.
And as they sat by the canal
watching their little green-and-white
float, Benjy would instruct
him in the doings of deceased
Browns. How his grandfather,
in the early days of the great
war, when there was much distress
and crime in the Vale, and
the magistrates had been threatened
by the mob, had ridden in with
a big stick in his hand, and
held the petty sessions by
himself. How his great-uncle,
the rector, had encountered
and laid the last ghost, who
had frightened the old women,
male and female, of the parish
out of their senses, and who
turned out to be the blacksmith's
apprentice disguised in drink
and a white sheet. It was Benjy,
too, who saddled Tom's first
pony, and instructed him in
the mysteries of horsemanship,
teaching him to throw his weight
back and keep his hand low,
and who stood chuckling outside
the door of the girls' school
when Tom rode his little Shetland
into the cottage and round
the table, where the old dame
and her pupils were seated
at their work.
Benjy himself was come of
a family distinguished in the
Vale for their prowess in all
athletic games. Some half-dozen
of his brothers and kinsmen
had gone to the wars, of whom
only one had survived to come
home, with a small pension,
and three bullets in different
parts of his body; he had shared
Benjy's cottage till his death,
and had left him his old dragoon's
sword and pistol, which hung
over the mantelpiece, flanked
by a pair of heavy single-sticks
with which Benjy himself had
won renown long ago as an old
gamester, against the picked
men of Wiltshire and Somersetshire,
in many a good bout at the
revels and pastimes of the
country-side. For he had been
a famous back-swordman in his
young days, and a good wrestler
at elbow and collar.
Back-swording
and wrestling were the most
serious holiday
pursuits of the Vale - those
by which men attained fame
- and each village had its
champion. I suppose that, on
the whole, people were less
worked then than they are now;
at any rate, they seemed to
have more time and energy for
the old pastimes. The great
times for back-swording came
round once a year in each village;
at the feast. The Vale "veasts" were
not the common statute feasts,
but much more ancient business.
They are literally, so far
as one can ascertain, feasts
of the dedication —that
is, they were first established
in the churchyard on the day
on which the village church
was opened for public worship,
which was on the wake or festival
of the patron saint, and have
been held on the same day in
every year since that time.
There was no
longer any remembrance of why
the "veast" had
been instituted, but nevertheless
it had a pleasant and almost
sacred character of its own;
for it was then that all the
children of the village, wherever
they were scattered, tried to
get home for a holiday to visit
their fathers and mothers and
friends, bringing with them their
wages or some little gift from
up the country for the old folk.
Perhaps for a day or two before,
but
at any rate on "veast day" and the day after, in our village, you might
see strapping, healthy young men and women from all parts of the country going
round from house to house in their best clothes, and finishing up with a call
on Madam Brown, whom they would consult as to putting out their earnings to the
best advantage, or how best to expend the same for the benefit of the old folk.
Every household, however poor, managed to raise a "feast-cake" and
a bottle of ginger or raisin wine, which stood on the cottage table ready for
all comers, and not unlikely to make them remember feast-time, for feast-cake
is very solid, and full of huge raisins. Moreover, feast-time was the day of
reconciliation for the parish. If Job Higgins and Noah Freeman hadn't spoken
for the last six months, their "old women" would be sure to get it
patched up by that day. And though there was a good deal of drinking and low
vice in the booths of an evening, it was pretty well confined to those who would
have
been doing the like, "veast or no veast;" and on the whole, the effect
was humanising and Christian. In fact, the only reason why this is not the case
still is that gentlefolk and farmers have taken to other amusements, and have,
as usual, forgotten the poor. They don't attend the feasts themselves, and call
them disreputable; whereupon the steadiest of the poor leave them also, and they
become what they are called. Class amusements, be they for dukes or ploughboys,
always become nuisances and curses to a country. The true charm of cricket and
hunting is that they are still more or less sociable and universal; there's a
place for every man who will come and take
his part.
No one in the village enjoyed the approach of "veast day" more
than Tom, in the year in which he was taken under old Benjy's tutelage. The
feast
was held in a large green field at the lower end of the village. The road to
Farringdon ran along one side of it, and the brook by the side of the road;
and above the brook was another large, gentle, sloping pasture-land, with a
footpath running down it from the churchyard; and the old church, the originator
of all the mirth, towered up with its gray walls and lancet windows, overlooking
and sanctioning the whole, though its own share therein had been forgotten.
At the point where the footpath crossed the brook and road, and entered on
the field where the feast was held, was a long, low roadside inn; and on the
opposite side of the field was a large white thatched farmhouse, where dwelt
an old sporting farmer, a great promoter of the revels.
Past the old church, and down the footpath, pottered the old
man and the child hand-in-hand early on the afternoon of the day before the
feast, and wandered
all round the ground, which was already being occupied by the "cheap Jacks," with
their green- covered carts and marvellous assortment of wares; and the booths
of more legitimate small traders, with their tempting arrays of fairings and
eatables; and penny peep-shows and other shows, containing pink-eyed ladies,
and dwarfs, and boa-constrictors, and wild Indians. But the object of most
interest to Benjy, and of course to his pupil also, was the stage of rough
planks some four feet high, which was being put up by the village carpenter
for the back-swording and wrestling. And after surveying the whole tenderly,
old Benjy led his charge away to the roadside inn, where he ordered a glass
of ale and a long pipe for himself, and discussed these unwonted luxuries on
the bench outside in the soft autumn evening with mine host, another old servant
of the Browns, and speculated with him on the likelihood of a good show of
old gamesters to contend for the morrow's prizes, and told tales of the gallant
bouts of forty years back, to which Tom listened with all his ears and eyes.
But who shall tell the joy of the next morning, when the church bells were
ringing a merry peal, and old Benjy appeared in the servants' hall, resplendent
in a long blue coat and brass buttons, and a pair of old yellow buckskins and
top-boots which he had cleaned for and inherited from Tom's grandfather, a
stout thorn stick in his hand, and a nosegay of pinks and lavender in his buttonhole,
and led away Tom in his best clothes, and two new shillings in his breeches-pockets?
Those two, at any rate, look like enjoying the day's revel.
They quicken their pace when they get into the churchyard,
for already they see the field thronged with country folk; the men in clean,
white smocks or
velveteen or fustian coats, with rough plush waistcoats of many colours, and
the women in the beautiful, long scarlet cloak - the usual out-door dress of
west-country women in those days, and which often descended in families from
mother to daughter - or in new-fashioned stuff shawls, which, if they would
but believe it, don't become them half so well. The air resounds with the pipe
and tabor, and the drums and trumpets of the showmen shouting at the doors
of their caravans, over which tremendous pictures of the wonders to be seen
within hang temptingly; while through all rises the shrill "root-too-too-too" of
Mr. Punch, and the unceasing pan-pipe of his satellite.
"Lawk a' massey, Mr. Benjamin," cries a stout, motherly woman in
a red cloak, as they enter the field, "be that you? Well, I never! You
do look purely. And how's the Squire, and madam, and the family?"
Benjy graciously shakes hands with the speaker, who has left
our village for some years, but has come over for "veast" day on
a visit to an old gossip, and gently indicates the heir-apparent of the Browns.
"Bless his little heart! I must gi' un a kiss. - Here, Susannah, Susannah!" cries
she, raising herself from the embrace, "come and see Mr. Benjamin and
young Master Tom. - You minds our Sukey, Mr. Benjamin; she be growed a rare
slip of a wench since you seen her, though her'll be sixteen come Martinmas.
I do aim to take her to see madam to get her a place."
And Sukey comes bouncing away from a knot of old school-fellows, and drops
a curtsey to Mr. Benjamin. And elders come up from all parts to salute Benjy,
and girls who have been madam's pupils to kiss Master Tom. And they carry him
off to load him with fairings; and he returns to Benjy, his hat and coat covered
with ribbons, and his pockets crammed with wonderful boxes which open upon
ever new boxes, and popguns, and trumpets, and apples, and gilt gingerbread
from the stall of Angel Heavens, sole vender thereof, whose booth groans with
kings and queens, and elephants and prancing steeds, all gleaming with gold.
There was more gold on Angel's cakes than there is ginger in those of this
degenerate age. Skilled diggers might yet make a fortune in the churchyards
of the Vale, by carefully washing the dust of the consumers of Angel's gingerbread.
Alas! he is with his namesakes, and his receipts have, I fear, died with him.
And then they inspect the penny peep-show - at least Tom does - while old
Benjy stands outside and gossips and walks up the steps, and enters the mysterious
doors of the pink-eyed lady and the Irish giant, who do not by any means come
up to their pictures; and the boa will not swallow his rabbit, but there the
rabbit is waiting to be swallowed; and what can you expect for tuppence? We
are easily pleased in the Vale. Now there is a rush of the crowd, and a tinkling
bell is heard, and shouts of laughter; and Master Tom mounts on Benjy's shoulders,
and beholds a jingling match in all its glory. The games are begun, and this
is the opening of them. It is a quaint game, immensely amusing to look at;
and as I don't know whether it is used in your counties, I had better describe
it. A large roped ring is made, into which are introduced a dozen or so of
big boys and young men who mean to play; these are carefully blinded and turned
loose into the ring, and then a man is introduced not blindfolded; with a bell
hung round his neck, and his two hands tied behind him. Of course every time
he moves the bell must ring, as he has no hand to hold it; and so the dozen
blindfolded men have to catch him. This they cannot always manage if he is
a lively fellow, but half of them always rush into the arms of the other half,
or drive their heads together, or tumble over; and then the crowd laughs vehemently,
and invents nicknames for them on the spur of the moment; and they, if they
be choleric, tear off the handkerchiefs which blind them, and not unfrequently
pitch into one another, each thinking that the other must have run against
him on purpose. It is great fun to look at a jingling match certainly, and
Tom shouts and jumps on old Benjy's shoulders at the sight, until the old man
feels weary, and shifts him to the strong young shoulders of the groom, who
has just got down to the fun.
And now, while they are climbing the pole in another part of the field, and
muzzling in a flour-tub in another, the old farmer whose house, as has been
said, overlooks the field, and who is master of the revels, gets up the steps
on to the stage, and announces to all whom it may concern that a half-sovereign
in money will be forthcoming to the old gamester who breaks most heads; to
which the Squire and he have added a new hat.
The amount of the prize is sufficient to stimulate the men of the immediate
neighbourhood, but not enough to bring any very high talent from a distance;
so, after a glance or two round, a tall fellow, who is a down shepherd, chucks
his hat on to the stage and climbs up the steps, looking rather sheepish. The
crowd, of course, first cheer, and then chaff as usual, as he picks up his
hat and begins handling the sticks to see which will suit him.
"Wooy, Willum Smith, thee canst plaay wi' he arra daay," says his
companion to the blacksmith's apprentice, a stout young fellow of nineteen
or twenty. Willum's sweetheart is in the "veast" somewhere, and has
strictly enjoined him not to get his head broke at back-swording, on pain of
her highest displeasure; but as she is not to be seen (the women pretend not
to like to see the backsword play, and keep away from the stage), and as his
hat is decidedly getting old, he chucks it on to the stage, and follows himself,
hoping that he will only have to break other people's heads, or that, after
all, Rachel won't really mind.
Then follows the greasy cap lined with fur of a half-gipsy, poaching, loafing
fellow, who travels the Vale not for much good, I fancy:
"Full twenty times was Peter feared
For once that Peter was respected," in fact. And then three or four other hats, including the glossy castor of
Joe Willis, the self-elected and would-be champion of the neighbourhood, a
well-to-do young butcher of twenty-eight or thereabouts, and a great strapping
fellow, with his full allowance of bluster. This is a capital show of gamesters,
considering the amount of the prize; so, while they are picking their sticks
and drawing their lots, I think I must tell you, as shortly as I can, how the
noble old game of back- sword is played; for it is sadly gone out of late,
even in the Vale, and maybe you have never seen it.
The weapon is a good stout ash stick with a large basket handle,
heavier and somewhat shorter than a common single-stick. The players are
called "old
gamesters" - why, I can't tell you - and their object is simply to break
one another's heads; for the moment that blood runs an inch anywhere above
the eyebrow, the old gamester to whom it belongs is beaten, and has to stop.
A very slight blow with the sticks will fetch blood, so that it is by no means
a punishing pastime, if the men don't play on purpose and savagely at the body
and arms of their adversaries. The old gamester going into action only takes
off his hat and coat, and arms himself with a stick; he then loops the fingers
of his left hand in a handkerchief or strap, which he fastens round his left
leg, measuring the length, so that when he draws it tight with his left elbow
in the air, that elbow shall just reach as high as his crown. Thus you see,
so long as he chooses to keep his left elbow up, regardless of cuts, he has
a perfect guard for the left side of his head. Then he advances his right hand
above and in front of his head, holding his stick across, so that its point
projects an inch or two over his left elbow; and thus his whole head is completely
guarded, and he faces his man armed in like manner; and they stand some three
feet apart, often nearer, and feint, and strike, and return at one another's
heads, until one cries "hold," or blood flows. In the first case
they are allowed a minute's time; and go on again; in the latter another pair
of gamesters are called on. If good men are playing, the quickness of the returns
is marvellous: you hear the rattle like that a boy makes drawing his stick
along palings, only heavier; and the closeness of the men in action to one
another gives it a strange interest, and makes a spell at back-swording a very
noble sight.
They are all suited now with sticks, and Joe Willis and the gipsy man have
drawn the first lot. So the rest lean against the rails of the stage, and Joe
and the dark man meet in the middle, the boards having been strewed with sawdust,
Joe's white shirt and spotless drab breeches and boots contrasting with the
gipsy's coarse blue shirt and dirty green velveteen breeches and leather gaiters.
Joe is evidently turning up his nose at the other, and half insulted at having
to break his head.
The gipsy is a tough, active fellow, but not very skilful
with his weapon, so that Joe's weight and strength tell in a minute; he is
too heavy metal for
him. Whack, whack, whack, come his blows, breaking down the gipsy's guard,
and threatening to reach his head every moment. There it is at last. "Blood,
blood!" shout the spectators, as a thin stream oozes out slowly from the
roots of his hair, and the umpire calls to them to stop. The gipsy scowls at
Joe under his brows in no pleasant manner, while Master Joe swaggers about,
and makes attitudes, and thinks himself, and shows that he thinks himself,
the greatest man in the field.
Then follow several stout sets-to between the other candidates
for the new hat, and at last come the shepherd and Willum Smith. This is
the crack set-to
of the day. They are both in famous wind, and there is no crying "hold." The
shepherd is an old hand, and up to all the dodges. He tries them one after
another, and very nearly gets at Willum's head by coming in near, and playing
over his guard at the half-stick; but somehow Willum blunders through, catching
the stick on his shoulders, neck, sides, every now and then, anywhere but on
his head, and his returns are heavy and straight, and he is the youngest gamester
and a favourite in the parish, and his gallant stand brings down shouts and
cheers, and the knowing ones think he'll win if he keeps steady; and Tom, on
the groom's shoulder, holds his hands together, and can hardly breathe for
excitement.
Alas for Willum! His sweetheart, getting tired of female companionship,
has been hunting the booths to see where he can have got to, and now catches
sight
of him on the stage in full combat. She flushes and turns pale; her old aunt
catches hold of her, saying, "Bless 'ee, child, doan't 'ee go a'nigst
it;" but she breaks away and runs towards the stage calling his name.
Willum keeps up his guard stoutly, but glances for a moment towards the voice.
No guard will do it, Willum, without the eye. The shepherd steps round and
strikes, and the point of his stick just grazes Willum's forehead, fetching
off the skin, and the blood flows, and the umpire cries, "Hold!" and
poor Willum's chance is up for the day. But he takes it very well, and puts
on his old hat and coat, and goes down to be scolded by his sweetheart, and
led away out of mischief. Tom hears him say coaxingly, as he walks off, -
"Now doan't 'ee, Rachel! I wouldn't ha' done it, only
I wanted summut to buy 'ee a fairing wi', and I be as vlush o' money as a
twod o' feathers."
"Thee mind what I tells 'ee," rejoins Rachel saucily, "and
doan't 'ee kep blethering about fairings."
Tom resolves in his heart to give Willum the remainder of his two shillings
after the back-swording.
Joe Willis has all the luck to-day. His next bout ends in an easy victory,
while the shepherd has a tough job to break his second head; and when Joe and
the shepherd meet, and the whole circle expect and hope to see him get a broken
crown, the shepherd slips in the first round and falls against the rails, hurting
himself so that the old farmer will not let him go on, much as he wishes to
try; and that impostor Joe (for he is certainly not the best man) struts and
swaggers about the stage the conquering gamester, though he hasn't had five
minutes' really trying play.
Joe takes the new hat in his hand, and puts the money into
it, and then, as if a thought strikes him, and he doesn't think his victory
quite acknowledged
down below, walks to each face of the stage, and looks down, shaking the money,
and chaffing, as how he'll stake hat and money and another half-sovereign "agin
any gamester as hasn't played already." Cunning Joe! he thus gets rid
of Willum and the shepherd, who is quite fresh again.
No one seems to like the offer, and the umpire is just coming down, when a
queer old hat, something like a doctor of divinity's shovel, is chucked on
to the stage and an elderly, quiet man steps out, who has been watching the
play, saying he should like to cross a stick wi' the prodigalish young chap.
The crowd cheer, and begin to chaff Joe, who turns up his
nose and swaggers across to the sticks. "Imp'dent old wosbird!" says he; "I'll
break the bald head on un to the truth."
The old boy is very bald, certainly, and the blood will show fast enough if
you can touch him, Joe.
He takes off his long-flapped coat, and stands up in a long-
flapped waistcoat, which Sir Roger de Coverley might have worn when it was
new, picks out a stick,
and is ready for Master Joe, who loses no time, but begins his old game, whack,
whack, whack, trying to break down the old man's guard by sheer strength. But
it won't do; he catches every blow close by the basket, and though he is rather
stiff in his returns, after a minute walks Joe about the stage, and is clearly
a stanch old gamester. Joe now comes in, and making the most of his height,
tries to get over the old man's guard at half-stick, by which he takes a smart
blow in the ribs and another on the elbow, and nothing more. And now he loses
wind and begins to puff, and the crowd laugh. "Cry 'hold,' Joe; thee'st
met thy match!" Instead of taking good advice and getting his wind, Joe
loses his temper, and strikes at the old man's body.
"Blood, blood!" shout the crowd; "Joe's head's
broke!"
Who'd have thought it? How did it come? That body-blow left
Joe's head unguarded for a moment; and with one turn of the wrist the old
gentleman has picked a
neat little bit of skin off the middle of his forehead; and though he won't
believe it, and hammers on for three more blows despite of the shouts, is then
convinced by the blood trickling into his eye. Poor Joe is sadly crestfallen,
and fumbles in his pocket for the other half- sovereign, but the old gamester
won't have it. "Keep thy money, man, and gi's thy hand," says he;
and they shake hands. But the old gamester gives the new hat to the shepherd,
and, soon after, the half-sovereign to Willum, who thereout decorates his sweetheart
with ribbons to his heart's content.
"Who can a be?" "Wur do a cum from?" ask the crowd. And
it soon flies about that the old west-country champion, who played a tie with
Shaw the Lifeguardsman at "Vizes" twenty years before, has broken
Joe Willis's crown for him.
How my country fair is spinning out! I see I must skip the
wrestling; and the boys jumping in sacks, and rolling wheelbarrows blindfolded;
and the donkey-race,
and the fight which arose thereout, marring the otherwise peaceful "veast;" and
the frightened scurrying away of the female feast-goers, and descent of Squire
Brown, summoned by the wife of one of the combatants to stop it; which he wouldn't
start to do till he had got on his top-boots. Tom is carried away by old Benjy,
dog- tired and surfeited with pleasure, as the evening comes on and the dancing
begins in the booths; and though Willum, and Rachel in her new ribbons, and
many another good lad and lass don't come away just yet, but have a good step
out, and enjoy it, and get no harm thereby, yet we, being sober folk, will
just stroll away up through the churchyard, and by the old yew-tree, and get
a quiet dish of tea and a parley with our gossips, as the steady ones of our
village do, and so to bed.
That's the fair, true sketch, as far as it goes, of one of
the larger village feasts in the Vale of Berks, when I was a little boy.
They are much altered
for the worse, I am told. I haven't been at one these twenty years, but I have
been at the statute fairs in some west-country towns, where servants are hired,
and greater abominations cannot be found. What village feasts have come to,
I fear, in many cases, may be read in the pages of "Yeast" (though
I never saw one so bad - thank God!).
Do you want to know why? It is because, as I said before, gentlefolk and farmers
have left off joining or taking an interest in them. They don't either subscribe
to the prizes, or go down and enjoy the fun.
Is this a good or a bad sign? I hardly know. Bad, sure enough,
if it only arises from the further separation of classes consequent on twenty
years of
buying cheap and selling dear, and its accompanying overwork; or because our
sons and daughters have their hearts in London club-life, or so-called "society," instead
of in the old English home-duties; because farmers' sons are apeing fine gentlemen,
and farmers' daughters caring more to make bad foreign music than good English
cheeses. Good, perhaps, if it be that the time for the old "veast" has
gone by; that it is no longer the healthy, sound expression of English country
holiday-making; that, in fact, we, as a nation, have got beyond it, and are
in a transition state, feeling for and soon likely to find some better substitute.
Only I have just got this to say before I quit the text. Don't
let reformers of any sort think that they are going really to lay hold of
the working boys
and young men of England by any educational grapnel whatever, which isn't some
bona fide equivalent for the games of the old country "veast" in
it; something to put in the place of the back-swording and wrestling and racing;
something to try the muscles of men's bodies, and the endurance of their hearts,
and to make them rejoice in their strength. In all the new-fangled comprehensive
plans which I see, this is all left out; and the consequence is, that your
great mechanics' institutes end in intellectual priggism, and your Christian
young men's societies in religious Pharisaism.
Well, well, we must bide our time. Life isn't all beer and
skittles; but beer and skittles, or something better of the same sort, must
form a good part of
every Englishman's education. If I could only drive this into the heads of
you rising parliamentary lords, and young swells who "have your ways made
for you," as the saying is, you, who frequent palaver houses and West-end
clubs, waiting always ready to strap yourselves on to the back of poor dear
old John, as soon as the present used-up lot (your fathers and uncles), who
sit there on the great parliamentary-majorities' pack-saddle, and make believe
they're guiding him with their red-tape bridle, tumble, or have to be lifted
off!
I don't think much of you yet - I wish I could - though you
do go talking and lecturing up and down the country to crowded audiences,
and are busy with
all sorts of philanthropic intellectualism, and circulating libraries and museums,
and Heaven only knows what besides, and try to make us think, through newspaper
reports, that you are, even as we, of the working classes. But bless your hearts,
we "ain't so green," though lots of us of all sorts toady you enough
certainly, and try to make you think so.
I'll tell you what to do now: instead of all this trumpeting and fuss, which
is only the old parliamentary-majority dodge over again, just you go, each
of you (you've plenty of time for it, if you'll only give up t'other line),
and quietly make three or four friends - real friends - among us. You'll find
a little trouble in getting at the right sort, because such birds don't come
lightly to your lure; but found they may be. Take, say, two out of the professions,
lawyer, parson, doctor - which you will; one out of trade; and three or four
out of the working classes - tailors, engineers, carpenters, engravers. There's
plenty of choice. Let them be men of your own ages, mind, and ask them to your
homes; introduce them to your wives and sisters, and get introduced to theirs;
give them good dinners, and talk to them about what is really at the bottom
of your hearts; and box, and run, and row with them, when you have a chance.
Do all this honestly as man to man, and by the time you come to ride old John,
you'll be able to do something more than sit on his back, and may feel his
mouth with some stronger bridle than a red-tape one.
Ah, if you only would! But you have got too far out of the right rut, I fear.
Too much over-civilization, and the deceitfulness of riches. It is easier for
a camel to go through the eye of a needle. More's the pity. I never came across
but two of you who could value a man wholly and solely for what was in him
- who thought themselves verily and indeed of the same flesh and blood as John
Jones the attorney's clerk, and Bill Smith the costermonger, and could act
as if they thought so.
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