“How could he talk like that, Sir?” said I; “why the figure isn’t a bit like – ”
“You are as bad as Camden,” said he, “who talks of I know not what shape of a horse fancied on the side of a whitish hill; but the truth is, it is a copy of the Saxon standard, which, of course, was a rude affair. However, Wise, whom I was telling you of, goes on: —
“When I saw it, the head had suffered a little and wanted reparation; and the extremities of his hinder legs, from their unavoidable situation, have by the fall of rains been filled up in some measure with the washings from the upper parts; so that, in the nearest view of him, the tail, which does not suffer the same inconvenience, and has continued entire from the beginning, seems longer than his legs. The supplies, which nature is continually affording, occasion the turf to crumble and fall off into the white trench, which in many years’ time produces small specks of turf, and not a little obscures the brightness of the Horse; though there is no danger from hence of the whole figure being obliterated, for the inhabitants have a custom of ‘scouring the Horse,’ as they call it; at which time a solemn festival is celebrated, and manlike games with prizes exhibited, which no doubt had their original in Saxon times in memory of the victory.”19
“Scouring the Horse! yes, of course,” said I, “that is what they are doing now, and the games are to come off to-morrow.”
“Exactly so,” said he, “but you will like to hear how Wise goes on: —
“If ever the genius of King Alfred exerted itself (and it never failed him in his greatest exigencies), it did remarkably so upon account of this trophy. The situation of his affairs would not permit him to expend much time, nor his circumstances much cost, in effecting one,” (truly, for he had six more pitched battles to fight between April and November.) “His troops, though victorious, were harassed and diminished by continual duty; nor did the country afford, to any man’s thinking, materials proper for a work of this kind. Though he had not therefore the opportunity of raising, like other conquerors, a stupendous monument of brass or marble, yet he has shown an admirable contrivance, in erecting one magnificent enough, though simple in its design – executed, too, with little labour and no expense – that may hereafter vie with the Pyramids in duration, and perhaps exist when these shall be no more.”
“But, dear me, Sir,” said I, “how can the White Horse vie with the Pyramids in duration? Why, the Pyramids were built – ”
“Never mind when they were built,” said he; “don’t you see the old antiquary is an enthusiast? I had hoped you were one also.”
“Indeed, Sir, I am very anxious to hear all you can tell me,” said I, “and I won’t interrupt again.”
“Well, as to the scouring, Wise says: —
“The ceremony of scouring the Horse, from time immemorial, has been solemnized by a numerous concourse of people from all the villages round about. I am informed, though the Horse stands in the parish of Uffington, yet other towns claim, by ancient custom, a share of the duty upon this occasion. Since, therefore, this noble antiquity is now explained, and consequently the reason of the festival, it were to be wished that, in order to prevent for the future its falling into oblivion, some care was taken of the regulation of the games, and that they were restored to their ancient splendour, of which, without question, they are fallen much short. I know that these rites are cavilled at and maligned by the more supercilious part of mankind; but the dislike to them seems to be founded merely upon the abuse of them to riot and debauchery, which I intend by no means to justify or excuse. The practice of the best and wisest states, whose maxims we approve and profess to follow, is sufficient authority for their use. The liberty we so justly boast, and which ought to be a common blessing to all, pleads loudly for them. The common people, from their daily labour, stands at least in as much need of proper intervals of recreation as their superiors, who are exempt from it, and therefore in all free states have been indulged in sports most suited to their genius and capacity. And if manlike games contribute any thing towards the support of the natural bravery of these, who are to be our bulwark and defence in times of danger, they cannot be more seasonably revived than at this juncture, when, through the general luxury and dissoluteness of the age, there was never more likelihood of its being extinguished. Besides all this, from hence a superior influence diffuseth itself through the better sort, who are supposed to enter further into the intention of these solemnities; for which reason it is, that to perpetuate to posterity the remembrance of great men, and of great actions, has been always recommended, as a proper incentive to virtue. Customs of very trifling import, some ridiculous in themselves, others owing to causes equally ridiculous, are oftentimes kept up by Englishmen with much zeal and tenacity; and shall the greatest prince that this isle was ever blessed with, and the greatest action of that prince’s life, be in danger of being forgot, through the neglect of a solemnity, the only one, perhaps, that was ever instituted, at least, that is now preserved, to his honour?”20
I didn’t say a word now, though he seemed to have finished.
“Well,” said he, after a minute, “have you nothing to say? You’re very glad that it’s over, I suppose?”
“No, Sir, indeed I am not,” said I; “but I am very much obliged to you for your kindness in telling me all that you have.”
“You are a very intelligent young man, Sir,” said he; “most young fellows of your age would have been bored to death half-an-hour ago, even if they hadn’t managed to run off altogether, and so they would have lost a good lesson in English history – not that they would have cared much for that though. But now, I dare say you are getting hungry. Let us go up and see what they are doing in the Castle, and I shall be very glad if you will do me the honour of lunching with me.”
“Well,” thought I, as we got up from the turf, “there are not many better things for getting a man on than being a good listener. Here is a very learned old gentleman who doesn’t know my name, and I have got the length of his foot, and he has asked me to luncheon, just because I have been listening to his old stories. I wonder where the lunch is to be though? he spoke of a Castle, perhaps he lives in it – who knows?”
So we strolled away together up over the brow of the hill.
“So that atte laste to Estangle agen hym come:
Ther hii barned and robbede and that fole to grounde slowe;
And as wolves among ssep reulych hem to drowe,
Seynt Edmond was tho her kyng, and tho he sey that delvol cas
That me morthred so that fole, and non amendement n’as,
He ches levere to deye hym-sulf, that such soreve to ysey —
He dude hym vorth among ys ton, n’olde he nothyng fle.
Hii nome hym and scourged hym, and suthe naked hym bounde
To a tre, and to hym ssote, and made hym mony a wounde,
That the arewe were on hym tho thycke, that no stede n’as byleved.
Atte laste hii martred hym, and smyte of ys heved.”
Robert of Gloster’s Chronicle, p. 263, apud Thomas Hearne. Ed. 1724.
“The Kyng and Alfred ys brother nome men ynowe,
Mette hem, and a batayle smyte up Assesdowne —
Ther was mony moder chyld, that sone lay ther doune —
The batayle ylaste vorte-nygt, and ther were aslawe
Vyf dukes of Dene-march, ar hii wolde wyth drawe,
And mony thousende of other men, and tho’ gonne hii to fle;
Ac hii adde alle ybe assend, gyf the nyght n’adde y bee.
Robert of Gloster, p. 263, apud Thomas Hearne. Ed. 1724.”
CHAPTER IV
“Well, here’s the Castle, you see,” said he, when we had walked a few hundred yards, and were come quite to the top of the hill.
“Where, Sir?” said I, staring about. I had half expected to see an old stone building with a moat, and round towers and battlements, and a great flag flying; and that the old gentleman would have walked across the drawbridge, and cried out, “What ho! warder!” and that we should have been waited upon at lunch by an old white-headed man in black velvet, with a silver chain, and keys round his waist. Somehow, the story of the battle, and all the talk about Pendragon and Arthur, coming upon the back of the farm-house, and the out of the way country life, which was so strange to me, had carried me into a sort of new world; and I shouldn’t have been much surprised to see a dragon running about the hill, though I should have been horribly frightened.
“I can’t make up my mind about this Castle,” he went on, without noticing me; “on two sides it looks like a regular Roman castrum, and Roman remains are found scattered about; but then the other sides are clearly not Roman. The best antiquaries who have noticed it call it Danish. On the whole, I think it must have been seized and occupied in succession by the lords of the country for the time being; and each successive occupier has left his mark more or less plainly. But, at any rate, you see it is a magnificent work.”
“Yes, Sir,” said I, “no doubt;” though I own I was a good deal disappointed. For what do you think the Castle is? Up at the very top of the hill, above the White Horse, there is a great flat space, about as big as Lincoln’s Inn Fields, only not the same shape, because it is only square on two sides. All round this space, there is a bank of earth, eight or ten feet high in some places, but lower at others. Then, outside, there is a great, broad, deep ditch; it must be twenty-five feet from the top of the inner bank to the bottom of the ditch; and outside that again, is another large bank of earth, from the foot of which the downs slope away on every side. But the banks and ditch are all grown over with turf, just like the rest of the downs, and there isn’t even a single stone, much less a tower, to be seen. There are three entrances cut through the double banks, one on the west, one on the southeast, and the third at the northeast side, which was the one through which we entered.
But if there were no warders and seneschals and drawbridges, there was plenty of life in the Castle. The whole place seemed full of men and women, and booths and beasts, and carts and long poles; and amongst them all were the Squire and Joe, and two or three farmers, who I afterwards found out were Committee-men, trying to get things into some sort of order. And a troublesome job they were having of it. All the ground was parcelled out for different purposes by the Committee, and such parts as were not wanted for the sports, were let at small rents to any one who wanted them. But nobody seemed to be satisfied with his lot. Here a big gypsy, who wouldn’t pay any rent at all, was settling his cart and family, and swinging his kettle, on a bit of ground, which the man who owned the pink-eyed lady had paid for. There a cheap-Jack was hustling a toyman from Wantage, and getting all his frontage towards the streets, (as they called the broad spaces which were to be kept clear for the people to walk along.) In another place, a licensed publican was taking the lot of a travelling showman into his skittle-alley. Then there were old women who had lost their donkeys and carts, and their tins of nuts and sacks of apples; and donkeys who had lost their old women, standing obstinately in the middle of the streets, and getting in everybody’s way; and all round, saws and axes and hammers were going, and booths and stalls were rising up.
I shouldn’t have liked to have had much to do with setting them all straight, and so I told Joe, when he came up to us, after we had been looking on at all the confusion for a minute or two. For most of the men were very rough-looking customers, like the costermongers about Covent Garden and Clare Market, and I know that those huckstering, loafing blades are mostly terrible fellows to fight; and there wasn’t a single policeman to look like keeping order. But Joe made light enough of it – he was always such a resolute boy, and that’s what made me admire him so – and said, “For the matter of that, if they were ten times as rough a lot, and twice as many, the Squire and the farmers and their men would tackle them pretty quick, without any blue-coated chaps to help! Aye, and nobody knows it better than they, and you’ll see they’ll be all in nice order before sundown, without a blow struck; except amongst themselves, perhaps, and that’s no matter, and what they’re used to. But now, you come in,” said Joe, turning towards one of the large publicans’ booths, which was already finished, “the Committee have got a table here, and we must dine, for we shan’t be home these four hours yet, I can see.”
“Sir,” said my new friend to Joe, drawing himself up a bit, but very politely; “this gentleman is my guest. He has done me the honour of accepting my invitation to luncheon.”
“Oh! beg pardon, Sir, I’m sure,” said Joe, staring; “I didn’t know that Dick had any acquaintance down in these parts. Then,” said he to me, “I shall take my snack with the rest presently; you’ll see me about somewhere, when it’s time to get back.” Joe went back into the crowd, and I followed the old gentleman.
We went into the booth, which was a very big one, made of strong, double sail-cloth, stretched over three rows of fir poles, the middle row being, I should say, sixteen or eighteen feet high. Just on our right, as we entered from the street, was the bar, which was made with a double row of eighteen-gallon casks, full of ale, along the top of which boards were laid, so as to make a counter. Behind the bar the landlord and landlady, and a barmaid, were working away, and getting every thing into order. There were more rows of large casks, marked XX and XXX, ranged upon one another against the side of the booth, and small casks of spirits hooped with bright copper, and cigar boxes, and a table covered with great joints of beef and pork, and crockery and knives and forks, and baskets full of loaves of bread, and lettuces and potatoes. It must have cost a deal of money to get it all up the hill, and set the booth up. Beyond the bar was a sort of inner room, partly screened from the rest of the booth by a piece of sail-cloth, where a long table was laid out for luncheon, or “nunching,” as the boots, who was doing waiter for the occasion, called it. The rest of the booth, except a space before the bar which was kept clear for casual customers to stand about in, was set about with rough tables and forms. We got a capital dinner; for the landlord knew my entertainer, and was very civil, and brought us our ale himself and poured it out, making an apology because it hadn’t had quite time to fine down, but it would be as clear as a diamond, he said, if we would please to call in to-morrow.
After we had done, we went round behind the booth, where some rough planking had been put up to serve for stalls, and the boots, in his waiter’s jacket, brought out the old gentleman’s cob.
“Peter,” said he, when he had mounted, “here is sixpence for you; and now mind what you are at, and don’t get drunk and disgrace yourself up on the hill.”
Peter, who seemed to be very much afraid of the old gentleman, kept pulling away at his forelock, and hunching up his shoulders, till we turned the corner of the booth.
“Now I must be riding home,” said my friend, “but if you like just to walk round with me, I will show you the site of the battle.”
So I thanked him, and walked along by the side of his cob, and he rode out of the entrance we had come in by, and then round the outer earthwork of the castle. As we passed along, the inner bank rose high up on our right hand, and we could just see the tops of the highest booths above it.
“You see what a strong place it must have been before gunpowder was invented,” said the old gentleman; “and here, you see, is the second entrance; and this road which we are upon is the Ridgeway, one of the oldest roads in England. How far it once extended, or who made it, no man knows; but you may trace it away there along the ridge of the downs as far as you can see, and, in fact, there are still some sixty miles of it left. But they won’t be left long, I fear, Sir, in this age which venerates nothing.”
“I don’t see much fear of that, Sir,” said I, “after it has lasted so long already.”
“No fear, Sir!” said he, “why miles of it have been ploughed up within my memory. God meant these downs, Sir, for sheep-walks, and so our fathers left them; but within the last twenty years would-be wise men have found that they will grow decent turnips and not very bad oats. Well, they plough them up, find two inches of soil only, get one crop out of them, and spoil them for sheep. Next year, no crops. Then comes manure, manure, manure, nothing but expense; not a turnip will trouble himself to grow bigger than a reddish under a pennyworth of guano or bones. The wise men grumble and swear, but the downs are spoiled.”
“But that will all cure itself then, Sir,” said I; “they won’t plough up any more, if it doesn’t pay; and then the Ridgeway won’t be touched!”
“They are all mad for ploughing, Sir, these blockhead farmers; why, half of them keep their sheep standing on boards all the year round. They would plough and grow mangold-wurzel on their fathers’ graves. The Tenth Legion, Sir, has probably marched along this road; Severus and Agricola have ridden along it, Sir; Augustine’s monks have carried the Cross along it. There is that in that old mound and ditch which the best turnips and oats in the world (if you could get them) can’t replace. There are higher things in this world, Sir, than indifferent oats and d – d bad turnips.”
The old gentleman was all in a blaze again; he brought down his cane sharply on to the cob’s neck, which made him caper up and jump off along the Ridgeway, and it was a hundred yards before they drew up. I followed, thinking that he couldn’t be a clergyman after all, to be swearing like that about nothing. When I got up to him, however, he was quite cool again. He had stopped just below the western entrance to the Castle, and the ground fell rapidly in front of us.
“Now, you can’t have a better point than this,” said he; “you remember what I told you about the armies. The Danes held the higher ground, that is, Uffington Castle, up here, behind us. Alfred, with his division of the Saxon army, lay over there, in that valley to the left, where you see the great wood in the middle of the down. That is Ashdown Park, Lord Craven’s seat, and just on the edge of it there is a circular earthwork, which is called Alfred’s camp. Aubrey says that in his time it was ‘almost quite defaced, by digging for the Sarsden stones to build my Lord Craven’s house in the park;’ but you may still find it if you look. Then, over there, on that point, a mile or more away to the right, is a camp called Hardwell Camp, where Æthelred lay. The crown of the slope you see along which the Ridgeway runs, is midway between the Saxon camps.
“In the early spring morning, the low call to arms passes round the height; the Danish host, marshalled behind the high earthworks, breaks over them, like an overflowing lake, and rushes down the slope. Alfred’s division of the Saxon army is already on foot, and there he sits, the sickly stripling on the white horse, untried save in one luckless fight. How will he guide such a battle? See, his host is in motion; scouts fly out, riding for life across to Æthelred’s camp. ‘Come up, my brother! the Pagan is upon us – while I live they shall not divide us – I will hold the crest of the Ridgeway, come life, come death.’ The vans are together with a wild shout, squadron by squadron the hosts close up, the fight sways slowly backwards and forwards, the life’s blood of a brave man pays for every inch won or lost. The Saxons are but one to three, the Pagans slowly overlap them – are on their flanks. The white horse and his rider dash from side to side, faster and faster, as the over-matched Christians faint, reel, give back – now here, now there, along the line. When will the mass be over? Cut it short, as thou art Saxon man, oh priest! and get thee to sword and buckler.
“At last they come, Æthelred and his host – they are upon the right flank of the Pagan, and the fight is restored; and with many an ebb and pause, but steadily, through the long morning hours, rolls up the hill towards the camp and the fatal thorn.”
“Is that the old thorn-tree, then, do you think, Sir?” said I, pointing to one which was growing by itself some way off.
“I fear not, Sir, I fear not; the ‘unica spinosa arbor’ is gone. It must have stood somewhere up here, on the slope just below the Castle, the stronghold of the Danish robbers. Here the grim Pagan turns to bay for the last time. King Bægseeg lies dead, a hundred yards below; by his side his standard-bearer and Earl Frœna; Halfdene is still unhurt, but near him Osbert totters under his shield; Harold can scarce back his charger, and the life-blood trickles slowly down his leg, and falls, drop by drop, on the trampled turf, as they still make front against Æthelred yonder – there on the right. But here, here the field must be won! This way, you Saxon men, kings-thane, and alderman! Whoever hath stout heart and whole body left.
“It is the old sea-king, Sidroc, ‘the ancient one of evil days;’ mark him, as he bestrides his black war-horse, there by the old twisted thorn. His heavy sword drips with blood, his sword-arm is steeped in blood to the elbow – the dint of long and fierce battle is on horse and man; but the straight thin lips are set like flint in the midst of that gray beard, and the eyes glow and gleam under that fearful brow – eyes that have never quailed before conquering foe, or softened to the fallen – lips that have never opened to say the word ‘Spare.’ By his side the young Sidroc, grim son of grim sire. Ashdown crows must feast on those eyes, and Ashdown wolves pick those bones, if the Pagans are to be beaten this day. Round them rally the Danes as they are driven up the slope. Again and again the advancing Saxons reel back from the stunted thorn, before the shock of the two Boersirkir. He comes! it is the sickly prince, the stripling on the white horse, trampling fetlock-deep in blood. Round him a chosen band of yellow-bearded men of Wessex. One moment’s pause, and they meet in a last death-grapple. Bite, Saxon blade; pierce, Saxon spear! Think of your homes, my countrymen; think of the walls of Reading, of Ethelwulf and his last war-cry, ‘Our commander, Christ, is braver than they!’ The black horse is down; young Sidroc springs over the brute, lashing out in death agony, and covers his father. His head is cleft to the chin – a half-armed gaunt cowherd drives his spear through the chest of the old sea-king. Away over their bodies up the hill go white horse, and stripling prince, and yellow-bearded men; rushing through the camp gate, scrambling over the banks pell-mell with the flying Pagan. The camp is ours; now slay while light is left – for there is no shelter for a Pagan between this and Reading. ‘Then were the horse-hoofs broken by the means of the prancings, of the prancings of their mighty ones. Oh my soul, thou hast trodden down strength!’”
The old gentleman stopped at last, and took off his hat and wiped his face, and then looked down at me as if he were half-ashamed —
“I see you think I’m mad – ” he began.
“Indeed, sir – ” said I, stammering a little.
“Well, well! never mind,” he said; “the fact is, I live a good deal in those old times. I’ve been up here, and sat and gone over the fight so often, that when I get on the hill-side, I think I saw it all. In the autumn evenings at twilight, when the southwest wind blows wild, and the mist comes drifting over the broad downs, many a time, as I have stolen down the silent hill-side, I have seen the weird old Pagan king and the five earls, sitting one on each of the giants’ seats, and looking mournfully out over the Vale, waiting – waiting – waiting for a thousand years, all but fourteen. It’s a long time, sir, a long time; but you and I may have to wait for a longer over the scene of some of our doings. Who can say?”
I really now did begin to think the old gentleman a little crazy, so I said nothing. Presently he went on in his old quiet voice: —
“There, now I have dismounted my hobby, and am sane again. I live in a wild, lonely part of the world down west, and for the last thirty years have read little else but the Bible, and books 200 years old and upwards. Every man has his madness – that’s mine – I don’t get a chance of letting it out once a-year. I have spent a very pleasant day with you, Sir; and if you ever come down to these parts again, and like to come on and see me, I shall be very glad. There is my name and address;” and he gave me his card, but he didn’t say that I might publish it.
“Thank you, Sir,” said I, putting it into my pocket-book; “but I hope you will be up on the hill to-morrow?”
“Yes, I shall just ride up,” he said, “to see how they have used my old friend; he wanted scouring sadly. The games I don’t much care about, though I’m glad they go on. But not one man in a thousand who will be on the hill to-morrow will know what the meaning of it all is; and that makes it a melancholy sight to me, Sir, on the whole.”
“But what a pity,” said I, “that they are not told. It would interest everybody else, I’m sure, just as it has me. Why don’t you tell it then, Sir, in a book or a newspaper?”
“Nobody would read my old-world stuff,” said he. “No: a man must understand and be in sympathy with his own generation to coax it into caring about an older one. But now I must be going. If you have time to walk down to that little clump of trees over there, towards Æthelred’s camp, you will find an old Druidical cromlech well worth examining. It is called Wayland Smith’s cave. Walter Scott, who should have known better, says that the Danish king killed at Ashdown was buried there. He was no more buried there than in Westminster Abbey. Good-bye.” And so he put his cob into a canter, and went off along the Ridgeway.
When he was gone I walked down to the clump of trees and went into the cave; and then sat down on the great flat stone which covers it over, and finished putting down all I had heard from the old gentleman; and thought what odd people a man finds about the world, and how many things there are which one never heard of that other folk are spending their lives over. Then I went up to the camp again to find Joe, for the afternoon was getting on. True enough, as he had said, when I got back there I found it all getting into order. All along the north side were the theatres and peep-shows, and acrobats, and the pink-eyed lady, and the other shows. On the west side were the publicans’ booths, some of them all ready, and others half up, but all with their places settled; and the great street of hucksters’ stalls and cheap-Jacks was all set out along the south side, and as more and more of them came up they went off to the end of the line and pitched regularly. The gypsies and people with no regular business were all got away into a corner, behind the stalls. On the west side the county police were pitching their large tent close away by the bank, out of the way of everybody; and, some way in front of them, Lord Craven’s people had put up two military-looking tents which I heard had belonged to the 42d Regiment, with a great flagstaff close by them. About the middle of the camp stood a large stage about six feet high, roped round for the backswording and wrestling. There was plenty of room now, and all the people, who were not working at the booths and stalls, were sitting about boiling kettles and getting their food. It was a very cheerful, pretty sight, up there out of the way of every thing.
I soon found Joe amongst a group of farmers and one or two young gentlemen, some on horseback and some on foot, standing round the Squire. They were talking over the arrangements before going home; and I stood a little way off, so as not to interrupt them or to seem to be pushing myself into their company.
“Now I think we have done all we can to-day,” said the Squire, gathering up his reins; “but some of us must be up early to-morrow to get the lists made, and settle every thing about the games.”
“About ten o’clock, Sir?”
“Yes, that will do capitally. Now I shall just go and see how they have done the Horse.”
So he rode out of the camp, and we all followed over the brow of the hill till we came to a good point for seeing the figure, which looked as bright and clean as a new sixpence.
“I think he’ll do very well,” said the Squire.
“Listen to the scourers,” said one of the young gentlemen.
They had finished their work, and were sitting in a group round a large can of beer which the Squire had sent down to them; and one of them was singing a rumbling sort of ditty, with a tol-de-rol chorus, in which the rest joined lazily.
One of these young gentlemen gave me what he said were the words they were singing, afterwards, when I came to know him (as you will hear in the next chapter); and it seems he had found out that I was collecting all I could about the Horse. But I don’t quite know whether he wasn’t cutting his jokes upon me, for he is “amazin’ found of fun,” as Joe said; and for my part, I could never quite tell, when I was with him, whether he was in jest or earnest. However, here are the words he gave me: —
BALLAD OF THE SCOURING OF THE WHITE HORSE
I
The owld White Harse wants zettin to rights
And the Squire hev promised good cheer,
Zo we’ll gee un a scrape to kip un in zhape,
And a’ll last for many a year.
II
A was made a lang lang time ago
Wi a good dale o’ labour and pains,
By King Alferd the Great when he spwiled their consate
And caddled,21 thay wosbirds22 the Danes.
III
The Bleawin Stwun in days gone by
Wur King Alfred’s bugle harn,
And the tharnin tree you med plainly zee
As is called King Alferd’s tharn.
IV
There’ll be backsword play, and climmin the powl,
And a race for a peg, and a cheese,
And us thenks as hisn’s a dummell23 zowl
As dwont care for zich spwoorts as theze.
When we had done looking at the Horse, some went one way and some another, and Joe and I down the hill to the Swan Inn, where we got the trap and started away for Elm Close.