I hadn’t been pushing about amongst the rest above five minutes, when two men stopped close by me, one (who was the Wantage crier, I found out afterwards) with his hand full of papers, and the other carrying a gong, which he began to beat loud enough to deafen one. When the crowd had come round him, the crier began, and I should think he might have been heard at Elm Close: —
“Oh yes! oh yes! by order of the Committee, all persons who mean to play for prizes, must enter their names on the umpires’ lists. Oh yes! oh yes! the umpires’ lists are open in the tent, and names may be entered from now till half-past twelve. Oh yes! a list of the umpires for the different games and sports may be seen on the board outside the tent-door. God save the Queen!”
As soon as he had done, he and the man with the gong went off to another part of the Castle, but I could see some of the men and boys, who had been standing round, sidling off towards the great tent to enter for some of the games, as I guessed. So I followed across the Castle to the space in front of the tent.
I could see, through the entrance, two or three of the Committee sitting at a table, with paper and pens and ink before them; and every now and then, from the little groups which were standing about, some man would make a plunge in, and go up to the table; and, after a word or two with them, would enter his name on one or more of the lists, and then come out, sometimes grinning, but generally looking as if he were half ashamed of himself. I remarked more and more through the day what a shy, shamefaced fellow the real countryman was, while the gypsies and racing boys and tramps, who entered for the races, but not for the backsword or wrestling prizes, were all as bold as brass, and stood chattering away to the Committee-men, till they were almost ordered out of the tent.
I sat down on the turf outside the tent to watch; for I felt very much interested in the games, and liked to see the sort of men who came to enter. There were not many very stout or tall men amongst them; I should say they averaged about eleven stone in weight, and five feet eight inches in height; but they looked a very tough race; and I could quite believe, while looking at them, what Joe told me one day – “Though there’s plenty of quicker men, and here and there stronger ones, scarce any man that ever comes down our way – either at navigator’s work or loafing about, like the gypsies and tramps – can ever come up to our chaps in last, whether at fighting or working.”
There was one man amongst them who struck me particularly, I suppose because he wore a Crimean medal with four clasps, and went quite lame on a crutch. I found out his history. Old Mattingly, the blacksmith of Uffington, had three sons when the Russian war broke out. They all went for soldiers. The first was shot through the hand, as that gray, deadly dawn broke over Inkermann, on the 5th of November, 1854. Had he gone to the rear he would probably have lived. He fought till the last Russian vanished along the distant road, and over the bridge heaped with slain, like a gallant Berkshire lad – and then went to hospital and died of his wounds within a week. The second lies before Sebastopol in the advanced trenches of the right attack. The third, the young artilleryman, went through the whole war, and after escaping bayonet and shot and shell, was kicked by the horse of a wounded officer, and probably lamed for life. According to the rules of the service, my informant seemed to think, he was not entitled to a pension for life, “but they had given him one for eighteen months after his discharge, so that he had almost a year of it to run; and perhaps he might learn blacksmith-work in that time, if he could stand at all, for that was mostly arm-work.”
I didn’t know what the regulations as to pensions were, or how long young Mattingly would take to learn blacksmith-work, but I did feel rather ashamed that England couldn’t afford to do a little more for such as he; and should be glad for my part to pay something towards it, if the Chancellor of the Exchequer, or somebody, would find out a way to set this right. Or perhaps if this should ever meet the eye of the Commander-in-Chief, or of any of the gentlemen who were made K.C.B’s in the war-time, or of any other person who has interest in the army, they may see whether any thing more can be done for young Mattingly.
Many of the younger ones I could see hadn’t made up their minds whether or no they should enter, and were larking and pushing one another about; and I saw several good trials of strength, and got an idea of what the wrestling was like before the lists were closed.
“Bi’st in for young geamsters prize at wrastlin’, shepherd?” asked a young carter with his hat full of ribbons, of a tight-made, neatly-dressed fellow, who had already won a second prize, I heard, at his village revel.
The shepherd nodded.
“Mose, mun,” went on the carter, “thee shouldst go in. Thee bi’st big enough.”
Moses was an overgrown, raw-boned fellow, of about eighteen, in a short smock-frock and a pair of very dilapidated militia-trousers. He had been turning the matter over in his own mind for some time, and now, after looking the shepherd over for a minute, pulled his great hands out of his pockets, hunched up his shoulders, and grunted out —
“’Zay! Try a file30 wi’ thee, shepherd.”
The bystanders all cheered. Moses, the militiaman, was rather a joke to them. The shepherd looked scornful, but was ready to try a file; but he stipulated that Mose must borrow some shoes instead of his great, iron-clouted high-lows, (no man is allowed to wrestle, I found, with any iron on his shoes.)
This seemed likely to stop the fun. Moses pulled off his high-lows, and appeared in sinkers,31 at which everybody roared; but no shoes were to be had. Then he offered to wrestle without shoes; but at last a pair were found, and Moses advanced with his great hands stretched out towards the shepherd, who, not deigning to take one hand out of his pocket, caught Mose’s elbow with the other. After one or two awkward attempts, and narrowly escaping some well-meant trips, Mose bored in; and before the shepherd could seize the militiaman’s collar with his second hand, over he went, and Mose was proclaimed winner of a file, amid shouts of laughter. Then they buckled to again, the shepherd doing his best; but somehow Mose managed to keep his legs; and when they went down, both fell on their sides, and it was only a dog-fall.
In another minute I saw the militiaman in the tent before the table.
“Plaze, Sur, put down Moses Tilling – young geamster – wrastlin’.”
After watching the tent till the lists were just closing, I started off to see if I could find Miss Lucy, who ought to have been up by this time, and to get something to eat before the sports began. The luncheon I managed easily enough, for I went over to the great booth in which I had dined the day before, and sat down at the long table, where Peter welcomed me, and soon gave me as much as I could eat and drink. But when I had finished, and went out to look for my friends, I found it a very difficult business, and no wonder, for there were more than 20,000 people up on the Hill.
First I went to the outside of the Castle, where all the carriages were drawn up in long rows, to see if I could find the four-wheel amongst them. As I was poking about, I came close to a fine open carriage, and hearing a shout of merry laughter, looked up. There were a party at lunch; two ladies and some quite young girls inside, some boys on the box, and several gentlemen standing round, holding bottles and sandwiches; and they were all eating and drinking, and laughing at an old gypsy woman, who was telling the fortune of one of the ladies.
“Love’ll never break your heart, my pretty lady,” said the old woman; “let the Norwood gypsy see your hand, my pretty lady.”
The lady held out her right hand, and the little girls glanced at the lady, and one another, brimming with fun.
“It’s the other hand the gypsy ought to see. Ah, well, then, never mind,” she went on, as the lady looked quietly in her face, without moving a muscle, “the old Norwood gypsy can read it all in your eyes. There’s a dark gentleman, and a light gentleman, who’ll both be coming before long; there’ll be sore hearts over it, but the richest will win before a year’s out – ” Here the girls clapped their hands, and burst into shouts, and the lady showed her other hand with a wedding-ring on, and went on quietly with her lunch.
“Ah! I never said she wasn’t married!” said the gipsy to the girls, who only laughed the more. I had got quite close up to the carriage, and at this moment caught the eye of the lady, who was laughing too; then I felt awkward all at once, and as if I was where I had no right to be. But she didn’t look the least annoyed, and I was passing on, when I saw that Mr. Warton was amongst the gentlemen on the other side of the carriage. “Ah,” thought I, “I wonder if he’ll know me now he’s with his fine friends?” But the next minute I was ashamed of myself for doubting, for I heard him wish them good-bye, and before I was ten yards from the carriage, he put his arm in mine.
“Well, you never rode after all,” he began.
“No, Sir,” said I. “But where are they? I haven’t seen Joe this two hours.”
“Oh, not far off,” said he; “feeding, like the rest of us.”
And further down the line we found Joe, and Miss Lucy, and several friends of theirs, lunching on the turf by the four-wheel. So we sat down with them, but I didn’t half like the way in which Miss Lucy was running on with two young farmers, one on each side of her. She told me afterwards that she had known them ever since they were children together, but somehow that didn’t seem to me to mend the matter much. And then again, when Joe got up, and said it was time to move, for the sports would be just beginning, nothing would serve her but to walk off to Wayland Smith’s cave. I wonder whether she did it a little bit to provoke me; for she knew that I had been to see it the day before, and that I wanted particularly to see all the sports. But I don’t think it could have been that after all, for when I said I should stay with Joe, she was just as pleasant as ever, and didn’t seem to mind a bit whether I or any one else went with her or not.
I am afraid I shall make a very poor hand at telling about the sports, because I couldn’t be in five or six places at once; and so I was kept running about, from the stage in the middle of the Castle out on to the downs to see the cart-horse race, and then back again into the Castle for the jingling match, and then out on the other side to the manger for the cheese races, and so on backwards and forwards; seeing the beginning of one sport, and the end of another, and the middle of a third. I wish the Committee would let the sports begin earlier, and then one might be able to see them all. However I must do the best I can, and just put down what I saw myself.
The first move for the sports was made a little before one, just as I got back into the Castle, after seeing Miss Lucy start for Wayland Smith’s cave. The Committee came out of their tent in a body, each man carrying the lists of the entries for the sports over which he was to preside. But instead of going different ways, each to his own business, they walked across in a body to the stage, and stopped just underneath it, in the middle of a great crowd of men and boys; and then they shouted for silence, and the chairman spoke: —
“We wish to say a few words, my men, to those who are going to play with the sticks or wrestle to-day. There has been a good deal of talk about these sports, as you all know; and many persons think they shouldn’t be allowed at all now-a-days – that the time for them has gone by. They say, that men always lose their tempers and get brutal at these sports. We have settled, however, to give the old-fashioned games a fair trial; and it will rest with yourselves whether we shall ever be able to offer prizes for them again. For, depend upon it, if there is any savage work to-day, if you lose your tempers, and strike or kick one another unfairly, you will never see any more wrestling or backsword on White Horse Hill. But we are sure we can trust you, and that there won’t be any thing to find fault with. Only remember again, you are on your trial, and the stage will be cleared at once, and no prizes given, if any thing objectionable happens. And now, you can put to as soon as you like.”
The Committee then marched off, leaving a very large crowd round the stage, all eager for the play to begin.
The two umpires got up on to the stage, and walked round, calling out, “Two old gamesters at backsword, and two old gamesters at wrastlin’, wanted to put to.” But I suppose the chairman’s speech had rather taken the men by surprise, for no one came forward, though there was a crowd twenty deep round the stage.
“Who are the old gamesters?” I asked of the man next me.
“Them as has won or shared a first prize at any revel,” answered he, without looking round.
After a minute the chairman’s brother, who didn’t seem to have much scruple about these sports, jumped up on the stage, and blew an old French hunting-horn, till the young ones began to laugh; and then told the men not to be afraid to come up, for if they didn’t begin at once there wouldn’t be light to play out the ties.
At last there was a stir amongst the knot of Somersetshire men, who stood together at one corner of the stage; and one of them, stepping up, pitched on to it his stumpy black hat, and then climbed up after it himself, spoke a word to the umpires, and began handling the sticks, to choose one which balanced to his mind, while the umpires proclaimed, “An old gamester wanted, to play with John Bunn of Wedmore.”
“There he stands, you see,” said Master George, who was close by me, though I hadn’t seen him before, “the only remaining representative of the old challenger at tourneys ready to meet all comers. He ought to have a herald to spout out his challenge in verse. Why not?”
“I don’t know what he could say more than the umpire has, Sir,” said I.
“He might blow his own trumpet at any rate,” said he; “somehow thus;” and he repeated, after a false start or two, —
THE ZONG OF THE ZUMMERZETSHIRE OWLD GEAMSTER
I
“Cham32 a Zummerzetshire mun
Coom her to hev a bit o’vun.
Oo’lt33 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 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 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.
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, that I 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 or so, 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 their thill 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 the last 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 explaining something 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.
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 firmly into 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 cluttery34 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 I began 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.