The Scouring of the White Horse

CHAPTER VII

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

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

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

“What are you going to do?” said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The short scholar was in raptures; he shouted in the chorus; he banged the table till he upset and broke his tumbler, which the vigilant landlady from behind the casks duly noted, and scored up to him.

I worked away at my note-book, and managed to get all the song, except one verse between the second and third, which I couldn’t catch.

“Bravo, Doctor! Here, waiter, get me another tumbler, and some more gin-punch. What a stunning call. Couldn’t the old bird give us another bit of history? It’s as good as reading ‘Southey’s Life,’ and much funnier,” rattled away the short scholar.

“What a quaint old grisly party it is!” said the long scholar; “I shall stand him a pot of beer.”

“Well, he won’t object to that,” said the Doctor, working away at the beef and pickles.

“Here, waiter, take a pot of beer, with my compliments, over to that gentleman,” said the long scholar, pointing to the old bargeman, “and say how much obliged we are to him for his song.”

So Peter trotted across with the liquor, and the old man telegraphed his acknowledgments.

“By the way, Doctor,” said the short scholar, “as you seem to know a good deal about these things, can you tell me what ‘Vicar of Bray’ means? I saw two men quarrelling just after the games, and it was all their wives could do to keep them from fighting, and I heard it was because one had called the other ‘Vicar of Bray.’”