“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[83] 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[84] 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[85] 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.[86] 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,[87] 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,[88] 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[89] 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,[90] 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[91] 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[92] 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 ?thelred 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 ?thelred’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[93] 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, ?thelred 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 B?gseeg lies dead, a hundred yards below; by his side his standard-bearer and Earl Fr?na; Halfdene is still unhurt, but near him Osbert totters under his shield; Harold[94] 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 ?thelred 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[95] 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!’”

[96]

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[97] 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?”

[98]

“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 ?thelred’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[99] 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[100] 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[101] 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,
[102]
By King Alferd the Great when he spwiled their consate
And caddled,[21] thay wosbirds[22] 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 dummell[23] 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.

“Why, Dick, how did you manage to pick up the old gentleman who was treating you at dinner?” said Joe; “I suppose he’s one of your London folk.”

“’Twas he who picked me up,” said I, “for I never set eyes on him before. But I can tell[103] you he is a very learned party, and very kind too. He told me all about the battle of Ashdown, and ever so many more old stories. I should think he must have been two hours and more telling them.”

“Sooner you than I,” said Joe. “Well, I thought I knew his face. He must be the old gent as was poking about our parish last fall, and sort of walking the bounds. Though there isn’t any call for that, I’m sure, for we walk the bounds ourselves every year. The men as he hired told me he was looking after some old stone, the play stone I think he called it, and would have it he knew more about the names of the fields, and why they were called so, than they as had lived there all their lives. However, he stood ’em something handsome for their trouble. I expect he isn’t quite right up here,” said he, touching his forehead and looking at me.

“Just as right as you,” said I, “and I’ve no doubt he does know more about your parish than all of you put together. I think he must be some great antiquary.”

“Ah! that’s what the Squire said when I told him. A great angular Saxon scholar he called him.”

[104]

“Anglo-Saxon, Joe,” said I, “not angular.”

“Well, Anglo or angular, it’s no odds,” said Joe; “I calls it angular—that’s good English at any rate.”

“But, Joe,” said I, “I’ve taken down all he said, and should like to read it to you. I’m sure it would interest you.”

“Well, after supper to-night, over a pipe, perhaps,” said Joe; “I ain’t much of a hand at your old-world talk, you see. Or, I’ll tell you what, you shall read it to Lu; she takes to book-learning and all that better than I.”

“I shall be very glad indeed to read it to your sister,” said I; “and I daresay she can tell me something more.”

“May be,” said Joe, drawing his whip gently over the mare’s loins; and then he began telling me about the talk he had had with the Squire.

He seemed to have been telling him all about his quarrel at the vestry with the other farmers, about keeping up the parish roads; and the Squire had smoothed him down, and given him some good advice as to how to get the roads made and the fences kept up without losing his temper. Joe owned to me that he was often falling out with some of his neighbours,[105] or his hired men, when he couldn’t get things quite his own way (for that’s what it came to, and Joe is a warm-tempered fellow), and that he would sooner come six miles to get the Squire to “tackle it,” than go to any other justice who lived nearer; “for he knows our ways, and manages one way or another to get it out all straight without making a Sessions job of it,” said Joe, as we drove up to his gate; and though I was looking out to catch a sight of Miss Lucy, and hoping she might be out in the garden, I couldn’t help allowing to myself that perhaps the country mightn’t get on so much better after all if the unpaid magistracy were done away with.

Joe went off to the stable to see after his precious chestnut, and seemed to pity me because I didn’t go with him. But I was off round the house and into the garden, to try and find Miss Lucy. When I did find her though, I wasn’t quite pleased at first, as you may fancy when you hear what she was doing.

There is a trellis-work about eight feet high, between the little flower-garden and the kitchen-garden, and in it a wicket-gate, through which runs a nice green walk by which you get from[106] one to the other. The trellis-work is so covered with roses, and jessamine, and other creepers, that you can’t see through, at least not in summer time; and I heard merry voices on the other side, but they couldn’t hear me on the turf. So I hurried up to the wicket-gate; and the moment I got through, there I saw Miss Lucy, and close by her side a young man in a black coat, dark gray trousers, and a white tie. He had a great ribstone-pippin apple in one hand, off the best tree in the orchard, out of which he had taken a great bite or two, which I thought rather vulgar; and there he was, holding up his bitten apple and some of the creepers against the trellis-work, with both hands above Miss Lucy’s head. And she stood there in her pretty white-straw hat, with the ribbons dangling loose over her shoulders, tying up the creepers to the trellis-work close to his face. I could see, too, that she was very well dressed, for she had on a pretty embroidered collar, as white as snow, with a nice bow of fresh pink ribbon in front; and the sleeves of her gown were loose, and fell back a little as she reached up with the string to tie the creepers, and showed her nice,[107] white, round arms, which looked very pretty, only I wished she had waited for me to hold up the creepers instead of him. At her feet lay a basket full of apples and pears, and lavender and mignonette; so they must have been going about together for some time, picking fruit and flowers.

I stopped at the gate, and felt half inclined to go back; but he said something to her, and then she turned round and called me, so I walked up feeling rather sheepish. By the time I got up to them they had finished tying up the creeper, and she introduced me to Mr. Warton, of London. He held out his hand, and said he had often heard Joseph speak of me, and was very glad to meet an old friend of his friend Hurst. So we shook hands, and he began eating his apple again, and she picked up her basket, and we walked together towards the house; but they were so free and pleasant together, and laughed and joked so, that it made me feel rather low, and I couldn’t talk easily, though I did manage to say something about the White Horse, and how well it looked, and what a wonderful place it was up on the hill, when they asked me about it.

[108]

I wasn’t sorry when she went in to look after the tea, and he sat down to write a letter. So I went round to the farm-yard to look for Joe, that I might find out from him about this Mr. Warton. I found Joe with his fogger,[24] as he called him, looking at some calves, and thinking of nothing but them and the pigs. However, I stuck to him and praised all the beasts just as if I knew all about them, and so at last got him out of the yard; and then I told him there was a Mr. Warton come.

“No! is he?” said he; “I’m so glad. I was afraid he couldn’t come down as he didn’t answer my last letter.”

“Who is he, Joe?” said I.

“Haven’t I told you?” said he; “why, he’s a parson up somewhere in London, and a real right sort. He was curate here for five years before he went up to town.”

“He seems to know you and Miss Lucy very well,” said I.

“Bless you, yes!” said Joe; “Lu was in his school, and he prepared her for confirmation. He’s the best company in the world, and not[109] a bit proud, like some parsons. When he was down here, he used to drop in of an evening two or three times a week, and take his tea, or a bit of supper, just like you might.”

“He’s a good bit older than we, though,” said I.

“Well, four or five years, maybe,” said Joe, looking rather surprised at me; “I should say he was about thirty last grass, but I never asked him; what does it matter?” and so we got to the front door, and I went up-stairs to my room to wash my hands before tea. I made myself as smart as I could, but I own I didn’t half like the way this Mr. Warton went on. However, I thought Miss Lucy must see he was too old for her.

As I was dressing, I turned the matter over with myself, how I was to behave down stairs. First, I thought I would try to ride the high horse, and be silent and vexed, and make them all uncomfortable; but then, thought I, will Miss Lucy see why I do it? It may be all out of love for her, and jealousy of this Mr. Warton; and they say no young woman dislikes to see men jealous about her. But suppose she shouldn’t see it in that light? Mightn’t she[110] only think, perhaps, that I was a very changeable and disagreeable sort of fellow? That would never do. Besides, after all, thought I, I’m down here at Joe’s house, and I owe it to him to be as pleasant as I can. How’s he to know that I am in love with his sister already? And this Mr. Warton, too; he’s a clergyman, and seems a very good sort, as Joe said; and then he has known them all so well, for so long; why am I to give myself airs because he likes talking to Miss Lucy? So I settled it in my own mind to go down with a smiling face, and to do all I could to make all the rest happy; and I felt much better myself when I had made up my mind.

There never was such a tea and supper (for we had them both together that night, as it was late) in the world; and I don’t think I could have stood out five minutes if I had gone down in the sulks, as I thought of doing at first. The old lady, and Joe, and Miss Lucy, were all in great spirits at getting Mr. Warton down; and he was just like a boy home for his holidays. He joked and rattled away about every thing; except when they talked about any of his old parishioners or scholars, and then he was as[111] kind and tender as a woman, and remembered all their names, and how many children there were in every family, and the sort of mistakes the boys and girls used to make in school. And he drew Miss Lucy out about the school, and Joe about the markets and the labourers, and the old lady about the best way of pickling cabbages, and me about London and my work, and shorthand, which he managed to find out that I could write in no time. So we were all in the best humour in the world, and pleased with one another and with him; and spent half an hour in praising him after he had gone up stairs to finish some writing which he had to do.

Then I asked them about the pastime, and what we should see next day on the hill. Miss Lucy began directly about the stalls and the sights, and the racing and the music; and cold dinner on the hill-side, and seeing all her friends in their best dresses. Joe listened to her for a bit, and then struck in—

“That’s all very well for you women,” said he; “but look here, Dick. If what I hear comes true, we shall have a fine treat on the stage; for they tells me there’s a lot of the best[112] old gamesters in Somersetshire coming up, to put in for the backsword prizes.”

“Then I’m sure I hope they won’t be allowed to play,” said Miss Lucy.

“Not let to play!” said Joe; “who put that into your head? Why, there’s the printed list of the sports, and ￡12 prize for backswording, and ￡10 for wrestling.”

“Well, it’s a great shame, then,” said Miss Lucy; “for all the respectable people for miles round will be on the hill, and I think the gentlemen ought to stop them.”

“If they do, they’ll spoil the pastime; for there won’t be one man in twenty up there who’ll care to see any thing else. Eh, old fellow?” said Joe, turning to me.

“I agree with Miss Lucy,” said I; “for I’m sure if the women are against these games, they can’t be good for the men, and ought to be put down.”

“Dick, you’re a cockney, and know no better,” said Joe, giving me a great spank on the back, which hurt a good deal and was very disagreeable, only I didn’t say any thing because I knew he meant it kindly; “but as for you, Lucy, you, a west-country yeoman’s daughter, to talk like[113] that! If you don’t take care, you shan’t go up the hill to the pastime to-morrow at all; I’ll leave you at home with mother,” and he shook his great fist at her.

“Won’t I go up though?” said she, laughing; “we’ll see, Master Joe; why, I can walk up by myself, if it comes to that; besides, any of the neighbours will give me a lift—or here’s Mr. Richard, or Mr. Warton. I’m sure—”

“What’s that you’re saying, Miss Lucy? What am I to do, eh?” and the parson walked in just as I was going to speak. I was vexed at his just coming in, and taking the word out of my mouth.

“Why I was telling Joe that you’ll stop and take me up the hill, if he leaves me behind; won’t you now, Mr. Warton?”

“Leave you behind, indeed! here’s a pretty to do!” said he, laughing. “What in the world are you all talking about?”

“About the wrestling and backsword play,” struck in Joe; “now she says—”

“Well, now, I’ll leave it to Mr. Warton,” said Miss Lucy, interrupting him; “I know he won’t say it’s right for men to be fighting upon a high stage before all the country side.”

[114]

“Stuff and nonsense with your fighting!” said Joe; “you know, Sir, very well that they are old English games, and we sets great store by them down here, though some of our folk as ought to know better does set their faces against them now-a-days.”

“Yes, you know, Joe, that three or four clergymen have been preaching against them only last Sunday,” said Miss Lucy.

“Then they ain’t the right sort, or they’d know better what to preach against. I don’t take all for Gospel that the parsons say, mind you,” said Joe.

Miss Lucy looked shocked, but Mr. Warton only laughed.

“Hullo, Joseph,” said he, “speaking evil of your spiritual pastors! However, I won’t say you’re altogether wrong. Parsons are but men.”

“But, Sir,” said I, quite confidently, “I’m sure no clergyman can stand up for fighting and quarrelling.”

“Of course not,” said he; “but what then?”

“Well, Sir, these sports, as they call them, are just fighting, and nothing else, and lead to all sorts of quarrels and bad blood, and so—”

[115]

“They don’t lead to nothing of the kind,” shouted Joe; “and you know nothing about it, Dick.”

“Now, Joe, at our last feast,” said Miss Lucy, “didn’t Reuben Yates get his head broken, and his arms all black and blue at backsword play?”

“Yes, and didn’t you and mother patch him up with yards of diachylum, and give him his supper every night for a week, to come and be doctored and lectured? Rube liked his suppers well enough, and didn’t mind the plastering and lecturing much; but if he don’t go in to-morrow for the young gamesters’ prize, my name ain’t Joe Hurst.”

“Then he’ll be a very ungrateful, wicked fellow,” said Miss Lucy.

“And you and mother won’t give him any more suppers or diachylum,” said Joe; “but I dare say he won’t break his heart if you don’t give him the preaching by itself. It does seem to me plaguy hard that the women won’t let a man get his own head broke quietly, when he has a mind to it.”

“And there was Simon Withers, too,” went on Miss Lucy, “he sprained his ankle at the[116] wrestling, and was in the house for three weeks, and his poor old mother nearly starving.”

“’Twasn’t at wrestling, though,” said Joe, “’twas at hurdle-racing. He’d much better have been at backsword; for a chap can go to work with a broken head next morning, and feel all the better for it, but he can’t with a sprained ankle.”

“What does Mr. Warton think?” said I; for somehow he was keeping back, and seemed a little on Joe’s side, and if he showed that, I thought he would lose ground with Miss Lucy.

“Oh! I’m sure Mr. Warton is on our side, ain’t you, Sir? Do tell Joe how wrong it is of him to go on talking as he does.”

“No, no, Miss Lucy, I’m not going to be drawn into the quarrel as your knight; you’re quite able to take your own part,” said Mr. Warton.

“I’m sure Mr. Warton is against us in his heart,” said I to Miss Lucy; “only he’s a clergyman, and doesn’t like to say so.”

“Come, now, I can’t stand that,” said he to me; “and you and I must have it out; only mind, Miss Lucy, you mustn’t come in; one at a time is enough for me.”

[117]

“I won’t say a word, Sir, if Joe won’t.”

“Very well,” said he, “and now let’s get our ground clear. Do you approve of the other sports, running matches, jumping matches, and all the rest?”

“Yes, Sir, of course I do,” said I.

“And you see no harm in one man beating another in a race for a prize?”

“No, Sir, no harm at all.”

“Well, but I suppose one must have activity and endurance to win in any of them?”

“Yes,” said I, “and good pluck, too, Sir. It takes as much heart, I’m sure, any day, to win a hard race as a bout at backsword.”

“Very good,” said he. “Then putting every thing else aside, tell me which you think the best man, he who doesn’t mind having his head broken, or he who does?”

“Well, Sir,” said I, beginning to fence a bit, for I thought I saw what he was driving at, “that depends on circumstances.”

“No, no,” said he, “I want a short answer. We’ve nothing to do with circumstances. Suppose there were no circumstances in the world, and only two men with heads to be broken?”

“Well, then, Sir,” said I, “I suppose the one[118] who doesn’t mind having his head broken, must be the best man.”

“Hah, hah!” laughed Joe, “that puts me in mind of old Ben Thomson last feast. When he threw up his hat on the stage, he said he could get his pint of beer any day for tuppence, but it wasn’t every day as he could get his pint of beer and a broken head too for the same money.”

“Oh, but Mr. Warton—” broke in Miss Lucy.

“Now, you were not to say a word, you know,” said he.

“But Joe began, Sir.”

“Joseph, hold your tongue.”

“Very well, Sir,” said Joe, grinning.

“Then we come to this,” said he to me, “a man must have just the same qualities to win at backsword as to win a race; and something else besides, which is good in itself?”

“But, Sir,” said I, “that doesn’t meet the point. What I say is, that backsword is a game in which men are sure to lose their tempers and become brutal.”

“But don’t they sometimes lose their tempers in races?” said he.

[119]

“Yes, sometimes, perhaps,” said I, “but not often.”

“And sometimes they don’t lose them at backsword?” said he.

“Well, perhaps not, Sir.”

“Then it seems that all that can be said against backsword is, that it is a harder trial of the temper than other games. Surely that’s no reason for stopping it, but only for putting it under strict rules. The harder the trial the better. I’m sure that’s good English sense.”

I didn’t quite know what to say, but Miss Lucy broke in again.

“Oh, but Mr. Warton, did you ever see any backsword play?”

“Now, Miss Lucy, that is against law,” said he; “but I don’t mind answering. I never did, and I dare say your champion never has.”

“No, Sir,” said I; “but though you may have got the best of me, I don’t believe you really mean that you think us wrong.”

“Would you, really, Sir, preach a sermon now in favour of backsword play and wrestling?” asked Miss Lucy, with a long face.

“What’s that got to do with it, Lucy?” broke in Joe. “We’re not talking about preaching[120] sermons, but about what’s right for country chaps to do at pastimes.”

“Now, Joseph, I’m not going to ride off on any hobby of yours—besides, your sister’s test is right. Several of your clergy about here have preached against these games, as was their duty if they had considered the subject well, and thought them wrong. I have never thought much about the matter till to-night. At present I think your clergy wrong. If I hold to that belief I would preach it; for I hope I never seriously say any thing in the parlour which I wouldn’t say in the pulpit.”

Just then, the tall clock in the passage outside gave a sort of cluck, which meant half-past nine o’clock, and Joe jumped up and opened the door for the servants, and gave Mr. Warton the prayer-book. And then as soon as ever prayers were over, he bustled his mother and sister off to bed, though I could see that Miss Lucy wasn’t half satisfied in her mind about the backsword play and wrestling, and wanted to stay and hear something more from Mr. Warton. But Joe is always in a hurry for his pipe when half-past nine strikes, so we all had to humour him, and Mr. Warton and I went with him into the kitchen to smoke our pipes.