Chapter 22

THE LANGUAGE OF THE COTSWOLDS, WITH SOME ANCIENT SONGS AND LEGENDS.

A very marked characteristic of the village peasant is his extraordinary honesty. Not one in ten would knock a pheasant on the head with his stick if he found one on his allotment among the cabbages. Rabbit poachers there are, but even these are rare; and as for housebreaking and robbery, it simply does not exist. The manor house has a tremendous nail-studded oak door, which is barred at night by ponderous clamps of iron and many other contrivances; but the old-fashioned windows could be opened by any moderately skilful burglar in half a minute. There is absolutely nothing to prevent access to the house at night, whilst in the daytime the doors are open from "morn till dewy eve." Most of the windows are innocent of shutters. When in Ireland recently, I noticed that the gates in every field were immensely strong, generally of iron, with massive pillars of stone on either side; but in spite of these precautions there was usually a gap in the hedge close by, through which one might safely have driven a waggon. This reminded one of the Cotswold manor house and its strongly barricaded oak door, surrounded by windows, which any burglar could open "as easy as a glove," as Tom Peregrine would say.

A strange-looking traveller, with slouching gait and mouldy wideawake hat, passes through the hamlet occasionally, leading a donkey in a cart. This is one of the old-fashioned hawkers. These men are usually poachers or receivers of poached goods. They are not averse to paying a small sum for a basket of trout or a few partridges, pheasants, hares or rabbits in the game season; whilst in spring they deal in a small way in the eggs of game birds. As often as not this class of man is accompanied by a couple of dogs, marvellously trained in the art of hunting the coverts and "retrieving" a pheasant or a rabbit which may be crouching in the underwood. Hares, too, are taken by dogs in the open fields. One never finds out much about these gentry from the natives. Even the keeper is reticent on the subject. "A sart of a harf-witted fellow" is Tom Peregrine's description of this very suspicious-looking traveller.

The better sort of carrier, who calls daily at the great house with all kinds of goods and parcels from the big town seven miles off, is occasionally not averse to a little poaching in the roadside fields among the hares. The carriers are a great feature of these rural villages; they are generally good fellows, though some of them are a bit too fond of the bottle on Saturday nights.

The dogs employed by poachers are taught to keep out of sight and avoid keepers and such-like folk. They know as well as the poacher himself the nature of their trade, and that the utmost secrecy must be observed. To see them trotting demurely down the road you would never think them capable of doing anything wrong. A wave of the hand and they are into the covert in a second, ready to pounce like a cat on a sitting pheasant. One short whistle and they are at their master's heels again. If in carrying game in their mouths they spied or winded a keeper, they would in all probability contrive to hide themselves or make tracks for the high road as quickly as possible, leaving their spoil in the thick underwood, "to be left till called for."

But to return once more to the honest Cotswold labourer. Occasionally a notice is put up in the village as follows:--

"There will be a dinner in the manor grounds on July--. Please bring knives and forks."

These are great occasions in a Cotswold village. Knives and forks mean meat; and a joint of mutton is not seen by the peasants more than "once in a month of Sundays." Needless to say, there is not much opportunity of studying the language of the country as long as the feast is progressing. "Silence is golden" is the motto here whilst the viands are being discussed; but afterwards, when the Homeric desire of eating and drinking has been expelled, an adjournment to the club may lead to a smoking concert, and, once started, there are very few Cotswold men who cannot sing a song of at least eighteen verses. For three hours an uninterrupted stream of music flows forth, not only solos, but occasionally duets, harmoniously chanted in parts, and rendered with the utmost pathos. It cannot be said that Gloucestershire folk are endowed with a large amount of musical talent; neither their "ears" nor their vocal chords are ever anything great, but what they lack in quality they make up in quantity, and I have listened to as many as forty songs during one evening--some of them most entertaining, others extremely dull. The songs the labourer most delights in are those which are typical of the employment in which he happens to be engaged. Some of the old ballads, handed down from father to son by oral tradition, are very excellent. The following is a very good instance of this kind of song; when sung by the carter to a good rollicking tune, it goes with a rare ring, in spite of the fact that it lasts about a quarter of an hour. There would be about a dozen verses, and the chorus is always sung twice at the end of each verse, first by the carter and then by the whole company.

"Now then, gentlemen, don't delay harmony," Farmer Peregrine keeps repeating in his old-fashioned, convivial way, and thus the ball is kept a-rolling half the night.

JIM, THE CARTER LAD.

"My name is Jim, the carter lad-- A jolly cock am I; I always am contented, Be the weather wet or dry. I snap my finger at the snow, And whistle at the rain; I've braved the storm for many a day, And can do so again."

(_Chorus_.)

"Crack, crack, goes my whip, I whistle and I sing, I sits upon my waggon, I'm as happy as a king. My horse is always willing; As for me, I'm never sad: There's none can lead a jollier life Than Jim, the carter lad."

"My father was a carrier Many years ere I was born, And used to rise at daybreak And go his rounds each morn. He often took me with him, Especially in the spring. I loved to sit upon the cart And hear my father sing. Crack, crack, etc."

"I never think of politics Or anything so great; I care not for their high-bred talk About the Church and State. I act aright to man and man, And that's what makes me glad; You'll find there beats an honest heart In Jim, the carter lad. Crack, crack, etc."

"The girls, they all smile on me As I go driving past. My horse is such a beauty, And he jogs along so fast. We've travelled many a weary mile, And happy days have had; For none can lead a jollier life Than Jim, the carter lad. Crack, crack, etc."

"So now I'll wish you all good night It's time I was away; For I know my horse will weary If I much longer stay. To see your smiling faces, It makes my heart quite glad. I hope you'll drink your kind applause To Jim, the carter lad. Crack, crack, etc."

The village choirs do very well as long as their organist or vicar is not too ambitious in his choice of music. There is a fatal tendency in many places to do away with the old hymns, which every one has known from a boy, and substitute the very inferior modern ones now to be found in our books. This is the greatest mistake, if I may say so. A man is far more likely to sing, and feel deeply when he is singing, those simple words and notes he learnt long ago in the nursery at home. And there is nothing finer in the world than some of our old English hymns.

I appeal to any readers who have known what it is to feel deeply; and few there are to whom this does not apply, if some of those moments of their lives, when the thoughts have soared into the higher regions of emotion, have not been those which followed the opening strain of the organ as it quietly ushered in the old evening hymn, "Abide with me, fast falls the eventide," or any other hymn of the same kind. It is the same in the vast cathedral as in the little Norman village church. There are fifty hymns in our book which would be sufficient to provide the best possible music for our country churches. The best organists realise this. Joseph Barnby always chose the old hymns; and you will hear them at Westminster and St. Paul's. The country organist, however, imagines that it is his duty to be always teaching his choir some new and difficult tune; the result in nine cases out of ten being "murder" and a rapid falling off in the congregation.

The Cotswold folk on the whole are fond of music, though they have not a large amount of talent for it. The Chedworth band still goes the round of the villages once or twice a year. These men are the descendants of the "old village musicians," who, to quote from the _Strand Musical Magazine_ for September 1897, "led the Psalmody in the village church sixty years ago with stringed and wind instruments. Mr. Charles Smith, of Chedworth, remembers playing the clarionet in Handel's _Zadok the Priest_, performed there in 1838 in honour of the Queen's accession." He talks of a band of twelve, made up of strings and _wood-wind_.

I am bound to say that the music produced by the Chedworth band at the present day, though decidedly creditable in such an old-world village, is rather like the Roman remains for which the district is so famous; it savours somewhat of the prehistoric. But when the band comes round and plays in the hall of our old house on Christmas Eve, I have many a pleasant chat with the Chedworth musicians; they are so delightfully enthusiastic, and so grateful for being allowed to play. When I gave them a cup of tea they kept repeating, "A thousand thanks for all your kindness, sir."

It is inevitable that men engaged day by day and year by year in such monotonous employ as agricultural labour should be somewhat lacking in acuteness and sensibility; in no class is the hereditary influence so marked. Were it otherwise, matters would be in a sorry pass in country places, for discontent would reign supreme; and once let "ambition mock their useful toil," once their sober wishes learn to stray, how would the necessary drudgery of agricultural work be accomplished at all? In spite, however, of this marked characteristic of inertness--hereditary in the first place, and fostered by the humdrum round of daily toil on the farm--there is sometimes to be found a sense of humour and a love of merriment that is quite astonishing. A good deal of what is called knowledge of the world, which one would have thought was only to be acquired in towns, nowadays penetrates into remote districts, so that country folk often have a good idea of "what's what" I once overheard the following conversation:

"Who's your new master, Dick? He's a bart., ain't he?"

"Oh no," was the reply; "he's only a _jumped-up jubilee knight_!"

Sense of humour of a kind the Cotswold labourer certainly has, even though he is quite unable to see a large number of apparently simple jokes. The diverting history of John Gilpin, for instance, read at a smoking concert, was received with scarce a smile.

Old Mr. Peregrine lately told me an instance of the extraordinary secretiveness of the labourer. Two of his men worked together in his barn day after day for several weeks. During that time they never spoke to each other, save that one of them would always say the last thing at night, "Be sure to shut the door."

Oddly enough they thoroughly appreciate the humour of the wonderful things that went on fifty and a hundred years ago. The old farmer I have just mentioned told me that he remembers when he used to go to church fifty years ago, how, after they had all been waiting half an hour, the clerk would pin a notice in the porch, "No church to-day; Parson C---- got the gout."

As with history so also with geography, the Cotswold labourer sometimes gets "a bit mixed."

"'Ow be they a-gettin' on in Durbysher?" lately enquired a man at Coln-St-Aldwyns.

To him replied a righteously indignant native of the same village, "I've 'eard as 'ow the English army 'ave killed ten thousand Durvishers (Dervishes)."

"Bedad!" answered his friend, "there won't be many left in Durbysher if they goes on a-killin' un much longer."

Another story lately told me in the same village was as follows:--

An old lady went to the stores to buy candles, and was astonished to find that owing to the Spanish-American war "candles was riz."

"Get along!" she indignantly exclaimed. "_Don't tell me they fights by candlelight_"

One of the cheeriest fellows that ever worked for us was a carter called Trinder. He was the father of _twenty-one children_--by the same wife. He never seemed to be worried in the slightest degree by domestic affairs, and was always happy and healthy and gay. This man's wages would be about twelve shillings a week: not a very large sum for a man with a score of children. Then it must be remembered that the boys would go off to work in the fields at a very early age, and by the time they were ten years old they would be keeping themselves. A large family like this would not have the crushing effect on the labouring man that it has on the poor curate or city clerk. Nevertheless, one cannot help looking upon the man as a kind of hero, when one considers the enormous number of grandchildren and descendants he will have. On being asked the other day how he had contrived to maintain such a quiverful, he answered, "I've always managed to get along all right so far; I never wanted for vittals, sir, anyhow." This was all the information he would give.

Talking of "vittals," the only meat the labouring man usually indulges in is bacon. His breakfast consists of bread and butter, and either tea or cocoa. For his dinner he relies on bread and bacon, occasionally only bread and cheese. In the winter he is home by five, and once more has tea, or cocoa, or beer. Coffee is very seldom seen in the cottages. During the short days there is nothing to do but go to bed in the evening, unless a walk of over a mile to the village inn is considered worth the trouble. But being tired and leg weary, a long walk does not usually appeal to the men after their evening meal; so to bed is the order of the day,--and, thank Heaven! "the sleep of a labouring man is sweet." In the longer days of spring and summer there is plenty to do in the allotments; and on the whole the allotments acts have been a great blessing to the labourers.

It is during the three winter months that penny readings and smoking concerts are so much appreciated in the country. Too much cannot be done in this way to brighten the life of the village during the cold, dark days of December and January, for the labouring man hates reading above all things.

Perhaps the fact that these simple folk do not read the newspapers, or only read those parts in which they have a direct interest--such as paragraphs indulging in socialistic castles in the air--has its advantages, inasmuch as it allows their common sense full play in all other matters, unhampered as it is (except in this one weak point of socialism) by the prejudices of the day. So that if one wanted to get an unprejudiced opinion on some great question of right or wrong, in the consideration of which common sense alone was required--such a question, for instance, as is occasionally cropping up in these times in our foreign policy--one would have to go to the very best men in the country, namely, those amongst the educated classes who think for themselves, or to men of the so-called lowest strata of society, such as these honest Cotswold labourers; because there is scarcely one man in ten among the reading public who is not biassed and confused by the manifold contradictions and political claptrap of the daily papers, and led away by side issues from a clear understanding of the rights of every case. Our free press is doubtless a grand institution. As with individuals, however, so ought it to be with nations. Let us, in our criticisms of the policy of those who watch over the destinies of other countries, whilst firmly upholding our rights, strictly adhere to the principle of _noblesse oblige_. The press is every day becoming more and more powerful for good or evil; its influence on men's minds has become so marked that it may with truth be said that the press rules public opinion rather than that public opinion rules the press. But the writers of the day will only fulfil their destiny aright by approaching every question in a broad and tolerant spirit, and by a firm reliance, in spite of the prejudices of the moment, on the ancient faith of _noblesse oblige_. However, the unanimity recently shown by the press in upholding our rights at Fashoda was absolutely splendid.

The origin of the names of the fields in this district is difficult to trace. Many a farm has its "barrow ground," called after some old burial mound situated there; and many names like Ladbarrow, Cocklebarrow, etc., have the same derivation. "Buryclose," too, is a name often to be found in the villages; and skeletons are sometimes dug up in meadows so called. A copse, called Deadman's Acre, is supposed to have received its name from the fact that a man died there, having sworn that he would reap an acre of corn with a sickle in a day or perish in the attempt. It is more likely, however, to be connected with the barrows, which are plentiful thereabouts.

Oliver Cromwell's memory is still very much respected among the labouring folk. Every possible work is attributed to his hand, and even the names of places are set down to his inventive genius. Thus they tell you that when he passed through Aldsworth he did not think very much of the village (it is certainly a very dull little place), so he snapped his fingers and exclaimed, "That's all 'e's worth!" On arriving at Ready Token, where was an ancient inn, he found it full of guests; he therefore exclaimed, "It's already taken!" Was ever such nonsense heard? Yet these good folk believe every tradition of this kind, and delight in telling you such stories. Ready Token is a bleak spot, standing very high, and having a clump of trees on it; it is therefore conspicuous for miles; so that when this country was an open moor, Ready Token was very useful as a landmark to travellers. Mr. Sawyer thinks the name is a corruption from the Celtic word "rhydd" and the Saxon "tacen," meaning "the way to the ford," the place being on the road to Fairford, where the Coln is crossed.

One of the chief traditions of this locality, and one that doubtless has more truth in it than most of the stories the natives tell you, relates that two hundred years ago people were frequently murdered at Ready Token inn when returning with their pockets full of money from the big fairs at Gloucester or Oxford. A labouring friend of mine was telling me the other day of the wonderful disappearance of a packman and a "jewelrer," as he called him. For very many years nothing was heard of them, but about twenty years ago some "skellingtons" were dug up on the exact spot where the inn stood, so their disappearance was accounted for.

This same man told me the following story about the origin of Hangman's Stone, near Northleach:--

"A man stole a 'ship' [sheep], and carried it tied to his neck and shoulders by a rope. Feeling rather tired, he put the 'ship' down on top of the 'stwun' [stone] to rest a bit; but suddenly it rolled off the other side, and hung him--broke his neck."

Hangman's Stone may be seen to this day. The real origin of the name may be found in Fozbrooke's History of Gloucestershire. It was the place of execution in Roman times.

"As illuminations in cases of joy, dismissal from the house in quarrels, wishing joy on New Year's Day, king and queen on twelfth day (from the Saturnalia), holding up the hand in sign of assent, shaking hands, etc., are Roman customs, so were executions just out of the town, where also the executioner resided. In Anglo-Saxon times this officer was a man of high dignity."

A very common name in Gloucestershire for a field or wood is "conyger" or "conygre." It means the abode of conies or rabbits.

Some farms have their "camp ground"; and there, sure enough, if one examines it carefully, will be found traces of some ancient British camp, with its old rampart running round it. But what can be the derivation of such names as Horsecollar Bush Furlong, Smoke Acre Furlong, West Chester Hull, Cracklands, Crane Furlong, Sunday's Hill, Latheram, Stoopstone Furlong, Pig Bush Furlong, and Barelegged Bush?

Names like Pitchwells, where there is a spring; Breakfast Bush Ground, where no doubt Hodge has had his breakfast for centuries under shelter of a certain bush; Rickbushes, and Longlands are all more or less easy to trace. Furzey Leaze, Furzey Ground, Moor Hill, Ridged Lands, and the Pikes are all names connected with the nature of the fields or their locality.

Leaze is the provincial name for a pasture, and Furzey Leaze would be a rough "ground," where gorse was sprinkled about. The Pikes would be a field abutting on an old turnpike gate. The word "turnpike" is never used in Gloucestershire; it is always "the pike." A field is a "ground," and a fence or stone wall is a "mound." The Cotswold folk do not talk about houses; they stick to the old Saxon termination, and call their dwellings "housen"; they also use the Anglo-Saxon "hire" for hear. The word "bowssen," too, is very frequently heard in these parts; it is a provincialism for a stall or shed where oxen are kept. "Boose" is the word from which it originally sprang. A very expressive phrase in common use is to "quad" or "quat"; it is equivalent to the word "squat." Other words in this dialect are "sprack," an adjective meaning quick or lively; and "frem" or "frum," a word derived from the Anglo-Saxon "fram," meaning fresh or flourishing. The latter word is also used in Leicestershire. Drayton, who knew the Cotswolds, and wrote poetry about the district, uses the expression "frim pastures." "Plym" is the swelling of wood when it is immersed in water; and "thilk," another Anglo-Saxon word, means thus or the same.

A mole in the Gloucestershire dialect is an "oont" or "woont." A barrow or mound of any kind is a "tump." Anything slippery is described as "slick"; and a slice is a "sliver." "Breeds" denotes the brim of a hat, and a deaf man is said to be "dunch" or "dunny." To "glowr" is to stare--possibly connected with the word "glare."

Two red-coated sportsmen, while hunting close to our village the other day, got into a small but deep pond. They were said to have fallen into the "stank," and got "zogged" through: for a small pond is a "stank," and to be "zogged" is equivalent to being soaked.

"Hark at that dog 'yoppeting' in the covert! I'll give him a nation good 'larroping' when I catch him!" This is the sort of sentence a Gloucestershire keeper makes use of. To "larrop" is to beat. Oatmeal or porridge is always called "grouts"; and the Cotswold native does not talk of hoisting a ladder, but "highsting" is the term he uses. The steps of the ladder are the "rongs." Luncheon is "nuncheon." Other words in the dialect are "caddie" = to humbug; "cham" = to chew; "barken" = a homestead; and "bittle" = a mallet.

Fozbrooke says that the term "hopping mad" is applied to people who are very angry; but we do not happen to have heard it in Gloucestershire. Two proverbs that are in constant use amongst all classes are, "As sure as God's in Gloucestershire," and, "'Tis as long in coming as Cotswold 'berle'" (barley). The former has reference to the number of churches and religious houses the county used to possess, the latter to the backward state of the crops on the exposed Cotswold Hills. To meet a man and say, "Good-morning, nice day," is to "pass the time of day with him." Anything queer or mysterious is described as "unkard" or "unket"; perhaps this word is a provincialism for "uncouth." A narrow lane or path between two walls is a "tuer" in Gloucestershire vernacular. Another local word I have not heard elsewhere is "eckle," meaning a green woodpecker or yaffel. The original spelling of the word was "hic-wall." In these days of education the real old-fashioned dialect is seldom heard; among the older peasants a few are to be found who speak it, but in twenty years' time it will be a thing of the past.

The incessant use of "do" and "did," and the changing of _o_'s into _a_'s are two great characteristics of the Gloucestershire talk. Being anxious to be initiated into the mysteries of the dialect, I buttonholed a labouring friend of mine the other day, and asked him to try to teach it to me. He is a great exponent of the language of the country, and, like a good many others of his type, he is as well satisfied with his pronunciation as he is with his other accomplishments. The fact is that

"His favourite sin Is pride that apes humility."

It is _your_ grammar, not his, which is at fault. In the following verses will be found the gist of what he told me:--

"If thee true 'Glarcestershire' would know, I'll tell thee how us always zays un; Put 'I' for 'me,' and 'a' for 'o'. On every possible occasion.

When in doubt squeeze in a 'w'-- 'Stwuns,' not 'stones.' And don't forget, zur, That 'thee' must stand for 'thou' and 'you'; 'Her' for 'she,' and _vice versâ_.

Put 'v' for 'f'; for 's' put 'z'; 'Th' and 't' we change to 'd,'-- So dry an' kip this in thine yead, An' thou wills't talk as plain as we."

The student in the language of the Cotswolds should study a very ancient song entitled "George Ridler's Oven." Strange to say, there is little or nothing in it about the oven, but a good deal of the old Gloucestershire talk may be gleaned from it. It begins like this:

GEORGE RIDLER'S OVEN.

A RIGHT FAMOUS OLD GLOUCESTERSHIRE BALLAD.

"The stwuns, the stwuns, the stwuns, the stwuns, The stwuns, the stwuns, the stwuns, _the stwuns_."

This is sung like the prelude to a grand orchestral performance. Beginning somewhat softly, Hodge fires away with a gravity and emotion which do him infinite credit, each succeeding repetition of the word "stwuns" being rendered with ever-increasing pathos and emphasis, until, like the final burst of an orchestral prelude, with drums, trumpets, fiddles, etc, all going at the same time, are at length ushered in the opening lines of the ballad.

"The stwuns that built Gaarge Ridler's oven, And thauy qeum from the Bleakeney's Quaar; And Gaarge he wur a jolly ould mon, And his yead it graw'd above his yare.

"One thing of Gaarge Ridler's I must commend. And that wur vor a notable theng; He mead his braags avoore he died, Wi' any dree brothers his zons zshou'd zeng.

"There's Dick the treble and John the mean (Let every mon zing in his auwn pleace); And Gaarge he wur the elder brother, And therevoore he would zing the beass.

"Mine hostess's moid (and her neaum 'twur Nell) A pretty wench, and I lov'd her well; I lov'd her well--good reauzon why, Because zshe lov'd my dog and I.

"My dog has gotten zitch a trick To visit moids when thauy be zick; When thauy be zick and like to die, Oh, thether gwoes my dog and I.

"My dog is good to catch a hen,-- A duck and goose is vood vor men; And where good company I spy, Oh, thether gwoes my dog and I.

"Droo aal the world, owld Gaarge would bwoast, Commend me to merry owld England mwoast; While vools gwoes scramblin' vur and nigh, We bides at whoam, my dog and I.

"Ov their furrin tongues let travellers brag, Wi' their vifteen neames vor a puddin' bag; Two tongues I knows ne'er towld a lie, And their wearers be my dog and I.

"My mwother told I when I wur young, If I did vollow the strong beer pwoot, That drenk would pruv my auverdrow, And meauk me wear a thzreadbare cwoat.

"When I hev dree zixpences under my thumb, Oh, then I be welcome wherever I qeum; But when I hev none, oh, then I pass by,-- 'Tis poverty pearts good company.

"When I gwoes dead, as it may hap, My greauve shall be under the good yeal tap In vouled earms there wool us lie, Cheek by jowl, my dog and I."

GLOSSARY.

_stwuns_ = stones. _quaar_ = quarry. _yare_ = hair. _avoor_ = before. _auwn_ = own. _furrin_ = foreign. _greauve_ = grave. _thauy_ = they. _yead_ = head. _mead_ = made. _dree_ = three. _pleace_ = place. _pwoot_ = pewter. _yeal_ = ale. _qeum_ = come. _graw'd_ = grew. _braags_ = brag. _zshou'd_ = should. _beass_ = bass. _auverdrow_ = overthrow. _vouled earms_ = folded arms. _zitch_ = such.

The song itself is as old as the hills, but I have taken the liberty of appending a glossary, in order that my readers may be spared the trouble of making out the meaning of some of the words. It was a long time before it dawned upon me that "vouled earms" meant "folded arms "; "auverdrow" likewise was very perplexing. Like many of the old ballads, it sounds like a rigmarole from beginning to end; but there is really a great deal more in it than meets the eye. George Ridler is no less a personage than King Charles I., and the oven represents the cavalier party. (See Appendix.)

Such songs as these are deeply interesting from the fact that they are handed down by oral tradition from father to son, and written copies are never seen in the villages. The same applies to the play the mummers act at Christmas-time; all has to be learnt from the preceding generation of country folk. But the great feature of our smoking concerts and village entertainments has always been the reading of Tom Peregrine. This noted sportsman, who writes one of the best hands I ever saw, has kindly copied out a recitation he lately gave us. It relates to the adventures of one Roger Plowman, a Cotswold man who went to London, and is taken from a book, compiled some years ago by some Ciceter men, entitled "Roger Plowman's Excursion to London." It was read at a harvest home given by old Mr. Peregrine in his huge barn, an entertainment which lasted from six o'clock till twelve. I trust none of my readers will be any the worse for reading it. Tom Peregrine declares that when he first gave it at a penny reading some years ago, one or two of the audience had to be carried out in hysterics--they laughed so much; and another man fell backwards off his chair, owing to the extreme comicality of it. The truth is, our versatile keeper is a wonderful reader, and speaking as he does the true Gloucestershire accent, in the same way as some of the squires spoke it a century or more ago, it is extremely amusing to hear him copying the still broader dialect of the labouring class. He has a tremendous sense of humour, and his epithet for anything amusing is "Foolish." "'Tis a splendid tale; 'tis so desperate foolish," he would often say.

ROGER PLOWMAN'S JOURNEY TO LONDON.

Monday marnin' I wur to start early. Aal the village know'd I wur a-gwain, an' sum sed as how I shood be murthur'd avoor I cum back. On Sunday I called at the manur 'ouse an' asked cook if she hed any message vor Sairy Jane. She sed:

"Tell Sairy Jane to look well arter 'e, Roger, vor you'll get lost, tuck in, an' done vor."

"Rest easy in yer mind, cook," I zed; "Roger is toughish, an' he'll see thet the honour o' the old county is well show'd out and kep' up."

Cook wished me a pleasant holiday.

I started early on Monday marnin', 'tarmined to see as much as possible. I wur to walk into Cizzeter, an' vram thur goo by train to Lunnon.

I wur delighted wi' Cizzeter. The shops an' buildin's round the market-pleace wur vine; an' the church wur grand; didn't look as how he wur built by the same sort of peeple as put the shops up.

When the Roomans an' anshunt Britons went to church arm-in-arm it wur always Whitsuntide, an' arter church vetched their banners out wi' brass eagles on, an' hed a morris dance in the market-pleace. The anshunt Britons never hed any tailory done, but thay wur all artists wi' the paint pot. The Consarvatives painted thurselves bloo, and the Radicals yaller, an' thay as danced the longest, the Roomans sent to Parlyment to rool the roost.

I wur show'd the pleace wur the peeple started vor Lunnon. I walked in, an' thur wur a hole in the purtition, an' I seed the peeple a-payin' thur money vor bits o' pasteboord. I axed the mon if he could take I to Lunnon.

He sed, "Fust, second, or thurd?"

I sed, "Fust o' course, not arter; vor Sairy Jane ull be waitin'."

He sed 'twer moor ner a pound to pay.

I sed the paason sed 'twer about eight shillin'.

"That's thurd class," he sed; an' that thay ud aal be in Lunnon at the same time.

So I paid thurd class, an' he shuved out sum pasteboord, an' I put it in my pocket, an' walked out; an' thur wur a row o' carridges waitin' vor Lunnon; an' off we went as fast as a racehoss.

I heerd sum say thay wur off to Cheltenham, Gloucester, Tewkesbury, North Wales; an' I sed to meself, "I be on the rong road. Dang the buttons o' that little pasteboord seller! he warn't a 'safe mon' to hev to do wi'."

I enquired if the peeple hed much washin' to do for the railway about here, an' thay wanted to know what I required to know vor.

I sed because thur war such a long clothesline put up aal the way along. An' thay aal bust out a-larfin,' an' sed 'twur the tallergraph; an' one sed as how if the Girt Western thought as how 'twould pay better, thay ud soon shet up shop, an' take in washin'.

Never in aal me life did I go at such a rate under and awver bridges an droo holes in the 'ills. We wur soon at Swindon, wur a lot wur at work as black as tinkers. We aal hed to get out, an' a chap in green clothes sed we shood hev to wait ten minits.

Thur wur a lot gwain into a room, an' I seed they wur eatin' and drinkin'; so I ses to meself, "I be rayther peckish, I'll go in an' see if I can get summut." So in I goes; an' 'twer a vine pleace, wi' sum nation good-looking gurls a-waitin'.

"I'll hev a half-quartern loaf," I sed.

"We doan't kip a baker's shop," she sed. "Thur's cakes, an' biskits, an' sponge cakes."

"Hev 'e got sum good bacon, raythur vattish?" I sed.

"No, sur; but thur's sum good poork sausingers at sixpence."

"Hand awver the pleat, young 'ooman," I sed, "an' I'll trubble you vor the mustard, an' salt, an' that pleat o' bread an' butter, an' I'll set down an' hev a bit of a snack."

The sausingers wur very good, an' teasted moorish aal the time; but the bread an' butter wur so nation thin that I had to clap dree or vour pieces together to get a mouthful. I didn't seem to want a knife or vork, but the young 'ooman put a white-handled knife an' silver vork avoor me.

The pleat o' bread an' butter didn't hold out vor the sausingers, so I hed another pleat o' bread an' butter, an' wur getting on vine. I seem'd to want summut to wet me whistle, an' wur gwain to order a quart o' ale, when I heers a whistle an' a grunt vram a steamer, an' out I goos; an', begum! he wur off.

I beckuned to the chap to stop the train, wi' me vork as I hed jest stuck into the last sausinger. I hed clapt a good mouthful in, or I could hev hollur'd loud enough vor him to heer. The train didn't stop, an' the vellers in green laughed to see I wur left in the lurch, as I tell'd them that Sairy Jane would be sure to meet the Lunnon train. Thay sed I could go in an' vinish the sausingers now, an' that wur what I intended to do.

I asked the young 'ooman for a bottle o' ale, when she put a tallish bottle down wi' a beg head; an' as I wur dry I knocked the neck off, an' the ale kum a-fizzing out like ginger pop,--an' 'twer no use to try to stop the fizzle. I had aal I could get in a glass, an' it zeemed goodish. She soon run back wi' another bottle in her hand, an' I tell'd her 'twer pop she hed put down.

"What hev you bin an' dun, sur?" she sed; "that wur a bottle o' Moses's shampane, at seven shillin's an' sixpence a bottle."

I tell'd her I know'd 'twer nothin' but pop, as it fizzled so. Thur wur two or dree gentlemen in, an' thay larfed at the fizzle an' I. It seemed to meak me veel merryish, an' I zed, "What's to pay, young 'ooman?"

She sed, "Thirteen shillin's, sur."

"Thirteen scaramouches!" I sed. "What vor?"

"Seven sausingers, dree and sixpence; twenty-vour slices o' bread an' butter, two shillin's; an' a bottle of shampane, seven and sixpence;--kums to thirteen shillin's," she sed.

"Yer tell'd me as how the sausingers wur sixpence," I sed; "an' the slices o' bread ud cut off a tuppeny loaf."

She sed the sausingers wur sixpence each, an' twenty-vour slices o' bread an' butter wur a penny each--two shillin's.

I sed, "Do 'e call that reysonable, young 'ooman? 'cause I bain't a-gwain to pay thirteen shillin's vor't, an' lose me train, an' disappoint Sairy Jane. Thirteen shillin's vor two or dree sausingers, a few slices o' bread an' butter, an' a bottle o' pop--not vor Roger, if he knows it"

Up kums a chap an' ses, "Be you gwain to pay vor wat you hev hed?"

"To be sure I be. Thur's sixpence vor the sausingers, tuppence vor bread an' butter, an' dreppence the pop,--that meaks 'levenpence"; an' I drows down a shillin', and ses, "Thur's the odd penny vor the young 'ooman as waited upon me."

"You hed thirteen shillin's worth o' grub an' shampane, an' you'll hev to pay twelve shillin's moor or I shall take 'e away an' lock 'e up vor the night," he sed.

"Do 'e thenk as how you could do aal that, young man?" I sed. "No disrespect to 'e though, vor that don't argify; but I could ketch hold on 'e by the scroff o' yer neck an' the seat o' yer breeches, an' pitch 'e slick into the roadway among the iron."

"Look heer, Meyster Turmot, you'll hev to pay twelve shillin' moor avoor you gwoes out o' heer, or Lunnon won't hold 'e to-night."

I know'd Sairy Jane ud be a-waitin', an' as he sed the train were moast ready, I drows down a suverin', an' hed the change, an' as I wur a-gwain out I hollurs out as how I shood remember Swindleum stashun. I heer'd the lot a-larfin, an' hed moast a mind to go in an' twirl me ground ash among um vor thur edification.

I wur soon on the road agen, a-gwain like a house a-vire, an' thur wur more clotheslines aal the way along on pwosts.

W'en we got nearish to Lunnon I seed sum girt beg round barrels painted black.[3] I axed a chap what thay wur, an' he sed that thay wur beg barrels o' stingo, an' thur wur pipes laid on to the peeple's housen vor thay to draw vram.

[Footnote 3: Gasometers.]

I sed that wur very good accommodashun to hev XXX laid on vor use.

We soon druv into the beggest pleace I wur ever in since I wur born'd. Thay sed 'twer Paddington, an' that I wur to get out, vor they wurn't a-gwain to drive no furder. I hed paid to go to Lunnon, an' thay shood drive all the way when thay wur paid avoor'and.

I wur tell'd Paddington wur the Lunnon stashun by a porter, an' I look'd round vor Sairy Jane, as she sed as how her ud be heer at one o'clock; and porter sed 'twer then dree o'clock, an' likely Sairy Jane had gone away. Drat thay sausingers as mead I too late vor the train!

I set down to wait for Sairy Jane, as I didn't know her directions, an' hed left the letter she sent at whoam. Arter waitin' for a long while I started out, an' 'oped to see her in sum part o' Lunnon.

* * * * *

Another story Tom Peregrine is fond of reading to us relates how a labouring man was recommended to get some oxtail soup to strengthen him. He goes into the town and sees "Oxikali Soap" written up on a shop window. He buys a cake of it, makes his wife boil it up in the pot, and then proceeds to drink it for his health. When he has taken a spoonful or two and found it very unpleasant, his wife makes him finish it up, saying it is sure to do him good; and she consoles him with the assurance that all medicine is nasty.

At the harvest home in the big barn, after the applause which followed Tom Peregrine's recitation had died away, a sturdy carter stood up and sang a very old Gloucestershire song, which runs as follows:--

THE TURMUT HOWER.

"I be a turmut hower, Vram Gloucestershire I came; My parents be hard-working folk, Giles Wapshaw be my name. The vly, the vly, The vly be on the turmut, An' it be aal me eye, and no use to try To keep um off the turmut.

"Zum be vond o' haymakin', An' zum be vond o' mowin', But of aal the trades thet I likes best Gie I the turmut howin'. The vly, etc.

"'Twas on a summer mornin', Aal at the brake o' day, When I tuck up my turmut hower, An' trudged it far away. The vly, etc.

"The vust pleace I got work at, It wus by the job, But if I hed my chance agen, I'd rayther go to quod. The vly, etc.

"The next pleace I got work at, 'Twer by the day, Vor one old Varmer Vlower, Who sed I wur a rippin' turmut hower. The vly, etc.

"Sumtimes I be a-mowin', Sumtimes I be a-plowin', Gettin' the vurrows aal bright an' clear Aal ready vor turmut sowin'. The vly, etc.

"An' now my song be ended I 'ope you won't call encore; But if you'll kum here another night, I'll seng it ye once more. The vly, etc."