NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature 61·72.
Harvest-Home at Hawkesbury on Cotswold.
Harvest-Home at Hawkesbury on Cotswold.
The last in-gathering of the crop
Is loaded, and they climb the top,
And there huzza with all their force,
While Ceres mounts the foremost horse:
“Gee-up!” the rustic goddess cries,
And shouts more long and loud arise;
The swagging cart, with motion slow,
Reels careless on, and off they go!
*
Harvest-home is the great August festival of the country.
An account of this universal merry-making may commence with a communication from a lady, which the [engraving] is designed to illustrate.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Westbury, Wiltshire, August 8, 1826.
Sir,—The journal from whence I extract the following scene was written nearly two years ago, during a delightful excursion I made in company with one “near and dear,” and consequently before your praiseworthy endeavours to perpetuate old customs had been made public. Had my journey taken place during the present harvest month, the trifle I now send should have been better worth your perusal, for I would have investigated for your satisfaction a local custom, that to me was sufficiently delightful in a passing glance.
I am, Sir, &c.
I. J. T.
Hawkesbury Harvest Home.
September, 1824.—After dinner, at Wotton-under-edge, we toiled up the side and then struck off again towards the middle of the hills, leaving all beauty in the rear; and from thence, until our arrival at Bath the next day, nothing is worth recording, but one little pleasing incident, which was the celebration of a harvest-home, at the village of Hawkesbury, on the top of Cotswold.
As we approached the isolated hamlet, we were “aware” of a Maypole—that unsophisticated trophy of innocence, gaiety, and plenty; and as we drew near, saw that it was decorated with flowers and ribands fluttering in the evening breeze. Under it stood a waggon with its full complement of men, women, children, flowers, and corn; and a handsome team of horses tranquilly enjoying their share of the finery and revelry of the scene; for scarlet bows and sunflowers had been lavished on their winkers with no niggard hand. On the first horse sat a damsel, no doubt intending to represent Ceres; she had on, of course, a white dress and straw bonnet—for could Ceres or any other goddess appear in a rural English festival in any other costume? A broad yellow sash encompassed a waist that evinced a glorious and enormous contempt for classical proportion and modern folly in its elaborate dimensions.
During the rapid and cordial glance that I gave this questionable scion of so graceful a stock, I ascertained two or three circumstances—that she was good-natured, that she enjoyed the scene as a downright English joke, and that she had the most beautiful set of teeth I ever beheld. What a stigma on all tooth-doctors, tooth-powders, and tooth-brushes. There was something very affecting in this simple festival, and I felt my heart heave, and that the fields looked indistinct for some minutes after we had lost sight of its primitive appearance; however it may now, I thought, be considered by the performers as a “good joke,” it had its origin, doubtless, in some of the very finest feelings that can adorn humanity—hospitality, sociality, happiness, contentment, piety, and gratitude.
Our fair correspondent adds:—
P.S.—Intelligence could surely be obtained from the spot, or the neighbourhood, of the manner of celebrating the festival; it is probably peculiar to the range of the Cotswold; and a more elaborate account of so interesting a custom would, doubtless, be valuable to yourself, sir, as well as to your numerous readers. I can only regret that my ability does not equal my will, on this or any other subject, that would forward your views in publishing your admirable Every-Day Book.
The editor inserts this hint to his readers in the neighbourhood of Cotswold, with a hope that it will induce them to oblige him with particulars of what is passing under their eyes at this season every day. He repeats that accounts of these, or any other customs in any part of the kingdom, will be especially acceptable.
Another correspondent has obligingly complied with an often expressed desire on this subject.
Harvesting on Sunday.
London, August 4, 1826.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,—As you request, on the wrapper of your last part, communications, &c., respecting harvest, I send you the following case of a very singular nature, that came before the synod of Glasgow and Ayr.
In the harvest of 1807, there was a great deal of wet weather. At the end of one of the weeks it brightened up, and a drying wind prepared the corn for being housed. The rev. Mr. Wright, minister of Mayhole, at the conclusion of the forenoon service on the following sabbath-day, stated to his congregation, that he conceived the favourable change of the weather might be made use of to save the harvest on that day, without violating the sabbath. Several of his parishioners availed themselves of their pastor’s advice. At the next meeting of presbytery, however, one of his reverend brethren thought proper to denounce him, as having violated the fourth commandment; and a solemn inquiry was accordingly voted by a majority of the presbytery. Against this resolution, a complaint and appeal were made to the synod at the last meeting. Very able pleadings were made on both sides, after which it was moved and seconded,—“That the synod should find that the presbytery of Ayr have acted in this manner, in a precipitate and informal manner, and that their sentence ought to be reversed.” It was also moved and seconded,—“That the synod find the presbytery of Ayr have acted properly, and that it should be remitted to them to take such further steps in this business as they may judge best.” After reasoning at considerable length, the synod, without a vote, agreed to set aside the whole proceedings of the presbytery in this business.[320]
This subject reminds me of the following verses to urge the use of “the time present.”
Delays.
By Robert Southwell, 1595.
Shun delays, they breed remorse;
Take thy time, while time is lent thee;
Creeping snails have weakest force;
Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee;
Good is best, when soonest wrought,
Ling’ring labours come to naught.
Hoist up sail while gale doth last,
Tide and wind stay no man’s pleasure;
Seek not time, when time is past,
Sober speed is wisdom’s leisure.
After wits are dearly bought,
Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.
Time wears all his locks behind;
Take thou hold upon his forehead;
When he flies, he turns no more,
And behind his scalp is naked.
Works adjourn’d have many stays;
Long demurs breed new delays.
I am, Sir,
Your obliged and constant reader,
R. R.
We are informed on the authority of Macrobius, that among the heathens, the masters of families, when they had got in their harvest, were wont to feast with their servants, who had laboured for them in tilling the ground. In exact conformity to this, it is common among Christians, when the fruits of the earth are gathered in, and laid in their proper repositories, to provide a plentiful supper for the harvest men and the servants of the family. At this entertainment, all are in the modern revolutionary idea of the word, perfectly equal. Here is no distinction of persons, but master and servant sit at the same table, converse freely together, and spend the remainder of the night in dancing, singing, &c., in the most easy familiarity. Bourne thinks the origin of both these customs is Jewish, and cites Hospinian, who tells us that the heathens copied after this custom of the Jews, and at the end of their harvest, offered up their first-fruits to the gods, for the Jews rejoiced and feasted at the getting in of the harvest.
This festivity is undoubtedly of the most remote antiquity. That men in all nations, where agriculture flourished, should have expressed their joy on this occasion by some outward ceremonies, has its foundation in the nature of things. Sowing is hope; reaping, fruition of the expected good. To the husbandman, whom the fear of wet, blights, &c. had harrassed with great anxiety, the completion of his wishes could not fail of imparting an enviable feeling of delight. Festivity is but the reflex of inward joy, and it could hardly fail of being produced on this occasion, which is a temporary suspension of every care.[321]
Mr. Brand brings a number of passages to show the manner of celebrating this season.
One of the “Five hundred points of husbandry” relates to August.
Grant harvest-lord more, by a penny or twoo,
To call on his fellowes the better to doo:
Give gloves to thy reapers a Larges to crie,
And daily to loiterers have a good eie.
Tusser.
“Tusser Redivivus,” in 1744, says, “He that is the lord of harvest, is generally some stayed sober-working man, who understands all sorts of harvest-work. If he be of able body, he commonly leads the swarth in reaping and mowing. It is customary to give gloves to reapers, especially where the wheat is thistly. As to crying a Largess, they need not be reminded of it in these our days, whatever they were in our author’s time.”
Stevenson, in his “Twelve Moneths,” 1661, mentions under August, that “the furmenty pot welcomes home the harvest cart, and the garland of flowers crowns the captain of the reapers; the battle of the field is now stoutly fought. The pipe and the tabor are now busily set a-work, and the lad and the lass will have no lead on their heels. O! ’tis the merry time wherein honest neighbours make good cheer; and God is glorified in his blessings on the earth.”
The Hock Cart, or Harvest Home.
Come sons of summer, by whose toile
We are the Lords of wine and oile;
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands,
Crown’d with the eares of corne, now come,
And, to the pipe, sing harvest home.
Come forth, my Lord, and see the cart,
Drest up with all the country art.
See here a maukin, there a sheet
As spotlesse pure as it is sweet:
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
Clad, all, in linnen, white as lillies,
The harvest swaines and wenches bound
For joy, to see the hock-cart crown’d.
About the cart heare how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some blesse the cart; some kisse the sheaves;
Some prank them up with oaken leaves:
Some crosse the fill-horse; some with great
Devotion stroak the home-borne wheat:
While other rusticks, lesse attent
To prayers than to merryment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
Well, on brave boyes, to your Lord’s hearth
Glitt’ring with fire, where, for your mirth,
You shall see first the large and cheefe
Foundation of your feast, fat beefe:
With upper stories, mutton, veale,
Add bacon, which makes full the meale;
With sev’rall dishes standing by,
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here all-tempting frumentie,
And for to make the merrie cheere
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There’s that which drowns all care, stout beere,
Which freely drink to your Lord’s health,
Than to the plough, the commonwealth;
Next to your flailes, your fanes, your fatts
Then to the maids with wheaten hats;
To the rough sickle, and the crookt sythe
Drink, frollick, boyes, till all be blythe,
Feed and grow fat, and as ye eat,
Be mindfull that the lab’ring neat,
As you, may have their full of meat;
And know, besides, ye must revoke
The patient oxe unto the yoke,
And all goe back unto the plough
And harrow, though they’re hang’d up now.
And, you must know, your Lord’s word’s true,
Feed him ye must, whose food fils you.
And that this pleasure is like raine,
Not sent ye for to drowne your paine.
But for to make it spring againe.
Herrick.
Hoacky is brought
Home with hallowin,
Boys with plumb-cake
The cart following.
Poor Robin, 1676.
Mr. Brand says, “the respect shown to servants at this season, seems to have sprung from a grateful sense of their good services. Every thing depends at this juncture on their labour and despatch. Vacina, (or Vacuna, so called as it is said à vacando, the tutelar deity, as it were, of rest and ease,) among the ancients, was the name of the goddess to whom rustics sacrificed at the conclusion of harvest. Moresin tells us, that popery, in imitation of this, brings home her chaplets of corn, which she suspends on poles, that offerings are made on the altars of her tutelar gods, while thanks are returned for the collected stores, and prayers are made for future ease and rest. Images too of straw or stubble, he adds, are wont to be carried about on this occasion; and that in England he himself saw the rustics bringing home in a cart, a figure made of corn, round which men and women were singing promiscuously, preceded by a drum or piper.”
The same collector acquaints us that Newton, in his “Tryall of a Man’s owne Selfe,” (12mo. London, 1602,) under breaches of the second commandment, censures “the adorning with garlands, or presenting unto any image of any saint whom thou hast made speciall choice of to be thy patron and advocate, the firstlings of thy increase, as corne and graine, and other oblations.”
Ceres.
As we were returning, says Hentzner, in 1598, to our inn, we happened to meet some country people celebrating their harvest-home; their last load of corn they crown with flowers, having besides an image richly dressed, by which perhaps they would signify Ceres. This they keep moving about, while men and women, men and maid-servants, riding through the streets in the cart, shout as loud as they can till they arrive at the barn.
“I have seen,” says Hutchinson in his “History of Northumberland,” “in some places, an image apparelled in great finery, crowned with flowers, a sheaf of corn placed under her arm, and a scycle in her hand, carried out of the village in the morning of the conclusive reaping day, with music and much clamour of the reapers, into the field, where it stands fixed on a pole all day, and when the reaping is done, is brought home in like manner. This they call the harvest queen, and it represents the Roman Ceres.”
Mr. Brand says, “an old woman, who in a case of this nature is respectable authority, at a village in Northumberland, informed me that not half a century ago, they used every where to dress up something similar to the figure above described, (by Hutchinson,) at the end of harvest, which was called a harvest doll, or kern baby. This northern word is plainly a corruption of corn baby, or image, as is the kern supper, of corn supper. In Carew’s ‘Survey of Cornwall,’ p. 20. b. ‘an ill kerned or saved harvest’ occurs.”
At Wellington in Devonshire, the clergyman of the parish informed Mr. Brand, that when a farmer finishes his reaping, a small quantity of the ears of the last corn are twisted or tied together into a curious kind of figure, which is brought home with great acclamations, hung up over the table, and kept till the next year. The owner would think it extremely unlucky to part with this, which is called “a knack.” The reapers whoop and hollow “a knack! a knack! well cut! well bound! well shocked!” and, in some places, in a sort of mockery it is added, “well scattered on the ground.” A countryman gave a somewhat different account, as follows: “When they have cut the corn, the reapers assemble together: ‘a knack’ is made, which one placed in the middle of the company holds up, crying thrice ‘a knack,’ which all the rest repeat: the person in the middle then says—
‘Well cut! well bound!
Well shocked! well saved from the ground.’
He afterwards cries ‘whoop,’ and his companions holloo as loud as they can.”
“I have not,” says Mr. Brand, “the most distant idea of the etymology of the ‘knack,’ used on this occasion. I applied for one of them. No farmer would part with that which hung over his table; but one was made on purpose for me. I should suppose that Moresin alludes to something like this when he says, ‘Et spiceas papatus (habet) coronas, quas videre est in domibus,’ &c.”
It is noticed by Mr. Brand, that Purchas in his “Pilgrimage,” speaking of the Peruvian superstitions, and quoting Acosta, tells us, “In the sixth moneth they offered a hundred sheep of all colours, and then made a feast, bringing the mayz from the fields into the house, which they yet use. This feast is made, coming from the farm to the house, saying certain songs, and praying that the mayz may long continue. They put a quantity of the mayz (the best that groweth in their farms) in a thing which they call pirva, with certain ceremonies, watching three nights. Then do they put it in the richest garment they have, and, being thus wrapped and dressed, they worship this pirva, holding it in great veneration, and saying, it is the mother of the mayz of their inheritance, and that by this means the mayz augments and is preserved. In this moneth they make a particular sacrifice, and the witches demand of this pirva if it hath strength enough to continue until the next year; and if it answers no, then they carry this maiz to the farm whence it was taken, to burn, and make another pirva as before: and this foolish vanity still continueth.”
On this Peruvian “pirva,” the rev. Mr. Walter, fellow of Christ’s-college, Cambridge, observes to Mr. Brand, that it bears a strong resemblance to what is called in Kent, an ivy girl, which is a figure composed of some of the best corn the field produces, and made, as well as they can, into a human shape; this is afterwards curiously dressed by the women, and adorned with paper trimmings, cut to resemble a cap, ruffles, handkerchief, &c. of the finest lace. It is brought home with the last load of corn from the field upon the waggon, and they suppose entitles them to a supper at the expense of their employers.
“Crying the Mare.”
This custom is mentioned by Mr. Brand as existing in Hertfordshire and Shropshire. The reapers tie together the tops of the last blades of corn, which they call “mare,” and standing at some distance, throw their sickles at it, and he who cuts the knot, has the prize, with acclamations and good cheer. Blount adds, respecting this custom, that “after the knot is cut, then they cry with a loud voice three times, ‘I have her.’ Others answer as many times, ‘what have you?’—‘A mare, a mare, a mare.’—‘Whose is she,’ thrice also.—‘J. B.’ (naming the owner three times.)—‘Whither will you send her?’—‘To J. a Nicks,’ (naming some neighbour who has not all his corn reaped;) then they all shout three times, and so the ceremony ends with good cheer. In Yorkshire, upon the like occasion, they have a harvest dame; in Bedfordshire, a Jack and a Gill.”
Having been preceded “into the bosom of the land” by a lady, and become acquainted with accounts from earlier chroniclers of harvest customs, we now pay our respects to the communications of other correspondents, who have been pleased to comply with our call for information.
Gloucestershire and Suffolk.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,—With pleasure I have read your entertaining and instructing collection from its commencement, and I perceive you have touched upon a subject in one of your sheets, which in my youth used to animate my soul, and bring every energy of my mind and of my body into activity; I mean, harvest.
Yes, sir, in my younger days I was introduced into the society of innocence and industry; but, I know not how it was, Dame Fortune kicked me out, and I was obliged to dwell in smoke and dirt, in noise and bustle, in wickedness and strife compared with what I left; but I forgive her, as you know she is blind. May I, Mr. Editor, converse with you in this way a little?
In Gloucestershire this interesting season is thus kept. Of course the good man of the house has informed the industrious and notable dame the day for harvest-home; and she, assisted by her daughters, makes every preparation to keep out famine and banish care—the neighbours and friends are invited, hot cakes of Betty’s own making, and such butter that Sukey herself had churned, tea, ale, syllabub, gooseberry wine, &c. And what say you? Why, Mr. Editor, this is nothing, this is but the beginning—the grand scene is out of doors. Look yonder, and see the whole of the troop of men, women, and children congregated together. They are about to bring home the last load. You have seen election chairings, Mr. Editor; these are mere jokes to it. This load should come from the furthest field, and that it should be the smallest only just above the rails, a large bough is placed in the centre, the women and children are placed on the load, boys on the horses, they themselves trimmed with cowslips and boughs of leaves, and with shouts of “harvest-home,” the horses are urged forward, and the procession comes full gallop to the front of the farm-house, where the before happy party are waiting to welcome home the last load. Now, he who has the loudest and the clearest voice, mounts upon a neighbouring shed, and with a voice which would do credit to your city crier, shouts aloud—
We have ploughed, we have sowed,
We have reaped, we have mowed,
We have brought home every load,
Hip, hip, hip, Harvest home!
and thus, sir, the whole assembly shout “huzza.” The strong ale is then put round, and the cake which Miss made with her own hands:—the load is then driven round to the stack-yard or barn, and the horses put into the stable. John puts on a clean white frock, and William a clean coloured handkerchief: the boys grease their shoes to look smart, and all meet in the house to partake of the harvest supper, when the evening is spent in cheerfulness. Here, Mr. Editor, is pomp without pride, liberality without ostentation, cheerfulness without vice, merriment without guilt, and happiness without alloy.
They say that old persons are old fools and although I am almost blind, yet I cannot resist telling you of what I have also seen in my boyish days in Suffolk. I do not mean to be long, sir, but merely to give you a few particulars of an ancient custom, which I must leave you to finish, so that while you take a hearty pinch of snuff (I know you don’t like tobacco) I shall have completed.
At the commencement of harvest one is chosen to be “my lord.” He goes first in reaping, and mowing, and leads in every occupation. Now, sir, if you were to pass within a field or two of this band of husbandmen, “my lord” would leave the company, and approaching you with respect, ask of you a largess. Supposing he succeeded, which I know he would, he would hail his companions, and they would thus acknowledge the gift: my lord would place his troop in a circle, suppose fifteen men, and that they were reaping, each one would have a hook in his hand, or, if hoeing of turnips, he would bring his hoe. My lord then goes to a distance, mounts the stump of a tree, or a gate post, and repeats a couplet (forgive the treachery of my memory, for I forget the words). The men still standing in the circle listen with attention to the words of my lord, and at the conclusion each with his reap-hook pointing with his right hand to the centre of the circle, and with intent as if watching and expecting, they utter altogether a groan as long as four of your breves (if you go by notes): then, as if impelled together, their eyes are lifted to the heavens above them, their hooks point in the same direction, and at the same time they change the doleful groan to a tremendous shout, which is repeated three distinct times.
The money thus got during harvest, is saved to make merry with at a neighbouring public-house, and the evening is spent in shouting of the largess, and joyful mirth.
I am, Sir, &c.
S. M.
Another correspondent presents an interesting description of usages in another county.
Norfolk.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
—— Norfolk, August, 14, 1826.
Sir,—In this county it is a general practice on the first day of harvest, for the men to leave the field about four o’clock, and retire to the alehouse, and have what is here termed a “whet;” that is, a sort of drinking bout to cheer their hearts for labour. They previously solicit any who happen to come within their sight with, “I hope, sir, you will please to bestow a largess on us?” If the boon is conceded the giver is asked if he would like to have his largess halloed; if this is assented to, the hallooing is at his service.
At the conclusion of wheat harvest, it is usual for the master to give his men each a pot or two of ale, or money, to enable them to get some at the alehouse, where a cheerful merry meeting is held amongst themselves.
The last, or “horkey load” (as it is here called) is decorated with flags and streamers, and sometimes a sort of kern baby is placed on the top at front of the load. This is commonly called a “ben;” why it is so called, I know not, nor have I the smallest idea of its etymon, unless a person of that name was dressed up and placed in that situation, and that, ever after, the figure had this name given to it. This load is attended by all the party, who had been in the field, with hallooing and shouting, and on their arrival in the farmyard they are joined by the others. The mistress with her maids are out to gladden their eyes with this welcome scene, and bestir themselves to prepare the substantial, plain, and homely feast, of roast beef and plumb pudding.
On this night it is still usual with some of the farmers to invite their neighbours, friends, and relations, to the “horkey supper.” Smiling faces grace the festive board; and many an ogling glance is thrown by the rural lover upon the nut-brown maid, and returned with a blushing simplicity, worth all the blushes ever made at court. Supper ended, they leave the room, (the cloth, &c. are removed,) and out of doors they go, and a hallooing “largess” commences—thus
The men and boys form a circle by taking hold of hands, and one of the party standing in the centre, having a gotch[322] of horkey ale placed near him on the ground, with a horn or tin sort of trumpet in his hand, makes a signal, and “halloo! lar-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-ge-ess” is given as loud and as long as their lungs will allow, at the same time elevating their hands as high as they can, and still keeping hold. The person in the centre blows the horn one continued blast, as long as the “halloo-largess.” This is done three times, and immediately followed by three successive whoops; and then the glass, commonly a horn one, of spirit-stirring ale, freely circles. At this time the hallooing-largess is generally performed with three times three.
This done, they return to the table, where foaming nappy ale is accompanied by the lily taper tube, and weed of India growth; and now mirth and jollity abound, the horn of sparkling beverage is put merrily about, the song goes round, and the joke is cracked. The females are cheerful and joyous partakers of this “flow of soul.”
When the “juice of the barrel” has exhilarated the spirits, with eyes beaming cheerfulness, and in true good rustic humour, the lord of the harvest accompanied by his lady, (the person is so called who goes second in the reap, each sometimes wearing a sort of disguise,) with two plates in his hand, enters the parlour where the guests are seated, and solicits a largess from each of them. The collection made, they join their party again at the table, and the lord recounting to his company the success he has met with, a fresh zest is given to hilarity, a dance is struck up, in which, though it can hardly be said to be upon the “light fantastic toe,” the stiffness of age and rheumatic pangs are forgotten, and those who have passed the grand climactric, feel in the midst of their teens.
Another show of disguising is commonly exhibited on these occasions, which creates a hearty rustic laugh, both loud and strong. One of the party habited as a female, is taken with a violent pang of the tooth ache, and the doctor is sent for. He soon makes his appearance, mounted on the back of one of the other men as a horse, having in his hands a common milking stool, which he bears upon, so as to enable him to keep his back in nearly a horizontal position. The doctor brings with him the tongs, which he uses for the purpose of extracting the tooth: this is a piece of tobacco pipe adapted to the occasion, and placed in the mouth; a fainting takes place from the violence of the operation, and the bellows are used as a means of causing a reviving hope.
When the ale has so far operated that some of the party are scarcely capable of keeping upon their seat, the ceremony of drinking healths takes place in a sort of glee or catch; one or two of which you have below. This health-drinking generally finishes the horkey. On the following day the party go round among the neighbouring farmers (having various coloured ribands on their hats, and steeple or sugar-loaf formed caps, decked with various coloured paper, &c.,) to taste their horkey beer, and solicit largess of any one with whom they think success is likely. The money so collected is usually spent at the alehouse at night. To this “largess money spending,” the wives and sweethearts, with the female servants of their late masters, are invited; and a tea table is set out for the women, the men finding more virtue in the decoction of Sir John Barleycorn, and a pipe of the best Virginia.
I have put together what now occurs to me respecting harvest-home, and beg to refer you to Bloomfield’s “Wild Flowers,” in a piece there called the “Horkey;” it is most delightfully described.
The glee or catch at the health-drinking is as follows:—
Here’s a health unto our master,
He is the finder of the feast:
God bless his endeavours,
And send him increase,
And send him increase, boys,
All in another year.
Here’s your master’s good health
So drink off your beer;
I wish all things may prosper,
Whate’er he takes in hand;
We are all his servants,
And are all at his command.
So drink, boys, drink,
And see you do not spill;
For if you do,
You shall drink two,
For ’tis your master’s will.
Another Health Drinking.
Behold, and see, his glass is full,
At which he’ll take a hearty pull,
He takes it out with such long wind,
That he’ll not leave one drop behind.
Behold and see what he can do,
He has not put it in his shoe;
He has not drank one drop in vain,
He’ll slake his thirst, then drink again.
Here’s a health unto my brother John,
It’s more than time that we were gone;
But drink your fill, and stand your ground,
This health is called the plough-boys round.
To this may be added the following.
A Health Drinking.
There was a man from London came,
With a rum-bum-bum-bare-larum;
Drink up your glass for that’s the game,
And say ne’er a word, except—Mum.
The great object is to start something which will catch some unguarded reply in lieu of saying “Mum,” when the party so unguardedly replying, is fined to drink two glasses.
For the beginning of Harvest there is this
Harvest Song.
Now Lammas comes in,
Our harvest begin,
We have done our endeavours to get the corn in;
We reap and we mow
And we stoutly blow
And cut down the corn
That did sweetly grow.
The poor old man
That can hardly stand,
Gets up in the morning, and do all he can,
Gets up, &c.
I hope God will reward
Such old harvest man.
But the man who is lazy
And will not come on,
He slights his good master
And likewise his men;
We’ll pay him his wages
And send him gone,
For why should we keep
Such a lazy drone.
Now harvest is over
We’ll make a great noise,
Our master, he says,
You are welcome, brave boys;
We’ll broach the old beer,
And we’ll knock along,
And now we will sing an old harvest song.
I shall be happy if this will afford the readers of the Every-Day Book any information concerning the harvest customs of this county. I am, Sir, &c.
G. H. I.
A valuable correspondent transmits a particular account of his country custom, which will be read with pleasure.
Devon.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,—As the harvest has now become very general, I am reminded of a circumstance, which I think worthy of communicating to you. After the wheat is all cut, on most farms in the north of Devon, the harvest people have a custom of “crying the neck.” I believe that this practice is seldom omitted on any large farm in that part of the country. It is done in this way. An old man, or some one else well acquainted with the ceremonies used on the occasion, (when the labourers are reaping the last field of wheat,) goes round to the shocks and sheaves, and picks out a little bundle of all the best ears he can find; this bundle he ties up very neat and trim, and plats and arranges the straws very tastefully. This is called “the neck” of wheat, or wheaten-ears. After the field is cut out, and the pitcher once more circulated, the reapers, binders, and the women, stand round in a circle. The person with “the neck” stands in the centre, grasping it with both his hands. He first stoops and holds it near the ground, and all the men forming the ring, take off their hats, stooping and holding them with both hands towards the ground. They then all begin at once in a very prolonged and harmonious tone to cry “the neck!” at the same time slowly raising themselves upright, and elevating their arms and hats above their heads; the person with “the neck” also raising it on high. This is done three times. They then change their cry to “wee yen!”—“way yen!”—which they sound in the same prolonged and slow manner as before, with singular harmony and effect, three times. This last cry is accompanied by the same movements of the body and arms as in crying “the neck.” I know nothing of vocal music, but I think I may convey some idea of the sound, by giving you the following notes in gamut.
Let these notes be played on a flute with perfect crescendos and diminuendoes, and perhaps some notion of this wild sounding cry may be formed. Well, after having thus repeated “the neck” three times, and “wee yen” or “way yen” as often, they all burst out into a kind of loud and joyous laugh, flinging up their hats and caps into the air, capering about and perhaps kissing the girls. One of them then gets “the neck,” and runs as hard as he can down to the farm-house, where the dairy-maid, or one of the young female domestics, stands at the door prepared with a pail of water. If he who holds “the neck” can manage to get into the house, in any way unseen, or openly, by any other way than the door at which the girl stands with the pail of water, then he may lawfully kiss her; but, if otherwise, he is regularly soused with the contents of the bucket. On a fine still autumn evening, the “crying of the neck” has a wonderful effect at a distance, far finer than that of the Turkish muezzin, which lord Byron eulogizes so much, and which he says is preferable to all the bells in Christendom. I have once or twice heard upwards of twenty men cry it, and sometimes joined by an equal number of female voices. About three years back, on some high grounds, where our people were harvesting, I heard six or seven “necks” cried in one night, although I know that some of them were four miles off. They are heard through the quiet evening air, at a considerable distance sometimes. But I think that the practice is beginning to decline of late, and many farmers and their men do not care about keeping up this old custom. I shall always patronise it myself, because I take it in the light of a thanksgiving. By the by, I was about to conclude, without endeavouring to explain the meaning of the words, “we yen!” I had long taken them for Saxon, as the people of Devon are the true Saxon breed. But I think that I am wrong. I asked an old fellow about it the other day, and he is the only man who ever gave me a satisfactory explanation. He says, that the object of crying “the neck” is to give the surrounding country notice of the end of harvest, and that they mean by “we yen!” we have ended. It may more probably mean “we end,” which the uncouth and provincial pronunciation has corrupted into “we yen!”
I am, Sir,
Your obedient servant,
R. A. R.
July, 1826.
P. S. In the above hastily written account, I should have mentioned that “the neck” is generally hung up in the farm-house, where it remains sometimes three or four years. I have written “we yen,” because I have always heard it so pronounced; they may articulate it differently in other parts of the country.
Essex.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,—As harvest has began in various counties, I beg leave to give you a description of what is called the “harvest supper,” in Essex, at the conclusion of the harvest.
After the conclusion of the harvest, a supper is provided, consisting of roast beef and plum pudding, with plenty of strong ale, with which all the men who have been employed in getting in the corn regale themselves. At the beginning of the supper, the following is sung by the whole of them at the supper.
Here’s a health to our master,
The lord of the feast,
God bless his endeavours,
And send him increase;
May prosper his crops, boys,
That we may reap another year,
Here’s your master’s good health, boys,
Come, drink off your beer.
After supper the following:—
Now harvest is ended and supper is past,
Here’s our mistress’s good health, boys,
Come, drink a full glass;
For she is a good woman, she provides us good cheer,
Here’s your mistress’s good health, boys,
Come, drink off your beer.
The night is generally spent with great mirth, and the merry-makers seldom disperse till “Bright Phœbus has mounted his chariot of day.”
I am, &c.
An Essex Man and Subscriber.
It is the advice of the most popular of our old writers on husbandry, that—
In harvest time, harvest folke,
servants and all,
Should make, altogether,
good cheere in the hall:
And fill out the black bole,
of bleith to their song,
And let them be merry
all harvest time long.
Once ended thy harvest,
let none be beguilde,
Please such as did please thee,
man, woman, and child.
Thus doing, with alway
such help as they can,
Thou winnest the praise
of the labouring man.
Tusser.
“Tusser Redivivus” says, “This, the poor labourer thinks, crowns all; a good supper must be provided, and every one that did any thing towards the Inning must now have some reward, as ribbons, laces, rows of pins to boys and girls, if never so small, for their encouragement, and, to be sure, plumb-pudding. The men must now have some better than best drink, which, with a little tobacco and their screaming for their largesses, their business will soon be done.”
Harvest Goose.
For all this good feasting,
yet art thou not loose,
Til Ploughman thou givest
his harvest home goose;
Though goose goe in stubble,
I passe not for that,
Let goose have a goose,
be she lean, be she fat.
Tusser.
Whereon “Tusser Redivivus” notes, that “the goose is forfeited, if they overthrow during harvest.” A MS. note on a copy of Brand’s “Antiquities,” lent to the editor, cites from Boys’s “Sandwich,” an item “35 Hen. VIII. Spent when we ete our harvyst goose iijs. vid. and the goose xd.”
In France under Henry IV. it is cited by Mr. Brand from Seward, that “after the harvest, the peasants fixed upon some holiday to meet together and have a little regale, (by them called the harvest gosling,) to which they invited not only each other, but even their masters, who pleased them very much when they condescended to partake of it.”
According to information derived by Mr. Brand, it was formerly the custom at Hitchin, in Hertfordshire, for each farmer to drive furiously home with the last load of his corn, while the people ran after him with bowls full of water in order to throw on it; and this usage was accompanied with great shouting.
Harvest-home.
Who has not seen the cheerful harvest-home,
Enliv’ning the scorch’d field, and greeting gay
The slow decline of Autumn. All around
The yellow sheaves, catching the burning beam,
Glow, golden lustre; and the trembling stem
Of the slim oat, or azure corn-flow’r,
Waves on hedge-rows shady. From the hill
The day-breeze softly steals with downward wing,
And lightly passes, whisp’ring the soft sounds
Which moan the death of Summer. Glowing scene!
Nature’s long holiday! Luxuriant, rich,
In her proud progeny, she smiling marks
Their graces, now mature, and wonder-fraught!
Hail! season exquisite!—and hail, ye sons
Of rural toil!—ye blooming daughters!—ye
Who, in the lap of hardy labour rear’d,
Enjoy the mind unspotted! Up the plain,
Or on the side-long hill, or in the glen,
Where the rich farm, or scatter’d hamlet, shows
The neighbourhood of peace ye still are found,
A merry and an artless throng, whose souls
Beam thro’ untutor’d glances. When the dawn
Unfolds its sunny lustre, and the dew
Silvers the out-stretch’d landscape, labour’s sons
Rise, ever healthful,—ever cheerily,
From sweet and soothing rest; for fev’rish dreams
Visit not lowly pallets! All the day
They toil in the fierce beams of fervid noon—
But toil without repining! The blithe song
Joining the woodland melodies afar,
Fling its rude cadence in fantastic sport
On Echo’s airy wing! the pond’rous load
Follows the weary team: the narrow lane
Bears on its thick-wove hedge the scatter’d corn,
Hanging in scanty fragments, which the thorn
Purloin’d from the broad waggon.
To the brook
That ripples, shallow, down the valley’s slope,
The herds slow measure their unvaried way;—
The flocks along the heath are dimly seen
By the faint torch of ev’ning, whose red eye
Closes in tearful silence. Now the air
Is rich in fragrance! fragrance exquisite!
Of new-mown hay, of wild thyme dewy wash’d,
And gales ambrosial, which, with cooling breath,
Ruffle the lake’s grey surface. All around
The thin mist rises, and the busy tones
Of airy people, borne on viewless wings,
Break the short pause of nature. From the plain
The rustic throngs come cheerly, their loud din
Augments to mingling clamour. Sportive hinds,
Happy! more happy than the lords ye serve!—
How lustily your sons endure the hour
Of wintry desolation; and how fair
Your blooming daughters greet the op’ning dawn
Of love-inspiring spring!
Hail! harvest-home!
To thee, the muse of nature pours the song,
By instinct taught to warble! Instinct pure,
Sacred, and grateful, to that pow’r ador’d,
Which warms the sensate being, and reveals
The soul, self-evident, beyond the dreams
Of visionary sceptics! Scene sublime!
Where the rich earth presents her golden treasures;
Where balmy breathings whisper to the heart
Delights unspeakable! Where seas and skies,
And hills and vallies, colours, odours, dews,
Diversify the work of nature’s God!
Mrs. Robinson.
It was formerly the custom in the parish of Longforgan, in the county of Perth North Britain, to give what was called a maiden feast. “Upon the finishing of the harvest the last handful of corn reaped in the field was called the maiden. This was generally contrived to fall into the hands of one of the finest girls in the field, and was dressed up with ribands, and brought home in triumph with the music of fiddles or bagpipes. A good dinner was given to the whole band, and the evening spent in joviality and dancing, while the fortunate lass who took the maiden was the queen of the feast; after which this handful of corn was dressed out generally in the form of a cross, and hung up with the date of the year, in some conspicuous part of the house. This custom is now entirely done away, and in its room each shearer is given sixpence and a loaf of bread. However, some farmers, when all their corns are brought in, give their servants a dinner and a jovial evening, by way of harvest-home.”[323]
The festival of the in-gathering in Scotland, is poetically described by the elegant author of the “British Georgics.”
The Kirn.
Harvest Home.
The fields are swept, a tranquil silence reigns,
And pause of rural labour, far and near.
Deep is the morning’s hush; from grange to grange
Responsive cock-crows, in the distance heard,
Distinct as if at hand, soothe the pleased ear;
And oft, at intervals, the flail, remote,
Sends faintly through the air its deafened sound.
Bright now the shortening day, and blythe its close,
When to the Kirn the neighbours, old and young,
Come dropping in to share the well-earned feast.
The smith aside his ponderous sledge has thrown,
Raked up his fire, and cooled the hissing brand
His sluice the miller shuts; and from the barn
The threshers hie, to don their Sunday coats.
Simply adorned, with ribands, blue and pink,
Bound round their braided hair, the lasses trip
To grace the feast, which now is smoking ranged
On tables of all shape, and size, and height,
Joined awkwardly, yet to the crowded guests
A seemly joyous show, all loaded well:
But chief, at the board-head, the haggis round
Attracts all eyes, and even the goodman’s grace
Prunes of its wonted length. With eager knife,
The quivering globe he then prepares to broach;
While for her gown some ancient matron quakes,
Her gown of silken woof, all figured thick
With roses white, far larger than the life,
On azure ground,—her grannam’s wedding garb,
Old as that year when Sheriffmuir was fought.
Old tales are told, and well-known jests abound,
Which laughter meets half way as ancient friends,
Nor, like the worldling, spurns because thread bare.
When ended the repast, and board and bench
Vanish like thought, by many hands removed,
Up strikes the fiddle; quick upon the floor
The youths lead out the half-reluctant maids,
Bashful at first, and darning through the reels
With timid steps, till, by the music cheered,
With free and airy step, they bound along,
Then deftly wheel, and to their partner’s face,
Turning this side, now that, with varying step.
Sometimes two ancient couples o’er the floor,
Skim through a reel, and think of youthful years.
Meanwhile the frothing bickers,[324] soon as filled,
Are drained, and to the gauntress[325] oft return,
Where gossips sit, unmindful of the dance.
Salubrious beverage! Were thy sterling worth
But duly prized, no more the alembic vast
Would, like some dire volcano, vomit forth
Its floods of liquid fire, and far and wide
Lay waste the land; no more the fruitful boon
Of twice ten shrievedoms, into poison turned,
Would taint the very life blood of the poor,
Shrivelling their heart-strings like a burning scroll.
Grahame.
In the island of Minorca, “Their harvests are generally gathered by the middle of June; and, as the corn ripens, a number of boys and girls station themselves at the edges of the fields, and on the tops of the fence-walls, to fright away the small birds with their shouts and cries. This puts one in mind of Virgil’s precept in the first book of his ‘Georgics,’
‘Et sonitu terrebis aves,’——
and was a custom, I doubt not, among the Roman farmers, from whom the ancient Minorquins learned it. They also use for the same purpose, a split reed, which makes a horrid rattling, as they shake it with their hands.”
In Northamptonshire, “within the liberty of Warkworth is Ashe Meadow, divided amongst the neighbouring parishes, and famed for the following customs observed in the mowing of it. The meadow is divided into fifteen portions, answering to fifteen lots, which are pieces of wood cut off from an arrow, and marked according to the landmarks in the field. To each lot are allowed eight mowers, amounting to one hundred and twenty in the whole. On the Saturday sevennight after midsummer-day, these portions are laid out by six persons, of whom two are chosen from Warkworth, two from Overthorp, one from Grimsbury, and one from Nethercote. These are called field-men, and have an entertainment provided for them upon the day of laying out the meadow, at the appointment of the lord of the manor. As soon as the meadow is measured, the man who provides the feast, attended by the hay-ward of Warkworth, brings into the field three gallons of ale. After this the meadow is run, as they term it, or trod, to distinguish the lots; and, when this is over, the hay-ward brings into the field a rump of beef, six penny loaves, and three gallons of ale, and is allowed a certain portion of hay in return, though not of equal value with his provision. This hay-ward and the master of the feast have the name of crocus-men. In running the field each man hath a boy allowed to assist him. On Monday morning lots are drawn, consisting some of eight swaths and others of four. Of these the first and last carry the garlands. The two first lots are of four swaths, and whilst these are mowing, the mowers go double; and, as soon as these are finished, the following orders are read aloud:—‘Oyez, Oyez, Oyez, I charge you, under God, and in his majesty’s name, that you keep the king’s peace in the lord of the manor’s behalf, according to the orders and customs of this meadow. No man or men shall go before the two garlands; if you do, you shall pay your penny, or deliver your scythe at the first demand, and this so often as you shall transgress. No man, or men, shall mow above eight swaths over their lots, before they lay down their scythes and go to breakfast. No man, or men, shall mow any farther than Monksholm-brook, but leave their scythes there, and go to dinner; according to the custom and manner of this manor. God save the king!’ The dinner, provided by the lord of the manor’s tenant, consists of three cheesecakes, three cakes, and a new-milk cheese. The cakes and cheesecakes are of the size of a winnowing-sieve; and the person who brings them is to have three gallons of ale. The master of the feast is paid in hay, and is farther allowed to turn all his cows into the meadow on Saturday morning till eleven o’clock; that by this means giving the more milk the cakes may be made the bigger. Other like customs are observed in the mowing of other meadows in this parish.”[326]
Harvest time is as delightful to look on to us, who are mere spectators of it, as it was in the golden age, when the gatherers and the rejoicers were one. Now, therefore, as then, the fields are all alive with figures and groups, that seem, in the eye of the artist, to be made for pictures—pictures that he can see but one fault in; (which fault, by the by, constitutes their only beauty in the eye of the farmer;) namely, that they will not stand still a moment, for him to paint them. He must therefore be content, as we are, to keep them as studies in the storehouse of his memory.
Here are a few of those studies, which he may practise upon till doomsday, and will not then be able to produce half the effect from them that will arise spontaneously on the imagination, at the mere mention of the simplest words which can describe them:—The sunburnt reapers, entering the field leisurely at early morning, with their reaphooks resting on their right shoulders, and their beer-kegs swinging to their left hands, while they pause for a while to look about them before they begin their work.—The same, when they are scattered over the field: some stooping to the ground over the prostrate corn, others lifting up the heavy sheaves and supporting them against one another, while the rest are plying their busy sickles, before which the brave crop seems to retreat reluctantly, like a half-defeated army.—Again, the same collected together into one group, and resting to refresh themselves, while the lightening keg passes from one to another silently, and the rude clasp-knife lifts the coarse meal to the ruddy lips.—Lastly, the piled-up wain, moving along heavily among the lessening sheaves, and swaying from side to side as it moves; while a few, whose share of the work is already done, lie about here and there in the shade, and watch the near completion of it.[327]
Kentish Hop Picking.
Who first may fill
The bellying bin, and cleanest cull the hops.
Nor ought retards, unless invited out
By Sol’s declining, and the evening’s calm,
Leander leads Lætitia to the scene
Of shade and fragrance—Then th’ exulting band
Of pickers, male and female, seize the fair
Reluctant, and with boisterous force and brute,
By cries unmov’d, they bury her in the bin.
Nor does the youth escape—him too they seize,
And in such posture place as best may serve
To hide his charmer’s blushes. Then with shouts
They rend the echoing air, and from them both
(So custom has ordain’d) a largess claim.
Smart.
[314] Gentleman’s Magazine.
[315] Bateman’s Doome.
[316] Kirby and Spence’s Entomology.
[317] From “Ornithologia; or the Birds, a Poem, with an introduction, to their natural history, and copious notes, by James Jennings, author of Observations on the Dialects of the West of England,” &c. &c. This work has been for some time ready for the press, but its appearance is delayed in consequence of the depressed state of trade.
[318] The hot wells are, unfortunately, too often the last resort of the consumptive.
[319] A promising youth who died some years since at Berbice.
[320] Literary Panorama, 1807.
[321] Brand’s Popular Antiquities.
[322] A large stone, or earthen pitcher.
[323] Statistical Account of Scotland.
[324] Beakers.
[325] Wooden frames on which beer casks are set.—Johnson.
[326] Bridges’ Northamptonshire.
[327] Mirror of the Months.
