"Dear lamb! to take her name in vain! You, Soapy Dick you, we all knows 'ee for a addle-pate; else your hair wouldn' grow so fiery red. What do a bide-at-home like 'ee know o' high names an' titles? Addle be the true French for a bloomy cheek—Sherry Minshull telled me so hisself. Bean't that the true meanen on't, gaffer?"
"Sherry's yead be full o' rare knowledge, Mis'ess. But daze me, name or no name, 'tis all one: French her were, English her be; and if any twanken feller do say her bean't good, and comely, and a comforten wife for young Squire—why, old as I be I'll try the thickness of his poll, I will so."
"I'll help 'ee, gaffer. My weak head cannet make no goodness out o' Addle, but her gi' me a zilver zixpence for choppen wood, her did, and if I cracks a poll wi' 'ee, mebbe her'll gi' me another."
"Ay, hers be a good heart, 'tis true. Why, her went along to Grange and begged and prayed young Sir Godfrey to putt poor Willum Nokes back into 's ancient place o' constable. And Sir Godfrey he can't refuse her nothen, for all her have refused he, as 'tis said; and so wi' noo year poor Willum'll be back in his little small cottage, a-rulen over parish in the Queen's name once more."
"Such changes as the world do see! Look 'ee, souls, I be eighty-vive, and I've seed a mort o' things in my time. I ha' growed like a oak from boy well-nigh to grandfeyther, an' seed six high and mighty sovrans goo to yearth: two Jameses, two Charleses, Noll Crum'ell, and Dutch Willum to end the tale. Ay, the world be full o' ups and downs. To think, now, that old Squire—him as once I were so tarrible afeard on—be now eatin' the bread and water of affliction in a Lun'on prison-house! And they do say as how his son Piers be joined in matrimony to a Dutch 'ooman o' great tonnage, full o' years an' goold pieces. An he were a right youth a'd pay his old feyther's debts an' set the captive free; but not he, I warrant: he'll lay out all the goold th' old wife gies un on wigs and furbelows. And there be Squire Harry—young pa'son as was: who'd a thowt, when his poor feyther went under ground, 'twas a rightful squire Bill sexton had dug for, and the boy a-droppen warm tears into his holler grave ought to ha' been squire that minute in his place? Ay, I mind the sermon as pa'son spoke out in church fust Sunday arter news come o' Master Harry bein' true squire. I seed un climb pulpit steps, and I know'd by the spread o' his petticoats summat awful for poor sinners was a-comen, an' I felt all leery down the small o' my back. 'God is the judge,' says pa'son in his slow, tarrifyen way: 'he putteth down one, and setteth up another.' That were the holy text, out of Thy sarvant David's psa'ms, and daze me if pa'son didn't scarify old Squire as if 'twas pa'son hisself was choused out o' his rightful proputty. 'Twas a powerful bit o' preachen; every 'ooman there was took wi' a longen to let the water-drops tummle, but none on 'em durst begin till Mis'ess Addle's mother set the key. Then 'twas a little Noah's flood; you mind, souls?—such a fall o' tears bean't seed in Winton Simmary since pa'son told us Princess Henrietta were dead in France."
"And be Squire Harry a-gwine to gi' up the trade o' killen, and bide at home wi' poor peaceful folks like we as never slays nowt but pigs and other beasts o' the field?"
"Ay, 'tis so. My boy do zay he med ha' been a knight or lard at a word wi' Prince Eugene; but bless 'ee, he've got his lands to look arter, and we poor folks besides, and like his feyther afore un he have a true heart for home an' friends. Why, he wouldn' gi' up the charge o' we poor souls, not to be the Lord's anointed."
"Hark 'ee, Gaffer Minshull; bean't they the bells at last?"
"Ay, 'tis so. Pa'son commanded a peal at zeven o'clock by way o' holy consolation to bride an' bridegroom. Old Everlasten ha' took his coat off; 'tis he do call the changes; and i' feck, the bells 'll romp through a rare randy afore he've done wi' 'em. Now, sonnies, what d'ye say to wenden out-along an' callen choir and orchestry together? Then we'll march up t' Hall, and sing 'em a lively ditty as 'll cheer 'em up arter the Christian doens o' the day. Sackbut, psalteery, an' all sarts o' music, says the Book; we cannet muster they holy instruments, to be sure, but wi' fiddle and bass-viol and serpent, and a little bit o' tribble an' bass, we'll make a shift to raise a goodish randy toon. What d'ye say, sonnies?"
"Be jowned if it bean't a fine notion for such a old aged martal. Ay, let's out-along and make all the nise we can."