MASTER THEOBALDS ON POLITICS

As we left the cottage I met the neighbour of the Malones, old Timothy Theobalds. He was a shrivelled little old man, had been ount, or mole-catcher, for many years, had driven cattle to market, and I have also heard, was once earth-stopper to the Hunt. If what his neighbours say is true, old Timothy is not now far off a hundred. He receives annually a small pension collected from three county families, has, I am told, cakes and beer at Yule-tide from his neighbours, and in his own words, “a snap of somethin’ tasty, when he has a mind, wherever he goes.” The old man is excellent company for all his years, and has many a good story to tell, of folks long since dead, and of the wild ways and curious customs of old Shropshire, before the days of railroads, when folks still believed in witches, and in the power of divining rods, and danced, and made merry at wakes and fairs. Like many other old men, “Daddy” Theobalds is not exempt from grumbling, and can use language, I fear, “fit to blow your head off” if provoked. According to him, “Life’s a poor thing now. No fun nor luck left. Yer mayn’t even get a shillin’ nowadays for a vote if so be as yer has one; though what good a vote can do a poor man if he can’t sell it, I don’t know. They Radicals,” he told me once, “were grand at givin’; but their gifts were nought but mugs wi’out beer, or dishes wi’out beef; they brought nought when yer speered in, but fandangles, flummery and folly.”

Old Timothy I met leaning on his stick before his door, clad in a long embroidered smock. He pushed open the door. “Come in, marm,” he says, “and sit yer down before the fire.”

I entered his house whilst Bess dashed off to fetch the pug-pup, exclaiming, “We must remember it is his Easter Sunday,” and I and old Timothy were left alone.

I made a remark upon the fine day, and told old Timothy about the morning service and the lovely flowers. Old Timothy did not respond. He holds to church on Sunday, but rather as a preparation to a Sunday dinner, than anything else, I fear; but as to flowers, he “doesn’t think much of they, leastways not in churches.”

“When I war a lad,” he said, “folks kept they for May Day, and the lads and lasses then went out and pulled blossoms and danced, for the fun of the land wasn’t all dead then, as it is now. That be the proper use of blows.” Then, after a pause, in a weary voice old Timothy went on to say, “’Tis a deal decenter now, no doubt, more paint about and print readen’, but the fun and jollity be clean dead. When I war young, folks often had a tidy bit saved, and when they had ‘a do’ they spent it at home. The missus would bake Yule-tide cakes or all souls, or snap-jacks, accordin’ to the season, and the maister brewed a barrel of ale, and then the couple wud call in the neighbours. Now ’tis hoard up, and go away, as if yer could only laugh in London or Birmingham, and never a cake or a sup for friends or neighbours.

“Folks could play well enough when I war a boy,” and then old Timothy began to tell me of the old “plays” as he called them. “This place, ‘Old Wenlock,’ as us used to call it, war cheery, and jolly, in grandam’s days,” he told me. “Every spring there wud come a man with a bull. Many is the one, I have heard her say, was baited in this spot, just outside the doors. The farmers and colliers from Ironbridge would bring their dogs, and have three days’ drinking and amusement. And,” continued old Timothy, “he war a mighty fine man as cud count as his the best bull dog about. Now folks be proud of their cricket, and of their football matches, but the games can’t touch the old sports.” Then after a pause, old Timothy said solemnly, “It war a terrible undoing of England puttin’ down the old plays. I mind,” the old man added, “how mad dad war when they put down the bull-baiting at Ellesmere. There used, in the old times, to be grand goings on there. Well, one Wake Monday, Mr. Clarke, ‘the captain’ as they called him, put that down. Tom Byollin, I’ve heard dad say, war leaden’ the bull round pretty nigh smothered in ribbons, as war the good old custom, when the captain ’e comes up and ’e said, ‘What be goin’ to do with that there bull?’ ‘Bait ’im,’ said Tom, ‘we allus bait a bull at Wake’s. ’Tis our Christian custom.’ But the captain he wudn’t have it. He war allus a meally souled ’un, ’cording to dad, and one that left a good custom, to take up with a new one, and so he offered five pounds to Tom, and got round him by biddin’ too a new pair of breeks—and so there war no bull-baiten. Tom was mortal hard up, I’ve heard, but to his dyin’ day he regretted the job, and used to cry over his cups, because he had helped to ruin the land by doin’ away with a good old practice.”

“Did you ever see a bull baited?” I asked old Timothy.

“A ROYAL DO”

“Yes, mam,” answered my old friend with pride, “when I war at Loppington, I have myself seen the sport, as quite a lad,” and as he spoke old Timothy’s eyes lighted up with excitement. “It war a royal do. For they had not only bulls, but bears. I mind me,” he continued after a minute’s hesitation, “as it war in 1825. There war great rejoicin’s. Folks druv and came in from all parts, and it war a grand celebration, and all given because the parson’s daughter war marryin’ a squire. They said as the parson paid the costs hisself bang off, he was that pleased at his daughter’s grand marriage. But then parsons were parsons in those days. They rode, shot, and wrestled, besides preachin’. ’Tis true as there war a few what objected. Now at Madeley Wakes they had grand games on too. All the colliers, I’ve heard grandam say, used to come down and bet free and easy, like gentlemen born. Many was the time, I’ve heard ’em say, folks used to see the collier folks ranged down to make a lane like for the bull or bear to pass along. My word! as old Matt Dykes used to say. It war a mighty question which looked best, beast or dog, for when ’twas a bull, they only slipt one to a time. ‘One dog one bull,’ that war what they used to say to Madeley.