“Oaken-Gates, I’ve heard say, war the last place where they baited the bull in Shropshire. And I allus say,” said old Timothy, with a spark of enthusiasm, “that ’tis a mighty fine feather in the cap of that place, as it war the last as kept up the good old English sport.”
Then old Timothy went on to tell me “how the bull in 1833 at Madeley war a mighty game ’un, and tugged that ferocious at the stake, that he broke abroad stake and all, and with the chain charged down madly, and hurted several what war standing by.”
After a pause, old Timothy went on to tell me, “how for all the Vicar of Loppington war reasonable and right minded about the old sports, there war some even then, as had ‘cakey’ and queasy stomachs about such enjoyments.” And he went on to say how Mr. Anstice of Madeley, and one Mortimer, as was vicar then, spoilt, in his own language, sport cruel. “It war in this way,” continued the old man, “the bull, a proper beast, war baited three times; first, at the Horse Inn, then at Lincoln Hill, and lastly, on Madeley Wood Green. At the last bout, Squire Anstice and Parson Mortimer they comed up with a handful of constables, but there war hundreds of colliers and decent folks looking on, and I war told that they could have chawed up constables, squire, and vicar, if they had a mind.”
“And what saved ’em?” I asked eagerly.
“Well,” answered Maister Theobalds, “for all the vicar war a little ’un deformed, and some called him as dry as a chip, he had a mighty fine tongue, and though he’d hadn’t grit enough to thresh a hen, he’d hadn’t no mortal fear, and he stood up and pleaded and spoke same as if the bull had been his brother. And the bull war sent away.”
“LAMB-LIKE TO PUPS”
Then after a little while Timothy added reflectively, “There be mountains in a tongue. Grandam used to say as Parson Mortimer seemed to hold God Almighty inside him when he war angry, so terrible war he, not that he ever war angry unless he waxed white hot about sin, or cruelty, as he called it. He war a little ’un to look at, but he had a mighty spirit, though lamb-like to pups, childers, and wild wounded things. The biggest fellows quailed before him when he took on in a rampage, and none of them dared sin when he war by.”
At that moment I heard my Bess tapping at the door. “Lor, bless her,” said Timothy, “’tis the little ’un; how them does grow, the childers,” and he got up and hobbled to the door. Then Bess ran in and bubbled over with excitement about her May fête, for she had met Constance on the road. She told old Master Theobalds that he must come down and see her May dance. “Sure I will, my pretty,” he said; “I’d like to see a May-stang again, and a mass of lads and lasses dancing round, as I have heard grandam talk about when she war a likely wench.”
Then the old man began to tell us of the old May Days, and of the long-handed-down traditions of the Shropshire May festival.
“It war the fashion,” he said, “in the old time for all the lads and lasses to wend their way to the Stanhill Coppice or down to the great Edge Wood, and a merry time they had. Old Gregson Child as war shepherd to Farmer Dawson, that lived once at the Marsh Farm, used to go with the lads, and they used to blow horns, and one or two, if they had a mind, would tootle on the flute, and others scrape on fiddles, till wood and field fair swarmed with music, and so, they say, they got them to the woods an hour or so after dawn. And after a while, the lads and lasses would twine garlands, and the lads would buss the lasses. And the lasses would cry out, but let ’em do it again, and when they had romped and sang, the boys and maids, fair smothered in May branches, mead marigolds, posies of primroses, and laxter shoots of beech and hazel, would get them to their homes and hang up garlands and posies to their lintels over their dad’s door, and take to laughter and bussing again.