time did the Squire hesitate whether he should join the sport again, and a still longer time did it take him to extricate his boots from the mud, for he came out of the ditch minus the right leg covering, and, after sundry tugs, and, when out, sundry shakings, &c., to turn out the water, and then, as may be supposed, no small difficulty in getting it on again, he managed to join his companions, who had almost felt persuaded that he had totally decamped. The cause of this alarm was a poor unfortunate jackass, which had strayed from the lane into the stubble, and which, standing with his head and ears erect, had presented to the foreman the appearance of a determined gamekeeper.
A few more acres were dragged, more game secured, and the party once more safely seated in the cart. Two sacks of game lay in the bottom of the vehicle, which were both deposited (saving one bagful for the host) at the Green Cottage at Butley Moor. What a happy man was that host, when, after all his dangers, he found himself again within his own doors! happier still, when, after entertaining his free companions, whose jokes upon his expressions of joy at escape were amusing enough to them, though painfully interesting to himself; happier still was he, when, at four o’clock in the morn, he let them out of his house, and bade poachers and poaching good-bye for ever!
Nineteen beautiful cock pheasants were hung up in his larder; but so ashamed was the Squire of their being seen there, that, before he retired to his own bed, he put them all into a box, with hay, &c., and directed them to Mr. Thomas Page, his wine-merchant, in London. His spolia opima were not mentioned till years had in some measure worn off the rust of danger, and then he gave his friends and neighbours reason to rejoice in his adventure, and that he had escaped transportation.
CHAPTER VI HARVEST-HOME
It was the evening before Harvest-Home, September 29, 1793, that a sailor called at the back-door of the Priory Farm, Downham Reach, to ask for a draught of fresh water. It was no uncommon thing for sailors to call for such a purpose. Downham Reach was the nearest point at which ships of large tonnage would usually anchor, and shift their cargoes in lighters for the town of Ipswich, whence it was distant about four miles. The crews of vessels frequently had to walk up to the town from this spot; so that it was no uncommon thing for them, upon landing near the Priory Farm after a voyage, to be glad of a sparkling draught of clear water. The desired draught was handed to the sailor by the ever-ready hand of Margaret Catchpole, who always took an interest in men belonging to the sea.
“Is dis de Priry Barm?” asked the man, in broken English.
“This is the Priory Farm,” was the quick and eager reply of Margaret.
“How bar to Gipswitch?”
“Four miles to Ipswich. What country are you from?”
“Mynheer be brom Hamsterdam. I lept me bessel in de harber. Mynheer de Captan did ’mand me up to Gipswitch. ’E ’mand me ’top at Priry Barm to tale von Margaret Catchpole dad ’e vou’d come up ’ere to-morrow, at nine o’clock in de eve.”
“What is your captain’s name?”
“Von Villiam Laud.”
The reader need not be told the rest of the conversation, which of course related to the Captain. How he was? How he got on? Whose service he was in? How he would come up? And where Margaret was to meet him? It was all arranged that she should be upon the shore at nine o’clock, and look out for a small sail-boat, which should come up the river and run ashore against the creek: that the watchword should be “Margaret,” and that punctuality should be observed.
Margaret’s quick understanding soon construed all the sailor said into proper English, though she could not perceive that the man only feigned a foreign accent and manner. He was indeed one of Laud’s crew, an emissary sent on purpose to decoy the poor girl on to the strand, that he might carry her off to a foreign shore, against her own determined purpose.
It is not to be wondered at that she should be a little agitated. Whose heart would not have been so under similar circumstances? The expected arrival of some fashionable and insinuating man of fortune into the saloon of fashion has not agitated the heart of an amiable and interesting young lady more sensibly than poor Margaret felt herself fluttering within at this peculiar time. It is a great question, however, whether any high-spirited damsel could prevent the exposure of her high feelings with more effect than this poor girl did hers, who not only had her own interest to induce her so to do, but her lover’s also.
The last day of September came, and with it all the bustle and pleasure of Harvest-Home. No small share of work fell to Margaret’s hands, who had to prepare the harvest supper for fourteen men, besides women and children.
At that time of day, all the single men lodged in the master’s house, and were expected to conform to all the rules, regulations, hours, and work, of a well-regulated family.
Once in a year, the good farmer invited the married men, with their wives and families, to supper; and this supper was always the Harvest-Home. This was the day on which the last load of corn was conveyed into the barn or stack-yard, covered with green boughs, with shouting, and blowing of the merry harvest horn.
All the labourers upon the Priory Farm were assembled at six o’clock in the evening: nine married men, and five single ones; the wives, and those children who were old enough to come to the feast, together with the boys, four in number, who had to work upon the land.
A picture fit for the hand of Wilkie was exhibited in that ancient farm-house. It is surprising that no good artist should have painted The Harvest Supper. The Rent-day, Blindman’s-buff, The Fair, The Blind Fiddler, or any of his celebrated works, could scarcely afford a more striking subject for the canvas, or the printseller, than The Harvest-Home. Such a scene may have been painted, but the writer of these pages has never seen it described, though he has often witnessed it in real life, and has shared with innocent pleasure in its rustic joy.
Margaret received great assistance from some of the married women. One pair of hands could not, indeed, have prepared sufficient eatables for such a party: – smoking puddings, plain and plum; piles of hot potatoes, cabbages, turnips, carrots, and every species of vegetable which the farmer’s lands could produce – beef, roast and boiled, mutton, veal, and pork, everything good and substantial; a rich custard, and apple-pies, to which the children did ample justice, for all were seated round this well-furnished table in the old kitchen, celebrated for its curious roof and antique chimney-piece.
The lord of the feast, or head man in the harvest-field, took his station at the head of the table, whilst the master of the house, and his wife, his sister, and even his daughter, were the servants of the feast, and took every pains to gratify and satisfy the party.
Poor labourers are not the only class in England fond of a good dinner. There are hundreds and thousands, with half the appetites of these joyful sons and daughters of the sickle, who glory in a feast. How often is the rich table spread with every delicacy, and at an enormous cost the greatest rarities provided, and a group of lords and ladies seated thereat! Things just tasted and dismissed, and all due ceremonies performed, the company rise without any satisfaction, and return to their homes grateful to nobody; sometimes hungry and dissatisfied, moody and contentious; disappointed, disaffected, tired, and palled by the very fashion of the thing, in which there has been no enjoyment and no thankfulness.
It was not so at this rustic feast. Simplicity and pleasure sat upon each face. Fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, felt thankful to God for their master’s prosperity, and received his attentions with unaffected gratitude.
After the feast, and a flowing jug or two of brown ale had been emptied, the wives and children were invited into the best parlour to tea and cakes, whilst the merry reapers were left to themselves, to enjoy in their
