and carried too far, we must take the
good with the evil, and not grumble. At the
same time, it is indisputable that individualities
of character do get lost under this process, and
especially at such simple pleasure meetings as
hay and harvest festivals. There the amusements
of the guests are now prescribed for
them, with their diet, instead of being left to
themselves and their own resources. Thus we
gradually lose the family character which used
to distinguish such feasts, held in the farmer's
kitchen, cooked and served by the farmer's wife
and daughters, and binding master to man in a
way unknown in these days of monster cut-
and-dried formalities.

Let us see what we lose by the modern
system. Certainly not wit, for the witty
element appears to be wholly wanting in the
composition of the English peasant. His jests are
very sorry, and, like his repartee, broad and
personal. After twenty years' association with the
agricultural poor of a midland county, the
writer cannot recal more than one or two
peasants' jokes which are capable of provoking a
smile by their intrinsic merit. We need only
turn to George Eliot's inimitable account of
the harvest-home supper in Adam Bede, and to
that of the conversation at the Rainbow in
Silas Marner, to have a fair standard of
labourers' wit, and of the style of humour which
commends itself to the agricultural mind. Of
jests, as of favourite games, stories, songs, and
music, the principal charm appears to consist
in repetition. Nothing that has once earned a
place in the approbation of villagers ever
becomes stale or unprofitable in their opinion.
The oftener games are played, and songs sung,
the better they are appreciated. Villagers, like
children listening to a story, love to know
exactly what is coming. They wish the
programme of the after-dinner or after-supper
amusements, like the bill of fare of roast beef
and plum-pudding, to be always the same as
last year's. The labourers of to-day prefer the
stories told, the dramas acted, and the songs
sung, by their fathers and grandfathers, to new-
fangled compositions which have never taken
firm root in the village mind. They find sufficient
variety for their tastes in the inevitable
differences and inequalities seen from season to
season as new actors arise to take popular parts
devolving on them by reason of the death or
retirement of predecessors. Speculations as to
whether Ben's mantle has fallen on Philip,
comparisons between Ben and Philip, and
retrospective glances at former performers before
Ben and Philip were, furnish their favourite
staple of conversation, while a new song (if an
old one revived, so much the better) or a virgin
speech given by one of the young gentlemen from
the house, is highly admired and applauded.

The harvest-suppers at my old home, which
I will call Sheepfold, are now a thing of the
past; but I well remember the pleasure with
which we used to attend them, and confess to
having listened year after year to the same
tales and the same old-world songs with almost
as great an interest, though not with an equally
agitating anxiety, as that with which I awaited
the début of some one of my young brothers
addressing the guests for the first time. With
what eagerness we used to watch the glance of
the kindly eyes now closed for ever, and treasure
each word from the loving lips, round which
would play a modest nervous smile, where smile
will never play again.

Little conversation would prevail during
supper. Eating is too serious a matter on
such occasions to bear divided attention; but
as the last helping of pudding was given (half
of which was usually packed in a basket under
the table, for the children at home, half eaten at
leisure), a buzz of talk would begin. This was
preliminary to settling in to pipes and beer;
the pipes, however, were not lighted until
the form had been gone through of inquiring
whether the mistress objected to tobacco. A
deprecating nod having implied "No," with
more courtesy than truth, we were speedily
all enveloped in clouds of smoke. Then came
the toasts and speeches. The Queen
disposed of, the squire and his lady were toasted.
Thanks were returned by the former in a speech
both grave and gay, winding up with a retrospect
of the farming operations of the year. The clergyman's
health was then drunk and acknowledged.
We young ones now came in for our share of
honour. The guests drank to the health of the
squire's daughter and her band of brothers,
with special mention of any who might happen
to be absent; and appropriate songs were sung
after the names of the travellers or soldier.
The bailiff and schoolmaster were then toasted,
and duly returned thanks. Then we all joined
in toasting "Speed the Plough;" and then
began the real business of the evening.

Four or five of the guests disappeared to
prepare for the grand dramatic performance of
The Husbandman and Serving-man, sung by
Mr. Joseph Bird, carter, and Mr. Carriss,
butcher. During this interval we were thrown
on our own resources, and repartee grew rife.
Woe to the unhappy wight, if any such were
present, whose banns had been published in
church on the preceding Sundays! He was
badgered from far and near; was particularly
asked how many of his spurs he had assumed;
and his neighbours were warned against this
dangerously equipped knight, &c. &c. We
used to fancy that this favourite joke (of the
origin of which the speakers themselves were
entirely ignorant) might contain some romantic
allusion to the youthful knight watching his
arms and keeping a vigil; but were somewhat
disappointed when Notes and Queries referred
us to the Scotch and north-country word for
"inquire," "speer," which would apply to
"asking banns," and would easily change into
spur and spurs. Anyhow, thus the time would
pass until the return of Messrs. Bird and
Carriss, bearing their respective insignia of
office — spade, rake, and whip, and besom, shovel,
and hat with gold band.

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