I should have thought that to say so was to cast upon the Canon's after-dinner conversations a most undeserved aspersion.
At the same time I wish to point out that I did not publish the fact; I merely mentioned it, as the Canon mentioned it, in a conversation with you, which may or may not have been after dinner. I cannot see, therefore, why Mr. Britten attacks me and lets the Canon go scot free. Is it because the Canon is a Christian cleric?
The whole point narrows itself down to this. You mentioned a case reported to you as a fact, and gave your authority. I gave my authority. The Canon declines to give his authority. If there is an error (and I do not even now say there is, for a fact cannot be denied by those who can merely declare they have never heard of it), that error was given us by Canon Pullen. It is he who put this story abroad; and I thought I was at least justified in saying to you that I had been informed of it by a responsible and serious antiquarian, an English clergyman, and the editor of Murray's Italian Guides. Until Canon Pullen gives his informant's name, and enables us to examine that informant, I shall continue to believe that the story may have some foundation of truth, because it is hardly likely that anyone could invent a tale so wholly in accord with the rest of our knowledge unless he were a skilled student of customs.
Grant Allen.
The Game of Green Gravel.
In reading Professor Haddon's account of funeral games in his Study of Man, I was reminded of a couplet he has omitted from the "Green Gravel" song (p. 423), as sung by the village children of Cambridgeshire. In my time—but a few years ago—immediately following the turning of the child mentioned, we sang—whirling round at a trip—these additional lines:
"Roses in, and roses out, and roses in the garden,
I would not part with my sweetheart for twopence-halfpenny farthing."
After this the whole verse was repeated as usual.
133, Spencer Place, Leeds.
