“At the funeral,” said my informant, “they had a hearse, and ostrich plumes: and about fifty gipsies, men and women, followed him; and when the church service was over, and the clergyman was gone, the gipsies staid behind in the churchyard, and had a service of their own. And, when a gipsy dies, you must know, sir, that they always burns everything belonging to him. First, they burnt his fiddle: a right-down good fiddler he was, and many’s the time I’ve danced to him at our wake. And then they burnt a lot of beautiful Witney blankets, as were as good as new. And then they burnt a sight o’ books, for he was quite a scholerd—very big books they wos, too! I specially minds one on ’em—the biggest o’ the hull lot! a book o’ jawgraphy, as ’ud tell you the history o’ the hull world, you understand, sir; and was chock full o’ queer, outlandish picters. And then, there was his grinstun, that he used to go about the country with, a grindin’ scissors and razors, and sich like: they couldn’t burn him! so they carried him two miles, and then hove him right into the river. That’s true, you may take my word for it, sir! for I was one as help’d ’em to carry it.”
But to return to our own peculiar folk-lore.
There is a sanitary superstition in our country parish, which Mr. Milkinsop denounces as one of the latest passages from the farce of Folly, and has dramatised thus:
Dom. No, mum! I’m very sorry, mum; but—(as though answering a question)—I was in a hurry to come down, and I didn’t wash my face this morning.
Mrs. (with rising doubts as to the girl’s sanity in reference to her sanitary proceedings). Wash your face? Whatever does the girl mean! I did not say anything about washing your face. I said—(shouting to her, on the sudden supposition that she might be deaf)—that you were very cruel to pluck a hen that you’ve only half killed.
Dom. (placidly). Yes, mum! I’ll go and wash my face directly.
Mrs. (bothered). Wash your face? Yes, you dirty slut! it wants washing. But first kill this poor thing, and put it out of its misery.
Dom. (confidentially). I can’t, mum, till I’ve washed my face.
Mrs. (repressing an inclination to use bad language). Why not?
Dom. (with the tone of an instructor). La, bless me, mum! Why, don’t you know as you can’t kill any living thing till you’ve washed your face first? I’m sure that I tried for full ten minutes to wring this ’En’s neck, and I couldn’t kill her nohow. And all because I hadn’t time to wash my face this morning.Our country parish holds the same bit of folk-lore with regard to the killing of pigs; so that when we wish to slay our favourite porkers and Dorkings, the commonest feelings of humanity lead us first to ascertain if the executioner has washed his face.
When Christmas comes, we have some very pretty customs in our country parish; but, as I am here specially speaking of its folk-lore, I will, for the present, leave these customs to take care of themselves. For the customs that are retained in our old-world quarter, are quite as numerous as our scraps of folk-lore; and it would swell this paper to unreasonable dimensions, were I now to tell of our May-day customs, and our Curfew customs, and our Clemening customs, and our customs on Goody Tuesday and St. Thomas’s Day; and our Christmas customs, with the carols, and waits, and morris-dancers; and that curious masque, or “Mumming,” performed by some boys in our country parish, wherein King George, and Bold Bonaparte, and the Valiant Soldier, and the Turkish Knight, and Beelzebub, and Old Father Christmas, and the Doctor, and Little Devil-doubt, are the chief dramatis personæ. The mention, however, of Goody Tuesday reminds me of a piece of folk-lore connected with that day. We say, that if we eat pancakes on Goody Tuesday, and grey peas on Ash Wednesday, we shall have money in our purse all the year. It is Shrove Tuesday that we call by the name of Goody, or Goodish Tuesday; and Mr. Milkinsop inclines to the idea that this name is a rustic record of the shriving and confession customary to the day prior to the Reformation.
The letting-in of the New Year is an important matter in our country parish; though in our folk-lore regarding it, we are not quite so polite as usual: for we say, that if the first person who crosses your threshold on the New Year’s morning is a male, it will bring you good luck through the ensuing year; whereas, if a female is your first visitor, you will have bad luck. Our carol-singers are up on a New Year’s morning before it is light, and strive who shall be first at the various farm-houses. As soon as the inmates hear the song, they rise, and open the front door to admit the first lucky carol-singer into the house: they then conduct him through the house, and bow him out at the back door. You may be sure that he is not sent away empty; for, according to our folk-lore, he has brought good luck to that house for a whole twelvemonth. Of course, it is only the young gentlemen who are thus privileged to be the prognosticators of good luck.
Our farmers ought to be prosperous and well-to do; for, as you see, they can ensure their yearly success on very easy conditions: and if they want to bring special good luck to their dairy, they take down the bough of mistletoe, and give it to the cow that calves first after New Year’s Day. The cow devours it greedily, but sheep also do the same; and no wonder, if they like it. But the farmers ascribe the result to the mistletoe charm; and as their example sways those about them, it is not very wonderful that folk-lore should be found to flourish in our country parish.
