The History of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl. Cobbold Richard
merry, merry reapers sing with glee,
And jocund shout their happy harvest spree,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now the feast we share —
’Tis our master’s fare,
May he long, long live
Such a treat to give,
And merry, merry reapers sing with joy,
And jocund shouts the happy harvest boy,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
Now we join in song
With our voices strong,
And our hearts are high
With our good supply,
We merry, merry reapers joyful come
To shout and sing our happy Harvest-Home,
Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!
The spirit of this song is in the chorus, which is peculiar to the eastern counties of this kingdom. So “Hallo Largess!" may be well understood here, but in many parts of the country is quite unknown. At the time of harvest, when the men are reaping down the fields, should their master have any friends visiting his fields, the head man among the labourers usually asks a largess, which is generally a shilling. This is asked not only of friends and visitors, but of strangers likewise, should they pause to look at the reapers as they bind up the sheaves.
At evening, when the work of the day is over, all the men collect in a circle, and Hallo, that is, cry, Largess. Three times they say, in a low tone, “Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Large!" and all, hand in hand, bow their heads almost to the ground; but, after the third monotonous yet sonorous junction, they lift up their heads, and, with one burst of their voices, cry out, “Gess!”
Varieties of this peculiar custom may exist in some districts. Sometimes the man with the most stentorian lungs will mount an eminence and lead the rest, who join in chorus. They generally conclude the ceremony with three shouts, and then “Thank Mr., Mrs., Miss, or Master" (as the case of the donor may be) “for his largess.” Whence the origin of this practice, is not now easily to be ascertained. It was much more common than it is. The habit of dividing the gains, too, at the harvest frolic, is going fast out of fashion; nor is its substitute an amendment.
At the period here mentioned, and in the Priory Farm, it was customary for the lord to divide the largess among the men, women, and children; which formed a species of family nest-egg, to provide against some urgent necessity. The custom has now degenerated into an ale-house revel, and the money is all drunk out for the benefit of no one but the publican.
“Will Riches, your health!" said the lord, as, at the same moment, he turned the contents of a canvas-bag upon the table, which exhibited a very good aspect of liberal contributions. The reader may suppose that every master-tradesman who visited the farm had to give his share, and that the lord had not been unmindful of his solicitations, when, upon counting the contents of the bag, there were found one hundred shillings and sixpence. This exactly gave five shillings a-piece to the fourteen men, half-a-crown ditto to the nine women, and two shillings each to the four boys.
The division of this sum gave great satisfaction; and our persecuted friend, Jack Barry, had almost unperceived accomplished a successful retreat in the interesting moment of pocketing the cash. But the watchful songster had him in his eye; and, as he rose to thank the company for the honour done him in drinking his health, he intercepted Jack in the act of drawing back the bolt of the door.
“I think this is the best place I can speak from; and, as Jack is so anxious to be off, perhaps to see his sweetheart, I hope he’ll give me the opportunity of proposing her health in his absence, for not until he has given us her name shall the bolt be drawn.”
The poor fellow had counted on his escape, but little thought of the extremity of ridicule he was thus bringing upon himself. At length, urged on all sides, he could resist no longer, but, in a kind of ludicrous despair, he exclaimed —
“Well, then, I’ll toast the health of Margaret Catchpole!”
The pencil of Wilkie could alone describe the wild burst of unrestrained glee at this declaration.
“Margaret Catchpole!" was as suddenly responded in surprise by men, women, and children; and such grinning countenances, and coarse laughter, and joking congratulations, were beginning to show themselves, that Jack, no longer able to endure their gibes, bolted to the door, and, finding no resistance to his will, made his exit, amidst the roars of his companions, who vociferated, with a cheer, “The health of Margaret Catchpole!”
Jack fled precipitately from this scene of tumult and confusion, and, as he passed the little foot-bridge over the stream from the moat, he still heard the rude merriment he had excited. The moon rose brilliantly over the little chapel in the dark background, and was reflected upon the water in a line with the bridge, and showed Jack’s figure in darkness crossing the light plank; but he was soon in the shadow of those lofty trees, which darkened the footpath towards the gamekeeper’s cottage. He had instinctively taken this path because it led to Levington, his father’s house; and he then remembered that parent’s parting words – "If ever you feel yourself unhappy, my boy, remember you have a home here, in which, as long as your mother and I live, we shall be happy to give you a welcome.”
Jack was really unhappy, and he had some cause for feeling so, though he felt that it lay not with himself. He knew that he had spoken the truth, though it had cost him a severe pang; and whilst he felt much grief at the thought of the jeers and quizzings he should meet with, and the annoyances he might occasion the poor girl whom he really loved, he had still spoken the truth, which he was not ashamed to confess. He was arrested in his progress by the voice of John Gooding, the old gamekeeper of the great Squire of Nacton – Philip Broke.
“Who goes there?” was his question.
“John Barry,” was the reply.
“Where now, Jack – where now?”
“What, Mr. Gooding, is it you? Has the tide turned? Can I walk along the shore to Levington?”
“The tide has only just turned; but, if you take the wood-path for a while to Nacton, you may then, if you like it, keep the shore along Orwell Park, and pass the old Hall to Levington. But what makes you leave good company at this time o’ night?”
“I have left them all very merry at the harvest supper, but I had a mind to see my friends.”
“Well, Jack, had it been any other man upon the farm, I should have been suspicious of you as a poacher; but I know you well, and can believe you. I should not trust some that you have left behind. I was just going down to the Priory, to see how you lads fared to-night.”
“Well, Mr. Gooding, you will find them all very glad to see you, and no doubt they will make you welcome; but will you trouble yourself to let master know where I am gone to-night, that he may close his doors without expecting to see me?”
“That I will; and, when I get there, I will propose your health, Jack, during your absence.”
“Do so, Mr. Gooding; and tell them all, they have my hearty good wishes for their health and happiness.”
“Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
CHAPTER VII THE CONFLICT
But where is Margaret all this time? She is on the shore, casting an anxious eye upon the waters. The moon is shining with such perfect brightness, that she can see across the river, though it be nearly two miles from the strand at Downham Reach to Freston Tower. She looks towards the dark shades of Woolverstone, and with a lover’s anxious eye, fancies she can descry a sail. A sail there was; but it came very slowly on, though a breeze reached the spot where poor Margaret was standing.
In that old vessel, seated at the helm, was as extraordinary a character as ever sailed upon the waves of the Orwell; and as he will be no insignificant actor in some succeeding scenes of