Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/100

30, 1859.] the right lies Epworth, the birthplace of John Wesley, and to the left the ancient town of Gainsboro’, and all the adjacent country round is dotted with small villages or hamlets. Down yonder are the turf cars, and here, sheltered by the hill, lies Westwoodside, the surrounding country once covered with huge primeval forests; the trunks of which are yet turned up by the plough, and I have seen some measuring several yards in circumference, the wood quite fresh and very valuable for “kindling.” And now, lest you grow weary of this, let us sojourn with my friend, and after dinner I promise you a run for the Hood.

I am afraid that I have fallen into a very common error, for after drawing you through this long preamble, I, like a lady’s postscript, am but going to tell you that at last which I promised to tell you at first.

While we are discussing the “divine weed” and a glass of home-brewed, let me explain to you the legend and the supposed origin of this famous Hood of Haxey. The legend says, then, that once upon a time, an old lady was passing over the hill we have just left (where the sports are still held), one blustering 6th of January, when rude Boreas, being rather more rude than usual, blew off the old lady’s hood; some boys, ruder still, instead of politely handing it to her, began throwing it from one to the other. Now most people, and especially old ladies, would here have waxed exceedingly wrath; but she, being an exception to the rule, well pleased, laughed immoderately; and, to show that she bore no malice, bequeathed from thence and for ever thirteen acres of land for as many men (now called by the euphonious name of “boggans”) that the sport might be renewed every 6th of January in remembrance of her.

And, hark! the bells ring out their merriest peal, and people from all parts are crowding in by swarms—it is time we were off to the ground. On a stone pillar in front of the church stands a man who rejoices in the title of “the fool,” dressed harlequin-like, though not in such gaudy trappings; he is issuing a kind of proclamation, and having recited this, he repairs with a vast concourse to the ground where are already assembled many hundreds of people. As there are now so many eager to run the Hood, it is the function of the aforesaid boggans to stand at all points round the field that the hood may not be thrown off the grounds before four o’clock. The Hood now resembles more a stout cudgel than the article so called; it is made of leather, stuffed with some hard substance, and is about thirty inches long by about four in diameter.

It is the spirit of emulation which pervades the partisans of the neighbouring villages, which gives to the sport its interest and excitement, for it is held a high point of honour by the party who can succeed in taking the hood to their town; and no mounted squire ever followed the hounds, or hounds the fox, nor “broth of a boy” e’er rushed to a faction fight with more zeal and ardour than these men when well warmed in this contest of generous rivalry.

Soon the sport is at its highest pitch; the excitement of those in the contest “must be seen to be believed,” yet in its very height there is obviously a spirit of fair play. Every man who catches the Hood is allowed his throw; garrulous greybeards, smiling on, speak of the days when they were lads, and will yet run eagerly to catch the Hood as it falls—it is something to boast of, they have thrown the Hood this year. The clock strikes four; the sentinels leave their posts, and, after varying fortunes, the Westwoodsiders have thrown the Hood over the south slope of the hill, while their dauntless compeers rush madly on to retrieve their position, but they, like the rest of the world, find it much easier going down hill than to retrieve a lost position. Away they go, the earth resounding with tramp of a thousand feet, over hedges, ditches, and dikes they fly,

The following day, should there be any new member to be initiated into the Honourable Company of Boggans, he takes his noviciate by being smoked. This interesting ceremony is performed by setting fire to a quantity of damp straw placed on the road, and he is suspended in a sling from a tree overhanging the same: he is then swung backward and forward through the dense mass of smoke; and to see him blow for air, and his horrible grimaces, is as ludicrous a sight as one can possibly imagine. He is then taken down; and, after his powers are resuscitated, is “cobbed” at the nearest gate—being then duly incorporated into the aforesaid Honourable Company of Boggans, to share in their honours and emoluments.

And now that the sports are over, I turn me homeward, well pleased, for my part at least, with my visit.

“ dark it is growing—I wish we were back! They are coming, they’re here, the hobgoblins, alack! The band of the Sorceress Sisters! See, see, where they come! If they light on us here, They’ll be certain to drink every drop of the beer It has cost us such trouble to fetch here.”

So saying, the children push on in affright, When up from the heath starts a grizzly old wight. “Stop, stop, child!—my children, be quiet! They are thirsty and hot, for they come from the chase, Let them drink what they like without squall or grimace, And the Grewsome Ones they will be gracious.”

And up come the goblins that moment, and they Look ghostlike and grewsome, and ghastly and grey, Yet they revel and riot it roundly. The beer it has vanish’d, the pitchers are bare, Then whooping and hooting away through the air, O’er hill and dale clatter the Weird Ones.

Off homeward, all quaking, the children they hied, And the kindly old greybeard troops on by their side. “Do not weep so and whimper, my darlings.” “They’ll scold us and beat us for this.” “Never fear, All yet will go famously well with the beer, If you’ll only be mum as young mice, dears.

“Mind you follow my bidding, and surely you may, I am he who delights with small children to play: You know me—Old Eckart the Trusty. Of that wonderful wight you’ve heard many a lay, But never had proof what he is till to-day: Now you hold in your hands a most rare one.”