Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  At the time of this visit of ours to Worcester, the college school was in a ferment. Between the Cathedral and St. Peter’s Church was situated a poor, back district called Frog Lane. It had been rechristened Diglis Street, but was chiefly called by the old name still. Crowded dwellings, narrow streets, noise and dirt — that’s how the place struck me. The inhabitants were chiefly workmen belonging to the glove and china manufactories of the town. In this district was the parish school, always filled with boys, sons of the working-men, and under the superintendence of Mr. Jones, the portly parish clerk. Now there was wont to spring up from time to time a tide of animosity between these boys and the boys of the college school. Captain Sanker said it was the fault of the college boys: had they let the St. Peter’s boys alone, St. Peter’s boys would never have presumed to interfere with them: but the college boys could be downright contemptuous and overbearing when they pleased. They scornfully called the St. Peter’s boys the Frogs, “charity boys;” and the Frogs retorted by calling them the College Caws — after the rooks that had their homes in the old trees of the college green and kept up a perpetual cawing. The animosity generally ended in a grand battle; and then hostilities would be dropped for months, perhaps years. One of these quarrels was going on while we were at Worcester; it had kept both schools in a ferment for some weeks, and there was every sign of a culminating fight. Of course we went in heart and soul with the king’s scholars: but the boys on both sides held a code of honour — if you can call it so — that no stranger must take part in the engagements. The college boys were only forty, all told; the Frogs seemed to number four times as many.

  Skirmishes took place daily — the scene being the top of Edgar Street. St. Peter’s boys (let out of school at twelve, whereas the others did not get out till one) would collect in the narrow neck of their district opening on Edgar Street, and wait for the enemy. As soon as the college boys’ steps were heard racing under the dark gateway of Edgar Tower, hisses and groans began. “Caw, caw, caw! Hiss, hiss, hiss! How’s your Latin to-day? — what birchings has you had? Call yourselves gents, does you, you College Caws? You daren’t come on fair, and fight it out with us, you Caws. Caw, caw, caw!” Sometimes the college boys would pass on, only calling back their contemptuous retorts; sometimes they’d halt, and a fierce storm of abuse would be interchanged, to the edification of Edgar Street in general and the clerks in Mr. Clifton’s Registry Office. “You beggarly Frogs! We don’t care to soil our hands with you! Had you been gentlemen, we’d have polished you off long ago, and sent you into next week. Croak, Frogs! Croak!” Not a third of the college boys need have taken Edgar Tower on their way home; through the cloisters and out by St. Michael’s churchyard would have been their direct way; but they chose to meet the Frogs. Once in a way there’d be a single combat; but as a rule nothing came of it but abuse. When that was exhausted, each lot would rush home their separate ways: the Frogs back down Frog Lane; the others up the steps, or onwards down Edgar Street, as their road might lie, and remain apart till the same hour next day.

  I have not said much yet about King Sanker. He was lame: something was wrong with his knee. Gatherings would come in it, and then he’d be in bed for weeks together. He was nearly thirteen then; next to Dan: and Dan was over fourteen. King was a nice little fellow, with mild eyes as blue as the captain’s: Fred would order him to keep “out of the ruck” in the skirmishes with the Frogs, and he generally did. If it came to a fight, you see, King might have been hurt; he had no fighting in him, was frightened at it, and he could not run much. King was just like his mother in ideas: he would tell us his dreams as she did, and recite pieces of poetry a mile long. Dan and King slept together in the room next to ours; it was in the garret, close to the turret-room. King would keep us awake singing; sometimes chants, sometimes hymns, sometimes songs. They’d have let him try for the choir, but the head-master of the college school thought his knee would not do for it.

  It was Saturday, and a pouring wet afternoon. Our visit was drawing to an end; on the following Wednesday we should bid the Sankers good-bye. Captain Sanker, always trying to find out ways of making folk happy, had devised a day of pleasure for the last day of our stay, Tuesday. We were to go to Malvern; a whole lot of us: ourselves, and the Teals, and the Squire, and Mrs. Todhetley, and take our dinner on the hill. It was so settled; and the arrangements were planned and made.

  But this was yet only Saturday. We dined at twelve: whether for any one’s convenience or that the servants made a mistake in an hour, I don’t remember. It happened to be a saint’s day, so the boys had no school; and, being wet, came home after morning service in the cathedral. After a jolly dinner of peas and bacon and pancakes, we looked at the skies for a bit, and then (all but Fred and Hetta) went up to the turret-room. Dan said the rain had come to spite us; for the whole school had meant to race to Berwick’s Bridge after afternoon service and hold a mock review in the fields there. It was coming down in torrents, peppering the roof and the windows. Mrs. Sanker sat in the middle of the old beam, mending one of Toby’s shirts, “Lalla Rookh” open on her knee, out of which she was singing softly; the floor was strewed with patches, and scissors, and tapes, and the combs were out of one side of her hair.

  “Read it out loud to us, mamma,” cried King.

  “I can’t spare time to read, King,” she said. “Look here” — holding out the work, all rags and tatters. “If I don’t mend this, Toby won’t have a shirt to put on to-morrow.”

  “I shan’t mind about that,” said Toby.

  “Oh, but, dear, I don’t think you could go without a shirt. Has any one seen my cotton?”

  “Then say something over to us that you know, mamma,” returned King, as Toby found the cotton.

  “Very well. I can do that and work too. Sit down, all of you.”

  We sat down, King and Toby on the floor before her, the rest of on the beam on either side her. Dan, who did not care for poetry, got some Brazil nuts out of his pocket and cracked them while he listened.

  Mrs. Sanker might as well have read “Lalla Rookh.” She began to recite “The Friar of Orders Grey.” But what with gazing up at the sky through the rain to give it due emphasis, and shaking her head at pathetic parts, the sewing did not get on. She had finished the verse —

  “Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain; For violets plucked, the sweetest showers Will ne’er make grow again,”

  when King surprised us by bursting into tears. But as Mrs. Sanker took no notice, I supposed it was nothing unusual.

  “You young donkey!” cried Dan, when the poem was finished. “You’ll never be a man, King.”

  “It is such a nice verse, Dan,” replied young King, meekly. “I whisper it over sometimes to myself in bed. Mamma, won’t you say the ‘Barber’s Ghost’? Johnny Ludlow would like to hear that, I know.”

  We had the “Barber’s Ghost,” which was humorous, and we had other things. After that, Mrs. Sanker told a dreadful story about a real ghost, one that she said haunted her family, and another of a murder that was discovered by a dream. Some of the young Sankers were the oddest mixtures of timidity and bravery — personally brave in fighting; frightfully timid as to being alone in the dark — and I no longer wondered at it if she brought them up on these ghostly dishes.

  “I should not like to have dreams that would tell me of murders,” said King, thoughtfully. “But I do dream very strange dreams sometimes. When I awake, I lie and wonder what they mean. Once I dreamt I saw heaven — didn’t I, mamma? It was so beautiful.”

  “Ay; my family have always been dreamers,” replied Mrs. Sanker.

  Thus, what with ghosts and poetry and talking, the afternoon wore on unconsciously. Dan suddenly started up with a shout —

  “By Jove!”

  The sun had come out. Come out, and we had never noticed it. It was shining as brightly as could be on the slates of all the houses. The rain had ceased.

  “I say, we shall have the review yet!” cried D
an. “And, by Jupiter, that’s the college bell! Make a rush, you fellows, or you’ll be marked late. There’s three o’clock striking.”

  The king’s scholars thought it a great shame that they should have to attend prayers in the cathedral morning and afternoon on saints’ days, instead of wholly benefiting by the holiday. They had to do it, however. The three went flying out towards the cathedral, and I gave King my arm to help him after them. Tod and I — intending to take part in the review at Berwick’s Bridge — went to college also, and sat behind the surpliced king’s scholars on the decani side, in the stalls next to the chanter.

  But for a little mud, you’d hardly have thought there had been any rain when we got out again; and the sun was glowing in the blue sky. Not a single fellow was absent: even King limped along. We took the way by the Severn, past the boat-house at the end of the college boundaries, and went leisurely along the towing-path, intending to get into the fields beyond Diglis Wharf, and so onwards.

  I don’t believe there was a thought in any one’s mind that afternoon of the enemy. The talk — and a good hubbub it was — turned wholly upon soldiers and reviews. A regular review of the Worcestershire militia took place once a year on Kempsey Ham, and some of the boys’ heads got a trifle turned with it. They were envying Lord Ward, now, as they went along: saying they should like to be him, and look as well as he did, and sit his horse as proudly.

  “Of course he’s proud,” squeaked out the biggest Teal, whose voice was uncertain. “Think of his money! — and his horses! — and see how good-looking he is! If Lord Ward hasn’t a right to be proud, I should like to know who has. Why, he — oh, by George! I say, look here!”

  Turning into the first field, we found we had turned into a company of Frogs. All the whole lot, it seemed. Caws and croaks and hoots and groans from either side rose at once on the air. Which army commenced hostilities, I couldn’t tell; the one was as eager for it as the other; and in two minutes the battle had begun — begun in earnest. Up dashed the senior boy.

  “Look here,” said he to me and Tod; “you understand our rules. You must neither of you attempt to meddle in this. Stay and look on, if you please; but keep at a sufficient distance where it may be seen that you are simply spectators. These beggars shan’t have it to say that we were helped.”

  He dashed back again. Tod ground his teeth with the effort it took to keep himself from going in to pummel some of the Frogs. Being upon honour, he had to refrain; and he did it somehow.

  The Frogs had the blazing sun in their eyes; our side had it at their backs — which was against the Frogs. There were no weapons of any sort; only arms and hands. It looked like the scrimmage of an Irish row. Sometimes there was closing-in, and fighting hand to hand; sometimes the forces were drawn back again, each to its respective ground. During the first of these interludes, just as the sides were preparing to charge, a big Frog, with broad awkward shoulders, a red, rugged face, and a bleeding nose, came dashing forward alone into the ranks of the college boys, caught up poor lame helpless King Sanker, bore him bravely right through, and put him down in safety beyond, in spite of the blows freely showered upon him. Not a soul on our side had thought of King; and the college boys were too excited to see what the big Frog was about, or they’d perhaps have granted him grace to pass unmolested. King sat down on the wet grass for a bit, and gazed about him like a fellow bewildered. Seeing me and Tod he came limping round to us.

  “It was good-natured of that big Frog, wasn’t it, Johnny Ludlow?”

  “Very. He’d make a brave soldier. I mean a real soldier.”

  “Perhaps I should have been killed, but for him. I was frightened, you see; and there was no way out. I couldn’t have kept on my legs a minute longer.”

  The battle raged. The cawing and the croaking, that had been kept up like an array of trumpets, fell off as the fighting waxed hotter. The work grew too fierce and real for abuse of tongue. We could hear the blows dealt on the upturned faces. King, who had a natural horror of fighting, trembled inwardly from head to foot, and hid his face behind me. Tod was dancing with excitement, flinging his closed fists outward in imaginary battle, and roaring out like a dragon.

  I can’t say who would have won had they been left alone. Probably the Frogs, for there were a great many more of them. But on the other hand, none of them were so old as some of the college boys. When the fight was at the thickest, we heard a sudden shout from a bass, gruff, authoritative voice: “Now then, boys, how dare you!” and saw a big, portly gentleman in black clothes and a white necktie, appear behind the Frogs, with a stout stick in his hand.

  It was Clerk Jones, their master. His presence and his voice acted like magic. Not a Frog of them all but dropped his blows and his rage. The college boys had to drop theirs, as the enemy receded. Clerk Jones put himself between the two sets of combatants.

  The way he went on at both sides was something good to hear. Shaking his stick at his own boys, they turned tail softly, and then rushed away through the mud like wild horses, not waiting to hear the close: so the college boys had the pepper intended for the lot. He vowed and declared by the stick that was in his hand — and he had the greatest mind, he interrupted himself to say, to put it about their backs — that if ever they molested his boys again, or another quarrel was got up, he would appeal publicly to the dean and chapter. If one of the college boys made a move in future to so much as cast an insulting look towards a boy in St. Peter’s School, that boy should go before the dean; and it would not be his fault (the clerk’s) if he was not expelled the cathedral. He would take care, and precious good care, that his boys should preserve civility henceforth; and it was no great favour to expect that the college boys would do so. For his part he should feel ashamed in their places to oppress lads in an inferior class of life to themselves; and he should make it his business before he slept to see the head-master of the college school, and report this present disgraceful scene to him: the head-master could deal with it as he pleased.

  Mr. Jones went off, flourishing his stick; and our side began to sum up its damages: closed eyes, scratched faces, swollen noses, and torn clothes. Dan Sanker’s nose was as big as a beer barrel, and his shirt-front hung in ribbons. Fred’s eyes were black. Toby’s jacket had a sleeve slit up, and one of his boots had disappeared for good.

  The spectacle we made, going home down the Gloucester Road, could not be easily forgotten. Folks collected on the pavement, and came to the windows and doors to see the sight. It was like an army of soldiers returning from battle. Bleeding faces, black eyes, clothes tattered and bespattered with mud. Farmers going back from market drew up their gigs to the roadside, to stare at us while we passed. One little girl, in a pony-chaise, wedged between a fat old lady in a red shawl and a gentleman in top-boots, was frightened nearly into fits. She shrieked and cried, till you might have heard her up at Mr. Allies’s; and the old lady could not pacify her. The captain was out when we got in: and Mrs. Sanker took it all with her usual apathy, only saying we had better have come straight home from college to hear some more poetry.

  An awful fuss was made by the head-master. Especially as the boys had to appear on Sunday at the cathedral services. Damages were visible on many of them; and their white surplices only helped to show the faces off the more. The chorister who took the solo in the afternoon anthem was decorated with cuttings of sticking-plaster; he looked like a tattooed young Indian.

  The school broke up on the Monday: and on that day Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley drove into Worcester, and put up at the Star and Garter. They came to us in the afternoon, as had been agreed upon; dinner being ordered by Captain Sanker for five o’clock. It was rather a profuse dinner; fish and meat and pies and dessert, but quite a scramble of confusion: which none of the Sankers seemed to notice or to mind.

  “Johnny dear, is it always like this?” Mrs. Todhetley could not help asking me, in a whisper. “I should be in a lunatic asylum in a week.”

  We started for Malvern on Tuesday at elev
en o’clock. The Squire drove Bob and Blister in his high carriage: Dr. Teal, Captain Sanker, and Fred sitting with him. There was no railroad then. The ladies and the girls crammed themselves into a post-carriage from the Star, and a big waggonette was lent by some friend of Dr. Teal for the rest. The boys were losing the signs of their damages; nothing being very conspicuous now but Dan’s nose. It refused to go down at all in size, and in colour was brighter than a rainbow. The Teals kept laughing at it, which made Dan savage; once he burst out in a passion, wishing all the Frogs were shot.

  I remember that drive still. John Teal and I sat on the box of the post-carriage, the post-boy riding his horses. I remember the different features of the road as we passed them — not but that I knew them well before; I remember the laden orchards, and the sweet scent of the bean-fields, in flower then. Over the bridge from Worcester went we, up the New Road and through St. John’s, and then into the open country; past Lower Wick, where Mrs. Sherwood lived, and on to Powick across its bridge. I remember that a hearse and three mourning-coaches stood before the Lion, the men refreshing themselves with drink; and we wondered who was being buried that day. Down that steep and awkward hill next, where so many accidents occurred before it was altered, and so on to the Link; the glorious hills always before us from the turning where they had first burst into view; their clumps of gorse and broom, their paths and their sheep-tracks growing gradually plainer to the sight the nearer we drew. The light and shade cast by the sun swept over them perpetually, a landscape ever changing; the white houses of the village, nestling amidst their dark foliage, looked fair for the eye to rest upon. Youth, as we all get to learn when it has gone by, lends a charm that later life cannot know: but never a scene that I have seen since, abroad or at home, lies on my memory with half the beauty as does that old approach to Malvern. Turning round to the left at the top of the Link, we drove into Great Malvern.