Going The Rounds
Shortly after ten oâclock the singing-boys arrived at the tranterâs house, which was invariably the place of meeting, and preparations were made for the start. The older men and musicians wore thick coats, with stiff perpendicular collars, and coloured handkerchiefs wound round and round the neck till the end came to hand, over all which they just showed their ears and noses, like people looking over a wall. The remainder, stalwart ruddy men and boys, were dressed mainly in snow-white smock-frocks, embroidered upon the shoulders and breasts, in ornamental forms of hearts, diamonds, and zigzags. The cider-mug was emptied for the ninth time, the music-books were arranged, and the pieces finally decided upon. The boys in the meantime put the old horn-lanterns in order, cut candles into short lengths to fit the lanterns; and, a thin fleece of snow having fallen since the early part of the evening, those who had no leggings went to the stable and wound wisps of hay round their ankles to keep the insidious flakes from the interior of their boots.
Mellstock was a parish of considerable acreage, the hamlets composing it lying at a much greater distance from each other than is ordinarily the case. Hence several hours were consumed in playing and singing within hearing of every family, even if but a single air were bestowed on each. There was Lower Mellstock, the main village; half a mile from this were the church and vicarage, and a few other houses, the spot being rather lonely now, though in past centuries it had been the most thickly-populated quarter of the parish. A mile north-east lay the hamlet of Upper Mellstock, where the tranter lived; and at other points knots of cottages, besides solitary farmsteads and dairies.
Old William Dewy, with the violoncello, played the bass; his grandson Dick the treble violin; and Reuben and Michael Mail the tenor and second violins respectively. The singers consisted of four men and seven boys, upon whom devolved the task of carrying and attending to the lanterns, and holding the books open for the players. Directly music was the theme, old William ever and instinctively came to the front.
âNow mind, neighbours,â he said, as they all went out one by one at the door, he himself holding it ajar and regarding them with a critical face as they passed, like a shepherd counting out his sheep. âYou two counter-boys, keep your ears open to Michaelâs fingering, and donât ye go straying into the treble part along oâ Dick and his set, as ye did last year; and mind this especially when we be in âArise, and hail.â Billy Chimlen, donât you sing quite so raving mad as you fain would; and, all oâ ye, whatever ye do, keep from making a great scuffle on the ground when we go in at peopleâs gates; but go quietly, so as to strike up all of a sudden, like spirits.â
âFarmer Ledlowâs first?â
âFarmer Ledlowâs first; the rest as usual.â
âAnd, Voss,â said the tranter terminatively, âyou keep house here till about half-past two; then heat the metheglin and cider in the warmer youâll find turned up upon the copper; and bring it wiâ the victuals to church-hatch, as thâst know.â
* * * * *
Just before the clock struck twelve they lighted the lanterns and started. The moon, in her third quarter, had risen since the snowstorm; but the dense accumulation of snow-cloud weakened her power to a faint twilight, which was rather pervasive of the landscape than traceable to the sky. The breeze had gone down, and the rustle of their feet and tones of their speech echoed with an alert rebound from every post, boundary-stone, and ancient wall they passed, even where the distance of the echoâs origin was less than a few yards. Beyond their own slight noises nothing was to be heard, save the occasional bark of foxes in the direction of Yalbury Wood, or the brush of a rabbit among the grass now and then, as it scampered out of their way.
Most of the outlying homesteads and hamlets had been visited by about two oâclock; they then passed across the outskirts of a wooded park toward the main village, nobody being at home at the Manor. Pursuing no recognized track, great care was necessary in walking lest their faces should come in contact with the low-hanging boughs of the old lime-trees, which in many spots formed dense over-growths of interlaced branches.
âTimes have changed from the times they used to be,â said Mail, regarding nobody can tell what interesting old panoramas with an inward eye, and letting his outward glance rest on the ground, because it was as convenient a position as any. âPeople donât care much about us now! Iâve been thinking we must be almost the last left in the county of the old string players? Barrel-organs, and the things next door to âem that you blow wiâ your foot, have come in terribly of late years.â
âAy!â said Bowman, shaking his head; and old William, on seeing him, did the same thing.
âMoreâs the pity,â replied another. âTime wasâlong and merry ago now!âwhen not one of the varmits was to be heard of; but it served some of the quires right. They should have stuck to strings as we did, and kept out clarinets, and done away with serpents. If youâd thrive in musical religion, stick to strings, says I.â
âStrings be safe soul-lifters, as far as that do go,â said Mr. Spinks.
âYet thereâs worse things than serpents,â said Mr. Penny. âOld things pass away, âtis true; but a serpent was a good old note: a deep rich note was the serpent.â
âClarânets, however, be bad at all times,â said Michael Mail. âOne Christmasâyears agone now, yearsâI went the rounds wiâ the Weatherbury quire. âTwas a hard frosty night, and the keys of all the clarânets frozeâah, they did freeze!âso that âtwas like drawing a cork every time a key was opened; and the players oâ âem had to go into a hedger-and-ditcherâs chimley-corner, and thaw their clarânets every now and then. An icicle oâ spet hung down from the end of every manâs clarânet a span long; and as to fingersâwell, there, if yeâll believe me, we had no fingers at all, to our knowing.â
âI can well bring back to my mind,â said Mr. Penny, âwhat I said to poor Joseph Ryme (who took the treble part in Chalk-Newton Church for two-and-forty year) when they thought of having clarânets there. âJoseph,â I said, says I, âdepend uponât, if so be you have them tooting clarânets youâll spoil the whole set-out. Clarânets were not made for the service of the Lard; you can see it by looking at âem,â I said. And what came oât? Why, souls, the parson set up a barrel-organ on his own account within two years oâ the time I spoke, and the old quire went to nothing.â
âAs far as look is concerned,â said the tranter, âI donât for my part see that a fiddle is much nearer heaven than a clarânet. âTis further off. Thereâs always a rakish, scampish twist about a fiddleâs looks that seems to say the Wicked One had a hand in making oâen; while angels be supposed to play clarânets in heaven, or somâat like âem, if ye may believe picters.â
âRobert Penny, you was in the right,â broke in the eldest Dewy. âThey should haâ stuck to strings. Your brass-man is a rafting dogâwell and good; your reed-man is a dab at stirring yeâwell and good; your drum-man is a rare bowel-shakerâgood again. But I donât care who hears me say it, nothing will spak to your heart wiâ the sweetness oâ the man of strings!â
âStrings for ever!â said little Jimmy.
âStrings alone would have held their ground against all the new comers in creation.â (âTrue, true!â said Bowman.) âBut clarinets was death.â (âDeath they was!â said Mr. Penny.) âAnd harmonions,â William continued in a louder voice, and getting excited by these signs of approval, âharmonions and barrel-organsâ (âAh!â and groans from Spinks) âbe miserableâwhat shall I call âem?âmiserableââ
âSinners,â suggested Jimmy, who made large strides like the men, and did not lag behind like the other little boys.
âMiserable dumbledores!â
âRight, William, and so they beâmiserable dumbledores!â said the choir with unanimity.
By this time they were crossing to a gate in the direction of the school, which, standing on a slight eminence at the junction of three ways, now rose in unvarying and dark flatness against the sky. The instruments were retuned, and all the band entered the school enclosure, enjoined by old William to keep upon the grass.
âNumber seventy-eight,â he softly gave out as they formed round in a semicircle, the boys opening the lanterns to get a clearer light, and directing their rays on the books.
Then passed forth into the quiet night an ancient and time-worn hymn, embodying a quaint Christianity in words orally transmitted from father to son through several generations down to the present characters, who sang them out right earnestly:
âRemember Adamâs fall,
O thou Man:
Remember Adamâs fall
From Heaven to Hell.
Remember Adamâs fall;
How he hath condemnâd all
In Hell perpetual
There for to dwell.
Remember Godâs goodnesse,
O thou Man:
Remember Godâs goodnesse,
His promise made.
Remember Godâs goodnesse;
He sent His Son sinlesse
Our ails for to redress;
Be not afraid!
In Bethlehem He was born,
O thou Man:
In Bethlehem He was born,
For mankindâs sake.
In Bethlehem He was born,
Christmas-day iâ the morn:
Our Saviour thought no scorn
Our faults to take.
Give thanks to God alway,
O thou Man:
Give thanks to God alway
With heart-most joy.
Give thanks to God alway
On this our joyful day:
Let all men sing and say,
Holy, Holy!â
Having concluded the last note, they listened for a minute or two, but found that no sound issued from the schoolhouse.
âFour breaths, and then, âO, what unbounded goodness!â number fifty-nine,â said William.
This was duly gone through, and no notice whatever seemed to be taken of the performance.
âGood guide us, surely âtisnât aâ empty house, as befell us in the year thirty-nine and forty-three!â said old Dewy.
âPerhaps sheâs jist come from some musical city, and sneers at our doings?â the tranter whispered.
ââOd rabbit her!â said Mr. Penny, with an annihilating look at a corner of the school chimney, âI donât quite stomach her, if this is it. Your plain music well done is as worthy as your other sort done bad, aâ bâlieve, souls; so say I.â
âFour breaths, and then the last,â said the leader authoritatively. ââRejoice, ye Tenants of the Earth,â number sixty-four.â
At the close, waiting yet another minute, he said in a clear loud voice, as he had said in the village at that hour and season for the previous forty yearsââA merry Christmas to ye!â