Chapter IV: Part 4

At last her eldest brother went to the Warlock or Wizard Merlin, and asked him if he knew where his sister, the fair Burd Ellen, was. "The fair Burd Ellen," said the Warlock Merlin, "is carried away by the fairies, and is now in the castle of the King of Elfland; and it were too bold an undertaking for the stoutest knight in Christendom to bring her back." The brother, however, insisted upon undertaking the enterprise, and after receiving proper instructions from Merlin, which he failed in observing, he set out on his perilous expedition, and was never more seen.

The other brothers took the same course, and shared a similar fate, till it came to the turn of Child Rowland, who with great difficulty obtained the consent of his mother, for Queen Guinever began to be afraid of losing all her children. Rowland, having received her blessing, girt on his father's celebrated sword Excaliber, that never struck in vain, and repaired to Merlin's cave. The wizard gave him all necessary instructions for his journey and conduct, the most important of which were that he should kill every person he met with after entering the land of Faerie, and should neither eat nor drink of what was offered him in that country, whatever his hunger or thirst might be; for if he tasted or touched in Elfland, he must remain in the power of the elves, and never see middle-earth again.

Child Rowland faithfully promised to observe the instructions of Merlin, and he accordingly went to Elfland, where he found, as the wizard had foretold, the king's horseherd feeding his horses. "Canst thou tell me," said Rowland, "where the castle of the king of Elfland is?" "I cannot," replied the horseherd, "but go a little further, and thou wilt come to a cowherd, and perhaps he will know." When he had made this answer, Rowland, remembering his instructions, took his good sword, and cut off the head of the horseherd. He then went a little further, and met with a cowherd, to whom he repeated the same question, and obtained the same answer. Child Rowland then cut off the cowherd's head, and having pursued exactly the same course with a shepherd, goatherd, and a swineherd, he is referred by the last to a hen-wife, who, in reply to his question, said, "Go on yet a little farther till you come to a round green hill, surrounded with terraces from the bottom to the top: go round it three times widershins,[29] and every time say, "Open door, open door, and let me come in!' and the third time the door will open, and you may go in." Child Rowland immediately cut off the hen-wife's head in return for her intelligence, and following her directions, a door in the hill opened, and he went in. As soon as he entered, the door closed behind him, and he traversed a long passage, which was dimly but pleasantly lighted by crystallized rock, till he came to two wide and lofty folding-doors, which stood ajar. He opened them, and entered an immense hall, which seemed nearly as big as the hill itself. It was the most magnificent apartment in all the land of Faerie, for the pillars were of gold and silver, and the keystones ornamented with clusters of diamonds. A gold chain hung from the middle of the roof, supporting an enormous lamp composed of one hollowed transparent pearl, in the midst of which was a large magical carbuncle that beautifully illumined the whole of the hall.

[Footnote 29: The contrary way to the course of
the sun.]

At the upper end of the hall, seated on a splendid sofa, under a rich canopy, was his sister the Burd Ellen, "kembing her yellow hair wi' a silver kemb," who immediately perceiving him, was sorrow-struck at the anticipation of his being destroyed by the king of Elfland,—

And hear ye this, my youngest brither,
Why badena ye not at hame?
Had ye a hunder and thousand lives,
Ye canna brook ane o' them.

And she informs him that he will certainly lose his life if the king finds him in the hall. A long conversation then takes place, and Rowland tells her all his adventures, concluding his narrative with the observation that, after his long journey, he is _very hungry_.

On this the Burd Ellen shook her head, and looked sorrowfully at him; but, impelled by her enchantment, she rose up, and procured him a golden bowl full of bread and milk. It was then that the Child Rowland remembered the instructions of the Warlock Merlin, and he passionately exclaimed, "Burd Ellen, I will neither eat nor drink till I set thee free!" Immediately this speech was uttered, the folding-doors of the hall burst open with tremendous violence, and in came the king of Elfland,—

With, Fe, fi, fo, fum,
I smell the blood of a Christian man!
Be he dead, be he living, wi' my brand
I'll clash his harns frae his harn-pan![30]

[Footnote 30: Literally, "I will dash his brains
from his skull with my sword."]

"Strike, then, Bogle, if thou darest," exclaimed the undaunted Child Rowland, and a furious combat ensued, but Rowland, by the help of his good sword, conquered the elf-king, sparing his life on condition that he would restore to him his two brothers and sister. The king joyfully consented, and having disenchanted them by the anointment of a bright red liquor, they all four returned in triumph to merry Carlisle.]

TOM HICKATHRIFT.

[Tom Hickathrift belongs to the same series as Jack the Giant-killer, one of the popular corruptions of old northern romances. It seems to allude to some of the insurrections in the Isle of Ely, such as that of Hereward, described in Wright's Essays, ii. 91. Spelman, however, describes a tradition, which he says was credited by the inhabitants of Tylney, in which Hickifric appears as the assertor of the rights of their ancestors, and the means he employed on the occasion correspond with incidents in the following tale. The entire passage is worth transcription. "In Marslandia sitæ sunt Walsoka, Waltona, et Walpola. In viciniis jacent Terrington et St. Maries—adjacet Tylney veteris utique Tylneiorum familiæ radix. Hic se expandit insignis area quæ a planicie nuncupatur _Tylney Smeeth_, pinguis adeo et luxurians ut Paduana pascua videatur superasse. Tuentur eam indigenæ velut aras et focos, fabellamque recitant longa petitam vetustate de Hickifrico (nescio quo) Haii illius instar in Scotorum Chronicis qui civium suorum dedignatus fuga, aratrum quod agebat solvit; arreptoque temone furibundus insiliit in hostes victoriamque ademit exultantibus. Sic cum de agri istius possessione acriter olim dimicatum esset, inter fundi dominum et villarum incolas, nec valerent hi adversus eum consistere, redeuntibus occurrit Hickifrickus, _axemque excutiens a curru quem agebat, eo vice gladii usus_; _rota, clypei_; invasores repulit ad ipsos quibus nunc funguntur terminos. Ostendunt in coemeterio Tilniensi sepulchrum sui pugilis, axem cum rota insculptum exhibens."—Icenia, Descriptio Norfolciæ, p. 138. Hearne mentions this gravestone, and perhaps some Norfolk topographer will tell us if it now exists.]

The author of the renowned History of Tom Hickathrift prefaces his narrative with the following consolatory exordium:—

And if thou dost buy this book,
Be sure that you do on it look,
And read it o'er, then thou wilt say
Thy money is not thrown away.

In the reign before William the Conqueror, I have read in ancient history that there dwelt a man in the parish of the Isle of Ely, in the county of Cambridge, named Thomas Hickathrift, a poor labouring man, but so strong that he was able to do in one day the ordinary work of two. He had an only son, whom he christened Thomas, after his own name. The old man put his son "to good learning," but he would take none, for he was, as we call them in this age, none of the wisest, but something soft, and had no docility at all in him. God calling this good man, the father, to his rest, his mother, being tender of him, maintained him by her hard labour as well as she could; but this was no easy matter, for Tom would sit all day in the chimney-corner, instead of doing anything to assist her, and although at the period we are speaking of, he was only ten years old, he would eat more than four or five ordinary men, and was five feet and a half in height, and two feet and a half broad. His hand was more like a shoulder of mutton than a boy's hand, and he was altogether like a little monster, "but yet his great strength was not known."

Tom's strength came to be known in this manner. His mother, it appears, as well as himself, for they lived in the primitive days of merry old England, slept upon straw. This was in character with the wretched mud hovels then occupied by the labouring population, not half so good as many pigsties are now-a-days. Now being a tidy old creature, she must every now and then replenish her homely couch, and one day, having been promised a "bottle" of straw by a neighbouring farmer, after considerable entreaty, she prevailed on her son to go to fetch it. Tom, however, made her borrow a cart-rope first, before he would budge a step, without condescending to enter into any explanation respecting the use he intended it for; and the poor woman, too glad to obtain his assistance on any terms, readily complied with his singular request. Tom, swinging the rope round his shoulders, went to the farmer's, and found him with two men, thrashing in a barn. Having mentioned the object of his visit, the farmer somewhat inconsiderately told him he might take as much straw as he could carry. Tom immediately took him at his word, and, placing the rope in a right position, rapidly made up a bundle containing at least a cartload, the men jeering him on the absurdity of raising a pile they imagined no man could carry, and maliciously asking him if his rope was long enough. Their merriment, however, was not of long duration, for Tom flung the enormous bundle over his shoulders, and walked away with it without any apparent exertion, much to the astonishment and dismay of the master and his men.

After this exploit, Tom was no longer suffered to enjoy his idle humours. Every one was endeavouring to secure his services, and we are told many remarkable tales of his extraordinary strength, still more wonderful than the one just related. On one occasion, having been offered as great a bundle of firewood as he could carry, he marched off with one of the largest trees in the forest! Tom was also extremely fond of attending fairs; and in cudgelling, wrestling, or throwing the hammer, there was no one who could compete with him. He thought nothing of flinging a huge hammer into the middle of a river a mile off, and in fact performed such extraordinary feats, that it was currently reported throughout the country he had dealings with the Evil One.

Tom Hickathrift, too, was a very care-for-nothing fellow, and there were very few persons in all the Isle of Ely who dared to give him an ill word. Those who did paid very dearly for their impertinence, and Tom was, in fact, paramount over his companions. His great strength, however, caused him to be much sought after by those who were in want of efficient labour, and at length a brewer at Lynn, who required a strong, lusty fellow to carry his beer to the Marsh and to Wisbech, after much persuasion, and promising him a new suit of clothes, and as much as he liked to eat and drink, secured Tom for this purpose. The distance he daily travelled with the beer was upwards of twenty miles, for although there was a shorter cut through the Marsh, no one durst go that way for fear of a monstrous giant, who was lord of a portion of the district, and who killed or made slaves of every one he could lay his hands upon.

Now in the course of time, Tom was thoroughly tired of going such a roundabout way, and without communicating his purpose to any one, he was resolved to pass through the giant's domain, or lose his life in the attempt. This was a bold undertaking, but good living had so increased Tom's strength and courage, that, venturesome as he was before, his hardiness was so much increased that he would have faced a still greater danger. He accordingly drove his cart in the forbidden direction, flinging the gates wide open, as if for the purpose of making his daring more conspicuous. At length he was espied by the giant, who was indignant at his boldness, but consoled himself with the reflection that Tom and the beer would soon become his prey. "Sirrah," said the monster, "who gave you permission to come this way? Do you not know how I make all stand in fear of me? and you, like an impudent rogue, must come and fling my gates open at your pleasure! How dare you presume to do so? Are you careless of your life? Do not you care what you do? But I will make you an example for all rogues under the sun! Dost thou not see how many thousand heads hang upon yonder tree, heads of those who have offended against my laws; but thy head shall hang higher than all the rest for an example!" But Tom made him this impudent answer, "A dishclout in your teeth for your news, for you shall not find me to be one of them!" "No!" said the giant, in astonishment and indignation; "and what a fool you must be if you come to fight with such a one as I am, and bring never a weapon to defend yourself!" Quoth Tom, "I have a weapon here will make you know you are a traitorly rogue." This impertinent speech highly incensed the giant, who immediately ran to his cave for his club, intending to dash out Tom's brains at one blow. Tom was now much distressed for a weapon, that necessary accoutrement in his expedition having by some means escaped his memory, and he began to reflect how very little his whip would avail him against a monster twelve feet in height, and six feet round the waist, small dimensions certainly for a giant, but sufficient to be formidable. But while the giant was gone for his club, Tom bethought himself, and turning his cart upside down, adroitly takes out the axletree, which would serve him for a staff, and removing a wheel, adapts it to his arm in lieu of a shield; very good weapons indeed in time of trouble, and worthy of Tom's ingenuity. When the monster returned with his club, he was amazed to see the weapons with which Tom had armed himself, but uttering a word of defiance, he bore down upon the poor fellow with such heavy strokes, that it was as much as Tom could do to defend himself with his wheel. Tom, however, at length managed to give the giant[31] a heavy blow with the axletree on the side of his head, that he nearly reeled over. "What!" said Tom, "are you tipsy with my strong beer already?" This inquiry did not, as we may suppose, mollify the giant, who laid on his blows so sharply and heavily that Tom was obliged to act on the defensive. By and by, not making any impression on the wheel, he got almost tired out, and was obliged to ask Tom if he would let him drink a little, and then he would fight again. "No," said Tom, "my mother did not teach me that wit; who would be fool then?" The sequel may readily be imagined, and Tom having beaten the giant, and, disregarding his supplications for mercy, cut off his head, entered the cave, which he found completely filled with gold and silver.

[Footnote 31: In the original it is _lent the
giant_, the term _lent_ being old English or
Saxon for _gave_. The expression sufficiently
proves the antiquity of the version.]

The news of this celebrated victory rapidly spread throughout the country, for the giant had been a common enemy to the inhabitants. They made bonfires for joy, and testified their respect to Tom by every means in their power. A few days afterwards, Tom took possession of the cave and all the giant's treasure. He pulled down the former, and built a magnificent house on the spot; but with respect to the land forcibly obtained by the giant, part of it he gave to the poor for their common, merely reserving enough to maintain himself and his good old mother, Jane Hickathrift. His treasure, we may suppose, notwithstanding this great liberality, enabled him to maintain a noble establishment, for he is represented as having numbers of servants, and a magnificent park of deer. He also built a famous church, which was called St. James's, because it was on that saint's day that he had killed the giant. And what was as good and better than all this, he was no longer called Tom Hickathrift by the people, but "Mr. Hickathrift," a title then implying a greater advancement in social position that can now scarcely be imagined.

Like many other persons who have become suddenly possessed of great wealth, Tom was sadly at a loss to know what to do with his money; nor does this sage history condescend to inform us in what manner he expended it. He seems, however, to have amused himself rarely, attending every sport he could hear of for miles round, cracking skulls at cudgel-playing, bear-baiting, and all the gentlemanly recreations current in those days. At football he could scarcely have been a welcome addition to the company, for one kick from his foot, if he caught it in the middle, was sure to send the ball so great a distance over hedges and trees that it was never seen again. Tom was, also, one evening attacked by four robbers; but they sadly mistook the person they had to deal with, for he quickly killed two of them, made the others sue for mercy, and carried off their booty, which amounted to the large sum of two hundred pounds. One would have thought the Hickathrifts were wealthy enough before, but this addition to their store was, somehow or other, a source of great delight and merriment to Tom's aged mother.

Tom was a long time before he found any one that could match him; but, one day, going through his woods, he met with a lusty tinker, who had a great staff on his shoulder, and a large dog to carry his bag and tools. Tom was not particularly courteous; it may readily be supposed that his unvarying successes had made him rather overbearing; and he somewhat rudely asked the tinker what was his business there. But the tinker was no man to succumb, and as rudely answered, "What's that to you? Fools must needs be meddling!" A quarrel was soon raised, and the two laid on in good earnest, blow for blow, till the wood re-echoed with their strokes. The issue of the contest was long doubtful, but, the tinker was so persevering, that Tom confessed he was fairly vanquished; and they then went home together, and were sworn brothers in arms ever afterwards. It happened, from the events that followed, to be a fortunate occurrence.

In and about the Isle of Ely, many disaffected persons, to the number of ten thousand and upwards, drew themselves up in a body, presuming to contend for their ancient rights and liberties, insomuch that the gentry and civil magistrates of the county were in great danger. The danger was so great, that the sheriff was obliged to come to Tom Hickathrift, under cover of the night, for shelter and protection, and gave him a full account of the rebellion. The tinker and Tom immediately promised their assistance, and they went out as soon as it was day, armed with their clubs, the sheriff conducting them to the rendezvous of the rebels. When they arrived there, Tom and the tinker marched up to the leaders of the multitude, and asked them the reason of their disturbing the government. To this they answered loudly, "Our will is our law, and by that alone will we be governed." "Nay," quoth Tom, "if it be so, these trusty clubs are our weapons, and by them alone you shall be chastised." These words were no sooner uttered, than they madly rushed on the immense multitude, bearing all before them, laying twenty or thirty sprawling with every blow. It is also related, as something rather remarkable, that the tinker struck a tall man on the nape of the neck with such immense force that his head flew off, and was carried forty feet from the body with such violence that it knocked down one of the chief ringleaders, killing him on the spot. The feats of Tom were no less wonderful; for, after having slain hundreds, and at length broke his club, he seized upon "a lusty rawboned miller" as a substitute, and made use of him as a weapon, till he had quite cleared the field.

The king of course received intelligence of these extraordinary exploits, and sent for the two heroes to his palace, where a royal banquet was prepared for their honour and entertainment, most of the nobility being present. Now after the banquet was over, the king made a speech, neither too short nor too long, but having the extraordinary merit of being much to the purpose. We cannot omit so remarkable a specimen of royal eloquence. "These, my guests," said the king, "are my trusty and well-beloved subjects, men of approved courage and valour; they are the men that overcame and conquered ten thousand rebels who were combined for the purpose of disturbing the peace of my realm. According to the character I have received of Thomas Hickathrift and Henry Nonsuch, my two worthy guests here present, they cannot be matched in any other kingdom in the world. Were it possible to have an army of twenty thousand such as these, I dare venture to assert I would act the part of Alexander the Great over again. In the meanwhile, as a proof of my royal favour, kneel down, Thomas Hickathrift, and receive the ancient order of knighthood. And with respect to Henry Nonsuch, I will settle upon him, as a reward for his great services, the sum of forty shillings a year for life." After the delivery of this excellent address, the king retired, and Tom and Henry shortly afterwards took their departure, attended for many miles by a portion of the court.

When Sir Thomas Hickathrift returned home, he found, to his great sorrow, that his mother had died during his stay at the court. It can scarcely be said that he was inconsolable for her loss, but being "left alone in a large and spacious house, he found himself strange and uncouth." He therefore began to consider whether it would not be advisable to seek out for a wife, and hearing of a wealthy young widow not far from Cambridge, he went and paid his addresses to her. At his first coming, she appeared to favour his suit, but, before he paid her a second visit, her fancy had been attracted by a more elegant wooer, and Sir Thomas actually found him at her feet. The young spark, relying on the lady's favour, was vehemently abusive to the knight, calling him a great lubberly whelp, a brewer's servant, and a person altogether unfitted to make love to a lady. Sir Thomas was not a likely man to allow such an affront to go unpunished, so going out in the courtyard with the dandy to settle the matter, he gave him a kick which sent him over the tops of the houses into a pond some distance off, where he would have been drowned, had not a poor shepherd, passing by, pulled him out with his crook.

The gallant studied every means of being revenged upon the knight, and for this purpose engaged two troopers to lie in ambush for him. Tom, however, according to the story, "crushed them like cucumbers."[32] Even when he was going to church with his bride to be married, he was set upon by one-and-twenty ruffians in armour; but, borrowing a back-sword from one of the company, he laid about him with such dexterity, that, purposely desiring not to kill any one, at every blow he chopped off a leg or an arm, the ground being strewed with the relics, "as it is with tiles from the tops of the houses after a dreadful storm." His intended and friends were mightily amused at all this, and the fair one jokingly observed, "What a splendid lot of cripples he has made in the twinkling of an eye!" Sir Thomas only received a slight scratch, and he consoled himself for the trifling misfortune by the conviction he had only lost a drop of blood for every limb he had chopped off.

[Footnote 32: The author is not very particular
in his similes, but this appears to be quite
peculiar to this history.]

The marriage ceremony took place without any further adventure, and Sir Thomas gave a great feast on the occasion, to which all the poor widows for miles round were invited in honour of his deceased mother, and it lasted for four days, in memory of the four last victories he had obtained. The only occurrence at this feast worth mentioning was the theft of a silver cup, which was traced to the possession of an old woman of the name of Stumbelup,[33] and the others were so disgusted at her ingratitude to their kind host, that she would have been hanged on the spot, had not Sir Thomas interfered, and undertook the appointment of the punishment. Nor was it otherwise than comical, for she was condemned to be drawn through all the streets and lanes of Cambridge on a wheelbarrow, holding a placard in her hands, which informed the public,—

I am the naughty Stumbelup,
Who tried to steal the silver cup.

[Footnote 33: This incident has been slightly
altered, the original narrative being of a nature
that will not bear an exact transcription.]

The news of Tom's wedding soon reached the court, and the king, remembering his eminent services, immediately invited him and his lady, who visited their sovereign immediately, and were received by him most affectionately. While they were on this visit, intelligence arrived that an extraordinary invasion had taken place in the county of Kent. A huge giant riding on a dragon, and accompanied with a large number of bears and lions, had landed on the coast of that unfortunate county, and was ravaging it in all directions. The king, says the history, was "a little startled," and well he might be, at such a visitation; but, taking advantage of the opportune presence of Tom Hickathrift, he solved the difficulty by creating him governor of the Isle of Thanet,[34] and thus making him responsible for the protection of the inhabitants from this terrible monster.

[Footnote 34: In the heading of the chapter in
the original it is _East Angles, now called the
Isle of Thanet_, an error which favours the
supposition of the story having been adapted from
a much older original.]

There was a castle in the island, from which the country was visible for miles round, and this was the governor's abode. He had not been there long before he caught a view of the giant, who is described as "mounted upon a dreadful dragon, with an iron club upon his shoulders, having but one eye, the which was placed in his forehead; this eye was larger in compass than a barber's bason, and appeared like a flame of fire; his visage was dreadful to behold, grim and tawny; the hair of his head hung down his back and shoulders like snakes of an enormous length; and the bristles of his beard were like rusty wire!" It is difficult to imagine a being more terrible than this, but Tom was only surprised, not frightened, when he saw one day the giant making his way to the castle on his formidable dragon. After he had well viewed the edifice with his glaring eye, he tied the dragon up to a tree, and went up to the castle as if he had intended to thrust it down with his shoulder. But somehow or other he managed to slip down, so that he could not extricate himself, and Tom, advancing with his two-handed sword, cut off the giant's head at one blow, and the dragon's at four, and sent them up in a "waggon" to the court of his sovereign.

The news of Tom's victories reached the ears of his old companion, the tinker, who became desirous of sharing in his glory, and accordingly joined him at his castle. After mutual congratulations, Tom informed him of his wish to destroy, without delay, the beasts of prey that infested the island. They started for this purpose in company, Tom armed with his two-handed sword, and the tinker with his long pikestaff. After they had travelled about four or five hours, it was their fortune to meet with the whole knot of wild beasts together, being in number fourteen, six bears and eight lions. The two heroes waited for them with their backs against a tree, and whenever they came "within cutting distance" they cut their heads off, and in this manner killed all but one lion, who, unfortunately, by an inconsiderate movement on the part of Tom, crushed the poor tinker to death. The animal was, however, ultimately slain by Sir Thomas.

Sir Thomas Hickathrift had killed the giants, dragon, and lions, and he had conquered the rebels, but his happiness was by no means completed, for he was inconsolate for the loss of his friend. He, however, returned home to his lady, and made a grand feast in commemoration of his important victories. The history terminates with the following brilliant metrical speech he made on this festive occasion:

My friends, while I have strength to stand,
Most manfully I will pursue
All dangers, till I clear this land
Of lions, bears, and tigers, too.

This you'll find true, or I'm to blame,
Let it remain upon record,—
Tom Hickathrift's most glorious fame,
Who never yet has broke his word!

TOM THUMB.

[Thumb stories are common in German and Danish, and the English tale comprises much that is found in the Northern versions. A writer in the Quarterly Review, xxi. 100, enters into some speculations respecting the mythological origin of Tom Thumb, and records his persuasion, in which we agree, that several of our common nursery tales are remnants of ancient μυθοι. Sir W. Scott mentions the Danish popular history of Svend Tomling, analysed by Nierup, "a man no bigger than a thumb, who would be married to a woman three ells and three quarters long." This personage is probably commemorated in the nursery rhyme,

I had a little husband
No bigger than my thumb:
I put him in a pint-pot,
And there I bid him drum.

According to popular tradition, Tom Thumb died at Lincoln, and a little blue flagstone in the pavement of the cathedral used to be pointed out as his monument.

"It was my good fortune," says Dr. Wagstaffe, "some time ago, to have the library of a schoolboy committed to my charge, where, among other undiscovered valuable authors, I pitched upon Tom Thumb and Tom Hickathrift, authors indeed more proper to adorn the shelves of Bodley or the Vatican, than to be confined to the retirement and obscurity of a private study. I have perused the first of these with an infinite pleasure, and a more than ordinary application, and have made some observations on it, which may not, I hope, prove unacceptable to the public, and however it may have been ridiculed and looked upon as an entertainment only for children and those of younger years, may be found perhaps a performance not unworthy the perusal of the judicious, and the model superior to either of those incomparable poems of Chevy Chase or the Children in the Wood. The design was undoubtedly to recommend virtue, and to show that however any one may labour under the disadvantages of stature and deformity, or the meanness of parentage, yet if his mind and actions are above the ordinary level, those very disadvantages that seem to depress him add a lustre to his character."—_A Comment upon the History of Tom Thumb_, 1711, p. 4.]

In the merry days of good King Arthur, there lived in one of the counties of England a ploughman and his wife. They were poor, but as the husband was a strong workman, and his partner an able assistant in all matters pertaining to the farmhouse, the dairy, and poultry, they managed to make a very good living, and would have been contented and happy, had Nature blessed them with any offspring. But although they had been married several years, no olive branch had yet appeared, and the worthy couple sadly lamented their hard lot.

There lived at this period, at the court of Arthur, a celebrated conjuror and magician, whose name was Merlin, the astonishment of the whole world, for he knew the past, present, and future, and nothing appeared impossible to him. Persons of all classes solicited his assistance and advice, and he was perfectly accessible to the humblest applicant. Aware of this, the ploughman, after a long consultation with his "better half," determined to consult him, and, for this purpose, travelled to the court, and, with tears in his eyes, beseeched Merlin that he might have a child, "even though it should be no bigger than his thumb."

Now Merlin had a strange knack of taking people exactly at their words, and without waiting for any more explicit declaration of the ploughman's wishes, at once granted his request. What was the poor countryman's astonishment to find, when he reached home, that his wife had given birth to a gentleman so diminutive, that it required a strong exercise of the vision to see him. His growth was equally wonderful, for—

In four minutes he grew so fast,
That he became as tall
As was the ploughman's thumb in length,
And so she did him call.

The christening of this little fellow was a matter of much ceremony, for the fairy queen, attended by all her company of elves, was present at the rite, and he formally received the name of Tom Thumb. Her majesty and attendants attired him with their choicest weeds, and his costume is worth a brief notice. His hat was made of a beautiful oak leaf; his shirt was composed of a fine spider's web, and his hose and doublet of thistle-down. His stockings were made with the rind of a delicate green apple, and the garters were two of the finest little hairs one can imagine, plucked from his mother's eyebrows. Shoes made of the skin of a little mouse, "and tanned most curiously," completed his fairy-like accoutrement.

It may easily be imagined that Tom was an object of astonishment and ridicule amongst the other children of the village, but they soon discovered that, notwithstanding his diminutive size, he was more than a match for them. It was a matter of very little consequence to Tom whether he lost or won, for if he found his stock of counters or cherrystones run low, he soon crept into the pockets of his companions, and replenished his store. It happened, on one occasion, that he was detected, and the aggrieved party punished Tom by shutting him up in a pin-box. The fairy boy was sadly annoyed at his imprisonment, but the next day he amply revenged himself; for hanging a row of glasses on a sunbeam, his companions thought they would follow his example, and, not possessing Tom's fairy gifts, broke the glasses, and were severely whipped, whilst the little imp was overjoyed at their misfortune, standing by, and laughing till the tears run down his face.

The boys were so irritated with the trick that had been played upon them, that Tom's mother was afraid to trust him any longer in their company. She accordingly kept him at home, and made him assist her in any light work suitable for so small a child. One day, while she was making a batter-pudding, Tom stood on the edge of the bowl, with a lighted candle in his hand, so that she might see it was properly made. Unfortunately, however, when her back was turned, Tom accidentally fell in the bowl, and his mother not missing him, stirred him up in the pudding "instead of minced fat," and put the pudding in the kettle with Tom in it. The poor woman paid dearly for her mistake, for Tom had no sooner felt the warm water, than he danced about like mad, and the pudding jumped about till she was nearly frightened out of her wits, and was glad to give it to a tinker who happened to be passing that way. He was thankful for a present so acceptable, and anticipated the pleasure of eating a better dinner than he had enjoyed for many a long day. But his joy was of short duration, for as he was getting over a stile, he happened to sneeze very hard, and Tom, who had hitherto remained silent, cried out, "Hollo, Pickens!" which so terrified the tinker, that he threw the pudding into the field, and scampered away as fast as ever he could go. The pudding tumbled to pieces with the fall, and Tom, creeping out, went home to his mother, who had been in great affliction on account of his absence.

A few days after this adventure, Tom accompanied his mother when she went into the fields to milk the cows, and for fear he should be blown away by the wind, she tied him to a thistle with a small piece of thread. While in this position, a cow came by, and swallowed him up:

But, being missed, his mother went,
Calling him everywhere:
Where art thou, Tom? where art thou, Tom?
Quoth he, Here, mother, here!

Within the red cow's stomach, here
Your son is swallowed up;
All which within her fearful heart
Much woful dolour put.

The cow, however, was soon tired of her subject, for Tom kicked and scratched till the poor animal was nearly mad, and at length tumbled him out of her mouth, when he was caught by his mother, and carried safely home.

A succession of untoward accidents followed. One day, Tom's father took him to the fields a-ploughing, and gave him "a whip made of a barley straw" to drive the oxen with, but the dwarf was soon lost in a furrow. While he was there, a great raven came and carried him an immense distance to the top of a giant's castle. The giant soon swallowed him up, but he made such a disturbance when he got inside, that the monster was soon glad to get rid of him, and threw the mischievous little imp full three miles into the sea. But he was not drowned, for he had scarcely reached the water before he was swallowed by a huge fish, which was shortly after captured, and sent to King Arthur by the fisherman for a new-year's gift. Tom was now discovered, and at once adopted by the king as his dwarf;

Long time he liv'd in jollity,
Belov'd of the court,
And none like Tom was so esteem'd
Amongst the better sort.

The queen was delighted with the little dwarf, and made him dance a galliard on her left hand. His performance was so satisfactory, that King Arthur gave him a ring which he wore about his middle like a girdle; and he literally "crept up the royal sleeve," requesting leave to visit his parents, and take them as much money as he could carry:

And so away goes lusty Tom
With threepence at his back,
A heavy burthen, which did make
His very bones to crack.

Tom remained three days with the old couple, and feasted upon a hazel-nut so extravagantly that he grew ill. His indisposition was not of long continuance, and Arthur was so anxious for the return of his dwarf, that his mother took a birding-trunk, and blew him to the court. He was received by the king with every demonstration of affection and delight, and tournaments were immediately proclaimed:

Thus he at tilt and tournament
Was entertained so,
That all the rest of Arthur's knights
Did him much pleasure show.

And good Sir Launcelot du Lake,
Sir Tristram and Sir Guy,
Yet none compar'd to brave Tom Thumb
In acts of chivalry.

Tom, however, paid dearly for his victories, for the exertions he made upon this celebrated occasion threw him into an illness which ultimately occasioned his death. But the hero was carried away by his godmother, the fairy queen, into the land of Faerie, and after the lapse of two centuries, he was suffered to return to earth, and again amuse men by his comical adventures. On one occasion, after his return from fairy-land, he jumped down a miller's throat, and played all manner of pranks on the poor fellow, telling him of all his misdeeds, for millers in former days were the greatest rogues, as everybody knows, that ever lived. A short time afterwards, Tom a second time is swallowed by a fish, which is caught, and set for sale at the town of Rye, where a steward haggles for it,—

Amongst the rest the steward came,
Who would the salmon buy,
And other fish that he did name,
But he would not comply.

The steward said, You are so stout,
If so, I'll not buy any.
So then bespoke Tom Thumb aloud,
"Sir, give the other penny!"

At this they began to stare,
To hear this sudden joke:
Nay, some were frighted to the heart,
And thought the dead fish spoke.

So the steward made no more ado,
But bid a penny more;
Because, he said, I never heard
A fish to speak before.

The remainder of the history, which details Tom's adventures with the queen, his coach drawn by six beautiful white mice, his escaping on the back of a butterfly, and his death in a spider's web, is undoubtedly a later addition to the original, and may therefore be omitted in this analysis. It is, in fact, a very poor imitation of the first part of the tale.

III.—GAME-RHYMES.

The most obvious method of arranging the rhymes employed in the amusements of children is to commence with the simple lines used by the nurse in the infantine toe, finger, and face-games, then proceeding to bo-peep, and concluding with the more complicated games, many of the latter possessing a dramatic character.

TOE-GAMES

Harry Whistle, Tommy Thistle,
Harry Whible, Tommy Thible,
And little Oker-bell.

A game with the five toes, each toe being touched in succession as these names are cried. "This song affords a proof of the connexion between the English and Scandinavian rhymes. The last line, as it now stands, appears to mean nothing. The word _oker_, however, is the A.-S. æcer, Icel. akr, Dan. ager, and Swed. åker, pronounced _oker_, a field, and the flower is the field-bell."—Mr. Stephens's MS. The following lines are also used in a play with the toes:

Shoe the colt, shoe!
Shoe the wild mare!
Put a sack on her back,
See if she'll bear.
If she'll bear,
We'll give her some grains;
If she won't bear,
We'll dash out her brains.

There are many various versions of this song in English, and it also exists in Danish (Thiele, iii. 133).

Skoe min best!
Hvem kan bedst?
Det kan vor Præst!
Nei mæn kan ban ej!
For det kan vor smed,
Som boer ved Leed.

Shoe my horse!
Who can best?
Why, our priest!
Not he, indeed!
But our smith can,
He lives at Leed.

Perhaps, however, this will be considered more like the common rhyme, "Robert Barnes, Fellow fine," printed in the 'Nursery Rhymes of England,' p. 166. An analogous verse is found in the nursery anthology of Berlin (Kuhn, Kinderlieder, 229), and in that of Sweden (Lilja, p. 14),—

Sko, sko min lille häst,
I morgon frosten blir' vår gäst,
Då bli' hästskorna dyra,
Två styfver för fyra.

Shoe, shoe my little horse,
To-morrow it will be frosty:
Then will horse-shoes be dear,
Two will cost a stiver.

English nurses use the following lines, when a child's shoe is tight, and they pat the foot to induce him to allow it to be tried on:

Cobbler, cobbler, mend my shoe,
Give it a stitch and that will do.
Here's a nail, and there's a prod,
And now my shoe is well shod.

Or, occasionally, these lines,—

This pig went to market,
Squeak, mouse, mouse, mousey;
Shoe, shoe, shoe the wild colt,
And here's my own doll dowsy.

The following lines are said by the nurse when moving the child's foot up and down,—

The dog of the kill,[35]
He went to the mill
To lick mill-dust:
The miller he came
With a stick on his back,—
Home, dog, home!
The foot behind,
The foot before:
When he came to a style,
Thus he jumped o'er.

[Footnote 35: A north-country term for _kiln_.]

THE FIVE FINGERS.

I do not recollect to have seen anywhere noticed the somewhat singular fact, that our ancestors had distinct names for each of the five fingers—the thumb being generally called a finger in old works. Yet such was the case; and it may not displease the reader to have these cognominations duly set forth in order, viz. _thumb_, _toucher_, _longman_, _leche-man_, _little-man_. This information is derived from a very curious MS. quoted in my Dictionary of Archaisms, p. 357; and the reasons for the names are thus set forth:—The first finger was called _toucher_ because "therewith men touch i-wis;" the second finger _longman_, "for longest finger it is," (this, I beg to say, is intended for rhyme). The third finger was called _leche-man_, because a leche or doctor tasted everything by means of it. This is very curious; though we find elsewhere another reason for this appellation, on account of the pulsation in it, which was at one time supposed to communicate directly with the heart. The other finger was, of course, called _littleman_ because it was the least of all. It is rather curious that some of these names should have survived the wrecks of time, and be still preserved in a nursery-rhyme; yet such is the fact; for one thus commences, the fingers being kept in corresponding movements:

Dance, thumbkin, dance,
Dance, thumbkin, dance;
Dance, ye merry men all around:
But thumbkin he can dance alone;
But thumbkin he can dance alone.

Dance, foreman, dance,
Dance foreman, dance;
Dance, ye merry men all around:
But thumbkin he can dance alone;
But thumbkin he can dance alone.

And so on, substituting in succession _middleone_, _longman_, or _middleman_, _ringman_, and _littleman_, and each verse terminating with "thumbkin he can dance alone." In some instances the original name for the third finger, _lecheman_, is preserved in the rhyme, but _ringman_ is most generally adopted.

It is worthy of remark too, that there is, even at the present day, amongst many of the old women of the Peak of Derbyshire, a strong belief in the superiority of _lecheman_ over _foreman_ in all matters of taste. They say that the forefinger is _venomous_, and that the superiority of the third is to be ascribed to its being possessed of a _nerve_; and as they appear to pay a most superstitious reverence to a nerve, whether in the finger, the tooth, or the ear, they do not fail to impress upon their daughters the importance of tasting anything of consequence with the third finger.

The names given to the fingers vary considerably in the different counties. In Essex they call them

Tom Thumbkin,
Bess Bumpkin,
Bill Wilkin,
Long Linkin,
And little Dick!

And in some parts of Yorkshire,

Tom Thumbkins,
Bill Wilkins,
Long Daniel,
Bessy Bobtail,
And little Dick.

Similar appellations for the fingers are common in Denmark. Thus, Thiele, iii. 136,—

Tommeltot,
Slikkepot,
Langemand,
Guldbrand,
Lille Peer Spilleman.

"Little Peer Spilleman" is "little Peter the fiddler," not a bad name for the little finger. A slight variation of this is current in Sweden,—

Tomme tott,
Slicke pott;
Långe man,
Hjertlig hand;
Lille, lille, lille, gullvive!

The following song for the four fingers is obtained from Lancashire:

This broke the barn,
This stole the corn,
This got none:
This went pinky-winky
All the way home!

FACE-SONGS.

Bo Peeper,
Nose dreeper,
Chin chopper,
White lopper,
Red rag,
And little gap.

These lines are said to a very young child, touching successively for each line the eye, nose, chin, tooth, tongue, and mouth. Sometimes the following version is used:

Brow brinky,
Eye winky,
Chin choppy,
Nose noppy,
Cheek cherry,
Mouth merry.

The most pleasing amusement of this kind is the game of "face-tapping," the nurse tapping each feature as she sings these lines,—

Here sits the lord mayor (_forehead_),
Here sit his two men (_eyes_);
Here sits the cock (_right cheek_),
Here sits the hen (_left cheek_).
Here sit the little chickens (_tip of nose_),
Here they run in (_mouth_);
Chinchopper, chinchopper,
Chinchopper, chin (_chucking the chin_)!

Similar songs are common in the North of Europe. A Danish one is given by Thiele, iii. 130:

Pandebeen,
Oisteen,
Næsebeen,
Mundelip,
Hagetip,
Dikke, dikke, dik.

Brow-bone,
Eye-stone,
Nose-bone,
Mouth-lip,
Chin-tip,
Dikke, dikke, dik!

The nurse, while repeating the last line, tickles the child under the chin. A German version, now common at Berlin, is printed by M. Kuhn, in his article on Kinderlieder, p. 237:

Kinnewippchen,
Rothlippchen,
Nasendrippchen,
Augenthränechen,
Ziep ziep Maränechen.

The following lines are repeated by the nurse when sliding her hand down the child's face:

My mother and your mother
Went over the way;
Said my mother to your mother,
It's chop-a-nose day!

KNEE-SONGS.

This is the way the ladies ride;
Tri, tre, tre, tree,
Tri, tre, tre, tree!
This is the way the ladies ride,
Tri, tre, tre, tri-tre-tre-tree!

This is the way the gentlemen ride;
Gallop-a-trot,
Gallop-a-trot!
This is the way the gentlemen ride,
Gallop-a gallop-a-trot!

This is the way the farmers ride,
Hobbledy-hoy,
Hobbledy-hoy!
This is the way the farmers ride,
Hobbledy hobbledy-hoy!

This is a famous song for a young child, the nurse dancing it on her knee, and gradually increasing the ascent of the foot. Similar songs, but differing considerably from the above, are given in the Swedish nursery ballads of Arwidsson, iii. 489-91; the Danish of Thiele, iii. 130-2, iv. 176-7; and the German Wunderhorn, iii. 60-1. The following pretty Swedish version is given from Mr. Stephens's MS. collections:

Hvem är det som rider?
Det är en fröken som rider:
Det går i sakta traf,
I sakta traf!

Hvem är det som rider?
Det är en Herre som rider:
Det går jo i galopp,
I galopp!

Hvem är det som rider?
Det är en Bonde som rider:
Det går så lunka på,
Lunka på!

And pray, who now is riding?
A lady it is that's riding:
And she goes with a gentle trot,
A gentle trot!

And pray, who now is riding?
A gentleman it is that's riding:
And he goes with a gallop-away,
A gallop-away!

And pray, who now is riding?
A farmer it is that's riding:
And he goes with a jog along,
A jog along!

There are a great number of English variations of the above song, differing very materially from one another. A second version may be worth giving:

Here goes my lord,
A trot! a trot! a trot! a trot!

Here goes my lady,
A canter! a canter! a canter! a canter!

Here goes my young master,
Jockey-hitch! jockey-hitch! jockey-hitch! jockey-hitch!

Here goes my young miss,
An amble! an amble! an amble! an amble!

The footman lags behind to tipple ale and wine,
And goes gallop, a gallop, a gallop, to make up his time.

Here are other knee-songs:

Little Shon a Morgan,
Shentleman of Wales,
Came riding on a nanny-goat,
Selling of pigs' tails.

Chicky, cuckoo, my little duck,
See-saw, sickna downy;
Gallop a trot, trot, trot,
And hey for Dublin towny!

BO-PEEP.

The children's game of bo-peep is as old as the hills, hiding from each other, and saying,—

Bo-Peep, Little Bo-Peep:
Now's the time for hide and seek.

But in ancient times the amusement appears to have been even of a simpler character, and adopted by nurses before children are capable of seeking recreation for themselves. Sherwood describes bo-peep as a child's game, in which the nurse conceals the head of the infant for an instant, and then removes the covering quickly. The Italians say _far bau bau_, or _baco, baco_, which Douce thinks is sufficient to show a connexion between the nurse's _boggle_ or _buggy-bo_, and the present expression. Shakespeare has condescended to notice the game, unless, indeed, we suppose the term to have passed into a proverb. The reader will recollect what Butler says of Sir Edward Kelly, the celebrated conjuror,—

Kelly did all his feats upon
The devil's looking-glass, a stone:
Where, _playing with him at bo-peep_,
He solv'd all problems ne'er so deep.