The Parent's Assistant; Or, Stories for Children

'Mr. Drury, mazarin blue; fancy cap

'Mr. Davis, slate-colour and straw

'Mr. Routh, pink and silver; Spanish hat

'Mr. Curtis, purple; fancy cap

'Mr. Lloyd, blue; ditto

'At the conclusion of the ceremony the Royal Family returned to Windsor, and the boys were all sumptuously entertained at the tavern at Salt Hill. About six in the evening all the boys returned in the order of procession, and, marching round the great square of Eton, were dismissed. The Captain then paid his respects to the Royal Family, at the Queen's Lodge, Windsor, previously to his departure for King's College, Cambridge, to defray which expense the produce of the Montem was presented to him.

'The day concluded by a brilliant promenade of beauty, rank, and fashion on Windsor Terrace, enlivened by the performance of several bands of music.

'The origin of the procession is from the custom by which the Manor was held.

'The custom of hunting the Ram belonged to Eton College, as well as the custom of Salt; but it was discontinued by Dr. Cook, late Dean of Ely. Now this custom we know to have been entered on the register of the Royal Abbey of Bee, in Normandy, as one belonging to the Manor of East or Great Wrotham, in Norfolk, given by Ralph de Toni to the Abbey of Bee, and was as follows: – When the harvest was finished, the tenants were to have half an acre of barley, and a ram let loose; and if they caught him he was their own to make merry with, but if he escaped from them he was the Lord's. The Etonians, in order to secure the ram, houghed him in the Irish fashion, and then attacked him with great clubs. The cruelty of this proceeding brought it into disuse, and now it exists no longer. —See Register of the Royal Abbey of Bee, folio 58.

'After the dissolution of the alien priories, in 1414, by the Parliament of Leicester, they remained in the Crown till Henry VI., who gave Wrotham Manor to Eton College; and if the Eton Fellows would search, they would perhaps find the Manor in their possession, that was held by the custom of Salt.'

Men

Alderman Bursal, Father of young Bursal.

Mr. Newington, Landlord of the Inn at Salt Hill.

Farmer Hearty.

A Waiter and crowd of Eton Lads.

Women

The Marchioness of Piercefield, Mother of Lord John.

Lady Violetta – her Daughter, a Child of six or seven years old.

Mrs. Talbot.

Louisa Talbot, her Daughter.

Miss Bursal, Daughter to the Alderman.

Mrs. Newington, Landlady of the Inn at Salt Hill.

Sally, a Chambermaid.

Patty, a Country Girl.

Pipe and Tabor, and Dance of Peasants

ACT THE FIRST

SCENE I

The Bar of the 'Windmill Inn' at Salt Hill

Mr. and Mrs. Newington, the Landlord and Landlady

Landlady. 'Tis an unpossibility, Mr. Newington; and that's enough. Say no more about it; 'tis an unpossibility in the natur of things. (She ranges jellies, etc., in the Bar.) And pray, do you take your great old-fashioned tankard, Mr. Newington, from among my jellies and confectioneries.

Landlord (takes his tankard and drinks). Anything for a quiet life. If it is an unpossibility, I've no more to say; only, for the soul of me, I can't see the great unpossibility, wife.

Landlady. Wife, indeed! – wife! – wife! wife every minute.

Landlord. Heyday! Why, what a plague would you have me call you? The other day you quarrelled with me for calling you Mrs. Landlady.

Landlady. To be sure I did, and very proper in me I should. I've turned off three waiters and five chambermaids already, for screaming after me Mrs. Landlady!Mrs. Landlady! But 'tis all your ill manners.

Landlord. Ill manners! Why, if I may be so bold, if you are not Mrs. Landlady, in the name of wonder what are you?

Landlady. Mrs. Newington, Mr. Newington.

Landlord (drinks). Mrs. Newington, Mr. Newington drinks your health; for I suppose I must not be landlord any more in my own house (shrugs).

Landlady. Oh, as to that, I have no objections nor impediments to your being called Landlord. You look it, and become it very proper.

Landlord. Why, yes, indeed, thank my tankard, I do look it, and become it, and am nowise ashamed of it; but every one to their mind, as you, wife, don't fancy the being called Mrs. Landlady.

Landlady. To be sure I don't. Why, when folks hear the old-fashioned cry of Mrs. Landlady! Mrs. Landlady! who do they expect, think you, to see, but an overgrown, fat, featherbed of a woman coming waddling along with her thumbs sticking on each side of her apron, o' this fashion? Now, to see me coming, nobody would take me to be a landlady.

Landlord. Very true, indeed, wife – Mrs. Newington, I mean – I ask pardon; but now to go on with what we were saying about the unpossibility of letting that old lady and the civil-spoken young lady there above have them there rooms for another day.

Landlady. Now, Mr. Newington, let me hear no more about that old gentlewoman and that civil-spoken young lady. Fair words cost nothing; and I've a notion that's the cause they are so plenty with the young lady. Neither o' them, I take it, by what they've ordered since their coming into the house, are such grand folk that one need be so petticular about them.

Landlord. Why, they came only in a chaise and pair, to be sure; I can't deny that.

Landlady. But, bless my stars! what signifies talking? Don't you know, as well as I do, Mr. Newington, that to-morrow is Eton Montem, and that if we had twenty times as many rooms and as many more to the back of them, it would not be one too many for all the company we've a right to expect, and those the highest quality of the land? Nay, what do I talk of to-morrow? isn't my Lady Piercefield and suite expected? and, moreover, Mr. and Miss Bursal's to be here, and will call for as much in an hour as your civil-spoken young lady in a twelvemonth, I reckon. So, Mr. Newington, if you don't think proper to go up and inform the ladies above that the Dolphin rooms are not for them, I must speak myself, though 'tis a thing I never do when I can help it.

Landlord (aside). She not like to speak! (Aloud.) My dear, you can speak a power better than I can; so take it all upon yourself, if you please; for, old-fashioned as I and my tankard here be, I can't make a speech that borders on the uncivil order, to a lady like, for the life and lungs of me. So, in the name of goodness, do you go up, Mrs. Newington.

Landlady. And so I will, Mr. Newington. Help ye! Civilities and rarities are out o' season for them that can't pay for them in this world; and very proper.

    (Exit Landlady.)

Landlord. And very proper! Ha! who comes yonder? The Eton chap who wheedled me into lending him my best hunter last year, and was the ruination of him; but that must be paid for, wheedle or no wheedle; and, for the matter of wheedling, I'd stake this here Mr. Wheeler, that is making up to me, do you see, against e'er a boy, or hobbledehoy, in all Eton, London, or Christendom, let the other be who he will.

Enter Wheeler

Wheeler. A fine day, Mr. Newington.