The great success of the festival (or “pastime,” as it is called in the neighbourhood) which was held on White Horse Hill on the 17th and 18th of September, 1857, to celebrate the “Scouring of the Horse,” according to immemorial custom, led the Committee of Management to think that our fellow-county-men at least, if not our countrymen generally, would be glad to have some little printed memorial, which should comprise not only an account of the doings on the Hill on the late occasion, but should

“Richard,” said our governor, as I entered his room at five o’clock on the afternoon of the 31st of August, 1857, running his pen down the columns of the salary-book, “your quarter-day to-day, I think? Let me see; you were raised to £— a-year in February last,—so much for quarter’s salary, and so much for extra work. I am glad to see that you have been working so steadily; you’ll deserve your holiday, and enjoy it all the more. You’ll find that all right, I think;” and he pushed a small paper ac

Now I do pity all the lords and great gentle-folk with nothing in the world to do except to find out how to make things pleasant, and new places to go to, and new ways of spending their money; at least, I always pity them at the beginning of my holiday, though perhaps when one first comes back to eleven months’ hard grind in town the feeling isn’t quite so strong. At any rate, I wouldn’t have changed places with the greatest lord in the land on Tuesday morning, September 15th. I was up as soon a

Nearly a thousand years ago, in the year of our Lord 871, the great battle of Ashdown was fought; but, in order to give you a true idea of its importance, I must begin my story some years earlier; that is to say, in the year of our Lord 866. In this year Æthelbert, king of the West Saxons, died, having ruled his kingdom for five years in peace, with the love of his subjects; and Æthelred, his next brother, who succeeded him, buried his body in Sherborne Minster. In this year Alfred, the younger

“Well, here’s the Castle, you see,” said he, when we had walked a few hundred yards, and were come quite to the top of the hill. “Where, Sir?” said I, staring about. I had half expected to see an old stone building with a moat, and round towers and battlements, and a great flag flying; and that the old gentleman would have walked across the drawbridge, and cried out, “What ho! warder!” and that we should have been waited upon at lunch by an old white-headed man in black velvet, with a silver cha

Now when we had fairly lighted up, and Joe had mixed us a glass of gin and water a piece, I felt that it was a very good time for me to have a talk about the White Horse and the scourings. I wasn’t quite satisfied in my mind with all that the old gentleman had told me on the hill; and, as I felt sure that Mr. Warton was a scholar, and would find out directly if there was any thing wrong in what I had taken down, I took out my note-book, and reminded Joe that he had promised to listen to it over

Next morning I got up early, for I wasn’t quite easy in my mind about riding Joe’s old horse, and so I thought I would just go round and look at him, and ask the fogger something about his ways. It was a splendid morning, not a cloud to be seen. I found the fogger strapping away at the horses. Everybody had been up and about since daylight, to get their day’s work done, so that they might get away early to the pastime. All the cows had been milked and turned out again, and Joe was away in the fi

Master George slipped away from me somehow, after the pig-race, so I strolled up into the Castle again. The sports were all over, so the theatres and shows were making a greater noise than ever, but I didn’t feel inclined to go to any of them, and kept walking slowly round the bank on the opposite side, and looking down at the fair. In a minute or two I heard cheering, and saw an open carriage, with postilions, driving out of the Castle, and three or four young ladies and a gentleman or two cant

Miss Lucy couldn’t be spared to go up to the hill on the second day of the pastime, for there was some great operation going on in the cheese room, which she had to overlook. So Mr. Warton drove me up in the four-wheel. I was very anxious to find out, if I could, whether there was any thing more between him and Miss Lucy than friendship, but it wasn’t at all an easy matter. First I began speaking of the young gentleman who had taken my place in the four-wheel; for I thought that would be a touch

Leviticus xxiii. v. 1, 2.—And the Lord spake unto Moses, saying, Speak unto the children of Israel, and say unto them, Concerning the feasts of the Lord which ye shall proclaim to be holy convocations, even these are my feasts. “These are my feasts,” said God to the nation He was educating; “keep these feasts, for they are mine.” Now, what was the nature of these feasts, my brethren, which God called his? The Bible leaves us in no doubt about them. They were certain seasons set apart in every ye

The earliest authentic historical notices of the White Horse are, so far as I am aware,— 1st. A Cartulary of the Abbey of Abingdon, now in the British Museum, of the time of Henry II., the exact date of it being, it is believed, A.D. 1171. It runs as follows: “Consuetudinis apud Anglos tunc erat, ut monachi qui vellent pecuniarum patrimoniorum qui forent susceptibiles, ipsisque fruentes quomodo placeret dispensarent. Unde et in Abbendonia duo, Leofricus et Godricus Cild appellati, quorum unus Go

Medeshamstede, however, was restored with great splendour in the year 963. The account in the Saxon Chronicle is so illustrative of what was going on in England at the time, that I think I may be allowed to give it, especially as the restoration was the work of a Vale of White Horse man, Ethelwold, Abbot of Abingdon, who was in this year made Bishop of Winchester. Edgar was king, and Dunstan Archbishop of Canterbury—Ethelwold, after strong measures at Winchester, (where “he drove the clerks out

There are four spots in Berkshire which claim the honour of being the Œscendun of the chroniclers, where Æthelred and Alfred gained their great victory; they are Ilsley, Ashamstead, Aston in the parish of Bluberry, and Ashdown, close to White Horse Hill. Now it seems clear that Ashdown was, in Saxon times, the name of a district stretching over a considerable portion of the Berkshire chalk range, and it is quite possible that all of the above sites may have been included in that district; theref

Wise (see p. 35) says he thinks he has discovered the place of burial of King Basreg, Bagseeg (or whatever his name might be, for it is given in seven or eight different ways in the chroniclers), in Wayland Smith’s cave, which place he describes as follows:— “The place is distinguished by a parcel of stones set on edge, and enclosing a piece of ground raised a few feet above the common level, which every one knows was the custom of the Danes, as well as of some other northern nations. And Wormiu

As an illustration of one of the methods by which traditions are kept up in the country, I insert some verses written by Job Cork, an Uffington man of two generations back, who was a shepherd on White Horse Hill for fifty years. There is no merit in the lines beyond quaintness; but they are written in the sort of jingle which the poor remember; they have lived for fifty years and more, and will probably, in quiet corners of the Vale, outlive the productions of much more celebrated versemakers th

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