I was interested to read in Mr. Warde Fowler’s Kingham Old and New an account of a peculiar ceremony—­called “Skimmington,” by Mr. Hardy, in his Mayor of Casterbridge—­which took place in Kingham village.  I have known of two similar cases, one in Surrey and one at Aldington, under the name of “rough music.”  The Kingham case was quite parallel with that at Aldington, being a demonstration of popular disapproval of the conduct of a woman resident, in matters arising out of matrimonial differences.

The outraged neighbours collect near the dwelling of the delinquent, having provided themselves with old trays, pots and pans, and anything by means of which a horrible din can be raised, and proceed to serenade the offender.  To be the subject of such a demonstration is regarded as a signal disgrace and a most emphatic mark of popular odium.  Mr. Warde Fowler tells me, on the authority of a German book on marriage, etc., that “the same sort of din is made at marriage in some parts of Europe to drive evil spirits away from the newly married pair.”  Possibly, therefore, the custom among our own villagers may have originated with the same idea, and they may formerly have taken the charitable view that evil spirits were responsible for evil deeds, and that their exorcism was a neighbourly duty.

The holiday outings I gave my men were a quid pro quo for some hours of overtime in the hay-making, and included a day’s wages, all expenses, and a supply of food.  They generally went to a large town where an agricultural show was in progress, but I think the sea trips to Ilfracombe and Weston-super-Mare were the most popular, offering as they did much greater novelty.  I have a vivid recollection of the preparation of the rations on the previous night:  a vast joint of beef nicely roasted and got cold before operations commenced, my wife and daughter making the sandwiches, while I cut up the beef in the kitchen, sometimes in my shirt-sleeves on a hot summer night; mountains of loaves of bread, great slices of cake, and pounds of cheese, completed the provisions.  The rations were wrapped in separate papers and placed in a hipbath, covered with a cloth, and finally kept in a cool building, whence each man took his portion at early dawn.  For the sea trips the train took the party to Gloucester and Sharpness, where they embarked upon the steamer.

Many and thrilling were the tales I heard next day; the sea was fairly smooth until they reached the Bristol Channel, but then, if they met a south-west wind, the vessel began to roll, and jovial faces looked thoughtful.  I must not dwell upon the delightful horrors of the voyage on such occasions; they were accepted with good-humour and regarded as part of the show, but it was curious that not one of the narrators himself suffered the fate that he so graphically described as the portion of the others.  Arrived at their destination, they inspected the town, watched the people on the piers and parades, and the children playing on the sands.  The latter created the greatest interest, busy with their spades and buckets, or, as one man expressed it, “little jobs o’ draining and summat!”