Tom Browns School Days | Page 8

as I can see, sir," says mine host, handing back our
glass, "seeing as this here is the Blawing Stwun, his self," putting his
hand on a square lump of stone, some three feet and a half high,
perforated with two or three queer holes, like petrified antediluvian
rat-holes, which lies there close under the oak, under our very nose. We
are more than ever puzzled, and drink our second glass of ale,
wondering what will come next. "Like to hear un, sir?" says mine host,
setting down Toby Philpot on the tray, and resting both hands on the
"Stwun." We are ready for anything; and he, without waiting for a reply,
applies his mouth to one of the ratholes. Something must come of it, if
he doesn't burst. Good heavens! I hope he has no apoplectic tendencies.
Yes, here it comes, sure enough, a gruesome sound between a moan
and a roar, and spreads itself away over the valley, and up the hillside,
and into the woods at the back of the house, a ghost-like, awful voice.
"Um do say, sir," says mine host, rising purple-faced, while the moan is
still coming out of the Stwun, "as they used in old times to warn the
country-side by blawing the Stwun when the enemy was a-comin', and
as how folks could make un heered then for seven mile round;
leastways, so I've heered Lawyer Smith say, and he knows a smart sight
about them old times." We can hardly swallow Lawyer Smith's seven
miles; but could the blowing of the stone have been a summons, a sort
of sending the fiery cross round the neighbourhood in the old times?
What old times? Who knows? We pay for our beer, and are thankful.
"And what's the name of the village just below, landlord?"
"Kingstone Lisle, sir."
"Fine plantations you've got here?"
"Yes, sir; the Squire's 'mazing fond of trees and such like."

"No wonder. He's got some real beauties to be fond of. Good- day,
landlord."
"Good-day, sir, and a pleasant ride to 'ee."
And now, my boys, you whom I want to get for readers, have you had
enough? Will you give in at once, and say you're convinced, and let me
begin my story, or will you have more of it? Remember, I've only been
over a little bit of the hillside yet-- what you could ride round easily on
your ponies in an hour. I'm only just come down into the Vale, by
Blowing Stone Hill; and if I once begin about the Vale, what's to stop
me? You'll have to hear all about Wantage, the birthplace of Alfred,
and Farringdon, which held out so long for Charles the First (the Vale
was near Oxford, and dreadfully malignant--full of Throgmortons,
Puseys, and Pyes, and such like; and their brawny retainers). Did you
ever read Thomas Ingoldsby's "Legend of Hamilton Tighe"? If you
haven't, you ought to have. Well, Farringdon is where he lived, before
he went to sea; his real name was Hamden Pye, and the Pyes were the
great folk at Farringdon. Then there's Pusey. You've heard of the Pusey
horn, which King Canute gave to the Puseys of that day, and which the
gallant old squire, lately gone to his rest (whom Berkshire freeholders
turned out of last Parliament, to their eternal disgrace, for voting
according to his conscience), used to bring out on high days, holidays,
and bonfire nights. And the splendid old cross church at Uffington, the
Uffingas town. How the whole countryside teems with Saxon names
and memories! And the old moated grange at Compton, nestled close
under the hillside, where twenty Marianas may have lived, with its
bright water-lilies in the moat, and its yew walk, "the cloister walk,"
and its peerless terraced gardens. There they all are, and twenty things
beside, for those who care about them, and have eyes. And these are the
sort of things you may find, I believe, every one of you, in any
common English country neighbourhood.
Will you look for them under your own noses, or will you not? Well,
well, I've done what I can to make you; and if you will go gadding over
half Europe now, every holidays, I can't help it. I was born and bred a
west-country man, thank God! a Wessex man, a citizen of the noblest
Saxon kingdom of Wessex, a regular "Angular Saxon," the very soul of
me adscriptus glebae. There's nothing like the old country-side for me,
and no music like the twang of the real old Saxon tongue, as one gets it

fresh from the veritable chaw in the White Horse Vale; and I say with
"Gaarge Ridler," the old west-country yeoman, -
"Throo aall the waarld owld Gaarge would bwoast, Commend me to
merry owld England