lately gave us.  It relates to the adventures of one Roger Plowman, a Cotswold man who went to London, and is taken from a book, compiled some years ago by some Ciceter men, entitled “Roger Plowman’s Excursion to London.”  It was read at a harvest home given by old Mr. Peregrine in his huge barn, an entertainment which lasted from six o’clock till twelve.  I trust none of my readers will be any the worse for reading it.  Tom Peregrine declares that when he first gave it at a penny reading some years ago, one or two of the audience had to be carried out in hysterics—­they laughed so much; and another man fell backwards off his chair, owing to the extreme comicality of it.  The truth is, our versatile keeper is a wonderful reader, and speaking as he does the true Gloucestershire accent, in the same way as some of the squires spoke it a century or more ago, it is extremely amusing to hear him copying the still broader dialect of the labouring class.  He has a tremendous sense of humour, and his epithet for anything amusing is “Foolish.” “’Tis a splendid tale; ’tis so desperate foolish,” he would often say.

ROGER PLOWMAN’S JOURNEY TO LONDON.

Monday marnin’ I wur to start early.  Aal the village know’d I wur a-gwain, an’ sum sed as how I shood be murthur’d avoor I cum back.  On Sunday I called at the manur ‘ouse an’ asked cook if she hed any message vor Sairy Jane.  She sed: 

“Tell Sairy Jane to look well arter ’e, Roger, vor you’ll get lost, tuck in, an’ done vor.”

“Rest easy in yer mind, cook,” I zed; “Roger is toughish, an’ he’ll see thet the honour o’ the old county is well show’d out and kep’ up.”

Cook wished me a pleasant holiday.

I started early on Monday marnin’, ’tarmined to see as much as possible. 
I wur to walk into Cizzeter, an’ vram thur goo by train to Lunnon.

I wur delighted wi’ Cizzeter.  The shops an’ buildin’s round the market-pleace wur vine; an’ the church wur grand; didn’t look as how he wur built by the same sort of peeple as put the shops up.

When the Roomans an’ anshunt Britons went to church arm-in-arm it wur always Whitsuntide, an’ arter church vetched their banners out wi’ brass eagles on, an’ hed a morris dance in the market-pleace.  The anshunt Britons never hed any tailory done, but thay wur all artists wi’ the paint pot.  The Consarvatives painted thurselves bloo, and the Radicals yaller, an’ thay as danced the longest, the Roomans sent to Parlyment to rool the roost.

I wur show’d the pleace wur the peeple started vor Lunnon.  I walked in, an’ thur wur a hole in the purtition, an’ I seed the peeple a-payin’ thur money vor bits o’ pasteboord.  I axed the mon if he could take I to Lunnon.

He sed, “Fust, second, or thurd?”

I sed, “Fust o’ course, not arter; vor Sairy Jane ull be waitin’.”

He sed ’twer moor ner a pound to pay.