But them things are dying out, as I tell Solomon every time he comes round; there's no voices like what there used to be, and there's nobody remembers what we remember, if it isn't the old crows.«

»Ay, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father come into these parts, don't you, Mr. Macey?« said the landlord.

»I should think I did,« said the old man, who had now gone through that complimentary process necessary to bring him up to the point of narration; »and a fine old gentleman he was – as fine, and finer nor the Mr. Lammeter as now is. He came from a bit north'ard, so far as I could ever make out. But there's nobody rightly knows about those parts: only it couldn't be far north'ard, nor much different from this country, for he brought a fine breed o' sheep with him, so there must be pastures there, and everything reasonable. We heared tell as he'd sold his own land to come and take the Warrens, and that seemed odd for a man as had land of his own, to come and rent a farm in a strange place. But they said it was along of his wife's dying; though there's reasons in things as nobody knows on – that's pretty much what I've made out; yet some folks are so wise, they'll find you fifty reasons straight off, and all the while the real reason's winking at 'em in the corner, and they niver see't. Howsomever, it was soon seen as we'd got a new parish'ner as know'd the rights and customs o' things, and kep a good house, and was well looked on by everybody. And the young man – that's the Mr. Lammeter as now is, for he'd niver a sister – soon begun to court Miss Osgood, that's the sister o' the Mr. Osgood as now is, and a fine handsome lass she was – eh, you can't think – they pretend this young lass is like her, but that's the way wi' people as don't know what come before 'em. I should know, for I helped the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was, I helped him marry 'em.«

Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narrative in instalments, expecting to be questioned according to precedent.

»Ay, and a partic'lar thing happened, didn't it, Mr. Macey, so as you were likely to remember that marriage?« said the landlord, in a congratulatory tone.

»I should think there did – a very partic'lar thing,« said Mr. Macey, nodding sideways. »For Mr. Drumlow – poor old gentleman, I was fond on him, though he'd got a bit confused in his head, what wi' age and wi' taking a drop o' summat warm when the service come of a cold morning. And young Mr. Lammeter, he'd have no way but he must be married in Janiwary, which, to be sure, 's a unreasonable time to be married in, for it isn't like a christening or a burying, as you can't help; and so Mr. Drumlow – poor old gentleman, I was fond on him – but when he come to put the questions, he put 'em by the rule o' contrairy, like, and he says, ›Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded wife?‹ says he, and then he says, ›Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded husband?‹ says he. But the partic'larest thing of all is, as nobody took any notice on it but me, and they answered straight off ›yes,‹ like as if it had been me saying ›Amen‹ i' the right place, without listening to what went before.«

»But you knew what was going on well enough, didn't you, Mr. Macey? You were live enough, eh?« said the butcher.

»Lor bless you!« said Mr. Macey, pausing, and smiling in pity at the impotence of his hearer's imagination – »why, I was all of a tremble: it was as if I'd been a coat pulled by the two tails, like; for I couldn't stop the parson, I couldn't take upon me to do that; and yet I said to myself, I says, ›Suppose they shouldn't be fast married, 'cause the words are contrairy?‹ and my head went working like a mill, for I was allays uncommon for turning things over and seeing all round 'em; and I says to myself, ›Is't the meanin' or the words as makes folks fast i' wedlock?‹ For the parson meant right, and the bride and bridegroom meant right. But then, when I come to think on it, meanin' goes but a little way i' most things, for you may mean to stick things together and your glue may be bad, and then where are you? And so I says to mysen, ›It isn't the meanin', it's the glue.‹ And I was worreted as if I'd got three bells to pull at once, when we went into the vestry, and they begun to sign their names. But where's the use o' talking? – you can't think what goes on in a 'cute man's inside.«

»But you held in for all that, didn't you, Mr. Macey?« said the landlord.

»Ay, I held in tight till I was by mysen wi' Mr. Drumlow, and then I out wi' everything, but respectful, as I allays did. And he made light on it, and he says, ›Pooh, pooh, Macey, make yourself easy,‹ he says; ›it's neither the meaning nor the words – it's the regester does it – that's the glue.‹ So you see he settled it easy; for parsons and doctors know everything by heart, like, so as they aren't worreted wi' thinking what's the rights and wrongs o' things, as I'n been many and many's the time.