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Please Ban Singeing in Buckingham’s Streets, Councillors!

From the Bucks Gazette, November 1, 1832

A very serious accident occurred at Buckingham on Thursday week. A boy of the name of Pitkin, about twelve years old, was sent by Mr. W. Stuchbery with a colt to be shod, the poor boy was particularly desired not to ride it, but he unfortunately did not attend to this order; rode it to the smith’s and was again riding him back, when he took fright of a pig singed in the public street, and threw the poor lad, who, falling on his head, fractured his skull. M. Edmund Southam, very humanely proffered his services to scalp him, but we fear, without its proving successful, as the boy lies in a dreadful, restless, and delirious state, with but little hope of recovery. Surely this accident will rouse the borough authorities to put some restrictions of thus dressing pigs in the open streets, it being obvious to every one that danger may arise to persons either on horseback or in harness.

Historical Context:

Mr. W. Stuchbery was almost certainly a forebear of Councillor Robin Stuchbury’s family. In 1849, William Stuchbery was the Guardian in Radclive, responsible to the  Buckingham Union Workhouse for the poor and destitute of his parish.

After the fire of 1725, Buckingham was rebuilt upon its Mediaeval town plan and foundations. It was high density, urban living, leaving little room for grounds and gardens. Public open space was often pressed into use,  as in this tragic  example, to light a big fire upon which to singe the hairs of a freshly slaughtered pig. No doubt, washing the carcase in a “tin” bath of cold water would have followed. In Mediaeval iconography December was represented as Pig Singeing Month: the demand for flitches of bacon rose towards Christmas when they would be suspended by the hearth to provide the family’s meat through the cold months of winter.

Mr Edmund Southam was Buckingham’s leading surgeon. He was a highly, respected, devout Quaker who operated from his house in Castle Street. Scalping was an extreme remedy, very much kill or cure. The scalp would be removed and the exposed skull roughened. Small holes might be bored into the skull. Occasionally, new tissue and skin formed over the wound and the patient made a forever hairless recovery.

Authority in Buckingham lay with its Bailiff and Burgesses. They didn’t react to the tragedy for they were unaccustomed to taking decisions as they were the Duke of Buckingham’s  “place” men, in position for ceremonial purposes but  having neither a budget nor the means to effect action. As far as I know, pig singeing in the streets of Buckingham has yet to be banned but in its day it was as dangerous as using a mobile phone whilst driving a vehicle in 2021

written by OLD SALL in TINGEWICK for the BUCK'NAM 'TISER in 1911 (best READ ALOUD!)

I now takes up pen to rite you these few lines to tell you about me sun goin’ for a sojer. An’ altho’ I never should ’ave thought it, I’m blest if they didn’t let 'im ’ave one. 

Well, it wer just like this. But must tell you fust tho’ that alluss ’ad dred of any of mine goin’ for sojers, altho’ the folks allus did say as me ole man would ’ave made as fine a sojer ever was, ’speshully if ’is staring part’ ad bin put t’other way about ’e would ’ave  bin one the finest chested men in the army. Then of course you can’t ’under, “like father, like son.” But I never could see why they should want sojers to be like them there pigens as blow ther chests rite up into ther necks as if they wer agoing to bust. Spouters I think they calls ’em, an spouters necks generally look if they wer going to bust. Well, as I wer going to tell yer, it were like this: Just as me an’ one of me nabers wer agoing to sit down to a erly cup of tay, cos we ’adnt 'ad any dinner, in comes our Lively from plow for 'is dinner, an’ as I was agettmg it ou ‘e sest “Mother, I joined the tarryers last nite.” What, I sed; what, did somebody get selling you pup. “Pup be blowed,” ’e sed, “I say I’ve bin an’ joined the tarryers.” So I sed well you needn’t 'ave done that, for you wer tarryer enuf afore. That begun to get ’is mad up a bit, and ’e oilers out, “Can’t y’ understand, I say I've bin an’ joined the tarryers—them thear new lot of sojers. It’s new naame they’ve give ’em; they used to call ’em the Follen Teers.” 

Talk about bein’ struck all of hep. There I wer like a ninepin; I fell flop down into me cheer. I couldn’t touch a bit of tay, I wer that upset .  An If they ’ad  bin in any speshul need of Follen Teers just then they could ’ave ’ad ’em the bukut full. “ Doan’t go an’ upset yerself so”, sed me good naber, “for you ent very strong at the best of times”. Well, to be sure, it ’as made me feel bad, I sed; I be all a shaake now. I feel that upset I doant no what to do, think as one o’ my children should want to be a sojer. Whatever ull ’e do, an’ ’im never bin away from ‘um in ’is life. “Well, ’uman,” sed me naber, “just ’ave a cup of tay or you’ll be downright bad.” I sed well I feel as I must raley have summat, I feel that ere faint. Here, Mrs., you just take that bottle an’ go down strit an fetch me a little drap of summut, an' I felt a bit better arter I 'ad ’ad a drap. But, lor bless your soul, I couldn’t touch a bit to et. An’ there sat that there varmint agetting ’is dinner down, ’im unconsarned as could be. There I’d got ’im nice dinner as any chap need wish sit down to; a good bacon dumplin’— ’um killed—about a foot long, clanger ’e calls ’em, an’ cabbage an’ taters. I’ll bet them sojer chaps wunt feed ’um like that; ’owever, if they does, they’ll ’ope ‘e’ll stop a wik instead of a fortnit. But I ’as ’eard say as that sort livin’ breeds good sojers. Well then ’e finished up with a few bread and lard sanwijes an’ two or three cups of tay. But a young growin’ chap does want a good livin', an’ my boy ’ull be 18 come next August; ’e were born the Saturday before the Feust [annual Tingewick Feast]. Ah! I sed, you’ll find the difference when you a sojer an’ ’ave to go away to ’em forin parts. “Yah,” ’e sed, “Tarryers doant ’ave to go to  Forin parts.” 

Arter ‘e wer gon there I sat an’ thought all the dredful things until it were time to get the ole man’s supper. ‘Ow to tell ’im I  didn’t no, for I expected ’e’d swear so. But, ’owever, ’e took it in very good part, for I sed  well man what should y’ think, if our Lively ent bin and jined the Tarryers rigment. An’ ‘e  sed as ’ow ‘e  wer one of the best at Tarrying ’e noed. I wonder whear they ud send ’im to, the old man sed, “Oh, ’ell still be able to come in an say ‘Where’s me mother.’ That just does rile the ole man, cos when any of the children come in they alius say “Where’s me mother” if they can't see me about, and never say “Where’s me dad.” But, ’owever, ’e was a bit matey an’ in a very good yumer, and ’e xplained as the proper name to give these sojers wer the Tarry-toe-aneels. Then ’e told as there wer a chap called “‘All Dane” as was a tryin’ to get a lot sojers for ’um defence. An I sed I didn’t like them foriners much, wan ’e any relashun that “ dane” as lived 'ear a few ’under’d ’ears ago—King Kute, the Dane I think they called 'im, ’im as begun orderin’ the sea about. An’ did they want these Tarry-toe-an-eels to go  and sweep it back cos it disobeyed orders. Then he said I was about silly as they made ’em. Then ’e sed they wanted the sojers  to keep the Forin chaps away. Mr. ‘All Dane an' some others, who ’ad very jumpy nerves, were afraid as ’ow a few Jerman Bands mite come over some dark nite. An’ I sed well that would be nerve shaking, but there was one thing, we shouldn't able to lodge any of ’em, as our beds are groaning with over wate now, but there wer plenty of folks in the place as would give ’em a most ’arty welcome, for some dearly love every man but a Englishman. An’ it ‘as bin sed ’ow they be goin’ to 'ave all locks an’ bolts took off ther doors and things, an’ keep open 'ouse, and that’s why they doant want any sojers becos they want to keep open country. “But I tell yer,” said the ole man, “this Mr. ‘All Dane is getting these Tarry-toe-an-eels to keep ’em out, an’ 'e couldn’t ’ave a better lot of chaps than these bacon dumplin’ consumers for the purpus.” Well now, after the old man ’ad xplained, me vishun begun to briten, an’ I could sorter begin to see a 'ole through a ladder. I could see it  'udn’t do to leave the door of the country open any more, nor yet 'ouse door; these Tarryers are be the kay, an’ if them Jerman Bands attempt to come I 'opes as ’ow they’ll slam the door in ther faces an’ lock it.

One night our Lively comes in an’ dresses 'isself and ’e was goin’ to drill, so I thought I  should like  to see what sort of performance that was. I went down the “Crown” field—no I didn’t go in, I went round back way, that’s wher they drill, an’ to tell you the truth, I was quite pleased with what I see.  There wer a smart little chap with sojers  things an’ ’e  kep ordering ’em abont, an’ it was just wunderful to see ‘ow they done as  ’e told em. It waas wuth summut to see ’em do as they were told for once. ’Ow smart ’e made em walk, too. I shouldn’t ’under if it’ll be any trouble for them get a gal at the Feust. Course, they ent got ther proper sojerin things yet. My word, you wunt catch ’em when they ’ave. Then they be agoin’ into camp for a fortnit. I doant know if they will be anything like the camp meetings they used to ‘old about here ’ears ago. Anyway I shall look at sojerin in a different way for the future.  I ’avent got much to protect, but I must say  as ’ow I don’t want them Foriners to come and ’ave our bit of bacon an’ tackle. An’ of course them as got more to protect must do more towards it. I do ’opes ’ow eny master as ’as got any of these Tarry-toe-an-eels at work for ’em will give ’em a little palm oil and a blessing when they goes off to attend the Camp Meeting. 

COMMENTS:

Old Sall lived in a one up and one down at the end of the old Sunday School which later became the kitchen for the Sunday School. My dad often spoke about Old Sall. (David Ridgway)

Lovely words that bring back lots of memories. I still use quite a few. Summat, tay, ull and ent spring to mind. I must admit that as fewer people around talk like that now, my usage of old Bucks dialect has reduced over the years. (Tim Hilsdon)

I saw the Old Gaol in the 1970s. This story brings back memories. We Kiwis were staying at Tingewick in a Boarding House. (Wayne Judson, presumably by 'Spouter Post' from N.Z.)