Somervile, Hobbinol or the rural games (1740)

William Somervile (he himself, and most eighteenth-century imprints, used the form Somervile, but an alternative spelling of ‘Somerville’ was also used) was the author of a short Homeric-style poem in celebration of the rural festivals of the period. The poem is a witness to wrestling and cudgelling being staged together at the same festival, which supports the wider evidence that wrestling and stick-play coexisted as paired specialisms across the western counties. The setting is Gloucestershire, not Devon or Cornwall, so it serves as an example of the more easterly Westcountry styles. However, this does demonstrate that it was consistant in the Eastly Westcountry with the Westerly.

Wrestling

Canto I stages the wrestling — the belt-and-collar bout between Hobbinol and Pastorel that you have already transcribed, fought for Ganderetta and decided by Hobbinol’s over-the-shoulder throw. The bout is unambiguously a belt-and-hold wrestling match: the contestants are stripped to a belt, the holds are taken at the belt and shoulder (“With his Left-hand the Belt, and with his Right / His Shoulder seiz’d”), and Hobbinol’s finishing technique is a shoulder-throw cast over the head — a flying-mare or cross-buttock action (“his Shoulder Point / Beneath his Breast he fix’d, and whirl’d aloft / High o’er his Head the sprawling Youth he flung”). The setting is Gloucestershire and the Cotswold games, as the footnoted hundreds of Kiftsgate and Henbury and the reference to Avona (the Avon) make clear.

Canto 1, Page 15

No leaky Blab, nor painful Umbrage give
To wealthy Squire, or doughty Knight, or Peer
Of high Degree. Him ev’ry shouting Ring
In Triumph crown’d, him ev’ry Champion fear’d,
From * Kiftsgate to remotest * Henbury.
High in the midst the brawny Wrestler stands,
A stately tow’ring Object; the tough Belt
Measures his ample Breast, and shades around
His Shoulders broad; proudly secure he kens
The tempting Prize, in his presumptuous Thought
Already gain’d; with partial Look the Croud
Approve his Claim; but Hobbinol enrag’d
To see th’important Gifts so cheaply won,
And uncontested Honours tamely lost,
With lowly Rev’rence thus accosts his Queen.

“Fair Goddess! be propitious to my Vows;
“Smile on thy Slave, nor Hercules himself
“Shall rob us of this Palm: That Boaster vain
“Far other Port shall learn.” She with a Look
That pierc’d his inmost Soul, smiling applauds

* Two Hundreds in Glocestershire.

Page 16

His gen’rous Ardour, with aspiring Hope
Distends his Breast, and stirs the Man within.
Yet much, alas! she fears, for much she loves.
So from her Arms the Paphian Queen dismiss’d
The Warriour God, on glorious Slaughter bent,
Provok’d his Rage, and with her Eyes inflam’d
Her haughty Paramour. Swift as the Winds
Dispel the fleeting Mists, at once he strips
His Royal Robes; and with a Frown, that chill’d
The Blood of the proud Youth, active he bounds
High o’er the Heads of Multitudes reclin’d:
But as beseem’d one, whose plain honest Heart,
Nor Passion foul, nor Malice dark as Hell,
But Honour pure, and Love divine had fir’d.
His Hand presenting, on his sturdy Foe
Disdainfully he smiles; then quick as Thought,
With his Left-hand the Belt, and with his Right
His Shoulder seiz’d fast griping; his right Foot
Essay’d the Champion’s Strength, but firm he stood,
Fix’d as a Mountain-Ash, and in his Turn
Repaid the bold Affront; his horny Fist
Fast on his Back he clos’d, and shook in Air

Page 17

The cumb’rous Load. Nor Rest, nor Pause allow’d,
Their watchful Eyes instruct their busy Feet;
They pant, they heave, each Nerve, each Sinew’s strain’d.
Grasping they close, beneath each painful Gripe
The livid Tumours rise, in briny Streams
The Sweat distills, and from their batter’d Shins
The clotted Gore distains the beaten Ground.
Each Swain his Wish, each trembling Nymph conceals
Her secret Dread; while ev’ry panting Breast
Alternate Fears, and Hopes, depress or raise.
Thus long in dubious Scale the Contest hung,
‘Till Pastorel impatient of Delay,
Collecting all his Force, a furious Stroke
At his left Ancle aim’d; ’twas Death to fall,
To stand impossible. O Ganderetta!
What Horrors seize thy Soul! on thy pale Cheeks
The Roses fade. But wav’ring long in Air,
Nor firm on Foot, nor as yet wholly fall’n,
On his right Knee he slip’d, and nimbly scap’d
The foul Disgrace. Thus on the slacken’d Rope
The wingy-footed Artist, frail Support!
Stands tott’ring; now in dreadful Shrieks the Crowd

Page 18

Lament his sudden Fate, and yield him lost:
He on his Hams, or on his brawny Rump
Sliding secure, derides their vain Distress.
Upstarts the vig’rous Hobb’nol undismay’d,
From Mother-Earth like old Antæus rais’d,
With Might redoubled. Clamour and Applause
Shake all the neighb’ring Hills, Avona‘s Banks
Return him loud Acclaim: With ardent Eyes
Fierce as a Tyger rushing from his Lair,
He grasp’d the Wrist of his insulting Foe.
Then with quick Wheel oblique, his Shoulder Point
Beneath his Breast he fix’d, and whirl’d aloft
High o’er his Head the sprawling Youth he flung:
The hollow Ground rebellow’d as he fell.
The Croud press forward with tumultuous Din;
Those to relieve their faint expiring Friend,
With Gratulations these. Hands, Tongues, and Caps,
Outragious Joy proclaim, shrill Fiddles squeak,
Hoarse Bagpipes roar, and Ganderetta smiles.

The End of the First Canto.

Cudgelling brawl

This is the great comic brawl of canto II. It is the mock-heroic battle royal — the riot that erupts after the wrestling, fought with improvised weapons. The “weighty plant”, to the leaded sticks snatched up by the mob (“tough well-season’d Plants, / Weighty with Lead infus’d”), show this as a brawl rather than to a formal single duel. The combat is Hudibrastic burlesque: the rustics arm themselves with stools, chairs, forms, bowls, bottles, plough-staffs, bill-hooks and firebrands, and the named champions (Tonsorio, Collin, Hildebrand, Cuddy and Cindaraxa) are drawn as epic heroes in miniature. Tonsorio is plainly a barber (Latin tonsor), which is why his helmet is likened to Mambrino‘s (the barber’s basin that Don Quixote takes for an enchanted helm) and why his comeuppance is to have his ears sheared.

Canto 2, Page 21

Who saw their Mightiest fall’n, and in his Fall
Their Honours past impair’d, their Trophies, won
By their proud Fathers, who with scorn look’d down
Upon the subject Vale, sullied, despoil’d,
And level’d with the Dust, no longer bear
The keen Reproach. But as when sudden Fire
Seizes the ripen’d Grain, whose bending Ears
Invite the Reaper’s Hand, the furious God
In sooty Triumph rides dreadful, upborn
On Wings of Wind, that with destructive Breath
Feed the fierce Flames, from Ridge to Ridge he bounds
Wide-wafting, and pernicious Ruin spreads:
So thro’ the Croud from Breast to Breast swift flew
The propagated Rage; loud vollied Oaths,
Like Thunder bursting from a Cloud, gave Signs
Of Wrath awak’d. Prompt Fury soon supplied
With Arms uncouth; tough well-season’d Plants,
Weighty with Lead infus’d, on either Host
Fall thick, and heavy; Stools in Pieces rent,
And Chairs, and Forms, and batter’d Bowls are hurl’d
With fell Intent; like Bombs the Bottles fly
Hissing in Air, their sharp edg’d Fragments drench’d

Page 22

In the warm spouting Gore; Heaps driv’n on Heaps
Promiscuous lie. Tonsorio now advanc’d
On the rough Edge of Battle: His broad Front
Beneath his shining Helm secure, as erst
Was thine, Mambrino, stout Iberian Knight!
Defied the rattling Storm, that on his Head
Fell innocent. A Table’s ragged Frame
In his Right-Hand he bore, Herculean Club!
Crouds, push’d on Crouds, before his potent Arm
Fled ignominious; Havock, and Dismay,
Hung on their Rear. Collin a merry Swain,
Blithe as the soaring Lark, as sweet the Strains
Of his soft warbling Lips, that whist’ling chear
His lab’ring Team, they toss their Heads well pleas’d,
In gaudy Plumage deck’d, with stern Disdain
Beheld this Victor proud; his gen’rous Soul
Brook’d not the foul Disgrace. High o’er his Head
His pond’rous Plough-Staff in both Hands he rais’d;
Erect he stood, and stretching ev’ry Nerve,
As from a forceful Engine, down it fell
Upon his hollow’d Helm, that yielding sunk
Beneath the Blow, and with its sharpen’d Edge

Page 23

Shear’d both his Ears, they on his Shoulders broad
Hung ragged. Quick as Thought the vig’rous Youth
Short’ning his Staff, the other End he darts
Into his gaping Jaws. Tonsorio fled
Sore maim’d; with pounded Teeth and clotted Gore
Half choak’d, he fled; with him the Host retir’d
Companions of his Shame; all but the stout,
And erst unconquer’d Hildebrand, brave Man!
Bold Champion of the Hills! thy weighty Blows
Our Fathers felt dismay’d; to keep thy Post
Unmov’d, whilom thy Valour’s Choice, now sad
Necessity compels; decrepit now
With Age, and stiff with honourable Wounds,
He stands unterrify’d; one Crutch sustains
His Frame Majestic, th’other in his Hand
He wields tremendous; like a Mountain Boar
In Toils inclos’d, he dares his circling Foes.
They shrink aloof, or soon with Shame repent
The rash Assault, the Rustic Heroes fall
In Heaps around. Cuddy, a dextrous Youth,
When Force was vain, on fraudful Art rely’d:
Close to the Ground low cow’ring, unperceiv’d,

Page 24

Cautious he crept, and with his crooked Bill
Cut sheer the frail Support, Prop of his Age:
Reeling a while he stood, and menac’d fierce
Th’insidious Swain, reluctant now at Length
Fell prone and plough’d the Dust. So the tall Oak,
Old Monarch of the Groves, that long had stood
The Shock of warring Winds, and the red Bolts
Of angry Jove, shorn of his leafy Shade
At last, and inwardly decay’d, if chance
The cruel Woodman spy the friendly Spur,
His only Hold; that sever’d, soon he nods,
And shakes th’incumber’d Mountain as he falls.
When Manly-Valour fail’d, a Female Arm
Restor’d the Fight. As in th’adjacent Booth
Black Cindaraxa’s busy Hand prepar’d
The smoaky Viands, she beheld, abash’d,
The routed Host, and all her dastard Friends
Far scatter’d o’er the Plain; their shameful Flight
Griev’d her proud Heart, for hurry’d with the Stream
Ev’n Talgol too had fled, her darling Boy.
A flaming Brand from off the glowing Hearth

With grateful thanks from the DWS to Stephen Curtin for sharing this source. 

Somervile, W. (1740). Hobbinol, or the rural games: A burlesque poem in blank verse. J. Stagg. Available online via Archive.org, Google Books, HathiTrust, Wellcome Collection.

Best Poems. (n.d.). Hobbinol; or the rural games — cantos I–III [Texts of William Somervile’s poem]. https://www.best-poems.net/william-somervile/

Burns, F. D. A. (n.d.). Robert Dover’s Olimpick Games. International Society of Olympic Historians. http://isoh.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/264.pdf

Spenser and the Tradition: English Poetry 1579–1830. (n.d.). William Somervile: Hobbinol, or the rural games [Text record, with Williams (1922) and Durling (1935) characterisations]. http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/