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Notes and Queries, Number 65, January 25, 1851 by Various

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{49}

NOTES AND QUERIES:

A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION FOR LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIES,
GENEALOGISTS, ETC.

* * * * *

"When found, make a note of."--CAPTAIN CUTTLE.

* * * * *


No. 65.]
SATURDAY, JANUARY 25, 1851.
[Price Sixpence. Stamped Edition 7d.

* * * * *

CONTENTS.

NOTES:-- Page
Traditional English Ballads, by Dr. E.F. Rimbault 49
The Father of Philip Massinger 52
Touchstone's Dial, by George Stephens 52
Discrepancies in Dugdale's Account of Sir Ralph de
Cobham, by W. Hastings Kelke 53
Henry Chettle 54
Coverdale's Bible 54
Answer to Cowley 55
Folk Lore of Lancashire, No. 1., by T.T. Wilkinson 55
Minor Notes:--Proclamation of Langholme Fair--Seats
in Churches--Flemish Account--Use of
Monosyllables--Specimen of Foreign English--Epitaph 56

QUERIES:--
The Tale of the Wardstaff, by S.W. Singer 57
Ballad ascribed to Sir C. Hanbury Williams, by G.H.
Barker 59
Minor Queries:--Book called Tartuare--William Wallace
in London--Obeism--Aged Monks--Lady Alice
Carmichael--"A Verse may find him"--Daresbury,
the White Chapel of England--Ulm Manuscript--
Merrick and Tattersall--Dr. Trusler's memoirs--
Life of Bishop Frampton--Probabilism--Sir Henry
Chauncy's Observations on Wilfred Entwysel--Theological
Tracts--Lady Bingham--Gregory the Great--John
Hill's Penny Post in 1659--Andrea Ferrara--Imputed
Letter of Sallustius--Thomas Rogers of
Horninger--Tandem D.O.M.--The Episcopal Mitre 59

REPLIES:--
The Passage in Troilus and Cressida, by John Taylor 62
Black Images of the Virgin, by J.B. Litchfield 63
Outline in Painting 63
Ten Children at a Birth 64
Shakspeare's Use of "Captious" 65
Sword of William the Conqueror 66
Meaning of Eisell 66
Altar Lights, &c. 68
Replies to Minor Queries:--Handbell before a Corpse
--Sir George Downing--Hulls, the Inventor of
Steamboats--"Clarum et venerabile Nomen"--Occult
Transposition of Letters--Darby and Joan--Did
Bunyan know Hobbes?--Mythology of the Stars--Dodo
Queries--Holland Land--Swearing by Swans--The
Frozen Horn--Cockade and True Blue--The
Vavasours of Hazlewood--"Breeches" Bible--Histoire
des Sevarambes--Verses attributed to Charles
Yorke--Archbishop Bolton of Cashel--Erasmus and
Farel--Early Culture of the Imagination--William
Chilcot--By and bye--Mocker--Was Colonel Hewson
a Cobbler?--Mole--Pillgarlick--A recent Novel
--Tablet to Napoleon--North Sides of Churchyards
--Wisby--Singing of Swans--Dacre Monument at
Herstmoneux--Herstmoneux Castle--Suem;
Ferling; Grasson--Portrait of Archbishop Williams
--Swans hatched during Thunder--Etymology of Apricot
--"Plurima gemma latet circa tellure sepulta"--
Time when Herodotus wrote--Lucy and Colin--
Translations of Apuleius, &c.--Etymology of "Grasson"
--Lynch Law--"Talk not of Love"--The Butcher
Duke--Curfew--Robertson Struan 68

MISCELLANEOUS:--
Notes on Books, Sales, Catalogues, &c. 77
Books and Odd Volumes Wanted 78
Notices to Correspondents 78
Advertisements 78

* * * * *


NOTES.

TRADITIONAL ENGLISH BALLADS.

The task of gathering old traditionary song is surely a pleasant and a
lightsome one. Albeit the harvest has been plentiful and the gleaners many,
still a stray sheaf may occasionally be found worth the having. But we must
be careful not to "pick up a straw."

One of your corespondents recommends, as an addition to the value of your
pages, the careful getting together of those numerous traditional ballads
that are still sometimes to be met with, floating about various parts of
the country. This advice is by no means to be disregarded, but I wish to
point out the necessity of the contributors to the undertaking knowing
something about ballad literature. An acquaintance with the ordinary
_published_ collections, at least, cannot be dispensed with. Without this
knowledge we should be only multiplying copies of worthless trifles, or
reprinting ballads that had already appeared in print.

The traditional copies of old _black-letter_ ballads are, in almost all
cases (as may easily be seen by comparison), much the worse for wear. As a
proof of this I refer the curious in these matters to a volume of
_Traditional Versions of Old Ballads_, collected by Mr. Peter Buchan, and
edited by Mr. Dixon for the Percy Society. The Rev. Mr. Dyce pronounces
this "a volume of _forgeries_;" but, acquitting poor Buchan (of whom more
anon) of any intention to deceive, it is, to say the least of it, a volume
of _rubbish_; inasmuch as the ballads are all worthless modern versions of
what had appeared "centuries ago" in their _genuine_ shape. Had these
ballads _not existed in print_, we should have been glad of them in any
form; but, in the present case, the publication of such a book (more
especially by a learned society) is a positive nuisance.

Another work which I cannot refrain from noticing, called by one of the
reviewers "A valuable contribution to our stock of ballad literature"? is
Mr. Frederick Sheldon's _Minstrelsy of the English Border_. The preface to
this volume {50} promises much, as may be seen by the following passage:--

"It is now upwards of forty years since Sir Walter Scott published his
_Border Minstrelsy_, and during his 'raids,' as he facetiously termed
his excursions of discovery in Liddesdale, Teviotdale, Tyndale, and the
Merse, very few ballads of any note or originality could possibly
escape his enthusiastic inquiry; for, to his love of ballad literature,
he added the patience and research of a genuine antiquary. Yet, no
doubt many ballads _did_ escape, and still remain scattered up and down
the country side, existing probably in the recollection of many a
sun-browned shepherd, or the weather-beaten brains of ancient hinds, or
'eldern' women: or in the well-thumbed and nearly illegible leaves of
some old book or pamphlet of songs, snugly resting on the 'pot-head,'
or sharing their rest with the 'Great Ha' Bible,' _Scott's Worthies_,
or Blind Harry's lines. The parish dominie or pastor of some obscure
village, amid the many nooks and corners of the Borders, possesses, no
doubt, treasures in the ballad-ware that would have gladdened the heart
of a Ritson, a Percy, or a Surtees; in the libraries, too, of many an
ancient descendant of a Border family, some black-lettered volume of
ballads, doubtlessly slumbers in hallowed and unbroken dust."

This reads invitingly; the writer then proceeds:--

"From such sources I have obtained may of the ballads in the present
collection. Those to which I have stood godfather, and so baptized and
remodelled, I have mostly met with in the 'broad-side' ballads, as they
are called."

Although the writer here speaks of Ritson and Percy as if he were
acquainted with their works, it is very evident that he had not looked into
their contents. The name of Evans' _Collection_ had probably never reached
him. Alas! we look in vain for the tantalising "pamphlet of songs,"--still,
perhaps, snugly resting on the "pot-head," where our author in his
"poetical dream" first saw it. The "black-lettered volume of ballads" too,
in the library of the "ancient descendant of a Border family," still
remains in its dusty repository, untouched by the hand of Frederick
Sheldon.

In support of the object of this paper I shall now point out "a few" of the
errors of _The Minstrelsy of the English Border_.

P. 201. _The Fair Flower of Northumberland_:--

"It was a knight in Scotland born,
Follow my love, come over the Strand;
Was taken prisoner, and left forlorn
Even by the good Erle Northumberland."

This is a corrupt version of Thomas Deloney's celebrated ballad of "The
Ungrateful Knight," printed in the _History of Jack of Newbery_, 1596, and
in Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, 1790. A Scottish version may be found in
Kinloch's _Ballads_, under the title of the "The Provost's Daughter." Mr.
Sheldon knows nothing of this, but says,--

"This ballad has been known about the English Border for many years,
and I can remember a version of it being sung by my grandmother!"

He also informs us that he has added the last verse but one, in order to
make the "ends of justice" more complete!

P. 232. _The Laird of Roslin's Daughter_:--

"The Laird of Roslin's daughter
Walk'd through the wood her lane;
And by her came Captain Wedderburn,
A servant to the Queen."

This is a wretched version (about half the original length) of a well-known
ballad, entitled "Captain Wedderburn's Courtship." It first appeared _in
print_ in _The New British Songster_, a collection published at Falkirk, in
1785. It was afterwards inserted in Jamieson's _Popular Ballads and Songs_,
1806; Kinloch's _Ancient Ballads_, 1826; Chambers' _Scottish Ballads_,
1829, &c. But hear what Mr. Sheldon has to say, in 1847:--

"This is a fragment of an apparently ancient ballad, related to me by a
lady of Berwick-on-Tweed, who used to sing it in her childhood. I have
given all that she was able to furnish me with. The same lady assures
me that she never remembers having seen it in print [!!], and that she
had learnt if from her nurse, together with the ballad of 'Sir Patrick
Spens,' and several Irish legends, since forgotten."

P. 274. _The Merchant's Garland_:--

"Syr Carnegie's gane owre the sea,
And's plowing thro' the main,
And now must make a lang voyage,
The red gold for to gain."

This is evidently one of those ballads which calls Mr. Sheldon "godfather."
The original ballad, which has been "baptized and remodelled," is called
"The Factor's Garland." It begins in the following homely manner:--

"Behold here's a ditty, 'tis true and no jest
Concerning a young gentleman in the East,
Who by his great gaming came to poverty,
And afterwards went many voyages to sea."

P. 329. _The rare Ballad of Johnnie Faa_:--

"There were seven gipsies in a gang,
They were both brisk and bonny O;
They rode till they came to the Earl of Castle's house,
And here they sang so sweetly O."

This is a very _hobbling_ version (from the recitation of a "gipsy
vagabond") of a ballad frequently reprinted. It first appeared in Ramsay's
_Tea-Table Miscellany_; afterwards in Finlay's and Chambers' Collections.
None of these versions were known to Mr. Sheldon.

I have now extracted enough from the _Minstrelsy of the English Border_ to
show the mode of "ballad editing" as pursued by Mr. Sheldon. The instances
are sufficient to strengthen my position.

One of the most popular traditional ballads still {51} floating about the
country, is "King Henrie the Fifth's Conquest:"--

"As our King lay musing on his bed,
He bethought himself upon a time,
Of a tribute that was due from France,
Had not been paid for so long a time."

It was first printed from "oral communication," by Sir Harris Nicolas, who
inserted two versions in the Appendix to his _History of the Battle of
Agincourt_, 2d edition, 8vo. 1832. It again appeared (not from either of
Sir Harris Nicolas's copies) in the Rev. J.C. Tyler's _Henry of Monmouth_,
8vo. vol. ii. p. 197. And, lastly, in Mr. Dixon's _Ancient Poems, Ballads,
and Songs of the Peasantry of England_, printed by the Percy Society in
1846. These copies vary considerably from each other, which cannot be
wondered at, when we find that they were obtained from independent sources.
Mr. Tyler does not allude to Sir Harris Nicolas's copies, nor does Mr.
Dixon seem aware that any _printed_ version of the traditional ballad had
preceded his. The ballad, however, existed in a printed "broad-side" long
before the publications alluded to, and a copy, "Printed and sold in
Aldermary Church Yard," is now before me. It is called "King Henry V., his
Conquest of France in Revenge for the Affront offered by the French King in
sending him (instead of the Tribute) a ton of Tennis Balls."

An instance of the various changes and mutations to which, in the course of
ages, a popular ballad is subject, exists in the "Frog's Wedding." The
pages of the "NOTES AND QUERIES" testify to this in a remarkable degree.
But no one has yet hit upon the _original_ ballad; unless, indeed, the
following be it, and I think it has every appearance of being the identical
ballad licensed to Edward White in 1580-1. It is taken from a rare musical
volume in my library, entitled _Melismata; Musicall Phansies, fitting the
Court, Citie, and Countrey Humours. Printed by William Stansby for Thomas
Adams_, 1611. 4to.

"THE MARRIAGE OF THE FROGGE AND THE MOUSE.

"It was the Frogge in the well,
Humble-dum, humble dum;
And the merrie Mouse in the mill,
Tweedle, tweedle twino.

"The Frogge would a-wooing ride,
Humble-dum, &c.
Sword and buckler by his side,
Tweedle, &c.

"When he was upon his high horse set,
Humble-dum, &c.
His boots they shone as blacke as jet.
Tweedle, &c.

"When he came to the merry mill pin,
Humble-dum, &c.
Lady Mouse, beene you within?
Tweedle, &c.

"Then came out the dusty Mouse,
Humble-dum, &c.
I am Lady of this house,
Tweedle, &c.

"Hast thou any minde of me?
Humble-dum, &c.
I have e'ne great minde of thee,
Tweedle, &c.

"Who shall this marriage make?
Humble-dum, &c.
Our Lord, which is the Rat,
Tweedle, &c.

"What shall we have to our supper?
Humble-dum, &c.
Three beanes in a pound of butter,
Tweedle, &c.

"When supper they were at,
Humble-dum, &c.
The frogge, the Mouse, and even the Rat,
Tweedle, &c.

"Then came in Gib our Cat,
Humble-dum, &c.
And catcht the Mouse even by the backe,
Tweedle, &c.

"Then did they separate,
Humble-dum, &c.
And the Frogge leapt on the floore so flat,
Tweedle, &c.

"Then came in Dicke our Drake,
Humble-dum, &c.
And drew the Frogge even to the lake,
Tweedle, &c.

"The Rat ran up the wall,
Humble-dum, &c
A goodly company, the Divell goe with all,
Tweedle, &c."

From what I have shown, the reader will agree with me, that a collector of
ballads from oral tradition should possess some acquaintance with the
labours of his predecessors. This knowledge is surely the smallest part of
the duties of an editor.

I remember reading, some years ago, in the writings of old Zarlino (an
Italian author of the sixteenth century), an amusing chapter on the
necessary qualifications for a "complete musician." The recollection of
this forcibly returns to me after perusing the following extract from the
preface to a _Collection of Ballads_ (2 vols. 8vo. Edinburgh, 1828), by our
"simple" but well-meaning friend, "Mr. Peter Buchan of Peterhead."

"No one has yet conceived, nor has it entered the mind of man, what
patience, perseverance, and general knowledge are necessary for an
editor of a Collection of Ancient Ballads; nor what mountains of
difficulties he has to overcome; what hosts of enemies he has to
encounter; and what myriads of little-minded quibblers he has to
silence. The writing of explanatory notes is like no other species of
literature. History throws {52} little light upon their origin [the
ballads, I suppose?], or the cause which gave rise to their
composition. He has to grope his way in the dark: like Bunyan's
pilgrim, on crossing the Valley of the Shadow of Death, he hears sounds
and noises, but cannot, to a certainty, tell from whence they come, nor
to what place they proceed. The one time, he has to treat of fabulous
ballads in the most romantic shape; the next, legendary, with all its
exploded, obsolete, and forgotten superstitions; also history, tragedy,
comedy, love, war, and so on; all, perhaps, within the narrow compass
of a few hours,--so varied must his genius and talents be."

After this we ought surely to rejoice, that any one hardy enough to become
an Editor of Old Ballads is left amongst us.

EDWARD F. RIMBAULT.

* * * * *

THE FATHER OF PHILIP MASSINGER.

Gifford was quite right in stating that the name of the father of
Massinger, the dramatist, was Arthur, according to Oldys, and not Philip,
according to Wood and Davies. Arthur Massinger (as he himself spelt the
name, although others have spelt it Messenger, from its supposed etymology)
was in the service of the Earl of Pembroke, who married the sister of Sir
Philip Sidney, in whose family the poet Daniel was at one time tutor. I
have before me several letters from him to persons of note and consequence,
all signed "Arthur Massinger;" and to show his importance in the family to
which he was attached, I need only mention, that in 1597, when a match was
proposed between the son of Lord Pembroke and the daughter of Lord
Burghley, Massinger, the poet's father, was the confidential agent employed
between the parties. My purpose at present is to advert to a matter which
occurred ten years earlier, and to which the note I am about to transcribe
relates. It appears that in March, 1587, Arthur Massinger was a suitor for
the reversion of the office of Examiner in the Court of the Marches toward
South Wales, for which also a person of the name of Fox was a candidate;
and, in order to forward the wishes of his dependent, the Earl of Pembroke
wrote to Lord Burghley as follows:--

"My servant Massinger hathe besought me to ayde him in obteyning a
reversion from her Majestie of the Examiner's office in this courte;
whereunto, as I willingly have yielded, soe I resolved to leave the
craving of your Lordship's furtheraunce to his owne humble sute; but
because I heare a sonn of Mr. Fox (her Majestie's Secretary here) doth
make sute for the same, and for the Mr. Sherar, who now enjoyethe it,
is sicklie, I am boulde to desier your Lordship's honorable favour to
my servaunte, which I shall most kindlie accepte, and he for the same
ever rest bounde to praye for your Lordship. And thus, leaving further
to trouble you, &c. 28. March, 1587. H. PEMBROKE."

The whole body of this communication, it is worth remark, is in the
handwriting of Arthur Massinger (whose penmanship was not unlike that of
his son), and the signature only that of the Earl, in whose family he was
entertained. I have not been able to ascertain whether the application was
successful; and it is possible that some of the records of the court may
exist, showing either the death of Sherar, and by whom he was succeeded
about that date, or that Sherar recovered from his illness. As I have
before said, it is quite clear that Arthur Massinger was high in the
confidence and service of Lord Pembroke ten years after the date of the
preceding note.

I have a good deal more to say about Arthur Massinger, but I must take
another time for the purpose.

THE HERMIT OF HOLYPORT.

* * * * *

TOUCHSTONE'S DIAL.

(Vol. ii., p. 405.)

The conjecture of Mr. Knight, in his note to _As You Like It_, and to which
your correspondent J.M.B. has so instructively drawn our attention, is
undoubtedly correct. The "sun-ring" or ring-dial, was probably the watch of
our forefathers some thousand years previous to the invention of the modern
chronometer, and its history is deserving of more attention than has
hitherto been paid to it. Its immense antiquity in Europe is proved by its
still existing in the _remotest_ and _least civilised_ districts of North
England, Scotland, and the Western Isles, Ireland, and in Scandinavia. I
have in my possession _two_ such rings, both of brass. The one, nearly half
an inch broad, and two inches in diameter, is from the Swedish island of
Gothland, and is of more modern make. It is held by the finger and thumb
clasping a small brass ear or handle, to the right of which a slit in the
ring extends nearly one-third of the whole length. A small narrow band of
brass (about one-fifth of the width) runs along the centre of the ring, and
of course covers the slit. This narrow band is movable, and has a hole in
one part through which the rays of the sun can fall. On each side of the
band (to the right of the handle) letters, which stand for the names of the
months, are inscribed on the ring as follows:--

J A S O N D
J M A M F J

[the letters in the lower row inverted]

_Inside_ the ring, opposite to these letters, are the following figures for
the hours:--

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
12
3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

[the figures in the upper row inverted, the 12 sideways]

The small brass band was made movable that the ring-click might be properly
_set by the sun_ at stated periods, perhaps once a month.

The second sun-ring, which I bought in Stockholm in 1847, also "out of a
deal of old iron," is {53} smaller and much broader than the first, and is
perhaps a hundred years older; it is also more ornamented. Otherwise its
fashion is the same, the only difference being in the arrangement of the
inside figures, which are as follows:--

6 7 8 9 10 11
12
8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

[the figures in the lower row inverted]

The ring recovered by Mr. Knight evidently agrees with the above. I hope
Mr. K. will, sooner or later, present the curiosity to our national
museum,--which will be driven at last, if not by higher motives, by the
mere force of public opinion and public indignation, to form a regularly
arranged and grand collection of our own British antiquities in every
branch, secular and religious, from the earliest times, down through the
middle ages, to nearly our own days. Such an archaeological department could
count not only upon the assistance of the state, but upon rich and generous
contributions from British sources, individuals and private societies, at
home and abroad, as well as foreign help, at least in the way of exchange.
But any such plan must be _speedily_ and _well_ organised and _well
announced_!

I give the above details, not only because they relate to a passage in our
immortal bard, who has ennobled and perpetuated every word and fact in his
writings, but because they illustrate the astronomical antiquities of our
own country and our kindred tribes during many centuries. These sun-dials
are now very scarce, even in the high Scandinavian North, driven out as
they have been by the watch, in the same manner as the ancient clog[1] or
Rune-staff (the carved wooden perpetual almanac) has been extirpated by the
printed calendar, and now only exists in the cabinets of the curious. In
fifty years more sun-rings will probably be quite extinct throughout
Europe. I hope this will cause you to excuse my prolixity. Will no
_astronomer_ among your readers direct his attention to this subject? Does
anything of the kind still linger in the East?

GEORGE STEPHENS.

Stockholm.

[Footnote 1: The Scandinavian Rune-staff is well known. An engraving of an
ancient English clog (but with Roman characters, instead of Runic) is in
Hone's _Every-Day Book_, vol. ii.]

* * * * *

DISCREPANCIES IN DUGDALE'S ACCOUNT OF SIR RALPH DE COBHAM.

There are some difficulties in Dugdale's account of the Cobham family which
it may be well to bring before your readers; especially as several other
historians and genealogists have repeated Dugdale's account without
remarking on its inconsistencies. In speaking of a junior branch of the
family, he says, in vol. ii. p. 69., "There was also Ralphe de Cobham,
brother of the first-mentioned Stephen." He only mentions one Stephen but
names him twice, first at page 66., and again at 69. Perhaps he meant the
_above_-mentioned Stephen. He continues:--

"This Ralphe took to wife Mary Countess of Norfolk, widdow of Thomas of
Brotherton. Which Mary was Daughter to William Lord Ros, and first
married to William Lord Braose of Brembre; and by her had Issue John,
who 20 E. III., making proof of his age, and doing his Fealty, had
Livery of his lands."

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Booker prize shortlist drops early frontrunners
Latest news and features from guardian.co.uk, the world's leading liberal voice

Extract: The Whales by Evie Wyld

Christos Tsiolkas and David Mitchell, both much-tipped when they appeared on the award longlist, have been overlooked in the six finalists

Listen to Claire Armitstead and Sarah Crown discuss the Booker shortlist on a special edition of the Guardian Books Podcast

It headed the most controversial Man Booker prize longlist in years, but Christos Tsiolkas's The Slap has failed to make the final cut for the literary award, as has David Mitchell's much-tipped fifth novel, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.

Judges overlooked Australian novelist Tsiolkas's tale of the consequences when a child is slapped at a suburban barbecue – which is either "unbelievably misogynistic" or "riveting from beginning to end", depending on who's asked – and Mitchell, twice shortlisted for the prize in the past, to select a shortlist which ranges from two-time former winner Peter Carey's Parrot and Olivier in America to Emma Donoghue. The Irish writer has also stirred up debate with her Josel Fritzl-inspired Room, the story of a boy and his mother imprisoned in a tiny room for years.

Orange prize winner Andrea Levy's The Long Song, about the last years of slavery in Jamaica; Howard Jacobson's The Finkler Question, a cerebral comedy about grief and Anglo-Jewishness; experimental novelist Tom McCarthy's C, which tells the story of Serge Carrefax, a first world war radio operator who escapes from a German prison camp; and South African writer Damon Galgut's tale of a young man travelling through Greece, India and Africa, In a Strange Room, complete the six-strong shortlist for the £50,000 prize, announced this morning.

"It's been a great privilege and an exciting challenge for us to reduce our longlist of 13 to this shortlist of six outstandingly good novels," said chair of judges Andrew Motion, the former poet laureate. "In doing so, we feel sure we've chosen books which demonstrate a rich variety of styles and themes – while in every case providing deep individual pleasures."

The panel of judges had previously read 138 books to select the 13 titles for their longlist, with Martin Amis's new novel The Pregnant Widow and Ian McEwan's venture into comic fiction Solar both overlooked and Carey the only previous Booker winner on the longlist.

His inclusion on the shortlist today for Parrot and Olivier in America, a reimagining of Democracy in America author Alexis de Tocqueville's visit to the New World, gives him the chance of becoming the first ever writer to win the Booker three times, having previously taken it in 1988 for Oscar and Lucinda and 2001 for True History of the Kelly Gang.

"The omission of both David Mitchell and Christos Tsiolkas from the shortlist is a real shock. While both writers might rightly feel aggrieved at being overlooked, I imagine it took some wrangling amongst the judges to reduce one of the best longlists in years to six," said Jonathan Ruppin at independent book chain Foyles, who, while praising all six books for their "lightness of touch which means the reader doesn't get bogged down in something worthy or dull", predicted that Room was the most likely title to go on to win the award.

Waterstone's tipped C to take the prize, with fiction buying manager Simon Burke calling it "a challenging yet dazzling novel". "The news that David Mitchell has not made the shortlist will cause great wailing and gnashing of teeth across the bookworld, but perhaps is a useful reminder of the independence and unpredictability of the Booker," he said. "But this is still a hugely varied and exciting list, worthy of the Booker brand. Carey and Levy have to be strong contenders, but our money is on Tom McCarthy. The more people that read [C] the better."

The bookies agreed, with William Hill immediately installing McCarthy as 2/1 favourite to win the prize. "There has been a considerable media buzz around all of the books on the shortlist, and literary punters have staked more money in total on Tom McCarthy to win than any of the other authors, so he is a worthy favourite," said spokesman Graham Sharpe. Donoghue and Galgut came in second at the bookmaker, both at 3/1, with one customer so sure that In A Strange Room would win that they placed £400 on Galgut at 7/1, the largest single bet on the prize "for a few years", said Sharpe.

Carey came in fourth, at 5/1, with Levy at 7/1 and Jacobson the 8/1 outside to take the prize.

The opinion-splitting novels picked for this year's longlist have helped make it the most popular since 2001, with Tsiolkas's novel selling the most copies, followed by Donoghue's. The winner, who will join a roster of former winners including Margaret Atwood, Roddy Doyle and JM Coetzee, will be announced on 12 October. Last year's winner Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel is the fastest-selling Booker winner ever, with sales of around half-a-million copies to date.

The Man Booker shortlist in full:

Peter Carey's Parrot and Olivier in America

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The Marxist Miliband

Evie Wyld, whose debut novel After the Fire, a Still Small Voice won the 2009 John Llewellyn Rhys prize, has written a short story, The Whales, exclusively for Booktrust, where she is currently writer-in-residence. Here we join Jimmy, Elaine, Terry and Yvonne, deep in the bush after five days of walking. The conclusion will appear on the Booktrust website tomorrow

There are four of them footslogging single file along the trail. They sweat and wave their sticks at the flies, spitting the salt off their lips and feeling the rub of their backpacks, hot on their shoulders. A storm bird knows about them from miles off and lets out a wop-wop-wop, getting higher and louder as it goes. Jimmy watches Elaine look up at the gum-treed sky. He follows her gaze. No, he thinks. The bird is wrong; overhead is blue without a wash of cloud.

The crack of dry bark, the whistle of whip birds and sometimes a thundering in the undergrowth – a wombat, a pademelon – it all makes Jimmy feel younger. He can feel the muscles in his thighs working, can feel them thank him for not being stood at the assembly line six hours a day.

Five days of walking and now they are deep in the bush. In another day, they'll turn east, head for the sea, where if they make good time, they'll see the humpbacks heading south towards the Antarctic, their new calves in tow. There'll be a party that night, between the four of them. Terry the young bow-legged one from further down the line with a touch of the idiot about him, Yvonne his frizz-plaited, heavy cousin who runs accounts and her friend Elaine who is nothing to do with the factory and who returns his glances, smiling. Not a bad lot really, especially the girls.

Three days down the coast and they'll arrive home about ready for that soft bed and the meal without char-grit from the campfire, or the dog food pong of tinned meat. It's been good so far. He thinks of what was waiting for him if he hadn't gone bush this week – all those monkey-wrenches wanting to be set. It's been time to move on for a while, he sees that now. Only he'll wait and see what comes of Elaine and the damp hair that ringlets at the back of her neck.

Later in the day he spots a bower bird's chapel. Even this far in, the bird has found a blue toothbrush and bits of turquoise plastic to frame its humpy. He takes a photo, so that the side of Elaine's brown leg slides up the view finder.

'They only collect blue stuff', he says, mainly to Elaine. He feels the roots of his fingers strain as he reigns himself in, his stiff hands reminding him not to overdo it. Steady on.

Chances are, Elaine already knows more than him about bower birds – she told him she's walked the bush for six years, since she left varsity, this last two with Yvonne for company and he only knows from camping out when money gets bad. But he wants to show something to her. Elaine squats next to him and traces an arc with one finger in the dirt, looking at the toothbrush. She is smiling with her eyebrows pulled in.

'It's to impress the female – then she'll come down and he'll do a sexy dance.' As he explains, he wiggles his tail a little in a sexy dance and Elaine smiles wider.

Terry who has been leaning over them to get a look, gyrates around his walking stick. What his mating dance lacks in accuracy it makes up for in energy and the other three look on in silence while he makes the noise of a boombox with his lips pressed together. Jimmy's fingers stretch out towards the ground in embarrassment as he keeps his bad eye – the eye that he thinks of as his secret eye – on Elaine.

'You're a disgustin' specimen, Terry', says the stone-buttocked Yvonne. Terry quickens his hips and points, wiggling himself towards her.

Yvonne stands stiff and still like a wary buffalo. 'Never been the brightest crayon in the box', she says and they all push past him, smiles held down. Jimmy looks back to see him finish in a bunny squat and a flick of his head.

'Yeah!' says Terry loudly, arms raised and both thumbs up to the tops of the trees like they are his audience.

'Yeah' and he finds a cigarette in his back pocket, lights it and considers its glowing end before following on.

There'd been a night of heavy breathing when Elaine and Jimmy faced each other in their swags. They hadn't touched but they'd looked hard in the dark, seeing the glints of each other's tongues, teeth and eyes. There is a luxury in not touching, Jimmy thinks, in not just going with your gut; they don't have all the time in the world but they have this time, which won't end for another few days.

He looks forward to it, imagines the beach in an old film kind of a way. The last night when they will open the wine they've lugged all this way – they'll cool the bottles in a rock pool for a couple of hours, while they see what the beach has for them. He's a beach person at heart, it's where his childhood is at and he can't wait to show off about it. Terry's brought along his spearfishing gear and says he reckons on a good spot up at the point. Jimmy imagines striding into camp, a jewfish slung over one shoulder, a clutch of softly ticking crays hung from their whiskers in his other fist. When the moon's up and the salty wine is drunk, their fingers warm and sticky with sand and cray brains, he'll rub his foot over hers. He'll put his wrists either side of her jaw, so as not to touch her with his prawny fingers and he'll plant a long warm kiss on her mouth, one that shows them both that this is the start of things. He could think about staying on at the factory, him who hasn't stayed in one spot for more than six months at a time since he was 16. Or else, Elaine could come with him, go feral together up the coast. He gets the feeling there's not much holding her to the city anymore. He looks down at himself and he speaks softly to his hands You're orright you bung-eyed bastard. You're an okay sort after all.

Elaine breaks off from the group to take a pee in the scrub. She squats behind a paperbark and laughs. She's been hip deep in croc water, has woken up feeling a huntsman, as big as both of her hands put together, tangling with her feet in her swag. But the idea that the group might hear the sound of her pissing makes it so that she can't go. Eventually, she manages and makes a wet stain on the gum leaves. She pulls her shorts back up and a twig cracks not far up ahead. Shadows rise and fall as something heavy moves away. She catches up with the others at a jog.

Jimmy, that trunk of a man with his duff eye and his bear hands and her pal Yvonne are arguing about a fish. The argument is snapper versus flathead, but in what capacity Elaine is not sure. Terry is unusually quiet for a conversation involving food and he walks a little way from Jimmy and Yvonne.

'Stone lighter?' he asks quietly.

'It was a pee', she says, but her face flushes anyway.

'Right', says Terry and he smiles a weird smile. Elaine accidentally catches his eye.

By five o'clock they reach a small billabong. They strip down to their underwear and jump in like kids, laughing, drowning each other with splashing. Terry tries to duck the girls under, Jimmy dives for yabbies and opens his eyes in the bourbon-coloured water. The white legs of the other three bicycle in the open water. When he comes up for air, he can see that Yvonne is pleased with her breasts and bobs them gently up and down making small waves to the bank.

Jimmy looks a long time at Elaine and she looks back. There is a water level smile between them. He is aware of the ripples that come from his heartbeat and he sees how Elaine's canines creep over her bottom lip. Her hair is dark now, but in the light you can see into it. Where the sun hasn't caught her, her skin is like the damp underside of a leaf.

Elaine thinks she's some wonderful creature. The water holds her in on all sides, she feels good in her skin. The billabong is black from the tea trees that line the bank and when she flicks her legs to the surface she's a pale fish. She pauses before she puts her head under – a brief worry about spluttering and snotting in front of Jimmy, but then she thinks of the beach and the sea to come and she duck dives.

The dark water lifts her hair up and spreads it out, it pushes around her cheeks and taps on her eyelids as she reaches out for the leafy mud of the billabong floor, but even though she goes deep, her hands touch nothing. She kicks up for air and sends a flume of mist from her mouth. She smiles widely at Jimmy who floats on his back like an otter, hands clasped over his chest, dreaming of something.

Frogs and magpies are loud and someone finds a leech and then another and another and there's shrill laughing.

Terry shouts, 'It's eatin' the fuckin' kidneys out of me!' then, 'You girls want me to check under your bras?'

Even though everyone has had a leech before and every person has treated that leech with salt or the tip of a cigarette, quietly, without fear, they all pretend this is the first time they've been bitten and they wallow in the hysteria, enjoying it like gobble-mouthed kids.

Out of the water, damp shirts wrapped around them like towels, Jimmy burns a fat one off Elaine's shoulder. She looks at him sideways and curls a bit of paper bark around her finger.

'Ta', she says, as Jimmy passes her the cigarette which they share puffs from. He looks at her with his good eye. It creases in the corner.

The four of them set up camp a little way from the water hole, away from the leeches. Terry makes a small tepee out of kindling and rings stones around it to stop the fire spreading. Once it's lit they hang over a billy and drink tea while they watch the bats turning circles in the creeping darkness. Yvonne stirs up a thick damper and they bake it in a pan over the fire, to be eaten with a warmed tin of bean stew and rice pudding for afters. The birds are mostly quiet and the cicadas and frogs rev themselves up, as everyone slaps on Rid against the mosquitoes.

'Reckon we'll beat those whales, the way we're moving', Terry says cleaning his bowl with a licked finger.

'Fuckin' A.' Yvonne brings out a flask of bourbon to swill down the pudding with. She takes a long unflinching pull of it before passing it round and beginning a murder story.

'There's this girl went missing not far from Tully – all the kids hitchhike out there…' The dark gets deeper and everyone settles in, enjoying the creep of it. Elaine thinks that there's nothing you can't fix by putting your cheek to the land and feeling it settle. She studies the landscape of Jimmy's face. He is unashamedly enthralled by Yvonne's story. His funny eye looks directly at Elaine but doesn't see her. The lines on his forehead have dirt ground in. He's older than Elaine and she wonders what it is he's been doing all the time he's been alive.

In the silence, after Yvonne's concluding remark 'They only ever found her thumb', Terry farts, a loud one and everyone groans.

'Well, that's put that to bed', he says and they all unroll their swags around the fire and climb in for the night. Jimmy feels the hot weight of Elaine's foot on his and his fingers twitch on their own. Elaine sees Terry's wet eyes, tangerine from the fire and spreads her toes out. She stays awake for as long as possible, making up script after script of how it will go with Jimmy once they reach the sea. She replays the swim at waterhole until she's unsure if she's made parts of it up. She finally falls asleep with her heartbeat high in her chest.

Jimmy wakes long before dawn with a pressure like a stone on his bladder. He swears quietly and rolls out of his swag to ease the ache against a tree. In the undergrowth to his right, something scrabbles. He catches a strong scent and sees a wet snout or eye in the dark. A rumble in the brush and it's gone. Probably a pig or a dingo, but he's glad to get back to the group, where the coals in the fire are still orange. He checks each sleeper. Terry is spread at a diagonal, mouth open, not snoring but making noise. Yvonne sleeps on her front clutching the loose material of her swag, not letting it get away. Elaine is on her side and a brown arm has slithered free. Her hair makes a perfect ring around her ear. As he watches she produces a little noise, a tiny pop from her lips as they're opened with breath. Sleep speaking, thinks Jimmy as he burrows back into his swag, careful not to jog her feet with his, but careful also that they are touching.

The morning is hot and blue from the outset. After tea and a tidy up, they set off, aiming to reach the sea before sunset. Jimmy looks forward to a swim in the bubbling salt, a proper clean down with no bloodsuckers. Terry starts to talk about food almost immediately,

'Lamb chops.' He says confidently to Yvonne. 'That's gotta be the best type of food; lamb chops with the whole grill piece; onions, mushrooms, boiled spuds – no tomatoes though, I'm so over tomatoes.' Yvonne rolls her eyes at him.

'Couldn't give a rat's ring, Terry,' but she hands him a date and a piece of chocolate. Elaine enjoys her feeling of emptiness. Her spit tastes of eucalyptus, she feels new, like the air and blood in her has been filtered out and changed for something better.

After midday, there's a yell from Terry up ahead.

'Get a look at this!' The other three catch up to find him crouching in a small clearing surrounded by stay-a-while and they peer over his shoulder. There's a dead butcher bird on the ground and following the line of Terry's finger into one of the thorny bushes, they see its larder. A small mouse impaled through the neck, stiff and dry, missing parts of its hind quarters, a large Christmas beetle, upside down with the thorn square through the middle and last, still twitching, its legs up and angry, barely impaled through its leaking abdomen, a mouse spider.

'Christssake' whispers Jimmy stepping back.

'How the poor bastard got it up here, I can't figure,' Terry says, pushing the bird with his foot to reveal the green ants starting on its wing. The mouse spider's fangs, black and thick and shiny are up and ready to strike. It waves its legs in the air. Terry picks up a twig to poke it with, but Yvonne knocks it out of his hand.

'Don't be a bum, Terry. I'm not carrying yer fat dead lump out of here if you get bitten. You can count on that.' Jimmy takes a photograph, in which Terry insists on including his own hand, so as get the scale of the thing.

They start to walk on, but Elaine stays behind a beat or two looking at the spider; its fangs reaching for her, legs pointing.

'The sky is falling, the sky is falling!' Yvonne shrieks in a chicken voice as thunder mumbles in the distance. Elaine looks again at the sky, but it's still clear. The thunder is a long way off, but you can smell it in the air, which is heavy and hot. The tips of the trees sway in the sky, but there's no breeze down on the bush floor.

A goanna clings to a Moreton Bay fig above them but nobody sees it.

Jimmy touches the side of Elaine's hand with his little finger and as he does, the leaves to the side of her snaffle and a striped snake comes streaking out of the ground, hitting her on the boot. She barks loudly and kicks trying to get her foot away. The snake's fangs are deeply embedded in the leather of her boot and she shakes her leg hard while around her the others dip and weave and try to help and point their sticks. Jimmy thinks he has control of the situation when he holds Elaine's arm and beats at the snake with his walking stick, accidentally cracking her on the shin. The snake is dislodged, but instead of bolting back into the undergrowth, it turns again and bites Elaine, once, twice, three times and a fourth; calf, back of the knee, thigh, deeply, deeply again on her inner thigh. It's snap-quick and Jimmy doesn't have time to understand and still has Elaine by the arm so she doesn't get away. Finally, Terry gets it – a blow to the eye – and it's stunned. He stomps on the head, but it still twitches, so he beats it with his stick, smashing, till it changes colour, loses its stripes. It is still, but the bush crackles and carries on.

Elaine is tight-lipped and white. Yvonne cries softly into her cupped hands, the small beeps of a bird. Terry shoes leaves over the corpse of the snake and Jimmy still holds Elaine's arm, his grip hard from not knowing what to do, from doing the wrong thing. There is blood, Elaine thinks how it looks like she's got her period and then thinks she'd love a piece of liquorice from her backpack. She starts to turn around, to take her pack off, but her legs have lost their hardness and she is sliding back into Jimmy who is stiff and still.

'Jesus H Christ,' whispers Terry. He looks at the snake and away, prodding it rhythmically with his stick. 'Jimmy,' he says. 'Jesus, Jimmy.'

'S'just a nip,' says Elaine.

As she slides to the ground with the help of Jimmy who has become flesh again, Elaine thinks about the liquorice and then about how it was a tiger. A big dose of tiger and she's starting to feel it now, it feels like it bit her in the artery of her groin. The big one. The one where all the blood lives.

Yvonne straightens herself. She helps Elaine's pack off her back and slides it behind her back to prop her up. She pulls out her poncho and arranges it over Elaine's wounded leg, to keep it out of sight and then snaps the men into action.

'Hot water - get a fire on. Get the first aid.' She looks at the two men who are twisting their fingers. 'C'mon s'only a fuckin' snake bite, let's get it sorted and get on with it.' She's right and Jimmy says so. He says, 'Only a snake bite.' Smiling at Elaine, but what they all think, Jimmy, Terry, Yvonne and Elaine is but it's tiger. And we are deep in. Deep.

• To read the conclusion of the story, visit the Booktrust website from Tuesday 7 September.

• Evie Wyld works in the independent Review Bookshop in Peckham. She is taking part in a live-streamed book club Q&A from the shop at 7.30pm on Thursday 9 September. To find out how to submit questions for the event, visit the Booktrust website


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