May 1.
St. Philip and St. James.[145]
May Day.
As we had some agreeable intimacies to-day last year, we will seek our country friends in other rural parts, this “May morning,” and see “how they do.”
To illustrate the custom of going “a Maying,” described in volume i., a song still used on that occasion is subjoined:—
The Mayer’s Call.
Come, lads, with your bills,
To the wood we’ll away,
We’ll gather the boughs,
And we’ll celebrate May.
We’ll bring our load home,
As we’ve oft done before,
And leave a green bough,
At each good master’s
At each good neighbour’s
At each pretty maid’s
} door.
We’ll bring our load home,
As we’ve oft done before,
And leave a green bough,
At each good master’s door.
At each good neighbour’s door.
At each pretty maid’s door.
To-morrow, when work’s done,
I hold it no wrong,
If we go round in ribands,
And sing them a song.
Come, lads, bring your bills,
To the wood we’ll away,
We’ll gather the boughs,
And we’ll celebrate May.
There is a rural ditty chanted in villages and country towns, preparatory to gathering the May:—
The May Eve Song.
If we should wake you from your sleep,
Good people listen now,
Our yearly festival we keep,
And bring a Maythorn bough.
An emblem of the world it grows,
The flowers its pleasures are,
But many a thorn bespeaks its woes,
Its sorrow and its care.
Oh! sleep you then, and take your rest,
And, when the day shall dawn,
May you awake in all things blest—
A May without a thorn.
And when, to-morrow we shall come
Oh! treat us not with scorn;
From out your bounty give us some—
Be May without a thorn.
May He, who makes the May to blow,
On earth his riches sheds,
Protect thee against every woe,
Shower blessings on thy heads.
After “bringing home the May,” here is another lay:—
The Mayer’s Song.
On the Mayers deign to smile,
Master, mistress, hear our song,
Listen but a little while,
We will not detain you long.
Life with us is in its spring,
We enjoy a blooming May,
Summer will its labour bring,
Winter has its pinching day.
Yet the blessing we would use
Wisely—it is reason’s part—
Those who youth and health abuse,
Fail not in the end to smart.
Mirth we love—the proverb says,
Be ye merry but be wise,
We will walk in wisdom’s ways,
There alone true pleasure lies.
May, that now is in its bloom,
All so fragrant and so fair,
When autumn and when winter come,
Shall its useful berries bear.
We would taste your home-brew’d beer,—
Give not, if we’ve had enough,—
May it strengthen, may it cheer,
Waste not e’er the precious stuff.
We of money something crave,
For ourselves we ask no share,
John and Jane the whole shall have,
They’re the last new married pair.
May it comfort to them prove,
And a blessing bring to you;
Blessings of connubial love,
Light on all like morning dew.
So shall May, with blessings crown’d,
Welcom’d be by old and young,
Often as the year comes round,
Shall the May-day song be sung.
Fare ye well, good people all,
Sweet to-night may be your rest,
Every blessing you befall,
Blessing others you are blest.
As the day advances, a ballad suitable to the “village sports” is sung by him who has the honour to crown his lass as the “May-day queen.”—
The Wreath of May.
This slender rod of leaves and flowers,
So fragrant and so gay,
Produce of spring’s serener hours,
Peculiarly is May.
This slender rod, the hawthorn bears,
And when its bloom is o’er,
Its ruby berries then it wears,
The songster’s winter store.
Then, though it charm the sight and smell,
In spring’s delicious hours,
The feather’d choir its praise shall tell,
’Gainst winter round us lowers.
O then, my love, from me receive,
This beauteous hawthorn spray,
A garland for thy head I’ll weave,
Be thou my queen of May.
Love and fragrant as these flowers,
Live pure as thou wert born,
And ne’er may sin’s destructive powers,
Assail thee with its thorn.
One more ditty, a favourite in many parts of England, is homely, but there is a prettiness in its description that may reconcile it to the admirers of a “country life:”—
The May Day Herd.
Now at length ’tis May-day morn,
And the herdsman blows his horn;
Green with grass the common now,
Herbage bears for many a cow.
Too long in the straw yard fed,
Have the cattle hung their head,
And the milk did well nigh fail,
The milk-maid in her ashen pail.
Well the men have done their job,
Every horn has got its knob;
Nor shall they each other gore,
Not a bag, or hide, be tore.
Yet they first a fight maintain,
Till one cow the mastery gain;
They, like man, for mastery strive,
They by others’ weakness thrive.
Drive them gently o’er the lawn,
Keep them from the growing corn;
When the common they shall gain,
Let them spread wide o’er the plain.
Show them to the reedy pool,
There at noon their sides they’ll cool,
And with a wide whisking tail,
Thrash the flies as with a flail.
Bring them gently home at eve,
That their bags they may relieve,
And themselves of care divest,
Chew the cud and take their rest.
Now the dairy maid will please,
To churn her butter, set her cheese;
We shall have the clotted cream,
The tea-table’s delightful theme.
Raise the song, then, let us now,
Sing the healthful, useful cow,
England well the blessing knows,
A land with milk that richly flows.
May-day is a Spring day.
Spring—“the innocent spring,” is the firstling of revolving nature; and in the first volume, is symbolized by an infant. In that engraving there is a sort of appeal to parental feeling; yet an address more touching to the heart is in the following little poem:—
A Mother to her First-born.
’Tis sweet to watch thee in thy sleep,
When thou, my boy, art dreaming;
’Tis sweet, o’er thee a watch to keep,
To mark the smile that seems to creep
O’er thee like daylight gleaming.
’Tis sweet to mark thy tranquil breast,
Heave like a small wave flowing;
To see thee take thy gentle rest,
With nothing save fatigue opprest,
And health on thy cheek glowing.
To see thee now, or when awake,
Sad thoughts, alas! steal o’er me;
For thou, in time, a part must take,
That may thy fortunes mar or make,
In the wide world before thee.
But I, my child, have hopes of thee,
And may they ne’er be blighted!—
That I, years hence, may live to see
Thy name as dear to all as me,
Thy virtues well requited.
I’ll watch thy dawn of joys, and mould
Thy little mind to duty—
I’ll teach thee words, as I behold
Thy faculties like flowers unfold,
In intellectual beauty.
And then, perhaps, when I am dead,
And friends around me weeping—
Thoul’t see me to my grave, and shed
A tear upon my narrow bed,
Where I shall then be sleeping!
Barton Wilford.
The Maypole nearest to the metropolis, that stood the longest within the recollection of the editor, was near Kennington-green, at the back of the houses, at the south corner of the Workhouse-lane, leading from the Vauxhall-road to Elizabeth-place. The site was then nearly vacant, and the Maypole was in the field on the south side of the Workhouse-lane, and nearly opposite to the Black Prince public-house. It remained till about the year 1795, and was much frequented, particularly by milk maids.
A delightfully pretty print of a merry-making “round about the Maypole,” supplies an [engraving] on the next page illustrative of the prevailing tendency of this work, and the simplicity of rural manners. It is not so sportive as the dancings about the Maypoles near London formerly; there is nothing of the boisterous rudeness which must be well remembered by many old Londoners on May-day.
The Country Maypole.
It is a pleasant sight, to see
A little village company
Drawn out upon the first of May
To have their annual holiday:—
The pole hung round with garlands gay;
The young ones footing it away;
The aged cheering their old souls
With recollections and their bowls;
Or, on the mirth and dancing failing,
Their oft-times-told old tales re-taleing.
*
The innocent and the unaspiring may always be happy. Their pleasures like their knitting needles, and hedging gloves, are easily purchased, and when bestowed are estimated as distinctions. The late Dr. Parr, the fascinating converser, the skilful controverter, the first Greek scholar, and one of the greatest and most influential men of the age, was a patron of May-day sports. Opposite his parsonage-house at Hatton, near Warwick, on the other side of the road, stood the parish Maypole, which on the annual festival was dressed with garlands, surrounded by a numerous band of villagers. The doctor was “first of the throng,” and danced with his parishioners the gayest of the gay. He kept the large crown of the Maypole in a closet of his house, from whence it was produced every May-day, with fresh flowers and streamers preparatory to its elevation, and to the doctor’s own appearance in the ring. He always spoke of this festivity as one wherein he joined with peculiar delight to himself, and advantage to his neighbours. He was deemed eccentric, and so he was; for he was never proud to the humble, nor humble to the proud. His eloquence and wit elevated humility, and crushed insolence; he was the champion of the oppressed, a foe to the oppressor, a friend to the friendless, and a brother to him who was ready to perish. Though a prebend of the church with university honours, he could afford to make his parishoners happy without derogating from his ecclesiastical dignities, or abatement of self-respect, or lowering himself in the eyes of any who were not inferior in judgment, to the most inferior of the villagers of Hatton.
Formerly a pleasant character dressed out with ribands and flowers, figured in village May-games under the name of
Jack-o’-the-Green.
The Jack-o’-the-Greens would sometimes come into the suburbs of London, and amuse the residents by rustic dancing. The last of them, that I remember, were at the Paddington May-dance, near the “Yorkshire Stingo,” about twenty years ago, from whence, as I heard, they diverged to Bayswater, Kentish-town, and adjoining neighbourhoods. A Jack-o’-the-Green always carried a long walking stick with floral wreaths; he whisked it about in the dance, and afterwards walked with it in high estate like a lord mayor’s footman.
On this first of the month we cannot pass the poets without listening to their carols, as we do, in our walks, to the songs of the spring birds in their thickets.
To May.
Welcome! dawn of summer’s day,
Youthful, verdant, balmy May!
Sunny fields and shady bowers,
Spangled meads and blooming flowers,
Crystal fountains—limpid streams,
Where the sun of nature beams,
As the sigh of morn reposes,
Sweetly on its bed of roses!
Welcome! scenes of fond delight,
Welcome! eyes with rapture bright—
Maidens’ sighs—and lovers’ vows—
Fluttering hearts—and open brows!
And welcome all that’s bright and gay,
To hail the balmy dawn of May!
J. L. Stevens.
The most ancient of our bards makes noble melody in this glorious month. Mr. Leigh Hunt selects a delightful passage from Chaucer, and compares it with Dryden’s paraphrase:—
It is sparkling with young manhood and a gentle freshness. What a burst of radiant joy is in the second couplet; what a vital quickness in the comparison of the horse, “starting as the fire;” and what a native and happy case in the conclusion!
The busy lark, the messenger of day,
Saleweth[146] in her song the morrow gray;
And fiery Phœbus riseth up so bright,
That all the orient laugheth of the sight;
And with his stremès drieth in the greves[147]
The silver droppès hanging in the leaves;
And Arcite, that is in the court real[148]
With Theseus the squier principal,
Is risen, and looketh on the merry day;
And for to do his observance to May,
Remembring on the point of his desire,
He on the courser, starting as the fire;
Is risen to the fieldès him to play,
Out of the court, were it a mile or tway.
And to the grove, of which that I you told,
By àventure his way he gan to hold,
To maken him a garland of the greves,
Were it of woodbind or of hawthorn leaves,
And loud he sung against the sunny sheen:
“O May, with all thy flowers and thy green,
Right welcome be thou, fairè freshè May:
I hope that I some green here getten may.”
And from his courser, with a lusty heart,
Into the grove full hastily he start,
And in a path he roamed up and down.
Dryden falls short in the freshness and feeling of the sentiment. His lines are beautiful; but they do not come home to us with so happy and cordial a face. Here they are. The word morning in the first line, as it is repeated in the second, we are bound to consider as a slip of the pen; perhaps for mounting.
The morning-lark, the messenger of day,
Saluteth in her song the morning gray;
And soon the sun arose with beams so bright,
That all the horizon laughed to see the joyous sight
He with his tepid rays the rose renews,
And licks the drooping leaves, and dries the dews;
When Arcite left his bed, resolv’d to pay
Observance to the month of merry May:
Forth on his fiery steed betimes he rode,
That scarcely prints the turf on which he trod:
At ease he seemed, and prancing o’er the plains,
Turned only to the grove his horses’ reins,
The grove I named before; and, lighted there,
A woodbine garland sought to crown his hair
Then turned his face against the rising day,
And raised his voice to welcome in the May
“For thee, sweet month, the groves green liveries wear,
If not the first, the fairest of the year:
For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours,
And Nature’s ready pencil paints the flowers:
When thy short reign is past, the feverish sun
The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on.
So may thy tender blossoms fear no blight,
Nor goats with venom’d teeth thy tendrils bite,
As thou shalt guide my wandering steps to find
The fragrant greens I seek, my brows to bind.”
His vows address’d, within the grove he stray’d.
“How poor,” says Mr. Hunt, “is this to Arcite’s leaping from his courser ‘with a lusty heart.’ How inferior the common-place of the ‘fiery steed,’ which need not involve any actual notion in the writer’s mind, to the courser ‘starting as the fire;’—how inferior the turning his face to ‘the rising day,’ and ‘raising his voice,’ to the singing ‘loud against the sunny sheen;’ and lastly, the whole learned invocation and adjuration of May, about guiding his ‘wandering steps’ and ‘so may thy tender blossoms’ &c. to the call upon the fair fresh May, ending with that simple, quick-hearted line, in which he hopes he shall get ‘some green here;’ a touch in the happiest taste of the Italian vivacity. Dryden’s genius, for the most part, wanted faith in nature. It was too gross and sophisticate. There was as much difference between him and his original, as between a hot noon in perukes at St. James’s, and one of Chaucer’s lounges on the grass, of a May morning. All this worship of May is over now. There is no issuing forth in glad companies to gather boughs; no adorning of houses with ‘the flowery spoil;’ no songs, no dances, no village sports and coronations, no courtly-poetries, no sense and acknowledgment of the quiet presence of nature, in grove or glade.
O dolce primavera, o fior novelli,
O aure o arboscelli, o fresche erbette,
O piagge benedette, o colli o monti,
O valli o fiumi o fonti o verde rivi,
Palme lauri ed olive, edere e mirti;
O gloriosi spirti de gli boschi;
O Eco, o antri foschi o chiare linfe,
O faretrate ninfe o agresti Pani,
O Satiri e Silvani, o Fauni e Driadi,
Naiadi ed Amadriadi, o Semidee,
Oreadi e Napee,—or siete sole.
Sannazzar.
O thou delicious spring, O ye new flowers,
O airs, O youngling bowers; fresh thickening grass,
And plains beneath heaven’s face; O hills and mountains,
Vallies, and streams, and fountains; banks of green,
Myrtles, and palms serene, ivies, and bays;
And ye who warmed old lays, spirits o’ the woods,
Echoes, and solitudes, and lakes of light;
O quivered virgins bright, Pans rustical,
Satyrs and Sylvans all, Dryads, and ye
That up the mountains be; and ye beneath
In meadow or flowery heath,—ye are alone.
“This time two hundred years ago, our ancestors were all anticipating their May holidays. Bigotry came in, and frowned them away; then debauchery, and identified all pleasure with the town; then avarice, and we have ever since been mistaking the means for the end.—Fortunately, it does not follow, that we shall continue to do so. Commerce, while it thinks it is only exchanging commodities, is helping to diffuse knowledge. All other gains,—all selfish and extravagant systems of acquisition,—tend to over-do themselves, and to topple down by their own undiffused magnitude. The world, as it learns other things, may learn not to confound the means with the end, or at least,(to speak more philosophically,) a really poor means with a really richer. The veriest cricket-player on a green has as sufficient a quantity of excitement, as a fundholder or a partizan; and health, and spirits, and manliness to boot. Knowledge may go on; must do so, from necessity; and should do so, for the ends we speak of: but knowledge, so far from being incompatible with simplicity of pleasures, is the quickest to perceive its wealth. Chaucer would lie for hours looking at the daisies. Scipio and Lælius could amuse themselves with making ducks and drakes on the water. Epaminondas, the greatest of all the active spirits of Greece, was a flute-player and dancer. Alfred the Great could act the whole part of a minstrel. Epicurus taught the riches of temperance and intellectual pleasure in a garden. The other philosophers of his country walked between heaven and earth in the colloquial bowers of Academus; and ‘the wisest heart of Solomon,’ who found every thing vain because he was a king, has left us panegyrics on the spring and ‘the voice of the turtle,’ because he was a poet, a lover, and a wise man.”[149]
Aubrey remarks, that he never remembers to have seen a Maypole in France; but he says, “in Holland, they have their May-booms, which are streight young trees, set up; and at Woodstock, in Oxon, they every May-eve goe into the parke, and fetch away a number of hawthorne-trees, which they set before their dores: ’tis pity that they make such a destruction of so fine a tree.”
As the old antiquary takes us to Woodstock, and a novel by the “Great Unknown,” bears that title, we will “inn” there awhile, agreeably to an invitation of a correspondent who signs Ωνωφιλτατος, and who promises entertainment to the readers of the Every-Day Book, from an account of some out-of-the-way doings at that place, when there were out-of-the-way doings every where. Our friend with the Greek name is critical; for as regards the “new novel,” he says, that “Woodstock would have been much better if the author had placed the incidents before the battle of Worcester, and supposed that Charles had been drawn over to England to engage in some plot of Dr. Rochecliffes, which had proved unsuccessful. This might have spared him one great anachronism, (placing the pranks of the merry devil of Woodstock in 1651, instead of 1649,) at the same time that it would throw a greater air of probability over the story; for the reader who is at all acquainted with English history, continually feels his pleasure destroyed by the recollection that in Charles’s escapes after the battle of Worcester, he never once visited Woodstock. Nor does the merry devil of Woodstock excite half the interest, or give us half the amusement he would have done, if the author had lately read the narrative I am now about to copy. He seems to have perused it at some distance of time, and then to have written the novel with imperfect recollection of the circumstances.—But let me begin my story; to wit, an article in the ‘British Magazine’ for April, 1747, which will I suppose excite some curiosity, and is in the following words:—
“The Genuine History
of the
“Good Devil of Woodstock,
“Famous in the world in the year 1649 and never accounted for, or at all understood to this time.”
The teller of this “Genuine History” proceeds as hereafter verbatim.
Some original papers having lately fallen into my hands under the name of “Authentic Memoirs of the Memorable Joseph Collins of Oxford, commonly known by the name of Funny Joe, and now intended for the press,” I was extremely delighted to find in them a circumstantial and unquestionable account of the most famous of all invisible agents, so well known in the year 1649, under the name of the good devil of Woodstock, and even adored by the people of that place for the vexation and distress it occasioned some people they were not much pleased with. As this famous story, though related by a thousand people, and attested in all its circumstances beyond all possibility of doubt by people of rank, learning, and reputation, of Oxford and the adjacent towns, has never yet been accounted for or at all understood, and is perfectly explained in a manner that can admit of no doubt in these papers, I could not refuse my readers their share of the pleasure it gave me in reading.
As the facts themselves were at that time so well known that it would have been tedious to enumerate them, they are not mentioned in these papers; but that our readers may have a perfect account of the whole transaction, as well as the secret history of it, I shall prefix a written account of it, drawn up and signed by the commissioners themselves, who were the people concerned, and which I believe never was published, though it agrees very well with the accounts Dr. Plot and other authors of credit give of the whole affair. This I found affixed to the author’s memorial, with this title:—
“A particular account of the strange and surprising apparitions and works of spirits, which happened at Woodstock, in Oxfordshire, in the months of October and November, in the year of our Lord Christ 1649, when the honourable the commissioners for surveying the said manor-house, park, woods, and other demesnes belonging to that manor, sat and remained there. Collected and attested by themselves.
“The honourable the commissioners arrived at Woodstock manor-house, October 13th, and took up their residence in the king’s own rooms. His majesty’s bed-chamber they made their kitchen, the council hall their pantry, and the presence chamber was the place where they sat for despatch of business. His majesty’s dining-room they made their wood yard, and stowed it with no other wood but that of the famous royal oak[150] from the high park, which, that nothing might be left with the name of the king about it, they had dug up by the roots, and bundled up into faggots for their firing.
“October 16. This day they first sat for the despatch of business. In the midst of their first debate there entered a large black dog (as they thought) which made a terrible howling, overturned two or three of their chairs, and doing some other damage, went under the bed, and there gnawed the cords. The door this while continued constantly shut, when after some two or three hours, Giles Sharp, their secretary, looking under the bed, perceived that the creature was vanished, and that a plate of meat which one of the servants had hid there was untouched, and showing them to their honours, they were all convinced there could be no real dog concerned in the case; the said Giles also deposed on oath that to his certain knowledge there was not.
“October 17. As they were this day sitting at dinner in a lower room, they heard plainly the noise of persons walking over their heads, though they well knew the doors were all locked, and there could be none there; presently after they heard also all the wood of the king’s oak brought by parcels from the dining-room, and thrown with great violence into the presence chamber, as also the chairs, stools, tables, and other furniture, forcibly hurled about the room, their own papers of the minutes of their transactions torn, and the ink-glass broken. When all this had some time ceased, the said Giles proposed to enter first into these rooms, and in presence of the commissioners of whom he received the key, he opened the door, and entering with their honours following him, he there found the wood strewed about the room, the chairs tossed about and broken, the papers torn, and the ink-glass broken over them, all as they had heard, yet no footsteps appeared of any person whatever being there, nor had the doors ever been opened to admit or let out any persons since their honours were last there. It was therefore voted nem. con. that the person who did this mischief could have entered no other way than at the keyhole of the said doors.
“In the night following this same day, the said Giles and two other of the commissioners’ servants, as they were in bed at the same room with their honours, had their bed’s feet lifted up so much higher than their heads, that they expected to have their necks broken, and then they were let fall at once with such violence as shook them up from the bed to a good distance; and this was repeated many times, their honours being amazed spectators of it. In the morning the bedsteads were found cracked and broken, and the said Giles, and his fellows, declared they were sore to the bones with the tossing and jolting of the beds.
“October 19. As they were all in bed together, the candles were blown out with a sulphurous smell, and instantly many trenchers of wood were hurled about the room, and one of them putting his head above the clothes, had not less than six forcibly thrown at him, which wounded him very grievously. In the morning the trenchers were all found lying about the room, and were observed to be the same they had eaten on the day before, none being found remaining in the pantry.
“October 20. This night the candles were put out as before, the curtains of the bed in which their honours lay, were drawn to and fro many times with great violence; their honours received many cruel blows, and were much bruised beside with eight great pewter dishes, and three dozen wooden trenchers which were thrown on the bed, and afterwards heard rolling about the room.
“Many times also this night they heard the forcible falling of many faggots by their bed side, but in the morning no faggots were found there, no dishes or trenchers were there seen neither, and the aforesaid Giles attests that by their different arranging in the pantry, they had assuredly been taken thence and after put there again.
“October 21. The keeper of their ordinary and his bitch lay with them; this night they had no disturbance.
“October 22. Candles put out as before. They had the said bitch with them again, but were not by that protected; the bitch set up a very piteous cry, the clothes of their beds were all pulled off, and the bricks, without any wind, were thrown off the chimney tops into the midst.
“October 24. The candles put out as before. They thought all the wood of the king’s oak was violently thrown down by their bedsides; they counted sixty-four faggots that fell with great violence, and some hit and shook the bed, but in the morning none were found there, nor the door of the room opened in which the said faggots were.
“October 25. The candles put out as before. The curtains of the bed in the drawing-room were forcibly drawn many times; the wood thrown out as before; a terrible crack like thunder was heard, and one of the servants running to see if his masters were not killed, found at his return three dozen of trenchers laid smoothly upon his bed under the quilt.
“October 26. The beds were shaken as before, the windows seemed all broken to pieces, and the glass fell in vast quantities all about the room. In the morning they found the windows all whole, but the floor strewed with broken glass, which they gathered and laid by.
“October 29.[151] At midnight, candles went out as before; something walked majestically through the room and opened and shut the window; great stones were thrown violently into the room, some whereof fell on the beds, others on the floor; and at about a quarter after one a noise was heard as of forty cannon discharged together, and again repeated at about eight minutes distance. This alarmed and raised all the neighbourhood, who coming into their honours’ room gathered up the great stones, fourscore in number, many of them like common pebbles and boulters, and laid them by where they are to be seen to this day at a corner of the adjoining field. This noise, like the discharge of cannon, was heard throughout the country for sixteen miles round. During these noises, which were heard in both rooms together, both the commissioners and their servants gave one another over for lost and cried out for help, and Giles Sharp snatching up a sword had well nigh killed one of their honours, taking him for the spirit as he came in his shirt into the room. While they were together the noise was continued, and part of the tiling of the house and all the windows of an upper room were taken away with it.
“October 30. At midnight, something walked into the chamber treading like a bear: it walked many times about, then threw the warming-pan violently on the floor, and so bruised it that it was spoiled. Vast quantities of glass were now thrown about the room, and vast numbers of great stones and horses’ bones thrown in; these were all found in the morning, and the floor, beds, and walls, were all much damaged by the violence they were thrown in.
“November 1. Candles were placed in all parts of the room, and a great fire made; at midnight, the candles all yet burning, a noise like the burst of a cannon was heard in the room, and the burning billets were tossed all over the room and about the beds, that had not their honours called in Giles and his fellows, the house had been assuredly burnt; an hour after the candles went out as usual, the crack of many cannon was heard, and many pails full of green stinking water were thrown on their honours in bed; great stones were also thrown in as before, the bed curtains and bedsteads torn and broken: the windows were now all really broken, and the whole neighbourhood alarmed with the noises; nay, the very rabbit-stealers that were abroad that night in the warren, were so frightened at the dismal thundering, that they fled for fear, and left their ferrets behind them.
“One of their honours this night spoke, and in the name of God asked what it was and why it disturbed them so. No answer was given to this, but the noise ceased for a while, when the spirit came again, and as they all agreed brought with it seven devils worse than itself. One of the servants now lighted a large candle, and set it in the doorway between the two chambers, to see what passed, and as he watched it he plainly saw a hoof striking the candle and candlestick into the middle of the room, and afterwards making three scrapes over the snuff of the candle to scrape it out. Upon this, the same person was so bold as to draw a sword; but he had scarce got it out when he perceived another invisible hand had hold of it too, and pulled with him for it, and at length prevailing, struck him so violently on the head with the pummel, that he fell down for dead with the blow. At this instant was heard another burst like the discharge of a broadside of a ship of war, and at about a minute or two’s distance each, no less than nineteen more such; these shook the house so violently that they expected every moment it would fall upon their heads. The neighbours on this were all alarmed, and running to the house, they all joined in prayers and psalm-singing, during which the noise still continued in the other rooms, and the discharge of cannon without though no one was there.”
Dr. Plot concludes his relation of this memorable event with observing, that though tricks have been often played in affairs of this kind, many of these things are not reconcileable to juggling; such as—1. The loud noises beyond the power of man to make without such instruments as were not there. 2. The tearing and breaking the beds. 3. The throwing about the fire. 4. The hoof treading out the candle; and, 5. The striving for the sword, and the blow the man received from the pummel of it.
To see, however, how great men are sometimes deceived, we may recur to this one tract, where among other things there is one entitled “The secret history of the good devil of Woodstock,” in which we find it under the author’s own hand, that he, Joseph Collins, commonly called funny Joe, was himself this very devil; that he hired himself as a servant to the commissioners under the feigned name of Giles Sharp, and by the help of two friends, an unknown trap-door in the ceiling of the bedchamber, and a pound of common gunpowder, played all these amazing tricks by himself, and his fellow servants, whom he had introduced on purpose to assist him, had lifted up their own beds.
The candles were contrived by a common trick of gunpowder put in them, to put themselves out by a certain time.
The dog who began the farce was, as he swore, no dog, but truly a bitch who had the day before whelped in that room and made all this disturbance in seeking for her puppies; and which when she had served his purpose, he let out and then looked for. The story of the hoof and sword himself alone was witness to, and was never suspected as to the truth of them though mere fictions. By the trap-door his friends let down stones, faggots, glass, water, &c. which they either left there or drew up again as best suited with him; and by this way let themselves in and out without opening the doors and going through the key-holes; and all the noises he declares he made by placing quantities of white gunpowder over pieces of burning charcoal on plates of tin, which as they melted went off with that violent explosion.
One thing there was beyond all these he tells us, which was also what drove them from the house in reality, though they never owned it. This was they had formed a reserve of part of the premises to themselves, and hid their mutual agreement, which they had drawn up in writing, under the earth in a pot in a corner of the room in which they usually dined, in which an orange tree grew: when in the midst of their dinner one day this earth of itself took fire and burned violently with a blue flame, filling the room with a strong sulphurous stench; and this he also professes was his own doing, by a secret mixture he had placed there the day before.
I am very happy in having an opportunity of setting history right about these remarkable events; and would not have the reader disbelieve my author’s account of them, from his naming either white gunpowder going off when melted, or his making the earth about the pot take fire of its own accord; since, however improbable these accounts may appear to some readers, and whatever secrets they might be in Joe’s time, they are well known now in chemistry. As to the last, there needs only to mix an equal quantity of iron filings, finely powdered, and powder of pure brimstone, and make them into a paste with fair water. This paste, when it has lain together about twenty-six hours, will of itself take fire, and burn all the sulphur away, with a blue flame and great stink. For the others, what he calls white gunpowder, is plainly the thundering powder called pulvis fulminans by our chemists. It is made only of three parts of saltpetre, two parts of pearl-ashes, or salt of tartar, and one part of flower of brimstone, mixed together and beat to a fine powder; a small quantity of this held on the point of a knife over a candle will not go off till it melts, and then give a report like a pistol; and this he might easily dispose of in larger quantities, so as to make it go off of itself, while he was with his masters.
From this diversion at Woodstock, wherein if we have exceeded be it remembered that Aubrey carried us thither, we return to the diversions of the month.
Ye shepherdesses, in a goodly round,
Purpled with health, as in the greenwood shade,
Incontinent ye thump the echoing ground,
And deftly lead the dance along the glade;
(O may no showers your merry makes affray!)
Hail at the opening, at the closing day,
All hail, ye Bonnibels, to your own season, May.
Nor ye absent yourselves, ye shepherd swains,
But lead to dance and song the liberal May,
And while in jocund ranks you beat the plains,
Your flocks shall nibble and your lambkins play,
Frisking in glee. To May your garlands bring,
And ever and anon her praises sing:
The woods shall echo May,—with May the vallies ring.
May Day in London.
The truant schoolboy now at eve we meet,
Fatigued and sweating thro’ the crowded street,
His shoe embrown’d at once with dust and clay,
With whitethorn loaded, which he takes for May.
Round his flapp’d hat in rings the cowslips twine,
Or in cleft osiers form a golden line.
On milk-pail rear’d the borrow’d salvers glare,
Topp’d with a tankard, which two porters bear,
Reeking they slowly toil o’er rugged stones,
And joyless milkmaids dance with aching bones.
The Milkmaids’ Dance.
A pageant quite as gay, of less estate,
With flowers made and solid silver plate—
A lesser garland—on a damask bed,
Was carried on a skilful porter’s head;
It stopp’d at every customer’s street-door,
And all the milkmaids ranged themselves before;
The fiddler’s quick’ning elbow quicker flew,
And then he stamp’d, and then the galliard grew.
Then cows the meadows ranged and fed on grass,
And milk was sometimes water’d—now, alas!
In huge first floors each cow, a prison’d guest,
Eats rancid oil-cake in unnat’ral rest,
Bids from her udder unconcocted flow
A stream a few short hours will turn to—foh!
Milk manufactories usurp the place
Of wholesome dairies, and the milkmaid’s face,
And garlands go no more, and milkmaids cease—
Yet tell me one thing, and I’ll be at peace;
May I, ye milk companions, hope to see
Old “milk mi-eau” once more dilute my tea?
Planting the Village Maypole.
Profitons enfans des beaux jours
Cette verdure passagère
Nous apprend qu’une loy sévère
En doit bientost finir le cours.
In this way the setting up of the Maypole is represented by one of the old French prints of the customs of the seasons, published “à Paris chez I. Mariette,” with the preceding lines subjoined. It is wholly a rustic affair. In an English village such an event would have been celebrated to the simple sounds from a pipe and tabor, or at most a fiddle; but our neighbours of the continent perform the ceremony by beat of drum and sound of trumpet. Their merriments are showy as themselves; ours are of a more sober character, and in the country seem nearer to a state of pastoral simplicity.
My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,
That e’er at wake delightsome gambol play’d,
Clean as young lambkins or the goose’s down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.
The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,
The frisking kid delight the gaping swain,
The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,
And my cur, Tray, play deftest feats around;
But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.
Gay.
Also, on May-day we have the superstitions of innocence, or ignorance if the reader please—no matter which, it is the same thing. In the same poet’s budget of country charms and divinations belonging to different seasons, he represents a young girl divining respecting her sweetheart, with as much certainty as the Pythian dame concerning the fate of nations.
Last May-day fair I search’d to find a snail
That might my secret lover’s name reveal:
Upon a gooseberry-bush a snail I found,
For always snails near sweetest fruit abound.
I seiz’d the vermine; home I quickly sped,
And on the hearth the milk-white embers spread:
Slow crawl’d the snail, and if I right can spell,
In the soft ashes mark’d a curious L:
Oh, may this wond’rous omen lucky prove!
For L is found in Luberkin and Love.
With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.
Gay.
May Day in Dublin.
For the Every-Day Book.
On the first day of May, in Dublin and its vicinity, it is customary for young men and boys to go a few miles out of town in the morning, for the purpose of cutting a May-bush. This is generally a white thorn, of about four or five feet high, and they carry it to the street or place of their residence, in the centre of which they dig a hole, and having planted the bush, they go round to every house and collect money. They then buy a pound or more of candles, and fasten them to various parts of the tree or bush, in such a manner so as to avoid burning it. Another portion of “the collection” is expended in the purchase of a heap of turf, sufficient for a large fire, and, if the funds will allow, an old tar barrel. Formerly it was not considered complete without having a horse’s skull and other bones to burn in the fire. The depots for these bones were the tanners’ yards in a part of the suburbs, called Kilmainham; and on May morning, groups of boys drag loads of bones to their several destinations. This practice gave rise to a threat, yet made use of:—“I will drag you like a horse’s head to the bone-fire.” About dusk when no more money can be collected, the bush is trimmed, the turf and bones are made ready to set on fire, the candles are all lighted, the bush fully illuminated, and the boys giving three huzzas, begin to dance and jump round it. If their money will afford the expenditure, they have a pot of porter to drink round. After an hour or so, the heap of turf and bones are set fire to, and when the candles are burnt out, the bush is taken up and thrown into the flames. They continue playing about until the fire is burnt out; each then returns to his home; and so ends their May-day.
About two or three miles from Dublin, on the great northern road, is a village called Finglass; it is prettily situated, and is the only place I know of in the neighbourhood of Dublin, where May-day is kept up in the old style. A high pole is decorated with garlands, and visiters come in from different parts of the country, and dance round it to whatever music chance may have conducted there. The best male and female dancer are chosen king and queen, and placed on chairs.
When the dancing is over, they are carried by some of the party to an adjacent public-house, where they regale themselves with ham, beef, whiskey-punch, ale, cakes, and porter, after which they generally have a dance in-doors, and then disperse.
There is an old song relating to the above custom, beginning—
Ye lads and lasses all to-day,
To Finglass let us haste away;
With hearts so light and dresses gay
To dance around the Maypole.—
A. O. B.
It is communicated by T. A. that it was formerly a custom in Cheshire for young men to place birchen boughs on May-day over the doors of their mistresses, and marke the residence of a scold by an alder bough. There is an old rhyme which mentions peculiar boughs for various tempers, an owler (alder) for a scolder, a nut for a slut, &c. Mr. Ormerode, the county historian, presumes the practice is disused; but he mentions that in the main street of Weverham, in Cheshire, are two Maypoles, which are decorated on this day with all due attention to the ancient solemnity: the sides are hung with garlands, and the top terminated by a birch, or other tall slender tree with its leaves on; the bark being peeled, and the stem spliced to the pole, so as to give the appearance of one tree from the summit.
Origin of May Day.
Our usages on this day retain the character of their ancient origin.
The Romans commenced the festival of Flora on the 28th of April, and continued it through several days in May. Ovid records the mythological attributes and dedication of the season to that goddess:—
Fair Flora! now attend thy sportful feast,
Of which some days I with design have past;—
A part in April and a part in May
Thou claims’t, and both command my tuneful lay;
And as the confines of two months are thine
To sing of both the double task be mine.
Circus and stage are open now and free—
Goddess! again thy feast my theme must be.
Since new opinions oft delusive are
Do thou, O Flora, who thou art declare;
Why should thy poet on conjectures dwell?
Thy name and attributes thou best can’st tell.
Thus I.—to which she ready answer made,
And rosy sweets attended what she said;
Though, now corrupted, Flora be my name,
From the Greek Chloris that corruption came:—
In fields where happy mortals whilome stray’d
Chloris my name, I was a rural maid;
To praise herself a modest nymph will shun,
But yet a god was by my beauty won.
Flora then relates, that Zephyr became enamoured of her as Boreas had been, that “by just marriage to his bed,” she was united to Zephyr, who assigned her the dominion over Spring, and that she strews the earth with flowers and presides over gardens. She further says, as the deity of flowers,—
I also rule the plains.
When the crops flourish in the golden field;
The harvest will undoubted plenty yield;
If purple clusters flourish on the vine,
The presses will abound with racy wine;
The flowering olive makes a beauteous year,
And how can bloomless trees ripe apples bear?
The flower destroyed of vetches, beans, and peas,
You must expect but small or no increase;
The gift of honey’s mine, the painful bees,
That gather sweets from flowers or blooming trees,
To scented shrubs and violets I invite,
In which I know they take the most delight;
A flower an emblem of young years is seen,
With all its leaves around it fresh and green;
So youth appears, when health the body sways,
And gladness in the mind luxuriant plays.
From these allegorical ascriptions, the Roman people worshipped Flora, and celebrated her festivals by ceremonies and rejoicings, and offerings of spring flowers and the branches of trees in bloom, which through the accommodation of the Romish church to the pagan usages, remain to us at the present day.
Wellington, Under the Wrekin.
For the Every-Day Book.
It has been usual for the people in this neighbourhood to assemble on the Wrekin-hill, on the Sunday after May-day, and the three successive Sundays, to drink a health “to all friends round the Wrekin;” but as on this annual festival, various scenes of drunkenness and other licentiousness were frequently exhibited, its celebration has, of late, been very properly discouraged by the magistracy, and is going deservedly to decay.
February, 1826.
W. P.
May Day Story-telling.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
April 25, 1826.
Sir,—At a village in Westmoreland called Temple Sowerby, perhaps if not the most, at least one of the most beautiful in the north of England, there has been, “from time whereof the memory of man is not to the contrary,” and still is, a custom on the first day of May for a number of individuals to assemble on the green, and there propose a certain number as candidates for contesting the various prizes then produced, which consist of a grindstone as the head prize; a hone or whetstone, for a razor, as the second; and whetstones of an inferior description, for those who can only reach a state of mediocrity in “the noble art of lying.”
The people are the judges: each candidate in rotation commences a story, such as his fertile genius at the moment prompts; and the more marvellous or improbable his story happens to be, so much the greater chance is there of his success.
After being amused in this manner for a considerable length of time, and awarding the prizes to the most deserving, the host of candidates, judges, and other attendants, adjourn to the inns, where the sports of the day very often end in a few splendid battles.
There is an anecdote, very current in the place, of a late bishop of Carlisle passing through in his carriage on this particular day, when his attention being attracted by the group of persons assembled together, very naturally inquired the cause. His question was readily answered by a full statement of facts which brought from his lordship a severe lecture on the iniquity of such a proceeding; and at the conclusion, he said, “For my part I never told a lie in my life.” This was immediately reported to the judges, upon which, without any dissent, the hone was awarded to his lordship as most deserving of it; and, as is reported, it was actually thrown into his carriage.
For the truth of the anecdote I cannot venture to assert; but the existence of the custom is a well-known fact to many of your readers in the metropolis.
I am, Sir, &c.
C. T.
Floral Games of Toulouse.
Over a door in the consistory of the Hôtel de Ville at Toulouse, is a small marble figure of Clemence Isaure. In this consistory, the meetings were held for distributing the prizes in the floral games; the figure had flowers in her hand, but they are broken off. Below it on a tablet of brass, is a Latin inscription, in Roman capitals, but with so many abbreviations, and some of these of a nature so unintelligible, that the meaning is scarcely to be deciphered. This much, however, is to be collected from it, that Clemence Isaure is represented to have been the daughter of L. Isaurus, of the ancient and illustrious family of the Isauræ of Toulouse; that the institution of the “floral games” is ascribed to her; that she is said to have built the Hôtel de Ville at her own expense; to have bequeathed to the city the markets for corn, wine, fish, and vegetables; and to have left the remainder of her property in perpetuity to the city for the support of the floral games; yet, it does not mention her age, or at what period she lived, or whether she was maiden, wife, or widow.
“Le Roman de Clemence Isaure,” an old ballad story, represents her to have been a fair lady of Toulouse, with whom the handsome Lautrec was deeply enamoured, and that she returned his love with equal passion. Alphonso, her father, having chosen another husband for Clemence, she resisted the union, declaring that her life was at his disposal, but that as long as she should live, her heart must be wholly Lautrec’s. Then Alphonso caused her to be chained, and shut her up in a strong tower, and threatened Lautrec’s life if he could get him into his power; and Lautrec, having found the place of his mistress’s imprisonment, like a true lover despised her cruel father’s threats, and went to the tower and repeated his vows and sorrows to the fair Clemence, who came to the grate and told him of his danger, and prayed him to enter into the service of the French king, and follow military glory, and chase the recollection of their loves and their misfortunes; and as a pledge, she presented him with three flowers, a violet, an eglantine, and a marigold. The first she gave him as her colour, that he might appear as her knight; the second was her favourite flower; and the third an emblem of the chagrin and sorrow by which her heart was consumed. Then Clemence kissed the flowers, and let her tears fall on them, and threw them to her lover, and her father appeared, and Lautrec gathered up the flowers, and hastily withdrew. In obedience to the injunctions of his mistress, he departed from Toulouse for the French king’s court; but before he had proceeded far on his journey, he heard that the English were marching against the city; and he returned when the inhabitants were flying before the enemy, and abandoning the ramparts, and leaving them defenceless: and only one old man resisted and valiantly maintained his ground. Then Lautrec fled to his assistance, and discovered him to be Alphonso, the father of Clemence: and at the moment when a fatal stroke was aimed at the old man, he rushed forward and received the mortal wound himself, and died in Alphonso’s arms, and gave him the flowers he received from Clemence, and conjured him to deliver them to his daughter, and to console her under the distress his fate would bring upon her. And Alphonso relented, and in great sorrow carried the flowers to Clemence, and related the untimely death of Lautrec; and her afflictions were too heavy for her to bear, and she fell a victim to despair and anguish, and followed her lover to the grave. But in remembrance of their sad story, she bequeathed her whole property to the city of Toulouse for the celebration of annual games, at which, prizes of golden flowers, like those she had given to Lautrec, were to be distributed to the skilful troubadours who should compose the best poem, upon the occasion. This is the history of the gallant Lautrec and the fair Clemence, in the poetical romance.
But according to Pierre Caseneuve, the author of an “Inquiry into the Origin of the Floral Games at Toulouse,” there is strong reason to doubt whether such a person as Clemence ever existed. Among the archives of the Hôtel de Ville are several chronicles of the floral games, the oldest of which states, that in the year 1324, seven of the principal inhabitants of Toulouse, desirous to promote the fame and prosperity of the city, resolved to establish an annual festival there, for the cultivation of the Provençal poetry, a spirit of piety, and suavity of manners. They therefore proposed that all persons skilled in Provençal poetry, should be invited to assemble at Toulouse every year in the beginning of May, to recite their compositions, and that a violet of gold should be given to him whose verses the judges should determine the most worthy; and a circular letter in the Provençal poetry was dispersed over the province of Languedoc, inviting competitors to assemble in the beginning of May the following year, to celebrate this festival.
The poetical compositions were not to be confined to the lays of lovers reciting their passion, and the fame of their mistresses; but the honour of God, and glorifying his name, was to be their first object. It was wished that poetry should conduce to the happiness of mankind, and by furnishing them a source of innocent and laudable amusement, make time pass pleasantly, repress the unjust sallies of anger, and dissipate the dark vapours of sadness. For these reasons it was termed, by the institutors, the “Gay Science.”
In consequence of this invitation, a large concourse of competitors resorted to Toulouse; and in May, 1325, the first festival of the floral games was celebrated. Verses were recited by the candidates before a numerous assembly. The seven persons with whom the meeting originated, presided under the title of the chancellor of the “Gay Science,” and his six assessors, and there also sat with them, the capitouls or chief magistrates of the town as judges; and there was a great assemblage of knights, of gentlemen, and of ladies. The prize was given to the candidate whose verses were determined by the majority of the judges to be the most worthy.
The “floral games” of Toulouse continued to be celebrated in like manner, at the sole expense of the institutors, till the magistrates seeing the advantage they were of to the town, by the vast concourse of people brought thither, and considering that their continuance must be precarious while they depended upon the ability and disposition of a few individuals for their support, resolved to convert the institution into a public concern; and, with the concurrence of the principal inhabitants, it was determined that the expense should in future be defrayed by the city, that to the original prize two others should be added, a silver eglantine, and a silver marigold; and that occasional ones might be distributed at the option of the judges to very young poets, as stimulants to them to aim at obtaining the principal prizes.
After about thirty years it was judged expedient to appoint a committee, who should draw up such a code of statutes as might include every possible case that could occur, and these statutes were laid before the judges for their approbation.
Among these decrees the principal were, that no prize could be given to a heretic, a schismatic, or an excommunicated person; that whoever was a candidate for any of the prizes, should take a solemn oath that the poetry was his own composition, without the least assistance from any other person; that no woman should be admitted to the competition, unless her talents in composing verses were so celebrated as to leave no doubt of her being capable of writing the poetry offered:—that no one who gained a prize was allowed to be a candidate again till after a lapse of three years, though he was expected in the intervening years to compose verses for the games, and recite them; and that if any or all the prizes remained undisposed of, from no verses being produced that were judged worthy of them, the prizes were to remain over to the next year, then to be given away in addition to the regular prizes of the year.
Under these and other regulations the “floral games” became celebrated throughout Europe; and within fifty years from their first institution they were the resort of all persons of distinction. In 1388, the reigning king of Arragon sent ambassadors to Charles the Sixth of France, with great pomp and solemnity, requesting that some of the poets of the “floral games” at Toulouse might be permitted to come to the court, and assist in establishing similar games there; promising that, when they had fulfilled their mission, they should receive rewards equal to their merits, and consistent with his royal munificence.
This account of the institution of the “floral games” is from the oldest registers relative to them; wherein there is no mention made of the lady Clemence Isaure till 1513, nearly two hundred years after their institution; and it is well known that the statue of the lady Clemence in the consistory, was not put up till the year 1557. In that year it had been proposed in the college of the Gay Science to erect a monument to her memory in the church of La Dorade, where she was reputed to have been buried; but this idea was afterwards changed for putting up her statue in the room where the “floral games” were held. From that time the statue was always crowned with flowers at the time of the celebration of the games, and a Latin oration pronounced in honour of her. A satirical sonnet in the Provençal language upon the idea of erecting either a monument or a statue to a lady who never had any existence in the world, is preserved in Pierre Caseneuve’s “Inquiry into the Origin of the Floral Games.”
But by whomsoever the “floral games” of Toulouse were instituted, it is remarkable, that the festival was constantly observed for more than four centuries and a half without interruption. It did not cease to be celebrated till the revolution. It was not, however, continued entirely according to the original institution, since for a considerable time the use of the Provençal language, in the poetry for the prizes, had been abandoned, and the French substituted for it. At what period this change took place does not seem to be well ascertained. The number of prizes, too, was increased to five, the principal of which was still the golden violet; but instead of one eglantine, and one marigold of silver, two of each were given. The violet was appropriated to the best ode; the others were for a piece in heroic poetry, for one in pastoral poetry, for a satirical piece, and for a sonnet, a madrigal, a song, or some other minor effusion.
Three of the deputies to the parliament had for some time presided at these games, instead of the chancellor of the Gay Science with his six assessors; and with them were associated the capitouls, or chief magistrates of the town. All the other magistrates, and the whole body of the parliament, attended in their robes of office, with the principal gentlemen of the town, and a brilliant assemblage of ladies in full dress. These were ranged round the room in seats raised like an amphitheatre, and the students of the university sat on benches in the centre. The room was ornamented with festoons of flowers and laurel, and the statue of Clemence Isaure was crowned with them. After the oration in honour of her was pronounced, the judges, having previously consulted together in private, and assigned the prizes to the pieces which they thought most worthy of them, stood up, and, naming the poem to which one was given, pronounced with an audible voice, “Let the author come forward.” The author then presented himself; when his name was declared, it was followed by a grand flourish of music. The same ceremony was repeated as each piece was announced. The whole concluded with each author publicly reading his poem.
Many of these prize poems are to be found in different collections. Several prizes were in latter times adjudged to females, without any strict investigation having been previously made into the possibility of the pieces to which they were decreed being female compositions. It was owing to having gained a silver eglantine at one of these festivals that the celebrated Fabre d’Eglantine assumed the latter part of his name. He was a Languedocian by birth, a native of Limoux, a small town about four leagues from Toulouse.[152]
Without such encouragements to be poetical, as were annually offered by the conductors of the “floral games” at Toulouse, our kind feelings have been cultivated, and our literature is enriched by a race of poets, whom we may venture to array against the united armies of continental bards. It may be doubted whether a May prize of Toulouse was ever awarded for sweeter verses, than Matt. Prior’s on Chloe’s May flowers.
The Garland.
The pride of every grove I chose
The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink, and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe’s hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsaf’d to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.
The flowers she wore along the day,
And every nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they looked more gay
Than glowing in their native bed.
Undrest at evening, when she found
Their odour lost, their colours past,
She changed her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast.
The eye dropt sense distinct and clear,
As any muse’s tongue could speak,
When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.
Dissembling what I knew too well,
“My love, my life,” said I, “explain
This change of humour; pr’ythee tell:
That falling tear—what does it mean?”
She sighed; she smil’d; and, to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said,
“See, friend, in some few fleeting hours
See yonder, what a change is made!
“Ah, me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty are but one,
At morn both flourish bright and gay;
Both fade at evening, pale and gone.
“At dawn poor Stella danc’d and sung;
The amorous youth around her bowed,
At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw and kissed her in her shroud.
“Such as she is, who died to-day;
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;
Go, Damon, bid thy muse display
The justice of thy Chloe’s sorrow.”
Prior.
A beautiful ode by another of our poets graces the loveliness of the season, and finally “points a moral” of sovereign virtue to all who need the application, and will take it to heart.
Spring.
Lo! where the rosy bosom’d hours,
Fair Venus’ train appear,
Disclose the long expected flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While whispering pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky
Their gathered fragrance fling.
Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade;
Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech
O’er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water’s rushy brink
With me the muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of care;
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o’er the current skim,
Some slow, their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation’s sober eye
Such is the race of man:
And they that creep and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter through life’s little day
In fortune’s varying colours drest.
Brushed by the hand of rough mischance;
Or chill’d by age, their airy dance
They leave in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear in accents low
The sportive kind reply;
“Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic while ’tis May.”
Gay.
Then, too, a bard of the preceding centuries introduces “the Shepherd’s Holiday,” the day we now memorialize, with nymphs singing his own sweet verses in “floral games.”
Nymph 1.
Thus, thus begin, the yearly rites
Are due to Pan on these bright nights,
His morn now riseth, and invites
To sports, to dances, and delights:
All envious, and profane away,
This is the shepherd’s holiday.
Nymph 2.
Strew, strew, the glad and smiling ground,
With every flower, yet not confound
The primrose drop, the spring’s own spouse,
Bright daisies, and the lips-of-cows,
The garden-star, the queen of May,
The rose, to crown the holiday.
Nymph 3.
Drop drop your violets, change your hues,
Now red, now pale, as lovers use,
And in your death go out as well
As when you lived unto the smell:
That from your odour all may say,
This is the shepherd’s holiday.
Jonson.
It is to be observed as a remarkable fact, that among the poets, the warmest advocates and admirers of the popular sports and pastimes in village retreats, uniformly invigorate and give keeping to their pictures, by sparkling lights and harmonizing shadows of moral truth.
But hark! the bagpipe summons on the green,
The jocund bagpipe, that awaketh sport;
The blithsome lasses, as the morning sheen,
Around the flower-crown’d Maypole quick resort;
The gods of pleasure here have fix’d their court.
Quick on the wing the flying moment seize,
Nor build up ample schemes, for life is short,
Short as the whisper of the passing breeze.
Gathering of May Dew.
This [engraving] represents certain lads and lasses of “auld Reekie,” who are early gatherers of “May-dew,” in the act of dancing to the piper’s “skirl.” From a slight sketch accompanying the communication, Mr. George Cruikshank’s pencil depicts the “action,” which it should be observed takes place on a hill.
May-dew Dancers at Arthur’s-seat, Edinburgh.
—————Strathspeys and reels,
Put life and metal in their heels.
Burns.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Edinburgh, April 20, 1826.
My Dear Sir,—Allow me, without preface, to acquaint you with a custom of gathering the May-dew here on the first of May.
About four o’clock in the morning there is an unusual stir; a great opening of area gates, and ringing of bells, and a “gathering” of folk of all clans, arrayed in all the colours of the rainbow; and a hurrying of gay throngs of both sexes through the King’s-park to Arthur’s-seat.
In the course of half an hour the entire hill is a moving mass of all sorts and sizes. At the summit may be seen a company of bakers, and other craftsmen, dressed in kilts, dancing round a Maypole. On the more level part “next door,” is usually an itinerant vender of whiskey, or mountain (not May) dew, your approach to whom is always indicated by a number of “bodies” carelessly lying across your path, not dead, but drunk. In another place you may descry two parties of Irishmen, who, not content with gathering the superficial dew, have gone “deeper and deeper yet,” and fired by a liberal desire to communicate the fruits of their industry, actively pelt each other with clods.
These proceedings commence with the daybreak. The strong lights thrown upon the various groups by the rising sun, give a singularly picturesque effect to a scene, wherein the ever-varying and unceasing sounds of the bagpipes, and tabours and fifes, et hoc genus omne, almost stun the ear. About six o’clock, the appearance of the gentry, toiling and pechin up the ascent, becomes the signal for serving men and women to march to the right-about; for they well know that they must have the house clean, and every thing in order earlier than usual on May-morning.
About eight o’clock the “fun” is all over; and by nine or ten, were it not for the drunkards who are staggering towards the “gude town,” no one would know that any thing particular had taken place.
Such, my dear sir, is the gathering of May-dew. I subjoin a sketch of a group of dancers, and
I am, &c.
P. P., Jun.
It is noticed in the “Morning Post” of the second of May, 1791, that the day before, “being the first of May, according to annual and superstitious custom, a number of persons went into the fields and bathed their faces with the dew on the grass, under the idea that it would render them beautiful.”
May-dew was held of singular virtue in former times. Pepys on a certain day in May makes this entry in his diary:—
“My wife away, down with Jane and W. Hewer to Woolwich, in order to a little ayre, and to lie there to night, and so to gather May-dew to-morrow morning, which Mrs. Turner hath taught her is the only thing in the world to wash her face with; and” Pepys adds, “I am contented with it.” His “reasons for contentment” seem to appear in the same line; for he says, “I (went) by water to Fox-hall, and there walked in Spring-garden;” and there he notices “a great deal of company, and the weather and garden pleasant: and it is very pleasant and cheap going thither, for a man may go to spend what he will, or nothing—all as one: but to hear the nightingale and other birds; and here a fiddler, and there a harp; and here a jew’s-trump, and here laughing, and there fine people walking, is mighty diverting,” says Mr. Pepys, while his wife is gone to lie at Woolwich, “in order to a little ayre, and to gather May-dew.”
Gerard’s Hall Maypole.
Basing Lane.
Whence this lane derived its name of Basing, Stow cannot tell. It runs out of Bread-street, and was called the Bakehouse, but, “whether meant for the king’s bakehouse, or bakers dwelling there, and baking bread to serve the market in Bread-street, where the bread was sold, I know not,” says Stow; “but sure I am, I have not read of Basing or of Gerard, the gyant, to have any thing there to doe.”
It seems that this Maypole was fabled to have been “the justing staff of Gerard, a gyant.” Stow’s particulars concerning it, and his account of Gerard’s-hall, which at this time is an inn for Bath and West of England coaches and other conveyances, are very interesting. He says, “On the south side of this (Basing) lane is one great house, of old time builded upon arched vaults, and with arched gates of stone, brought from Cane in Normandie; the same is now a common ostrey for receit of travelers, commonly and corruptly called Gerard’s-hall, of a gyant said to have dwelled there. In the high roofed hall of this house, sometime stood a large Firre-Pole, which reached to the roofe thereof, and was said to be one of the staves that Gerard the gyant used in the warres, to runne withall. There stood also a ladder of the same length, which (as they said) served to ascend to the top of the staffe. Of later yeeres this hall is altered in building, and divers roomes are made in it. Notwithstanding, the pole is removed to one corner of the hall, and the ladder hanged broken upon a wall in the yard. The hosteler of that house said to mee, the pole lacked half a foote of forty in length. I measured the compasse thereof, and found it fifteene inches. Reason of the pole could the master of the hostery give me none, but bade mee reade the Chronicles, for there he heard of it. Which answer,” says Stow, “seemed to me insufficient: for he meant the description of Britaine, for the most part drawne out of John Leyland, his commentaries (borrowed of myselfe) and placed before Reynes Wolfe’s Chronicle, as the labours of another.” It seems that this chronicle has “a chapter of gyants or monstrous men—of a man with his mouth sixteene foote wide, and so to Gerard the gyant and his staffe,” which Stow speaks of as “these fables,” and then he derives the house called Gerard’s-hall, from the owner thereof, “John Gisors, maior of London, in the yeere 1245,” and says, “The pole in the hall might bee used of old time (as then the custome was in every parish) to bee set up in the summer, a Maypole, before the principall house in the parish or streete, and to stand in the hall before the scrine, decked with hollie and ivie at the feast of Christmas. The ladder served for the decking of the Maypole, and reached to the roof of the hall.”
To this is added, that “every mans house of old time was decked with holly and ivie in the winter, especially at Christmas;” whereof, gentle reader, be pleased to take notice, and do “as they did in the old time.”
We think we remember something about milkmaids and their garlands in our boyish days; but even this lingering piece of professional rejoicing is gone; and instead of intellectual pleasures at courts, manly games among the gentry, the vernal appearance every where of boughs and flowers, and the harmonious accompaniment of ladies’ looks, all the idea that a Londoner now has of May-day, is the dreary gambols and tinsel-fluttering squalidness of the poor chimney-sweepers! What a personification of the times;—paper-gilded dirt, slavery, and melancholy, bustling for another penny!
Something like celebrations of May-day still loiter in more remote parts of the country, such as Cornwall, Devonshire, and Westmoreland; and it is observable, that most of the cleverest men of the time come from such quarters, or have otherwise chanced upon some kind of insulation from its more sophisticated common-places.—Should the subject come before the consideration of any persons who have not had occasion to look at it with reference to the general character of the age, they will do a great good, and perhaps help eventually to alter it, by fanning the little sparks that are left them of a brighter period. Our business is to do what we can, to remind the others of what they may do, to pay honours to the season ourselves, and to wait for that alteration in the times, which the necessity of things must produce, and which we must endeavour to influence as genially as possible in its approach.[153]
From Mr. Leslie’s pencil, there is a picture of May-day, “in the old time”—the “golden days of good queen Bess”—whereon a lady, whose muse delights in agreeable subjects, has written the following descriptive lines:—
On May Day.
By Leslie.
Beautiful and radiant May,
Is not this thy festal day?
Is not this spring revelry
Held in honour, queen, of thee?
’Tis a fair: the booths are gay,
With green boughs and quaint display
Glasses, where the maiden’s eye
May her own sweet face espy;
Ribands for her braided hair,
Beads to grace her bosom fair;
From yon stand the juggler plays
With the rustic crowd’s amaze;
There the morris-dancers stand,
Glad bells ringing on each hand;
Here the Maypole rears its crest,
With the rose and hawthorn drest;
And beside are painted bands
Of strange beasts from other lands.
In the midst, like the young queen,
Flower-crowned, of the rural green,
Is a bright-cheeked girl, her eye
Blue, like April’s morning sky,
With a blush, like what the rose
To her moonlight minstrel shows;
Laughing at her love the while,—
Yet such softness in the smile,
As the sweet coquette would hide
Woman’s love by woman’s pride.
Farewell, cities! who could bear
All their smoke and all their care,
All their pomp, when wooed away
By the azure hours of May?
Give me woodbine, scented bowers
Blue wreaths of the violet flowers,
Clear sky, fresh air, sweet birds, and trees,
Sights and sounds, and scenes like these!
L. E. L.
Northampton May Garland.
Northampton May Garland.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Northampton, April, 1826.
Sir,—Having received much information from your Every-Day Book, I shall be very happy to afford any that I may be able to glean; but my means are extremely limited. I however mention a custom at Northampton on the first of May, with some hope that I am not troubling you with a “twice-told tale.”
The girls from the neighbouring villages of Kingsthorpe, &c. on the morning of May-day, come into the town with May garlands, which they exhibit from house to house, (to show, as the inhabitants say, what flowers are in season,) and usually receive a trifle from each house. The garland is composed of two hoops crossing each other vertically, and covered with flowers and streamers of various coloured ribands; these are affixed to a staff about five feet long by which it is carried, and in each of the apertures between the hoops is placed a smartly dressed doll.
The accompanying [sketch] will convey some idea of the garland. There are numerous streamers attached to it, of all the colours of the rainbow. Should you think this notice worth inserting, I shall feel obliged by your substituting any signature you please for my name, which, agreeable to your request to correspondents who communicate accounts of customs, &c., I subjoin.
I am, &c.
B. S. G. S.
The last Chimney Sweeper.
The last Chimney Sweeper.
A large brush made of a number of small whalebone sticks, fastened into a round ball of wood, and extending in most cases to a diameter of two feet, is thrust up the chimney by means of hollow cylinders or tubes, fitting into one another like the joints of a fishing rod, with a long cord running through them; it is worked up and down, as each fresh joint is added, until it reaches the chimney pot; it is then shortened joint by joint, and on each joint being removed, is in like manner worked up and down in its descent; and thus you have your chimney swept perfectly clean by this machine, which is called a Scandiscope.
Some wooden tubes, a brush, and rope,
Are all you need employ;
Pray order, maids, the Scandiscope,
And not the climbing boy.
Copy of a printed hand-bill, distributed before May-day, 1826.
No May Day Sweeps.
CAUTION.
The inhabitants of this parish are most respectfully informed, that the United Society of Master Chimney Sweepers intend giving their apprentices a dinner, at the Eyre Arms [619, 620] St John’s Wood, on the first of May, instead of suffering them to collect money as heretofore; the public are therefore cautioned against encouraging in any way such collections, as they are too frequently obtained by persons of the worst descriptions, or for the sinister purposes of their employers.
N. B. The procession will start from the Bedford Arms, Charlotte-street, Bedford-square, at eleven o’clock.
On Monday, the first of May, 1826, (pursuant to the above notice,) the first anniversary dinner of the “United Society of Master Chimney Sweepers,” took place at the Eyre tavern, St. John’s-wood, Marylebone.
About eleven o’clock, two hundred of their apprentices proceeded in great regularity through the principal streets and squares at the west end of the town, accompanied by an excellent band of music. The clean and wholesome appearance of the lads, certainly, reflected much credit on their masters, and attracted crowds of persons to the above tavern, where the boys were regaled with a substantial repast of roast beef and plum-pudding; after which the masters themselves sat down to a very excellent dinner provided for the occasion.
On the cloth being removed, and the usual routine of loyal toasts drank, the chairman addressed his brother tradesmen, congratulating them on the formation of a society that was calculated to do such essential service to the trade in general. It would be the means of promoting the welfare of their apprentices,—which was a feeling he was convinced every one of them had at heart,—who, instead of being permitted to loiter and dance about the streets on the first of May, dressed up in tawdry apparel, and soliciting money, should in future be regaled with substantial fare on each forthcoming day of the anniversary of the society, in order to put an end to the degrading practice which had for such a length of time stigmatized the trade. (Applause.)
“Success to the United Society of Chimney Sweepers,” having been drank with thunders of applause,
Mr. Bennett, of Welbeck-street, addressed the company on the subject of cleansing chimnies with the machine, the introduction of which he was confident would never answer the intended purposes. He urged the absolute necessity of employing climbing boys in their trade; and instanced several cases in which the machines were rendered perfectly useless: most of the chimnies in the great houses at the west end of the town were constructed in such a manner that it was utterly impossible to clear them of soot, unless a human being was sent up for that purpose. He admitted that some houses had chimnies which were built perpendicular; but even in those were frequently to be met with what the trade called “cores,” which were large pieces of mortar that projected out from the brick-work, and that collected vast quantities of soot on their surface, so that no machine could get over the difficulty. When the subject of the climbing boys was before the house of lords, he (Mr. Bennett) was sent for by the earl of Hardwicke, who was desirous of personally ascertaining whether the practice of allowing boys to ascend chimnies could be dispensed with entirely. He (Mr. Bennett) had attended at his lordship’s residence with the machine, which was tried in most of the chimnies in the house, but the experiment failed; one of his apprentices having been ultimately obliged to ascend for the purpose of extricating the machine from impediments which were only to be surmounted by the activity of climbing boys. The result was, that his lordship subsequently expressed his opinion that the machines could never answer the purposes for which they were originally intended, and therefore had his chimnies swept by the old method. Mr. Bennett concluded by making some observations on the harsh manner in which the trade had been aspersed. He said it had been insinuated that their apprentices, in consequence of being permitted to ascend chimnies, were often rendered objects for the remainder of their lives. There were, he admitted, a few solitary instances of accidents happening in their trade as well as in every other. He now only wished that their opponents might have an opportunity of witnessing the healthy and cheerful state in which their apprentices were.
A master chimney-sweeper, with great vehemence of action and manner, said, “I am convinced, Mr. Chairman, that it is a thing impossible to do away with our climbing boys. For instance, look at the duke of York’s fifty-one new chimnies. Let me ask any one of you in company, is it possible a machine could be poked up any one of them? I say, no; and for this reason—that most of them run in a horizontal line, and then abruptly turn up, so that you see a machine would be of no more use than if you were to thrust up an old broomstick; and I mean to stick to it, that our opponents may as well try to put down chimney-sweepers in the old way, as the Equitable Loan Bank Company endeavoured to cut up the business of the pawnbrokers. (Applause.) When I look round the table, (said the speaker,) and see such respectable gentlemen on my right and on my left, and in front of me, who dares to say that the United Society of Master Chimney Sweepers are not as respectable a body of tradesmen as any in London? and although, if I may be excused the expression, there is not a gentleman now present that has not made his way in the ‘profession,’ by climbing up chimnies. (There was a universal nod of assent at this allusion.) Therefore, continued the speaker, the more praise is due to us, and I now conclude by wishing every success to our new society.” The above animated address was received with the loudest plaudits.
Several other master chimney-sweepers addressed the company, after which the ladies were introduced into the room, and dancing commenced, which was kept up to a late hour.[154]
On the first of May, 1807, the slave trade in the West Indies was proscribed by the British parliament, and we see by the proceedings at the Eyre tavern, St. John’s-wood, that on the first of May, 1826, an effort was made to continue the more cruel black slavery of white infants. Some remarks reported to have been made by these gentlemen in behalf of their “black art,” require a word or two.
We are told that after the usual routine of loyal toasts, the chairman congratulated his “brother tradesmen” on the formation of a society that was calculated to do “essential service to the trade in general.” There can be no doubt that “the king” was the first name on their list of toasts, yet it happens that his majesty is at the head of an association for abolishing their “trade.” The first names on the roll of “The Society for suspending Climbing Boys by the use of the Scandiscope,” are those of the “patron,” and the president, vice-presidents, committee, and treasurer. These are chiefly prelates, peers, and members of the house of commons; but the “patron” of the society is “the king,” in opposition to whom, in the capacity of “patron,” Mr. Bennett, the master-sweep, of Welbeck-street, urges the “absolute necessity” of employing climbing boys. One of his reasons is, that in some chimnies the bricklayers have “cores” of mortar whereon the soot accumulates so that no machine can get over the difficulty; but this only shows the “absolute necessity” of causing the “cores” to be removed from chimnies already so deformed, and of making surveyors of future houses responsible for the expenses of alteration, if they suffer them to be so improperly constructed. Mr. Bennett says, that lord Hardwicke was convinced “the machines could never answer the purposes for which they were originally intended, and therefore had his chimnies swept by the old method.” If his lordship did express that opinion, it is in opposition to the opinion of the king, as “patron,” the late bishop of Durham, the present bishop of Oxford, the duke of Bedford, the lords Grosvenor, Morley, Harrowby, Gwydir, Auckland, and other distinguished individuals, who as president and vice-presidents of the society, had better opportunities of determining correctly, than Mr. Bennett probably afforded to earl Hardwicke.
Another “master chimney-sweeper” is reported to have said, “look at the duke of York’s fifty-one new chimnies:—most of them run in a horizontal line, and then abruptly turn up, so that, you see, a machine would be of no more use than if you were to thrust up an old broomstick:” and then he asks, “who dares to say that the United Society of Master Chimney Sweepers are not as respectable a body of tradesmen as any in London?” and triumphantly adds, that “there is not a gentleman now present that has not made his way in the profession by climbing up chimnies.” To this “there was a universal nod of assent.” But a universal admission by all “the gentlemen present” that they had climbed to respectability by climbing up chimnies, is of very little weight with those who observe and know that willing slaves become the greatest and most effective oppressors; and as to the duke of York’s new chimnies, it is not credible his royal highness can be informed that the present construction of his chimnies necessarily dooms unborn infants to the certain fate of having the flesh torn from their joints before they can sweep such chimnies. The scandalous default of a surveyor has subjected the duke of York to the odium of being quoted as an authority in opposition to a society for abolishing a cruel and useless trade, wherein servitude is misery, and independence cannot be attained but by the continual infliction of blows and torture on helpless children. Yet as an act of parliament abated the frequency of conflagrations, by empowering district surveyors to cause the erection of party walls, so a few clauses added to the building act would authorize the surveyors to enforce the building of future chimnies without “cores,” and of a form to be swept by the “Scandiscope.” Master chimney-sweepers would have no reason to complain of such enactment, inasmuch as they would continue to find employment, till the old chimnies and the prejudices in favour of cruelty to children, disappeared by effluxion of time.
The [engraving] at the head of this article is altered from a lithographic print representing a “Scandiscope.” Perhaps the machine may be better understood from the annexed [diagram]. It simply consists of a whalebone brush, and wooden cylinders strung on rope, and put into action by the method described beneath the [larger engraving].
Mr. George Smart obtained two gold medals from the Society of Arts for this invention. The names of the machine chimney-sweepers in different parts of London may be obtained from Mr. Wilt, secretary of the “Society for superseding Climbing Boys,” No. 125, Leadenhall-street; the treasurer of the institution is W. Tooke, esq., F. R. S. Any person may become a member, and acquaint himself with the easy methods by which the machine is adopted to almost any chimney. As the climbing chimney-sweepers are combining to oppose it, all humane individuals will feel it a duty to inquire whether they should continue willing instruments in the hands of the “profession” for the extension of the present cruel practice.
The late Mrs. Montagu gave an annual dinner to the poor climbing boys which ceased with her death.
And is all pity for the poor sweeps fled,
Since Montagu is numbered with the dead?
She who did once the many sorrows weep,
That met the wanderings of the woe-worn sweep!
Who, once a year, bade all his griefs depart,
On May’s sweet morn would doubly cheer his heart!
Washed was his little form, his shirt was clean,
On that one day his real face was seen,
His shoeless feet, now boasted pumps—and new.
The brush and shovel gaily held to view!
The table spread, his every sense was charmed,
And every savoury smell his bosom warmed;
His light heart joyed to see such goodly cheer,
And much he longed to taste the mantling beer:
His hunger o’er—the scene was little heaven—
If riches thus can bless, what blessings might be given!
But, she is gone! none left to soothe their grief,
Or, once a year, bestow their meed of beef!
Now forth he’s dragged to join the beggar’s dance;
With heavy heart, he makes a slow advance,
Loudly to clamour for that tyrant’s good,
Who gives with scanty hand his daily food!
It is the interest of the “United Society of Master Chimney Sweepers” to appear liberal to the wretched beings who are the creatures of their mercy; of the variation and degrees of that mercy, there is evidence before the committee of the house of commons. Sympathy for the oppressed in the breast of their oppressors is reasonably to be suspected. On the minutes of the “Society for superseding Climbing Boys,” there are cases that make humanity shudder; against their recurrence there is no security but the general adoption of machines in chimnies—instead of children.
Mr. Montgomery’s “Chimney Sweeper’s Friend, and Climbing Boys’ Album,” is a volume of affecting appeal, dedicated to the king, “in honour of his majesty’s condescending and exemplary concern for the effectual deliverance of the meanest, the poorest, and weakest of British born subjects, from unnatural, unnecessary, and unjustifiable personal slavery and moral degradation.” It contains a variety of beautiful compositions in prose and verse: one of them is—
The Chimney Sweeper.
Communicated by Mr. Charles Lamb,
from a very rare and curious little work,
Mr. Blake’s “Songs of Innocence.”
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me, while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry, “Weep! weep! weep!”
So your chimnies I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
There’s little Tom Toddy, who cried when his head,
That was curl’d like a lamb’s back, was shaved, so I said,
“Hush, Tom, never mind it for when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.”
And so he was quiet, and that very night
As Tom was a sleeping, he had such a sight,
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins so black.
And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun,
Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy
He’d have God for his father, and never want joy.
And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work;
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm,
So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.
Dining with Duke Humphrey,
May Day Honours to Him.
In old St. Paul’s cathedral “within a proper chappel purposely made for him,” and in a proper tomb, sir John Beauchamp, constable of Dover, and warden of the cinque ports, was buried in the year 1358. “This deceased nobleman,” says Stow, “by ignorant people hath been erroneously mistermed and said to be duke Humfrey, the good duke of Gloucester, who lyeth honourably buried at Saint Albans in Hartfordshire, twenty miles from London; in idle and frivolous opinion of whom, some men, of late times, have made a solemne meeting at his tombe upon Saint Andrewe’s day in the morning (before Christmasse) and concluded on a breakfast or dinner, as assuring themselves to be servants, and to hold diversity of offices under the good duke Humfrey.”
Stow’s continuator says, “Likewise, on May-day, tankard bearers, watermen, and some other of like quality beside, would use to come to the same tombe early in the morning, and, according as the other, deliver serviceable presentation at the same monument, by strewing herbes, and sprinkling faire water on it, as in the duty of servants, and according to their degrees and charges in office: but (as Master Stow hath discreetly advised such as are so merrily disposed, or simply profess themselves to serve duke Humfrey in Pauls) if punishment of losing their dinners daily, there, be not sufficient for them, they should be sent to St. Albans, to answer there for their disobedience, and long absence from their so highly well deserving lord and master, as in their merry disposition they please so to call him.”
There can be no doubt that this mock solemnity on May-day, and the feast of St. Andrew, on pretence of attending a festival in Paul’s, on the invitation of a dead nobleman in another place, gave rise to the saying concerning “dining with duke Humfrey.” It is still used respecting persons who inquire “where shall I dine?” or who have lost, or are afraid of “losing their dinners.”
Printers’ May Festival.
The following particulars of a very curious celebration is remarkable, as being a description of the old mode of festivous enjoyment, “according to order,” and the wearing of garlands by the stewards, with “whifflers” in the procession.[155] It is extracted from Randle Holme’s “Storehouse of Armory, 1688.”
Stationers’ Hall May Feast.
The Printers, Journeymen, with the Founders and Ink-makers have every year a general Feast, which is kept in the Stationers Hall on or about May Day. It is made by 4 Stewards, 2 Masters, and 2 Journeymen; and with the Collection of half a Crown a piece of every Guest, the charges of the whole Feast is defrayed.
About 10 of the Clock in the Morning on the Feast day, the Company invited meet at the place appointed, and from thence go to some Church thereabouts in this following Order. First, 4 Whifflers (as Servitures) by two and two, walking before with white Staves in their Hands, and red and blew Ribbons hung Belt-wise upon their Shoulders: these make way for the Company.
Then walks the Beadle of the Company of Stationers, with the Companies Staff in his Hand, and Ribbons as afore.
Then the Minister, whom the Stewards have engaged to Preach the Sermon, and his Reader or Clerk.
Then the Stewards walk, by two and two, with long white wands in their Hands, and all the rest of the Company follow in like order, till they enter the Church, &c. Service ended, and a Sermon suitable for the occasion finished, they all return to their Hall in the same order, where upon their entrance each Guest delivers his Ticket to a Person appointed, which gives him admittance; where every one Feasts himself with what he likes best, being delighted all the while with Musicks and Songs, &c.
After Dinner the Ceremony of Electing new Stewards for the next Year begins: then the Stewards withdraw into another Room, and put Garlands of Laurel or Box on their Heads, and white wands in their Hands, and are Ushered out of the withdrawing Room thus;—
First, the Companies Beadle with his Staff in his Hand, and Musick sounding before him;
Then one of the Whifflers with a great Bowl of White wine and Sugar in his right Hand, and his Staff in the left: after him follows the eldest Steward.
Then another Whiffler as aforesaid, before the second Steward; in like manner another Whiffler before the third; and another before the fourth Steward.
And thus they walk, with Musick sounding before them, three times round the Hall; and, in the fourth round, the first Steward takes the Bowl from his Whiffler, and Drinks to one (whom before he resolved on) by the Title of Mr. Steward Elect; and taking the Garland off his own Head, puts it on the Steward Elect’s Head, at which all the Company clap their Hands in token of Joy.
Then the present Steward takes out the Steward elect, and Walks with him, hand in hand, (giving him the right Hand,) behind the three other Stewards, another round the Hall; and in the next round as aforesaid, the second Steward drinks to another with the same Ceremony as the first did; and so the third, and so the fourth. And then all walk one round more, hand in hand, about the Hall, that the Company may take Notice of the Stewards Elect: and so ends the Ceremony of the Day.
Old Watch Tower of the City Wall.
Old Watch Tower
of the City Wall.
[This] is a front view of a watch tower, or one of the barbicans, on the city wall, which was discovered near Ludgate-hill on the first of May, 1792. [Below] is a section of Ludgate-hill from a plan of London by Hollar, wherein this tower is described.
They are both represented in an engraving published by the late Mr. Nathaniel Smith, of Great May’s buildings, from whence the preceding views are copied for the purpose of more especially marking the discovery of the old tower on this festival day.
Opera Arm Chairs.
A rare tract, connected with the history of the opera in England, records a jeu d’esprit, which, together with the tract, are attributed to the author of the “Pursuits of Literature:” it will be seen to relate to the present day from the following extracts from the pamphlet.
THE EDITOR
TO
THE READER.
May 5, 1800.
Piu non si turbi all’ anima
La sua tranquillità:
Pensiamo solo a ridere;
Sara quel che sara’.
Aria; Gli Zingari in Fiera. A. 2.
The following poetical Composition appeared in the Morning Herald of May 1, 1800; and it is reprinted at the very particular request of several persons, votaries of the Opera, Fashion, Wit, and Poetry, who were desirous that it should be preserved in a less perishable form than that of a Newspaper.
The occasion of the Arm-Chairs being placed in the Pit at the Opera House was this. Before the opening of the Opera House this season, it was generally understood, that His Majesty had graciously signified to Lord Salisbury his concern, that any of the Subscribers should be deprived of their Boxes on the nights when His Majesty honoured the Theatre with his presence. This being communicated to Mr. Taylor, he observed that the Royal objection might easily be obviated, by detaching the last Row from the Pit, on these occasions, for the reception of the Subscribers. This was done accordingly, and a Row of Arm-Chairs, with Locks and Keys to the bottoms of them, were placed there, which on every other night were to be free for general accommodation. But about two months after, the Arm-Chairs were removed, and a long bench was substituted.
On this great event, the Editor has no Intercepted Letters to lay before the public by authority, and therefore he has not applied to Mr. Canning for a Preface, nor for Notes to Mr. Gifford. There is no Egyptian Fast to be solemnized, nor Festival to be celebrated. He can assure them also, that neither the Mustapha Raschid Effendi and Mustapha Ressichi Effendi for the Grand Vizir; nor General Dessaix and Citizen Poussielgue for General Kleber, were Commissioners on signing this Convention. But the Evacuation of the Arm-ed Chairs was effected without bloodshed or loss on either side, by Lord Galloway and Mr. Bell, Commissioners on the part of the Amateurs and Conoscenti, and by Signor Lorenzo da Ponte, Poet to the Opera House, and Mr. Solomon, Leader of the Band, Commissioners on the part of General Taylor and the Dramatic Field Marshal the Marquis of Salisbury. The Arm-ed Chairs were surrendered three days after the signing of the Capitulation, without the intervention of any gallant Knight[156] from Sweden or from Malta.
Thus far is from the preface, and after a few remarks and a “Scena” in Italian, the poem alluded to, and here reprinted verbatim, is introduced in the following manner:—
March 19, 1800.
THE ARGUMENT.
A month or two ago, Lord Galloway came to the Opera, and on the Pit-door near the Orchestra being opened, he perceived, to his confusion and astonishment, that a long Bench was substituted in the place of the Row of Arm-Chairs at the bottom of the Pit, the principal or central of which he had filled for so many nights with discernment and dignity, and to the general satisfaction of every person present. His Lordship conceiving, rather hastily, that this measure was intended as a personal slight to himself, retired disconcerted, without taking his seat; and, as he is a votary of the Muses, penned the following Lamentation, which he sent to Lord Salisbury the next day, and recovered his wonted good humour, cheerfulness, and gayety.
PANDOLFO ATTONITO!
OR,
LORD GALLOWAY’s
POETICAL LAMENTATION
ON THE
REMOVAL OF THE ARM-CHAIRS
FROM THE
PIT AT THE OPERA HOUSE!
What!—the proud honours of the chair
Must I no more, with Cecil[(a)], share?—
Still be my soul serene
Virtù, or virtue’s but a name,
Brutus and Galloway exclaim,
And sighing quit the scene.
Too sure I heard a warning knell,
And told my Critic Brother Bell[(b)]
The fall of seats[(c)] and stocks;
Yet fondly sooth’d by Bolla’s airs,
Thought Taylor’s bottom, and his chairs
Secure with keys and locks.[(d)]
But ah! how Fortune loves to joke!
Expell’d am I, who sung and spoke
As loud as at the Fair:[(e)]
While yearly, with six thousand pound,
The Commons Addington have bound
Their Servant to the Chair.
My purer taste, my classic eye,
Unzon’d Thalia could descry,
Who stepp’d beyond her place:
How oft I warn’d, in either house,
That charms too plain at last would rouse
The Mitre and the Mace!
I with Pandolfo watch’d the sphere,
When Mars on Venus shone so clear,
That Saturn[(f)] felt the shock:
Grave Shute and Henry shrunk at Love,
And at the loose flesh-colour’d glove,
That blush’d at twelve o’clock.
I said, some folks would thunder Greek
At Hilligsberg’s Morale lubrique,
And Parisot’s costume![(g)]
Where shall Paullinia, tight and round,[(h)]
In vest appropriate now be found,
With India’s palm and plume?
Old Q—nsb—ry feels his dotard qualm,
Terpsichorè can pour no balm
O’er half his visual ray;
Nor William[(i)] can console the Sag,
Nor Elisée[(k)] his pain assuage,
Nor Yarmouth smooth his way.
When Marinari’s[(l)] magic hand
Traced the bold view in fabled land,
For Fawns and Wood-nymphs meet
Ah, soon, I cried, may Sal’sb’ry think,
’Tis just, that they who dance should drink,
And they who sing, should eat.[(ll)]
For this, in arbitrating state,
In presence of the wise and great,
I sung the Sovereign’s air:[(m)]
Firm was my voice, for Taylor smil’d;
Nor deem’d I then, (too well beguil’d,)
How slippery was the Chair.
Nor G—rd—n’s coarse and brawny Grace,
The last new Woman in the Place[(n)]
With more contempt could blast;
Not Marlb’rough’s damp on Blandford’s purse
To me could prove a heavier curse;
My fame, my glory past.
Fall’n though I am, I ne’er shall mourn,
Like the dark Peer on Storer’s urn,[(nn)]
Reflecting on his seat!
In vain that mean mysterious Sire
In embers would conceal the fire;
While Honour’s pulse can beat.
For me shall droop th’ Assyrian Queen,[(o)]
With softest train and tragic mien,
The Siddons in her art;
E’en Bolla[(p)] shall forget to please,
With sparkling eye and playful ease,
And Didelot shall start.
Leo enthron’d bade Querno sit;
And Gianni’s[(q)] verse and regal wit
The Consul loves to share:
Pye has the laurel and the sack,
And C—mbe the foolscoat on his back,
But Galloway, no Chair.
Yet though, reduc’d by Taylor’s pranks,
I sit confounded in the ranks,
Good Humour’s still my own;
Still shall I breathe in rapt’rous trance,
“Eternal be the Song, the Dance,
The Opera and the Throne!”