November 5.
Powder Plot.
To keep alive the remembrance of this conspiracy, and in contemplation of its anniversary in 1826, a printed quarter sheet was published, “price one penny coloured, and one halfpenny plain.” It consists of a rude wood-cut of “a Guy,” carried about by boys, and the subjoined title with the accompanying verses.
Quick’s New Speech for the
Fifth of November,
On the Downfall of Guy Fawkes.
Good gentlefolks, pray,
Remember this day,
To which your kind notice we bring
Here’s the figure of sly
Old villainous Guy,
Who wanted to murder the king:
With powder a store,
He bitterly swore,
As he skulk’d in the vault to prepare,
How the parliament too,
By him and his crew,
Should all be blown up in the air.
So please to remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot;
We know no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
But James all so wise,
Did the papists surprise,
Who plotted the cruelty great;
He guessed their intent,
And Suffolk was sent,
Who sav’d both the kingdom and state.
With a lantern was found,
Guy Fawkes under ground,
And quick was the traitor bound fast:
They said he should die,
So hung him up high,
And burnt him to ashes at last.
So please to remember, &c.
So we once a year,
Go round without fear,
To keep in remembrance the day:
With assistance from you,
To bring to your view,
Guy Fawkes again blazing away:
While with crackers and fire,
In fullest desire,
In his chair he thus merrily burns,
So jolly we’ll be,
And shout—may you see,
Of this day many happy returns.
So please to remember, &c.
Then hollo boys! hollo boys! shout and huzza,
Hollo boys! hollo boys! keep up the day,
Hollo boys! hollo boys! let the bells ring,
Down with the pope, and God save the king.
Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!
There was a publication in 1825, of similar character to the preceding. “Guy” was the subject of the cut, and the topic of the verses was a prayer for—
————“a halfpenny to buy a faggot,
And another to buy a match,
And another to buy some touch paper,
That the powder soon may catch.”
It contained the general averment—
“We know no reason,
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.”
Though it is not requisite to relate more particulars of the “gunpowder treason” than have been already mentioned,[413] yet a friendly finger points to a passage in an old writer, concerning one of the conspirators, which is at least amusing:—“Some days before the fatal stroke should be given, Master Keys, being at Tichmersh, in Northamptonshire, at the house of Mr. Gilbert Pickering, his brother-in-law, (but of a different religion, as a true protestant,) suddenly whipped out his sword, and in merriment made many offers therewith at the heads, necks, and sides of many gentlemen and gentlewomen then in his company. This, then, was taken as a mere frolic, and for the present passed accordingly; but afterwards, when the treason was discovered, such as remembered his gestures, thought thereby he did act what he intended to do, (if the plot had took effect,) hack and hew, kill and slay, all eminent persons of a different religion to themselves.”[414]
A modern writer observes:—“It is not, perhaps, generally known, that we have a form of prayer for prisoners, which is printed in the ‘Irish Common Prayer-book,’ though not in ours. Mrs. Berkeley, in whose Preface of Prefaces to her son’s poems I first saw this mentioned, regrets the omission, observing, that the very fine prayer for those under sentence of death might, being read by the children of the poor, at least keep them from the gallows. The remark is just. If there be not room in our prayer-book, we have some services there which might better be dispensed with. It was not very decent in the late abolition of holydays, to let the two Charleses hold their place, when the Virgin Mary and the saints were deprived of the red letter privileges. If we are to have any state service, it ought to be for the expulsion of the Stuarts. There is no other part of their history which England ought to remember with sorrow and shame. Guy Faux also might now be dismissed, though the Eye of Providence would be a real loss. The Roman catholics know the effect of such prints as these, and there can be no good reason for not imitating them in this instance. I would have no prayer-book published without that eye of Providence in it.”[415]
Purton Bonfire.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Dear Sir,—At almost every village in England, the fifth of November is regarded in a very especial manner. Some pay greater attention to it than others, but I believe it is invariably noticed by all.
I have been present at Old Purton bonfire, and perhaps the following short notice of it may not be uninteresting.
I before stated ([col. 1207]) that the green, or close, at Purton, is the spot allotted for amusements in general. This is also the place for the ceremonies on this highly important day, which I am about to describe.
Several weeks before, the boys of the village go to every house begging faggots; and if they are refused they all answer together—
If you don’t give us one
We’ll take two,
The better for us, sir,
And worse for you.
They were once refused by a farmer, (who was very much disliked by the poor for his severity and unkindness,) and accordingly they determined to make him repent. He kept a sharp look out over his faggot pile, but forgot that something else might be stolen. The boys got into his backyard and extracted a new pump, which had not been properly fixed, and bore it off in triumph to the green, where it was burnt amidst the loud acclamations of the young rogues generally.
All the wood, &c. which has been previously collected, is brought into the middle of the close where the effigy of poor Guy is burnt. A figure is made (similar to one of those carried about London streets,) intending to represent the conspirator, and placed at the top of a high pole, with the fuel all around. Previous to lighting it, poor Guy is shot at by all who have the happiness to possess guns for the purpose, and pelted with squibs, crackers, &c. This fun continues about an hour, and then the pile is lighted, the place echoes with huzzas, guns keep up perpetual reports, fireworks are flying in all directions, and the village bells merrily ring. The fire is kept up a considerable time, and it is a usual custom for a large piece of “real Wiltshire bacon” to be dressed by it, which is taken to the public-house, together with potatoes roasted in the ashes of the bonfire, and a jovial repast is made. As the fire decreases, successive quantities of potatoes are dressed in the embers by the rustics, who seem to regard them as the great delicacies of the night.
There is no restraint put on the loyal zeal of these good folks, and the fire is maintained to a late hour. I remember, on one occasion, hearing the guns firing as I lay in bed between two and three o’clock in the morning. The public-house is kept open nearly all night. Ale flows plentifully, and it is not spared by the revellers. They have a noisy chorus, which is intended as a toast to his majesty; it runs thus:—
My brave lads remember
The fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot,
We will drink, smoke, and sing, boys,
And our bells they shall ring, boys,
And here’s health to our king, boys,
For he shall not be forgot.
Their merriment continues till morning, when they generally retire to rest very much inebriated, or, as they term it, “merry,” or “top heavy.”
I hope to have the pleasure of reading other communications in your interesting work on this good old English custom; and beg to remain,
Dear Sir, &c.
C. T.
October 20, 1826.
If the collections formerly published as “State Poems” were to receive additions, the following from a journal of 1796, might be included as frolicsome and curious.
Song on the Fifth of November.
Some twelvemonths ago,
A hundred or so,
The pope went to visit the devil,
And if you’ll attend,
You’ll find, to a friend,
Old Nick can behave very civil.
How do’st do, quoth the seer,
What a plague brought you here;
I suppose ’twas some whimsical maggot—
Come draw tow’rds the fire,
I pr’thee sit nigher;
Here, sirrah, lay on t’other faggot.
You’re welcome to hell,
I hope friends are well,
At Paris, Madrid, and at Rome;
But, since you elope,
I suppose, honest pope,
The conclave will hang out the broom.
All jesting aside,
His Holiness cried,
Give the pope and the devil their dues;
Believe me, old dad,
I’ll make thy heart glad
For faith I have brought thee rare news.
There’s a plot to beguile
An obstinate isle,
Great Britain, that heretic nation,
Who so slyly behav’d
In hopes to be sav’d
By the help of a curs’d reformation.
We shall never have done
If we burn one by one,
Nor destroy the whole heretic race;
For when one is dead,
Like the fam’d hydra’s head,
Another springs up in his place.
Believe me, Old Nick,
We’ll show them a trick,
A trick that shall serve for the nonce,
For this day before dinner,
Or else I’m a sinner,
We’ll kill all their leaders at once.
When the parliament sits
And all try their wits
In consulting of old mealy papers,
We’ll give them a greeting
Shall break up their meeting
And set them all cutting their capers.
There’s powder enough
And combustible stuff
In thirty and odd trusty barrels;
We’ll send them together
The Lord can tell whither,
And decide at one blow all their quarrels.
When the king and his son
And the parliament’s gone,
And the people are left in the lurch,
Things will take their old station
In yon cursed nation
And I’ll be the head of the church.
These words were scarce said,
When in popt the head
Of an old jesuistical wight
Who cried you’re mistaken
They’ve all sav’d their bacon,
And Jemmy still stinks of the fright.
Then Satan was struck,
And cried ’tis ill luck,
But you for your news shall be thanked,
So he call’d at the door
Six devils or more
And toss’d the poor priest in a blanket.