March Fair, at Brough, Westmoreland.
March Fair, at Brough, Westmoreland
For the Table Book
This fair is held always on the second Thursday in March: it is a good one for cattle; and, in consequence of the great show, the inhabitants are obliged to shut up their windows; for the cattle and the drivers are stationed in all parts of the town, and few except the jobbers venture out during the time of selling.
From five to six o’clock the preceding evening, carts, chiefly belonging to Yorkshire clothiers, begin to arrive, and continue coming in until the morning, when, at about eight or nine, the cattle fair begins, and lasts till three in the afternoon. Previously to any article being sold, the fair is proclaimed in a manner depicted tolerably well in the preceding [sketch]. At ten, two individuals, named Matthew Horn and John Deighton, having furnished themselves with a fiddle and clarinet, walk through the different avenues of the town three times, playing, as they walk, chiefly “God save the King;” at the end of this, some verses are repeated, which I have not the pleasure of recollecting; but I well remember, that thereby the venders are authorized to commence selling. After it is reported through the different stalls that “they’ve walked the fair,” business usually commences in a very brisk manner.
Mat. Horn has the best cake booth in the fair, and takes a considerable deal more money than any “spice wife,” (as women are called who attend to these dainties.) Jack Deighton is a shoemaker, and a tolerably good musician. Coals are also brought for sale, which, with cattle, mainly constitute the morning fair.
At the close of the cattle fair, the town is swept clean, and lasses walk about with their “sweethearts,” and the fair puts on another appearance. “Cheap John’s here the day,” with his knives, combs, bracelets, &c. &c. The “great Tom Mathews,” with his gallanty show, generally contrives to pick up a pretty bit of money by his droll ways. Then “Here’s spice Harry, gingerbread, Harry—Harry—Harry!” from Richmond, with his five-and-twenty lumps of gingerbread for sixpence. Harry stands in a cart, with his boxes of “spice” beside him, attracting the general attention of the whole fair, (though he is seldomer here than at Brough-hill fair.) There are a few shows, viz. Scott’s sleight of hand, horse performances, &c. &c.; and, considering the size of the town, it has really a very merry-spent fair. At six o’clock dancing begins in nearly all the public-houses, and lasts the whole of “a merry neet.”
Jack Deighton mostly plays at the greatest dance, namely, at the Swan inn; and his companion, Horn, at one of the others; the dances are merely jigs, three reels, and four reels, and country dances, and no more than three sets can dance at a time. It is a matter of course to give the fiddler a penny or two-pence each dance; sometimes however another set slips in after the tune’s begun, and thus trick the player. By this time nearly all the stalls are cleared away, and the “merry neet” is the only place to resort to for amusement. The fiddle and clarinet are to be heard every where; and it is astonishing what money is taken by the fiddlers. Some of the “spice wives,” too, stop till the next morning, and go round with their cakes at intervals, which they often sell more of than before.
At this festival at Brough, the husbandmen have holiday, and many get so tipsy that they are frequently turned off from their masters. Several of the “spice wives” move away in the afternoon to Kirby Stephen, where there is a very large fair, better suited to their trade, for it commences on the day ensuing. Unfortunately, I was never present at the proclamation. From what I saw, I presume it is in consequence of a charter, and that these people offer their services that the fair-keepers may commence selling their articles sooner. I never heard of their being paid for their trouble. They are constantly attended by a crowd of people, who get on the carts and booths, and, at the end, set up a load “huzza!”
W. H. H.
THE TWELVE GEMS
Of the Twelve Months.
For the Table Book.
It is a Polish superstition, that each month has a particular gem attached to it, which governs it, and is supposed to influence the destiny of persons born in that month; it is therefore customary among friends, and lovers particularly, to present each other, on their natal day, with some trinket containing their tutelary gem, accompanied with its appropriate wish; this kind fate, or perhaps kinder fancy, generally contrives to realize according to their expectations.
January.
Jacinth, or Garnet denotes constancy and fidelity in every engagement.
February.
Amethyst preserves mortals from strong passions, and ensures peace of mind.
March.
Bloodstone denotes courage and secrecy in dangerous enterprises.
April.
Sapphire, or Diamond denotes repentance and innocence.
May.
Emerald, successive love.
June.
Agate ensures long life and health.
July.
Ruby, or Cornelian ensures the forgetfulness or cure of evils springing from friendship or love.
August.
Sardonix ensures conjugal felicity.
September.
Chrysolite preserves from, or cures folly.
October.
Aquamarine, or Opal denotes misfortune and hope.
November.
Topaz ensures fidelity and friendship.
December.
Turquoise, or Malakite denotes the most brilliant success and happiness in every circumstance of life.
E. M. S.
Garrick Plays.
No. VIII.
[From the “Game at Chess,” a Comedy, by Thomas Middleton, 1624.]
Popish Priest to a great Court Lady, whom he hopes to make a Convert of.
Let me contemplate;
With holy wonder season my access,
And by degrees approach the sanctuary
Of unmatch’d beauty, set in grace and goodness.
Amongst the daughters of men I have not found
A more Catholical aspect. That eye
Doth promise single life, and meek obedience.
Upon those lips (the sweet fresh buds of youth)
The holy dew of prayer lies, like pearl
Dropt from the opening eyelids of the morn
Upon the bashful rose. How beauteously
A gentle fast (not rigorously imposed)
Would look upon that cheek; and how delightful
The courteous physic of a tender penance,
(Whose utmost cruelty should not exceed
The first fear of a bride), to beat down frailty!
[From the “Virgin Widow,” a Comedy, 1649; the only production, in that kind, of Francis Quarles, Author of the Emblems.]
Song.
How blest are they that waste their weary hours
In solemn groves and solitary bowers,
Where neither eye nor ear
Can see or hear
The frantic mirth
And false delights of frolic earth;
Where they may sit, and pant,
And breathe their pursy souls;
Where neither grief consumes, nor griping want
Afflicts, nor sullen care controuls.
Away, false joys; ye murther where ye kiss!
There is no heaven to that, no life to this.
[From “Adrasta,” a Tragi-comedy, by John Jones, 1635.]
Dirge.
Die, die, ah die!
We all must die:
’Tis Fate’s decree;
Then ask not why.
When we were framed, the Fates consultedly
Did make this law, that all things born should die.
Yet Nature strove,
And did deny
We should be slaves
To Destiny.
At which, they heapt
Such misery;
That Nature’s self
Did wish to die:
And thank their goodness, that they would foresee
To end our cares with such a mild decree.
Another.
Come, Lovers, bring your cares,
Bring sigh-perfumed sweets;
Bedew the grave with tears,
Where Death with Virtue meets.
Sigh for the hapless hour,
That knit two hearts in one;
And only gave Love power
To die, when ’twas begun.
[From “Tancred and Gismund,” acted before the Court by the Gentlemen of the Inner Temple, 1591.]
A Messenger brings to Gismund a cup from the King her Father, enclosing the heart of her Lord, whom she had espoused without his sanction.
Mess. Thy father, O Queen, here in this cup hath sent
The thing to joy and comfort thee withal,
Which thou lovedst best: ev’n as thou wast content
To comfort him with his best joy of all.
Gis. I thank my father, and thee, gentle Squire;
For this thy travail; take thou for thy pains
This bracelet, and commend me to the King.
****
So, now is come the long-expected hour,
The fatal hour I have so looked for.
Now hath my father satisfied his thirst
With guiltless blood, which he so coveted.
What brings this cup? aye me, I thought no less;
It is my Earl’s, my County’s pierced heart.
Dear heart, too dearly hast thou bought my love.
Extremely rated at too high a price.
Ah my dear heart, sweet wast thou in thy life,
But in thy death thou provest passing sweet.
A fitter hearse than this of beaten gold
Could not be lotted to so good a heart.
My father therefore well provided thus
To close and wrap thee up in massy gold
And therewithal to send thee unto me,
To whom of duty thou dost best belong.
My father hath in all his life bewrayed
A princely care and tender love to me,
But this surpasseth, in his latter days
To send me this mine own dear heart to me.
Wert not thou mine, dear heart, whilst that my love
Danced and play’d upon thy golden strings?
Art thou not mine, dear heart, now that my love
Is fled to heaven, and got him golden wings?
Thou art mine own, and still mine own shall be,
Therefore my father sendeth thee to me.
Ah pleasant harbourer of my heart’s thought!
Ah sweet delight, the quickener of my soul!
Seven times accursed be the hand that wrought
Thee this despite, to mangle thee so foul
Yet in this wound I see my own true love,
And in this wound thy magnanimity,
And in this wound I see thy constancy.
Go, gentle heart, go rest thee in thy tomb;
Receive this token as thy last farewell.
She kisseth it.
Thy own true heart anon will follow thee,
Which panting hasteth for thy company.
Thus hast thou run, poor heart, thy mortal race,
And rid thy life from fickle fortune’s snares,
Thus hast thou lost this world and worldly cares,
And of thy foe, to honour thee withal,
Receiv’d a golden grave to thy desert.
Nothing doth want to thy just funeral,
But my salt tears to wash thy bloody wound;
Which to the end thou mightst receive, behold,
My father sends thee in this cup of gold:
And thou shalt have them; though I was resolved
To shed no tears; but with a cheerful face
Once did I think to wet thy funeral
Only with blood, and with no weeping eye.
This done, my soul forthwith shall fly to thee;
For therefore did my father send thee me.
Nearly a century after the date of this Drama, Dryden produced his admirable version of the same story from Boccacio. The speech here extracted may be compared with the corresponding passage in the Sigismonda and Guiscardo, with no disadvantage to the elder performance. It is quite as weighty, as pointed, and as passionate.
C. L.