an extensive piece of ground, the property of the Corporation. It is
supposed to have originally belonged to the Crown—hence its name—and to
have been granted by the Crown to the Corporation. In 1529 it was let
for pasture at £3 per year—a price which must make modern tenants wish
that history might repeat itself. In 1586 it was ordered to be, and was,
enclosed. It is a healthy and almost arcadian spot, “beautiful for
situation.” There is no locality in the town so well adapted for villa
residences.
Once a year, we are reminded, there _was_ something else—SHREWSBURY SHOW,
a pageant which showed the degeneracy of the past. With the exception of
the Coventry festival and the Preston guild it was the only one of its
kind in the kingdom. What was the Show? It was the remnant of a feast
religiously observed by the Romish Church, and styled _Corpus Christi_
the feast of the body of Christ. It consisted of a solemn procession, in
which the several incorporated companies of the town, preceded by the
masters and wardens, attended by the bailiffs, aldermen, and commonalty,
and accompanied by priests, who carried the Holy Sacrament under a
gorgeous canopy, marched to old St. Chad’s Church, where mass was said
amidst the richest and costliest treasures of the church. The religious
part of the ceremony was abolished at the Reformation; but the members of
the companies, though prohibited from attending mass, resolved to retain
as much of the imposing custom as they could. They therefore continued
the procession, which they determined upon having on the second Monday
after Trinity Sunday. They possessed on Kingsland small parcels of land
which the Corporation had allotted to and enclosed for them, and on which
they had erected arbours as places of resort, of feasting, and of
pastime. They therefore selected Kingsland as the destiny of the
procession, and, arrived there, they entertained each other in almost
princely style, and indulged in the recreations of the time. The
anniversary until very recently was observed, but it was a sorry picture
of the old festivities. The procession, which was made up of bands of
music, flags, banners, ancient horses ridden by individuals dressed out
as kings, queens, and other notabilities, followed by a number of
artisans, was perhaps about the most ludicrous sight which the ingenuity
of a buffoon could invent. It was a ridiculous travesty of the ancient
spectacle; and its concomitants, its influence, and its results are best
described in the (slightly altered) words of Hamlet:
_The people wake to-day and take their rouse_,
_Keep wassail_, _and the swaggering up-spring reels_;
_And_, _as they drain their draughts of Rhenish down_,
_The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out_
_The triumph of their pledge_.
_Is it a custom_?
_Ay_, _marry_, _is’t_;
_But to my mind_, _though I am native here_
_And to the manner born_, _it is a custom_
_More honour’d in the breach than the observance_.
_This heavy-headed revel east and west_
_Makes us traduced and tax’d of other people_:
_They clepe us drunkards_, _and with swinish phrase_
_Soil our addition_.
[Picture: Shrewsbury, from Coton Hill]
Leaving the scene of so much that is gay and festive, and that unites the
present with the past, we re-cross the Severn, re-walk a portion of the
Quarry, and ascend the magnificent centre avenue. The church before us
is