_To the Editor._
Sir,--At Costessy, a small village, three miles on the west side of
Norwich, there is an annual mock guild on Whit Tuesday. It takes its
name from the annual mayor’s feast at Norwich, being called the _City
Guild_. The corporation at Costessy is composed of the poor inhabitants
under the patronage of the marquis of Stafford, who has a beautiful seat
in this village. On this day a mock mayor is annually elected; he has a
proper and appropriate costume, and is attended by a sword-bearer, with
a sword of state of wood painted and gilt, two mace-bearers with gilt
maces, with a long array of officers, down to the snapdragon of Norwich,
of which they have a passable imitation. Their first procession is to
the hall, where they are recognised by the noble family who generally
support the expenses of the day, and the mock mayor and corporation are
liberally regaled from the strong-beer cellar. They then march, preceded
by a band of music, to the steward’s house, where the mock solemnities
take place, and speeches are made, which, if not remarkable for their
eloquence, afford great delight by their absurd attempts at being
thought so. The new mayor being invested with the insignia of his
office, a bright brass jack-chain about his neck, the procession is
again renewed to a large barn at some distance, where the place being
decorated with boughs, flowers, and other rural devices, a substantial
dinner of roast-beef, plum-pudding, and other good things, with plenty
of that strong liquor called at Norwich nogg--the word I have been told
is a provincial contraction for “knock me down.”
The village is usually thronged with company from Norwich, and all the
rural festivities attendant on country feasts take place. The noble
family before mentioned promote the hilarity by their presence and
munificence. The elder members of the body corporate continue at the
festal board, in imitation of their prototypes in larger corporations,
to a late hour; and some of them have been noticed for doing as much
credit to the good cheer provided on the occasion, as any alderman at a
turtle feast. There is no record of the origin of this institution, as
none of the members of the corporation have the gift of reading or
writing, but there are traces of it beyond the memory of any person now
living, and it has been observed to have increased in splendour of late
years.
The fishermen’s guild at Norwich has for some years been kept on the
real guild-day. The procession consists of a great number, all fishermen
or fishmongers, two of whom are very remarkable. The first is the
mayor: the last I saw was a well-looking young man, with his face
painted and his hair powdered, profusely adorned with a brass chain, a
fishing-rod in his hand, and a very large gold-laced hat; he was
supported on the shoulders of several of his brethren in a fishing-boat,
in which he stood up and delivered his speech to the surrounding
multitude, in a manner that did not disgrace him. The other personage
was the king of the ocean. What their conceptions of Neptune were, it is
as difficult to conceive as his appearance might be to describe. He was
represented by a tall man, habited in a seaman-like manner, his outward
robe composed of fishing-nets, a long flowing beard ill accorded with a
full-dress court wig, which had formerly been the property of some
eminent barrister, but had now changed its element, and from dealing out
law on the land, its mystic powers were transferred to the water. In his
right hand he carried his trident, the spears of which were formed of
three pickled herrings. His Tritons sounded his praise on all kinds of
discordant wind instruments, and Æolus blew startling blasts on a
cracked French horn. The olfactory nerves of the auditors who were hardy
enough to come in close contact with the procession, were assailed by “a
very ancient and fish-like smell.” The merriment was rude and very
hearty.