[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 38.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
VACCINATION.
On the western side of Trafalgar Square, beneath the shadow of the
great sea-lion Admiral Lord Nelson, might have been seen, until
recently, the statue of a pensive-looking almost beardless man seated
in a chair. But a new location in Kensington Gardens has been selected
for this statue, which is that of Dr Jenner, the discoverer of
vaccination.
Edward Jenner was born at Berkeley, in Gloucestershire, in 1749, his
father being vicar of that place. He was apprenticed to a doctor at
Sudbury, and afterwards came to London, where for a time he served
under John Hunter. After taking his diploma, he returned to his native
place, and it was here that he practised his profession, and also made
that great discovery which has proved such an inestimable benefit to
mankind. When he had become famous, and universal appreciation bespoke
him a great man, he received many tempting offers and solicitations to
take up his abode in the metropolis; but nothing succeeded in enticing
him from the rural scenes amidst which his medical triumphs had been
conceived. His life sped tranquilly on amidst the rustics he loved so
well until the year 1823, when death somewhat suddenly terminated his
earthly career.
As the village and neighbourhood in which Jenner served his
apprenticeship was mostly a grazing country, he was thrown much amongst
farmers and their servants. At a time when smallpox was raging among
them, his attention was attracted by hearing a milkmaid say that she
had once caught cowpox from the cows, and therefore smallpox wouldn’t
hurt her. He was much struck with this remark; and on making inquiries,
he found it was a common belief about there, that whoever caught
this disease from the cows was not liable to take smallpox. It is
rather curious that just about the time that Jenner was making these
inquiries, the same fact had been noted in Sweden, and some inquiries
were also set on foot there to investigate the matter.
With that talent for close observation and investigation which
distinguished him, he pondered much over this remark of the milkmaid’s,
and made many inquiries of the medical men of the district. From them
he obtained but little encouragement; they had often heard the tale,
but had not much faith in it. The subject seems to have impressed
itself greatly on his mind; for we find him, some three years later,
when he was in London with John Hunter, mentioning it to him; and that
distinguished man appears to have been struck with Jenner’s earnestness
in the matter, and gave him good advice: ‘Don’t think, but try; be
patient; be accurate.’ This advice he perseveringly followed on his
return to his native place; and by careful experiments elaborated the
great life-saving truth, that cowpox might be disseminated from one
human being to another to the almost total extinction of smallpox.
The eastern practice of inoculation was first made known in this
country by Lady Wortley Montagu, who was the wife of our ambassador
at Constantinople, where she had seen it tried with good effect.
Inoculation consisted in transferring the matter of the _smallpox_
pustule from the body of one suffering from the disease to that of
one not as yet affected by the disease. It is a fact that the form
of smallpox thus communicated through the skin was less severe, and
consequently less fatal, than when taken naturally, as was abundantly
proved in this country. But, unfortunately, inoculated smallpox was
as _infectious_ as the natural smallpox—this fact forming the great
distinction between inoculation and vaccination. The inoculated person
became a centre of infection, and communicated it to many others. It
was found after the introduction of inoculation that the mortality from
smallpox increased from seventy-four to ninety-five in one thousand;
and many of those that recovered, lost the sight of one or both eyes,
or were otherwise disfigured. It is not to be wondered at, with such
a state of things as this existing, and the whole medical profession
at their wits’ end for a remedy, that Jenner should be looked upon, as
soon as vaccination became established, as a saviour of his race.
It was while the ravages of smallpox were being felt and deplored
over the whole country, that Jenner was quietly investigating and
experimenting in his native village; and gradually little facts and
incidents relating to cowpox were collected, until in his own mind an
opinion was firmly rooted that this disease communicated by the cow was
a safeguard against smallpox. About the time when he had formed this
opinion, an accidental case of cowpox occurred in his neighbourhood,
and he caused drawings of the pustules to be made, and took them with
him to London. He showed them to some of the most eminent surgeons
and physicians of the day, and explained his views; but from none of
them did he receive any encouragement, and from some, nothing but
ridicule. Fortunately, however, he was not a man to be easily turned
aside from a purpose, or disabused of an opinion that he saw good cause
for entertaining. On returning home, he was still as full of the idea
as ever, and determined to persevere in his efforts; although he saw
he must have proofs before he could get his professional brethren to
listen to his theories.
It was on the 14th May 1796—a day which is still commemorated in
Berlin as a festival—that a boy was vaccinated with matter taken
from the hands of a milkmaid. The disease was thus communicated to
the boy, and he passed through it satisfactorily. But now came the
anxious and critical trial for Jenner. The same boy on the 1st of
July following was inoculated with the smallpox virus, but he did not
take the disease. In 1798 Jenner published his first pamphlet _On
the Causes and Effects of Variola Vaccine_; and later, in the first
year of the present century, he wrote that it was ‘too manifest to
admit of controversy, that the annihilation of the smallpox, the most
dreadful scourge of the human species, must be the final result of this
practice.’ Soon after this, a parliamentary Committee investigated
and reported on the new discovery in terms of the most emphatic
approbation; and a declaration was signed by seventy of the chief
physicians and surgeons in London expressing their confidence in it.
The Royal Jennerian Society was formed, with Jenner as President; and
thirteen stations for the vaccination of the public were opened in
London, in the hope of exterminating smallpox.
Jenner’s essay which explained his discovery had in the meantime been
translated into several foreign languages, and had also found its way
to America, where President Jefferson vaccinated, by the help of his
sons-in-law, about two hundred of his friends and neighbours. From this
time forward, vaccination may be said to have taken a firm hold of the
civilised world.
That vaccination has not done all that was claimed that it would do
by Jenner, is true, as the occasionally recurring epidemics of the
disease only too fatally testify. But the gain from the time when
cities were depopulated and a large percentage of the whole human race
was scarred and disfigured by it, to a time when no such suffering
is now experienced, is a gain indeed, although it be but an imperfect
one. It is, however, almost beyond a doubt that had more attention
been primarily paid to vaccination, and had it not been performed in
the perfunctory manner in which it often was by medical men, we should
now be in a better position with regard to smallpox than we are at the
present moment. For it is a melancholy fact that although the first to
give vaccination to the world, England has not made such good use of
it as most other nations. Feeling secure in the relief which it gave
to the vast amount of mortality, we have in a measure let pretty well
alone, while other nations have meanwhile enormously profited by the
discovery.
It was Mr Simon, the late medical officer of the Privy Council, who
published three admirable Reports on the subject, and probably brought
together more practical truths on vaccination than had ever before been
collected, that gave an impetus some few years ago to further inquiry.
It was stated at that time, and with every appearance of truth, that
the vaccine lymph becomes enfeebled in its protective power by a long
course of transmissions from arm to arm. It was therefore proposed
that means should be taken for establishing a well-devised system of
renewal, which would be likely to give greater certainty of results
and afford more permanent protection. Various attempts and suggestions
were made in this country to introduce vaccine matter from its original
source, the cow, or, better still, from the calf; and Mr Ceeley, a
medical gentleman, who, like Jenner, worked hard at the subject amidst
the worries and anxieties of a private practice, made many experiments,
and did much to popularise the idea.
Early in 1882, the local government Board set up a small establishment
in London for the purpose of affording facilities for vaccination
directly from the animal. Some time previously, a case of spontaneous
cowpox was accidentally discovered at Bordeaux, and from this case our
government procured the virus which they are now imparting to a regular
succession of healthy calves, each of which, before undergoing the
ordeal, is carefully examined by a Privy-council veterinary officer,
to insure its being in perfect health. The animal is then weighed,
and led away for a few days to a comfortable stall, and fed on sweet
hay, new milk, and oil-cake. An animal taken in on Monday would on
Thursday be led into the vaccinating-room, and securely strapped to
the top of a table which is ingeniously constructed to tip down into
a vertical position. The top of the table is then thrown over and
secured horizontally, the calf lying upon its side, and presenting
the under surface of its body conveniently for the surgical part of
the proceeding. The hair is first shaved off, and then some slight
incisions about an inch long are made in the skin, and the virus
introduced. This operation is performed in one part of a large room
divided by a wooden partition. To the other part of the room, parents
will in a few days bring their children, and have them vaccinated
directly from the animal thus prepared, and may thus escape whatever
evils, real or imaginary, pertain to the practice of arm-to-arm
vaccination. The calf having done its involuntary service to humanity,
is, before dismissal, again weighed, and is usually found to have
increased considerably—not, it may be presumed, in consequence of
vaccination, but from the good feeding it has received.
The practical results of vaccination from the animal direct, are in
some respects somewhat dubious. Belgium and Holland have long been
familiar with it; but still there appears to be a lack of trustworthy
records as to the efficacy of the process as compared with the
arm-to-arm system. Whether the animal lymph is as potent a protector
from smallpox as that which has been passed through the human system,
cannot as yet be determined, though there would seem to be no ground
for any reasonable doubt upon the subject. That the humanising
process does in some way, at present quite inscrutable, affect it,
seems evident from the fact that the vaccine from the calf loses its
efficacy somewhat sooner than that from the human subject. It cannot
be stored for so long a time as the humanised lymph, and this renders
its distribution somewhat difficult. The best authorities, however,
are now inclined to the opinion that the difference in this respect is
not after all so great as was at first supposed. The two scientific
men in charge of this station are, however, enthusiasts in this
department of medical investigation, and it may be hoped that with the
enlarged sphere of operations which government is understood to be
contemplating, and aided by a well-appointed laboratory in connection
with this establishment, an important advance may soon be made in their
knowledge of the subject.
Compulsory vaccination has done much in other countries to free them
for long periods from this loathsome disease. Sweden and Denmark
enjoyed absolute immunity for twenty years; and in Austria, where very
stringent measures of compulsion are resorted to, they succeeded in
extirpating smallpox for long periods.
It was in 1853 that compulsion was first established in this country,
and as at first nearly every one obeyed the law, it was attended with
very beneficial results. At the registration of a birth, the registrar
has to give notice of the necessity of having the child vaccinated
within four months, and the penalty for neglect. From the registrar’s
return, it is seen at the local government Board if a medical
certificate attesting the vaccination as duly performed, has been
returned. Assuming that every child is registered, this system no doubt
would answer well; but there is much reason to fear that many children
in London escape being registered, and these do not come within the
cognisance of the local government Board. It is a question whether some
return should not be required from medical men of every child born
alive, with the address of its parents.
Absolute care in vaccination and its universal adoption, combined
with a compulsory re-vaccination on arriving at the age of puberty,
would without doubt have by this time fulfilled Jenner’s most sanguine
expectations, and smallpox would have become extinct. At the same
time, if the government make vaccination compulsory, they have a most
important duty to the public to perform. In the first place, they
should undoubtedly ascertain that every known precaution is taken by
all public vaccinators to protect from harm, or disease likely to arise
from vaccination, those whom they compel to undergo the operation.
Secondly, none but properly certified practitioners should be appointed
to the stations. It is not alone sufficient that they be skilful
vaccinators, they should also be able to take lymph skilfully from the
vesicles without the admixture of the minutest particle of blood. An
ignorant or careless vaccinator may do more harm than it is possible
to trace. Thirdly, no lymph whatever should be used but that which is
microscopically examined by one who thoroughly understands his work,
and the public should be permitted to have a choice of either the
humanised lymph or lymph direct from the calf. If these precautions
were conscientiously carried out, we should soon have less objection to
compulsion, and we should be in a fair way to seeing smallpox stamped
out.
In America, according to the _Asclepiad_, the subject has received
careful attention. The Report of Dr Joseph Jones, President of the
Board of Health, of the State of Louisiana, extends to four hundred
pages, and embraces everything connected with smallpox, vaccination,
and spurious vaccination; while drawings are freely interspersed to
illustrate, from point to point, the author’s histories, views, or
conclusions. Amongst the general conclusions which the author draws
at the close of his treatise, the following are some of the most
important: (_a_) Vaccination, when carefully performed on Jenner’s
method, is as complete a protection from smallpox now as it was in the
early part of the century; (_b_) Without vaccination, the application
of steam and navigation and land travel would have, during the past
fifty years, scattered smallpox in every part of the habitable globe;
(_c_) Vaccination has not impaired the strength and vigour of the human
race, but has added vastly to the sum of human life, happiness, and
health; (_d_) Inoculation for smallpox, which preceded vaccination,
induced a comparatively mild and protective disease, but multiplied the
foci of contagion, kept smallpox perpetually alive, and increased its
fatal ravages among mankind.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER XLVII.—UNDER-CURRENTS.
Shield had not been so perfectly frank with Philip as the latter
believed him to be. For instance, he had not mentioned that when Coutts
came to him with affected concern on account of the position in which
his brother might be placed by the forged bill, he had not admitted to
him that the signature was a forgery.
What he said to Coutts was: ‘Looks queer—but don’t know. Accustomed to
sign things that come through regular channel without looking close
into them. Will see what Hawkins and Jackson have to say about it and
let you know.’
Then Coutts took from his pocket a note which had been written to his
brother by Austin Shield and placed the two signatures side by side.
‘I do not think that any one looking at these would hesitate to say
that they were not written by the same hand.’
‘Don’t know. My hand shakes at times. Don’t always sign in exactly the
same way. Not always sure of my own signature—when it comes back to me.
Will inquire and let you know.’
‘I am positive that the writing is not yours, Mr Shield; and I should
never have touched the paper if there had been any signature of
yours beside me at the time. Although the amount may not be of much
consequence to you, it will be a heavy loss to me. But I could have no
suspicion of there being anything wrong, when I saw Philip’s name to
the bill.’
‘All right. Will inquire.—Good-day.’
When Coutts left the room, this big bearish man growled fiercely and
the growl ended in this note—‘Skunk.’ He immediately telegraphed for
his friend Mr Beecham; and that was why Beecham had so suddenly quitted
Kingshope.
On the day on which Madge made her memorable visit to London, Mr
Beecham’s conjuring friend, Bob Tuppit, called at Wrentham’s cottage
and asked for Mrs Wrentham. She could not be seen for half an hour; but
Tuppit was ready to wait an hour or more, if Mrs Wrentham’s convenience
should require it. He was accordingly shown into the dining-room—the
place where Wrentham spent the greater part of his evenings at home,
smoking and concocting schemes for the realisation of that grand vision
of his life—a comfortable income and a home somewhere in the sunny
south.
Tuppit was a quick-eyed little man, or he could not have earned his
living as a conjurer; and when he had turned himself round about
twice, he had the character and position of every bit of furniture
photographed on his mind’s eye. He looked longest at a heavy mahogany
desk which was bound with unusually massive brass clasps.
‘What a duffer!’ he said under his breath. ‘He has got something in
there that will do for him; and he puts on those big clasps like
labels, every one saying as plain as plain can be: “Look here, if you
want to find out my little game.” Well, having gone in for this sort
of thing, he might have taken the trouble to learn the ABC of his
business.’
Tuppit’s nimble fingers went round the desk and tried its fastenings.
‘Spring lock, too. So much the worse for him. Dier will pitch on it at
once.’
The door burst open, and little Ada Wrentham bounced in, her pretty
cheeks healthfully flushed, the hoop in her hand indicating how she had
been engaged.
‘O dear!’ she exclaimed, drawing back when she saw that there was a
stranger in the room.
‘Don’t go away—I’m a friend of yours,’ said Tuppit quickly.—‘Don’t you
remember me? I saw you watching me when I was performing on the green
in the summer-time, and you were with your nurse, and you sent me a
penny.’
The child stopped, stared, then advanced a few paces timidly till she
came to a sunbeam which crossed the room, dividing it in two. Then she
put out her pretty hands, moving them to and fro as if laving them in
the sunshine, whilst her eyes were full of wonder.
‘Was it you did all those funny things with the cards and the pigeons
and the pennies, and the orange and the glass of water?’
‘That was me, Ada—you see I know your name—and if you like, I will show
you some more funny things just now whilst I am waiting for your mamma.’
‘I’ll go and bring mamma. She would like to see them too.’
‘No, no; don’t go for her. She will be here as soon as she is ready.
Besides, this is a trick I want to show you all to yourself. You are
not afraid of the magician—are you?’
Little Ada peered at him through the sunbeam. He was such a little man;
and although his cheeks were somewhat hollow and his complexion rather
sallow, there was an expression of frank gentleness in his eyes which
at once inspired confidence. A child might trust him, and a child is
quick to detect untrustworthy persons.
‘I’m not afraid—why should I?’ said Ada laughing.
‘Because you do not know me—at least you do not know me enough to be
quite sure that I am not the wicked magician who tried so hard to kill
Aladdin because he got hold of the wonderful lamp.’
‘But that was a long time ago,’ she said with an air of thoughtfulness;
‘and papa says there are no magicians—no real magicians—and no ghosts
now, and that anybody who pretends to tell fortunes or to do magic
things is’——
The child instinctively paused and turned her face away.
‘Is an impostor, and ought to be taken up by the policeman,’ said
Tuppit, cheerfully completing the sentence for her; ‘and he is quite
right so far. All the same, Ada, there are great magicians always
close by us. There is the Good Magician, Love, who makes you fond of
your father and mother and ready to do kindly things for other people.
Then there are the wicked magicians Anger and Envy, who make you hate
everybody and everybody hate you. But you know I don’t pretend to be
like them; I only make-believe—that is, I perform tricks and tell you
how they are done.’
‘Is that all?’ she said, disappointed, allowing her hands to drop, and
passing through the sunbeam, which had hitherto formed a golden bar
between them.
‘That is all; but you have to work a great deal before you can do so
much.—Now, here is this big desk—your papa opens it by magic; but do
you know how it is done?’
‘O yes; he takes out a nail and pushes something in—but that’s telling.
Could you do it? I have seen papa do it often, and he did not mind me;
but he doesn’t like anybody else to see him, for he was angry one day
when nurse Susan came in without knocking just as he was going to open
it.’
Tuppit was already busy examining the brass screws. He found one the
notch of which indicated that it was more frequently used than the
others. A penknife served his purpose; he took out the screw, thrust a
thin pencil into the hole; pressed it, and the desk opened.
‘Oh, how clever!—That was just the way papa used to do it, only he had
a brass thing for sticking into the hole,’ said the child admiringly.
‘I’ve tried to do it.’
There was nothing in the desk; and Tuppit, with a long-drawn breath of
relief, closed it, replacing the screw as before. But he had kept on
chattering to the child all the time, and muttering parenthetically
observations to himself.
‘You must show your papa that you know how it is done, Ada.... Nothing
in it may tell for or against him.... And he will think it so funny
that we should find it out.... It’s a sign that he knows the game is
up and is making ready to bolt.... But you must tell him that it was
only a little bit of Tuppit’s conjuring, and that he was glad to find
nothing.’
Ada drew back towards the door, a little frightened by the change in
his manner, which betrayed excitement in spite of his self-control.
‘I think—I am beginning to be afraid of you now. You are not like the
good magician any more.’
‘That’s true, Ada,’ he said humbly, as he wiped his brow with that
wonderful silk handkerchief which was of so much use to him in his
professional exploits. Cold as the weather was, he seemed to be
perspiring. ‘But you know the change is only one of my tricks. Now, I
will come back. Hey, Presto, change.... There, am I not smiling the
same as before?’
‘No; you are not. You are looking ugly.’
‘Ah, let me hide my head.’
He bent down with a would-be comical manner of astonishment and
chagrin. The child laughed in a hesitating way, as if not quite
reassured that it was all fun. As he stooped, his eye fell on a
waste-paper basket under the table. He snatched it out, and found in it
a ball of blotting-paper which had been crumpled into that shape by an
impatient hand. This he smoothed out on the table and then held up so
that the sunbeam fell full upon it.
‘This is the thing. Thank heaven, it is in my hands.’ He carefully
folded the paper and put it in his pocket. Then with real heartiness
he turned to the wondering child. ‘Now, Ada, I can laugh again; and if
there was time enough, I would show you some beautiful things. Look
here, for instance. Open your hand; I place that penny in it.—Close
your hand. You are sure you have the penny?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Presto, change. The penny is gone.’
‘No, it isn’t!’ cried the child, laughing, and opening her hand,
displayed the penny lying on the palm.
‘Keep it, keep it, my child; you deserve it; and take this shilling to
keep it company,’ said poor Bob Tuppit, who in his agitation had failed
in one of the simplest tricks of the prestidigitator, as his brethren
in the craft delight to call themselves. At another time, the failure
would have been humiliating to the last degree; but at present the
conjurer was too much occupied with matters of grave importance to feel
his discomfiture.
Mrs Wrentham entered.
‘I understand you bring a message from my husband, sir,’ she said in
her timid way.
‘Not exactly, ma’am; but I want to speak to you about him. I am a
friend of his, or I should not be here.’
He glanced towards Ada as he spoke, suggesting by the look that the
child should be sent out of the room. But Mrs Wrentham was too simple
to understand the hint, and Tuppit was obliged to take the matter into
his own hand.
‘I’ll tell you what, Ada; you might be a good magician now, if you
like. You could run out to the garden and pluck me a sprig of holly for
my little girl. She is very fond of shrubs and flowers; will you send
her some?’
‘O yes. There is such a nice sprig of holly up at the summer-house that
I was keeping for Christmas; but your little girl shall have it.—Is she
as old as me?’
‘Just about the same age; and now I look at you, she is rather like
you.’
Ada flew out at the door; and Tuppit turned eagerly to Mrs Wrentham,
his little form seeming to enlarge with the earnestness of his speech.
‘You are astonished, ma’am, at the liberty I am taking; but the fact is
your husband has got into ... well, got into a scrape.—Please, don’t
alarm yourself. I hope we shall pull him through all right. I only came
to warn you, knowing that he might have forgotten it.’
‘Warn me about what?’ exclaimed the lady, trembling without knowing why.
‘That a gentleman will call here to-day and make inquiries about your
husband. Answer him frankly, and, if you can manage it, do not look
as if you were afraid of him. He is a good-natured chap, and will not
press you very hard. But you must try to be quite calm and say nothing
about my visit.’
The poor lady became pale immediately; and the first dreadful thought
which occurred to her was that Wrentham had met with a serious
accident of some sort—she had never approved of his horse-racing and
horse-dealing proclivities. This good-natured friend was no doubt
trying to break the horrible truth to her as gently as possible.
‘Oh, please tell me the worst at once. Is he much hurt—is he killed?’
Bob Tuppit stared; but quickly comprehended the mistake which the wife
had made.
‘He is neither hurt nor killed, and is likely to live for a good many
years to come,’ he said reassuringly. ‘He has got into a bother about
some money matters. That is all.’
Tuppit felt ashamed of himself as he uttered the last words. What
would a broken leg or arm, or even a broken neck, have been compared
with the risk and disgrace of penal servitude? But Mrs Wrentham had no
suspicion of such a danger, and was relieved as soon as she heard that
her husband was physically unharmed. As for a difficulty about money,
she was confident that he would easily arrange that; so she promised
that she would answer any questions the gentleman who was coming might
have to ask; for she knew nothing about her husband’s money affairs,
and therefore had nothing to tell.
Bob Tuppit looked at her wistfully, as if inclined to tell her more of
the real position; but just then Ada came bounding in with the holly
and ivy—looking so happy and glad, that the man was unable to reveal
the worst.
‘They’ll know soon enough,’ he said to himself, as he thankfully took
the bundle of shrubs and went his way.
OLD PROVINCIAL FAIRS.
As a survival of one of the earliest institutions of this country, the
provincial fair is of special interest. Although it no longer retains
the functions for which it was originally founded, yet its existence
amongst us points back to a distant period in our history, when it not
only served as an important rendezvous for the furtherance of trade,
but was a centre whence the legislative enactments of the country were
proclaimed. Originally, it would seem the fair was generally held
during the period of a saint’s feast within the precincts of the church
or abbey, when worshippers and pilgrims assembled from all parts.
As the sacred building, too, was frequently in the open country, or
near some village too small to provide adequate accommodation for the
vast throng assembled on this annual festival, tents were pitched and
stalls for provisions set up in the churchyard, to supply the wants of
the visitors. This practice soon induced country pedlars and traders
to come and offer their wares; and hence in course of time it led to
the establishment of the commercial trade-marts known as ‘fairs.’ It
was not long, however, before abuses crept up, unseemly diversions
and excessive drinking causing no small offence. For instance, in
the fourteenth year of Henry III.’s reign, the archdeacon within the
diocese of Lincoln made inquiries into the custom of holding fairs
in churchyards; the result being that they were shortly afterwards
discontinued in this diocese. In the thirteenth year of Edward II.’s
reign, a statute was passed prohibiting the keeping of a fair in any
churchyard. But this law was in a great measure inoperative, for
markets seem to have been held in several Yorkshire churchyards in the
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries; and two hundred years later, the
same customs occurred in Germany.
Whatever the exact origin of our provincial fairs may be, they are
undoubtedly of great antiquity, although, singular to say, their
charters are comparatively of modern date; the first recorded grant
in this country apparently being that of William the Conqueror to
the Bishop of Winchester for leave to hold an annual ‘free fair at
St Giles’s Hill.’ Respecting this old fair, we are told how, on St
Giles’s eve, the mayor, bailiffs, and citizens of Winchester gave up
to the bishop’s officers the keys of the four city gates; and that,
while it lasted, the church appointed its own mayor, bailiff, and
coroner. The rules, too, for its regulation seem to have been very
stringent; officers being stationed on roads and bridges to take toll
upon all merchandise travelling in the direction of Winchester. A
tent of justice known as the Pavilion was held in the centre of the
fair, in which offences of various kinds were tried by the bishop’s
officers. Every precaution, too, was taken that all packages of goods
entering the city gates paid toll to the bishop, who likewise received
the forfeit of any wares that might be sold out of the fair within
a radius of seven miles. ‘Foreign merchants,’ says Mr Morley, ‘came
to this fair and paid its tolls. Monasteries had also shops or houses
in its drapery, pottery, or spicery streets, used only at fair-time,
and held often by lease from the bishop.’ This fair, therefore, apart
from its historical value, is interesting in so far as it was in many
respects the model upon which succeeding ones in other places were
instituted.
Fairs were occasionally granted to towns as a means for enabling them
to recover from the effects of war and other disasters; and also as a
mark of favour from the Crown. Thus, Edward III. founded a fair in the
town of Burnley in Lancashire. An amusing origin is given of ‘Fools’
Fair,’ kept in the Broad Gate at Lincoln on the 14th of September,
for the sale of cattle. It is recorded how King William and his queen
‘having visited Lincoln, made the citizens an offer to serve them in
any way they liked best. They asked for a fair, though it was harvest,
when few people could attend it, and though the town had no trade nor
any manufacture.’ Stourbridge fair, once perhaps the largest in the
world, was specially granted by King John for the maintenance of a
hospital for lepers. Among other origins assigned to fairs, may be
mentioned ‘Pack-Monday fair,’ which was in days gone by celebrated at
Sherborne, on the first Monday after the 10th October. It was ushered
in by the ringing of the great bell at a very early hour, and by the
young people perambulating the streets with cows’ horns. Tradition
asserts that this fair originated at the completion of the building of
the church—at the completion of which the workmen held a fair in the
churchyard, blowing cows’ horns in their rejoicings. There can be no
doubt, however, that in many cases where the true origin of many of our
old fairs has in the course of years been forgotten, another has been
invented in its place, and handed down with every mark apparently of
plausibility.
Perhaps one of the most curious features of our provincial fairs is
to be found in the odd customs associated with them, these possessing
an additional interest, as they help to illustrate the social life of
our forefathers. Thus, from time immemorial, it has been customary
at several of our large fairs—such as those kept up at Portsmouth,
Southampton, Chester, and Macclesfield—to announce their opening by
hoisting a glove of unusual size in some conspicuous place. This, it
has been suggested, is the earliest form of royal charter, denoting
the king’s glove—the custom being thus explained in the _Speculum
Saxonicum_: ‘No one is allowed to set up a market or a mint without the
consent of the ordinary and judge of that place; the king ought also to
send a glove, as a sign of his consent to the same.’ The charter for
Lammas fair at Exeter was formerly perpetuated by a huge glove, stuffed
and carried through the city on a long pole, which was eventually
placed on the top of the Guildhall, where, so long as it remained,
it indicated that the fair was still open. A variation of this usage
prevailed at Liverpool, where, ten days before and after each fair-day,
a hand was exhibited in front of the town-hall—a sign which denoted
that ‘no person coming to or going from the town on business connected
with the fair can be arrested for debt within its liberty.’ Englefield,
in his _Walk through Southampton_ (1805), describing the fair held on
Trinity Monday at Southampton, says it was dissolved by the glove being
taken down, ‘which was at one time performed by the young men of the
town, who fired at it till it was destroyed, or they were tired of the
sport.’ Without enumerating further instances of this practice, there
can be no doubt that, as Mr Leadam has shown in the _Antiquary_ (1880),
the glove is the original ‘sign-manual.’
One of the quaint features of Charlton fair, formerly held on St Luke’s
Day, was the elaborate display of horns; the booths not only being
decorated with them, but most of the articles offered for sale having
representations of this emblem. For a long time, antiquaries were much
divided as to what connection there could be between horns and Charlton
fair, and many conjectures were started without any satisfactory
result. At last, however, light was thrown on this much-disputed
question by an antiquary, who pointed out that a horned ox is the old
medieval symbol of St Luke, the patron of the fair. In support of this
explanation, it was further added, that although most of the painted
glass in Charlton church was destroyed in the troublous times of the
reign of Charles I., yet fragments remained of St Luke’s ox ‘with
wings on his back, and goodly horns on his head.’ As an additional
illustration on this point, we may quote the following extract from
Aubrey’s _Remains of Gentilisme and Judaisme_: ‘At Stoke-Verdon, in the
parish of Broad Chalke, Wilts, was a chapel dedicated to St Luke, who
is the patron saint of the horn-beasts and those that have to do with
them; wherefore the keepers and foresters of the New Forest come hither
at St Luke’s tide with their offerings to St Luke, that they might be
fortunate in their game, the deer, and other cattle.’ Many of those,
also, who visited Charlton fair wore a pair of horns on their heads,
and the men were attired in women’s clothes; a mode of masquerading
thus described by a writer of the last century: ‘I remember being there
upon Horn fair-day; I was dressed in my landlady’s best gown, and other
women’s attire.’ Referring to St Luke’s Day, Drake tells us in his
_Eboracum_ that a fair was annually kept up at York for all sorts of
small-wares, and was popularly known as ‘Dish-fair,’ from the large
quantity of wooden dishes exposed for sale. It was also characterised
by an old custom of ‘bearing a wooden ladle in a sling on two stangs
about it, carried by four sturdy labourers; this being, no doubt, in
ridicule of the meanness of the wares brought to the fair.’ At Paignton
fair, Exeter, it was customary, says a correspondent of _Notes and
Queries_, to draw through the town a plum-pudding of immense size, and
afterwards to distribute it to the crowd. The ingredients which on one
occasion composed this pudding were as follows: four hundred pounds of
flour, one hundred and seventy pounds of beef-suet, one hundred and
forty pounds of raisins, and two hundred and forty eggs. It was kept
constantly boiling in a brewer’s copper from the Saturday morning to
the Tuesday following, when it was placed on a car profusely decorated
and drawn along the streets by eight oxen.
Again, among the numerous other customs which were attached to many of
our fairs may be mentioned that popularly designated as ‘Walking the
Fair.’ Thus, at Wolverhampton, on the eve of the great fair which took
place on the 9th of July, a procession of men in antique armour paraded
the town, preceded by the local authorities. According to tradition,
this ceremony took its rise when Wolverhampton was a great emporium
for wool and resorted to by merchants from all parts of England. These
processions, however, were in all probability the remains of the Corpus
Christi pageantry, which was frequently celebrated at the yearly fairs.
At Avingham fair, held about twelve miles from Newcastle, an amusing
ceremony was celebrated called ‘Riding the Fair.’ Early in the morning
a procession moved from the principal alehouse in the village, headed
by two pipers, known as the ‘Duke of Northumberland’s pipers,’ who,
fancifully dressed up for the occasion, were mounted on horses gaily
caparisoned, and specially borrowed for the day. These pipers, followed
by the Duke of Northumberland’s agent, bailiff, and a numerous escort,
rode through the fair; and after proclaiming it opened, they ‘walked
the boundary of all that was, or had been, common or waste land.’
Riding the boundaries is still annually practised in many provincial
parishes.
We must not omit to mention the ‘Procession of Lady Godiva’—one of the
grandest of these shows, and which has been the distinguishing feature
of Coventry Show Fair, for many years one of the chief marts in the
kingdom. This celebrated fair has generally commenced upon Friday in
Trinity-week, the charter for it having been granted, it is said, by
Henry III. in the year 1218, at the instigation of Randle, Earl of
Chester. It is noteworthy, however, that the tradition of Lady Godiva
is not confined to Coventry fair, a similar one having been handed down
in the neighbourhood of St Briavel’s, Gloucestershire. Thus Rudder, in
his History of this county (1779), tells us how, formerly, after divine
service on Whitsunday, pieces of bread and cheese were distributed to
the congregation at church. To defray the expenses, every householder
in the parish paid a penny to the churchwardens, and this was said to
be for the liberty of cutting and taking wood in Hudnalls. Tradition
affirms that ‘this privilege was obtained of some Earl of Hereford,
then lord of the Forest of Dean, at the instance of his lady, upon
the same hard terms that Lady Godiva obtained the privileges for the
citizens of Coventry.’
Again, at the Whitsuntide fair held at Hinckley in Leicestershire,
one of the principal attractions was the procession of the millers,
who, having assembled from all the neighbouring villages, marched in
grand array with the ‘king of the millers’ at their head. From the
various accounts recorded of this ceremony, it appears that the dresses
were generally most elaborate; and one writer, in 1787, describing
these shows, says: ‘The framework knitters, wool-combers, butchers,
carpenters, &c., had each their plays, and rode in companies bearing
allusions to their different trades.’ Then there was the well-known
practice of ‘Crying the Fair.’ Thus, in connection with Stourbridge
fair we read how in the year 1548 a proclamation was issued by the
university of Cambridge in ‘crying the fair,’ in which it was directed,
among other clauses, that ‘no brewer sell into the fayer a barrell of
ale above two shillings; no longe ale, no red ale, no ropye ale, but
good and holsome for man’s body, under the penaltie of forfeyture.’
Ravenglass fair, celebrated annually at Muncaster in Cumberland, was
the scene of a peculiar ceremony, which is thus described in Lyson’s
_Magna Britannia_: ‘The lord’s steward was attended by the sergeant of
the borough of Egremont with the insignia called the bow of Egremont,
the foresters with their bows and horns, and all the tenantry of the
forest of Copeland, whose special service was to attend to the lord
and his representatives at Ravenglass fair, and remain there during
its continuance.’ In order, also, to attract visitors, various modes
of diversion were contrived; these generally succeeding in bringing
together large concourses of people from outlying districts. Thus,
occasionally, a mock-mayor was appointed, whose duty it was to try
any unfortunate person who on some trumped-up charge might be brought
before him. It has been suggested that these mock-trials may have
originated in the courts which were granted at fairs ‘to take notice
of all manner of causes and disorders committed upon the place, called
pie-powder, because justice was done to any injured person before the
dust of the fair was off his feet.’ A notable instance of this custom
was kept up at Bodmin Riding in Cornwall, on St Thomas à Becket’s
Day. A mock-court having been summoned, presided over by a Lord of
Misrule, any unpopular individual so unlucky as to be captured was
dragged to answer a charge of felony; the imputed crime being such as
his appearance might suggest—a negligence in his attire or a breach
of manners. With ludicrous gravity, we are told in the _Parochial
History of Cornwall_, ‘a mock-trial was then commenced, and judgment
was gravely pronounced, when the culprit was hurried off to receive
his punishment. In this, his apparel was generally a greater sufferer
than his person, as it commonly terminated in his being thrown into the
water or the mire’—‘Take him before the Mayor of Halgaver;’ ‘Present
him in Halgaver Court,’ being old Cornish proverbs.
A similar institution has existed from time immemorial at the little
town of Penryn in Cornwall, at the annual festival of Nutting, when
the ‘Mayor of Mylor’ is chosen. According to popular opinion, says Mr
Hunt, in his _Romances of the West of England_, ‘there is a clause in
the borough charter compelling the legitimate mayor to surrender his
power to the “Mayor of Mylor” on the day in question, and to lend the
town-sergeant’s paraphernalia to the gentlemen of the shears.’ At the
yearly fair, too, held in the village of Tarleton, a mock-mayor was
until a very few years ago elected, this ceremony forming part of the
after-dinner proceedings. ‘Three persons,’ says a correspondent of
_Notes and Queries_, ‘were nominated, and it was the rule that each
candidate on receiving a vote should drink a glass of wine—a “bumper”
to the health of the voter—so that the one elected was not very steady
on his feet when all the company had polled and the newly elected
mayor had to be installed.’
Lastly, referring to the days on which fairs were formerly held, it
appears from _The Book of Fairs_ that they were kept up on Good-Friday
at St Austell, Cornwall; Droitwich, Worcestershire; Grinton,
Yorkshire; High-Budleigh, Devonshire; and at Wimborne, Dorsetshire. A
correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ says that he saw a ‘brisk fair
going on in the little village of Perran’s Porth, Cornwall, not far
from the curious oratory of St Piran, on Good-Friday in 1878.’ In
some places, too, Sunday seems to have been selected; for in Benson’s
_Vindication of the Methodists_ we find the following paragraph, with
special reference to Lincolnshire: ‘Wakes, feasts, and dancing begin in
many parishes on the Lord’s Day, on which also some fairs and annual
markets are held.’
THE LAST OF THE STUARTS.
A MODERN ROMANCE.
I.—THE DISINHERITED PRINCE.
It was the proud boast of the late Mr Charles James Stuart, of
Balquhalloch, N.B., that he was the direct representative and lawful
heir of the unfortunate royal family of Scotland. I do not quite know
how he derived his descent, or from whom; but I feel sure that, had
he lived at the beginning of the eighteenth instead of the nineteenth
century, he would, with considerable confidence, have contested the
right of Queen Anne and the earlier Georges to reign over the northern,
if not also the southern portion of Great Britain. He was not born,
however, until 1796; and at that time there were in the Highlands but
few people who still chafed under Hanoverian rule. When, therefore, as
a young man, he first went to London, instead of plotting rebellion
against the authority of King George III., he fell in love with an
English girl named Eleanor Tudor, who also claimed, and, I think, not
without justice, to be lineally descended from royal ancestors. A
portrait of this lady was until quite recently in the possession of her
daughter, Miss Stuart. She was not beautiful; and I strongly suspect
that Mr Stuart would not have wooed her, had she borne any other name
than Tudor; but the prospect of once more uniting the old kingly stocks
of England and Scotland proved too seductive to be resisted; and in the
summer of 1817, the laird married Miss Tudor at St James’s, Piccadilly,
and at once carried her off to his northern home. In the following
year, Mrs Stuart gave birth to the above-mentioned daughter, who in due
course received the name of Henrietta Maria; and when in 1820 a son was
also born at Balquhalloch, he was, with equal fittingness, baptised
Charles Augustus.
The old laird died in 1861; but in the meantime his son had grown up
and married a pretty but penniless governess; and in 1857 a son, who
was named Charles Edward, had been born to him. Mr Charles Augustus
Stuart, who, I regret to say, had more respect for whisky than for
his magnificent ancestry, was seized with apoplexy in 1878, shortly
afterwards departing this life; and in 1880, when the events which
I am about to narrate began, the only living representatives of the
old laird were his daughter Henrietta Maria, an eccentric lady of
sixty-two; and his grandson Charles Edward, a lively and, I may add,
rather unscrupulous fellow of three-and-twenty.