Easter Monday and Tuesday, and Greenwich fair, are renowned as
“holidays” throughout most manufactories and trades conducted in the
metropolis. On Monday, Greenwich fair commences. The chief attraction to
this spot is the park, wherein stands the Royal Observatory on a hill,
adown which it is the delight of boys and girls to pull each other till
they are wearied. Frequently of late this place has been a scene of rude
disorder. But it is still visited by thousands and tens of thousands
from London and the vicinity; the lowest join in the hill sports; others
regale in the public-houses; and many are mere spectators, of what may
be called the humours of the day.
On _Easter Monday_, at the very dawn of day, the avenues from all parts
towards Greenwich give sign of the first London festival in the year.
Working men and their wives; ’prentices and their sweethearts;
blackguards and bullies; make their way to this fair. Pickpockets and
their female companions go later. The greater part of the sojourners are
on foot, but the vehicles for conveyance are innumerable. The regular
and irregular stages are, of course, full inside and outside.
Hackney-coaches are equally well filled; gigs carry three, not including
the driver; and there are countless private chaise-carts, public
pony-chaises, and open accommodations. Intermingled with these,
town-carts, usually employed in carrying goods, are now fitted up, with
boards for seats; hereon are seated men, women, and children, till the
complement is complete, which is seldom deemed the case till the horses
are overloaded. Now and then passes, like “some huge admiral,” a
full-sized coal-waggon, laden with coal-heavers and their wives, and
shadowed by spreading boughs from every tree that spreads a bough; these
solace themselves with draughts of beer from a barrel aboard, and derive
amusement from criticising walkers, and passengers in vehicles passing
their own, which is of unsurpassing size. The six-mile journey of one of
these machines is sometimes prolonged from “dewy morn” till noon. It
stops to let its occupants see all that is to be seen on its passage;
such as what are called the “Gooseberry fairs,” by the wayside, whereat
heats are run upon half-killed horses, or spare and patient donkeys.
Here are the bewitching sounds to many a boy’s ears of “A halfpenny ride
O!” “A halfpenny ride O!”; upon that sum “first had and obtained,” the
immediately bestrided urchin has full right to “work and labour” the bit
of life he bestraddles, for the full space or distance of fifty yards,
there and back; the returning fifty being done within half time of the
first. Then there is “pricking in the belt,” an old exposed and still
practised fraud. Besides this, there are numberless invitations to take
“a shy for a halfpenny,” at a “bacca box, full o’ ha’pence,” standing on
a stick stuck upright in the earth at a reasonable distance for
experienced throwers to hit, and therefore win, but which is a mine of
wealth to the costermonger proprietor, from the number of unskilled
adventurers.
Greenwich fair, of itself, is nothing; the congregated throngs are every
thing, and fill every place. The hill of the Observatory, and two or
three other eminences in the park, are the chief resort of the less
experienced and the vicious. But these soon tire, and group after group
succeeds till evening. Before then the more prudent visitors have
retired to some of the numerous houses in the vicinage of the park,
whereon is written, “Boiling water here,” or “Tea and Coffee,” and where
they take such refreshment as these places and their own bundles afford,
preparatory to their toil home after their pleasure.
At nightfall, “Life in London,” as it is called, is found at Greenwich.
Every room in every public-house is fully occupied by drinkers, smokers,
singers and dancers, and the “balls” are kept up during the greater part
of the night. The way to town is now an indescribable scene. The
vehicles congregated by the visitors to the fair throughout the day
resume their motion, and the living reflux on the road is dense to
uneasiness. Of all sights the most miserable is that of the poor
broken-down horse, who having been urged three times to and from
Greenwich with a load thither of pleasure-seekers at sixpence per head,
is now unable to return, for the fourth time, with a full load back,
though whipped and lifted, and lifted and whipped, by a reasoning
driver, who declares “the _hoss_ did it last fair, and why shouldn’t he
do it again.” The open windows of every house for refreshment on the
road, and clouds of tobacco-smoke therefrom, declare the full stowage of
each apartment, while jinglings of the bells, and calls “louder and
louder yet,” speak wants and wishes to waiters, who disobey the
instructions of the constituent bodies that sent them to the bar. Now
from the wayside booths fly out corks that let forth “pop” and
“ginger-beer,” and little party-coloured lamps give something of a
joyous air to appearances that fatigue and disgust. Overwearied children
cry before they have walked to the halfway house; women with infants in
their arms pull along their tipsey well-beloveds, others endeavour to
wrangle or drag them out of drinking rooms, and, until long after
midnight, the Greenwich road does not cease to disgorge incongruities
only to be rivalled by the figures and exhibitions in Dutch and Flemish
prints.
* * * * *
While this turmoil, commonly called pleasure-taking, is going on, there
is another order of persons to whom Easter affords real recreation. Not
less inclined to unbend than the frequenters of Greenwich, they seek and
find a mode of spending the holiday-time more rationally, more
economically, and more advantageously to themselves and their families.
With their partners and offspring they ride to some of the many pleasant
villages beyond the suburbs of London, out of the reach of the harm and
strife incident to mixing with noisy crowds. Here the contented groups
are joined by relations or friends, who have appointed to meet them, in
the quiet lanes or sunny fields of these delightful retreats. When
requisite, they recruit from well-stored junket baskets, carried in
turn; and after calmly passing several hours in walking and sauntering
through the open balmy air of a spring-day, they sometimes close it by
making a good comfortable tea-party at a respectable house on their way
to town. Then a cheerful glass is ordered, each joins in merry
conversation, or some one suspected of a singing face justifies the
suspicion, and “the jocund song goes round,” till, the fathers being
reminded by the mothers, more than once possibly, that “it’s getting
late,” they rise refreshed and happy, and go home. Such an assembly is
composed of honest and industrious individuals, whose feelings and
expressions are somewhat, perhaps, represented below.