ELIA, the noble heart of ELIA, responds to these humble claimants upon
humanity; they cry and have none to help them; he is happy that a
personal misfortune to himself can make one of them laugh; he imagines
“all the blood of all the Howards” in another; he conceives no
degradation by supping with them in public at “Bartlemy Fair.” Kind
feelings and honesty make poets and philosophers. Listen to what Elia
says:--
“I have a kindly yearning toward these dim specks--poor blots--innocent
blacknesses--
“I reverence these young Africans of our own growth--these almost clergy
imps, who sport their cloth without assumption; and from their little
pulpits (the tops of chimnies), in the nipping air of a December
morning, preach a lesson of patience to mankind.
“When a child, what a mysterious pleasure it was to witness their
operation! to see a chit no bigger than one’s-self enter, one knew not
by what process, into what seemed the _fauces Averni_--to pursue him in
imagination, as he went sounding on through so many dark, stifling
caverns, horrid shades!--to shudder with the idea that ‘now, surely, he
must be lost for ever’--to revive at hearing his feeble shout of
discovered day-light--and then (O, fulness of delight) running out of
doors, to come just in time to see the sable phenomenon emerge in
safety, the brandished weapon of his art victorious like some flag waved
over a conquered citadel! I seem to remember having been told, that a
bad sweep was once left in a stack with his brush, to indicate which way
the wind blew. It was an awful spectacle certainly; not much unlike the
old stage direction in Macbeth, where the ‘Apparition of a child crowned
with a tree in his hand rises.’
“Reader, if thou meetest one of these small gentry in thy early rambles,
it is good to give him a penny. It is better to give him two-pence. If
it be starving weather, and to the proper troubles of his hard
occupation, a pair of kibed heels (no unusual accompaniment) be
superadded, the demand on thy humanity will surely rise to a tester.
“I am by nature extremely susceptible of street affronts; the jeers and
taunts of the populace; the low-bred triumph they display over the
casual trip, or splashed stocking, of a gentleman. Yet can I endure the
jocularity of a young sweep with something more than forgiveness.--In
the last winter but one, pacing along Cheapside with my accustomed
precipitation when I walk westward, a treacherous slide brought me upon
my back in an instant. I scrambled up with pain and shame enough--yet
outwardly trying to face it down, as if nothing had happened--when the
roguish grin of one of these young wits encountered me. There he stood,
pointing me out with his dusky finger to the mob, and to a poor woman (I
suppose his mother) in particular, till the tears for the exquisiteness
of the fun (so he thought it) worked themselves out at the corners of
his poor red eyes, red from many a previous weeping, and soot-inflamed,
yet twinkling through all with such a joy, snatched out of desolation,
that Hogarth--but Hogarth has got him already (how could he miss
him?) in the March to Finchley, grinning at the pie-man--there he stood,
as he stands in the picture, irremovable, as if the jest was to last for
ever--with such a maximum of glee, and minimum of mischief, in his
mirth--for the grin of a genuine sweep hath absolutely no malice in
it--that I could have been content, if the honour of a gentleman might
endure it, to have remained his butt and his mockery till midnight.
“I am by theory obdurate to the seductiveness of what are called a fine
set of teeth. Every pair of rosy lips (the ladies must pardon me) is a
casket, presumably holding such jewels; but, methinks, they should take
leave to ‘air’ them as frugally as possible. The fine lady, or fine
gentleman, who show me their teeth, show me bones. Yet must I confess,
that from the mouth of a true sweep a display (even to ostentation) of
those white and shining ossifications, strikes me as an agreeable
anomaly in manners, and an allowable piece of foppery. It is, as when
“A sable cloud
Turns forth her silver lining on the night.
It is like some remnant of gentry not quite extinct; a badge of better
days; a hint of nobility:--and, doubtless, under the obscuring darkness
and double night of their forlorn disguisement, oftentimes lurketh good
blood, and gentle conditions, derived from lost ancestry, and a lapsed
pedigree. The premature apprenticements of these tender victims give but
too much encouragement, I fear, to clandestine, and almost infantile
abductions; the seeds of civility and true courtesy, so often
discernible in these young grafts (not otherwise to be accounted for)
plainly hint at some forced adoptions; many noble Rachels mourning for
their children, even in our days, countenance the fact; the tales of
fairy-spiriting may shadow a lamentable verity, and the recovery of the
young Montague be but a solitary instance of good fortune, out of many
irreparable and hopeless _defiliations_.
“In one of the state-beds at Arundel Castle, a few years since--under a
ducal canopy--(that seat of the Howards is an object of curiosity to
visitors, chiefly for its beds, in which the late duke was especially a
connoisseur)--encircled with curtains of delicatest crimson, with starry
coronets inwoven--folded between a pair of sheets whiter and softer than
the lap where Venus lulled Ascanius--was discovered by chance, after all
methods of search had failed, at noon-day, fast asleep, a lost
chimney-sweeper. The little creature, having somehow confounded his
passage among the intricacies of those lordly chimnies, by some unknown
aperture had alighted upon this magnificent chamber; and, tired with his
tedious explorations, was unable to resist the delicious invitement to
repose, which he there saw exhibited; so, creeping between the sheets
very quietly, laid his black head upon the pillow, and slept like a
young Howard.
“Such is the account given to the visitors at the Castle. But I cannot
help seeming to perceive a confirmation of what I have just hinted at in
this story. A high instinct was at work in the case, or I am mistaken.
Is it probable that a poor child of that description, with whatever
weariness he might be visited, would have ventured, under such a penalty
as he would be taught to expect, to uncover the sheets of a duke’s bed,
and deliberately to lay himself down between them, when the rug or the
carpet presented an obvious couch, still far above his pretensions--is
this probable, I would ask, if the great power of nature, which I
contend for, had not been manifested within him, prompting to the
adventure? Doubtless this young nobleman (for such my mind misgives me
that he must be) was allured by some memory, not amounting to full
consciousness, of his condition in infancy, when he was used to be lapt
by his mother, or his nurse, in just such sheets as he there found, into
which he was now but creeping back as into his proper _incunabula_ and
resting-place. By no other theory, than by this sentiment of a
pre-existent state (as I may call it), can I explain a deed so
venturous, and, indeed, upon any other system so indecorous, in this
tender, but unseasonable, sleeper.
“My pleasant friend JEM WHITE was so impressed with a belief of
metamorphoses like this frequently taking place, that in some sort to
reverse the wrongs of fortune in these poor changelings, he instituted
an annual feast of chimney-sweepers, at which it was his pleasure to
officiate as host and waiter. It was a solemn supper held in Smithfield,
upon the yearly return of the fair of St. Bartholomew. Cards were issued
a week before to the master-sweeps in and about the metropolis,
confining the invitation to their younger fry. Now and then an elderly
stripling would get in among us, and be good-naturedly winked at; but
our main body were infantry. One unfortunate wight, indeed, who, relying
upon his dusky suit, had intruded himself into our party, but by tokens
was providentially discovered in time to be no chimney-sweeper (all is
not soot which looks so), was quoited out of the presence with universal
indignation, as not having on the wedding garment; but in general the
greatest harmony prevailed. The place chosen was a convenient spot among
the pens, at the north side of the fair, not so far distant as to be
impervious to the agreeable hubbub of that vanity; but remote enough not
to be obvious to the interruption of every gaping spectator in it. The
guests assembled about seven. In those little temporary parlours three
tables were spread with napery, not so fine as substantial, and at every
board a comely hostess presided with her pan of hissing sausages. The
nostrils of the young rogues dilated at the savour. JAMES WHITE, as head
waiter, had charge of the first table; and myself, with our trusty
companion BIGOD, ordinarily ministered to the other two. There was
clambering and jostling, you may be sure, who should get at the first
table--for Rochester in his maddest days could not have done the humours
of the scene with more spirit than my friend. After some general
expression of thanks for the honour the company had done him, his
inaugural ceremony was to clasp the greasy waist of old dame Ursula (the
fattest of the three), that stood frying and fretting, half-blessing,
half-cursing ‘the gentleman,’ and imprint upon her chaste lips a tender
salute, whereat the universal host would set up a shout that tore the
concave, while hundreds of grinning teeth startled the night with their
brightness. O, it was a pleasure to see the sable younkers lick in the
unctuous meat, with _his_ more unctuous sayings--how he would fit the
tit-bits to the puny mouths, reserving the lengthier links for the
seniors--how he would intercept a morsel even in the jaws of some young
desperado, declaring it ‘must to the pan again to be browned, for it was
not fit for a gentleman’s eating’--how he would recommend this slice of
white bread, or that piece of kissing-crust, to a tender juvenile,
advising them all to have a care of cracking their teeth, which were
their best patrimony,--how genteelly he would deal about the small ale,
as if it were wine, naming the brewer, and protesting, if it were not
good, he should lose their custom; with a special recommendation to wipe
the lip before drinking. Then we had our toasts--‘The King,’--the
‘Cloth,’--which, whether they understood or not, was equally diverting
and flattering;--and for a crowning sentiment, which never failed, ‘May
the Brush supersede the Laurel.’ All these, and fifty other fancies,
which were rather felt than comprehended by his guests, would he utter,
standing upon tables, and prefacing every sentiment with a ‘Gentlemen,
give me leave to propose so and so,’ which was a prodigious comfort to
those young orphans; every now and then stuffing into his mouth (for it
did not do to be squeamish on these occasions,) indiscriminate pieces of
those reeking sausages, which pleased them mightily, and was the
savouriest part, you may believe, of the entertainment:--
“Golden lads and lasses must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust--
“JAMES WHITE is extinct, and with him these suppers have long ceased. He
carried away with him half the fun of the world when he died--of my
world at least. His old clients look for him among the pens; and,
missing him, reproach the altered feast of St. Bartholomew, and the
glory of Smithfield departed for ever.”
A philanthropist, who rejoices over every attempt to cheer helplessness,
will not quarrel with the late annual treat of “Jem White.” Our
kindnesses wear different fashions, and Elia’s report of the festival
is a feast for a feeling and merry heart. Mrs. Montague’s entertainment
to the London chimney-sweepers was held every May-day, at her house, in
Portman-square; she gave them roast-beef and plumb-pudding, and a
shilling each, and they danced after their dinner. But Mrs. Montague and
Jem White are dead; and now the poor fellows, though the legislature has
interfered for their protection, want “a next friend” to cheer them once
a year, and acquaint the sufferers that they have sympathizers. An
extract from a letter to the editor of the _Every-Day Book_, dated April
16, 1825, from Sheffield, in Yorkshire, is a reproach to us of the
metropolis:--“In the ‘_Chimney-sweepers’ Friend, and Climbing-boys’
Album_,’ by Mr. James Montgomery, the poet, and editor of the
‘_Sheffield Iris_,’ is a literal representation of an annual dinner
which that gentleman, and a few of us, give to the lads employed as
climbing-boys in Sheffield. This we have done for about eighteen years
in succession. From twenty-four to twenty-six attend; and their
appearance, behaviour, and _acquirements_, (I may say,) do credit to
their masters. They are a much better generation to look upon than they
were when we first took them by the hand. On last Easter Monday, out of
the twenty-four present, there were only two who did not attend
Sunday-schools; which, in whatever estimation these institutions may be
held, shows that once, at least, every week, these poor children looked
like other people’s children, and associated with them; being clean
washed, decently dressed, and employed in reading, or in learning to
read: many of them could _write_. Something of the kind is projected at
Leeds. A benevolent lady, at Derby, has this year raised friends, and a
fund, for an annual dinner to the climbing-boys there on Easter Monday.”
Mr. Montgomery’s “_Chimney-sweepers’ Friend_” is a series of
representations calculated to assist “the immediate relief of the
sufferers, and the gradual abolition of this home slave-trade in little
children.” His applications to distinguished characters for literary
contributions to his work were successful. “May I,” he said, “entreat
your aid to this humble cause? Were you to see all the climbing-boys in
the kingdom (and climbing-_girls_, too, for we have known parents who
have employed their own daughters in this hideous way,) assembled in
one place, you would meet a spectacle of deformed, degraded, and
depraved humanity, in its very age of innocence, (pardon the phrase,)
which would so affect your heart that we should be sure of your hand.”
Not one being of humanity can read the statements in Mr. Montgomery’s
volume with a dry eye--not one but before he has half perused it will
resolve never to let a climbing-boy enter his chimney again. Fathers and
mothers of England, read the book! The “_Examiner_,” some time ago,
related an anecdote much to the purpose, from a pamphlet by Mr. J. W.
Orderson, late of Barbadoes; it is a fine specimen of pure feeling.
“About fourteen years ago,” says Mr. Orderson, “a Mrs. P. arrived at
Bristol, from the West Indies, and brought with her a female Negro
servant, mother of two or three children left in that country. A few
days after their arrival, and they had gone into private lodgings, a
sweep-boy was sent for by the landlady to sweep the kitchen chimney.
This woman being seated in the kitchen when little _Soot_ entered, was
struck with amazement at the spectacle he presented; and with great
vehemence, clapping her hands together, exclaimed, ‘Wha _dis_ me see!
La, la, dat buckara _piccaninny_! So help me, nyung Misse,’ (addressing
herself to the housemaid then present,) ‘sooner dan see _one o’mine_
piccaninnies _tan_ so, I _drown_ he in de sea.’ The progress of the poor
child in sweeping the chimney closely engrossed her attention, and when
she saw him return from his sooty incarceration, she addressed him with
a feeling that did honour to her maternal tenderness, saying, ‘Child!
come yaw, child,’ (and without waiting any reply, and putting a sixpence
into his hand;) ‘Who _you_ mammy? You hab daddy, too? Wha _dem_ be, da
la you go no chimney for?’ and moistening her finger at her lips, began
to rub the poor child’s cheek, to ascertain, what yet appeared doubtful
to her, whether he was really a _buccara_, (white.) I saw this woman
some time after in the West Indies; and it was a congratulation to her
ever after, that _her_ ‘children were not born to be _sweeps_.’”