Hark! how the merry bells ring jocund round,
And now they die upon the veering breeze;
Anon they thunder loud
Full on the musing ear.
Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore
Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak
A day of jubilee,
An ancient holiday.
And, lo! the rural revels are begun,
And gaily echoing to the laughing sky,
On the smooth-shaven green
Resounds the voice of Mirth--
Alas! regardless of the tongue of Fate,
That tells them ’tis but as an hour since they,
Who now are in their graves,
Kept up the Whitsun dance;
And that another hour, and they must fall
Like those who went before, and sleep as still
Beneath the silent sod,
A cold and cheerless sleep.
Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare
The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign
To smile upon us here,
A transient visitor?
Mortals! be gladsome while ye have the power,
And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy;
In time the bell will toll
That warns ye to your graves.
I to the woodland solitude will bend
My lonesome way--where Mirth’s obstreperous shout
Shall not intrude to break
The meditative hour;
There will I ponder on the state of man,
Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate
This day of jubilee
To sad Reflection’s shrine;
And I will cast my fond eye far beyond
This world of care, to where the steeple loud
Shall rock above the sod,
Where I shall sleep in peace.
_H. K. White._
_Whitsuntide at Greenwich._
I have had another holiday--a Whitsuntide holiday at Greenwich: it is
true that I did not take a run down the hill, but I saw many do it who
appeared to me happier and healthier for the exercise, and the fragrant
breezes from the fine May trees of the park.
I began Whit-Monday by breakfasting on Blackheath hill. It was my good
fortune to gain a sight of the beautiful grounds belonging to the
noblest mansion on the heath, the residence of the princess Sophia of
Gloucester. It is not a “show house,” nor is her royal highness a woman
of show. “She is a noble lady,” said a worthy inhabitant of the
neighbourhood, “she is always doing as much good as she can, and more,
perhaps, than she ought; her heart is larger than her purse.” I found
myself in this retreat I scarcely know how, and imagined that a place
like this might make good dispositions better, and intelligent minds
wiser. Some of its scenes seemed, to my imagination, lovely as were the
spots in “the blissful seats of Eden.” Delightful green swards with
majestic trees lead on to private walks; and gladdening shrubberies
terminate in broad borders of fine flowers, or in sloping paths, whereon
fairies might dance in silence by the sleeping moonlight, or to the
chant of nightingales that come hither, to an amphitheatre of copses
surrounding a “rose mount,” as to their proper choir, and pour their
melody, unheard by earthly beings,
------------- save by the ear
Of her alone who wanders here, or sits
Intrelissed and enchanted as the Fair
Fabled by him of yore in Comus’ song,
Or rather like a saint in a fair shrine
Carved by Cellini’s hand.
It may not be good taste, in declaring the truth, to state “the whole
truth,” but it is a fact, that I descended from the heights of royalty
to “Sot’s hole.” There, for “corporal refection,” and from desire to see
a place which derives its name from the great lord Chesterfield, I took
a biscuit and a glass of ginger-beer. His lordship resided in the
mansion I had just left, and his servants were accustomed to “use” this
alehouse too frequently. On one occasion he said to his butler, “Fetch
the fellows from that sot’s hole:” from that time, though the house has
another name and sign, it is better known by the name or sign of “Sot’s
hole.” Ascending the rise to the nearest park-gate, I soon got to the
observatory in the park. It was barely noon. The holiday folks had not
yet arrived; the old pensioners, who ply there to ferry the eye up and
down and across the river with their telescopes, were ready with their
craft. Yielding to the importunity of one, to be freed from the
invitations of the rest, I took my stand, and in less than ten minutes
was conveyed to Barking church, Epping Forest, the men in chains, the
London Docks, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and Westminster Abbey. From the seat
around the tree I watched the early comers; as each party arrived the
pensioners hailed them with good success. In every instance, save one,
the sight first demanded was the “men in chains:” these are the bodies
of pirates, suspended on gibbets by the river side, to warn sailors
against crimes on the high seas. An able-bodied sailor, with a new hat
on his Saracen-looking head, carrying a handkerchief full of apples in
his left hand, with a bottle neck sticking out of the neck of his jacket
for a nosegay, dragged his female companion up the hill with all the
might of his right arm and shoulder; and the moment he was at the top,
assented to the proposal of a telescope-keeper for his “good lady” to
have a view of the “men in chains.” She wanted to “see something else
first.” “Don’t be a fool,” said Jack, “see _them_ first; it’s the best
sight.” No; not she: all Jack’s arguments were unavailing. “Well! what
is it you’d like better, you fool you?” “Why I wants to see our house in
the court, with the flower-pots, and if I don’t see that, I won’t see
nothing--what’s the men in chains to _that_? Give us an apple.” She took
one out of the bundle, and beginning to eat it, gave instructions for
the direction of the instrument towards Limehouse church, while Jack
drew forth the bottle and refreshed himself. Long she looked, and
squabbled, and almost gave up the hope of finding “our house;” but on a
sudden she screamed out, “Here Jack! here it is, pots and all! and
there’s our bed-post; I left the window up o’ purpose as I might see
it!” Jack himself took an observation. “D’ye see it, Jack?” “Yes.” “D’ye
see the pots?” “Yes.” “And the bed-post?” “Ay; and here Sal, here,
here’s the cat looking out o’ the window.” “Come away, let’s look
again;” and then she looked, and squalled “Lord! what a sweet place it
is!” and then she assented to seeing the “men in chains,” giving Jack
the first look, and they looked “all down the river,” and saw “Tom’s
ship,” and wished Tom was with them. The breakings forth of nature and
kind-heartedness, and especially the love of “home, sweet home,” in
Jack’s “good lady,” drew forth Jack’s delight, and he kissed her till
the apples rolled out of the bundle, and then he pulled her down the
hill. From the moment they came up they looked at nobody, nor saw any
thing but themselves, and what they paid for looking at through the
telescope. They were themselves a sight: and though the woman was far
from
whatever fair
High fancy forms or lavish hearts could wish,
yet she was all that to Jack; and all that she seemed to love or care
for, were “our house,” and the “flower-pots,” and the “bed-post,” and
“Jack.”
At the entrances in all the streets of Greenwich, notices from the
magistrates were posted, that they were determined to put down the fair;
and accordingly not a show was to be seen in the place wherein the fair
had of late been held. Booths were fitting up for dancing and
refreshment at night, but neither Richardson’s, nor any other itinerant
company of performers, was there. There were gingerbread stalls, but no
learned pig, no dwarf, no giant, no fire-eater, no exhibition of any
kind. There was a large round-about of wooden horses for boys, and a few
swings, none of them half filled. The landlord of “the Struggler” could
not struggle his stand into notice. In vain he chalked up “Hagger’s
entire, two-pence a bottle:” this was ginger-beer; if it was not brisker
than the demand for it, it was made “poor indeed;” he had little aid,
but unsold “Lemmun aid, one penny a glass.” Yet the public-houses in
Greenwich were filling fast, and the fiddles squeaked from several
first-floor windows. It was now nearly two o’clock, and the
stage-coaches from London, thoroughly filled inside and out, drove
rapidly in: these, and the flocking down of foot passengers, gave sign
of great visitation. One object I cannot pass by, for it forcibly
contrasted in me mind with the joyous disposition of the day. It was a
poor blackbird in a cage, from the first-floor window of a house in
Melville-place. The cage was high and square; its bars were of a dark
brown bamboo; the top and bottom were of the same dolorous colour;
between the bars were strong iron wires; the bird himself sat dull and
mute; I passed the house several times; not a single note did he give
forth. A few hours before I had heard his fellows in the thickets
whistling in full throat; and here was he, in endless thrall, without a
bit of green to cheer him, or even the decent jailery of a light wicker
cage. I looked at him, and thought of the Lollards at Lambeth, of Thomas
Delaune in Newgate, of Prynne in the Gatehouse, and Laud in the
Tower:--all these were offenders; yet wherein had this poor bird
offended that he should be like them, and be forced to keep Whitsuntide
in prison? I wished him a holiday, and would have given him one to the
end of his life, had I known how.
After dining and taking tea at the “Yorkshire Grey,” I returned to the
park, through the Greenwich gate, near the hospital. The scene here was
very lively. Great numbers were seated on the grass, some refreshing
themselves, others were lookers at the large company of walkers.
Surrounded by a goodly number was a man who stood to exhibit the wonders
of a single-folded sheet of writing paper to the sight of all except
himself; he was blind. By a motion of his hand he changed it into
various forms. “Here,” said he, “is a garden-chair for your seat--this
is a flight of stairs to your chamber--here is a flower-stand for your
mantle-piece;” and so he went on; presenting, in rapid succession, the
well-shaped representation of more than thirty forms of different
utensils or conveniences: at the conclusion, he was well rewarded for
his ingenuity. Further on was a larger group; from the centre whereof
came forth sounds unlike those heard by him who wrote--
“Orpheus play’d so well, he moved old Nick,
But thou mov’st nothing but thy fiddlestick.”
This player so “imitated Orpheus,” that he moved the very bowels,
uneasiness seemed to seize on all who heard his discords. He was seated
on the grass, in the garb of a sailor. At his right hand lay a square
board, whereon was painted “a tale of woe,” in letters that disdained
the printer’s art; at the top, a little box, with a glass cover,
discovered that it was “plus” of what himself was “minus;” its
inscription described its contents--“These bones was taken out of my
leg.” I could not withstand his claim to support. He was effecting the
destruction of “Sweet Poll of Plymouth,” for which I gave him a trifle
more than his “fair” audience usually bestowed, perhaps. He instantly
begged I would name my “favourite;” I desired to be acquainted with his;
he said he could not “deny nothing to so noble a benefactor,” and he
immediately began to murder “Black-eyed Susan.” If the man at the wall
of the Fishmongers’ almshouses were dead, he would be the worst player
in England.
There were several parties playing at “Kiss in the ring,” an innocent
merriment in the country; here it was certainly not merriment. On the
hill the runners were abundant, and the far greater number were, in
appearance and manners, devoid of that vulgarity and grossness from
whence it might be inferred that the sport was any way improper; nor did
I observe, during a stay of several hours, the least indication of its
being otherwise than a cheerful amusement. One of the prettiest sights
was a game at “Thread my needle,” played by about a dozen lasses, with a
grace and glee that reminded me of Angelica’s nymphs. I indulged a hope
that the hilarity of rural pastimes might yet be preserved. There was no
drinking in the park. It lost its visitants fast while the sun was
going down. Many were arrested in their progress to the gate by the
sight of the boys belonging to the college, who were at their evening
play within their own grounds, and who, before they retired for the
night, sung “God save the King,” and “Rule Britannia,” in full chorus,
with fine effect.
The fair, or at least such part of it as was suffered to be continued,
was held in the open space on the right hand of the street leading from
Greenwich to the Creek bridge. “The Crown and Anchor” booth was the
great attraction, as indeed well it might. It was a tent, three hundred
and twenty-three feet long, and sixty feet wide. Seventy feet of this,
at the entrance, was occupied by seats for persons who chose to take
refreshment, and by a large space from whence the viands were delivered.
The remaining two hundred and fifty feet formed the “Assembly room,”
wherein were boarded floors for four rows of dancers throughout this
extensive length; on each side were seats and tables. The price of
admission to the assembly was one shilling. The check ticket was a card,
whereon was printed,
VAUXHALL.
CROWN AND ANCHOR,
WHIT MONDAY.
This room was thoroughly lighted up by depending branches from the roofs
handsomely formed; and by stars and festoons, and the letters G. R. and
other devices, bearing illumination lamps. It was more completely filled
with dancers and spectators, than were convenient to either. Neither the
company nor the scene can be well described. The orchestra, elevated
across the middle of the tent, consisting of two harps, three violins,
a bass viol, two clarionets, and a flute, played airs from “Der
Freischütz,” and other popular tunes. Save the crowd, there was no
confusion; save in the quality of the dancers and dancing, there was no
observable difference between this and other large assemblies; except,
indeed, that there was no master of the ceremonies, nor any difficulty
in obtaining or declining partners. It was neither a dancing school, nor
a school of morals; but the moralist might draw conclusions which would
here, and at this time, be out of place. There were at least 2,000
persons in this booth at one time. In the fair were about twenty other
dancing booths; yet none of them comparable in extent to the “Crown and
Anchor.” In one only was a price demanded for admission; the tickets to
the “Albion Assembly” were sixpence. Most of these booths had names; for
instance, “The Royal Standard;” “The Lads of the Village,” “The Black
Boy and Cat Tavern,” “The Moon-rakers,” &c. At eleven o’clock, stages
from Greenwich to London were in full request. One of them obtained
4_s._ each for inside, and 2_s._ 6_d._ for outside passengers; the
average price was 3_s._ inside, and 2_s._ outside; and though the
footpaths were crowded with passengers, yet all the inns in Greenwich
and on the road were thoroughly filled. Certainly, the greater part of
the visitors were mere spectators of the scene.
*