‘Now ladies, up in the sky-parlour: only once a year, if you please!’
Young Lady with Brass Ladle.
‘Sweep—sweep—sw-e-ep!’
Illegal Watchword.
The first of May! There is a merry freshness in the sound, calling to
our minds a thousand thoughts of all that is pleasant in nature and
beautiful in her most delightful form. What man is there, over whose
mind a bright spring morning does not exercise a magic
influence—carrying him back to the days of his childish sports, and
conjuring up before him the old green field with its gently-waving
trees, where the birds sang as he has never heard them since—where the
butterfly fluttered far more gaily than he ever sees him now, in all
his ramblings—where the sky seemed bluer, and the sun shone more
brightly—where the air blew more freshly over greener grass, and
sweeter-smelling flowers—where everything wore a richer and more
brilliant hue than it is ever dressed in now! Such are the deep
feelings of childhood, and such are the impressions which every lovely
object stamps upon its heart! The hardy traveller wanders through the
maze of thick and pathless woods, where the sun’s rays never shone, and
heaven’s pure air never played; he stands on the brink of the roaring
waterfall, and, giddy and bewildered, watches the foaming mass as it
leaps from stone to stone, and from crag to crag; he lingers in the
fertile plains of a land of perpetual sunshine, and revels in the
luxury of their balmy breath. But what are the deep forests, or the
thundering waters, or the richest landscapes that bounteous nature ever
spread, to charm the eyes, and captivate the senses of man, compared
with the recollection of the old scenes of his early youth? Magic
scenes indeed; for the fancies of childhood dressed them in colours
brighter than the rainbow, and almost as fleeting!
In former times, spring brought with it not only such associations as
these, connected with the past, but sports and games for the
present—merry dances round rustic pillars, adorned with emblems of the
season, and reared in honour of its coming. Where are they now! Pillars
we have, but they are no longer rustic ones; and as to dancers, they
are used to rooms, and lights, and would not show well in the open air.
Think of the immorality, too! What would your sabbath enthusiasts say,
to an aristocratic ring encircling the Duke of York’s column in
Carlton-terrace—a grand _poussette_ of the middle classes, round
Alderman Waithman’s monument in Fleet-street,—or a general
hands-four-round of ten-pound householders, at the foot of the Obelisk
in St. George’s-fields? Alas! romance can make no head against the riot
act; and pastoral simplicity is not understood by the police.
Well; many years ago we began to be a steady and matter-of-fact sort of
people, and dancing in spring being beneath our dignity, we gave it up,
and in course of time it descended to the sweeps—a fall certainly,
because, though sweeps are very good fellows in their way, and moreover
very useful in a civilised community, they are not exactly the sort of
people to give the tone to the little elegances of society. The sweeps,
however, got the dancing to themselves, and they kept it up, and handed
it down. This was a severe blow to the romance of spring-time, but, it
did not entirely destroy it, either; for a portion of it descended to
the sweeps with the dancing, and rendered them objects of great
interest. A mystery hung over the sweeps in those days. Legends were in
existence of wealthy gentlemen who had lost children, and who, after
many years of sorrow and suffering, had found them in the character of
sweeps. Stories were related of a young boy who, having been stolen
from his parents in his infancy, and devoted to the occupation of
chimney-sweeping, was sent, in the course of his professional career,
to sweep the chimney of his mother’s bedroom; and how, being hot and
tired when he came out of the chimney, he got into the bed he had so
often slept in as an infant, and was discovered and recognised therein
by his mother, who once every year of her life, thereafter, requested
the pleasure of the company of every London sweep, at half-past one
o’clock, to roast beef, plum-pudding, porter, and sixpence.
Such stories as these, and there were many such, threw an air of
mystery round the sweeps, and produced for them some of those good
effects which animals derive from the doctrine of the transmigration of
souls. No one (except the masters) thought of ill-treating a sweep,
because no one knew who he might be, or what nobleman’s or gentleman’s
son he might turn out. Chimney-sweeping was, by many believers in the
marvellous, considered as a sort of probationary term, at an earlier or
later period of which, divers young noblemen were to come into
possession of their rank and titles: and the profession was held by
them in great respect accordingly.
We remember, in our young days, a little sweep about our own age, with
curly hair and white teeth, whom we devoutly and sincerely believed to
be the lost son and heir of some illustrious personage—an impression
which was resolved into an unchangeable conviction on our infant mind,
by the subject of our speculations informing us, one day, in reply to
our question, propounded a few moments before his ascent to the summit
of the kitchen chimney, ‘that he believed he’d been born in the vurkis,
but he’d never know’d his father.’ We felt certain, from that time
forth, that he would one day be owned by a lord: and we never heard the
church-bells ring, or saw a flag hoisted in the neighbourhood, without
thinking that the happy event had at last occurred, and that his
long-lost parent had arrived in a coach and six, to take him home to
Grosvenor-square. He never came, however; and, at the present moment,
the young gentleman in question is settled down as a master sweep in
the neighbourhood of Battle-bridge, his distinguishing characteristics
being a decided antipathy to washing himself, and the possession of a
pair of legs very inadequate to the support of his unwieldy and
corpulent body.
The romance of spring having gone out before our time, we were fain to
console ourselves as we best could with the uncertainty that enveloped
the birth and parentage of its attendant dancers, the sweeps; and we
_did_ console ourselves with it, for many years. But, even this wicked
source of comfort received a shock from which it has never recovered—a
shock which has been in reality its death-blow. We could not disguise
from ourselves the fact that whole families of sweeps were regularly
born of sweeps, in the rural districts of Somers Town and Camden
Town—that the eldest son succeeded to the father’s business, that the
other branches assisted him therein, and commenced on their own
account; that their children again, were educated to the profession;
and that about their identity there could be no mistake whatever. We
could not be blind, we say, to this melancholy truth, but we could not
bring ourselves to admit it, nevertheless, and we lived on for some
years in a state of voluntary ignorance. We were roused from our
pleasant slumber by certain dark insinuations thrown out by a friend of
ours, to the effect that children in the lower ranks of life were
beginning to _choose_ chimney-sweeping as their particular walk; that
applications had been made by various boys to the constituted
authorities, to allow them to pursue the object of their ambition with
the full concurrence and sanction of the law; that the affair, in
short, was becoming one of mere legal contract. We turned a deaf ear to
these rumours at first, but slowly and surely they stole upon us. Month
after month, week after week, nay, day after day, at last, did we meet
with accounts of similar applications. The veil was removed, all
mystery was at an end, and chimney-sweeping had become a favourite and
chosen pursuit. There is no longer any occasion to steal boys; for boys
flock in crowds to bind themselves. The romance of the trade has fled,
and the chimney-sweeper of the present day, is no more like unto him of
thirty years ago, than is a Fleet-street pickpocket to a Spanish
brigand, or Paul Pry to Caleb Williams.
This gradual decay and disuse of the practice of leading noble youths
into captivity, and compelling them to ascend chimneys, was a severe
blow, if we may so speak, to the romance of chimney-sweeping, and to
the romance of spring at the same time. But even this was not all, for
some few years ago the dancing on May-day began to decline; small
sweeps were observed to congregate in twos or threes, unsupported by a
‘green,’ with no ‘My Lord’ to act as master of the ceremonies, and no
‘My Lady’ to preside over the exchequer. Even in companies where there
was a ‘green’ it was an absolute nothing—a mere sprout—and the
instrumental accompaniments rarely extended beyond the shovels and a
set of Panpipes, better known to the many, as a ‘mouth-organ.’
These were signs of the times, portentous omens of a coming change; and
what was the result which they shadowed forth? Why, the master sweeps,
influenced by a restless spirit of innovation, actually interposed
their authority, in opposition to the dancing, and substituted a
dinner—an anniversary dinner at White Conduit House—where clean faces
appeared in lieu of black ones smeared with rose pink; and knee cords
and tops superseded nankeen drawers and rosetted shoes.
Gentlemen who were in the habit of riding shy horses; and steady-going
people who have no vagrancy in their souls, lauded this alteration to
the skies, and the conduct of the master sweeps was described beyond
the reach of praise. But how stands the real fact? Let any man deny, if
he can, that when the cloth had been removed, fresh pots and pipes laid
upon the table, and the customary loyal and patriotic toasts proposed,
the celebrated Mr. Sluffen, of Adam-and-Eve-court, whose authority not
the most malignant of our opponents can call in question, expressed
himself in a manner following: ‘That now he’d cotcht the cheerman’s hi,
he vished he might be jolly vell blessed, if he worn’t a goin’ to have
his innings, vich he vould say these here obserwashuns—that how some
mischeevus coves as know’d nuffin about the consarn, had tried to sit
people agin the mas’r swips, and take the shine out o’ their bis’nes,
and the bread out o’ the traps o’ their preshus kids, by a makin’ o’
this here remark, as chimblies could be as vell svept by ‘sheenery as
by boys; and that the makin’ use o’ boys for that there purpuss vos
barbareous; vereas, he ’ad been a chummy—he begged the cheerman’s
parding for usin’ such a wulgar hexpression—more nor thirty year—he
might say he’d been born in a chimbley—and he know’d uncommon vell as
‘sheenery vos vus nor o’ no use: and as to kerhewelty to the boys,
everybody in the chimbley line know’d as vell as he did, that they
liked the climbin’ better nor nuffin as vos.’ From this day, we date
the total fall of the last lingering remnant of May-day dancing, among
the _élite_ of the profession: and from this period we commence a new
era in that portion of our spring associations which relates to the
first of May.
We are aware that the unthinking part of the population will meet us
here, with the assertion, that dancing on May-day still continues—that
‘greens’ are annually seen to roll along the streets—that youths in the
garb of clowns, precede them, giving vent to the ebullitions of their
sportive fancies; and that lords and ladies follow in their wake.
Granted. We are ready to acknowledge that in outward show, these
processions have greatly improved: we do not deny the introduction of
solos on the drum; we will even go so far as to admit an occasional
fantasia on the triangle, but here our admissions end. We positively
deny that the sweeps have art or part in these proceedings. We
distinctly charge the dustmen with throwing what they ought to clear
away, into the eyes of the public. We accuse scavengers, brickmakers,
and gentlemen who devote their energies to the costermongering line,
with obtaining money once a-year, under false pretences. We cling with
peculiar fondness to the custom of days gone by, and have shut out
conviction as long as we could, but it has forced itself upon us; and
we now proclaim to a deluded public, that the May-day dancers are _not_
sweeps. The size of them, alone, is sufficient to repudiate the idea.
It is a notorious fact that the widely-spread taste for register-stoves
has materially increased the demand for small boys; whereas the men,
who, under a fictitious character, dance about the streets on the first
of May nowadays, would be a tight fit in a kitchen flue, to say nothing
of the parlour. This is strong presumptive evidence, but we have
positive proof—the evidence of our own senses. And here is our
testimony.
Upon the morning of the second of the merry month of May, in the year
of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-six, we went out for
a stroll, with a kind of forlorn hope of seeing something or other
which might induce us to believe that it was really spring, and not
Christmas. After wandering as far as Copenhagen House, without meeting
anything calculated to dispel our impression that there was a mistake
in the almanacks, we turned back down Maidenlane, with the intention of
passing through the extensive colony lying between it and
Battle-bridge, which is inhabited by proprietors of donkey-carts,
boilers of horse-flesh, makers of tiles, and sifters of cinders;
through which colony we should have passed, without stoppage or
interruption, if a little crowd gathered round a shed had not attracted
our attention, and induced us to pause.
When we say a ‘shed,’ we do not mean the conservatory sort of building,
which, according to the old song, Love tenanted when he was a young
man, but a wooden house with windows stuffed with rags and paper, and a
small yard at the side, with one dust-cart, two baskets, a few shovels,
and little heaps of cinders, and fragments of china and tiles,
scattered about it. Before this inviting spot we paused; and the longer
we looked, the more we wondered what exciting circumstance it could be,
that induced the foremost members of the crowd to flatten their noses
against the parlour window, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of
what was going on inside. After staring vacantly about us for some
minutes, we appealed, touching the cause of this assemblage, to a
gentleman in a suit of tarpaulin, who was smoking his pipe on our right
hand; but as the only answer we obtained was a playful inquiry whether
our mother had disposed of her mangle, we determined to await the issue
in silence.
Judge of our virtuous indignation, when the street-door of the shed
opened, and a party emerged therefrom, clad in the costume and
emulating the appearance, of May-day sweeps!
The first person who appeared was ‘my lord,’ habited in a blue coat and
bright buttons, with gilt paper tacked over the seams, yellow
knee-breeches, pink cotton stockings, and shoes; a cocked hat,
ornamented with shreds of various-coloured paper, on his head, a
_bouquet_ the size of a prize cauliflower in his button-hole, a long
Belcher handkerchief in his right hand, and a thin cane in his left. A
murmur of applause ran through the crowd (which was chiefly composed of
his lordship’s personal friends), when this graceful figure made his
appearance, which swelled into a burst of applause as his fair partner
in the dance bounded forth to join him. Her ladyship was attired in
pink crape over bed-furniture, with a low body and short sleeves. The
symmetry of her ankles was partially concealed by a very perceptible
pair of frilled trousers; and the inconvenience which might have
resulted from the circumstance of her white satin shoes being a few
sizes too large, was obviated by their being firmly attached to her
legs with strong tape sandals.
Her head was ornamented with a profusion of artificial flowers; and in
her hand she bore a large brass ladle, wherein to receive what she
figuratively denominated ‘the tin.’ The other characters were a young
gentleman in girl’s clothes and a widow’s cap; two clowns who walked
upon their hands in the mud, to the immeasurable delight of all the
spectators; a man with a drum; another man with a flageolet; a dirty
woman in a large shawl, with a box under her arm for the money,—and
last, though not least, the ‘green,’ animated by no less a personage
than our identical friend in the tarpaulin suit.
The man hammered away at the drum, the flageolet squeaked, the shovels
rattled, the ‘green’ rolled about, pitching first on one side and then
on the other; my lady threw her right foot over her left ankle, and her
left foot over her right ankle, alternately; my lord ran a few paces
forward, and butted at the ‘green,’ and then a few paces backward upon
the toes of the crowd, and then went to the right, and then to the
left, and then dodged my lady round the ‘green;’ and finally drew her
arm through his, and called upon the boys to shout, which they did
lustily—for this was the dancing.
We passed the same group, accidentally, in the evening. We never saw a
‘green’ so drunk, a lord so quarrelsome (no: not even in the house of
peers after dinner), a pair of clowns so melancholy, a lady so muddy,
or a party so miserable.
How has May-day decayed!