Between ourselves and what we moan: ’tis hard
For Men to be ought sensible, how Moats
Press Flies to death. Should the Lion, in
His midnight walks for prey, hear some poor worms
Complain for want of little drops of dew,
What pity could that generous creature have
(Who never wanted small things) for those poor
Ambitions? yet these are their concernments,
And but for want of these they pine and die.
Modesty a bar to preferment.
Much better possibly, had his ambition
Been greater much. They oftimes take more pains
Who look for Pins, than those who find out Stars.
Innocence vindicated at last.
Yet it will wipe their eyes again, and make
Their faces whiter with their tears. Innocence
Conceal’d is the Stoln Pleasure of the Gods,
Which never ends in shame, as that of Men
Doth oftimes do; but like the Sun breaks forth,
When it hath gratified another world;
And to our unexpecting eyes appears
More glorious thro’ its late obscurity.
Dying for a Beloved Person.
That’s more than all that’s taste in all the world.
For the true measure of true Love is Death;
And what falls short of this, was never Love:
And therefore when those tides do meet and strive
And both swell high, but Love is higher still,
This is the truest satisfaction of
The perfectest Love: for here it sees itself
Indure the highest test; and then it feels
The sum of delectation, since it now
Attains its perfect end; and shows its object,
By one intense act, all its verity:
Which by a thousand and ten thousand words
It would have took a poor dilated pleasure
To have imperfectly express’d.
Urania makes a mock assignation with the King, and substitutes the Queen in her place. The King describes the supposed meeting to the Confident, whom he had employed to solicit for his guilty passion.
Grew black enough to hide a sculking action;
And Heav’n had ne’er an eye unshut to see
Her Representative on Earth creep ’mongst
Those poor defenceless worms, whom Nature left
An humble prey to every thing, and no
Asylum but the dark; I softly stole
To yonder grotto thro’ the upper walks,
And there found my Urania. But I found her,
I found her, Pyrrhus, not a Mistress, but
A Goddess rather; which made me now to be
No more her Lover, but Idolater.
She only whisper’d to me, as she promised,
Yet never heard I any voice so loud;
And, tho’ her words were gentler far than those
That holy priests do speak to dying Saints,
Yet never thunder signified so much.
And (what did more impress whate’er she said)
Methought her whispers were my injured Queen’s,
Her manner just like her’s! and when she urged,
Among a thousand things, the injury
I did the faithful’st Princess in the world;
Who now supposed me sick, and was perchance
Upon her knees offering up holy vows
For him who mock’d both Heav’n and her, and was
Now breaking of that vow he made her, when
With sacrifice he call’d the Gods to witness:
When she urged this, and wept, and spake so like
My poor deluded Queen, Pyrrhus, I trembled;
Almost persuaded that it was her angel
Spake thro’ Urania’s lips, who for her sake
Took care of me, as something she much loved.
It would be long to tell thee all she said,
How oft she sigh’d, how bitterly she wept:
But the effect—Urania still is chaste;
And with her chaster lips hath promised to
Invoke blest Heav’n for my intended sin.
C. L.
[43] Is it possible that Cowper might have remembered this sentiment in his description of the advantages which the world, that scorns him, may derive from the noiseless hours of the contemplative man?
Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring
And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes,
When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint
Walks forth to meditate at eventide,
And think on her, who thinks not on herself.
Task.
THE CUSHION DANCE.
For the Table Book.
The concluding dance at a country wake, or other general meeting, is the “Cushion Dance;” and if it be not called for when the company are tired with dancing, the fiddler, who has an interest in it which will be seen hereafter, frequently plays the tune to remind them of it. A young man of the company leaves the room; the poor young women, uninformed of the plot against them, suspecting nothing; but he no sooner returns, bearing a cushion in one hand and a pewter pot in the other, than they are aware of the mischief intended, and would certainly make their escape, had not the bearer of cushion and pot, aware of the invincible aversion which young women have to be saluted by young men, prevented their flight by locking the door, and putting the key in his pocket. The dance then begins.
The young man advances to the fiddler, drops a penny in the pot, and gives it to one of his companions; cushion then dances round the room, followed by pot, and when they again reach the fiddler, the cushion says in a sort of recitative, accompanied by the music, “This dance it will no farther go.”
The fiddler, in return, sings or says, for it partakes of both, “I pray, kind sir, why say you so?”
The answer is, “Because Joan Sanderson won’t come to.”
“But,” replies the fiddler, “she must come to, and she shall come to, whether she will or no.”
The young man, thus armed with the authority of the village musician, recommences his dance round the room, but stops when he comes to the girl he likes best, and drops the cushion at her feet; she puts her penny in the pewter pot, and kneels down with the young man on the cushion, and he salutes her.
When they rise, the woman takes up the cushion, and leads the dance, the man following, and holding the skirt of her gown; and having made the circuit of the room, they stop near the fiddler, and the same dialogue is repeated, except, as it is now the woman who speaks, it is John Sanderson who won’t come to, and the fiddler’s mandate is issued to him, not her.
The woman drops the cushion at the feet of her favourite man; the same ceremony and the same dance are repeated, till every man and woman, the pot bearer last, has been taken out, and all have danced round the room in a file.
The pence are the perquisite of the fiddler.
H. N.
P.S. There is a description of this dance in Miss Hutton’s “Oakwood Hall.”
The Cushion Dance.
For the Table Book.
“Saltabamus.”
Under the starlight sky;
Joy in the cottage reigns to night,
And brightens every eye:
The peasants of the valley meet
Their labours to advance,
And many a lip invites a treat
To celebrate the “Cushion Dance.”
The door they slily lock;
The bold the bashful damsels chide,
Whose heart’s-pulse seem to rock:
“Escape?”—“Not yet!—no key is found!”—
“Of course, ’tis lost by chance;”—
And flutt’ring whispers breathe around
“The Cushion Dance!—The Cushion Dance!”
He gives, he rules the game;
A rustic takes a maiden’s hands
Whose cheek is red with shame:
At custom’s shrine they seal their truth,
Love fails not here to glance;—
Happy the heart that beats in youth,
And dances in the “Cushion Dance!”
The fiddler speaks and plays;
The choice is made,—the charm is wound,
And parleys conquer nays:—
“For shame! I will not thus be kiss’d,
Your beard cuts like a lance;
Leave off—I’m sure you’ve sprained my wrist
By kneeling in this ‘Cushion Dance!’”
You dearly loved a joke;
Kisses are sweeter stol’n than bought,
And vows are sometimes broke.
Play up!—play up!—aunt chooses Ben;
Ben loves so sweet a trance!
Robin to Nelly kneels again,
—Is Love not in the ‘Cushion dance?’”
Cupid looks through the eye,
Feeling is dear when sorrows part
And plaintive comfort’s nigh,
“Hide not in corners, Betsy, pray,”
“Do not so colt-like prance;
One kiss, for memory’s future day,
—Is Life not like a ‘Cushion Dance?’”
“Why say you thus, good man?”
“Joan Sanderson will not come to!”
“She must,—’tis ‘Custom’s’ plan:”
“Whether she will or no, must she
The proper course advance;
Blushes, like blossoms on a tree,
Are lovely in the ‘Cushion Dance.’”
“Why say you thus, good lady?”
“John Sanderson will not come to!”
“Fie, John! the Cushion’s ready:”
“He must come to, he shall come to,
’Tis Mirth’s right throne pleasance;
How dear the scene, in Nature’s view
To Lovers in a ‘Cushion Dance!’”
Both Joan and John submit;
Friends smiling gather round and rest.
And sweethearts closely sit;—
Their feet and spirits languid grown,
Eyes, bright in silence, glance
Like suns on seeds of beauty sown,
And nourish’d in the “Cushion Dance.”
Have children round our knees;
How will our hearts rejoice to see
Their lips and eyes at ease.
Talk ye of Swiss in valley-streams,
Of joyous pairs in France;
None of their hopes-delighting dreams
Are equal to the “Cushion Dance.”
By the hushing of her bosom;
She knelt, her mouth and press were true,
And sweet as rose’s blossom:—
E’er since, though onward we to glory,
And cares our lives enhance,
Reflection dearly tells the “story”—
Hail!—hail!—thou “happy Cushion Dance.”
J. R. Prior.
Islington.
ST. SEPULCHRE’S BELL.
For the Table Book.
On the right-hand side of the altar of St. Sepulchre’s church is a board, with a list of charitable donations and gifts, containing the following item:—
| £. | s. | d. | ||
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1605. | Mr. Robert Dowe gave for ringing the greatest bell in this church on the day the condemned prisoners are executed, and for other services, for ever, concerning such condemned prisoners, for which services the sexton is paid £1. 6s. 8d. | 50 | 0 | 0 |
Looking over an old volume of the Newgate Calendar, I found some elucidation of this inscription. In a narrative of the case of Stephen Gardner, (who was executed at Tyburn, February 3, 1724,) it is related that a person said to Gardner, when he was set at liberty on a former occasion, “Beware how you come here again, or the bellman will certainly say his verses over you.” On this saying there is the following remark:—
“It has been a very ancient practice, on the night preceding the execution of condemned criminals, for the bellman of the parish of St. Sepulchre, to go under Newgate, and, ringing his bell, to repeat the following verses, as a piece of friendly advice to the unhappy wretches under sentence of death:—
Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die;
Watch all, and pray, the hour is drawing near,
That you before the Almighty must appear:
Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
That you may not to eternal flames be sent.
And when St. Sepulchre’s bell to-morrow tolls,
The Lord above have mercy on your souls!
Past twelve o’clock!”
In the following extract from Stowe’s London,[44] it will be shown that the above verses ought to be repeated by a clergyman, instead of a bellman:—
“Robert Doue, citizen and merchant taylor, of London, gave to the parish church of St. Sepulchres, the somme of £50. That after the several sessions of London, when the prisoners remain in the gaole, as condemned men to death, expecting execution on the morrow following: the clarke (that is the parson) of the church shoold come in the night time, and likewise early in the morning, to the window of the prison where they lye, and there ringing certain toles with a hand-bell appointed for the purpose, he doth afterwards (in most Christian manner) put them in mind of their present condition, and ensuing execution, desiring them to be prepared therefore as they ought to be. When they are in the cart, and brought before the wall of the church, there he standeth ready with the same bell, and, after certain toles, rehearseth an appointed praier, desiring all the people there present to pray for them. The beadle also of Merchant Taylors’ Hall hath an honest stipend allowed to see that this is duely done.”
Probably the discontinuance of this practice commenced when malefactors were first executed at Newgate, in lieu of Tyburn. The donation most certainly refers to the verses. What the “other services” are which the donor intended to be done, and for which the sexton is paid £1. 6s. 8d., and which are to be “for ever,” I do not know, but I presume those services (or some other) are now continued, as the board which contains the donation seems to me to have been newly painted.
Edwin S——.
Carthusian-street, Jan. 1827.
[44] Page 25 of the quarto edition, 1618.
THE DEATH OF THE RED KING
Come, for ye know me.”
Southey.
And gazes with joy on the beautiful scene,
With the gay prancing war-horse, and helmeted head?
’Tis the monarch of England, stern William the Red.
The trees are scarce mov’d by the still breathing air—
All is hush’d, save the wild bird that carols on high,
The forest bee’s hum, and the rivulet’s sigh.
’Tis the druid of Malwood, the wild forest-fiend
The terror of youth, of the aged the fear—
The prophet of Cadenham, the death-boding seer!
His features were veil’d in mysterious gloom,
His lean arm was awfully rais’d while he said,
“Well met, England’s monarch, stern William the Red!
Lamentation and woe reign in Malwood’s wide hall!
Those leaves shall all fade in the winter’s rude blast,
And thou shalt lie low ere the winter be past.”
For know that the contract is seal’d with my blood,
’Tis written, I never shall sleep in the tomb
Till Cadenham’s oak in the winter shall bloom!
That dares to speak treason, and waylay a king?”—
“Know, monarch, I dwell in the beautiful bowers
Of Eden, and poison I shed o’er the flowers.
I ride on the breath of the night-rolling gale—
I dwell in Vesuvius, ’mid torrents of flame,
Unriddle my riddle, and tell me my name!”
For who was the prophet he wittingly guess’d:
“O, Jesu-Maria!” he tremblingly said,
“Bona Virgo!”—he gazed—but the vision had fled.
How keenly is blowing the chilly night air!
The moonbeams shine brightly on hard-frozen flood,
And William is riding thro’ Cadenham’s wood.
Saint Swithin! what is it the monarch can see?
Prophetical sight! ’mid the desolate scene,
The oak is array’d in the freshest of green!
Till Cadenham’s oak in the winter shall bloom;”
He thought of the druid—“The mighty shall fall,
Lamentation and woe reign in Malwood’s wide hall.”
Hath struck the proud monarch, and pierc’d thro’ his heart;
’Twas the deed of a friend, not the deed of a foe,
For the arrow was aim’d at the breast of a roe.
The dance and the wassail, and wild revelrie;
Its chambers are dreary, deserted, and lone,
And the day of its greatness for ever hath flown.
“Dies Iræ” resounds thro’ the sable-dight aisle—
’Tis a dirge for the mighty, the mass for the dead—
The funeral anthem for William the Red!
Aquila.
London.
Described by a Writer in 1634.
I will first take a survey of the long-continued deformity in the shape of your city, which is of your buildings.
Sure your ancestors contrived your narrow streets in the days of wheel-barrows, before those greater engines, carts, were invented. Is your climate so hot, that as you walk you need umbrellas of tiles to intercept the sun? or are your shambles so empty, that you are afraid to take in fresh air, lest it should sharpen your stomachs? Oh, the goodly landscape of Old Fish-street! which, if it had not the ill luck to be crooked, was narrow enough to have been your founder’s perspective; and where the garrets, perhaps not for want of architecture, but through abundance of amity, are so narrow, that opposite neighbours may shake hands without stirring from home. Is unanimity of inhabitants in wide cities better exprest than by their coherence and uniformity of building, where streets begin, continue, and end, in a like stature and shape?[45] But yours, as if they were raised in a general resurrection, where every man hath a several design, differ in all things that can make a distinction. Here stands one that aims to be a palace, and next it, one that professes to be a hovel; here a giant, there a dwarf; here slender, there broad; and all most admirably different in faces, as well as in their height and bulk. I was about to defy any Londoner, who dares to pretend there is so much ingenious correspondence in this city, as that he can show me one house like another; yet your houses seem to be reversed and formal, being compared to the fantastical looks of the moderns, which have more ovals, niches, and angles, than in your custards, and are enclosed with pasteboard walls, like those of malicious Turks, who, because themselves are not immortal, and cannot dwell for ever where they build, therefore wish not to be at charge to provide such lastingness as may entertain their children out of the rain; so slight and prettily gaudy, that if they could move, they would pass for pageants. It is your custom, where men vary often the mode of their habits, to term the nation fantastical; but where streets continually change fashion, you should make haste to chain up your city, for it is certainly mad.
You would think me a malicious traveller, if I should still gaze on your mis-shapen streets, and take no notice of the beauty of your river, therefore I will pass the importunate noise of your watermen, (who snatch at fares, as if they were to catch prisoners, plying the gentry so uncivilly, as if they had never rowed any other passengers than bear-wards,) and now step into one of your peascod-boats, whose tilts are not so sumptuous as the roofs of gondolas; nor, when you are within, are you at the ease of a chaise-à-bras.
The commodity and trade of your river belong to yourselves; but give a stranger leave to share in the pleasure of it, which will hardly be in the prospect and freedom of air; unless prospect, consisting of variety, be made up with here a palace, there a wood-yard; here a garden, there a brewhouse; here dwells a lord, there a dyer; and between both, duomo commune.
If freedom of air be inferred in the liberty of the subject, where every private man hath authority, for his own profit, to smoke up a magistrate, then the air of your Thames is open enough, because it is equally free. I will forbear to visit your courtly neighbours at Wapping, not that it will make me giddy to shoot your bridge, but that I am loath to describe the civil silence at Billingsgate, which is so great, as if the mariners were always landing to storm the harbour; therefore, for brevity’s sake, I will put to shore again, though I should be so constrained, even without my galoshes, to land at Puddle-dock.
I am now returned to visit your houses where the roofs are so low, that I presumed your ancestors were very mannerly, and stood bare to their wives; for I cannot discern how they could wear their high-crowned hats: yet I will enter, and therein oblige you much, when you know my aversion to a certain weed that governs amongst your coarser acquaintance, as much as lavender among your coarser linen; to which, in my apprehension, your sea-coal smoke seems a very Portugal perfume. I should here hasten to a period, for fear of suffocation, if I thought you so ungracious as to use it in public assemblies; and yet I see it grow so much in fashion, that methinks your children begin to play with broken pipes instead of corals, to make way for their teeth. You will find my visit short; I cannot stay to eat with you, because your bread is too heavy, and you distrain the light substance of herbs. Your drink is too thick, and yet you are seldom over curious in washing your glasses. Nor will I lodge with you, because your beds seem no bigger than coffins; and your curtains so short, as they will hardly serve to enclose your carriers in summer, and may be held, if taffata, to have lined your grandsire’s skirts.
I have now left your houses, and am passing through your streets, but not in a coach, for they are uneasily hung, and so narrow, that I took them for sedans upon wheels. Nor is it safe for a stranger to use them till the quarrel be decided, whether six of your nobles, sitting together, shall stop and give way to as many barrels of beer. Your city is the only metropolis in Europe, where there is wonderful dignity belonging to carts.
I would now make a safe retreat, but that methinks I am stopped by one of your heroic games called foot-ball; which I conceive (under your favour) not very conveniently civil in the streets, especially in such irregular and narrow roads as Crooked-lane. Yet it argues your courage, much like your military pastime of throwing at cocks; but your metal would be much magnified (since you have long allowed those two valiant exercises in the streets) were you to draw your archers from Finsbury, and, during high market, let them shoot at butts in Cheapside. I have now no more to say, but what refers to a few private notes, which I shall give you in a whisper, when we meet in Moorfields, from whence (because the place was meant for public pleasure, and to show the munificence of your city) I shall desire you to banish your laundresses and bleachers, whose acres of old linen make a show like the fields of Carthagena, when the five months’ shifts of the whole fleet are washed and spread.[46]
[45] If a disagreement of neighbours were to be inferred from such a circumstance, what but an unfavourable inference would be drawn from our modern style of architecture, as exemplified in Regent-street, where the houses are, as the leopard’s spots are described to be, “no two alike, and every one different.”
[46] Sir W. Davenant.
A FATHER’S HOME.
For the Table Book.
My weary steps homeward I tread—
’Tis there, midst the prattlers that fly to my arms,
I enjoy purer pleasures instead.
And rushing at once to the lock,
Wide open it flies, while the lasses and lads
Bid me welcome as chief of the flock.
Glad to join in th’ general joy,
While with outstretched arms and looks of amaze
He seizes the new purchas’d toy.
His father’s attention again;
But Bob, springing forward almost in a rage,
Resolves his own rights to maintain.
From your midnight carousals depart!
Look here for true joys, ever blooming and new,
When I press both these boys to my heart.
Midst glad faces and innocent hearts,
Encircling my table as happy as kings,
Right merrily playing their parts.
Of sugar, so temptingly sweet,
And, archly observing, hides under the table
The spoil, till he’s ready to eat.
He perform’d so correctly at school;
Bill leeringly tells, with his chin on his thumbs,
“He was whipt there for playing the fool!”
Each ventures a threat to his brother,
But their hearts are so good, let a stranger intrude,
They’d fight to the last for each other.
And keeps the young urchins in order,
Exhibits, with innocence charming the soul,
Her sister’s fine sampler and border.
Helps her mother to darn or to stitch,
Reminding me most of that gay laughing face
Which once did my fond heart bewitch.
Contrives them some innocent play;
Till, tired of all, in the silence of night,
They dream the glad moments away.
Ye children, be virtuous and true!
And think when I’m aged, alone in my cot,
How I minister’d comfort to you.
Ye all shall be happily grown,
Live near me, and, anxious for poor father’s fate
Show the world that you’re truly my own.
Stanmore Toll-House.
Stanmore Toll-House.
Combine to render it worth observation.
Our new toll-houses are deservedly the subject of frequent remark, on account of their beauty. The preceding engraving is intended to convey an idea of Stanmore-gate, which is one of the handsomest near London. The top is formed into a large lantern; when illuminated, it is an important mark to drivers in dark nights.
It may be necessary to add, that the present representation was not destined to appear in this place; but the indisposition of a gentleman engaged to assist in illustrating this work, has occasioned a sudden disappointment.
“STATUTES” AND “MOPS.”
To the Editor.
Sir,—Although your unique and curious work, the Every-Day Book, abounds with very interesting accounts of festivals, fairs, wassails, wakes, and other particulars concerning our country manners, and will be prized by future generations as a rare and valuable collection of the pastimes and customs of their forefathers, still much of the same nature remains to be related; and as I am anxious that the Country Statute, or Mop, (according to the version of the country people generally,) should be snatched from oblivion, I send you a description of this custom, which, I hope, will be deemed worthy a place in the Table Book. I had waited to see if some one more competent to a better account than myself would achieve the task, when that short but significant word Finis, attached to the Every-Day Book, arouses me from further delay, and I delineate, as well as I am able, scenes which, but for that work, I possibly should have never noticed.
Some months ago I solicited the assistance of a friend, a respectable farmer, residing at Wootton, in Warwickshire, who not only very readily promised to give me every information he possessed on the subject, but proposed that I should pass a week at his farm at the time these Statutes were holding. So valuable an opportunity of visiting them and making my own observations, I, of course, readily embraced. Before I proceed to lay before you the results, it may be as well, perhaps, to give something like a definition of the name applied to this peculiar custom, as also when and for what purpose the usage was established. “Statutes,” or “Statute Sessions,” otherwise called “Petit Sessions,” are meetings, in every hundred of each shire in England where they are held, to which the constables and others, both householders and servants, repair for the determining of differences between masters and servants; the rating, by the sheriff or magistrates, of wages for the ensuing year; and the bestowing of such people in service as are able to serve, and refuse to seek, or cannot get masters.
The first act of parliament for regulating servants’ wages passed in the year 1351, 25th Edward III. At an early period labourers were serfs, or slaves, and consequently there was no law upon the subject. The immediate cause of the act of Edward III. was that plague which wasted Europe from 1347 to 1349, and destroyed a great proportion of its inhabitants. The consequent scarcity of labourers, and the high price demanded for labour, caused those who employed them to obtain legislative enactments, imposing fines on all who gave or accepted more than a stipulated sum. Since that period there have been various regulations of a similar nature. By the 13th of Richard II. the justices of every county were to meet once a year, between Easter and Michaelmas, to regulate, according to circumstances, the rates of wages of agricultural servants for the year ensuing, and cause the same to be proclaimed. But though this power was confirmed to the justices by the 5th of Elizabeth, this part of the custom of Statute Sessions is almost, if not quite, fallen into disuse. It is probable that in the years immediately succeeding the first enactment the population was so restored as to cause the laws to be relaxed, though they still remain as an example of the wisdom of past ages. However this may be, it is certain, that all that is at present understood by “Statutes,” or, as the vulgar call them, “Mops,” is the assembling of masters and servants, the former to seek the latter, and the latter to obtain employment of the former. It is undoubtedly a mutual accommodation; for although the servants now rate and ask what wages they think fit, still they have an opportunity of knowing how wages are usually going, and the masters have hundreds, and, in some cases, thousands of servants to choose from.
The “Statute” I first attended was held at Studley, in Warwickshire, at the latter end of September. On arriving, between twelve and one o’clock, at the part of the Alcester road where the assembly was held, the place was filling very fast by groups of persons of almost all descriptions from every quarter. Towards three o’clock there must have been many thousands present. The appearance of the whole may be pretty accurately portrayed to the mind of those who have witnessed a country fair; the sides of the roads were occupied with stalls for gingerbread, cakes, &c., general assortments of hardware, japanned goods, waggoner’s frocks, and an endless variety of wearing apparel, suitable to every class, from the farm bailiff, or dapper footman, to the unassuming ploughboy, or day-labourer.
The public-houses were thoroughly full, not excepting even the private chambers. The scene out of doors was enlivened, here and there, by some wandering minstrel, or fiddler, round whom stood a crowd of men and boys, who, at intervals, eagerly joined to swell the chorus of the song. Although there was as large an assemblage as could be well remembered, both of masters and servants, I was given to understand that there was very little hiring. This might happen from a twofold cause; first, on account of its being one of the early Statutes, and, secondly, from the circumstance of the servants asking what was deemed (considering the pressure of the times) exorbitant wages. The servants were, for the most part, bedecked in their best church-going clothes. The men also wore clean white frocks, and carried in their hats some emblem or insignia of the situation they had been accustomed to or were desirous to fill: for instance, a waggoner, or ploughboy, had a piece of whipcord in his hat, some of it ingeniously plaited in a variety of ways and entwined round the hatband; a cow-man, after the same manner, had some cow-hair; and to those already mentioned there was occasionally added a piece of sponge; a shepherd had wool; a gardener had flowers, &c. &c.
The girls wishing to be hired were in a spot apart from the men and boys, and all stood not unlike cattle at a fair waiting for dealers. Some of them held their hands before them, with one knee protruding, (like soldiers standing at ease,) and never spoke, save when catechised and examined by a master or mistress as to the work they had been accustomed to; and then you would scarce suppose they had learned to say anything but “Ees, sur,” or “No, sur,” for these were almost the only expressions that fell from their lips. Others, on the contrary, exercised no small degree of self-sufficient loquacity concerning their abilities, which not unusually consisted of a good proportion of main strength, or being able to drive or follow a variety of kinds of plough. Where a master or mistress was engaged in conversation with a servant they were usually surrounded by a group, with their mouths extended to an angle of near forty-five degrees, as if to catch the sounds at the aperture; this in some, perhaps, was mere idle curiosity, in others, from desire to know the wages asked and given, as a guide for themselves. I observed a seeming indifference about the servants in securing situations. They appeared to require a certain sum for wages, without reference to any combination of circumstances or the state of the times; and however exorbitant, they rarely seemed disposed to meet the master by proposing something lower; they would stand for some time and hear reasons why wages should be more moderate, and at the conclusion, when you would suppose they were either willing, in some measure, to accede to the terms, or to offer reasons why they should not, you were mortified to know, that the usual answer was, “Yo’ll find me yarn it, sur,” or “I conna gue for less.”
When a bargain is concluded on at a “Statute,” it is the custom to ratify it immediately, and on the spot, by the master presenting to the servant what is termed “earnest money,” which is usually one shilling, but it varies according to circumstances; for instance, if a servant agrees to come for less than he at first asked, it is, perhaps, on the condition that his earnest is augmented, probably doubled or trebled, as may be agreed on.
The contract arises upon the hiring: if the hiring be general, without any particular time limited, the law construes it to be hiring for one year; but the contract may be made for any longer or shorter period. Many farmers are wary enough to hire their servants for fifty-one weeks only, which prevents them having any claim upon that particular parish in case of distress, &c. We frequently find disputes between two parishes arising out of Statute-hirings brought to the assizes or sessions for settlement.
When the hiring is over, the emblems in the hats are exchanged for ribbons of almost every hue. Some retire to the neighbouring grounds to have games at bowls, skittles, or pitching, &c. &c., whilst the more unwary are fleeced of their money by the itinerant Greeks and black legs with E. O. tables, pricking in the garter, the three thimbles &c. &c. These tricksters seldom fail to reap abundant harvests at the Statutes. Towards evening each lad seeks his lass, and they hurry off to spend the night at the public-houses, or, as is the case in some small villages, at private houses, which, on these occasions, are licensed for the time being.
To attempt to delineate the scenes that now present themselves, would on my part be presumption indeed. It rather requires the pencil of Hogarth to do justice to this varied picture. Here go round the