Part 135
In 1781, a person, from affection to the user or resentment to the maker, perhaps the latter, harangued the public in the weekly papers, censured the arbitrary measures of the brazen sovereigns, showed their dangerous influence over the trades of the town, and the easy manner in which works of our own might be constructed. Good often arises out of evil; this fiery match quickly kindled another furnace in Birmingham. Public meetings were advertised, a committee appointed, and subscriptions opened to fill two hundred shares, of one hundred pounds each, which was deemed a sufficient capital; each proprietor of a share to purchase one ton of brass annually. Works were immediately erected upon the banks of the canal, for the advantage of water carriage, and the whole was conducted with the true spirit of Birmingham freedom.
The old companies, which we may justly consider the directors of a South Sea bubble in miniature, sunk the price from eighty-four pounds to fifty-six pounds. Two inferences arise from this measure; that their profits were once very high, or were now very low; and, that like some former monarchs in the abuse of power, they repented one day too late.
NAILS.
The art of nail-making is one of the most ancient in Birmingham. It is not, however, so much a trade _in_, as _of_ Birmingham, for there are but few nail-makers left in the town; the nailors are chiefly masters, and rather opulent. The manufacturers are so scattered round the country, that we cannot travel far in any direction out of the sound of the nail-hammer. Birmingham, like a powerful magnet, draws the produce of the anvil to herself.
When I first approached Birmingham, says Mr. Hutton, from Walsall in 1741, I was surprised at the prodigious number of blacksmiths’ shops upon the road; and could not conceive how a country, though populous, could support so many people of the same occupation. In some of these shops I observed one or more females stript of their upper garment, and not overcharged with their lower, wielding the hammer with all the grace of the sex. The beauties of their face were rather eclipsed by the smut of the anvil. Struck with the novelty, I inquired “Whether the ladies in this country shod horses?” but was answered, with a smile, “They are nailers.”
A fire without heat, a nailer of a fair complexion, or one who despises the tankard, are equally rare among them. His whole system of faith may be comprised in one article--That the slender mug, used in a public-house, “is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.”
While the master reaps harvest of plenty, the workman submits to the scanty gleanings of penury, a thin habit, an early old age, and a figure bending towards the earth. Plenty comes not near his dwelling, except of rags and of children. His hammer is worn into deep hollows, fitting the fingers of a dark hand, hard as the timber it wears. His face, like the moon, is often seen through a cloud.
BELLOWS.
Man first catches the profession; the profession afterwards moulds the man. In whatever profession we engage we assume its character, become a part of it, vindicate its honour, its eminence, its antiquity, or feel a wound through its sides. Though there may be no more pride in a minister of state who opens a budget, than in a tinker who carries one, yet they equally contend for the honour of their trade.
The bellows-maker proclaims the _honour_ of his art by observing, he alone produces that instrument which commands the winds; his soft breeze, like that of the south, counteracts the chill blasts of winter; by his efforts, like those of the sun, the world receives light; he creates when he pleases, and gives breath when he creates. In his caverns the winds sleep at pleasure, and by his “orders” they set Europe in flames. He farther pretends, that the antiquity of his occupation will appear from the plenty of elm, once in the neighbourhood, but long cut up for his use; that the leather-market in Birmingham, for many ages, furnished him with sides; and though the manufacture of iron is allowed to be extremely ancient, yet the smith could not procure his heat without a blast, nor could that blast be raised without the bellows. One inference will arise from these remarks, that bellows-making is one of the oldest trades in Birmingham.
THREAD.
We who reside in the interior parts of the kingdom may observe the first traces of a river when it issues from its fountain, the current so extremely small, that if a bottle of liquor, distilled through the urinary vessels, were discharged into its course, it would manifestly augment the water and quicken the stream: the reviving bottle, having added spirits to the man, would seem to add spirits to the river. If we pursue this river, winding through one hundred and thirty miles, we shall observe it collect strength as it runs, expand its borders, swell into consequence, employ multitudes of people, carry wealth in its bosom, and exactly resemble thread-making in Birmingham. If we represent to our ideas a man able to employ three or four people, himself in an apron one of the number, but who being _unable_ to write his name, shows his attachment to the Christian religion by signing the _cross_ to receipts; whose method of book-keeping, like that of the publican, is _a door and a lump of chalk_; producing a book which none can peruse but himself; who having manufactured forty pounds weight of thread, of divers colours, and rammed it into a pair of leathern bags, something larger than a pair of boots, which we might deem the arms of his trade _empaled_; slung them on a horse, and placed himself on the top by way of a _crest_; visits an adjacent market, to starve with his goods at a stall, or retail them to the mercer, nor return without the money--we shall see a thread-maker of 1652. If we pursue this occupation, winding through the mazes of one hundred and thirty years, we shall see it enlarge its boundaries, multiply its people, increase its consequence and wealth, till in 1782 we behold the master in possession of correct accounts, the apron thrown aside, the stall kicked over, the bags tossed into the garret, and the mercer overlooked in the grand prospect of exportation. We farther behold him take the lead in provincial concerns, step into his own carriage, and hold the king’s commission as a magistrate.[441]
[441] Hutton’s History of Birmingham.
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PRESERVATION OF FLOWERS.
A few grains of salt dropped into the water in which flowers are kept, tends greatly to preserve them from fading, and will keep them fresh and in bloom, double the period that pure water will.
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_For the Table Book._
LETTER FROM A VILLAGE.
TO MR. CHARLES PICKWORTH.
_Lincolnshire, -- June, 1815._
Dear Charles,--You remember our meeting the other day--I shall.--It’s a long time since we ran riot, and got into mischief together--trundled our hoops, gathered flowers in summer, and rolled in the snow in winter. There is a dim pleasure in the remembrance of our late interview, and that of these isolated scenes of our childhood: they are as faint gleams of sunshine in a gloomy day. I don’t like, however, to reflect upon being handwhipped, and put into the corner: the fears of that age are dreadful--I see my aunt’s frown now, and hear her snap at me. But then again, it was over _her_ grounds that we chased the hours away as heedlessly as the butterflies. The homeclose-yard and kitchen garden--how pleasant to remember _them_! The buzzard, you know, guarded the fruit-garden, and kept us from the gooseberry-trees and strawberry-beds; but in the others what a thousand frolics have we sported in, and in what a thousand contrivances exercised our infant minds. Every joy comes to my mind--I forget every hardship. The coachman!--what would he not do for us! Bethink yourself--he had been in the family a quarter of a century. How proud he was of it; how fussy and fond of his favourite horses; how he used to pat them when out with the carriage. You don’t forget that the old people continued the fashion of postilions very long--but there is no end to remembrance.--I’ll stop----
You say in my behaviour the other day you saw the traces of my boyhood. You compliment me. Children are selfish; they perhaps may have but little to call their young feelings forth; for feelings must be met half-way. I remember some _young_ feelings with delight still. I fancy I have not that ecstasy now that the mind was tuned to then. Children have but few friendships: the reason may be, that they have few objects to engage them. This observation is vain--elder people have but few friendships, and for the same reason. I had been more correct if I had said, they are but little capable of a friendly disposition. The former is a fact--this a speculation. You saw at the party wherein we last met, how eager all the youngsters were to have their gallop in what they considered their proper turn round the large close. This is a fair sample of mankind in all their pursuits--of every age, old or young. I waved my turn for you; and though I had a joyous idea of flying round the course, I had more pleasure in seeing you gratified. It is well I hit upon my old friend in my politeness; the others would have laughed at me. The upper part of society profess more politeness than the lower; the human heart is the same in both. The upper classes have more forms, and the lower may say they are fools for their pains:--the upper bow slavishly to each other; the lower do not. With the former it is of service, but of none among the latter. For if among the ambitious and supercilious of mankind it were not a matter of pride to know and do this homage, one half of them would be turning up their noses, and tossing their heads at the other. When I see a great man bow, I always think he wants to creep into a greater man’s esteem.----
Excuse this wandering. I like to generalize mankind, and cast up the proper value of every thing around me--the use is immense: hence flows philosophy. I decide between grovelling and glorious ambition; and, clearing myself of the former, am eased of impediment in the pursuit of the latter. The consequence is, that I care nothing for wealth, provided I have competence; that I can take up my abode with pleasure among poor people, and not turn squeamish at sight of a fustian jacket; that I like the humour of farm-houses, and would dine with a couple of vagabonds, without fear of infection, amply compensated by the observation of their vein; and looking upon the beauty of nature as the source of all pleasure, far and wide as she extends, in this hole and cabin, my own appropriate spot, my aim is to keep my health as the furtherance of a superior object.
My maxim is--_necessaries_; that is, outward comfort and health. Observe it.
Your affectionate friend,
C. O.
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_For the Table Book._
GRASSINGTON FEAST.
CLOCK DRESSINGS.
During the continuance of “Grassington Feast,” it is customary for the inhabitants to have convivial parties at one another’s houses: these are called _clock dressings_; for the guests are invited to come and “dress the clock.” Grassington feast was once one of the largest and most celebrated one in Craven, but it is fast dwindling away. This year the amusements were of a paltry description; and the sack racers, bell racers, hasty-pudding eaters, and soaped-pig catchers, who used to afford in former times such an unceasing fund of merriment, seem all fled. Nothing told of olden time, except the presence of Frank King, the Skipton minstrel, who seems determined to be in at the death.
T. Q. M.
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A FRAGMENT
FOUND IN A SKELETON CASE AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY,
_Supposed to have been written by one of the Students, and deposited there by him_.
SCELETOS.
Behold this Ruin! ’twas a skull, Once of ethereal spirit full, This narrow cell was life’s retreat, This space was thought’s mysterious seat. What beauteous pictures fill’d this spot! What dreams of pleasure long forgot! Nor Love, nor Joy, nor Hope, nor Fear, Has left one trace or record here.
Beneath this mouldering canopy Once shone the bright and busy eye! But start not at the dismal void, If social love that eye employ’d; If with no lawless fire it gleam’d, But thro’ the dew of kindness beam’d, The eye shall be for ever bright, When stars and suns have lost their light.
Here in this silent cavern hung The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue, If falsehood’s honey it disdain’d, And where it could not praise, was chain’d; If bold in virtue’s cause--it spoke, Yet gentle concord never broke, That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee, When Death unveils eternity.
Say, did these fingers delve the mine, Or with its envied rubies shine? To hew the rock, or wear the gem, Can nothing now avail to them: But if the page of truth they sought, Or comfort to the mourner brought, These hands a richer mead shall claim Than all that waits on wealth and fame.
Avails it whether bare or shod, These feet the path of duty trod? If from the bowers of joy they fled To seek affliction’s humble bed, If grandeur’s guilty bribe they spurn’d, And home to virtue’s hope return’d, These feet with angel wings shall fly, And tread the palace of the sky.[442]
[442] From the _Morning Chronicle_, Sept. 14, 1821.
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ANECDOTE OF A MAGPIE.
_For the Table Book._
A cobbler, who lived on indifferent terms with his wife in Kingsmead-street, Bath, somewhat like Nell and Jobson, kept a magpie, that learned his favourite ejaculatory exclamation--“What the plague art _(h)at_?” Whoever came to his shop, where the bulk of his business was carried on, the magpie was sure to use this exclamation; but the bird was matched by the ghostly, bodily, and tall person of “Hats to dress!” a well-known street perambulator and hat improver, who, with that cry, daily passed the temple of Crispin. The magpie aspirating _at_ with _h_, the crier of “Hats to dress!” considered it a personal insult, and after long endurance, one morning put the bird into his bag, and walked away with his living plague. When he reached home, “poor mag!” was daintily fed, and became a favourite with the dresser’s wife. It chanced, however, that the cobbler, who supplied the _sole_ understanding of “Hats to dress!” waited on him to be rebeavered for his own understanding. The magpie, hearing his old master’s voice, cried out, “What the plague art _(h)at_?” “Ha, ha, ha,” said the astonished and delighted cobbler, “come to fetch thee home, thou ’scapegrace.” The hatter and the cobbler drank their explanation over a quart of ale; and with a new, old, hat on his head, the latter trudged through Stall-street, with his magpie in his apron, crying, “_What the plague art (h)at?_”
----.
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THE ARTIST.
_For the Table Book._
He is a being of deep reflection,--one That studies nature with intensest eye; Watching the works of air, earth, sea, and sun, Their motion, altitude, their form, their dye, Cause and effect. The elements which run, Or stagnant are, he traces to their source With vivid study, till his pencil makes A perfect likeness; or, by fancy’s force A new creation in his art he takes, And matches nature’s progress in his course Towards glory. In th’ abstractions of the mind, Harmony, passion, and identity, His genius, like the summer sun, is shrined, Till beauty and perfection he can see.
----.
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Vol. II.--47.
~The Giants~
IN THE LORD MAYOR’S SHOW,
AND IN GUILDHALL.
In the Lord Mayor’s Show on the 9th of November, 1827, there was a remarkable variation from the customary route. Instead of the new chief magistrate and corporation embarking at Blackfriars, as of late years has been usual, the procession took a direction eastward, passed through the Poultry, Cornhill, Leadenhall-street, Billiter-lane, Mincing-lane, and from thence by Tower-street to the Tower Stairs, where they embarked. This deviation is presumed to have been in compliment to the Tower ward, in which the lord mayor presides as alderman. The ancient lord mayors of London were accustomed to “ride and go” on horseback, attended in like manner by the aldermen, and others of the corporation, to the bottom of Queen-street, and there embark on board the barges for Westminster. The present is the first instance of the lord mayor’s show by water having proceeded from a more distant spot down the river.
In addition to the “men in armour,” and the length of the route by land, in the lord mayor’s show of this year, there was “the far more attractive novelty of two colossal figures representing the well-known statues, Gog and Magog, (as they are called,) of Guildhall. They were extremely well contrived, and appeared to call forth more admiration and applause, than fell to the share of any of the other personages who formed part of the procession. Whatever some fastidious critics may say as to the taste of reviving in the present day some of the long-neglected civic pageants, we think the appearance of these figures augurs well for the future conduct of the new lord mayor: some of his brother magistrates would, we make no doubt, be well content if in the whole course, or at the close, of their official career, they could come in for a little of the plaudits which were yesterday bestowed on the two representatives of Gog and Magog.” (_The Times_, Nov. 10.) From the report of a spectator, it appears that the giants were constructed of wicker-work, gaily apparelled in the costume of their prototypes, and similarly armed: each walked along by means of a man withinside, who ever and anon turned the faces towards the thrones of company in the houses; and, as the figures were fourteen feet high, their features were on a level with the first-floor windows throughout the whole of their progress.
In a work, which contains much information respecting the “London Triumphs” of the lord mayors, and the “pageants” of those processions in the olden time, there is a chapter devoted to a History of the Carvings called the “Giants in Guildhall.” As the book is my own, and seems to be little known “within the walls,” I presume to render the account in a compressed form, as follows--
THE GIANTS IN GUILDHALL
From the time when I was astonished by the information, that “every day, when the giants hear the clock strike twelve they come down to dinner,” I have had something of curiosity towards them. How came they there, and what are they for? In vain were my examinations of Stow, Howell, Strype, Noorthouck, Maitland, Seymour, Pennant, and numberless other authors of books and tracts regarding London. They scarcely deign to mention them, and no one relates a syllable from whence we can possibly affirm that the giants of their day were the giants that now exist.
To this remark there is a solitary exception. Hatton, whose “New View of London” bears the date of 1708, says in that work, “This stately hall being much damnify’d by the unhappy conflagration of the city in 1666, was rebuilt anno 1669, and extremely well beautified and repaired both in and outside, which cost about two thousand five hundred pounds, and two _new_ figures of gigantick magnitude will be _as before_.”[443] Presuming on the ephemeral information of his readers at the time he published, Hatton obscured his information by a brevity, which leaves us to suppose that the giants were destroyed when Guildhall was “much damnify’d” by the fire of London in 1666; and that from that period they had not been replaced. It is certain, however, that there were giants in the year 1699, when Ned Ward published his London Spy: for, describing a visit to Guildhall, he says, “We turned down King-street, and came to the place intended, which we entered with as great astonishment to see the giants, as the Morocco ambassador did London when he saw the snow fall. I asked my friend the meaning and design of setting up those two lubberly preposterous figures; for I suppose they had some peculiar end in it. Truly, says my friend, I am wholly ignorant of what they intended by them, unless they were set up to show the city what huge loobies their forefathers were, or else to fright stubborn apprentices into obedience; for the dread of appearing before two such monstrous loggerheads, will sooner reform their manners, or mould them into a compliance with their masters’ will, than carrying them before my lord mayor or the chamberlain of London; for some of them are as much frighted at the names of _Gog_ and _Magog_, as little children are at the terrible sound of Raw-head and Bloody-bones.” There is no doubt that at that time the city giants were far more popular than now; for, in the same work, two passengers through Bartholomew fair, who had slyly alighted from a coach without discharging it, are addressed by the coachman with “Pay me my fare, or by _Gog_ and _Magog_ you shall feel the smart of my whipcord;” an oath which in our time is obsolete, though in all probability it was common then, or it would not have been used by Ward in preference to his usual indecency.
Again; as to giants being in Guildhall before Hatton wrote, and whether they were the present statues. On the 24th of April, 1685, there were “wonderful and stupendous fireworks in honour of their majesties’ coronation, (James II. and his queen,) and for the high entertainment of their majesties, the nobility, and _City of London_, made on the Thames.”[444] Among the devices of this exhibition, erected on a raft in the middle of the river, were two pyramids; between them was a figure of the sun in polished brass, below it a great cross, and beneath that a crown, all stored with fireworks; and a little before the pyramids “were placed the statues of the two giants of Guildhall, in lively colours and proportions facing Whitehall, the backs of which were all filled with fiery materials; and, from the first deluge of fire till the end of the sport, which lasted near an hour, _the two giants_, the cross, and the sun, grew all in a light flame in the figures described, and burned without abatement of matter.” From this mention of “statues _of_ the two giants _of_ Guildhall,” it is to be inferred, that giants were _in_ Guildhall fourteen years before Ward’s book was published, and that, probably, the firework-maker took them for his models, because their forms being familiar to the “_City of London_,” their appearance would be an attraction as well as a compliment to his civic audience.