Ye shepherdesses, in a goodly round,Purpled with health, as in the greenwood shade,Incontinent ye thump the echoing ground,And deftly lead the dance along the glade;(O may no showers your merry makes affray!)Hail at the opening, at the closing day,All hail, ye Bonnibels, to your own season, May.Nor ye absent yourselves, ye shepherd swains,But lead to dance and song the liberal May,And while in jocund ranks you beat the plains,Your flocks shall nibble and your lambkins play,Frisking in glee. To May your garlands bring,And ever and anon her praises sing:The woods shall echo May,—with May the vallies ring.
Ye shepherdesses, in a goodly round,Purpled with health, as in the greenwood shade,Incontinent ye thump the echoing ground,And deftly lead the dance along the glade;(O may no showers your merry makes affray!)Hail at the opening, at the closing day,All hail, ye Bonnibels, to your own season, May.Nor ye absent yourselves, ye shepherd swains,But lead to dance and song the liberal May,And while in jocund ranks you beat the plains,Your flocks shall nibble and your lambkins play,Frisking in glee. To May your garlands bring,And ever and anon her praises sing:The woods shall echo May,—with May the vallies ring.
Ye shepherdesses, in a goodly round,Purpled with health, as in the greenwood shade,Incontinent ye thump the echoing ground,And deftly lead the dance along the glade;(O may no showers your merry makes affray!)Hail at the opening, at the closing day,All hail, ye Bonnibels, to your own season, May.
Nor ye absent yourselves, ye shepherd swains,But lead to dance and song the liberal May,And while in jocund ranks you beat the plains,Your flocks shall nibble and your lambkins play,Frisking in glee. To May your garlands bring,And ever and anon her praises sing:The woods shall echo May,—with May the vallies ring.
May Day in London.The truant schoolboy now at eve we meet,Fatigued and sweating thro’ the crowded street,His shoe embrown’d at once with dust and clay,With whitethorn loaded, which he takes for May.Round his flapp’d hat in rings the cowslips twine,Or in cleft osiers form a golden line.On milk-pail rear’d the borrow’d salvers glare,Topp’d with a tankard, which two porters bear,Reeking they slowly toil o’er rugged stones,And joyless milkmaids dance with aching bones.
May Day in London.
The truant schoolboy now at eve we meet,Fatigued and sweating thro’ the crowded street,His shoe embrown’d at once with dust and clay,With whitethorn loaded, which he takes for May.Round his flapp’d hat in rings the cowslips twine,Or in cleft osiers form a golden line.On milk-pail rear’d the borrow’d salvers glare,Topp’d with a tankard, which two porters bear,Reeking they slowly toil o’er rugged stones,And joyless milkmaids dance with aching bones.
The truant schoolboy now at eve we meet,Fatigued and sweating thro’ the crowded street,His shoe embrown’d at once with dust and clay,With whitethorn loaded, which he takes for May.Round his flapp’d hat in rings the cowslips twine,Or in cleft osiers form a golden line.On milk-pail rear’d the borrow’d salvers glare,Topp’d with a tankard, which two porters bear,Reeking they slowly toil o’er rugged stones,And joyless milkmaids dance with aching bones.
The Milkmaids’ Dance.
The Milkmaids’ Dance.
A pageant quite as gay, of less estate,With flowers made and solid silver plate—A lesser garland—on a damask bed,Was carried on a skilful porter’s head;It stopp’d at every customer’s street-door,And all the milkmaids ranged themselves before;The fiddler’s quick’ning elbow quicker flew,And then he stamp’d, and then the galliard grew.Then cows the meadows ranged and fed on grass,And milk was sometimes water’d—now, alas!In huge first floors each cow, a prison’d guest,Eats rancid oil-cake in unnat’ral rest,Bids from her udder unconcocted flowA stream a few short hours will turn to—foh!Milk manufactories usurp the placeOf wholesome dairies, and the milkmaid’s face,And garlands go no more, and milkmaids cease—Yet tell me one thing, and I’ll be at peace;May I, ye milk companions, hope to seeOld “milkmi-eau” once more dilute my tea?
A pageant quite as gay, of less estate,With flowers made and solid silver plate—A lesser garland—on a damask bed,Was carried on a skilful porter’s head;It stopp’d at every customer’s street-door,And all the milkmaids ranged themselves before;The fiddler’s quick’ning elbow quicker flew,And then he stamp’d, and then the galliard grew.Then cows the meadows ranged and fed on grass,And milk was sometimes water’d—now, alas!In huge first floors each cow, a prison’d guest,Eats rancid oil-cake in unnat’ral rest,Bids from her udder unconcocted flowA stream a few short hours will turn to—foh!Milk manufactories usurp the placeOf wholesome dairies, and the milkmaid’s face,And garlands go no more, and milkmaids cease—Yet tell me one thing, and I’ll be at peace;May I, ye milk companions, hope to seeOld “milkmi-eau” once more dilute my tea?
A pageant quite as gay, of less estate,With flowers made and solid silver plate—A lesser garland—on a damask bed,Was carried on a skilful porter’s head;It stopp’d at every customer’s street-door,And all the milkmaids ranged themselves before;The fiddler’s quick’ning elbow quicker flew,And then he stamp’d, and then the galliard grew.Then cows the meadows ranged and fed on grass,And milk was sometimes water’d—now, alas!In huge first floors each cow, a prison’d guest,Eats rancid oil-cake in unnat’ral rest,Bids from her udder unconcocted flowA stream a few short hours will turn to—foh!Milk manufactories usurp the placeOf wholesome dairies, and the milkmaid’s face,And garlands go no more, and milkmaids cease—Yet tell me one thing, and I’ll be at peace;May I, ye milk companions, hope to seeOld “milkmi-eau” once more dilute my tea?
Planting the Village Maypole.
Planting the Village Maypole.
Profitons enfans des beaux joursCette verdure passagèreNous apprend qu’une loy sévèreEn doit bientost finir le cours.
Profitons enfans des beaux joursCette verdure passagèreNous apprend qu’une loy sévèreEn doit bientost finir le cours.
Profitons enfans des beaux joursCette verdure passagèreNous apprend qu’une loy sévèreEn doit bientost finir le cours.
In this way the setting up of the Maypole is represented by one of the old French prints of the customs of the seasons, published “à Paris chez I. Mariette,” with the preceding lines subjoined. It is wholly a rustic affair. In an English village such an event would have been celebrated to the simple sounds from a pipe and tabor, or at most a fiddle; but our neighbours of the continent perform the ceremony by beat of drum and sound of trumpet. Their merriments are showy as themselves; ours are of a more sober character, and in the country seem nearer to a state of pastoral simplicity.
My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,That e’er at wake delightsome gambol play’d,Clean as young lambkins or the goose’s down,And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,The frisking kid delight the gaping swain,The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,And my cur, Tray, play deftest feats around;But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor TrayDance like Buxoma on the first of May.Gay.
My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,That e’er at wake delightsome gambol play’d,Clean as young lambkins or the goose’s down,And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,The frisking kid delight the gaping swain,The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,And my cur, Tray, play deftest feats around;But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor TrayDance like Buxoma on the first of May.
My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,That e’er at wake delightsome gambol play’d,Clean as young lambkins or the goose’s down,And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,The frisking kid delight the gaping swain,The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,And my cur, Tray, play deftest feats around;But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor TrayDance like Buxoma on the first of May.
Gay.
Also, on May-day we have the superstitions of innocence, or ignorance if the reader please—no matter which, it is the same thing. In the same poet’s budget of country charms and divinations belonging to different seasons, he represents a young girl divining respecting her sweetheart, with as much certainty as the Pythian dame concerning the fate of nations.
Last May-day fair I search’d to find a snailThat might my secret lover’s name reveal:Upon a gooseberry-bush a snail I found,For always snails near sweetest fruit abound.I seiz’d the vermine; home I quickly sped,And on the hearth the milk-white embers spread:Slow crawl’d the snail, and if I right can spell,In the soft ashes mark’d a curious L:Oh, may this wond’rous omen lucky prove!For L is found in Luberkin and Love.With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,And turn me thrice around, around, around.Gay.
Last May-day fair I search’d to find a snailThat might my secret lover’s name reveal:Upon a gooseberry-bush a snail I found,For always snails near sweetest fruit abound.I seiz’d the vermine; home I quickly sped,And on the hearth the milk-white embers spread:Slow crawl’d the snail, and if I right can spell,In the soft ashes mark’d a curious L:Oh, may this wond’rous omen lucky prove!For L is found in Luberkin and Love.With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,And turn me thrice around, around, around.
Last May-day fair I search’d to find a snailThat might my secret lover’s name reveal:Upon a gooseberry-bush a snail I found,For always snails near sweetest fruit abound.I seiz’d the vermine; home I quickly sped,And on the hearth the milk-white embers spread:Slow crawl’d the snail, and if I right can spell,In the soft ashes mark’d a curious L:Oh, may this wond’rous omen lucky prove!For L is found in Luberkin and Love.With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,And turn me thrice around, around, around.
Gay.
For the Every-Day Book.
On the first day of May, in Dublin and its vicinity, it is customary for young men and boys to go a few miles out of town in the morning, for the purpose of cutting aMay-bush. This is generally a white thorn, of about four or five feet high, and they carry it to the street or place of their residence, in the centre of which they dig a hole, and having planted the bush, they go round to every house and collect money. They then buy a pound or more of candles, and fasten them to various parts of the tree or bush, in such a manner so as to avoid burning it. Another portion of “the collection” is expended in the purchase of a heap of turf, sufficient for a large fire, and, if the funds will allow, an old tar barrel. Formerly it was not considered complete without having a horse’s skull and other bones to burn in the fire. The depots for these bones were the tanners’ yards in a part of the suburbs, called Kilmainham; and on May morning, groups of boys drag loads of bones to their several destinations. This practice gave rise to a threat, yet made use of:—“I will drag you like a horse’s head to the bone-fire.” About dusk when no more money can be collected, the bush is trimmed, the turf and bones are made ready to set on fire, the candles are all lighted, the bush fully illuminated, and the boys giving three huzzas, begin to dance and jump round it. If their money will afford the expenditure, they have a pot of porter to drink round. After an hour or so, the heap of turf and bones are set fire to, and when the candles are burnt out, the bush is taken up and thrown into the flames. They continue playing about until the fire is burnt out; each then returns to his home; and so ends their May-day.
About two or three miles from Dublin, on the great northern road, is a village called Finglass; it is prettily situated, and is the only place I know of in the neighbourhood of Dublin, where May-day is kept up in the old style. A high pole is decorated with garlands, and visiters come in from different parts of the country, and dance round it to whatever music chance may have conducted there. The best male and female dancer are chosen king and queen, and placed on chairs.
When the dancing is over, they are carried by some of the party to an adjacent public-house, where they regale themselves with ham, beef, whiskey-punch, ale, cakes, and porter, after which they generally have a dance in-doors, and then disperse.
There is an old song relating to the above custom,beginning—
Ye lads and lasses all to-day,To Finglass let us haste away;With hearts so light and dresses gayTo dance around the Maypole.—A. O. B.
Ye lads and lasses all to-day,To Finglass let us haste away;With hearts so light and dresses gayTo dance around the Maypole.—
Ye lads and lasses all to-day,To Finglass let us haste away;With hearts so light and dresses gayTo dance around the Maypole.—
A. O. B.
It is communicated by T. A. that it was formerly a custom in Cheshire for young men to placebirchen boughson May-day over the doors of their mistresses, and marke the residence of a scold by analder bough. There is an old rhyme which mentions peculiar boughs for various tempers, anowler(alder) for a scolder, anutfor a slut, &c. Mr. Ormerode, the county historian, presumes the practice is disused; but he mentions that in the main street of Weverham, in Cheshire, are two Maypoles, which are decorated on this day with all due attention to the ancient solemnity: the sides are hung with garlands, and the top terminated by a birch, or other tall slender tree with its leaves on; the bark being peeled, and the stem spliced to the pole, so as to give the appearance of one tree from the summit.
Our usages on this day retain the character of their ancient origin.
The Romans commenced the festival of Flora on the 28th of April, and continued it through several days in May. Ovid records the mythological attributes and dedication of the season to thatgoddess:—
Fair Flora! now attend thy sportful feast,Of which some days I with design have past;—A part in April and a part in MayThou claims’t, and both command my tuneful lay;And as the confines of two months are thineTo sing of both the double task be mine.Circus and stage are open now and free—Goddess! again thy feast my theme must be.Since new opinions oft delusive areDo thou, O Flora, who thou art declare;Why should thy poet on conjectures dwell?Thy name and attributes thou best can’st tell.Thus I.—to which she ready answer made,And rosy sweets attended what she said;Though, now corrupted, Flora be my name,From the Greek Chloris that corruption came:—In fields where happy mortals whilome stray’dChloris my name, I was a rural maid;To praise herself a modest nymph will shun,But yet a god was by my beauty won.
Fair Flora! now attend thy sportful feast,Of which some days I with design have past;—A part in April and a part in MayThou claims’t, and both command my tuneful lay;And as the confines of two months are thineTo sing of both the double task be mine.Circus and stage are open now and free—Goddess! again thy feast my theme must be.Since new opinions oft delusive areDo thou, O Flora, who thou art declare;Why should thy poet on conjectures dwell?Thy name and attributes thou best can’st tell.Thus I.—to which she ready answer made,And rosy sweets attended what she said;Though, now corrupted, Flora be my name,From the Greek Chloris that corruption came:—In fields where happy mortals whilome stray’dChloris my name, I was a rural maid;To praise herself a modest nymph will shun,But yet a god was by my beauty won.
Fair Flora! now attend thy sportful feast,Of which some days I with design have past;—A part in April and a part in MayThou claims’t, and both command my tuneful lay;And as the confines of two months are thineTo sing of both the double task be mine.Circus and stage are open now and free—Goddess! again thy feast my theme must be.Since new opinions oft delusive areDo thou, O Flora, who thou art declare;Why should thy poet on conjectures dwell?Thy name and attributes thou best can’st tell.Thus I.—to which she ready answer made,And rosy sweets attended what she said;Though, now corrupted, Flora be my name,From the Greek Chloris that corruption came:—In fields where happy mortals whilome stray’dChloris my name, I was a rural maid;To praise herself a modest nymph will shun,But yet a god was by my beauty won.
Flora then relates, that Zephyr became enamoured of her as Boreas had been, that “by just marriage to his bed,” she was united to Zephyr, who assigned her the dominion over Spring, and that she strews the earth with flowers and presides over gardens. She further says, as the deity offlowers,—
I also rule the plains.When the crops flourish in the golden field;The harvest will undoubted plenty yield;If purple clusters flourish on the vine,The presses will abound with racy wine;Thefloweringolive makes a beauteous year,And how canbloomlesstrees ripe apples bear?Theflowerdestroyed of vetches, beans, and peas,You must expect but small or no increase;The gift of honey’s mine, the painful bees,That gather sweets fromflowersorbloomingtrees,To scented shrubs and violets I invite,In which I know they take the most delight;Afloweran emblem of young years is seen,With all its leaves around it fresh and green;So youth appears, when health the body sways,And gladness in the mind luxuriant plays.
I also rule the plains.When the crops flourish in the golden field;The harvest will undoubted plenty yield;If purple clusters flourish on the vine,The presses will abound with racy wine;Thefloweringolive makes a beauteous year,And how canbloomlesstrees ripe apples bear?Theflowerdestroyed of vetches, beans, and peas,You must expect but small or no increase;The gift of honey’s mine, the painful bees,That gather sweets fromflowersorbloomingtrees,To scented shrubs and violets I invite,In which I know they take the most delight;Afloweran emblem of young years is seen,With all its leaves around it fresh and green;So youth appears, when health the body sways,And gladness in the mind luxuriant plays.
I also rule the plains.When the crops flourish in the golden field;The harvest will undoubted plenty yield;If purple clusters flourish on the vine,The presses will abound with racy wine;Thefloweringolive makes a beauteous year,And how canbloomlesstrees ripe apples bear?Theflowerdestroyed of vetches, beans, and peas,You must expect but small or no increase;The gift of honey’s mine, the painful bees,That gather sweets fromflowersorbloomingtrees,To scented shrubs and violets I invite,In which I know they take the most delight;Afloweran emblem of young years is seen,With all its leaves around it fresh and green;So youth appears, when health the body sways,And gladness in the mind luxuriant plays.
From these allegorical ascriptions, the Roman people worshipped Flora, and celebrated her festivals by ceremonies and rejoicings, and offerings of spring flowersand the branches of trees in bloom, which through the accommodation of the Romish church to the pagan usages, remain to us at the present day.
For the Every-Day Book.
It has been usual for the people in this neighbourhood to assemble on the Wrekin-hill, on the Sunday after May-day, and the three successive Sundays, to drink a health “to all friends round the Wrekin;” but as on this annual festival, various scenes of drunkenness and other licentiousness were frequently exhibited, its celebration has, of late, been very properly discouraged by the magistracy, and is going deservedly to decay.
February, 1826.
W. P.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
April25, 1826.
Sir,—At a village in Westmoreland called Temple Sowerby, perhaps if not themost, at leastoneof the most beautiful in the north of England, there has been, “from time whereof the memory of man is not to the contrary,” and still is, a custom on the first day of May for a number of individuals to assemble on the green, and there propose a certain number as candidates for contesting the various prizes then produced, which consist of a grindstone as the head prize; a hone or whetstone, for a razor, as the second; and whetstones of an inferior description, for those who can only reach a state of mediocrity in “the noble art of lying.”
The peopleare the judges: each candidate in rotation commences astory, such as his fertile genius at the moment prompts; and the more marvellous or improbable his story happens to be, so much the greater chance is there of his success.
After beingamusedin this manner for a considerable length of time, and awarding the prizes to the most deserving, the host of candidates, judges, and other attendants, adjourn to the inns, where the sports of the day very often end in a few splendid battles.
There is an anecdote, very current in the place, of a late bishop of Carlisle passing through in his carriage on this particular day, when his attention being attracted by the group of persons assembled together, very naturally inquired the cause. His question was readily answered by a full statement of facts which brought from his lordship a severe lecture on the iniquity of such a proceeding; and at the conclusion, he said, “For my part I never told a lie in my life.” This was immediately reported to the judges, upon which, without any dissent, the hone was awarded to his lordship as most deserving of it; and, as is reported, it was actually thrown into his carriage.
For the truth of the anecdote I cannot venture to assert; but the existence of the custom is a well-known fact to many of your readers in the metropolis.
I am, Sir, &c.C. T.
Over a door in the consistory of the Hôtel de Ville at Toulouse, is a small marble figure of Clemence Isaure. In this consistory, the meetings were held for distributing the prizes in the floral games; the figure had flowers in her hand, but they are broken off. Below it on a tablet of brass, is a Latin inscription, in Roman capitals, but with so many abbreviations, and some of these of a nature so unintelligible, that the meaning is scarcely to be deciphered. This much, however, is to be collected from it, that Clemence Isaure is represented to have been the daughter of L. Isaurus, of the ancient and illustrious family of the Isauræ of Toulouse; that the institution of the “floral games” is ascribed to her; that she is said to have built the Hôtel de Ville at her own expense; to have bequeathed to the city the markets for corn, wine, fish, and vegetables; and to have left the remainder of her property in perpetuity to the city for the support of the floral games; yet, it does not mention her age, or at what period she lived, or whether she was maiden, wife, or widow.
“Le Roman de Clemence Isaure,” an old ballad story, represents her to have been a fair lady of Toulouse, with whom the handsome Lautrec was deeply enamoured, and that she returned his love with equal passion. Alphonso, her father,having chosen another husband for Clemence, she resisted the union, declaring that her life was at his disposal, but that as long as she should live, her heart must be wholly Lautrec’s. Then Alphonso caused her to be chained, and shut her up in a strong tower, and threatened Lautrec’s life if he could get him into his power; and Lautrec, having found the place of his mistress’s imprisonment, like a true lover despised her cruel father’s threats, and went to the tower and repeated his vows and sorrows to the fair Clemence, who came to the grate and told him of his danger, and prayed him to enter into the service of the French king, and follow military glory, and chase the recollection of their loves and their misfortunes; and as a pledge, she presented him with three flowers, a violet, an eglantine, and a marigold. The first she gave him as her colour, that he might appear as her knight; the second was her favourite flower; and the third an emblem of the chagrin and sorrow by which her heart was consumed. Then Clemence kissed the flowers, and let her tears fall on them, and threw them to her lover, and her father appeared, and Lautrec gathered up the flowers, and hastily withdrew. In obedience to the injunctions of his mistress, he departed from Toulouse for the French king’s court; but before he had proceeded far on his journey, he heard that the English were marching against the city; and he returned when the inhabitants were flying before the enemy, and abandoning the ramparts, and leaving them defenceless: and only one old man resisted and valiantly maintained his ground. Then Lautrec fled to his assistance, and discovered him to be Alphonso, the father of Clemence: and at the moment when a fatal stroke was aimed at the old man, he rushed forward and received the mortal wound himself, and died in Alphonso’s arms, and gave him the flowers he received from Clemence, and conjured him to deliver them to his daughter, and to console her under the distress his fate would bring upon her. And Alphonso relented, and in great sorrow carried the flowers to Clemence, and related the untimely death of Lautrec; and her afflictions were too heavy for her to bear, and she fell a victim to despair and anguish, and followed her lover to the grave. But in remembrance of their sad story, she bequeathed her whole property to the city of Toulouse for the celebration of annual games, at which, prizes of golden flowers, like those she had given to Lautrec, were to be distributed to the skilful troubadours who should compose the best poem, upon the occasion. This is the history of the gallant Lautrec and the fair Clemence, in the poetical romance.
But according to Pierre Caseneuve, the author of an “Inquiry into the Origin of the Floral Games at Toulouse,” there is strong reason to doubt whether such a person as Clemence ever existed. Among the archives of the Hôtel de Ville are several chronicles of the floral games, the oldest of which states, that in the year 1324, seven of the principal inhabitants of Toulouse, desirous to promote the fame and prosperity of the city, resolved to establish an annual festival there, for the cultivation of the Provençal poetry, a spirit of piety, and suavity of manners. They therefore proposed that all persons skilled in Provençal poetry, should be invited to assemble at Toulouse every year in the beginning of May, to recite their compositions, and that a violet of gold should be given to him whose verses the judges should determine the most worthy; and a circular letter in the Provençal poetry was dispersed over the province of Languedoc, inviting competitors to assemble in the beginning of May the following year, to celebrate this festival.
The poetical compositions were not to be confined to the lays of lovers reciting their passion, and the fame of their mistresses; but the honour of God, and glorifying his name, was to be their first object. It was wished that poetry should conduce to the happiness of mankind, and by furnishing them a source of innocent and laudable amusement, make time pass pleasantly, repress the unjust sallies of anger, and dissipate the dark vapours of sadness. For these reasons it was termed, by the institutors, the “Gay Science.”
In consequence of this invitation, a large concourse of competitors resorted to Toulouse; and in May, 1325, the first festival of the floral games was celebrated. Verses were recited by the candidates before a numerous assembly. The seven persons with whom the meeting originated, presided under the title of the chancellor of the “Gay Science,”and his six assessors, and there also sat with them, the capitouls or chief magistrates of the town as judges; and there was a great assemblage of knights, of gentlemen, and of ladies. The prize was given to the candidate whose verses were determined by the majority of the judges to be the most worthy.
The “floral games” of Toulouse continued to be celebrated in like manner, at the sole expense of the institutors, till the magistrates seeing the advantage they were of to the town, by the vast concourse of people brought thither, and considering that their continuance must be precarious while they depended upon the ability and disposition of a few individuals for their support, resolved to convert the institution into a public concern; and, with the concurrence of the principal inhabitants, it was determined that the expense should in future be defrayed by the city, that to the original prize two others should be added, a silver eglantine, and a silver marigold; and that occasional ones might be distributed at the option of the judges to very young poets, as stimulants to them to aim at obtaining the principal prizes.
After about thirty years it was judged expedient to appoint a committee, who should draw up such a code of statutes as might include every possible case that could occur, and these statutes were laid before the judges for their approbation.
Among these decrees the principal were, that no prize could be given to a heretic, a schismatic, or an excommunicated person; that whoever was a candidate for any of the prizes, should take a solemn oath that the poetry was his own composition, without the least assistance from any other person; that no woman should be admitted to the competition, unless her talents in composing verses were so celebrated as to leave no doubt of her being capable of writing the poetry offered:—that no one who gained a prize was allowed to be a candidate again till after a lapse of three years, though he was expected in the intervening years to compose verses for the games, and recite them; and that if any or all the prizes remained undisposed of, from no verses being produced that were judged worthy of them, the prizes were to remain over to the next year, then to be given away in addition to the regular prizes of the year.
Under these and other regulations the “floral games” became celebrated throughout Europe; and within fifty years from their first institution they were the resort of all persons of distinction. In 1388, the reigning king of Arragon sent ambassadors to Charles the Sixth of France, with great pomp and solemnity, requesting that some of the poets of the “floral games” at Toulouse might be permitted to come to the court, and assist in establishing similar games there; promising that, when they had fulfilled their mission, they should receive rewards equal to their merits, and consistent with his royal munificence.
This account of the institution of the “floral games” is from the oldest registers relative to them; wherein there is no mention made of the lady Clemence Isaure till 1513, nearly two hundred years after their institution; and it is well known that the statue of the lady Clemence in the consistory, was not put up till the year 1557. In that year it had been proposed in the college of the Gay Science to erect a monument to her memory in the church of La Dorade, where she was reputed to have been buried; but this idea was afterwards changed for putting up her statue in the room where the “floral games” were held. From that time the statue was always crowned with flowers at the time of the celebration of the games, and a Latin oration pronounced in honour of her. A satirical sonnet in the Provençal language upon the idea of erecting either a monument or a statue to a lady who never had any existence in the world, is preserved in Pierre Caseneuve’s “Inquiry into the Origin of the Floral Games.”
But by whomsoever the “floral games” of Toulouse were instituted, it is remarkable, that the festival was constantly observed for more than four centuries and a half without interruption. It did not cease to be celebrated till the revolution. It was not, however, continued entirely according to the original institution, since for a considerable time the use of the Provençal language, in the poetry for the prizes, had been abandoned, and the French substituted for it. At what period this change took place does not seem to be well ascertained. The number of prizes, too, was increased to five, the principal of which was still the golden violet; but instead of oneeglantine, and one marigold of silver, two of each were given. The violet was appropriated to the best ode; the others were for a piece in heroic poetry, for one in pastoral poetry, for a satirical piece, and for a sonnet, a madrigal, a song, or some other minor effusion.
Three of the deputies to the parliament had for some time presided at these games, instead of the chancellor of the Gay Science with his six assessors; and with them were associated the capitouls, or chief magistrates of the town. All the other magistrates, and the whole body of the parliament, attended in their robes of office, with the principal gentlemen of the town, and a brilliant assemblage of ladies in full dress. These were ranged round the room in seats raised like an amphitheatre, and the students of the university sat on benches in the centre. The room was ornamented with festoons of flowers and laurel, and the statue of Clemence Isaure was crowned with them. After the oration in honour of her was pronounced, the judges, having previously consulted together in private, and assigned the prizes to the pieces which they thought most worthy of them, stood up, and, naming the poem to which one was given, pronounced with an audible voice, “Let the author come forward.” The author then presented himself; when his name was declared, it was followed by a grand flourish of music. The same ceremony was repeated as each piece was announced. The whole concluded with each author publicly reading his poem.
Many of these prize poems are to be found in different collections. Several prizes were in latter times adjudged to females, without any strict investigation having been previously made into the possibility of the pieces to which they were decreed being female compositions. It was owing to having gained a silver eglantine at one of these festivals that the celebrated Fabre d’Eglantine assumed the latter part of his name. He was a Languedocian by birth, a native of Limoux, a small town about four leagues fromToulouse.[152]
Without such encouragements to be poetical, as were annually offered by the conductors of the “floral games” at Toulouse, our kind feelings have been cultivated, and our literature is enriched by a race of poets, whom we may venture to array against the united armies of continental bards. It may be doubted whether a May prize of Toulouse was ever awarded for sweeter verses, than Matt. Prior’s on Chloe’s May flowers.
The Garland.The pride of every grove I choseThe violet sweet and lily fair,The dappled pink, and blushing rose,To deck my charming Chloe’s hair.At morn the nymph vouchsaf’d to placeUpon her brow the various wreath;The flowers less blooming than her face,The scent less fragrant than her breath.The flowers she wore along the day,And every nymph and shepherd said,That in her hair they looked more gayThan glowing in their native bed.Undrest at evening, when she foundTheir odour lost, their colours past,She changed her look, and on the groundHer garland and her eye she cast.The eye dropt sense distinct and clear,As any muse’s tongue could speak,When from its lid a pearly tearRan trickling down her beauteous cheek.Dissembling what I knew too well,“My love, my life,” said I, “explainThis change of humour; pr’ythee tell:That falling tear—what does it mean?”She sighed; she smil’d; and, to the flowersPointing, the lovely moralist said,“See, friend, in some few fleeting hoursSee yonder, what a change is made!“Ah, me! the blooming pride of May,And that of beauty are but one,At morn both flourish bright and gay;Both fade at evening, pale and gone.“At dawn poor Stella danc’d and sung;The amorous youth around her bowed,At night her fatal knell was rung;I saw and kissed her in her shroud.“Such as she is, who died to-day;Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;Go, Damon, bid thy muse displayThe justice of thy Chloe’s sorrow.”Prior.
The Garland.
The pride of every grove I choseThe violet sweet and lily fair,The dappled pink, and blushing rose,To deck my charming Chloe’s hair.At morn the nymph vouchsaf’d to placeUpon her brow the various wreath;The flowers less blooming than her face,The scent less fragrant than her breath.The flowers she wore along the day,And every nymph and shepherd said,That in her hair they looked more gayThan glowing in their native bed.Undrest at evening, when she foundTheir odour lost, their colours past,She changed her look, and on the groundHer garland and her eye she cast.The eye dropt sense distinct and clear,As any muse’s tongue could speak,When from its lid a pearly tearRan trickling down her beauteous cheek.Dissembling what I knew too well,“My love, my life,” said I, “explainThis change of humour; pr’ythee tell:That falling tear—what does it mean?”She sighed; she smil’d; and, to the flowersPointing, the lovely moralist said,“See, friend, in some few fleeting hoursSee yonder, what a change is made!“Ah, me! the blooming pride of May,And that of beauty are but one,At morn both flourish bright and gay;Both fade at evening, pale and gone.“At dawn poor Stella danc’d and sung;The amorous youth around her bowed,At night her fatal knell was rung;I saw and kissed her in her shroud.“Such as she is, who died to-day;Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;Go, Damon, bid thy muse displayThe justice of thy Chloe’s sorrow.”
The pride of every grove I choseThe violet sweet and lily fair,The dappled pink, and blushing rose,To deck my charming Chloe’s hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsaf’d to placeUpon her brow the various wreath;The flowers less blooming than her face,The scent less fragrant than her breath.
The flowers she wore along the day,And every nymph and shepherd said,That in her hair they looked more gayThan glowing in their native bed.
Undrest at evening, when she foundTheir odour lost, their colours past,She changed her look, and on the groundHer garland and her eye she cast.
The eye dropt sense distinct and clear,As any muse’s tongue could speak,When from its lid a pearly tearRan trickling down her beauteous cheek.
Dissembling what I knew too well,“My love, my life,” said I, “explainThis change of humour; pr’ythee tell:That falling tear—what does it mean?”
She sighed; she smil’d; and, to the flowersPointing, the lovely moralist said,“See, friend, in some few fleeting hoursSee yonder, what a change is made!
“Ah, me! the blooming pride of May,And that of beauty are but one,At morn both flourish bright and gay;Both fade at evening, pale and gone.
“At dawn poor Stella danc’d and sung;The amorous youth around her bowed,At night her fatal knell was rung;I saw and kissed her in her shroud.
“Such as she is, who died to-day;Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;Go, Damon, bid thy muse displayThe justice of thy Chloe’s sorrow.”
Prior.
A beautiful ode by another of our poets graces the loveliness of the season,and finally “points a moral” of sovereign virtue to all who need the application, and will take it to heart.
Spring.Lo! where the rosy bosom’d hours,Fair Venus’ train appear,Disclose the long expected flowers,And wake the purple year!The attic warbler pours her throat,Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,The untaught harmony of spring:While whispering pleasure as they fly,Cool zephyrs through the clear blue skyTheir gathered fragrance fling.Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretchA broader, browner shade;Where’er the rude and moss-grown beechO’er-canopies the glade,Beside some water’s rushy brinkWith me the muse shall sit, and think(At ease reclined in rustic state)How vain the ardour of the crowd,How low how little are the proud,How indigent the great!Still is the toiling hand of care;The panting herds repose:Yet hark, how through the peopled airThe busy murmur glows!The insect youth are on the wing,Eager to taste the honied spring,And float amid the liquid noon:Some lightly o’er the current skim,Some slow, their gayly-gilded trimQuick-glancing to the sun.To Contemplation’s sober eyeSuch is the race of man:And they that creep and they that fly,Shall end where they began.Alike the busy and the gayBut flutter through life’s little dayIn fortune’s varying colours drest.Brushed by the hand of rough mischance;Or chill’d by age, their airy danceThey leave in dust to rest.Methinks I hear in accents lowThe sportive kind reply;“Poor moralist! and what art thou?A solitary fly!Thy joys no glittering female meets,No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,No painted plumage to display:On hasty wings thy youth is flown;Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—We frolic while ’tis May.”Gay.
Spring.
Lo! where the rosy bosom’d hours,Fair Venus’ train appear,Disclose the long expected flowers,And wake the purple year!The attic warbler pours her throat,Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,The untaught harmony of spring:While whispering pleasure as they fly,Cool zephyrs through the clear blue skyTheir gathered fragrance fling.Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretchA broader, browner shade;Where’er the rude and moss-grown beechO’er-canopies the glade,Beside some water’s rushy brinkWith me the muse shall sit, and think(At ease reclined in rustic state)How vain the ardour of the crowd,How low how little are the proud,How indigent the great!Still is the toiling hand of care;The panting herds repose:Yet hark, how through the peopled airThe busy murmur glows!The insect youth are on the wing,Eager to taste the honied spring,And float amid the liquid noon:Some lightly o’er the current skim,Some slow, their gayly-gilded trimQuick-glancing to the sun.To Contemplation’s sober eyeSuch is the race of man:And they that creep and they that fly,Shall end where they began.Alike the busy and the gayBut flutter through life’s little dayIn fortune’s varying colours drest.Brushed by the hand of rough mischance;Or chill’d by age, their airy danceThey leave in dust to rest.Methinks I hear in accents lowThe sportive kind reply;“Poor moralist! and what art thou?A solitary fly!Thy joys no glittering female meets,No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,No painted plumage to display:On hasty wings thy youth is flown;Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—We frolic while ’tis May.”
Lo! where the rosy bosom’d hours,Fair Venus’ train appear,Disclose the long expected flowers,And wake the purple year!The attic warbler pours her throat,Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,The untaught harmony of spring:While whispering pleasure as they fly,Cool zephyrs through the clear blue skyTheir gathered fragrance fling.
Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretchA broader, browner shade;Where’er the rude and moss-grown beechO’er-canopies the glade,Beside some water’s rushy brinkWith me the muse shall sit, and think(At ease reclined in rustic state)How vain the ardour of the crowd,How low how little are the proud,How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of care;The panting herds repose:Yet hark, how through the peopled airThe busy murmur glows!The insect youth are on the wing,Eager to taste the honied spring,And float amid the liquid noon:Some lightly o’er the current skim,Some slow, their gayly-gilded trimQuick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation’s sober eyeSuch is the race of man:And they that creep and they that fly,Shall end where they began.Alike the busy and the gayBut flutter through life’s little dayIn fortune’s varying colours drest.Brushed by the hand of rough mischance;Or chill’d by age, their airy danceThey leave in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear in accents lowThe sportive kind reply;“Poor moralist! and what art thou?A solitary fly!Thy joys no glittering female meets,No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,No painted plumage to display:On hasty wings thy youth is flown;Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—We frolic while ’tis May.”
Gay.
Then, too, a bard of the preceding centuries introduces “the Shepherd’s Holiday,” the day we now memorialize, with nymphs singing his own sweet verses in “floral games.”
Nymph 1.Thus, thus begin, the yearly ritesAre due to Pan on these bright nights,His morn now riseth, and invitesTo sports, to dances, and delights:All envious, and profane away,This is the shepherd’s holiday.Nymph 2.Strew, strew, the glad and smiling ground,With every flower, yet not confoundThe primrose drop, the spring’s own spouse,Bright daisies, and the lips-of-cows,The garden-star, the queen of May,The rose, to crown the holiday.Nymph 3.Drop drop your violets, change your hues,Now red, now pale, as lovers use,And in your death go out as wellAs when you lived unto the smell:That from your odour all may say,This is the shepherd’s holiday.Jonson.
Nymph 1.
Thus, thus begin, the yearly ritesAre due to Pan on these bright nights,His morn now riseth, and invitesTo sports, to dances, and delights:All envious, and profane away,This is the shepherd’s holiday.
Thus, thus begin, the yearly ritesAre due to Pan on these bright nights,His morn now riseth, and invitesTo sports, to dances, and delights:All envious, and profane away,This is the shepherd’s holiday.
Nymph 2.
Strew, strew, the glad and smiling ground,With every flower, yet not confoundThe primrose drop, the spring’s own spouse,Bright daisies, and the lips-of-cows,The garden-star, the queen of May,The rose, to crown the holiday.
Strew, strew, the glad and smiling ground,With every flower, yet not confoundThe primrose drop, the spring’s own spouse,Bright daisies, and the lips-of-cows,The garden-star, the queen of May,The rose, to crown the holiday.
Nymph 3.
Drop drop your violets, change your hues,Now red, now pale, as lovers use,And in your death go out as wellAs when you lived unto the smell:That from your odour all may say,This is the shepherd’s holiday.
Drop drop your violets, change your hues,Now red, now pale, as lovers use,And in your death go out as wellAs when you lived unto the smell:That from your odour all may say,This is the shepherd’s holiday.
Jonson.
It is to be observed as a remarkable fact, that among the poets, the warmest advocates and admirers of the popular sports and pastimes in village retreats, uniformly invigorate and give keeping to their pictures, by sparkling lights and harmonizing shadows of moral truth.
But hark! the bagpipe summons on the green,The jocund bagpipe, that awaketh sport;The blithsome lasses, as the morning sheen,Around the flower-crown’d Maypole quick resort;The gods of pleasure here have fix’d their court.Quick on the wing the flying moment seize,Nor build up ample schemes, for life is short,Short as the whisper of the passing breeze.
But hark! the bagpipe summons on the green,The jocund bagpipe, that awaketh sport;The blithsome lasses, as the morning sheen,Around the flower-crown’d Maypole quick resort;The gods of pleasure here have fix’d their court.Quick on the wing the flying moment seize,Nor build up ample schemes, for life is short,Short as the whisper of the passing breeze.
But hark! the bagpipe summons on the green,The jocund bagpipe, that awaketh sport;The blithsome lasses, as the morning sheen,Around the flower-crown’d Maypole quick resort;The gods of pleasure here have fix’d their court.Quick on the wing the flying moment seize,Nor build up ample schemes, for life is short,Short as the whisper of the passing breeze.
Thisengravingrepresents certain lads and lasses of “auld Reekie,” who are early gatherers of “May-dew,” in the act of dancing to the piper’s “skirl.” From a slight sketch accompanying the communication, Mr. George Cruikshank’s pencil depicts the “action,” which it should be observed takes place on a hill.
May-dew Dancers at Arthur’s-seat, Edinburgh.
May-dew Dancers at Arthur’s-seat, Edinburgh.
—————Strathspeys and reels,Put life and metal in their heels.Burns.
—————Strathspeys and reels,Put life and metal in their heels.
—————Strathspeys and reels,Put life and metal in their heels.
Burns.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Edinburgh, April 20, 1826.
My Dear Sir,—Allow me, without preface, to acquaint you with a custom ofgathering the May-dewhere on the first of May.
About four o’clock in the morning there is an unusual stir; a great opening of area gates, and ringing of bells, and a “gathering” of folk of all clans, arrayed in all the colours of the rainbow; and a hurrying of gay throngs of both sexes through the King’s-park to Arthur’s-seat.
In the course of half an hour the entire hill is a moving mass of all sorts and sizes. At the summit may be seen a company of bakers, and other craftsmen, dressed in kilts, dancing round a Maypole. On the more level part “nextdoor,” is usually an itinerant vender of whiskey, or mountain (not May) dew, your approach to whom is always indicated by a number of “bodies” carelessly lying across yourpath, not dead, but drunk. In another place you may descry two parties of Irishmen, who, not content with gathering the superficial dew, have gone “deeper and deeper yet,” and fired by a liberal desire to communicate the fruits of their industry, actively pelt each other with clods.
These proceedings commence with the daybreak. The strong lights thrown upon the various groups by the rising sun, give a singularly picturesque effect to a scene, wherein the ever-varying and unceasing sounds of the bagpipes, and tabours and fifes,et hoc genus omne, almost stun the ear. About six o’clock, the appearance of the gentry, toiling andpechinup the ascent, becomes the signal for serving men and women to march to the right-about; for they well know that they must have the house clean, and every thing in order earlier than usual on May-morning.
About eight o’clock the “fun” is all over; and by nine or ten, were it not for the drunkards who are staggering towards the “gude town,” no one would know that any thing particular had taken place.
Such, my dear sir, is the gathering of May-dew. I subjoin a sketch of a group of dancers, and
I am, &c.P. P., Jun.
It is noticed in the “Morning Post” of the second of May, 1791, that the day before, “being the first of May, according to annual and superstitious custom, a number of persons went into the fields and bathed their faces with the dew on the grass, under the idea that it would render them beautiful.”
May-dew was held of singular virtue in former times. Pepys on a certain day in May makes this entry in hisdiary:—
“My wife away, down with Jane and W. Hewer to Woolwich, in order to a little ayre, and to lie there to night, and soto gather May-dew to-morrow morning, which Mrs. Turner hath taught her is the only thing in the world to wash her face with; and” Pepys adds, “I am contented with it.” His “reasons for contentment” seem to appear in the same line; for he says, “I (went) by water to Fox-hall, and there walked in Spring-garden;” and there he notices “a great deal of company, and the weather and garden pleasant: and it is very pleasant and cheap going thither, for a man may go to spend what he will, or nothing—all as one: but to hear the nightingale and other birds; and here a fiddler, and there a harp; and here a jew’s-trump, and here laughing, and there fine people walking, is mighty diverting,” says Mr. Pepys, while his wife is gone to lie at Woolwich, “in order to a little ayre, and togather May-dew.”
Whence this lane derived its name ofBasing, Stow cannot tell. It runs out of Bread-street, and was called the Bakehouse, but, “whether meant for the king’s bakehouse, or bakers dwelling there, and baking bread to serve the market in Bread-street, where the bread was sold, I know not,” says Stow; “but sure I am, I have not read of Basing or of Gerard, the gyant, to have any thing there to doe.”
It seems that this Maypole was fabled to have been “the justing staff of Gerard, a gyant.” Stow’s particulars concerning it, and his account of Gerard’s-hall, which at this time is an inn for Bath and West of England coaches and other conveyances, are very interesting. He says, “On the south side of this (Basing) lane is one great house, of old time builded upon arched vaults, and with arched gates of stone, brought from Cane in Normandie; the same is now a common ostrey for receit of travelers, commonly and corruptly called Gerard’s-hall, of a gyant said to have dwelled there. In the high roofed hall of this house, sometime stood a large Firre-Pole, which reached to the roofe thereof, and was said to be one of the staves that Gerard the gyant used in the warres, to runne withall. There stood also a ladder of the same length, which (as they said) served to ascend to the top of the staffe. Of later yeeres this hall is altered in building, and divers roomes are made in it. Notwithstanding, the pole is removed to one corner of the hall, and the ladder hanged broken upon a wall in the yard. The hosteler of that house said to mee, the pole lacked half a foote of forty in length. I measured the compasse thereof, and found it fifteene inches. Reason of the pole could the master of the hostery give me none, but bade mee reade the Chronicles, for therehe heard of it. Which answer,” says Stow, “seemed to me insufficient: for he meant the description of Britaine, for the most part drawne out of John Leyland, his commentaries (borrowed of myselfe) and placed before Reynes Wolfe’s Chronicle, as the labours of another.” It seems that this chronicle has “a chapter of gyants or monstrous men—of a man with his mouth sixteene foote wide, and so to Gerard the gyant and his staffe,” which Stow speaks of as “these fables,” and then he derives the house called Gerard’s-hall, from the owner thereof, “John Gisors, maior of London, in the yeere 1245,” and says, “The pole in the hall might bee used of old time (as then the custome was in every parish) to bee set up in the summer, a Maypole, before the principall house in the parish or streete, and to stand in the hall before the scrine, decked with hollie and ivie at the feast of Christmas. The ladder served for the decking of the Maypole, and reached to the roof of the hall.”
To this is added, that “every mans house of old time was decked with holly and ivie in the winter, especially at Christmas;” whereof, gentle reader, be pleased to take notice, and do “as they did in the old time.”
We think we remember something about milkmaids and their garlands in our boyish days; but even this lingering piece of professional rejoicing is gone; and instead of intellectual pleasures at courts, manly games among the gentry, the vernal appearance every where of boughs and flowers, and the harmonious accompaniment of ladies’ looks, all the idea that a Londoner now has of May-day, is the dreary gambols and tinsel-fluttering squalidness of the poor chimney-sweepers! What a personification of the times;—paper-gilded dirt, slavery, and melancholy, bustling for another penny!
Something like celebrations of May-day still loiter in more remote parts of the country, such as Cornwall, Devonshire, and Westmoreland; and it is observable, that most of the cleverest men of the time come from such quarters, or have otherwise chanced upon some kind of insulation from its more sophisticated common-places.—Should the subject come before the consideration of any persons who have not had occasion to look at it with reference to the general character of the age, they will do a great good, and perhaps help eventually to alter it, by fanning the little sparks that are left them of a brighter period. Our business is to do what we can, to remind the others of what they may do, to pay honours to the season ourselves, and to wait for that alteration in the times, which the necessity of things must produce, and which we must endeavour to influence as genially as possible in itsapproach.[153]
From Mr. Leslie’s pencil, there is a picture of May-day, “in the old time”—the “golden days of good queen Bess”—whereon a lady, whose muse delights in agreeable subjects, has written the following descriptivelines:—