November 6.

If you don’t give us oneWe’ll take two,The better for us, sir,And worse for you.

They were once refused by a farmer, (who was very much disliked by the poor for his severity and unkindness,) and accordingly they determined to make him repent. He kept a sharp look out over his faggot pile, but forgot that something else might be stolen. The boys got into his backyard and extracted a new pump, which had not been properly fixed, and bore it off in triumph to the green, where it was burnt amidst the loud acclamations of the young rogues generally.

All the wood, &c. which has been previously collected, is brought into the middle of the close where the effigy of poor Guy is burnt. A figure is made (similar to one of those carried about London streets,) intending to represent the conspirator, and placed at the top of a high pole, with the fuel all around. Previous to lighting it, poor Guy is shot at by all who have the happiness to possess guns for the purpose, and pelted with squibs, crackers, &c. This fun continues about an hour, and then the pile is lighted, the place echoes with huzzas, guns keep up perpetual reports, fireworks are flying in all directions, and the village bells merrily ring. The fire is kept up a considerable time, and it is a usual custom for a large piece of “real Wiltshire bacon” to be dressed by it, which is taken to the public-house, together with potatoes roasted in the ashes of the bonfire, and a jovial repast is made. As the fire decreases, successive quantities of potatoes are dressed in the embers by the rustics, who seem to regard them as the great delicacies of the night.

There is no restraint put on the loyal zeal of these good folks, and the fire is maintained to a late hour. I remember, on one occasion, hearing the guns firing as I lay in bed between two and three o’clock in the morning. The public-house is kept open nearly all night. Ale flows plentifully, and it is not spared by the revellers. They have a noisy chorus, which is intended as a toast to his majesty; it runsthus:—

My brave lads rememberThe fifth of November,Gunpowder treason and plot,We will drink, smoke, and sing, boys,And our bells they shall ring, boys,And here’s health to our king, boys,For he shall not be forgot.

Their merriment continues till morning, when they generally retire to rest very much inebriated, or, as they term it, “merry,” or “top heavy.”

I hope to have the pleasure of reading other communications in your interesting work on this good old English custom; and beg to remain,

Dear Sir, &c.C. T.

October 20, 1826.

If the collections formerly published as“State Poems” were to receive additions, the following from a journal of 1796, might be included as frolicsome and curious.

Song on the Fifth of November.Some twelvemonths ago,A hundred or so,The pope went to visit the devil,And if you’ll attend,You’ll find, to a friend,Old Nick can behave very civil.How do’st do, quoth the seer,What a plague brought you here;I suppose ’twas some whimsical maggot—Come draw tow’rds the fire,I pr’thee sit nigher;Here, sirrah, lay on t’other faggot.You’re welcome to hell,I hope friends are well,At Paris, Madrid, and at Rome;But, since you elope,I suppose, honest pope,The conclave will hang out the broom.All jesting aside,His Holiness cried,Give the pope and the devil their dues;Believe me, old dad,I’ll make thy heart gladFor faith I have brought thee rare news.There’s a plot to beguileAn obstinate isle,Great Britain, that heretic nation,Who so slyly behav’dIn hopes to be sav’dBy the help of a curs’d reformation.We shall never have doneIf we burn one by one,Nor destroy the whole heretic race;For when one is dead,Like the fam’d hydra’s head,Another springs up in his place.Believe me, Old Nick,We’ll show them a trick,A trick that shall serve for the nonce,For this day before dinner,Or else I’m a sinner,We’ll kill all their leaders at once.When the parliament sitsAnd all try their witsIn consulting of old mealy papers,We’ll give them a greetingShall break up their meetingAnd set them all cutting their capers.There’s powder enoughAnd combustible stuffIn thirty and odd trusty barrels;We’ll send them togetherThe Lord can tell whither,And decide at one blow all their quarrels.When the king and his sonAnd the parliament’s gone,And the people are left in the lurch,Things will take their old stationIn yon cursed nationAnd I’ll be the head of the church.These words were scarce said,When in popt the headOf an old jesuistical wightWho cried you’re mistakenThey’ve all sav’d their bacon,And Jemmy still stinks of the fright.Then Satan was struck,And cried ’tis ill luck,But you for your news shall be thanked,So he call’d at the doorSix devils or moreAnd toss’d the poor priest in a blanket.

Song on the Fifth of November.

Some twelvemonths ago,A hundred or so,The pope went to visit the devil,And if you’ll attend,You’ll find, to a friend,Old Nick can behave very civil.How do’st do, quoth the seer,What a plague brought you here;I suppose ’twas some whimsical maggot—Come draw tow’rds the fire,I pr’thee sit nigher;Here, sirrah, lay on t’other faggot.You’re welcome to hell,I hope friends are well,At Paris, Madrid, and at Rome;But, since you elope,I suppose, honest pope,The conclave will hang out the broom.All jesting aside,His Holiness cried,Give the pope and the devil their dues;Believe me, old dad,I’ll make thy heart gladFor faith I have brought thee rare news.There’s a plot to beguileAn obstinate isle,Great Britain, that heretic nation,Who so slyly behav’dIn hopes to be sav’dBy the help of a curs’d reformation.We shall never have doneIf we burn one by one,Nor destroy the whole heretic race;For when one is dead,Like the fam’d hydra’s head,Another springs up in his place.Believe me, Old Nick,We’ll show them a trick,A trick that shall serve for the nonce,For this day before dinner,Or else I’m a sinner,We’ll kill all their leaders at once.When the parliament sitsAnd all try their witsIn consulting of old mealy papers,We’ll give them a greetingShall break up their meetingAnd set them all cutting their capers.There’s powder enoughAnd combustible stuffIn thirty and odd trusty barrels;We’ll send them togetherThe Lord can tell whither,And decide at one blow all their quarrels.When the king and his sonAnd the parliament’s gone,And the people are left in the lurch,Things will take their old stationIn yon cursed nationAnd I’ll be the head of the church.These words were scarce said,When in popt the headOf an old jesuistical wightWho cried you’re mistakenThey’ve all sav’d their bacon,And Jemmy still stinks of the fright.Then Satan was struck,And cried ’tis ill luck,But you for your news shall be thanked,So he call’d at the doorSix devils or moreAnd toss’d the poor priest in a blanket.

Some twelvemonths ago,A hundred or so,The pope went to visit the devil,And if you’ll attend,You’ll find, to a friend,Old Nick can behave very civil.

How do’st do, quoth the seer,What a plague brought you here;I suppose ’twas some whimsical maggot—Come draw tow’rds the fire,I pr’thee sit nigher;Here, sirrah, lay on t’other faggot.

You’re welcome to hell,I hope friends are well,At Paris, Madrid, and at Rome;But, since you elope,I suppose, honest pope,The conclave will hang out the broom.

All jesting aside,His Holiness cried,Give the pope and the devil their dues;Believe me, old dad,I’ll make thy heart gladFor faith I have brought thee rare news.

There’s a plot to beguileAn obstinate isle,Great Britain, that heretic nation,Who so slyly behav’dIn hopes to be sav’dBy the help of a curs’d reformation.

We shall never have doneIf we burn one by one,Nor destroy the whole heretic race;For when one is dead,Like the fam’d hydra’s head,Another springs up in his place.

Believe me, Old Nick,We’ll show them a trick,A trick that shall serve for the nonce,For this day before dinner,Or else I’m a sinner,We’ll kill all their leaders at once.

When the parliament sitsAnd all try their witsIn consulting of old mealy papers,We’ll give them a greetingShall break up their meetingAnd set them all cutting their capers.

There’s powder enoughAnd combustible stuffIn thirty and odd trusty barrels;We’ll send them togetherThe Lord can tell whither,And decide at one blow all their quarrels.

When the king and his sonAnd the parliament’s gone,And the people are left in the lurch,Things will take their old stationIn yon cursed nationAnd I’ll be the head of the church.

These words were scarce said,When in popt the headOf an old jesuistical wightWho cried you’re mistakenThey’ve all sav’d their bacon,And Jemmy still stinks of the fright.

Then Satan was struck,And cried ’tis ill luck,But you for your news shall be thanked,So he call’d at the doorSix devils or moreAnd toss’d the poor priest in a blanket.

Mean Temperature 42·32.

[413]In vol. i. col. 1433.[414]Fuller’s Church History.[415]Dr. Aikin’s Athenæum.

[413]In vol. i. col. 1433.

[414]Fuller’s Church History.

[415]Dr. Aikin’s Athenæum.

Michaelmas Term begins.

St. Leonard is retained in the church of England calendar and almanacs, from his ancient popularity in Romish times. He is the titular saint of many of our great churches, and was particularly invoked in behalf of prisoners.

A list of holydays published at Worcester, in 1240, ordains St. Leonard’s festival to be kept a half-holyday, enjoins the hearing of mass, and prohibits all labour except that of the plough.

St. Leonard was a French nobleman in the court of Clovis I., where he was converted by St. Remigius, or Remy; became a monk, built an oratory for himself in a forest at Nobilac, near Limoges, lived on herbs and fruits, and formed a community, which after his death was a flourishing monastery under the name of St. Leonard le Noblat. He was remarkable for charity towards captives and prisoners, and died about 559, with the reputation of having worked miracles in theirbehalf.[416]

The legend of St. Leonard relates that there was no water within a mile of his monastery, “wherfore he did do make a pyt all drye, the which he fylled with water by his prayers—and he shone there by so grete myracles, that who that was in prison, and called his name in ayde, anone his bondes and fetters were broken, and went awaye without ony gaynsayenge frely, and came presentyng to hym theyr chaynes or yrens.”

It is particularly related that one of St. Leonard’s converts “was taken of a tyraunt,” which tyrant, considering by whom his prisoner was protected, determined so to secure him against Leonard, as to “make hym paye for his raunsom a thousand shyllynges.” Therefore, said the tyrant, “I shall go make a ryght grete and depe pyt vnder the erth in my toure, and I shall cast hym therin bounden with many bondes; and I shal do make a chest of tree vpon the mouth of the pyt, and shall make my knyghtes to lye therin all armed; and how be it that yf Leonarde breke the yrons, yet shall he not entre into it vnder the erth.” Having done as he said, the prisoner called on St. Leonard, who at night “came and turned the chest wherein the knyghtes laye armed, and closed them therein, lyke as deed men ben in a tombe, and after entred into the pyt with grete lyght,” and he spoke to the prisoner, from whom the chains fell off, and he “toke hym in his armes and bare hym out of the toure—and sette hym at home in his hous.” And other great marvels are told of St. Leonard as true asthis.[417]

The miracles wrought by St. Leonard in releasing prisoners continued after his death, but at this time the saint has ceased from interposing in their behalf even on his festival; which, being the first day of Michaelmas term, and therefore the day whereon writs issued since the Trinity term are made returnable, would be a convenient season for the saint’s interposition.

This day the long vacation o’er,And lawyers go to work once more;With their materials all provided,That they may have the cause decided.The plaintiff he brings in his bill,He’ll have his cause, cost what it will;Till afterwards comes the defendant,And is resolved to make an end on’t.And having got all things in fitness,Supplied with money and with witness;And makes a noble bold defence,Backed with material evidence.The proverb is, one cause is goodUntil the other’s understood.They thunder out to little purpose,With certiorari, habeas corpus,Their replicandos, writs of error,To fill the people’s hearts with terror;And if the lawyer do approve it,To chancery they must remove it:And then the two that were so warm,Must leave it to another term;Till they go home and work for more,To spend as they have done before.Poor Robin.

Poor Robin.

Mean Temperature 43·40.

[416]Alban Butler.[417]Golden Legend.

[416]Alban Butler.

[417]Golden Legend.

On the 7th day of November, 1665, the first “Gazette” in England was published at Oxford; the court being there at that time, on account of the plague. On the removal of the court to London, the title was changed to the “London Gazette.” The “Oxford Gazette” was published on Tuesdays, the London on Saturdays: and these have continued, to be the days of publication ever since.

The word gazette originally meant a newspaper, or printed account of the transactions of all the countries in the known world, in a loose sheet or half sheet; but the term is with us confined to that paper of news now published by authority. It derived its name from gazetta, a kind of small coin formerly current at Venice, which was the usual price of the first newspaper printedthere.[418]

Mean Temperature 42·92.

[418]Butler’s Chronological Exercises.

On this day the chief magistrate elect of the metropolis is sworn into office at Guildhall, and to-morrow is the grand festival of the corporation.

Mean Temperature 44·27.

This “great day in the calendar” of the city, is the subject of the following whimsical adaptation.

Now countless turbots and unnumbered solesFill the wide kitchens of each livery hall:From pot to spit, to kettle, stew, and pan,The busy hum of greasy scullions sounds,That the fixed beadles do almost perceiveThe secret dainties of each other’s watch:Fire answers fire, and through their paly flamesEach table sees the other’s bill of fare:Cook threatens cook in high and saucy vauntOf rare and newmade dishes; confectioners,Both pastrycooks and fruiterers in league,With candied art their rivets closing up,Give pleasing notice of a rich dessert.

In the subjoined humorous account of a former civic procession and festival, there are some features which do not belong to the present celebrations.

To describe the adventures and incidents of this important day in the city annals, it is very necessary to revert to the preceding evening. It is not now as it wasformerly—

“Thatsobercitizens getdrunkby nine.”

Had Pope lived in the auspicious reign of George III., he would have indulged us at least two hours, and found a rhyme foreleven.

On the evening of the 8th of November, the stands of several livery companies clogged the passage of Cheapside and the adjacent streets. The night was passed in erecting the temporary sheds, sacred to city mirth, ruby gills, and round paunches. The earliest dawn of the morning witnessed the industry of the scavengers; and the broom-maker was, for once, the first patriot in the city.

This service done, repair we to Guildhall.

At five in the morning the spits groaned beneath the ponderous sirloins. These, numerous as large, proved that the “roast beef of Old England” is still thouht an ornament to our tables. The chandeliers in the hall were twelve in number, each provided with forty-eight wax candles; exclusive of which there were three large glass lamps, two globular lamps under the giants, and wax candles in girandoles. Hustings were raised at each end of the hall for the accommodation of the superior company, and tables laid through the centre for persons of lower rank. One advantage arose from the elevation at the west end of the hall, for the inscription under Beckford’s statue was thereby rendered perfectly legible. Tables were spread in the court of king’s-bench, which was provided with one chandelier of forty-eight candles. All the seats were either matted, hung with tapestry, or covered with crimson cloth, and the whole made a very noble appearance.

By eleven o’clock the windows from Blackfriars-bridge, to the north end of King street, began to exhibit such a number of angelic faces, as would tempt a man to wish for the honour of chief magistracy, if it were only to be looked at by so many fine eyes. There was scarce a house that could not boast a Venus for its tenant. At fifteen minutes past ten the common serjeant entered Guildhall, and in a few minutes the new lord-mayor, preceded by four footmen in elegant liveries of brown and gold, was brought into the hall in a superb sedan chair. Next came alderman Plomer, and then the recorder, who was so much afflicted with the gout, that it required the full exertion of his servant’s strength to support him. Mr. Alderman Thomas arrived soon after, then the two sheriffs, and lastly Mr. Crosby. There being no other alderman, Mr. Peckham could not be sworn into his office. At twenty minutes past eleven the lord mayor left the hall, being preceded by the city sword and mace, and followed by the alderman and sheriffs. The breakfast in the council chamber, at Guildhall, consisted of six sirloins of beef, twelve tureens of soup,mulled wines, pastry, &c. The late lord-mayor waited at the end of King-street to join the procession. As soon as his carriage moved, the mob began to groan and hiss, on which he burst into so immoderate a fit of laughter, evidently unforced, that the mob joined in one laughing chorus, and seemed to wonder what they had hissed at.

The procession by water was as usual, but rather tedious, as the tide was contrary. The ceremonies at Westminster-hall being gone through in the customary manner, the company returned by water to Blackfriars-bridge, where the lord-mayor landed at about three o’clock, and proceeded in solemn state to Guildhall, where the tables groaned beneath the weight of solids and dainties of every kind in season: the dishes of pastry, &c. were elegantly adorned with flowers of various sorts interspersed with bay-leaves; and many an honest freeman got a nose-gay at the city expense. A superb piece of confectionary was placed on the lord-mayor’s table, and the whole entertainment was splendid and magnificent. During the absence of the lord-mayor, such of the city companies as have not barges paraded the streets in the accustomed manner; and the man in armour exhibited to the delight of the little masters and misses, and the astonishment of many a gaping rustic. The lord-mayor appeared to be in good health and spirits, and to enjoy the applausive shouts of his fellow-citizens, probably from a consciousness of having deserved them. Mr. Gates, the city marshal, was as fine as powder and ribbons and gold could make him; his horse, too, was almost as fine, and nearly as stately as the rider. Mr. Wilkes came through the city in a chair, carried on men’s shoulders, just before the procession, in order to keep it up, and be saluted with repeated shouts. The lord-mayor’s coach was elegant, and his horses (long-tailed blacks) the finest that have been seen for many years. There were a great number of constables round Mr. Alderman Townsend’s coach; and a complaint has since been made, that he was grossly insulted. The night concluded as usual, and many went home at morning with dirty clothes and bloodyfaces.[419]

Some recent processions on lord-mayor’s day are sufficiently described by theselines:—

Scarce the shrill trumpet or the echoing hornWith zeal impatient chides the tardy morn,WhenThames, meandering as thy channel strays,Its ambient waveAugusta’sLord surveys:No prouder triumph, when with eastern prideThe burnished galley burst upon the tide,Thy banks of Cydnus say—tho’ Egypt’s queenWith soft allurements graced the glowing scene,Though silken streamers waved and all was mute,Save the soft trillings of the mellow lute;Though spicy torches chased the lingering gloom,And zephyrs blew in every gale perfume.But soon, as pleased they win their wat’ry way,And dash from bending oars the scattered spray,The dome wide-spreading greets th’ exploring eyes,Where erst proudRufusbade his courts arise.Here borne, our civic chief the brazen store,With pointing fingers numbers o’er and o’er;Then pleased around him greets his jocund train,And seeks in proud array his new domain.Returning now, the ponderouscoach of stateRolls o’er the road that groans beneath its weight;And as slow paced, amid the shouting throng,Its massive frame majestic moves along,The prancing steeds with gilded trappings gay,Proud of the load, their sceptred lord convey.Behind, their posts, a troop attendant gain,Press the gay throng, and join the smiling train;Whilemartial bandswith nodding plumes appear,And waving streamers close the gay career.Here too aChiefthe opening ranks display,Whose radientarmourshoots a beamy ray;So Britain erst beheld her troops advance,And prostrate myriads crouch beneath her lance:But though no more when threatening dangers nigh,Theglittering cuissesclasp the warrior’s thigh;Aloft no more the noddingplumagebows,Or polishedhelmbedecks his manly brows;A patriot band still generous Britain boasts,To guard her altars and protect her coasts;From rude attacks her sacred name to shield,And now, as ever, teach her foe to yield.

But soon, as pleased they win their wat’ry way,And dash from bending oars the scattered spray,The dome wide-spreading greets th’ exploring eyes,Where erst proudRufusbade his courts arise.Here borne, our civic chief the brazen store,With pointing fingers numbers o’er and o’er;Then pleased around him greets his jocund train,And seeks in proud array his new domain.Returning now, the ponderouscoach of stateRolls o’er the road that groans beneath its weight;And as slow paced, amid the shouting throng,Its massive frame majestic moves along,The prancing steeds with gilded trappings gay,Proud of the load, their sceptred lord convey.

Behind, their posts, a troop attendant gain,Press the gay throng, and join the smiling train;Whilemartial bandswith nodding plumes appear,And waving streamers close the gay career.

Here too aChiefthe opening ranks display,Whose radientarmourshoots a beamy ray;So Britain erst beheld her troops advance,And prostrate myriads crouch beneath her lance:But though no more when threatening dangers nigh,Theglittering cuissesclasp the warrior’s thigh;Aloft no more the noddingplumagebows,Or polishedhelmbedecks his manly brows;A patriot band still generous Britain boasts,To guard her altars and protect her coasts;From rude attacks her sacred name to shield,And now, as ever, teach her foe to yield.

Mr. Alderman Wood on the first day of his second mayoralty, in 1816, deviated from the usual procession by water, from Westminster-hall to London, and returned attended by the corporation, in their carriages, through Parliament-street, by the way of Charing-cross, along the Strand, Fleet-street, and so up Ludgate-hill, and through St. Paul’s churchyard, to Guildhall: whereon lord Sidmouth, as high steward of the city and liberties of Westminster, officially protested against the lord-mayor’s deviation, “in order, that the same course may not be drawn into precedent, and adopted on any future occasion.”

During Mr. Alderman Wood’s first mayoralty he committed to the house of correction, a working sugar-baker, for having left his employment in consequence of a dispute respecting wages.—The prisoner during his confinement not having received personal correction, according to the statute, in consequence of no order to that effect being specified in the warrant of committal, he actually brought an action against the lord-mayor in the court of common pleas, for nonconformity to the law. It was proved that he had not been whipped, and therefore the jury were obliged to give afarthingdamages; but the point of law wasreserved.[420]

On the 6th of September, 1776, the then lord-mayor of London, was robbed near Turnham-green in his chaise and four, in sight of all his retinue, by a single highwayman, who swore he would shoot the first man that made resistance, or offeredviolence.[421]

Mean Temperature 44·72.

[419]Gentleman’s Magazine.[420]Ibid.[421]Ibid.

[419]Gentleman’s Magazine.

[420]Ibid.

[421]Ibid.

Richard Corbet, bishop of Norwich, wrote the following excellent lines

To his Son, Vincent Corbet,On his Birth-day, November 10, 1630,being then three years old.What I shall leave thee none can tell,But all shall say I wish thee wellI wish thee, Vin, before all wealthBoth bodily and ghostly health:Nor too much wealth, nor wit, come to thee,So much of either may undo thee.I wish thee learning, not for show,Enough for to instruct, and know;Not such as gentlemen require,To prate at table, or at fire.I wish thee all thy mother’s graces,Thy fathers fortunes, and his places.I wish thee friends, and one at court,Not to build on, but support;To keep thee, not in doing manyOppressions, but from suffering any.I wish thee peace in all thy ways,Nor lazy nor contentious days;And when thy soul and body part,As innocent as now thouart.[422]

To his Son, Vincent Corbet,

On his Birth-day, November 10, 1630,being then three years old.

What I shall leave thee none can tell,But all shall say I wish thee wellI wish thee, Vin, before all wealthBoth bodily and ghostly health:Nor too much wealth, nor wit, come to thee,So much of either may undo thee.I wish thee learning, not for show,Enough for to instruct, and know;Not such as gentlemen require,To prate at table, or at fire.I wish thee all thy mother’s graces,Thy fathers fortunes, and his places.I wish thee friends, and one at court,Not to build on, but support;To keep thee, not in doing manyOppressions, but from suffering any.I wish thee peace in all thy ways,Nor lazy nor contentious days;And when thy soul and body part,As innocent as now thouart.[422]

Bishop Corbet, a native of Ewell in Surrey, was educated at Westminster school, and Christchurch, Oxford; took the degree of M. A. in 1605, entered into holy orders, became doctor of divinity,obtained a prebend in the cathedral of Sarum, and other church preferment, and being a man of ready wit, was favoured by king James I., who made him one of his chaplains. In 1618, he took a journey to France, of which he wrote an amusing narrative. In 1627, his majesty gave him the deanery of Christchurch; in 1629, he was raised to the bishopric of Oxford, and in 1632, translated to that of Norwich. He died in 1635. The poems of bishop Corbet are lively and amusing compositions, such as might have been expected from a man of learning and genius, possessed of a superabundance of constitutional hilarity. The latter quality appears to have drawn him into some excesses, not altogether consistent with the gravity of his profession. After he was a doctor of divinity, being at a tavern in Abingdon, a ballad-singer came into the house, complaining that he could not dispose of his stock; the doctor, in a frolic, took off his gown, and assuming the ballad-singer’s leather jacket, went out into the street, and drew around him a crowd of admiring purchasers. Perhaps he thought he could divest himself of his sacerdotal character with his habit; for it seems he shut himself up in his well-stored cellar, with his chaplain, Dr. Lushington, and taking off his gown, exclaimed: “There goes the doctor;” then throwing down his episcopal hood, “there goes the bishop”—after which the night was devoted to Bacchus. Riding out one day with a Dr. Stubbins, who was extremely fat, the coach was overturned, and both fell into a ditch. The bishop, in giving an account of the accident, observed, that Dr. Stubbins was up to the elbows in mud, and he was up to the elbows in Stubbins. Bishop Corbet was not distinguished as a divine; his sentiments however were liberal, and he inclined to the Arminian party, which then began to prevail in the church ofEngland.[423]

In the bishop’s lines “to his son on his birth-day,” there is something of the feeling in the wise man’s supplication, “Give me neither poverty nor riches.”

Mean Temperature 43·72.

[422]Bp. Corbet’s Poems, by Gilchrist.[423]General Biographical Dictionary, 1826, vol. i.

[422]Bp. Corbet’s Poems, by Gilchrist.

[423]General Biographical Dictionary, 1826, vol. i.

The customs of this festival, which is retained in the church of England calendar and almanacs, are related under the day in last year’s volume.

Mean Temperature 44·40.

To the mention of the pageant “at Chancery-lane end,” in honour of admiral Vernon on this day, in the year1740,[424]may be added some ingenious verses commemorative of Vernon’s exploits. They were written in the same year by John Price, a land-waiter in the port of Poole, and are preserved in Mr. Raw’s “Suffolk Garland,” with the followingintroduction:—

In Dr. Percy’s “Reliques of Ancient Poetry,” vol. ii. p. 376. is an admirable ballad, intituled “Hosier’s Ghost,” being an address to admiral Vernon, in Porto-Bello harbour, by Mr. Glover, the author of Leonidas. The case of Hosier was brieflythis:—

In April, 1726, he was sent with a strong fleet to the Spanish West Indies, to block up the galleons in the ports of that country; but being restricted by his orders from obeying the dictates of his courage, he lay inactive on that station, until he became the jest of the Spaniards. He afterwards removed to Carthagena, and continued cruizing in those seas, till far the greater part of his crews perished by the diseases of that unhealthy climate. This brave man, seeing his officers and men thus daily swept away, his ships exposed to inevitable destruction, and himself made the sport of the enemy, is said to have died of a broken heart. The balladconcludes—

“O’er these waves, for ever mourning,Shall we roam, depriv’d of rest,If to Britain’s shores returning,You neglect my just request:After this proud foe subduing,When your patriot friends you see,Think on vengeance for my ruin,And for England—sham’d in me.”

“O’er these waves, for ever mourning,Shall we roam, depriv’d of rest,If to Britain’s shores returning,You neglect my just request:

After this proud foe subduing,When your patriot friends you see,Think on vengeance for my ruin,And for England—sham’d in me.”

In 1739, vice-admiral Vernon was appointed commander-in-chief of a squadronthen fitting out for destroying the settlements of the Spaniards in the West Indies; and, weighing anchor from Spithead on the 23d of July, arrived in sight of Porto-Bello, with six ships only, under his command, on the 20th of November following. The next day he commenced the attack of that town; when, after a most furious engagement on both sides, it was taken on the 22d, together with a considerable number of cannon, mortars, and ammunition, and also two Spanish ships of war. He then blew up the fortifications, and evacuated the place for want of land forces sufficient to retain it; but first distributed ten thousand dollars, which had been sent to Porto-Bello for paying the Spanish troops, among the forces for their bravery.

The two houses of parliament joined in an address of congratulation upon this success of his majesty’s arms; and the nation, in general, was wonderfully elated by an exploit, which was certainly magnified much above its intrinsic merit.

Hosier! with indignant sorrow,I have heard thy mournful taleAnd, if heav’n permit, to-morrowHence our warlike fleet shall sail.O’er those hostile waves, wide roaming,We will urge our bold design,With the blood of thousands foaming,For our country’s wrongs and thine.On that day, when each brave fellow,Who now triumphs here with me,Storm’d and plunder’d Porto-Bello,All my thoughts were full of thee.Thy disast’rous fate alarm’d me;Fierce thy image glar’d on high,And with gen’rous ardour warm’d me,To revenge thy fall, or die.From their lofty ships descending,Thro’ the flood, in firm array,To the destin’d city bending,My lov’d sailors work’d their way.Strait the foe, with horror trembling,Quits in haste his batter’d walls;And in accents, undissembling,As he flies, for mercy calls.Carthagena, tow’ring wonder!At the daring deed dismay’d,Shall ere long by Britain’s thunder,Smoking in the dust be laid.Thou, and these pale spectres sweeping,Restless, o’er this watry round,Whose wan cheeks are stain’d with weeping,Pleas’d shall listen to the sound.Still rememb’ring thy sad story,To thy injur’d ghost I swear,By my hopes of future glory,War shall be my constant care:And I ne’er will cease pursuingSpain’s proud sons from sea to sea,With just vengeance for thy ruin,And for England sham’d in thee.

On that day, when each brave fellow,Who now triumphs here with me,Storm’d and plunder’d Porto-Bello,All my thoughts were full of thee.Thy disast’rous fate alarm’d me;Fierce thy image glar’d on high,And with gen’rous ardour warm’d me,To revenge thy fall, or die.

From their lofty ships descending,Thro’ the flood, in firm array,To the destin’d city bending,My lov’d sailors work’d their way.Strait the foe, with horror trembling,Quits in haste his batter’d walls;And in accents, undissembling,As he flies, for mercy calls.

Carthagena, tow’ring wonder!At the daring deed dismay’d,Shall ere long by Britain’s thunder,Smoking in the dust be laid.Thou, and these pale spectres sweeping,Restless, o’er this watry round,Whose wan cheeks are stain’d with weeping,Pleas’d shall listen to the sound.

Still rememb’ring thy sad story,To thy injur’d ghost I swear,By my hopes of future glory,War shall be my constant care:And I ne’er will cease pursuingSpain’s proud sons from sea to sea,With just vengeance for thy ruin,And for England sham’d in thee.

As we are to-day on a naval topic, it seems fitting to introduce a popular usage among sailors, in the words of captain Edward Hall, R. N., who communicated the particulars to Dr. Forster, on the 30th of October, 1823.

The following is an account of the custom of shaving at the tub by Neptune, as practised on board vessels crossing the Equator, Tropics, and Europa Point. The origin of it is supposed to be very ancient, and it is commonly followed on board foreign, as well as British ships. Europa Point at Gibraltar being one of the places, it may have arisen at the time when that was considered the western boundary of Terra Firma.

On the departure of a vessel from England by either of the aforesaid routes, much ingenuity is exerted by the old seamen and their confederates to discover the uninitiated, and it is seldom that any escape detection. A few days previous to arriving at the scene of action, much mystery and reserve is observed among the ship’s company: they are then secretly collecting stale soapsuds, water, &c., arranging the dramatis personæ, and preparing material. At this time, also, the novices, who are aware of what is going forward, send their forfeits to the captain of the forecastle, who acts as Neptune’s deputy; the forfeit is either a bottle of rum, or a dollar: and I never knew it refused, except from a cook’s mate who had acted negligently, and from a steward’s mate who was inclined to trick the people when serving provisions.

On board of a man-of-war it is generally performed on a grand scale. I have witnessed it several times, but the best executed was on board a ship of the line of which I was lieutenant, bound to the West Indies. On crossing the Tropic, a voice, as if at a distance, and from the surface of the water, cried “Ho, the ship ahoy! I shall come on board:” this was from a person slung over the bows, near the water, speaking through his hands. Presently two men of large stature came over the bows; they had hideous masks on: one personated Neptune—he was nakedto his middle, crowned with the head of a huge wet swab, the ends of which reached to his loins to represent flowing locks; a piece of tarpaulin, vandyked, encircled the head of the swab and his brows as a diadem; his right hand wielded a boarding-pike manufactured into a trident, and his body was marked with red ochre to represent fish scales: the other personated Amphitrite, having locks also formed of swabs, a petticoat of the same material, with a girdle of red bunten; and in her hands a comb and looking-glass. They were followed by about twenty fellows, also naked to their middle, with red ochre scales as Tritons. They were received on the forecastle with much respect by the old sailors, who had provided the carriage of an eighteen-pounder as a car, which their majesties ascended, and were drawn aft along the gangway to the quarter-deck by the Tritons; when Neptune, addressing the captain, said he was happy to see him again that way, that he believed there were some Johnny Raws on board that had not paid their dues, and who he intended to initiate into the salt water mysteries. The captain answered, he was happy to see him, but requested he would make no more confusion than was necessary. They then descended on the main deck, and were joined by all the old hands, and about twenty barbers, who submitted their razors, brushes and suds to inspection; the first were made from old iron hoops jagged, the second from tar brushes, and the shaving suds from tar, grease, and something from the pigsty; they had also boxes of tropical pills procured from the sheep pen. Large tubs full of stale suds, with a movable board across each, were ranged around the pumps and engine, and plenty of buckets filled with water. Thus prepared, they divided themselves into gangs of a dozen each, dashed off in different directions, and soon returned with their subjects. The proceedings with each unlucky wight were as follows:—Being seated on a board across a tub of water, his eyes were quickly bandaged, his face lathered with the delightful composition; then a couple of scrapes on each side of the chin, followed by a question asked, or some pretended compassionate inquiry made, to get his mouth open, into which the barber either dashed the shaving-brush, or a pill, which was the signal for slipping the board from under the poor devil, who was then left to flounder his way out of the tub, and perhaps half drowned in attempting to recover his feet, by buckets of water being dashed over him from all quarters; being thus thoroughly drenched and initiated, I have often observed spirited fellows join their former persecutors in the remainder of their work. After an hour or two spent in this rough fun, which all seem to enjoy, Neptune disappears somewhere in the hold to unrobe, the decks are washed and dried, and those that have undergone the shaving business, oil or grease their chins and whiskers to get rid of the tar. This custom does not accord with the usual discipline of a man-of-war; but, as the old seamen look on it as their privilege, and it is only about an hour’s relaxation, I have never heard of any captain refusing them his permission.

E.H.[425]

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