One of the most menial positions in an ancient feudal household was that of turnspit. A person too old or too young for more important duties usually performed the work. John Lydgate, the monk of Bury, who was born in 1375, and died in 1460, gives us a picture of the turnspit as follows:—

“His mouth wel wet, his sleeves right thredbare,
A turnbroche, a boy for hagge of ware,
With louring face noddynge and slumberyng.”

Says Aubrey that these servants “did lick the dripping for their pains.”

In the reign of Edward III., the manor of Finchingfield was held by Sir John Compes, by the service of turning the spit at His Majesty’s coronation. This certainly appears a humble position for a knight to fill in “the gallant days of chivalry.”

The spits or “broches” were often made of silver, and were usually carried to the table with the fish, fowl, or joint roasted upon them.The humble turnspit was not overlooked by the guests in the days of old, when largess was bestowed. We gather from “Howard’s Household Book” that Lord Howard gave four old turnspits a penny each. When Mary Tudor dined at Havering, she rewarded the turnbroches with sixteen-pence.

Dogs as well as men performed the task of turning the spit from an early period, and old-time literature includes many references to the subject. Doctor Caius, the founder of the college at Cambridge bearing his name, is the earliest English writer on the dog. “There is,” wrote Caius, “comprehended under the curs of the coarsest kind, a certain dog in kitchen service excellent. For when any meat is to be roasted they go into a wheel, where they, turning about with the weight of their bodies, so diligently look to their business, that no drudge nor scullion can do the feat more cunningly, whom the popular sort hereupon term turnspits.”

We have seen several pictures of dogs turning the spit, and an interesting example appears in a work entitled “Remarks on a Tour in North and South Wales,” published in 1800. The dog is engaged in his by no means pleasant work. “Newcastle, near Carmarthen,” says the author, “is a pleasant village. At a decent inn here a dog is employed as turnspit. Great care is taken that this animal does not observe the cook approach the larder; if he does, he immediately hides himself for the remainder of the day, and the guest must be contented with more humble fare than intended.”

Mr. Jesse, a popular writer on rural subjects, was a keen observer of old-time customs and institutions, and the best account of the turnspit that has come under our notice is from his pen. “How well do I remember, in the days of my youth,” says Mr. Jesse, “watching the operations of a turnspit at the house of a worthy old Welsh clergyman in Worcestershire, who taught me to read. He was a good man, wore a bushy wig, black worsted stockings, and large plaited buckles in his shoes. As he had several boarders as well as day scholars, his two turnspits had plenty to do. They were long-bodied, crook-legged, and ugly dogs, with a suspicious, unhappy look about them, as if they were weary of the task they had to do, and expected every moment to be seized upon to do it. Cooks in those days, as they are said to be at present, were very cross, and if the poor animal, wearied with having a larger joint than usual to turn, stopped for a moment, the voice of the cook might be heard rating him in no very gentle terms. When we consider that a large, solid piece of beef would take at least three hours before it was properly roasted, we may form some idea of the task a dog had to perform in turning a wheel during that time. A pointer has pleasure in finding game, the terrior worries rats with eagerness and delight, and the bull-dog even attacks bulls with the greatest energy, while the poor turnspit performs his task with compulsion, like a culprit on a treadmill, subject to scolding or beating if he stops a moment to rest his weary limbs, and is then kicked about the kitchen when the task is over.”

The mode of teaching the dog its duties is described in a book of anecdotes published at Newcastle-on-Tyne, 1809. It was more summary than humane. The dog was put in the wheel, and a burning coal with him; he could not stop without burning his legs, and so was kept upon the full gallop. These dogs were by no means fond of their profession. It was indeed hard work to run in a wheel for two or three hours, turning a piece of meat twice their own weight.In the same work two more anecdotes bearing on this theme also find a place, and are worth reproducing. “Some years ago,” we are told, “a party of young men, at Bath, hired the chairmen on a Saturday night to steal all the turnspits in the town, and lock them up till the following evening. Accordingly, on Sunday, when everybody has roast meat for dinner, all the cooks were to be seen in the streets, ‘Pray have you seen our Chloe?’ asks one. ‘Why,’ replies the other, ‘I was coming to ask if you had seen our Pompey.’ Up came a third, while they were talking, to inquire for her Toby. And there was no roast meat in Bath that day. It is told of these dogs in this city, that one Sunday, when they had as usual followed their mistresses to church, the lesson for the day happened to be that chapter in Ezekiel, wherein the self-moving chariots are described. When first the word wheel was pronounced, all the curs pricked up their ears in alarm; at the second wheel they set up a doleful howl. When the dreadful word was uttered a third time, every one of them scampered out of church, as fast as he could, with his tail between his legs.”

Allusions to this subject may be found in some of the poets of the olden time, more especially in those of a political character. Pitt, in his Art of Preaching, has the following on a man who speaks much, but to little purpose:—

“His arguments in silly circles run,
Still round and round, and end where they begun.
So the poor turnspit, as the wheel runs round,
The more he gains, the more he loses ground.”