Pageantries.—Ancient “Mysteries.”—Origin of the religious drama.—Moralities.—Oratorios.—Allegorical plays of Queen Elizabeth’s time.—The Pageants got up to do honour to her visit.—Will Kempe, Morris dancer, his “nine days wonder.”—“Hobby-horses.”—Festivals.—St. Nicholas or Boy Bishop.—Bishop Blaize.—Woolcombers’ jubilee.—Southland fair.—St. Valentine.—Mode of celebrating the festival.—“Chairing the members.”—Origin of the custom.

Among the many quaint specimens of the ways and doings of the ancient respectable denizens of this present sober-minded city, that have been rescued from the dim and dusty obscurity of the municipal record chamber, has been found a curious minute of the proceedings of a solemn court held on the Sabbath day of the feast of St. Matthew the Apostle, in the nineteenth year of King Henry VIII., when a petition was presented to the mayor, sheriffs and common council of the city of Norwich, by the aldermen and brethren of the guild of St. Luke, praying to be relieved from the burthen of being sole purveyors of plays and pageants for the people on Whitsun Monday and Tuesday; and it may safely serve as a text for a few rambling sketches of the entertainments that were wont to gratify the taste of the lovers of the drama, in the age before the stream of imperishable philosophy had been poured forth from the waters of Avon, or its banks had resounded to the harmony that was destined to sweep over the length and breadth of the earth, vibrating through the chords of every living heart that felt its breath.

Deep in the human mind lies the yearning for amusement, great have been those who, laying hold of this inherent principle of our nature, could make it a means for enlightening and ennobling it; nor must we judge of the sincerity of the attempts that were made in this work, by their impotency or failure. In dark and barbarous times, what may seem gross buffoonery to our refined senses, may have had power to convey a moral lesson or excite a worthy impulse; and we may scarcely with any justice withhold our meed of praise and admiration of the philosophy of those old monks, who, seeing the immorality that characterized the exhibitions provided by strolling players, jugglers, tumblers, dancers, and jesters, journeying from town to town, and castle to castle, and filling the large square court-yards provided for their express accommodation by every house of any pretensions to rank, set their inventive powers to work, to find a substitute for these recreations of dubious tendency, and endeavoured to supersede the secular by the religious drama. Appolonarius, and Gregory, Archbishop of Constantinople, had done likewise, and dramatised scenes both from the Old and New Testament, as substitutes for Euripides and Sophocles, when the study of Greek philosophy was deemed heresy, and to have read Virgil required from St. Augustine penitence and prayer for pardon. Hence priests turned playwrights and actors, and instead of profane mummeries presented scriptural stories, or legendary tales, which they at least deemed improving and instructive. Most old cities present traces, more or less distinct, of these specimens of clerical ingenuity.

The Coventry and Chester mysteries have been preserved almost entire; royalty honoured them with its presence, both in the person of Richard III. and Henry VII. and his queen; York and London have contributed their store of relics, and the performances of the company of Clerks that gave the name to far-famed Clerkenwell, and the fraternity of the Holy Trinity, St. Botolph’s Aldersgate, have become matters of history.

We have to borrow light from these richer stores, to comprehend the full meaning of the few traces left among our chronicles, that bear evidence of similar practices in the other localities; and here we return to the petition of the St. Luke’s guild or fraternity. Each branch of trade had then its company, or guild, and was governed by laws of its own, under general supervision of the municipal authorities. The St. Luke’s guild was composed of pewterers, braziers, bell-founders, plumbers, glaziers, stainers, and other trades, and upon them it would seem that the whole expense of the Whitsunside dramatic entertainments had fallen; wherefore they besought their “discreet wisdoms” to enact, and ordain, and establish, that every occupation within the city, should yearly, at the procession on Monday in Pentecost week, set forth one pageant, by their “discreet wisdoms” to be assigned and appointed of their costs and charges, which should be “to the worship of the city, profit of the citizens and inhabitants, and to the great sustentation, comfort and relief as well of the said guild and brethren of the same;” which favourable aid should bind them and their successors “daily to pray to God for the prosperities long to endure of their discreet wisdoms.”

Which petition being heard and understood, it was agreed and enacted that thenceforth every occupation in the said city should find and set forth in the said procession one such pageant as should be appointed by master mayor and his brethren aldermen. In the same hand-writing as the minute to this effect is a list of pageants, probably arranged in consequence of it.

“These plays were performed on moveable stages constructed for the purpose, described by Dugdale as ‘theatres very large and high, placed on wheels;’ and Archdeacon Rogers, who died in 1595, and saw the Whitsun plays performed at Chester, gives a very minute description of the mode in which they were exhibited: ‘They were divided there into twenty-four pageants, according to the companies of the city; every company brought forth its pageant, which was the carriage or stage in which they played; these were wheeled about from street to street, exchanging with each other, and repeating their several plays in the different places appointed. The pageants, or carriages, were high places made like two rooms, one above the other, open at the top; the lower room was used as a dressing-room, the higher room was the performing place.”

The first of the Norwich pageants, the Creation of the World, is similar to one described by Hone, as performed at Bamberg, in Germany, so late as 1783; and its details so precisely accord with the stage directions still extant of similar representations in this country, that it has been adopted as a fair specimen of the play alluded to in the list.

The description of the German representation is thus given in the words of an eye-witness:—“The end of a barn being taken away, a dark hole appeared, hung with tapestry the wrong side outwards; a curtain running along, and dividing the middle. On this stage the Creation was performed. A stupid-looking Capuchin personated the Creator. He entered in a large full-bottomed wig, with a false beard, wearing over the rusty dress of his order a brocade morning-gown, the lining of light blue silk being rendered visible occasionally by the pride the wearer took in showing it; and he eyed his slippers with the same satisfaction. He first came on, making his way through the tapestry, groping about; and purposely running his head against posts, exclaiming, with a sort of peevish authority, ‘Let there be light,’ at the same time pushing the tapestry right and left, and disclosing a glimmer through linen clothes from candles placed behind them. The creation of the sea was represented by the pouring of water along the stage; and the making of dry land by the throwing of mould. Angels were personated by girls and young priests, habited in dresses (hired from a masquerade shop), to which the wings of geese were clumsily attached, near the shoulders. The angels actively assisted the character in the flowered dressing-gown, in producing the stars, moon, and sun. To represent winged fowl, a number of cocks and hens were fluttered about; and for other living creatures, some cattle were driven on the stage, with a well-shod horse, and two pigs with rings in their noses. Soon after, Adam appeared. He was a clumsy fellow, in a strangely-shaped wig; and being closely clad with a sort of coarse stocking, looked quite as grotesque as in the worst of the old woodcuts, and something like Orson, but not so decent. He stalked about, wondering at every thing, and was followed from among the beasts by a large ugly mastiff, with a brass collar on. When he reclined to sleep, preparatory to the introduction of Eve, the mastiff lay down by him. This occasioned some strife between the old man in brocade, Adam, and the dog, who refused to quit his post; nor would he move when the angels tried to whistle him off. The performance proceeded to the supposed extraction of the rib from the dog’s master; which being brought forward and shewn to the audience, was carried back to be succeeded by Eve, who, in order to seem rising from Adam’s side, was dragged up from behind his back, through an ill-concealed and equally ill-contrived trap-door, by the performer in brocade. As he lifted her over, the dog, being trod upon, frightened her by a sudden snap, so that she tumbled upon Adam. This obtained a hearty kick from a clumsy angel to the dog, who consoled himself by discovering the rib produced before, which, being a beef bone, he tried his teeth upon.”

The second pageant was “Paradise,” provided by the Grocers and Raffemen. In the Grocers’ books, now lost, were the items of expenditure about this pageant, among others, for painting clothes for Adam and Eve, &c. In the French collections, a legendary incident is introduced in this play: When Adam attempts to swallow the apple, it will not stir; and, according to the legend, this was the cause of the lump in the man’s throat, which has been preserved ever since.

The third pageant, “Hell Carte,” was brought forth by the Glaziers, &c. One of a series of illuminated drawings of the eleventh century, illustrative of the Old and New Testaments, part of the Cottonian Library in the British Museum, gives an idea of the manner in which this subject was represented. By no very complex machinery, the huge painted mouth was made to open and shut, and demons are represented dragging into it a variety of classes of dishonest people; thereby conveying a moral and satirical admonition against some of the crying sins of the day, most practised among, and most offensive to, the lower and middle classes of society. One of these offenders was the ale-wife, who gave short measure. In a miserere in Ludlow church, there is set forth a demon carrying an ale-wife, with her false measure and gay head-dress, to the mouth, while two other demons play on the bagpipes, and read from a scroll the catalogue of her sins.

The fourth pageant, “Abel and Cain,” was furnished by the Sheremen, &c. Disputes between Cain and his man were comic scenes introduced into it, and formed its chief attraction.

The fifth, “Noyse Ship,” was brought forth by the Bakers. A fragment of a Newcastle play of the same name affords a specimen of its probable character. The dramatis persona are Noah, his wife, and Diabolus; and a considerable portion of the play consists of disputes between Noah and his wife, about entering the ark, as:—

Noah.

Good wife, doe now, as I thee bidd.

Noah’s Wife.

Not I, ere I see more need,
Though thou stande all day and stare.

Noah.

. . . that women ben crabbed be,
And not are meek, I dare well say.
That is well seen by me to-day,
In witness of yet, eiehone.
Good wife, let be all this beare,
That thou mak’st in this place here,
For all they wene thou art master,
And soe thou art by St. John.

Further rebellion on the part of the spouse compels Noah to carry out the threat,

Bot as I have blys,
I shall chastyse this.

To which she replies:—

“Yet may ye mys
Nicholle Nedy.”

He stops beating her, for the reason,

“That my bak is nere in two.”

To which she adds:—

“And I am bet so blo—”

The sixth pageant was Abraham and Isaac. Of the details of this, and the seventh and eighth, no records have been found.

The ninth—the birth of Christ, with shepherds, and the three kings of Colen,—was a very common subject. The scenes were, usually:—1st, Mary, Joseph, the child, an ox and an ass, and angels speaking to shepherds.—2nd, The shepherds speaking by turns, the star, an angel giving joy to the shepherds.—3rd, The three kings coming from the East, Herod asking about the child, with the son of Herod, two counsellors, and a messenger.—4th, Mary, with the child and star above, and the kings offering gifts.

In the Townley and Coventry Mysteries, the play commences with a ranting speech of King Herod, one of those which gave rise to Shakespeare’s saying of “out-heroding Herod.” In the fifth volume of the Paston Letters, J. Wheatley writes to Sir J. Paston, “and as for Haylesdon, my lord of Suffolk was there on Wednesday; at his being there that day, there was never no man that played Herod in Corpus Christi better, and more agreeable to his pageant, than he.”

Most of these pageants were founded upon scripture narrative; while of those of Coventry several are founded on legendary history.

The tenth pageant, having for its object the “Baptism of Christ,” was exhibited by the Barbers, &c.

The eleventh pageant was the “Resurrection,” brought forward by the Butchers, &c.

The twelfth and last pageant was the “Holy Ghost,” and exhibited the descent of the Holy Spirit on the Apostles.

In the well-known mystery, entitled Corpus Christi, or the Coventry play, the prologue is delivered by three persons, who speak alternately, and are called vexillators; it contains the arguments of the several pageants or acts that constitute the piece, and they amount to no less than forty, every one of which consists of a detached subject from scripture, beginning with the Creation of the Universe, and concluding with the “Last Judgment.” In the first pageant or act, the Deity is represented seated on a throne by himself; after a speech of some length, the angels enter, singing from the church service portions of the Te Deum. Lucifer then appears, and desires to know if the hymn was in honour of God or himself, when a difference arises among the angels, and the evil ones are with Lucifer expelled by force.

The Reformation had not the effect of annihilating these observances in many places; the Corpus Christi procession was kept up for years after, as in Norwich; and it was not until the beginning of the reign of James I. that they were finally suppressed in all the towns of the kingdom.

John Bale, of the Carmelite Monastery, of Whitefriars, Norwich, afterwards a convert to Protestantism, and made successively Bishop of Ossory, Archbishop of Dublin, also a prebend of Canterbury, was a great writer of mysteries; one of his compositions was entitled “The Chief Promises of God to Man,” its principal characters being God, Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, David, Isaiah, and John Baptist.

Moralities were of later date than mysteries, and differed from them, as consisting of dramatic allegories, in which the vices and virtues were personified; the province of exciting laughter descended from the devil in the mystery, to vice or iniquity in the morality, and was personified by pride or gluttony, or any other evil propensity; and even when regular tragedies and comedies came upon the stage, we may trace the descendants of this line in the clowns and fools who undertook this portion of the entertainment, to the no small detriment of the more serious parts of the best tragedies. In Hamlet’s direction to the players, allusion is made distinctly to this. The secular plays which existed before mysteries were invented, differed very materially from either them or moralities, and were far inferior to them in refinement and delicacy; they retained their popularity, however, notwithstanding their clerical rivals, and the efforts that were diligently made to do away with them.

Interludes were a variety of these secular plays, and probably gave birth to the farce of later times; they were facetious or satirical dialogues, calculated to promote mirth. A representation of this character before Henry the Eighth, at Greenwich, is thus related by Hall:—“Two persons played a dialogue, the effect whereof was to declare whether riches were better than love; and when they could not agree upon a conclusion, each knight called in three knights well armed; three of them would have entered the gate of the arch in the middle of the chamber, and the other three resisted; and suddenly between the six knights, out of the arch fell down a bar all gilt, for the which bar the six knights did battle, and then they departed; then came in an old man with a silver beard, and he concluded that love and riches both be necessary for princes; that is to say, by love to be obeyed and served, and with riches to reward his lovers and friends.”

Another is described by the same author as performed at Windsor, when “the Emperor Maximilian and King Henry, being present, there was a disguising or play; the effect of it was, that there was a proud horse, which would not be tamed or bridled; but Amity sent Prudence and Policy, which tamed him, and Force and Puissance bridled him. The horse was the French king, Amity the king of England, and the emperor and other persons were their counsel and power.”

When regular plays became established, these motley exhibitions lost their charm for all, save the vulgar; the law set its face against them, performers were stigmatised as rogues and vagabonds, and it is highly probable that necessity suggested to the tragitour or juggler, who was reduced to one solitary companion, the jester or jackpudding, to make up his “company,” the idea of substituting puppets to supply the place of other living characters. The drama was in much the same state of progress throughout the civilized portions of Europe; and to the Italians and Spaniards the ingenuity of “Punchinello” has been attributed. In England these wooden performers were called motions; and Mr. Punch took among them the rank of mirth-maker. If there yet lives a being who has not at some moment of his life felt a thrill of delight at the prospect of a half-hour’s exhibition of this gentleman’s performance in his miniature theatre, we pity him most heartily.

The oratorio is a mystery or morality in music. The Oratorio commenced with the priests of the Oratory, a brotherhood founded at Rome, 1540, by St. Philip Neri, who, in order to attract the youthful and pleasure-loving to church, had hymns, psalms, or spiritual songs, or cantatas sung either in chorus or by a single favourite voice. These pieces were divided into two parts, one sung before the other, after the sermon. Sacred stories or events from Scripture, written in verse, and, by way of dialogue, were set to music, and the first part being performed, the sermon succeeded, which people were inclined to remain to hear, that they might also hear the conclusion of the musical performance. This ingenious device precluded the necessity, we presume, of locking the doors to prevent the egress of the congregation after prayers, and before the sermon, that has in some places since been resorted to.

The institutions of the Oratory required that corporal punishments should be mingled with their religious harmony; and the custom would seem to have been, that at certain seasons, of frequent occurrence, the brethren went through severe castigation from their own hands, upon their own bodies, with whips of small cords, delivered to them by officers appointed for the purpose. This ceremony was performed in the dark, while a priest recited the Miserere and De Profundis with several prayers; after which, in silence and gloom, they were permitted to resume their attire, and refrain from their self-inflictions.

Mysteries and moralities ceased altogether about the year 1758 in this country; a comedy by Lupton, bearing that date, being about the last trace of the old school of dramatic writing. The same year is memorable in this city for the gorgeous pageantries that marked the progress of England’s famous queen through its streets, on the occasion of her visit to this then thriving metropolis of wealth and commerce; and a sketch of the amusements provided for her entertainment, and the talents put into requisition to do honour to her august presence, may not be out of place here, containing, as they do, perhaps some of the latest specimens of the allegorical dramatic writing that exist. They bear strong evidence of the encouragement given to literature by Elizabeth, which had created the fashion for classical allusion upon every possible occasion; and her admiration of the compliment so conveyed, caused the mythology of ancient learning to be introduced into the various shows and spectacles set forth in her honour, until almost every pageant became a pantheon.

But now for the royal visit, whose glorious memory has shed a halo over worsted weaving, and bombazines, and stocking manufactures, and is now enshrined in the magisterial closet of the Guildhall where the little silver sceptre then bequeathed to the honoured city lingers as a memento of the great event.

It was in the year 1578, that her Most Gracious Majesty, by the grace of God, Queen of England, France, and Ireland, was pleased to honour the city by her royal presence for the space of six days and nights, during which period the gaiety and magnificence of the doings would appear to have surpassed all previous or subsequent experience. The civic functionaries held preliminary meetings to ‘determine the order of the procession that should welcome her Majesty, and to decree what preparations should be made for the event. Great excitement prevailed throughout the city; streets were cleaned, dirt heaps removed, boats converted into state barges, velvets and satins, and gold and silver laces bought up to an immense extent, and, what we would appreciate more highly still, a decree was passed, banishing for the time being from the city streets all candle makers and scoutherers, who used unodoriferous washes that might offend the olfactory nerves of royalty. This delicate attention we do esteem most creditable to the good sense of the august body whose care it was to provide for the comfort of the fair maiden queen. Another generous resolution was passed by these same gentlemen, that none of the attendants that might form the retinue of their sovereign should be unfeasted, or unbidden to dinner and supper during the whole period of the six days. A devisor, a sort of lord of misrule, we presume, was chosen to devote himself exclusively to the gettings up of pageants for the amusement of the visitors and public; and to his wit and ingenuity we fancy her majesty was mainly indebted for the enlivenment of her visit.

The auspicious day arrived, and a gay procession started forth to meet the royal party. First came in rank, two by two, three score comely youths of the school of bachelors, arrayed in doublets of black satin, black hose, black taffeta hats with yellow bands, and then, as livery, a mandelin of purple taffeta, trimmed with silver lace. These were followed by a figure fancifully attired with armour, and velvet hat and plume, intended to represent King Gurgunt, the reputed founder of the castle. This personage was attended by three henchmen, bearing his helmet, staff, and target, and gaily decked out in livery of white and green, all richly mounted. Next followed the noble company of gentlemen and wealthy citizens, in velvet coats and other costly apparel. Then came the officers of the city, every one in his place; then the sword-bearer, with the sword and cap of maintenance, next the mayor in full scarlet robes, lined and trimmed with fur, the aldermen in their scarlet gowns, and those of them that had been mayors in cloaks also; next came those who had been sheriffs, in violet gowns and satin tippets; and lastly, the notorious whifflers, poising and throwing up their weapons with dexterity, just sufficient to impart fear and maintain order without doing mischief. Thus they proceeded some two miles forward on the road to meet her majesty, King Gurgunt only excepted, who remained behind, to welcome her majesty at her first view of his redoubted castle. Then followed all the shouting and rejoicing usual on such occasions; and when the royal train arrived, the exchanging of compliments in flowers of speech, and more substantial coins of gold. The mayor presented a vase of silver gilt, containing one hundred pounds of money, as a tribute of loyalty to his sovereign liege, upon which her majesty exclaimed to her footman, “Look to it! there is one hundred pounds;” and in return, the city was presented with a mace or sceptre richly gemmed, so that on this occasion, if history tells us true, her majesty made some return for value received, as was not always her custom to do. Then followed the speechifyings; first the mayor’s and its answer, and afterwards King Gurgunt’s that was to have been, but fortunately we must think for her majesty this forty-two lined specimen of poetry was deferred, in consequence of an April shower. Triumphal arches welcomed her to the city walls, and pageants met her eye at every turn. The first pageant was upon a stage forty feet long and eight broad, with a wall at the back, upon which was written divers sentences, viz. “The causes of the Commonwealth are God truly preached;” “Justice truly executed;” “The People obedient;” “Idleness expelled;” “Labour cherished;” “and universal Concord preserved.” In the front below, it was painted with representations of various looms, with weavers working at them,—over each the name of the loom, Worsted, Russels, Darnix, Mochado, Lace, Caffa, Fringe. Another painting of a matron and several children, over whom was written, “Good nurture changeth qualities.” Upon the stage, at one end, stood six little girls spinning worsted yarn, at the other end the same number knitting worsted hose; in the centre stood a little boy, gaily dressed, who represented the “Commonwealth of the city,” who made a lengthened speech, commencing—

“Most gracious prince, undoubted sovereign queen,
Our only joy next God and chief defence;
In this small shew our whole estate is seen,
The wealth we have we find proceed from thence;
The idle hand hath here no place to feed,
The painsful wight hath still to serve his need;
Again our seat denies our traffick here,
The sea too near divides us from the rest.
So weak we were within this dozen year,
As care did quench the courage of the best;
But good advice hath taught these little hands
To rend in twain the force of pining bands.
From combed wool we draw the slender thread,
From thence the looms have dealing with the same,
And thence again in order do proceed,
These several works which skilful art doth frame,
And all to drive dame Need into her cave
Our heads and hands together laboured have.
We bought before the things that now we sell.
These slender imps, their works do pass the waves,
Of every mouth the hands the charges saves,
Thus through thy help, and aid of power divine,
Doth Norwich live, whose hearts and goods are thine.’”

This device gave her majesty much pleasure.

Another very magnificent affair, with gates of jasper and marble, was placed across the market-place, five female figures on the stage above representing the City, Deborah, Judith, Hester, and Martia (a queen); whose chief, the City, was spokeswoman first, and was succeeded by the others each in turn. All that they said we dare not tarry to repeat; the City expressed herself in some hundred lines of poetry, the rest rather more briefly. “Whom fame resounds with thundering trump;” “Flower of Grace, Prince of God’s Elect;” “Mighty Queen, finger of the Lord,” and such like hyperbole, made up the substance of their flattery. We know the good Queen Bess was somewhat fond of such food, but we think even her taste must have been somewhat palled with the specimens offered on this occasion. Others of a similar character were scattered along her pathway to the cathedral. After service she retired to her quarters at the palace of the bishop. On the Monday the deviser planned a scheme by which her majesty was enticed abroad by the invitation of Mercury, who was sent in a coach covered with birds and little angels in the air and clouds, a tower in the middle, decked with gold and jewels, topped by a plume of feathers, spangled and trimmed most gorgeously; Mercury himself in blue satin, lined with cloth of gold, with garments cut and slashed according to the most approved fashion of the day, a peaked hat, made to “cut the wind,” a pair of wings on his head and his heels; in his hand a golden rod with another pair of wings. The horses of his coach were painted and furnished each with wings, and made to “drive with speed that might resemble flying;” and in this guise did Mercury present himself before the window at the palace, and tripping from his throne, made his most humble obeisance and lengthy speech, all which most graciously was received by her majesty. Thus ended this day’s sport.

On Tuesday, as her majesty proceeded to Cossey Park, for the purpose of enjoying a day’s hunt, another pageant was got up by the industrious devisor, the subject of which was, Cupid in Search of a Home—not, however, much worth detailing. Wednesday her majesty dined at Surrey House with Lord Surrey, at which banquet the French ambassadors are said to have been present; and a pageant was prepared for the occasion, but the rooms seem to have been rather too small to admit the company of performers, so it was of necessity deferred. On her road home, the master of the grammar-school stayed the procession to deliver a lengthened speech before the gates of the hospital for old men, to which the queen graciously replied in flattering terms, presenting her hand to be kissed. Thursday was marked by divers pageantries, prepared by order of the Lord Chamberlain, by the devisor. The morning display, which was to enliven her majesty’s riding excursion, was made up of nymphs playing in water, the space occupied for the same being a square of sixty feet, with a deep hole four feet square in some part of it, to answer for a cave. The ground was covered with canvas, painted like grass, with running cords through the rings attached to its sides, which obeyed another small cord in the centre, by which machinery, with two holes on the ground, the earth was made to appear to open and shut. In the cave, in the centre, was music, and the twelve water-nymphs, dressed in white silk with green sedges, so cunningly stitched on them, that nothing else could be seen. Each carried in her hand a bundle of bulrushes, and on her head a garland of ivy and a crop of moss, from whence streamed their long golden tresses over their shoulders. Four nymphs were to come forth successively and salute her majesty with a speech, then all twelve were to issue forth and dance with timbrels.

The show of Manhood and Desert, designed for the entertainment at Lord Surrey’s, was also placed close by. Manhood, Favour, Desert, striving for a boy called Beauty, who, however, was to fall to the share of Good fortune. A battle should have followed, between six gentlemen on either side, in which Fortune was to be victorious; during the combat, legs and arms of men “well and lively wrought”, were to be let fall in numbers on the ground “as bloody as might be.” Fortune marcheth off a conqueror, and a song for the death of Manhood, Favour, and Desert, concluded the programme. But, alas! all this preparation was rendered of no avail, by reason of a drenching thunder-shower, which so “dashed and washed performers and spectators, that the pastime was reduced to the display of a dripping multitude, looking like half-drowned rats; and velvets, silks, tinsels, and cloth of gold, to no end of an amount, fell a sacrifice to this caprice of the weather.”

The evening entertainment at the guildhall was more successful, the casualties of rain and wind having no power there, to disturb the arrangements got up with so much labour and cost. After a magnificent banquet in the common council chamber, above the assize court, a princely masque of gods and goddesses, richly apparelled, was presented before her majesty.

Mercury entered first, followed by two torch-bearers, in purple taffeta mandillions, laid with silver lace; then the musicians, dressed in long vestures of white silk girded about them, and garlands on their heads; next came Jupiter and Juno, Mars and Venus, Apollo and Pallas, Neptune and Diana, and lastly Cupid, between each couple two torch-bearers. Thus they marched round the chamber, and Mercury delivered his message to the queen.

“The good-meaning mayor and all his brethren, with the rest, have not rested from praying to the gods, to prosper thy coming hither; and the gods themselves, moved by their unfeigned prayers, are ready in person to bid thee welcome; and I, Mercury, the god of merchants and merchandise, and therefore a favourer of the citizens, being thought meetest am chosen fittest to signify the same. Gods there be, also, which cannot come, being tied by the time of the year, as Ceres in harvest, Bacchus in wines, Pomona in orchards. Only Hymeneus denieth his good-will either in presence or in person; notwithstanding Diana hast so counter-checked him, therefore, as he shall hereafter be at your commandment. For my part, as I am a rejoicer at your coming, so am I furtherer of your welcome hither, and for this time I bid you farewell.”

All then marched about again, at the close of each circuit, stopping for the gods to present each a gift to her majesty; Jupiter, a riding wand of whalebone, curiously wrought; Mars, a fair pair of knives; Venus, a white dove; Apollo, a musical instrument, called a bandonet; Pallas, a book of wisdom; Neptune, a fish; Diana, a bow and arrows, of silver; Cupid, an arrow of gold, with these lines on the shaft—

“My colour joy, my substance pure,
My virtue such as shall endure.”

The queen received the gifts with gracious condescension, listening the while to the verses recited by the gods as accompaniments.

On Friday, being the day fixed for her majesty’s departure, the devisor prepared one last grand spectacle, water spirits, to the sound of whose timbrels was spoken “her majesty’s farewell to Norwich;” and thus terminated this season of rejoicing, but not with it the results of the royal visitation.

The train of gay carriages that had formed the retinue of the fair queen, were said to have left behind them the infection of the plague; and scarcely had the last echoes of merriment and joy faded upon the ear, when the deep thrilling notes of wailing and lamentation broke forth from crushed hearts. Death held his reign of terror, threw his black mantle of gloom over the stricken city, and wrapped its folds around each hearth and home, and banquet chamber—sunshine was followed by clouds and storm, and thunders of wrath—feast-makers, devisors, and players—Gurgunt, Mercury, Cupid, and Apollo, laid down their trappings, and in their stricken houses died alone. The finger-writing upon the door-posts marked each smitten home with the touching prayer, “The Lord have mercy upon us!” The insignia of the white wand borne by the infected ones, who issued forth into the streets from their tainted atmospheres, warned off communion with their fellow men, and sorrow filled all hearts;—a year of sadness and gloom followed—men’s hearts failing them for fear. Scarcely had the plague lifted its hand from oppressing the people, ere the benumbed faculties of the woe-begone mourners were roused to fresh terror, by the grumbling murmurs of an earthquake;—storms, lightnings, hailstones, and tempests spread desolation in their course through all parts of the country in quick succession—a very age of trouble.

But turning from dark scenes of history once more to the sports and pastimes that gladdened the hearts and eyes of the good old citizens of yore, we must not fail to chronicle the famous visit of Will Kempe, the morris dancer, whose “nine days’ wonder,” or dance from London to Norwich in nine days, has been recorded by himself in a merry little pamphlet bearing internal evidence of a lightness of heart rivalling the lightness of toe that gained for him his Terpsichorean fame. His name receives a fresh halo of interest from its association with that of one of the great ones of the earth, Will Shakespeare, in whose company of players at the Globe, Blackfriars, he was a comedian; and his signature and that of the dramatist’s stand together at the foot of a counter petition presented at the same time with one got up by the inhabitants of the neighbourhood against the continuance of plays in that house. Kempe played Peter and Dogberry in “Romeo and Juliet,” and “Much Ado about Nothing;” also, Launce, Touchstone, Gravedigger, Justice Shallow, and Launcelot. One feels that the morris dancer has a fresh claim upon our interest by such associations, and we look into the merry book dedicated to Mistress Anne Fitton, maid of honour to England’s maiden queen, prepared to relish heartily the frolicsome account of how he tript it merrily to the music of Thomas Slye, his taberer, gaining every where the admiration of the wondering townsfolk and villagers upon his road, receiving, and occasionally of necessity refusing, their profusely proffered hospitalities, and now and then accepting their offers to tread a measure with him at his pace, a feat that one brave and buxom lass alone was found equal to perform—one can appreciate the quiet fun in which he permits himself to indulge at the discomfiture of the followers who track his flying steps, when their running accompaniment is interrupted by the mud and mire of the unmacadamized mediÆval substitutes for turnpike roads, where occasionally he dances on, leaving the volunteer corps up to their necks in some slough of despond. Such a picture of the highways in the good old times, is consolatory to the unfortunate generation of the nineteenth century, who, among their many burdens and oppressions, can at least congratulate themselves that in respect to locomotion, the lines have fallen to them in pleasanter places.

The morris dance in its original glory was most frequently joined to processions and pageants, especially to those appropriated to the celebration of the May games. The chief dancer was more superbly dressed than his comrades, and on these occasions was presumed to personate Robin Hood; the maid Marian, and others supposed to have been the outlaw’s companions, were the characters supported by the rest; and the hobby-horse, or a dragon, sometimes both, made a part of the display.

It was by some supposed to have been imported from the Moors, and was probably a kind of Pyrrhic or military dance, usually performed with staves and bells attached to the feet, each of which had its several tone and name; the men who danced it, when in full character, were accompanied by a boy dressed as a girl, and styled the maid Marion (or Morian, possibly from the Italian Moriane, a head piece, because his head was generally gaily decked out).

The hobby-horse was originally a necessary accompaniment of the morris dance, but the Puritans had banished it before the time of the hero Kempe,—why, or wherefore, it is difficult to imagine, as his presence, with a ladle attached to his mouth to collect the douceurs of the spectators, must have been as harmless, one would fancy, as that of the fool who succeeded him in the office.

In Edward the Fourth’s reign, we find mention made of hoblers, or persons who were obliged by tenure to send a light swift horse to carry tidings of invasion from the sea-side—light horsemen from this came to be called hoblers—and doubtless from this origin sprang the term hobby-horse—hence the allusion to men riding their hobby.

Kempe’s dance is alluded to by Ben Jonson, in his “Every Man out of his Humour.” In his own narrative he alludes to some other similar exploit he had it in his mind to perform; but as no record exists of its accomplishment, we are left to infer that the entrance made of the death of one Will Kempe, at the time of the plague, November 1603, in the parish books of one of the metropolitan churches, refers to the merry comedian, and that his career was suddenly terminated by that unsightly foe.

In 1609, a tract with an account of a morris dance performed by twelve individuals who had attained the age of a hundred, was published, “to which,” it was added, “Kempe’s morris dance was no more than a galliord on a common stage at the end of an old dead comedy, is to a caranto danced on the ropes.”

Not long subsequent to these events, theatres became settled down into stationary objects of attraction and amusement; and in most large cities, companies were formed to conduct the business of the performances. Among the epitaphs in the principal churchyard of the city, St. Peter’s Mancroft, are several to the memory of different individuals who had belonged to the company. Among them, one

in memory of
WILLIAM WEST, COMEDIAN,
late member of the norwich company.

Obiit 17 June, 1733. Aged 32.

To me ’twas given to die, to thee ’tis given
To live; alas! one moment sets us even—
Mark how impartial is the will of Heaven.

Another:—

in memory of
ANNE ROBERTS.
1743. Aged 30.

The world’s a stage—at birth one play’s begun,
And all find exits when their parts are done.

HENRIETTA BRAY.
1737. Aged 60.
a comedian.

Here, reader, you may plainly see
That Wit nor Humour e’er could be
A proof against Mortality.

The subject of Pageantry may not be fitly closed without notice of the costly displays of magnificence that characterize the various processions and ceremonies that have become classed under the same title, although distinct altogether from the original dramatic representations to which the name belonged. Some of these, in honour of saints and martyrs, long since dead even to the memory of enlightened Protestantism, partake more of the character of religious festivals than any thing else; and among them the annual commemoration of St. Nicholas day, by the election of the Boy Bishop, peculiarly deserves to be classed. In olden times, on the 6th of December, it was an invariable custom for the boys of every cathedral choir to make choice of one of their number to maintain the state and authority of a bishop, from that time until the 28th, or Innocent’s day, during which period he was habited in rich episcopal robes, wore a mitre on his head, and carried a crosier in his hand; his companions assumed the dress and character of priests, yielding to their head all canonical obedience, and between them performing all the services of the church excepting mass. On the eve of Innocent’s day, the Boy Bishop, and his youthful clergy in their caps, and with lighted tapers in their hand, went in solemn procession, chaunting and singing versicles, as they walked into the choir by the west door; the dean and canons of the Cathedral went first, the chaplains followed, and the Boy Bishop with his priests in the last and highest place. The Boy Bishop then took his seat, and the rest of the juveniles dispersed themselves on each side the choir on the uppermost ascent. The resident canons bearing the incense and book, the minor canons the tapers, he afterwards proceeded to the altar of the Trinity, which he censed, and then the image of the Trinity, his priests all the while singing. They all then joined in chaunting a service with prayers and responses, and in conclusion the Boy Bishop gave his benediction to the people. After he received the crosier, other ceremonies were performed, and he chaunted the complyn, and turning towards the choir delivered an exhortation. If any prebends fell vacant during his episcopal power, he had the power of disposing of them; and if he died during the month he was buried in his robes, his funeral was celebrated with great pomp, and a monument was erected to his memory with his effigy.

The discovery of a monument of this character, some hundred and seventy years since, in Salisbury Cathedral, caused much amazement to the many then unread in antiquarian lore, who marvelled much at the anomalous affair, wondering however a bishop could have been so small, or a child so rich in ecclesiastical garments.

From this custom originated the but lately discontinued honours, annually awarded to the head boy in most grammar schools, who had a place in grand civic processions, and for a season at least was magnified into a great personage.

The origin of this festival, on St Nicholas day, is involved like most others in much obscurity, and buried in heaps of legendary mysticism. The tale upon which it is said to have been founded is, that in the fourth century St. Nicholas was bishop of Myra, when two young gentlemen arrived at that city on their road to Athens, whither they were going to complete their education. By their father’s desire they were to seek the benediction of the bishop on their way, but as it was late at night when they reached Myra, they deferred doing so till the next morning; but in the meantime the host of the inn at which they were lodging, stimulated by avarice to possess himself of their property, killed the young gentlemen, cut them in pieces, salted them, and purposed to sell them for pickled pork.

St. Nicholas, the bishop, being favoured with a sight of these proceedings in a vision, (or, as we should now-a-days express it, by clairvoyance) went to the inn, reproached the cruel landlord for his crime, who, confessing it, entreated the saint to pray to heaven for his pardon. The bishop, moved by his entreaties, besought pardon for him, and restoration of life to the children. He had scarcely finished, when the pickled pieces re-united, and the animated youths threw themselves from the brine-tub at the bishop’s feet; he raised them up, exhorted them to ascribe the praise to God alone, and sent them forward on their journey, with much good counsel.

Such is the miracle handed down as the cause of the adoption of Saint Nicholas as the patron saint of children. The Eton Montem is considered to be a corruption of the ceremony of electing a boy-bishop, probably changed at the time of the suppression of the religious festivals at the Reformation.

One other pageant, more especially connected with the history of a manufacturing city, is the procession of Bishop Blaize, or St. Blazius, the great patron saint of wool-combers; in which usually figured Jason, the hero of the “golden fleece,” and forty Argonauts on horseback, the emblems of the expedition, preceded by Hercules, Peace, Plenty, and Britannia. These were followed by the bishop, dressed in episcopal costume, crowned with a mitre of wool, drawn in an open chariot by six horses, and attended by vergers, bands of music, the city standard, a chaplain, and orators delivering, at intervals, grandiloquent speeches. Seven companies of wool-combers on foot, and five on horseback, brought up the rear; shepherds, shepherdesses, tastefully attired in fancy costumes, added to the brilliancy of the display. Bishop Blazius, the principal personage in the festivity, was Bishop of Sebesta, in Armenia, and the reputed inventor of the art of combing wool. The Romish church canonized the saint, and attributed to his miraculous interposition many wondrous miracles. Divers charms, also, for extracting thorns from the body, or a bone from the throat, were prescribed to be uttered in his name.

Among the festivals that lay claim to antiquity, of which some faint traces, at least, are left in the observances of the nineteenth century, are some few that belong as much to the history of the present as the past, and must not be omitted in sketches of the characteristic features of an old city. The Fair—the great annual gatherings of wooden houses and wooden horses, tin trumpets, and spice nuts, Diss bread, and gingerbread—menageries of wild natural history, and caravans of tame unnatural collections, giants, dwarfs, albinos, and lusus naturÆ of every conceivable deformity—of things above the earth and under the earth, in the sea and out of the sea—of panoramas, dioramas—wax-works, with severable heads and moving countenances—of Egyptian tents, with glass factories in miniature concealed within their mystic folds, under the guidance of the glass-wigged alchemist, the presiding genius—performing canaries, doing the Mr. and Mrs. Caudle, and firing off pistols—pert hares playing on the tambourine, and targets and guns to be played with for prizes of nuts, and whirligigs and rocking-boats—the avenues of sailcloth, with their linings of confectionary, toys, basket-work, and ornamental stationery—the gong and the drum, and the torrents of Cheap-Jack eloquence, mingling with the music of the leopard-clad minstrels of the zoological departments;—dear is the holiday to the hearts, and memories, and anticipations, of many an enlightened infant of this highly developed age;—as dear, and welcome, and thrilling, in its confusion of noise, and bewilderment of colour, as ever of old, to the children of larger growth, who, in the infancy of civilization, were wont to find in them their primers of learning, arts, and sciences.

When trade was principally carried on by means of fairs, and they lasted many days, the merchants who frequented them for business purposes, used every art and means to draw people together, and were therefore accompanied, we are told, by jugglers, minstrels, and buffoons; and as then few public amusements or spectacles were established, either in cities or towns, the fair-time was almost the only season of diversion. The clergy, finding that the entertainments of dancing, music, mimicry, &c. exhibited at them, drew people from their religious duties, in the days of their power proscribed them—but to no purpose; and failing in their efforts, with the ingenuity that characterized their age and profession, changed their tastes, and took the recreations into their own hands, turned actors and play-writers themselves, and substituted the Religious Mysteries for the profane punchinellos and juggleries that have since, in later times, resumed their sway, undisputed by any ecclesiastical rivals for popular applause in the dramatic line.

Among other sports that formed the attractions to the Fair in olden times, was the Quintain, a game of contest, memorable in the annals of the city, as having on one occasion, in the reign of Edward I., been made the opportunity of commencing hostilities of a far more formidable nature and protracted extent than the occasion itself could warrant, or be presumed to cause.

The Quintain was a post fixed strongly in the ground, with a piece of wood, about six feet long, laid across it on the top, placed so as to turn round; on one end of this cross-piece was hung a bag, containing a hundred-weight of sand, which was called the Quintal; at the other end was fixed a board about a foot square, at which the player, who was mounted on horseback, with a truncheon, pole, or sort of tilting-spear, ran direct with force; if he was skilful, the board gave way, and he passed on before the bag reached him, in which feat lay success; but if he hit the board, but was not expert enough to escape, the bag swung round, and striking him, often dismounted him; to miss the board altogether was, however, the greatest disgrace. The quarrel alluded to, arose ostensibly about the truncheons, but it was supposed really to have been at the instigation of other persons, both on the part of the monastery and city.

Tombland Fair stands not quite alone as a memorial of ancient festivals held in honour of patron saints—one other day in the year stands forth in the calendar of juvenile and mature enjoyments, unrivalled in its claim upon our notice and our love. St. Valentine, that “man of most admirable parts, so famous for his love and charity that the custom of choosing valentines upon his festival took its rise from thence,” as Wheatley tells us,—is yet, even to this hour, held in high honour, and most gloriously commemorated in this good old city, and in so unique a fashion, that a few words may not suffice to give a true delineation of it. The approach of the happy day is heralded, in these days of steam-presses and local journals, by monster-typed advertisements, gigantically headed “Valentines,” or huge labels, bearing the same mystic letters, carefully arranged in the midst of gorgeously-decked windows, towards which young eyes turn in glistening hope and admiration; and at sight of which little hearts beat high with eager expectation. Not of Cupids, and hearts, and darts, and such like merry conceits on fairy-mottoed note paper, doth the offerings of St. Valentine consist in this good old mart of commerce;—far more real and substantial are the samples of taste, ornament, and use, that rank themselves in the category of his gifts. The jeweller’s front, radiant with gold and precious gems, and frosted silver, and ruby-eyed oxydized owls, Russian malachite fashioned into every conceivable fantasy of invention, brooches, bracelets, crosses, studs masculine and feminine, chatelaines ditto, and not a few of epicene characteristics, betokening the signs of the times,—all claim to rank under the title. The Drapers—especially the “French depots,” with their large assortments on shew, in remote bazaars appropriated exclusively to the business of the festive season, where labyrinths of dressing-cases, desks, work-boxes, inkstands, and portfeuilles, usurp the place of lawful mercery, and haberdashery for the time being yields place to stationery, perfumery, bijouterie, and cutlery, proclaim the triumphs of his reign in their midst. But supreme above all, are the glories that the toy-shops display, from the gay balcony-fronted repository for all the choicest inventions science, skill, or wit can devise, at once to please the fancy, help the brain, tax the ingenuity of childhood, or dazzle the eye of babyhood, downwards through the less recherchÉ, but scarcely less thronged marts, a grade below in price and quality, to the very huckster’s stall or apple booth, that shall for the time being add its quota of penny whips, tin trumpets, and long-legged, brittle-jointed, high-combed Dutch ladies, whose proportions exhibit any thing but the contour usually described as a “Dutch build.” Nor these alone—the shoemaker’s, with its newly-acquired treasures of gutta percha knick-knacks, flower-pots, card-trays, inkstands, picture-frames, boxes, caddies, medallions, and what-not that is useful and ornamental, in addition to shoe-soles with a propensity to adhere to hot iron, and betray by deeply indented gutters the impress of any new bright-topped fender on which they have chanced to trespass—all, all, are offerings at the shrine of good St. Valentine; how, when, and where, we have yet to see.

One peep behind these plate-glassed drop scenes—one visit to the toy-shop—it is an event—a circumstance to be chronicled—even the quiet, mild, and self-possessed proprietress of all the wealth of fun and fashion, use and ornament, and zoology, from the rocking-horse down to the Chinese spider, and Noah’s ark to lady-birds, for once looks heated and tired; and one feels impelled to cheer the kind-hearted, gentle matron, by reminding her, that her toil will be repaid tenfold, by pleasant thoughts of the myriad shouts of welcome and heartfelt glee that, ere long, will have been hymned forth in praise of the perfection of her taste.

Her labours and toils would seem scarcely to surpass those of her purchasers. The perplexity and labyrinth of doubt and difficulty they find themselves in is truly pitiable; the annual return of a festival when every body, from grandpapa and grandmamma to baby bo, is expected to receive and give some offering commemorative of the season, causes, in time, a considerable difficulty in the choice of gifts, and added to the mystifications of memory as to who has what? and what hasn’t who? produces a perfect bewilderment. The fluctuations between dominoes, bats and traps, dolls, la grÀce, draughts, chess, rocks of Scilly, German tactics, fox and geese, printing machines, panoramas, puzzles, farmy-ards, battledores, doll’s houses, compasses, knitting cases, and a myriad others, seem interminable—but an end must come, and the purchaser and seller find rest.

But all this toil is but the prelude to the grand act of the drama; Valentine’s eve arrived, the play begins in earnest. The streets swarm with carriers, and baskets laden with treasures—bang, bang, bang go the knockers, and away rushes the banger, depositing first upon the door-step some package from the basket of stores—again and again at intervals, at every door to which a missive is addressed, is the same repeated till the baskets are empty. Anonymously St. Valentine presents his gifts, labelled only with “St. Valentine’s” love, and “Good morrow, Valentine.”

Then within the houses of destination—the screams, the shouts, the rushings to catch the bang bangs—the flushed faces, sparkling eyes, rushing feet to pick up the fairy gifts—inscriptions to be interpreted, mysteries to be unravelled, hoaxes to be found out—great hampers, heavy, and ticketed “With care, this side upwards,” to be unpacked, out of which jump live little boys with St. Valentine’s love to the little ladies fair—the sham bang bangs, that bring nothing but noise and fun—the mock parcels that vanish from the door step by invisible strings when the door opens—monster parcels that dwindle to thread-papers denuded of their multiplied envelopes, with pithy mottoes, all tending to the final consummation of good counsel, “Happy is he who expects nothing, and he will not be disappointed!” It is a glorious night, marvel not that we would perpetuate so joyous a festivity. We love its mirth, the memory of its smiles and mysteries of loving kindness, its tender reverential tributes to old age, and time-tried friendship, amid the throng of sprightlier festal offerings, that mark the season in our hearths and homes, as sacred to a love so pure, so true, and holy, that good St. Valentine himself may feel justly proud of such commemoration.

How and when this peculiar mode of celebrating the festival arose it would be difficult perhaps to discover. In olden times, as we find by the diary of Dr. Browne, the more prevalent custom of drawing valentines on the eve before Valentine day was in vogue; but Forby’s “Vocabulary of East Anglia” makes mention of a practice which doubtless has become developed in the course of time into the elaborate and costly celebration of the present day. He says, “In Norfolk it is the custom for children to ‘catch’ each other for valentines; and if there are elderly persons in the family who are likely to be liberal, great care is taken to catch them. The mode of catching is by saying ‘Good morrow, Valentine,’ and if they can repeat this before they are spoken to, they are rewarded with a small present. It must be done, however, before sunrise; otherwise instead of a reward, they are told they are sunburnt.” He adds a query—Does this illustrate the phrase sunburned, in “Much Ado about Nothing”?

The universal respect in which the anniversary of St. Valentine is held, may perhaps be most justly estimated by the statistical facts that relate to the post-office transactions for that day, in comparison with the average amount of the daily transmissions; and each district has probably some peculiar mode of celebrating it,—but nowhere, we imagine, does its annual return leave behind it such pleasing and substantial memorials as in our “Old City.” Douce, in his “Illustrations of Shakespeare,” would have us believe that the observances of St. Valentine’s day had their origin in the festivals of ancient Rome during the month of February, when they celebrated the “Lupercalia,” or feasts in honour of Pan and Juno, sometimes called Februalis, on which occasion, amidst a variety of other ceremonies, the names of young men and maidens were put into a box, and drawn as chance directed. The pastors of the early church, in their endeavours to eradicate the vestiges of popular superstitions, substituted the names of saints for those of the young maidens, and as the Lupercalia commenced in February, affixed the observance to the feast of St. Valentine in that month, thus preserving the outline of the ancient ceremony, to which the people were attached, modified by an adaptation to the Christian system.

Time, however, would seem to have restored the maidens to their original position. Brande has given many curious details of the various modes of celebrating the anniversary, in addition to the universal interchange of illuminated letters and notes. In Oxfordshire the children go about collecting pence, singing,

“Good morrow, Valentine,
First ’tis yours, then ’tis mine,
So please give me a Valentine.”

In some other counties the poorer classes of children dress themselves fantastically, and visit the houses of the great, singing,

“Good morning to you, Valentine,
Curl your locks as I do mine,
Two before and three behind—
Good morrow to you, Valentine.”

In other parts the first member of the opposite sex that is seen by any individual is said to be his or her “Valentine.” This is the case in Berkshire and some other of the neighbouring counties. Pepys, in his “Diary,” says, “St. Valentine’s day, 1667. This morning came up to my wife’s bedside, I being up dressing myself, little Will Mercer, to be her Valentine, and brought her name written upon blue paper in gold letters done by himself very pretty; and we were both well pleased with it. But I am also this year my wife’s Valentine, which will cost me £5—but that I must have laid out if we had not been Valentines.” He afterwards adds, “I find that Mrs. Pierce’s little girl is my Valentine, she having drawn me, which I was not sorry for, it easing me of something more I must have given to others. But here I do first observe the fashion of drawing of mottoes as well as names; so that Pierce who drew my wife, did also draw a mottoe, and this girl drew another for me. What mine was I forget; but my wife’s was, ‘Most courteous and most fair.’ One wonder I observed to-day, that there was no music in the morning to call up our new-married people, which is very mean methinks.” The custom of presenting gifts seems then to have been practised.

In the “British Apollo,” 1708, a sort of “Notes and Queries” of the day, we read,

“Why Valentine’s a day to choose
A mistress, and our freedom lose?
May I my reason interpose,
The question with an answer close;
To imitate we have a mind,
And couple like the winged kind.”

In the same work, “1709, Query.—In choosing Valentines (according to custom), is not the party choosing (be it man or woman) to make a present to the party chosen? Answer.—We think it more proper to say drawing of Valentines, since the most customary way is for each to take his or her lot, and chance cannot be termed choice. According to this method the obligations are equal, and, therefore, it was formerly the custom mutually to present, but now it is customary only for the gentlemen.” In Scotland presents are reciprocally made on the day.

Gay has given a poetical description of some rural ceremonies used in the morning:

“Last Valentine, the day when birds of kind
Their paramours with mutual chirpings find,
I early rose, just at the break of day,
Before the sun had chased the stars away;
A-field I went amid the morning dew,
To milk my kine (for so should house-wives do).
The first I spied, and the first swain we see,
In spite of Fortune shall our true love be.”

The following curious practice on Valentine’s day or eve is mentioned in the “Connoisseur.” “Last Friday was Valentine’s day, and the night before I got five bay leaves, and pinned four of them to the corners of my pillow, and the fifth in the middle; and then if I dreamt of my sweetheart, Betty said we should be married before the year was out. But to make it more sure, I boiled an egg hard, and took out the yolk and filled it with salt; and when I went to bed, eat it shell and all, without speaking or drinking after it. We also wrote the names of our lovers upon bits of paper, and rolled them up in clay and put them into water, and the first that rose up was to be our Valentine.”

The popular tradition, that the birds select mates on this day, is the last subject to be mentioned. Shakespeare alludes to it in the “Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“St. Valentine is past;
Begin these wood birds but to couple now.”

Cowper’s “Fable,” who cannot call to mind? and its moral may close our notice of St. Valentine’s day.

“Misses, the tale that I relate,
This lesson seems to carry—
Choose not alone a proper mate,
But proper time to marry?”

The list of pageantries and festivals must now close, with an attempt to chronicle the glories of a modern “chairing day;” and the more imperative does it seem to find a place in history for this last stray sunbeam of mediÆval splendour, that it bids fair, amidst the growth of sobriety in this utilitarian age, to share all, too soon, the fate of its ancestors, who found their grave in the first “dissolution” and after-flood of Puritanism. There may be who would liken this relic of pageantry to a lingering mote of feudalism, that the penetrating broom of reform had done well to sweep from the pathway of a “free and enlightened people;” who would hint that the old custom is more honoured in the breach than the observance; and towards their opinion seems to incline that of the chief performers in the modern “mystery”—the M.P. himself, whose nerves, proprieties, and objections have unitedly rebelled against submission to these antiquated practices of this antiquated place. It is therefore scarcely what is, but what has been, that we have to commemorate in our detail.

When the onerous duty of selecting a representative of the people’s voice, wishes, and will in the councils of the nation has been completed by the calm, deliberate, dispassionate, and disinterested decision of the enfranchised tithe of the city’s populace, the successful candidates are, or were, wont to receive installation from the hands of their constituents by a “toss up,” not, we would inform our countrymen of the “sheeres,” (meaning all other counties save Norfolk, Suffolk, and Kent)—not that they engage in any little gambling speculation, such as is usually known under a similar name, but that they are required to submit to be made shuttlecocks for some few hours, for the amusement of the admiring multitude; and seeing that the fun and frolic thus afforded is, or was, the sole share of nine-tenths of the population in the transaction of electing the “unruly member” that is to speak the hopes, wants, dissatisfactions, and grumblings of a large city, it may seem somewhat hard to them that they should be deprived of it. The order of carrying out this provincial mode of installation, consists in forming a grand procession, as it is called, made up of as many carriages and horsemen as the stables of the city and neighbourhood, private and public, may contrive to turn out, the colour and popularity of the candidate of course exercising its influence upon quantity and quality. The days of velvet doublets and liveries of silver and gold being passed, the candidate makes no pretensions to display in the toilettes of the gentlemen—plain, sober black predominates throughout the mass; no shadow of a variation, save and except in the “dramatis personÆ,” who take their stand upon the battledores provided for them, arrayed in full court costume or regimentals, as the case may be. To particularize more closely, it should be stated, that the battledores, as we have chosen to designate them, are wooden platforms, borne upon the shoulders of some two or three dozen men; the platform supports a chair elaborately ornamented, blue and silver, or purple and orange, as the successful candidates may be blues or purples—Whigs or Tories. Besides the chair, the platform supports the fortunate M.P. himself, standing, aided in balancing himself in the elevated pinnacle of glory to which he has attained, by the back or elbows of the chair, which piece of luxury, we presume, must be intended solely as a symbol of the easy berth in prospect, since throughout the long sunny scorching perambulations of city streets and market-place, it may seldom, if ever, be ventured to be indulged in as a resting place. Meantime, every window, balcony, house-top, church-tower, and parapet-wall, has been lined with anxious and eager lookers-on—every space and avenue leading to or adjoining the line of march has been thronged; flags, banners, &c. &c., have been marshalled into the procession, whose pathway is cleared and protected by a locomotive body-guard of posse men, bearing horizontally in their hands long poles, which are presumed to act as barriers to the encroachments of the multitude without the pale. The line of procession once formed, in due order they make their triumphal progress, bowing, smiling, and trembling on their elevations, as they draw near to the thronging frontage of any loyal constituent, whose colours are a signal for the game to commence. Up, then, goes the M.P. high in the air,—once, twice, thrice, again and again, fortunate and clever if he comes down perpendicularly. Perfection and elegance in the peculiar pas de seal requires much practice and many experiments; but as the move is repeated very frequently, at very short intervals, during the progress round the city, possibly one experience may suffice in a life-time. The exhibition is occasionally closed by the bearers of the two candidates making a match with each other as to who can toss longest and highest, which done, the victimized shuttlecocks and the delighted spectators are permitted to retire. The origin of this very singular act of homage is not very clear; but as one or two recent outbursts of popular enthusiasm have manifested themselves in a similar form—to wit, laying violent hands upon a popular favourite and tossing him in the air, with neither platform or chair to lend grace to the proceeding—we must suppose that some traditionary virtue is attached to the act; and this supposition is somewhat confirmed by the fact that a superstitious practice of “lifting” or “heaving,” very similar in its mode of operation, is still observed on Easter Monday and Tuesday in some other English counties. The men and women on these days alternately exercise the privilege of seizing and “lifting” any member of the opposite sex that they may chance to meet, and claim a fee for the honour. In the records of the Tower of London, may be found a document purporting to set forth how such payment was made to certain ladies and maids of honour for “taking” (or “lifting”) King Edward I. at Easter, a custom then prevalent throughout the kingdom. Brande gives an amusing account of an occurrence in Shrewsbury, extracted from a letter from Mr. Thomas Loggan, of Basinghall Street. He says, “I was sitting alone last Easter Tuesday at breakfast, at the Talbot, in Shrewsbury, when I was surprised by the entrance of all the female servants of the house handing in an arm-chair, lined with white, and decorated with ribbons and favours of all kinds. I asked them what they wanted; they said they came to ‘heave’ me; it was the custom of their place, and they hoped I would take a seat in the chair. It was impossible not to comply with a request so modestly made by a set of nymphs in their best apparel, and several of them under twenty. I wished to see all the ceremony, and seated myself accordingly; the group then lifted me from the ground, turned the chair about, and I had the felicity of a salute from each. I told them I supposed there was a fee due, and was answered in the affirmative; and having satisfied the damsels in this respect, they retired to ‘heave’ others.”

The usage is said to be a vulgar commemoration of the event which the festival of Easter celebrates. Lancashire, Staffordshire, and Warwickshire still retain the Easter custom.

Whether or not the notable Norfolk “chairing” takes its origin from the same is open to question; possibility there is without doubt that it does so. Be it as it may, it must, we fear, be numbered among the departed joys of the poor folks.