England in the Days of Old

In England, in past times, the moss-rose was plucked with considerable ceremony on this eve for love divinations. Says the writer of a poem entitled “The Cottage Girl”: —

“The moss-rose that, at fall of dew,Ere eve its duskier curtain drew,Was freshly gathered from its stem,She values as the ruby gem;And, guarded from the piercing air,With all an anxious lover’s care,She bids it, for her shepherd’s sake,Await the New Year’s frolic wake:When faded in its altered hue,She reads – the rustic is untrue!But if its leaves the crimson paint,Her sick’ning hopes no longer faint;The rose upon her bosom worn,She meets him at the peep of morn,And lo! her lips with kisses prest,He plucks it from her panting breast.”

“On the continent,” says Dyer, in his “Folk-Lore of Plants,” “the rose is still thought to possess mystic virtues in love matters, as in Thuringia, where the girls foretell their future by means of rose leaves.” It appears from a contributor to Chambers’s “Book of Days,” that there was brought some time ago under the notice of the Society of Antiquarians a curious little ring, which had been found in a ploughed field near Cawood, Yorkshire. It was inferred from its style and inscription to belong to the fifteenth century. The device consisted of two orpine plants joined by a true-love knot, with this motto above: Ma fiancée velt, i. e., “My sweetheart is willing or desirous.” We are told that the stalks of the plants were bent to each other, in token that the parties represented by them were to come together in marriage. The motto under the ring was Joye l’amour feu. It is supposed that it was originally made for some lover to give to his mistress on Midsummer Eve, as the orpine plant is connected with that time. The dumb cake is another item of Midsummer folk-lore: —

“Two make it,Two bake it,Two break it;”

a third put it under their pillows, and this was all done without a word being spoken. If this was faithfully carried out it was believed that the diviners would dream of the men they loved.

Sowing hempseed on this eve was once a general custom. We have noted particulars of the ceremony as carried out at Ashbourne, Derbyshire. At this village, when a young maiden wished to discover who would be her future husband, she repaired to the churchyard, and as the clock struck the witching hour of midnight, she commenced running round the church, continually repeating the following lines: —

“I sow hempseed, hempseed I sow;He that loves me bestCome after me and mow.”

After going round the church a dozen times without stopping, her lover was said to appear and follow her. The closing scene of this spell is well described in a poem by W. T. Moncrieff: —

“Ah! a step. Some one follows. Oh, dare I look back?Should the omen be adverse, how would my heart writhe.Love, brace up my sinews! Who treads on my track?’Tis he, ’tis the loved one; he comes with the scythe,He mows what I’ve sown; bound, my heart, and be blithe.On Midsummer Eve the glad omen is won,Then hail to thy mystical virgil, St. John.”

From the charms of love let us briefly turn to a superstition relating to death. At one time it was believed, and in some country districts the superstition may yet linger, that anyone fasting during the evening, and then sitting at midnight in the church porch, would see the spirits of those destined to die that year come and knock at the church door. The ghosts were supposed to come in the same succession as the persons were doomed to pass away.

A pleasing old custom long survived in Craven, Yorkshire, and other parts of the North of England, of new settlers in the town or village, on the first Midsummer Eve after their arrival, to set out before their doors a plentiful repast of cold beef, bread, cheese, and ale. We are told that neighbours who wished to cultivate their acquaintance sat down and partook of their hospitality, and thus “eat and drunk themselves into intimacy.” Hone’s “Every Day Book” has a note of this custom being observed at Ripon. “It was a popular superstition,” wrote Grose, “that if any unmarried woman fasted on Midsummer Eve, and at midnight laid a clean cloth with bread, cheese, and ale, and then sat down as if going to eat, the street door being left open, the person whom she was afterwards to marry would come into the room and drink to her, bowing; and after filling a glass would leave the table, and, making another bow, retire.”

Harvest Home

Among the old-world customs connected with the times and seasons, that of celebrating the ingathering of the harvest with a rustic festival has survived many which have either passed away, and almost out of memory, or have come to have only a partial and precarious hold upon the minds of the present generation. The rush-cart maintains a feeble struggle for existence in a few northern localities, but each year shows diminished vigour; the May-day festival of the chimney-sweepers has become obsolete, and the dance round the May-pole an open-air ballet; and many old observances connected with the Christmas season which were formerly common to all England are now kept up only in these northern counties, where the flavour of antiquity seems to be much more highly appreciated than in the south. But the harvest home festival holds its ground with equal persistency in both portions of the kingdom, and has of late years been invested with additional glories, sometimes with a superabundance of them which threatens a reaction. There were some features of the older celebrations of the ingathering of the fruits of the earth, however, which, from various causes, have fallen into disuse, and which many of us would gladly, if it were possible, see restored.

We could welcome, for instance, the songs into which the joyous feelings of the harvesters broke forth in the old times as the last load of grain was carried off the field, and when the lads and lasses, with the older rustics, had partaken of a good supper in the farmer’s kitchen, and afterwards danced to the music of the fiddle or pipes in the barn. There are many references to the feasting and singing and dancing customs of this season in the poetry of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Tusser tells us that: —

“In harvest time, harvest folk, servants and all,Should make all together, good cheer in the hall,And fill the black bowl, so blithe to their song,And let them be merry, all harvest time long.”

Peele, in his “Old Wives’ Tales,” makes his harvesters sing: —

“Lo, here we come a-reaping, a-reaping,To reap our harvest fruit;And thus we pass the year so long,And never be we mute.”

Stevenson, in his “Twelve Months,” says, “In August the furmety pot welcomes home the harvest cart, and the garland of flowers crowns the captain of the reapers. The battle of the field is now stoutly fought. The pipe and the tabor are now busily set a-work, and the lad and the lass will have no lead in their heels. Oh, ’tis a merry time, wherein honest neighbours make good cheer, and God is glorified in his blessings on the earth.” Tusser’s verse reminds us of another feature of these old celebrations of which little trace remains at the present day, that is, the temporary suspension of all social inequality between employer and employed. There would be less reason to regret this change, however, if, in place of the temporary obliviousness of class distinctions, we could see more genial intercourse all through the year.

The clergy seem to have been less in evidence at the harvest rejoicings of those days than at present. There was a tithe question even two centuries ago, for Dryden, in his King Arthur, makes his festive rustics sing: —

“We’ve cheated the parson, we’ll cheat him again,For why should the blockhead have one in ten?One in ten! one in ten!For staying while dinner is cold and hot,And pudding and dumpling are burnt to the pot!Burnt to pot! burnt to pot!We’ll drink off our liquor while we can stand.And hey for the honour of England!Old England! Old England!”

There is some comfort for the loss of the singing and dancing customs of the old times in that the fact the heavy drinking of the period has also become a thing of the past, and perhaps also in the reflections arising from the misuse of music of which some curious illustrations have been preserved by Mr. Surtees. The historian mentions, in his “History of Durham,” having read a report of the trial of one Spearman, for having made a forcible entry into a field at Birtley, and mowed and carried away the crop, a piper playing on the top of the loaded waggon for the purpose of making the predatory harvesters work the faster, so as to get away before their roguish industry could be interrupted. It may be noted in passing that a similar use of music is shown in the following entry in the parish accounts of Gateshead, under the date of 1633: – “To workmen for making the streets even at the King’s coming, 18s. 4d.: and paid to the piper for playing to the menders of the highway, five several days, 3s. 4d.”

Many local variations exist in the customs associated with the harvest home festivities observed in different parts of the country, especially in the north, where all old customs and observances, like the provincial dialects, have lingered longest, and still linger when they have died out and been forgotten in the south. In Cleveland, it is, or used to be, the custom, on forking the last sheaf on the wagon, for the harvesters to shout in chorus: —

“Weel bun and better shorn,Is Master – ’s corn;We hev her, we hev her,As fast as a feather.Hip, hip, hurrah!”

A similar custom exists in Northumberland, where it is called “shouting a kirn.” It consists in a simultaneous shout from the whole of the people present. In some localities the shout is preceded by a rhyme suitable to the occasion, recited by the clearest-voiced persons among those assembled. Mr. James Hardy gives the following as a specimen: —

“Blessed be the day our Saviour was born,For Master – ’s corn’s all well shorn;And we will have a good supper to-night,And a drinking of ale, and a kirn! a kirn!”

All unite in a simultaneous shout at the close, and he who does not participate in the ringing cheer is liable to have his ears pulled. In Glendale, an abbreviated version of the rhyme is used, with a variation, as follows: —

“The master’s corn is ripe and shorn,We bless the day that he was born,Shouting a kirn! a kirn!”

Are these customs observed at the present day? This is an age of change. We have used the present tense in the foregoing references, but it is in the past tense that we read in Chambers’s “Book of Days,” that, “In the North of England, the reapers were accustomed to leave a good handful of grain uncut; they laid it down flat, and covered it over; when the field was done, the bonniest lass was entrusted with the pleasing duty of cutting the final handful, which was presently dressed up with various sewings, tyings, and trimmings like a doll, and hailed as a Corn Baby or Kirn Dolly. It was carried home in triumph with music of fiddles and bagpipes, set up conspicuously at night during supper, and usually preserved in the farmer’s parlour for the remainder of the year. The fair maiden who cut this handful of grain was called the Har’st Queen.” A similar custom prevailed, with local variations, in Shropshire, Gloucestershire, Hertfordshire, Devonshire, and other parts of England. In Lincolnshire, and some other counties, handbells were rung by those riding on the last load, and the following rhyme sung: —

“The boughs do shake and the bells do ring,So merrily comes in our harvest in,Our harvest in, our harvest in!Hurrah!”

Writers on local customs formerly observed in different parts of the country, have preserved the memory of a curious one connected with the last handful of wheat. In some parts the reapers threw their sickles at the reserved handful, and he who succeeded in cutting it down shouted, “I have her!” “What have you?” the others cried out. “A mare!” he replied. “What will you do with her?” was then asked. “Send her to – ,” naming some neighbouring farmer whose harvest work was not completed. This rustic pleasantry was called “crying the mare.” The rejoicings attendant on the bringing in of the last load of corn are thus described in the “Book of Days”: – “The waggon containing it was called the hock cart; it was surmounted by a figure formed out of a sheaf, with gay dressings, intended to represent the goddess Ceres. In front men played merry tunes on the pipe and tabor, and the reapers tripped around in a hand-in-hand ring, singing appropriate songs, or simply by shouts and cries giving vent to the excitement of the day. In some districts they sang or shouted as follows: —

“Harvest home, harvest home!We ploughed, we have sowed,We have reaped, we have moved,We have brought home every load.Hip, hip, hip, harvest home!”

In some parts the figure on the waggon, instead of an effigy, was the prettiest of the girl-reapers, decked with summer flowers, and hailed as the Harvest Queen. Bloomfield, in one of his Suffolk ballads, thus preserves the memory of this custom: —

“Home came the jovial Hockey load,Last of the whole year’s crop;And Grace among the green boughs rode,Right plump upon the top.”

These and many other harvest-home customs undoubtedly had their origin in heathen times, in common with those associated with the New Year, the Epiphany, May Day, and many other festivals.

Not the least important part of the harvest home observances was the supper which closed them, and which took place in the kitchen of the farmhouse or in the barn, the master and mistress presiding. The fare on these occasions was substantial and plentiful, and good home-brewed ale was poured out abundantly – we are afraid too much so. The harvest home supper of the sixteenth century, as graphically portrayed by Herrick, included: —

“Foundation of your feast, fat beef,With upper stories, mutton, veal,And bacon, which makes full the meal;With several dishes standing by,As here a custard, there a pie,And here all-tempting frumentie.And for to make the merry cheer,If smirking wine be wanting here,There’s that which drowns all care, stout beer.”

Instead of a formal vote of thanks to the givers of the feast, the prevailing feeling was expressed in a song, one version of which runs as follows: —

“Here’s health to our master,The load of the feast;God bless his endeavours,And send him increase.May prosper his crops, boys,And we reap next year;Here’s our master’s good health, boys,Come, drink off your beer!Now harvest is ended,And supper is past;Here’s to our mistress’s health, boys,Come, drink a full glass.For she’s a good woman,Provides us good cheer;Here’s our mistress’s good health, boys.Come, drink off your beer!”

Over the greater part of England a harvest-thanksgivings service has, at the present day, taken the place of the festive observances of former times. It would be useless to regret the passing away of the old customs, even if there was much more reason for such a feeling; for change is an inevitable condition of existence, and we can no more recall the old things which have passed away than we can replace last year’s snow on the wolds. Even the harvest-thanksgiving service, with its accompanying cereal and horticultural decorations of church and chapel, seems destined to a change. The decorations are too often overdone. We have seen in some churches piles of fruit and vegetables that would furnish a shop, in addition to sheaves of corn and stacks of quartern loaves. In some instances, a more deplorable display has been made in the shape of a model of a farmyard, thus turning the place of worship into a show. Sometimes, too, the sermon has no reference to the harvest. Sometimes, again, the service is held before the harvest has been gathered in; or thanks are offered for an abundant harvest when it has notoriously been deficient. Perhaps the need of a collection at this particular time may account for these discrepancies. Such mistakes are easily avoided, however, and no fault can reasonably be found with these celebrations when religious zeal is kept within the bounds of discretion.

Curious Charities

We obtain some interesting side-lights on the condition of the people in the past from old-time charities. Several of the prison charities founded in bygone times are extremely quaint and full of historic interest. One Frances Thornhill appears to have had a desire to make the prison beds comfortable. She left the sum of £30 for the Corporation of the city of York to provide straw for the beds of the prisoners confined in York Castle. The local authorities in these later years appear to have received the interest on the capital without carrying out the conditions of the charity.

Bequests of fuel suggest to the mind the time when persons not only suffered from imprisonment but also from cold. At Bury St. Edmund’s, £10 was left by Margaret Odiam for a minister to say mass to the inmates of the jail, and for providing faggots to warm the long ward in which the poor prisoners were lodged. In 1787, Elizabeth Dean, of Reading, left £156 17s. 5d., the interest of which she directed to be spent in buying firewood for the county jail.

At Norwich, a worthy man named John Norris left Consols to the value of £300 for buying beef and books for the felons confined in the jail. The prison food is now regulated by law and the charity beef is banished, but we believe the interest is spent in supplying the prisoners with literature. Even as late as 1821, John Hall left Consols to the value of £127 16s. for providing a Christmas dinner of the good old English fare of roast beef and plum pudding for the criminals in the Northampton county prison. In 1556, Thomas Cattell left a rent charge of £35 a year for buying beef and oatmeal for the poor prisoners of Newgate and other London prisons.

A singular bequest was made in the year 1556, by Griffith Ameridith, of Exeter, and it amounted to £524 4s. 11d. in Consols, “for providing shrouds for prisoners executed at Kingswell, and for the maintenance of a wall round the burial ground.” “But,” says a writer on this theme, “probably for want of subjects for shrouds, the income is now, without any authority, applied to a distribution of serge petticoats to old women.” One advantage of the change is that the new recipients can at least express their gratitude. In the olden time it was by no means an uncommon practice for criminals about to be executed to proceed to the gallows in shrouds. On July 30th, 1766, two men were hanged at Nottingham for robbery. “On the morning of their execution,” says a local record, “they were taken to St. Mary’s Church, where they heard ‘the condemned sermon,’ and then to their graves, in which they were permitted to lie down to see if they would fit. They walked to the place of execution in their shrouds.” At an execution in the same town in 1784, we read in a local newspaper report that the unfortunate men were attired in their shrouds. To add to the impressiveness of the condemned sermon, the coffins in which the condemned criminals were to be buried, were exhibited during the service.

Charities and collections in churches were formerly very common in this country for freeing British subjects from slavery in foreign lands. In 1655, Alicia, Duchess of Dudley, by a deed poll, directed £100 per annum to be drawn from the rents of certain lands situated in the parish of Bidford, Warwickshire, for redeeming poor English Christian slaves or captives from the Turks. Thomas Betson, of Hoxton Square, London, by will dated 15th February, 1723, left a considerable fortune for the redemption of British slaves in Turkey and Barbary. He died in 1725, and five years later the property was estimated to be worth about £22,000, and the interest on half the amount was to be devoted to ransoming his countrymen from slavery. In the year 1734, it is stated that 135 men were freed by this charity. Between the years 1734 and 1826, the large sum of £21,088 8s. 2½d. was expended in the admirable cause of freeing the captive. Many of the old church books contain entries respecting collections for this object. In the books of Holy Cross, Westgate, Canterbury, is a long list of the names of persons in the parish in March, 1670, contributing £02 07s. 04d., for “Redeeming the Captives in Turkye.”

Sir John Gayer, was in his time a leading London merchant, an Alderman for the ward of Aldgate, and a popular Lord Mayor. He lived in the reigns of James I. and Charles I., and was a man of great enterprise, ready to encounter perils in foreign lands to forward his commercial projects. On one memorable occasion he was travelling with a caravan of merchants across the desert of Arabia, and by some accidental means managed to separate himself from his friends, and at night-fall was alone. His position was one of great peril: he heard the roaring of wild animals, but failed to find any place of refuge. We gather from the story of his life that: – “He knelt down and prayed fervently, and devoutly promised, that if God would rescue him from his impending danger the whole produce of his merchandise should be given as an offering in benefactions to the poor, on his return to his native country. At this extremity a lion of an unusually large size was approaching him. Death appeared inevitable, but the prayer of the good man had ascended to heaven, and he was delivered. The lion came up close to him. After prowling round him, smelling him, bristling his shaggy hair, and eyeing him fiercely, he stopped short, turned round, and trotted quietly away, without doing the slightest injury. It is said that Sir John Gayer remained in the same suppliant posture till the morning dawned, when he pursued his journey, and happily came up with his friends, who had given up all hope of again seeing him.” The journey was concluded without further misadventure, a ready market found for the goods, and old England reached in safety with increased wealth. Sir John did not forget his vow, and many were the deeds of charity he performed, more especially to the poor of his own parish of St. Katharine Cree. One of bequests amounting to £200 was left to the needy of that parish on condition that a “sermon should be occasionally preached in the church to commemorate his deliverance from the jaws of the lion.” The sermon is known as the “Lion Sermon.”

In the church of St. Katharine Cree within the altar rails is a carved head of Gayer. On the right hand side is a text, as follows: – “The eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and his ears are open unto their prayers – Ps. 34, v. 15;” on the left hand side this text appears: – “The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much – James V., xvi.;” and under the figure this motto: – “Super Astra Spero.” There is a brass bearing the following inscription: —

In Memory ofSIR JOHN GAYER, Knt.,Founder of the “Lion Sermon” who was descended fromthe Old West Country Family of Gayer,and was born at Plymouth, and became Sheriff of this City of London in 1635,and Lord Mayor of London in 1647

He was a member of the Levant or Turkey Company, and of the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers, London, and President of Christ’s Hospital, London, and a liberal donor to and pious founder of Charities.

This City has especial reason to be proud of him, for rather than withdraw his unflinching assertion of the Native Liberties of the Citizens, and his steadfast support of King Charles I., he submitted to imprisonment in the Tower at the hands of the Parliament in 1647 and 1648, and his “Salva Libertate” became historical.

He resided in this Parish, and “Dyed in peace in his owne house” on the 20th of July 1649, and he now lies buried in a Vault beneath this Church of St. Katharine Cree, Leadenhall St.

This Memorial Brass was subscribed for by Members of and Descendants from the Family of Gayer, and was placed here by them in testimony of their admiration for and appreciation of the noble character and many virtues of their illustrious ancestor.

The work of organising this Memorial was carried out byEdmund Richard Gayer, M.A. of Lincoln’s Inn, Esq., Barrister at Law,1888

There are a number of ancient bequests for ringing bells and lighting beacons to guide travellers by night. These were very useful charities, for in the days of old, lands were generally unenclosed, and the roads poorly constructed. It was difficult for the wayfarer to find his way when the nights were dark. At the ancient village of Hessle, near Hull, a bell is still rung every night except Sunday, at 7 o’clock. Long, long ago, so runs the local story, a lady was lost on a dark night near the place, and was in sore distress, fearing that she would have to wander about in the cold until daylight. Happily, the ringing of the Hessle bells enabled her to direct her course to the village in safety, although she had to wend her weary steps over a trackless country. In gratitude for her delivery she left a piece of land to the parish clerk, on condition that he rang every evening one of the church bells.