Merrie England in the Olden Time. George Daniel

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      The cuckoo's song the woods among sounds sweetly as of

      old;

      As bright and warm the sunbeams shine—and why

      should hearts grow cold?” *

      * This ballad has been set to very beautiful music by Mr. N.

       I. Sporle. It is published by T. E. Purday, 50, St. Paul's

       Church Yard.

      “A sad theme to a merry tune! But had not May another holiday maker? when the compassionate Mrs. Montague walked forth from her hall and bower to greet with a smile of welcome her grotesque visitor, the poor little sweep.”

      Thy hand, Eugenio, for those gentle words! Elia would have taken thee to his heart. Be the turf that lies lightly on his breast as verdant as the bank whereon we sit. On a cold, dark, wintry morning, he had too often been disturbed out of a peaceful slumber by his shrill, mournful cry; and contrasting his own warm bed of down with the hard pallet from which the sooty little chorister had been driven at that untimely hour, he vented his generous indignation; and when a heart so tender as Elia's could feel indignation, bitter must have been the provocation and the crime! But the sweep, with his brilliant white teeth, and Sunday washed face, is for the most part a cheerful, healthy-looking being. Not so the squalid, decrepit factory lad, broken-spirited, overworked, and half-starved! The little sweep, in process of time, may become a master “chum-mie,” and have (without being obliged to sweep it,) a chimney of his own: but the factory lad sees no prospect of ever emerging from his heart-sickening toil and hopeless dependance; he feels the curse of Cain press heavily upon him. The little sweep has his merry May-day, with its jigs, rough music, gingling money-box, gilt-paper cocked-hat, and gay patchwork paraphernalia. All days are alike to the factory lad—“E'en Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to him.” His rest will be the Sabbath of the tomb!

      Nothing is better calculated to brace the nerves and diffuse a healthful glow over body and mind than outdoor recreations. What is ennui? Fogs, and over-feeding, content grown plethoric, the lethargy of superabundance, the want of some rational pursuit, and the indisposition to seek one. What its cure?

      “'Tis health, 'tis air, 'tis exercise—

      Fling but a stone, the giant dies!”

      The money-grub, pent up in a close city, eating the bread of carefulness, and with the fear of the shop always before his eyes, is not industrious. He is the droning, horse-in-a-mill creature of habit—like a certain old lady of our acquaintance, who every morning was the first up in the house, and good-for-nothing afterwards. A century ago the advantages of early rising to the citizen were far more numerous than at present. A brisk walk of ten minutes brought him into the fields from almost any part of the town; and after luxuriating three or four miles amidst clover, sorrel, buttercups, aye, and corn to boot! the fresh breeze of morn, the fragrance of the flowers, and the pleasant prospect, would inspire happy thoughts: and, as nothing better sharpens the appetite than these delightful companions, what was wanting but a substantial breakfast to prepare him for the business of the day? For this certain frugal houses of entertainment were established in the rural outskirts of the Metropolis, *

      * “This is to give notice to all Ladies and Gentlemen, at

       Spencer's original Breakfasting-Hut, between Sir Hugh

       Middleton's Head and St. John Street Road, by the New River

       side, fronting Sadler's Wells, may be had every morning,

       except Sundays, fine tea, sugar, bread, butter, and milk, at

       four-penee per head; coffee at threepence a dish. And in the

       afternoon, tea, sugar and milk, at threepence per head, with

       good attendance. Coaches may come up to the farthest gar-

       den-door next to the bridge in St. John Street Road, near

       Sadler's Wells back gate.—Note. Ladies, &c. are desired to

       take notice that there is another person set up in

       opposition to me, the next door, which is a brick-house, and

       faces the little gate by the Sir Hugh Middleton's, and

       therefore mistaken for mine; but mine is the little boarded place by the river side, and my backdoor faces the same as usual; for I am not dead, I am not gone, Nor liquors do I sell; But, as at first, I still go on, Ladies, to use you well. No passage to my hut I have, The river runs before; Therefore your care I humbly crave, Pray don't mistake my door. “Yours to serve, Daily Advertiser, May 6, 1745. “S. Spencer.”

      where every morning, “except Sundays, fine tea, sugar, bread, butter, and milk,” might be had at fourpence per head, and coffee “at three halfpence a dish.'” And as a walk in summer was an excellent recruit to the spirits after reasonable toil, the friendly hand that lifted the latch in the morning repeated the kind office at evening tide, and spread before him those refreshing elements that “cheer, but not inebriate;” with the harmless addition of music and dancing. Ale, wine, and punch, were subsequently included in the bill of fare, and dramatic representations. But of latter years the town has walked into the country, and the citizen can just espy at a considerable distance a patch of flowery turf, and a green hill, when his leisure and strength are exhausted, and it is time to turn homeward.

      The north side of London was famous for suburban houses of entertainment. Midway down Gray's Inn Lane stands Town's End Lane (so called in the old maps), or Elm Street, which takes its name from some elms that once grew there. To the right is Mount Pleasant, and on its summit is planted a little hostelrie, which commanded a delightful prospect of fields, that are now annihilated; their site and our sight being profaned by the House of Correction and the Treadmill! Farther on, to the right, is Warner Street, which the lover of old English ballad poetry and music will never pass without a sigh; for there, while the town were applauding his dramatic drolleries—and his beautiful songs charmed alike the humble and the refined—their author, Henry Carey, in a fit of melancholy destroyed himself. *

      * October 4, 1743.

      Close by stood the old Bath House, which was built over a Cold Spring by one Walter Baynes, in 1697. * The house is razed to the ground, but the spring remains. A few paces forward is the Lord Cobham's Head, ** transmogrified into a modern temple for tippling; its shady gravel walks, handsome grove of trees, and green bowling alleys, are long since destroyed. Its opposite neighbour was (for not a vestige of the ancient building remains) the Sir John Oldcastle, *** where the wayfarer was invited to regale upon moderate terms.

      * According to tradition, this was once the bath of Nell

       Gwynn. In Baynes's Row, close by, lived for many years the

       celebrated clown Joe Grimaldi.

       ** “Sir—Coming to my lodging in Islington, I called at the

       Lord Cobham's Head, in Cold Bath Fields, to drink some of

       their beer, which I had often heard to be the finest,

       strongest, and most pleasant in London, where I found a very

       handsome house, good accommodation, and pleasantly situated.

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