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The fuel consisted of sea coal, 80 chaldrons, charcoal, 20 quarters, and 4,140 faggots for brewing and baking. Sixty-four loads of wood had also to be provided, for the coal could not be burnt without it. The coal must have been poor.

The expenses provide for the players at Christmas, and they appear to have acted 20 plays at 1s. 8d. per play. We find a bearward attended at Christmas for making sport with his beasts, and in the “Household Book” he is referred to amongst those receiving payments as follows: —

“Furst, my Lorde usith and accustomyth to gyff yerely the Kynge or the Queene’s barwarde, if they have one, when they custome to come unto him, yerely – vjs. viijd.”

“Item, my Lorde usith and accustomyth to gyfe yerly, when his Lordshipe is at home, to his barward, when he comyth to my Lorde in Christmas with his Lordshippe’s beests, for makynge of his Lordship pastyme, the said xi days – xxs.”

At this period, bear-baiting was a popular amusement. Sunday was a great day for the pastime. It was on the last Sunday of April, 1520, that part of the chancel of St. Mary’s Church, Beverley, fell, killing a number of people. According to a popular tradition, a bear was being baited, and mass was being sung at the same time, but at the latter only fifty-five attended and all were killed, whereas at the former about a thousand were present. Hence the origin of the Yorkshire saying, “It is better to be at the baiting of a bear than the singing of a mass.” An expert horseman was also employed in connection with the household. He had not to be afraid of a fence, and it was his duty to attend my Lord when hunting.

Bread and Baking in Bygone Days

The earliest form of bread consisted of grain soaked in water, then pressed, and afterwards dried by means of the sun or fire. Another early kind of bread took the form of porridge or pudding, consisting of flour mixed with water and boiled. Next came the method of kneading dough, and the result was tough and unleavened bread.

In Saxon times women made bread, and the modern title “lady” is softened from the Saxon hlaf-dige, meaning the distributor of bread. We learn from contemporary pictures that Anglo-Saxon bread consisted of round cakes, not unlike the Roman loaves of which we get representations in the pictures at Pompeii, and not unlike our Good-Friday cross-buns, which we are told come down to us from our Saxon forefathers.

In connection with monasteries were bake-houses, and the work here would be done by the conversi or lay brothers. The holy bread in the mass was baked in the convents and churches by the priests or monks with much ceremony. Ovens were sometimes connected with old churches.

Some of the monks in Saxon times do not appear to have fared well. We find it recorded that in the eighth century those at the Abbey of St. Edmund had to partake of barley bread because the income of the house was not sufficent to provide wheaten-bread twice or thrice daily.

Towards the close of the thirteenth century the chief bakers who supplied London with bread lived at Stratford-le-Bow, Essex, doubtless on account of being near Epping Forest, where they could obtain cheap firewood. At a later period some were located at Bromley-by-Bow. The bread was brought to London in carts, and exposed for sale in Bread Street. The bakers attended daily excepting on Sundays and great festivals. It was no uncommon circumstance to seize the bread on its way to town for being of light weight, or made of unsound materials. It was not until the year 1302 that London bakers were permitted to sell bread in shops.

A Royal Charter was granted in 1307 to the London Bakers’ Company. The charter, we are told, “empowered the company to correct offences concerning the trade, to make laws and ordinances, to levy fines and penalties for non-observance thereof; and within the city and suburbs, and twelve miles round, to view, search, prove, and weigh all bread sold; and in case of finding it unwholesome, or not of due assize, to distribute it to the poor of the parish where it was found, and to impose fines, and levy the same by distress and sale of offenders’ goods.” When reform became the order of the day the power of the Bakers’ Company passed away.

There are various old-time statutes of the assize of bread in London. The earliest dates back to the days of Henry II. Another belongs to the reign of Henry III.; it regulated the price of bread according to the value of corn. A baker breaking the law was fined, and if his offence was serious he was placed in the pillory. These statutes were extended under Edward VI., Charles II., and Queen Anne.

In 1266 bakers were commanded not to impress their bread with the sign of the cross, Agnus Dei, or the name of Jesus Christ.

The lot of the baker in bygone times was a very hard one. He could not sell where he liked, and the price of his bread was regulated by those in authority. Pike, in his “History of Crime in England,” says, “Turn where he might, the traveller in London in 1348 could hardly fail to light upon some group, which would tell him the character of the people he had to see. Here, perhaps, a baker with a loaf hung round his neck, was being jeered, and pelted in the pillory, because he had given short weight, or because, when men had asked him for bread, he had given them not a stone, but a lump of iron enclosed by a crust.”

At this period women were largely employed in the bakehouse. Women in mediæval times performed much of the rougher kind of labour. Mr. Pike tells a tragic tale to illustrate the heartless character of bakehouse women in bygone times: – “At Middleton, in Derbyshire, there lived a man whose wife bore a name well known to readers of mediæval romances, Isolda or Isoult. As he lay one night asleep in his bed, this female Othello took him by the neck and strangled him. As soon as he was dead, she carried the body to an oven which adjourned their chamber, and piled up a fire to destroy the traces of her guilt. But, though she had so far shown the energy and power of a man, her courage seems to have failed her at the last moment. She took to flight, and her crime was discovered.”

In the olden time, it was the practice of females to deliver bread from house to house in London. The bakers gave them thirteen articles for twelve, and the odd article appears to have been the legitimate profit which they were entitled to receive in return for their work. From this old custom we obtain the baker’s dozen of thirteen. Bakers were not permitted to give credit to women retailers if they were known to be in debt to others. It was also against the law to receive back unsold bread if cold. The latter regulation would make the saleswomen energetic in their labours.

In many places the ducking-stool was employed to punish offending bakers. The old records of Beverley contain references to this subject. “During the Middle Ages,” it is stated on good authority, “scarcely any spectacle was so pleasing to the people of Central Europe as that of the public punishment of the cheating baker. The penalties inflicted on swindling bakers included confiscation of property, deprivation of civil and other rights, banishment from the town for certain periods, bodily punishment, the pillory, and the gibbet. If a baker was found guilty of an offence against the law, he was arrested and kept in safe custody till the gibbet was ready for him. It was erected as nearly as possible in the middle of the town, the beam projecting over a stagnant pool; at the end of the beam was a pulley, over which ran a rope fastened to a basket large enough to hold a man. The baker was forced into the basket, which was drawn up to the beam; there he hung over the muddy pool, the butt of the jeers and missiles of a jubilant crowd. The only way to escape was to jump into the dirty water and run through the crowd to his home, and if he did not take the jump willingly, he was sometimes helped out of the basket by means of a pole. In some towns a large cage was used instead of a basket, and, instead of taking a jump, the culprit was lowered into the filthy pool and drawn up again several times until the town authorities thought he had had enough.” In some parts of Turkey it was, until recently, the rule to punish a baker who did not give full weight by nailing his ear to the doorpost. If he were out when the officers of justice arrived his son or his servant was punished in his stead, as the authorities were very much averse from making their men do the journey twice.

The Court Leet records of many of our old English towns include items of interest bearing on this subject. At Manchester, at the Court Leet held October 1, 1561, it was resolved that no person or persons be permitted to make for sale any kind of bread in which butter is mixed, under a fine of 10s. Later, the use of suet was forbidden. In 1595, we are told that “the Court Leet Jury of Manchester ordered that no person was to be allowed to use butter or suet in cakes or bread; fine, 20s. No baker or other person to be allowed to bake said cakes, &c.; fine, 20s. No person to be allowed to sell the same; fine, 20s.” Next year, on September 30, we gather from the records that “eight officers were appointed to see that no flesh meat was eaten on Fridays and Saturdays, and twelve for the overseeing of them that put butter, cream, or suet in their cakes.” We learn from the history of Worcester that an order was made in 1641 that the bakers were not to make spice bread or short cakes, “inasmuch as it enhaunced the price of butter.”

A rather curious regulation in bygone times was the one which enforced the baker of white bread not to make brown, and the baker of brown bread not to make white.

Very heavy fines used to be inflicted on persons selling short weight of bread. “A baker was convicted yesterday,” says the Times of July 8th, 1795, “at the Public Office, Whitechapel, of making bread to the amount of 307 ounces deficient in weight, and fined a penalty of £64 7s.” In the same journal, three days later, we read, “A baker was yesterday convicted in the penalty of £106 5s. on 420 ounces of bread, deficient in weight.” The market records, week after week, in 1795, as a rule, record an increased price of grain, and by the middle of the year the matter had become serious. The members of the Privy Council gave the subject careful consideration, and strongly recommended that families should refrain from having puddings, pies, and other articles made of flour. With the following paragraph from the Times of July 22nd, 1795, we close our notes on bread in bygone days: – “His Majesty has given orders for the bread used in his household to be made of meal and rye mixed. No other sort is to be permitted to be baked, and the Royal Family eat bread of the same quality as their servants do.”

Arise, Mistress, Arise!

In the olden time in many places in the provinces it was the practice on Christmas-day morning to permit the servants and apprentices to remain in bed, and for the mistress to get up and attend to the household duties. The bellman at Bewdley used to go round the town, and after ringing his bell and saying, “Good-morning, masters, mistresses, and all, I wish you a merry Christmas,” he sang the following:

 
“Arise, mistress, arise,
And make your tarts and pies,
And let your maids lie still;
For if they should rise and spoil your pies,
You’d take it very ill.
Whilst you are sleeping in your bed,
I the cold wintry nights must tread
Past twelve o’clock, &c.”
 

Bewdley was famous for its ringers and singers, and its town crier was a man of note. An old couplet says:

 
“For ringers, singers, and a crier
Bewdley excelled all Worcestershire.”
 

In Lancashire was heard the following, proclaimed in the towns and villages:

 
“Get up old wives,
And bake your pies,
’Tis Christmas-day in the morning;
The bells shall ring,
The birds shall sing,
’Tis Christmas-day in the morning.”
 

At Morley, near Leeds, a man was formerly paid for blowing a horn at 5 a.m. to make known the time for commencing, and at 8 p.m. the hour for giving up work. His blast was heard daily except on Sundays. On Christmas-day morning he blew his horn and sang:

 
“Dames arise and bake your pies,
And let your maids lie still;
For they have risen all the year,
Sore against their will.”
 

The Turnspit

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

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

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

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

The spits or “broches” were often made of silver, and were usually carried to the table with the fish, fowl, or joint roasted upon them.

The humble turnspit was not overlooked by the guests in the days of old, when largess was bestowed. We gather from “Howard’s Household Book” that Lord Howard gave four old turnspits a penny each. When Mary Tudor dined at Havering, she rewarded the turnbroches with sixteen-pence.

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

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

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

The mode of teaching the dog its duties is described in a book of anecdotes published at Newcastle-on-Tyne, 1809. It was more summary than humane. The dog was put in the wheel, and a burning coal with him; he could not stop without burning his legs, and so was kept upon the full gallop. These dogs were by no means fond of their profession. It was indeed hard work to run in a wheel for two or three hours, turning a piece of meat twice their own weight.

In the same work two more anecdotes bearing on this theme also find a place, and are worth reproducing. “Some years ago,” we are told, “a party of young men, at Bath, hired the chairmen on a Saturday night to steal all the turnspits in the town, and lock them up till the following evening. Accordingly, on Sunday, when everybody has roast meat for dinner, all the cooks were to be seen in the streets, ‘Pray have you seen our Chloe?’ asks one. ‘Why,’ replies the other, ‘I was coming to ask if you had seen our Pompey.’ Up came a third, while they were talking, to inquire for her Toby. And there was no roast meat in Bath that day. It is told of these dogs in this city, that one Sunday, when they had as usual followed their mistresses to church, the lesson for the day happened to be that chapter in Ezekiel, wherein the self-moving chariots are described. When first the word wheel was pronounced, all the curs pricked up their ears in alarm; at the second wheel they set up a doleful howl. When the dreadful word was uttered a third time, every one of them scampered out of church, as fast as he could, with his tail between his legs.”

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

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

A Gossip about the Goose

The goose figures largely in the history, the legends, and the proverbial lore of our own and other lands. In ancient Egypt it was an object of adoration in the temple and an article of diet on the table. The Egyptians mainly took beef and goose flesh as their animal food, and it has been suggested that they expected to obtain physical power from the beef and mental vigour from the goose. To support this theory, it has been shown that other nations have eaten the flesh of wolves and drunk the blood of lions, hoping thereby to become fierce and courageous. Some other nations have refused to partake of the hare and the deer on account of the timidity of these animals, fearing lest by eating their flesh they should also partake of their characteristic fearfulness and timidity.

Pliny thought very highly of the goose, saying “that one might almost be tempted to think these creatures have an appreciation of wisdom, for it is said that one of them was a constant companion of the peripatetic philosopher Lacydes, and would never leave him, either in public or when at the bath, by night or by day.”

The cackling of the goose saved Rome. According to a very old story, the guards of the city were asleep, and the enemy taking advantage of this, were making their way through a weak part of the fortifications, expecting to take the city by surprise. The wakeful geese hearing them, at once commenced cackling, and their noise awoke the Romans, who soon made short work of their foes. This circumstance greatly increased the gratitude of the Roman citizens for the goose.

We gather from the quaint words of an old chronicler a probable solution of the familiar phrase, “To cook one’s goose.” “The kyng of Swedland” – so runs the ancient record – “coming to a towne of his enemyes with very little company, his enemyes, to slyghte his forces, did hang out a goose for him to shoote; but perceiving before nyghte that these fewe soldiers had invaded and sette their chief houlds on fire, they demanded of him what his intent was, to whom he replyed, ‘To cook your goose’.”

In the days when the bow and arrow were the chief weapons of warfare, it was customary for the sheriffs of the counties where geese were reared to gather sufficient quantities of feathers to wing the arrows of the English army. Some of the old ballads contain references to winging the arrow with goose feathers. A familiar instance is the following:

 
“‘Bend all your bows,’ said Robin Hood;
‘And with the gray goose wing,
Such sport now show as you would do
In the presence of the king’.”
 

To check the exportation of feathers, a heavy export duty was put upon them.

The goose frequently figures in English tenures. In a poem by Gascoigne, published in 1575, there is an allusion to rent-day gifts, which appear to have been general in the olden time:

 
“And when the tenants come to pay their quarter’s rent,
They bring some fowle at Midsummer, a dish of fish in Lent,
At Christmasse a capon, and at Michaelmasse a goose.”
 

A strange manorial custom was kept up at Hilton in the days of Charles II. An image of brass, known as Jack of Hilton, was kept there. “In the mouth,” we are told, “was a little hole just large enough to admit the head of a pin; water was poured in by a hole in the back, which was afterwards stopped up.” The figure was then set on the fire; and during the time it was blowing off steam, the lord of the manor of Essington was obliged to bring a goose to Hilton and drive it three times round the hall-fire. He next delivered the goose to the cook; and when dressed, he carried it to the table and received in return a dish of meat for his own mess.

In bygone times, Lincolnshire was a great place for breeding geese; and its extensive bogs, marshes, and swamps were well adopted for the purpose. The drainage and cultivation of the land have done away with the haunts suitable for the goose; but in a great measure Lincolnshire has lost its reputation for its geese. Frequently in the time when geese were largely bred, one farmer would have a thousand breeding-geese, and they would multiply some sevenfold every year, so that he would have under his care annually, some eight thousand geese. He had to be careful that they did not wander from the particular district where they had a right to allow them to feed, for they were regarded as trespassers, and the owner could not get stray geese back unless he paid a fine of twopence for each offender.

Within the last fifty years it was a common occurrence to see on sale in the market-place at Nottingham at the Goose Fair from fifteen to twenty thousand geese, which had been brought from the fens of Lincolnshire. A street on the Lincolnshire side of the town is called Goosegate.

The origin of the custom of eating a goose at Michaelmas is lost in the shadows of the dim historic past. According to one legend, Saint Martin was tormented with a goose, which he killed and ate. He died after eating it; and ever since, Christians have, as a matter of duty, on the saint’s day sacrificed the goose. We have seen from the preceding quotation from Gascoigne that the goose formed a popular Michaelmas dish from an early period.

It is a common saying, “The older the goose the harder to pluck,” when old men are unwilling to part with their money. The barbarous practice of plucking live geese for the sake of their quills gave rise to the saying. It was usual to pluck live geese about five times a year. Quills for pens were much in request before the introduction of steel pens. One London house, it is stated, sold annually six million quill pens. A professional pen-cutter could turn out about twelve hundred daily.

Considerable economy was exercised in the use of quill pens. Leo Allatius, after writing forty years with one pen, lost it, and it is said he mourned for it as for a friend. William Hutton wrote the history of his family with one pen, which he wore down to the stump. He put it aside, accompanied by the following lines:

THIS PEN

 
“As a choice relic I’ll keep thee,
Who saved my ancestors and me.
For seven long weeks you daily wrought
Till into light our lives you brought,
And every falsehood you avoided
While by the hand of Hutton guided.”
June 3, 1779.
 

In conclusion, it may be stated that Philemon Holland, the celebrated translator, wrote one of his books with a single pen, and recorded in rhyme the feat as follows:

 
“With one sole pen I wrote this book,
Made of a gray goose quill;
A pen it was when I it took,
A pen I leave it still.”