Chariot; that the villagers of Kensington
and Chelsea seldom penetrated into London
proper; that the Fair of Brook Field was,
therefore, a matter of as much convenience
as the great Fair of Bury, or any other of the
country marts to which dealers brought their
commodities. That it was something more
than a market for cattle and leather, and a
collection of stalls for the sale of gingerbread
and beer, we learn from the announcement
that "there are shops ready built for all
manner of tradesmen." If we turn to the
Fair of all Nations of 1851, to be held within
half a mile of May Fair, and consider the
nature of commercial intercourse in 1701, we
may be impressed with a vague sense of what
a century and a half have accomplished for
England and the world. We shall endeavour
to confirm this impression by a very rapid
view of the general character of our Industry
in the last years of William the Third. But,
before we touch upon this, let us turn to
the other characteristic of May Fair— "the
same entertainments as at Bartholomew
Fair."

The observance of May was one of those
ancient peculiarities of our national character
which required an essential change of manners
to eradicate. Enactments could not put down
May-poles and morris-dancers. A Parliamentary
Ordinance, in 1644, directed all and
singular May-poles, that are or shall be erected,
to be taken down and removed by the constables
of the parishes. The May-pole in the
Strand bowed its head to this ruthless
command. There, in 1634, had the first stand
of hackney-coaches been established— four
coaches with men in livery, with fares arranged
according to distances. But the May-pole
did not fall unhonoured. There was a lament
for the May-pole, "which no city, town, nor
street can parallel; "and the Cavalier poet
sighs over the "happy age," and the
"harmless days," "when every village did a May-
pole raise;"—"times and men are changed,"
he says. It was true. The May-pole in the
Strand, and the hackney-coaches, were
somewhat incongruous companions. After twenty
years of strife and blood came the Restoration;
and the Cavaliers believed that "times
and men" were not changed. A new May-pole
was to be raised, in 1661—a "stately
cedar" of enormous height, which landsmen
were unable to raise; and so the Duke of
York commanded seamen "to officiate the
business;"—and the May-pole was hoisted up, in
four hours, to the sound of drum and trumpet;
and a morris-dance was danced, to pipe and
tabor, as blithely as in the days of Elizabeth;
and "little children did much rejoice, and
ancient people did clap their hands, saying
'Golden days begin to appear.'" In 1672 the
mighty May-pole,—"the most prodigious one
for height that perhaps was ever seen," says
old Aubrey,—was broken by a high wind.
The Revolution came, and then the contests
of faction, and a foreign war, gave the people
graver subjects to think of than "Whitsun
ales, and May-games." The broken May-pole
of the Strand gradually decayed, and
became a nuisance; but it had a higher destiny
—typical of the changes of "times and men."
In 1717, it was carted away to Wanstead,
under the direction of Newton; and there set
up to support the largest telescope in the
world, which had been presented to the
Royal Society by a French member, M. Hugon.
The age of morris-dancers was about to be
superseded by the age of Science; and in due
time would come the age of the mechanical
Arts. A century ago, Hume said, "We cannot
reasonably expect that a piece of woollen cloth
will be brought to perfection in a nation that
is ignorant of astronomy." The power-loom
is the natural descendant of the telescope in
Wanstead Park.

On May morning, in 1701, it is not unlikely
that a few of the busy London population
were dancing round the broken May-pole in
the Strand. The chimney-sweepers had not
yet taken exclusive possession of this festival;
but the milk-maids, with their garlands, might
be there as the representatives of rural
innocence. The great bulk of the holiday-
makers would abandon the May-pole for the
keener excitement of May Fair. For there
(according to the evidence of a letter from
Mr. Brian Fairfax, of 1701,) would be attractions
for all classes: "I wish you had been
at May Fair, where the rope-dancing would
have recompensed your labour." There,
according to the "Tatler," was Mr. Penkethman,
with his tame elephant; and there, were
wont to be "many other curiosities of nature."
There, were theatres, with "gentlemen and
ladies, who were the ornaments of the
town, and used to shine in plumes and
diamonds." There, was "Mrs. Saraband, so
famous for her ingenious puppet-show"—the
proprietress of "that rake-hell, Punch, whose
lewd life and conversation had given so much
scandal." There, was the conjuror, and the
mountebank, and the fire-eater. But, more
attractive than all, there, was "Lady Mary," the
dancing lass—a very jewel, according to Brian
Fairfax. "All the nobility in town were
there. Pray ask my Lord Fairfax after her,
who, though not the only lord by twenty, was
every night an admirer of her, while the fair
lasted." But there were great rarities of
Art to be seen—specimens of ingenuity that
might rival 1851. "There was the city of
Amsterdam, well worth your seeing; every
street, every individual house, was carved in
wood, in exact proportion, one to another;
the Stadthouse was as big as your hand."
Liverpool, at the Palace of Industry, is thus
only a revival of an old notion. The city of
Amsterdam might attract discreet observers,
who kept out of the way of the bull-bait and
the ducking-pond—polite sports to which
Young England, in the last century, was
somewhat addicted. Last of all, there was
the sober business of the fair—the real work