of our brine-pits was nauseous and injurious.
And yet salt was of prime necessity at a
period when the rotation of crops was
unknown, and winter-food for sheep and cattle
not being raised, the greater number were
killed and salted at Martinmas. The coal
mines were limited in their produce,—partly
by the want of machinery, and partly by the
difficulty of communication. The greater part
of the coal consumed in the kingdom was sea-
borne—hence called sea-coal; but, occasionally,
pack-horses travelled with coal inland, for the
supply of blacksmiths' forges. Factories, in
the modern sense, did not exist. Even the
great wool manufacture was, in most of
its processes, domestic. Weavers left their
shuttles idle in their cottages, when harvest
work demanded their labour in the fields;
and this, not as a matter of choice, but under
legal compulsion.

The Norwich and the Yorkshire looms were
the subjects of minute regulation, as to wages
and material. We imported spun silk for our
Spitalfields looms. John Lombe built his
Derby silk-mill in 1717. An ingenious adventurer
who made the same attempt in 1702
was ruined. Our linen fabrics were imported
from France, Germany, and Holland, and so
were our threads. We manufactured hats
and glass, only after the accession of William
the Third, when the war with France drove
us to employ our capital and skill in their
production. It was the same with paper.
Before the Revolution there was little made
in England, except brown paper. We
imported our writing and printing papers from
France and Holland. We imported our
crockery-ware, which retained the name of
Delft, even when our Potteries had begun to
work. Sheffield produced its old "whittle"—
the common knife for all uses; but the finer
cutlery was imported from France. We
obtained most of our printing-type from
Holland—not that England wanted letter-founders,
but that their characters were so rude, that
our neighbours supplied us, till an ingenious
artist, William Caslon, established his London
foundry, in 1720. There was a demand then
for types—for the age of newspapers was
come. When England was restricted to
twenty master-printers—as it was before the
Revolution—there was little need of skilful
type-founders.

In the May Fair of 1701 the news-vendors
would be busy. There would be half-a-dozen
papers bearing the name of  "Intelligence," or
"Intelligencer;" there would be similar
varieties of the family of "Flying Post," and
"Mercury," and "Observator;" there would
be "Dawks's News Letter, done upon good
writing-paper, and blank space left, that any
gentleman may write his own private business."
Each of these would hold less matter than a
column. The writers upon Dawks's "good
writing-paper," or any other paper, were not
very numerous in a population of five millions.
The Postage revenue was about sixty thousand
pounds; which, averaging the rate
of letters at threepence each (single sheets,
carried under eighty miles, were twopence),
would give us about a letter annually for each
of the population; about two-thirds of the
letters now delivered in one week; which
show about fourteen letters annually for each
of the population. The newspapers in May
Fair each had two or three advertisements
—some of books, some of luxuries, which
are now necessaries of life—such as tea at
twenty-four shillings a pound, loaf sugar
at eleven shillings, coffee at six shillings.
All had advertisements of lotteries. Every
description of retail traffic was then carried
on by gambling. At the Eagle and Child on
Ludgate Hill, all sorts of fine silks and goods
were to be had at seven pounds, ten shillings,
a ticket; Mrs. Ogle's plate, value twenty
pounds, was at sixpence a ticket; Mr. William
Morris, "the fairest of dealers," draws his
lottery out of two wheels by two parish boys,
giving one hundred pounds for half-a-crown.
There were lotteries drawing in May Fair, and
the thimble-rig was not unknown.

The May morning of 1701 sees the busy
concourse in Brookfield of sellers and buyers.
There is the Jew from Houndsditch, and the
grazier from Finchley. From the distant
Bermondsey comes the tanner, with his peltry
and his white leather for harness. Beer is
freely drunk. Tobacco perfumes the air
from one sunrise to another. It is almost
difficult to believe that eleven million pounds
of tobacco were then annually consumed by a
population of five millions; but so say the
records. The graziers and the drovers were
hungry. They indulged themselves with the
seldom-tasted wheaten bread of the luxurious
Londoners. They had waded through roads
scarcely practicable for horsemen. Pedestrians,
who kept the crown of the causeway,
on whose sides were perilous sloughs and foul
ditches. They travelled in company, for fear
of the frequent highwayman and footpad.
Happy were they when the sun lighted the
highway from Tottenham or Tyburn; for
not a lantern was to be seen, and the flickering
link made the morning fog seem denser
than its reality. That May-day morning has
little cheerfulness in its aspect.

The afternoon comes. Then the beasts
and the leather are sold—and the revelry
begins. It lasts through the night. We need
not describe the brutality of the prize-fighting,
nor record the licentiousness of the Merry
Andrew. All the poetical character of the
old May sports was gone. It was a scene of
drunkenness and quarrel. May Fair became
a nuisance. The Grand Jury presented it
seven years after; and the puppets, and the
rope-dancers, and the gambling booths,
the bruisers, and the thieves had to seek
another locality. When Fashion obtained
possession of the site the form of profligacy
was changed. The thimble-riggers were
gone; but Dr. Keith married all comers to