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The Somerset County Gazette, Bristol Express and Devonshire News. Saturday 23 Nov 1878

Page 10 Column 2 and 3

GUY FAWKES' DEMONSTRATION IN BRIDGWATER.

“A WEST COUNTRY CARNIVAL.”

Under the above heading the Bristol Times and Mirror of Saturday last publishes the following:-

Hardly the title for it, as doubtless our friends are today enjoying their beef and mutton with that healthy appetite the late Charles KINGSLEY evidently considered, if not peculiar to, certainly universal among the stalwart West Country folks. However, with the scene still fresh in my memory, I can find no better name than Carnival to give the demonstration I had the pleasure of witnessing at the ancient town of Bridgwater on November 5th. Either from the fact that we Bristolians are an eminently religious fraternity, and the Service of the Fifth having been expunged from the Prayer-book, renders the day unworthy of celebration, or, on account of the increased activity of the police, the display of fireworks in Bristol seems to have dwindled to nothing. Now and then a furtive cracker or solitary squib struggles into life, crosses the road and dies ignominiously in the gutter; and, although we hope and believe there are fathers living in our suburbs who carry home a pocketful of fireworks to gladden the youngsters, the powder burnt in Bristol bears comparison to that burnt in Bridgwater of a twopenny rocket to one of Messrs. BROCK's eight inch shells, or a boy's cannon to an eighty-one ton gun.

Tempted by the promise of a hearty welcome and an evening's fun, we reach Bridgwater about six o'clock. The town at the time certainly only presents its everyday quiet appearance, and, as we walk to the Cornhill, we see no sign of the saturnalia brewing somewhere or another, to break forth in a short time. We find our “Genial Host” ensconced in a small room, engaged, with the assistance of an eminent Bristol citizen, in the interesting occupation of tying rockets to their sticks. The room is lined with fireworks. We stand amazed, and can only regret our schoolboy days were not spent in Bridgwater. Stacks of rockets, sheaves of Roman candles, grosses of squibs, myriads of crackers, pyramids of boxes containing coloured fire, so many Jacks-in-the-box that their Christian name should be changed to avoid confusion, Catherine-wheels, six inches across – O! How the fingers itch to set them all of! Hang it! let us forget profit and loss, bad debts, depression of trade and all the other unpleasantness of hard times, and be boys again for one short evening. We drink a cup of tea, chat with our fair hostess and her daughters, and at seven o'clock sally forth to see the fun begin. This looks more like business. Careful tradesmen close their establishments, and many, whose shops possess handsome windows, are taking the precaution of hanging sailcloth over the fronts. The upper casements are full of ladies. It is very tantalising that the dusk prevents our doing justice to their charms, so we can only make a mental note to have a good look at them when the coloured fires are lit. We stroll to the Corn Exchange, and eye critically the preparation for the bonfire. This promises well. Some seventy tar-barrels, a gigantic pile of wood and two old boats! Sad enough these last look, waiting their fiery doom. What a change for them! For years they have been tinkered up, patched, cobbled, caulked and tarred, and now the very safeguards against one element must hasten their destruction by the other.

After this inspection of combustible material, and expressing a hope that the match will soon be applied, we look around at the throng of people so fast increasing, and note symptoms of an approaching change. Here and there is a grotesque costume, many are the masks, wigs, false noses, &c., hiding the identity of the wearers; discordant strains assail us, tin trumpets bray hideously, and down the street comes a gang of about fifty youths, all in some sort of masquerade, headed by a banner bearing the very ugly inscription “The Bladder Gang.” Armed with these noiseless but harmless weapons, they pass on, distributing their annoying favours indiscriminately. Other gangs also make their appearance, gangs of sailor-boys, gangs of niggers, and gangs of nondescripts, all doing their best to make the night hideous with catcalls and shouts. We notice every member carries a stick, some five feet long, shaped like, crutch [sic]. Surely, they cannot all be cripples! We turn to our genial host for explanation, but before he can enlighten us, the use of the aforesaid crutches is clearly shown us – Swish-sh-sh-sh. We start at the sound, and behold an Ethiopian minstrel tearing at full speed down the road, bearing at arm's length his crutch, with a gigantic squib fixed to it – such a squib! 18 inches long and four inches in diameter, throwing out a hissing jet of molten steel-borings some twenty feet. Regardless of consequences, he rushes along, holding his infernal weapon close to the kerb, literally sweeping the crowded pavement with a stream of fire. Some active people fly, others turn their backs to the fiery hail, shrug their shoulders, and take the squibbing like philosophers. Now the bonfire is lighted, and in ten minutes up dart the flames twenty feet high, and in ten minutes more the carnival is in full swing. Out comes the “gangs,” not the few nondescripts we have already seen, but troops of young men, well organised, and dressed with great taste. Here comes a dozen Gondoliers – white duck trousers, red sashes, blue and white striped under-shirts, bright blue coats with brass buttons, and red night-caps. Each member also wears a small black mask over the eyes: this serves as a disguise and a protection against the sparks As they march through the town, carrying splendid torches of tow, soaked in some combustible, the effect is charming. After them a “gang” of a dozen men admirably dressed as Foresters – Lincoln green coats, white breeches, high boots, flap hats, feathers and bugle-horns complete. Instead of the trusty long bow oach [sic] carried the inevitable crutch, with one of the aforesaid patriarchal squibs attached ready for action. Following them, a “gang” of some twenty Sepoys, correct in every military detail; and many other bands whose paraphernalia we cannot recollect. There were, of course, plenty of other groups of masqueraders, who roamed about in intensely ludicrous attire; there were barristers in wigs and gowns, motley appeared to be in high favour, the harlequin's many-coloured tights were not absent, Indian chiefs looked ferocious in feathers and war-paint, our old friend the “Perfect Cure” was not forgotten, and several extraordinary-dressed females promenaded with such long steps, and showed such an utter disregard to fire, as to arouse the gravest suspicions as to their true sex. We noticed his Satanic majesty, with the orthodox tail and horns complete; naturally he seemed quite at home in his native element, and had he been shown to the plaintiff in the action of JENKINS v. COOK, we are sure he would have instructed his counsel to throw up the brief, made a recantation of his unbelief, and the reverend defendant would be still amongst us.

We now go to the top of the Corn Exchange to illuminate the building with red fire. No doubt the effect from below was very grand, but standing in the centre of fifty boxes of coloured fire, all burning at the same time, was trying to the lungs, yet the sight from the roof well repaid us. Twenty men and boys, at one time, sweeping the streets with their enormous squibs; “gangs” bombarding houses and opposition gangs with Roman candles, rockets flying as fast as they could be trained and ignited, so many crackers going off they seemed like one endless one. We notice our “Genial Host” below. He is like Anak himself; standing 6 feet 4 inches in his stockings he towers above the crowd; he wields a holder seven feet long, with a squib two feet long attached. He has a clear path left him you may believe. The diabolical machine he bears must weigh at least five pounds; out rushes the dazzling jet all across the street, lasting perhaps two minutes, then bang it goes, like a thirty-two pounder, shaking all the windows around. We look down on the bonfire; the boats are now placed in a glowing cradle. Poor things, they appear sad, but resigned – Bah! this atmosphere is choking. We regain the street, run the fiery gauntlet and seek a friendly balcony, where we find the eminent Bristol citizen before mentioned setting off rockets, pumps and coloured fires as though his hopes of reaching heaven depended thereon. Below is a well-known Bristol solicitor, holding a Catherine-wheel on a long pin, and surrounded by an admiring group of small boys. Like most Catherine wheels it is a deception, and sticks; even his legal skill cannot make it twist itself. The fun has now been at its height for some two hours -we are grimed with powder, choked with sulphuretted hydrogen, hungry and thirsty, yet reluctantly we leave the strange scene, and in a minute are seated at a well-spread board, surrounded by fair and laughing faces, helped by kindly hands, and enjoying the hearty fare with a genuine West Country appetite. The first pangs of hunger appeased we glance at our neighbours, and find we are seated near two young ladies. Really this is not quite right. We, like Sir Rupert the brave,

Allowances, no doubt, must be made for this evening in particular, but can any circumstances justify young (I cannot call them fair) girls like this being permitted to roam about the town in ball dresses, thick gold chains around their necks, and flirting their fans in this coquettish way? Worse than ever, they are powdered up to their eyes, and – O horror! - they are winking at us! This is dubious – Stay: although their hands are gloved, they are bony and muscular, and the reckless manner in which they consume the cold beef and salad is not very feminine. They are men in masquerade, and the best imitation of women I ever saw. Let me here compliment them, and congratulate myself that, although they may be good-looking young men in their proper garb, neither was fair enough in woman's gear to steal my heart.

We chat with the doctor during supper, express our astonishment at the revels, and condole with him on the work that awaits him to-morrow from accidents. He assures us that during the seventeen years he has been connected with the Infirmary he has only known two slight casualties from the fireworks. Alas for human experience! In five minutes one of our party staggers in with his face as black as his coat, and severely scorched. We are merciful to the doctor; leave the patient in his skilful hands, without even saying “I told you so” - and take just one more turn outside, feeling something like the garrison of a leagured and bombarded city who have snatched a mouthful of food ere they return to the ramparts. What an atmosphere we dive into! The smoke must hang two miles deep around the town, the moon and stars are obscured by the sulphurous pall; yet the fun goes on madly, with no signs of abating. Oh! if M. TAINE, the talented author of “Notes on England,” were here, he would at once pen an addendum to the future editions of his work, excepting the brave Bridgwaterians from his accusation of sadness – or, at least, for one night in the year. The Gondolier “gang,” the Forester “gang,” the Sepoy “gang,” seem to have an endless supply of gerbs; they form fiery circles, they fly off at tangents, and harry innocent people. Still the tar-barrels hold out, although the poor boats gleam in the fire like red-hot skeletons; still our G. H., with his gigantic pole, towers above the crowd, like Saul, the son of Kish. Once more the Corn Exchange is illuminated, and now, alas! eleven o'clock is past, and the Great Western trains are sometimes punctual. A hurried good-bye; a smart run to the station, a rush for the train, and we tumble incontinently into a compartment tenanted by an old lady and gentleman, who sniff energetically all the way to Bristol, and well they may; for we become gradually conscious that we are diffusing an odour of burnt wool, about as strong as a cat might if she tumbled down the kitchen chimney on top of the fire.

On our way home we speculate as to the probably rates of insurance at Bridgwater, and take an ingenious calculation, which works out to the appalling result that we must have seen or heard some four tons of gunpowder burnt; these abtruse mathematics prove too much, we doze peacefully till we hear the cry, “Bristol, Bristol: all change.”

And here we are home again, delighted with the entertainment, and resolved to go down next year, clad in outrageous costumes, and join in the little Carnival with all the zest of a native.

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