Two Delightful Signs of Spring in Regency England

Are you seeing the signs of spring where you are? Here, daffodils and crocuses are blooming (even if the wild bunnies are eating the latter before they can bud). Tulips are poking up, my camellia has the loveliest pink blossoms, and the forsythia is a blaze of yellow. But when I was in England a few years ago, I noticed a two different signs of spring than I am used to in the Pacific Northwest. And they would have been seen in the Regency as well.

1.      Daffodils. Yes, I have daffodils in my flower bed, but in England it’s common to see them naturalized, raising their golden heads from every grassy nook and across wide fields. They certainly inspired the poet, William Wordsworth, who wrote about them from the Lakes District in 1807.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
 Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

2.     March hares. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, anyone? Even though that book by Lewis Carroll was first published in 1865, young lords and ladies in Regency England would have heard the saying, “Mad as a March hare.” European hares, or brown hares as they are often called in England, do appear a bit mad this time of year as they hop about during mating rituals. With a top speed of 45 miles an hour, they are England’s fastest land animal. Apparently, the lady uses her back legs to force away overly amorous gentlemen. Though approaching endangerment today, they were far more numerous in the 1800s. Even when they aren’t mating, these creatures have been known to jump hedgerows— forwards and backwards! Now, that’s a sign to watch for!

Any interesting signs of spring in your area?

Public Spectacles, Amusements, and Objects Deserving Notice, February

I have an object deserving notice. Nineteenteen just crossed the 200 barrier—200 followers, that is. Thank you all! Marissa and I are delighted and honored you want to come along with us! And now, to our post.

Ah, February! The month of love! The beginning often starts out chilly in London but by the end of the month, daffodils are in bloom. So, as the days brighten and the air warms, what’s a young lady or gentleman to do for entertainment?

I have it on good authority that the concert of ancient music, Opera House on Haymarket, starts early this month. Also known as the King’s Concert, this group of talented musicians play no composition less than 25 years old (didn’t know you were ancient at 26, did you?). They play every Wednesday until the end of May. (They were actually part of the Academy of Ancient Music but had a bit of a spat about refusing to play newer music, so now they’re on their own!)

The Academy of Ancient Music, meanwhile, continues to perform once a fortnight at the gorgeous assembly room in the Crown and Anchor Tavern. The subscription for the 6 to 8 performances is a stiff four guineas (more than four pounds). While they favor classical music from the 1600s and 1700s, they occasionally play current songs. Gasp! Really!

If your tastes run to visual expression instead, you might try the British Gallery on Pall Mall, which opens around the 19th. The gallery features 300 to 400 paintings by Dutch and Flemish masters as well as British artists. While it is open to the public, subscription members of the Gallery are generally the aristocracy, so you might find yourself rubbing elbows with an eligible earl.

Not to be outdone, the Royal Academy of Art begins lectures around the 22nd. The lectures are free, but you’ll need to get a ticket from one of the Academicians. And don’t forget, once Lent starts, every Wednesday and Friday evenings you can hear oratorios at Covent Garden and Drury Lane Theatres.

Me? I intend to bundle up and take a walk in Hyde Park. There’s more than one way to catch that elusive earl.

Theatrics

It’s spring! Not to crow overmuch, but it reached over seventy degrees here this week. (Marissa will now commence throwing snowballs at me—guess what it did this week in her neck of the woods.) Some years, Easter would be right around the corner. In 1811, for example, Easter fell on April 14. It is, of course, much later this year.

And just after Easter, the London theatre season blossomed in nineteenth century England. The Monday after Easter, Sadler’s Wells, Astley’s Amphitheatre for the Arts, and the Royal Circus all opened. Each of these tended more toward pageants and melodrama. Other houses such as Covent Garden and Drury Lane, both Theatres Royal, brought out ballet and opera as well as dramas from Shakespeare and the playwrights of the times.

If you were a young lady of means and you were out in Society, you might accompany your family to the theatre. Seats were arranged in arcs around the center. In many theatres, the lower arcs housed the general (read well to do) public, and the upper arcs were reserved for season ticket holders (the elite). The center section held around twenty rows of seats, although not everyone actually sat, for the cheapest prices and was called the pit for good reason. One never knew who one might meet in the pit, or how the crowd would behave.

For many however, attending the theatre was as much watching what happened onstage as it was about watching what happened off. Stories abound of fisticuffs and mayhem in the pit. But perhaps one of the most dramatic offstage events happened on May 15, 1800. King George and his family had just entered the royal box at Drury Lane and been greeted to the tune of “God Save the King” from the orchestra when a shot rang out. The mentally ill James Hadfield, standing on a bench next to the orchestra, had attempted to assassinate the monarch.

The audience erupted. The musicians surged out of their seats, grabbed Hadfield, and dragged him back under the stage to the music room, where he could be held for questioning. In the midst of all this, King George refused to be cowed. He strode to the very front of the box, raised his opera glass, and gazed about the house as if daring someone to shoot again. Though his chamberlain and his queen and daughters begged him to retire into the safety of the antechamber, he replied, “I shall not stir one step.”

Officials called for calm, but the audience insisted on another round of “God Save the King,” which was greeted with shouts and applause. The play finally commenced, with much confusion on the part of the players, and the queen and princesses were said to weep through the entire play. I’m fairly sure no one was watching the stage. So much for theatrics.