CHAPTER IV.
A merry morning, Eugenio. Did not soft slumbers and pleasant dreams follow the heart-stirring lucubrations of Uncle Timothy? I am mistaken if you rose not lighter and happier, and in more perfect peace with yourself and the world.”
“My dreams were of ancient minstrelsy, Christmas gambols, May-day games, and merriments. Methought Uncle Timothy was a portly Apollo, Mr. Bosky a rosy Pan—”
“And you and I, Eugenio?”
“Foremost in the throng—”
“Of capering satyrs! Well, though our own dancing * days are over, we still retain a relish for that elegant accomplishment.
room at the field-end of King-Street, Bloomsbury,.
in the year 1742
Hickford's great room, Panton-Street, Haymarket, 1743
Mitre Tavern, Charing-Cross,... 1743
Barber's Hall,.... 1745
Richmond Assembly,.... 1745
Lambeth Wells,.....1747
Duke's long room, Paternoster-Row,.. 1748
Large Assembly Room at the Two Green Lamps, near Exeter
Change, (at the particular desire of Jubilee Diekey!).... in
the year 1749 The large room next door to the Hand and
Slippers, Long-Lane, West Smithfield,... 1750 Lambeth Wells,
where a Penny Wedding, in the Scotch manner, was celebrated
for the benefit of a young couple,......1752 Old Queen's
Head, in Cock-Lane, Lambeth,. 1755 and at Mr. Bell's, at the
sign of the Ship, in the Strand, where, in 1755, a Scotch
Wedding was kept. The bride “to be dressed without any
linen; all in ribbons, and green flowers, with Scotch masks.
There will be three bag-pipes; a band of Scotch music, &c.
&c. To begin precisely at two o'clock. Admission, two
shillings and sixpence.”
As antiquaries, we have a reverence for dancing. Noah danced before the ark. The boar's head and the wine and wassail were crowned with a dance to the tune of 'The Black Almayne,' 'My Lorde Marques Galyarde,' and 'The firste Traces of due Passa.'
'Merrily danc'd the Quaker's wife,
And merrily danc'd the Quaker!'
Why not? Orpheus charmed the four-footed family with his fiddle: shall it have less effect on the two?
“The innocent and the happy, while the dews of youth are upon them, dance to the music of their own hearts. 'See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing!' The Irishman has his lilt; the Scotchman his reel, which he not unfrequently dances to his own particular fiddle! and the Englishman his country-dance.
Original
With dogs and bears, horses and geese, * game-cocks and monkeys exhibiting their caprioles, shall man be motionless and mute?
dance.” The terms, for so fashionable a professor as he was
in his day, are extremely moderate; “Six guineas entrance,
and one guinea a lesson.” The following song is inscribed
underneath.
“Of all the fine accomplishments sure dancing far the best
is,
But if a doubt with you remains, behold the Goose and
Vestris;.
And a dancing we will go, will go, &c.
Let men of learning plead and preach; their toil 'tis all in
vain,
Sure, labour of the heels and hands is better than the
brain:
And a dancing, &c.
Then talk no more, ye men of arts, 'bout keeping light and
shade,
Good understanding in the heels is better than the head:
And a dancing, &c.
Great Whigs, and eke great Tories too, both in and out will
dance,
Join hands, change sides, and figure in, now sink, and now
advance.
And a dancing, &c.
Let Oxford boast of ancient lore, and Cam of classic rules,
Noverre might lay you ten to one his heels against your
schools!
And a dancing, &c.
Old Homer sung of gods and kings in most heroic strains,
Yet scarce could get, we have been told, a dinner for his
pains.
And a dancing, &c.
Poor Milton wrote the most sublime, 'gainst Satan, Death, and
Vice,
But very few would quit a dance to purchase Paradise.
And a dancing, &c.
The soldier risks health, life, and limbs, his fortune to
advance,
While Pique and Vestris fortunes make by one night's single
dance.
And a dancing, &c.
'Tis all in vain to sigh and grieve, or idly spend our
breath,
Some millions now, and those unborn, must join the dance of
death.
And a dancing, &c.
Yet while we live let's merry be, and make of care a jest,
Since we are taught what is, is right; and what is right is
best!
And a dancing, &c.
Sweetly singeth the tea-kettle; merrily danceth the parched pea on the fire-shovel! Even grim Death has his dance.”
“And music, Eugenio, in which I know you are an enthusiast. The Italians have a proverb,
'Whom God loves not, that man loves not music.' The soul is said to be music.
'But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.'
“Haydn used to say that without melody the most learned and singular combinations are but unmeaning, empty sound. What but the simplicity and tenderness of the Scotch and Irish airs constitutes their charm? This great composer was so extravagantly fond of Scotch, Irish, and Welsh melodies, that he harmonised many of them, and had them hung up in frames in his room. We remember to have heard somewhere of an officer in a Highland regiment, who was sent with a handful of brave soldiers to a penal settlement in charge of a number of convicts; the Highlanders grew sick at heart; the touching strains of 'Lochaber nae mair.' heard far from home, made them so melancholy, that the officer in command forbade its being played by the band.
So, likewise, with the national melody, the 'Rans-des-Vaches' among the Swiss mountaineers. When sold by their despotic chiefs, and torn from their dearest connexions, suicide and desertion were so frequent when this melody was played, that orders were issued in all their regiments, prohibiting any one from playing an air of that kind on pain of death. La maladie du pays,—that sickening after home! But Handel's music has received more lasting and general applause than that of any other composer. By Boyce and Battishall his memory was adored; Mozart was enthusiastic in his praise; Haydn could not listen (who can?) to his glorious Messiah * without weeping; and Beethoven has been heard to declare, that were he ever to come to England he should uncover his head, and kneel down at his tomb!
“Sweet music with blest poesy began,
Congenial both to angels and to Man,
Song was the native language to rehearse
The elevations of the soul in verse:
And through succeeding ages, all along,
Saints praised the Godhead in devoted song.”
And he adds in plain prose, that the Garden of Eden was no
stranger to “singing and the voice of melody.” Jubal was the
“father of those who handled the harp and organ.” Long-
before the institution of the Jewish church, God received
praise both by the human voice and the “loud timbrel and
when that church was in her highest prosperity, King David
seems to have been the composer of her psalmody—both poetry
and music. He occupied the orchestra of the temple, and
accounted it a holy privilege “to play before the Lord” upon
“the harp with a solemn sound.” Luther said, “I verily think
that, next to divinity, no art is comparable to music.”
And what a glorious specimen of this divine art is his
transcendant “Hymn!” breathing the most awful grandeur, the
deepest pathos, the most majestic adoration! The Puritans—
devils and Puritans hate music—are piously economical in
their devotions, and eschew the principle “not to give unto
the Lord that which costs us nothing!” Their gift is
snuffled through the “vocal nose”—“O most sweet voices!”
“Blessings on the memory of the bard, * and 'Palms eternal flourish round his urn,' who first struck his lyre to celebrate the wooden walls of unconquered and unconquerable Merrie England! If earth hide him,
'May angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by his reliques made
if ocean cover him, calm be the green wave on its surface! May his spirit find rest where souls are blessed, and his body be shrined in the holiest cave of the deep and silent sea!”
remember Collins's Evening Brush, that rubbed off the rust
of dull care from the generation of 1790. His bill comprised
“Actors of the old school and actors of the new; tragedy
tailors, and butchers in heroics; bell-wethers in buskins,
wooden actors, petticoat caricatures, lullaby jinglers,
bogglers and blunderers, buffoons in blank-verse, &c. &c.”
The first of the three Dibdins opened a shop of merriment at
the Sans Souci, where he introduced many of his beautiful
ballads, and sang them to his own tunes. The navy of England
owe lasting obligations to this harmonious Three. It
required not the aid of poetry and music (and how
exquisitely has Shield set the one to the other!) to
stimulate our gallant seamen; but it needed much to awaken
and keep alive enthusiasm on shore, and elevate their moral
character—for landsmen “who live at home at ease/' were
wont to consider the sailor as a mere tar-barrel, a sea-
monster. How many young bosoms have been inspired by the
lyrics of the three Dibdins! What can surpass the homely
pathos of “I thought my heart would break when I sang, Yo!
heave O!”
“The Last Whistle” and “Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom
Bowling!” stirring the manly heart like the sound of a
trumpet! It is wise to infuse the amorpatriæ into popular
amusements; national songs work wonders among the million.
In Little Russia, no sooner are the postilions mounted for a
journey, than they begin to hum a patriotic air, which often
continues for hours without intermission. The soldiers sing
during a long and fatiguing march; the peasant lightens his
labour in the same manner; and in a still evening the air
vibrates with the cheerful songs of the surrounding
villages.
“'Hark! the lark at Heaven's gate sings.'”
“I was not unmindful of the merry chorister! But the lark has made a pause; and I have your promise of a song. Now is the time to fill up the one, and to fulfil the other.”
EUGENIO'S SONG.=
“Sweet is the breath of early morn
That o'er yon heath refreshing blows:
And sweet the blossom on the thorn,
The violet blue, the blushing rose.
When mounts the lark on rapid wing,
How sweet to sit and hear him sing!
No carols like the feathered choir,
Such happy, grateful thoughts inspire.
Here let the spirit, sore distress'd,
Its vanities and wishes close:
The weary world is not the rest
Where wounded hearts should seek repose.
But, hark! the lark his merry strain,
To heav'n high soaring, sings again.
Be hush'd, sweet songster! ev'ry voice
That warbles not like thee—Rejoice!”
“Short and sad! Eugenio. We must away from these bewitching solitudes, or thy note will belong more to the nightingale than to the lark! Let imagination carry thee back to the reign of Queen Anne, when the Spectator and Sir Roger de Coverley embarked at the Temple-Stairs on their voyage to Vauxhall. We pass over the good knight's religious horror at beholding what a few steeples rose on the west of Temple-Bar; and the waterman's wit, (a common thing in those days, * ) that made him almost wish himself a Middlesex magistrate!
aquatic wag upon a similar occasion. “Fellow! your mother,
under the pretence (!!!) of keeping a —————— is a
receiver of stolen goods!”
'We were now arrived at Spring Garden says the Spectator, 'which is exquisitely pleasant at this time of the year. When I considered the fragrancy of the walks and bowers, with the choir of birds that sang upon the trees, and the loose tribe of people that walked under their shades, I could not but look upon the place as a kind of Mahometan paradise. Sir Roger told me it put him in mind of a little coppice by his house in the country, which his chaplain used to call an aviary of nightingales.' “And mark in what primitive fashion they concluded their walk, with a glass of Burton ale and a slice of hung-beef!
“Bonnel Thornton furnishes a ludicrous account of a stingy old citizen, loosening his purse-strings to treat his wife and family to Vauxhall; and 'Colin's * 'Description to his wife of Greenwood Hall, or the pleasures of Spring Gardens,' gives a lively picture of what this modern Arcadia was a century ago.
1 May 20, 1712.
I've been at dear Vauxhall;
No paradise is sweeter,
Not that they Eden call.
At night such new vagaries,
Such gay and harmless sport;
All look'd like giant fairies,
At this their monarch's court.
Methought when first I enter'd,
Such splendours round me shone,
Into a world I ventured
Where rose another sun:
Whilst music, never cloying,
As skylarks sweet I hear;
The sounds I'm still enjoying,
They 'll always soothe my ear.
Here paintings, sweetly glowing,
Where'er our glances fall,
Here colours, life bestowing,
Bedeck this green-wood hall!
The king there dubs a farmer,
There John his doxy loves;*
But my delight's the charmer
Who steals a pair of gloves!
As still amazed, I'm straying
O'er this enchanted grove;
I spy a harper playing
All in his proud alcove.
I doff my hat, desiring
He'd tune up Buxom Joan;
But what was I admiring?
Odzooks! a man of stone.
But now the tables spreading,
They all fall to with glee;
Not e'en at Squire's fine wedding
Such dainties did I see!
I long'd (poor starveling rover!)
But none heed country elves;
These folk, with lace daub'd over,
Love only dear themselves.
Thus whilst, 'mid joys abounding,
As grasshoppers they're gay;
At distance crowds surrounding
The Lady of the May.
The man i' th' moon tweer'd slily,
Soft twinkling through the trees,
As though 'twould please him highly
To taste delights like these.” **
But its days are numbered. The axe shall be laid to the roots of its beautiful trees; its green avenues turned into blind alleys;
King and the Miller of Mansfield,—Sailors in a tippling
house in Wapping,—and the girl stealing a kiss from a
sleepy gentleman.
** The statue of Handel.
its variegated lamps give place to some solitary gas-burner, to light the groping inhabitants to their dingy homes; and the melodious strains of its once celebrated vocalists be drowned in the dismal ditty of some ballad-singing weaver, and the screeching responses of his itinerant family. What would the gallant Mr. Lowe and his sprightly Euphrosyne, Nan Catley, say, could they be told to what “base uses” their harmonious groves are condemned to be turned?
splendid Pavilion.
Truly their wonder would be on a par with Paganini's, should ever that musical magician encounter on the other side Styx “My Lord Skaggs and his Broomstick!” *
at the Haymarket Theatre, November 1751.
“Each buck and jolly fellow has heard of Skegginello
The famous Skegginello, that grunts so pretty
Upon his broomstieado, such music he has made, O,
'Twill spoil the fiddling trade, O,
And that's a pity!
But have you heard or seen, O, his phiz so pretty,
In picture shops so grin, O,
With comic nose and chin, O,
Who'd think a man could shine so At Eh, Eh, Eh, Eh?”
There is a curious Tobacco Paper of Skaggs playing on his
broomstick in full concert with a jovial party! One of the
principal performers is a good-humoured looking gentleman
beating harmony out of the salt-box.
** Certain utilitarians affect to ridicule this ancient
civic festival, on the score of its parade, right-royally
ridiculous! and gross gluttony—as if the corporation of
London were the only gourmands who had offered sacrifices to
Apicius, and died martyrs to good living! We have been at
some pains to peep into the dining-parlours of the ancients,
and from innumerable examples of gastronomy have selected
the following, which prove that the epicures of the olden
time yielded not in taste and voracity to their brethren of
the new:—
The emperor Septimus Severus died of eating and drinking too
much. Valentinianus went off in a surfeit. Lucullus being
asked one day by his attendant, what company he had invited
to his feast, seeing so many dainties prepared, answered,
“Lucullus shall dine with Lucullus?” Vitellius Spinter was
so much given to gluttony, that at one supper he was served
with two thousand several kinds of fishes, and with seven
thousand flying fowl. Maximilian devoured, in one day, forty
pounds of solid meat, which he washed down with a hogshead
of wine. The emperor Geta continued his festival for three
days, and his dainties were introduced in alphabetical
order. Philoxenes wished he had a neck like a crane, that
the delicious morsels might be long in going down. Lucullus,
at a costly feast he gave to certain ambassadors of Asia,
among other trifles, took to his own cheek a griph (query
Griffin'!) boiled, and a fat goose in paste. Hercules and
Lepreas had a friendly contest, which could, in quickest
time, eat up a whole ox; Hercules won, and then challenged
his adversary to a drinking bout, and again beat him hollow.
If the Stoic held that the goal of life is death, and that
we live but to learn to die—if the Pythagorean believed in
the transmigration of souls, and scrupled to shoot a
woodcock lest he should dispossess the spirit of his
grandam—how much more rational was the doctrine of the
Epicurean, (after such a goodly catalogue of gormandizers!)
that there was no judgement to come.
Who has not heard of Guildhall on Lord Mayor's Day, ** and the Easter Ball at the Mansion-House? But we profane not the penetralia where even Common-Councilmen fear to tread! The City Marshals, and men in armour (Héros malgré eux!); the pensive-looking state-coachmen, in all the plumpness, pomp, and verdure of prime feeding, wig, and bouquet; the postilion, “a noticeable man,” with velvet cap and jockey boots; the high-bred and high-fed aristocracy of the Poultry and Cheapside, and their Banquet, which might tempt Diogenes to blow himself up to such a pitch of obesity, that, instead of living in a tub, a tub might be said to live in him, are subjects too lofty for plebeian handling. Cæsar was told to beware of the Ides of March; and are not November fogs equally ominous to the London citizen? If, then, by some culinary magic, he can be induced to cram his throat rather than to cut it,—to feast himself instead of the worms,—to prefer a minuet in the Council Chamber to the Dance Macabre in the shades below,—the gorgeous anniversaries of Gog and Magog have not been celebrated in vain. *
language or letter soever,—let the inquisitive man waste
the deere treasures of his time and eye-sight,—he shall
conclude his life only in this certainty, that there is no
subject upon earth received into the place of his government
with the like state and magnificence as is the Lord Maior of
the Citty of London.” This was said by the author of the
“Triumphs of Truth” in 1613. The following list of City
Poets will show that the office was not an unimportant one
in the olden time: George Peele; Anthony Munday; Thomas
Dekker; Thomas Middleton; John Squire; John Webster; Thomas
Heywood; John Taylor (the Water-Poet, one of Ben Jonson's
adopted poetical sons, and a rare slang fellow); Edward G ay
ton, and T. B. (of the latter nothing is known), both
Commonwealth bards; John Tatham; Thomas Jordan; Matthew
Taubman, and Elkanah Settle, the last of the poetical
parsons who wedded Lord Mayors and Aldermen to immortal
verse. One of the most splendid of these anniversary
pageants was “London's Triumph; or, the Solemn and
Magnificent reception of that Honourable Gentleman, Robert
Titeliburn, Lord Maior, after his return from taking his
oath at Westminster, the morrow after Simon and Jude day,
being October 29, 1656. With the Speeches spoken at Foster-
lane-end and Soper-lane-end.”—“In the first place,” (says
the City Poet T. B.) “the loving members of the honourable
societie exercising arms in Cripplegate Ground being drawn
up together, march'd in a military order to the house of my
Lord Maior, where they attended on him, and from thence
march'd before him to the Three Crane Wharfe, where part of
them under the red colours embarqued themselves in three
severall barges; and another part took water at Stone
Staires, being under green colours, as enemies to the other;
and thence wafting to the other side of the water, there
began an encounter between each party, which continued all
the way to Westminster; a third body, consisting of pikes
and musquets, march'd to Bainard's Castle, and there from
the battlements of the castle gave thundering echoes to the
vollies of those that pass'd along the streame. Part before
and part behind went the severall barges, with drums
beating, and trumpets sounding, and varietie of other musiek
to take the eare, while the flags and silver pendents made a
pleasant sight delectable to the beholders.
“After these came severall gentlemen-ushers adorn'd with
gold eliaines; behind them certaine rich batelielours,
wearing gownes furr'd with foynes, and upon them sattin
hoods; and lastly after them, followed the Worshipfull
Company of Skinners itself, whereof the Lord Maior is a
member. Next these, the city officers passing on before,
rode the Lord Maior with the Sword, Mace, and Cap of
Maintenance before him, being attended by the Recorder, and
all the aldermen in scarlet gowns on horseback. (Aldermen on
horseback!!) Thus attended, he rode from Bainard's Castle
into
Cheapside, the Companies standing on both sides of the way
as far as the upper end of the Old Jury, ready to receive
him. When he was come right against the old Change, a
pageant seem'd to meet him. On the pageant stood two
leopards bestrid by two Moors, attir'd in the habit of their
country; at the foure corners sate foure virgins arraid in
cloth of silver, with their haire dishriveld, and coronets
on their heads. This seem'd to be the embleme of a city
pensive and forlorn, for want of a zealous governor: the
Moors and leopards, like evill customs tyrannizing over the
weak virginitie of undefended virtue; which made an aged
man, who sate at the fore part of the pageant, mantled in a
black garment, with a dejected countenance, seem to bewaile
the condition of his native city; but thus he remaind not
long: for at the approach of the Lord Maior, as if now he
had espy'd the safety of his country, he threw off his
mourning weeds, and with the following speech made known the
joy he had for the election of so happy and just a
magistrate.
“The speech being spoken, the first pageant past on before
the Lord Maior as far as Mercers' Chappel; a gyant being
twelve foot in height going before the pageant for the
delight of the people. Over against Soper-lane End stood
another pageant also; upon this were plac'd severall sorts
of beasts, as lyons, tygers, bears, leopards, foxes, apes,
monkeys, in a great wildernesse; at the forepart whereof
sate Pan with a pipe in his hand; in the middle was a
canopie, at the portal whereof sate Orpheus in an antique
attire, playing on his harp, while all the beasts seem'd to
dance at the sound of his melody. Under the canopie sate
four satyrs playing on pipes. The embleme of this pageant
seem'd proper to the Company out of which the Lord Maior was
elected; putting the spectators in mind how much they ought
to esteem such a calling, as clad the Judges in their
garments of honour, and Princes in their robes of majestic,
and makes the wealthy ladies covet winter, to appear clad in
their sable funs. A second signification of this emblem may
be this,—that as Orpheus tam'd the wild beasts by the
alluring sound of his melody, so doth a just and upright
governor tame and govern the wild affections of men, by good
and wholesome lawes, causing a general joy and peace in the
place where he commands. Which made Orpheus, being well
experienced in this truth, to address himself to the Lord
Maior in these following lines.
“The speech being ended, the Lord Maior rode forward to his
house in Silver Street, the military bands still going
before him. When he was in this house, they saluted him with
two volleys of shot, and so marching again to their ground
in Cripple-gate Churchyard, they lodg'd their colours; and
as they began, so concluded this dayes triumph.”
When the barges wherein the soldiers were, came right
against Whitehall, they saluted the Lord Protector and his
Council with several rounds of musketry, which the Lord
Protector answered with “signal testimonies of grace and
cour-tesie.” And returning to Whitehall, after the Lord
Mayor had taken the oath of office before the Barons of the
Exchequer, they saluted the Lord Protector with “another
volley” The City of London had been actively instrumental in
the deposition and death of King Charles the First, and
Cromwell could not do less than acknowledge, with some show
of respect, the blank cartridges of his old friends. The
furr'd gowns and gold chains, however, made the amende
honorable, when they “jumped Jim Crow,” and helped to
restore King Charles the Second.
But Easter-Monday was not made only for the city's dancing dignitaries. It draws up the curtain of our popular merriments; and Whit-Mon-day, * not a whit less merry, trumpets forth their joyous continuation.
Middlesex, a burlesque imitation of the Olympic Games.
One prize was a gold-laced hat, to be grinned for by six
candidates, who were placed on a platform, with horses'
collars to exhibit through. Over their heads was printed in
capitals,
Detur Tetriori; or
The ugliest grinner
Shall be the winner.
Each party grinned five minutes solus, and then all united
in a grand chorus of distortion. This prize was carried by a
porter to a vinegar merchant, though he was accused by his
competitors of foul play, for rinsing his mouth with
verjuice. The whole was concluded by a hog, with his tail
shaved and soaped, being let loose among nine peasants; any
one of which that could seize him by the queue, and throw
him across his shoulders, was to have him for a reward. This
occasioned much sport: the animal, after running some miles,
so tired his hunters that they gave up the chase in despair.
A prodigious concourse of people attended, among whom were
the Tripoline Ambassador, and several other persons of
distinction.
We hail the return of these festive seasons when the busy inhabitants of Lud's town and its suburbs, in spite of hard times, tithes, and taxes, repair to the royal park of Queen Bess to divert their melancholy! We delight to contemplate the mirthful mourners in their endless variety of character and costume; to behold the forlorn holiday-makers hurrying to the jocund scene, to participate in those pleasures which the genius of wakes, kindly bounteous, prepares for her votaries. *
Hill, and the adjoining fields, presented one merry mass of
animated beings. At Chalk Farm there was a regular fair,—
with swings, roundabouts, ups-and-downs, gingerbread-stalls,
theatres, donkey-races, penny chaises, and puppet-shows,
representing the Islington murder, the Queen's marriage, the
arrival of Prince Albert, and the departure of the Chartist
rioters! Hampstead Heath, and the surrounding villages,
turned out their studs of Jerusalem ponies. Copenhagen
House, Hornsey Wood House and the White Conduit, echoed with
jollity; the holiday-makers amusing themselves with cricket,
fives, and archery. How sweetly has honest, merry Harry
Carey described the origin of “Sally in our Alley” which
touelied the heart of Addison with tender emotion, and
called forth his warmest praise. “A shoemaker's 'prentice,
making holiday with his sweetheart, treated her with a sight
of Bedlam, the puppet-shows, the flying-chairs, and all the
elegancies of Moorfields, from whence proceeding to the
Farthing Pye-house, he gave her a collation of buns,
cheese-cakes, gammon of bacon, stuffed beef, and bottled
ale; through all which scenes the author dodged them.
Charmed with the simplicity of their courtship, he drew from
what he had witnessed this little sketch of Nature.”
The gods assembled on Olympus presented not a more glorious sight than the laughing divinities of One-Tree-Hill!
Original
What an animated scene! Hark to the loud laugh of some youngsters that have had their roll and tumble. Yonder is a wedding party from the neighbouring village. See the jolly tar with his true blue jacket and trousers, checked shirt, radiant with a gilt brooch as big as a crown piece, yellow straw-hat, striped stockings, and pumps; and his pretty bride, with her rosy cheeks and white favours. How light are their heels and hearts! And the blythesome couples that follow in their train—noviciates in the temple of Hymen, but who ere long will be called upon to act as principals! All is congratulation, good wishes, and good humour. Scandal is dumb; envy dies for the day; disappointment gathers hope; and one wedding, like a fool, or an Irish wake, shall make many.
“O yes! O yes! O yes!
When the peripatetic pieman rings his bell
At morning, noon, or when you sit at eve;
Ladies and gentlemen, I guess
It needs no ghost to tell,
In song, recitative,
He warbles cakes and gingerbread to sell!
Tarts of gooseberry, raspberry, cranberry;
Rare bonne-bouches brought from Banbury;
Puffs and pie-ses
Of all sorts and sizes;
Ginger beer,
That won't make you queer,
Like the treble X ale of Taylor and Hanbury!”
“Here, good Christians, are five Reasons why you shouldn't go to a fair, published by the London Lachrymose Society for the suppression of fun.”
“And here, good Christians, are five-and-fifty why you should! published by my Lord Chancellor Cocke Lorel, President of the High Court of Mummery, and Conscience-keeper to his merry Majesty of Queerumania, for the promotion of jollity.”
One of the better order of mendicants, on whose smooth, pale brow, hung the blossoms of the grave, arrested our attention with the following madrigal which pleased us, inasmuch as it seemed to smack of the olden time.
“I love but only one
And thou art only she
That loves but only one—
Let me that only be!
Requite me with the like,
And say thou unto me
Thou lov'st but only one,
And I am only he!”
“Cold comfort this, broiling and frying under a burning hot sun!” soliloquized a blind ballad-singer. And, having two strings to his bow, and one to his fiddle, he put a favourite old tune to the rack, and enforced us to own the soft impeachment of
THE BALLAD SINGER'S APOLOGY FOR GREENWICH FAIR.=
Up hill and down hill, 'tis always the same;
Mankind ever grumbling, and fortune to blame!
To fortune, 'tis uphill, ambition and strife;
And fortune obtain'd—then the downhill of life!
We toil up the hill till we reach to the top;
But are not permitted one moment to stop!
O how much more quick we descend than we climb!
There's no locking fast the swift wheels of Old Time.
Gay Greenwich! thy happy young holiday train
Here roll down the hill, and then mount it again.
The ups and downs life has bring sorrow and care;
But frolic and mirth attend those at the fair.
My Lord May'r of London, of high city lineage,
His show makes us glad with, and why shouldn't
Greenwich?
His gingerbread coach a crack figure it cuts!
And why shouldn't we crack our gingerbread nuts?
Of fashion and fame, ye grandiloquent powers,
Pray take your full swing—only let us take ours!
If you have grown graver and wiser, messieurs,
The grinning be ours, and the gravity yours!
To keep one bright spark of good humour alive,
Old holiday pastimes and sports we revive.
Be merry, my masters, for now is your time—
Come, who'll buy my ballads? they're reason and
rhyme.”
Peckham and Blackheath fairs were celebrated places of resort in former times, and had their modicum of strange monsters.
“Geo. I. R.
“To the lovers of living curiosities. To be seen during the time of Peckham Fair, a Grand Collection of Living Wild Beasts and Birds, lately arrived from the remotest parts of the World.
“1. The Pellican that suckles her young with her heart's, blood, from Egypt.
“2. The Noble Vultur Cock, brought from Archangell, having the finest talions of any bird that seeks his prey; the fore part of his head is covered with hair, the second part resembles the wool of a Black; below that is a white ring, having a Ruff, that he cloaks his head with at night.
“3. An Eagle of the Sun, that takes the loftiest flight of any bird that flies. There is no bird but this that can fly to the face of the Sun with a naked eye.
“4. A curious Beast, bred from a Lioness, like a foreign Wild Cat.
“5. The He-Panther, from Turkey, allowed by the curious to be one of the greatest rarities ever seen in England, on which are thousands of spots, and not two of a likeness.
“6 & 7. The two fierce and surprising Hyaenas, Male and female, from the River Gambia. These Creatures imitate the human voice, and so decoy the Negroes out of their huts and plantations to devour them. They have a mane like a horse, and two joints in their hinder leg more than any other creature. It is remarkable that all other beasts are to be tamed, but Hyaenas they are not.
“8. An Ethiopian Toho Savage, having all the actions of the human species, which (when at its full growth) will be upwards of five feet high.
“Also several other surprising Creatures of different sorts. To be seen from 9 in the morning till 9 at night, till they are sold. Also, all manner of curiosities of different sorts, are bought and sold at the above place by John Bennett.”
The grand focus of attraction was in the immediate vicinity of the “Kentish Drovers.” This-once merry hostelrie was a favourite suburban retreat of Dicky Suett. Cherub Dicky! who when (to use his own peculiar phrase) his “copper required cooling,” mounted the steady, old-fashioned, three mile an hour Peckham stage, and journeyed hither to allay his thirst, and qualify his alcohol with a refreshing draught of Derbyshire ale. The landlord (who was quite a character) and he were old cronies; and, in the snug little parlour behind the bar, of which Dicky had the entrée, their hob-and-nobbings struck out sparks of humour that, had they exhaled before the lamps, would have set the theatre in a roar. Suett was a great frequenter of fairs. He stood treat to the conjurors, feasted the tragedy kings and queens, and many a mountebank did he make muzzy. Once in a frolic he changed clothes with a Jack Pudding, and played Barker and Mr. Merriman to a precocious giantess; when he threw her lord and master into such an ecstacy of mirth, that the fellow vowed hysterically that it was either the devil, or (for his fame had travelled before him) Dicky Suett. He was a piscator, *