monsters. On the 10th of Sept. 1787, a Bartlemy Fair
Giant was brought before Sir William Plomer at Guildhall,
for knocking out two of his manager's fore-teeth, for which
the magistrate fined him two guineas per tooth! In March
1841, a giantess, six feet nine inches high, from Modern
Athens and Bartholomew Fair, killed her husband in a booth
at Glasgow; and in the same year, at Barnard-Castle Easter
Fair, a giant stole a change of linen from a hedge, for
which he was sent to prison for three months.
On the 26th May, 1555, (see Strype's Memorials,) there was a
May-game at St. Martin's in the Fields, with giants and
hobby-horses, drums, guns, morris-dancers, and minstrels.
(“Hercule du Roi!”) a French equilibrist; Pietro Bologna, a dancer on the slack-wire; Signor Placida (“the Little Devil!”); “La Belle Espagnole” (on the tight-rope); the “real wild man of the woods;” * the dancing-dogs of Sieur Scaglioni; ** General Jacko, *** and Pidcock's **** menagerie, (to which succeeded those of Polito and Wombwell,) one and all drove a roaring trade at Bartholomew Fair.
white circle round it. He sits in a chair in a very pleasing
and majestic attitude; eats his food like a Christian, and
is extremely affable and polite.”
** These dogs danced an allemand, mimicked a lady spinning,
and a deserter going to execution, attended by a chaplain,
(a dressed-up puppy!) in canonicals.
*** “June 17, 1785, at Astley's, General Jacko performs the
broad-sword exercise; dances on the tight-rope; balances a i
pyramid of lights; and lights his master home with a link.”
In the following September the General opened his campaign
at Bartholomew Fair.
**** Were you to range the mighty globe all o'er,
From east to west, from north to southern shore;
Under the line of torrid zone to go,—
No deserts, woods, groves, mountains, more can shew
To you, than Pidcock in his forest small—
Here, at one view, you have a sight of all.”
We chronicle not the gods, emperors, dark bottle-green demons, and indigo-blue nondescripts that have since strutted their hour upon the boards of “Richardson's Grand Theatrical Booth.” * They, like every dog, have had their day; and comical dogs were most of them!
Of the modern minstrelsy of the “Rounds,” the lyrics of Mr. Johannot, Joe Grimaldi, and the very merry hey down derry, “Neighbour Prig” song of Charles Mathews, ** are amusing specimens.
mother of Edmund Kean, the tragedian,) played at
Richardson's Theatre, Bartholomew Fair, the Baron Montaldi
and his daughter, in a gallimaufry of love, murder,
brimstone, and blue fire, called “The Monk and Murderer, or
the Skeleton Spectre!”
** Mathews was the Hogarth of the stage; his characters are
as finely discriminated, as vigorously drawn, as highly
finished, and as true to nature, as those of the great
painter of mankind. His perception of the eccentric and
outré was intuitive;—his range of observation comprehended
human nature in all its varieties; he caught not only the
manner, but the matter of his originals; and while he hit
off with admirable exactness the peculiarities of
individuals, their very turn of thought and modes of
expression were given with equal truth. In this respect he
surpassed Foote, whose mimicry seldom went beyond personal
deformities and physical defects,—a blinking eye, a lame
leg, or a stutter. He was a satirist of the first class,
without being a caricaturist; exhibiting folly in all its
Protean shapes, and laughing it out of countenance,—a
histrionic Democritus! His gallery of faces was immense. He
had as many physiognomies as Argus had eyes. The
extraordinary and the odd, the shrewd expression of knavish
impudence, the rosy contentedness of repletion, the vulgar
stare of boorish ignorance, and the blank fatuity of idiocy,
he called up with a flexibility that had not been witnessed
since the days of Garrick. Many of his most admired
portraits were creations of his own: the old Scotchwoman,
the Idiot playing with a Fly, Major Longbow, &c. &c. The
designs for his “At Homes” were from the same source; meaner
artists filled in the back-ground, but the figures stood
forth in full relief, the handiwork of their unrivalled
impersonator. Who but remembers his narration of the story
of the Gamester, his Monsieur Mallét, and particular parts
of Monsieur Morbleu?—Nothing could be more delightful than
his representation of the “pauvre barbiere had the air, the
bienséance of the Chevalier, who had danced a minuet at the
“Cour de Versailles” His petit chanson, “C'est V Amour!” and
his accompanying capers, were exquisitely French. His
transitions from gaiety to sadness—from restlessness to
civility—his patient and impatient shrugs, were admirably
given.
In legitimate comedy, his old men and intriguing valets were
excellent; while Lingo, Quotem, Nipperkin, Midas
Sharp, Wiggins, &c. &c. in farce, have seldom met with
merrier representatives. His broken English was superb; his
country boobies were unsophisticated nature; and his Paddies
the richest distillation of whisky and praties. He was the
finest burletta singer of his day, and in his patter songs,
his rapidity of utterance and distinctness of enunciation
were truly wonderful.
His Dicky Suett in pawn for the cheesecakes and raspberry
tarts at the pastry-cook's, in St. Martin's Court, was no
less faithful than convulsing; Tate Wilkinson, Cooke, Jack
Bannister, and Bensley, were absolute resurgams; and if he
was not the identical Charles Incledon, “there's no purchase
in money.”
He was the first actor that introduced Jonathan into
England, for the entertainment of his laughter-loving
brothers and sisters. The vraisemblance was unquestionable,
and the effect prodigious.
A kindred taste for pictures, prints, and theatrical relics,
often brought the writer into his company. At his pleasant
Thatched Cottage at Kentish Town, rising in the midst of
green lawns, flower-beds, and trellis-work, fancifully
wreathed and overgrown with jasmine and honey-suckles! was
collected a more interesting museum of dramatic curiosities
than had ever been brought together by the industry of one
man. Garrick medals in copper, silver, and bronze; a lock of
his hair; the garter worn by him in Richard the Third; his
Abel Drug-ger shoes; his Lear wig; his walking-stick; the
managerial chair in which he kept his state in the green-
room of Old Drury; the far-famed Casket (now in the
possession of the writer) carved out of the mulberry-tree
planted by Shakspere; the sandals worn by John Kemble in
Coriolanus on the last night of that great actor's
performance, and presented by him to his ardent admirer on
that memorable occasion, were all regarded by Mathews as
precious relics. He was glad of his sandals, he wittily
remarked, since he never could hope to stand in his shoes!
The Penruddock stick, and Hamlet wig were also carefully
preserved. So devoted was he to his art, and so just and
liberal in his estimation of its gifted professors, that he
lost no opportunity of adding to his interesting store some
visible tokens by which he might remember them.
He was the friendliest of men. The facetious companion never
lost sight of the gentleman; he scorned to be the buffoon—
the professional lion of a party, however exalted by rank.
It was one of his boasts—a noble and a proud one too!—that
the hero of a hundred fights, the conqueror of France, the
Prince of Waterloo! received him at his table, not as Punch,
but as a private gentleman. He had none of the low vanity
that delights to attract the pointed finger. He was content
with his supremacy on the stage—an universal imitator,
himself inimitable!
In the summer of 1830, we accompanied him to pay the veteran
Quick a visit at his snug retreat at Islington. Tony Lumpkin
(then in his seventy-fifth year), with little round body,
flaring eye, fierce strut, turkey-cock gait, rosy gills,
flaxen wig, blue coat, shining buttons, white vest, black
silk stockings and smalls, bright polished shoes, silver
buckles, and (summer and winter) blooming and fragrant
bouquet! received us at the door, with his comic treble! The
meeting was cordial and welcome. No man than Quick was a
greater enthusiast in his art, or more inquisitive of what
was doing in the theatrical world. Of Ned Shuter he spoke in
terms of unqualified admiration, as an actor of the broadest
humour the stage had ever seen; and of Edwin, as a
surpassing Droll, with a vis comica of extraordinary power.
He considered Tom Weston, though in many respects a glorious
actor, too rough a transcript of nature, and Dodd (except in
Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, which he pronounced a master-piece of
fatuity,) too studied and artificial. He could never account
for Garrick's extreme partiality for Woodward, (David
delighted to act with him,) whose style was dry and hard;
his fine gentleman had none of the fire, spirit, and
fascination of Lewis; it was pert, snappish, and not a
little ill-bred; but his Bobadil and Pa-rolles were
inimitable. He declared the Sir Fretful Plagiary of his
guest equal to the best thing that Parsons ever did; yet
Parson's Old Doiley was for ever on his lips, and “Don't go
for to put me in a passion, Betty!” was his favourite tag,
when mine hostess of the King's Head, Islington, put too
much lime in his punch. He thought King the best prologue-
speaker of his time. In characters of bluff assurance and
quaint humour—Brass, Trappanti, Touchstone, &c.—he had no
superior. Garrick was his idol! His sitting-room was hung
round with engravings of him in Drugger, Richard, Sir John
Brute, Kitely, cheek-by-jowl with himself in Sancho, Tony
Lumpkin, “Cunning Isaac,” Spado, &c. The time too swiftly
passed in these joyous reminiscences. Quick promised to
return the visit, but increasing infirmities forbade the
pleasant pilgrimage; and soon after he became the Quick and
the dead!
Our last visit to Mr. Mathews at Kentish Town was in March,
1833. “'Tis agony point with me just now,” he writes. “I
have been scribbling from morning till night for three
weeks.
I am hurried with my entertainment: my fingers are cramped
with writing; and on my return, I find twenty-five letters,
at least, to answer. I shall be at home Tuesday and
Wednesday; can you come up? Do. Very sincerely yours, in a
gallop, Charles Mathews.—P.S. It will be your last chance
of seeing my gallery here” We accepted the invitation, and
spent a delightful day.
What more than a hasty glance can we afford the Wild Indian Warriors; the Enchanted Skeleton; Comical Joe on his Piggy-Wiggy; the Canadian Giantess; Toby, the sapient pig; the learned goose; * Doncaster Dick, the great; Mr. Paap, ** Sieur Borawliski, Thomas Allen, and Lady Morgan the little; the wonderful child (in spirits) with two heads, three legs, and four arms (“no white leather, but all real flesh”); the Bonassus, “whose fascinating powers are most wonderful.” the Chinese Swinish Philosopher (a rival of Toby!).
month of the year; takes a hand at whist; and (the
profundity of this goose's intellects!) counts the number of
ladies and gentleman in the room.”
** Mr. Simon Paap was the most diminutive of dwarfs, not
excepting Jeffery Hudson, and the “Little Welchman” who, in
1752, advertised his thirty inches at sixpence a-head. Simon
measured but twenty-eight inches, and weighed only twenty-
seven pounds. Count Borawliski was three feet three inches
high; so was Thomas Allen. Lady Morgan, the “Windsor Fairy,”
was a yard high. Her Ladyship and Allen were thus be-rhymed
by some Bartlemy Fair bard:
“The lady like a fairy queen,
The gentleman of equal stature;
O how curious these dear creatures!
Little bodies! little features!
Hands, feet, and all alike so small,
How wondrous are the works of nature!”
Mrs. Samwell's voltigeurs on the slack-wire, and Tyrolesian stilts; the Spotted Negro Boy; Hokee Pokee; the learned dog near-sighted, and in spectacles; the Red Barn Tragedy, and Corder's * execution “done to the life!” the Indian Jugglers; the Reform Banquet; Mr. Haynes, the fire-eater; ** the Chinese Conjuror, who swallows fifty needles, which, after remaining some time in his throat, are pulled out threaded; the chattering, locomotive, laughing, lissom, light-heeled Flying Pieman; and the diverting humours of Richardson's clown, Rumfungus Hook-umsnoolcumwalkrisky? This ark of oddities *** must
“Come like shadows, so depart.”
Garden Theatre, at the tragedy of Macbeth, and hearing
Duncan demand of Malcolm,
“Is execution done on Cawdor?” exclaimed, “Yes, your honour?
he was hanged this morning.”
** June 7, 1821 at the White Conduit House, Islington, Mons.
Chabert, after a luncheon of phosphorus, arsenic, oxalic
acid, boiling oil, and molten lead, walked into a hot oven,
preceded by a leg of lamb and a rumpsteak. On the two last,
when properly baked, the spectators dined with him. An
ordinary most extraordinary! Some wags insinuated that, if
the Salamander was not “done brown,” his gulls were!
*** The following account of Bartlemy Fair receipts, in
1828, may be relied on:—Wombwell's Menagerie, 1700L.;
Atkins' ditto, 1000L.; and Richardson's Theatre, 1200L.; the
price of admission to each being sixpence. Morgan's
Menagerie, 150L.; admission threepence. Balls, 80L.;
Ballard, 89L.; Keyes, 20L.; Frazer, 26L.; Pikey 40L.; Pig-
faced Lady, 150L.; Corder s Head, 100L.; Chinese Jugglers,
50L.; Fat
Boy and Girl, 140L.; Salamander, 30L.; Diorama Navarin,
60L.; Scotch Giant, 201. The admission to the last twelve
shows varied from twopence to one halfpenny.
Mr. Titlepage. With a little love, murder, larceny, and lunacy, Mr. Bosky, your monsters with two heads would cut capital figures on double crow
Mr. Crambo. If I had their drilling and dovetailing, a pretty episode should they make to my forthcoming Historical Romance of Mother Brown-rigg! I've always a brace of plots at work, an upper and an under one, like two men at a saw-pit! Indeed, so horribly puzzled was I how to get decently over the starvation part of my story, till I hit upon the notable expedient of joining Mrs. B. in holy matrimony to a New Poor Law Commissioner, that it was a toss-up whether I hanged myself or my heroine! That union happily solemnised, and a few liberal drafts upon Philosophical Necessity, by way of floating capital, my plots, like Johnny Gilpin's wine-bottles, hung on each side of my Pegasus, and preserved my equipoise as I galloped over the course!
By suspending the good lady's suspension till the end of vol. three (I don't cut her down to a single one), the interest is never suffered to drop till it reaches the New one. Or, as I'm doing the Newgate Calendar, (I like to have two strings to my bow!) what say you, gents? if, in my fashionable novel of Miss Blandy (the Oxford lass, who popped off in her pumps for dosing—“poison in jest!”—her doting old dad,) St. Bartlemy and his conjurors were made to play first fiddle! D' ye think, friend Merripall, you could rake me up from your rarities a sketch of Mother Brownrigg coercing her apprentices? (There I am fearfully graphic! You may count every string in the lash, and every knot in the string!) A print of her execution? (There I melt Jack Ketch, and dissolve the turnkeys.) Or, an inch of the identical twine (duly attested by the Ordinary!) that compressed the jugular of Miss Mary?
Mr. Merripall. I promise you all three, Mr. Crambo. Let the flogging and the finishing scene be engraved in mezzotinto, and the rope in line.
Uncle Timothy. Many years since I accompanied my old friend, Charles Lamb, to Bartholomew Fair. It was his pet notion to explore the droll-booths; perchance to regale in the “pens:” indeed, had roast pig (“a Chinese and a female,” dredged at the critical moment, and done till it crackled delicately,) continued one of its tit-bits, he had bargained for an ear! “In spirit a lion, in figure a lamb,” the game of jostling went on merrily; and when the nimble fingers of a chevalier dindustrie found their way into his pocket, he remarked that the poor rogue only wanted “change.” As little heeded he the penny rattles scraped down his back, and their frightful harmony dinned in his ears. Of a black magician, who was marvellously adroit with his daggers and gilt balls, he said, “That fellow is not only a Negro man, sir, but a necromancer!” He introduced himself to Saunders, whose fiery visage and scarlet surtout looked like Monmouth Street in a blaze! and the showman suspended a threatened blast from his speaking-trumpet to bid him welcome. A painted show-cloth announced in colossal capitals that a twoheaded cow was to be seen at sixpence a head.
Elia inquired if it meant at per our heads or the cow's? On another was chalked “Ladies and gentlemen, two-pence; servants, one penny.11 Elia subscribed us the exhibitors “most obedient servants,” posted our plebeian pence, and passed in. We peeped into the puppet-shows; paid our respects to the wild animals; visited Gyngell and Richardson; patronised (“nobly daring!”) a puff of the Flying Pieman's; and, such was his wild humour, all but ventured into a swing! This was a perilous joke! His fragile form canted out, and his neck broken! Then the unclassical evidence of the Bartlemy Fair folk at the “Crowner's quest.” What a serio-comic chapter for a posthumous edition of Elia's Last Essays! Three little sweeps luxuriating over a dish of fried sausages caught his eye. This time he would have his way! We entered the “parlour” and on a dingy table-cloth, embroidered with mustard and gravy, were quickly spread before us, “hissing hot,” some of “the best in the fair.” His olfactory organs hinted that the “odeur des graillons” which invaded them was not that of Monsieur Ude; still he inhaled it heroically, observing that, not to argue dogmatically, yet categorically speaking, it reminded him of curry. “Lunch time with us,” quoth Elia, “is past, and dinner-time not yet come,” and he passed over the steaming dish to our companions at the table d'hote, with a kind welcome, and a winning smile. They stared, grinned, and all three fell to. We left them to their enjoyments; but not before Elia had slipped a silver piece into their little ebony palms. A copious libation to “rare Ben Jonson” concluded the day's sports. I never beheld him happier, more full of antique reminiscences, and gracious humanity.
“The peace of heaven,
The fellowship of all good souls go with him!”
Uncle Timothy rose to retire.
“One moment, sir,” said the Lauréat; “we have not yet had Mr. Flumgarten's song.”?
“My singing days, Cousin Bosky, are over,” replied the ill-matched hubby of the “Hollyhock;”
“but, if it please the company, I will tell them a tale.”
CHAPTER XI.
Mr. Merripall, having gathered that the tale was of a ghostly character, would not suffer the candles to be snuffed, but requested his mutes to sprinkle over them a pinch or two of salt, that they might burn appropriately blue. He would have given his gold repeater for a death-watch; and when a coffin bounced out to him from the fire (howbeit it might be carrying coals to Newcastle!) he hailed it as a pleasant omen. Messrs. Hatband and Stiflegig, catching the jocular infection, brightened up amazingly.
THREE CHURCHES IN A ROW
I.=
If you journey westward—ho,
Three churches all of a row,
Ever since the days of the Friars,
Have lifted to Heaven their ancient spires.
The bells of the third are heard to toll—
For Pauper, Dives?
Pastor, Cives?
For a rich or a poor man's soul?
Winding round the sandy mound
Coaches and four, feathers and pall,
Startle the simple villagers all!
Sable mutes, death's recruits!
Marshall the hearse to the holy ground.
Eight stout men the coffin bear—
What a creak is here! what a groan is there!
As the marching corps toil through the church door—
For the rich dead must be buried in lead;
Their pamper'd forms are too good for the worms!
They cheat in dust, as they cheated before.
Mumbles the parson, and mumbles the clerk,
Prayer, response,
All for the nonce!
Who shall shrive the soul of a shark?
Slides the coffin deep in the ground;
Earth knocks the lid with a hollow sound!
It lies in state, and the silver'd plate
Glares in the ghastly sepulchre round!
Death has his dole!
At last, at last the body's nail'd fast!
But who has the soul?
See a mourner slowly retire,
With a conscience ill at ease
For opening graves and burial fees,
He hath yet to pay his debt,—
Tho' Heaven delays, can Heaven forget?
Forget? As soon as the sun at noon.
That gilds yon spire,
Shall cease to roll—or that mourner's soul
Itself expire!
II.=
Swift the arrow, eagle's flight,
Thought, sensation, sound, and light!
But swift indeed is the spirit's speed
To the glory of day, or the darkness of night!
Who knocks at the brazen gate? A fare
By the ferryman row'd to the gulf of despair!
With hissing snakes twisted into a thong,
(“I drove you on earth, I drive you below,
Gee up! gee up! old Judas, gee ho!”)
A furious crone whipp'd a spirit along!—
Her blood-shot sight
Caught the ferryman's sprite;
“Welcome! welcome!” she shriek'd with delight,—
“Thy father is here for his gifts to me,
And here am I, his torment to be”—
(And the cruel crone
Lash'd out a groan!
A deep-drawn breath
From the ribs of death,
Where the undying worm gnaw'd the marrowless bone!)
“For what I have given thy brethren and thee!
Gold was to keep up our family name!'
Spirit
A penny-wise fame!
It has kept it up! for 'tis written in shame
On earth: and, behold! in that bright shining flame!
Old Man.
Death so soon to knock at thy door I
And send thee hither at forty and four.
Spirit.
My sire! my sire! unholy desire,
The hypocrite's guile,
Mask'd under a smile I
And avarice made me a pillow of fire;
The ill-gotten purse has carried its curse
Old Man.
Hath Jacob done better?
Spirit.
Nor better nor worse!
Losses and crosses, and sorrow and care
Have furrowed his cheeks and whitened his hair.
Betray'd in turn by the heart he betray'd,
Exalting his horn
To the finger of scorn,
He lies in the bed that his meanness has made.
Old Man.—Crone.
Our gold! our gold! ten thousand times told!
Thus to fly from the family fold.
Spirit.
Father! mother! my spirit is wrung:
Water! water! for parch'd is my tongue.
Is this fiery lake ne'er to be cross'd?
Are those wild sounds the shrieks of the lost?
And that stern angel sitting alone,
Lucifer crown'd, on his burning throne?
Old Man.
But how fares Jonathan, modest and meek?
My Meeting-House walking-stick thrice in the week!
Ere wife and cough
Carried me off,—
Instead of heathenish Latin and Greek,
I early taught him my maxims true,—
Do unto all as you'd have others do
To yourself, good Jonathan? Certainly not!
But learning never will boil the pot;—
A penny sav'd is a penny got;—
A groat per year is per day a pin;—
Let those (the lucky ones! ) laugh that win;—
Keep your shop, and your shop will keep you!
Grasps his clutch little or much?
Has his good round sum rolled into a plum?
A voice spake in thunder—“His time is not come!”
III.=
There is an eye that compasses all,
Good and ill in this earthly ball;
That pierces the dunnest, loneliest cell,
Where wickedness hides, and marks it well!
Years have wheeled their circles round,
And the ancient sexton re-opens the ground;
A weary man at the end of his span,—
Again the bell tolls a funeral sound,
And the nodding plumes pass down the hill,—
'Tis the time of the year when the buds appear,
And the blackbird pipes his music shrill;
On the breeze there is balm, and a holy calm,
Whispers the troubled heart, “Be still! ”
Ah! how chang'd since we saw him last,
That mourner of twenty long winters past!
He halts and bends as he slowly wends—
Bereft! bereft! what hath he done?
That death should smite his only son!
Fix'd to the sod,
Bitter tears his cheeks bedew;
His broken heart is buried too!
With gentle hand, and accents bland,
The man of God
Leads him forth—'tis silence deep,—
And fathers, mothers, children weep.
IV.=
For what man gives the world, he learns
Too late, how little it returns!
Nor counts he, till the funeral pall
Has made a shipwreck of his all,
His pleasures, pains; his losses, gains;
And finds that, bankrupt! naught remains.
In the watches of the night
E'en our very thoughts affright—
And see! before the mourner's sight
A dark and shadowy form appears;
Hark! a voice salutes his ears,
“ Hush thy sorrow, dry thy tears!
Father! 'twas to save thy son
From av'rice, cunning, passion, pride,
That he hath left the path untried,
The crooked path that worldlings run,
And, happy spirit! early died.
If thou couldst know who dwell below
In deep unutterable woe;
Or wing with me thy journey far
Above, where shines the morning star;
And hear the bright angelic choirs
(Casting their crowns before His feet,)
In choral hymns His praise repeat,
And strike their golden lyres—
Another sun would never rise,
And gild the azure vault of heaven,
Ere thy petition reach'd the skies
To be forgiven.”
Was it a dream?—The mournful man
Next morn his alter'd course began.
To his kindred he restor'd
What unjustly swelled his hoard.
With a meek, contented mind,
He liv'd in peace with all mankind;
And thus would gratefully prolong
To heaven his morn and evening song;—
I have no time to pray, to plead
For all the blessings that I need;
For what I have, a patriarch's days
Would only give me time to praise!—
He died in hope. Yon narrow cell
Guards his sleeping ashes well.
The rest can holy angels tell!....
“This will I carry with me to my pillow,” said Uncle Timothy. “My friends, good night.”
CHAPTER XII.
A chubby young gentleman, a “little Jack Horner eating his Christmas pie,” abutting from “The Fortune of War,” at Pie-Corner, marks the memorable spot where the Great Fire of London concluded its ravages. The sin of gluttony, * to which, in the original inscription (now effaced,) the fire was attributed, is still rife; a considerable trade in eatables and drinkables being driven, and corks innumerable drawn, in defiance, under the chubby young gentleman's bottle nose.
victuals, in the halls. Nay, and a great consumption of
venison there was frequently at taverns and cooks' shops,
insomuch that the Court was much offended with it.
Whereupon, anno 1573, that the City might not continue to
give the Queen and nobility offence, the Lord Mayor, Sir
Lionel Ducket, and Aldermen, had by act of Common Council
forbidden such feasts hereafter to be made; and restrained
the same only to necessary meetings, in which, also, no
venison (!!) was permitted.”—Stow.
Venison was also prohibited in the taverns and cooks' shops.
Our modern civic gourmands and gourmets, wiser grown! have
propitiated the Court by occasional invitations to take part
in their gluttony.
A Bartlemy Fair shower of rain overtook us while we were contemplating the dilapidated mansion of the Cock Lane Ghost; and, as it never rains in Bartle-my Fair, but it pours, we scudded along to the parlour of The Fortune of War, as our nearest shelter; where we beheld Mr. Bosky, though he beheld not us, bombarding his little body with cutlets and bottled beer, in company with a tragedy queen; a motion-master; and a brace of conjurors, Mr. Rumfiz and Mr. Glumfiz. Mr. Rumfiz was a merry fellow, who had fattened on blue fire, which he hung out for a sign upon his torrid nose; with Mr. Glumfiz dolor seemed to wait on drinking, and melancholy on mastication; for he looked as if he had been regaling on fishhooks and castor-oil, instead of Mr. Bosky's bountiful cheer.
“'Tis hard to bid good-b'ye to an old friend that we may never see again! Heigho! I'm sorry and sick; as cross and as queer as the hatband of Dick! Good-b'ye to St. Bartholomew.”
This was sighed forth by the lean conjuror, who, as he emitted a cloud of tobacco-smoke, seemed ready to pipe his eye, and responded to by the tragedy queen with a look ultra tragical!
“Bah!” chuckled the corpulent conjuror, “à bas the blue devils! If ruin must come, good luck send that it may be blue. Though poor in purse, let me be rich in nose! Saint Bartlemy in a consumption—ha! ha! Pinched for standing-room, the comical old grig laughs and lies down! and, so droll he looks in dissolution, that I must have my lark out, though one of his boa-con-strictors should threaten to suck me down in a lump. He dies full of years and fun, the patriarch of posture-masters and puppet-showmen! Merry be his memory! and Scaramouches eternal caper round his sarcophagus! Shall we cry him a canting canticle? Rather let us chant a rattling roundelay!”
Major Domo's a comical homo I
Sic transit gloria mundi;
Highty-tighty I frolicksome,, flighty I
Soon will Bartlemy Fair and fun die.
Coat of motley, cap and bells,
O'er his bier shall dolefully jingle;
Conjurors all shall bear his pall,
And mountebanks follow it, married and single!
Giants, dwarfs in sable scarfs.
Merry mourners! will not tarry one;
Humps, bumps shall stir their stumps!
And toes of timber dot and carry one!
Harlequin droll the bell shall toll,
Mister Punch shall shrive and bury him;
Tumblers grin while they shovel him in,
And Charon send Joe Grim to ferry him!
B'ye, b'ye! we all must die;
Ev'ry day with death's a dun day;
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,
Friday, Saturday, Sunday!
Nothing could resist the hilarity of Mr. Rumfiz. The tragedy queen gave a lop-sided smile from under the ruins of a straw-bonnet; the motion-master grinned approbation; Mr. Glumfiz was tumultuously tickled. At this moment an infantine tumbler, dressed in a tinselled scarlet jacket dirty-white muslin-fringed trousers, and yellow leather pumps, made a professional entry on his head and hands, to summon the two conjurors from their cups to their balls.
“Keep the blue fire hot till I come, Mr. Glumfiz!” said the Lauréat.
“It won't cool,” replied the lean conjuror.
The tragedy queen now received a call from Cardinal Wolsey, to relieve Miss Narcissa Nimble-pins on the Pandean pipes and double drum. The little Melpomene assured Mr. Bosky of her high consideration, and, leaning on the mountebank messenger's arm, bobbed and backed out of the parlour very gracefully. But the motion-master would have been immoveable, had not his tawdry better-half, who had nothing of a piece but her tongue, hurried in with, the news that their stage-manager, having spitefully cut the wires, puppets and trade were at a stand-still.
The Lauréat being left solus, exhibited a disposition to compose himself over a cigar, an indulgence at which his eyes sympathetically winked. Should we draw aside the curtain between his box and ours?
A note from Mr. Bosky's nose
Seem'd to say,
“Away! away!
Leave me, leave me to repose!”
Our glasses were empty, and the fair was filling; so we took the hint and our hats, and were soon among the lions.
An Ancient Pistol-looking scarecrow with a cockaded something, between an old cocked hat, and an old hat cocked, on his shaggy pole; a black patch over one eye; a sham lame left leg; half a pair of half boots, and a jacket without sleeves, brandishing harlequin's wooden sword, and belabouring a cracked drum, beat up for recruits, and thus accompanied his tattoo.
With his brigade of brags
Captain Bobadil comes;
Soldiers furl your flags,
Crape and muffle your drums!
Let John Bull and the bell
Both be dismally told!
One, for a funeral knell;
One, the reward of the bold.
From Harry to Arthur, you
Britons! would conquer or die—
'Pon my soul it's true;
What will you lay it's a lie?
Bobadil trump'd up a story—
“Fighting's the time o' day!
All for honour and glory,
Provender, plunder, and pay.
It vastly better, by Jove, is
To be for liberty bang'd;
Than for prigging, my covies,
To stay behind and be hang'd!
Every man in his shoe
Looks as if he would die—
'Pon my soul it's true;
What will you lay it's a lie?
Limping London on pegs,
Crown'd with victory's palms,
Heroes without their legs
Now are asking for alms;
Cursing their liberal lot,
And Bob's grandiloquent whims;
Deuce in their locker a shot;
Tho' lots, alas! in their limbs!
We hardly know which to do;
Whether to laugh or to cry—
Ton my soul it's true;
What will y ou lay it's a lie?
Read me a comical riddle,
Paddy will say it comes pat—
Some men dance to the fiddle;
Bob's men dance to the cat.
Fine and flourishing speeches
Lads like Wellington, scoff;
They lead their troops on the breaches;
Bobadil, he pulls'em off!
Give the Devil his due.
Bob's a garrulous Guy—
Ton my soul it's true;
What will you lay it's a lie?
“Well, I never see such a low, frothy, horrid, awful, dandified, grandified, twistified, mystified, play-going, pleasure-taking, public-house set as these rubbishing Scaramouches! It would be quite a charity to send'em all to the Treadmill, or there's no mystery in mousetraps!”
“That little woman's tender mercies are cruel!” responded a voice behind, and leading captive a personage, who seemed to to wonder how the devil he got there!—a fierce, fidgety flounced madam, bounced past us with an air of inconceivable grandeur. It was Mrs. Flumgarten hooked on to the arm of Brummagem Brutus.
A sudden rush, from a “conveyancer” being escorted to the Pied Poudre, * brought us to that ancient seat of justice.