* These “Landskips” are interesting, and very difficult to
     be obtained. Thirteen, representing the Frost Fairs of 1683,
     —1715-16,—and 1739-40, now lie before us. “An exact and
     lively Mapp or Representation of Booths, and all the
     varieties of Showes and Humours upon the Ice on the River
     of Thames, by London, during that memorable Frost in the
     35th yeare of the reigne of his Sacred Maty King Charles the
     2d. Anno Dni 1683. With an Alphabetical Explanation of the
     most remarkable figures,” exhibits “The Temple Staires, with
     people going upon the ice to Temple Street—The Duke of
     Yorkes Coffee House—The Tory Booth—The Booth with a
     Phoenix on it, and Insured as long as the Foundation Stand—
     The Roast Beefe Booth—The Half-way House—The Beare Garden
     Shire Booth—The Musiek Booth—The Printing Booth—The
     Lottery Booth—The Horne Tavern Booth—The Temple Garden,
     with Crowds of People looking over the wall—The Boat
     drawnc with a Hors—The Drum Boat—The Boat drawne upon
     vehiceles—The Bull-baiting—The Chair sliding in the Ring—
     The Boyes Sliding—The Nine Pinn Playing—The sliding on
     Scates—The Sledge drawing Coales from the other side of the
     Thames—The Boyes climbing up the Tree in the Temple Garden
     to sec ye Bull Baiting—The Toy Shoops—London Bridge.”

     Another of these “lively Mapps” has a full-length portrait
     of Erra Pater, referred to by Hudibras,

          “In mathematics he was greater
          Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater”—
          prophesying in the midst of the fair.
          “Old Erra Pater, or his rambling Ghost,
          Prognosticating of this long strong Frost,
          Some Ages past, said. yl ye Ice-bound Thames
          Shou'd prove a Theatre for Sports and Games,
          Her Wat'ry Green be turn'd into a Bare,
          For Men a Citty seem, for Booths a Faire;
          And now this Stragling Sprite is once more come
          To visit Mortalls and foretel their doom:
          When Maids grow modest, ye Dissenting crew
          Become all Loyal, the Falsehearted true,
          Then you may probably, and not till then,
          Expect in England such a Frost agen.

In 1715-16 Jack Frost paid Old Father Thames a second visit. * But whether maids had grown modest, dissenters loyal, and false-hearted men and true,

     *  “The best prospect of the frozen Thames with the booths
     on it, as taken from the Temple Stairs ye 2O day of January
     1715-6, by C. Woodfield,” is rich in fun, and a capital
     piece of art. We owe great obligations to “Mr. Joshua Bangs”
      for the following:—

     “Mr. Joshua Bangs.

     Printed at Holme's and Broad's Booth, at the Sign of the
     Ship, against Old Swan Stairs, where is the Only Real
     Printing Press on the Frozen Thames, January the 14th, 1715-
     6.

          “Where little Wherries once did use to ride,
          And mounting Billows dash'd against their side,
          Now Booths and Tents are built, whose inward Treasure
          Affords to many a one Delight and Pleasure;
          Wine, Beer, Cakes, hot Custards, Beef and Pies,
          Upon the Thames are sold; there, on the Ice
          You may have any
          Thing to please the Sight,
          Your Names are Printed, tho' you cannot write;
          Therefore pray lose no Time, but hasten hither,
          To drink a Glass with Broad and Holmes together.”

     'Several “Landskips” were published of this Frost Fair, in
     which are shown “York Buildings Water Works—A Barge on a
     Mountain of Ice—A drinking Tent on a Pile of Ice—
     Theodore's Printing Booth—C.'s Piratical Song Booth—Cat in
     the Basket Booth—King's Head Printing Booth—The Cap Musiek
     Booth—The Hat Musick Booth—Dead Bodies floating in ye
     Channel—Westminster Bridge, wh ye Works demolish'd—Skittle
     Playing and other Diversions—Tradesmen hiring booths of ye
     Watermen—A Number of confus'd Barges and Boats—Frost
     Street from Westminster Hall to the Temple.

          “This transient scene, a Universe of Glass,
          Whose various forms are pictur'd as they pass,
          Here future Ages may wth wonder view,
          And wl they scarce could think, acknowledge true.

     Printed on the River Thames in ye month of January 1740.

          “Behold the liquid Thames now frozen o'er
          That lately ships of mighty Burthen bore;
          Here Watermen, for want to row in boats,
          Make use of Bowze to get them Pence and Groats.

     Frost Fair. Printed upon the Ice on the River Thames, Jan.
     23, 1739-40.”

          “The bleak North-East, from rough Tartarian Shores,
          O'er Europe's Realms its freezing Rigour pours,
          Stagnates the flowing Blood in Human Veins,
          And binds the silver Thames in ley Chains.
          Their usual Courses Rivulets refrain,
          And ev'ry Pond appears a Glassy Plain;
          Streets now appear where Water was before,
          And Thousands daily walk from Shore to Shore.

     Frost Fair. Printed upon the River Thames when Frozen, Jan.
     the 28.1739-40.”

          “The View of Frost Fair, Jan? 1739-40.
          Scythians of old, like us remov'd,
          In tents thro' various climes they rov'd;
          We, bolder, on the frozen Wave,
          To please your fancies toil and slave;
          Here a strange group of figures rise,
          Sleek beaus in furs salute your eyes;
          Stout Soldiers, shiv'ring in their Bed,
          Attack the Gin and Gingerbread;
          Cits with their Wives, and Lawyers' Clerks,
          Gamesters and Thieves, young Girls and Sparks.
          This View to Future Times shall
          Show The Medley Scene you Visit now.”

according to old Erra Pater's prognostication in 1663, is a question; and in 1739-40 * he honoured him with a third, which was no less joyous than the preceding two. In 1788-9, the Thames was completely frozen over below London Bridge. Booths were erected on the ice; and puppet-shows, wild beasts, bear-baiting, turnabouts, pigs and sheep roasted, exhibited the various amusements of Bartholomew Fair multiplied and improved. From Putney Bridge down to Redriff was one continued scene of jollity during this seven weeks' saturnalia. The last Frost Fair was celebrated in the year 1814. The frost commenced on 27th December 1813, and continued to the 5th February 1814. *

     * “The River Thames (4th Feby 1814) between London and
     Blackfriars Bridges was yesterday about noon, a perfect
     Dutch Fair. Kitchen fires and furnaces were blazing,
     roasting and boiling in every direction; while animals, from
     a sheep to a rabbit, and a goose to a lark, turned on
     numberless spits. The inscriptions on the several booths and
     lighters were variously whimsical, one of which ran thus:—
     This Shop to Let. N.B. It is charged with no Land Tax or
     even Ground Tient! Several lighters, lined with baize, and
     decorated with gay streamers, were converted into
     coffeehouses and taverns. About two o'clock a whole sheep
     was roasted on the ice, and cut up, under the inviting
     appellation of Lapland Mutton, at one shilling a slice!”

There was a grand walk, or mall, from Blackfriars Bridge to London Bridge, that was appropriately named The City Road, and lined on each side with booths of all descriptions. Several printing presses were erected, and at one of these an orange-coloured standard was hoisted, with “Orange Boven” printed in large characters. There were E O and Rouge et Noir tables, tee-totums and skittles; concerts of rough music, viz. salt-boxes and rolling-pins, gridirons and tongs, horns, and marrow-bones and cleavers. The carousing booths were filled with merry parties, some dancing to the sound of the fiddle, others sitting round blazing fires smoking and drinking. A printer's devil bawled out to the spectators, Now is your time, ladies and gentlemen,—now is your time to support the freedom of the press! * Can the press enjoy greater liberty? Here you find it working in the middle of the Thames!” And calling upon his operatical powers to second his eloquence, he, with “vocal voice most vociferous,” thus out-vociferated e'en sound itself,—


Siste Viator! if sooner or later

You travel as far as from here to Jerusalem,

Or live to the ages of Parr or Methusalem,—

On the word of old Wynkyn,

And Caxton, I'm thinking,

Tho' I don't wear a clothes—

Brush under my nose,

Or sweep my room

With my beard, like a broom,

I prophecy truly as wise Erra Pater,

You won't see again sick a wonder of Natur!”


A “Swan of Thames,” too—an Irish swan!—whose abdominal regions looked as if they were stuffed with halfpenny doggrel,

     * The following is one among many specimens of Frost Fair
     verse in 1813-14:—“Printed on the River Thames.

          Behold the River Thames is frozen o'er,
          Which lately ships of mighty burden bore;
          Now different arts and pastimes here you see,
          But printing claims the superiority.”

entertained a half-frozen audience, who gave him shake for shake with

THE METRICAL, MUSICAL, COLD, AND COMICAL HUMOURS OF FROST FAIR.=

Open the door to me, my love,

Prithee open the door,—

Lift the latch of your h'gant thatch,

Your pleasant room, attic! or what a rheumatic

And cold I shall catch!

And then, Miss Clark, between you and your spark

'Twill be never a match!

I've been singing and ringing, and rapping and tapping,

And coughing and sneezing, and wheezing and freezing,

While you have been napping,

Miss Clark, by the Clock of St. Mark,

Twenty minutes and more!

Little Jack Frost the Thames has cross'd

In a surtout of frieze, as smart as you please!—

There's a Bartlemy Fair and a thorough—

Slopsellers, sailors, three Tooley Street tailors,

All the élite of St. Thomas's Street,

The Mint, and the Fleet!


The bear's at Polito's jigging his jolly toes;

Mr. Punch, with his hooked nose and hunch;

Patrick O'Brien, of giants the lion;

And Simon Paap, that sits in his lap;

The Lady that sews, and knits her hose,

And mends her clothes, and rubs her nose,

And comes and goes, without fingers and toes!


You may take a slice of roast beef on the ice;

At the Wellington Tap, and Mother Red-cap,

The stout runs down remarkably brown!

To the Thimble and Thistle, the Pig and Whistle,

Worthy Sir Felix has sent some choice relics

Of liquor, I'm told, to keep out the cold!

If you 've got a sweet tooth, there 's the gingerbread

booth—

To the fife and the fiddle we'll dance down the middle,

Take a sup again, then dance up again!

And have our names printed off on the Thames;

Mister and Missis (all Cupids and kisses!)

Dermot O'Shinnigly, in a jig, in a glee!

And take a slide, or ha'penny ride

From Blackfriars Bridge to the Borough!


The sun won't rise till you open your eyes—

Then give the sly slip to the sleepers.

Don't, Miss Clark, let us be in the dark,

But open your window and peepers.


A friend of ours who had a tumble, declared, that though he had no desire to see the city burnt down, he devoutly wished to have the streets laid in ashes! And another, somewhat of a penurious turn, being found in bed late in the morning, and saluted with, “What! not yet risen?” replied, “No; nor shall I till coals fall!”







CHAPTER VI.

And now, Eugenio, ere we cross the ferry, and mingle with the 'roaring boyes and swashbucklers' of St. Bartholomew, let us halt at the Tabard, and snatch a brief association with Chaucer and his Pilgrims. The localities that were once hallowed by the presence of genius we ardently seek after, and fondly trace through all their obscurities, and regard them with as true a devotion as does the pilgrim the sacred shrine to which, after his patiently-endured perils by sea and land, he offers his adoration. The humblest roof gathers glory from the bright spirit that once irradiated it; the simplest relic becomes a precious gem, when connected with the gifted and the good. We haunt as holy ground the spot where the muse inspired our favourite bard; we treasure up his hand-writing in our cabinets; we study his works as emanations from the poet; we cherish his associations as reminiscences of the man. Never can I forget your high-toned enthusiasm when you stood in the solemn chancel of Stratford-upon-Avon, pale, breathless, and fixed like marble, before the mausoleum of Shakspeare!”

“An honest and blithesome spirit was the Father of English Poetry! happy in hope, healthful in morals, lofty in imagination, and racy in humour,—a bright earnest of that transcendent genius who, in an after age, shed his mighty lustre over the literature of Europe. The Tabard!—how the heart leaps at the sound! What would Uncle Timothy say if he were here?”

“All that you have said, and much more, could he say it as well.” And instantly we felt the cordial pressure of a hand stretched out to us from the next box, where sat solus the middle-aged gentleman. “To have passed the Tabard, * would have been treason to those beautiful associations that make memory of the value that it is!

          *  “Befelle that in that seson, on a day,
          In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay,
          Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage
          To Canterbury, with devoute corage,
          At night was eome into that hostellerie
          Wei nine-and-twenty in a compagnie,
          Of sondry folk, by a venture yfalle,
          In felawship, and pilgrimes were they alle,
          That toward Canterbury wolden ride.
          The chambres and the stables weren wide,
          And wel we wreren csed atte beste.”

One of the most rational pleasures of the intellectual mind is to escape from the present to the past. The contemplation of antiquity is replete with melancholy interest. The eye wanders with delight over the crumbling ruins of ancient magnificence; the heart is touched with some sublime emotion; and we ask which is the' most praiseworthy—the superstition that raised these holy temples, or the piety (?) that suffers them to fall to decay? This corner is one of my periodical resting-places after a day's solitary ramble; for I have many such, in order to brush lip old recollections, and lay in fresh mental fuel for a winter evening's fireside.'Tis a miracle that this antique fabric should have escaped demolition. Look at St. Saviour's! *

     *  The ancient grave-yard of St. Saviour's contains the
     sacred dust of Massinger. All that the Parish Register
     records of him is, “March 20, 1639-40, buried Philip
     Massinger, a Stranger.” John Fletcher, the eminent dramatic
     poet, who died of the Plague, August 19,1625, was buried in
     the church.

     With all due respect for Uncle Timothy's opinion, we think
     he is a little too hard upon the citizens, who are not the
     only Vandals in matters of antiquity. The mitre has done its
     part in the work of demolition. Who destroyed the ancient
     palace of the Bishops of Ely, (where “Old John of Gaunt,
     time-honour'd Lancaster,” breathed his last, in 1398,) with
     its beautiful Chapel and magnificent Gothic Hall? The site
     of its once pleasant garden in Holborn, from whence Richard
     Duke of Gloucester requested a dish of strawberries from the

     Bishop on the morning he sent Lord Hastings to execution, is
     now a rookery of mean hovels. And the Hospital of Saint
     Catherine, and its Collegiate Church,—where are they? Not
     one stone lies upon another of those unrivalled Gothic
     temples of piety and holiness, founded by the pious Queen
     Matilda. And the ancient Church of St. Bartholomew, where
     once reposed the ashes of Miles Coverdale, and which the
     Great Fire of London spared, is now razed to the ground!

     De Gustibusf Alderman Newman, who had scraped together out
     of the grocery line six hundred thousand pounds, enjoyed no
     greater luxury during the last three years of his life than
     to repair daily to the shop, and, precisely as the clock
     struck two (the good old-fashioned hour of city dining), eat
     his mutton with his successors. The late Thomas Rippon,
     Chief Cashier of the Bank of England, was a similar oddity.
     Onee only, in a service of fifty years, did he venture to
     ask for a fortnight's holiday. He left town, but after a
     three days' unhappy ramble through beautiful green fields,
     he grew moping and melancholy, and prematurely returned to
     the blissful regions of Threadneedle Street to die at his
     desk!

In the contemplation of that impressive scene—amidst the everlasting freshness of nature and the decay of time—I have been taught more rightly to estimate the works of man and his Creator,—the one, like himself, stately in pride and beauty, but which pass away as a shadow, and are seen no more; the other, the type of divinity, infinite, immutable, and eternal.”

“But surely—may I call you Uncle Timothy?” Uncle Timothy good-humouredly nodded assent. “Surely, Uncle Timothy, the restoration of the Ladye Chapel and Crosby Hall speak something for the good taste of the citizens.”

“Modestly argued, Eugenio!”

“An accident, my young friend, a mere accident, forced upon the Vandals. Talk of antiquity to a Guildhall Magnifico I * Sirs, I once mentioned the 'London Stone' to one of these blue-gown gentry, and his one idea immediately reverted to the well-known refectory of that venerable name, where he stuffs himself to repletion and scarletifies his nasal promontory, without a thought of Wat Tyler, * the Lord of the Circle! An acquaintance of mine, one Deputy Dewlap, after dining with the Patten-makers on the 9th of November, was attacked with a violent fit of indigestion.

     * Small was the people's gain by the insurrection of Wat
     Tyler. The elements of discord, once put in motion, spread
     abroad with wild fury, till, with the ignoble blood of base
     hinds, mingled the bravest and best in the land. The people
     returned to their subjection wondering and dispirited. For
     whose advantage had all these excesses been committed? Was
     their position raised? Were their grievances redressed,
     their wants alleviated? Did their yoke press lighter? Were
     they nearer the attainment of their (perhaps ''reasonable)
     wishes, by nobility and prelates cruelly slaughtered,
     palaces burned down, and the learning and works of art that
     humanise and soften rugged natures piled in one vast,-
     indiscriminate ruin? If aught was won by these monstrous
     disorders, they were not the winners. The little aristocrats
     of cities, who have thrown their small weight into popular
     insurrections, may have had their vanity gratified and their
     maws temporarily crammed; but the masses, who do the rough
     work of resistance for their more cunning masters, are
     invariably the sufferers and dupes. Hard knocks and hanging
     have hitherto been their reward; and when these shall grow
     out of fashion, doubtless some equally agreeable substitute
     will be found. “It is not an obvious way (says Wyndham) for
     making the liquor more clear, to give a shake to the cask,
     and to bring up as much as possible from the parts nearest
     to the bottom.”

His lady sent for the family doctor,—a humorist, gentlemen. 'Ah!' * cried Mr. Galen, 'the old complaint, a coagulation in the lungs. Let me feel your pulse. In a high fever! Show me your tongue. Ay, as white as a curd. Open your mouth, wider, Mr. Deputy—you caw open it wide enough sometimes!—wider still. Good heavens! what do. I see here?'—'Oh! my stars!' screamed the Deputy's wife, 'What, my dear doctor, do you—see?'—'Why, madam, I see the leg of a turkey, and a tureen of oyster-sauce!' 'Ha! ha! ha!—gluttons all; gluttons all!'



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Original

“A pise on Benjamin Bosky! the cunning Lauréat, having a visitation from sundry relatives of his cousin's wife's uncle's aunt's sister, hath enjoined me the penance, malgré moi-même! of playing showman to them among the Lions of London. Now I have no antipathy to poor relations—your shabby genteel—provided that, while they eat and drink at my expense, they will not fail to contradict ** me stoutly when they think I am in the wrong; but your purse-proud, half-and-half,

     * When Justice Shallow invited Falstaff to dinner, he issued
     the following orders:—“Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of
     short-legged hens; a joint of mutton; and any pretty little
     tiny kickshaws, tell William Cook.” This is a modest bill of
     fare. What says Massinger of City feasting in the olden
     time?

     “Men may talk of Country Christmasses,

     Their thirty-pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carp's
     tongue, Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris, the
     carcases Of three fat wethers bruised for gravy, to Make
     sauce for a single peacock; yet their feasts were fasts,
     compared with the City's.”

     ** A friend of Addison's borrowed a thousand pounds of him,
     which finding it inconvenient to repay, he never upon any
     occasion ventured to contradict him. One day the hypocrisy
     became so offensively palpable, that Addison, losing all
     patience, exclaimed, “For heaven's sake contradict me, sir,
     or pay me my thousand pounds!”

Brummagem gentlefolks, shabby, without being-genteel!—your pettifoggers in small talk and etiquette, that know everything and nothing—listening to and retailing everybody's gossip, meddling with everybody's business,—and such are the Fubsys, Muffs, and Flumgartens,—are sad provocatives to my splenetic vein.

His spirits rallied when the talk was of Chaucer, whose memory we drank in a cup of sack prepared, as mine host assured us, from a recipe that had belonged to the house as an heir-loom, time out of mind, and of which Dick Tarlton had often tasted.

“Dick Tarlton, Uncle Timothy,—was not he one of the types of Merrie England?”

“A mad wag! His diminished nose was a peg upon which hung many an odd jest. His 'whereabouts' were hereabouts at the Bear Garden; but the Bull in Bishopsgate Street; the Bel-Savage, without Ludgate; and his own tavern, the Tabor, in Gracious (Gracechurch) Street, came in for a share of his drolleries. Marvellous must have been the humour of this 'allowed fool, when it could 'undumpish' his royal mistress in her frequent paroxysms of concupiscence and ferocity! He was no poll-parrot retailer of other people's jokes. He had a wit's treasury of his own, upon which he drew liberally, and at sight. His nose was flat; not so his jests; and, in exchanging extemporal gibes with his audience, * he generally returned a good repartee for a bad one.”

     * Tarlton having to speak a prologue, and finding no
     cessation to the hissing, suddenly addressed the audience in
     this tetrastie:—

          I lived not in the golden age,
          When Jason won the fleece;
          But now I am on Gotham's stage,
          Where fools do hiss like geese.

On the authority of an old play, “The Three Lords and Three Ladies of London,” published two years after his death, he was originally “a, water-bearer.” Among England's merry crew in the olden time were Will Summers, jester to King Henry the Eighth; Patch, Cardinal Wolsey's fool; Jack Oates, fool to Sir Richard Hollis; and Archibald Armstrong, jester to King Charles the First. There was a famous jester, one Jemy Camber, “a fat foole,” who enlivened the dull Court of James the Sixth of Scotland. The manner of his death, as recorded in “A Nest of Ninnies,” by Robert Armin, 4to. 1608, is singular. “The Chamber-laine was sent to see him there,” (at the house of a laundress in Edinburgh, whose daughter he was soliciting, and who had provided a bed of nettles for his solace,) “who when he came found him fast asleep under the bed starke naked, bathing in nettles, whose skinne when hee wakened him, was all blistered grievously. The King's Chamberlaine bid him arise and come to the King. 'I will not,' quoth he, 'I will go make my grave.' See how things chanced, he spake truer than he was awar. For the Chamberlaine going home without him, tolde the King his answere. Jemy rose, made him ready, takes his horse, and rides to the church-yard in the high towne, where he found the sexton (as the custom is there) making nine graves—three for men, three for women, and three for children; and who so dyes next, first comes, first served, * 'Lend mee thy spade,' says Jemy, and with that, digs a hole, which hole hee bids him make for his grave; and doth give him a French crowne; the man, willing to please him (more for his gold than his pleasure) did so: and the foole gets upon his horse, rides to a gentleman of the towne, and on the so-daine, within two houres after, dyed: of whom the sexton telling, hee was buried there indeed. Thus, you see, fooles have a gesse at wit sometime, and the wisest could have done no more, nor so much. But thus this fat foole fills a leane grave with his carkasse; upon which grave the King caused a stone of marble to bee put, on which poets writ these lines in remembrance of him:


'He that gard all men till jeare,

Jemy a Camber he ligges here:

Pray for his Sale, for he is geane.

And here a ligges beneath this steane.


The following poetical picture of him is exact and curious.


“This Fat Foole was a Scot borne, brought up

In Sterlin, twenty miles from Edinborough;

Who being but young, was for the King caught up,

Serv'd this King's father all his lifetime through.

A yard high and a nayle, no more his stature,

Smooth fac't, fayre spoken, yet unkynde by nature.

Two yards in compassé and a nayle I reade

Was he at forty yeeres, since when I heard not;

Nor of his life or death, and further heede,

Since I never read, I looke not, nor regard not,

But what at that time Jemy Camber was

As I have heard, lie write, and so let passe.

His head was small, his hayre long on the same,

One eare was bigger than the other farre:

His fore-head full, his eyes shinde like a flame,”

His nose flat, and his beard small, yet grew square;

His lips but little, and his wit was lesse,

But wide of mouth, few teeth I must confesse.

His middle thicke, as I have said before,

Indifferent thighes and knees, but very short;

His legs be square, a foot long, and no more,

Whose very presence made the King much sport.

And a pearle spoone he still wore in his cap,

To eate his meate he lov'd, and got by hap

A pretty little foote, but a big hand,

On which he ever wore rings rich and good:

Backward well made as any in that land,

Though thicke, and he did eome of gentle bloud;

But of his wisdome, ye shall quickly heare,

How this Fat Foole was made on every where.”


And some capital jokes are recorded of him in this same “Nest of Ninnies.” There was another fool, “leane Leonard,” who belonged to “a kinde gentleman” in “the merry Forrest of Sherwood,” a gluttonous fellow, of unbounded assurance and ready wit. “This leane, greedy foole, having a stomaeke, and seeing the butler out of the way, his appetite was such, as loath to tarry, he breakes open the dairy-house, eates and spoiles new cheeseeurds, cheesecakes, overthrowes creame bowles, and having filled his belly, and knew he had done evill, gets him gone to Mansfield in Sherwood, as one fearefull to be at home: the maydes came home that morning from milking, and finding such a masaker of their dairie, almost mad, thought a yeares wages could not make amends: but 'O the foole, leane Leonard,' they cryed, 'betid this mischiefe!' They complayned to their master, but to no purpose, Leonard was farre inough off; search was made for the foole, but hee was gone none new whither, and it was his pro-pertie, having done mischiefe, never to come home of himselfe, but if any one intreated him, he would easy be won.

“All this while, the foole was at Mansfield in Sherwood, and stood gaping at a shoomaker's stall; who, not knowing him, asked him what he was? 'Goe look,' says hee; 'I know not my selfe.' They asked him where he was borne? 'At my mother's backe,' says he.—'In what country?' quoth they.—'In the country,' quoth he, 'where God is a good man.' At last one of the three journeymen imagined he wras not very wise, and flouted him very merrily, asking him if he would have a stitch where there was a hole? (meaning his mouth.) 'Aye,' quoth the foole, 'if your nose may bee the needle.' The shoomaker could have found in his heart to have tooke measure on his pate with a last in steede of his foote; but let him goe as he was.

“A country plow-jogger being by, noting all this, secretly stole a piece of shoomaker's ware off the stall, and coming be-hinde him, clapt him on the head, and asked him how he did. The foole, seeing the piteh-ball, pulled to have it off, but could not but with much paine, in an envious spleene, smarting ripe, runs after him, fais at fistie cuffes with, but the fellow belaboured the foole cunningly, and got the foole's head under his arme, and bobb'd his nose. The foole remembering how his head was, strikes it up, and hits the fellowes mouth with the pitcht place, so that the haire of his head, and the haire of the clownes beard were glued together. The fellow cryed, the foole exclaimed, and could not sodanely part. In the end the people (after much laughing at the jest) let them part faire; the one went to picke his beard, the other his head. The constable came, and asked the cause of their falling out, and knowing one to be Leonard the leane foole, whom hee had a warrant for from the gentleman to search for, demaunds of the fellow how it hapned? The fellow hee could answere nothing but 4 um—um,' for his mouth was sealed up with wax, 'Dost thou scorne to speake V says hee. 41 am the King's officer, knave!' 6 Um—um,' quoth hee againe. Meaning hee would tell him all when his mouth was cleane. But the constable, thinking hee was mockt, clapt him in the stocks, where the fellow sate a long houre farming his mouth, and when hee had done, and might tell his griefe, the constable was gone to carry home Leonard to his maister; who, not at home, hee was enforced to stay supper time, where hee told the gentleman the jest, who was very merry to heare the story, contented the offieer, and had him to set the fellow at liberty, who betimes in the morning was found fast asleep in the stocks. The fellow knowing himselfe faulty, put up his wrongs, quickly departed, and went to work betimes that morning with a flea in his eare.”

“Jacke Oates was “a fellow of infinite jest,” and took to the fullest extent the laughing licence that his coat of motley allowed him. His portrait, contained in “A Nest of Ninnies,” is quite as minute and interesting as the true effigie of Leane Leonard, which follows it.

“This Foole was tall, his face small,

His beard was big and blacke,

His necke was short, inclin'd to sport

Was this our dapper Jacke.

Of nature curst, yet not the worst,

Was nastie, given to sweare;

Toylesome ever, his endeavour

Was delight in beere.

Goutie great, of conceit

Apt, and full of favour;

Curst, yet kinde, and inclinde

To spare the wise man's labour.

Knowne to many, loude of any,

Cause his trust was truth!

Seene in toy es, apt to joy es,

To please with tricks of youth.

Writh'd i' th' knees, yet who sees

Faults that hidden be?

Calf great, in whose conceit

Lay much game and glee.

Bigge i' th' small, ancle all,

Footed broad and long,

In Motley cotes, goes Jacke Oates,

Of whom I sing this song.”

“Curled locks on idiot's heads,

Yeallow as the amber,

Playes on thoughts, as girls with beads,

When their masse they stamber.

Thicke of hearing, yet thin ear'd,

Long of neck and visage,

Hookie nosde and thicke of beard,

Sullen in his usage.

Clutterfisted, long of arme,

Bodie straight and slender'd,

Boistious hipt motly warm'd,

Ever went leane Leonard.

Gouty leg'd, footed long,

Subtill in his follie,

Shewing right, but apt to wrong,

When a'pear'd most holy.

Understand him as he is,

For his marks you cannot misse.”

Eugenio.—“'Tis said that he died penitent.” Uncle Tim.—“I hope he did. I hope all have died penitent. I hope all will die penitent. Alas! for the self-complacent Pharisees of this world; they cannot forgive the poor player:' little reflecting of how many, not laughing but crying sins they will require to be forgiven. The breath of such hearts would wither even the flowers of Paradise.”

Could we sit at the Tabard, and not remember the Globe, * with its flag floating in the air, the Boar's Head, and the Falcon!

     *  “Each playhouse,” says W. Parkes, in his Curtain-drawer
     of the World, 4to. 1612, “advaneeth its flag in the air,
     whither, quickly, at the waving thereof, are summoned whole
     troops of men, women, and children.” And William Rowley, in
     “A Search for Money, 1609,” whilst enumerating the many
     strange characters assembled at a tavern in quest of “The
     Wandering Knight, Monsieur L'Argent,” includes among them
     four or five flag-falne plaiers, poore harmlesse merrie
     knaves, that were now neither lords nor ladies, but honestly
     wore their owne clothes (if they were paid for.)

     In 1698 an unsuccessful attempt was made by the puritanical
     vestry of Saint Saviour's to put down the Globe Theatre, on
     the plea of the “enormities” practised there. But James the
     First, when he came to the throne, knocked their petitions
     on the head by granting his patent to Shakspere and others
     to perform plays, “as well within their usuall house called
     the Globe, in Surry,” as elsewhere. It was what Stowe calls
     “a frame of timber,” with, according to John Taylor, the
     water-poet, “a thatched hide.” Its sign was an Atlas bearing
     a globe. It was accidentally burnt down on St. Peter's day,
     June 29, 1613. “And a marvaile and fair grace of God it
     was,” says Sir Ralph Win wood in his Memorials, “that the
     people had so little harm, having but two little doors to
     get out.”

     Sir Henry Wootton's relation of this fire is exceedingly
     interesting. “Now, to let matters of state sleep, I will
     entertain you at the present with what hath happened this
     week at the Banks side. The King's players had a new play,
     called All is true, representing some principal pieces of
     the raign of Henry 8 which was set forth with many
     extraordinary circumstances of pomp and majesty, even to the
     matting of the stage, the knights of the order, with their
     Georges and garters, the guards with their embroidered
     coats, and the like: sufficient, in truth, within a mile to
     make greatness very familiar, if not ridiculous. Now King
     Henry making a masque at the Cardinal Woolsey's house, and
     certain canons being shot off at his entry, some of the
     paper, or other stuff wherewith one of them were stopped,
     did light on the thatch, where, being thought at first but
     an idle smoak, and their eyes more attentive to the show, it
     kindled inwardly, and ran round like a train, consuming
     within less than an hour the whole house to the very ground.

     “This was the fatal period of that vertuous fabrique,
     wherein nothing did perish but wood and straw, and a few
     forsaken cloaks; only one man had his breeches set on fire,
     that would perhaps have broyled him if he had not, by the
     benefit of a provident wit, put it out with bottle-ale. The
     rest when we meet.”—Reliquio Woottonio.

Suddenly the strings of a harp were struck. “Listen!” said Uncle Timothy, “that is no everyday hand.”

The chords were repeated; and, after a symphony that spoke in exquisite tones a variety of passions, a voice melodious and plaintive sang—

THE OLD HARPER'S SONG.=

Sound the harp! strike the lyre!—Ah! the Minstrel is

old;

The days of his harping are very nigh told;

Yet Shakspere, * sweet Shakspere! thy name shall expire

On his cold quiv'ring lips—Sound the harp! strike the

lyre!


Its music was thine when his harp he first strung,

And thou wert the earliest song that he sung;

Now feeble and trembling his hand sweeps the wire—

Be thine its last note!—Sound the harp I strike the

lyre!


I've wander'd where riches and poverty dwell;

With all but, the sordid, thy name was a spell.

Love, pity, and joy, in each bosom beat higher;

Rage, madness, despair I—Sound the harp! strike the lyre!


The scenes of thy triumphs are pass'd as a dream;

But still flows in beauty, sweet Avon—thy stream.

Still rises majestic that heaven-pointed spire,

Thy temple and tomb!—Sound the harp! strike the

lyre!”