* Louis Porte was an inoffensive giant. Not so our English
     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.

     * “This Ethiopian savage has a black face, with a large
     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.

     * In Sept. 1806, Mr. and Mrs. Carey (the reputed father and
     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!).

     *  “It tells us the time of day; the day of the month; the
     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.”


     * A countryman from Hertford, being in the gallery of Covent
     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.

     * “There was excessive spending of venison, as well as other
     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.