Destiny._
[Illustration]
Her maiden name was Sarey Leigh,
And was to have been Guffin;
For we was to have been marri-ed,
But Fate brought that to nuffin.
VIII.
_He is particular as to the date of the occurrence._
[Illustration]
All on a Wednesday afternoon,
On the ninth of Janivary,
Eighteen hundred and forty-four,
Oh! I did kill my Sarey.
IX.
_And narrates the means employed, and the circumstances which led him to
destroy his betrothed._
[Illustration]
With arsenic her I did destroy,
How could I be so vicious!
But of my young master I was jealous,
And so was my old Missus.
X.
_He is led away by bad passions._
[Illustration]
I thought Sarey Leigh warn't true to me,
So all pity then despising,
Sure I was tempted by the Devil
To give to her some p'ison.
XI.
_His bosom is torn by conflicting resolutions; but he is at last decided._
[Illustration]
Long--long I brooded on the deed,
'Til one morning of a sudden,
I did determine for to put
It in a beef-steak puddin.
XII.
_The victim falls into the snare._
[Illustration]
Of the fatal pudding she did partake,
Most fearful for to see,
And an hour arter was to it a martyr,
Launch'd into eternity.
XIII.
_He feels that his perception comes too late._
[Illustration]
Ah! had I then but viewed things in
The light that I now does 'em,
I never should have know'd the grief
As burns in this here buzum.
XIV.
_He commits his secret to the earth._
[Illustration]
So when I seed what I had done,
In hopes of justice retarding,
I took and buried poor Sarey Leigh
Out in the kitching garding.
XV.
_But the earth refuses to keep it._
[Illustration]
But it did haunt me, so I felt
As of a load deliver'd,
When three weeks after the fatal deed,
The body was diskiver'd.
XVI.
_Remorse and self examination._
[Illustration]
O! why did I form of Sarey Leigh
Such cruel unjust opinions,
When my young master did her find
Beneath the bed of inions.
XVII.
_His countrymen form a just estimate of his delinquency._
[Illustration]
Afore twelve jurymen I was tried,
And condemned the perpetrator
Of this here awful Tragedy,
As shocks one's human natur.
XVIII.
_He conjures up a painful image._
[Illustration]
But the bell is tolling for my end;
How shocking for to see
A footman gay, in the prime of life,
Die on the fatal tree.
XIX.
_His last words convey a moral lesson._
[Illustration]
THE MORAL!!!
Take warning, then, all ye as would
Not die like malefactors;
Never the company for to keep
Of them with bad characters.
[Illustration: J. CATNACH, PRINTER AND PUBLISHER.]
Little Boys and Girls will find
At CATNACH'S something to their mind;
From great variety may choose,
What will instruct them and amuse.
The prettiest plates that you can find,
To please at once the eye and mind.
One class of literature which the late Jemmy Catnach made almost his own,
was children's farthing and halfpenny books. Among the great many that he
published we select, from our own private collection, the following as a
fair sample:--"The Tragical Death of an Apple Pie," "The House that Jack
Built," "Jumping Joan," "The Butterflies Ball and Grasshoppers' Feast,"
"Jerry Diddle and his Fiddle," "Nurse Love-Child's Gift," "The Death and
Burial of Cock Robin," "The Cries of London," "Simple Simon," "Jacky
Jingle and Suky Shingle," and--"Here you have just prin--ted and
pub--lish--ed, and a--dor--ned with eight beau--ti--ful and ele--gantly
engraved embellish--ments, and for the low charge of one _farden_--Yes!
one _farden_ buys."
NURSERY RHYMES.
[Illustration]
See-saw, sacradown,
Which is the way to London town?
One foot up, and the other down,
And that is the way to London town.
[Illustration]
Hey diddle, the cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon,
The little dog laughed to see the sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
Ding, dong bell!
Pussy's in the well.
Who put her in?
Little Johnny Green.
Who pulled her out?
Little Johnny Snout.
What a naughty boy was that,
To drown poor pussy cat,
Who never did him any harm,
And kill'd the mice in his father's barn.
[Illustration]
Jack and Jill went up the hill,
To get a pail of water;
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.
[Illustration]
Cock a doodle do,
The dame has lost her shoe,
And master's lost his fiddle stick
And don't know what to do.
I had a little husband,
No bigger than my thumb.
I put him in a quart pot,
And there I bid him drum.
[Illustration]
Who's there? A Grenadier!
What do you want? A pot of beer.
Where's your money? Oh, I forgot,
Then get you gone, you drunken sot.
[Illustration]
Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock,
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
Down comes the baby, cradle and all.
[Illustration]
There was an old woman that lived in a shoe,
She had so many children she knew not what to do;
She gave them some broth without any bread,
Then she beat them all well, and sent them to bed.
[Illustration]
My mother and your mother
Went over the way;
Said my mother to your mother,
It's chop-a-nose day!
J. Catnach, Printer, 2, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials.
THE CRIES OF LONDON.
[Illustration]
_Cherries._
Here's round and sound,
Black and white heart cherries,
Two-pence a pound.
[Illustration]
_Oranges._
Here's oranges nice,
At a very small price,
I sell them all two for a penny.
Ripe, juicy, and sweet,
Just fit for to eat,
So customers buy a good many.
[Illustration]
_Milk below._
Rain, frost, or snow, or hot or cold,
I travel up and down,
The cream and milk you buy of me
Is best in all the town.
For custards, puddings, or for tea,
There's none like those you buy of me.
[Illustration]
_Crumpling Codlings._
Come buy my Crumpling Codlings,
Buy all my Crumplings.
Some of them you may eat raw,
Of the rest make dumplings,
Or pies, or puddings, which you please.
[Illustration]
_Filberts._
Come buy my filberts ripe and brown,
They are the best in all the town,
I sell them for a groat a pound,
And warrant them all good and sound,
You're welcome for to crack and try,
They are so good, I'm sure you'll buy.
[Illustration]
_Clothes Pegs, Props, or Lines._
Come, maids, and buy my pegs and props,
Or lines to dry your clothes,
And when they are dry they'll smell as sweet
As any damask rose.
Come buy and save your clothes from dirt,
They'll save you washing many a shirt.
[Illustration]
_Sweep._
Sweep, chimney sweep,
Is the common cry I keep,
If you rightly understand me;
With my brush, broom, and my rake,
Such cleanly work I make,
There's few can go beyond me.
[Illustration]
_Peas and Beans._
Four pence a peck, green Hastings!
And fine garden beans.
They are all morning gathered,
Come hither, my queens.
Come buy my Windsor beans and peas,
You'll see no more this year like these.
_Young Lambs to Sell._
Get ready your money and come to me,
I sell a young lamb for a penny.
Young lambs to sell! young lambs to sell!
If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry young lambs to sell.
[Illustration]
Here's your toys for girls and boys,
Only a penny, or a dirty phial or bottle.
[Illustration]
_Strawberries._
Rare ripe strawberries and
Hautboys, sixpence a pottle.
Full to the bottom, hautboys.
Strawberries and Cream are charming and sweet,
Mix them and try how delightful they eat.
[Illustration]
When Good Friday comes,
The old woman runs
With Hot Cross Buns,
One a penny, Buns,
Two a penny, Buns,
All Hot Buns.
LONDON:
Printed by J. Catnach, 2, Monmouth
Court, 7 Dials.
"Songs! Songs! Songs! Beautiful songs! Love songs; Newest songs! Old
songs! Popular songs! Songs, _Three Yards a Penny!_" was a "standing dish"
at the "Catnach Press," and Catnach was the Leo X. of street publishers.
And it is said that he at one time kept a fiddler on the premises, and
that he used to sit receiving ballad writers and singers, and judging of
the merits of any production which was brought to him, by having it sung
then and there to some popular air played by his own fiddler, and so that
the ballad-singer should be enabled to start at once, not only with the
new song, but also the tune to which it was adapted. His broad-sheets
contain all sorts of songs and ballads, for he had a most catholic taste,
and introduced the custom of taking from any writer, living or dead,
whatever he fancied, and printing it side by side with the productions of
his own clients.
Catnach, towards the latter part of his time and in his threefold capacity
of publisher, compositor, and poet, was in the habit of taking things very
easy, and always appeared to the best advantage when in his printing
office, or stationed behind the ricketty counter which for a number of
years had done good service in the shop in Monmouth-court. In this
uncongenial atmosphere, where the rays of the sun are seldom or never
seen, Jemmy was as happy as a prince. "A poor man's home is his castle,"
so says an old proverb, and no one could have been prouder than he was
when despatching to almost every town in the kingdom some specialty in the
printing department. He naturally had a bit of a taste for old ballads,
music, and song writing; and in this respect he was far in advance of many
of his contemporaries. To bring within the reach of all, the standard and
popular works of the day, had been the ambition of the elder Catnach;
whilst the son was, _nolens volens_, incessant in his endeavours in trying
to promulgate and advance, not the beauty, elegance, and harmony which
pervades many of our national airs and ballad poety, but very often the
worst and vilest of each and every description--in other words, those most
suitable for street sale. His stock of songs was very like his customers,
diversified. There were all kinds, to suit all classes. Love, sentimental,
and comic songs were so interwoven as to form a trio of no ordinary amount
of novelty. At ordinary times, when the Awfuls and Sensationals were flat,
Jemmy did a large stroke of business in this line.
It is said that when the "Songs--_Three-yards-a-penny_"--first came out
and had all the attractions of novelty, some men sold twelve or fourteen
dozen on fine days during three or four of the summer months, so clearing
between 6s. and 7s. a day, but on the average about 25s. per week profit.
The "long songs," however, have been quite superseded by the "Monster" and
"Giant Penny Song Books." Still there are a vast number of halfpenny
ballad-sheets worked off, and in proportion to their size, far more than
the "Monsters" or "Giants." One song book, entitled the "Little Warbler,"
was published in parts, and had an enormous sale.
There are invariably but two songs printed on the half-penny
ballad-sheets--generally a new and popular song with another older ditty,
or a comic and sentimental, and "adorned" with two woodcuts. These are
selected without any regard to their fitness to the subject, and in most
cases have not the slightest reference to the ballad of which they form
the headpiece. For instance:--"The Heart that can feel for another" is
illustrated by a gaunt and savage-looking lion; "When I was first
Breeched," by an engraving of a Highlander _sans culotte_; "The Poacher"
comes under the cut of a youth with a large watering-pot, tending flowers;
"Ben Block" is heralded by the rising sun; "The London Oyster Girl," by
Sir Walter Raleigh; "The Sailors Grave," by the figure of Justice; "Alice
Grey" comes under the very dilapidated figure of a sailor, or "Jolly Young
Waterman;" "Bright Hours are in store for us yet" is _headed_ with a
_tail-piece_ of an urn, on which is inscribed FINIS. (?) "Watercresses,"
with the portrait of a Silly Billy; "The Wild Boar Hunt," by two wolves
chasing a deer; "The Dying Child to its Mother," by an Angel appearing to
an old man; "Crazy Jane," by the Royal Arms of England; "Autumn Leaves lie
strew'd around," by a ship in full sail; "Cherry Ripe," by Death's Head
and Cross Bones; "Jack at the Windlass," falls under a Roadside Inn; while
"William Tell" is presented to the British public in form and style of an
old woman nursing an infant of a squally nature. Here are a few
examples:--
[Illustration: The Smuggler King.]
[Illustration: Let me like a Soldier fall.]
[Illustration: Fair Phoebe and her Dark-Eyed Sailor.]
[Illustration: My Pretty Jane.]
[Illustration: The Thorn.]
[Illustration: The Saucy Arethusa.]
[Illustration: The Gipsy King.]
[Illustration: Hearts of Oak.]
[Illustration: Harry Bluff.]
[Illustration: Death of Nelson.]
[Illustration: John Anderson, my Jo.]
[Illustration: Old English Gentleman.]
[Illustration: The Bleeding Heart.]
[Illustration: Wapping Old Stairs.]
[Illustration: Poor Bessy was a Sailor's Bride.]
[Illustration: Poor Mary Anne.]
[Illustration: The Muleteer.]
[Illustration: Tom Bowling.]
[Illustration: Ye Banks an' Braes.]
[Illustration: The Mistletoe Bough.]
[Illustration: The Woodpecker.]
[Illustration: The Soldier's Tear.]
[Illustration: LONG-SONG SELLER.]
Besides the chanters, who sing the songs through the streets of every
city, town, village, and hamlet in the kingdom--the long-song seller, who
shouts their titles on the kerb-stone, and the countless small
shop-keepers, who, in swag-shops, toy-shops, sweetstuff-shops,
tobacco-shops, and general shops, keep them as part of their stock for the
supply of the street boys and the servant girls--there is another
important functionary engaged in their distribution, and who is well known
to the inhabitants of large towns, this is the pinner-up, who takes his
stand against a dead wall or a long range of iron railings, and first
festooning it liberally with twine, pins up one or two hundred ballads for
public perusal and selection. Time was when this was a thriving trade: and
we are old enough to remember the day when a good half-mile of wall
fluttered with the minstrelsy of war and love, under the guardianship of a
scattered file of pinners-up, along the south side of Oxford-street alone.
Thirty years ago the dead walls gave place to shop fronts, and the
pinners-up departed to their long homes. As they died out very few
succeeded to their honours and emoluments. There is one pinner-up,
seemingly the last of his race, who makes his display on the dead wall of
the underground railway in Farringdon road.
Catnach, to the day of his retirement from business in 1838, when he
purchased the freehold of a disused public-house, which had been known as
the Lion Inn, together with the grounds attached at Dancer's-hill, South
Mimms, near Barnet, in the county of Middlesex, worked and toiled in the
office of the "Seven Dials Press," in which he had moved as the pivot, or
directing mind, for upwards of a quarter of a century. He lived and died a
bachelor. His only idea of all earthly happiness and mental enjoyment was
now to get away in retirement to a convenient distance from his old place
of business, so to give him an opportunity occasionally to go up to town
and have a chat and a friendly glass with one or two old paper-workers and
ballad-writers, and a few others connected with his peculiar trade who had
shown any disposition to work when work was to be done. To them he was
always willing to give or advance a few pence or shillings, in money or
stock, and a glass.
Catnach left the whole of the business to Mrs. Anne Ryle, his sister,
charged, nevertheless, to the amount of L1,000, payable at his death to
the estate of his niece, Marion Martha Ryle. In the meanwhile Mr. James
Paul acted as managing man for Mrs. Ryle. This Mr. Paul--of whom Jemmy was
very fond, and rumour saith, had no great dislike to the mother--had
grown from a boy to a man in the office of the "Catnach Press." He was,
therefore, well acquainted with the customers, by whom he was much
respected; and it was by his tact and judgment that the business was kept
so well together. At Catnach's death he entered into partnership with Mrs.
Ryle, and the business was carried on under the title and style of Paul &
Co. In 1845 the partnership was dissolved, Mr. Paul receiving L800 in
settlement. He then entered into the public line, taking the Spencer's
Arms, at the corner of Monmouth-court. A son that was born to him in 1847,
he had christened James Catnach Paul. About this date "The Catnach Press"
had a formidable rival in "The Nassau Steam Press," which was originally
started in Nassau Street, Soho, and afterwards removed to No. 60, St.
Martin's Lane. Mr. Paul was especially engaged to manage the song
department at this office. He died in the year 1870, just six weeks after
Mrs. Ryle, and lies buried in the next grave but one to Catnach and his
sister, in Highgate Cemetery.
After Mr. Paul had left the business it was carried on as A. Ryle & Co.,
and ultimately became the property of Mr. W. S. Fortey, who still carries
on the old business in the same premises. A copy of whose trade
announcement runs thus:--
"THE CATNACH PRESS." (Established 1813.)
"William S. Fortey, (late A. Ryle, successor to the late J. Catnach,)
Printer, Publisher, and Wholesale Stationer, 2 and 3, Monmouth-court,
Seven Dials, London, W.C."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: SIR JEFFERY DUNSTAN, _Late Mayor of Garratt, and Itinerant
Dealer in Wigs_.]
Sir Jeffery Dunstan--thrice Mayor of Garratt! was the most popular
candidate that ever appeared on the Hustings at that very Free and
Independent Borough! His occupation was that of buying old wigs, once an
article of trade like that of old clothes. Sir Jeffery usually carried his
wig bag over his shoulder, and to avoid the charge of vagrancy,
vociferated, as he passed along the street, "Old Wigs," but having a
person like AEsop, and a countenance and manner marked by irresistible
humour, he never appeared without a train of boys and curious persons,
whom he entertained by his sallies of wit, shrewd sayings, and smart
repartees; and from whom, without begging, he collected sufficient to help
to maintain his dignity of Mayor and Knight.
From the earliest period of Sir Jeffery's life, he was a friend to "good
measures," especially those for "spirituous liquors," and he never saw the
inside of a pot without going to the bottom of it. This determination of
character created difficulties to him; for his freedom was not always
regulated by the doctrines of _meum et tuum_, or, of the great Blackstone,
"on the rights of persons," and consequences ensued that were occasionally
injurious to Sir Jeffery's eyes, face, and nose. The same enlightened
Judge's views of "the rights of property," were not comprehended by Sir
Jeffery, he had long made free with the porter of manifold pots, and at
length he made free with a few of the pots--which the publicans in London
seemed to show in the streets as much as to say "Come and steal me." For
this he was "questioned" in the high Commission Court of oyer and
terminer, and suffered an imprisonment, which, according to his manner of
life, and his notions of the liberty of the subject, was "frivolous and
vexatious." On his liberation, he returned to an occupation he had long
followed, the dealing in "Old Wigs." Some other circumstances, developed
in course of the preceding inquiry, seem to favour a supposition that the
bag he carried had enabled him to conceal his previous "free trade" in
pewter pots. But, be that as it might, it is certain that in his armorial
bearings of four wigs, he added a quart pot for a crest.
Sir Jeffery was remarkably dirty in his person, and always had his shirt
thrown open, which exposed his breast to public view. This was in him a
sort of pride; for he would frequently in an exulting manner say to
_inferiors_ "I've got a _collar_ to my shirt, sir." He had a filthy habit,
when he saw a number of girls around him, of spitting in their faces,
saying, "There, go about your business."
Sir Jeffery, in the days of his prosperity, took his "Hodges' best," at
the "Blind Beggar of Bethnal-green," or the "Horse and Leaping Bar,"
High-street, Whitechapel, at one or other of these favourite retreats, he
got in a regular manner "regularly drunk." Then it was that he sung in his
best style various popular "London Cries," mimicking others in their
crying, especially one who vended "_Lily, lily, lily, lily white--sand oh!
oh!! oh!!!_" this afforded sport to a merry company. Afterwards, should
Sir Jeffery receive sufficient metalic support from his friends, he was
placed in an arm chair on the table, when he recited to the students of
the London Hospital and the Bucks of the East, his mock-election speeches.
He was no respecter of persons, and was so severe in his jokes on the
corruptions and compromises of power, that he was prosecuted for using
what were then called seditious expressions. In consequence of this
affair, and some few charges of dishonesty, he lost his popularity, and,
at the next general election was ousted by Sir Harry Dimsdale,
muffin-seller, a man as much deformed as himself. Sir Jeffery could not
long survive his fall, but, in death as in life, he proved a satire on the
vices of the proud, for he died, like Alexander the Great, the sailor in
Lord Byron's "Don Juan," and many other heroes renowned in history--of
suffocation from excessive drinking!.
[Illustration: SIR HARRY DIMSDALE, M.P., FOR GARRATT, COSMOPOLITE AND
MUFFIN-SELLER.
"Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells!
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime."]
"Muffins, oh! Crumpets, oh," rank among the old cries of London, and at
least one of the calling has been made famous, namely, Harry Dimsdale,
sometime Mayor of Garratt, who, from the moment he stood as candidate,
received mock knighthood, and was ever after known under the appellation
of "Sir Harry." This half-witted character was a dealer in
tin-ware--together with threads, tapes and bootlaces, during the morning,
and a muffin-seller in the afternoon, when he had a little bell, which he
held to his ear, and smiling ironically at its tinkling he would
cry:--"_Muffins! muffins! ladies come buy me! pretty, handsome, blooming,
smiling maids!_"
Mr. J. T. Smith, in his ever-charming work of "A Book for a Rainy Day; or,
Recollections of the Events of the Years 1766-1833," writing under date
1787, gives the following graphic sketch of the sayings and doings--taken
from life, of "Sir Harry."
"One of the curious scenes I witnessed on a nocturnal visit to the watch
house of St. Anne, Soho, afforded me no small amusement. Sir Harry
Dinsdale, usually called Dimsdale, a short, feeble little man, was brought
in, charged by two colossal guardians of the night with conduct most
unruly. 'What have you, Sir Harry, to say to all this?' asked the Dogberry
of St. Anne. The knight, who had been roughly handled, commenced like a
true orator, in a low tone of voice. 'May it please ye, my magistrate, I
am not drunk; it is _languor_. A parcel of the Bloods of the Garden have
treated me cruelly, because I would not treat them. This day, sir, I was
sent for by Mr. Sheridan, to make a speech upon the table at the
Shakespeare Tavern, in _Common_ Garden; he wrote the speech for me, and
always gives half a guinea; he sends for me to the tavern. You see I
didn't go in my Royal robes, I only put 'um on when I stand to be a
member.' The constable--'Well, but Sir Harry, why are you brought here?'
One of the watchmen then observed, 'That though Sir Harry was but a little
_shambling_ fellow, he was so _upstroppolus_, and kicked him about at such
a rate, that it was as much as he and his comrade could do to bring him
along.' As there was no one to support the charge, Sir Harry was advised
to go home, which, however, he swore he would not do at midnight without
an escort. 'Do you know,' said he, 'there's a parcel of _raps_ now on the
outside waiting for me.'
"The constable of the night gave orders for him to be protected to the
public-house opposite the west end of St. Giles's Church, where he then
lodged. Sir Harry, hearing a noise in the street, muttered, 'I shall catch
it; I know I shall.' (_Cries without_,) 'See the conquering hero comes.'
'Ay, they always use that tune when I gain my election at Garratt.'