|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.
* Held at the Hand and Shears, the corner of Middle Street
and King Street, Cloth Fair. The Pied Poudre was originally
instituted to determine disputes regarding debts and
contracts, when the churchyard of the ancient Priory
contained the booths and standings of the Drapers and
Clothiers. The beadle of Cloth Fair received the annual fee
of 3s. and 4d. for measuring the yard-sticks. The officers
of the Pied Poudre are two Serjeants at Maee for the Lord
Mayor, two for the Poultry, and two for Giltspur Street
Compters, and a constable appointed by the steward of Lord
Kensington, to attend the court in his behalf. There was
formerly an Associate, (the Common Serjeant, or one of the
attorneys of the Lord Mayor's Sheriffs' Court,) but this
officer has not attended for the last hundred and fifty
years.
Some minor cases having been disposed of, Counsellor Rumtum rose, put on
his green spectacles and “twelve children phisiognomy,” (a most imposing
gravity!) and opened his pleadings
“Gentlemen of the Jury, the plaintiff is Miss Andromache the Goddess
of Wisdom, commonly called Minerva; the defendant is Mr. Andrew
Macky, Merry Andrew and Bearward, who boasts the largest menagerie
of well-educated monkeys in the fair. The plaintiff seeks to recover
damages for an assault, perpetrated by the defendant's servant Jamboa,
a belligerent baboon with a blue face. The Goddess had been stationed,
like the Palladium of Troy, in a temple adjoining the defendant's
caravan. The watchful cock was perched on her helmet, a waving plume
descended to her heels, a magnificent breast-plate and royal robe
adorned her imperial person, and armed with a spear and a shield, she
presented all the fascinations which the ancients have attributed
to Pallas. It is not in evidence, whether Miss Andromache had been
transported by heroes like Diomedes and Ulysses; but it may be presumed
that curiosity induced her to descend from her own palace to take a
peep at Andrew Macky's menagerie. The Goddess was charmed with the
intelligent visage and tall stately figure of the wild man of the woods,
who sat quietly in a corner, leaning on his staff; and being desirous of
ascertaining his exact altitude, (Wisdom, Gentlemen of the Jury, is ever
on the lookout for new discoveries,) she roused him from his reverie, by
propelling the sharp point of her spear to Jamboa's dextral hip-joint,
to make him jump. Starting up furiously, he struck her immortal Ægis to
the ground, inflicted with his grinders terrible havoc on her gorgeous
trappings, smashed ferociously her invincible breast-plate; and
imprinted on her royal person evident proofs of the piquant condition
of his nails. For this assault and battery Andromache claims of Andrew
Macky ample and liberal compensation; which, Gentlemen of the Jury,
(here Counsellor Rumtum, tried the “soft sawder!”) with your wonted
gallantry, you will doubtless award her.”
The Court, however, expressed an opinion, that the Goddess of Wisdom,
by making an unprovoked sortie on so respectable a baboon, had not acted
with her usual discretion, and directed Minerva to be nonsuited.
Look at the gay caps and bonnets in yonder balcony; and hark to the
fifes and fiddles, accelerating the sharp trot to a full gallop! And now
the volunteer vocalist, having frowned into nothingness a St. Cecilian
on the salt-box, demands silence for this seasonable chant.
Don't you remember the third of September?
Fun's Saturnalia, Bartlemy fair!
Punch's holiday, O what a jolly day!
When we fiddled and danced at the Bear.
Romping, reeling it, toe and heeling it,
Ham and vealing it, toddy and purl--
Have you forgot that I paid the shot
I have not! my adorable girl.
With ranters and roysters we push'd thro' the cloisters,
Had plenty of oysters, of porter a pot;
I treated my Hebe with brandy, not (B. B!)
And sausages smoking, and gingerbread hot.
She whisper'd, “How nice is fried bacon in slices,
And eggs”--What a crisis!--Love egg'd me on--
“My dearest,” said I, “ I wish I may die
If we don't have a fry to-night at the Swan.”
How we giggled when Pantaloon wriggled,
And led a jig with Columbine down;
How we roar'd when Harlequin's sword
Conjur'd Mother Goose into the Clown!
To Saunders's booth I toddled my Ruth,
Saw Master and Miss romp and reel on the rope--
And it was our faults if we didn't both waltz,
My eye! with old Guy, Old Nick and the Pope.
Rigging's rife again, fun's come to life again,
Punch and his wife again, frolicksome pair,
Footing it, crikey! like Cupid and Psyche,
Summon each rum'un to Bartlemy fair.
Trumpets blowing, roundabouts going,
Toby the Theban, intelligent Pig!
His compliments sends, inviting his friends
To meet the Bonassus to-night at a jig.
“Now my little lads and lasses! Shut one eye, and don't breathe on
the glasses! Here's Nero a-fiddling while Rome was a-burning--and
Cin-cinnatus a-digging potatoes. Here's Sampson and the
Phillis-tines--Cain and Abel, and the Tower of Babel.” This was sounded
by a gaunt fellow (a stronger man than Sampson, for he lugged him in by
the head and shoulders!) with a gin-and-fog voice and a bristly beard.
His neighbour, a portly ogress with a Cyclopical physiognomy (her
drum “most tragically run through!”), advertised a grunting giant, (a
Pygmalion to his relations!) and backed his stupendous flitches against
Smith-field and the world.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” squeaked a little mountebank through an
asthmatic trumpet, “walk in and see a tragical, comical, operatical,
pantomimical Olla Podrida of Smiles, Tears, Broad Grins, and
Horselaughs, called The Hobgoblin, or My Lady go-Nimble's Ghost; the
Humours of Becky Burton and Doctor Diddleum; a Prologue by Lucifer and
his imps; capering on his pericranium by _Signor Franchinello_;
and dancing in a dark lantern by _Mynheer Von
Trompingtonverbruggenhausentiraliravontamen!_”
“Here's your dainty spiced gingerbread! that will melt in your mouth
like a red hot brickbat, and rumble in your inside like Punch and his
wheelbarrow!”--“And here's your Conjuration Compound, that if you bathe
a beefsteak in it the over night, it will come out a veal cutlet in the
morning!”
The fair was lighted up, and the fun grew “fast and furious” beginning
with a loud chorus of acclamation, and so running on through the whole
Sol fa of St. Bartlemy delight. There was a blended incarnation of
kettle-drums, fifes, fiddles, French horns, rattles, trumpets, and
gongs! A giantess of alarming dimensions, beaming with maternal ecstasy!
reddened with deeper intensity from her painted show-cloth; and
a miniature Lady-monster, a codicil to the giantess! peeped out
imploringly from a wine-cooler in which some facetious crowned sconce
had ensconced her at an after-dinner merriment to his Queen and
Courtiers.
[Illustration: 0230]
The Mermaid had a long tail to exhibit and tell. Messrs. Rumfiz and
Glumfiz, disciples of Zoroaster! began their magical incantations,
swallowed knives and forks and devoured blue flame with increased
voracity; the Fantoccini footed it with laudable vigour; the Conjuror
would have coined his copper nose, only, winked the wag, “I knows and
you knows Je n'ose pas!” the lions and tigers roared “Now or never!” and
amidst this oratorio of discord and din, Harlequin, Othello, Columbine,
Sir John Falstaff, Desdemona, Jim Crow, Cardinal Wolsey, and Scaramouch
quadrilled on the outside platform of Richardson's Grand Booth, the gong
(his prompter's tintinabulum!) sounding superabundant glorification.
We hastened to this renowned modern temple of the Smithfield drama,
which was splendidly illuminated and guarded by tremendous pasteboard
Genii, sphinxes, and unicorns, and saw our old acquaintance Bonassus
(who looked like one of His Mandingo Majesty's Spanish liquorice
guards!) enact Othello and Jim Crow. After much interpolated periphrasis
and palaver, Mr. Bigstick darkly intimated that when he ceased to love
the “gentle Desdemona,” (Miss Teresa Tumbletuzzy!)
“Shay-oss is come agin”
At this moment the scenes stuck fast in the grooves--the halves of
a house with an interstice of a yard or so between--when a lecturing
mechanic bawled out from his sixpenny elysium,
“Ve don't expect no good grammar here, Muster Thingumbob, but, hang it!
you might close the scenes!”
Mr. Bigstick being politely requested (“Strike up, Snow-drop! Go it,
Day and Martin!”) to “Jump Jim Crow” in triplicate, came forward,
curvetting and salaaming with profound respect, and treated his audience
with this _variorum version_ of their old favourite.
Here's jumping Jim, his coat and skim-
-mer very well you know;
If you've a crow to pluck with him,
He's pluck'd you first! I trow--
Where'er he goes he gaily crows,
A Blackey and a Beau!
Reels about and wheels about,
And jumps Jim Crow.
O how the town ran up and down
To see the dancing Nigger!
If Jim's a flat, 'tis tit for tat!
For Jim thinks John a bigger
To (for a Yankee lean and lanky)
Shell his coppers so.--
What a noodle I--Yankee-doodle!
Rare Jim Crow!
Bull has fill'd his noddle full
Of learning, in profusion;
And Jim, with his long limping limb,
Has jump'd to this conclusion,
“A ninny and”--you understand!
When sitting all a-row,
Britons roar “Encore! Encore!
Jump Jim Crow!”
Jim's play'd his pranks--with many thanks,
He gives you now the hop;
Because, like his _Commercial Banks_,
He thinks it time to _stop!_
What Nigger Lad has ever had
Such lucky cards to throw?
Ever trump'd, or ever jump'd
Like Jump Jim Crow?
The pantomine of Hot Rolls, or Harlequin Dumpling, and the Dragon of
Wantley concluded the performances; in which Mr. Bigstick's promising
young pupil, Master Magnumdagnumhuggleduggle, by a _jeu de théâtre_
bolted the baker; (bones, apron, night-cap and all!) set Old Father
Thames on fire, exhibited the fishes frying in agony, and in his suit of
spiked armour, like an “Egyptian Porcupig,”
“To make him strong and mighty,
Drank by the tale, six pots of ale
And a quart of Aqua Vitæ!”
and marched forth fiercely to a ferocious fight with a green leather
dragon stuffed with fiery serpents, that hissed and exploded to the tune
of two-pence a time!
The Bartlemy fairities were in raptures. Master
Magnumdagnumhuggleduggle, Mr. Big stick, the Tumblctuzzy and the Dragon
were successively garlanded with broccoli-sprouts and turnip-tops! It
was all round my hat” with Bonassus, who divided the Lion's share
with the Dragon, and looked like a May-day Jack-in-the-green! The
enthusiasm of the audience did not end here. They called for the
Call-boy, and the Candle-snuffer, whose bliss would have felt no cc
aching void” had a “bit of bacon” accompanied, by way of a relish, this
kitchen garden of cabbage.
The bells of St. Bartholomew chimed the hour when churchyards and
“Charlies” yawn; upon which the illuminations and mob went out, and
away, and Momus looked as down in the mouth as a convolvulus. *
* Next morning's sun saw Smithfield restored to those polite
intelligences whose “talk is of bullocks”--with no greater
nuisance remaining, than its chartered brutes upon Jour
legs, beaten, goaded, tortured, and blasphemed at by its
greater brutes upon two!
The elephant booked his trunk and departed; the menagerie man returned
to his dish of bird's claws and beaks, with a second course of shark's
teeth and fish-bones; Punch and Judy were amicably domiciled with the
dog, the devil, and the doctor; the Jacks-in-the-box, Noah's arks,
Dutch dolls, and wooden Scaramouches, were stowed away pell-mell; the
gingerbread kings, queens, and nuts, were huddled higgledy-piggledy into
their tin canisters; a muddled chorister warbled “Fly not yet” to an
intrusive “Blue-Bottle” that popped in the Queen's Crown and his own
among a midnight dancing party of shopmen and Abigails, and a solitary
fiddle, scraped by a cruel cobbler, squeaked the _Lay of the Last
Minstrel!_
Morn appearing, Nature cheering,
Milkmaids crying “Milk!” for tea,
Singing, joking; chimneys smoking,
Bring, alas! no joys to me.
Phoebus beaming, kettles steaming--
Basso--hark I the dustman's bell,
Obligato!--ff Sweep!” stoccato!
_Old St. Bartle!_ sound thy knell.