I DO herewith, present thee with an hieroglyphic, after the accustomed
usage of my lamented precursor and prototype, FRANCIS MOORE, defunct. It
prefigureth a mighty change now lying in the womb of futurity, and which
doubtless will be brought forth in due season by the great man-midwife,
Time.
* * * * *
And now do I most entreatingly invite thee to cast a Parthian glance at
my foregone prophetic lucubrations, and especially towards that
symbolical prefiguration or _hieroglyphic_, by which I brightly shadowed
forth _a certain notable event_, the fulfilment whereof did so closely
follow the heels of the prediction as to cause the multitude to marvel;—
and when thou hast sufficiently pondered thereupon, I would ask thee
whether thou dost not in verity deem me a fit and worthy successor of
the renowned FRANCIS MOORE, defunct?
I do thus throw myself on thy candour, because certain of mine
adversaries do most unworthily insinuate, that my astrological skill is
stark naught; that I hold no correspondence with the stars; that I am no
more acquainted with the Great Bear than with the Great Mogul; that I
gather no signs of the Times from the signs of the Zodiac; and, in
brief, that I am _no conjuror_! My only familiar, they affirm, is a
little, insignificant, diminutive thing, called _Common Sense_, whose
aid any one may have if he chooses; that the said _Common Sense_
collects together certain things called _Past Events_, with which he
compares _Present Appearances_, and they help him to _Future
Probabilities_; they are then put into the crucible of _Ordinary
Judgment_; and my sagacious and veracious prophecies and hieroglyphics
are the result of this simple alchemy!
CANDID READER! Let thine own discretion decide, whether logical judgment
or astro-logical fudgement be the art which influenceth my lucubrations.
* * * * *
INVITATION OF "THE SELECT"
To
Bartholomew Fair.
COME, buffers and duffers, and dashers and smashers,
Come, tag, rag, and bobtail, attend to my call;
Ye pickpockets, sally from court, lane, and alley,
The LORD MAYOR in person has open'd the ball.
Come, Billingsgate sinners, and cat and dog skinners,
And play up a game to make Decency stare:
A fig for propriety, sense, and sobriety!
They never were known at fam'd BARTLEMY FAIR.
Come, nightmen and dustmen, and rovers and drovers;
Come, Whitechapel butchers, and join in the throng!
With marrow-bones and cleavers, delight the coal-heavers,
While broken-nose Billy shall snuffle a song.
Ye lazy mechanics, who dearly love one day,
For wives and for children who never know care;
Who reckon Saint Monday more holy than Sunday,
Come and spend all your earnings at BARTLEMY FAIR.
Ye wives and ye widows! here's plenty of bidders;
Come hither, and each get a swain for herself;
To deck yourselves gaily, and grace the Old Bailey,
The pawnbrokers' shops will lend plenty of pelf.
Ye youth of the city! ye servant-maids pretty!
Ye unmarried damsels with characters rare!
Come here and be jolly, for virtue's a folly;
So, come and be ruin'd at BARTLEMY FAIR.
┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┐
│ MARCH. │ [1836.│
├─────────────┬──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┤
│ │Some ready cash Dick wants to borrow │
│ │ About this time—perhaps for rent; │
│ │But like most folks, he finds with sorrow │
│ │ He's just too late—it's always _Lent_. │
├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
│ M│ Season's │ =Odd Matters.= │ WEATHER. │
│ D│ Signs. │ │ │
├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
│ 1│Blowing │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│ 2│growing │ "DAY AND NIGHT EQUAL." │ although │
│ │ │ │ │
│ 3│here's a │ 'Tis SIX O'CLOCK;—and now the Sun │ ☊ ♅ ♌ ♑ │
│ │ │His daily course begins to run; │ │
│ 4│clatter! │While Folly's children slink away, │ somewhat │
│ │ │Like bats who dread the glare of day, │ │
│ 5│what the │From Masquerade or Fancy Ball, │ clumsy │
│ │ │Where pleasure reign'd in Fashion's Hall; │ │
│ 6│deuce │And sneak along, like guilty creatures, │ │
│ │ │With tir'd limbs and haggard features. │ │
│ 7│can be │ │ ♄ ☉ ♊ ♃ ☌ │
│ │ │ The sons of toil, as they come near 'em,│ │
│ 8│the │With coarse-spun jokes begin to jeer 'em; │ withal, │
│ │ │While, _au contraire_, each motley hero, │ │
│ 9│matter? │Whose wit is now far under zero, │ │
│ │ │With 'not a gibe to mock their grinning,' │ │
│10│tiles │Has but a sorry chance of winning. │ ♏ ♐ ♀ ♎ │
│ │ │ │ │
│11│and │ The Clown, with phiz so dull and sad, │ do fit me │
│ │ │Looks grave as Ghost of Hamlet's Dad; │ │
│12│chimney │And Falstaff, now he's lost his stuffing, │ with │
│ │ │Looks lean as lath, and pale as muffin; │ │
│13│pots │While Harlequin, half muzz'd with wine, │ marvellous │
│ │ │Don't care a rush for Columbine, │ │
│14│come │But leaves her, like a careless loon, │ accuracy: │
│ │ │To draggle home with Pantaloon; │ │
│15│down │And Romeo, with empty purse, │ │
│ │ │Abandons Juliet to her nurse. │ │
│16│and pay │ │ ♂ ♌ ♓ ♄ ♑ │
│ │ │ The child of labour, when he sees │ │
│17│their │Such silly spectacles as these,— │ for these │
│ │ │How dissipation is repented,— │ │
│18│duty │May with his station be contented; │ reasons, │
│ │ │For mete them both with equal measure, │ │
│19│to the │He'll find the hardest toil is pleasure. │ I say, │
│ │ │ │ │
│20│crown, │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│21│while │ │ ♓ ☊ │
│ │ │ │ │
│22│surly │ │it behoveth │
│ │ │ │ │
│23│north │ │ me to │
│ │ │ │ │
│24│usurps │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│25│the │ │ │
│ │ │ │ ♓ ♌ ♄ ☌ ☊ │
│26│south │ │ │
│ │ │ │ be tender │
│27│and │ │ │
│ │ │ │ of my │
│28│makes a │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│29│dusthole │ │ │
│ │ │ │ ☉ ☿ ♂ ☽ │
│30│of your │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│31│mouth │ │ ♂ ♊ ☿ ☽ │
└──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘
[Illustration:
MARCH.—"Day and Night nearly equal."
]
"THE LAY OF THE LAST" ALDERMAN.