|The Genius of Mirth never hit upon a happier subject than the humours
of Cockneyland. “Man made the town and a pretty sample it is of the
maker! Behind or before the counter, at home and abroad, the man of
business or the beau, the Cockney is the same whimsical original,
baffling imitation, and keeping description in full cry. See him sally
forth on a fine Sunday to inhale his weekly mouthful of fresh air, * the
world all before him, where to choose occupying his meditations, till he
finds himself elevated on High-gate Hill or Hampstead Heath. From those
magnificent summits he beholds in panorama, woods, valleys, lofty trees,
and stately turrets, not forgetting that glorious cupola dedicated to
the metropolitan saint, which points out the locality where, six days
out of the seven, his orisons are paid to a deity not contemplated by
the apostle.
* Moorfields, Pimlico Path, and the Exchange, were the
fashionable parades of the citizens in the days of Elizabeth
and James I.
He lays himself out for enjoyment, and seeks good entertainment for
man and (if mounted, or in his cruelty-van) for horse. Having taken
possession of a window that commands the best prospect, the waiter is
summoned, the larder called over, the ceremony of lunch commenced,
and, with that habitual foresight which marks his character, the
all-important meal that is to follow, duly catered for. The interval for
rural adventure arrives; he takes a stroll; the modest heath-bell
and the violet turn up their dark blue eyes to him; and he finds
blackberries enough (as Falstaff's men did _linen!_) on every hedge.
Dinner served up, and to his mind, he warms and waxes cosey, jokes with
the waiter, talks anything, and to anybody,
Drinks a glass
To his favourite lass!”
pleased with himself, and willing to please. If his phraseology provoke
a laugh, he puts it to the account of his smart sayings, and is loudest
in the chorus; for when the ball of ridicule is flying about, he ups
with his racket and strikes it off to his neighbour.
He is the worst mortal in the world to be put out of his way. The
slightest inconvenience, the most trifling departure from his wonted
habits, he magnifies into a serious evil. His well-stocked larder and
cheerful fireside are ever present to his view: beef and pudding have
taken fast hold of him; and, in default of these, his spirits flag; he
is hipped and melancholy. Foreign travel exhibits him in his natural
light; his peculiarities break forth with whimsical effect, which,
though not always the most amiable, are nevertheless entertaining.
He longs to see the world; and having with due ceremony arranged his
wardrobe, put money in his purse, and procured his passport to strange
lands, he sets forward, buttoned up in his native consequence, to the
capital of the grand monarque, to rattle dice, and drink champagne.
His expectations are not the most reasonable. Without considering the
different manners and customs of foreign parts, he bends to nobody,
yet takes it as an affront if everybody bend not to him! His baggage is
subjected to rigorous search. The infernal _parlez-vous!_--nothing like
_this_ ever happens in old England! His passport is inspected, and his
person identified. The inquisitors!--to take the length and breadth of
a man, his complexion and calling! The barriers are closed, and he must
_bivouac_ in the Diligence the live-long night. Monstrous tyranny! Every
rogue enjoys free ingress and egress in a land of liberty! He calls
for the bill of fare, the “_carte_,” and in his selection puts the cart
before the horse! Of course there is a horrible conspiracy to poison
him! The wines, too, are sophisticated. The champagne is gooseberry; the
Burgundy, Pontac; and the _vin ordinaire_ neither better nor worse than
a dose of “Braithwait's Intermediate.” The houses are dirty and dark;
the streets muddy and gay; the madames and mademoiselles pretty well, I
thank'e; and the Mounseers a pack of chattering mountebanks, stuck over
with little bits of red ribbon, and blinded with snuff and whiskers!
Even the air is too thin: he misses his London smoke! And but one
drunken dog has he encountered (and _he_ was his countryman!) to bring
to fond remembrance the land we live in! * What wonder, then, if he
sigh for luxurious bachelorship in a Brighton boarding-house? Beds
made, dinner provided, the cook scolded by proxy, and all the agreeable
etceteras incidental to good living set before him, without the
annoyance of idle servants, and the trouble of ordering, leaving him
to the delightful abandonment of every care, save that of feasting and
pleasure-taking!
* Beware of those who are homeless by choice. Show me the
man who cares no more for one place than another, and I will
show you in the same person one who loves nothing but
himself. Home and its attachments are dear to the ingenuous
mind--to cherish their remembrance is the surest proof of a
noble spirit.
With moderate gastronomical and soporific powers, he may manage to
eat, drink, and sleep out three guineas a-week; for the sea is a rare
provocative to feeding and repose. Besides, a Brighton boarding-house
is a change both of air and condition; bachelors become Benedicks, and
widows wives, for three guineas a-week, more or less! It furnishes an
extensive assortment of acquaintance, such as nowhere else can be found
domiciled under the same roof. Each finds it necessary to make himself
and herself agreeable. Pride, _mauvaise honte_, modesty? that keep
people apart in general society, all give way. The inmates are like one
family; and when they break up for the season, 'tis often in pairs!
“Uncle Timothy to a T! Pardon me, sir, but he must have sat to you for
the portrait. If you unbutton his native consequence a little, and throw
a jocular light over his whim-whams and caprices, the likeness would be
perfect.”
This was addressed to us by a lively, well-to-do-in-the-world-looking
little gentleman, who lolled in an arm-chair opposite to an adjoining
window, taking things in an easy pick-tooth way, and coquetting with a
pint of old port.
“The picture, sir, that you are pleased to identify is not an
individual, but a species,--a slight off-hand sketch, taken from general
observation.”
“Indeed! That's odd.”
“Even so.”
“Never knew Uncle Tim was like all the world. Would, for all the world's
sake, that all the world were like Uncle Tim!”
“A worthy character.”
“Sir, he holds in his heart all the four honours,--Truth, Honesty,
Affection, and Benevolence,--in the great game of humanity, and
plays not for lucre, but love! I fear you think me strangely
familiar,--impertinent too, perhaps. But that portrait, so graphical and
complete, was a spell as powerful as Odin's to break silence. Besides,
I detest your exclusives,--sentimentalising! soliloquising!--Their
shirt-collars, affectedly turned down, puts my choler up! Give _me_
the human face divine, the busy haunts of men, the full tide of human
existence.”
The little gentleman translated the “full tide” into a full glass to our
good healths and better acquaintance, at the same time drawing his
chair nearer, and presenting a handsomely embossed card, on which
was inscribed, in delicate Italian calligraphy, “Mr. Benjamin Bosky,
Dry-salter, Little Britain.”
_Drysalter_,--he looked like a thirsty soul!
“Pleasant prospect from this window; you may count every steeple in
London. There's the 'tall bully,'--how gloriously his flaming top-knot
glistens in the setting sun! Wouldn't give a fig for the best view in
the world, if it didn't take in the dome of St. Paul's! Beshrew the
Vandal architect that cut down those beautiful elms.--
'The rogue the gallows as his fate foresees,
And bears the like antipathy to trees,'
and run up the wigwam pavilions, the Tom-foolery baby-houses, the
run mad, shabby-genteel, I-would-if-I-could-but-I-can't cottages
_ornée--ornée?_--horney!--the cows popping in their heads at the parlour
windows, frightening the portly proprietors from their propriety and
port!”
It was clear that Mr. Bosky was not to be so frightened; for he drew
another draught on his pint decanter, though sitting beneath the umbrage
of a huge pair of antlers that were fixed against the wall, under
which innumerable Johnny New-comes had been sworn, according to ancient
custom, at the Horns at Highgate. It was equally clear, too, that Mr.
Bosky _himself_ might have sat for the portrait that he had so kindly
appropriated to Uncle Timothy.
A fine manly voice without was heard to troll with joyous melody,--
“The lark, that tirra-lirra chants,--
With hey! with hey! the thrush and the jay,-- Are summer songs for
me and my aunts,
While we lie tumbling in the hay.”
“Uncle Tim! Uncle Tim!” shouted the mercurial little Drysalter, and up
he started as if he had been galvanised, scampered out of the room,
made but one leap from the top of the stairs to the bottom, descended
_à plomb_, was up again before we had recovered from our surprise, and
introduced a middle-aged, rosy-faced gentleman, “more fat than bard
beseems,” with a perforating eye and a most satirical nose. “Uncle
Timothy, gentlemen.--A friend or two, (if I may presume to call them
so,) Uncle Timothy, that I have fallen in with most unexpectedly and
agreeably.”
There is a certain “I no _not_ like thee, _Doctor Fell_,” feeling,
and an “I do,” that have rarely deceived us. With the latter, the
satirical-nosed gentleman inspired us at first sight. There was the
humorist, with a dash of the antiquary, heightened with a legible
expression that nature sometimes stamps on her higher order of
intelligences. What a companion, we thought, for “_Round about our coal
fire_” on a winter's evening, or, “_Under the green-wood tree_” on a
summer's clay!
We were all soon very good company; and half a dozen tea-totallers, who
had called for a pint of ale and six glasses, having discussed their
long division and departed, we had the room to ourselves.
“Know you, Uncle Timothy,” cried Mr. Bosky, with a serio-comic air,
“that the law against vagabonds and sturdy beggars is in full force,
seeing that you carol in broad daylight, and on the King's highway,
a loose catch appertaining to one of the most graceless of their
fraternity?”
“Beggars! varlet! I beg nothing of thee but silence, which is gold, if
speech be silver. * Is there aught unseemly in my henting the stile
with the merry Autolycus? Vagabonds! The order is both ancient and
honourable. Collect they not tribute for the _crown?_ Take heed,
Benjamin, lest thine be scored on! Are they not solicitors as old as
Adam?”
* A precept of the Koran.
“And thieves too, from Mercury downwards, Uncle Timothy.”
“Conveyancers, sirrah! sworn under the Horns never to beg when they can
steal. Better lose my purse than my patience. Thou, scapegrace! rob best
me of my patience, and beggest nought but the question.”
“Were not the beggars once a jovial crew, sir?” addressing ourselves to
the middle-aged gentleman with the satirical nose.
“Right merry! Gentlemen--
'Sweeter than honey
Is other men's money.'
“The joys of to-day were never marred by the cares of to-morrow; for
to-morrow was left to take care of itself; and its sun seldom went down
upon disappointment. The beggar, * though his pockets be so low, that
you might dance a jig in one of them without breaking your shins against
a halfpenny; while from the other you might be puzzled to extract as
much coin as would pay turnpike for a walking-stick, sings with a light
heart; his fingers no less light! playing administrators to the farmer's
poultry, and the good housewife's sheets that whiten every hedge!
* “Cast our nabs and cares away,--
This is Beggars' Holiday;
In the world look out and see
Who's so happy a king as he?
At the crowning of our king,
Thus we ever dance and sing.
Where's the nation lives so free
And so merry as do we?
Be it peace, or be it war,
Here at liberty we are.
Hang all Harmanbccks! we cry,
And the Cuffinquiers, too, by.
We enjoy our ease and rest,
To the fields we are not press'd;
When the subsidy's increas'd,
We are not a penny cost;
Nor are we called into town
To be troubled with a gown;
Nor will any go to law
With a beggar for a straw.
All which happiness he brags
He doth owe unto his rags!”
Of all the mad rascals that belong to this fraternity, the
_Abraham-Man_ is the most fantastic. He calls himself by
the name of _Poor Tom_, and, coming near to any one, cries
out “Poor Tom's a-cold!” Some are exceedingly merry, and do
nothing but sing songs, fashioned out of their own brains;
some will dance; others will do nothing but laugh or weep;
others are dogged, and so sullen, both in look and speech,
that, spying but small company in a house, they boldly
enter, compelling the servants, through fear, to give them
what they demand, which is commonly something that will
yield ready money. The “_Upright Man_” (who in ancient times
was, next to the king and those “o' th' blood,” in dignity,)
is not a more terrible enemy to the farmer's poultry than
Poor Tom.
How finely has Shakspeare spiritualized this strange
character in the part of Edgar in King Lear!
The middle aisle of old St. Paul's was a great resort for
beggars.
“In Paul's Church, by a pillar,
Sometimes ye have me stand, sir,
With a writ that shews
What care and woes
I pass by sea and land, sir.
With a seeming bursten belly,
I look like one half dead, sir,
Or else I beg With a wooden leg,
And with a night-cap on my head, sir.”
Blind Beggars Song.
Wit and Drollery. Jovial Poems. 1682.
Mendicity is a monarchy; it is governed by peculiar laws, and has a
language of its own. Reform has waged war to the knife with it. The
_soap-eater_, whose ingenious calling was practised in the streets
of London as far back as Henry the Eighth and Edward the Sixth, is
admonished to apply the raw material of his trade to an exterior use;
* and the tatterdemalions of the Beggar's Opera no longer enjoy the
privileges that belonged to their ancestors three centuries ago,
when the Barbican, Turnmill Street, and Houndsditch, rang with their
nocturnal orgies; and where not unfrequently “an alderman hung in
chains” gratified their delicate appetites; as in more recent times,
* Like the Dutchman, who being desired to rub his rheumatic
limb with brandy, improved upon the prescription. “I dosh
better as dat,” roared Mynheer, “I drinks de prandy, and den
I rubs mine leg wit de pottle!”
the happy but bygone days of Dusty Bob and Billy Waters. * The well-
known mendicants of St. Paul's churchyard, Waithman's crossing, and Par-
liament-Street have, by a sweeping act of the
* The Sons of Carew Made a mighty ado,--
The news was a terrible damper;
The blind, in their fright,
Soon recovered their sight,
And the lame thought it prudent to scamper.
They summon'd the nobs of their nation,
St. Giles's was all consternation;
The street they call Dyott
Portended a riot,
Belligerents all botheration!
Mendicity Bill,
Who for prowess and skill
Was dubb'd the bold Ajax of Drury,
With a whistle and stride
Flung his fiddle aside,
And his sky-scraper cock'd in a fury!
“While a drop's to be had to get queer-a,
I'll ne'er go a-begging for beer-a:
Our ducks and green peas
Shall the constable seize,--
Our sherry, our port, and Madeira?”
But Law the bold heroes did floor, O!
On dainty fine morsels no more,
O! They merrily sup:
Dusty Bob's doubled up,--
Poor Bill's occupation is o'er, O!
legislature, been compelled to brush; their brooms are laid up in
ordinary, to make rods for their backs, till the very stones they once
swept are ready to rise and mutiny. Well might Epicurus say, 6 Poverty,
when cheerful, ceases to be poverty.'”
“Suppose, gentlemen, as the day is closing in, we each of us take our
wallet and staff, trudge forth, and levy contribution! I am in a valiant
humour to cry 'stand!' to a too powerfully refreshed citizen of light
weight and heavy purse.” And Mr. Bosky suited the action to the word.
“Sit down, soul of a grasshopper! The very ghost of his wife's tweezers
would snuff out thy small courage. Thou hast slandered the beggars'
craft, and, like greater rogues, shalt be condemned to live by thine
own! Thou '_gibier de potence_!' Thou a prigger! Why thou art only a
simple prig, turned out by thy tailor! Steal if thou canst into our good
graces; redeem thy turpitude by emulating at least _one_ part of the
beggars' calling, ballad-singing. Manifest thy deep contrition by a
song.”
“A bargain, Uncle Timothy. If thou wilt rake from a sly corner of that
old curiosity shop, thy brain, some pageant of the ancient brethren
of _Bull-Feathers-Hall_. What place more fitting for such pleasant
chronicle, than the _Horns at Highgate?_”
This proposal being assented to by the middle-aged gentleman, Mr. Bosky
“rosined,” (swallowed a bumper) and sounded a musical flourish as a
_preludio_.
“But gentlemen, you have not said what I shall sing.”
“_Beggars_, Mr. Bosky, must not be choosers!”
“Something heroic?
Wonderful General Wolfe,
Uncommon brave; partic'lar!
Swam over the Persian Gulf,
And climb'd rocks perpendic'lar!
Sentimental and tender?
'The mealy potato it grows
In your garden, Miss Maddison cries;
'So I cannot walk there, for I knows,
Like love--that potatoes have _eyes!_'”
“No buffoonery, if you please, Benjamin Bosky,” cried Uncle Tim.
“Or furiously funny--eh?”
My pipe at your peeper I'll light,
So pop out your jazey so curly;
A jorum of _yeast_ over night,
Will make you next morning _rise_ early!
Arrah I thro' your casement and blind
I'll jist sky a copper and toss one,,
If you do not, Miss Casey, look kind,
Wid your good-natured eye that's a _cross_ one!”
“My good friends,” sighed the middle-aged gentleman, “this unhappy
nephew of mine hath as many ballads in his budget as Sancho Panza had
proverbs in his belly. And yet--but he seems determined to break my
heart.”
Mr. Bosky appeared more bent upon cruelly cracking Uncle Timothy's
sides.
“Now I bethink me of a ditty of true love, full of mirth and pastime.”
And Mr. Bosky began in a droll falsetto, and with mock gravity,
THE LAST OF THE PIGTAILS.
“When I heard she was married, thinks I to myself,
I'm now an old bachelor laid on the shelf;
The last of the Pigtails that smok'd at the Sun,
My Dora has done me, and I am undone!
I call'd at her lodgings in Dean Street, Soho;
My love's gone for ever! alas! she's no go.
A nip of prime Burton shall warm my cold blood,
Since all my enjoyments are nipp'd in the bud!
The picture of famine, my frame half reduced;
I can't eat a quarter the vittles I us'd!
O dear! what can ail me? I once was so hale--
When my head's underground let this verse tell my tale.
I sought the Old Bailey, despairing and lank,
To take my last cut of boil'd buttock and flank,
To sniff my last sniff in those savoury scenes,
And sigh my last sigh over carrots and greens!
'A pot of mild porter, and take off the chill,'
A damsel came smirking, in curls, cap, and frill.
I started! she scream'd! 'twas my Dora! off flew
Flank, buttock, greens, carrots, and peas-pudding too!
'Yes, I am your true love!' she curtsey'd, and said,
'At home I'ma widow, but here I'm a maid!
My spouse kick'd the bucket last Sunday at Leeds,
And left me, a rose-bud, all cover'd with weeds.'
'For all your fine speeches, a widow, in fine,
Is an article madam, I mean to decline I
Though wedlock's a bolus to physic and fright,
A black draught--a widow! would finish me quite.”
“A vile stave! Commend me to 'fonde Elderton,' * and the troop of 'metre
ballad-mongers' that sleep among the dull of ancient days; but save me
from that doleful doggrel of which, I shrewdly suspect, thou, Benjamin
Bosky, art the perpetrator.
* The following is a description of Elderton by a
contemporary writer in 1582. See “Reporte of the Death and
Martyr-dome of M. Campion, Jesuit, &c.”
“Fonde Elderton, call in thy foolish rhime,
Thy scurill balates are to bad to sell;
Let good men rest, and mende thy self in time,
Confesse in prose thou hast not metred well;
Or if thy folly cannot chuse but fayne
Write alehotise toys, blaspheme not in thy vain.”
It smells woundily of thy peculiar locality, and might have befringed
the walls of Bedlam and Soho. Henceforth be the _Magnus Apollo_ of thy
native _Little Britain_, and divide the crown with Thomas Delony, of
huck-ster-fame! Jack of Newbery, the Gentle Craft, garlands, strange
histories,
'And such small deer,
Had been Tom's food for many a year,'
and may serve for _thine_, Benjamin; for, in poetical matters, thou hast
the maw of a kite and the digestion of an ostrich.”
“A sprat to catch a herring!”
“A tittlebat! thou triton of the minnows!”
“But the _Bull-Feather!_ Uncle Timothy, the _Bull-Feather_
'Must not be forgotten
Until the world's rotten.'
Let me refresh thy memory. Once upon a time----”
“Peace, babbler! If I must take the bull by the horns, it shall be
without thy jockeyship. I will not ride double. 'Tis an idle tale,
gentlemen; but there are charms in association that may render it
interesting.”
Uncle Tim regaled with a fragrant pinch his satirical nose, and began
“A MIRTHFUL PAGEANT OF THE BULL-FEATHERS TO THE HORNS AT HIGHGATE.
“The ancient brethren of Bull-Feathers-Hall were a club of warm
citizens; 'rich fellows enough! fellows that have had losses, with
everything handsome about them.' Their place of rendezvous was the
Chequer-Yard in Whitechapel, every Tuesday and Thursday at seven
o'clock. The intent of their meeting was to solace themselves with
harmless merriment, and promote good fellowship * among neighbours.
* How good fellowship had declined a century before this
will be seen by the following extract from a black-letter
ballad, intituled, “A balade declaryng how neybourhed loue,
and trew dealyng is gone. Imprinted at London by Richard
Lant.” (Circa 1560.)
“Where shall one fynde a man to trust,
Alwaye to stande in tyme of neede;
Thee most parte now, they are unjust,
Fayre in wordes, but false in deede:
Neybourhed nor loue is none,
True dealyng now is fled and gone.”
The president, arrayed in his crimson satin gown, with his cap furred
and surmounted by a pair of antlers, and seated in a chair of state
beneath a canopy, commanded (by the crier of the court) every member to
be covered; and in the twinkling of an eye their horns were exalted.
On a velvet cushion before him lay the comuted sceptre and sword. The
brethren drank out of horn-cups, and made oath upon a book of statutes
bound in horn. Their revenues were derived from a toll upon all the
gravel carried up Highgate Hill and Hornsey;--Cow-lane; and beyond sea,
Crook-horn; Leg-horn; and Ox-mantown paying them yearly tribute!
On Monday, the 2nd May, 1664, a deputation of the fraternity met at
_Busby's Folly_, * near Sadler's Wells, ** Islington, from whence
they marched in grand order, headed by their Captain of Pioneers, with
between thirty and forty of his men, with pick-axes and spades to level
the hill, and baskets to carry the gravel;
* A print of Busbys Folly occurs in a rare volume, called
“Views of divers noted places near London, 1731,” of which
Gough, the antiquary never saw hut one copy. Its site is
particularly pointed out in Ogilby's map of London to
Holyhead.
* “Sadler's Wells being lately opened, there is likely to be
a great resort of strolling damsels, half-pay officers,
peripatetic tradesmen, tars, butchers, and others, musically
inclined.”--Weekly Journal, 16th March 1718.
It is curious to read at the bottom of the old bills and
advertisements of Sadler's Wells the following _alarming_
announcements:--“A _horse patrol_ will be sent in the New
Road that night for the _protection_ of the nobility and
gentry who go from the squares and that end of the town. The
road also towards the city will be properly _guarded_.”
“June 1783. _Patroles of horse and foot_ are stationed from
Sadler's Wells' gate along the New Road to Tottenham Court
turnpike; likewise from the City Road to Moorfields; also to
St. John Street, and across the Spafields to Rosoman Row,
from the hours of eight to eleven.”
After which followed the standard, an enormous pair of horns mounted on
a lofty pole, borne by three officers, and attended by the master of the
ceremonies, the mace-bearer, the herald at-arms, the sword-bearer and
the crier, their footsteps keeping time to a flourish of trumpets and
horns. *
* “On Tuesday next, being Shrove Tuesday, there will be a
fine _hog bar-byqu'd_ whole, at the house of Peter Brett, at
the Rising Sun, in Islington Road, with other diversions.--
Note. It is the house where the ox was roasted whole at
Christmas last.” Mist's Journal, Feb. 9, 1726.
A hog barbecu'd is a West Indian term, and means a hog
roasted whole, stuffed with spice, and basted with Madeira
wine. Oldfield, an eminent glutton of former days,
gormandised away a fortune of fifteen hundred pounds a-year.
Pope thus alludes to him,--
“Oldfield, with more than harpy throat endu'd,
Cries, 'Send me, gods, a whole hog barbecu'd!'”
“On Thursday next, being 13th March 1718, the Bowling-
Greens will be opened at the Prospect House, Islington,
where there will be accommodation for all gentlemen
bowlers.”
Bowling-greens were among the many amusements of Merrie
England. The author of “Night Thoughts” established a
bowling-green in the village confided to his pastoral care,
for innocent and healthful recreation.
“True piety is cheerful as the day.”
“May 1757. To be bowl'd for on Monday next, at the Red Cow,
in St. George's Fields, a pair of Silver Buckles, value
fourteen shillings, at five pins, each pin a yard apart. He
that brings most pins at three bowls has the buckles, if the
money is in; if not, the money each man has put in. Three
bowls for sixpence, and a pint of beer out of it, for the
good of the house,”
Arriving near the Gate-house--(gentlemen, we are within a few yards of
the _very spot!_)--the viceroy of the gravel-pits went forth to meet
them, presenting the horn of plenty as a token of hearty welcome; and
passing through the gate, they made a circuit round the old pond,
and returning to their starting-post, one of the brethren delivered
a poetical oration, humorously descriptive of Bull-Feathers-Hall, and
expatiating on the antiquity and dignity of horns. The speech being
ended, they paraded to the dinner-table, which groaned under every
luxury of the season. There they regaled themselves, amidst the sounding
of trumpets and the winding of horns. Between dinner and dessert, those
of the officers who had singing faces volunteered a festive chant, in
which the whole company joined chorus.
The shortest, the tallest, the foulest, the fairest,
The fattest, the leanest, the commonest, rarest,
When they and their cronies are merry together,
Will all do their best to advance the _Bull's Feather!_
A king and a cobbler, a lord and a loon,
A prince and a pedlar, a courtier, a clown;
Put all their degrees and conditions together,
Are liable always to wear the _Bull's Feather_.
Any candidate desirous of being admitted a member of the fraternity was
proposed by the sword-bearer; and the master of the ceremonies placing
him in the adopting chair, the comptroller made three ejaculations, upon
which the brethren doffed their hats. Then the master of the ceremonies
exchanged his own comuted castor for a cap, and administered to his
newly elected brother, on a book horned on all sides, an oath in rhyme,
recapitulating a long string of duties belonging to their peculiar art
and mystery, and enjoining their strict performance.
Lastly, observe thou shalt esteem none other
Equal to this our club;--so welcome brother!” *
* Bull-Feathers-Hall; or, The Antiquity and Dignity of Horns
amply shown. Also a Description of the Manners,
Rites, Customs, and Revenues belonging to that ingenious and
numerous society of Bull-Feathers-Hall. London: printed for
the Society of Bull-Feathers-Hall. 1664.
A copy of this rare tract produced at Bindley's sale five
pounds ten shillings, and at Strette's five pounds.
“Thus ends my story, gentlemen; and if you have found it tedious, visit
the offence on the Lauréat of Little Britain, by enjoining him the
penance of a bumper of salt and water.”
But mine host of the Horns, very prim about the wig, his coat marked
with his apron strings, which left a seam all round, as if he had been
cut in two, and afterwards stitched together again, having been slyly
telegraphed, that obedient functionary, who was as neat as his wines,
entered, bearing before him what Mr. Bosky facetiously called “_a
good afternoon_,” to wit, a brimming bowl, in which _whiskey_ had been
judiciously substituted for _salt_. Uncle Timothy rose; so did the voice
of Mr. Bosky! and to such an altitude as to drown his expostulations
in contumacious carolling, which, truth obliges us to add, received
laughing impunity from the company.
Come merrily push round the toddy,
The cold winter nights are set in;
To a roquelaire wrapp'd round the body
Add a lining of lamb's-wool within!
This liquor was brew'd by my grandam,
In a snug quiet still of her own;
'Tis fit for my Lord in his tandem,
And royal King Will on his throne.
In the glass, see it sparkles and ripples,
And how it runs merrily down!
The absolute monarch of tipples,
And richly deserving a crown!
Of mirth 'tis the spring and the fountain,
And Helicon's stream to the Muse;
The pleasantest dew of the mountain--
So give it, good fellows, its dues.
It opens the heart of the miser,
And conjures up truth from the knave;
It makes my Lord Bishop look wiser,--
More frisky the curate, his slave.
It makes the glad spirit still gladder,
And moistens the splenetic vein;
When I can't see a hole through a ladder,
It mounts on the sly to my brain.
Then push round the glasses, be cosey,
Fill bumpers to whiskey and whim;
Good luck to each man, while his nose he
Hangs pleasantly over the brim!
There's nothing remarkably odd in
A gent who to nap is inclined;
He can't want a blanket while noddin',
When he's two or three sheets in the wind.
“Sirs,” exclaimed the satirical-nosed gentleman, “I alone am to blame
for this audacious vivacity of my sister's son. I turned it on, and lo!
it hath inundated us with buffoonery. Sirrah!” shaking the identical
plant that Dr. Johnson travelled with through the Hebrides, Tom Davies's
shilling's worth for the broad shoulders of Macpherson, “thou shalt find
in future that I joke with my cudgel!” *
* “Hombre burlo yo con mi escopeta!” was the characteristic
saying of the celebrated Spanish bandit Josse Maria.
But it was labour in vain; the “laughing devil,” so peculiar to the
eye of the middle-aged gentleman, leered ludicrous defiance to his
half-smiling half-sulky mouth. As a last determined effort, he shook his
_head_ at Mr. Bosky, whereupon Mr. Bosky shook his _hand_. The mutual
grasp was electrical, and thus ended the brief farce of Uncle Timothy's
furor.
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Bosky, in a subdued tone, “if I could believe that
Uncle Timothy had been really in earnest, my penitential punch should
be turned into bitter aloes, sweetened with assafoetida, to expiate an
offence against the earliest, best, and dearest friend I ever knew! But
I owed Uncle Timothy a revenge. Of late he has worn a serious brow, a
mournful smile. There has been melancholy in his mirth, and sadness in
his song; this, he well knows, cuts me to the quick; and it is not until
he is angry,--or, rather” (smiling affectionately at Uncle Tim) “until
he _thinks_ himself so,”--(here Uncle Tim gave Mr. Bosky one of his
blandest looks) “that he is 'cockered and spirited up,' and the cloud
passes away. What do I not owe to my more than father?”
Uncle Timothy got enormously fidgety; he beat Lucifer's tattoo with
his right leg, and began fumbling in both waistcoat pockets for his
snuffbox.
“A precocious young urchin, gentlemen, in every sort of mischief!”
interrupted Uncle Timothy with nervous impetuosity, “on whose
birch-provoking little body as many besoms were bestowed as would set up
the best chandler in Christendom!”
“An orphan too--”
“Benjamin Bosky! Benjamin Bosky! don't--_don't_ be a blockhead!”
“He reared, educated, and made me what I am. And, though _sometimes_ I
may too far presume upon his good-nature, and foolishly, fondly fancy
myself a boy again--”
“Putting hot parched peas and cherry-stones into my boots, as being good
for chilblains, * and strewing the inside of my bed with horse-hair to
send me to sleep, after a fortnight's dancing round my room with the
toothache!”
“Three strokes from the club of Caliban would not so effectually break
my head, as the reflection would break my heart that I had done aught
to displease him! Now, gentlemen, the murder's out; and if for blabbing
family secrets Uncle Timothy in his wrath _will_ insist upon fining
me--an extra glass of punch! in truth I must submit and sip.”
“You see, my good friends,” said Uncle Timothy, after a short pause,
“that the rogue is incorrigible! But Benjamin Bosky”--(here Uncle Tim
tried to look sententious, and adopted the _bowwow_ style)--“I cannot
but blush, deeply blush for thy morals, or rather, Benjamin Bosky,
for thy no-morals, when thou canst thus blurt thy flattery in my face,
because I simply did a duty that kindred imposed upon me, and the sweet
consciousness of performing made light and pleasant.
* When the dreadful earthquake at Lisbon had frightened the
English people into an apprehension of the like calamity at
home, a quack advertised his pills as “being good for
earthquakes.”
What I have done was at the whisper of a higher monitor than man; and
from Him alone--even if I could suppose myself worthy, which I do not--I
hope for reward. He who is capable of ingratitude is incapable of any
virtue. But gratitude, the most dignified return we can lavish on our
benefactor, is the silent aspiration of the heart, and must not, good
Benjamin, be placarded on every wall, like a play-bill, a lottery puff,
or thy rigmarole ballads, three yards for a penny! There is not a being,
however humble his station, but may find some deserving object to awake
his friendship and share his benevolence. And be assured, dear Benjamin,
that a judicious and timely distribution of fortune's good gifts is
the best preparation for that final moment when we must resign them
altogether.
And when life's sweet fable ends,
May soul and body part like friends;
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay,--
A kiss, a sigh, and so away.”
“As Cicero said of Plato, I say of Uncle Timothy,--I would rather be
wrong with _him_ than right with anybody else. One more volunteer
from the Laureate's 'three yards for a penny,' and then my nest of
nightingales--”
“Tom-tits! Benjamin Bosky, tom-tits!”
“Well, then, tom-tits! dear Uncle Timothy,--shall go to roost for the
night.”
MR. BOSKY'S L'ENVOY,
From childhood he rear'd me, how fondly my heart
Forgets not, nor lets not my tongue silent be;
But whispers, while sweet tears of gratitude start,
A blessing and pray'r for his kindness to me!
I'll breathe not his name, though its record is deep
In my warm beating bosom, for fear he should frown,
Go read it where angels their register keep
Of the gifted and good, for 'tis there written down.
The conversation now took a more lively turn. Mr. Bosky fired off his
jokes right and left; and if there be truth in physiognomy, the animated
countenance of Uncle Timothy beamed with complacency and joy. He was
in full song, and showered forth his wit and eloquence in glorious
profusion, beauty following upon beauty. Thus another Attic hour glided
imperceptibly away. The midnight chimes at length admonished us to
depart. A galaxy of stars had risen in the unclouded firmament, and
a refreshing air breathed around. And as we had many times during the
evening filled _our_ horns, the harvest moon had filled _hers_ also to
light us home.