|Gentlemen, on this anniversary of St. Bartholomew, let us not forget
that we owe his Fair to a priest and jester.”
“A priest and a jester, Mr. Merripall?--ha! ha! ho!”
“In sooth, Brother Stiflegig,” replied the comical coffin-maker to his
inquiring mute, whose hollow laugh sounded like a double knock; “and the
merry monk is no more to be blamed for the disorders that, fungus-like,
have grown out of it, than is Sir Christopher Wren for the cobwebs
and dust that deface the dome of St. Paul's. Right is not always the
_reverse_ of wrong. Brush away the cobwebs and the dust, but spare the
dome. Don't cut off a man's head to cure his toothach, or lop off his
leg to banish his gout _in toto!_”
The latter clause of this remark was much applauded by a sensitive
member, who had evinced great anxiety to protect his physiognomy from
the cutting draught of the door; and by another, who was equally careful
to keep his ten toes from being trod upon. But the sexton and the
two mutes exchanged significant glances, that plainly hinted their
non-approval of this anti-professional, ultraliberality on the part of
the comical coffin-maker.
“Gentlemen,” resumed Mr. Merripall, rising--
THE JOVIAL PRIOR OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW!
Sons of the fair, to Father Rahêre
Chant a stave in a hollow mew;
Hosier Lane shout back the strain
Through the cloisters of holy Bartholomew.
Saunders, Gyngell, merrily mingle;
Richardson join in the choir:
Two-legg'd dancers, four-legg'd prancers,
You can't cry nay (neigh?) to the Prior.
Now fire away in full chorus!--
Peace to the soul of the bald-pated droll!
Sound him a larry-cum-twang!
Toss off a toast to his good-humour'd ghost,
And let it come off with a bang!”
We were passing by those ancient houses in Duke Street, Smithfield,
undecided whether or not to drop in upon the little Drysalter, when our
attention was arrested by this chorus of mirth proceeding from one
of the many obscure hostelries with which these ancient turnings
and windings abound. We had stumbled on the Pig and Tinder-box, near
Bartholomew Close. The chair was on his legs,--an exceedingly long
pair, in black stockings,--leading a loud cheer. Mr. Merripall, the
comical coffin-maker, was president of the Antiqueeruns. On each side
of him sat his two mutes, Messrs. Hatband and Stiflegig; the sexton, Mr.
Shovelton, by virtue of his office, was vice; the rest were tradesmen
in the neighbourhood, to whom porter, pipes, punch, purl, pigtail, and
politics were a pleasing solace after the business of the day; and a
warlike character was given to the club by the infusion of some of
the Honourable the Artillery Company, and the “angel visits” of a
city-marshal. Its name, though implying the reverse of a jest, had its
origin in a joke, arising from the mispronunciation of a member, to
whom a little learning had proved a dangerous thing. This intelligent
brother, at the christening of the club, moved that it be called the
“_Antiqueeruns_,” from the antiquity of their quarter and quality, which
was carried, as he triumphantly announced, “_my ninny contra decency!_”
(nemine contradicenti?) A palpable misnomer,--for the quorum consisted
of the queerest fellows imaginable, and their president, Mr. Merripall,
was a host in fun.
Our entrance had not been noticed during their upstanding jollity;
but now, when every member was seated, we became “the observed of all
observers.”
“Spies in the camp!” growled a priggish person of punchy proportions,
with a little round dumpling head, and short legs, whose pompous
peculiarities had been sorely quizzed by some prying penny-a-liner. “I
move, Mr. Cheer, that our fifteenth rule be read by the vice.”
“Spies in the camp, Mr. Allgag!--pooh! Yet what signifies, if there's
no treason in it? The gentlemen have only mistaken a private room for a
public one.”
“It's all very well, Mr. President, for you to say there was no malice
aforethought to broil us on their penny gridiron, when these people
popped in upon us whipsy dicksy (ipse dixit?) and un-awars. But”
(rapping the table) “we live in an age of spies and spinnage!”
(espionage?)
“_Gammon_ and spinnage!” chuckled the comical coffin-maker.
“Order! order!” from several voices.
“The Cheer is out of order! A gentleman don't oughtn't to be interrupted
will he nil he, vie et harness (vi et armis?). Who seconds my motion?”
“I,” winked the sexton.
“Then we'll put it to the vote. As many of you as are of this opinion
hold up your hands.”
Mr. Allgag, though an oyster in intellect, was the small oracle of an
insignificant, captious, factious section of the Antiqueeruns. A few
hands were held up, and the fulminating fifteenth rule was read aloud,
which imposed a fine of five shillings on each intruder, and a forcible
ejection from the room.
“I blush for these pitiful proceedings,” exclaimed the comical
coffin-maker; “and rather than become a party to them, I will vacate the
chair.”
“Well and good! I'll be your locum trimmings,” (tenens?) rejoined the
Holborn Hill Demosthenes; and he half strutted, half waddled from
his seat, as if to take possession. The mutes looked grave; even the
rebellious vice was panic-struck at the prodigious boldness of Mr.
Allgag. “I'll take the cheer. As for the turning out part of the
story--”
“Who talks of turning out?” cried the Lauréat of Little Britain,
bursting suddenly into the room. “Is it you?” addressing the affrighted
sexton, who shook his head ruefully in the negative; “or you?” advancing
to the terrified mutes, who shook in their shoes. “Not you! good Master
Merri-pall,” giving the comical coffin-maker a hearty shake by the
hand. “Or is it you, sir?” placing himself in a provokingly pugnacious
attitude before the Holborn Hill Demosthenes. “What a bluster about an
unintentional intrusion! If, gentlemen, my friends must be fined, I will
be their guarantee.”
So saying, he ejected us with gentle violence from the room, and in
a few minutes after we found ourselves in his elegant little library,
where everything was as neat and prim as himself,--not” a bust, bijou,
or book out of its place.
“A heavy retribution had well nigh fallen upon you, my good friends, for
passing my door without looking in. It matters not what chance medley
brought me to your rescue; but I'm a merciful man, and the only fine I
impose is, that you sit down, be comfortable, and stay till I turn you
out.”
The fine seemed so very moderate, that we were glad to compromise.
“Everything around you,--books, plate, pictures,--ay, my old-fashioned
housekeeper into the bargain,--are the selection of Uncle Tim.”
“And by this beeswing, Mr. Bosky, we guess Uncle Timothy is butler too.”
“Most profoundly opined! Yonder,” pointing to an antique painted glass
door, “is his cabinet--
'There Caxton sleeps, with Wynkyn at his side,
One clasp'd in wood, and one in strong cow-hide.'
“An odd thought strikes me. What say you to a dish of conjurors, with
a garnish of monsters and mountebanks, served up by mine host of St.
Bartlemy, Uncle Tim?” And Mr. Bosky disappeared through the glass door,
but returned in an instant, bearing in his hand a smartly-bound volume.
“Shall I unclasp the _Merry Mysteries of Bartlemy Fair?_ You may go
farther and fare worse.”
“We want no whetters or provocatives, Mr. Bosky.”
“Well, seeing that, like Justice Greedy, you long to give thanks and
fall to, my musical grace shall not be a tedious one.
Our host, Uncle Tim, does the banquet prepare,
An Olla Podrida of Bartlemy Fair!
Ye lovers of mirth, eccentricity, whim,
Fill a glass to the health of our host, Uncle Tim.
And when you have fill'd, O! dismiss from your
mind
Whatever is selfish, ungrateful, unkind;
Let gentle humanity rise to the brim,
And then, if you please, you may toast Uncle Tim!
You need not be told that the wine must be old,
As sparkling and bright as his wit and his whim;
Of clear rosy hue, and generous too,
Like the cheek and the heart of our friend, Uncle
Tim!
So now stir the fire, let business retire,
The door shut on Mammon, we'll have none of him!
But tell the sly fox, when he quietly knocks,
We are only at home to thy Tome, Uncle Tim!
Mr. Bosky trimmed the lamp, drew the curtains, wheeled round the
sofa, opened the morocco-bound manuscript, and began. But Mr. Bosky's
beginning must stand at the head of our next chapter.