If the Parks be ‘the lungs of London,’ we wonder what Greenwich Fair
is—a periodical breaking out, we suppose, a sort of spring-rash: a
three days’ fever, which cools the blood for six months afterwards, and
at the expiration of which London is restored to its old habits of
plodding industry, as suddenly and completely as if nothing had ever
happened to disturb them.
In our earlier days, we were a constant frequenter of Greenwich Fair,
for years. We have proceeded to, and returned from it, in almost every
description of vehicle. We cannot conscientiously deny the charge of
having once made the passage in a spring-van, accompanied by thirteen
gentlemen, fourteen ladies, an unlimited number of children, and a
barrel of beer; and we have a vague recollection of having, in later
days, found ourself the eighth outside, on the top of a hackney-coach,
at something past four o’clock in the morning, with a rather confused
idea of our own name, or place of residence. We have grown older since
then, and quiet, and steady: liking nothing better than to spend our
Easter, and all our other holidays, in some quiet nook, with people of
whom we shall never tire; but we think we still remember something of
Greenwich Fair, and of those who resort to it. At all events we will
try.
The road to Greenwich during the whole of Easter Monday, is in a state
of perpetual bustle and noise. Cabs, hackney-coaches, ‘shay’ carts,
coal-waggons, stages, omnibuses, sociables, gigs, donkey-chaises—all
crammed with people (for the question never is, what the horse can
draw, but what the vehicle will hold), roll along at their utmost
speed; the dust flies in clouds, ginger-beer corks go off in volleys,
the balcony of every public-house is crowded with people, smoking and
drinking, half the private houses are turned into tea-shops, fiddles
are in great request, every little fruit-shop displays its stall of
gilt gingerbread and penny toys; turnpike men are in despair; horses
won’t go on, and wheels will come off; ladies in ‘carawans’ scream with
fright at every fresh concussion, and their admirers find it necessary
to sit remarkably close to them, by way of encouragement;
servants-of-all-work, who are not allowed to have followers, and have
got a holiday for the day, make the most of their time with the
faithful admirer who waits for a stolen interview at the corner of the
street every night, when they go to fetch the beer—apprentices grow
sentimental, and straw-bonnet makers kind. Everybody is anxious to get
on, and actuated by the common wish to be at the fair, or in the park,
as soon as possible.
Pedestrians linger in groups at the roadside, unable to resist the
allurements of the stout proprietress of the ‘Jack-in-the-box, three
shies a penny,’ or the more splendid offers of the man with three
thimbles and a pea on a little round board, who astonishes the
bewildered crowd with some such address as, ‘Here’s the sort o’ game to
make you laugh seven years arter you’re dead, and turn ev’ry air on
your ed gray vith delight! Three thimbles and vun little pea—with a
vun, two, three, and a two, three, vun: catch him who can, look on,
keep your eyes open, and niver say die! niver mind the change, and the
expense: all fair and above board: them as don’t play can’t vin, and
luck attend the ryal sportsman! Bet any gen’lm’n any sum of money, from
harf-a-crown up to a suverin, as he doesn’t name the thimble as kivers
the pea!’ Here some greenhorn whispers his friend that he distinctly
saw the pea roll under the middle thimble—an impression which is
immediately confirmed by a gentleman in top-boots, who is standing by,
and who, in a low tone, regrets his own inability to bet, in
consequence of having unfortunately left his purse at home, but
strongly urges the stranger not to neglect such a golden opportunity.
The ‘plant’ is successful, the bet is made, the stranger of course
loses: and the gentleman with the thimbles consoles him, as he pockets
the money, with an assurance that it’s ‘all the fortin of war! this
time I vin, next time you vin: niver mind the loss of two bob and a
bender! Do it up in a small parcel, and break out in a fresh place.
Here’s the sort o’ game,’ &c.—and the eloquent harangue, with such
variations as the speaker’s exuberant fancy suggests, is again repeated
to the gaping crowd, reinforced by the accession of several new-comers.
The chief place of resort in the daytime, after the public-houses, is
the park, in which the principal amusement is to drag young ladies up
the steep hill which leads to the Observatory, and then drag them down
again, at the very top of their speed, greatly to the derangement of
their curls and bonnet-caps, and much to the edification of lookers-on
from below. ‘Kiss in the Ring,’ and ‘Threading my Grandmother’s
Needle,’ too, are sports which receive their full share of patronage.
Love-sick swains, under the influence of gin-and-water, and the tender
passion, become violently affectionate: and the fair objects of their
regard enhance the value of stolen kisses, by a vast deal of
struggling, and holding down of heads, and cries of ‘Oh! Ha’ done,
then, George—Oh, do tickle him for me, Mary—Well, I never!’ and similar
Lucretian ejaculations. Little old men and women, with a small basket
under one arm, and a wine-glass, without a foot, in the other hand,
tender ‘a drop o’ the right sort’ to the different groups; and young
ladies, who are persuaded to indulge in a drop of the aforesaid right
sort, display a pleasing degree of reluctance to taste it, and cough
afterwards with great propriety.
The old pensioners, who, for the moderate charge of a penny, exhibit
the mast-house, the Thames and shipping, the place where the men used
to hang in chains, and other interesting sights, through a telescope,
are asked questions about objects within the range of the glass, which
it would puzzle a Solomon to answer; and requested to find out
particular houses in particular streets, which it would have been a
task of some difficulty for Mr. Horner (not the young gentleman who ate
mince-pies with his thumb, but the man of Colosseum notoriety) to
discover. Here and there, where some three or four couple are sitting
on the grass together, you will see a sun-burnt woman in a red cloak
‘telling fortunes’ and prophesying husbands, which it requires no
extraordinary observation to describe, for the originals are before
her. Thereupon, the lady concerned laughs and blushes, and ultimately
buries her face in an imitation cambric handkerchief, and the gentleman
described looks extremely foolish, and squeezes her hand, and fees the
gipsy liberally; and the gipsy goes away, perfectly satisfied herself,
and leaving those behind her perfectly satisfied also: and the
prophecy, like many other prophecies of greater importance, fulfils
itself in time.
But it grows dark: the crowd has gradually dispersed, and only a few
stragglers are left behind. The light in the direction of the church
shows that the fair is illuminated; and the distant noise proves it to
be filling fast. The spot, which half an hour ago was ringing with the
shouts of boisterous mirth, is as calm and quiet as if nothing could
ever disturb its serenity: the fine old trees, the majestic building at
their feet, with the noble river beyond, glistening in the moonlight,
appear in all their beauty, and under their most favourable aspect; the
voices of the boys, singing their evening hymn, are borne gently on the
air; and the humblest mechanic who has been lingering on the grass so
pleasant to the feet that beat the same dull round from week to week in
the paved streets of London, feels proud to think as he surveys the
scene before him, that he belongs to the country which has selected
such a spot as a retreat for its oldest and best defenders in the
decline of their lives.
Five minutes’ walking brings you to the fair; a scene calculated to
awaken very different feelings. The entrance is occupied on either side
by the vendors of gingerbread and toys: the stalls are gaily lighted
up, the most attractive goods profusely disposed, and unbonneted young
ladies, in their zeal for the interest of their employers, seize you by
the coat, and use all the blandishments of ‘Do, dear’—‘There’s a
love’—‘Don’t be cross, now,’ &c., to induce you to purchase half a
pound of the real spice nuts, of which the majority of the regular
fair-goers carry a pound or two as a present supply, tied up in a
cotton pocket-handkerchief. Occasionally you pass a deal table, on
which are exposed pen’orths of pickled salmon (fennel included), in
little white saucers: oysters, with shells as large as cheese-plates,
and divers specimens of a species of snail (_wilks_, we think they are
called), floating in a somewhat bilious-looking green liquid. Cigars,
too, are in great demand; gentlemen must smoke, of course, and here
they are, two a penny, in a regular authentic cigar-box, with a lighted
tallow candle in the centre.
Imagine yourself in an extremely dense crowd, which swings you to and
fro, and in and out, and every way but the right one; add to this the
screams of women, the shouts of boys, the clanging of gongs, the firing
of pistols, the ringing of bells, the bellowings of speaking-trumpets,
the squeaking of penny dittos, the noise of a dozen bands, with three
drums in each, all playing different tunes at the same time, the
hallooing of showmen, and an occasional roar from the wild-beast shows;
and you are in the very centre and heart of the fair.
This immense booth, with the large stage in front, so brightly
illuminated with variegated lamps, and pots of burning fat, is
‘Richardson’s,’ where you have a melodrama (with three murders and a
ghost), a pantomime, a comic song, an overture, and some incidental
music, all done in five-and-twenty minutes.
The company are now promenading outside in all the dignity of wigs,
spangles, red-ochre, and whitening. See with what a ferocious air the
gentleman who personates the Mexican chief, paces up and down, and with
what an eye of calm dignity the principal tragedian gazes on the crowd
below, or converses confidentially with the harlequin! The four clowns,
who are engaged in a mock broadsword combat, may be all very well for
the low-minded holiday-makers; but these are the people for the
reflective portion of the community. They look so noble in those Roman
dresses, with their yellow legs and arms, long black curly heads, bushy
eyebrows, and scowl expressive of assassination, and vengeance, and
everything else that is grand and solemn. Then, the ladies—were there
ever such innocent and awful-looking beings; as they walk up and down
the platform in twos and threes, with their arms round each other’s
waists, or leaning for support on one of those majestic men! Their
spangled muslin dresses and blue satin shoes and sandals (a _leetle_
the worse for wear) are the admiration of all beholders; and the
playful manner in which they check the advances of the clown, is
perfectly enchanting.
‘Just a-going to begin! Pray come for’erd, come for’erd,’ exclaims the
man in the countryman’s dress, for the seventieth time: and people
force their way up the steps in crowds. The band suddenly strikes up,
the harlequin and columbine set the example, reels are formed in less
than no time, the Roman heroes place their arms a-kimbo, and dance with
considerable agility; and the leading tragic actress, and the gentleman
who enacts the ‘swell’ in the pantomime, foot it to perfection. ‘All in
to begin,’ shouts the manager, when no more people can be induced to
‘come for’erd,’ and away rush the leading members of the company to do
the dreadful in the first piece.
A change of performance takes place every day during the fair, but the
story of the tragedy is always pretty much the same. There is a
rightful heir, who loves a young lady, and is beloved by her; and a
wrongful heir, who loves her too, and isn’t beloved by her; and the
wrongful heir gets hold of the rightful heir, and throws him into a
dungeon, just to kill him off when convenient, for which purpose he
hires a couple of assassins—a good one and a bad one—who, the moment
they are left alone, get up a little murder on their own account, the
good one killing the bad one, and the bad one wounding the good one.
Then the rightful heir is discovered in prison, carefully holding a
long chain in his hands, and seated despondingly in a large arm-chair;
and the young lady comes in to two bars of soft music, and embraces the
rightful heir; and then the wrongful heir comes in to two bars of quick
music (technically called ‘a hurry’), and goes on in the most shocking
manner, throwing the young lady about as if she was nobody, and calling
the rightful heir ‘Ar-recreant—ar-wretch!’ in a very loud voice, which
answers the double purpose of displaying his passion, and preventing
the sound being deadened by the sawdust. The interest becomes intense;
the wrongful heir draws his sword, and rushes on the rightful heir; a
blue smoke is seen, a gong is heard, and a tall white figure (who has
been all this time, behind the arm-chair, covered over with a
table-cloth), slowly rises to the tune of ‘Oft in the stilly night.’
This is no other than the ghost of the rightful heir’s father, who was
killed by the wrongful heir’s father, at sight of which the wrongful
heir becomes apoplectic, and is literally ‘struck all of a heap,’ the
stage not being large enough to admit of his falling down at full
length. Then the good assassin staggers in, and says he was hired in
conjunction with the bad assassin, by the wrongful heir, to kill the
rightful heir; and he’s killed a good many people in his time, but he’s
very sorry for it, and won’t do so any more—a promise which he
immediately redeems, by dying off hand without any nonsense about it.
Then the rightful heir throws down his chain; and then two men, a
sailor, and a young woman (the tenantry of the rightful heir) come in,
and the ghost makes dumb motions to them, which they, by supernatural
interference, understand—for no one else can; and the ghost (who can’t
do anything without blue fire) blesses the rightful heir and the young
lady, by half suffocating them with smoke: and then a muffin-bell
rings, and the curtain drops.
The exhibitions next in popularity to these itinerant theatres are the
travelling menageries, or, to speak more intelligibly, the ‘Wild-beast
shows,’ where a military band in beef-eater’s costume, with
leopard-skin caps, play incessantly; and where large highly-coloured
representations of tigers tearing men’s heads open, and a lion being
burnt with red-hot irons to induce him to drop his victim, are hung up
outside, by way of attracting visitors.
The principal officer at these places is generally a very tall, hoarse
man, in a scarlet coat, with a cane in his hand, with which he
occasionally raps the pictures we have just noticed, by way of
illustrating his description—something in this way. ‘Here, here, here;
the lion, the lion (tap), exactly as he is represented on the canvas
outside (three taps): no waiting, remember; no deception. The
fe-ro-cious lion (tap, tap) who bit off the gentleman’s head last
Cambervel vos a twelvemonth, and has killed on the awerage three
keepers a-year ever since he arrived at matoority. No extra charge on
this account recollect; the price of admission is only sixpence.’ This
address never fails to produce a considerable sensation, and sixpences
flow into the treasury with wonderful rapidity.
The dwarfs are also objects of great curiosity, and as a dwarf, a
giantess, a living skeleton, a wild Indian, ‘a young lady of singular
beauty, with perfectly white hair and pink eyes,’ and two or three
other natural curiosities, are usually exhibited together for the small
charge of a penny, they attract very numerous audiences. The best thing
about a dwarf is, that he has always a little box, about two feet six
inches high, into which, by long practice, he can just manage to get,
by doubling himself up like a boot-jack; this box is painted outside
like a six-roomed house, and as the crowd see him ring a bell, or fire
a pistol out of the first-floor window, they verily believe that it is
his ordinary town residence, divided like other mansions into
drawing-rooms, dining-parlour, and bedchambers. Shut up in this case,
the unfortunate little object is brought out to delight the throng by
holding a facetious dialogue with the proprietor: in the course of
which, the dwarf (who is always particularly drunk) pledges himself to
sing a comic song inside, and pays various compliments to the ladies,
which induce them to ‘come for’erd’ with great alacrity. As a giant is
not so easily moved, a pair of indescribables of most capacious
dimensions, and a huge shoe, are usually brought out, into which two or
three stout men get all at once, to the enthusiastic delight of the
crowd, who are quite satisfied with the solemn assurance that these
habiliments form part of the giant’s everyday costume.
The grandest and most numerously-frequented booth in the whole fair,
however, is ‘The Crown and Anchor’—a temporary ball-room—we forget how
many hundred feet long, the price of admission to which is one
shilling. Immediately on your right hand as you enter, after paying
your money, is a refreshment place, at which cold beef, roast and
boiled, French rolls, stout, wine, tongue, ham, even fowls, if we
recollect right, are displayed in tempting array. There is a raised
orchestra, and the place is boarded all the way down, in patches, just
wide enough for a country dance.
There is no master of the ceremonies in this artificial Eden—all is
primitive, unreserved, and unstudied. The dust is blinding, the heat
insupportable, the company somewhat noisy, and in the highest spirits
possible: the ladies, in the height of their innocent animation,
dancing in the gentlemen’s hats, and the gentlemen promenading ‘the gay
and festive scene’ in the ladies’ bonnets, or with the more expensive
ornaments of false noses, and low-crowned, tinder-box-looking hats:
playing children’s drums, and accompanied by ladies on the penny
trumpet.
The noise of these various instruments, the orchestra, the shouting,
the ‘scratchers,’ and the dancing, is perfectly bewildering. The
dancing, itself, beggars description—every figure lasts about an hour,
and the ladies bounce up and down the middle, with a degree of spirit
which is quite indescribable. As to the gentlemen, they stamp their
feet against the ground, every time ‘hands four round’ begins, go down
the middle and up again, with cigars in their mouths, and silk
handkerchiefs in their hands, and whirl their partners round, nothing
loth, scrambling and falling, and embracing, and knocking up against
the other couples, until they are fairly tired out, and can move no
longer. The same scene is repeated again and again (slightly varied by
an occasional ‘row’) until a late hour at night: and a great many
clerks and ’prentices find themselves next morning with aching heads,
empty pockets, damaged hats, and a very imperfect recollection of how
it was they did _not_ get home.