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But his empty quart bottles, with “their necks downwards,” produced him not the price of a full one; his glass globe Louis Ragout valued not the straw that stood erect upon it; and his nose, sustaining on its tip a sharp-pointed sword, put not a morsel into his mouth; so that, finding his wire and trade equally slack, and that he could balance everything but his accounts, he took his French boots and French leave; left his board for his lodging, and his chair for his cheer, hoping to experience better luck at Bartholomew Fair! Posture-master Phillips, * pupil of Joseph Clarke, ** exercises his crooked calling, and becomes hunch-backed, pot-bellied, sharpbreasted, and crippled disjointing arms, shoulders, and legs, and twisting his supple limbs into bows and double knots!
* “August 23, 1749, a gallery in Phillips's booth brokedown. F our persons were killed and several wounded.”** Clarke, who lived in the reigns of King James II. andKing William, was a terrible torment to his tailors; forwhen one came to measure him, he contrived to have anenormous hump on his left shoulder, and when the coat wastried on, it had shifted to his right I The tailorapologized for his blunder, took home the garment, alteredit, returned, and again attempted to make it fit, when, tohis astonishment and dismay, he found his queer customer asstraight as an arrow! A legion of tailors came to Adonizehim, but he puzzled them all.
Hans Buling * displays his monkey's humours, and his own. The Auctioneer of Moorfields ** transfers his book-stall to the cloisters. “Poor Will Ellis” offers for sale his simple “effigie.” ***
* A well-known charlatan, who advertised his nostrums,attended by a monkey.** This grave-looking, spectacled personage, in a rare printby Sutton Nieholls, stands at his book-stall in Moorfields,puffing the contents of his sale catalogue, among which are“The History of Theves;” “English Rogue;” “Aristotle'sMasterpiece and “Poems by Rochester“Come, sirs, and view this famous library,'Tis pity learning shou'd discouraged be.Here's bookes (that is, if they were but well sold)I will maintain't are worth their weight in gold.Then bid apace, and break me out of hand;Ne'er cry you don't the subject understand:For this, I'll say, howe'er the case may hit,Whoever buys of me,—I teach'em wit.”*** Sitting on the railings in Moorfields. Beneath are somelines, giving an account how “Bedlam became his sad portionand lot for the love of Dear Betty.” Coming to his senses,he turned poet:—“Now innocent poetry 's all my delight;And I hope that you'll all be so kind as to buy't:That poor Will Ellis, when laid in his tomb,May be stuck in your closet, or hung in your room.”
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The “Dwarf Man and the Black” give us a chance of meeting our love at——first sight. *
* “Sept. 8, 1757. Daily Advertiser. If the lady who stoodnear a young gentleman to see the Dwarf Man and the Black inBartholomew Fair, on Wednesday evening, is single and willinform the gentleman (who means the strictest honour) wherehe may once more have the happiness of meeting her, she willbe waited on by a person of fortune. The lady wore a blacksatin hat, puffed inside and out, a black cardinal, and agenteel sprigged gown.”
The Midas-eared Musician scrapes on his violincello a teeth-setting-an-edge voluntary. John Coan, * the Norfolk Pigmy, motions us to his booth; and Hale the Piper ** dancing his “hornpipe,” bagpipes us a welcome to the fair!
“What,” exclaimed the Lauréat, “has become of this century of mountebanks? Ha! not one moving—still as the grave!”
Mr. Bosky was not often pathetic; but, being suddenly surprised into sentimentality, it is impossible to say what melancholy reflections might have resulted from the Merrie Mysteries, had not the landlord interrupted him by ushering into the room Uncle Timothy.
* This celebrated dwarf exhibited at Bartholomew Fair, Aug.17, 1752.** Under an engraving of Hale the Piper, by Sutton Nieholls,are the music to his hornpipe, and the following lines.“Before three monarchs I my skill did prove,Of many lords and knights I had the love;There's no musician e'er did know the peerOf Hale the Piper in fair Darby Shire.The consequence in part you here may know,Pray look upon his hornpipe here below.”Hail! modest piper, and farewell!
“Welcome, illustrious brother!” shouted Deputy Doublechin. “Better late than never!”
Uncle Timothy greeted the President, nodded to all around, and shook hands with some old stagers nearest the chair.
“Gentlemen,” continued the enthusiastic deputy, brimming Uncle Tim's glass, “our noble Vice drinks to all your good healths. Bravo! this looks like the merry old times! We have not a moment to lose. To-morrow prostrates this ancient roof-tree! Shall it be sawed asunder unsung? No, Uncle Timothy,—no! rather let it tumble to a dying fall!”
The satirical-nosed gentleman would as soon have been suspected of picking a pocket as eschewing a pun.
“Your eloquence, Mr. Deputy, is irresistible,—“Man anticipates Time in the busy march of destruction. His own mortal frame, broken by intemperance, becomes a premature ruin; he fells the stately oak in the towering majesty of its verdure and beauty; he razes the glorious temple hallowed by Time! and the ploughshare passes over the sacred spot it once dignified and adorned!
Man is ever quarrelling with Time. Time flies too swiftly; or creeps too slowly. His distempered vision conjures up a dwarf or a giant; hence Time is too short, or Time is too long! Now Time hangs heavy on his hands; yet for most things he cannot find Time! Though fame-serving, he makes a lackey of Time; asking Time to pay his debts; Time to eat his dinner; Time for all things! He abuses those, that never gave him a hard word; and, in a fit of ennui, to get rid of himself he kills Time; which is never recovered, but lost in Eternity!” And Uncle Timothy, keeping time and the tune, sang his retrospective song of
From boyhood to manhood, in fair and rough weather.
Old Time! you and I we have jogg'd on together;
Your touch has been gentle, endearing, and bland;
A fond father leading his son by the hand!
In the morning of life, ah! how tottering my tread—
(True symbol of age ere its journey is sped!)
But Time gave me courage, and fearless I ran—
I held up my head, and I march'd like a man!
Old Time brought me friendship, and swift flew the
hours;
Life seem'd an Elysium of sunshine and flowers!
The flowers, but in memory, bear odour and bloom;
And the sun set on friendship, laid low in the tomb!
Yet, Time, shall I blame thee, tho' youth's happy glow
Is fled from my cheeks, that my locks are grey?—No!
What more can I wish (not abusing my prime)
To pilot me home, than a friend like Old Time?
Quiteat home” is a comfortable phrase! A man may be in his own house, and “not at home or a hundred miles away from it, and yet “quite at home.” Quite at home” denotes absence of restraint (save that which good breeding imposes), ostentatious display, affected style, and the petty annoyances of your small gentry, who clumsily ape their betters. Good entertainment, congenial company, pleasant discourse, the whole seasoned with becoming mirth, and tempered with elegance and refinement, make a man “Quite at home”
“Not at home” is when Mister mimics Captain Grand, and Madam is in her tantrums; when our reception is freezing, and the guests are as sour as the wine; when no part or interest is taken in our pursuits and amusements; when frowns and discouragements darken our threshold; when the respect that is paid us by others is coldly received, or wilfully perverted by those whose duty it is to welcome to our hearth the grateful tribute; and when we are compelled to fly from home in order to be at home. “Quite at home” is quite the contrary! Then are affection, cheerfulness, mutual confidence, and sympathy, our household gods: every wish is anticipated, every sorrow soothed, and every pleasure shared!
Mr. Bosky, in his snug dining-parlour, entertaining a small party, was “Quite at home!” There were present, Mr. Merripall, Deputy Doublechin, Mr. Crambo the Werter-faced young gentleman, who looked (as the comical coffin-maker hinted) “in prime twig to take a journey down a pump!” Mr. Titlepage of Type Crescent; Mr. Flumgarten (who had left his “Hollyhock” to “waste her sweetness” on Pa, ilia, and Master Guy Muff!); and Borax Bumps, Esq. the crani-ologist.'Tis an easy thing to collect diners-out. High-feeding; the pleasure of criticising the taste of our host; quizzing his cuisine, and reckoning to a shade the expence of taking “the shine” out of him when we have our revenge! never fail to attract a numerous gathering. “Seeing company,” in the fashionable sense of the word, is a series of attempts to eclipse those who are civil or silly enough to entertain us. Extremes belong to man only. There are some niggards who shut out all society; fasting themselves and making their doors fast!
Plentiful cheer, good humour, and a hearty welcome enlivened Mr. Bosky's table, the shape of which was after the fashion of King Arthur s, and the beef (this Mr. Bosky called having a round with his friends!) was after the fashion of the table. The party would have been a round dozen, but for the temporary absence of Messrs. Hatband and Stiflegig, who stood sentinel at a couple of door-posts round the corner, and were not expected to be off guard until a few glasses had gone round. The conversation was various and animated. Deputy Doublechin, who had a great genius for victuals, declaimed with civic eloquence upon the on-and-off-the-river champagne, white bait, venison and turtle treats, for which Gog and Magog, and the City Chamber “stood Sam the comical coffin-maker rambled on a pleasant excursion to the cemeteries; Mr. Titlepage discoursed fluently upon waste demy; Mr. Bumps examined the craniums of the company, commencing with the “destructive” “adhesive” acquisitive,” “imaginative” and “philoprogenitive” developments of Deputy Doublechin; Mr. Flumgarten, who was “Quite at home!” proved himself a master of every subject, and was most facetious and entertaining; and the Bard of Bleeding Hart Yard, after reciting a couplet of his epitaph upon an heroic young gentleman who was hung in chains,
“My uncle's son lies here below,
And rests at peace—when the wind don't blow!”
sang,moderato con anima, his
Those blythe Bow bells! those blythe Bow bells! a merry
peal they ring,
And see a band of beaux and belles as jocund as the
spring;
But who is she with gipsy hat and smart pink satin
shoes?
The lily fair of Jockey s Fields, the darling of the mews.
But where is Jimmy Ostler John, whom folks call “stable
Jack”?
Alas! he cannot dance the hey, his heart is on the rack.
The Corp'ral's cut him to the core, who marries Betsy
Brown;
The winter of his discontent he spends at Somers' Town.
A pot of porter off he toss'd, then gave his head a toss,
And look'd cross-buttocks when he met nis rival at King's
Cross;
The Corp'ral held right gallantly to widows, maids, and
wives,
A bunch of roses in his fist, and Jack his bunch of fives.
Cry'd Betsy Brown, “All Troy I'll to a tizzy bet, 'tis
he!
I never thought to see you more, methought you went
to sea:
That you, the crew, and all your togs, (a mouthful for a
shark!)
Good for nothing, graceless dogs! had perish'd in a bark.”
“I'm him as was your lover true, O perjur'd Betsy
Brown!
Your spark from Dublin up, I'll soon be doubling up in
town!
If, Pat, you would divine the cause, behold this nymph
divine;
You 've won the hand of Betsy Brown, now try a taste
of mine!”
The Corp'ral laid a bet he'd beat, but Betsy held her rib—
“Be aisy, daisy I—Lying lout! we'll see which best can
fib!
A trick worth two I'll shew you, by St. Patrick, merry
saint!”
Poor Betsy fainted in his arms—the Corp'ral made a
feint.
Jack ey'd the pump, and thither hied, and filled a bucket
quick,
And chuck'd it o'er his chuck, for fear she should the
bucket kick;
Then gave a tender look, and join'd a tender in the
river—
What afterwards became of him we never could diskiver.
“The City of London and the trade thereof,” and other standing toasts, having been drunk with the accustomed honours, Uncle Timothy addressed Mr. Bosky,
“ThyEpilogue, Benjamin. Drop we the curtain on this mountebank drama, and cry quittance to conjurors.”
Mr. Bosky. But what is anEpiloguewithout a dress coat, achapeau bras, black velvets and paste buckles?Nous verrons!
And the Lauréat rose, put on a stage face, stood tea-pot fashion, and poured out his soul.
Mr. Bosky. Knights of the Table Round! in verse
sublime,
I fain would tell how once upon a time,
When George the Second, royally interr'd,
Resign'd his sceptre to King George the
Third-
Uncle Tim. Bosky, dismounting Pegasus, suppose
You sit, and speak your epilogue in prose,
Not in falsetto flat, and thro' the nose,
Like those
Who warble “knives to grind,” and cry
“old clothes!”
Mr. Bosky (resuming his seat and natural voice). The monarch, glorying in the name of Briton, assumed the imperial diadem amidst the acclamations of his loyal subjects; the mime, though not Briton born, but naturalized, had done nothing to alienate his right comical peers, or diminish his authority in the High Court and Kingdom of Queerummania. ButPunchhad fallen on evil times and tongues. A few sticks of the rotten edifice ofutilitarianismhad been thrown together; men began to prefer the dry, prickly husks of disagreeable truths, to the whipt-syllabubs of pleasant fiction; all recreations were resolving themselves in “Irishman's Holiday(change of work!) the vivacity of small beer, and the strength of workhouse gruel! an unjolly spirit had again come over the nation; and people thought that by making this world a hell upon earth, they were nearer on their road to heaven! The contemporaries ofPunch, too, had declined in respectability. A race of inferior conjurors succeeded to the cups and balls of Mr. Fawkes; the equilibrists and vaulters * danced more like a pea on a tobacco-pipe, than artists on the wire; and a troop of barn-door fowls profaned the classic boards on which Dogget, Pinkethman, and Spiller, once crowed so triumphantly.
* “Mr. Maddox balances on his chin seven pipes in oneanother; a chair, topsy-turvy, and a coach-wheel. Also asword on the edge of a wine-glass; several glasses brim fullof liquor; two pipes, cross-ways, on a hoop; a hat on hisnose; and stands on his head while the wire is in fullswing, without touching it with his hands.” Theseperformances he exhibited at Sadler's Wells, the HaymarketTheatre, &c. from 1753 to 1770.“At the New Theatre Royal in the Haymarket this day, the24th October, 1747, will be performed by a native Turk,Mahommed Caratha, the most surprising équilibrés on theslack-rope, without a balance.“Perhaps where Lear has rav'd, and Hamlet died,On flying cars new sorcerers may ride;Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of chance?)Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance.”
Dame Nature, whose freaks in former times had contributed much to the amusement of the fair, turned spiteful—for children were born perversely well-proportioned; so that a dwarf (“Homunculi quanti sunt cum recogito!”) became a great rarity in the monster market; giants, like ground in the city, fetched three guineas a foot; humps rose, and the woods and forests were hunted for wild men. The same contradictory spirit ruled the animal creation. Cows had heretofore been born with a plurality of heads; and calves without tails were frequently retailed in the market. The pig, whose aptitude for polite learning had long been proverbial, sulked over his ABC, and determined to be a dunce; the dog * refused to be—
* In the year 1753, “Mrs. Midnight's company” played at theLittle Theatre in the Haymarket. A monkey acted the part ofa waiter; and three dogs, as Harlequin, Pierrot, andColumbine, rivalled their two-legged competitors; a town wasbesieged by dogs, and defended by monkeys, the lattertumbling their assailants over the battlements. The dogs andmonkeys performed a grand ballet; and a couple of dogs,booted and spurred, mounted a brace of monkeys, and gal-lopped off in Newmarket style. We are not quite certainwhether Mrs. Midnight and her comedians travelled so fareast as Smithfield Rounds.
—taught to dance; and the monkey, * at all times a trump-card, forswore spades and diamonds. There was a mortality among the old dwarfs and Merry Andrews and the glory of Bar-tlemy Fair,Roast Pig, had departed!
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* Spinacuta's monkey amused the French King and Court bydancing and tumbling on the slack and tight rope; balancinga chandelier, a hoop, and a tobacco-pipe, on the tip of hisnose and chin, and making a melodramatic exit in a shower offireworks. He afterwards exhibited at Sadler's Wells andBartholomew Fair.** “August 31, 1768. Died Jonathan Gray, aged nearly onehundred years, the famous Merry Andrew, who formerlyexhibited at the fairs about London, and gained greatapplause by his acting at Covent Garden Theatre, in theentertainment called Bartholomew Fair”“October 3, 1777. Yesterday, died in St. Bartholomew'sHospital, Thomas Carter, the dwarf who was exhibited at lastBartholomew Fair. He was about 25 years of age, measuringonly three feet four inches high. It is supposed that overdrinking at the fair caused his death.”
That crackling dainty, which would make a manmanger son propre père!gave place to horrible fried sausages, from which even the mongrels and tabbies of Smithfield instinctively turned aside with anti-cannibal misgivings! Unsavoury links! fizzing, fuming, bubbling, and squeaking in their own abominable black broth! “An ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten mine imagination!” Your Bartlemy Fair kitchen is not the spice islands.
In 1661, one of Dame Ursula's particular orders to Mooncalf was to froth the cans well. In 1655,
“For a penny you may see a fine puppet play,
And for two-pence a rare piece of art;
And a penny a can, I dare swear a man
May put six (!) of 'em into a quart?
Only six! Mark to what immeasurable enormity these subdivisions of cans had risen fifty years after. Well mightRoger in Amaze* exclaim,—
* “Roger in Amaze; or the Countryman's Ramble throughBartholomew Fair. To the tune of the Dutch Woman's Jigg.1701.”
“They brought me cans which cost a penny a piece,
adsheart,
I'm zure twelve (!!) ne'er could fill our country quart”
“Remember twelve!” Yet these were days of comparative honesty—“a ragged virtue,” which, as better clothes came in fashion, was cast off by the drawers, and an indescribable liquid succeeded, not in a great measure, but “small by degrees and beautifully less,” to the transcendant tipple ofMichael Roots. From the wry faces and twinges of modern drinkers (it seems impossible to standuprightin the presence of a Bar-tlemy Fair brewing!) we guess the tap has not materially improved. The advance of prices on the “fine puppet play” * and the two-penny “rare piece of art” were not resisted; the O.P.'s were made to mind their P's and Q's by the terrors of the Pied Poudre.
* “Let me never live to look so high as the two-penny roomagain,” says Ben Jonson, in his prologue to Every Man out ofhis Humour, acted at the Globe, in 1599. The price of the“best rooms” or boxes, was one shilling; of the lower placestwo-pence, and of some places only a penny. The two-pennyroom was the gallery. Thus Decker, “Pay your two-pence to aplayer, and you may sit in the gallery—Bellman's NightWalk. And Middleton, “One of them is a nip, I took him onceinto the two-penny gallery at the Fortune.” In Every Man outof his Humour there is also mention of “the lords' room overthe stage.” The “lords' room” answered to the present stage-boxes. The price of them was originally one shilling. ThusDecker, in his Gull's Hornbook, 1609, “At a new play youtake up the twelve-penny room next the stage, because thelords and you may seem to be hail fellow, well met.”
For many dismal seasons the fair dragged on from hand to mouth, hardly allowing its exhibitors (in the way of refection) to put the one to the other. And though my Lord Mayor * and the keeper of Newgate might take it cool, (in a tankard!) it was no laughing matter to the hungry mountebank, who could grin nobody into his booth; to the thirsty musician (who had swallowed many a butt!) grinding on his barrel; and the starved balladmonger (corn has ears, but not for music!) singing for his bread. We hasten to more prosperous times. “Another glass, and then.” Yet, ere the sand of the present shall have run out, good night to St. Bartholomew! We cannot say with Mr. Mawworm, “We likes to be despised!” nor are we emulous of “crackers,” unless they appertain unto wine and walnuts.
* On the morning the fair is proclaimed, according toancient custom, his Magnificence the Mayor drinks “a cooltankard” (not of aqua pura,) with that retentive knight, thekeeper of Newgate.
But, sooner than our grotesque friends shall want a chronicler, we will apostrophise the learned pig, the pig-faced lady, and the most delicate monster that smokes his link for a cigar, picks his teeth with a hay-fork, and takes his snuff with a fire-shovel. Not that we love Sir Andrew less, but that we love St. Bartle-my more.
Higman Palatine* in 1763 delighted the court at Richmond Palace, and the commonalty at the “Rounds,” with his “surprising deceptions;” and, gibing his heel, followed the toe of Mr. Breslaw. **
* “Mr. Palatine exhibits with pigeons, wigs, oranges,cards, handkerchiefs, and pocket-pieces; and swallowsknives, forks, punch-ladles, and candle-snuffers.”** In 1775, Breslaw performed at Cockspur Street, Hay-market, and in after years at Hughes's Riding School andBartholomew Fair. Being at Canterbury with his troop, he metwith such bad success that they were almost starved. Herepaired to the churchwardens, and promised to give theprofits of a night's conjuration to the poor, if the parishwould pay for hiring a room, &c. The charitable bait took,the benefit proved a bumper, and next morning thechurchwardens waited upon the wizard to touch the receipts.“I have already disposed of dem,” said Breslaw,—“de profitswere for de poor.I have kept my promise, and given de money to my own people,who are de poorest in dis parish “Sir!” exclaimed thechurchwardens, “this is a trick!”—“I know it,” repliedHocus Pocus,—“I live by my tricks!”
In after years there fell on Mr. Lane * ('tis a long lane that has never a turning!) a remnant of Fawkes's mantle. But was not our conjuror (“you must borrow me the mouth of Gargantua!”) and his “Enchanted Sciatoricon,” little too much in advance of the age? The march of intellect ** had not set in with a very strong current. The three R's (reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic!) comprehended the classical attainments of a “City Solon and a Tooley Street Socrates.”
* “Grand Exhibition by Mr. Lane, first' performer to theKing, opposite the Hospital Gate. His Enchanted Sciatoriconwill discover to the company the exact time of the day byany watch, though the watch may be in the pocket of a personfive miles off. The Operation Palingenesia: any spectatorsending for a couple of eggs, may take the choice of them,and the egg, being broke, produces a living bird of thespecies desired, which in half a minute receives its fullplumage, and flies away. The other egg will, at the requestof the company, leap from one hat to another, to the numberof twenty.” Then follow “His Unparalleled SympatheticFigures,”“Magical Tea Caddie” and above one hundred other astonishingtricks for the same money.** This is the age of progression. Intellect and steam areon the quick march and full gallop. Butchers' boys, puffingcigars, and lapping well-diluted caldrons of “Hunt'sRoasted,” illuminate with penny lore the hitherto unclassicshambles of Whitechapel and Leadenhall. The mechanic, faradvanced in intelligence and gin, roars “animal parliaments,universal suffering, and vote by bullet.” And the SundaySchool Solomon, on being asked by meo magister, “Who wasJesse?” lisps “the Flower of Dumblain!”—“When was Romebuilt, my little intelligence?”—“In the night, sir.”—“Eh!How?”—“Because I've heerd grandmother say, Rome warn't built in aday!”—“Avez vous du mal, monsieur?” was the question put toa young Englishman, after a turn over in the Frenchdiligence.—“Non” replied the six-lessons linguist, “Je riaiqu'un portmanteau!”
But we have since advanced to the learning of Mr. Lane; like the lady, who complained to the limner that her portrait looked too ancient for her, and received from Mr. Brush this pertinent reply, “Madam, you will grow more and more like it every day!”Ingleby, * “emperor of conjurors,” (who let his magic cat out of the bag in a printed book of legerdemain,) and Gyngell played, only withnew variations, the same old sleight-of-hand tricks over again. The wizard's art is down among the dead men.
* “Theurgicomination! or New Magical Wonders, by SieurIngleby. He plays all sorts of tricks upon cards; exhibitshis Pixidees Metallurgy, or tricks upon medals; andOperation inPopysomance, being the art of discovering people's thoughts.Any gentleman may cut off a cock's head, and at the Sieur'sbidding it shall leap back to its old quarters, chanticleergiving three crows for its recovery!”
As “dead men” died on the Laureat's lips, the joyous presence was announced of Mr. Hercules Hatband and Mr. Stanislaus Stiflegig. Uncle Timothy proposed a glass round; and to make up for lost time (in a libation to mountebanks), tumblers for the mutes.
“Our nephew is fat, and scant of breath we will give him a few minutes to recruit. Marma-duke Merripall, I call upon you for a song.”
“An excellent call! Uncle Timothy,” shouted Deputy Doublechin.
Up jumped Borax Bumps, Esq. and running his shoulder of mutton palms with scientific velocity over the curly-wigged cranium of the comical coffin-maker, he emphatically pronounced the “organ of tune” to exhibit a musical Pelion among its intellectual nodosities.
“I should take your father, sir, to have been a parish clerk, from this mountainous developement of Sternhold and Hopkins.”
“My song shall be a toast” said the comical coffin-maker:
Taffy ap-Tudor he couldn't be worse—
The Leech having bled him in person and purse.
His cane at his nose, and his fee in his fob,
Bow'd off, winking Crape to look out for a job.
“Hur Taffy will never awake from his nap!
Ap-Tudor! ap-Jones! oh!” cried nurse Jenny-ap-
Shenkin ap-Jenkin ap-Morgan ap-Rice—
But Taffy turn'd round, and call'd out in a trice,
“Jenny ap-Rice, hur could eat something nice,
A dainty Welch rabbit—go toast hur a slice
Of cheese, if you please, which better agrees
With the tooth of poor Taffy than physic and fees.”
A pound Jenny got, and brought to his cot
The prime double Glo'ster, all hot! piping hot!
Which being a bunny without any bones,
Was custard with mustard to Taffy ap-Jones.
“Buy some leeks, Jenny, and brew hur some caudle—
No more black doses from Doctor McDawdle!”
Jenny stew'd down a bunch into porridge, (Welch
punch!)
And Taffy, Cot pless him! he wash'd down his lunch.
On the back of his hack next mom Doctor Mac
Came to see Jenny preparing her black!
Ap answer'd his rap in a white cotton cap,
With another Welch rabbit just caught in his trap!
“A gobbling? you ghost Δ the Leech bellow'd loud,
“Does your mother know, Taffy, you're out of your
shroud?”
“Hur physic'd a week—at hur very last squeak,
Hur try'd toasted cheese and decoction of leek.”
“I'm pocketting fees for the self-same disease
From the dustman next door—I'll prescribe toasted
cheese
And leek punch for lunch!” But the remedy fails—
What kills Pat from Kilmore, cures Taffy from Wales.
In the year 1776,” continued the Lauréat, “Mr. Philip Astley * transferred his equestrian troop to the 'Rounds.' To him succeeded Saunders, ** who brought forward into the 'circle' that 'wonderful child of promise,' his son, accompanied by the tailor riding to Brentford! To thee, Billy Button! and thy 'Buffo Caricatto,' Thompson, the tumbler, we owe some of the heartiest laughs of our youthful days. Ods 'wriggling, giggling, galloping, galloway,' we have made merry in St. Bartlemy!”
* In the early part of his career Mr. Astley paraded thestreets of London, and dealt out his hand-bills to theservants and apprentices whom his trumpet and drum attractedto the doors as he passed along.** Master Saunders, only seven years old, jumps through ahoop, and brings it over his head, and dances a hornpipe onthe saddle, his horse going three-quarters speed round thecircle! The Tailor riding to Brentford, by Mr. Belcher.—Bartholomew Fair, 1796.”
There were grand doings at the fair in 1786, 87 and 88. Palmer, “at the Greyhound,” placarded Harlequin Proteus, and the Tailor done over. At the George Inn, Mr. Flockton exhibited the Italian Fantoccini, and the Tinker in a bustle. Mr. Jobson * put his puppets in motion; Mrs. Garmaris caravan, with the classical motto,Hoc tempus et non aliter, advertised vaulting by the juvenile imp. “Walk in, ladies and gentlemen,” cried Mr. Smith, near the Swan Livery Stables; “and be enchanted among the rocks, fountains, and waterfalls of art!” Patrick O'Brien (o'ertopping Henry Blacker,** the seven feet four inches giant of 1761,) arrived in his teakettle. A goose, instructed by a poll parrot, sang several popular songs.
* Mr. Jobson added the following* verses to his bill:“Prithee come, my lads and lasses,Jobson's oddities let's see;Where there's mirth and smiling faces,And good store of fun and glee!Pleasant lads and pretty lasses,All to Jobson s haste away;Point your toes, and brim your glasses!And enjoy a cheerful day.”** “Mr. O'Brien measures eight feet four inches in height,but lives in hopes of attaining nine feet,” the familyaltitude!
Three turkeys danced cotillons and minuets. The military ox went through his manual exercise; and the monkey taught the cow her horn-book. Ive's company of comedians played “The Wife well managed,” to twenty-eight different audiences in one day! The automaton Lady; the infant musical phenomenon without arms, and another phenomenon, equally infantine and musical, without legs; a three-legged heifer, with four nostrils; a hen webfooted, and a duck with a cock's head, put forth their several attractions. Messrs. White, at the Lock and Key, sold capital punch; savoury sausages (out-frying every other fry in the fair,) fizzed at “the Grunter's Ordinary or Relish-Warehouse, in Hosier Lane; and Pie-Corner” rang with the screeching drollery of Mr. Mountebank Merry Andrew Macphinondraughanarmonbolinbrough!
The “wonderful antipodean,” Sieur Sanches, who walked against the ceiling with his head downwards, and a flag in his hand; Louis Porte *