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.