And so, Mr. M'Sneeshing, you never heard of the ingenious ruse played off by Monsieur Scaramouch?” said the LaurÉat, as he refreshed his nostrils with a parsimonious pinch from the mull of sandy-poled Geordie, conchologist and confectioner, from the land o' cakes. And while Deputy Doublechin was busy admiring a grotesque illumination in Uncle Timothy's Merrie Mysteries, Mr. Bosky favoured the company with
THE UP-TO-SNUFF FRENCH SCARAMOUCH.
Monsieur Scaramouch, sharp-set enough,
At a Paris dÉpÔt for tobacco and snuff,
Accosted the customers every day
With “Pardonnez moi, du Tabac, s'il vous plÂit!”
He look'd such a gentleman every inch,
The Parisians all condescended a pinch;
Which, taken from Bobadils, barbers, and beaux,
Went into his pocket—instead of his nose!
Scaramouch sold, with a merry ha I ha!
Ev'ry pinch to his friend, le marchand de tabac:
Then buyer and seller the price of a franc
To the noses of all their contributors drank!
From boxes supplies came abundant enough,
He breakfasted, dined, and drank tea upon snuff!
It found him in fuel, and lodging, and cloaths—
He pamper'd the palate by pinching the nose!
An ell he would take if you gave him an inch,
In the shape of a very exorbitant pinch—
The proverb, All's fish to the net that shall come,
Duly directed his finger and thumb.
One day a dragoon en botine, and three crosses,
With a pungent bonne bouche came to treat his proboscis;
Our Scaramouch, sporting his lowest congee,
Smil'd, “Pardonnez moi, du Tabac s'il vousplÂit!”
“Volontiers and his box, which, containing a pound,
A reg'ment of noses might titillate round,
Mars offer'd to Scaramouch quick, with a bounce;
Whose pinch very soon made it minus an ounce!
“Coquin!” and a cane, that he kept for the nonce,
Of Scaramouch threaten'd the perriwigg'd sconce;
Who, fearing a crack, while 'twas flourishing quick,
Cut in a crack the dragoon and his stick!
“Had the vay-gabond served me the like o' that” droned Mr. M'Sneeshing, suddenly rapping down the lid of his mull, and looking suspiciously about him, to see if there was a Scaramouch among the party! “I'd ha' crack'd his croon!”
Mr. Bosky's reply all but tripped off his tongue.
'Twas caviare to the Scotchman, so he suppressed it, and proceeded with the Merrie Mysteries.
St. Bartholomew was not to be driven from his “Rounds” by the meddling citizens. He kept, on a succession of brilliant anniversaries from 1700 to 1760, his state at his fair. The Smithfield drama had revived under the judicious management of popular actors; * the art of legerdemain had reached perfection in the “surprising performances” of Mr. Fawkes; ** wrestling *** fencing,—
—and single-stick, fought their way thither from Stokes's * amphitheatre in Islington Road, and Figg's ** academy for full-grown gentlemen in Oxford Street, then “Marybone Fields!” Powel's puppet-show still gloried in its automaton wonders; Pinchbecks musical clock struck all beholders with admiration; and Tiddy Doll *** with his gingerbread cocked hat garnished with Dutch gold, the prime oddity of the fair, made the “Rounds” ring with his buffooneries.
* “At Mr. Stokes's amphitheatre, Islington Road, on Monday,
24th June, 1733, I John Seale, Citizen of London, give this
invitation to the celebrated Hibernian Hero, Mr. Robert
Barker, to exert his utmost abilities with me: And I Robert
Barker accept this invitation; and if my antagonist's
courage equal his menaces, glorious will be my conquest!
Attendance at two; the Masters mount at five. Vivat Rex et
Regina.”
“This is to give notice, that to-morrow, for a day's
diversion (!! ) at Mr. Stokes's Amphitheatre, a mad bull,
dressed up with fireworks, will be baited; also cudgel-
playing for a silver cup, and wrestling for a pair of
buckskin breeches. Sept. 3rd, 1729. Gallery seats, 2s. 6d.,
2s., 1s. 6d. and 1s.”
** Messrs. Figg and Sutton fought the “two first and most
profound” fencers in the kingdom, Messrs. Holmes and Mac-
quire: Holmes coming off with a cut on his metacarpus from
the sword of Mr. Figg. On the 3rd Dec. 1731, a prize was
fought for at the French Theatre in the Haymarket, between
Figg and Sparks, at which the Duke of Lorraine and Count
Kinsi were present; the Duke was much pleased, and ordered
them a liberal gratuity.
*** A vendor of gingerbread cakes at Bartholomew and May
Fairs. His song of “Tiddy doll loi loi!” procured him his
popular sobriquet.
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Among the galaxy of Bartholomew Fair stars that illumined this flourishing period was The Right Comical Lord Chief Joker, James Spiller, the Mat o' the Mint of the Beggar's Opera, the airs of which he sang in a “truly sweet and harmonious tone.” His convivial powers were the delight of the merry butchers of Clare-Market, the landlord of whose house of call, a quondam gaoler, but a humane man, deposed the original sign of the “Bull and Butcher,” and substituted the head of Spiller. His vis comica, leering at a brimming bowl, is prefixed to his Life and Jests, printed in 1729. A droll story is told of his stealing the part of the Cobbler of Preston (written by Charles Johnson,) out of Pinkethman's pocket, after a hard bout over the bottle, and carrying it to Christopher Bullock, who instantly fell to work, and concocted a farce with the same title a fortnight before the rival author and theatre could produce theirs! The dissolute Duke of Wharton, one night, in a frolic, obliged each person in the company to disrobe himself of a garment at every health that was drank. Spiller parted with peruke, waistcoat, and coat, very philosophically; but when his shirt was to be relinquished, he confessed, with many blushes, that he had forgot to put it on! He was a careless, wild-witted companion, often a tenant of the Marshalsea; till his own “Head” afforded him in his latter days a safe garrison from the harpies of the law. He died Feb. 7, 1729, aged 37. A poetical butcher of Clare-Market * would not let him descend to the grave “without the meed of one melodious tear.”
Other luminaries shed a radiance on the “Rounds.” Bullock (who, in a merry epilogue, tripped up Pinkethman by the heels, and bestrode him in triumph, Pinkey returning the compliment by throwing him over his head). Mills (familiarly called “honest Billy Mills!” from his kind disposition).
* “Down with your marrow-bones and cleavers all,
And on your marrow-bones ye butchers fall!
For prayers from you, who never pray'd before,
Perhaps poor Jemmy may to life restore.
What have we done? the wretched bailiffs cry,
That th' only man by whom we liv'd, should die!
Enrag'd, they gnaw their wax, and tear their writs,
While butchers' wives fall in hysteric fits;
For sure as they're alive, poor Spiller's dead;
But, thanks to Jack Legar! we've got his head.
He was an inoffensive, merry fellow,
When sober, hipp'd; blythe as a bird, when mellow.”
For Spiller's benefit ticket, engraved by Hogarth, twelve
guineas have been given! There is another, of more dramatic
interest, with portraits of himself and his wife in the
Cobbler of Preston.
Harper (a lusty fat man, with a countenance expressive of mirth and jollity, the rival of Quin in Falstaff, and the admirable Job-son to Kitty Clive's inimitable Nell). Hippisley (whose first appearance the audience always greeted with loud laughter and applause). Chapman (the Pistol and Touchstone of his day). Joe Miller * (whose name is become synonymous with good and bad jokes; a joke having ironically been christened a Joe Miller, to mark the wide contrast between joking and Joel).
* This reputed wit was, after all, a moderately dull fellow.
His book of Jests is a joke not by him, but upon him: a joke
by Joe being considered la chose impossible. As an actor, he
never rose to particular eminence. His principal parts were
Sir Joseph Wittol and Teague. There are two portraits of
him. One, in the former character, prefixed to some editions
of his Jests; and a mezzotinto, in the latter, an admirable
likeness, full of force and expression. The first and second
editions of “Joe Miller's Jests” appeared in 1739. They are
so scarce that four guineas have been given for a copy at
book auctions. From a slim pamphlet they have increased to a
bulky octavo! He died August 15, 1738, at the age of 54, and
was buried on the east side of the churchyard of St. Clement
Danes. We learn from the inscription on his tombstone (now
illegible) that he was “a tender husband, a sincere friend,
& facetious companion, and an excellent comedian.” Stephen
Duck, the favourite bard of “good Queen Caroline.” wrote his
epitaph.
Hallam * (whom Macklin accidentally killed in a quarrel about a stage wig).
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Woodward, Yates, Shuter, **—
* A very rare portrait of Hallam represents him standing
before the stage-lights, holding in one hand a wig, and
pointing with the other to “An infallible recipe to make a
wicked manager of a theatre” (a merciless satire on
Macklin,) dated 'Chester, 20, 1750.” A stick is thrust into
his left eye by one behind the scenes. For this accident,
which caused his death, Macklin was tried at the Old Bailey
in May, 1735, and found guilty of manslaughter.
** When actors intend to abridge a piece they say, “We will
John Audley it!” It originated thus. In the year 1749,
Shuter played drolls at Bartholomew Fair, and was wont to
lengthen the exhibition until a sufficient number of people
were collected at the door to fill his booth. The event was
signified by a Merry Andrew crying out from the gallery,
“John Audley!” as if in the act of inquiry after such a
person, though his intention was to inform Shuter there was
a fresh audience in high expectation below! In consequence
of this hint, the droll was cut short, and the booth cleared
for the new crop of impatient expectants! Shuter
occasionally spent his evenings at a certain “Mendicants'
convivial club,” held at the Welch's Head, Dyott Street, St.
Giles's; which, in 1638, kept its quarters at the Three
Crowns in the Vintry.
—and very early in life, little Quick. * Ned had a sincere regard for Mr. Whitfield, and often attended his ministry at Tottenham Court Chapel.
* During one of Quick's provincial excursions the stage-
coach was stopped by a highwayman. His only fellow
traveller, a taciturn old gentleman, had fallen fast asleep.
“Your money” exclaimed Turpin's first cousin. Quick,
assuming the dialect and manner of a raw country lad,
replied with stupid astonishment, “Mooney, zur! uncle there
(pointing to the sleeping beauty,) pays for I, twinpikes and
all!” The highwayman woke the dozer with a slap on the face,
and (in classical phrase) cleaned him out, leaving our
little comedian in quiet possession of the golden receipts
of a bumper.
Upon one occasion he played Richard III. for his benefit.
His original intention was to have acted it with becoming
seriousness; but the public, who had anticipated a
travestie, would listen to nothing else; and Quick (with the
best tragic intentions!) was reluctantly obliged to humour
them. When he came to the scene where the crook-back'd
tyrant exclaims,
“A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!”
Quick treated his friends with a hard hit, and by way of
putting a finishing stroke to the fun, added, with a voice,
look, and gesture perfectly irresistible,
“And if you can't get a horse, bring a jackass?”
One Sunday morning he was seated in a pew opposite the pulpit, and while that pious, eloquent, but eccentric preacher, was earnestly exhorting sinners to return to the fold, he fixed his eyes full upon Shuter, adding to what he had previously said, “And thou, poor Ramble, (Ramble was one of Ned's popular parts,) who hast so long rambled, come you also! O! end your ramblings and return.” Shuter was panic-struck, and said to Mr. Whitfield after the sermon was over, “I thought I should have fainted! How could you use me so?”
Cow-Lane and Hosier-Lane “Ends” were great monster marts. At the first dwelt an Irish giant, Mr. Cornelius McGrath, who, if he “lives three years longer, will peep into garret windows from the pavement:” and the “Amazing” Corsican Fairy. “Hosier-Land End” contributed “a tall English youth, eight feet high;” two rattle-snakes, “one of which rattles so loud that you may hear it a quarter of a mile off;” and “a large piece of water made with white flint glass,” containing a coffee-house and a brandy-shop, running, at the word of command, hot and cold fountains of strong liquor and strong tea! The proprietor Mr. Charles Butcher's poetical invitation ran thus:—
“Come, and welcome, my friends, and taste ere you pass,
'Tis but sixpence to see it, and two-pence each glass.”
The “German Woman that danced over-against the Swan Tavern by Hosier Lane,” having “run away from her mistress,” diminished the novelties of that prolific quarter. But the White Hart, in Pye-Corner, had “A little fairy woman from Italy, two feet two inches high;” and Joe Miller, “over-against the Cross-Daggers,” enacted “A new droll called the Tempest, or the Distressed Lovers; with the Comical Humours of the Inchanted Scotchman; or Jockey and the three witches!”
Hark to yonder scarlet beefeater, who hath cracked his voice, not with “hallooing and singing of anthems,” but with attuning its dulcet notes to the deep-sounding gong! And that burly trumpeter, whose convex cheeks and distended pupils look as if, like Æolus, he had stopped his breath for a time, to be the better able to discharge a hurricane! Listen to their music, and you shall hear that Will Pinkethman hath good store of merriments for his laughing friends at “Hall and Oates's Booth next Pye-Corner,” where, Sept. 2, 1729, will be presented The Merchant's Daughter of Bristol; “a diverting” Opera, called The Country Wedding; and the Comical Humours of Roger.—The Great Turk by Mr. Giffard, and Roger by Mr. Pinkethman.
Ha! “lean Jack,” jolly-fac'd comedian, Harper, thou body of a porpoise, and heart of a tittlebat! that didst die of a round-house fever; * and Zee, ** rosy St. Anthony! thy rival trumpeter, with his rubicund physiognomy screened beneath the umbrage of a magnificent bowsprit, proclaim at the Hospital Gate “The Siege of Berthulia; with the Comical Humours, of Rustego and his man Terrible.”
* Harper, being an exceedingly timid man, was selected for
prosecution by Highmore, the Patentee of Drury Lane, for
joining the revolters at the Haymarket. He was imprisoned,
but though soon after released by the Court of King's Bench,
he died in 1742, of a fever on his spirits.
** Anthony Lee, or Leigh, (famous for his performance of
Gomez, in Dryden's play of the Spanish Friar,) and Cave
Underhill, diverting themselves in Moorfields, agreed to get
up a sham quarrel. They drew their swords, and with fierce
countenances advanced to attack each other. Cave (a very
lean man) retreated over the rails, followed by Lee (a very
fat man); and after a slight skirmish, retired to the middle
of the field. Tony puffed away after him; a second encounter
took place; and, when each had paused for awhile to take
breath, a third; at the end of which, there being a saw-pit,
near them, they both jumped into it! The mob, to prevent
murder, scampered to the pit, when to their great surprise
they found the redoubtable heroes hand in hand in a truly
comical posture of reconciliation, which occasioned much
laughter to some, while others (having been made fools of!)
were too angry to relish the joke. The mock combatants then
retired to a neighbouring tavern to refresh themselves, and
get rid of a troublesome tumult.—The Comedian's Tales,
1729.
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What an odd-favoured mountebank! “a threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller, a needy, hollow-ey'd, sharp-looking wretch,” with a nose crooked as the walls of Troy, and a chin like a shoeing horn; those two features having become more intimately acquainted, because his teeth had fallen out! Behold him jabbering, gesticulating, and with auricular grin, distributing this Bartholomew Fair bill.
“Sept. 3, 1729. At Bullock's Great Theatrical Booth will be acted a Droll, called Dorastus and Faunia, or the Royal Shepherdess; Flora, an opera; with Toilet's Rounds; the Fingalian Dance, and a Scottish Dance, by Mrs. Bullock.”
Thine, Hallam, is a tempting bill of fare. “The Comical Humours of Squire Softhead and his man Bullcalf, and the Whimsical Distresses of Mother Catterwall!” With a harmonious concert of “violins, hautboys, bassoons, kettle-drums, trumpets, and French horns!” Thine, too, Hippisley, immortal Scapin! transferring the arch fourberies of thy hero to Smithfield Rounds. At the George Inn, where, with Chapman, thou keepest thy court, we are presented with “Harlequin Scapin, or the Old One caught in a sack; and the tricks, cheats, and shifts of Scapin's two companions, Trim the Barber, and Bounce-about the Bully.” The part of Scapin by thy comical self.
At this moment a voice, to which the neigh of Bucephalus was but a whisper, announced that the unfortunate owner had lost a leg and an arm in his country's service, winding up the catalogue with some minor dilapidations, all of which are more or less peculiar to those patriots who during life find their reward in hard blows and poverty, and in death receive a polite invitation to join a water party down the pool of oblivion! The LaurÉat paused.
Mr. M'Sneeshing. “Lost his leg in battle!—ha! ha! ha!—a gude joke! He means in a man-trap! I should be glad to know what business a pauper body like this has blathering abroad? Are there not almshouses, and workhouses, and hospitals, for beggars and cripples? Though I perfectly agree wi' Sandy M'Grab, Professor * of Humanity, that sic like receptacles, and the anti-Presbyterian abomination of alms-giving are only so many premiums for roguery and vay-gabondism. Let every one put his shoulder to the wheel, his nose to the grindstone, and make hay while the sun shines.”
* At Oxford and Cambridge they write L.L.D.—in Scotland,
L.S.D. viz. 35s. 3d. for the diploma!
Mr. Bosky. But are there not many on whom the sun of prosperity never shone?
Mr. M'Sneeshing. Their unthriftiness and lack of foresight alone are to blame!
Mr. Bosky. Is to want a shilling, to want every virtue? Men think highly of those who rapidly rise in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers! Would you provide no asylum for adversity, sickness, and old age?
Mr. M'Sneeshing. Hard labour and sobriety (tossing off his heeltap of toddy) will ward off the two first, and old age and idleness (yawning and stretching himself in his chair) deserve to——
Mr. Bosky. Starve?
Mr. M'Sneeshing. To have just as much—and nae mair!—as will keep body and soul together! Would you not revile, rather than relieve, the lazy and the improvident?
Mr. Bosky. Not if they were hungry and poor! *
Mr. M'Sneeshing. Nor cast them a single word of reproach?
* “In the daily eating this was his custom. (Archbishop
Parker's, temp. Elizabeth.) The steward, with the servants
that were gentleman of the better rank, sat down at the
tables in the hall on the right hand; and the almoner, with
the clergy, &e., sat on the other side, where there was
plenty of all sorts of provision. The daily fragments
thereof did suffice to fill the bellies of a great number of
poor hungry people that waited at the gate. And moreover it
was the Archbishop's command to his servants, that all
strangers should be receive and treated with all manner of
civility and respect.”
The poor and hungry fed and treated with “civility and
respect!” What a poser and pill for Geordie M'Sneeshing and
Professor M'Grab!
Mr. Bosky. I would see that they were fed first, and then, if I reproved, my reproof should be no pharisaical diatribes. The bitterest reproaches fall short of that pain which a wounded spirit suffers in reflecting on its own errors; a lash given to the soul will provoke more than the body's most cruel torture.
Mr. M'Sneeshing. Vera romantic, and in the true speerit of——
Mr. Bosky. Charity, I hope.
Mr. M'Sneeshing. Chay-ri-ty? (putting his hand into his coat-pocket.)
Mr. Bosky. Don't fumble; the word is not in M'Culloch!
Mr. M'Sneeshing. Peradventure, Mr Bosky, you would build a Union poor-house (sarcastically).
Mr. Bosky. I would not.
Mr. M'Sneeshing. An Hospital? (with a sardonic grin!)
Mr. Bosky. I would!
Mr. M'Sneeshing. Where?
Mr. Bosky. In the Human Heart! You may not know of such a place, Mr. M'Sneeshing. Your hospital would be where some countrymen of yours build castles, in Sky and Ayr!
And the LaurÉat abruptly quitted the room, leaving Mr. M'Sneeshing in that embarrassing predicament, “Between the de'il and the deep sea!”
But his mission was soon apparent. “Three cheers for the kind young gentleman!” resounded from the holiday folks, and a broadside of blessings from the veteran tar! This obfuscated concholo-gist Geordie, and he was about to launch a Brutum fulmen, a speech de omnibus rebus et quibusdam aliis, as the magging mouthpiece of Professor
M'Grab; when, to the great joy of Deputy Doublechin, the miserable drone-pipe of this leatherbrained, leaden-hearted, blue-nosed, frost-bitten, starved nibbler of a Scotch kail-yard, was quickly drowned in the sonorous double-bass of our saltwater Belisarius.
My foes were my country's, my messmates the brave.
My home was the deck, and my path the green wave;
My musick, loud winds, when the tempest rose high—
I sail'd with bold Nelson, and heard his last sigh!
His spirit had fled—we gaz'd on the dead—
The sternest of hearts bow'd with sorrow, and bled.
As o'er the deep waters mov'd slowly his bier,
What victory, thought we, was ever so dear?
Far Egypt's hot sands have long since quench'd my
sight—
To these rolling orbs what is sunshine or night?
But the full blaze of glory that beam'd on thy bay,
Trafalgar I still pours on their darkness the day.
An ominous tap at the window—the “White Serjeant's!” invited Geordie to a tÊte-À-tÊte with a singed sheep's head, and the additional treat of a curtain-lecture, not on political but domestic economy, illustrated with sharp etchings by Mrs. M'Sneeshing's nails, of which his physiognomy had occasionally exhibited proof impressions! To his modern Athenian (!) broad brogue, raised in defiance of the applauding populace outside, responded the polite inquiry, “Does your mother know you're out?” * and other classical interrogatories. The return of Mr. Bosky was a signal for cheerfulness, mingled with deeper feelings; during which were not forgotten, “Old England's wooden walls?” and “Peace to the souls of the heroes!”
“Hail! all hail I the warriors grave,
Valour's venerable bed,—
Hail! the memory of the Brave!
Hail! the Spirits of the Dead!
* Certain cant phrases strike by their odd sound and
apposite allusion.
“No mistake!”
“Who are you?”
“Cut my lucky!”
“Does your mother know you're out I”
“Hookey!” &c. &c. are terms that metaphorically imply
something comical Yet oblivion, following in the march of
time, shall cast its shadows over their mysterious meanings.
On “Hookey!” the bewildered scholiast of future ages will
hang every possible interpretation but the right one; with
“Blow me tight!” he will give a loose to conjecture; and
oft to Heaven will he roll his queer eye, the query to
answer, “Who are you?”
