A chubby young gentleman, a “little Jack Horner eating his Christmas pie,” abutting from “The Fortune of War,” at Pie-Corner, marks the memorable spot where the Great Fire of London concluded its ravages. The sin of gluttony, * to which, in the original inscription (now effaced,) the fire was attributed, is still rife; a considerable trade in eatables and drinkables being driven, and corks innumerable drawn, in defiance, under the chubby young gentleman's bottle nose.

A Bartlemy Fair shower of rain overtook us while we were contemplating the dilapidated mansion of the Cock Lane Ghost; and, as it never rains in Bartle-my Fair, but it pours, we scudded along to the parlour of The Fortune of War, as our nearest shelter; where we beheld Mr. Bosky, though he beheld not us, bombarding his little body with cutlets and bottled beer, in company with a tragedy queen; a motion-master; and a brace of conjurors, Mr. Rumfiz and Mr. Glumfiz. Mr. Rumfiz was a merry fellow, who had fattened on blue fire, which he hung out for a sign upon his torrid nose; with Mr. Glumfiz dolor seemed to wait on drinking, and melancholy on mastication; for he looked as if he had been regaling on fishhooks and castor-oil, instead of Mr. Bosky's bountiful cheer.

“'Tis hard to bid good-b'ye to an old friend that we may never see again! Heigho! I'm sorry and sick; as cross and as queer as the hatband of Dick! Good-b'ye to St. Bartholomew.”

This was sighed forth by the lean conjuror, who, as he emitted a cloud of tobacco-smoke, seemed ready to pipe his eye, and responded to by the tragedy queen with a look ultra tragical!

“Bah!” chuckled the corpulent conjuror, “À bas the blue devils! If ruin must come, good luck send that it may be blue. Though poor in purse, let me be rich in nose! Saint Bartlemy in a consumption—ha! ha! Pinched for standing-room, the comical old grig laughs and lies down! and, so droll he looks in dissolution, that I must have my lark out, though one of his boa-con-strictors should threaten to suck me down in a lump. He dies full of years and fun, the patriarch of posture-masters and puppet-showmen! Merry be his memory! and Scaramouches eternal caper round his sarcophagus! Shall we cry him a canting canticle? Rather let us chant a rattling roundelay!”

Major Domo's a comical homo I

Sic transit gloria mundi;

Highty-tighty I frolicksome,, flighty I

Soon will Bartlemy Fair and fun die.

Coat of motley, cap and bells,

O'er his bier shall dolefully jingle;

Conjurors all shall bear his pall,

And mountebanks follow it, married and single!

Giants, dwarfs in sable scarfs.

Merry mourners! will not tarry one;

Humps, bumps shall stir their stumps!

And toes of timber dot and carry one!

Harlequin droll the bell shall toll,

Mister Punch shall shrive and bury him;

Tumblers grin while they shovel him in,

And Charon send Joe Grim to ferry him!

B'ye, b'ye! we all must die;

Ev'ry day with death's a dun day;

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,

Friday, Saturday, Sunday!

Nothing could resist the hilarity of Mr. Rumfiz. The tragedy queen gave a lop-sided smile from under the ruins of a straw-bonnet; the motion-master grinned approbation; Mr. Glumfiz was tumultuously tickled. At this moment an infantine tumbler, dressed in a tinselled scarlet jacket dirty-white muslin-fringed trousers, and yellow leather pumps, made a professional entry on his head and hands, to summon the two conjurors from their cups to their balls.

“Keep the blue fire hot till I come, Mr. Glumfiz!” said the LaurÉat.

“It won't cool,” replied the lean conjuror.

The tragedy queen now received a call from Cardinal Wolsey, to relieve Miss Narcissa Nimble-pins on the Pandean pipes and double drum. The little Melpomene assured Mr. Bosky of her high consideration, and, leaning on the mountebank messenger's arm, bobbed and backed out of the parlour very gracefully. But the motion-master would have been immoveable, had not his tawdry better-half, who had nothing of a piece but her tongue, hurried in with, the news that their stage-manager, having spitefully cut the wires, puppets and trade were at a stand-still.

The LaurÉat being left solus, exhibited a disposition to compose himself over a cigar, an indulgence at which his eyes sympathetically winked. Should we draw aside the curtain between his box and ours?

A note from Mr. Bosky's nose

Seem'd to say,

“Away! away!

Leave me, leave me to repose!”

Our glasses were empty, and the fair was filling; so we took the hint and our hats, and were soon among the lions.

An Ancient Pistol-looking scarecrow with a cockaded something, between an old cocked hat, and an old hat cocked, on his shaggy pole; a black patch over one eye; a sham lame left leg; half a pair of half boots, and a jacket without sleeves, brandishing harlequin's wooden sword, and belabouring a cracked drum, beat up for recruits, and thus accompanied his tattoo.

With his brigade of brags

Captain Bobadil comes;

Soldiers furl your flags,

Crape and muffle your drums!

Let John Bull and the bell

Both be dismally told!

One, for a funeral knell;

One, the reward of the bold.

From Harry to Arthur, you

Britons! would conquer or die—

'Pon my soul it's true;

What will you lay it's a lie?

Bobadil trump'd up a story—

“Fighting's the time o' day!

All for honour and glory,

Provender, plunder, and pay.

It vastly better, by Jove, is

To be for liberty bang'd;

Than for prigging, my covies,

To stay behind and be hang'd!

Every man in his shoe

Looks as if he would die—

'Pon my soul it's true;

What will you lay it's a lie?

Limping London on pegs,

Crown'd with victory's palms,

Heroes without their legs

Now are asking for alms;

Cursing their liberal lot,

And Bob's grandiloquent whims;

Deuce in their locker a shot;

Tho' lots, alas! in their limbs!

We hardly know which to do;

Whether to laugh or to cry—

Ton my soul it's true;

What will y ou lay it's a lie?

Read me a comical riddle,

Paddy will say it comes pat—

Some men dance to the fiddle;

Bob's men dance to the cat.

Fine and flourishing speeches

Lads like Wellington, scoff;

They lead their troops on the breaches;

Bobadil, he pulls'em off!

Give the Devil his due.

Bob's a garrulous Guy—

Ton my soul it's true;

What will you lay it's a lie?

“Well, I never see such a low, frothy, horrid, awful, dandified, grandified, twistified, mystified, play-going, pleasure-taking, public-house set as these rubbishing Scaramouches! It would be quite a charity to send'em all to the Treadmill, or there's no mystery in mousetraps!”

“That little woman's tender mercies are cruel!” responded a voice behind, and leading captive a personage, who seemed to to wonder how the devil he got there!—a fierce, fidgety flounced madam, bounced past us with an air of inconceivable grandeur. It was Mrs. Flumgarten hooked on to the arm of Brummagem Brutus.

A sudden rush, from a “conveyancer” being escorted to the Pied Poudre, * brought us to that ancient seat of justice.

Some minor cases having been disposed of, Counsellor Rumtum rose, put on his green spectacles and “twelve children phisiognomy,” (a most imposing gravity!) and opened his pleadings

“Gentlemen of the Jury, the plaintiff is Miss Andromache the Goddess of Wisdom, commonly called Minerva; the defendant is Mr. Andrew Macky, Merry Andrew and Bearward, who boasts the largest menagerie of well-educated monkeys in the fair. The plaintiff seeks to recover damages for an assault, perpetrated by the defendant's servant Jamboa, a belligerent baboon with a blue face. The Goddess had been stationed, like the Palladium of Troy, in a temple adjoining the defendant's caravan. The watchful cock was perched on her helmet, a waving plume descended to her heels, a magnificent breast-plate and royal robe adorned her imperial person, and armed with a spear and a shield, she presented all the fascinations which the ancients have attributed to Pallas. It is not in evidence, whether Miss Andromache had been transported by heroes like Diomedes and Ulysses; but it may be presumed that curiosity induced her to descend from her own palace to take a peep at Andrew Macky's menagerie. The Goddess was charmed with the intelligent visage and tall stately figure of the wild man of the woods, who sat quietly in a corner, leaning on his staff; and being desirous of ascertaining his exact altitude, (Wisdom, Gentlemen of the Jury, is ever on the lookout for new discoveries,) she roused him from his reverie, by propelling the sharp point of her spear to Jamboa's dextral hip-joint, to make him jump. Starting up furiously, he struck her immortal Ægis to the ground, inflicted with his grinders terrible havoc on her gorgeous trappings, smashed ferociously her invincible breast-plate; and imprinted on her royal person evident proofs of the piquant condition of his nails. For this assault and battery Andromache claims of Andrew Macky ample and liberal compensation; which, Gentlemen of the Jury, (here Counsellor Rumtum, tried the “soft sawder!”) with your wonted gallantry, you will doubtless award her.”

The Court, however, expressed an opinion, that the Goddess of Wisdom, by making an unprovoked sortie on so respectable a baboon, had not acted with her usual discretion, and directed Minerva to be nonsuited.

Look at the gay caps and bonnets in yonder balcony; and hark to the fifes and fiddles, accelerating the sharp trot to a full gallop! And now the volunteer vocalist, having frowned into nothingness a St. Cecilian on the salt-box, demands silence for this seasonable chant.

Don't you remember the third of September?

Fun's Saturnalia, Bartlemy fair!

Punch's holiday, O what a jolly day!

When we fiddled and danced at the Bear.

Romping, reeling it, toe and heeling it,

Ham and vealing it, toddy and purl—

Have you forgot that I paid the shot

I have not! my adorable girl.

With ranters and roysters we push'd thro' the cloisters,

Had plenty of oysters, of porter a pot;

I treated my Hebe with brandy, not (B. B!)

And sausages smoking, and gingerbread hot.

She whisper'd, “How nice is fried bacon in slices,

And eggs”—What a crisis!—Love egg'd me on—

“My dearest,” said I, “ I wish I may die

If we don't have a fry to-night at the Swan.”

How we giggled when Pantaloon wriggled,

And led a jig with Columbine down;

How we roar'd when Harlequin's sword

Conjur'd Mother Goose into the Clown!

To Saunders's booth I toddled my Ruth,

Saw Master and Miss romp and reel on the rope—

And it was our faults if we didn't both waltz,

My eye! with old Guy, Old Nick and the Pope.

Rigging's rife again, fun's come to life again,

Punch and his wife again, frolicksome pair,

Footing it, crikey! like Cupid and Psyche,

Summon each rum'un to Bartlemy fair.

Trumpets blowing, roundabouts going,

Toby the Theban, intelligent Pig!

His compliments sends, inviting his friends

To meet the Bonassus to-night at a jig.

“Now my little lads and lasses! Shut one eye, and don't breathe on the glasses! Here's Nero a-fiddling while Rome was a-burning—and Cin-cinnatus a-digging potatoes. Here's Sampson and the Phillis-tines—Cain and Abel, and the Tower of Babel.” This was sounded by a gaunt fellow (a stronger man than Sampson, for he lugged him in by the head and shoulders!) with a gin-and-fog voice and a bristly beard. His neighbour, a portly ogress with a Cyclopical physiognomy (her drum “most tragically run through!”), advertised a grunting giant, (a Pygmalion to his relations!) and backed his stupendous flitches against Smith-field and the world.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” squeaked a little mountebank through an asthmatic trumpet, “walk in and see a tragical, comical, operatical, pantomimical Olla Podrida of Smiles, Tears, Broad Grins, and Horselaughs, called The Hobgoblin, or My Lady go-Nimble's Ghost; the Humours of Becky Burton and Doctor Diddleum; a Prologue by Lucifer and his imps; capering on his pericranium by Signor Franchinello; and dancing in a dark lantern by Mynheer Von Trompingtonverbruggenhausentiraliravontamen!”

“Here's your dainty spiced gingerbread! that will melt in your mouth like a red hot brickbat, and rumble in your inside like Punch and his wheelbarrow!”—“And here's your Conjuration Compound, that if you bathe a beefsteak in it the over night, it will come out a veal cutlet in the morning!”

The fair was lighted up, and the fun grew “fast and furious” beginning with a loud chorus of acclamation, and so running on through the whole Sol fa of St. Bartlemy delight. There was a blended incarnation of kettle-drums, fifes, fiddles, French horns, rattles, trumpets, and gongs! A giantess of alarming dimensions, beaming with maternal ecstasy! reddened with deeper intensity from her painted show-cloth; and a miniature Lady-monster, a codicil to the giantess! peeped out imploringly from a wine-cooler in which some facetious crowned sconce had ensconced her at an after-dinner merriment to his Queen and Courtiers.

The Mermaid had a long tail to exhibit and tell. Messrs. Rumfiz and Glumfiz, disciples of Zoroaster! began their magical incantations, swallowed knives and forks and devoured blue flame with increased voracity; the Fantoccini footed it with laudable vigour; the Conjuror would have coined his copper nose, only, winked the wag, “I knows and you knows Je n'ose pas!” the lions and tigers roared “Now or never!” and amidst this oratorio of discord and din, Harlequin, Othello, Columbine, Sir John Falstaff, Desdemona, Jim Crow, Cardinal Wolsey, and Scaramouch quadrilled on the outside platform of Richardson's Grand Booth, the gong (his prompter's tintinabulum!) sounding superabundant glorification.

We hastened to this renowned modern temple of the Smithfield drama, which was splendidly illuminated and guarded by tremendous pasteboard Genii, sphinxes, and unicorns, and saw our old acquaintance Bonassus (who looked like one of His Mandingo Majesty's Spanish liquorice guards!) enact Othello and Jim Crow. After much interpolated periphrasis and palaver, Mr. Bigstick darkly intimated that when he ceased to love the “gentle Desdemona,” (Miss Teresa Tumbletuzzy!)

“Shay-oss is come agin”

At this moment the scenes stuck fast in the grooves—the halves of a house with an interstice of a yard or so between—when a lecturing mechanic bawled out from his sixpenny elysium,

“Ve don't expect no good grammar here, Muster Thingumbob, but, hang it! you might close the scenes!”

Mr. Bigstick being politely requested (“Strike up, Snow-drop! Go it, Day and Martin!”) to “Jump Jim Crow” in triplicate, came forward, curvetting and salaaming with profound respect, and treated his audience with this variorum version of their old favourite.

Here's jumping Jim, his coat and skim-

-mer very well you know;

If you've a crow to pluck with him,

He's pluck'd you first! I trow—

Where'er he goes he gaily crows,

A Blackey and a Beau!

Reels about and wheels about,

And jumps Jim Crow.

O how the town ran up and down

To see the dancing Nigger!

If Jim's a flat, 'tis tit for tat!

For Jim thinks John a bigger

To (for a Yankee lean and lanky)

Shell his coppers so.—

What a noodle I—Yankee-doodle!

Rare Jim Crow!

Bull has fill'd his noddle full

Of learning, in profusion;

And Jim, with his long limping limb,

Has jump'd to this conclusion,

“A ninny and”—you understand!

When sitting all a-row,

Britons roar “Encore! Encore!

Jump Jim Crow!”

Jim's play'd his pranks—with many thanks,

He gives you now the hop;

Because, like his Commercial Banks,

He thinks it time to stop!

What Nigger Lad has ever had

Such lucky cards to throw?

Ever trump'd, or ever jump'd

Like Jump Jim Crow?

The pantomine of Hot Rolls, or Harlequin Dumpling, and the Dragon of Wantley concluded the performances; in which Mr. Bigstick's promising young pupil, Master Magnumdagnumhuggleduggle, by a jeu de thÉÂtre bolted the baker; (bones, apron, night-cap and all!) set Old Father Thames on fire, exhibited the fishes frying in agony, and in his suit of spiked armour, like an “Egyptian Porcupig,”

“To make him strong and mighty,

Drank by the tale, six pots of ale

And a quart of Aqua VitÆ!”

and marched forth fiercely to a ferocious fight with a green leather dragon stuffed with fiery serpents, that hissed and exploded to the tune of two-pence a time!

The Bartlemy fairities were in raptures. Master Magnumdagnumhuggleduggle, Mr. Big stick, the Tumblctuzzy and the Dragon were successively garlanded with broccoli-sprouts and turnip-tops! It was all round my hat” with Bonassus, who divided the Lion's share with the Dragon, and looked like a May-day Jack-in-the-green! The enthusiasm of the audience did not end here. They called for the Call-boy, and the Candle-snuffer, whose bliss would have felt no cc aching void” had a “bit of bacon” accompanied, by way of a relish, this kitchen garden of cabbage.

The bells of St. Bartholomew chimed the hour when churchyards and “Charlies” yawn; upon which the illuminations and mob went out, and away, and Momus looked as down in the mouth as a convolvulus. *

The elephant booked his trunk and departed; the menagerie man returned to his dish of bird's claws and beaks, with a second course of shark's teeth and fish-bones; Punch and Judy were amicably domiciled with the dog, the devil, and the doctor; the Jacks-in-the-box, Noah's arks, Dutch dolls, and wooden Scaramouches, were stowed away pell-mell; the gingerbread kings, queens, and nuts, were huddled higgledy-piggledy into their tin canisters; a muddled chorister warbled “Fly not yet” to an intrusive “Blue-Bottle” that popped in the Queen's Crown and his own among a midnight dancing party of shopmen and Abigails, and a solitary fiddle, scraped by a cruel cobbler, squeaked the Lay of the Last Minstrel!

Morn appearing, Nature cheering,

Milkmaids crying “Milk!” for tea,

Singing, joking; chimneys smoking,

Bring, alas! no joys to me.

Phoebus beaming, kettles steaming—

Basso—hark I the dustman's bell,

Obligato!—ff Sweep!” stoccato!

Old St. Bartle! sound thy knell.