Читать книгу Merrie England in the Olden Time - George Daniel - Страница 14

“The ancient brethren of Bull-Feathers-Hall were a club of warm citizens; 'rich fellows enough! fellows that have had losses, with everything handsome about them.' Their place of rendezvous was the Chequer-Yard in Whitechapel, every Tuesday and Thursday at seven o'clock. The intent of their meeting was to solace themselves with harmless merriment, and promote good fellowship * among neighbours.

* How good fellowship had declined a century before this

will be seen by the following extract from a black-letter

ballad, intituled, “A balade declaryng how neybourhed loue,

and trew dealyng is gone. Imprinted at London by Richard

Lant.” (Circa 1560.)

“Where shall one fynde a man to trust,

Alwaye to stande in tyme of neede;

Thee most parte now, they are unjust,

Fayre in wordes, but false in deede:

Neybourhed nor loue is none,

True dealyng now is fled and gone.”

The president, arrayed in his crimson satin gown, with his cap furred and surmounted by a pair of antlers, and seated in a chair of state beneath a canopy, commanded (by the crier of the court) every member to be covered; and in the twinkling of an eye their horns were exalted. On a velvet cushion before him lay the comuted sceptre and sword. The brethren drank out of horn-cups, and made oath upon a book of statutes bound in horn. Their revenues were derived from a toll upon all the gravel carried up Highgate Hill and Hornsey;—Cow-lane; and beyond sea, Crook-horn; Leg-horn; and Ox-mantown paying them yearly tribute! On Monday, the 2nd May, 1664, a deputation of the fraternity met at Busby's Folly, * near Sadler's Wells, ** Islington, from whence they marched in grand order, headed by their Captain of Pioneers, with between thirty and forty of his men, with pick-axes and spades to level the hill, and baskets to carry the gravel;

* A print of Busbys Folly occurs in a rare volume, called

“Views of divers noted places near London, 1731,” of which

Gough, the antiquary never saw hut one copy. Its site is

particularly pointed out in Ogilby's map of London to

Holyhead.

* “Sadler's Wells being lately opened, there is likely to be

a great resort of strolling damsels, half-pay officers,

peripatetic tradesmen, tars, butchers, and others, musically

inclined.”—Weekly Journal, 16th March 1718.

It is curious to read at the bottom of the old bills and

advertisements of Sadler's Wells the following alarming announcements:—“A horse patrol will be sent in the New Road that night for the protection of the nobility and gentry who go from the squares and that end of the town. The road also towards the city will be properly guarded.” “June 1783. Patroles of horse and foot are stationed from Sadler's Wells' gate along the New Road to Tottenham Court turnpike; likewise from the City Road to Moorfields; also to St. John Street, and across the Spafields to Rosoman Row, from the hours of eight to eleven.”

After which followed the standard, an enormous pair of horns mounted on a lofty pole, borne by three officers, and attended by the master of the ceremonies, the mace-bearer, the herald at-arms, the sword-bearer and the crier, their footsteps keeping time to a flourish of trumpets and horns. *

* “On Tuesday next, being Shrove Tuesday, there will be a

fine hog bar-byqu'd whole, at the house of Peter Brett, at the Rising Sun, in Islington Road, with other diversions.— Note. It is the house where the ox was roasted whole at Christmas last.” Mist's Journal, Feb. 9, 1726. A hog barbecu'd is a West Indian term, and means a hog roasted whole, stuffed with spice, and basted with Madeira wine. Oldfield, an eminent glutton of former days, gormandised away a fortune of fifteen hundred pounds a-year. Pope thus alludes to him— “Oldfield, with more than harpy throat endu'd, Cries, 'Send me, gods, a whole hog barbecu'd!'” “On Thursday next, being 13th March 1718, the Bowling- Greens will be opened at the Prospect House, Islington, where there will be accommodation for all gentlemen bowlers.” Bowling-greens were among the many amusements of Merrie England. The author of “Night Thoughts” established a bowling-green in the village confided to his pastoral care, for innocent and healthful recreation. “True piety is cheerful as the day.” “May 1757. To be bowl'd for on Monday next, at the Red Cow, in St. George's Fields, a pair of Silver Buckles, value fourteen shillings, at five pins, each pin a yard apart. He that brings most pins at three bowls has the buckles, if the money is in; if not, the money each man has put in. Three bowls for sixpence, and a pint of beer out of it, for the good of the house,”

Arriving near the Gate-house—(gentlemen, we are within a few yards of the very spot!)—the viceroy of the gravel-pits went forth to meet them, presenting the horn of plenty as a token of hearty welcome; and passing through the gate, they made a circuit round the old pond, and returning to their starting-post, one of the brethren delivered a poetical oration, humorously descriptive of Bull-Feathers-Hall, and expatiating on the antiquity and dignity of horns. The speech being ended, they paraded to the dinner-table, which groaned under every luxury of the season. There they regaled themselves, amidst the sounding of trumpets and the winding of horns. Between dinner and dessert, those of the officers who had singing faces volunteered a festive chant, in which the whole company joined chorus.

The shortest, the tallest, the foulest, the fairest,

The fattest, the leanest, the commonest, rarest,

When they and their cronies are merry together,

Will all do their best to advance the Bull's Feather!

A king and a cobbler, a lord and a loon,

A prince and a pedlar, a courtier, a clown;

Put all their degrees and conditions together,

Are liable always to wear the Bull's Feather.

Any candidate desirous of being admitted a member of the fraternity was proposed by the sword-bearer; and the master of the ceremonies placing him in the adopting chair, the comptroller made three ejaculations, upon which the brethren doffed their hats. Then the master of the ceremonies exchanged his own comuted castor for a cap, and administered to his newly elected brother, on a book horned on all sides, an oath in rhyme, recapitulating a long string of duties belonging to their peculiar art and mystery, and enjoining their strict performance.

Lastly, observe thou shalt esteem none other

Equal to this our club;—so welcome brother!” *

* Bull-Feathers-Hall; or, The Antiquity and Dignity of Horns

amply shown. Also a Description of the Manners,

Rites, Customs, and Revenues belonging to that ingenious and

numerous society of Bull-Feathers-Hall. London: printed for

the Society of Bull-Feathers-Hall. 1664.

A copy of this rare tract produced at Bindley's sale five

pounds ten shillings, and at Strette's five pounds.

“Thus ends my story, gentlemen; and if you have found it tedious, visit the offence on the Lauréat of Little Britain, by enjoining him the penance of a bumper of salt and water.”

But mine host of the Horns, very prim about the wig, his coat marked with his apron strings, which left a seam all round, as if he had been cut in two, and afterwards stitched together again, having been slyly telegraphed, that obedient functionary, who was as neat as his wines, entered, bearing before him what Mr. Bosky facetiously called “a good afternoon,” to wit, a brimming bowl, in which whiskey had been judiciously substituted for salt. Uncle Timothy rose; so did the voice of Mr. Bosky! and to such an altitude as to drown his expostulations in contumacious carolling, which, truth obliges us to add, received laughing impunity from the company.

Come merrily push round the toddy,

The cold winter nights are set in;

To a roquelaire wrapp'd round the body

Add a lining of lamb's-wool within!

This liquor was brew'd by my grandam,

In a snug quiet still of her own;

'Tis fit for my Lord in his tandem,

And royal King Will on his throne.

In the glass, see it sparkles and ripples,

And how it runs merrily down!

The absolute monarch of tipples,

And richly deserving a crown!

Of mirth 'tis the spring and the fountain,

And Helicon's stream to the Muse;

The pleasantest dew of the mountain—

So give it, good fellows, its dues.

It opens the heart of the miser,

And conjures up truth from the knave;

It makes my Lord Bishop look wiser—

More frisky the curate, his slave.

It makes the glad spirit still gladder,

And moistens the splenetic vein;

When I can't see a hole through a ladder,

It mounts on the sly to my brain.

Then push round the glasses, be cosey,

Fill bumpers to whiskey and whim;

Good luck to each man, while his nose he

Hangs pleasantly over the brim!

There's nothing remarkably odd in

A gent who to nap is inclined;

He can't want a blanket while noddin',

When he's two or three sheets in the wind.

“Sirs,” exclaimed the satirical-nosed gentleman, “I alone am to blame for this audacious vivacity of my sister's son. I turned it on, and lo! it hath inundated us with buffoonery. Sirrah!” shaking the identical plant that Dr. Johnson travelled with through the Hebrides, Tom Davies's shilling's worth for the broad shoulders of Macpherson, “thou shalt find in future that I joke with my cudgel!” *

* “Hombre burlo yo con mi escopeta!” was the characteristic

saying of the celebrated Spanish bandit Josse Maria.

But it was labour in vain; the “laughing devil,” so peculiar to the eye of the middle-aged gentleman, leered ludicrous defiance to his half-smiling half-sulky mouth. As a last determined effort, he shook his head at Mr. Bosky, whereupon Mr. Bosky shook his hand. The mutual grasp was electrical, and thus ended the brief farce of Uncle Timothy's furor.

“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Bosky, in a subdued tone, “if I could believe that Uncle Timothy had been really in earnest, my penitential punch should be turned into bitter aloes, sweetened with assafoetida, to expiate an offence against the earliest, best, and dearest friend I ever knew! But I owed Uncle Timothy a revenge. Of late he has worn a serious brow, a mournful smile. There has been melancholy in his mirth, and sadness in his song; this, he well knows, cuts me to the quick; and it is not until he is angry—or, rather” (smiling affectionately at Uncle Tim) “until he thinks himself so,”—(here Uncle Tim gave Mr. Bosky one of his blandest looks) “that he is 'cockered and spirited up,' and the cloud passes away. What do I not owe to my more than father?”

Uncle Timothy got enormously fidgety; he beat Lucifer's tattoo with his right leg, and began fumbling in both waistcoat pockets for his snuffbox.

“A precocious young urchin, gentlemen, in every sort of mischief!” interrupted Uncle Timothy with nervous impetuosity, “on whose birch-provoking little body as many besoms were bestowed as would set up the best chandler in Christendom!”

“An orphan too—”

“Benjamin Bosky! Benjamin Bosky! don't—don't be a blockhead!”

“He reared, educated, and made me what I am. And, though sometimes I may too far presume upon his good-nature, and foolishly, fondly fancy myself a boy again—”

“Putting hot parched peas and cherry-stones into my boots, as being good for chilblains, * and strewing the inside of my bed with horse-hair to send me to sleep, after a fortnight's dancing round my room with the toothache!”

“Three strokes from the club of Caliban would not so effectually break my head, as the reflection would break my heart that I had done aught to displease him! Now, gentlemen, the murder's out; and if for blabbing family secrets Uncle Timothy in his wrath will insist upon fining me—an extra glass of punch! in truth I must submit and sip.”

“You see, my good friends,” said Uncle Timothy, after a short pause, “that the rogue is incorrigible! But Benjamin Bosky”—(here Uncle Tim tried to look sententious, and adopted the bowwow style)—“I cannot but blush, deeply blush for thy morals, or rather, Benjamin Bosky, for thy no-morals, when thou canst thus blurt thy flattery in my face, because I simply did a duty that kindred imposed upon me, and the sweet consciousness of performing made light and pleasant.

* When the dreadful earthquake at Lisbon had frightened the

English people into an apprehension of the like calamity at

home, a quack advertised his pills as “being good for

earthquakes.”

What I have done was at the whisper of a higher monitor than man; and from Him alone—even if I could suppose myself worthy, which I do not—I hope for reward. He who is capable of ingratitude is incapable of any virtue. But gratitude, the most dignified return we can lavish on our benefactor, is the silent aspiration of the heart, and must not, good Benjamin, be placarded on every wall, like a play-bill, a lottery puff, or thy rigmarole ballads, three yards for a penny! There is not a being, however humble his station, but may find some deserving object to awake his friendship and share his benevolence. And be assured, dear Benjamin, that a judicious and timely distribution of fortune's good gifts is the best preparation for that final moment when we must resign them altogether.

And when life's sweet fable ends,

May soul and body part like friends;

No quarrels, murmurs, no delay—

A kiss, a sigh, and so away.”

“As Cicero said of Plato, I say of Uncle Timothy—I would rather be wrong with him than right with anybody else. One more volunteer from the Laureate's 'three yards for a penny,' and then my nest of nightingales—”

“Tom-tits! Benjamin Bosky, tom-tits!”

“Well, then, tom-tits! dear Uncle Timothy—shall go to roost for the night.”