Chapter VIII: Epilogue (4)

The late Mr. Albert Smith, the humourist and novelist, has very happily hit off this style of thing in "The Man in the Moon," one of the many rivals to "Punch," and edited by that very promising son of genius, the late Angus B. Reach, 1832-56. It is entitled--

A COPY OF VERSES

_Found among the Papers of Mr. Catnach, the spirited Publisher of Seven Dials; originally intended to have been "printed and published at the Toy and Marble Warehouse, 2 and 3, Monmouth Court, Seven Dials."_

DEDICATED TO THE AUTHOR OF "LUCRETIA."

I.

_The Hero claims the attention of virtuous persons, and leads them to anticipate a painful disclosure._

Draw hither now good people all
And let my story warn,
For I will tell to you a tale,
What will wrend them breasts of yourn.

II.

_He names the place and hour of the disgraceful penalty he is about to undergo._

I am condemn'd all for to die
A death of scorn and horror;
In front of Horsemonger-lane Gaol,
At eight o'clock to-morrer.

III.

_He hints at his atrocity; and the ebullition produced by the mere recollection of it._

The crime of which I was found guilty,
Oh! it was shocking vile;
The very thoughts of the cruel deed
Now makes my blood to bile.

IV.

_He speaks of the happy hours of Childhood, never more to return._

In Somersetshire I was born'd,
And my little sister dear
Didn't think then that my sad end
Would be like unto this here.

V.

_The revelation of his name and profession; and subsequent avowal of his guilt._

James Guffin is my hated name,
And a footman I'm by trade;
And I do confess that I did slay
My poor fellow-servant maid.

VI.

_He acknowledges the justice of his sentence._

And well I do deserve, I own,
My fate which is so bitter:
For 'twas most wicked for to kill
So innicent a critter.

VII.

_And pictures what might have taken place but for the interference of Destiny._

Her maiden name was Sarey Leigh,
And was to have been Guffin;
For we was to have been marri-ed,
But Fate brought that to nuffin.

VIII.

_He is particular as to the date of the occurrence._

All on a Wednesday afternoon,
On the ninth of Janivary,
Eighteen hundred and forty-four,
Oh! I did kill my Sarey.

IX.

_And narrates the means employed, and the circumstances which led him to destroy his betrothed._

With arsenic her I did destroy,
How could I be so vicious!
But of my young master I was jealous,
And so was my old Missus.

X.

_He is led away by bad passions._

I thought Sarey Leigh warn't true to me,
So all pity then despising,
Sure I was tempted by the Devil
To give to her some p'ison.

XI.

_His bosom is torn by conflicting resolutions; but he is at last decided._

Long--long I brooded on the deed,
'Til one morning of a sudden,
I did determine for to put
It in a beef-steak puddin.

XII.

_The victim falls into the snare._

Of the fatal pudding she did partake,
Most fearful for to see,
And an hour arter was to it a martyr,
Launch'd into eternity.

XIII.

_He feels that his perception comes too late._

Ah! had I then but viewed things in
The light that I now does 'em,
I never should have know'd the grief
As burns in this here buzum.

XIV.

_He commits his secret to the earth._

So when I seed what I had done,
In hopes of justice retarding,
I took and buried poor Sarey Leigh
Out in the kitching garding.

XV.

_But the earth refuses to keep it._

But it did haunt me, so I felt
As of a load deliver'd,
When three weeks after the fatal deed,
The body was diskiver'd.

XVI.

_Remorse and self examination._

O! why did I form of Sarey Leigh
Such cruel unjust opinions,
When my young master did her find
Beneath the bed of inions.

XVII.

_His countrymen form a just estimate of his delinquency._

Afore twelve jurymen I was tried,
And condemned the perpetrator
Of this here awful Tragedy,
As shocks one's human natur.

XVIII.

_He conjures up a painful image._

But the bell is tolling for my end;
How shocking for to see
A footman gay, in the prime of life,
Die on the fatal tree.

XIX.

_His last words convey a moral lesson._

THE MORAL!!!

Take warning, then, all ye as would
Not die like malefactors;
Never the company for to keep
Of them with bad characters.

Little Boys and Girls will find
At CATNACH'S something to their mind;
From great variety may choose,
What will instruct them and amuse.
The prettiest plates that you can find,
To please at once the eye and mind.

One class of literature which the late Jemmy Catnach made almost his own, was children's farthing and halfpenny books. Among the great many that he published we select, from our own private collection, the following as a fair sample:--"The Tragical Death of an Apple Pie," "The House that Jack Built," "Jumping Joan," "The Butterflies Ball and Grasshoppers' Feast," "Jerry Diddle and his Fiddle," "Nurse Love-Child's Gift," "The Death and Burial of Cock Robin," "The Cries of London," "Simple Simon," "Jacky Jingle and Suky Shingle," and--"Here you have just prin--ted and pub--lish--ed, and a--dor--ned with eight beau--ti--ful and ele--gantly engraved embellish--ments, and for the low charge of one _farden_--Yes! one _farden_ buys."

NURSERY RHYMES.

See-saw, sacradown,
Which is the way to London town?
One foot up, and the other down,
And that is the way to London town.

Hey diddle, the cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon,
The little dog laughed to see the sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.

Ding, dong bell!
Pussy's in the well.
Who put her in?
Little Johnny Green.
Who pulled her out?
Little Johnny Snout.
What a naughty boy was that,
To drown poor pussy cat,
Who never did him any harm,
And kill'd the mice in his father's barn.

Jack and Jill went up the hill,
To get a pail of water;
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.

Cock a doodle do,
The dame has lost her shoe,
And master's lost his fiddle stick
And don't know what to do.

I had a little husband,
No bigger than my thumb.
I put him in a quart pot,
And there I bid him drum.

Who's there? A Grenadier!
What do you want? A pot of beer.
Where's your money? Oh, I forgot,
Then get you gone, you drunken sot.

Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock,
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
Down comes the baby, cradle and all.

There was an old woman that lived in a shoe,
She had so many children she knew not what to do;
She gave them some broth without any bread,
Then she beat them all well, and sent them to bed.

My mother and your mother
Went over the way;
Said my mother to your mother,
It's chop-a-nose day!

J. Catnach, Printer, 2, Monmouth Court, 7 Dials.

THE CRIES OF LONDON.

_Cherries._

Here's round and sound,
Black and white heart cherries,
Two-pence a pound.

_Oranges._

Here's oranges nice,
At a very small price,
I sell them all two for a penny.
Ripe, juicy, and sweet,
Just fit for to eat,
So customers buy a good many.

_Milk below._

Rain, frost, or snow, or hot or cold,
I travel up and down,
The cream and milk you buy of me
Is best in all the town.
For custards, puddings, or for tea,
There's none like those you buy of me.

_Crumpling Codlings._

Come buy my Crumpling Codlings,
Buy all my Crumplings.
Some of them you may eat raw,
Of the rest make dumplings,
Or pies, or puddings, which you please.

_Filberts._

Come buy my filberts ripe and brown,
They are the best in all the town,
I sell them for a groat a pound,
And warrant them all good and sound,
You're welcome for to crack and try,
They are so good, I'm sure you'll buy.

_Clothes Pegs, Props, or Lines._

Come, maids, and buy my pegs and props,
Or lines to dry your clothes,
And when they are dry they'll smell as sweet
As any damask rose.
Come buy and save your clothes from dirt,
They'll save you washing many a shirt.

_Sweep._

Sweep, chimney sweep,
Is the common cry I keep,
If you rightly understand me;
With my brush, broom, and my rake,
Such cleanly work I make,
There's few can go beyond me.

_Peas and Beans._

Four pence a peck, green Hastings!
And fine garden beans.
They are all morning gathered,
Come hither, my queens.
Come buy my Windsor beans and peas,
You'll see no more this year like these.

_Young Lambs to Sell._

Get ready your money and come to me,
I sell a young lamb for a penny.
Young lambs to sell! young lambs to sell!
If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry young lambs to sell.

Here's your toys for girls and boys,
Only a penny, or a dirty phial or bottle.

_Strawberries._

Rare ripe strawberries and
Hautboys, sixpence a pottle.
Full to the bottom, hautboys.
Strawberries and Cream are charming and sweet,
Mix them and try how delightful they eat.

When Good Friday comes,
The old woman runs
With Hot Cross Buns,
One a penny, Buns,
Two a penny, Buns,
All Hot Buns.

LONDON:
Printed by J. Catnach, 2, Monmouth
Court, 7 Dials.

"Songs! Songs! Songs! Beautiful songs! Love songs; Newest songs! Old songs! Popular songs! Songs, _Three Yards a Penny!_" was a "standing dish" at the "Catnach Press," and Catnach was the Leo X. of street publishers. And it is said that he at one time kept a fiddler on the premises, and that he used to sit receiving ballad writers and singers, and judging of the merits of any production which was brought to him, by having it sung then and there to some popular air played by his own fiddler, and so that the ballad-singer should be enabled to start at once, not only with the new song, but also the tune to which it was adapted. His broad-sheets contain all sorts of songs and ballads, for he had a most catholic taste, and introduced the custom of taking from any writer, living or dead, whatever he fancied, and printing it side by side with the productions of his own clients.

Catnach, towards the latter part of his time and in his threefold capacity of publisher, compositor, and poet, was in the habit of taking things very easy, and always appeared to the best advantage when in his printing office, or stationed behind the ricketty counter which for a number of years had done good service in the shop in Monmouth-court. In this uncongenial atmosphere, where the rays of the sun are seldom or never seen, Jemmy was as happy as a prince. "A poor man's home is his castle," so says an old proverb, and no one could have been prouder than he was when despatching to almost every town in the kingdom some specialty in the printing department. He naturally had a bit of a taste for old ballads, music, and song writing; and in this respect he was far in advance of many of his contemporaries. To bring within the reach of all, the standard and popular works of the day, had been the ambition of the elder Catnach; whilst the son was, _nolens volens_, incessant in his endeavours in trying to promulgate and advance, not the beauty, elegance, and harmony which pervades many of our national airs and ballad poety, but very often the worst and vilest of each and every description--in other words, those most suitable for street sale. His stock of songs was very like his customers, diversified. There were all kinds, to suit all classes. Love, sentimental, and comic songs were so interwoven as to form a trio of no ordinary amount of novelty. At ordinary times, when the Awfuls and Sensationals were flat, Jemmy did a large stroke of business in this line.

It is said that when the "Songs--_Three-yards-a-penny_"--first came out and had all the attractions of novelty, some men sold twelve or fourteen dozen on fine days during three or four of the summer months, so clearing between 6s. and 7s. a day, but on the average about 25s. per week profit. The "long songs," however, have been quite superseded by the "Monster" and "Giant Penny Song Books." Still there are a vast number of halfpenny ballad-sheets worked off, and in proportion to their size, far more than the "Monsters" or "Giants." One song book, entitled the "Little Warbler," was published in parts, and had an enormous sale.

There are invariably but two songs printed on the half-penny ballad-sheets--generally a new and popular song with another older ditty, or a comic and sentimental, and "adorned" with two woodcuts. These are selected without any regard to their fitness to the subject, and in most cases have not the slightest reference to the ballad of which they form the headpiece. For instance:--"The Heart that can feel for another" is illustrated by a gaunt and savage-looking lion; "When I was first Breeched," by an engraving of a Highlander _sans culotte_; "The Poacher" comes under the cut of a youth with a large watering-pot, tending flowers; "Ben Block" is heralded by the rising sun; "The London Oyster Girl," by Sir Walter Raleigh; "The Sailors Grave," by the figure of Justice; "Alice Grey" comes under the very dilapidated figure of a sailor, or "Jolly Young Waterman;" "Bright Hours are in store for us yet" is _headed_ with a _tail-piece_ of an urn, on which is inscribed FINIS. (?) "Watercresses," with the portrait of a Silly Billy; "The Wild Boar Hunt," by two wolves chasing a deer; "The Dying Child to its Mother," by an Angel appearing to an old man; "Crazy Jane," by the Royal Arms of England; "Autumn Leaves lie strew'd around," by a ship in full sail; "Cherry Ripe," by Death's Head and Cross Bones; "Jack at the Windlass," falls under a Roadside Inn; while "William Tell" is presented to the British public in form and style of an old woman nursing an infant of a squally nature. Here are a few examples:--

Besides the chanters, who sing the songs through the streets of every city, town, village, and hamlet in the kingdom--the long-song seller, who shouts their titles on the kerb-stone, and the countless small shop-keepers, who, in swag-shops, toy-shops, sweetstuff-shops, tobacco-shops, and general shops, keep them as part of their stock for the supply of the street boys and the servant girls--there is another important functionary engaged in their distribution, and who is well known to the inhabitants of large towns, this is the pinner-up, who takes his stand against a dead wall or a long range of iron railings, and first festooning it liberally with twine, pins up one or two hundred ballads for public perusal and selection. Time was when this was a thriving trade: and we are old enough to remember the day when a good half-mile of wall fluttered with the minstrelsy of war and love, under the guardianship of a scattered file of pinners-up, along the south side of Oxford-street alone. Thirty years ago the dead walls gave place to shop fronts, and the pinners-up departed to their long homes. As they died out very few succeeded to their honours and emoluments. There is one pinner-up, seemingly the last of his race, who makes his display on the dead wall of the underground railway in Farringdon road.

Catnach, to the day of his retirement from business in 1838, when he purchased the freehold of a disused public-house, which had been known as the Lion Inn, together with the grounds attached at Dancer's-hill, South Mimms, near Barnet, in the county of Middlesex, worked and toiled in the office of the "Seven Dials Press," in which he had moved as the pivot, or directing mind, for upwards of a quarter of a century. He lived and died a bachelor. His only idea of all earthly happiness and mental enjoyment was now to get away in retirement to a convenient distance from his old place of business, so to give him an opportunity occasionally to go up to town and have a chat and a friendly glass with one or two old paper-workers and ballad-writers, and a few others connected with his peculiar trade who had shown any disposition to work when work was to be done. To them he was always willing to give or advance a few pence or shillings, in money or stock, and a glass.

Catnach left the whole of the business to Mrs. Anne Ryle, his sister, charged, nevertheless, to the amount of L1,000, payable at his death to the estate of his niece, Marion Martha Ryle. In the meanwhile Mr. James Paul acted as managing man for Mrs. Ryle. This Mr. Paul--of whom Jemmy was very fond, and rumour saith, had no great dislike to the mother--had grown from a boy to a man in the office of the "Catnach Press." He was, therefore, well acquainted with the customers, by whom he was much respected; and it was by his tact and judgment that the business was kept so well together. At Catnach's death he entered into partnership with Mrs. Ryle, and the business was carried on under the title and style of Paul & Co. In 1845 the partnership was dissolved, Mr. Paul receiving L800 in settlement. He then entered into the public line, taking the Spencer's Arms, at the corner of Monmouth-court. A son that was born to him in 1847, he had christened James Catnach Paul. About this date "The Catnach Press" had a formidable rival in "The Nassau Steam Press," which was originally started in Nassau Street, Soho, and afterwards removed to No. 60, St. Martin's Lane. Mr. Paul was especially engaged to manage the song department at this office. He died in the year 1870, just six weeks after Mrs. Ryle, and lies buried in the next grave but one to Catnach and his sister, in Highgate Cemetery.

After Mr. Paul had left the business it was carried on as A. Ryle & Co., and ultimately became the property of Mr. W. S. Fortey, who still carries on the old business in the same premises. A copy of whose trade announcement runs thus:--

"THE CATNACH PRESS." (Established 1813.)

"William S. Fortey, (late A. Ryle, successor to the late J. Catnach,)
Printer, Publisher, and Wholesale Stationer, 2 and 3, Monmouth-court,
Seven Dials, London, W.C."

Sir Jeffery Dunstan--thrice Mayor of Garratt! was the most popular candidate that ever appeared on the Hustings at that very Free and Independent Borough! His occupation was that of buying old wigs, once an article of trade like that of old clothes. Sir Jeffery usually carried his wig bag over his shoulder, and to avoid the charge of vagrancy, vociferated, as he passed along the street, "Old Wigs," but having a person like AEsop, and a countenance and manner marked by irresistible humour, he never appeared without a train of boys and curious persons, whom he entertained by his sallies of wit, shrewd sayings, and smart repartees; and from whom, without begging, he collected sufficient to help to maintain his dignity of Mayor and Knight.

From the earliest period of Sir Jeffery's life, he was a friend to "good measures," especially those for "spirituous liquors," and he never saw the inside of a pot without going to the bottom of it. This determination of character created difficulties to him; for his freedom was not always regulated by the doctrines of _meum et tuum_, or, of the great Blackstone, "on the rights of persons," and consequences ensued that were occasionally injurious to Sir Jeffery's eyes, face, and nose. The same enlightened Judge's views of "the rights of property," were not comprehended by Sir Jeffery, he had long made free with the porter of manifold pots, and at length he made free with a few of the pots--which the publicans in London seemed to show in the streets as much as to say "Come and steal me." For this he was "questioned" in the high Commission Court of oyer and terminer, and suffered an imprisonment, which, according to his manner of life, and his notions of the liberty of the subject, was "frivolous and vexatious." On his liberation, he returned to an occupation he had long followed, the dealing in "Old Wigs." Some other circumstances, developed in course of the preceding inquiry, seem to favour a supposition that the bag he carried had enabled him to conceal his previous "free trade" in pewter pots. But, be that as it might, it is certain that in his armorial bearings of four wigs, he added a quart pot for a crest.

Sir Jeffery was remarkably dirty in his person, and always had his shirt thrown open, which exposed his breast to public view. This was in him a sort of pride; for he would frequently in an exulting manner say to _inferiors_ "I've got a _collar_ to my shirt, sir." He had a filthy habit, when he saw a number of girls around him, of spitting in their faces, saying, "There, go about your business."

Sir Jeffery, in the days of his prosperity, took his "Hodges' best," at the "Blind Beggar of Bethnal-green," or the "Horse and Leaping Bar," High-street, Whitechapel, at one or other of these favourite retreats, he got in a regular manner "regularly drunk." Then it was that he sung in his best style various popular "London Cries," mimicking others in their crying, especially one who vended "_Lily, lily, lily, lily white--sand oh! oh!! oh!!!_" this afforded sport to a merry company. Afterwards, should Sir Jeffery receive sufficient metalic support from his friends, he was placed in an arm chair on the table, when he recited to the students of the London Hospital and the Bucks of the East, his mock-election speeches. He was no respecter of persons, and was so severe in his jokes on the corruptions and compromises of power, that he was prosecuted for using what were then called seditious expressions. In consequence of this affair, and some few charges of dishonesty, he lost his popularity, and, at the next general election was ousted by Sir Harry Dimsdale, muffin-seller, a man as much deformed as himself. Sir Jeffery could not long survive his fall, but, in death as in life, he proved a satire on the vices of the proud, for he died, like Alexander the Great, the sailor in Lord Byron's "Don Juan," and many other heroes renowned in history--of suffocation from excessive drinking!.

"Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells!
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime."]

"Muffins, oh! Crumpets, oh," rank among the old cries of London, and at least one of the calling has been made famous, namely, Harry Dimsdale, sometime Mayor of Garratt, who, from the moment he stood as candidate, received mock knighthood, and was ever after known under the appellation of "Sir Harry." This half-witted character was a dealer in tin-ware--together with threads, tapes and bootlaces, during the morning, and a muffin-seller in the afternoon, when he had a little bell, which he held to his ear, and smiling ironically at its tinkling he would cry:--"_Muffins! muffins! ladies come buy me! pretty, handsome, blooming, smiling maids!_"

Mr. J. T. Smith, in his ever-charming work of "A Book for a Rainy Day; or, Recollections of the Events of the Years 1766-1833," writing under date 1787, gives the following graphic sketch of the sayings and doings--taken from life, of "Sir Harry."

"One of the curious scenes I witnessed on a nocturnal visit to the watch house of St. Anne, Soho, afforded me no small amusement. Sir Harry Dinsdale, usually called Dimsdale, a short, feeble little man, was brought in, charged by two colossal guardians of the night with conduct most unruly. 'What have you, Sir Harry, to say to all this?' asked the Dogberry of St. Anne. The knight, who had been roughly handled, commenced like a true orator, in a low tone of voice. 'May it please ye, my magistrate, I am not drunk; it is _languor_. A parcel of the Bloods of the Garden have treated me cruelly, because I would not treat them. This day, sir, I was sent for by Mr. Sheridan, to make a speech upon the table at the Shakespeare Tavern, in _Common_ Garden; he wrote the speech for me, and always gives half a guinea; he sends for me to the tavern. You see I didn't go in my Royal robes, I only put 'um on when I stand to be a member.' The constable--'Well, but Sir Harry, why are you brought here?' One of the watchmen then observed, 'That though Sir Harry was but a little _shambling_ fellow, he was so _upstroppolus_, and kicked him about at such a rate, that it was as much as he and his comrade could do to bring him along.' As there was no one to support the charge, Sir Harry was advised to go home, which, however, he swore he would not do at midnight without an escort. 'Do you know,' said he, 'there's a parcel of _raps_ now on the outside waiting for me.'

"The constable of the night gave orders for him to be protected to the public-house opposite the west end of St. Giles's Church, where he then lodged. Sir Harry, hearing a noise in the street, muttered, 'I shall catch it; I know I shall.' (_Cries without_,) 'See the conquering hero comes.' 'Ay, they always use that tune when I gain my election at Garratt.'

"There are several portraits of this singular little object, by some called 'Honey-juice.' Flaxman, the sculptor, and Mrs. Mathews, of blue-stocking memory, equipped him as a hardware man, and as such I made two etchings of him."

THE MUFFIN MAN.

(_T. Dibden._)

While you opera-squallers fine verses are singing,
Of heroes, and poets, and such like humguffins;
While the world's running round, like a mill in a sail,
I'll ne'er bother my head with what other folks ail,
But careless and frisky, my bell I keep ringing,
And walk about merrily crying my muffins.

CHORUS.

Lily-white muffins, O, rare crumpets smoking,
Hot Yorkshire cakes, hot loaves and charming cakes,
_One-a-penny, two-a-penny, Yorkshire cakes_.

What matters to me if great folks run a gadding,
For politics, fashions, or such botheration;
Let them drink as they brew, while I merrily bake;
For though I sell muffins, I'm not such a cake--
To let other fools' fancies e'er set me a gadding,
Or burthen my thoughts with the cares of the nation.

SPOKEN.--What have I to do with politicians? And for your _Parliament cakes_. Why! everybody knows they are _bought_ and _sold_, and often _done brown_, and made _crusty_ all over the nation. No, no, its enough for me to cry--

Lily-white muffins, &c.

Let soldiers and sailors, contending for glory,
Delight in the rattle of drums and of trumpets;
Undertakers get living by other folks dying,
While actors make money by laughing or crying;
Let lawyers with quizzels and quiddities bore ye,
It's nothing to me, while I'm crying my crumpets.

SPOKEN.--What do I care for lawyers? A'nt I a baker, and consequently,
Master of the Rolls:--Droll enough, too, for a Master of the Rolls to be
crying--

Lily-white muffins, &c.

"Muffins, oh! crumpets, oh!
Come buy, come buy of me.
Muffins and crumpets, muffins,
For breakfast or for tea."]

The ringing of the muffin-man's bell--attached to which the pleasant associations are not a few--is prohibited by a ponderous Act of Parliament, but the prohibition has been all but inoperative, for the muffin bell still tinkles along the streets, and is rung vigorously in the suburbs, and just at the time when City gents, at winter's eve, are comfortably enveloped in fancy-patterned dressing gowns, prettily-worked smoking-caps, and easy-going and highly-coloured slippers, and saying within themselves or aloud:--

"Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in."

"Hot Cross Buns!" Perhaps no "cry"--though it is only for one day in the year, is more familiar to the ears of a Londoner, than that of "_One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross-buns_." We lie awake early upon Good Friday morning and listen to the London bells:--

"Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement's
Pancakes and fritters, say the bells of St. Peter's,
Two sticks and an apple, say the bells of Whitechapel.
Kettles and pans, say the bells of St. Ann's.
Pokers and tongs, say the bells of St. John's
Brickbats and tiles, say the bells of St. Giles'
Halfpence and farthings, say the bells of St. Martin's.
Bull's eyes and targets, say the bells of St. Marg'rets."

And all the other London bells having rung--or, rather _toll'd_ out their own tale of joy or trouble: then comes--rattling over the stones--W. H. SMITH'S well-known red EXPRESS-CARTS laden with the early printed newspapers of the coming day, while all night long the carts and waggons come rumbling in from the country to Covent-garden, and not the least pleasant sound--pleasant for its old recollections--is the time-honoured old cry of "Hot Cross-Buns." Century after century passes by, and those who busily drove their carts day after day from Isleworth, Romford, Enfield, Battersea, Blackheath, or Richmond, one hundred years ago, are as still and silent as if they had never been; yet still, Passion week after Passion week, comes that old cry, nobody knows how old, "Hot Cross Buns, Hot Cross Buns." And as we lie in a half dreamy state we hear and think of the chimes of St. Clement Danes, which may still be heard, as Fallstaff describes, having heard them with Justice Shallow; also, how Pope, as he lay in Holywell-street--now Bookseller's-row; and Addison and Johnson; and, before their time, Waller, at the house of his old friend the merchant of St. Giles's; and the goodly company of poets that lived at the cost of the king, near Whitehall; then of the quaint old gossiping diarist, Samuel Pepys, Secretary of the Admiralty; John Taylor, the _Water-Poet_; even Shakespeare himself, having each in their turn been awakened on the Good Friday morning by the same sound ringing in their ears. For this is a custom which can hardly be traced to a beginning: and all we know about it is, that as far as we can go back, the Good Friday was ushered in by the old Good Friday bun; and that the baker in the towns, and the old good wife in the country, would have thought the day but badly kept, and augured badly for the coming summer's luck, without it.

But between the cakes of Cecrops and the modern Hot Cross Bun there is a wide gulf of 3,400 years; and yet the one may be traced up to the other. There are some, indeed, who would wish to give to the Good Friday Hot Cross Bun a still longer pedigree, and to take it back to the time of the Patriarchs and their consecrated bread; and there are others who would go yet further, and trace it to the earliest age of the world, in a portion of Cain's sacrifice. We may, however, content ourselves with stopping short at the era of the Egyptian Cecrops, founder of Athens, who made his sweet cakes of flour and honey. Such cakes as these, as we learn from the prophet Jeremiah, were offered by the idolatrous Hebrew women to "the Queen of Heaven,"

"Ashtoreth, whom the Phoenicians called
Astarte, Queen of Heaven, with cresent horns."

Some can even discern Astarte in our "Easter." The Jews of old had the shew-bread and the wafer of unleavened bread; and the Egyptians, under the Pharaohs, had also their cakes, round, oval, and triangular. The Persians had their sacred cakes of flour and honey; and Herodotus speaks of similar cakes being offered by the Athenians to a sacred serpent in the temple of their citadel. And, not to mention other nations, the circumstance that accompanied the outbreak of the Indian Mutiny, 1857, will make memorable the "chupatties" or sacred cakes of Khrishna.

The cakes that were offered to Luna by the Greeks and Romans were either crescent-shaped, or were marked with the crescent moon; and this stamp must have been very similar to that impressed on the cakes offered by the Hebrew women to the Queen of Heaven. This mark also resembles that representing the horns of the sacred ox which was stamped on the Grecian cakes; and the ox was _bous_, and, in one of its oblique cases, _boun_, so we derive from that word _boun_ our familiar "bun." There were not only horn-marked cakes, but horn-marked pieces of money; so that it is very difficult to ascertain the true meaning of that passage in the opening of the "Agamemnon" of AEschylus, where the watchman says that a great _bous_ has come, or set foot, upon his tongue. Although it might mean that something as weighty as an ox's hoof had weighed down his tongue, yet it more probably signifies either that he was bribed to silence with a piece of money marked with the ox's horns, or that the partaking of a sacred horn-marked cake had initiated him into a certain secret. Curiously enough, in the _argot_ of thieves, at the present day, a crown piece is termed "a bull;" and it may also be noted that _pecunia_, "money," is derived from _pecus_, "cattle;" and "bull" is derived from _bous_, and also "cow" from the same word, through the Sanscrit _gou_, the _b_ and _g_ being convertible.

Thus, originally, the _boun_ or bun was the cake marked with the horns of the sacred ox. The cross mark was first adopted by the Greeks and Romans to facilitate the division of the cake into four equal parts; and two such cross-marked cakes were found in the ruins of Herculaneum. These cakes were adopted by the early Christians in a spirit of symbolism; but, although the cross was marked on the cake in token of the badge of their faith, yet it was also used by the priest for the breaking of the cake, or Eucharistic wafer, into four pieces; and this was so ordered in the Liturgy of St. Chrysostom. The cross-marked buns are now, for popular use, reserved for Good Friday, and, as Lenten cakes, are peculiar to this country. Among the Syrian Christians of Travancore and Cochin, who trace their descent from those who were converted by St. Thomas on his (supposed) visit to India, a peculiar cake is made for "Sorrowful Friday"--as they term Good Friday. The cake is stuffed with sweetmeats in the form of an eye, to represent the evil eye of Judas, coveting the thirty pieces of silver; and the cake is flung at with sticks by the members of the family until the eye is quite put out; they then share the remains of the cake among them.

In the days before the Reformation, _eulogiae_, or cross-marked consecrated cakes, were made from the dough of the mass-bread, and distributed by the priests to be eaten at home by those who had been prevented by sickness or infirmity from attending the mass. After the Reformation, Protestants would readily retain the custom of eating in their houses a cross marked cake, although no longer connecting it with a sacred rite, but restricting its use to that one day of the year known as "Holy Friday," or "Long Friday"--from the length of the service on that day--but which gradually came to be called, by the Anglican Church, "Good Friday," in remembrance of the good things secured to mankind on that day. The presence upon the breakfast-table of the cross marked bun, flavoured with allspice, in token of the spices that were prepared by the pious women of Galilee, was, therefore, regarded in the light of a remembrancer of the solemnities of the day. The buns were made on the previous evening, Maundy Thursday so called, either from the "maunds," or baskets, in which Easter gifts were distributed, or, more probably, because it was the _Dies mandati_, the day of the command, "That thou doest, do quickly!" as also, "Do this in remembrance of Me!" and that the disciples should love one another and should show humility in the washing of feet.

As Chelsea was long famous for its buns--which are mentioned by Swift to Stella, in 1712--it was not to be wondered at that it should be celebrated for its production of hot cross buns on Good Friday. Early in the present century there were two bun-houses at Chelsea, both claiming to be "Royal" as well as "Original," until, at last, one of the two proclaimed itself to be "The Real Old Original Bun House." These two houses did a roaring trade during the whole of Good Friday, their piazzas being crowded, from six in the morning to six in the evening, by crowds of purchasers, loungers, and gossipers. Good King George the Third would come there with his children; and, of course, the nobility and gentry followed his example. These two bun-houses were swallowed up, in the march of improvement, some forty years ago; but on Good Friday, 1830, 240,000 hot cross buns were sold there.

The cross bun is not without its folk-lore. Country folks attach much virtue to the Good Friday buns; and many are kept for "luck's sake" in cottages from one Good Friday to another. They are not only considered to be preservatives from sickness and disease, but also as safeguards from fire and lightning. They are supposed never to get mouldy, as was noted by "Poor Robin," in his Almanack for 1733, under the head of March:--

"Good Friday comes this month: the old woman runs
With one a penny, two a penny hot cross-buns;
Whose virtue is, if you'll believe what's said,
They'll not grow mouldy like the common bread."

Furthermore, be it known, then, in the interests of suffering humanity, that if a piece of a Good Friday bun is grated and eaten, it will cure as many diseases as were ever cured by a patent pill; moreover, the animal world is not shut out from sharing in its benefits, for it will cure a calf from "scouring," and mixed in a warm mash, it is the very best remedy for your cow. Thus the bun is good for the _boun_; in fact, it is good both for man and beast.

The sellers of the Good Friday buns are composed of old men and young men, old women and young women, big children and little children, but principally boys, and they are of mixed classes, as, costers' boys, boys habitually and boys occasionally street-sellers, and boys--"some cry now who never cried before," and for that occasion only. One great inducement to embark in the trade is the hope of raising a little money for the Easter holidays following.

The "cry" of the Hot Cross Bun vendor varies at times and in places--as thus:--

"One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross-buns!
One-a-penny, two for _tup'ence_, hot cross buns!"

While some of a humorous turn of mind like to introduce a little bit of their own, or the borrowed wit of those who have gone before them, and effect the _one_ step which is said to exist from the sublime to the ridiculous, and cry--

"One-a-penny, poker; two-a-penny, tongs!
One-a-penny; two-a-penny, hot cross buns.
One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross-buns!
If your daughters will not eat them, give them to your sons.
But if you haven't any of those pretty little elves,
You cannot then do better than eat them up yourselves;
One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross buns:
All, hot, hot, hot, all hot.
One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross buns!
Burning hot! smoking hot, r-r-r-roking hot--
One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross buns."

But the street hot-cross-bun trade is languishing--and languishing, will ultimately die a natural death, as the master bakers and pastrycooks have entered into it more freely, and now send round to their regular customers for orders some few days before each succeeding Good Friday.

A capital writer of NOTES, COMMENT and GOSSIP, who contributes every week to the _City Press_, under the _nom de plume_ of "Dogberry," gave--_inter alia_--a few "_Good Words_," the result of his "_Leisure Hours_" in that journal, on the subject of "Good Friday Customs." March 24, 1883, thus:--

"That the buns themselves are as popular as ever they were when the
Real Original Bun Houses existed in Chelsea, was manifest on Thursday
evening, though the scene is now changed from the west to the east.
Bishopsgate-street was indeed all alive with people of high and low
degree crowding in and out of Messrs. Hill & Sons, who, I am told,
turned no less than 47 sacks of flour, representing over 13,000 lbs.,
into the favourite Good Friday cakes. This mass was sweetened by 2,800
lbs. of sugar, moistened with 1,500 quarts of milk, and 'lightened'
with 2,200 lbs. of butter. Something like 25,000 paper bags were used
in packing the buns, and upwards of 150 pairs of hands were engaged in
the making and distribution of the tasty morsels at Bishopsgate and at
the West-end branch of Messrs. Hill, at Victoria. The customary
business of the firm must have been interrupted considerably by Good
Friday, and the forty-seven sacks of flour made into buns represented,
I presume, a considerable deduction from the hundred and ninety to two
hundred which the firm work up in one form or another every week. But
then you can't eat your (Good Friday) cake and have it. There were
other bakers and confectioners in the City, too, who appeared to do a
thriving trade in buns--notably Messrs. Robertson & Co., in
Aldersgate-street. Long live the Good Friday bun!"

DOGBERRY.

HOT CROSS BUNS.

BY MISS ELIZA COOK.

"The clear spring dawn is breaking, and there cometh with the ray,
The stripling boy with 'shining face,' and dame in 'hodden grey:'
Rude melody is breathed by all--young--old--the strong, and weak;
From manhood with its burly tone, and age with treble squeak.
Forth come the little busy 'Jacks' and forth come little 'Jills,'
As thick and quick as working ants about their summer hills;
With baskets of all shapes and makes, of every size and sort;
Away they trudge with eager step, through alley, street, and court.
A spicy freight they bear along, and earnest is their care,
To guard it like a tender thing from morning's nipping air;
And though our rest be broken by their voices shrill and clear,
There's something in the well-known 'cry' we dearly love to hear.
'Tis old, familiar music, when 'the old woman runs'
With 'One-a-penny, two-a-penny, Hot Cross Buns!'
Full many a cake of dainty make has gained a great renown,
We all have lauded 'Gingerbread' and 'Parliament' done brown;
But when did luscious 'Banburies,' or dainty 'Sally Lunns,'
E'er yield such merry chorus theme as 'One-a-penny buns!'
The pomp of palate that may be like old Vitellius fed,
Can never feast as mine did on the sweet and fragrant bread;
When quick impatience could not wait to share the early meal,
But eyed the pile of 'Hot Cross Buns,' and dared to snatch and steal.
Oh, the soul must be uncouth as a Vandal's Goth's, or Hun's,
That loveth not the melody of 'One-a-penny Buns!'"

And so, awaking in the early morning, we hear the streets ringing with the cry, "Hot Cross Buns." And perhaps when all that we have wrought shall be forgotten, when our name shall be as though it had been written on water, and many institutions great and noble shall have perished, this little bun will live on unharmed. Others, as well as ourselves, will, it may be, lie awake upon their beds, and listen to the murmurs going to and fro within the great heart of London, and, thinking on the half-forgotten days of the nineteenth century, wonder perhaps whether, in these olden times, we too heard the sound of "Hot Cross Buns."

The street Pieman with his "cry," of "Pies all hot! hot!! hot!!!--Penny pies, all hot! hot!!--fruit, eel, beef, veal or kidney pies! pies, all hot-hot-hot," is one of the most ancient of street callings, and to London boys of every degree, "Familiar in their mouths as household words." Nor is the itinerant trade in pies--"Eel, beef, veal, kidney or fruit," confined to the great metropolis. All large provincial towns have, from a time going back much farther than even the proverbial "oldest inhabitant" can recollect, had their old and favourite "Penny Pieman," or, "_Old-all-Hot!_" as folks were ever wont to call him. He was generally a merry dog, and mostly to be found where merriment was going on, he scrupled not to force his way through the thickest of the crowd, knowing that the very centre of action was the best market for his wares.

"O Lord! what a place is a camp,
What wonderful doings are there;
The people are all on the tramp,
To me it looks devilish queer:
Here's ladies a swigging of gin,
A crop of macaronies likewise:
And I, with my 'Who'll up and win?
Come, here is your hot mutton pies.'

Here's gallopping this way and that,
With, 'Madam, stand out of the way;'
Here's, 'O fie! sir, what would you be at?--
Come, none of your impudence pray:'
Here's 'Halt--to the right-about-face,'
Here's laughing, and screaming, and cries:
Here's milliners'-men out of place,
And I with my hot mutton pies.

Here's the heath all round like a fair,
Here's butlers, and sutlers, and cooks;
Here's popping away in the air,
And captains with terrible looks:
Here's 'How do you do?'--'Pretty well;
The dust has got into my eyes,'
There's--'Fellow what have you to sell?'
'Why, only some hot mutton pies.'"]

History informs us, through the medium of the halfpenny plain and penny coloured chap book, editions issued by the "Catnach Press," that, one:--

"Simple Simon met a Pieman,
Going to the fair;
Says simple Simon to the Pieman,
'Let me taste your ware.'

Says the Pieman unto Simon,
'First give me a penny;'
Says Simple Simon to the Pieman,
'I have not got any.'"

But history is silent as to the birth, parentage, or, even place and date of the death of the said Simple Simon, or of this very particular pieman. Halliwell informs us, through one of the "Nursery Rhymes of England," that on one occasion:--

"Punch and Judy
Fought for a pie;
Punch gave Judy
A sad blow on the eye."

James Lackington--1746-1816--one of the most celebrated of our early cheap booksellers, lived at the "Temple of Muses," Finsbury-place--the shop, into which a coach and six could be driven. This curious mixture of cobbler's wax, piety, vanity, and love of business, has left us in his autobiography, which he published under the title of his "_Memoirs and Confessions_," his experience as a pie-boy! or seller of pies, thus:--

"At ten years old I cried apple pies in the street. I had noticed a
famous pieman, and thought I could do it better myself. My mode of
crying pies soon made me a street favourite, and the old pie merchant
left off trade. You see, friend, I soon began to make a noise in the
world. But one day I threw my master's child out of a wheelbarrow, so
I went home again, and was set by my father to learn his trade,
continuing with him for several years. My fame as a pieman led to my
selling almanacks on the market days at Christmas. This was to my
mind, and I sorely vexed the [regular] vendors of 'Moore,' 'Wing,' and
'Poor Robin.' My next move was to be bound apprentice for seven
years."

We frequently meet with the pieman in old prints; and in Hogarth's "March to Finchley," there he stands in the very centre of the crowd, grinning with delight at the adroitness of one robbery, while he is himself the victim of another. We learn from this admirable figure by the greatest painter of English life, that the pieman of the last century perambulated the streets in professional costume; and we gather further, from the burly dimensions of his wares that he kept his trade alive by the laudable practice of giving "a good pennyworth for a penny." Justice compels us to observe that his successors of a later generation have not been very conscientious observers of this maxim.

All hot! All Hot Hot! All Hot!
_Here they are, two sizes bigger than last week._]

At this date there was James Sharpe England, a noted flying pieman, who attended all the metropolitan festive gatherings; he walked about hatless, to sell his savoury wares, with his hair powdered and tied _en queue_, his dress neat, apron spotless, jesting wherever he went, with a mighty voice in recommendation of the puddings and pies, which, for the sake of greater oddity he sometimes carried on a wooden platter.

The London pieman, as he takes his walks abroad, makes a practice of "looking in" at all the taverns on his way. Here his customers are found principally in the tap-room. "Here they are, all 'ot!" the pieman cries, as he walks in; "toss or buy! up and win 'em!" For be it known to all whom it may concern, the pieman is a gambler, both from inclination and principle, and will toss with his customers, either by the dallying shilly-shally process of "best five in nine," or "best two in three," or the desperate dash of "sudden death!" in which latter case the first toss decides the matter, _viz_:--a pie for a penny, or your penny gone for nothing, but he invariably declines the mysterious process of "odd man," not being altogether free from suspicion on the subject of collusion between a couple of hungry, and not over honestly inclined customers.

Of the "stuff" which pie-dealers usually make their wares, much has been sung and said, and in some neighbourhoods the sight of an approaching pieman seems to get about an immediate desire for imitating the harmless cat and its "Mee-yow," or the "Bow-wow-wow!" of the dog. And opprobrious epithets are hurled at the piemen as they parade the streets and alleys, and even kidnapping has been slyly hinted at, for the mother of Tom Cladpole, finding her son so determined to make a "Jurney to Lunnun"--least he should die a fool, tries to frighten the boy out of his fixed intention by informing him in pure Sussex dialect that:--

"Besides, dey kidnap people dere,
Ah! ketch um by supprize,
An send um off where nub'dy knows,
Or _baak um up in pies_."

It was ever a safe piece of comic business with Old Joey Grimaldi and his favourite pupil and successor, Tom Matthews, together with all other stage clowns following them, that a penny pieman and the bright shining block-tin can should be introduced into every Christmas pantomime. The pataloon is made to be tossing the safe game of--"heads I win, tails you lose" with the stage pieman, while the roguish clown is adroitly managing to swallow the whole of the stock of pies from the can, and which are made by the stage property-man for the occasion out of tissue-paper painted in water-colours. Then follows the wry faces and spasmodic stomach-pinchings of the clown, accompanied with the echoing cries of "_Mee, mee, mow, woo!_" while the pantaloon takes from the pieman's can some seven or eight fine young kittens and the old tabby-cat--also the handy-work of the stage property-man. The whole scene usually finishes by the pantaloon pointedly sympathizing with the now woebegone clown to the tune of "Serve ye right--Greedy! greedy!! greedy!!!" when enter six supernumeraries dressed as large and motherly-looking tabbies with aprons and bibs, and bedizened with white linen night caps of the pattern known in private life to middle-aged married men only. The clown and pantaloon then work together in hunting down, and then handing over the poor pieman to the tender mercies and talons of the stage-cats, who finish up the "business" of the scene by popping the pieman into what looks like a copper of boiling water.

Mr. Samuel Weller,--_otherwise_, Veller, that great modern authority on Y{e} Manners and Y{e} Customs, of Y{e} English in general, and of London Life wery Particular:--for "Mr. Weller's knowldge of London was extensive and peculiar"--has left us his own ideas of the baked "mysteries" of the pieman's ware:--

"Weal pie," said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the
eatables on the grass. "Werry good thing is a weal pie, when you know
the lady as made it, and is quite sure it an't kittens; and arter all,
though, where's the odds, when they're so like weal that the wery
piemen themselves don't know the difference?"

"Don't they, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick.