Chapter I: DO herewith, present thee with an hieroglyphic, after the accustomed

usage of my lamented precursor and prototype, FRANCIS MOORE, defunct. It prefigureth a mighty change now lying in the womb of futurity, and which doubtless will be brought forth in due season by the great man-midwife, Time.

* * * * *

And now do I most entreatingly invite thee to cast a Parthian glance at my foregone prophetic lucubrations, and especially towards that symbolical prefiguration or _hieroglyphic_, by which I brightly shadowed forth _a certain notable event_, the fulfilment whereof did so closely follow the heels of the prediction as to cause the multitude to marvel;— and when thou hast sufficiently pondered thereupon, I would ask thee whether thou dost not in verity deem me a fit and worthy successor of the renowned FRANCIS MOORE, defunct?

I do thus throw myself on thy candour, because certain of mine adversaries do most unworthily insinuate, that my astrological skill is stark naught; that I hold no correspondence with the stars; that I am no more acquainted with the Great Bear than with the Great Mogul; that I gather no signs of the Times from the signs of the Zodiac; and, in brief, that I am _no conjuror_! My only familiar, they affirm, is a little, insignificant, diminutive thing, called _Common Sense_, whose aid any one may have if he chooses; that the said _Common Sense_ collects together certain things called _Past Events_, with which he compares _Present Appearances_, and they help him to _Future Probabilities_; they are then put into the crucible of _Ordinary Judgment_; and my sagacious and veracious prophecies and hieroglyphics are the result of this simple alchemy!

CANDID READER! Let thine own discretion decide, whether logical judgment or astro-logical fudgement be the art which influenceth my lucubrations.

* * * * *

INVITATION OF "THE SELECT"
To
Bartholomew Fair.

COME, buffers and duffers, and dashers and smashers,
Come, tag, rag, and bobtail, attend to my call;
Ye pickpockets, sally from court, lane, and alley,
The LORD MAYOR in person has open'd the ball.
Come, Billingsgate sinners, and cat and dog skinners,
And play up a game to make Decency stare:
A fig for propriety, sense, and sobriety!
They never were known at fam'd BARTLEMY FAIR.

Come, nightmen and dustmen, and rovers and drovers;
Come, Whitechapel butchers, and join in the throng!
With marrow-bones and cleavers, delight the coal-heavers,
While broken-nose Billy shall snuffle a song.
Ye lazy mechanics, who dearly love one day,
For wives and for children who never know care;
Who reckon Saint Monday more holy than Sunday,
Come and spend all your earnings at BARTLEMY FAIR.

Ye wives and ye widows! here's plenty of bidders;
Come hither, and each get a swain for herself;
To deck yourselves gaily, and grace the Old Bailey,
The pawnbrokers' shops will lend plenty of pelf.
Ye youth of the city! ye servant-maids pretty!
Ye unmarried damsels with characters rare!
Come here and be jolly, for virtue's a folly;
So, come and be ruin'd at BARTLEMY FAIR.

┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┐ │ MARCH. │ [1836.│ ├─────────────┬──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┤ │ │Some ready cash Dick wants to borrow │ │ │ About this time—perhaps for rent; │ │ │But like most folks, he finds with sorrow │ │ │ He's just too late—it's always _Lent_. │ ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤ │ M│ Season's │ =Odd Matters.= │ WEATHER. │ │ D│ Signs. │ │ │ ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤ │ 1│Blowing │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ 2│growing │ "DAY AND NIGHT EQUAL." │ although │ │ │ │ │ │ │ 3│here's a │ 'Tis SIX O'CLOCK;—and now the Sun │ ☊ ♅ ♌ ♑ │ │ │ │His daily course begins to run; │ │ │ 4│clatter! │While Folly's children slink away, │ somewhat │ │ │ │Like bats who dread the glare of day, │ │ │ 5│what the │From Masquerade or Fancy Ball, │ clumsy │ │ │ │Where pleasure reign'd in Fashion's Hall; │ │ │ 6│deuce │And sneak along, like guilty creatures, │ │ │ │ │With tir'd limbs and haggard features. │ │ │ 7│can be │ │ ♄ ☉ ♊ ♃ ☌ │ │ │ │ The sons of toil, as they come near 'em,│ │ │ 8│the │With coarse-spun jokes begin to jeer 'em; │ withal, │ │ │ │While, _au contraire_, each motley hero, │ │ │ 9│matter? │Whose wit is now far under zero, │ │ │ │ │With 'not a gibe to mock their grinning,' │ │ │10│tiles │Has but a sorry chance of winning. │ ♏ ♐ ♀ ♎ │ │ │ │ │ │ │11│and │ The Clown, with phiz so dull and sad, │ do fit me │ │ │ │Looks grave as Ghost of Hamlet's Dad; │ │ │12│chimney │And Falstaff, now he's lost his stuffing, │ with │ │ │ │Looks lean as lath, and pale as muffin; │ │ │13│pots │While Harlequin, half muzz'd with wine, │ marvellous │ │ │ │Don't care a rush for Columbine, │ │ │14│come │But leaves her, like a careless loon, │ accuracy: │ │ │ │To draggle home with Pantaloon; │ │ │15│down │And Romeo, with empty purse, │ │ │ │ │Abandons Juliet to her nurse. │ │ │16│and pay │ │ ♂ ♌ ♓ ♄ ♑ │ │ │ │ The child of labour, when he sees │ │ │17│their │Such silly spectacles as these,— │ for these │ │ │ │How dissipation is repented,— │ │ │18│duty │May with his station be contented; │ reasons, │ │ │ │For mete them both with equal measure, │ │ │19│to the │He'll find the hardest toil is pleasure. │ I say, │ │ │ │ │ │ │20│crown, │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │21│while │ │ ♓ ☊ │ │ │ │ │ │ │22│surly │ │it behoveth │ │ │ │ │ │ │23│north │ │ me to │ │ │ │ │ │ │24│usurps │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │25│the │ │ │ │ │ │ │ ♓ ♌ ♄ ☌ ☊ │ │26│south │ │ │ │ │ │ │ be tender │ │27│and │ │ │ │ │ │ │ of my │ │28│makes a │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │29│dusthole │ │ │ │ │ │ │ ☉ ☿ ♂ ☽ │ │30│of your │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │ │31│mouth │ │ ♂ ♊ ☿ ☽ │ └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘

MARCH.—"Day and Night nearly equal."
]

"THE LAY OF THE LAST" ALDERMAN.

I.

The feast was over on LORD MAYOR'S DAY;
The waiters had clear'd the viands away;
The Common Councilmen all were gone,
And every Alderman,—saving _one_;
Who to gorge and guzzle no longer able,
Had sunk to repose beneath the table,
And, sooth'd by his own melodious snore,
Lay calmly stretch'd on the Guildhall floor.

But he lay not long in the arms of sleep,
Ere a sound, that caus'd his flesh to creep,
Startled him up from his _downy_ bed,
And caus'd him to raise his aching head;
When oh, what a sight then met his eyes,
And chill'd his soul with sad surprise!
* * * * *
He bawl'd aloud when the scene was o'er,
Which awoke the porter, who open'd the door.
When a bottle of sherry had loosen'd his tongue,
'Twas thus the LATEST ALDERMAN sung:—

II.

I was rous'd from my sleep by a frightful crash,
As if all the crockery'd gone to smash;
And I straight beheld a terrible form,—
At the end of the hall it took its stand,
With a swingeing besom in its hand,
And shouted out "REFORM!"

III.

Then stalking to me, it thus did say,
"Gone is the glory of LORD MAYOR'S DAY!
Gone—gone, for ever!
To come back never.
The Corporation Reform Bill's past,
And ev'ry ward is _Cheap_;
The City of London they'll squeeze at last,
And scatter her golden heap.

IV.

"_Portsoken_ no more _Port_ shall _soke_,
For guzzling they'll a_Bridge_ it."
(I thought this quite beyond a joke,
And it put me in a fidget.)
"No 'fair round bellies with capon lin'd
Your Aldermen shall sport;
They may double the _Cape_, if they feel inclin'd,
But they never must touch at _Port_.

V.

"The Worshipful Court—so fate ordains—
Shall look like skeletons hanging _in chains_;
They'll need no gowns, for they'll get so thin,
They may wrap themselves round in their own loose skin;
And then in vain
Shall they complain,
Who cannot bear the shock;
_Champagne_ shall turn to _real pain_,
And _Turtle_ change to _mock_.
No calipash or calipee
Their longing eyes again shall see;
No more green fat!
To them shall _ven'son_ still be _deer_;
Their stout shall turn to thin small beer,
Sour and flat.

VI.

"No lamps shall blaze in this spacious hall,
But farthing rushlights, lank and small,
Some cook-shop's dining-room shall grace,
Where _Mister_ Mayor, with sword and mace,
And all the Corporation sinners,
By city contract clothed and fed,
Shall dine at eighteen pence a-head,
And feel quite grateful for their dinners.
While the armour-man, like a turtle starv'd.
Shall rattle his bones in his iron shell,
And no more shall feast on baron of beef,
But _stand_ content with the cook-shop smell!"

VII.

Thus having said his terrible say,
The horrible spectre stalk'd away,
And left me in the blues;
And as across the Hall he pass'd,
E'en Gog and Magog stood aghast,
And trembled in their shoes.

VIII.

Oh, dreadful night!
Oh, fearful sight!
To see that sight, and hear that say,
An Alderman's soul it may well dismay.
I felt as opprest
With a pain in my chest,
And as brimful of terror and ills,
As if I had eaten some venison old,
Or swallow'd a gallon of turtle cold,
Or been poison'd by Morison's Pills.