Merrie England in the olden Time: OR, PEREGRINATIONS WITH UNCLE TIM AND MR. BOSKY, OF LITTLE BRITAIN, DRYSALTER. BY GEORGE DANIEL. 'Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale?" -SHAKSPEARE. CHAPTER VIII. 'METHINKS, Benjamin,' said Uncle Timothy to the laureat of Little Britain, as they sat tête-à-tête at breakfast on the morning after the adventure of the old harper, -'methinks I have conceded quite enough by consenting to play Esquire Bedel to the Fubsys, Muffs, and Bumgartens. A couple of lean barn-door fowls and a loin-or, as Mrs. Bumgarten classically spells it, a lion of fat country pork at Christmas, even were I a more farinaceous feeder than I am, are hardly equivalent to my approaching purgatory. You bargained, among other sights for Westminster Abbey. Now, what possible charm can the Poet's Corner have for the Fubsy family, who detest poets and poetry quite as much as ever did the second George "boedry and bainding!" That was a terrible stumbling-block, but I yielded to your wishes. Then came the British Museum; and the two stuffed giraffes on the staircase, more than the arguments with which you crammed me, conquered my scruples. I will now take leave to have my own way. Your eloquence, persuasive though it be, shall never talk me into a blue coat and brass buttons. My mind, Benjamin Bosky, is made up.' A wise man changes his mind often, Uncle Timothy.' 'And a fool never! Well, let me be thought a fool rather than look like one. Did I not lose a dear friend, Benjamin, who was once to me-there is nobody present to overhear-what you are kind enough to say I have been to you? Have I ever doffed my mourning suit-my black coat?' ، 'I don't think you have,' replied the laureat ironically. You are as well known by that same everlasting black coat as was old St. Dunstan's by its clock; both exhibiting very striking figures! Though I deny the black. 'Tis hardly fresh enough to be called rusty. Depend upon it, Mrs. Bumgarten will' 'I know it, Benjamin. That full-blown hollyhock of the aristo. cracy of Mammon, who has a happy knack of picking a hole in everybody's coat, will not spare mine. Let her then, for economy's sake, pick a hole in an old coat rather than in a new one. Besides, among her numerous antipathies is a dressed up old fool; which, properly translated, means one who is very unlike a Fubsy, and very like a gentleman.' 'Am I to conclude, Uncle Timothy, that you decline granting me this particular favour?' 'In this "particular favour"-call it a pill, or rather, Benjamin Bosky, a bolus, you have ingeniously rolled up a dispensary of disagreeables.' 'The honour of our family is at stake,' urged the laureat. Re. spect, too, for Mrs. Bumgarten.' Uncle Timothy whistled Sic a wife as Willie had, I would na gie a button for her.' 'But suppose, Benjamin, I should be so insane-so lost to propriety-so stark, staring, ridiculously mad.' Here Uncle Timothy paused to see what effect his budget of suppositions had upon Mr. Bosky's nerves. But Mr. Bosky kept his nerves well strung and his countenance steady, and let Uncle Timothy go on supposing. Suppose I should all at once depart from the sober gravity that belongs to my years, and exhibit myself in a blue coat and brass buttons' Uncle Timothy again paused; but he might as well have whistled jigs to a milestone. The laureat continued immoveable and mute. 'Benjamin-Benjamin Bosky!" cried Uncle Timothy, nettled at his provoking imperturbability, 'if, out of a mistaken civility to your country cousins, and to rid myself of these annoying importunities, I should set at defiance the world's laughter, and invite the caricaturist to pillory me in the print-shops-a blue coat and brass buttons are not the journey-work of twenty minutes for by that time I must be equipped to start. And, to swaddle myself in a ready-made fit, too long at the top, and too short at the bottomlike the Irishman's blanket! No, Benjamin Bosky! For, though of figure I have nothing to boast-' here Uncle Timothy unconsciously (?) glanced at his comely person in a mirror-'I do not intend to qualify myself for a chair on the fifth of November!' Mr. Bosky still maintained a respectful silence, but his inward satisfaction was visible. Therefore, Benjamin, were I inclined to forego my scruples, and oblige you for this once'-as Uncle Timothy saw the apparent impossibility of obliging, he spoke more freely of his possible compliance-'the thing, you see, is absolutely impracticable.' Mr. Bosky looked anxiously at the clock, and Uncle Tim quite exulted that, while starting an insurmountable obstacle, he had smoothed the rough edge of the laureat's disappointment, and dex. terously-handsomely slipped out of a scrape. At this moment a gentle tap was heard at the door, and the oldfashioned housekeeper-a sort of animated dumb-waiter-brought in a blue bag for Uncle Timothy, with Mr. Rumfit's respects. Rumfit-Rumfit,' repeated the middle-aged gentleman: 'I have no knowledge of such a person.' Now among the many good gifts bestowed upon Uncle Timothy was an excellent memory. But his last transaction with his tailor had been of so distant a date, that his lapse in this respect may be excused. And Mr. Rumfit was Uncle Timothy's tailor. A carpet-bag is generally significant of its contents. Though now and then things not legitimately belonging to it, will creep into a carpet-bag. But in a blue bag there is more room for conjecture. A very equivocal thing is a blue bag. The first thing Uncle Timo. thy did, after reading the superscription thrice over, was to inquire of himself with whom he was at issue either in Chancery or common law, or who might possibly be at issue with him. "None-then none have I offended!"" And he untied the blue bag, dived his hand in for its contents, and the first thing he fished up was a bran new blue coat, with brilliant brass buttons. After turning the garment round and round, and examining it attentively, he laid it aside, dived again, and hooked a rich black satin waistcoat tastefully embroidered. The waistcoat underwent a similar scrutiny, and then took its station beside the blue coat. A third dive brought to the surface a claret-coloured pair of continuations of a very quiet and becoming cut, to which was pinned a respectful note from Mr. Rufus Rumfit of Red Lion Square, stating that the suit had been made exactly to measure, and hoping that it would meet with Uncle Timothy's approbation. 'Pray, Benjamin,' inquired the satirical-nosed gentleman, 'is this Rufus Rumfit at all given to drink? He talks of having taken my measure: he had surely taken more than his own when he hazarded such an assertion. Some would-be old beau-for the habiliments, I see, are of a mature fashion-is burning to disguise his person in this harlequin suit. My life on't, Mr. Rumfit will soon discover his mistake and be back again.' And Uncle Timothy began to tumble the blue coat, black satin waistcoat, and claret-coloured continuations into the blue bag with all speed. The clock strikes. I have no time to lose.' During this exhumation of Mr. Rumfit's handiwork, the laureat of Little Britain had been coaxing a favourite parrot, with whom he generally held converse at breakfast time, to talk: but the unusual sight of so much finery had completely absorbed Poll's attention, and he remained obstinately silent, leaving Mr. Bosky to tax his ingenuity how to prevent laughing outright in Uncle Timothy's face. But the affair admitting of no longer delay, he threw himself into a theatrical posture, and exclaimed, Thou wert not wont to be so dull, good Tyrrel.' In an instant the scales fell from the middle-aged gentleman's eyes, and he exclaimed seriously, and trying to look reproachfully, This, Benjamin, is another of your tomfooleries.' ، Mr. Bosky pleaded guilty; but urged, in mitigation, the occasion -the rusty old black, and the brilliant bright blue: concluding with a glowing panegyric on the tout ensemble, which he declared to be the masterpiece of Mr. Rumfit's thimble and shears. Uncle Timothy was in no humour to put himself out of one: and when, after a few minutes trying on the suit in his tiring-room, just to see-out of mere curiosity-if it did fit, he returned in full pontificalibus, a middle-aged Adonis! He seemed moderately reconciled to his new metamorphosis, and rang for the old-fashioned housekeeper. Norah Noclack was a woman of few words. On her entrance she started, stared amazedly, and uttered the interjection, 'Ah!' with the further additions of Well, I'm sure!' -That with a fool's cap and bells, a dark lantern, a pasteboard red nose, a chair, and half a score of ragged urchins to shout me an ovation, I should make an undeniable old Guy! Eh, Norah ?' The ancient housekeeper shook her antediluvian high-crowned cap and streamers in token of dissent, and Mr. Bosky was unutter. ably shocked at the impossible idea. • Well,' added Uncle Timothy, strutting to and fro with mock dignity, "Since I am crept in favour with myself, Here is sixpence: run, Norah, and buy me a bouquet.' The old-fashioned housekeeper gazed inquiringly, when Mr. Bosky interposed with a translation. Uncle Timothy means, Mrs. Norah, that you will purchase him sixpenny-worth of flowers to stick in his button-hole.' 'No hollyhocks, or dahlias,' said Uncle Timothy. Mr. Bosky suggested a sunflower. The satirical-nosed gentleman looked a trifle serious, and the laureat stood self-reproved. Norah Noclack soon returned with a fragrant modest little nosegay, consisting of a last rose of summer, a violet or two, and, what was peculiarly appropriate, heart's-ease. A contest had very nearly arisen about Doctor Johnson's walking. stick, or club, as Mr. Bosky irreverently called it, which was Uncle Timothy's constant companion. This valued relic had been accidentally mislaid, and as there was no time to look for it, a handsome black cane, with a gold top and silk tassel, occupied its place in the palm of Uncle Timothy. Mr. Bosky then dutifully tendered him a smart new beaver, intimating that the old one had that morning been converted into a nursery by his favourite pepper-and-salt puss. At this crowning specimen of the laureat's ingenuity, Uncle Timothy smiled graciously, and being now gaily equipped, prepared to sally forth in good earnest, when a knock of some pretension announced the immediate presence of Mr. Muff, the august brother-inlaw of Mrs. Bumgarten, and one of the pleasure-taking tormentors of Uncle Timothy. 'The Devil!' muttered the middle-aged gentleman. Now, 'the deuce,' 'the dickens,' 'rabbit it,' 'drabbit it,' ' boddi. kins,' or when anything intolerably queer excited him, 'od's-boddikins!' were the only expletives that escaped from the lips of Uncle Timothy. But 'the devil! Even Mr. Bosky looked momentarily aghast, and the old-fashioned housekeeper, shaking her head and shrugging up her shoulders, attributed the appalling words to the supernatural influence of the blue coat and brass buttons. 'Charmin' vether this is! Fine hautum mornin's these are!' grinned Mr. Muff (his tongue too big for his mouth, and his teeth too many for his tongue,) with a consequential, self-satisfied air, that seemed to say, 'Beat that if you can.' Uncle Timothy coolly remarked that the sun was just out; and Mr. Bosky that the post was just in. 'Ven I began to dress me the vind was nor'-nor'-east; but it soon changed to sow-sow-west,' was the next profound remark volunteered by Mr. Muff. 'Then,' said the laureat, 'you and the wind shifted at much about the same time.' The Muffs, Fubsys, and Bumgartens, could not understand a joke, which they always took the wrong way. The intelligent mastermason, nothing moved, inquired, 'Anythink new in Little Britain ?' 'The barber's freshly painted pole* over the way,' replied Mr. Bosky. 'Or in Great Britain?' continued Mr. Muff. The brother-in-law of Mrs. Bumgarten was at a dead lock; but he soon rallied with, 'How's the generality of thinks in general?' It was now Uncle Timothy's and Mr. Bosky's turn to be posed! But the interrogator relieved them by suddenly recollecting the object of his important mission--' I'm come, Mister Timviddy' 'If, sir, you mean to address me,' said the satirical-nosed gentleman, 'my name is not Timwiddy, but---' 'Timpkins,' interrupted Mr. Muff. 'Anything you please,' rejoined Uncle Timothy, with the most contemptuous acquiescence. Call me Alexander, Wat Tyler, Abelard, Joe Grimaldi, Scipio Africanus, Martin Van Butchell. 'Ve vont quarrel about Christun names, Mister Timtiffin. Plain Timvig vill do for me. The Muffs and all that's a-skin to 'em is not over-purtickler about names.' Here the poll parrot, that had been listening to and scrutinizing the intruder from head to foot, struck up the old song, son. 'Don't you know the mufsin man ? 'A comical, odd sort of a bird that is!' remarked the master-ma'I'm come, I say, Mister Timvhim, to fetch you to Mrs. Bumgarten; for she says it's werry mystified, but you gay-looking, dandyfied, middle-aged gentlemen, (Mrs. Bumgarten hates gay-looking, dandyfied, middle-aged gentlemen,) are awful loiterers by the vay. Yon can't see a smart bonnet or a pretty turn'd ankle, but you old galliant gay Lotharios must stop and look after 'm; and that, she says, is werry low-and the Muffs, Fubsys, and Bumgartens hates vhat's low.' Uncle Timothy made a very low bow. 'Mrs. Bumgarten says she vont go to the Museum: she could • The barber's pole, one of the popular relics of Merrie England, is still to be seen in some of the old streets of London and in country-towns, painted with its red, blue, and yellow stripes, and surmounted with a gilt acorn. The lute and violin were formerly among the furniture of a barber's shop. He who waited to be trimmed, if of a musical turn, played to the company. The barber himself was a nimble.tongued, pleasant-witted fellow. William Rowley, the dramatist, in 'A Search for Money, 1609, thus describes him. As wee were but asking the question, steps me from over the way (overlistning us) a news-searcher, viz. a barbar: he, hoping to attaine some discourse for his next patient, left his banner of basons swinging in the ayre, and closely eave-drops our conference, The saucie treble-tongued knave would irsert some-what of his knowledge: (treble.tongued I call him, and thus I prove 't: hee has a reasonable mother tongue, his barbar-surgions tongue; and a tongue betweene two of his fingers, and from thence proceeds his wit, and 'tis a snapping wit too.) Well, sir, he (before he was askt the question,) told us that the wandring knight (Monsieur L'Argent) sure was not farre off'; for on Saterday-night he was faine to watch till morning to trim some of his followers, and its morning they went away from him betimes. Hee swore hee never clos'd his eyes till he came to church, and then he slept all sermon-time; but certainly hee is not farre afore, and at yonder taverne (showing us the bush) I doe imagine he has tane a chamber.' In ancient times the barber and the tailor, as news-mongers, divided the crown. The barber not only erected his pole as a sign, but hung his basins upon it by way of ornament. |