THE FANCY FAIR.
“It beareth the name of Vanity Fair, because the town where it is kept is ‘lighter than vanity;’ and also because all that is there sold, or that cometh thither, is vanity.”—PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.
“I named this place Boothia.”—CAPTAIN ROSS.
“A FANCY Fair,” said my friend L., in his usual quaint style, “is a fair subject for fancy; take up your pen and try. For instance, there was one held at the Mansion House. Conceive a shambling shock-headed clodpole, familiar with the wakes of Bow, Barnet, and Bartlemy, elbowing his awkward way into the Egyptian Hall, his round eyes and mouth all-agape in the ludicrous expectation of seeing the Lord Mayor standing on his very Worshipful head, the Lady Mayoress lifting a hundred weight by her Right Honourable hair, the Sword-Bearer swallowing his blade of state, the Recorder conjuring ribands from his learned and eloquent mouth, and the Senior Alderman with a painted York-and-Lancaster-face, dancing a saraband à la Pierrot! Or fancy Jolterhead at the fair of the Surrey Zoological, forcing his clumsy destructive course through groups of female fashionables, like a hog in a tulip bed, with the equally laughable intention of inspecting long horns and short horns, prime beasts and lean stock, of handling the porkers and coughing the colts. Nay, imagine our bumpkin at the great Fancy Fair of all, blundering up to a stall kept by a Royal Duchess, and enquiring perseveringly for a gilt gingerbread King and Queen—a long-promised fairing to brother Bill at Leighton Buzzard!”
A ROUND OF BEEF.
Little did L. dream during this flourish of fancy, that his whimsical fiction had been forestalled by fact; and a deep shade of vexation passed over his features while he perused the following hints from Hants, as conveyed in a bonâ fide letter to the Editor of the Comic Annual.
HONNORD SUR,
Dont no if you Be a Hamshire man, or a man atacht to the fancy, but as Both such myself, have took the libberty to write about what is no joke. Of coarse allude to being Hoaxt up to Lonnon, to sea a fair no fair at all and About as much fancy as you mite fancy on the pint of a pin.—
Have follerd the Fancy, ever since cumming of Age, and bean to every Pugilistical fite, from the Gaim Chicking down to the fite last weak. Have bated Buls drawd Baggers, and Kild rats myself meening to say with my Hone Dogs. Ought to no wot Fancy his. Self prays is no re-comendation But have bean at every Fair Waik or Revvle in England. Ought to no then wot a Fare is.
Has for the Lonnon job—could Sea nothin like Fancy and nothing like fare. Only a Toy shop out of Town with a gals skool looking after it, without a Guvverness and all oglein like Winkin. Lots of the fare sects but no thimbel rig, no priking in the garter no nothing. Am blest if our hone little Fare down at Goos Grean don’t lick it all to Styx. Bulbeating, Baggerdrawing, Cuggleplaying, Rastlin, a Sopped pigtale, a Mane of Cox Jackasreacing jumpin in Sax, and a Grand Sire Peal of Trouble Bobs puld by the Collige youths by way of givin a Bell’s Life to the hole. Call that Fancy. Too wild Best Shoes, fore theaters besides a Horseplay a Dwarft a She Giant, a fat Child a prize ox five carriboo savidges, a lurned Pigg an Albany with wite Hares, a real See Murmad a Fir Eater and lots of Punshes and Juddis. Call that a Fare.
FAIR PLAY’S A JEW—
Now for Lonnon. No Sanderses—no Richardsens no wumwills menageris no backy boxis to shy for—no lucky Boxis. No poster makin no jugling or Dancing. Prest one yung laidy in ruge cheaks and trowsers verry civelly For a bit of a caper on the tite rop—But miss got on the hi rop, and call’d for a conestubble. Askt annother in a ridding habbit for the faver of a little horsemunship and got kicked out of her Booth. Goos Grean for my munny! Saw a yung laidy there that swallerd a Sord and wasn’t too Partickler to jump threw a hoop. Dutchesses look dull after that at a Fare. Verry dignified, but Prefer the Wax Wurk, as a Show. Dont sea anny think in Watch Pappers cut out by Countisses that have been born with all their harms and legs—not Miss Biffins.
FANCY FAIRINGS.
Must say one thing for Goos Grean. Never got my pockit pict xcept at Lonnon—am sorry to say lost my Reader and Ticker and every Dump I had let alone a single sovran. And lost the best part of that besides to a Yung Laidy that nevver gave change. Greenish enuf says you for my Tim of Day but I was gammund by the baggidge to bye five shillin Pin Cushins. Wish Charrity had stayd at Hoam! The ould Mare got a coald by waiting outside. And the five Charrity pincushins hadn’t bran enuf in their hole boddys to make her a Mash.
Am told the Hospittle don’t clear anny grate proffits after all is dun and Like enuff. A Fare should be a Fare and fokes at Room oght to do as Room does. Have a notion Peeressis that keep Booths wood take moor Munny if they wasn’t abuv having the dubble drums and speakin trumpets and gongs. There’s nothin like goin the hole Hog!
Shall be happy, sur, to sea You at Goos Green next Fare and pint out the Difference. Maybe in Flurtashun and Matchmacking and getting off Dorters along with the dolls we ar a littel cut out, but for Ginuen Fancy and Fun and Fair Play its a mear Green Goos to Goos Green.
Remain Sur,
Your humbel tu command,
JACOB GILES.
P.S. Think Vallintins day wood be a Good fixter for next Fancy Fare. Shan’t say why. Sniff sumthing of the kind going on amung our hone Gals—Polly as just begd a sak of bran and she dont keap rabits. Pincushins and nothin else. Tother day cum across a large Watchpokit and suspect Mrs. G is at the Bottom of it. No churnin butter, no packin egs, no setten Hens and crammin Turkis—All sniping ribbins folding papper sowin up satten and splitting hole trusses of straw. Am blest if its for litterin down Horsis. Dont no how its all to be got to markit at Lonnon, the nine Gals and all ’xcept its by a Pickfurd Van.
HUNGERFORD MARKET.