THE BARTHOLOMEW FAIR SHOW-FOLKS.
Punch having been chosen by the unanimous voice of the public—the arbiter elegantiarum in all matters relating to science, literature, and the fine arts—and from his long professional experience, being the only person in England competent to regulate the public amusements of the people, the Lord Mayor of London has confided to him the delicate and important duty of deciding upon the claims of the several individuals applying for licenses to open show-booths during the approaching Bartholomew Fair. Punch, having called to his assistance Sir Peter Laurie and Peter Borthwick, proceeded, on last Saturday, to hold his inquisition in a highly-respectable court in the neighbourhood of West Smithfield.
The first application was made on behalf of Richardson’s Booth, by two individuals named Melbourne and Russell.
PUNCH.—On what grounds do you claim?
MEL.—On those of long occupancy and respectability, my lord.
RUSS.—We employs none but the werry best of actors, my lud—all “bould speakers,” as my late wenerated manager, Muster Richardson, used to call ‘em.
MEL.—We have the best scenery and decorations, the most popular performances—
RUSS.—Hem! (aside to MEL.)—Best say nothing about our performances, Mel.
PUNCH.—Pray what situations do you respectively hold in the booth?
MEL.—I am principal manager, and do the heavy tragedy business. My friend, here, is the stage-manager and low comedy buffer, who takes the kicks, and blows the trumpet of the establishment.
PUNCH.—What is the nature of the entertainments you have been in the habit of producing?
RUSS.—Oh! the real legitimate drammar—“A New Way to Pay Old Debts,” “Raising the Wind,” “A Gentleman in Difficulties,” “Where shall I dine?” and “Honest Thieves.” We mean to commence the present season with “All in the wrong,” and “His Last Legs.”
PUNCH.—Humph! I am sorry to say I have received several complaints of the manner in which you have conducted the business of your establishment for several years. It appears you put forth bills promising wonders, while your performances have been of the lowest possible description.
RUSS.—S’elp me, Bob! there ain’t a word of truth in it. If there’s anything we takes pride on, ’tis our gentility.
PUNCH.—You have degraded the drama by the introduction of card-shufflers and thimble-rig impostors.
RUSS.—We denies the thimble-rigging in totum, my lud; that was brought out at Stanley’s opposition booth.
PUNCH.—At least you were a promoter of state conjuring and legerdemain tricks on the stage.
RUSS.—Only a little hanky-panky, my lud. The people likes it; they loves to be cheated before their faces. One, two, three—presto—begone. I’ll show your ludship as pretty a trick of putting a piece of money in your eye and taking it out of your elbow, as you ever beheld. Has your ludship got such a thing as a good shilling about you? ’Pon my honour, I’ll return it.
PUNCH.—Be more respectful, sir, and reply to my questions. It appears further, that several respectable persons have lost their honesty in your booth.
RUSS.—Very little of that ’ere commodity is ever brought into it, my lud.
PUNCH.—And, in short, that you and your colleagues’ hands have been frequently found in the pockets of your audience.
RUSS.—Only in a professional way, my lud—strictly professional.
PUNCH.—But the most serious charge of all is that, on a recent occasion, when the audience hissed your performances, you put out the lights, let in the swell-mob, and raised a cry of “No Corn Laws.”
RUSS.—Why, my lud, on that p’int I admit there was a slight row.
PUNCH.—Enough, sir. The court considers you have grossly misconducted yourself, and refuses to grant you license to perform.
MEL.—But, my lord, I protest I did nothing.
PUNCH.—So everybody says, sir. You are therefore unfit to have the management of (next to my own) the greatest theatre in the world. You may retire.
MEL. (to RUSS.)—Oh! Johnny, this is your work—with your confounded hanky-panky.
RUSS.—No—’twas you that did it; we have been ruined by your laziness. What is to become of us now?
MEL.—Alas! where shall we dine?
The next individual who presented himself, to obtain a license for the Carlton Club Equestrian Troop, was a strange-loooking character, who gave his name as Sibthorp.
PUNCH.—What are you, sir?
SIB.—Clown to the ring, my lord, and principal performer on the Salt-box. I provide my own paint and pipe-clay, make my own jokes, and laugh at them too. I do the ground and lofty tumbling, and ride the wonderful donkey—all for the small sum of fifteen bob a-week.
PUNCH.—You have been represented as a very noisy and turbulent fellow.
SIB.—Meek as a lamb, my lord, except when I’m on the saw-dust; there I acknowledge, I do crow pretty loudly—but that’s in the way of business,—and your lordship knows that we public jokers must pitch it strong sometimes to make our audience laugh, and bring the browns into the treasury. After all, my lord, I am not the rogue many people take me for,—more the other way, I can assure you, and
“Though to my share some human errors fall,
Look in my face, and you’ll forget them all.”
PUNCH.—A strong appeal, I must confess. You shall have your license.
The successful claimant having made his best bow to Commissioner Punch, withdrew, whistling the national air of
“BRITONS, STRIKE HOME.”
A fellow named Peel, who has been for many years in the habit of exhibiting as a quack-doctor, next applied for liberty to vend his nostrums at the fair. On being questioned as to his qualifications, he shook his head gravely, and, without uttering a word, placed the following card in the hands of Punch.