On the rarity of this Catnachian and piratical edition of “Life in London” it is superfluous to enlarge, and it is easy to account for this circumstance, if we reflect that the broadside form of publication is by no means calculated for preservation; hundreds of similar pieces printed at the “Catnach Press” and at other offices publishing for street-sale must have perished. The more generally acceptable a broadside or street-ballad became, and was handed about for perusal, the more it was exposed to the danger of destruction. No copy of Catnach’s version is preserved in the British Museum, therefore, and for reason above stated, it must be considered as a great “Literary Curiosity.”[38]
Old Stage Waggon.
As we have before observed, “Life in London” was dedicated by permission to George IV., and it is a circumstance in itself which looks singular enough in this Victorian age, that royalty should have condescended to have had such a work dedicated to it. One paragraph, which we are about to quote, strikes us as being a very peculiar and free-and-easy style for an author to address himself to a King of England. It is as follows:—
“Indeed, the whole chapter of ‘Life in London’ has been so repeatedly perused by your Majesty in such a variety of shapes—from the elegant A, the refined B, the polite C, the lively D, the eloquent E, the honest F, the stately G, the peep-o’-day H, the tasteful I, the manly J, the good K, the noble L, the stylish M, the brave N, the liberal O, the proud P, the long-headed Q, the animated R, the witty S, the flash T, the knowing U, the honourable V, the consummate W, the funny X, the musical Y, and the poetical Z,—that it would only be a waste of your Majesty’s valuable time to expatiate further upon this subject.”
One notable effect of “Life in London,” particularly in its dramatised form, must be recorded. It broke the heart of poor Billy Waters, the one-legged musical negro, who died in St. Giles’s workhouse, on Friday, March 21, 1823, whispering with his ebbing breath, a mild anathema, which sounded very much like: “Cuss him, dam Tom—meē—Tom—meē Jerry!”
Poor Billy endeavoured, up to the period of his last illness, to obtain for a wife and two children what he termed, “An honest living by scraping de cat-gut!” by which he originally collected considerable sums of money at the West-end of the town, where his ribbon-decked cocked hat and feathers, with the grin on his countenance, and sudden turn and kick out of his wooden limb, and other antics and efforts to please, excited much mirth and attention, and were well rewarded from the pockets of John Bull. The burden of Billy’s ditty “from morn to dewy eve,” and from January to December, was:—
Polly will you marry me—Polly don’t you cry,
Polly will you marry me—Polly don’t you cry:—
Cry—cry—cry!
