This was addressed by an itinerant musician, in a shocking bad hat, with a garnish of old red cotton nightcaps, to his mendicant monkey, that he had perched upon Whittington's Stone for the purpose of taking him more conveniently to task.
The offender was of a grave aspect, with a remarkably knowing look. He was dressed en militaire, with an old-fashioned scarlet waistcoat embroidered with tinsel, of which he seemed monstrously vain. He listened with becoming seriousness to the musician's expostulation, slyly reserving in the corner of his jaw a nut that he deferred to crack till opportunity should offer. But at the threat of losing his red waistcoat, he gibbered, chattered, and by every species of pantomimical begging and bowing, promised future amendment.
Had not the mind of Uncle Timothy been too much occupied with recent events, he would have scraped acquaintance with monkey and man, who were evidently eccentrics, and Uncle Tim was a lover of eccentricity. The moment that the monkey spied a customer, he began his work of reformation, by jumping off the stone, running the full tether of his chain, making a graceful bow, and holding out his cap for a contribution. His politeness was rewarded with sixpence from Uncle Timothy, and an approving word from his master; and the middle-aged gentleman, serenaded by a passing grind from the barrel-organ, walked slowly on.
A caravansary of exhibitors bound to Bartholomew Fair had halted at Mother Red Cap's, * an ancient hostelrie at the foot of Highgate Hill. Although weary and parched with thirst, Uncle Timothy might probably have journeyed onward, had not the “beck'ning ghost” of jovial John.
* Mother Red Cap, doubtless an emanation from Elinour
Rumming, was a favourite sign during the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries, and the black Jack that she held in
her hand was a symbol of good ale. Two ancient hostelries
still bear her prepossessing effigy: one in the Hampstead
Road, near Kentish Town; and one at Holloway. It is said
that a remarkable shrew, Mother Damnable, of Kentish town,
(of whom the late Mr. Bindley had an unique engraving,) gave
rise to the former sign. This ill-favoured lady looks more
like a witch than an ale-wife. She would have frightened her
customers out of the house, and their horses out of the
stable! We are inclined to give the palm of priority to the
venerable red-capped mother at Holloway, who must have been
moderately notorious in the time of Drunken Barnaby, when he
halted to regale himself at her portal.
“Thence to Holloway, Mother Red-cap
In a troop of trulls I did hap;
Wh—s of Babylon me impalled,
And me their Adonis called;
With me toy'd they, buss'd me, cull'd me,
But being needy, out they pulled me.”
Backster, * flitting in the evening grey, motioned him, in imagination, to enter.
[Original]
He made his way to the low-roofed side parlour, where were assembled a troop of showmen and conjurors. One fellow was busily employed in shaving a baboon, ** which he intended to exhibit as a fairy; and another was rasping the rough chin of a muzzled bear, that bore the operation with exemplary patience, sitting in an arm-chair, dressed in a check waiscoat and trowsers, in his professional character of an Ethiopian savage!