Fat Ursula, who sold roasted pig, still lives in the pages of Rare Old Ben; and while his works exist, the memory of Bartholomew-fair will never be forgotten. Its old mummings, and masques, and mysteries, are numbered amongst the things that were. The merry din of ancient days will never resound again through the bars of Smithfield. The archers, who made it their great mustering-ground, have ages ago shot their last shaft. Death stept in and struck through the target, and they never again appeared. What visions of the past float before us while wandering around the old borders of Smithfield! What pictures have perished for ever that once glowed in all the colours of life upon that wide-spread canvass! Kings and heroes and martyrs; processions of solemn monks hymning along as they moved beneath the archway that leads to Bartholomew’s ancient church; and figures of brutal and bearded men, who fed the reddening fires—of shrieks and groans that pierced through the star-paved floors of heaven—and curses that went deep and hollow into the nethermost depths of dark perdition.
In the early morning have we traversed that solemn neighbourhood, when neither the stir of trade nor traffic disturbed the silence. And at such times the past has seemed again to open its silent doors, and the phantoms of the departed dead to glide before us. Battle and banner have again been displayed: pale and bleeding we have in fancy seen Wat Tyler fall, struck down by the arm of the powerful Mayor of London. Then came the shadow of the king, who had broken faith with the brave rebel, flying before his murderers. The Bastard of Burgundy and Earl Rivers next passed with their visors down, and paused on the spot where the lists were erected, when all London rushed into the open square to gaze upon the single combat they there fought. We saw pale faces upraised amid the flames, lips silent, yet moving with inward prayer. The ancient watch passed by half-buried in the smoke of the burning cressets. A dark funeral swept slowly along under the dusky archway, and was lost in the shadow of the old church. Then the morning sun fell upon a gay bridal party: they entered the low porch, and the door that opened into the gable-ended overhanging mansion was closed upon them for ever.
The high-piled City stands upon the dust of her millions of sons and daughters, who have ages ago sunk into the earth from whence they sprung. Even into the ancient church of Bartholomew itself we have now to descend as we enter—the remains of the forgotten dead have risen high above the antique floor; the youth and beauty of departed years are but a portion of the dark mould which rises around the hoary edifice.
“They loved, but whom they loved the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb;
Oh! they were fair, but nought could save
Their beauty from the tomb.”—J. Montgomery.
