BESIDES these two repertories, the Merry Tales of Skelton contain a racy and diverting account of a trick played by the poet on a Kendal man, with whom he was riding from Oxford to London. They baited at Uxbridge, and while his companion was out of the room, Skelton took his cap, which he had left behind on the table, inserted some butter inside the lining, and put it back in its place. When the owner returned, he placed it on his head, of which the warmth soon had the anticipated effect. The butter ran down the fellow’s face and neck, and Skelton assured him that he had the sweating sickness. The Kendal man was in great terror of his life, and Skelton advised him to go to bed at once. A little hot water applied to the cap and its proprietor set matters right; the joke was explained and forgiven, and the two rode on to town the next morning. Such practical hoaxes were doubtless frequent enough; and the laureated parson of Diss was never, one is apt to apprehend, so thoroughly at home as when he had something of the kind in hand.
The modern works offer in a similar manner, and perhaps, on the whole, to a greater extent, authentic examples of local occurrences. There is the celebrated adventure of Sir Thomas More with the lunatic on the flat roof of his house at Chelsea, which runs somewhat parallel to one which the Duke of Wellington had with a crazy fellow at Apsley House:—
“When Sir Thomas More was one day on the flat-leaded roof of his house at Chelsea, a lunatic succeeded somehow in getting to him, and tried to throw him down, crying, ‘Leap, Tom, leap!’ The Chancellor was in his dressing-gown, and, besides, was too old a man to have any chance against the madman. Sir Thomas had a little dog with him. ‘Let’s throw him down first,’ said he, ‘and see what good fun that will be’; so the fellow took up the animal, and threw him down. ‘Now,’ said More, ‘run and fetch him back, and let us try again, for I think it is good sport.’ The madman went, and as soon as he had disappeared, More rose and secured the door.”
As representatives of the same class, belonging to different periods, the subjoined must serve:—
“A gentleman, who possessed a small estate in Gloucestershire, was allured to town by the promises of the Duke of Newcastle, who, for many months, kept him in constant attendance, until, the poor man’s patience being quite exhausted, he one morning called upon his patron, and told him that he had at length got a place. The Duke very cordially shook him by the hand, and congratulated him on his good fortune, telling him that in a few days a good thing would have been in his gift; ‘but pray, sir,’ added he, ‘where is your place?’ ‘In the Gloucester coach,’ replied he: ‘I secured it last night.’”
“Pennant, the antiquary, had an unaccountable antipathy to wigs. Dining at Chester with an officer who wore this covering for the head, when they had drunk pretty freely, after many wistful looks, Pennant started up, seized the caxon, and threw it into the fire. The wig was in a moment in flames, and so was the officer, who immediately drew his sword. Downstairs flies Pennant, and the officer after him, through all the streets of Chester; but the former escaped through superior local knowledge.”
“A quack-doctor, haranguing the populace at Hammersmith, said, ‘To this village I owe my birth and education; I dearly love it and its inhabitants, and will cheerfully give a present of a crown to every one who will accept it.’ The audience received this notice with infinite satisfaction. ‘Here, ladies and gentlemen,’ added he, putting his hand into a bag, and taking out a parcel of packets, ‘these inestimable medicines I usually sell for five and sixpence each, but in favour, of this, my native village, I will take sixpence apiece.’”
Where the profusion of illustrative matter is inexhaustible, a survey of a subject is bound to limit itself to suggestion and sample. But the remarks and indications which have been afforded, must testify at any rate to the residence in these vast stores, on which I have been drawing, of a utility and dignity in numerous cases beyond their value as mere temporary vehicles for distraction and mirth, and to their claim to a subsidiary place among historical and social monuments.
The localisation of interest in an adventure or incident does not seem at first to have struck those who laboured for the public entertainment as a commercial expedient deserving of study and trial. But as the volume of jocular and anecdotal literature swelled, and the competition for favour and novelty grew keener in proportion, the resort to new devices for imparting a relish and edge to old properties comprised the association of jests which had weathered numberless seasons, with some fresh person or neighbourhood. Hence arises the multitude of collections and headings identifying books of the present class or portions of their contents with particular places and particular individuals, such as the Cobbler of Canterbury, the Footpost of Dover, and the Gravesend Tilt-Boat, or, in the case of personality, the numerous entries in Pasquil’s Jests of stories of Merry Andrew of Manchester, Coomes of Stapforth, and so on, all of which are resuscitations of stale and bygone material.
The work which led the way and set the mode in this direction was perhaps The Merry Tales of the Mad Men of Gotham, by Andrew Borde. It was a dexterous and attractive method of substituting for the vague generalisations of anterior compilers “a local habitation and a name.” It fixed the geography of the event, and established its authenticity beyond dispute; for, as the phrase is in the narratives of early murders and other phenomena, any gentleman, who doubted the veracity of the writer, might go and inquire for himself on the spot.