The Every-day Book and Table Book. v. 3 (of 3) Everlasting Calerdar of Popular Amusements, Sports, Pastimes, Ceremonies, Manners, Customs and Events, Incident to Each of the Three Hundred and Sixty-five Days, in past and Present Times; Forming a Complete History of the Year, Month, and Seasons, and a Perpetual Key to the Almanac (part 3 of 8)

The Every-day Book and Table Book. v. 3 (of 3) Everlasting Calerdar of Popular Amusements, Sports, Pastimes, Ceremonies, Manners, Customs and Events, Incident to Each of the Three Hundred and Sixty-five Days, in past and Present Times; Forming a Complete History of the Year, Month, and Seasons, and a Perpetual Key to the Almanac (part 3 of 8)

One December evening, the year before last, returning to T--, in the northern extremity of W--, in a drisling rain, as I approached the second milestone, I observed two men, an elder and a younger, walking side by side in the horse-road. The elder, whose appearance indicated that of a labourer in very comfortable circumstances, was in the path directly in front of my horse, and seemed to have some intention of stopping me; on my advancing, however, he quietly withdrew from the middle of the road to the side of it, but kept his eyes firmly fixed on me, which caused also, on my part, a particular attention to him. He then accosted me, “Sir, I beg your pardon.”--“For what, my man?”--“For speaking to you, sir.”--“What have you said, then?”--“I want to know the way to S--.”--“Pass on beyond those trees, and you will see the spire before you.”--“How far is it off, sir?”--“Less than two miles.”--“Do you know it, sir?”--“I was there twenty minutes ago.”--“Do you know the gentleman there, sir, that wants a man to go under ground for him?”--“For what purpose?” (imagining, from the direction in which I met the man, that he came from the mining districts of S--, I expected that his object was to explore the neighbourhood for coals.) His answer immediately turned the whole train of my ideas. “To go under ground for him, to take off the bloody hand from his carriage.”--“And what is that to be done for?”--“For a thousand pounds, sir. Have you not heard any thing of it, sir?”--“Not a word.”--“Well, sir, I was told that the gentleman lives here, at S--, at the hall, and that he offers a thousand pounds to any man that will take off the bloody hand from his carriage.”--“I can assure you this is the first word I have heard on the subject.”--“Well, sir, I have been told so;” and then, taking off his hat, he wished me a good morning.

I rode slowly on, but very suddenly heard a loud call, “Stop, sir, stop!” I turned my horse, and saw the man, who had, I imagined, held a short parley with his companion, just leaving him, and running towards me, and calling out, “Stop, sir.” Not quite knowing what to make of this extraordinary accost and vehement call, I changed a stout stick in my left hand to my right hand, elevated it, gathered up the reins in my left, and trotted my horse towards him; he then walked to the side of the road, and took off his hat, and said, “Sir, I am told that if the gentleman can get a man to go under ground for him, for seven years, and never see the light, and let his nails, and his hair, and his beard grow all that time, that the king will then take off the bloody hand from his carriage.”--“Which then is the man who offers to do this? is it you, or your companion?”--“I am the man, sir.”--“O, you intend to undertake to do this?”--“Yes, sir.”--“Then all that I can say is, that I now hear the first word of it from yourself.” At this time the rain had considerably increased, I therefore wished the man a good morning, and left him.

I had not, however, rode above a hundred and fifty yards before an idea struck me, that it would be an act of kindness to advise the poor man to go no further on such a strange pursuit; but, though I galloped after them on the way I had originally directed them, and in a few minutes saw two persons, who must have met them, had they continued their route to S--, I could neither hear any thing of them, nor see them, in any situation which I could imagine that they might have taken to as a shelter from the heavy rain. I thus lost an opportunity of endeavouring to gain, from the greatest depths of ignorance, many points of inquiry I had arranged in my own mind, in order to obtain a developement of the extraordinary idea and unfounded offer, on which the poor fellow appeared to have so strongly set his mind.

On further inquiry into the origin of this strange notion of the bloody hand in heraldry, and why the badge of honour next to nobility, and perpetuated from the ancient kings of Ulster, should fall, in two centuries, into indelible disgrace, I find myself in darkness equal to that of the anticipated cavern of the poor deluded man, and hitherto without an aid superior to himself. Under these circumstances, present the inquiry to you, and shall be among many others, greatly gratified to see it set in a clear light by yourself, or some friendly correspondent.

I am, sir,

1827.

-- --.

* * * * *

~Music.~

ORGANS IN CHURCHES.

THE TEMPLE CHURCH.

After the Restoration, the number of workmen in England being found too few to answer the demand for organs, it was thought expedient to make offers of encouragement for foreigners to come and settle here; these brought over Mr. Bernard Schmidt and ---- Harris; the former, for his excellence in his art, deserves to live in the remembrance of all who are friends to it.

Bernard Schmidt, or, as we pronounce the name, Smith, was a native of Germany, but of what city or province in particular is not known. He brought with him two nephews, the one named Gerard, the other Bernard; to distinguish him from these, the elder had the appellation of father Smith. Immediately upon their arrival, Smith was employed to build an organ for the royal chapel at Whitehall, but, as it was built in great haste, it did not answer the expectations of those who were judges of his abilities. He had been but a few months here before Harris arrived from France, with his son Renatus, who had been brought up in the business of organ-making under him; they met with little encouragement, for Dallans and Smith had all the business of the kingdom: but, upon the decease of Dallans in 1672, a competition arose between these two foreigners, which was attended with some remarkable circumstances. The elder Harris was in no degree a match for Smith, but his son Renatus was a young man of ingenuity and perseverance, and the contest between Smith and the younger Harris was carried on with great spirit. Each had his friends and supporters, and the point of preference between them was hardly determined by that exquisite piece of workmanship by Smith, the organ now standing in the Temple church; of the building whereof, the following is the history.

On the decease of Dallans and the elder Harris, Renatus Harris and father Smith became great rivals in their employment, and there were several trials of skill betwixt them; but the famous contest was at the Temple church, where a new organ was going to be erected towards the latter end of king Charles II.’s time. Both made friends for that employment; and as the society could not agree about who should be the man, the master of the Temple and the benchers proposed that each should set up an organ on each side of the church. In about half or three quarters of a year this was done: Dr. Blow, and Purcell, who was then in his prime, showed and played father Smith’s organ on appointed days to a numerous audience; and, till the other was heard, everybody believed that father Smith would certainly carry it.

Harris brought Lully, organist to queen Catharine, a very eminent master, to touch his organ. This rendered Harris’s organ popular, and the organs continued to vie with one another near a twelvemonth.

Harris then challenged father Smith to make additional stops against a set time; these were the vox humane, the cremona or violin-stop, the double courtel or bass flute, with some others.

These stops, as being newly invented, gave great delight and satisfaction to a numerous audience; and were so well imitated on both sides, that it was hard to adjudge the advantage to either: at last it was left to the lord chief justice Jeffries, who was of that house; and he put an end to the controversy by pitching upon father Smith’s organ; and Harris’s organ being taken away without loss of reputation, Smith’s remains to this day.

Now began the setting up of organs in the chiefest parishes of the city of London, where, for the most part, Harris had the advantage of father Smith, making two perhaps to his one; among them some are very eminent, viz. the organ at St. Bride’s, St. Lawrence near Guildhall, St. Mary Axe, &c.

Notwithstanding Harris’s success, Smith was considered an able and ingenious workman; and, in consequence of this character, he was employed to build an organ for the cathedral of St. Paul. The organs made by him, though in respect of the workmanship they are inferior to those of Harris, and even of Dallans, are yet justly admired; and, for the fineness of their tone, have never yet been equalled.

Harris’s organ, rejected from the Temple by judge Jeffries, was afterwards purchased for the cathedral of Christ-church, at Dublin, and set up there. Towards the close of George II.’s reign, Mr. Byfield was sent for from England to repair it, which he objected to, and prevailed on the chapter to have a new one made by himself, he allowing for the old one in exchange. When he had got it, he would have treated with the parishioners of Lynn, in Norfolk, for the sale of it: but they, disdaining the offer of a second-hand instrument, refused to purchase it, and employed Snetzler to build them a new one, for which they paid him seven hundred pounds. Byfield dying, his widow sold Harris’s organ to the parish of Wolverhampton for five hundred pounds, and there it remains to this day. An eminent master, who was requested by the churchwardens of Wolverhampton to give his opinion of this instrument, declared it to be the best modern organ he had ever touched.[71]

[71] Hawkins.

* * * * *

MISERIES OF TRAVELLING.

STEAM versus COACH.

For the Table Book.

“Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits, Leavening his blood as Cayenne doth a curry, As going at full speed----”

Don Juan, c. 10. v. 72.

If the number of persons who have been killed, maimed, and disfigured for life, in consequence of stage-coach mishaps, could be ascertained, since the first establishment of steam-packets in this country, and, on the other hand, the number who have been similarly unfortunate by steam-boilers bursting, we should find that the stage-coach proportion would be in the ratio of ten to one! A solitary “blow up” of a steam-packet is “noised and proclaimed” from the Land’s End to the other extremity of the island; while hundreds of coach-accidents, and many of them fatal, occur, which are never heard of beyond the village, near to which the casualty takes place, or the neighbouring ale-house. These affairs it is to the interest of the proprietors to “hush up,” by means of a gratuity to the injured, rather than have their property ruined by an exposure in a court of justice. Should a poor man have a leg or an arm broken, through the carelessness of a drunken coachman, his poverty prevents his having recourse to law. Justice, in these cases, nine times in ten, is entirely out of the question, and an arrangement, between him and the proprietors, is easily effected; the unfortunate fellow rather receiving fifty or a hundred pounds “hush money,” than bring his action, when, perhaps, from some technical informality in the proceedings, (should he find a lawyer willing to act for him, being poor,) he would be nonsuited, with all the costs of both parties on his own shoulders, and be, moreover, ruined for ever, in both purse and person. These remarks were suggested by reading an American work, some time since, on the above subject, from which I have extracted the following

Stage-coach Adventures.

INSIDE.--Crammed full of passengers--three fat, fusty, old men--a young mother and sick child--a cross old maid--a poll-parrot--a bag of red herrings--double-barreled gun, (which you are afraid is loaded)--and a snarling lap-dog, in addition to yourself--awaking out of a sound nap, with the cramp in one leg, and the other in a lady’s band-box--pay the damage (four or five shillings) for “gallantry’s sake”--getting out in the dark, at the half-way-house, in the hurry stepping into the return coach, and finding yourself the next morning at the very spot you had started from the evening before--not a breath of air--asthmatic old man, and child with the measles--windows closed in consequence--unpleasant smell--shoes filled with warm water--look up and find it’s the child--obliged to bear it--no appeal--shut your eyes, and scold the dog--pretend sleep, and pinch the child--mistake--pinch the dog, and get bit--execrate the child in return--black looks--“no gentleman”--pay the coachman, and drop a piece of gold in the straw--not to be found--fell through a crevice--coachman says, “he’ll find it”--can’t--get out yourself--gone--picked up by the ’ostler.--No time for “blowing up”--coach off for next stage--lose your money--get in--lose your seat--stuck in the middle--get laughed at--lose your temper--turn sulky, and turned over in a horse-pond.

OUTSIDE.--Your eye cut out by the lash of a clumsy coachman’s whip--hat blown off, into a pond, by a sudden gust of wind--seated between two apprehended murderers, and a noted sheep-stealer in irons, who are being conveyed to gaol--a drunken fellow, half asleep, falls off the coach, and, in attempting to save himself, drags you along with him into the mud--musical guard, and driver, “horn mad”--turned over--one leg under a bale of cotton, the other under the coach--hands in breeches pockets--head in a hamper of wine--lots of broken bottles versus broken heads--cut and run--send for surgeon--wounds dressed--lotion and lint, four dollars--take post-chaise--get home--lay down, and laid up.

INSIDE AND OUTSIDE.--Drunken coachman--horse sprawling--wheel off--pole breaking, down hill--axle-tree splitting--coach overturning--winter, and buried in the snow--one eye poked out with an umbrella, the other cut open by the broken window--reins breaking--impudent guard--hurried at meals--imposition of innkeepers--five minutes and a half to swallow three and sixpennyworth of vile meat--waiter a rogue--“Like master, like man”--half a bellyfull, and frozen to death--internal grumblings and outward complaints--no redress--walk forward while the horses are changing--take the wrong turning--lose yourself and lose the coach--good-by to portmanteau--curse your ill luck--wander about in the dark and find the inn at last--get upon the next coach going the same road--stop at the next inn--brandy and water, hot, to keep you in spirits--warm fire--pleasant company--heard the guard cry “All right?”--run out, just in time to sing out “I’m left,” as the coach turns the corner--after it “full tear”--come up with it, at the end of a mile--get up “all in a blowze”--catch cold--sore throat--inflammation--doctor--warm bath--fever--DIE.

GASPARD.

* * * * *

THE UGLY CLUB.

From a New York Paper.

The members of the UGLY CLUB are requested to attend a special meeting at UGLY-HALL, 4, Wall street, on Monday-evening next, at half-past seven o’clock precisely, to take into consideration the propriety of offering to the committee of defence the services of their ugly carcasses, firm hearts, sturdy bodies, and unblistered hands.--HIS UGLINESS being absent, this meeting is called by order of

HIS HOMELINESS.

Aug. 13.

* * * * *

~Antiquities.~

SCIPIO’S SHIELD.

In 1656, a fisherman on the banks of the Rhone, in the neighbourhood of Avignon, was considerably obstructed in his work by some heavy body, which he feared would injure the net; but by proceeding slowly and cautiously, he drew it ashore untorn, and found that it contained a round substance, in the shape of a large plate or dish, thickly encrusted with a coat of hardened mud; the dark colour of the metal beneath induced him to consider it as iron. A silversmith, accidentally present, encouraged the mistake, and, after a few affected difficulties and demurs, bought it for a trifling sum, immediately carried it home, and, after carefully cleaning and polishing his purchase, it proved to be of pure silver, perfectly round, more than two feet in diameter, and weighing upwards of twenty pounds. Fearing that so massy and valuable a piece of plate, offered for sale at one time and at one place, might produce suspicion and inquiry, he immediately, without waiting to examine its beauties, divided it into four equal parts, each of which he disposed of, at different and distant places.

One of the pieces had been sold, at Lyons, to Mr. Mey, a wealthy merchant of that city, and a well-educated man, who directly saw its value, and after great pains and expense, procured the other three fragments, had them nicely rejoined, and the treasure was finally placed in the cabinet of the king of France.

This relic of antiquity, no less remarkable for the beauty of its workmanship, than for having been buried at the bottom of the Rhone more than two thousand years, was a votive shield, presented to Scipio, as a monument of gratitude and affection, by the inhabitants of Carthago Nova, now the city of Carthagena, for his generosity and self-denial, in delivering one of his captives, a beautiful virgin, to her original lover. This act, so honourable to the Roman general, who was then in the prime vigour of manhood, is represented on the shield, and an engraving from it may be seen in the curious and valuable work of Mr. Spon.

* * * * *

The story of “Scipio’s chastity,” which this shield commemorates, is related by Livy to the following effect.--The wife of the conquered king, falling at the general’s feet, earnestly entreated that the female captives might be protected from injury and insult.--Scipio assured her, that she should have no reason to complain.

“For my own part,” replied the queen, “my age and infirmities almost ensure me against dishonour, but when I consider the age and complexion of my fellow captives, (pointing to a crowd of females,) I feel considerable uneasiness.”

“Such crimes,” replied Scipio, “are neither perpetrated nor permitted by the Roman people; but if it were not so, the anxiety you discover, under your present calamities, to preserve their chastity, would be a sufficient protection:” he then gave the necessary orders.

The soldiers soon after brought him, what they considered as a rich prize, a virgin of distinction, young, and of such extraordinary beauty, as to attract the notice and admiration of all who beheld her. Scipio found that she had been betrothed, in happier days, to Allucius, a young Spanish prince, who was himself a captive. Without a moment’s delay, the conqueror sent for her parents and lover, and addressed the latter in the following words:

“The maid to whom thou wert shortly to have been married has been taken prisoner: from the soldiers who brought her to me, I understand that thy affections are fixed upon her, and indeed her beauty confirms the report. She is worthy of thy love; nor would I hesitate, but for the stern laws of duty and honour, to offer her my hand and heart. I return her to thee, not only inviolate, but untouched, and almost unseen; for I scarcely ventured to gaze on such perfection; accept her as a gift worthy receiving. The only condition, the only return I ask, is, that thou wilt be a friend to the Roman people.”

The young prince in a transport of delight, and scarcely able to believe what he saw and heard, pressed the hand of Scipio to his heart, and implored ten thousand blessings on his head. The parents of the happy bridegroom had brought a large sum of money, as the price of her redemption; Scipio ordered it to be placed on the ground, and telling Allucius that he insisted on his accepting it as a nuptial gift directed it to be carried to his tent.

The happy pair returned home, repeating the praises of Scipio to every one, calling him a godlike youth, as matchless in the success of his arms, as he was unrivalled in the beneficent use he made of his victories.

Though the story is known to most readers, its relation, in connection with the discovery of the valuable present from the conquered city to its illustrious victor, seemed almost indispensable, and perhaps the incident can scarcely be too familiar.

It is presumed that this article, from its peculiar curiosity, will be welcomed by every lover and preserver of antiquities.

To the Editor.

Sir,--The remarkable vessel from which this drawing is taken, was discovered a few days since, by a labourer employed in sinking one of the coffer-dams for the new London bridge, embedded in clay, at a depth of about thirty feet from the bed of the river. It is of bronze, not cast, but sculptured, and is in so perfect a state, that the edges of the different parts are as sharp as if the chisel had done its office but yesterday. The only portion which has suffered decay is the pin that attached the lid to the other part, which crumbled away as soon as exposed to the air.

At first, it was conjectured that this vessel was used for a lamp; but the idea was soon abandoned, as there was no part calculated to receive the wick; and the space to contain the oil was so small that it would not have admitted of more oil than was sufficient for one hour’s consumption, or two, at farthest.

One of the members of the Antiquarian Society has given it as his opinion, that it was used for sacrificial purposes, and intended to receive wine, which, after being put in, was to be poured out through the mouth, the under jaw being evidently protruded to an unnatural distance on this account.

The upper part of the head forms the lid, which the horns serve as a handle to raise; the bottom of the neck is flat, so that it may stand securely.

That it represents a head of Bacchus will be evident, at first glance, as it is encircled with a torse of ivy; but the features being those of a Nubian, or Carthaginian, prove that it must have an older date than that of the Romans, who borrowed their first ideas of Bacchic worship from the Egyptians. Perhaps it might have been part of their spoils from Carthage itself, and have been highly valued on that account. Certain however it is, that this curiosity (destined for the British Museum) must have laid below the bosom of father Thames for many centuries; but how it came there, and at such a depth in the clay, we can only guess at; and till Jonathan Oldbuck, alias Monkbarns, rise from the dead to set us right, it is to be feared that there will be left nothing but conjecture respecting it.

There is some account, but not very well supported, of the course of the Thames having once been diverted; should this however be true, it is possible that the head, of which we are now speaking, might have been dropped on the then dry bottom; the bed of the river must, in that case, have been afterwards considerably raised.

I remain, yours, respectfully,

M. BLACKMORE.

Wandsworth, Feb. 9, 1827.

P. S. The Romans always represent their satyrs with Roman noses, and I believe that Bacchus alone is crowned with ivy; the fauns and the rest being crowned with vine leaves.

* * * * *

It would be easy to compose a dissertation respecting Bacchus, which would be highly interesting, and yet throw little light on this very remarkable vessel. The relation of any thing tending to elucidate its probable age or uses will be particularly esteemed.

In addition to the favour of Mr. Blackmore’s letter and drawing, he obligingly obtained the vessel itself, which being placed in the hands of Mr. S. Williams, he executed the present engravings of the exact size of the original: it is, as Mr. Blackmore has already mentioned, in the finest possible preservation.

Probably the insertion of this remarkable relique of antiquity, turned up from the soil of our metropolitan river, may induce communications to the Table Book of similar discoveries when they take place. At no time were ancient remains more regarded: and illustrations of old manners and customs, of all kinds, are here especially acceptable.

* * * * *

JACK O’ LENT.

This was a puppet, formerly thrown at, in our own country, during Lent, like Shrove-cocks. Thus, in “The Weakest goes to the Wall,” 1600, we read of “a mere anatomy, a Jack of Lent;” and in Greene’s “Tu quoque,” of “a boy that is throwing at his Jack o’ Lent;” and again, in the comedy of “Lady Alimony,” 1659:

---------“Throwing cudgels At Jack a Lents or Shrove-cocks.”

Also, in Ben Jonson’s “Tale of a Tub:”

--------“On an Ash-Wednesday, When thou didst stand six weeks the Jack o’ Lent, For boys to hurl three throws a penny at thee.”

So, likewise, in Beaumont and Fletcher’s “Tamer tamed:”

-------“If I forfeit, Make me a Jack o’ Lent, and break my shins For untagg’d points and counters.”

Further, in Quarles’ “Shepheard’s Oracles,” 1646, we read:

“How like a Jack a Lent He stands, for boys to spend their Shrove-tide throws, Or like a puppet made to frighten crows.”[72]

From the “Jack o’ Lent,” we derive the familiar term among children, “Jack o’ Lanthorn.”

[72] Brand’s Popular Antiquities.

* * * * *

~Shrove Tuesday~

AND

~Ash Wednesday.~

The copious particulars respecting these festivals, which have been brought together in another place,[73] admit of some addition.

In France and other parts of the continent, the season preceding Lent is universal carnival. At Marseilles, the Thursday before Lent is called le Jeudi gras, and Shrove Tuesday le Mardi gras. Every body joins in masquerading on these nights, and both streets and houses are full of masks the whole night long. The god of fritters, if such a god there be, who is worshipped in England only on Shrove Tuesday, is worshipped in France on both the Thursday and Tuesday. Parties meet at each other’s houses to a supper of fritters, and then set off masquerading, which they keep up to a very late hour in the morning.

On Ash-Wednesday, which has here much more the appearance of a festival than of a fast, there is a ceremony called “interring the carnival.” A whimsical figure is dressed up to represent the carnival, which is carried in the afternoon in procession to Arrens, a small village on the sea-shore, about a mile out of the town, where it is pulled to pieces. This ceremony is attended in some way or other by every inhabitant of Marseilles, whether gentle or simple, man or woman, boy or girl. The very genteel company are in carriages, which parade backwards and forwards upon the road between the town and the village, for two or three hours, like the Sunday processions in Hyde-park. Of the rest of the company, some make parties to dine at Arrens, or at the public-houses on the road; others make water parties; but the majority only go and walk about, or sit upon the rocks to see and be seen. It was one of the most delightful evenings imaginable; the air was inexpressibly mild; the road where the carriages parade is about half way up the rocks, and this long string of carriages constantly moving, the rocks filled with thousands and thousands of spectators, and the tranquil sea gilded by the setting sun, and strewed over with numberless little barks, formed altogether one of the most beautiful and picturesque scenes that could be presented. We sat down on a little detached piece of rock almost encircled by the sea, that we might have full enjoyment of it, and there remained till some time after the glorious sun had disappeared for the night, when we walked home by a lovely bright moonlight, in a milder evening, though in the month of February, than we often find in England at Midsummer.[74]

* * * * *

Naogeorgus, in the “Popish Kingdome,” mentions some burlesque scenes practised formerly on Ash Wednesday. People went about in mid-day with lanterns in their hands, looking after the feast days which they had lost on this the first day of the Lent fast. Some carried herrings on a pole, crying “Herrings, herrings, stinking herrings! no more puddings!”

And hereto joyne they foolish playes, and doltish doggrel rimes, And what beside they can invent, belonging to the times.

Others, at the head of a procession, carried a fellow upon staves, or “stangs,” to some near pond or running stream, and there plunged him in, to wash away what of feasting-time might be in him. Some got boys to accompany them through the town singing, and with minstrels playing, entered the houses, and seizing young girls harnessed them to a plough; one man held the handles, another drove them with a whip, a minstrel sung drunken songs, and a fellow followed, flinging sand or ashes as if he had been sowing, and then they drove

------both plough and maydens through some pond or river small, And dabbled all with durt, and wringing wett as they may bee To supper calle, and after that to daunsing lustilee.

[73] The Every-Day Book.

[74] Miss Plumptre.

~Quinquagesima.~

CARNIVAL IN SPAIN.

“Carnival,” properly so called, according to Mr. Blanco White, is limited to Quinquagesima Sunday, and the two following days, a period which the lower classes pass in drinking and rioting in those streets where the meaner sort of houses abound, and especially in the vicinity of the large courts, or halls, called Corrales, surrounded with small rooms or cells, where numbers of the poorest inhabitants live in filth, misery, and debauch. Before these horrible places, are seen crowds of men, women, and children, singing, dancing, drinking, and pursuing each other with handfuls of hair-powder. I have never seen, however, an instance of their taking liberties with any person above their class; yet, such bacchanals produce a feeling of insecurity, which makes the approach of those spots very unpleasant during the carnival.

At Madrid, where whole quarters of the town, such as Avapiés and Maravillas, are inhabited exclusively by the rabble, these “Saturnalia” are performed upon a larger scale. Mr. White says, I once ventured with three or four friends, all muffled in our cloaks, to parade the Avapiés during the carnival. The streets were crowded with men, who, upon the least provocation, real or imaginary, would have instantly used the knife, and of women equally ready to take no slight share in any quarrel: for these lovely creatures often carry a poniard in a sheath, thrust within the upper part of the left stocking, and held up by the garter. We were, however, upon our best behaviour, and by a look of complacency on their sports, and keeping at the most respectful distance from the women, came away without meeting with the least disposition to insolence or rudeness.

A gentleman, who, either out of curiosity or depraved taste, attends the amusements of the vulgar, is generally respected, provided he is a mere spectator, and appears indifferent to the females. The ancient Spanish jealousy is still observable among the lower classes; and while not a sword is drawn in Spain upon a love-quarrel, the knife often decides the claims of more humble lovers. Yet love is by no means the main instigator of murder among us. A constitutional irritability, especially in the southern provinces, leads, without any more assignable reason, to the frequent shedding of blood. A small quantity of wine, nay, the mere blowing of the easterly wind, called “Solano,” is infallibly attended with deadly quarrels in Andalusia. The average of dangerous or mortal wounds, on every great festival at Seville, is, I believe, about two or three. We have, indeed, a well-endowed hospital named de los Herídos, which, though open to all persons who meet with dangerous accidents, is, from this unhappy disposition of the people, almost confined to the wounded. The large arm-chair, where the surgeon in attendance examines the patient just as he is brought in, usually upon a ladder, is known in the whole town by the name of “Silla de los Guapos,” the Bullies’ chair. Every thing, in fact, attests both the generality and inveteracy of that horrible propensity among the Spaniards.[75]

[75] Doblado’s Letters from Spain.

* * * * *

THE LIEGE ALMANAC.

The celebrated almanac of “Francis Moore, physician,” to whose predictions thousands are accustomed to look with implicit confidence and veneration, is rivalled, on the continent, by the almanac of Liège, by “Matthew Laensberg,” who there enjoys an equal degree of celebrity.

Whether the name of Laensberg is a real or an assumed name is a matter of great doubt. A tradition, preserved in the family of the first printers of the work, ascribes it to a canon of St. Bartholomew, at Liège, who lived about the conclusion of the sixteenth century, or at the beginning of the seventeenth. This is further corroborated, by a picture of a canon of that church which still exists, and which is conjectured by many to represent the inventor of the celebrated almanac of Liège. Figure to yourself an old man, seated in an arm chair, his left hand resting on a globe, and his right holding a telescope. At his feet are seen different mathematical instruments, several volumes and sheets of paper, with circles and triangles drawn upon them. His eyes are large and prominent; he has a dull, heavy look, a nose in the form of a shell, and large ears, which are left uncovered by a greasy cap. His large mouth, half open, announces surliness and pedantry; frightful wrinkles furrow his face, and his long bushy beard covers an enormous band. This man is, besides, muffled up in an old cassock, patched in several places. Under his hideous portrait is the inscription “D. T. V. Bartholomæi Canonicus et Philosophiæ Professor.”

Such is the picture given by a person who examined this portrait, and who, though he was at the pains to search the registers of the chapter of Liège, was unable to find any name that at all corresponded with the above designation. Hence it may be fairly concluded, that the canon, whose portrait has just been exhibited, assumed the name of Matthew Laensbert, or Laensberg, as well as the title of professor of philosophy, for the purpose of publishing his almanac, with the prognostications, which have rendered it so celebrated.

The earliest of these almanacs known to exist is of the year 1636. It bears the name of Matthew Lansbert, mathematician, and not Laensberg, as it is now written. In the middle of the title is seen the portrait of an astronomer, nearly resembling that which is still placed there. After the printer’s name, are the words, “with permission of the superior powers.” This is repeated in the eleven first almanacs, but in that for 1647, we find, “with the favour and privilege of his highness.” This privilege, granted by Ferdinand of Bavaria, prince of Liège, is actually inserted. It gives permission to Leonard Streete to print Matthew Laensberg’s almanac, and forbids other printers to make copies of it, upon pain of confiscation, and other penalties.

The name of this prophet, spelt Lansbert in the first almanacs, has since been regularly written Laensberg. It is to this privilege of the prince bishop of Liège that Voltaire alludes in these lines of his Epistle to the king of Denmark:--

Et quand vous écrirez sur l’almanac de Liège, Ne parlez des saisons qu’avec un privilège.

The four first pages of the Liège almanac for 1636, are occupied by a piece entitled “The Twelve Celestial Signs governing the Human Body.” Cancer, for instance, governs the breast, the belly, and the lungs, with all their diseases. This was at that time the fashionable system of astrology, which was succeeded by many others, equally ill-founded, and equally popular. Yet it is a fact, that could scarcely be believed, were it not stated in an advertisement prefixed, that the physicians manifested a jealousy lest the prophet of Liège should extend his dominion over the healing art. They obtained an order that every thing relating to the influence of the celestial signs on diseases should be suppressed, and this retrenchment took place, for the first time, in 1679. The principal part, however, was preserved, and still ensures the success of this wonderful performance. It consists of general predictions concerning the variations of the seasons, and the occurrences of the year. In each month are marked the days when there will be rain, and those that will be dry; whether there will be snow or hail, high winds, storms, &c. Sterne alludes to this in his Tristram Shandy, when he says, “I have observed this 26th of March, 1759, a rainy day, notwithstanding the almanac of Liège.”

The general predictions mention the occurrences that are to take place in every month. Accident has frequently been wonderfully favourable to the prophet; and he owes all his reputation and celebrity to the luck of having announced the gaining of a battle, or the death of some distinguished person. An anecdote of Madame Du-barri, at that time all-powerful at the court of Louis XIV., is not a little singular.

When the king was attacked with the malady which put an end to his life, that lady was obliged to leave Versailles. She then had occasion, says the author of her life, to recollect the almanac of Liège, which had given her great uneasiness, and of which she had suppressed all the copies she was able. Amongst the predictions for the month of April, in that almanac, was the following: “A lady, in the highest favour, will act her last part.” She frequently said, “I wish this odious month of April were over.” According to the prediction, she had really acted “her last part,” for the king died in the following month, May 1774.[76]

[76] Repository of Arts.

* * * * *

DISCOVERY OF MADEIRA.

In the year 1344, in the reign of Peter IV. king of Arragon, the island of Madeira, lying in 32 degrees, was discovered, by an Englishman, named Macham, who, sailing from England to Spain with a lady whom he had carried off, was driven to the island by a tempest, and cast anchor in the harbour or bay, now called Machico, after the name of Macham. His mistress being sea-sick, he took her to land, with some of his company, where she died, and the ship drove out to sea. As he had a tender affection for his mistress, he built a chapel or hermitage, which he called “Jesus,” and buried her in it, and inscribed on her tombstone his and her name, and the occasion of their arrival there. In the island are very large trees, of one of which he and his men made a boat, and went to sea in it, and were cast upon the shore of Africa, without sail or oars. The Moors were infinitely surprised at the sight of them, and presented Macham to their king, who sent him and his companions to the king of Castile, as a prodigy or miracle.

In 1395, Henry III. of Castile, by the information of Macham, persuaded some of his mariners to go in search of this island, and of the Canaries.

In 1417, king John II. of Castile, his mother Catherine being then regent, one M. Ruben, of Bracamont, admiral of France, having demanded and obtained of the queen the conquest of the Canaries, with the title of king for a kinsman of his, named M. John Betancourt, he departed from Seville with a good army. And it is affirmed, that the principal motive that engaged him in this enterprise was, to discover the island of Madeira, which Macham had found.

TOMB OF MACHAM’S ANNA.

The following elegiac stanzas are founded on the preceding historical fact. Macham, having consigned the body of his beloved mistress to the solitary grave, is supposed to have inscribed on it the following pathetic lines:--

O’er my poor ANNA’S lowly grave No dirge shall sound, no knell shall ring; But angels, as the high pines wave, Their half-heard ‘Miserere’ sing!

No flow’rs of transient bloom at eve, The maidens on the turf shall strew; Nor sigh, as the sad spot they leave, Sweets to the sweet a long adieu!

But in this wilderness profound, O’er her the dove shall build her nest; And ocean swell with softer sound, A Requiem to her dream of rest!

Ah! when shall I as quiet be, When not a friend or human eye Shall mark, beneath the mossy tree, The spot where we forgotten lie?

To kiss her name on this cold stone, Is all that now on earth I crave; For in this world I am alone-- Oh! lay me with her in the grave.

* * * * *

~Health.~

GOOD EATING.

That “a sharp stomach is the best sauce,” is a saying as true as it is common. In Ulrick Hutton’s book on the virtues of guaiacum, there is a very singular story on this subject.

The relations of a rich German ecclesiastic, carrying him to drink the waters for the recovery of his health, and passing by the house of a famous quack, he inquired what was the reverend gentleman’s distemper? They told him a total debility, loss of appetite, and a great decay in his senses. The empiric, after viewing his enormous chin, and bodily bulk, guessed rightly at the cause of his distemper, and proposed, for a certain sum, to bring him home, on a day fixed, perfectly cured. The patient was put into his hands, and the doctor treated him in the following manner:--He furnished him every day with half a pound of excellent dry biscuit; to moisten this, he allowed him three pints of very good spring water; and he suffered him to sleep but a few hours out of the twenty-four. When he had brought him within the just proportion of a man, he obliged him to ring a bell, or work in the garden, with a rolling-stone, an hour before breakfast, and four hours in the afternoon. At the stated day the doctor produced him, perfectly restored.

Nice eating destroys the health, let it be ever so moderate; for the stomach, as every man’s experience must inform him, finds greater difficulty in digesting rich dishes than meats plainly dressed. To a sound man sauces are needless; to one who is diseased, they nourish not him, but his distemper; and the intemperance of his taste betrays him into the hands of death, which could not, perhaps, have mastered his constitution. Lewis Cornaro brought himself into a wretched condition, while a young man, by indulging his taste; yet, when he had once taken a resolution of restraining it, nature did that which physic could not; it restored him to perfect health of body, and serenity of mind, both of which he enjoyed to extreme old age.

* * * * *

~Books.~

READING ALOUD.

BY MARGARET DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE.

1671.

----To read lamely or crookedly, and not evenly, smoothly, and thoroughly, entangles the sense. Nay, the very sound of the voice will seem to alter the sense of the theme; and though the sense will be there in despite of the ill voice, or ill reading, yet it will be concealed, or discovered to its disadvantages. As an ill musician, (or indeed one that cannot play at all,) instead of playing, puts the fiddle out of tune, (and causeth a discord,) which, if well played upon, would sound harmoniously; or if he can play but one tune, plays it on all sorts of instruments; so, some will read with one tone or sound of voice, though the passions and numbers are different; and some again, in reading, wind up their voices to such a passionate screw, that they whine or squeal, rather than speak or read: others fold up their voices with such distinctions, that they make that triangular which is four-square; and that narrow, which should be broad; and that high, which should be low; and low, that should be high: and some again read so fast, that the sense is lost in the race. So that writings sound good or bad, as the readers, and not as their authors are: and, indeed, such advantage a good or ill reader hath, that those that read well shall give a grace to a foolish author; and those that read ill, do disgrace a wise and a witty one. But there are two sorts of readers; the one that reads to himself, and for his own benefit; the other, to benefit another by hearing it: in the first, there is required a good judgment, and a ready understanding: in the other, a good voice and a graceful delivery: so that a writer must have a double desire; the one, that he may write well; the other, that he may be read well.

* * * * *

~Aphorisms.~

BY LAVATER.

Who in the same given time can produce more than many others, has vigour; who can produce more and better, has talents; who can produce what none else can, has genius.

Who, without pressing temptation, tells a lie, will, without pressing temptation, act ignobly and meanly.

Who, under pressing temptations to lie, adheres to truth, nor to the profane betrays aught of a sacred trust, is near the summit of wisdom and virtue.

All affectation is the vain and ridiculous attempt of poverty to appear rich.

Who has no friend and no enemy, is one of the vulgar; and without talents, powers, or energy.

The more honesty a man has, the less he affects the air of a saint--the affectation of sanctity is a blot on the face of piety.

Love as if you could hate and might be hated, is a maxim of detested prudence in real friendship, the bane of all tenderness, the death of all familiarity. Consider the fool who follows it as nothing inferior to him who at every bit of bread trembles at the thought of its being poisoned.

There are more heroes than saints (heroes I call rulers over the minds and destinies of men;) more saints than humane characters. He, who humanizes all that is within and around himself, adore: I know but of one such by tradition.

He who laughed at you till he got to your door, flattered you as you opened it--felt the force of your argument whilst he was with you--applauded when he rose, and, after he went away, execrated you--has the most indisputable title to an archdukedom in hell.

Let the four-and-twenty elders in heaven rise before him who, from motives of humanity, can totally suppress an arch, full-pointed, but offensive bon mot.

* * * * *

~Manners.~

THE PARLIAMENT CLUBS.

Before the year 1736, it had been usual for gentlemen of the House of Commons to dine together at the Crown-tavern in Palace-yard, in order to be in readiness to attend the service of the house. This club amounted to one hundred and twenty, besides thirty of their friends coming out of the country. In January, 1736, sir Robert Walpole and his friends began to dine in the same manner, at the Bell and Sun in King-street, Westminster, and their club was one hundred and fifty, besides absent members. These parties seem to have been the origin of Brookes’s and White’s clubs.

* * * * *

RIGHT AND LEFT HAND.

Dr. Zinchinelli, of Padua, in an essay “On the Reasons why People use the Right Hand in preference to the Left,” will not allow custom or imitation to be the cause. He affirms, that the left arm cannot be in violent and continued motion without causing pain in the left side, because there is the seat of the heart and of the arterial system; and that, therefore, Nature herself compels man to make use of the right hand.

* * * * *

THE DEATH OF LEILA.

For the Table Book.

’Twas moonlight--LEILA sat retir’d Upon the tow’ring beach, Watching the waves, “like one inspir’d” With things beyond her reach: There was a calmness on the water Suited to Sorrow’s hapless daughter, For consolation seem’d to be Mixt up with its solemnity!

The stars were shedding far and wide Their twinkling lights of peerless blue; And o’er the undulating tide The breeze on balmy pinions flew; The scene might well have rais’d the soul Above misfortune’s dark controul, Had not the hand of Death been laid On that belov’d and matchless maid!

I watch’d the pale, heart-broken girl, Her shatter’d form, her look insane,-- I saw her raven locks uncurl With moisture from the peaceful main: I saw her wring her hands with grief, Like one depriv’d of Hope’s relief, And then she sigh’d, as if bereft Of the last treasure heav’n had left!

Slowly I sought the cheerless spot Where Leila lay, absorb’d in care, But she, poor girl! discern’d me not, Nor dreamt that friendship linger’d there! Her grief had bound her to the earth, And clouded all her beauty’s worth; And when her clammy hand I press’d, She seem’d of feeling dispossess’d!

Yet there were motion, sense, and life, Remaining in that shatter’d frame, As if existing by the strife Of feelings none but Love can name! I spoke, she answer’d not--I took Her hand with many a fearful look-- Her languid eyes I gaz’d upon, And press’d her lips--but she was gone!

B. W. R.

Islington, 1827.

* * * * *

~Omniana.~

RATTING.

There are three methods proposed for lessening the number of rats.

I. Introduce them at table as a delicacy. They would probably be savoury food, and if nature has not made them so, the cook may. Rat pie would be as good as rook pie; and four tails intertwisted like the serpents of the delphic tripod, and rising into a spiral obelisk, would crest the crust more fantastically than pigeon’s feet. After a while they might be declared game by the legislature, which would materially expedite their extirpation.

II. Make use of their fur. Rat-skin robes for the ladies would be beautiful, warm, costly, and new. Fashion requires only the two last qualities; it is hoped the two former would not be objectionable.

III. Inoculate some subjects with the small-pox, or any other infectious disease, and turn them loose. Experiments should first be made, lest the disease should assume in them so new a form as to be capable of being returned to us with interest. If it succeeded, man has means in his hand which would thin the hyenas, wolves, jackals, and all gregarious beasts of prey.

N. B. If any of our patriotic societies should think proper to award a gold medal, silver cup, or other remuneration to either of these methods, the projector has left his address with the editor.[77]

* * * * *

BUNGAY HAND-BILL.

(Copy.)

PONY LOST.

On February 21st, 1822, this devil bade me adieu.

Lost, stolen, or astray, not the least doubt but run away, a mare pony that is all bay:--if I judge pretty nigh, it is about eleven hands high;--full tail and mane, a pretty head and frame;--cut on both shoulders by the collar, not being soft nor hollow:--it is about five years old, which may be easily told;--for spirit and for speed, the devil cannot her exceed.

Whoever can give information or bring the said runaway to me, JOHN WINTER, Glass-stainer and Combustible-maker, Upper Olland Street, Bungay, shall be handsomely rewarded for their trouble.

* * * * *

NOMINATIVE CASE.

Sancho, prince of Castile, being present at a papal consistory at Rome, wherein the proceedings were conducted in Latin, which he did not understand, and hearing loud applause, inquired of his interpreter what caused it: “My lord,” replied the interpreter, “the pope has caused you to be proclaimed king of Egypt.” “It does not become us,” said the grave Spaniard, “to be wanting in gratitude; rise up, and proclaim his holiness caliph of Bagdad.”

* * * * *

DISCOUNT FOR CASH.

The following anecdote is related in a journal of the year 1789:--

A service of plate was delivered at the duke of Clarence’s house, by his order, accompanied by the bill, amounting to 1500_l._, which his royal highness deeming exorbitant, sent back, remarking, that he conceived the overcharge to be occasioned by the apprehension that the tradesman might be kept long out of his money. He added, that so far from its being his intention to pay by tedious instalments, or otherwise distress those with whom he dealt, he had laid it down as an invariable principle, to discharge every account the moment it became due. The account was returned to his royal highness the next morning, with three hundred pounds taken off, and it was instantly paid.

* * * * *

SPORTING.

A wit said of the late bishop of Durham, when alive, “His grace is the only man in England who may kill game legally without a stamped license: if actually taken with a gun in his hand, he might exclaim in the words of his own grants--‘I Shute, by divine permission.’”

[77] Dr. Aikin’s Athenæum.

~March.~

“STOP AND READ.”

We have seen this requisition on the walls till we are tired: in a book it is a novelty, and here, I hope it may enforce its claim. For thy sake, gentle reader, I am anxious that it should; for, if thou hast a tithe of the pleasure I had, from the perusal of the following verses, I expect commendation for bidding thee “stop and read.”

THE FIRST OF MARCH.

The bud is in the bough And the leaf is in the bud, And Earth’s beginning now In her veins to feel the blood, Which, warm’d by summer’s sun In th’ alembic of the vine, From her founts will overrun In a ruddy gush of wine.

The perfume and the bloom That shall decorate the flower, Are quickening in the gloom Of their subterranean bower; And the juices meant to feed Trees, vegetables, fruits, Unerringly proceed To their preappointed roots.

How awful the thought Of the wonders under ground, Of the mystic changes wrought In the silent, dark profound; How each thing upwards tends By necessity decreed, And a world’s support depends On the shooting of a seed!

The Summer’s in her ark, And this sunny-pinion’d day Is commission’d to remark Whether Winter holds her sway; Go back, thou dove of peace, With the myrtle on thy wing, Say that floods and tempests cease, And the world is ripe for Spring.

Thou hast fann’d the sleeping Earth Till her dreams are all of flowers, And the waters look in mirth For their overhanging bowers; The forest seems to listen For the rustle of its leaves, And the very skies to glisten In the hope of summer eves.

Thy vivifying spell Has been felt beneath the wave, By the dormouse in its cell, And the mole within its cave; And the summer tribes that creep, Or in air expand their wing, Have started from their sleep, At the summons of the Spring.

The cattle lift their voices From the valleys and the hills, And the feather’d race rejoices With a gush of tuneful bills; And if this cloudless arch Fills the poet’s song with glee, O thou sunny first of March, Be it dedicate to thee!

This beautiful poem has afforded me exquisite gratification. Till I saw it printed in Mr. Dyce’s “Specimens of British Poetesses,” I was ignorant that a living lady had written so delightfully. Without a friend at my elbow to instruct me whether I should prefix “Miss” or “Mrs.” to her felicitous name, I transcribe--as I find it in Mr. Dyce’s volume--FELICIA HEMANS.

Vol. I.--10.

“Upon my soul it’s a fact.”

MATTHEWS--and Self.

For the Table Book.

“Is the master at home, sir?” said a broad-shouldered Scotchman (wearing a regimental coat of the ---- regiment, and with his bonnet in his hand) to myself, who had answered a ring at the office-bell. I replied that he was not. “Weel, that’s onlucky, sir,” said he, “for ye see, sir, a hae goten a pertection here, an’ a hae been till a’ the Scotchmen that a can hear ony thing o’, but they hae a’ signed for the month; an’ a hae a shorteness o’ brith, that wunna lat me wurk or du ony thing; an’ a’d be vary glaid gin a cud git doon to Scoteland i’ the nixt vaissel, for a hanna’ a baubee; an’, as a sid afore, a canna wurk, an’ gin maister B. wud jist sign ma pertection, a hae twa seagnatures, an’ a’d git awa’ the morn.” For once I had told no lie in denying Mr. B. to his visitor, and, therefore, in no dread of detection from cough, or other vivâ voce evidence, I ushered the “valiant Scot” into the sanctum of a lawyer’s clerk.

There is a very laudable benevolent institution in London, called the “Scottish Hospital,” which, on proper representations made to it, signed by three of its members, (forms whereof are annexed, in blank, to the printed petition, which is given gratuitously to applicants,) will pass poor natives of Scotland to such parts of their father-land as they wish, free of expense, and will otherwise relieve their wants; but each member is only allowed to sign one petition each month. This poor fellow had come in hopes of obtaining Mr. B.’s signature to his request to be sent home; and, while waiting to procure it, told me the circumstances that had reduced him to ask it.

He was a native of ----, where the rents had lately been raised, by a new laird, far beyond the capabilities of the tacksmen. They had done their best to pay them--had struggled long, and hard, with an ungrateful soil--but their will and industry were lost; and they were, finally, borne down by hard times, and harsh measures. ’Twas hard to leave the hearths which generations of their forefathers had shadowed and hallowed--’twas yet harder to see their infants’ lips worrying the exhausted breast, and to watch the cheeks of their children as they grew pale from want--and to see their frolics tamed by hunger into inert stupidity. An American trader had just touched at their island, for the purpose of receiving emigrants, and half its inhabitants had domiciled themselves on board, before her arrival had been known twelve hours. Our poor Scot would fain have joined them, with his family and parents, but he lacked the means to provide even the scanty store of oatmeal and butter which they were required to ship before they could be allowed to step on deck; so, in a fit of distress and despair, he left the home that had never been a day out of his sight, and enlisted with a party of his regiment, then at ----, for the sole purpose of sending to the afflicted tenants of his “bit housey,” the poor pittance of bounty he received, to be a short stay ’twixt them and starvation.

He had been last at St. John’s, Newfoundland; “and there,” said he, indignantly, “they mun mak’ a cook’s orderly o’ me, as gin a war’ nae as proper a man as ony o’ them to carry a musket; an’ they sint me to du a’ the odd jobes o’ a chap that did a wife’s-wark, tho’ there were a gude fivety young chaps i’ the regiment that had liked it wul aneugh, and were better fetting for the like o’ sican a place than mysel.--And so, sir,” he continued, “thar a was, working mysel intill a scalding heat, and than a’d geng out to carry in the cauld water; an’ i’ the deeing o’t, a got a cauld that sattled inwardly, an’ garr’d me hae a fivre an’ spit blood. Weel, sir, aifter mony months, a gote better; but oh! a was unco weak, and but a puir creature frae a strong man afore it: but a did na mak muckle o’t, for a thought ay, gin ony thing cam o’t to disable me, or so, that a should hae goten feve-pence or sax-pence a-day an’ that had been a great help.”

----Oh! if the rich would but take the trouble to learn how many happy hearts they might make at small expense--and fashion their deeds to their knowledge--how many prayers might nightly ascend with their names from grateful bosoms to the recording angel’s ears--and how much better would the credit side of their account with eternity appear on that day, when the great balance must be struck!----

There was a pause--for my narrator’s breath failed him; and I took the opportunity of surveying him. He was about thirty, with a half hale, half hectic cheek; a strong red beard, of some three days’ growth, and a thick crop of light hair, such as only Scotchmen have--one of the Cain’s brands of our northern brethren--it curled firmly round his forehead; and his head was set upon his broad shoulders with that pillar of neck which Adrian in particular, and many other of the Roman emperors, are represented with, on their coins, but which is rarely seen at present. He must, when in full health, have stood about five feet seven; but, now, he lost somewhat of his height in a stoop, contracted during his illness, about the chest and shoulders, and common to most people affected with pulmonary complaints: his frame was bulky, but the sinews seemed to have lost their tension; and he looked like “one of might,” who had grappled strongly with an evil one in sore sickness. He bore no air of discontent, hard as his lot was; yet there was nothing theatrical in his resignation. All Scotchmen are predestinarians, and he fancied he saw the immediate hand of Providence working out his destiny through his misfortunes, and against such interference he thought it vain to clamour. Far other were my feelings when I looked on his fresh, broad face, and manly features, his open brow, his width of shoulders, and depth of chest, and heard how the breath laboured in that chest for inefficient vent----

“May be,” said he--catching my eye in its wanderings, as he raised his own from the ground,--“May be a’d be better, gin a were doon i’ wun nain place.” I was vext to my soul that my look had spoken so plainly as to elicit this remark. Tell a man in a consumption that he looks charmingly, and you have opened the sluices of his heart almost as effectually, to your ingress, as if you had really cured him. And yet I think this poor fellow said what he did, rather to please one which he saw took an interest in him, than to flatter himself into a belief of recovery, or from any such existing belief; for, shortly after, when I asked him what he would do in Scotland, “A dunna ken wat a mun du,” he replied; “a canna du ony labouring wark, an’ a ha na goten ony trade; but, ye see, sir, we like ay to die whar’ wer’re born; and my faither, an’ my gran’faither afore him forbye, a’ my ither kin, an’ the mither that bore me, there a’ i’ the nook o’ ---- kirk-yaird; an’ than my wife an twa bairnies:”--There was a pause in the soldier’s voice; he had not learnt the drama of mendicity or sentimentality, but, by ----! there was a tear in his eye.[78]--I hate a scene as much as Byron did, but I admire a feeling heart, and pity a sorrowful one----the tear did not fall. I looked in his face when I heard his voice again; his eye glistened, and the lash was wet, but the tear was gone--And there stood I, whose slender body scarcely comprehended one half of the circumference of his muscular frame.--“And the hand of Death is here!” said I; and then I turned my eyes upon myself, and almost wondered how my soul dwelt in so frail a tenement, while his was about to escape from such a seeming fastness of flesh.

After some further conversation, he told me his regiment had at one time been ordered off for Africa against the Ashantees; and sure never mortal man regretted counter orders on such grounds as he did those which balked his expectations of a visit to Sierra Leone.--“A thought,” said he, “wur regiment woud ha gien to Aifrica against the Aishantees--an a was in hopes it wud--it’s a didly climate, an’ there was nae money goten out o’ the laist fray; but thin--perhaps its jist as well to die in ae place as anither--but than we canna bring wursels to feel it, tho’ we may think it--an’ than ye see, sir, as a sid afore, a hae twa bairnies, an gin a’d laid doon wi’ the rast, the mither o’ them might hae goten the widow’s pension for them an’ hirsel.”--The widow’s pension! sixpence a-day for a woman and two children--and death to the fourth person as the only price of it! Hear this, shade of Lemprière! Manlius and the Horatii died to save a country, and to purchase earthly immortality by their deaths--but here’s a poor fellow willing to give up the ghost, by sword, plague, pestilence or famine, to secure a wife and two children two-pence each, per day!

Look to it, ye three-bottle beasts, or men--as the courtesy of a cringing world calls you--look to it, when ye toast the next lordly victor “with three times three!”--Shout ’till the roof rings, and then think, amid the din of your compeers, of the humble dead--of those who walk silently in the path of the grave, and of the widowed and fatherless. Commanders die for glory, for a funeral procession, or a title, or wealth for those they leave behind; but who speaks of the private, who dies with a wound for every pore?--he rots on the earth; or, with some scores or hundreds of his comrades, a few inches beneath it; and his wife gets--“sixpence a day!”

Poor fellow, thought I, as I looked on my narrator--were I a king--but kings cannot scrape acquaintance with every man in the ranks of their forces--but had I been your officer, I think you should not have wanted your pension for the few days that are to shine on you in this world; and, had you fallen, it should have gone hard with me, but your wife and two children should have had their twopence each per day--and, were I a man of fortune, I would be proud to keep the life in such a heart, as long as God would permit--and so saying, or thinking--and blinking away the dimness of humanity from my eye--I thrust my hand into my pocket, and gave him Sixpence.--Reader! smile not; I am but a poor harum scarum headed mortal--’t was all I had, “in possession, expectancy, remainder, or reversion”--

J. J. K.

[78] [“--The ACCUSING SPIRIT flew up to heaven’s chancery with the oath, and blushed as he gave it in--the RECORDING ANGEL, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever!”--Sterne. ED.]

* * * * *

~Highland Legend.~

The following poem originates in a legend which is still popular in many parts of the highlands of Scotland: that a female branch of the noble family of Douglas contracted an imprudent marriage with a kerne, or mountain peasant, who was drowned in the Western Islands, where he had escaped for concealment from the persecutions of the offended family of his wife. She survived him eighteen years, and wandered a maniac over the mountains, where, as superstition alleges, she is even now to be seen at daybreak. The stanzas are supposed to be the extempore recitations of an old bard to a group of attentive villagers.

THE LADY OF THE HILL.

Poor girl! she seem’d of an unearthly mould, A thing superior to the frowns of fate; But never did my tearful eyes behold A maid so fair, and so disconsolate; Yet was she once a child of high estate, And nurst in splendour, till an envious gloom Sunk her beneath its harsh o’erpowering weight: Robb’d her pale features of their orient bloom, And with a noiseless pace, mov’d onwards to the tomb.

She walk’d upon the earth, as one who knew The dread mysterious secrets of the grave; For never o’er her eye of heav’nly blue Lighten’d a smile; but like the ocean wave That roars, unblest with sunshine, through the cave Rear’d in the depths of Snowden, she had flown To endless grief for refuge; and would rave, And tell to the night-winds her tale unknown, Or wander o’er the heath, deserted and alone.

And when the rain beat hard against the hill, And storms rush’d by upon their wing of pow’r, Lonely she’d stray beside the bubbling rill, Or fearless list the deep-voic’d cataract’s roar; And when the tempest’s wrath was heard no more She wander’d home, the mountain sod to dress With many a wreath, and many a summer flow’r: And thus she liv’d, the sister of distress, The solitude of love, nurst in the wilderness.

She was the child of nature; earth, sea, sky, Mountain and cataract, fern-clad hill and dale Possess’d a nameless charm in her young eye, Pure and eternal, for in Deva’s vale Her heart first listen’d to a lover’s tale, Breath’d by a mountain kerne; and every scene That wanton’d blithely in the od’rous gale, Had oft beheld her lord’s enamour’d mien, As tremblingly she sought each spot where he had been.

But she is gone! The cold earth is her pillow, And o’er her blooms the summer’s sweetest flow’r; And o’er her ashes weeps the grateful willow She lov’d to cherish in a happier hour-- Mute is the voice that breath’d from Deva’s bow’r Chill is the soul of the neglected rover; We saw the death-cloud in destruction low’r O’er her meek head, the western waves roll’d over The corse of him she lov’d, her own devoted lover.

But oft, when the faint sun is in the west, And the hush’d gales along the ocean die, Strange sounds reecho from her place of rest, And sink into the heart most tenderly-- The bird of evening hour, the humming bee, And the wild music of the mountain rill, Seem breathing sorrow as they murmur by, And whispering to the night, while all is still, The tale of the poor girl--the “Lady of the Hill.”

W. F. D.--Indicator.

~Marriage Customs.~

HIGHLAND WEDDINGS.

BY JOHN HAY ALLAN, ESQ.

There is not probably, at the present day, a more social and exhilarating convocation than a highland wedding among the lower orders. The ancient hospitality and kindliness of character fills it with plenty and good humour, and gathers from every side all who have the slightest claim in the blood, name, and friendship of the bride or bridegroom. That olden attachment, which formerly bound together the superiors and their dependants, yet so far influences their character as to bring them together at the same board upon this occasion. When a wedding is to take place, the attendance of the chief, or laird, as well as that of the higher tacksmen, is always solicited by the respective parties, and there are few who would refuse this mark of consideration and good-will. The clansmen are happy in the honour which they receive, and the “Duinne-Uasal” is pleased with the regard and respect which renders the countenance of his presence necessary to his people.

Upon the day of the wedding, the friends of the bridegroom and the bride assemble at the house of their respective parents, with all the guns and pistols which can be collected in the country. If the distance of the two rendezvous is more than a day’s march, the bridegroom gathers his friends as much sooner as is necessary to enable them to be with the bride on the day and hour appointed. Both parties are exceedingly proud of the numbers and of the rank which their influence enables them to bring; they therefore spare no pains to render the gathering of their friends as full and as respectable as possible. The company of each party dines at the house of their respective parents. Every attainable display of rustic sumptuousness and rustic gallantry is made to render the festival worthy of an occasion which can happen but once in a life. The labour and the care of months have been long providing the means wherewith to furnish the feast with plenty, and the assistants with gayety; and it is not unfrequent that the savings of a whole year are expended to do honour to this single day.

When the house is small, and the company very numerous, the partitions are frequently taken down, and the whole “biel” thrown into one space. A large table, the entire length of the house, is formed of deal planks laid upon tressels, and covered with a succession of table-cloths, white though coarse. The quantity of the dinner is answerable to the space which it is to cover: it generally consists of barley broth, or cock-a-leeky, boiled fowls, roasted ducks, joints of meat, sheep’s heads, oat and barley cakes, butter, and cheese; and in summer, frothed buttermilk, and slam. In the glens where goats are kept, haunches of these animals and roasted kids are also added to the feast. In the olden time, venison and all kinds of game, from the cappercalich to the grouse, were also furnished; but since the breach of the feudal system, and its privileges, the highland lairds have become like other proprietors in the regulation of their game, and have prohibited its slaughter to their tenants upon pain of banishment.

Yet the cheer of the dinner is not so remarkable as the gear of the guests. No stranger who looked along the board could recognise in their “braws” the individuals whom the day before he had seen in the mill, the field, or the “smiddie.” The men are generally dressed to the best of their power in the lowland fashion. There are still a few who have the spirit, and who take a pride, to appear in the noble dress of their ancestors. These are always considered as an honour and an ornament to the day. So far however has habit altered the custom of the people, even against their own approbation, that notwithstanding the convenience and respect attached to the tartans, they are generally laid aside. But though the men are nothing deficient in the disposition to set themselves off in the lowland fashions, from the superior expense of cloth and other materials of a masculine dress, they are by no means so gay as the lasses. Girls, who the yester even were seen bare-headed and bare-footed, lightly dressed in a blue flannel petticoat and dark linen jacket, are now busked in white frocks, riband sashes, cotton stockings on their feet, and artificial flowers on their heads. The “merchant’s” and the miller’s daughters frequently exhibit the last fashion from Edinburgh, and are beautified and garnished with escalloped trimmings, tabbed sleeves, tucks, lace, gathers, and French frills! As it has been discovered that tartan is nothing esteemed in London, little or none is to be seen, except in the red plaid or broached tunic of some old wife, whose days of gayety are past, but who still loves that with which she was gay in her youth. It is to be regretted that Dr. Samuel Johnson had not lived to witness these dawnings of reason and improvement; his philosophical mind might have rejoiced in the symptoms of approaching “civilization” among the highlanders.

The hour of dinner is generally about one o’clock; the guests are assembling for two hours before, and each as he enters is presented with a glass of “uisga” by way of welcome. When the company is seated, and the grace has been said, the bottle makes a regular round, and each empties a bumper as it passes. During the meal more than one circle is completed in the same manner; and, at the conclusion, another revolutionary libation is given as a finale. As soon after dinner as his march will allow, the bridegroom arrives: his approach is announced at a distance by a continual and running discharge of firearms from his party. These signals are answered by the friends of the bride, and when at length they meet, a general but irregular feu-de-joie announces the arrival. The bridegroom and his escort are then regaled with whiskey, and after they have taken some farther refreshment the two parties combine, and proceed in a loose procession to the “clachan.”

Sometimes, and particularly if there happens to be a few old disbanded sergeants among them, the whole “gathering” marches very uniformly in pairs; and there is always a strict regulation in the support of the bride, and the place of the bridegroom and his party. The escort of the former takes precedency in the procession, and the head of the column is generally formed of the most active and best armed of her friends, led by their pipes. Immediately after this advanced guard, come the bride and the females of her party, accompanied by their fathers, brothers, and other friends. The bride is supported on one side by a bridesman, and on the other by a bridesmaid; her arms are linked in theirs, and from the right and left hand of the supporters is held a white scarf or handkerchief, which depends in a festoon across the figure of the bride. The privilege of supporting the bride is indispensably confined to the bridesman and bridesmaid, and it would be an unacceptable piece of politeness for any other persons, however high their rank, to offer to supply their place. The bridegroom and his party, with their piper, form the rear of the procession and the whole is closed by two young girls who walk last at the array, bearing in a festoon between them a white scarf, similar to that held before the bride. During the march the pipes generally play the old Scots air, “Fye, lets a’ to the Bridal,” and the parties of the bride and bridegroom endeavour to emulate each other in the discharge of their fire-arms. In this order the bridal company reaches the church, and each pipe as it passes the gate of the surrounding cemetry becomes silent. In the old time the pipers played round the outside of the clachan during the performance of the service, but of later years this custom has been discontinued. The ritual of the marriage is very simple: a prayer for the happiness and guidance of the young couple who are about to enter upon the troubled tide of life; a short exhortation upon the duties of the station which they are to undertake, and a benediction by the imposition of the hands of the minister, is all the ceremonial of the union, and announces to them that they are “no longer two, but one flesh.”

In the short days of winter, and when the bridegroom has to come from a distance, it is very frequent that the ceremony is not performed until night. The different circumstances of the occasion are then doubly picturesque and affecting: while the cavalcade is yet at a distance, the plaintive pealing of the pipes approaching upon the stillness of the night, the fire-arms flashing upon the darkness, and their reports redoubled by the solitary echoes of the mountains, and when, at length, the train draws near, the mingled tread of hasty feet, the full clamour of the pipes, the mixed and confused visionry of the white figures of the girls, and the dark shadows of the men, with here and there the waving of a plaid and the glinting of a dirk, must be striking to a stranger, but wake inexpressible emotions in the bosom of a Gaël, who loves the people and the customs of his land.

The scene is still more impressive at the clachan. I have yet before me the groups of the last wedding at which I was present in the highlands. The church was dimly lighted for the occasion; beneath the pulpit stood the minister, upon whose head eighty-five winters had left their trace: his thinned hair, bleached like the “cana,” hung in ringlets on his neck; and the light falling feebly from above, shed a silvery gleam across his lofty forehead and pale features, as he lifted his look towards heaven, and stretched his hands above the betrothed pair who stood before him. The bridegroom, a hardy young highlander, the fox-hunter of the district, was dressed in the full ’a tans; and the bride, the daughter of a neighbouring shepherd, was simply attired in white, with a bunch of white roses in her hair. The dark cheek and keen eye of the hunter deepened its hue and its light as he held the hand which had been placed in his, while the downcast face of the bride scarcely showed distinctly more than her fair forehead and temples, and seemed, as the light shone obliquely upon them, almost as pale as the roses which she wore; her slim form bent upon the supporting arm of the bridesmaid--the white frill about her neck throbbing with a light and quick vibration.

After the ceremony of the marriage is concluded, it is the privilege of the bridesman to salute the bride. As the party leave the church, the pipes again strike up, and the whole company adjourns to the next inn, or to the house of some relation of the bride’s; for it is considered “unlucky” for her own to be the first which she enters. Before she crosses the threshold, an oaten cake is broken over her head by the bridesman and bridesmaid, and distributed to the company, and a glass of whiskey passes round. The whole party then enter the house, and two or three friends of the bridegroom, who act as masters of the ceremonies, pass through the room with a bottle of whiskey, and pour out to each individual a glass to the health of the bride, the bridegroom, and their clans. Dancing then commences to the music of the pipes, and the new-married couple lead off the first reel. It is a customary compliment for the person of highest rank in the room to accompany her in the next. During the dancing the whiskey-bottle makes a revolution at intervals; and after the reels and strathspeys have been kept up for some time, the company retires to supper. The fare of the supper differs little from that of the dinner; and the rotation of the whiskey-bottle is as regular as the sun which it follows.

[At highland festivals the bottle is always circulated sun-ways, an observance which had its rise in the Druidical “deas’oil,” and once regulated almost every action of the Celts.]

When the supper is announced, each man leads his partner or some female friend to the table, and seating himself at her side, takes upon himself her particular charge during the meal; and upon such occasions, as the means of the bride and bridegroom do not permit them to bear the expenses of the supper, he is expected to pay her share of the reckoning as well as his own. After supper the dancing again commences, and is occasionally inspired by the before-noticed circumvolutions of the “Uisga na Baidh.” The bride and bridegroom, and such as choose repose rather than merriment, retire to take a couple of hours’ rest before dawn; but the majority keep up the dancing till day. Towards morning many of the company begin to disperse; and when it is well light, breakfast is given to all who remain. Tea, multitudes of eggs, cold meat, a profusion of oat cakes, barley “scones,” and sometimes wheat bread, brought, perhaps, a distance of thirty miles, constitute the good cheer of this meal. When it is concluded, the bride takes leave of the majority of her friends, and accompanied only by her particular intimates and relations, sets off with the bridegroom and his party for her future residence. She is accompanied by her neighbours to the march of her father, or the tacksman under whom he lives, and at the burn-side (for such is generally the boundary) they dance a parting reel: when it is concluded, the bride kisses her friends, they return to their dwellings, and she departs for her new home. When, however, the circumstances of the bridegroom will permit, all those who were present at the house of the bride, are generally invited to accompany her on her way, and a renewal of the preceding festivities takes place at the dwelling of the bridegroom.

Upon these occasions it is incredible the fatigue which the youngest girls will undergo: of this one instance will give a sufficient proof. At a wedding which happened at Cladich by Loch Awe side, there were present as bridesmaids, two girls, not above fourteen years of age, who had walked to the bridal from Inbherara, a distance of nine miles. They attended the bride to the clachan of Inishail, and back to her father’s house, which is four miles farther. During the night none were more blithe in the dance, and in the morning after breakfast they accompanied the rest of the party to the house of the bridegroom at Tighndrum; the distance of this place is eighteen miles: and thus, when they had finished their journey, the two young bridesmaids had walked, without rest, and under the fatigue of dancing, a distance of thirty-one miles.

Such is the general outline of a highland wedding. In some districts, a few other of the ancient customs are yet retained: the throwing of the stocking is sometimes practised; but the blessing of the bridal couch disappeared with the religion of the popes.[79]

* * * * *

FLINGING THE STOCKING.

Mr. Brand collects a variety of particulars respecting this wedding custom.

A curious little book, entitled “The West-country Clothier undone by a Peacock,” says, “The sack-posset must be eaten and the stocking flung, to see who can first hit the bridegroom on the nose.” Misson, a traveller in England at the beginning of the last century, relates, concerning this usage, that the young men took the bride’s stocking, and the girls those of the bridegroom; each of whom, sitting at the foot of the bed, threw the stocking over their heads, endeavouring to make it fall upon that of the bride, or her spouse: if the bridegroom’s stockings, thrown by the girls, fell upon the bridegroom’s head, it was a sign that they themselves would soon be married: and a similar prognostic was taken from the falling of the bride’s stocking, thrown by the young men. The usage is related to the same effect in a work entitled “Hymen,” &c. (8vo. 1760.) “The men take the bride’s stockings, and the women those of the bridegroom: they then seat themselves at the bed’s feet, and throw the stockings over their heads, and whenever any one hits the owner of them, it is looked upon as an omen that the person will be married in a short time: and though this ceremony is looked upon as mere play and foolery, new marriages are often occasioned by such accidents. Meantime the posset is got ready and given to the married couple. When they awake in the morning, a sack-posset is also given them.” A century before this, in a “A Sing-Song on Clarinda’s Wedding,” in R. Fletcher’s “Translations and Poems, 1656,” is the following stanza:--

“This clutter ore, Clarinda lay Half-bedded, like the peeping day Behind Olimpus’ cap; Whiles at her head each twitt’ring girle The fatal stocking quick did whirle To know the lucky hap.”

And the “Progress of Matrimony,” in “The Palace Miscellany,” 1733, says,

“Then come all the younger folk in, With ceremony throw the stocking; Backward, o’er head, in turn they toss’d it, Till in sack-posset they had lost it. Th’ intent of flinging thus the hose, Is to hit him or her o’ th’ nose: Who hits the mark, thus, o’er left shoulder Must married be, ere twelve months older.”

This adventuring against the most prominent feature of the face is further mentioned in “The Country Wedding,” a poem, in the Gentleman’s Magazine, for March 1735, vol. v. p. 158.

“Bid the lasses and lads to the merry brown bowl, While rashers of bacon shall smoke on the coal: Then Roger and Bridget, and Robin and Nan, Hit ’em each on the nose, with the hose if you can.”

Dunton’s “British Apollo,” 1708, contains a question and answer concerning this old usage.

“Q. Apollo, say, whence ’tis I pray, The ancient custom came, Stockings to throw (I’m sure you know) At bridegroom and his dame?

“A. When Britons bold, bedded of old, Sandals were backward thrown; The pair to tell, that, ill or well, The act was all their own.”

If a more satisfactory explanation of the custom could be found, it should be at the reader’s service. The practice prevails on the continent as well as in this country, but its origin is involved in obscurity.

[79] Note to the Bridal of Caölchairn, by J. H. Allan, Esq.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. VII.

[From “Fortune by Land and Sea,” a Comedy, by T. Heywood, and W. Rowley, 1655.]

Old Forest forbids his Son to sup with some riotous gallants; who goes notwithstanding, and is slain.

Scene, a Tavern.

Rainsworth, Foster, Goodwin. To them enters Frank Forest.

Rain. Now, Frank, how stole you from your father’s arms? You have been school’d, no doubt. Fie, fie upon’t. Ere I would live in such base servitude To an old greybeard; ’sfoot, I’d hang myself. A man cannot be merry, and drink drunk, But he must be control’d by gravity. Frank. O pardon him; you know, he is my father, And what he doth is but paternal love. Though I be wild, I’m not yet so past reason His person to despise, though I his counsel Cannot severely follow. Rain. ’Sfoot, he is a fool. Frank. A fool! you are a a-- Fost. Nay, gentlemen-- Frank. Yet I restrain my tongue. Hoping you speak out of some spleenful rashness, And no deliberate malice; and it may be You are sorry that a word so unreverent, To wrong so good an aged gentleman, Should pass you unawares. Rain. Sorry, Sir Boy! you will not take exceptions? Frank. Not against you with willingness, whom I Have loved so long. Yet you might think me a Most dutiless and ungracious son to give Smooth countenance unto my father’s wrong. Come, I dare swear ’Twas not your malice, and I take it so. Let’s frame some other talk. Hear, gentlemen-- Rain. But hear me, Boy! it seems, Sir, you are angry-- Frank. Not thoroughly yet-- Rain. Then what would anger thee? Frank. Nothing from you. Rain. Of all things under heaven What would’st thou loathest have me do? Frank. I would Not have you wrong my reverent father; and I hope you will not. Rain. Thy father’s an old dotard. Frank. I would not brook this at a monarch’s hand, Much less at thine. Rain. Aye, Boy? then take you that. Frank. Oh I am slain. Good. Sweet Cuz, what have you done? Shift for yourself. Rain. Away.--

Exeunt.

Enter Two Drawers.

1st Dr. Stay the gentlemen, they have killed a man. O sweet Mr. Francis. One run to his father’s.

2d Dr. Hark, hark, I hear his father’s voice below ’tis ten to one he is come to fetch him home to supper and now he may carry him home to his grave.

Enter the Host, old Forest, and Susan his daughter.

Host. You must take comfort, Sir. For. Is he dead, is he dead, girl? Sus. Oh dead, Sir, Frank is dead. For. Alas, alas, my boy! I have not the heart To look upon his wide and gaping wounds. Pray tell me, Sir, does this appear to you Fearful and pitiful--to you that are A stranger to my dead boy? Host. How can it otherwise? For. O me most wretched of all wretched men! If to a stranger his warm bleeding wounds Appear so grisly and so lamentable, How will they seem to me that am his father? Will they not hale my eye-brows from their rounds, And with an everlasting blindness strike them? Sus. Oh, Sir, look here. For. Dost long to have me blind? Then I’ll behold them, since I know thy mind. Oh me! Is this my son that doth so senseless lie, And swims in blood? my soul shall fly with his Unto the land of rest. Behold I crave, Being kill’d with grief, we both may have one grave. Sus. Alas, my father’s dead too! gentle Sir, Help to retire his spirits, over travail’d With age and sorrow. Host. Mr. Forest-- Sus. Father-- For. What says my girl? good morrow. What’s a clock, That you are up so early? call up Frank; Tell him he lies too long a bed this morning. He was wont to call the sun up, and to raise The early lark, and mount her ’mongst the clouds. Will he not up? rise, rise, thou sluggish boy. Sus. Alas, he cannot, father. For. Cannot, why? Sus. Do you not see his bloodless colour pale? For. Perhaps he’s sickly, that he looks so pale. Sus. Do you not feel his pulse no motion keep, How still he lies? For. Then is he fast asleep. Sus. Do you not see his fatal eyelid close? For. Speak softly; hinder not his soft repose. Sus. Oh see you not these purple conduits run? Know you these wounds? For. Oh me! my murder’d son!

Enter young Mr. Forest.

Y. For. Sister! Sus. O brother, brother! Y. For. Father, how cheer you, Sir? why, you were wont To store for others comfort, that by sorrow Were any ways distress’d. Have you all wasted, And spared none to yourself? O. For. O Son, Son, Son, See, alas, see where thy brother lies. He dined with me to day, was merry, merry, Aye, that corpse was; he that lies here, see here, Thy murder’d brother and my son was. Oh see, Dost thou not weep for him? Y. For. I shall find time; When you have took some comfort, I’ll begin To mourn his death, and scourge the murderer’s sin. O. For. Oh, when saw father such a tragic sight, And did outlive it? never, son, ah never, From mortal breast ran such a precious river. Y. For. Come, father, and dear sister, join with me; Let us all learn our sorrows to forget. He owed a death, and he hath paid that debt.

If I were to be consulted as to a Reprint of our Old English Dramatists, I should advise to begin with the collected Plays of Heywood. He was a fellow Actor, and fellow Dramatist, with Shakspeare. He possessed not the imagination of the latter; but in all those qualities which gained for Shakspeare the attribute of gentle, he was not inferior to him. Generosity, courtesy, temperance in the depths of passion; sweetness, in a word, and gentleness; Christianism; and true hearty Anglicism of feelings, shaping that Christianism; shine throughout his beautiful writings in a manner more conspicuous than in those of Shakspeare, but only more conspicuous inasmuch as in Heywood these qualities are primary, in the other subordinate to poetry. I love them both equally, but Shakspeare has most of my wonder. Heywood should be known to his countrymen, as he deserves. His plots are almost invariably English. I am sometimes jealous, that Shakspeare laid so few of his scenes at home. I laud Ben Jonson, for that in one instance having framed the first draught of his Every Man in his Humour in Italy, he changed the scene, and Anglicised his characters. The names of them in the First Edition, may not be unamusing.

Men.

Lorenzo, Sen. Lorenzo, Jun. Prospero. Thorello. Stephano (Master Stephen.) Dr. Clement (Justice Clement.) Bobadilla (Bobadil.) Musco. Cob (the same in English.) Peto. Pizo. Matheo (Master Mathew.)

Women.

Guilliana. Biancha. Hesperida. Tib (the same in English.)

How say you, Reader? do not Master Kitely, Mistress Kitely, Master Knowell, Brainworm, &c. read better than these Cisalpines?

C. L.

* * * * *

For the Table Book.

On January 6th, 1815, died at Lynn, Norfolk, at an advanced age, (supposed about seventy,) this eccentric individual, whose proper name, William Monson, had become nearly obliterated by his professional appellation of Billy Boots; having followed the humble employment of shoeblack for a longer period than the greater part of the inhabitants could remember. He was reported, (and he always professed himself to be,) the illegitimate son of a nobleman, whose name he bore, by a Miss Cracroft. Of his early days little is known, except from the reminiscences of conversation which the writer of this article at times held with him. From thence it appears, that having received a respectable education, soon after leaving school, he quitted his maternal home in Lincolnshire, and threw himself upon the world, from whence he was sought out by some of his paternal brothers, with the intention of providing and fixing him in comfortable circumstances; but this dependent life he abhorred, and the wide world was again his element. After experiencing many vicissitudes, (though possessing defects never to be overcome,--a diminutive person,--a shuffling, slip-shod gait,--and a weak, whining voice,) he joined a company of strolling players, and used to boast of having performed “Trueman,” in “George Barnwell:” from this he imbibed an ardent histrionic cacoethes, which never left him, but occupied many of his leisure moments, to the latest period of his life. Tired of rambling, he fixed his residence at Lynn, and adopting the useful vocation of shoe-black, became conspicuous as a sober, inoffensive, and industrious individual. Having, by these means, saved a few guineas, in a luckless hour, and when verging towards his fiftieth year, he took to himself a wife, a dashing female of more favourable appearance than reputation. In a few days from the tying of the gordian knot, his precious metal and his precious rib took flight together, never to return; and forsaken Billy whined away his disaster, to every pitying inquirer, and continued to brush and spout till time had blunted the keen edge of sorrow.

Notwithstanding this misfortune, Billy made no rash vow of forswearing the sex, but ogled every mop-squeezer in the town, who would listen to his captivating eloquence, and whenever a roguish Blousalinoa consented to encourage his addresses, he was seen early and late, like a true devotee snuffing a pilgrimage to the shrine of his devotions. In a summer evening after the labour of the day, on these occasions, and on these occasions only, he used to clean himself and spruce up, in his best suit, which was not improperly termed his courting suit--a worn-out scarlet coat, reaching to his heels, with buttons of the largest dimensions--the other part of his dress corresponding. When tired of the joke, his faithless inamorata, on some frivolous pretence, contrived to discard him, leaving him to “fight his battles o’er again,” and seek some other bewitching fair one, who in the end served him as the former; another and another succeeded, but still poor Billy was ever jilted, and still lived a devoted victim to the tender passion.

Passionately fond of play-books, of which he had a small collection--as uninviting to the look as himself in his working dress--and possessing a retentive memory, he would recite, not merely the single character, but whole scenes, with all the dramatis personæ. His favourite character, however, was “Shylock;” and here, when soothed and flattered, he exhibited a rich treat to his risible auditors in the celebrated trial scene, giving the entire dialogue, suiting the action and attitude to the words, in a style of the most perfect caricatural originality. At other times, he would select “The Waterman,” and, as “Tom Tug,” warble forth, “Then farewell my trim-built wherry,” in strains of exquisitely whining melody. But, alas! luckless wight! his only reward was ridicule, and for applause he had jokes and quizzing sarcasms.

Like most of nature’s neglected eccentrics, Billy was a public mark of derision, at which every urchin delighted to aim. When charges of “setting the river Thames on fire!” and “roasting his wife on a gridiron!” were vociferated in his ears, proudly conscious of his innocence of such heinous crimes, his noble soul would swell with rage and indignation; and sometimes stones, at other times his brushes, and oftentimes his pot of blacking, were aimed at the ruthless offender, who frequently escaped, while the unwary passer-by received the marks of his vengeance. When unmolested, he was harmless and inoffensive.

Several attempts, it is said, were made towards the latter part of his life to settle an annuity on him; but Billy scorned such independence, and maintained himself till death by praiseworthy industry. After a few days’ illness, he sank into the grave, unhonoured and unnoticed, except by the following tribute to his memory, written by a literary and agricultural gentleman in the neighbourhood of Lynn, and inserted in the “Norwich Mercury” newspaper of that period.

K.

ELEGIAC LINES ON WILLIAM MONSON, LATE OF LYNN, AN ECCENTRIC CHARACTER; COMMONLY Y’CLEPT BILLY BOOTS.

Imperial Fate, who, with promiscuous course, Exerts o’er high and low his influence dread; Impell’d his shaft with unrelenting force, And laid thee, Billy, ’mongst the mighty dead!

Yet ’though, when borne to thy sepulchral home, No pomp funereal grac’d thy poor remains, Some “frail memorial” should adorn thy tomb, Some trifling tribute from the Muse’s strains.

Full fifty years, poor Billy! hast thou budg’d, A care-worn shoe-black, up and down the streets; From house to house, with slip-shod step hast trudg’d, ’Midst summer’s rays, and winter’s driving sleets.

Report allied thee to patrician blood, Yet, whilst thy life to drudg’ry was confin’d, Thy firmness each dependent thought withstood, And prov’d,--thy true nobility of mind.

With shuffling, lagging gait, with visage queer, Which seem’d a stranger to ablution’s pow’r, In tatter’d garb, well suited to thy sphere, Thou o’er life’s stage didst strut thy fretful hour.

O’er boots and shoes, to spread the jetty hue, And give the gloss,--thou Billy, wert the man, No boasting rivals could thy skill outdo-- Not “Day and Martin,” with their fam’d japan.

On men well-bred and perfectly refin’d, An extra polish could thine art bestow; At feast or ball, thy varnish’d honours shin’d, Made spruce the trader, and adorn’d the beau.

When taunting boys, whom no reproof could tame, On thee their scoffs at cautious distance shed, A shoe or brush, impetuous wouldst thou aim, Wing’d with resentment, at some urchin’s head.

With rage theatric often didst thou glow, (Though ill adapted for the scenic art;) As Denmark’s prince soliloquiz’d in woe, Or else rehears’d vindictive Shylock’s part.

Brushing and spouting, emulous of fame, Oft pocketing affronts instead of cash, In Iago’s phrase, sometimes thou might’st exclaim With too much truth,--“who steals my purse steals trash.”

Peace to thine ashes! harmless in thy way, Long wert thou emp’ror of the shoe-black train, And with thy fav’rite Shakspeare we may say, We “ne’er shall look upon thy like again.”

* * * * *

~The Drama.~

“THE GREAT UNKNOWN”

KNOWN.

Friday the 23d of February, 1827, is to be regarded as remarkable, because on that day “The Great Unknown” confessed himself. The disclosure was made at the first annual dinner of the “Edinburgh Theatrical Fund,” then held in the Assembly Rooms, Edinburgh--Sir WALTER SCOTT in the chair.

Sir WALTER SCOTT, after the usual toasts to the King and the Royal Family, requested, that gentlemen would fill a bumper as full as it would hold, while he would say only a few words. He was in the habit of hearing speeches, and he knew the feeling with which long ones were regarded. He was sure that it was perfectly unnecessary for him to enter into any vindication of the dramatic art, which they had come here to support. This, however, he considered to be the proper time and proper occasion for him to say a few words on that love of representation which was an innate feeling in human nature. It was the first amusement that the child had--it grew greater as he grew up; and, even in the decline of life, nothing amused so much as when a common tale is well told. The first thing a child does is to ape his schoolmaster, by flogging a chair. It was an enjoyment natural to humanity. It was implanted in our very nature, to take pleasure from such representations, at proper times, and on proper occasions. In all ages the theatrical art had kept pace with the improvement of mankind, and with the progress of letters and the fine arts. As he had advanced from the ruder stages of society, the love of dramatic representations had increased, and all works of this nature had been improved in character and in structure. They had only to turn their eyes to the history of ancient Greece, although he did not pretend to be very deeply versed in ancient history. Its first tragic poet commanded a body of troops at Marathon. The second and next, were men who shook Athens with their discourses, as their theatrical works shock the theatre itself. If they turned to France, in the time of Louis XIV., that era in the classical history of that country, they would find that it was referred to by all Frenchmen as the golden age of the drama there. And also in England, in the time of queen Elizabeth, the drama began to mingle deeply and wisely in the general politics of Europe, not only not receiving laws from others, but giving laws to the world, and vindicating the rights of mankind. (Cheers.) There had been various times when the dramatic art subsequently fell into disrepute. Its professors had been stigmatized: and laws had been passed against them, less dishonourable to them than to the statesmen by whom they were proposed, and to the legislators by whom they were passed. What were the times in which these laws were passed? Was it not when virtue was seldom inculcated as a moral duty, that we were required to relinquish the most rational of all our amusements, when the clergy were enjoined celibacy, and when the laity were denied the right to read their Bibles? He thought that it must have been from a notion of penance that they erected the drama into an ideal place of profaneness, and the tent of sin. He did not mean to dispute, that there were many excellent persons who thought differently from him, and they were entitled to assume that they were not guilty of any hypocrisy in doing so. He gave them full credit for their tender consciences, in making these objections, which did not appear to him relevant to those persons, if they were what they usurped themselves to be; and if they were persons of worth and piety, he should crave the liberty to tell them, that the first part of their duty was charity, and that if they did not choose to go to the theatre, they at least could not deny that they might give away, from their superfluity, what was required for the relief of the sick, the support of the aged, and the comfort of the afflicted. These were duties enjoined by our religion itself. (Loud cheers.) The performers were in a particular manner entitled to the support or regard, when in old age or distress, of those who had partaken of the amusements of those places which they rendered an ornament to society. Their art was of a peculiarly delicate and precarious nature. They had to serve a long apprenticeship. It was very long before even the first-rate geniuses could acquire the mechanical knowledge of the stage business. They must languish long in obscurity before they could avail themselves of their natural talents; and after that, they had but a short space of time, during which they were fortunate if they could provide the means of comfort in the decline of life. That came late, and lasted but a short time; after which they were left dependent. Their limbs failed, their teeth were loosened, their voice was lost, and they were left, after giving happiness to others, in a most disconsolate state. The public were liberal and generous to those deserving their protection. It was a sad thing to be dependant on the favour, or, he might say, in plain terms, on the caprice of the public; and this more particularly for a class of persons of whom extreme prudence was not the character. There might be instances of opportunities being neglected; but let them tax themselves, and consider the opportunities they had neglected, and the sums of money they had wasted; let every gentleman look into his own bosom, and say whether these were circumstances which would soften his own feeling, were he to be plunged into distress. He put it to every generous bosom--to every better feeling--to say what consolation was it to old age to be told that you might have made provision at a time which had been neglected--(loud cheers)--and to find it objected, that if you had pleased you might have been wealthy. He had hitherto been speaking of what, in theatrical language, was called “stars,” but they were sometimes fallen ones. There were another class of sufferers naturally and necessarily connected with the theatre, without whom it was impossible to go on. The sailors had a saying, “every man cannot be a boatswain.” If there must be persons to act Hamlet, there must also be people to act Laertes, the King, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern, otherwise a drama cannot go on. If even Garrick himself were to rise from the dead, he could not act Hamlet alone. There must be generals, colonels, commanding officers, and subalterns; but what were the private soldiers to do? Many had mistaken their own talents, and had been driven in early youth to try the stage, to which they were not competent. He would know what to say to the poet and to the artist. He would say that it was foolish, and he would recommend to the poet to become a scribe, and the artist to paint sign-posts (Loud laughter.) But he could not send the player adrift; for if he could not play Hamlet, he must play Guildenstern. Where there were many labourers, wages must be low, and no man in such a situation could decently support a wife and family, and save something of his income for old age. What was this man to do in latter life? Were they to cast him off like an old hinge, or a piece of useless machinery, which had done its work? To a person who had contributed to our amusement, that would be unkind, ungrateful, and unchristian. His wants were not of his own making, but arose from the natural sources of sickness and old age. It could not be denied that there was one class of sufferers to whom no imprudence could be ascribed, except on first entering on the profession. After putting his hand to the dramatic plough, he could not draw back, but must continue at it, and toil, till death released him; or charity, by its milder assistance, stepped in to render that want more tolerable. He had little more to say, except that he sincerely hoped that the collection to-day, from the number of respectable gentlemen present, would meet the views entertained by the patrons. He hoped it would do so. They should not be disheartened. Though they could not do a great deal, they might do something. They had this consolation, that every thing they parted with from their superfluity would do some good. They would sleep the better themselves when they had been the means of giving sleep to others. It was ungrateful and unkind that those who had sacrificed their youth to our amusement should not receive the reward due to them, but should be reduced to hard fare in their old age. They could not think of poor Falstaff going to bed without his cup of sack, or Macbeth fed on bones as marrowless as those of Banquo. (Loud cheers and laughter.) As he believed that they were all as fond of the dramatic art as he was in his younger days, he would propose that they should drink “The Theatrical Fund,” with three times three.

Mr. MACKAY rose on behalf of his brethren, to return their thanks for the toast just drank.

Lord MEADOWBANK begged to bear testimony to the anxiety which they all felt for the interests of the institution which it was for this day’s meeting to establish. For himself, he was quite surprised to find his humble name associated with so many others, more distinguished, as a patron of the institution. But he happened to hold a high and important public station in the country. It was matter of regret that he had so little the means in his power of being of service; yet it would afford him at all times the greatest pleasure to give assistance. As a testimony of the feelings with which he now rose, he begged to propose a health, which he was sure, in an assembly of Scotsmen, would be received, not with an ordinary feeling of delight, but with rapture and enthusiasm. He knew that it would be painful to his feelings if he were to speak of him in the terms which his heart prompted; and that he had sheltered himself under his native modesty from the applause which he deserved. But it was gratifying at last to know that these clouds were now dispelled, and that the “great unknown”--“the mighty Magician”--(here the room literally rung with applauses for some minutes)--the Minstrel of our country, who had conjured up, not the phantoms of departed ages, but realities, now stood revealed before the eyes and affections of his country. In his presence it would ill become him, as it would be displeasing to that distinguished person, to say, if he were able, what every man must feel, who recollected the enjoyment he had had from the great efforts of his mind and genius. It had been left for him, by his writings, to give his country an imperishable name. He had done more for that country, by illuminating its annals, by illustrating the deeds of its warriors and statesmen, than any man that ever existed, or was produced, within its territory. He had opened up the peculiar beauties of his native land to the eyes of foreigners. He had exhibited the deeds of those patriots and statesmen to whom we owed the freedom we now enjoyed. He would give “The health of Sir Walter Scott.”

This toast was drank with enthusiastic cheering.

Sir WALTER SCOTT certainly did not think, that, in coming there that day, he would have the task of acknowledging, before 300 gentlemen, a secret which, considering that it was communicated to more than 20 people, was remarkably well kept. He was now before the bar of his country, and might be understood to be on trial before lord Meadowbank, as an offender; yet he was sure that every impartial jury would bring in a verdict of “not proven.” He did not now think it necessary to enter into reasons for his long silence. Perhaps he might have acted from caprice. He had now to say, however, that the merits of these works, if they had any, and their faults, were entirely imputable to himself. (Long and loud cheering.) He was afraid to think on what he had done. “Look on’t again I dare not.” He had thus far unbosomed himself, and he knew that it would be reported to the public. He meant, when he said that he was the author, that he was the total and undivided author. With the exception of quotations, there was not a single word that was not derived from himself, or suggested in the course of his reading. The wand was now broken and the rod buried. They would allow him further to say, with Prospero, “Your breath it is that has filled my sails,” and to crave one single toast in the capacity of the author of those novels, and he would dedicate a bumper to the health of one who had represented some of those characters, of which he had endeavoured to give the skeleton, with a degree of liveliness which rendered him grateful. He would propose the health of his friend Bailie Nicol Jarvie; (loud applause;) and he was sure that, when the author of Waverley and Rob Roy drank to Nicol Jarvie, it would be received with that degree of applause to which that gentleman had always been accustomed, and that they would take care that, on the present occasion, it should be prodigious! (Long and vehement applause.)

Mr. MACKAY, who spoke with great humour in the character of Bailie Jarvie.--“My conscience! My worthy father, the Deacon, could not have believed that his son could hae had sic a compliment paid to him by the Great Unknown.”

Sir WALTER SCOTT.--“Not unknown now, Mr. Bailie.”

After this avowal, numerous toasts were duly honoured; and on the proposal of “the health of Mrs. Siddons, senior, the most distinguished ornament of the stage,” Sir WALTER SCOTT said, that if any thing could reconcile him to old age, it was the reflection that he had seen the rising as well as the setting sun of Mrs. Siddons. He remembered well their breakfasting near to the theatre--waiting the whole day--the crushing at the doors at six o’clock--and their going in and counting their fingers till seven o’clock. But the very first step--the very first word which she uttered, was sufficient to overpay him for all his labours. The house was literally electrified; and it was only from witnessing the effects of her genius, that he could guess to what a pitch theatrical excellence could be carried. Those young fellows who had only seen the setting sun of this distinguished performer, beautiful and serene as that was, must give the old fellows who had seen its rise leave to hold their heads a little higher.

Sir WALTER SCOTT subsequently gave “Scotland, the Land of Cakes.” He would give every river, every loch, every hill, from Tweed to Johnnie Groat’s house--every lass in her cottage, and countess in her castle; and may her sons stand by her, as their fathers did before them, and he who would not drink a bumper to his toast, may he never drink whiskey more.

Mr. H. G. BELL proposed the health of “James Sheridan Knowles.”

Sir WALTER SCOTT.--Gentlemen, I crave a bumper all over. The last toast reminds me of a neglect of duty. Unaccustomed to a public duty of this kind, errors in conducting the ceremonial of it may be excused, and omissions pardoned. Perhaps I have made one or two omissions in the course of the evening, for which I trust you will grant me your pardon and indulgence. One thing in particular I have omitted, and I would now wish to make amends for it by a libation of reverence and respect to the memory of Shakspeare. He was a man of universal genius, and from a period soon after his own era to the present day, he has been universally idolized. When I come to his honoured name, I am like the sick man who hung up his crutches at the shrine, and was obliged to confess that he did not walk better than before. It is indeed difficult, gentlemen, to compare him to any other individual. The only one to whom I can at all compare him, is the wonderful Arabian dervise, who dived into the body of each, and in that way became familiar with the thoughts and secrets of their hearts. He was a man of obscure origin, and as a player, limited in his acquirements; but he was born evidently with a universal genius. His eyes glanced at all the varied aspects of life, and his fancy portrayed with equal talents the king on the throne, and the clown who crackled his chestnuts at a Christmas fire. Whatever note he took, he struck it just and true, and awakened a corresponding chord in our own bosoms. Gentlemen, I propose “The memory of William Shakspeare.”

Glee--“Lightly tread his hallowed ground.”

Sir WALTER rose after the glee, and begged to propose as a toast the health of a lady whose living merits were not a little honourable to Scotland. This toast (said he) is also flattering to the national vanity of a Scotchman, as the lady whom I intend to propose is a native of this country. From the public her works have met with the most favourable reception. One piece of hers, in particular, was often acted here of late years, and gave pleasure of no mean kind to many brilliant and fashionable audiences. In her private character, she (he begged leave to say) was as remarkable as in a public sense she was for her genius. In short, he would, in one word, name--“Joanna Baillie.”

Towards the close of the evening, Sir WALTER observed:--There is one who ought to be remembered on this occasion. He is indeed well entitled to our great recollection--one, in short, to whom the drama in this city owes much. He succeeded, not without trouble, and perhaps at some considerable sacrifice in establishing a theatre. The younger part of the company may not recollect the theatre to which I allude; but there are some who with me may remember, by name, the theatre in Carrubber’s-close. There Allan Ramsay established his little theatre. His own pastoral was not fit for the stage, but it has its own admirers in those who love the Doric language in which it is written; and it is not without merits of a very peculiar kind. But, laying aside all considerations of his literary merit, Allan was a good, jovial, honest fellow, who could crack a bottle with the best. “The memory of Allan Ramsay.”

Mr. P. ROBERTSON.--I feel that I am about to tread on ticklish ground. The talk is of a new theatre, and a bill may be presented for its erection, saving always, and provided the expenses be defrayed and carried through, provided always it be not opposed. Bereford-park, or some such place, might be selected, provided always due notice was given, and so we might have a playhouse, as it were, by possibility.

Sir WALTER SCOTT.--Wherever the new theatre is built, I hope it will not be large. There are two errors which we commonly commit--the one arising from our pride, the other from our poverty. If there are twelve plans, it is odds but the largest, without any regard to comfort, or an eye to the probable expense, is adopted. There was the college projected on this scale, and undertaken in the same manner, and who shall see the end of it? It has been building all my life, and may probably last during the lives of my children, and my children’s children. Let it not be said when we commence a new theatre, as was said on the occasion of laying the foundation-stone of a certain building, “Behold the endless work begun.” Play-going folks should attend somewhat to convenience. The new theatre should, in the first place, be such as may be finished in eighteen months or two years; and, in the second place, it should be one in which we can hear our old friends with comfort. It is better that a theatre should be crowded now and then, than to have a large theatre, with benches continually empty, to the discouragement of the actors, and the discomfort of the spectators.

Sir WALTER immediately afterwards said, “Gentlemen, it is now wearing late, and I shall request permission to retire. Like Partridge, I may say, ‘non sum qualis eram.’ At my time of day, I can agree with Lord Ogleby, as to the rheumatism, and say, ‘There’s a twinge.’ I hope, therefore, you will excuse me for leaving the chair.”--(The worthy baronet then retired amidst long, loud, and rapturous cheering.)

* * * * *

These extracts[80] contain the substance of Sir Walter Scott’s speeches on this memorable occasion. His allusions to actors and the drama are, of themselves, important; but his avowal of himself as the author of the “Waverley Novels,” is a fact of peculiar interest in literary history. Particular circumstances, however, had made known the “Great Unknown” to several persons in London some months previously, though the fact had not by any means been generally circulated.

[80] From the report of the “Edinburgh Evening Courant” of Saturday, 24th Feb. 1827; in “The Times” of the Tuesday following.

* * * * *

~Hot Meals.~

POWELL, THE FIRE-EATER.

“Oh! for a muse of fire!”

One fire burns out another burning. The jack-puddings who swallow flame at “the only booth” in every fair, have extinguished remembrance of Powell the fire-eater--a man so famous in his own day, that his name still lives. Though no journal records the time of his death, no line eulogizes his memory, no stone marks his burial-place, there are two articles written during his lifetime, which, being noticed here, may “help his fame along” a little further. Of the first, by a correspondent of Sylvanus Urban, the following is a sufficient abstract.

Ashbourn, Derbyshire, Jan. 20, 1755.

Last spring, Mr. Powell, the famous fire-eater, did us the honour of a visit at this town; and, as he set forth in his printed bills, that he had shown away not only before most of the crowned heads in Europe, but even before the Royal Society of London, and was dignified with a curious and very ample silver medal, which, he said, was bestowed on him by that learned body, as a testimony of their approbation, for eating what nobody else could eat, I was prevailed upon, at the importunity of some friends, to go and see a sight, that so many great kings and philosophers had not thought below their notice. And, I confess, though neither a superstitious nor an incurious man, I was not a little astonished at his wonderful performances in the fire-eating way.

After many restless days and nights, and the profoundest researches into the nature of things, I almost despaired of accounting for the strange phenomenon of a human and perishable creature eating red hot coals, taken indiscriminately out of a large fire, broiling steaks upon his tongue, swallowing huge draughts of liquid fire as greedily as a country squire does roast beef and strong beer. Thought I to myself, how can that element, which we are told is ultimately to devour all things, be devoured itself, as familiar diet, by a mortal man?--Here I stuck, and here I might have stuck, if I had not met with the following anecdote by M. Panthot, doctor of physic and member of the college of Lyons:--

“The secret of fire-eating was made public by a servant to one Richardson, an Englishman, who showed it in France about the year 1667, and was the first performer of the kind that ever appeared in Europe. It consists only in rubbing the hands, and thoroughly washing the mouth, lips, tongue, teeth, and other parts that are to touch the fire, with pure spirit of sulphur. This burns and cauterizes the epidermis, or upper skin, till it becomes as hard as thick leather, and every time the experiment is tried it becomes still easier than before. But if, after it has been very often repeated, the upper skin should grow so callous and horny as to become troublesome, washing the parts affected with very warm water, or hot wine, will bring away all the shrivelled or parched epidermis. The flesh, however, will continue tender and unfit for such business till it has been frequently rubbed over again with the same spirit.

“This preparative may be rendered much stronger and more efficacious, by mixing equal quantities of spirit of sulphur, sal ammoniac, essence of rosemary, and juice of onions.

“The bad effects which frequently swallowing red-hot coals, melted sealing wax, rosin, brimstone, and other calcined and inflammable matter, might have had upon his stomach, were prevented by drinking plentifully of warm water and oil, as soon as he left the company, till he had vomited all up again.”

My author further adds, that any person who is possessed of this secret, may safely walk over burning coals, or red-hot plough-shares; and he fortifies his assertion by the example of blacksmiths and forgemen, many of whom acquire such a degree of callosity, by often handling hot things, that they will carry a glowing bar of iron in their naked hands, without hurt.

Whether Mr. Powell will take it kindly of me thus to have published his secret, I cannot tell; but as he now begins to drop into years, has no children that I know of, and may die suddenly, or without making a will, I think it is a great pity so genteel an occupation should become one of the artes perditæ, as possibly it may, if proper care is not taken; and therefore hope, after this information, some true-hearted Englishman will take it up again for the honour of his country, when he reads in the newspapers, Yesterday died, much lamented, the famous Mr. Powell. He was the best, if not the only fire-eater in this world, and it is greatly to be feared his art is dead with him.

* * * * *

Notwithstanding the preceding disclosure of Powell’s “grand secret,” he continued to maintain his good name and reputation till after Dr. Johnson was pensioned, in the year 1762. We are assured of the fact by the internal evidence of the following article, preserved by a collector of odd things, who obtained it he knew not how:--

GENIUS UNREWARDED.

We have been lately honoured with the presence of the celebrated Mr. Powell, who, I suppose, must formerly have existed in a comet; and by one of those unforeseen accidents which sometimes happen to the most exalted characters, has dropped from its tail.

His common food is brimstone and fire, which he licks up as eagerly as a hungry peasant would a mess of pottage; he feeds on this extraordinary diet before princes and peers, to their infinite satisfaction; and such is his passion for this terrible element, that if he were to come hungry into your kitchen, while a sirloin was roasting, he would eat up the fire, and leave the beef.

It is somewhat surprising, that the friends of real merit have not yet promoted him, living, as we do, in an age favourable to men of genius: Mr. Johnson has been rewarded with a pension for writing, and Mr. Sheridan for speaking well; but Mr. Powell, who eats well, has not yet been noticed by any administration. Obliged to wander from place to place, instead of indulging, himself in private with his favourite dish, he is under the uncomfortable necessity of eating in public, and helping himself from the kitchen fire of some paltry alehouse in the country.

O tempora! O mores![81]

[81] Lounger’s Common Place Book

Vol. I.--11.

For the Table Book

This fair is held always on the second Thursday in March: it is a good one for cattle; and, in consequence of the great show, the inhabitants are obliged to shut up their windows; for the cattle and the drivers are stationed in all parts of the town, and few except the jobbers venture out during the time of selling.

From five to six o’clock the preceding evening, carts, chiefly belonging to Yorkshire clothiers, begin to arrive, and continue coming in until the morning, when, at about eight or nine, the cattle fair begins, and lasts till three in the afternoon. Previously to any article being sold, the fair is proclaimed in a manner depicted tolerably well in the preceding sketch. At ten, two individuals, named Matthew Horn and John Deighton, having furnished themselves with a fiddle and clarinet, walk through the different avenues of the town three times, playing, as they walk, chiefly “God save the King;” at the end of this, some verses are repeated, which I have not the pleasure of recollecting; but I well remember, that thereby the venders are authorized to commence selling. After it is reported through the different stalls that “they’ve walked the fair,” business usually commences in a very brisk manner.

Mat. Horn has the best cake booth in the fair, and takes a considerable deal more money than any “spice wife,” (as women are called who attend to these dainties.) Jack Deighton is a shoemaker, and a tolerably good musician. Coals are also brought for sale, which, with cattle, mainly constitute the morning fair.

At the close of the cattle fair, the town is swept clean, and lasses walk about with their “sweethearts,” and the fair puts on another appearance. “Cheap John’s here the day,” with his knives, combs, bracelets, &c. &c. The “great Tom Mathews,” with his gallanty show, generally contrives to pick up a pretty bit of money by his droll ways. Then “Here’s spice Harry, gingerbread, Harry--Harry--Harry!” from Richmond, with his five-and-twenty lumps of gingerbread for sixpence. Harry stands in a cart, with his boxes of “spice” beside him, attracting the general attention of the whole fair, (though he is seldomer here than at Brough-hill fair.) There are a few shows, viz. Scott’s sleight of hand, horse performances, &c. &c.; and, considering the size of the town, it has really a very merry-spent fair. At six o’clock dancing begins in nearly all the public-houses, and lasts the whole of “a merry neet.”

Jack Deighton mostly plays at the greatest dance, namely, at the Swan inn; and his companion, Horn, at one of the others; the dances are merely jigs, three reels, and four reels, and country dances, and no more than three sets can dance at a time. It is a matter of course to give the fiddler a penny or two-pence each dance; sometimes however another set slips in after the tune’s begun, and thus trick the player. By this time nearly all the stalls are cleared away, and the “merry neet” is the only place to resort to for amusement. The fiddle and clarinet are to be heard every where; and it is astonishing what money is taken by the fiddlers. Some of the “spice wives,” too, stop till the next morning, and go round with their cakes at intervals, which they often sell more of than before.

At this festival at Brough, the husbandmen have holiday, and many get so tipsy that they are frequently turned off from their masters. Several of the “spice wives” move away in the afternoon to Kirby Stephen, where there is a very large fair, better suited to their trade, for it commences on the day ensuing. Unfortunately, I was never present at the proclamation. From what I saw, I presume it is in consequence of a charter, and that these people offer their services that the fair-keepers may commence selling their articles sooner. I never heard of their being paid for their trouble. They are constantly attended by a crowd of people, who get on the carts and booths, and, at the end, set up a load “huzza!”

W. H. H.

* * * * *

THE TWELVE GEMS

OF THE TWELVE MONTHS.

For the Table Book.

It is a Polish superstition, that each month has a particular gem attached to it, which governs it, and is supposed to influence the destiny of persons born in that month; it is therefore customary among friends, and lovers particularly, to present each other, on their natal day, with some trinket containing their tutelary gem, accompanied with its appropriate wish; this kind fate, or perhaps kinder fancy, generally contrives to realize according to their expectations.

JANUARY.

Jacinth, or Garnet denotes constancy and fidelity in every engagement.

FEBRUARY.

Amethyst preserves mortals from strong passions, and ensures peace of mind.

MARCH.

Bloodstone denotes courage and secrecy in dangerous enterprises.

APRIL.

Sapphire, or Diamond denotes repentance and innocence.

MAY.

Emerald, successive love.

JUNE.

Agate ensures long life and health.

JULY.

Ruby, or Cornelian ensures the forgetfulness or cure of evils springing from friendship or love.

AUGUST.

Sardonix ensures conjugal felicity.

SEPTEMBER.

Chrysolite preserves from, or cures folly.

OCTOBER.

Aquamarine, or Opal denotes misfortune and hope.

NOVEMBER.

Topaz ensures fidelity and friendship.

DECEMBER.

Turquoise, or Malakite denotes the most brilliant success and happiness in every circumstance of life.

E. M. S.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. VIII.

[From the “Game at Chess,” a Comedy, by Thomas Middleton, 1624.]

Popish Priest to a great Court Lady, whom he hopes to make a Convert of.

Let me contemplate; With holy wonder season my access, And by degrees approach the sanctuary Of unmatch’d beauty, set in grace and goodness. Amongst the daughters of men I have not found A more Catholical aspect. That eye Doth promise single life, and meek obedience. Upon those lips (the sweet fresh buds of youth) The holy dew of prayer lies, like pearl Dropt from the opening eyelids of the morn Upon the bashful rose. How beauteously A gentle fast (not rigorously imposed) Would look upon that cheek; and how delightful The courteous physic of a tender penance, (Whose utmost cruelty should not exceed The first fear of a bride), to beat down frailty!

* * * * *

[From the “Virgin Widow,” a Comedy, 1649; the only production, in that kind, of Francis Quarles, Author of the Emblems.]

Song.

How blest are they that waste their weary hours In solemn groves and solitary bowers, Where neither eye nor ear Can see or hear The frantic mirth And false delights of frolic earth; Where they may sit, and pant, And breathe their pursy souls; Where neither grief consumes, nor griping want Afflicts, nor sullen care controuls. Away, false joys; ye murther where ye kiss! There is no heaven to that, no life to this.

* * * * *

[From “Adrasta,” a Tragi-comedy, by John Jones, 1635.]

Dirge.

Die, die, ah die! We all must die: ’Tis Fate’s decree; Then ask not why. When we were framed, the Fates consultedly Did make this law, that all things born should die. Yet Nature strove, And did deny We should be slaves To Destiny. At which, they heapt Such misery; That Nature’s self Did wish to die: And thank their goodness, that they would foresee To end our cares with such a mild decree.

Another.

Come, Lovers, bring your cares, Bring sigh-perfumed sweets; Bedew the grave with tears, Where Death with Virtue meets. Sigh for the hapless hour, That knit two hearts in one; And only gave Love power To die, when ’twas begun.

* * * * *

[From “Tancred and Gismund,” acted before the Court by the Gentlemen of the Inner Temple, 1591.]

A Messenger brings to Gismund a cup from the King her Father, enclosing the heart of her Lord, whom she had espoused without his sanction.

Mess. Thy father, O Queen, here in this cup hath sent The thing to joy and comfort thee withal, Which thou lovedst best: ev’n as thou wast content To comfort him with his best joy of all. Gis. I thank my father, and thee, gentle Squire; For this thy travail; take thou for thy pains This bracelet, and commend me to the King.

* * * * *

So, now is come the long-expected hour, The fatal hour I have so looked for. Now hath my father satisfied his thirst With guiltless blood, which he so coveted. What brings this cup? aye me, I thought no less; It is my Earl’s, my County’s pierced heart. Dear heart, too dearly hast thou bought my love. Extremely rated at too high a price. Ah my dear heart, sweet wast thou in thy life, But in thy death thou provest passing sweet. A fitter hearse than this of beaten gold Could not be lotted to so good a heart. My father therefore well provided thus To close and wrap thee up in massy gold And therewithal to send thee unto me, To whom of duty thou dost best belong. My father hath in all his life bewrayed A princely care and tender love to me, But this surpasseth, in his latter days To send me this mine own dear heart to me. Wert not thou mine, dear heart, whilst that my love Danced and play’d upon thy golden strings? Art thou not mine, dear heart, now that my love Is fled to heaven, and got him golden wings? Thou art mine own, and still mine own shall be, Therefore my father sendeth thee to me. Ah pleasant harbourer of my heart’s thought! Ah sweet delight, the quickener of my soul! Seven times accursed be the hand that wrought Thee this despite, to mangle thee so foul Yet in this wound I see my own true love, And in this wound thy magnanimity, And in this wound I see thy constancy. Go, gentle heart, go rest thee in thy tomb; Receive this token as thy last farewell. She kisseth it. Thy own true heart anon will follow thee, Which panting hasteth for thy company. Thus hast thou run, poor heart, thy mortal race, And rid thy life from fickle fortune’s snares, Thus hast thou lost this world and worldly cares, And of thy foe, to honour thee withal, Receiv’d a golden grave to thy desert. Nothing doth want to thy just funeral, But my salt tears to wash thy bloody wound; Which to the end thou mightst receive, behold, My father sends thee in this cup of gold: And thou shalt have them; though I was resolved To shed no tears; but with a cheerful face Once did I think to wet thy funeral Only with blood, and with no weeping eye. This done, my soul forthwith shall fly to thee; For therefore did my father send thee me.

Nearly a century after the date of this Drama, Dryden produced his admirable version of the same story from Boccacio. The speech here extracted may be compared with the corresponding passage in the Sigismonda and Guiscardo, with no disadvantage to the elder performance. It is quite as weighty, as pointed, and as passionate.

C. L.

* * * * *

~Necromancy.~

THE DEAN OF BADAJOS.

BY THE ABBE BLANCHET.

The dean of the cathedral of Badajos was more learned than all the doctors of Salamanca, Coimbra, and Alcala, united; he understood all languages, living and dead, and was perfect master of every science divine and human, except that, unfortunately, he had no knowledge of magic. He was inconsolable when he reflected on his ignorance in that sublime art, till he was told that a very able magician resided in the suburbs of Toledo, named don Torribio. He immediately saddled his mule, departed for Toledo, and alighted at the door of no very superb dwelling, the habitation of that great man.

“Most reverend magician,” said he, addressing himself to the sage, “I am the dean of Badajos. The learned men of Spain all allow me to be their superior; but I am come to request from you a much greater honour, that of becoming your pupil. Deign to initiate me in the mysteries of your art, and doubt not but you shall receive a grateful acknowledgment, suitable to the benefit conferred, and your own extraordinary merit.”

Don Torribio was not very polite, though he valued himself on being intimately acquainted with the highest company below. He told the dean he was welcome to seek elsewhere for a master; for that, for his part, he was weary of an occupation which produced nothing but compliments and promises, and that he should but dishonour the occult sciences by prostituting them to the ungrateful.

“To the ungrateful!” exclaimed the dean: “has then the great don Torribio met with persons who have proved ungrateful? And can he so far mistake me as to rank me with such monsters?” He then repeated all the maxims and apophthegms which he had read on the subject of gratitude, and every refined sentiment his memory could furnish. In short, he talked so well, that the conjuror, after having considered a moment, confessed he could refuse nothing to a man of such abilities, and so ready at pertinent quotations.

“Jacintha,” said don Torribio to his old woman, “lay down two partridges to the fire. I hope my friend the dean will do me the honour to sup with me to night.” At the same time he took him by the hand and led him into the cabinet; when here, he touched his forehead, uttering three mysterious words, which the reader will please to remember, “Ortobolan, Pistafrier, Onagriouf.” Then, without further preparation, he began to explain, with all possible perspicuity, the introductory elements of his profound science. The new disciple listened with an attention which scarcely permitted him to breathe; when, on a sudden, Jacintha entered, followed by a little old man in monstrous boots, and covered with mud up to the neck, who desired to speak with the dean on very important business. This was the postilion of his uncle, the bishop of Badajos, who had been sent express after him, and who had galloped without ceasing quite to Toledo, before he could overtake him. He came to bring him information that, some hours after his departure, his grace had been attacked by so violent an apoplexy that the most terrible consequences were to be apprehended. The dean heartily, that is inwardly, (so as to occasion no scandal,) execrated the disorder, the patient, and the courier, who had certainly all three chosen the most impertinent time possible. He dismissed the postilion, bidding him make haste back to Badajos, whither he would presently follow him; and instantly returned to his lesson, as if there were no such things as either uncles or apoplexies.

A few days afterwards the dean again received news from Badajos: but this was worth hearing. The principal chanter, and two old canons, came to inform him that his uncle, the right reverend bishop, had been taken to heaven to receive the reward of his piety; and the chapter, canonically assembled, had chosen him to fill the vacant bishopric, and humbly requested he would console, by his presence, the afflicted church of Badajos, now become his spiritual bride.

Don Torribio, who was present at this harangue, endeavoured to derive advantage from what he had learned; and taking aside the new bishop, after having paid him a well-turned compliment on his promotion, proceeded to inform him that he had a son, named Benjamin, possessed of much ingenuity, and good inclination, but in whom he had never perceived either taste or talent for the occult sciences. He had, therefore, he said, advised him to turn his thoughts towards the church, and he had now, he thanked heaven, the satisfaction to hear him commended as one of the most deserving divines among all the clergy of Toledo. He therefore took the liberty, most humbly, to request his grace to bestow on don Benjamin the deanery of Badajos, which he could not retain together with his bishopric.

“I am very unfortunate,” replied the prelate, apparently somewhat embarrassed; “you will, I hope, do me the justice to believe that nothing could give me so great a pleasure as to oblige you in every request; but the truth is, I have a cousin to whom I am heir, an old ecclesiastic, who is good for nothing but to be a dean, and if I do not bestow on him this benefice, I must embroil myself with my family, which would be far from agreeable. But,” continued he, in an affectionate manner, “will you not accompany me to Badajos? Can you be so cruel as to forsake me at a moment when it is in my power to be of service to you? Be persuaded, my honoured master, we will go together. Think of nothing but the improvement of your pupil, and leave me to provide for don Benjamin; nor doubt, but sooner or later, I will do more for him than you expect. A paltry deanery in the remotest part of Estremadura is not a benefice suitable to the son of such a man as yourself.”

The canon law would, no doubt, have construed the prelate’s offer into simony. The proposal however was accepted, nor was any scruple made by either of these two very intelligent persons. Don Torribio followed his illustrious pupil to Badajos, where he had an elegant apartment assigned him in the episcopal palace; and was treated with the utmost respect by the diocese as the favourite of his grace, and a kind of grand vicar. Under the tuition of so able a master the bishop of Badajos made a rapid progress in the occult sciences. At first he gave himself up to them, with an ardour which might appear excessive; but this intemperance grew by degrees more moderate, and he pursued them with so much prudence that his magical studies never interfered with the duties of his diocese. He was well convinced of the truth of a maxim, very important to be remembered by ecclesiastics, whether addicted to sorcery, or only philosophers and admirers of literature--that it is not sufficient to assist at learned nocturnal meetings, or adorn the mind with embellishments of human science, but that it is also the duty of divines to point out to others the way to heaven, and plant in the minds of their hearers, wholesome doctrine and Christian morality. Regulating his conduct by these commendable principles, this learned prelate was celebrated throughout Christendom for his merit and piety: and, “when he least expected such an honour,” was promoted to the archbishopric of Compostella. The people and clergy of Badajos lamented, as may be supposed, an event by which they were deprived of so worthy a pastor; and the canons of the cathedral, to testify their respect, unanimously conferred on him the honour of nominating his successor.

Don Torribio did not neglect so alluring an opportunity to provide for his son. He requested the bishopric of the new archbishop, and was refused with all imaginable politeness. He had, he said, the greatest veneration for his old master, and was both sorry and ashamed it was “not in his power” to grant a thing which appeared so very a trifle, but, in fact, don Ferdinand de Lara, constable of Castile, had asked the bishopric for his natural son; and though he had never seen that nobleman, he had, he said, some secret, important, and what was more, very ancient obligations to him. It was therefore an indispensable duty to prefer an old benefactor to a new one But don Torribio ought not to be discouraged at this proof of his justice; as he might learn by that, what he had to expect when his turn arrived, which should certainly be the first opportunity. This anecdote concerning the ancient obligations of the archbishop, the magician had the goodness to believe, and rejoiced, as much as he was able, that his interests were sacrificed to those of don Ferdinand.

Nothing was now thought of but preparations for their departure to Compostella, where they were to reside. These, however, were scarcely worth the trouble, considering the short time they were destined to remain there; for at the end of a few months one of the pope’s chamberlains arrived, who brought the archbishop a cardinal’s cap, with an epistle conceived in the most respectful terms, in which his holiness invited him to assist, by his counsel, in the government of the Christian world; permitting him at the same time to dispose of his mitre in favour of whom he pleased. Don Torribio was not at Compostella when the courier of the holy father arrived. He had been to see his son, who still continued a priest in a small parish at Toledo. But he presently returned, and was not put to the trouble of asking for the vacant archbishopric. The prelate ran to meet him with open arms, “My dear master,” said he, “I have two pieces of good news to relate at once. Your disciple is created a cardinal, and your son shall--shortly--be advanced to the same dignity. I had intended in the mean time to bestow upon him the archbishopric of Compostella, but, unfortunately for him, and for me, my mother, whom we left at Badajos, has, during your absence, written me a cruel letter, by which all my measures have been disconcerted. She will not be pacified unless I appoint for my successor the archdeacon of my former church, don Pablas de Salazar, her intimate friend and confessor. She tells me it will “occasion her death” if she should not be able to obtain preferment for her dear father in God. Shall I be the death of my mother?”

Don Torribio was not a person who could incite or urge his friend to be guilty of parricide, nor did he indulge himself in the least resentment against the mother of the prelate. To say the truth, however, this mother was a good kind of woman, nearly superannuated. She lived quietly with her cat and her maid servant, and scarcely knew the name of her confessor. Was it likely, then, that she had procured don Pablas his archbishopric? Was it not more than probable that he was indebted for it to a Gallician lady, his cousin, at once devout and handsome, in whose company his grace the archbishop had frequently been edified during his residence at Compostella? Be this as it may, don Torribio followed his eminence to Rome. Scarcely had he arrived at that city ere the pope died. The conclave met--all the voices of the sacred college were in favour of the Spanish cardinal. Behold him therefore pope.

Immediately after the ceremony of his exaltation, don Torribio, admitted to a secret audience, wept with joy while he kissed the feet of his dear pupil. He modestly represented his long and faithful services, reminded his holiness of those inviolable promises which he had renewed before he entered the conclave, and instead of demanding the vacant hat for don Benjamin, finished with most exemplary moderation by renouncing every ambitious hope. He and his son, he said, would both esteem themselves too happy if his holiness would bestow on them, together with his benediction, the smallest temporal benefice; such as an annuity for life, sufficient for the few wants of an ecclesiastic and a philosopher.

During this harangue the sovereign pontiff considered within himself how to dispose of his preceptor. He reflected he was no longer necessary; that he already knew as much of magic as was sufficient for a pope. After weighing every circumstance, his holiness concluded that don Torribio was not only an useless, but a troublesome pedant; and this point determined, he replied in the following words:

“We have learned, with concern, that under the pretext of cultivating the occult sciences, you maintain a horrible intercourse with the spirit of darkness and deceit; we therefore exhort you, as a father, to expiate your crime by a repentance proportionable to its enormity. Moreover, we enjoin you to depart from the territories of the church within three days, under penalty of being delivered over to the secular arm, and its merciless flames.”

Don Torribio, without being alarmed, immediately repeated the three mysterious words which the reader was desired to remember; and going to a window, cried out with all his force, “Jacintha, you need spit but one partridge; for my friend, the dean, will not sup here to-night.”

This was a thunderbolt to the imaginary pope. He immediately recovered from the trance, into which he had been thrown by the three mysterious words. He perceived that, instead of being in the vatican, he was still at Toledo, in the closet of don Torribio; and he saw, by the clock, it was not a complete hour since he entered that fatal cabinet, where he had been entertained by such pleasant dreams.

In that short time the dean of Badajos had imagined himself a magician, a bishop, a cardinal, and a pope; and he found at last that he was only a dupe and a knave. All was illusion, except the proofs he had given of his deceitful and evil heart. He instantly departed, without speaking a single word, and finding his mule where he had left her, returned to Badajos.

* * * * *

~Phrenology.~

For the Table Book.

“You look but on the outside of affairs.”

KING JOHN.

Oh! why do we wake from the alchymist’s dream To relapse to the visions of Doctor Spurzheim? And why from the heights of philosophy fall, For the profitless plans of Phrenology Gall? To what do they tend? What interest befriend? By disclosing all vices, we burn away shame, And virtuous endeavour Is fruitless for ever, If it lose the reward that self-teaching may claim.

On their skulls let the cold-blooded theorists seek Indications of soul, which we read on the cheek; In the glance--in the smile--in the bend of the brow We dare not tell when, and we cannot tell how. More pleasing our task, No precepts we ask; ’Tis the tact, ’tis the instinct, kind Nature has lent, For the guide and direction of sympathy meant. And altho’ in our cause no learn’d lecturer proses, We reach the same end, thro’ a path strew’d with roses. ’Twixt the head and the hand, be the contact allow’d, Of the road thro’ the eye to the heart we are proud. When we feel like the brutes, like the brutes we may show it, But no lumps on the head mark the artist or poet. The gradations of genius you never can find, Since no matter can mark the refinements of mind. ’Tis the coarser perceptions alone that you trace, But what swells in the heart must be read in the face. That index of feeling, that key to the soul, No art can disguise, no reserve can control. ’Tis the Pharos of love, tost on oceans of doubt, ’Tis the Beal-fire of rage--when good sense puts about. As the passions may paint it--a heaven or a hell. And ’tis always a study--not model as well.

* * * * *

TO THE RHONE

For the Table Book.

Thou art like our existence, and thy waves, Illustrious river! seem the very type Of those events which drive us to our graves, Or rudely place us in misfortune’s gripe! Thou art an emblem of our changeful state, Smooth when the summer magnifies thy charms. But rough and cheerless when the winds create Rebellion, and remorseless winter arms The elements with ruin! In thy course The ups and downs of fortune we may trace-- One wave submitting to another’s force, The boldest always foremost in the race: And thus it is with life--sometimes its calm Is pregnant with enjoyment’s sweetest balm; At other times, its tempests drive us down The steep of desolation, while the frown Of malice haunts us, till the friendlier tomb Protects the victim she would fain consume!

B. W. R.

Upper Park Terrace.

* * * * *

ADVICE.

Would a man wish to offend his friends?--let him give them advice.

Would a lover know the surest method by which to lose his mistress?--let him give her advice.

Would a courtier terminate his sovereign’s partiality?--let him offer advice.

In short, are we desirous to be universally hated, avoided, and despised, the means are always in our power.--We have but to advise, and the consequences are infallible.

The friendship of two young ladies though apparently founded on the rock of eternal attachment, terminated in the following manner: “My dearest girl, I do not think your figure well suited for dancing; and, as a sincere friend of yours, I advise you to refrain from it in future.” The other naturally affected by such a mark of sincerity, replied, “I feel very much obliged to you, my dear, for your advice; this proof of your friendship demands some return: I would sincerely recommend you to relinquish your singing, as some of your upper notes resemble the melodious squeaking of the feline race.”

The advice of neither was followed--the one continued to sing, and the other to dance--and they never met but as enemies.

* * * * *

For the Table Book.

Tommy Sly, whose portrait is above, is a well-known eccentric character in the city of Durham, where he has been a resident in the poor-house for a number of years. We know not whether his parents were rich or poor, where he was born, or how he spent his early years--all is alike “a mystery;” and all that can be said of him is, that he is “daft.” Exactly in appearance as he is represented in the engraving,--he dresses in a coat of many colours, attends the neighbouring villages with spice, sometimes parades the streets of Durham with “pipe-clay for the lasses,” and on “gala days” wanders up and down with a cockade in his hat, beating the city drum, which is good-naturedly lent him by the corporation. Tommy, as worthless and insignificant as he seems, is nevertheless “put out to use:” his name has often served as a signature to satirical effusions; and at election times he has been occasionally employed by the Whigs to take the distinguished lead of some grand Tory procession, and thereby render it ridiculous; and by way of retaliation, he has been hired by the Tories to do the same kind office for the Whigs. He is easily bought or sold, for he will do any thing for a few halfpence. To sum up Tommy’s character, we may say with truth, that he is a harmless and inoffensive man; and if the reader of this brief sketch should ever happen to be in Durham, and have a few halfpence to spare, he cannot bestow his charity better than by giving it to the “Custos Rotulorum” of the place--as Mr. Humble once ludicrously called him--poor TOMMY SLY.

EX DUNELMENSIS.

* * * * *

~Topography.~

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

BURIAL FEES.

The following particulars from a paper before me, in the hand-writing of Mr. Gell, were addressed to his “personal representative” for instruction, in his absence, during a temporary retirement from official duty in August, 1810.

FEES

In the Cloisters £19 6 0

If a grave-stone more £4 4 0

In the Abbey 54 18 0

If a grave-stone more 7 7 0

Peers, both in the Cloisters and Abbey, the degree of rank making a difference, Mr. Catling had perhaps write to Mr. Gell, at post-office, Brighton, telling the party that it will be under £150. They might, therefore, leave that sum, or engage to pay Mr. Gell.

Mr. Glanvill can tell about the decorations.

Penalty for burying in linen 2 10 0

Always take full particulars of age and death.

* * * * *

The abbey-church of Westminster may be safely pronounced the most interesting ecclesiastical structure in this kingdom. Considered as a building, its architecture, rich in the varieties of successive ages, and marked by some of the most prominent beauties and peculiarities of the pointed style, affords an extensive field of gratification to the artist and the antiquary. Rising in solemn magnificence amidst the palaces and dignified structures connected with the seat of imperial government, it forms a distinguishing feature in the metropolis of England. Its history, as connected with a great monastic establishment, immediately under the notice of our ancient monarchs, and much favoured by their patronage, abounds in important and curious particulars.

But this edifice has still a stronger claim to notice--it has been adopted as a national structure, and held forward as an object of national pride. Whilst contemplating these venerable walls, or exploring the long aisles and enriched chapels, the interest is not confined to the customary recollections of sacerdotal pomp: ceremonies of more impressive interest, and of the greatest public importance, claim a priority of attention. The grandeur of architectural display in this building is viewed with additional reverence, when we remember that the same magnificence of effect has imparted increased solemnity to the coronation of our kings, from the era of the Norman conquest.

At a very early period, this abbey-church was selected as a place of burial for the English monarchs; and the antiquary and the student of history view their monuments as melancholy, but most estimable sources of intelligence and delight. In the vicinity of the ashes of royalty, a grateful and judicious nation has placed the remains of such of her sons as have been most eminent for patriotic worth, for valour, or for talent; and sculptors, almost from the earliest period in which their art was exercised by natives of England, down to the present time, have here exerted their best efforts, in commemoration of those thus celebrated for virtue, for energy, or for intellectual power.[82]

[82] Mr. Brayley; in Neale’s Hist. and Antiq. of Westminster Abbey.

* * * * *

~St. David’s Day.~

THE LEEK.

Written by WILLIAM LEATHART, Llywydd.

Sung at the Second Anniversary of the Society of UNDEB CYMRY, St. David’s Day, 1825.

AIR--Pen Rhaw.

I.

If bards tell true, and hist’ry’s page Is right,--why, then, I would engage To tell you all about the age, When Cæsar used to speak; When dandy Britons painted,--were Dress’d in the skin of wolf or bear, Or in their own, if none were there, Before they wore THE LEEK. Ere Alfred hung in the highway, His chains of gold by night or day; And never had them stol’n away, His subjects were so meek. When wolves they danc’d o’er field and fen; When austere Druids roasted men;-- But that was only now and then, Ere Welshmen wore THE LEEK.

II.

Like all good things--this could not last, And Saxon gents, as friends, were ask’d, Our Pictish foes to drive them past The wall:--then home to seek, Instead of home, the cunning chaps Resolv’d to stop and dish the APs, Now here they are, and in their caps To day they wear THE LEEK. Yet tho’ our dads, they tumbled out, And put each other to the rout, We sons will push the bowl about;-- We’re here for fun or freak. Let nought but joy within us dwell; Let mirth and glee each bosom swell; And bards, in days to come, shall tell, How Welshmen love THE LEEK.

* * * * *

THE WELSH HARP.

Mr. Leathart is the author of “Welsh Pennillion, with Translations into English, adapted for singing to the Harp,” an eighteenpenny pocket-book of words of ancient and modern melodies in Welsh and English, with a spirited motto from Mr. Leigh Hunt.--“The Ancient Britons had in them the seeds of a great nation even in our modern sense of the word. They had courage, they had reflection, they had imagination. Power at last made a vassal of their prince. There were writers in those times, harpers, and bards, who made the instinct of that brute faculty turn cruel out of fear. They bequeathed to their countrymen the glory of their memories; they and time together have consecrated their native hills, so as they never before were consecrated.”

According to the prefatory dissertation of Mr. Leathart’s pleasant little manual, “Pennillion singing” is the most social relic of ancient minstrelsy in existence. It originated when bardism nourished in this island; when the object of its members was to instil moral maxims through the medium of poetry, and the harp was then, as it still is, the instrument to which they chanted. There is evidence of this use of the harp in Cæsar and other Latin writers. The bards were priest and poet; the harp was their inseparable attribute, and skill in playing on it an indispensable qualification. A knowledge of this instrument was necessary, in order to establish a claim to the title of gentleman; it occupied a place in every mansion; and every harper was entitled to valuable privileges. A “Pencerdd,” or chief of song, and a “Bardd Teulu,” or domestic bard, were among the necessary appendages to the king’s court. The former held his lands free, was stationed by the side of the “judge of the palace,” and lodged with the heir presumptive. He was entitled to a fee on the tuition of all minstrels, and to a maiden fee on the marriage of a minstrel’s daughter. The fine for insulting him was six cows and eighty pence. The domestic bard also held his land free; he had a harp from the king, which he was enjoined never to part with; a gold ring from the queen, and a beast out of every spoil. In the palace he sang immediately after the chief of song, and in fight at the front of the battle. It is still customary for our kings to maintain a Welsh minstrel.

One of the greatest encouragers of music was Gruffydd ap Cynan, a sovereign of Wales, who, in the year 1100, summoned a grand congress to revise the laws of minstrelsy, and remedy any abuse that might have crept in. In order that it should be complete, the most celebrated harpers in Ireland were invited to assist, and the result was the establishing the twenty-four canons of music; the MS. of which is in the library of the Welsh school, in Gray’s Inn-lane. It comprises several tunes not now extant, or rather that cannot be properly deciphered, and a few that are well known at the present day. A tune is likewise there to be found, which a note informs us was usually played before king Arthur, when the salt was laid upon the table; it is called “Gosteg yr Halen,” or the Prelude of the Salt.

The regulations laid down in the above MS. are curious. A minstrel having entered a place of festivity was not allowed to depart without leave, or to rove about at any time, under the penalty of losing his fees. If he became intoxicated and committed any mischievous trick, he was fined, imprisoned, and divested of his fees for seven years. Only one could attend a person worth ten pounds per annum, or two a person worth twenty pounds per annum, and so forth. It likewise ordains the quantum of musical knowledge necessary for the taking up of the different degrees, for the obtaining of which three years seems to have been allowed.

The Welsh harp, or “Telyn,” consists of three distinct rows of strings, without pedals, and was, till the fifteenth century, strung with hair. The modern Welsh harp has two rows of strings and pedals.

Giraldus Cambrensis, in his Itinerary, speaking of the musical instruments of the Welsh, Irish, and Scotch, says, Wales uses the harp, “crwth,” and bag-pipes; Scotland the harp, “crwth,” and drum; Ireland the harp and drum only; and, of all, Wales only retains her own.

The “crwth” is upon the same principle as the violin; it has however six strings, four of which are played upon with a bow, the two outer being struck by the thumb as an accompaniment, or bass; its tone is a mellow tenor, but it is now seldom heard, the last celebrated player having died about forty years since, and with him, says the editor of the Cambrian Register, “most probably the true knowledge of producing its melodious powers.” From the player of this instrument is derived a name now common, viz. “Crowther” and “Crowder” (Crwthyr); it may be translated “fiddler,” and in this sense it is used by Butler in his Hudibras.

Within the last few years, the harp has undergone a variety of improvements, and it is now the most fashionable instrument; yet in Wales it retains its ancient form and triple strings; “it has its imperfections,” observes Mr. Parry, “yet it possesses one advantage, and that is its unisons,” which of course are lost when reduced to a single row.

There would be much persuasion necessary to induce “Cymru” to relinquish her old fashioned “Telyn,” so reluctant are a national people to admit of changes. When the violin superseded the “crwth,” they could not enjoy the improvement.

Pennillion chanting consists in singing stanzas, either attached or detached, of various lengths and metre, to any tune which the harper may play; for it is irregular, and in fact not allowable, for any particular one to be chosen. Two, three, or four bars having been played, the singer takes it up, and this is done according as the Pennill, or stanza, may suit; he must end precisely with the strain, he therefore commences in any part he may please. To the stranger it has the appearance of beginning in the middle of a line or verse, but this is not the case. Different tunes require a different number of verses to complete it; sometimes only one, sometimes four or six. It is then taken up by the next, and thus it proceeds through as many as choose to join in the pastime, twice round, and ending with the person that began.

These convivial harp meetings are generally conducted with great regularity, and are really social; all sing if they please, or all are silent. To some tunes there are a great number of singers, according to the ingenuity required in adapting Pennillion. Yet even this custom is on the decline.

In South Wales, the custom has been long lost; on its demise they encouraged song writing and singing, and they are still accounted the best (without the harp) in the principality. In North Wales song-singing was hardly known before the time of Huw Morus, in the reign of Charles I., nor is it now so prevalent as in the south.

In the year 1176, Rhys ap Gruffydd held a congress of bards and minstrels at Aberteifi, in which the North Welsh bards came off as victors in the poetical contest, and the South Welsh were adjudged to excel in the powers of harmony.

For the encouragement of the harp and Pennillion chanting, a number of institutions have lately been formed, and the liberal spirit with which they are conducted will do much towards the object; among the principal are the “Cymmrodorion,” or Cambrian Societies of Gwynedd, Powys, Dyfed, Gwent, and London; the “Gwyneddigion,” and “Canorion,” also in London. The former established so long since as 1771, and the “Undeb Cymry,” or United Welshmen, established in 1823, for the same purpose. In all the principal towns of Wales, societies having the same object in view have been formed, among which the “Brecon Minstrelsy Society” is particularly deserving of notice. The harp and Pennillion singing have at all times come in for their share of encomium by the poets, and are still the theme of many a sonnet in both languages.

From more than a hundred pieces in Mr. Leathart’s “Pennillion,” translations of a few pennills, or stanzas, are taken at random, as specimens of the prevailing sentiments.

The man who loves the sound of harp, Of song, and ode, and all that’s dear, Where angels hold their blest abode, Will cherish all that’s cherish’d there. But he who loves not tune nor strain, Nature to him no love has given, You’ll see him while his days remain, Hateful both to earth and heaven.

* * * * *

Fair is yon harp, and sweet the song, That strays its tuneful strings along, And would not such a minstrel too, This heart to sweetest music woo? Sweet is the bird’s melodious lay In summer morn upon the spray. But from my Gweno sweeter far, The notes of friendship after war.

* * * * *

Woe to him, whose every bliss Centers in the burthen’d bowl; Of all burthens none like this, Sin’s sad burthen on the soul; Tis of craft and lies the seeker, Murder, theft, and wantonness, Weakens strong men, makes weak weaker, Shrewd men foolish, foolish--less.

* * * * *

Ah! what avails this golden coat, Or all the warblings of my throat, While I in durance pine? Give me again what nature gave, ’Tis all I ask, ’tis all I crave, Thee, Liberty divine!

* * * * *

To love his language in its pride, To love his land--tho’ all deride, Is a Welshman’s ev’ry care, And love those customs, good and old, Practised by our fathers bold.

* * * * *

We travel, and each town we pass Gives manners new, which we admire, We leave them, then o’er ocean toss’d Thro’ rough or smooth, to pleasure nigher, Still one thought remains behind, ’Tis home, sweet home, our hearts desire.

* * * * *

Wild in the woodlands, blithe and free, Dear to the bird is liberty; Dear to the babe to be caress’d, And fondled on his nurse’s breast, Oh! could I but explain to thee How dear is Merion’s land to me.

* * * * *

Low, ye hills, in ocean lie. That hide fair Merion from mine eye, One distant view, oh! let me take, Ere my longing heart shall break.

* * * * *

Another dress will nature wear Before again I see my fair; The smiling fields will flowers bring, And on the trees the birds will sing; But still one thing unchang’d shall be, That is, dear love, my heart for thee.

The original Welsh of these and other translations, with several interesting particulars, especially the places of weekly harp-meetings and Pennillion-singing in London, may be found in Mr. Leathart’s agreeable compendium.

* * * * *

THE WINTER’S MORN.

Artist unseen! that dipt in frozen dew Hast on the glittering glass thy pencil laid, Ere from yon sun the transient visions fade, Swift let me trace the forms thy fancy drew! Thy towers and palaces of diamond hue, Rivers and lakes of lucid crystal made, And hung in air hoar trees of branching shade, That liquid pearl distil:--thy scenes renew, Whate’er old bards, or later fictions feign, Of secret grottos underneath the wave, Where nereids roof with spar the amber cave, Or bowers of bliss, where sport the fairy train, Who frequent by the moonlight wanderer seen Circle with radiant gems the dewy green.

SOTHEBY.

* * * * *

~Characters.~

MRS. AURELIA SPARR.

For the Table Book.

Mrs. Aurelia Sparr is a maiden lady, rather past fifty, but fresh and handsome for her age: she has a strong understanding, a retentive memory, a vast deal of acquired knowledge, and with all she is the most disagreeable woman breathing. At first she is amusing enough to spend an evening with, for she will tell you anecdotes of all your acquaintance, and season them with a degree of pleasantry, which is not wit, though something like it. But as a jest-book is the most tiresome reading in the world, so is a narrative companion the most wearisome society. What, in short, is conversation worth, if it be not an emanation from the heart as well as head; the result of sympathy and the aliment of esteem?

Mrs. Aurelia Sparr never sympathized with any body in her life: inexorable to weaknesses of every kind, more especially to those of a tender nature, she is for ever taxing enthusiasm with absurdity, and resolving the ebullition of vivacity into vanity, and the desire to show off. She is equally severe to timidity, which she for ever confounds with imbecility. We are told, that “Gentle dulness ever loved a joke.” Now Mrs. Aurelia Sparr is neither gentle nor dull; it would be a mercy to her hearers if she were either, or both: nevertheless, she chuckles with abundant glee over a good story, is by no means particular as to the admission of unpleasant images and likes it none the worse for being a little gross. But woe to the unlucky wight who ventures any glowing allusion to love and passionate affection in her hearing! Down come the fulminations of her wrath, and indecency--immorality--sensuality--&c. &c. &c.--are among the mildest of the epithets, or, to keep up the metaphor, (a metaphor, like an actor, should always come in more than once,) the bolts which the tempest of her displeasure hurls down upon its victim. The story of Paul and Virginia she looks upon as very improper, while the remembrance of some of the letters in Humphrey Clinker dimples her broad face with retrospective enjoyment.

If pronouns had been tangible things, Mrs. Aurelia Sparr would long ago have worn out the first person singular. Her sentences begin as regularly with “I,” as the town-crier’s address does with “O yes,” or as a French letter ends with “l’assurance des sentimens distingués.” While living with another lady in daily and inevitable intercourse, never was she known to say, “We shall see--we shall hear--we can go--we must read.” It was always “I, I, I.” In the illusion of her egotism, she once went so far as to make a verbal monopoly of the weather, and exclaimed, on seeing the rosy streaks in the evening sky, “I think I shall have a fine day to-morrow.” If you forget yourself so far, in the querulous loquacity of sickness, as to tell her of any ailment, as “My sore-throat is worse than ever to-night”--she does not rejoin, “What will you take?” or “Colds are always worse of an evening, it may be better to-morrow;” or propose flannel or gargle, or any other mode of alleviation, like an ordinary person; no! she flies back from you to herself with the velocity of a coiled-up spring suddenly let go; and says, “I had just such another sore-throat at Leicester ten years ago, I remember it was when I had taken down my chintz bed-curtains to have them washed and glazed.” Then comes a mammoth of an episode, huge, shapeless, and bare of all useful matter: telling all she said to the laundress, with the responses of the latter. You are not spared an item of the complete process: first, you are blinded with dust, then soaked in lye, then comes the wringing of your imagination and the calico, then the bitterness of the gall to refresh the colours; then you are extended on the mangle, and may fancy yourself at the court of king Procrustes, or in a rolling-press. All the while you are wondering how she means to get round to the matter in question, your sore-throat.--Not she! she cares no more for your sore-throat than the reviewers do for a book with the title of which they head an article; your complaint was the peg, and her discourse the voluminous mantle to be hung on it. Some people talk with others, and they are companions; others at their company, and they are declaimers or satirists; others to their friends, and they are conversationists or gossips, according as they talk of things or persons. Mrs. Aurelia Sparr talks neither to you, nor with you, nor at you. Listen attentively, or show your weariness by twenty devices of fidgetiness and preoccupation, it is all the same to Mrs. Aurelia Sparr. She talks spontaneously, from an abstract love of hearing her own voice; she can no more help talking, than a ball can help rolling down an inclined plane. She will quarrel with you at dinner, for she is extremely peevish and addicted to growling over her meals; and by no means so nice as to what comes out of her mouth as to what goes into it; and then, before you can fold your napkin, push back your chair and try to make good your escape, she begins to lay open the errors, failures, and weaknesses of her oldest and best friends to your cold-blooded inspection, with as little reserve as an old practitioner lecturing over a “subject.” Things that no degree of intimacy could justify her in imparting, she pours forth to a person whom she does not even treat as a friend; but talk she must, and she had no other topic at hand. Thus, at the end of a siege, guns are charged with all sorts of rubbish for lack of ammunition.

Mrs. Aurelia Sparr not only knows all the modern languages, but enough of the ancient to set up a parson, and every dialect of every county she has ever been in. If you ask her the name of any thing, she will give you a polyglot answer; you may have the satisfaction to know how the citizens of every town and the peasants of every province express themselves, on a matter you may never have occasion to name again. But I earnestly recommend you never to ask anything; it is better to go without hearing one thing you do want to hear, than to be constrained to hear fifty things that are no more to you than I to Hecuba--not half so much as Hecuba is to me. Mrs. Aurelia Sparr is not easy to deal with; she looks upon all politeness as affectation, and all affectation as perfidy: she palsies all the courtesies of life by a glum air of disbelief and dissatisfaction. When one sees nobody else, one forgets that such qualities as urbanity, grace, and benignity exist, and is really obliged to say civil things to one’s self, to keep one’s hand in. Mrs. Aurelia Sparr is more eminent as a chronicler than as a logician; some of her conclusions and deductions are not self-evident. For instance--she interprets a reasonable conformity to the dress and manners of persons of other countries, while sojourning among them, into “hating one’s own country.” Command of temper is “an odious, cold disposition.” Address, and dexterity in female works, what good ladies in England term notability, are deemed by her “frivolous vanity,” &c. &c. &c. She has learnt chemistry, and she distils vexation and bitterness from every person and every event--geometry, and she can never measure her deportment to circumstances--algebra, merely to multiply the crosses of all whose fate makes them parallel with her--navigation, and she does but tack from one absurdity to another, without making any way--mathematics, and she never calculates how much more agreeable a little good-nature would make her than all her learning--history, and that of her own heart is a blank--perspective, without ever learning to place self at the “vanishing point”--and all languages, without ever uttering in any one of them a single phrase that could make the eyes of the hearer glisten, or call a glow on the cheek of sympathy. Every body allows that Mrs. Aurelia Sparr is very clever--poor, arid praise, what is it worth?

N.

* * * * *

~Wine.~

EWART’S OLD PORT.

TO J. C----Y, ESQ.

ON RECEIVING FROM HIM A PRESENT OF A WINE-STRAINER.--1825.

This life, dear C----y,--who can doubt?-- Resembles much friend Ewart’s[83] wine; When first the ruby drops flow out, How beautiful, how clear they shine!

And thus awhile they keep their tint, So free from ev’n a shade,--that some Would smile, did you but dare to hint, That darker drops would ever come.

But soon, alas, the tide runs short;-- Each minute makes the sad truth plainer; Till Life, like Ewart’s crusty Port, When near its close, requires a strainer.

This, Friendship, can, alone, supply,-- Alone can teach the drops to pass, If not with all their rosiest dye, At least, unclouded, through the glass.

Nor, C----y, could a boon be mine, Of which this heart were fonder, vainer, Than thus, if Life be like old wine, To have thy friendship for its strainer!

E.

For many years the goodness of Mr. Ewart’s old Port has been duly appreciated by his private friends. The preceding verses, in The Times of Monday, (March 5, 1827,) have disclosed “the secret,” and now, probably, he will “blush to find it fame.” The knowledge of his “ruby drops” should be communicated to all who find it necessary to “use a little wine for their stomach’s sake, and their often infirmities.” Can the information be conveyed in more agreeable lines?

[83] A vender of capital old Port in Swallow-street.

* * * * *

~Beauty.~

A NATURAL COMPLIMENT.

As the late beautiful duchess of Devonshire was one day stepping out of her carriage, a dustman, who was accidentally standing by, and was about to regale himself with his accustomed whiff of tobacco, caught a glance of her countenance, and instantly exclaimed, “Love and bless you, my lady, let me light my pipe in your eyes!” It is said that the duchess was so delighted with this compliment, that she frequently afterwards checked the strain of adulation, which was constantly offered to her charms, by saying, “Oh! after the dustman’s compliment, all others are insipid.”

* * * * *

PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ.

BY SIR WILLIAM JONES.

Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight, And bid these arms thy neck infold; That rosy cheek, that lily hand, Would give thy poet more delight Than all Bocara’s vaunted gold, Than all the gems of Samarcand.

Boy! let yon liquid ruby flow, And bid thy pensive heart be glad, Whate’er the frowning zealots say:-- Tell them their Eden cannot show A stream so clear as Rocnabad, A bower so sweet as Mosellay.

O! when these fair, perfidious maids, Whose eyes our secret haunts infest, Their dear destructive charms display;-- Each glance my tender breast invades, And robs my wounded soul of rest; As Tartars seize their destin’d prey.

In vain with love our bosoms glow, Can all our tears, can all our sighs, New lustre to those charms impart? Can cheeks, where living roses blow, Where nature spreads her richest dyes, Require the borrow’d gloss of art?

Speak not of fate:--ah! change the theme, And talk of odours, talk of wine, Talk of the flowers that round us bloom:-- ’Tis all a cloud, ’tis all a dream: To love and joy thy thoughts confine, Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.

Beauty has such resistless power, That ev’n the chaste Egyptian dame Sigh’d for the blooming Hebrew boy; For her how fatal was the hour, When to the banks of Nilus came A youth so lovely and so coy!

But ah, sweet maid! my counsel hear,-- (Youth shall attend when those advise Whom long experience renders sage) While music charms the ravish’d ear; While sparkling cups delight our eyes, Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age.

What cruel answer have I heard! And yet, by heaven, I love thee still: Can aught be cruel from thy lip? Yet say, how fell that bitter word From lips which streams of sweetness fill, Which nought but drops of honey sip?

Go boldly forth, my simple lay, Whose accents flow with artless ease, Like orient pearls at random strung: Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say; But O! far sweeter, if they please, The nymph for whom these notes are sung.

* * * * *

“OUR LIVES AND PROPERTIES.”

BY MR. WILLIAM HUTTON, F. A. S. S.

If we survey this little world, vast in our idea, but small compared to immensity, we shall find it crusted over with property, fixed and movable. Upon this crusty world subsist animals of various kinds; one of which, something short of six feet, moves erect, seems the only one without a tail, and takes the lead in the command of this property. Fond of power, and conscious that possessions give it, he is ever attempting, by force, fraud, or laudable means, to arrive at both.

Fixed property bears a value according to its situation; 10,000 acres in a place like London, and its environs, would be an immense fortune, such as no man ever possessed; while 10,000, in some parts of the globe, though well covered with timber, would not be worth a shilling--no king to govern, no subject to submit, no market to exhibit property, no property to exhibit; instead of striving to get possession, he would, if cast on the spot, strive to get away. Thus assemblages of people mark a place with value.

Movable property is of two sorts; that which arises from the earth, with the assistance of man; and the productions of art, which wholly arise from his labour. A small degree of industry supplies the wants of nature, a little more furnishes the comforts of life, and a farther proportion affords the luxuries. A man, by labour first removes his own wants, and then, with the overplus of that labour, purchases the labour of another. Thus, by furnishing a hat for the barber, the hatter procures a wig for himself: the tailor, by making a coat for another, is enabled to buy cloth for his own. It follows, that the larger the number of people, the more likely to cultivate a spirit of industry; the greater that industry, the greater its produce; consequently, the more they supply the calls of others, the more lucrative will be the returns to themselves.

It may be asked, what is the meaning of the word rich? Some have termed it, a little more than a man has; others, as much as will content him; others again, the possession of a certain sum, not very small. Perhaps all are wrong. A man may be rich, possessed only of one hundred pounds; he may be poor, possessed of one hundred thousand. He alone is rich, whose income is more than he uses.

Industry, though excellent, will perform but half the work; she must be assisted by economy; without this, a ministerial fortune will be defective. These two qualities, separated from each other, like a knife from the handle, are of little use; but, like these, they become valuable when united. Economy without industry will barely appear in a whole coat; industry without economy will appear in rags. The first is detrimental to the community, by preventing the circulation of property; the last is detrimental to itself. It is a singular remark, that even industry is sometimes the way to poverty. Industry, like a new cast guinea, retains its sterling value; but, like that, it will not pass currently till it receives a sovereign stamp: economy is the stamp which gives it currency. I well knew a man who began business with 1500_l._ Industry seemed the end for which he was made, and in which he wore himself out. While he laboured from four in the morning till eight at night, in the making of gimlets, his family consumed twice his produce. Had he spent less time at the anvil, and more in teaching the lessons of frugality, he might have lived in credit. Thus the father was ruined by industry, and his children have, for many years, appeared on the parish books. Some people are more apt to get than to keep.

Though a man, by his labour, may treat himself with many things, yet he seldom grows rich. Riches are generally acquired by purchasing the labour of others. He who buys the labour of one hundred people, may acquire ten times as much as by his own.

What then has that capricious damsel, Fortune, to do in this chain of argument? Nothing. He who has capacity, attention, and economy, has a fortune within himself. She does not command him, he commands her.

Having explained the word riches, and pointed out the road to them, let us examine their use. They enable a man with great facility to shake off an old friend, once an equal; and forbid access to an inferior, except a toad-eater. Sometimes they add to his name, the pretty appendage of Right Honourable, Bart. or Esq. additions much coveted, which, should he happen to become an author, are an easy passport through the gates of fame. His very features seem to take a turn from his fortune, and a curious eye may easily read in his face, the word consequence. They change the tone of his voice from the submissive to the commanding, in which he well knows how to throw in a few graces. His style is convincing. Money is of singular efficacy; it clears his head, refines his sense, points his joke. The weight of his fortune adds weight to his argument. If, my dear reader, you have been a silent spectator at meetings for public business, or public dinners, you may have observed many a smart thing said unheeded, by the man without money; and many a paltry one echoed with applause, from the man with it. The room in silent attention hears one, while the other can scarcely hear himself. They direct a man to various ways of being carried who is too idle to carry himself; nay, they invert the order of things, for we often behold two men, who seem hungry, carry one who is full fed. They add refinement to his palate, prominence to his front, scarlet to his nose. They frequently ward off old age. The ancient rules of moderation being broken, luxury enters in all her pomp, followed by a group of diseases, with a physician in their train, and the rector in his. Phials, prayers, tears, and galley-pots, close the sad scene, and the individual has the honour to rot in state, before old age can advance. His place may be readily supplied with a joyful mourner.[84]

[84] History of Birmingham.

* * * * *

A MUSICAL CRASH.

The Rev. Mr. B----, when residing at Canterbury, was reckoned a good violoncello player; but he was not more distinguished for his expression on the instrument, than for the peculiar appearance of feature whilst playing it. In the midst of the adagios of Corelli or Avison, the muscles of his face sympathised with his fiddlestick, and kept reciprocal movement. His sight, being dim, obliged him often to snuff the candles; and, when he came to a bar’s rest, in lieu of snuffers, he generally employed his fingers in that office; and, lest he should offend the good housewife by this dirty trick, he used to thrust the spoils into the sound-holes of his violoncello. A waggish friend resolved to enjoy himself “at the parson’s expense,” as he termed it; and, for that purpose, popped a quantity of gunpowder into B.’s instrument. Others were informed of the trick, and of course kept a respectable distance. The tea equipage being removed, music became the order of the evening; and, after B---- had tuned his instrument, and drawn his stand near enough to snuff his candles with ease, feeling himself in the meridian of his glory, he dashed away at Vanhall’s 47th. B---- came to a bar’s rest, the candles were snuffed, and he thrust the ignited wick into the usual place; fit fragor, bang went the fiddle to pieces, and there was an end of harmony that evening.

* * * * *

FASHIONABLE RELIGION.

A French gentleman, equally tenacious of his character for gallantry and devotion, went to hear mass at the chapel of a favourite saint at Paris; when he came there, he found repairs were doing in the building which prevented the celebration. To show that he had not been defective in his duty and attentions, he pulled out a richly decorated pocket-book, and walking with great gravity and many genuflexions up the aisle, very carefully placed a card of his name upon the principal altar.

* * * * *

A POLITE TOWN.

Charles II. on passing through Bodmin, is said to have observed, that “this was the politest town he had ever seen, as one half of the houses appeared to be bowing, and the other half uncovered.” Since the days of Charles, the houses are altered, but the inhabitants still retain their politeness, especially at elections.

Vol. I.--12.

Who first uprear’d this venerable stone, And how, by ruthless hands, the column fell, And how again restor’d, I fain would tell.

*

A few years ago, an artist made a water-colour sketch of this monument, as a picturesque object, in the romantic vicinage of Llangollen; from that drawing he permitted the present, and the following are some particulars of the interesting memorial.

Mr. Pennant, during his “Tour in Wales,” entered Merionethshire, “into that portion for ever to be distinguished in the Welsh annals, on account of the hero it produced, who made such a figure in the beginning of the fifteenth century.” This tract retains its former title, “Glyndyfrdwy,” or the valley of the Dee. It once belonged to the lords of Dinas Brân. After the murder of the two eldest sons of the last lord, the property had been usurped by the earl of Warren, and that nobleman, who appears to have been seized with remorse for his crime, instead of plunging deeper in guilt, procured from Edward I. a grant of the territory to the third son, from whom the fourth in descent was the celebrated Owen Glyndwr.[85]

In this valley, about a quarter of a mile from Valle Crucis Abbey, Mr. Pennant found the present monument. It was thrown from its base, and lay in the hedge of a meadow. He figures it by an engraving of the pillar in an upright position, showing the fracture of the lower part as it then appeared in relation to the square socket-stone, its original supporter. Mr. Pennant calls it the “remainder of a round column, perhaps one of the most ancient of any British inscribed pillar now existing;” and he thus proceeds:--

“It was entire till the civil wars of the last century, when it was thrown down and broken, by some ignorant fanatics, who thought it had too much the appearance of a cross to be suffered to stand. It probably bore the name of one; for the field it lies in is still called ‘Llwyn-y-Groes,’ or the Grove of the Cross, from the wood that surrounded it. It was erected at so early a period, that there is nothing marvellous if we should perceive a tincture of the old idolatry, or at least of the primeval customs of our country, in the mode of it when perfect.

“The pillar had never been a cross; notwithstanding folly and superstition might, in later times, imagine it to have been one, and have paid it the usual honours. It was a memorial of the dead; an improvement on the rude columns of Druidical times, and cut into form, and surrounded with inscriptions. It is among the first lettered stones that succeeded the ‘Meinihirion,’ ‘Meini Gwyr,’ and ‘Llechau.’ It stood on a great tumulus; perhaps always environed with wood, (as the mount is at present,) according to the custom of the most ancient times, when standing pillars were placed ‘under every green tree.’

“It is said that the stone, when complete, was twelve feet high. It is now reduced to six feet eight. The remainder of the capital is eighteen inches long. It stood enfixed in a square pedestal, still lying in the mount; the breadth of which is five feet three inches; the thickness eighteen inches.

“The beginning of the inscription gives us nearly the time of its erection, ‘Concenn filius Cateli, Cateli filius Brochmail, Brochmail filius Eliseg, Eliseg filius Cnoillaine, Concenn itaque pronepos Eliseg edificavit hunc lapidem proavo suo Eliseg.’

“This Concenn, or Congen, was the grandson of Brochmail Yseithroc, the same who was defeated in 607, at the battle of Chester. The letters on the stone were copied by Mr. Edward Llwyd: the inscription is now illegible; but, from the copy taken by that great antiquary, the alphabet nearly resembles one of those in use in the sixth century.

“One of the seats of Concenn and Eliseg was in this country. A township adjacent to the column bears, from the last, the name of Eglwyseg; and the picturesque tiers of rocks are called Glisseg for the same reason. The habitation of this prince of Powys in these parts was probably Dinas Brân, which lies at the head of the vale of Glisseg. Mr. Llwyd conjectures that this place took its name from the interment of Eliseg.”

Mr. Pennant continues to relate that “There are two ways from this pillar: the usual is along the vale, on an excellent turnpike road leading to Ruthyn; the other is adapted only for the travel of the horsemen, but far the more preferable, on account of the romantic views. I returned by Valle Crucis; and, after winding along a steep midway to the old castle, descended; and, then crossing the rill of the Brân, arrived in the valley of Glisseg; long and narrow, bounded on the right by the astonishing precipices, divided into numberless parallel strata of white limestone, often giving birth to vast yew-trees; and, on the left, by smooth and verdant hills, bordered by pretty woods. One of the principal of the Glisseg rocks is honoured with the name of Craig-Arthur; another, at the end of the vale called Craig y Forwyn, or the Maiden’s, is bold, precipitous, and terminates with a vast natural column. This valley is chiefly inhabited (happily) by an independent race of warm and wealthy yeomanry, undevoured as yet by the great men of the country.”

The “Tour in Wales” was performed by Mr. Pennant in 1773; and his volume, containing the preceding account of the “Pillar of Eliseg,” was published in 1778. In the following year, the shaft was reared from its prostrate situation on its ancient pedestal, as appears by the following inscription on the column, copied by the artist who made the present drawing of the monument.

QUOD HUJUS VETERIS MONUMENTI SUPEREST DIU EX OCULIS REMOTUM ET NEGLECTUM TANDEM RESTITUIT T. LLOYD DE TREVOR HALL A.D. M.DCC.LXX.IX.

It is not in my power to add more respecting this venerable memorial of early ages than, that, according to a printed itinerary, its neighbourhood is at this time further remarkable for the self-seclusion of two ladies of rank. At about two miles’ distance is an elegant cottage, situated on a knoll, the retreat of lady Elizabeth Butler and Miss Ponsonby; who, turning from the vanity of fashionable life, have fixed their residence in this beautiful vale.

[85] His quarrel with Howel Sele forms an article in the Every-Day Book, vol. ii. p. 1021-1032.

* * * * *

~Hard Fare.~

ACCOUNT OF A STONE-EATER.

BY FATHER PAULIAN.

The beginning of May, 1760, was brought to Avignon, a true lithophagus or stone-eater. He not only swallowed flints of an inch and a half long, a full inch broad, and half an inch thick; but such stones as he could reduce to powder, such as marble, pebbles, &c. he made up into paste, which was to him a most agreeable and wholesome food. I examined this man with all the attention I possibly could; I found his gullet very large, his teeth exceedingly strong, his saliva very corrosive, and his stomach lower than ordinary, which I imputed to the vast number of flints he had swallowed, being about five and twenty, one day with another.

Upon interrogating his keeper, he told me the following particulars. “This stone-eater,” says he, “was found three years ago in a northern inhabited island, by some of the crew of a Dutch ship, on Good Friday. Since I have had him, I make him eat raw flesh with his stones; I could never get him to swallow bread. He will drink water, wine, and brandy; which last liquor gives him infinite pleasure. He sleeps at least twelve hours in a day, sitting on the ground with one knee over the other, and his chin resting on his right knee. He smokes almost all the time he is not asleep, or is not eating.” The keeper also tells me, that some physicians at Paris got him blooded; that the blood had little or no serum, and in two hours’ time became as fragile as coral.

This stone-eater hitherto is unable to pronounce more than a few words, Oui, non, caillou, bon. I showed him a fly through a microscope: he was astonished at the size of the animal, and could not be induced to examine it. He has been taught to make the sign of the cross, and was baptized some months ago in the church of St. Côme, at Paris. The respect he shows to ecclesiastics, and his ready disposition to please them, afforded me the opportunity of satisfying myself as to all these particulars; and I am fully convinced that he is no cheat.[86]

* * * * *

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A STONE EATER.

A FRAGMENT.

I was born by the side of a rocky cave in the Peak of Derbyshire; before I was born, my mother dreamed I should be an ostrich. I very early showed a disposition to my present diet; instead of eating the pap offered to me, I swallowed the spoon, which was of hard stone ware, made in that country, and had the handle broken off. My coral served me in the double capacity of a plaything and a sweetmeat; and as soon as I had my teeth, I nibbled at every pan and mug that came within my reach, in such a manner, that there was scarcely a whole piece of earthenware to be found in the house. I constantly swallowed the flints out of the tinder-box, and so deranged the economy of the family, that my mother forced me to seek subsistence out of the house.

Hunger, they say, will break stone walls: this I experienced; for the stone fences lay very temptingly in my way, and I made many a comfortable breakfast on them. On one occasion, a farmer who had lost some of his flock the night before, finding me early one morning breaking his fences, would hardly be persuaded that I had no design upon his mutton--I only meant to regale myself upon his wall.

When I went to school, I was a great favourite with the boys; for whenever there was damson tart or cherry pie, I was well content to eat all the stones, and leave them the fruit. I took the shell, and gave my companions the oyster, and whoever will do so, I will venture to say, will be well received through life. I must confess, however, that I made great havock among the marbles, of which I swallowed as many as the other boys did of sugar-plums. I have many a time given a stick of barley-sugar for a delicious white alley; and it used to be the diversion of the bigger boys to shake me, and hear them rattle in my stomach. While I was there, I devoured the greatest part of a stone chimney-piece, which had been in the school time out of mind, and borne the memorials of many generations of scholars, all of which were more swept away by my teeth, than those of time. I fell, also, upon a collection of spars and pebbles, which my master’s daughter had got together to make a grotto. For both these exploits I was severely flogged. I continued, however, my usual diet, except that for a change I sometimes ate Norfolk dumplins, which I found agree with me very well. I have now continued this diet for thirty years, and do affirm it to be the most cheap, wholesome, natural, and delicious of all food.

I suspect the Antediluvians were Lithophagi: this, at least, we are certain of, that Saturn, who lived in the golden age, was a stone-eater! We cannot but observe, that those people who live in fat rich soils are gross and heavy; whereas those who inhabit rocky and barren countries, where there is plenty of nothing but stones, are healthy, sprightly, and vigorous. For my own part, I do not know that ever I was ill in my life, except that once being over persuaded to venture on some Suffolk cheese, it gave me a slight indigestion.

I am ready to eat flints, pebbles, marbles, freestone, granite, or any other stones the curious may choose, with a good appetite and without any deception. I am promised by a friend, a shirt and coarse frock of the famous Asbestos, that my food and clothing may be suitable to each other.

* * * * *

FRANCIS BATTALIA.

In 1641, Hollar etched a print of Francis Battalia, an Italian, who is said to have eaten half a peck of stones a day. Respecting this individual, Dr. Bulwer, in his “Artificial Changeling,” says he saw the man, that he was at that time about thirty years of age; and that “he was born with two stones in one hand, and one in the other, which the child took for his first nourishment, upon the physician’s advice; and afterwards nothing else but three or four pebbles in a spoon, once in twenty-four hours.” After his stone-meals, he was accustomed to take a draught of beer: “and in the interim, now and then, a pipe of tobacco; for he had been a soldier in Ireland, at the siege of Limerick; and upon his return to London was confined for some time upon suspicion of imposture.”

[86] Gentleman’s Magazine.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. IX.

[From the “Two Angry Women of Abingdon,” a Comedy, by Henry Porter, 1599.]

Proverb-monger.

This formal fool, your man, speaks nought but Proverbs; And, speak men what they can to him, he’ll answer With some rhyme-rotten sentence, or old saying, Such spokes as th’ Ancient of the Parish use With “Neighbour, it’s an old Proverb and a true, Goose giblets are good meat, old sack better than new:” Then says another, “Neighbour, that is true.” And when each man hath drunk his gallon round, (A penny pot, for that’s the old man’s gallon). Then doth he lick his lips, and stroke his beard, That’s glued together with the slavering drops Of yesty ale; and when he scarce can trim His gouty fingers, thus he’ll fillip it, And with a rotten hem say, “Hey my hearts,” “Merry go sorry,” “Cock and Pye, my hearts;” And then their saving-penny-proverb comes, And that is this, “They that will to the wine, By’r Lady, mistress, shall lay their penny to mine.” This was one of this penny-father’s bastards; For on my life he was never begot Without the consent of some great Proverb-monger.

* * * * *

She Wit.

Why, she will flout the devil, and make blush The boldest face of man that ever man saw. He that hath best opinion of his wit, And hath his brain-pan fraught with bitter jests (Or of his own, or stol’n, or howsoever), Let him stand ne’er so high in’s own conceit, Her wit’s a sun that melts him down like butter, And makes him sit at table pancake-wise, Flat, flat, and ne’er a word to say; Yet she’ll not leave him then, but like a tyrant She’ll persecute the poor wit-beaten man, And so be-bang him with dry bobs and scoffs, When he is down (most cowardly, good faith!) As I have pitied the poor patient. There came a Farmer’s Son a wooing to her, A proper man, well-landed too he was, A man that for his wit need not to ask What time a year ’twere need to sow his oats, Nor yet his barley, no, nor when to reap, To plow his fallows, or to fell his trees, Well experienced thus each kind of way; After a two months’ labour at the most, (And yet ’twas well he held it out so long), He left his Love; she had so laced his lips, He could say nothing to her but “God be with ye.” Why, she, when men have dined, and call’d for cheese Will strait maintain jests bitter to digest; And then some one will fall to argument, Who if he over-master her with reason, Then she’ll begin to buffet him with mocks.

* * * * *

Master Goursey proposes to his Son a Wife.

Frank Goursey. Ne’er trust me, father, the shape of marriage. Which I do see in others, seems so severe, I dare not put my youngling liberty Under the awe of that instruction; And yet I grant, the limits of free youth Going astray are often restrain’d by that. But Mistress Wedlock, to my summer thoughts, Will be too curst, I fear: O should she snip My pleasure-aiming mind, I shall be sad; And swear, when I did marry, I was mad. Old Goursey. But, boy, let my experience teach thee this; (Yet in good faith thou speak’st not much amiss); When first thy mother’s fame to me did come, Thy grandsire thus then came to me his son, And ev’n my words to thee to me he said; And, as thou say’st to me, to him I said, But in a greater huff and hotter blood: I tell ye, on youth’s tiptoes then I stood. Says he (good faith, this was his very say), When I was young, I was but Reason’s fool; And went to wedding, as to Wisdom’s school: It taught me much, and much I did forget; But, beaten much by it, I got some wit: Though I was shackled from an often-scout, Yet I would wanton it, when I was out; ’Twas comfort old acquaintance then to meet, Restrained liberty attain’d is sweet. Thus said my father to thy father, son; And thou may’st do this too, as I have done.

* * * * *

Wandering in the dark all night.

O when will this same Year of Night have end? Long-look’d for Day’s Sun, when wilt thou ascend? Let not this thief-friend misty veil of night Encroach on day, and shadow thy fair light; Whilst thou comest tardy from thy Thetis’ bed, Blushing forth golden-hair and glorious red. O stay not long, bright lanthern of the day, To light my mist-way feet to my right way.

The pleasant Comedy, from which these Extracts are taken, is contemporary with some of the earliest of Shakspeare’s, and is no whit inferior to either the Comedy of Errors, or the Taming of the Shrew, for instance. It is full of business, humour, and merry malice. Its night-scenes are peculiarly sprightly and wakeful. The versification unencumbered, and rich with compound epithets. Why do we go on with ever new Editions of Ford, and Massinger, and the thrice reprinted Selections of Dodsley? what we want is as many volumes more, as these latter consist of, filled with plays (such as this), of which we know comparatively nothing. Not a third part of the Treasures of old English Dramatic literature has been exhausted. Are we afraid that the genius of Shakspeare would suffer in our estimate by the disclosure? He would indeed be somewhat lessened as a miracle and a prodigy. But he would lose no height by the confession. When a Giant is shown to us, does it detract from the curiosity to be told that he has at home a gigantic brood of brethren, less only than himself? Along with him, not from him, sprang up the race of mighty Dramatists who, compared with the Otways and Rowes that followed, were as Miltons to a Young or an Akenside. That he was their elder Brother, not their Parent, is evident from the fact of the very few direct imitations of him to be found in their writings. Webster, Decker, Heywood, and the rest of his great contemporaries went on their own ways, and followed their individual impulses, not blindly prescribing to themselves his tract. Marlowe, the true (though imperfect) Father of our tragedy, preceded him. The comedy of Fletcher is essentially unlike to that of his. ’Tis out of no detracting spirit that I speak thus, for the Plays of Shakspeare have been the strongest and the sweetest food of my mind from infancy; but I resent the comparative obscurity in which some of his most valuable co-operators remain, who were his dear intimates, his stage and his chamber-fellows while he lived, and to whom his gentle spirit doubtlessly then awarded the full portion of their genius, as from them toward himself appears to have been no grudging of his acknowledged excellence.

C. L.

* * * * *

~Characters.~

AGRESTILLA.

For the Table Book.

There is a story in the Rambler of a lady whom the great moralist calls Althea, who perversely destroyed all the satisfaction of a party of pleasure, by not only finding, but seeking for fault upon every occasion, and affecting a variety of frivolous fears and apprehensions without cause. Female follies, like “states and empires, have their periods of declension;” and nearly half a century has passed away since it has been deemed elegant, or supposed interesting, to scream at a spider, shudder in a boat, or assert, with vehemence of terror, that a gun, though ascertained not to be charged, may still “go off.” The tendency to fly from one extreme to the other has ever been the characteristic of weak minds, and the party of weak minds will always support itself by a considerable majority, both among women and men. Something may be done by those minor moralists, modestly termed essayists and novelists, who have brought wisdom and virtue to dwell in saloons and drawing-rooms. Mrs. H. More and Miss Edgeworth have pretty well written down the affectation of assuming “the cap, the whip, the masculine attire,” and the rage for varnishing and shoe-making has of itself subsided, by the natural effect of total incongruity between the means and the end. Ladies are now contented to be ladies, that is, rational beings of the softer sex, and do not affect to be artists or mechanics. Nevertheless, some peculiarities of affectation do from time to time shoot up into notice, and call for the pruning-knife of the friendly satirist.

AGRESTILLA is an agreeable, well-informed person of my own sex, from whose society I have derived great pleasure and advantage both in London and Paris. A few weeks since, she proposed to me to accompany her to spend some time in a small town in Normandy, for the benefit of country air: to this plan I acceded with great readiness; an apartment was secured by letter, and we proceeded on our journey.

I have lived too long in the world ever to expect unmixed satisfaction from any measure, and long enough never to neglect any precaution by which personal comfort is to be secured. To this effect I had represented, that perhaps it might be better to delay fixing on lodgings till we arrived, lest we should find ourselves bounded to the view of a market-place or narrow street, with, perchance, a butcher’s shop opposite our windows, and a tin-man or tallow-chandler next door to us. Agrestilla replied, that in London or Paris it was of course essential to one’s consideration in society to live in a fashionable neighbourhood, but that nobody minded those things “in the country.” In vain I replied, that consideration was not what I considered, but freedom from noise and bad smells: I was then laughed at for my fastidiousness,--“Who in the world would make difficulties about such trifles in the country, when one might be out of doors from morning till night!”

We arrived at the place of our destination; my mind expanded with pleasure at the sight of large rooms, wide staircases, and windows affording the prospect of verdure. The stone-floors and the paucity of window curtains, to say nothing of blinds to exclude the sun, appeared to me inconveniences to be remedied by the expenditure of a few francs; but Agrestilla, as pertinacious in her serenity as Althea in her querulousness, decided that we ought to take things in the rough, and make anything do “in the country.” Scraps of carpet and ells of muslin are attainable by unassisted effort, stimulated by necessity, and I acquired and maintained tolerable ease of mind and body, till we came to discuss together the grand article of society. My maxim is, the best or none at all. I love conversation, but hate feasting and visiting. Agrestilla lays down no maxim, but her practice is, good if possible--if not, second-best; at all events, a number of guests and frequent parties. Though she is not vain of her mind or of her person, yet the display of fine clothes and good dishes, and the secret satisfaction of shining forth the queen of her company, make up her enjoyment: Agrestilla’s taste is gregarious. To my extreme sorrow and apprehension, we received an invitation to dine with a family unknown to me, and living nine miles off! To refuse was impossible, the plea of preengagement is inadmissible with people who tell you to “choose your day,” and as to pretending to be sick, I hold it to be presumptuous and wicked. The conveyance was to be a cart! the time of departure six in the morning! Terrified and aghast, I demanded, “How are we to get through the day?” No work! no books! no subjects of mutual interest to talk upon!--“Oh! dear me, time soon passes ‘in the country;’ we shall be three hours going, the roads are very bad, then comes breakfast, and then walking round the garden, and then dinner and coming home early.” This invitation hung over my mind like an incubus,--like an eye-tooth firm in the head to be wrenched out,--like settling-day to a defaulter, or auricular confession to a ceremonious papist and bad liver. My only hope was in the weather. The clouds seemed to be for ever filling and for ever emptying, like the pitchers of the Danaides. The street, court, and garden became all impassable, without the loan of Celestine’s sabots (anglice wooden shoes.) Celestine is a stout Norman girl, who washes the dishes, and wears a holland-mob and a linsey-woolsey petticoat. Certainly, thought I, in my foolish security, while this deluge continues nobody will think of visiting “in the country.” But vain and illusive was my hope! Agrestilla declared her intention of keeping her engagement “if it rained cats and dogs;” and the weather cleared up on the eve of my execution, and smiled in derision of my woe. The cart came. Jemmy Dawson felt as much anguish in his, but he did not feel it so long. We were lumbered with inside packages, bundles, boxes, and baskets, accumulated by Agrestilla; I proposed their being secured with cords (lashed is the sea-term) to prevent them from rolling about, crushing our feet and grazing our legs at every jolt. Agrestilla’s politeness supprest an exclamation of amazement, that people could mind such trifles “in the country!”--for her part, she never made difficulties.--Being obliged to maintain the equilibrium of my person by clinging to each side of the cart with my two hands, I had much to envy those personages of the Hindû mythology, who are provided with six or seven arms: as for my bonnet it was crushed into all manner of shapes, my brain was jarred and concussed into the incapacity to tell whether six and five make eleven or thirteen, and my feet were “all murdered,” as the Irish and French say. What exasperated my sufferings was the reflection on my own folly in incurring so much positive evil, to pay and receive a mere compliment! Had it been to take a reprieve to a dear friend going to be hanged, to carry the news of a victory, or convey a surgeon to the wounded, I should have thought nothing and said less of the matter; but for a mere dinner among strangers, a long day without interest and occupation!--really I consider myself as having half incurred the guilt of suicide. Six or seven times at least, the horse, painfully dragging us the whole way by the strain of every nerve and sinew, got stuck in the mud, and was to be flogged till he plunged out of it. More than once we tottered upon ridges of incrusted mud, when a very little matter would have turned us over. I say nothing about _Rut_land--I abhor and disdain a pun--but we did nothing but cross ruts to avoid puddles, and cross them back again to avoid stones, and the ruts were all so deep as to leave but one semicircle of the wheel visible. I never saw such roads--the Colossus of Rhodes would have been knee-deep in them. At last we arrived--Agrestilla as much out of patience at my calling it an evil to have my shins bruised black and blue, while engaged in a party of pleasure “in the country,” as I to find the expedition all pain and no pleasure. We turned out of the cart in very bad condition; all our dress “clean put on,” as the housewives say, rumpled and soiled, our limbs stiff, our faces flushed, and by far too fevered to eat, and too weary to walk. How I thought, like a shipwrecked mariner, not upon my own “fireside,” as English novelists always say, but upon my quiet, comfortable room, books, work, independence, and otium with or without dignitate (let others decide that.) Oh! the fag of talking when one has nothing to say, smiling when one is ready to cry, and accepting civilities when one feels them all to be inflictions! Of the habits, the manners, the appearance, and the conversation of our hosts, I will relate nothing; I have eaten their bread, as the Arabs say, and owe them the tribute of thanks and silence. Agrestilla was as merry as possible all day; she has lived in the company of persons of sense and education, but--nobody expects refinement “in the country!” In vain I expostulate with her, pleading in excuse of what she terms my fastidiousness, that I cannot change my fixed notions of elegance, propriety, and comfort, to conform to the habits of those to whom such terms are as lingua franca to a Londoner, what he neither understands nor cares for.

It is easy to conform one’s exterior to rural habits, by putting on a coarse straw hat, thick shoes, and linen gown, but the taste and feeling of what is right, the mental perception must remain the same. Nothing can be more surprising to an English resident in a country-town of France, than the jumble of ranks in society that has taken place since the revolution. I know a young lady whose education and manners render her fit for polished society in Paris; her mother goes about in a woollen jacket, and dresses the dinner, not from necessity, for that I should make no joke of, but from taste; and is as arrant an old gossip as ever lolled with both elbows over the counter of a chandler’s shop.--Her brother is a garde du corps, who spends his life in palaces and drawing-rooms, and she has one cousin a little pastry-cook, and another a washer-woman.--They have a lodger, a maiden lady, who lives on six hundred francs per annum, (about twenty-four pounds,) and of course performs every menial office for herself, and, except on Sundays, looks like an old weeding-woman; her brother has been a judge, lives in a fine house, buys books and cultivates exotics. Low company is tiresome in England, because it is ignorant and stupid; in France it is gross and disgusting. The notion of being merry and entertaining is to tell gross stories; the demoiselles sit and say nothing, simper and look pretty: what a pity it is that time should change them into coarse, hard-featured commères, like their mothers! The way in Normandy is to dine very early, and remain all the evening in the dinner-room, instead of going into a fresh apartment to take coffee. Agrestilla does not fail to conform to the latter plan in Paris, because people of fashion do so, and Agrestilla is a fashionable woman, but she wonders I should object to the smell of the dinner “in the country.” I have been strongly tempted to the crime of sacrilege by robbing the church for wax candles, none being to be got at “the shop.” My incapacity for rural enjoyments and simple habits is manifest to Agrestilla, from my absurdly objecting to the smell of tallow-candles “in the country.” Agrestilla’s rooms are profusely lighted with wax in Paris, “but nobody thinks of such a thing ‘in the country’ for nearly a month or two,”--as if life were not made up of months, weeks, and hours!

I am afraid, Mr. Editor, that I may have wearied you by my prolixity, but since all acumen of taste is to disappear, when we pass the bills of mortality, I will hope that my communication may prove good enough to be read--in the country.

N.

* * * * *

FEMALE FRIENDSHIP.

Joy cannot claim a purer bliss, Nor grief a dew from stain more clear, Than female friendship’s meeting kiss, Than female friendship’s parting tear. How sweet the heart’s full bliss to pour To her, whose smile must crown the store! How sweeter still to tell of woes To her, whose faithful breast would share In every grief, in every care, Whose sigh can lull them to repose! Oh! blessed sigh! there is no sorrow, But from thy breath can sweetness borrow; E’en to the pale and drooping flower That fades in love’s neglected hour; E’en with her woes can friendship’s pow’r One happier feeling blend: ’Tis from her restless bed to creep, And sink like wearied babe to sleep, On the soft couch her sorrows steep, The bosom of a friend.

Miss Mitford.

* * * * *

LINES TO A SPARROW.

WHO COMES TO MY WINDOW EVERY MORNING FOR HIS BREAKFAST.

Master Dicky, my dear, You have nothing to fear, Your proceedings I mean not to check, sir; Whilst the weather benumbs, We should pick up our crumbs, So, I prithee, make free with a peck, sir.

I’m afraid it’s too plain You’re a villain in grain, But in that you resemble your neighbours, For mankind have agreed It is right to suck seed, Then, like you, hop the twig with their labours.

Besides this, master Dick, You of trade have the trick, In all branches you traffic at will, sir; You have no need of shops For your samples of hops, And can ev’ry day take up your bill, sir.

Then in foreign affairs You may give yourself airs, For I’ve heard it reported at home, sir, That you’re on the best terms With the diet of Worms, And have often been tempted to Rome, sir.

Thus you feather your nest In the way you like best, And live high without fear of mishap, sir; You are fond of your grub, Have a taste for some shrub, And for gin--there you understand trap, sir.

Tho’ the rivers won’t flow In the frost and the snow, And for fish other folks vainly try, sir; Yet you’ll have a treat, For, in cold or in heat, You can still take a perch with a fly, sir.

In love, too, oh Dick, (Tho’ you oft when love-sick On the course of good-breeding may trample; And though often henpeck’d, Yet) you scorn to neglect To set all mankind an eggsample.

Your opinions, ’tis true, Are flighty a few, But at this I, for one, will not grumble; So--your breakfast you’ve got, And you’re off like a shot, Dear Dicky, your humble cum tumble.[87]

[87] Examiner Feb. 12, 1815.

* * * * *

And who gave thee that jolly red nose? Brandy, cinnamon, ale, and cloves, That gave me the jolly red nose.

OLD SONG.

THE BISHOP OF BUTTERBY.

A SKETCH, BY ONE OF HIS PREBENDARIES.

For the Table Book

I remember reading in that excellent little periodical, “The Cigar,” of the red nose of the friar of Dillow, which served the holy man in the stead of a lantern, when he crossed the fens at night, to visit the fair lady of the sheriff of Gloucestershire. Whether the nose of the well-known eccentric now under consideration ever lighted his path, when returning from Shincliffe feast, or Houghton-le-spring hopping--whether it ever

“Brightly beam’d his path above, And lit his way to his ladye love”--

this deponent knoweth not; but, certainly, it ever nose could serve for such purposes, it is that of Hut. Alderson, which is the reddest in the city of Durham--save and excepting, nevertheless, the nose of fat Hannah, the Elvet orange-woman. Yes Hut. thou portly living tun! thou animated lump of obesity! thou hast verily a most jolly nose! Keep it out of my sight, I pray thee! Saint Giles, defend me from its scorchings! there is fire in its mere pictorial representation! Many a time, I ween, thou hast mulled thine ale with it, when sitting with thy pot companions at Morralies!

Hutchinson Alderson, the subject of the present biographical notice, is the well-known bellman of the city of Durham. Of his parentage and education I am ignorant, but I have been informed by him, at one of his “visitations,” that he is a native of the place, where, very early in life, he was “bound ’prentice to a shoemaker,” and where, after the expiration of his servitude, he began business. During the period of the threatened invasion of this nation by the French, he enlisted in the Durham militia; but I cannot correctly state what office he held in the regiment; the accounts on the subject are very conflicting and contradictory. Some have informed me he was a mere private, others that he was a corporal; and a wanton wag has given out that he was kept by the regiment, to be used as a beacon, in cases of extraordinary emergency. Certain it is that he was in the militia, and that during that time the accident occurred which destroyed his hopes of military promotion, and rendered him unable to pursue his ordinary calling--I allude to the loss of his right hand, which happened as follows:--A Durham lady, whose husband was in the habit of employing Alderson as a shoemaker, had a favourite parrot, which, on the cage door being left open, escaped, and was shortly afterwards seen flying from tree to tree in a neighbouring wood. Alderson, on being made acquainted with the circumstance, proceeded with his gun to the wood, where, placing himself within a few yards of the bird, he fired at it, having previously poured a little water into the muzzle, which he thoughtlessly imagined would have the effect of bringing down the bird, without doing it material injury; but, unhappily, the piece exploded, and shattered his right hand so dreadfully, that immediate amputation was rendered necessary.

For some time after this calamity, Alderson’s chief employment consisted in taking care of gentlemen’s horses, and cleaning knives. He was then appointed street-keeper; and, during the short time he held that office, discharged its duty in a very impartial manner--I believe to the entire satisfaction of all the inhabitants. He has also, at different periods, been one of the constables of the parish of Saint Mary le Bow. About the year 1822, the office of bellman to the city of Durham became vacant, by resignation, upon which Hut. immediately offered himself as a candidate; and, from there being no opposition, and his being a freeman, he was installed by the unanimous voice of every member of the corporation, and he has accordingly discharged the duties of bellman ever since. It is in that capacity our artist has represented him in the cut at the head of the present sketch. But Hut. Alderson is the wearer of other dignities.

About three miles from Durham is a beautiful little hamlet, called Butterby, and in ancient deeds Beautrove,[88] and Beautrovensis, from the elegance of its situation; and certainly its designation is no misnomer, for a lovelier spot the imagination cannot picture. The seclusion of its walks, the deep shade of its lonely glens, and the many associations connected with it, independently of its valuable mineral waters, conspire to render it a favourite place of resort; and, were I possessed of the poetic talent of veterinary doctor Marshall, I should certainly be tempted to immortalize its many charms in a sonnet. Butterby was formerly a place of considerable note; the old manor-house there, whose haunted walls are still surrounded by a moat, was once the residence of Oliver Cromwell, whose armorial bearings still may be seen over one of the huge, antique-fashioned fire-places. In olden time, Butterby had a church, dedicated to saint Leonard, of which not a visible vestige is remaining; though occasionally on the spot which antiquaries have fixed upon as its site, divers sepulchral relics have been discovered. Yet, to hear many of the inhabitants of Durham talk, a stranger would naturally believe that the hamlet is still in possession of this sacred edifice; for “Butterby-church” is there spoken of, not as a plate adorning the antiquarian page, nor even as a ruin to attract the gaze of the moralizing tourist, but as a real, substantial, bonâ fide structure: the fact is, that, in the slang of Durham, (for the modern Zion[89] has its slang as well as the modern Babylon,) a Butterby church-goer is one who does not frequent any church; and when such an one is asked, “What church have you attended to-day?” the customary answer is, “I have been attending service at Butterby.” About the year 1823, there appeared in one of the London journals an account of a marriage, said to have been solemnized at Butterby-church, between two parties who never existed but in the fertile brain of the writer of the paragraph, “By the Rev. Hutchinson Alderson, rector.” From that time, Hut. Alderson began to be designated a clergyman, and was speedily dubbed A. M. Merit will rise, and therefore the A.M. became D.D., and Alderson himself enjoyed the waggery, and insisted on the young gentlemen of the place touching their hats, and humbling themselves when his reverence passed.

Not content with the honours which already, like laurel branches, had encircled his brow, Hut. aspired to still greater distinction, and gave out that Butterby was a bishop’s see, that the late parochial church was a cathedral, and, in fine, that the late humble rector was a lordly bishop--THE RIGHT REVEREND HUTCHINSON ALDERSON LORD BISHOP OF BUTTERBY, or HUT. BUT. Having thus dubbed himself, he next proceeded to the proper formation of his cathedral; named about ten individuals as prebends, (among whom were the writer of this sketch, and his good friend his assistant artist,) chose a dean and archdeacon, and selected a few more humble individuals to fill the different places of sexton, organist, vergers, bell-ringers, &c., and soon began, in the exercise of his episcopal functions, to give divers orders, oral and written, respecting repairs of the church, preaching of sermons, &c. The last I recollect was a notice, delivered to one of the prebends by the bishop in propriâ personâ, intimating that, owing to the church having received considerable damage by a high flood, he would not be required to officiate there till further notice.

A cathedral is nothing without a tutelary saint, and accordingly Butterby-church has been dedicated to saint Giles. Several articles have been written, and privately circulated, descriptive of the splendid architecture of this imaginary edifice; every arch has had its due meed of approbation, and its saint has been exalted in song, almost as high as similar worthies of the Roman catholic church. A legend has been written--I beg pardon, found in one of the vaults of Bear-park,--containing an account of divers miracles performed by saint Giles; which legend is doubtless as worthy of credit, and equally true, as some of Alban Butler’s, or the miracles of prince Hohenlohe and Thomas à Becket. Happening to have a correct copy of the composition to which I allude, I give it, with full persuasion that by so doing I shall confer a signal obligation on the rest of my brother prebends, some of whom are believers in its antiquity, though, I am inclined to think, it is, like the ancient poems found in Redcliffe-church, and published by the unfortunate Chatterton--all “Rowley powley,” &c. I have taken the liberty to modernize the spelling.

SAINT GILES

His Holie Legend:

WRITTEN IN LATIN, BY FATHER PETER, MONK OF BEAUPAIRE, AND DONE INTO ENGLISH THIS YEAR OF REDEMPTION, 1555, BY MASTER JOHN WALTON, SCHOOLMASTER, ST. MAGDALENE HER CHAPEL YARD DURHAM: AND DEDICATED TO OUR GOOD QUEEN MARY, WHOM GOD LONG PRESERVE.

1.

O did ye ne’er hear of saint Giles, The saint of fam’d Butterby steeple. There ne’er was his like seen for miles, Pardie, he astonied the people! His face was as red as the sun, His eyne were a couple of sloes, sir, His belly was big as a tun, And he had a huge bottle nose, sir; O what a strange fellow was he.

2.

Of woman he never was born, And wagers have been laid upon it; They found him at Finchale one morn, Wrapp’d up in an heavenly bonnet: The prior was taking his rounds, As he was wont after his _brick_fast, He heard most celestial sounds, And saw something in a tree stick fast, Like a bundle of dirty old clothes.

3.

Quite frighten’d, he fell on his knees, And said thirteen aves and ten credos, When the thing in the tree gave a sneeze, And out popp’d a hand, and then three toes: Now, when he got out of his faint, He approach’d, with demeanour most humble, And what should he see but the saint, Not a copper the worse from his tumble, But lying all sound wind and limb.

4.

Says the prior, “From whence did you come, Or how got you into my garden?” But the baby said nothing but mum-- And for the priest car’d not a farden: At length, the saint open’d his gob, And said, “I’m from heaven, d’ye see, sir. Now don’t stand there scratching your nob, But help me down out of the tree, sir, Or I’ll soon set your convent a-blaze!” 5.

The prior stood quite in a maze, To hear such an infant so queerly call, So, humbling himself, he gave praise To our lady for so great a miracle: Saint Giles from the bush then he took, And led him away to the priory; Where for years he stuck close to his book, A holie and sanctified friar, he Was thought by the good folks all round.

6.

In sanctity he pass’d his days, Once or twice exorcis’d a demoniac; And, to quiet his doubts and his fears, Applied to a flask of old Cogniac; To heaven he show’d the road fair, And, if he saw sinner look glum or sad, He’d tell him to drive away care, And say, “Take a swig of good rum, my lad, And it will soon give your soul ease.”

7.

In miracles too the saint dealt, And some may be seen to this minute; At his bidding he’d make a rock melt, Tho’ Saint Sathanas might be in it: One evening when rambling out, He found himself stopp’d by the river, So he told it to turn round about, And let him go quietly over, And the river politely complied!

8.

To Butterby often he’d stray, And sometimes look in at the well, sir; And if you’ll attend to the lay, How it came by its virtues I’ll tell, sir: One morning, as wont, the saint call’d, And being tremendously faint then, He drank of the stuff till he stall’d, And out spake the reverend saint then, My blessing be on thee for aye!

9.

Thus saying he bent his way home, Now mark the event which has follow’d, The fount has from that time become A cure for sick folks--for its hallow’d: And many a pilgrim goes there From many a far distant part, sir, And, piously uttering a prayer, Blesses the saint’s pious heart, sir, That gave to the fount so much grace.

10.

At Finchale his saintship did dwell, Till the devil got into the cloister, And left the bare walls as a shell, And gulp’d the fat monks like an oyster. So the saint was enforced to quit, But swore he’d the fell legions all amuse, And pay back their coin every whit, Tho’ his hide should be flay’d like Bartholemew’s, And red as Saint Dunstan’s red nose.

11.

Another church straight he erected, Which for its sanctity fam’d much is, Where sinners and saints are protected, And kept out of Belzebub’s clutches: And thus in the eve of his days He still paternosters and aves sung, His lungs were worn threadbare with praise, Till death, who slays priors, rest gave his tongue And sent him to sing in the spheres!

12.

It would be too long to tell here Of how, when or where, the monks buried him. Suffice it to say, it seems clear That somewhere or other they carried him. His odd life by death was made even, He popp’d off on one of Lent Sundays, His corpse was to miracles given, And his choristers sung “De profundis Clamavi ad te Domine!”

Finis coronat opus.

Such is the extraordinary legend of saint Giles, which I leave the antiquaries to sit in judgment on, and with which I quit the subject of Butterby-church, wishing that its good bishop may long continue in peaceful possession of the see, and in full enjoyment of all the honours and revenues connected therewith.

As relating to Butterby, I may be allowed perhaps to mention, that this place has afforded considerable amusement to many young men of wit and humour. About twenty years ago, the law students, then in Durham, instituted what they called the “Butterby manor court,” and were in the habit of holding a sham court at a public-house there. A gentleman, who is now in London, and one of the most eminent men in the profession, used to preside as steward; and was attended by the happy and cheerful tenantry, who did suit and service, constituted a homage, and performed other acts and deeds, agreeable to the purpose for which they were duly and truly summoned, and assembled.

Hitherto, little has been said respecting the personal appearance and character of Hut. Alderson, and therefore, without further circumvolution, I hasten to add, that he is fifty years of age “and upwards,” of the middle size and rather corpulent, of a very ruddy countenance, is possessed of a vast fund of anecdote, and is at all times an agreeable and humorous companion. He may generally be seen parading the streets of Durham, as represented by my brother prebend. Considering his humble rank in society, he is well-informed; and if he has any failing, it is what has given the beautiful vermilion tint to that which, as it forms the most prominent feature in his appearance, is made one of the most prominent features of my memoir. As a crier, I never liked him--his voice is too piano, and wants a little of the forte.

In religion, Hut. is a stanch supporter of the establishment, and regularly attends divine service at St. Mary-le-Bow, where “his reverence” is allowed an exalted seat in the organ gallery, in which place, but for his services, I fear my friend, Mr. Weatherell, the organist, would have difficulty in drawing a single tone from the instrument. His aversion to dissenters is tremendous, and he is unsparing in his censure of those who do not conform to the church; yet, notwithstanding this, both Catholics and Unitarians unaccountably rank amongst his prebends. In politics, he is a whig of the old school, and abominates the radicals. At elections, (for he has a vote both for county and city, being a leaseholder for lives, and a freeman,) he always supports Michael Angelo Taylor and Mr. Lambton. He prides himself on his integrity, and I believe justly, for he is one that will never be bought or sold; if thousands were offered to him to obtain his vote, he would spurn the bribe, and throw the glittering ore in the faces of those who dared to insult his independent spirit.

It may amuse the reader, if I offer the following as a specimen of the ridiculous interruptions Hut. meets with when crying.

THREE RINGS--Ding dong! ding dong! ding dong!

Hut. To be sold by auction--

1 Boy. Speak up! speak up! Hut.

Hut. Hod your jaw--at the Queen’s heed in--

2 Boy. The town of Butterby.

Hut. I’ll smash your heed wi’ the bell--the Queen’s heed in the Bailya--a large collection of--

3 Boy. Pews, pulpits, and organs.

Hut. I’ll rap your canister--of valuable--buiks the property of--

1 Boy. The bishop of Butterby.

Hut. Be quiet, you scamp--of a gentleman from Lunnon--the buiks may be viewed any time between the hours of one and three, by applying to--

2 Boy. Tommy Sly--

Hut. Mr. Thwaites on the premises: the sale to commence at seven o’clock in the evening prizizely.

All. Huih! hooeh! hooeh!

Hut. I’ll smash some o’ your heeds wi’ the bell--I knaw thee, Jack!--mind, an’ I doant tell thee mither noo, thou daft fule!

This farce is usually acted every day in the streets of Durham; and to be truly enjoyed it should be witnessed. Having nothing more of my own to say, I shall conclude this sketch in the language of Rousseau.--“Voilà ce que j’ai fait, ce que j’ai pensé. J’ai dit le bien et le mal avec la mème franchise. Je n’ai rien tû de mauvais, rien ajouté de bon; et s’il m’est arrivé d’employer quelque ornement indifférent, ce n’a jamais été que pour remplir un ruide occasionné par mon défaut de mémoire; j’ai pu supposer vrai ce que je savois, avoir pu l’être jamais ce que je savois être faux.”[90]

R. I. P.

* * * * *

To show the high estimation in which the above character is held by the inhabitants of Durham and Northumberland, a correspondent relates, that on Saturday last a select party of gentlemen connected with the above counties, and chiefly of the legal and medical professions, dined at the Queen’s-head tavern, Holborn; where, after the healths of the king and royal family, a gentleman present proposed the health of “the Rev. Dr. Alderson, bishop of Butterby.” In the course of the introductory speech, allusion was made to Hut.’s many acquirements, and to his lustrous qualities as a living ornament of the ancient city of Durham. The toast was drunk amid the most enthusiastic applause, and a dignitary of “Butterby-church” returned thanks for the honour conferred on his exalted diocesan.

March 12, 1827.

[88] Vide Mr. Dixon’s View of Durham.

[89] Ibid.

[90] Les Confessions, part. i. liv. i.

* * * * *

THE DRAYMAN.

For the Table Book.

Lie heavy on him, earth! for he Laid many a heavy load on thee.

Epig. 23, CHRISTMAS Treat.

The drayman is a being distinct from other men, as the brewer’s horse is distinct from other horses--each seems adapted to the other’s use: the one eats abundantly of grains, and prospers in its traces--the other drinks porter by the canful, and is hardly able to button his jerkin. Much of a drayman’s life is spent with his master’s team and barrels. Early rising is his indispensable duty; and, long ere the window-shutters of London shopkeepers are taken down, he, with his fellow stavesmen, are seen half way through the streets to the vender of what is vulgarly called “heavy wet.” Woe to the patience of a crowd, waiting to cross the roadway, when the long line, in clattering gear, are passing review, like a troop of unyielding soldiers. The driver, with his whip, looks as important as a sergeant-major; equipped in his coat of mail, the very pavement trembles with his gigantic tread.[91] Sometimes his comrades ride on the shaft and sleep, to the imminent risk of their lives. Arrived at their destination, they move a slow and sure pace, which indicates that “all things should be taken easy,” for “the world was not made in a day.”

The cellar being the centre of gravity, the empty vessels are drawn out, and the full ones drawn in; but with as much science as would require Hercules himself to exercise, and Bacchus to improve. After these operations are performed, what a sight it is to behold the drayman at work over his breakfast, in the taproom if the weather is cold, or on a bench in view of a prospect, if the sunshine appears: the hunch of bread and meat, or a piece of cheese deposited in the hollow of his hand, which he divides into no small portions, are enough to pall the appetite. The manner in which he clenches the frothy pot, and conducts it to his mouth, and the long draft he takes, in gurgles down his unshorn, summer-like throat, almost warrant apprehensions of supply not being equal to demand, and consequent advance of price. He is an entire proof of the lusty quality of his master’s porter, for he is the largest opium-pill in the brewhouse dispensary. While feeding on the fat of the publican’s larder, his horses are shaking up the corn, so unfeelingly crammed in hair-bags, to their reeking nostrils. The drayman is a sort of rough give and take fellow; he uses the whip in a brangle, and his sayings are sometimes, like himself, rather dry. When he returns to the brewhouse, he is to be found in the stable, at the vat, and in the lower apartments. To guard against cold, he prefers a red nightcap to a Welsh wig, and takes great care of the grains, without making scruples. He is a good preparer, well versed in the art of refinement--knows when his articles work well, and is an excellent judge of brown stout. At evening, as his turn relieves him, he takes his next day’s orders at the counting-house, and with clean apron and face, goes to his club; and sometimes even ventures to make a benefit speech in behalf of the sick members, or a disconsolate widow. Now and then, in his best white “foul weather,” he treats his wife and nieces to “the Wells,” or “the Royalty,” taking something better than beer in his pocket, made to hold his “bunch of fives,” or any other esteemed commodity. At a “free and easy,” he sometimes “rubs up,” and enjoys a “bit of ’bacco” out of the tin box, wherein he drops his halfpenny before he fills; and then, like a true Spectator, smokes the company in a genteel way. If called upon for a song, he either complains of hoarseness, or of a bad memory; but should he indulge the call of his Vice on his right hand, he may be heard fifty yards in the wind, after which he is “knocked down” with thund’rous applause. He shakes his collops at a good joke about the “tap,” and agrees with Joe Miller, that

“Care to our coffin adds a nail no doubt, But every grin of laughter draws one out.”

An old dog’s-eared song-book is the companion to a bung-plug, a slate memoranda, and sundry utensils, which are his pocket residents. He is proud to wear a pair of fancy garters below knee, and on Mondays his neckcloth and stockings show that he was “clean as a new pin yesterday.” Like an undertaker, he smells of the beer to which he is attached, and rarely loses sight of “Dodd’s Sermon on Malt.” He ventures to play sly tricks with his favourite horse, and will give kick for kick when irritated. His language to his team is pure low Dutch, untranslatable, but perfectly understood when illustrated by a cut. It may be said that he moves in his own sphere; for, though he drives through the porter world, he spends much of his time out of the public-house, and is rarely te-ipse. What nature denies to others, custom sanctions in him, for “he eats, drinks, and is merry.” If a rough specimen of an unsophisticated John Bull were required, I would present the drayman.

J. R. P.

[91] I am here reminded of an old epigram on a “Fat Doctor,” in the Christmas Treat, xxxiii.

“When Tadloe treads the streets, the paviers cry ‘God bless you, sir!’ and lay their rammers by.”

* * * * *

SONNET.

FROM THE SPANISH OF QUEVEDO.

For the Table Book.

“En el mundo naciste, no a emmendarle.”

In this wide world, beware to think, my friend, Thy lot is cast to change it, or amend; But to perform thy part, and give thy share Of pitying aid; not to subdue, but bear.

If prudent, thou may’st know the world; if wise, In virtue strong, thou may’st the world despise; For good, be grateful--be to ill resign’d, And to the better world exalt thy mind.

The peril of thy soul in this world fear, But yet th’ Almighty’s wondrous work revere; See all things good but man; and chiefly see, With eye severe, the faults that dwell in thee. On them exert thine energies, and try Thyself to mend, ere judge the earth and sky.

* * * * *

ACQUAINTANCE TABLE.

2 Glances make 1 Bow. 2 Bows 1 How d’ye do. 6 How d’ye do’s 1 Conversation. 4 Conversations 1 Acquaintance.

* * * * *

~The Royal Table.~

ORIGIN OF

MARKING THE KING’S DISHES

WITH THE COOKS’ NAMES.

King George II. was accustomed every other year to visit his German dominions with the greater part of the officers of his household, and especially those belonging to the kitchen. Once on his passage at sea, his first cook was so ill with the sea-sickness, that he could not hold up his head to dress his majesty’s dinner; this being told to the king, he was exceedingly sorry for it, as he was famous for making a Rhenish soup, which his majesty was very fond of; he therefore ordered inquiry to be made among the assistant-cooks, if any of them could make the above soup. One named Weston (father of Tom Weston, the player) undertook it, and so pleased the king, that he declared it was full as good as that made by the first cook. Soon after the king’s return to England, the first cook died; when the king was informed of it, he said, that his steward of the household always appointed his cooks, but that he would now name one for himself, and therefore asking if one Weston was still in the kitchen, and being answered that he was, “That man,” said he, “shall be my first cook, for he makes most excellent Rhenish soup.” This favour begot envy among all the servants, so that, when any dish was found fault with, they used to say it was Weston’s dressing: the king took notice of this, and said to the servants, it was very extraordinary, that every dish he disliked should happen to be Weston’s; “in future,” said he, “let every dish be marked with the name of the cook that makes it.” By this means the king detected their arts, and from that time Weston’s dishes pleased him most. The custom has continued ever since, and is still practised at the king’s table.

* * * * *

MONEY--WEIGHTS AND MEASURES.

POUND, is derived from the Latin word pondus.

OUNCE, from uncia, or twelfth, being the twelfth of a pound troy.

INCH, from the same word, being the twelfth of a foot.

YARD, from the Saxon word gyrd, or girth, being originally the circumference of the body, until Henry I. decreed that it should be the length of his arm.

HALFPENNY and FARTHING. In 1060, when William the Conqueror began to reign, the PENNY, or sterling, was cast, with a deep cross, so that it might be broken in half, as a HALF-penny, or in quarters, for _Four_things, or _Far_things, as we now call them.

* * * * *

OLD MUG-HOUSES.

The internal economy of a mug-house in the reign of George I. is thus described by a foreign traveller:--

At the mug-house club in Long-acre, where on Wednesdays a mixture of gentlemen, lawyers, and tradesmen meet in a great room, a grave old gentleman in his grey hairs, and nearly ninety years of age, is their president, and sits in an armed chair some steps higher than the rest. A harp plays all the while at the lower end of the room; and now and then some one of the company rises and entertains the rest with a song, (and by the by some are good masters.) Here is nothing drank but ale, and every gentleman chalks on the table as it is brought in: every one also, as in a coffee-house, retires when he pleases.

N. B. In the time of the parliament’s sitting, there are clubs composed of the members of the commons, where most affairs are digested before they are brought into the house.

* * * * *

“AS DRUNK AS DAVID’S SOW.”

A few years ago, one David Lloyd, a Welchman, who kept an inn at Hereford, had a living sow with six legs which occasioned great resort to the house. David also had a wife who was much addicted to drunkenness, and for which he used frequently to bestow on her an admonitory drubbing. One day, having taken an extra cup which operated in a powerful manner, and dreading the usual consequences, she opened the stye-door, let out David’s sow, and lay down in its place, hoping that a short unmolested nap would sufficiently dispel the fumes of the liquor. In the mean time, however, a company arrived to view the so much talked of animal; and Davy, proud of his office, ushered them to the stye, exclaiming, “Did any of you ever see such a creature before?”--“Indeed, Davy,” said one of the farmers, “I never before saw a sow so drunk as thine in all my life!”--Hence the term “as drunk as David’s sow.”

* * * * *

SINGULAR RETURN.

For the Table Book.

An inhabitant of the parish of Clerkenwell being called upon, a short time ago, to fill up the blanks of a printed circular under the following heads, in pursuance of an act of parliament passed in the sixth year of his present majesty’s reign, entitled “An Act for consolidating and amending the Laws relative to Jurors and Juries,” sent in his return as follows:--

“STREET.”

Baker-street--badly paved--rascally lighted--with one old woman of a watchman.

“TITLE, QUALITY, CALLING, OR BUSINESS.”

No title--no quality--no calling, except when my wife and sixteen children call for bread and butter--and as for business, I have none. Times are bad, and there’s no business to be done.

“NATURE OF QUALIFICATION; WHETHER FREEHOLD, COPYHOLD, OR LEASEHOLD PROPERTY.”

No freehold property--no copyhold property--no leasehold property. In fact, no property at all! I live by my wits, as one half of the world live, and am therefore NOT qualified.

GASPARD.

* * * * *

~Suburban Sonnets.~

I.

ISLINGTON.

Thy fields, fair Islington! begin to bear Unwelcome buildings, and unseemly piles; The streets are spreading, and the Lord knows where Improvement’s hand will spare the neighb’ring stiles: The rural blandishments of Maiden Lane Are ev’ry day becoming less and less, While kilns and lime roads force us to complain Of nuisances time only can suppress. A few more years, and COPENHAGEN HOUSE Shall cease to charm the tailor and the snob; And where attornies’ clerks in smoke carouse, Regardless wholly of to-morrow’s job, Some Claremont Row, or Prospect-Place shall rise, Or terrace, p’rhaps, misnomer’d PARADISE!

II.

HAGBUSH LANE.

Poor HAGBUSH LANE! thy ancient charms are going To rack and ruin fast as they can go; And where but lately many a flow’r was growing, Nothing shall shortly be allow’d to grow! Thy humble cottage, where as yet they sell No “nut-brown ale,” or luscious Stilton cheese-- Where dusky gipsies in the summer dwell, And donkey drivers fight their dogs at ease, Shall feel ere long the lev’lling hand of taste, If that be taste which darkens ev’ry field; Thy garden too shall likewise be displac’d, And no more “cabbage” to its master yield; But, in its stead, some new Vauxhall perchance Shall rise, renown’d for pantomime and dance!

III.

HIGHGATE.

Already, HIGHGATE! to thy skirts they bear Bricks, mortar, timber, in no small degree, And thy once pure, exhilarating air Is growing pregnant with impurity! The would-be merchant has his “country box” A few short measures from the dusty road, Where friends on Sunday talk about the stocks Or praise the beauties of his “neat abode:” One deems the wall-flow’r garden, in the front, Unrivall’d for each aromatic bed; Another fancies that his old sow’s grunt “Is so much like the country,” and instead Of living longer down in Crooked-lane, Resolves, at once, to “ruralize” again!

J. G.

Islington.

Vol. I.--13.

The verdant lawns which rise above the rill Are not unworthy Virgil’s past’ral song.

On the west side of Hampstead, in the middle of one of the pleasant meadows called Shepherd’s fields, at the left-hand of the footpath going from Belsize-house towards the church, this arch, embedded above and around by the green turf, forms a conduit-head to a beautiful spring: the specific gravity of the fluid, which yields several tuns a day, is little more than that of distilled water. Hampstead abounds in other springs, but they are mostly impregnated with mineral substances. The water of “Shepherd’s well,” therefore, is in continual request, and those who cannot otherwise conveniently obtain it, are supplied through a few of the villagers, who make a scanty living by carrying it to houses for a penny a pail-full. There is no carriage-way to the spot, and these poor things have much hard work for a very little money.

I first knew this spring in my childhood, when domiciled with a relation, who then occupied Belsize-house, by being allowed to go with Jeff the under-gardener, whose duty it was to fetch water from the spring. As I accompanied him, so a tame magpie accompanied me: Jeff slouched on with his pails and yoke, and my ardour to precede was restrained by fear of some ill happening to Mag if I did not look after the rogue. He was a wayward bird, the first to follow wherever I went, but always according to his own fashion; he never put forth his speed till he found himself a long way behind, so that Jeff always led the van, and Mag always brought up the rear, making up for long lagging by long hopping. On one occasion, however, as soon as we got out of the side-door from the out-house yard into Belsize-lane, Mag bounded across the road, and over the wicket along the meadows, with quick and long hops, throwing “side-long looks behind,” as if deriding my inability to keep up with him, till he reached the well: there we both waited for Jeff, who for once was last, and, on whose arrival, the bird took his station on the crown of the arch, looking alternately down to the well and up at Jeff. It was a sultry day in a season of drought, and, to Jeff’s surprise, the water was not easily within reach; while he was making efforts with the bucket, Mag seemed deeply interested in the experiment, and flitted about with tiresome assiduity. In a moment Jeff rose in a rage, execrated poor Mag, and vowed cruel vengeance on him. On our way home the bird preceded, and Jeff, to my continual alarm in behalf of Mag, several times stopped, and threw stones at him with great violence. It was not till we were housed, that the man’s anger was sufficiently appeased to let him acquaint me with its cause: and then I learned that Mag was a “wicked bird,” who knew of the low water before he set out, and was delighted with the mischief. From that day, Jeff hated him, and tried to maim him: the creature’s sagacity in eluding his brutal intent, he imputed to diabolical knowledge; and, while my estimation of Jeff as a good-natured fellow was considerably shaken, I acquired a secret fear of poor Mag. This was my first acquaintance with the superstitious and dangerous feelings of ignorance.

The water of Shepherd’s well is remarkable for not being subject to freeze. There is another spring sometimes resorted to near Kilburn, but this and the ponds in the Vale of Health are the ordinary sources of public supply to Hampstead. The chief inconvenience of habitations in this delightful village is the inadequate distribution of good water. Occasional visitants, for the sake of health, frequently sustain considerable injury by the insalubrity of private springs, and charge upon the fluid they breathe the mischiefs they derive from the fluid they drink. The localities of the place afford almost every variety of aspect and temperature that invalids require: and a constant sufficiency of wholesome water might be easily obtained by a few simple arrangements.

*

March 19, 1827.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. X.

[From the “Fair Maid of the Exchange,” a Comedy, by Thomas Heywood, 1637.]

Cripple offers to fit Frank Golding with ready made Love Epistles.

Frank. Of thy own writing? Crip. My own, I assure you, Sir. Frank. Faith, thou hast robb’d some sonnet-book or other. And now would’st make me think they are thy own. Crip. Why, think’st thou that I cannot write a Letter, Ditty, or Sonnet, with judicial phrase, As pretty, pleasing, and pathetical, As the best Ovid-imitating dunce In the whole town? Frank. I think thou can’st not. Crip. Yea, I’ll swear I cannot. Yet, Sirrah, I could coney-catch the world, Make myself famous for a sudden wit, And be admired for my dexterity, Were I disposed. Frank. I prithee, how? Crip. Why, thus. There lived a Poet in this town, (If we may term our modern writers Poets), Sharp-witted, bitter-tongued; his pen, of steel; His ink was temper’d with the biting juice And extracts of the bitterest weeds that grew; He never wrote but when the elements Of fire and water tilted in his brain. This fellow, ready to give up his ghost To Lucia’s bosom, did bequeath to me His Library, which was just nothing But rolls, and scrolls, and bundles of cast wit, Such as durst never visit Paul’s Church Yard. Amongst ’em all I lighted on a quire Or two of paper, fill’d with Songs and Ditties, And here and there a hungry Epigram; These I reserve to my own proper use, And Pater-noster-like have conn’d them all. I could now, when I am in company, At ale-house, tavern, or an ordinary, Upon a theme make an extemporal ditty (Or one at least should seem extemporal), Out of the abundance of this Legacy, That all would judge it, and report it too, To be the infant of a sudden wit, And then were I an admirable fellow. Frank. This were a piece of cunning. Crip. I could do more; for I could make enquiry, Where the best-witted gallants use to dine, Follow them to the tavern, and there sit In the next room with a calve’s head and brimstone, And over-hear their talk, observe their humours, Collect their jests, put them into a play, And tire them too with payment to behold What I have filch’d from them. This I could do But O for shame that man should so arraign Their own fee-simple wits for verbal theft! Yet men there be that have done this and that, And more by much more than the most of them.[92]

* * * * *

After this Specimen of the pleasanter vein of Heywood, I am tempted to extract some lines from his “Hierarchie of Angels, 1634;” not strictly as a Dramatic Poem, but because the passage contains a string of names, all but that of Watson, his contemporary Dramatists. He is complaining in a mood half serious, half comic, of the disrespect which Poets in his own times meet with from the world, compared with the honors paid them by Antiquity. Then they could afford them three or four sonorous names, and at full length; as to Ovid, the addition of Publius Naso Sulmensis; to Seneca, that of Lucius Annæas Cordubensis; and the like. Now, says he,

Our modern Poets to that pass are driven, Those names are curtail’d which they first had given; And, as we wish’d to have their memories drown’d, We scarcely can afford them half their sound. Greene, who had in both Academies ta’en Degree of Master, yet could never gain To be call’d more than Robin: who, had he Profest ought save the Muse, served, and been free After a sev’n years prenticeship, might have (With credit too) gone Robert to his grave. Marlowe, renown’d for his rare art and wit, Could ne’er attain beyond the name of Kit; Although his Hero and Leander did Merit addition rather. Famous Kid Was call’d but Tom. Tom Watson; though he wrote Able to make Apollo’s self to dote Upon his Muse; for all that he could strive, Yet never could to his full name arrive. Tom Nash (in his time of no small esteem) Could not a second syllable redeem. Excellent Beaumont, in the foremost rank Of the rarest wits, was never more than Frank. Mellifluous SHAKSPEARE, whose inchanting quill Commanded mirth or passion, was but WILL; And famous Jonson, though his learned pen Be dipt in Castaly, is still but Ben. Fletcher, and Webster, of that learned pack None of the meanest, neither was but Jack; Decker but Tom; nor May, nor Middleton; And he’s now but Jack Ford, that once were John.

Possibly our Poet was a little sore, that this contemptuous curtailment of their Baptismal Names was chiefly exercised upon his Poetical Brethren of the Drama. We hear nothing about Sam Daniel, or Ned Spenser, in his catalogue. The familiarity of common discourse might probably take the greater liberties with the Dramatic Poets, as conceiving of them as more upon a level with the Stage Actors. Or did their greater publicity, and popularity in consequence, fasten these diminutives upon them out of a feeling of love and kindness; as we say Harry the Fifth, rather than Henry, when we would express good will?--as himself says, in those reviving words put into his mouth by Shakspeare, where he would comfort and confirm his doubting brothers:

Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds, But Harry Harry!

And doubtless Heywood had an indistinct conception of this truth, when (coming to his own name), with that beautiful retracting which is natural to one that, not Satirically given, has wandered a little out of his way into something recriminative, he goes on to say:

Nor speak I this, that any here exprest Should think themselves less worthy than the rest, Whose names have their full syllables and sound; Or that Frank, Kit, or Jack, are the least wound Unto their fame and merit. I for my part (Think others what they please) accept that heart, Which courts my love in most familiar phrase; And that it takes not from my pains or praise, If any one to me so bluntly come: I hold he loves me best that calls me Tom.

C. L.

[92] The full title of this Play is “The Fair Maid of the Exchange, with the humours of the Cripple of Fenchurch.” The above Satire against some Dramatic Plagiarists of the time, is put into the mouth of the Cripple, who is an excellent fellow, and the Hero of the Comedy. Of his humour this extract is a sufficient specimen; but he is described (albeit a tradesman, yet wealthy withal) with heroic qualities of mind and body; the latter of which he evinces by rescuing his Mistress (the Fair Maid) from three robbers by the main force of one crutch lustily applied; and the former by his foregoing the advantages which this action gained him in her good opinion, and bestowing his wit and finesse in procuring for her a husband, in the person of his friend Golding, more worthy of her beauty, than he could conceive his own maimed and halting limbs to be. It would require some boldness in a dramatist now-a-days to exhibit such a Character; and some luck in finding a sufficient Actor, who would be willing to personate the infirmities, together with the virtues, of the Noble Cripple.

* * * * *

ERRATA.

GARRICK PLAYS, NO. IX.

Col. 357. Last line but two of the last extract--

“Blushing forth golden hair and glorious red”--

a sun-bright line spoiled:--

Blush for Blushing.

Last line but two of the extract preceding the former, (the end of the old man’s speech)--

“Restrained liberty attain’d is sweet,”

should have a full stop.

These little blemishes kill such delicate things: prose feeds on grosser punctualities.

* * * * *

Will the reader be pleased to make the above corrections with a pen, and allow the fact of illness in excuse for editorial mischance?

*

* * * * *

SNUFF AND TOBACCO.

For the Table Book.

In the year 1797 was circulated the following:--

PROPOSALS for Publishing by Subscription, a HISTORY OF SNUFF AND TOBACCO, in two Volumes.

Vol. I. to contain a Description of the Nose--Size of Noses--A Digression on Roman Noses--Whether long Noses are symptomatic--Origin of Tobacco--Tobacco first manufactured into Snuff--Enquiry who took the first Pinch--Essay on Sneezing--Whether the ancients sneezed, and at what--Origin of Pocket-handkerchiefs--Discrimination between Snuffing and taking Snuff; the former applied only to Candles--Parliamentary Snufftakers--Troubles in the time of Charles the First, as connected with Smoking.

Vol. II. Snufftakers in the Parliamentary army--Wit at a Pinch--Oval Snuff-boxes first used by the Round-heads--Manufacture of Tobacco Pipes--Dissertation on Pipe Clay--State of Snuff during the Commonwealth--The Union--Scotch Snuff first introduced--found very pungent and penetrating--Accession of George the Second--Snuff-boxes then made of Gold and Silver--George the Third--Scotch Snuff first introduced at Court--The Queen--German Snuffs in fashion--Female Snufftakers--Clean Tuckers, &c. &c.--Index and List of Subscribers.

In connection with this subject I beg to mention an anecdote, related to me by an old Gentleman who well remembered the circumstance:--

“When every Shopkeeper had a Sign hanging out before his door, a Dealer in Snuff and Tobacco on Fish Street Hill, carried on a large trade, especially in Tobacco, for his Shop was greatly frequented by Sailors from the Ships in the River. In the course of time, a Person of the name of Farr opened a Shop nearly opposite, and hung out his Sign inscribed ‘The best Tobacco by Farr.’ This (like the Shoemaker’s inscription, ‘Adam Strong Shoemaker,’ so well known) attracted the attention of the Sailors, who left the old Shop to buy ‘the best Tobacco by far.’ The old Shopkeeper observing that his opponent obtained much custom by his Sign, had a new one put up at his Door inscribed ‘Far better Tobacco than the best Tobacco by Farr.’ This had its effect; his trade returned, and finally his opponent was obliged to give up business.”

W. P.

* * * * *

THE SMOKER’S SONG.

For the Table Book.

For thy sake, Tobacco, I Would do any thing but die!

CHARLES LAMB.

1.

There is a tiny weed, man, That grows far o’er the sea man; The juice of which does more bewitch Than does the gossip’s tea, man.

2.

Its name is call’d tobacco, ’Tis used near and far man; The car-man chews--but I will choose The daintier cigar, man.

3.

’Tis dainty ev’n in shape, man-- So round, so smooth, so long, man! If you’re a churl, ’twill from you hurl Your spleen--you’ll sing a song, man!

4.

If you will once permit it To touch your swelling lip, man, You soon shall see ’twill sweeter be Than what the bee doth sip, man!

5.

If e’er you are in trouble, This will your trouble still, man, On sea and land ’tis at command, An idle hour to kill, man!

6.

And if the blind god, Cupid, Should strike you to the heart, man, Take up a glass, and toast your lass-- And--ne’er from smoking part, man!

7.

And also if you’re married, In Hymen’s chains fast bound, man; To plague your wife out of her life, Smoke still the whole year round, man!

8.

How sweet ’tis of an evening When wint’ry winds do blow, man, As ’twere in spite, to take a pipe, And smoke by th’ fire’s glow, man!

9.

The sailor in his ship, man, When wildly rolls the wave, man, His pipe will smoke, and crack his joke Above his yawning grave, man!

10.

The soldier, in the tavern, Talks of the battle’s roar, man; With pipe in hand, he gives command, And thus he lives twice o’er man!

11.

All classes in this world, man, Have each their own enjoyment, But with a pipe, they’re all alike-- ’Tis every one’s employment!

12.

Of all the various pleasures That on this earth there are, man, There’s nought to me affords such glee As a pipe or sweet cigar, man!

O. N. Y.

* * * * *

~Old Customs and Manners~

BY JOHN AUBREY, 1678

EX MS. COLL. ASHMOL. MUS. OXFORD.

Education.

There were very few free-schools in England before the Reformation. Youth were generally taught Latin in the monasteries, and young women had their education not at Hackney, as now, scilicit, anno 1678, but at nunneries, where they learnt needle-work, confectionary, surgery, physic, (apothecaries and surgeons being at that time very rare,) writing, drawing, &c. Old Jackquar, now living, has often seen from his house the nuns of St. Mary Kingston, in Wilts, coming forth into the Nymph Hay with their rocks and wheels to spin, sometimes to the number of threescore and ten, all whom were not nuns, but young girls sent there for their education.

Chimneys.

Anciently, before the Reformation, ordinary men’s houses, as copyholders, and the like, had no chimneys, but flues like louver-holes; some of them were in being when I was a boy.

Painted Cloths.

In the halls and parlours of great houses were wrote texts of Scripture on the painted cloths.

Libels.

The lawyers say, that, before the time of king Henry VIII., one shall hardly find an action on the case as for slander, &c. once in a year, quod nota.

Christmas.

Before the last civil wars, in gentlemen’s houses at Christmas, the first dish that was brought to the table was a boar’s head with a lemon in his mouth. At Queen’s College in Oxford they still retain this custom; the bearer of it brings it into the hall, singing to an old tune an old Latin rhyme, “Caput apri defero,” &c. The first dish that was brought up to the table on Easter-day was a red herring riding away on horseback, i. e. a herring ordered by the cook something after the likeness of a man on horseback, set in a corn salad.

Easter.

The custom of eating a gammon of bacon at Easter, which is still kept up in many parts of England, was founded on this, viz. to show their abhorrence to Judaism at that solemn commemoration of our Lord’s resurrection. In the Easter holydays was the clerk’s ale for his private benefit, and the solace of the neighbourhood.

Salutations.

The use of “Your humble servant” came first into England on the marriage of queen Mary, daughter of Henry IV. of France, which is derived from Votre très humble serviteur. The usual salutation before that time was, “God keep you!” “God be with you!” and among the vulgar, “How dost do?” with a thump on the shoulder.

Court Rudeness.

Till this time the court itself was unpolished and unmannered. King James’s court was so far from being civil to women, that the ladies, nay the queen herself, could hardly pass by the king’s apartment without receiving some affront.

Travellers in France.

At the parish priests’ houses in France, especially in Languedoc, the table-cloth is on the board all day long, and ready for what is in the house to be put thereon for strangers, travellers, friars, and pilgrims; so ’twas, I have heard my grandfather say, in his grandfather’s time.

Private Heralds.

Heretofore noblemen and gentlemen of fair estates had their heralds, who wore their coat of arms at Christmas, and at other solemn times, and cried “Largesse” thrice.

At Tomarton, in Gloucestershire, anciently the seat of the Rivers, is a dungeon thirteen or fourteen feet deep; about four feet high are iron rings fastened to the wall, which was probably to tie offending villains to, as all lords of manors had this power over their villains, (or soccage tenants,) and had all of them no doubt such places for their punishment. It is well known, all castles had dungeons, and so I believe had monasteries, for they had often within themselves power of life and death.

In days of yore, lords and gentlemen lived in the country like petty kings; had jura regalia belonging to their seigniories, had their castles and boroughs, had gallows within their liberties, where they could try, condemn, and execute. Never went to London but in parliament-time, or once a year to do their homage to the king. They always ate in gothic halls, at the high table or oreille, (which is a little room at the upper end of the hall, where stands a table,) with the folks at the side-tables. The meat was served up by watchwords. Jacks are but of late invention. The poor boys did turn the spits, and licked the dripping for their pains. The beds of the men-servants and retainers were in the hall, as now in the grand or privy chamber.

Here in the hall, the mumming and the loaf-stealing, and other Christmas sports, were performed.

The hearth was commonly in the middle, whence the saying, “Round about our coal-fire.”

A neat-built chapel, and a spacious hall, were all the rooms of note, the rest more small.

Private Armories.

Every baron and gentleman of estate kept great horses for men at arms. Some had their armories sufficient to furnish out some hundreds of men.

Justices’ Halls.

The halls of the justices of peace were dreadful to behold; the screen was garnished with corselets and helmets gaping with open mouths, with coats of mail, lances, pikes, halberds, brown bills, batterdastors, and buckles.

Inns.

Public inns were rare. Travellers were entertained at religious houses for three days together, if occasion served.

Gentry Meetings.

The meeting of the gentry were not at taverns, but in the fields or forests, with hawks and hounds, and their bugle-horns, in silken bawderies.

Hawking.

In the last age every gentleman-like man kept a sparrow-hawk, and the priest a hobby, as dame Julian Berners teaches us, (who wrote a treatise on field-sports, temp. Henry VI.:) it was a divertisement for young gentlewomen to manne sparrow-hawks and merlines.

Church-houses--Poor-rates.

Before the Reformation there were no poor’s rates; the charitable doles given at religious houses, and church-ale in every parish, did the business. In every parish there was a church-house, to which belonged spits, pots, crocks, &c. for dressing provision. Here the housekeepers met and were merry, and gave their charity. The young people came there too, and had dancing, bowling, shooting at butts, &c. Mr. A. Wood assures me, there were few or no alms-houses before the time of king Henry VIII.; that at Oxford, opposite to Christ church, is one of the most ancient in England. In every church was a poor man’s box, and the like at great inns.

In these times, besides the jollities above-mentioned, they had their pilgrimages to several shrines, as to Walsingham, Canterbury, Glastonbury, Bromholm, &c. Then the crusades to the holy wars were magnificent and splendid, and gave rise to the adventures of the knight-errant and romances; the solemnity attending processions in and about churches, and the perambulations in the fields, were great diversions also of those times.

Glass Windows.

Glass windows, except in churches and gentlemen’s houses, were rare before the time of Henry VIII. In my own remembrance, before the civil wars, copyholders and poor people had none.

Men’s Coats.

About ninety years ago, noblemen’s and gentlemen’s coats were of the bedels and yeomen of the guards, i. e. gathered at the middle. The benchers in the inns of court yet retain that fashion in the make of their gowns.

Church-building.

Captain Silas Taylor says, that in days of yore, when a church was to be built, they watched and prayed on the vigil of the dedication, and took that point of the horizon where the sun arose for the east, which makes that variation, so that few stand true, except those built between the two equinoxes. I have experimented some churches, and have found the line to point to that part of the horizon where the sun rises on the day of that saint to whom the church was dedicated.

Before the wake, or feast of the dedication of the church, they sat up all night fasting and praying, (viz.) on the eve of the wake.

New Moon.

In Scotland, especially among the Highlanders, the women make a courtesy to the new moon; and our English women in this country have a touch of this, some of them sitting astride on a gate or style the first evening the new moon appears, and say, “A fine moon, God bless her!” The like I observed in Herefordshire.

Husbandry--Shepherds.

The Britons received the knowledge of husbandry from the Romans; the foot and the acre, which we yet use, is the nearest to them. In our west country, (and I believe so in the north,) they give no wages to the shepherd, but he has the keeping so many sheep with his master’s flock. Plautus hints at this in his Asinaria, act 3, scene 1, “etiam Opilio,” &c.

Architecture.

The Normans brought with them into England civility and building, which, though it was gothic, was yet magnificent.

Mr. Dugdale told me, that, about the time of king Henry III., the pope gave a bull, or patent, to a company of Italian architects, to travel up and down Europe to build churches.

Trumpets--Sheriffs’ Trumpets.

Upon occasion of bustling in those days, great lords sounded their trumpets, and summoned those that held under them. Old sir Walter Long, of Draycot, kept a trumpeter, rode with thirty servants and retainers. Hence the sheriffs’ trumpets at this day.

Younger Brothers.

No younger brothers were to betake themselves to trades, but were churchmen or retainers to great men.

Learning, and learned Men.

From the time of Erasmus till about twenty years last past, the learning was downright pedantry. The conversation and habits of those times were as starched as their bands and square beards, and gravity was then taken for wisdom. The doctors in those days were but old boys, when quibbles passed for wit, even in their sermons.

Gentry and their Children.

The gentry and citizens had little learning of any kind, and their way of breeding up their children was suitable to the rest. They were as severe to their children as their schoolmasters, and their schoolmasters as masters of the house of correction: the child perfectly loathed the sight of his parents as the slave his torture.

Gentlemen of thirty and forty years old were to stand like mutes and fools bare-headed before their parents; and the daughters (grown women) were to stand at the cupboard-side during the whole time of her proud mother’s visit, unless (as the fashion was) leave was desired forsooth that a cushion should be given them to kneel upon, brought them by the servingman, after they had done sufficient penance in standing.

The boys (I mean the young fellow) had their foreheads turned up and stiffened with spittle: they were to stand mannerly forsooth thus, the foretop ordered as before, with one hand at the bandstring, and the other behind.

Fans.

The gentlewomen had prodigious fans, as is to be seen in old pictures, like that instrument which is used to drive feathers, and it had a handle at least half a yard long; with these the daughters were oftentimes corrected, (sir Edward Coke, lord chief justice, rode the circuit with such a fan; sir William Dugdale told me he was an eye-witness of it. The earl of Manchester also used such a fan,) but fathers and mothers slashed their daughters in the time of their besom discipline, when they were perfect women.

University Flogging.

At Oxford (and I believe at Cambridge) the rod was frequently used by the tutors and deans; and Dr. Potter, of Trinity college, I knew right well, whipped his pupil with his sword by his side, when he came to take his leave of him to go to the inns of court.

Young lambs to sell! young lambs to sell If I’d as much money as I could tell, I’d not come here with lambs to sell! Dolly and Molly, Richard and Nell, Buy my young lambs, and I’ll use you well!

This is a “London cry” at the present time: the engraving represents the crier, William Liston, from a drawing for which he purposely stood.

This “public character” was born in the Gallowgate in the city of Glasgow. He became a soldier in the waggon-train, commanded by colonel Hamilton, and served under the duke of York in Holland, where, on the 6th of October, 1799, he lost his right arm and left leg, and his place in the army. His misfortunes thrust distinction upon him. From having been a private in the ranks, where he would have remained a single undistinguishable cipher 0, amongst a row of ciphers 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 he now makes a figure in the world; and is perhaps better known throughout England than any other individual of his order in society, for he has visited almost every town with “young lambs to sell.” He has a wife and four children; the latter are constantly employed in making the “young lambs,” with white cotton wool for fleeces, spangled with Dutch gilt, the head of flour paste, red paint on the cheeks, two jet black spots for eyes, horns of twisted shining tin, legs to correspond, and pink tape tied round the neck for a graceful collar. A full basket of these, and his song-like cry, attract the attention of the juvenile population, and he contrives to pick up a living, notwithstanding the “badness of the times.” The day after last Christmas-day, his cry in Covent-garden allured the stage-manager to purchase four dozen of “young lambs,” and at night they were “brought out” at that theatre, in the basket of a performer who personated their old proprietor, and cried so as to deceive the younger part of the audience into a belief that he was their real favourite of the streets.

I remember the first crier of “young lambs to sell!” He was a maimed sailor; and with him originated the manufacture. If I am not mistaken, this man, many years after I had ceased to be a purchaser of his ware, was guilty of some delinquency, for which he forfeited his life: his cry was

Young lambs to sell! young lambs to sell! Two for a penny young lambs to sell! Two for a penny young lambs to sell-- Two for a penny young lambs to sell! If I’d as much money as I could tell, I wouldn’t cry young lambs to sell! Young lambs to sell--young lambs to sell-- Two for a penny young lambs to sell! Young lambs to se--e--ll, Young la--a--mbs to sell!

Though it is five and thirty years ago since I heard the sailor’s musical “cry,” it still sings in my memory; it was a tenor of modulated harmonious tune, till, in the last line but one, it became a thorough bass, and rolled off at the close with a loud swell that filled urchin listeners with awe and admiration. During this chant his head was elevated, and he gave his full voice, and apparently his looks, to the winds; but the moment he concluded, and when attention was yet rivetted, his address became particular: his persuasive eye and jocular address flashed round the circle of “my little masters and mistresses,” and his hand presented a couple of his snow white “fleecy charge,” dabbled in gold, “two for a penny!” nor did he resume his song till ones and twos were in the possession of probably every child who had a halfpenny or penny at command.

The old sailor’s “young lambs” were only half the cost of the poor soldier’s. It may be doubted whether the materials of their composition have doubled in price, but the demand for “young lambs” has certainly lessened, while the present manufacturer has quite as many wants as the old one, and luckily possessing a monopoly of the manufacture, he therefore raises the price of his articles to the necessity of his circumstances. It is not convenient to refer to the precise chapter in the “Wealth of Nations,” or to verified tables of the increased value of money, in order to show that the new lamb-seller has not exceeded “an equitable adjustment” in the arrangement of his present prices; but it is fair to state in his behalf, that he declares, notwithstanding all the noise he makes, the carrying on of the lamb business is scarcely better than pig-shaving; “Sir,” says he, “it’s great cry, and little wool.” From a poor fellow, at his time of life, with only half his limbs to support a large family this is no joke. Not having been at his native place for two and twenty years, the desire to see it once more is strong within him, and he purposes next Easter to turn his face northwards, with his family, and “cry” all the way from London to Glasgow. Let the little ones, therefore, in the towns of his route, keep a penny or two by them to lay out in “young lambs,” and so help the poor fellow along the road, in this stage of his struggle through life.

*

March 19, 1827.

* * * * *

LINES ON HAPPINESS.

For the Table Book.

Like a frail shadow seen in maze, Or some bright star shot o’er the ocean, Is happiness, that meteor’s blaze, For ever fleeting in its motion.

It plays within our fancied grasp, Like a phantasmagorian shade, Pursued, e’en to the latest gasp, It still seems hovering in the glade.

Tis but like hope, and hope’s, at best, A star that leads the weary on, Still pointing to the unpossess’d And palling that it beams upon.

J. B. O.

* * * * *

HUMAN LIFE.

BY GOETHE.

That life is but a dream is the opinion of many; it is mine. When I see the narrow limits which confine the penetrating, active genius of man; when I see that all his powers are directed to satisfy mere necessities, the only end of which is to prolong a precarious or painful existence; that his greatest care, with regard to certain inquiries, is but a blind resignation; and that we only amuse ourselves with painting brilliant figures and smiling landscapes on the walls of our prison, whilst we see on all sides the boundary which confines us; when I consider these things I am silent: I examine myself; and what do I find? Alas! more vague desires, presages, and visions, than conviction, truth, and reality.

The happiest are those, who, like children, think not of the morrow, amuse themselves with playthings, dress and undress their dolls, watch with great respect before the cupboard where mamma keeps the sweetmeats, and when they get any, eat them directly, and cry for more; these are certainly happy beings. Many also are to be envied, who dignify their paltry employments, sometimes even their passions, with pompous titles; and who represent themselves to mankind as beings of a superior order, whose occupation it is to promote their welfare and glory. But the man who in all humility acknowledges the vanity of these things; observes with what pleasure the wealthy citizen transforms his little garden into a paradise; with what patience the poor man bears his burden; and that all wish equally to behold the sun yet a little longer; he too may be at peace. He creates a world of his own, is happy also because he is a man; and, however limited his sphere, he preserves in his bosom the idea of liberty.

* * * * *

VALEDICTORY STANZAS.

For the Table Book.

The flower is faded, The sun-beam is fled, The bright eye is shaded, The loved one is dead: Like a star in the morning-- When, mantled in gray, Aurora is dawning-- She vanish’d away.

Like the primrose that bloometh Neglected to die, Though its sweetness perfumeth The ev’ning’s soft sigh-- Like lightning in summer, Like rainbows that shine With a mild dreamy glimmer In colours divine--

The kind and pure hearted, The tender, the true, From our love has departed With scarce an adieu: So briefly, so brightly In virtue she shone, As shooting stars nightly That blaze and are gone.

The place of her slumber Is holy to me, And oft as I number The leaves of the tree, Whose branches in sorrow Bend over her urn, I think of to-morrow And silently mourn.

The farewell is spoken, The spirit sublime The last tie has broken, That bound it to time; And bright is its dwelling Its mansion of bliss-- How far, far excelling The darkness of this!

Yet hearts still are beating, And eyes still are wet-- True, our joys are all fleeting, But who can forget? I know they must vanish As visions depart, But oh, can this banish The thorn from my heart?

The eye of affection, Its tribute of tears Sheds, with fond recollection Of life’s happy years; And tho’ vain be the anguish Indulg’d o’er the tomb, Yet nature will languish And shrink from its gloom.

Those lips--their least motion Was music to me, And, like light on the ocean, Those eyes seem’d to be: Are they mute--and for ever? The spell will not break; Are they closed--must I never Behold them awake?

When distress was around me Thy smiles were as balm, That in misery found me, And left me in calm: Success became dearer When thou wert with me, And the clear sky grew clearer When gaz’d on with thee.

Thou art gone--and tho’ reason My grief would disarm, I feel there’s a season When grief has a charm; And ’tis sweeter, far sweeter To sit by thy grave, Than to follow Hope’s meteor Down time’s hasty wave.

In darkness we laid thee-- The earth for thy bed-- The couch that we made thee Is press’d by thee dead: In sorrow’s film shrouded, Our eyes could not see The glory unclouded That opened on thee.

Thou canst not, pure spirit, Return to the dust, But we may inherit-- So humbly we trust-- The joys without measure To which thou art gone, The regions of pleasure Where tears are unknown.

H.

* * * * *

EFFECT OF CONSCIENCE.

On the 30th of March, 1789, 360_l._ was carried to the account of the public, in consequence of the following note received by the chancellor of the exchequer.

“Sir--You will herewith receive bank notes to the amount of 360_l._ which is the property of the nation, and which, as an honest man, you will be so just as to apply to the use of the state in such manner that the nation may not suffer by its having been detained from the public treasury. You are implored to do this for the ease of conscience to an honest man.”

* * * * *

~Anecdotes~

OF

HENRY THE GREAT.

PUBLIC LIBEL.

About 1605, Henry IV. of France attempting to enforce some regulations respecting the annuities upon the Hotel de Ville, of Paris, several assemblies of the citizens were held, in which Francis Miron, the prévôt des marchands, addressed the king’s commissioners against the measures with fervour and firmness. It was rumoured amongst the people of Paris, that their magistrate was threatened, for having exerted himself too warmly in their behalf; they crowded about his house, in order to defend him, but Miron requested them to retire, and not to render him really criminal. He represented that nothing injurious was to be apprehended, for they had a king as great and wise, as he was beneficent and just, who would not suffer himself to be hurried away by the instigations of evil counsellors. Yet those whose conduct Miron had arraigned, endeavoured to persuade Henry to punish him, and deprive him of his office, for disobedient actions, and seditious discourse. The king’s answer contained memorable expressions:--“Authority does not always consist in carrying things with a high hand: regard must be paid to times, persons, and the subject-matter. I have been ten years in extinguishing civil discord, I dread its revival, and Paris has cost me too much for me to risk its loss; in my opinion, it would unquestionably be the case, were I to follow your advice; for I should be obliged to make terrible examples, which, in a few days, would deprive me of the glory of clemency, and the affection of my people; and these I prize as much, and even more than my crown. I have experienced, on many occasions, the fidelity and probity of Miron, who harbours no ill intentions, but undoubtedly deemed himself bound, by the duties of his office, to act as he has acted. If unguarded expressions have escaped him, I pardon them, on account of his past services; and, should he even desire a martyrdom in the public cause, I will disappoint him of the glory, by avoiding to become a persecutor and a tyrant.”

Henry ended the affair by receiving the apology and submission of Miron, and revoking the orders concerning the annuities, which had occasioned the popular alarm.[93]

* * * * *

LIBELLOUS DRAMA.

On the 26th of January, 1607, a pleasant farce was acted at the Hotel de Bourgogne, at Paris, before Henry IV., his queen, and the greater part of the princes, lords, and ladies of the court. The subject of the piece was a quarrel between a married man and his wife. The wife told her husband, that he staid tippling at the tavern while executions were daily laid upon their goods, for the tax which must be paid to the king, and that all their substance was carried away. “It is for that very reason,” said the husband in his defence, “that we should make merry with good cheer; for of what service would all the fortune we could amass be to us, since it would not belong to ourselves, but to this same noble king. I will drink the more, and of the very best: monsieur the king shall not meddle with that; go fetch me some this minute; march.” “Ah, wretch!” replied the wife, “would you bring me and your children to ruin?” During this dialogue, three officers of justice came in, and demanded the tax, and, in default of payment, prepared to carry away the furniture. The wife began a loud lamentation; at length the husband asked them who they were? “We belong to Justice,” said the officers: “How, to Justice!” replied the husband; “they who belong to Justice act in another manner; I do not believe that you are what you say.” During this altercation the wife seized a trunk, upon which she seated herself. The officers commanded her, “in the king’s name,” to open it; and after much dispute the trunk was opened, and out jumped three devils, who carry away the three officers of justice.

The magistrates, conceiving themselves to have been insulted by this performance, caused the actors to be arrested, and committed them to prison. On the same day they were discharged, by express command of the king, who magnanimously told those that complained of the affront, “You are fools! If any one has a right to take offence, it is I, who have received more abuse than any of you. I pardon the comedians from my heart; for the rogues made me laugh till I cried again.”[94]

[93] Perefixe.

[94] L’Etoile, Hist. d’Henri IV.

* * * * *

CUSTOM AT SCARBOROUGH.

The fish-market is held on the sands, by the sides of the boats, which, at low water, are run upon wheels with a sail set, and are conducted by the fishermen, who dispose of their cargoes in the following manner.

One of the female fishmongers inquires the price, and bids a groat; the fishermen ask a sum in the opposite extreme: the one bids up, and the other reduces the demand, till they meet at a reasonable point, when the bidder suddenly exclaims, “Het!” This practice seems to be borrowed from the Dutch. The purchase is afterwards retailed among the regular, or occasional surrounding customers.

* * * * *

LINES TO A BARREL ORGAN.

For the Table Book.

How many thoughts from thee I cull, Music’s humblest vehicle! From thy caravan of sounds, Constant in its daily rounds, Some such pleasure do I find As when, borne upon the wind, The well-known “bewilder’d chimes” Plaintively recall those times, (Long since lost in sorrow’s shade,) When, in some sequester’d glade, Their simple, stammering tongues would try Some heart-moving melody.-- Oldest musical delight Of my boyish days! the sight Or sound of thee would charm my feet, And make my joy of heart complete-- How thou luredst listeners To thy crazy, yearning airs!-- Harmonious, grumbling volcano! Murm’ring sounds in small piano, Or screaming forth a shrill soprano, Mingled with the growling bass. Fragments of some air I trace, Stifled by the notes which cram it-- Scatter’d ruins of the gamut!-- Sarcophagus of harmony! Orpheus’ casket! guarded by A swain who lives by what he earns From the music which he churns: Every note thou giv’st by turns.-- Not Pindar’s lyre more variety Possess’d than thou! no cloy’d satiety Feel’st thou at thy perpetual feast Of sound; nor weariness the least: Thy task’s perform’d with right goodwill.-- Thou art a melodious mill! Notes, like grain, are dribbled in, Thou grindest them, and fill’st the bin Of melody with plenteous store. Thy tunes are like the parrot’s lore, Nothing of them dost thou wot, But repeatest them by rote.-- Curious, docile instrument! To skilless touch obedient: Like a mine of richest ore, Inexhaustible in store, Yielding at a child’s command All thy wealth unto its hand. Harmonicon peripatetic! What clue to notes so oft erratic Hast thou, by which the ear may follow Through thy labyrinthine hollow, Which its own echo dost consume, As stoves devour their own fume.-- Mysterious fabric! cage-like chest! Behind whose gilded bars the nest Of unfledg’d melodies is hid ’Neath that brazen coverlid.-- In thy bondage-house of song, Bound in brazen fetters strong, Immortal harmonies do groan! Doleful sounds their stifled moan. A vulture preys upon their pangs, Round whose neck their prison hangs, Like that tenanted strong box By eagle found upon the rocks Of Brobdingnag’s gigantic isle. Like Sysiphus, their endless toil Is hopeless: their tormentor’s claw Turns the wheel (his will’s their law) Which all their joints and members racks, Ne’er will his cruelty relax.-- Miniature in shape and sound Of that grand instrument, which round Old cathedral walls doth send Its pealing voice; whose tones do blend The clangor of the trumpet’s throat, And the silver-stringed lute.-- To what else shall I compare thee?-- Further epithets I’ll spare thee. Honest and despised thing, To thy memory I cling. Spite of all thy faults, I own I love thy “old, familiar” tone.

GASTON.

* * * * *

MINISTERIAL FAVOUR.

A gentleman who had been long attached to cardinal Mazarine, reminded the cardinal of his many promises, and his dilatory performance. Mazarine, who had a great regard for him, and was unwilling to lose his friendship, took his hand, and explained the many demands made upon a person in his situation as minister, which it would be politic to satisfy previously to other requests, as they were founded on services done to the state. The cardinal’s adherent, not very confident in his veracity, replied, “My lord, all the favour I now ask at your hand is, that whenever we meet in public, you will do me the honour to tap me on the shoulder in an unreserved manner.” The cardinal smiled, and in the course of two or three years tapping, his friend became a wealthy man, on the credit of these attentions to him; and Mazarine and his confidant laughed at the public security which enriched the courtier at so little expense to the state.

* * * * *

DUDLEY OF PORTSMOUTH.

“I’M A GOING!”

For the Table Book.

Barbers are not more celebrated by a desire to become the most busy citizens of the state, than by the expert habit in which they convey news. Many a tale is invented out of a mere surmise, or whisper, for the gratification of those who attend barbers’ shops. An old son of the scissors and razor, well known at Portsmouth, was not, however, quite so perfect a _phiz_iologist, as his more erudite and bristling fraternity. One evening, as he was preparing his fronts, and fitting his comb “to a hair,” two supposed gentlemen entered his shop to be dressed; this being executed with much civility and despatch, a wager was laid with old Dudley, (for that was his name,) that he could not walk in a ring three feet in diameter, for one hour, and utter no other words than “I’m a going!” Two pounds on each side was on the counter; the ring was drawn in chalk; the money chinked in the ear, and old Dudley moved in the circle of his orbit. “I’m a going!--I’m a going!--I’m a going!” were the only words which kept time with his feet during the space of fifty-five minutes, when, on a sudden, one of the gentlemen sprang forward, and taking up the money, put it into his pocket. This device threw old Dudley off his guard, and he exclaimed, “That’s not fair!”--“Enough!” rejoined the sharpers, “you’ve lost the wager.” They departed, leaving him two pounds minus, and to this day old Dudley is saluted by the appellation of “I’m a going!”

JEHOIADA.

* * * * *

ROYAL DECISION.

In the reign of George I. the sister of judge Dormer being married to a gentleman who afterwards killed a man very basely, the judge went to move the king for a pardon. It was impossible that he could offer any thing to the royal ear in extenuation of the crime, and therefore he was the more earnest in expressing his hope that his majesty would save him and his family from the infamy the execution of the sentence would bring upon them. “So, Mr. Justice,” said the king, “what you propose to me is, that I should transfer the infamy from you and your family, to me and my family; but I shall do no such thing.” Motion refused.

* * * * *

~Biographiana.~

REV. THOMAS COOKE.

To the Editor.

Sir--In reply to the inquiries of your correspondent G. J. D. at p. 136, I beg to state, that the person he alludes to was the translator of Hesiod, immortalized by Pope in his Dunciad.

The Rev. Thomas Cooke was a profound Greek and Latin scholar, and consequently much better versed in the beauties of Homer, &c. than the irritable translator of the Iliad and Odyssey: his remarks on, and expositions of Pope’s glaring misconceptions of many important passages of the ancient bard drew down the satirical vengeance of his illustrious translator.

It would, however, appear that Pope was not the assailant in the first instance, for in the Appendix to the Dunciad we find “A list of Books, Papers, and Verses, in which our author (Pope) was abused, before the publication of that Poem;” and among the said works “The Battle of the Poets, an heroic Poem, by Thomas Cooke, printed for J. Roberts, folio, 1725,” is particularly mentioned. In book ii. of the Dunciad, we have the following line,--

“Cooke shall be Prior, and Concanen Swift;”

to which the following note is appended:--

“The man here specified writ a thing called The Battle of the Poets, in which Philips and Welsted were the heroes, and Swift and Pope utterly routed.”

Cooke also published some “malevolent things in the British, London, and daily journals, and at the same time wrote letters to Mr. Pope, protesting his innocence.”

His chief work was a translation of “Hesiod, to which Theobald writ notes, and half notes, which he carefully owned.”

Again, in the testimonies of authors, which precede the Dunciad, we find the following remark:--

“Mr. Thomas Cooke,

“After much blemishing our author’s Homer, crieth out

“But in his other works what beauties shine, While sweetest music dwells in ev’ry line! These he admir’d, on these he stamp’d his praise, And bade them live t’ enlighten future days!”

I have somewhere read that Cooke was a native of Sussex; that he became famous for his knowledge of the Greek and Latin languages while at Cambridge; and was ultimately settled in some part of Shropshire, where he soon became acquainted with the family of the young lady celebrated by his muse, in the fifth number of the Table Book, and where he also greatly distinguished himself as a clergyman, and preceptor of the younger branches of the neighbouring gentry and nobility. This may in some measure account for the respectable list of subscribers alluded to by G. J. D.

It is presumed, however, that misfortune at length overtook him; for we find, in the “Ambulator, or London and its Environs,” under the head “Lambeth,” that he lies interred in the church-yard of that parish, and that he died extremely poor: he is, moreover, designated “the celebrated translator of Hesiod, Terence, &c.”

I have seen the poem entitled “The Immortality of the Soul,” mentioned by G. J. D., though I have no recollection of its general features or merit; but of “The Battle of the Poets” I have a copy; and what renders it more rare and valuable is, that it was Mr. Cooke’s own impression of the work, and has several small productions upon various occasions, written, I presume, with his own hand, each having the signature “Thomas Cooke,” on the blank leaves at the commencement of the book.

On my return from the continent, I shall have no objection to intrust this literary curiosity to your care for a short time, giving you the liberty of extracting any (and all if you think proper) of the pieces written on the interleaves: and, in the mean time, I will do myself the pleasure of selecting one from the number, for insertion in the Table Book, which will, at least, prove that Mr. Cooke’s animosity was of transient duration, and less virulent than that of Pope.

It is possible that at some future time I may be able to enlarge upon this subject, for the better information of your correspondent; and I beg, in the interim, to remark that there is no doubt the Annual Register, from about the year 1750 to 1765, or works of that description, will fully satisfy his curiosity, and afford him much more explanation relative to Mr. Cooke than any communications from existing descendants.

In Mr. Cooke’s copy of “The Battle of the Poets,” the lines before quoted run thus:--

“But in his other works what beauties shine-- What sweetness also dwells in ev’ry line! These all admire--these bring him endless praise, And crown his temples with unfading bays!”

I remain, sir,

Your obedient servant and subscriber,

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Oxford, Jan. 29, 1827.

VERSES,

OCCASIONED BY THE LAMENTED DEATH OF MR. ALEXANDER POPE.

POPE! though thy pen has strove with heedless rage To make my name obnoxious to the age, While, dipp’d in gall, and tarnish’d with the spleen, It dealt in taunts ridiculous and mean, Aiming to lessen what it could not reach, And giving license to ungrateful speech, Still I forgive its enmity, and feel Regrets I would not stifle, nor conceal; For though thy temper, and imperious soul, Needed, at times, subjection and controul, There was a majesty--a march of sense-- A proud display of rare intelligence, In many a line of that transcendent pen, We never, perhaps, may contemplate again-- An energy peculiarly its own, And sweetness perfectly before unknown!

Then deign, thou mighty master of the lyre! T’ accept what justice and remorse inspire; Justice that prompts the willing muse to tell, None ever wrote so largely and so well-- Remorse that feels no future bard can fill The vacant chair with half such Attic skill, Or leave behind so many proofs of taste, As those rich poems dulness ne’er disgrac’d!

Farewell, dear shade! all enmity is o’er, Since Pope has left us for a brighter shore, Where neither rage, nor jealousy, nor hate, Can rouse the little, nor offend the great; Where worldly contests are at once forgot, In the bright glories of a happier lot; And where the dunces of the Dunciad see Thy genius crown’d with immortality!

THOMAS COOKE.

* * * * *

DUKE OF YORK

ALBANY AND CLARENCE.

For the Table Book.

In the History of Scotland, there is a remark which may be added to the account of the dukes of York, at col. 103; viz.

Shire of Perth.--That part of the county called Braidalbin, or Breadalbane, lies amongst the Grampian-hills, and gives title to a branch of the family of Campbell; where note that Braid-Albin, in old Scotch, signifies the highest part of Scotland, and Drum-Albin, which is the name of a part thereof, signifies the ridge or back of Scotland. Hence it is collected that this is the country which the ancients called Albany, and part of the residence of the ancient Scots, who still retain the name, and call themselves “Albinkich,” together with the ancient language and habit, continuing to be a hardy, brave, and warlike people, and very parsimonious in their way of living; and from this country the sons of the royal family of Scotland took the title of “duke of Albany;” and since the union of the two crowns, it has been found amongst the royal titles of the dukes of York.

Respecting the dukedom of Clarence, which is originally derived from Clare, in Suffolk, king Edward III. in the thirty-sixth year of his reign, for default of issue male in the former family, created his third son, Lionel, by reason of his marriage with the grandaughter of the late earl of Clare, duke of Clarence, being a word of a fuller sound than the monosyllable “Clare.”

~M.~

* * * * *

DOMESTIC ARRANGEMENTS.

Lord George Germain was of a remarkably amiable disposition; and his domestics lived with him rather as humble friends than menial servants. One day entering his house in Pall-mall, he observed a large basket of vegetables standing in the hall, and inquired of the porter to whom they belonged, and from whence they came? Old John immediately replied, “They are ours, my lord, from our country-house.”--“Very well,” rejoined his lordship. At that instant a carriage stopped at the door, and lord George, turning round, asked what coach it was? “Ours,” said honest John. “And are the children in it ours too?” said his lordship, smiling. “Most certainly, my lord,” replied John, with the utmost gravity, and immediately ran to lift them out.

* * * * *

~Riddle.~

A LITERARY CHARACTER.

I have long maintained a distinguished station in our modern days, but I cannot trace my origin to ancient times, though the learned have attempted it. After the revolution in 1688, I was chief physician to the king; at least in my absence he ever complained of sickness. Had I lived in ancient days, so friendly was I to crowned heads, that Cleopatra would have got off with a sting; and her cold arm would have felt a reviving heat. I am rather a friend to sprightliness than to industry; I have often converted a neutral pronoun into a man of talent: I have often amused myself with reducing the provident ant to indigence; I never meet a post horse without giving him a blow; to some animals I am a friend, and many a puppy has yelped for aid when I have deserted him. I am a patron of architecture, and can turn every thing into brick and mortar; and so honest withal, that whenever I can find a pair of stockings, I ask for their owner. Not even Lancaster has carried education so far as I have: I adopt always the system of interrogatories. I have already taught my hat to ask questions of fact; and my poultry questions of chronology. With my trees I share the labours of my laundry; they scour my linen; and when I find a rent, ’tis I who make it entire.

* * * * *

In short, such are my merits, that whatever yours may be, you can never be more than half as good as I am.

* * * * *

ANSWER

TO THE PRECEDING.

A literary character you view, Known to the moderns only--W: I was physician to king William; When absent, he would say, “how--ill I am!” In ancient days if I had liv’d, the asp Which poison’d Egypt’s queen, had been a--Wasp; And the death-coldness of th’ imperial arm With life reviving had again been--Warm. A friend to sprightliness, that neuter it By sudden pow’r I’ve chang’d into a--Wit. The vainly-provident industrious ant With cruel sport I oft reduce to--Want; Whene’er I meet with an unlucky hack, I give the creature a tremendous--Whack: And many a time a puppy cries for help, If I desert capriciously the--Whelp. A friend to architecture, I turn all (As quick as Chelt’nham builders) into--Wall. I’m honest, for whene’er I find some hose, I seek the owner, loud exclaiming--Whose? Farther than Lancaster I educate, My system’s always to interrogate; Already have I taught my very hat Questions of fact to ask, and cry out--What? Questions of time my poultry, for the hen Cackles chronology, enquiring--When? My laundry’s labour I divide with ashes; It is with them the laundress scours and--Washes: And if an ugly rent I find, the hole Instantly vanishes, becoming--Whole.

In short, my merits are so bright to view How good soe’er you may be, just or true, You can but halve my worth, for I am--double you.

Cheltenham.

* * * * *

THE MERRY MONARCH,

AND “BLYTHE COCKPEN.”

While Charles II. was sojourning in Scotland, before the battle of Worcester, his chief confidant and associate was the laird of Cockpen, called by the nick-naming fashion of the times, “Blythe Cockpen.” He followed Charles to the Hague, and by his skill in playing Scottish tunes, and his sagacity and wit, much delighted the merry monarch. Charles’s favourite air was “Brose and Butter;” it was played to him when he went to bed, and he was awakened by it. At the restoration, however, Blythe Cockpen shared the fate of many other of the royal adherents; he was forgotten, and wandered upon the lands he once owned in Scotland, poor and unfriended. His letters to the court were unpresented, or disregarded, till, wearied and incensed, he travelled to London; but his mean garb not suiting the rich doublets of court, he was not allowed to approach the royal presence. At length, he ingratiated himself with the king’s organist, who was so enraptured with Cockpen’s wit and powers of music, that he requested him to play on the organ before the king at divine service. His exquisite skill did not attract his majesty’s notice, till, at the close of the service, instead of the usual tune, he struck up “Brose and Butter,” with all its energetic merriment. In a moment the royal organist was ordered into the king’s presence. “My liege, it was not me! it was not me!” he cried, and dropped upon his knees. “You!” cried his majesty, in a rapture, “you could never play it in your life--where’s the man? let me see him.” Cockpen presented himself on his knee. “Ah, Cockpen, is that you?--Lord, man, I was like to dance coming out of the church!”--“I once danced too,” said Cockpen, “but that was when I had land of my own to dance on.”--“Come with me,” said Charles taking him by the hand, “you shall dance to Brose and Butter on your own lands again to the nineteenth generation;” and as far as he could, the king kept his promise.

* * * * *

~Topography.~

SINGULAR INTERMENT.

The following curious entry is in the register of Lymington church, under the year 1736:--

“Samuel Baldwin, esq. sojourner in this parish, was immersed, without the Needles, sans cérémonie, May 20.”

This was performed in consequence of an earnest wish the deceased had expressed, a little before his dissolution, in order to disappoint the intention of his wife, who had repeatedly assured him, in their domestic squabbles, (which were very frequent,) that if she survived him, she would revenge her conjugal sufferings, by dancing on his grave.

* * * * *

ODD SIGNS.

A gentleman lately travelling through Grantham, in Lincolnshire, observed the following lines under a sign-post, on which was placed an inhabited bee-hive.

Two wonders, Grantham, now are thine, The highest spire, and a living sign.

The same person, at another public-house in the country, where London porter was sold, observed the figure of Britannia engraved upon a tankard, in a reclining posture; underneath was the following motto:--

Pray SUP-PORTER.

Vol. I.--14.

The above engraving is from a lithographic view, published in Durham in 1820: it was designed by Mr. Bouet, a very ingenious French gentleman, resident there, whose abilities as an artist are of a superior order.

Elvet bridge consists of nine or ten arches, and was built by the excellent bishop Pudsey, about the year 1170. It was repaired in the time of bishop Fox, who held the see of Durham from 1494 to 1502, and granted an “indulgence” to all who should contribute towards defraying the expense; an expedient frequently resorted to in Catholic times for the forwarding of great undertakings. It was again improved, by widening it to twice its breadth, in 1806.

Upon this bridge there were two chapels, dedicated respectively to St. James and St. Andrew, one of which stood on the site of the old house close to the bridge, at present inhabited by Mr. Adamson, a respectable veterinary surgeon; the other stood on the site of the new houses on the south side of the bridge, occupied by Mr. Fenwick and Mr. Hopper. About three years ago, while clearing away the rubbish, preparatory to the erection of the latter houses, some remains of the old chapel were discovered: an arch was in a very perfect state, but unfortunately no drawing was made.

It is believed by some, that another chapel stood on, or near Elvet bridge, dedicated to St. Magdalen; and the name of the flight of steps leading from Elvet bridge to Saddler-street, viz. the Maudlin, or Magdalen-steps, rather favours the supposition. On the north side of Elvet bridge is a building, erected in 1632, formerly used as the house of correction, but which, since the erection of the new gaol, was sold to the late Stephen Kemble, Esq., and is now the printing and publishing office of the Durham Chronicle. The ground cells are miserable places: some figures, still visible on many of the walls, as faces, ships, &c. show to what resources the poor fellows confined there were driven to amuse themselves. This building is said to be haunted by the restless sprite of an old piper, who, as the story is, was brought down the river by a flood, and, on being rescued from the water, became an inmate of the house of correction, where he died a few years afterwards. The credulous often hear his bagpipes at midnight. Every old bridge seems to have its legend, and this is the legend of Elvet bridge.

The buildings represented by the engraving in the distance are the old gaol, and a few of the adjoining houses. This gaol, which stood to the east of the castle, and contiguous to the keep, was originally the great north gateway to the castle, and was erected by bishop Langley, who held the see of Durham from 1406 to 1437. It divided Saddler-street from the North Bailey, and was a fine specimen of the architecture of the age, but, from its confined situation, in a public part of the city, it was adjudged to be a nuisance, and was accordingly destroyed in 1820. On the west side of it is erected an elegant subscription library and news-room, and on the opposite a spacious assembly-room; these form a striking contrast to the spot in the state here represented. The present county gaol is at the head of Old Elvet; it is a splendid edifice, and so it should be, considering that it cost the county 120,000_l_.

Of bishop Pudsey, the builder of Elvet bridge, the following account is given in Hegg’s Legend of St. Cuthbert. Speaking of St. Goodrick, of whom there are particulars in the Every-Day Book, Hegg says, “Thus after he had acted all the miracles of a legend, he ended his scene in the yeare 1170, not deserving that honour conferred on his cell by the forenamed bishop Pusar (Pudsey), who told him he should be seven yeares blind before his death, so that the bishop deferring his repentance till the tyme of his blindness, (which Goodrick meant of the eyes of his understanding) dyed unprovided for death. But if good works be satisfactorie, then died he not in debt for his sinnes, who repayred and built many of the episcopall manors, and founded the manor and church at Darlington, and two hospitals, one at Alverton, and the other at Sherburne, neare Durham. He built also Elvet bridge, with two chapels upon it, over the Weer; and, lastly, built that beautiful work the Galilee, now the bishop’s consistory, and hither translated saint Bede’s bones, which lye enterred under a tomb of black marble.”

From the above extract, as punctuated in all the printed copies I have seen, it would appear that Hegg intended to represent both the chapels as being over the Weer, whereas only one was so situated, the other being on one of the land arches. To render this passage correct, the words “with two chapels upon it” should have been inserted in a parenthesis, which would make the passage stand thus, “He built also Elvet bridge, (with two chapels upon it,) over the Weer.” Hegg, with all his humour, is frequently obscure; and his legend, which was for some time in manuscript, has suffered by the inattention of transcribers; there are three different copies in print, and all vary. The edition printed by the late Mr. Allan of Darlington, from a manuscript in the library of Corpus Christi College, Oxford, and since reprinted by Mr. Hogget of Durham, is the most correct one, and from that the above extract is taken.

Bishop Pudsey’s memory must always be dear to the inhabitants of the county of Durham, as probably no man ever conferred greater service on the county. It was he who, in order to supply the deficiency of Doomsday-book, caused a general survey to be made of all the demesne lands and possessions in his bishopric. This survey is recorded in a small folio of twenty-four pages, written in a bad hand, and called “Bolden Buke,” now in the archives at Durham. It contains inquisitions, or verdicts of all the several tenures of lands, services, and customs; all the tenants’ names of every degree; how much each of them held at that time, and what rents were reserved for the same. This book has been produced, and read in evidence on several trials at law, on the part of the succeeding bishops, in order to ascertain their property.

~Garrick Plays.~

No. XI.

[From “Jack Drum’s Entertainment,” a Comedy, Author unknown, 1601.]

The free humour of a Noble Housekeeper.

Fortune (a Knight). I was not born to be my cradle’s drudge, To choke and stifle up my pleasure’s breath, To poison with the venom’d cares of thrift My private sweet of life: only to scrape A heap of muck, to fatten and manure The barren virtues of my progeny, And make them sprout ’spite of their want of worth; No, I do wish my girls should wish me live; Which few do wish that have a greedy sire, But still expect, and gape with hungry lip, When he’ll give up his gouty stewardship. Friend. Then I wonder, You not aspire unto the eminence And height of pleasing life. To Court, to Court-- There burnish, there spread, there stick in pomp, Like a bright diamond in a Lady’s brow. There plant your fortunes in the flowring spring, And get the Sun before you of Respect. There trench yourself within the people’s love, And glitter in the eye of glorious grace. What’s wealth without respect and mounted place? Fortune. Worse and worse!--I am not yet distraught, I long not to be squeez’d with my own weight, Nor hoist up all my sails to catch the wind Of the drunk reeling Commons. I labour not To have an awful presence, nor be feared. Since who is fear’d still fears to be so feared. I care not to be like the Horeb calf, One day adored, and next pasht all in pieces. Nor do I envy Polyphemian puffs, Switzers’ slopt greatness. I adore the Sun, Yet love to live within a temperate zone. Let who will climb ambitious glibbery rounds, And lean upon the vulgar’s rotten love, I’ll not corrival him. The sun will give As great a shadow to my trunk as his; And after death, like Chessmen having stood In play, for Bishops some, for Knights, and Pawns, We all together shall be tumbled up Into one bag. Let hush’d-calm quiet rock my life asleep; And, being dead, my own ground press my bones; Whilst some old Beldame, hobbling o’er my grave, May mumble thus: ‘Here lies a Knight whose Money was his Slave.’

* * * * *

[From the “Changes,” a Comedy, by James Shirley, 1632.]

Excess of Epithets, enfeebling to Poetry.

Friend. Master Caperwit, before you read, pray tell me, Have your verses any Adjectives? Caperwit. Adjectives! would you have a poem without Adjectives? they’re the flower, the grace of all our language. A well-chosen Epithet doth give new soul To fainting Poesy, and makes every verse A Bride! With Adjectives we bait our lines, When we do fish for Gentlewomen’s loves, And with their sweetness catch the nibbling ear Of amorous ladies; with the music of These ravishing nouns we charm the silken tribe, And make the Gallant melt with apprehension Of the rare Word. I will maintain ’t against A bundle of Grammarians, in Poetry The Substantive itself cannot subsist Without its Adjective. Friend. But for all that, Those words would sound more full, methinks, that are not So larded; and if I might counsel you, You should compose a Sonnet clean without ’em. A row of stately Substantives would march Like Switzers, and bear all the fields before ’em; Carry their weight; shew fair, like Deeds Enroll’d; Not Writs, that are first made and after fill’d. Thence first came up the title of Blank Verse;-- You know, Sir, what Blank signifies?--when the sense, First framed, is tied with Adjectives like points, And could not hold together without wedges: Hang ’t, ’tis pedantic, vulgar Poetry. Let children, when they versify, stick here And there these piddling words for want of matter Poets write Masculine Numbers.

* * * * *

[From the “Guardian,” a Comedy, by Abraham Cowley, 1650. This was the first Draught of that which he published afterwards under the title of the “Cutter of Coleman Street;” and contains the character of a Foolish Poet, omitted in the latter. I give a few scraps of this character, both because the Edition is scarce, and as furnishing no unsuitable corollary to the Critical Admonitions in the preceding Extract.--The “Cutter” has always appeared to me the link between the Comedy of Fletcher and of Congreve. In the elegant passion of the Love Scenes it approaches the former; and Puny (the character substituted for the omitted Poet) is the Prototype of the half-witted Wits, the Brisks and Dapper Wits, of the latter.]

Doggrell, the foolish Poet, described.

Cutter. ---- the very Emblem of poverty and poor poetry. The feet are worse patched of his rhymes, than of his stockings. If one line forget itself, and run out beyond his elbow, while the next keeps at home (like him), and dares not show his head, he calls that an Ode. * * *

Tabitha. Nay, they mocked and fleered at us, as we sung the Psalm the last Sunday night.

Cutter. That was that mungrel Rhymer; by this light he envies his brother poet John Sternhold, because he cannot reach his heights. * * *

Doggrell (reciting his own verses.) Thus pride doth still with beauty dwell, And like the Baltic ocean swell. Blade. Why the Baltic, Doggrell? Doggrell. Why the Baltic!--this ’tis not to have read the Poets. * * * She looks like Niobe on the mountain’s top.

Cutter. That Niobe, Doggrell, you have used worse than Phœbus did. Not a dog looks melancholy but he’s compared to Niobe. He beat a villainous Tapster ’tother day, to make him look like Niobe.

C. L.

* * * * *

ANCIENT WAGGERY.

For the Table Book.

[From the “Pleasant Conceits of old Hobson, the merry Londoner; full of humourous Discourses and merry Merriments:--1607.”]

How Maister Hobson hung out a lanterne and candlelight.

In the beginning of queen Elizabeth’s reign, when the order of hanging out lanterne and candlelight first of all was brought up,[95] the bedell of the warde where Maister Hobson dwelt, in a dark evening, crieing up and down, “Hang out your lanternes! Hang out your lanternes!” using no other wordes, Maister Hobson tooke an emptie lanterne, and, according to the bedells call, hung it out. This flout, by the lord mayor, was taken in ill part, and for the same offence Hobson was sent to the Counter, but being released, the next night following, thinking to amend his call, the bedell cryed out, with a loud voice, “Hang out your lanternes and candle!” Maister Hobson, hereupon, hung out a lanterne and candle unlighted, as the bedell again commanded; whereupon he was sent again to the Counter; but the next night, the bedell being better advised, cryed “Hang out your lanterne and candle light! Hang out your lanterne and candle light!” which Maister Hobson at last did, to his great commendations, which cry of lanterne and candle light is in right manner used to this day.

* * * * *

How Maister Hobson found out the Pye-stealer.

In Christmas Holy-dayes when Maister Hobson’s wife had many pyes in the oven, one of his servants had stole one of them out, and at the tauerne had merrilie eat it. It fortuned, the same day, that some of his friends dined with him, and one of the best pyes were missing, the stealer thereof, after dinner, he found out in this manner. He called all his servants in friendly sort together into the hall, and caused each of them to drinke one to another, both wine, ale, and beare, till they were all drunke; then caused hee a table to be furnished with very goode cheare, whereat hee likewise pleased them. Being set altogether, he saide, “Why sit ye not downe fellows?”--“We bee set already,” quoth they.--“Nay,” quoth Maister Hobson, “he that stole the pye is not yet set.”--“Yes, that I doe!” quoth he that stole it, by which means Maister Hobson knewe what was become of the pye; for the poor fellowe being drunke could not keepe his owne secretts.

[95] The custom of hanging out lanterns before lamps were in use was earlier than queen Elizabeth’s reign.

* * * * *

THE FIRST VIOLET.

The spring is come: the violet’s gone, The first-born child of the early sun; With us she is but a winter flower, The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower-- And she lifts up her head of dewy blue To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.

And when the spring comes with her host Of flowers--that flower beloved the most, Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse Her heavenly odour and virgin hues.

Pluck the others, but still remember Their herald out of dim December-- The morning star of all the flowers, The pledge of daylight’s lengthened hours. Nor, midst the roses, e’er forget The virgin--virgin violet.

* * * * *

YORKSHIRE SAYING.

For the Table Book.

“LET’S BEGIN AGAIN LIKE THE CLERK OF BEESTON.”

The clerk of Beeston, a small village near Leeds, one Sunday, after having sung a psalm about half way through the first verse, discovered he had chosen a wrong tune, on which he exclaimed to the singers, “Stop lads, we’ve got into a wrong metre, let’s begin again!” Hence the origin of the saying, so common in Leeds and the neighbourhood, “Let’s begin again, like the clerk of Beeston.”

T. Q. M.

* * * * *

TO CONTENTMENT.

I.

Spark of pure celestial fire, Port of all the world’s desire, Paradise of earthly bliss, Heaven of the other world and this; Tell me, where thy court abides. Where thy glorious chariot rides?

II.

Eden knew thee for a day, But thou wouldst no longer stay; Outed for poor Adam’s sin, By a flaming cherubin; Yet thou lov’st that happy shade Where thy beauteous form was made, And thy kindness still remains To the woods, and flow’ry plains.

III.

Happy David found thee there, Sporting in the open air; As he led his flocks along, Feeding on his rural song: But when courts and honours had Snatch’d away the lovely lad, Thou that there no room cou’dst find, Let him go and staid behind.

IV.

His wise son, with care and pain, Search’d all nature’s frame in vain; For a while content to be, Search’d it round, but found not thee; Beauty own’d she knew thee not, Plenty had thy name forgot: Music only did aver, Once you came and danc’d with her.[96]

[96] From Dunton’s “Athenian Sport.”

* * * * *

~Biography.~

PIETRE METASTASIO.

This celebrated Italian lyric and dramatic poet was born at Rome, in 1698, of parents in humble life, whose names were Trapassi. At ten years of age, he was distinguished by his talents as an improvvisatore. The eminent jurist, Gravina, who amused himself with writing bad tragedies, was walking near the Campus Martius one summer’s evening, in company with the abbé Lorenzini, when they heard a sweet and powerful voice, modulating verses with the greatest fluency to the measure of the canto improvviso. On approaching the shop of Trapassi, whence the melody proceeded, they were surprised to see a lovely boy pouring forth elegant verses on the persons and objects which surrounded him, and their admiration was increased by the graceful compliments which he took an opportunity of addressing to themselves. When the youthful poet had concluded, Gravina called him to him, and, with many encomiums and caresses, offered him a piece of money, which the boy politely declined. He then inquired into his situation and employment, and being struck with the intelligence of his replies, proposed to his parents to educate him as his own child. They consented, and Gravina changed his name from Trapassi to Metastasio, and gave him a careful and excellent education for his own profession.

At fourteen years of age, Metastasio produced his tragedy of “Giustino,” which so pleased Gravina, that he took him to Naples, where he contended with and excelled some of the most celebrated improvisatori of Italy. He still, however, continued his study of the law, and with a view to the only two channels of preferment which prevail at Rome, also assumed the minor order of priesthood, whence his title of abate. In 1718, death deprived him of his patron, who bequeathed to him the whole of his personal property, amounting to fifteen thousand crowns. Of too liberal and hospitable a disposition, he gradually made away with this provision and then resolved to apply more closely to the law. He repaired to Naples, to study for that purpose, but becoming acquainted with Brugnatelli, usually called “the Romanina,” the most celebrated actress and singer in Italy, he gave himself up entirely to harmony and poetry. The extraordinary success of his first opera, “Gli Orti Esperidi,” confirmed him in this resolution, and joining his establishment to that of “the Romanina” and her husband, in a short time he composed three new dramas, “Cato in Utica,” “Ezio,” and “Semiramide.” He followed these with several more of still greater celebrity, until, in 1730, he received and accepted an invitation from the court of Vienna, to take up his residence in that capital, as coadjutor to the imperial laureate, Apostolo Zeno, whom he ultimately succeeded. From that period, the life of Metastasio presented a calm uniformity for upwards of half a century. He retained the favour of the imperial family undiminished, for his extraordinary talents were admirably seconded by the even tenor of his private character, and avoidance of court intrigue. Indefatigable as a poet, he composed no less than twenty-six operas, and eight oratorios, or sacred dramas, besides cantatas, canzoni, sonnets, and minor pieces to a great amount. The poetical characteristics of Metastasio are sweetness, correctness, purity, simplicity, gentle pathos, and refined and elevated sentiment. There is less of nature than of elegance and beauty in his dramas, which consequently appear insipid to those who have been nourished with stronger poetic aliment.

Dr. Burney, who saw Metastasio at the age of seventy-two, describes him as looking like one of fifty, and as the gayest and handsomest man, of his time of life, he had ever beheld. He died after a short illness at Vienna, in April 1782, having completed his eighty-fourth year, leaving a considerable property in money, books, and valuables. Besides his numerous works, which have been translated into most of the European languages, a large collection of his letters, published since his death, supplied copious materials for his biography.[97]

* * * * *

Mrs. Piozzi gives an amusing account of Metastasio in his latter days. She says:--

“Here (at Vienna) are many ladies of fashion very eminent for their musical abilities, particularly mesdemoiselles de Martinas, one of whom is member of the academies of Berlin and Bologna: the celebrated Metastasio died in their house, after having lived with the family sixty-five years more or less. They set his poetry and sing it very finely, appearing to recollect his conversation and friendship with infinite tenderness and delight. He was to have been presented to the pope the very day he died, and in the delirium which immediately preceded dissolution, raved much of the supposed interview. Unwilling to hear of death, no one was ever permitted to mention it before him; and nothing put him so certainly out of humour, as finding that rule transgressed. Even the small-pox was not to be named in his presence, and whoever did name that disorder, though unconscious of the offence he had given, Metastasio would see no more.”

Mrs. Piozzi adds, “The other peculiarities I could gather from Miss Martinas were these: that he had contentedly lived half a century at Vienna, without ever even wishing to learn its language; that he had never given more than five guineas English money in all that time to the poor; that he always sat in the same seat at church, but never paid for it, and that nobody dared ask him for the trifling sum; that he was grateful and beneficent to the friends who began by being his protectors, but who, in the end, were his debtors, for solid benefits as well as for elegant presents, which it was his delight to be perpetually making. He left to them at last all he had ever gained, without the charge even of a single legacy; observing in his will, that it was to them he owed it, and that other conduct would in him have been injustice. He never changed the fashion of his wig, or the cut or colour of his coat, so that his portrait, taken not very long ago, looks like those of Boileau or Moliere at the head of their works. His life was arranged with such methodical exactness, that he rose, studied, chatted, slept, and dined, at the same hours, for fifty years together, enjoying uninterrupted health, which probably gave him that happy sweetness of temper, or habitual gentleness of manners, which was never ruffled, except when his sole injunction was forgotten, and the death of any person whatever was unwittingly mentioned before him. No solicitation had ever prevailed on him to dine from home, nor had his nearest intimates ever seen him eat more than a biscuit with his lemonade, every meal being performed with even mysterious privacy to the last. When his end approached by rapid steps, he did not in the least suspect that it was coming; and mademoiselle Martinas has scarcely yet done rejoicing in the thought that he escaped the preparations he so dreaded. Latterly, all his pleasures were confined to music and conversation; and the delight he took in hearing the lady he lived with sing his songs, was visible to every one. An Italian abate here said, comically enough, ‘Oh! he always looked like a man in the state of beatification when mademoiselle de Martinas accompanied his verses with her fine voice and brilliant finger.’ The father of Metastasio was a goldsmith at Rome, but his son had so devoted himself to the family he lived with, that he refused to hear, and took pains not to know, whether he had in his latter days any one relation left in the world.”

We have a life of Metastasio, chiefly derived from his correspondence, by Dr. Burney.

[97] General Biog. Dict. Dict. of Musicians.

* * * * *

A DEATH-BED:

IN A LETTER TO R. H. ESQ. OF B----.

For the Table Book.

I called upon you this morning, and found that you were gone to visit a dying friend. I had been upon a like errand. Poor N. R. has lain dying now for almost a week; such is the penalty we pay for having enjoyed through life a strong constitution. Whether he knew me or not, I know not, or whether he saw me through his poor glazed eyes; but the group I saw about him I shall not forget. Upon the bed, or about it, were assembled his Wife, their two Daughters, and poor deaf Robert, looking doubly stupified. There they were, and seemed to have been sitting all the week. I could only reach out a hand to Mrs. R. Speaking was impossible in that mute chamber. By this time it must be all over with him. In him I have a loss the world cannot make up. He was my friend, and my father’s friend, for all the life that I can remember. I seem to have made foolish friendships since. Those are the friendships, which outlast a second generation. Old as I am getting, in his eyes I was still the child he knew me. To the last he called me Jemmy. I have none to call me Jemmy now. He was the last link that bound me to B----. You are but of yesterday. In him I seem to have lost the old plainness of manners and singleness of heart. Lettered he was not; his reading scarcely exceeding the Obituary of the old Gentleman’s Magazine, to which he has never failed of having recourse for these last fifty years. Yet there was the pride of literature about him from that slender perusal; and moreover from his office of archive keeper to your ancient city, in which he must needs pick up some equivocal Latin; which, among his less literary friends assumed the airs of a very pleasant pedantry. Can I forget the erudite look with which having tried to puzzle out the text of a Black lettered Chaucer in your Corporation Library, to which he was a sort of Librarian, he gave it up with this consolatory reflection--“Jemmy,” said he, “I do not know what you find in these very old books, but I observe, there is a deal of very indifferent spelling in them.” His jokes (for he had some) are ended; but they were old Perennials, staple, and always as good as new. He had one Song, that spake of the “flat bottoms of our foes coming over in darkness,” and alluded to a threatened Invasion, many years since blown over; this he reserved to be sung on Christmas Night, which we always passed with him, and he sang it with the freshness of an impending event. How his eyes would sparkle when he came to the passage:

We’ll still make ’em run, and we’ll still make ’em sweat, In spite of the devil and Brussels’ Gazette!

What is the Brussels’ Gazette now? I cry, while I endite these trifles. His poor girls who are, I believe, compact of solid goodness, will have to receive their afflicted mother at an unsuccessful home in a petty village in ----shire, where for years they have been struggling to raise a Girls’ School with no effect. Poor deaf Robert (and the less hopeful for being so) is thrown upon a deaf world, without the comfort to his father on his death-bed of knowing him provided for. They are left almost provisionless. Some life assurance there is; but, I fear, not exceeding ----. Their hopes must be from your Corporation, which their father has served for fifty years. Who or what are your Leading Members now, I know not. Is there any, to whom without impertinence you can represent the true circumstances of the family? You cannot say good enough of poor R., and his poor Wife. Oblige me, and the dead, if you can.

London, 10 Feb. 1827.

L.

* * * * *

LINES

FOR THE

TABLE BOOK.

What seek’st thou on the heathy lea, So frequent and alone? What in the violet cans’t thou see? What in the mossy stone?

Yon evening sky’s empurpled dye Seems dearer to thy gaze Than wealth or fame’s enrapt’ring name, Or beauty’s ’witching blaze.

Go, mingle in the busy throng That tread th’ imperial mart; There listen to a sweeter song Than ever thrill’d thy heart.

The treasures of a thousand lands Shall pour their wealth before thee; Friends proffer thee their eager hands And envious fools adore thee.

Ay--I will seek that busy throng, And turn, with aching breast, From scenes of tort’ring care and wrong-- To solitude and rest!

February 21, 1827.

AMICUS.

* * * * *

WAVERLEY.

It is a curious, yet well authenticated fact, that the novel of “Waverley”--the first, and perhaps the best, of the prose writing of sir Walter Scott--remained for more than ten years unpublished. So far back as 1805, the late talented Mr. John Ballantyne announced “Waverley” as a work preparing for publication, but the announce excited so little attention, that the design was laid aside for reasons which every reader will guess. In those days of peace and innocence, the spirit of literary speculation had scarcely begun to dawn in Scotland; the public taste ran chiefly on poetry; and even if gifted men had arisen capable of treading in the footsteps of Fielding, but with a name and reputation unestablished, they must have gone to London to find a publisher. The “magician” himself, with all his powers, appears to have been by no means over sanguine as to the ultimate success of a tale, which has made millions laugh, and as many weep; and in autumn he had very nearly delivered a portion of the MSS. to a party of sportsmen who visited him in the country, and were complaining of a perfect famine of wadding.[98]

[98] The Times, 26th March, from an “Edinburgh paper.”

* * * * *

~A Young Artist’s Letter~

FROM SWITZERLAND.

From the letter of an English artist, now abroad, accompanied by marginal sketches with the pen, addressed to a young relation, I am obligingly permitted to take the following--

EXTRACT,

Interlaken, Switzerland.

Sunday, Sept. 10, 1826.

I arrived at Geneva, after a ride of a day and a night, from Lyons, through a delightful mountainous country. The steam-boat carried me from Geneva to Lausanne, a very pretty town, at the other end of the fine lake, from whence I went to Berne, one of the principal towns in Switzerland, and the most beautiful I have seen yet. It is extremely clean, and therefore it was quite a treat, after the French towns, which are filthy.

Berne is convenient residence, both in sunny and wet weather, for all the streets have arcades, under which the shops are in this way, so that people are not obliged to walk in the middle of the street at all. The town is protected by strong fortifications, but the ramparts are changed into charming lawns and walks. There are also delightful terraces on the river side, commanding the surrounding country, which is enchanting--rich woods and fertile valleys, swelling mountains, and meadows like velvet; and, beyond all, the snowy Alps.

At Berne I equipped myself as most persons do who travel on foot through Switzerland; I have seen scores of young men all in the same pedestrian costume. I give you a sketch, that you may have a better idea of it.

The dress is a light sort of smock-frock, with a leather belt round the waist, a straw hat, a knapsack on the back, and a small bottle, covered with leather, to carry spirits, fastened round the neck by a leather strap. The long pole is for climbing up the mountains, and jumping over the ice.

From Berne I arrived at Thun. The fine lake of Thun is surrounded by mountains of various forms, and I proceeded along it to this place. I have been on the lake of Brientys and to Lauterbrunnen, where there is the celebrated waterfall, called the “Stubach;” it falls about 800 feet; the rocks about it are exceedingly romantic, and close to it are the snowy mountains, among which I should particularize the celebrated “Yung frow,” which has never been ascended.

Interlaken is surrounded by mountains, and its scenery for sketches delicious. It is a village, built nearly all of wood; the houses are the prettiest things I ever saw: they are in this way, but much more beautiful than I can show in a small sketch. They are delicately clean, and mostly have fine vines and plenty of grapes about them. The stones on the roof are to keep the wood from being blown off. Then the people dress so well, and all look so happy, that it is a pleasure to be among them. I cannot understand a word they say, and yet they are all civil and obliging. If any children happen to see me drawing out of doors, they always run to fetch a chair for me. The women are dressed in this manner.

The poor people and ladies are in the same style exactly: the caps are made of horsehair, and the hair dressed quite plain in front, and plaited behind almost to the ground with black ribbons. They wear silver chains from each side of the bosom, to pass under the arms, and fasten on the back. They are not all pretty, but they are particularly clean and neat. There is nothing remarkable in the men’s dress, only that I observe on a Sunday they wear white nightcaps: every man that I can see now out of my window has one on; and they are all playing at ball and nine-pins, just as they do in France. There is another kind of cap worn here made of silk; this is limp, and does not look so well. They have also a flat straw hat.

The women work much more than the men; they even row the boats on the lakes. All the Swiss, however, are very industrious; and I like Switzerland altogether exceedingly. I leave this place to-morrow, and am going on to the beautiful valley of Sornen, (there was a view of it in the Diorama,) and then to the lake of the four cantons, or lake of Lucerne, and round the canton of the Valais to Geneva, and from thence for the lakes of Italy. If you examine a map for these places, it will be an amusement for you.

Lady Byron has been here for two days; she is making a tour of Switzerland. There are several English passing through. I can scarcely give you a better notion of the situation of this beautiful little village, than by saying that it is in a valley between two lakes, and that there are the most charming walks you can imagine to the eminences on the river side, and along the borders of the lakes. There are more goats here than in Wales: they all wear a little bell round their neck; and the sheep and cows being similarly distinguished, the movement of the flocks and herds keep an incessant tinkling, and relieve the stillness of the beauteous scenery.

* * * * *

~Gretna Green Marriages.~

THE BLACKSMITH.

On Friday, March 23, at Lancaster Lent assizes 1827, before Mr. baron Hullock, came on the trial of an indictment against Edward Gibbon Wakefield and William Wakefield, (brothers,) Edward Thevenot, (their servant,) and Frances the wife of Edward Wakefield, (father of the brothers,) for conspiring by subtle stratagems and false representations to take and carry away Ellen Turner, a maid, unmarried, and within the age of sixteen years, the only child and heiress of William Turner, from the care of the Misses Daulby, who had the education and governance of Miss Turner, and causing her to contract matrimony with the said Edward Gibbon Wakefield, without the knowledge and consent of her father, to her great disparagement, to her father’s discomfort, and against the king’s peace. Thevenot was acquitted; the other defendants were found “guilty,” and the brothers stood committed to Lancaster-castle.

To a second indictment, under the statute of 4 and 5 Philip and Mary, against the brothers, for the abduction of Miss Turner, they withdrew their plea of “not guilty,” and pleaded “guilty” to the fifth count.

In the course of the defence to the first indictment, David Laing, the celebrated blacksmith of Gretna-green, was examined; and, indeed, the trial is only mentioned in these pages, for the purpose of sketching this anomalous character as he appeared in the witness-box, and represented his own proceedings, according to The Times’ report:--viz.

In appearance this old man was made to assume a superiority over his usual companions. Somebody had dressed him in a black coat, and velvet waistcoat and breeches of the same colour, with a shining pair of top boots--the shape of his hat, too, resembled the clerical fashion. He seemed a vulgar fellow, though not without shrewdness and that air of familiarity, which he might be supposed to have acquired by the freedom necessarily permitted by persons of a better rank of life, to one who was conscious he had the power of performing for them a guilty, but important ceremony.

On entering the witness-box, he leaned forward towards the counsel employed to examine him, with a ludicrous expression of gravity upon his features, and accompanied every answer with a knitting of his wrinkled brow, and significant nodding of his head, which gave peculiar force to his quaintness of phraseology, and occasionally convulsed the court with laughter.

He was interrogated both by Mr. Scarlett and Mr. Coltman in succession.

Who are you, Laing?

Why, I live in Springfield.

Well, what did you do in this affair?

Why, I was sent for to Linton’s, where I found two gentlemen, as it may be, and one lady.

Did you know them?

I did not.

Do you see them in court?

Why, no I cannot say.

What did you do?

Why I joined them, and then got the lady’s address, where she come from, and the party’s I believe.

What did they do then?

Why, the gentleman wrote down the names, and the lady gave way to it.

In fact, you married them after the usual way?

Yes, yes, I married them after the Scotch form, that is, by my putting on the ring on the lady’s finger, and that way.

Were they both agreeable?

O yes, I joined their hands as man and wife.

Was that the whole of the ceremony--was it the end of it?

I wished them well, shook hands with them, and, as I said, they then both embraced each other very agreeably.

What else did you do?

I think I told the lady that I generally had a present from ’em, as it may be, of such a thing as money to buy a pair of gloves, and she gave me, with her own hand, a twenty-shilling Bank of England note to buy them.

Where did she get the note?

How do I know.

What did the gentleman say to you?

Oh, you ask what did he treat me with.

No, I do not; what did he say to you?

He did nothing to me; but I did to him what I have done to many before, that is, you must know, to join them together; join hands, and so on. I bargained many in that way, and she was perfectly agreeable, and made no objections.

Did you give them a certificate?

Oh! yes, I gave it to the lady.

[Here a piece of paper was identified by this witness, and read in evidence, purporting to certify that Edward Gibbon Wakefield and Ellen Turner had been duly married according to the form required by the Scottish law. This paper, except the names and dates, was a printed register, at the top of which was a rudely executed woodcut, apparently of the royal arms.]

Did the gentleman and lady converse freely with you?

O, yes; he asked me what sort of wine they had in Linton’s house, and I said they had three kinds, with the best of Shumpine (Champagne.) He asked me which I would take, and I said Shumpine, and so and so; while they went into another room to dine, I finished the wine, and then off I came. I returned, and saw them still in the very best of comfortable spirits.

Mr. SCARLETT.--We have done with you, Laing.

Mr. BROUGHAM.--But my turn is to come with you, my gentleman. What did you get for this job besides the Shumpine? Did you get money as well as Shumpine?

Yes, sure I did, and so and so.

Well, how much?

Thirty or forty pounds or thereabouts, as may be.

Or fifty pounds, as it may be, Mr. Blacksmith?

May be, for I cannot say to a few pounds. I am dull of hearing.

Was this marriage ceremony, which you have been describing, exactly what the law and church of Scotland require on such occasions, as your certificate (as you call it) asserts?

O yes, it is in the old common form.

What! Do you mean in the old common form of the church of Scotland, fellow?

There is no prayer-book required to be produced, I tell you.

Will you answer me when I ask you, what do you mean by the old ordinary form of the church of Scotland, when this transaction has nothing whatever to do with that church? Were you never a clergyman of that country?

Never.

How long are you practising this delightful art?

Upwards of forty-eight years I am doing these marriages.

How old are you?

I am now beyond seventy-five.

What do you do to get your livelihood?

I do these.

Pretty doing it is; but how did you get your livelihood, say, before these last precious forty-eight years of your life?

I was a gentleman.

What do you call a gentleman?

Being sometimes poor, sometimes rich.

Come now, say what was your occupation before you took to this trade?

I followed many occupations.

Were you not an ostler?

No, I were not.

What else were you then?

Why, I was a merchant once.

That is a travelling vagrant pedlar, as I understand your term?

Yes, may be.

Were you ever any thing else in the way of calling?

Never.

Come back now to what you call the marriage. Do you pretend to say that it was done after the common old form of the church of Scotland? Is not the general way by a clergyman?

That is not the general way altogether.

Do you mean that the common ordinary way in Scotland is not to send for a clergyman, but to go a hunting after a fellow like you?

Scotland is not in the practice altogether of going after clergymen. Many does not go that way at all.

Do you mean to swear, then, that the regular common mode is not to go before a clergyman?

I do not say that, as it may be.

Answer me the question plainly, or else you shall not so easily get back to this good old work of yours in Scotland as you think?

I say as it may be, the marriages in Scotland an’t always done in the churches.

I know that as well as you do, for the clergyman sometimes attends in private houses, or it is done before a justice depute; but is this the regular mode?

I say it ent no wrong mode--it is law.

Re-examined by Mr. SCARLETT.

Well, is it the irregular mode?

No, not irregular, but as it may be unregular, but its right still.

You mean your own good old unregular mode?

Yes; I have been both in the courts of Edinburgh and Dublin, and my marriages have always been held legal.

What form of words do you use?

Why, you come before me, and say--

Mr. SCARLETT.--No, I will not, for I do not want to be married; but suppose a man did who called for your services, what is he to do?

Why, it is I that do it. Surely I ask them, before two witnesses, do you take one and other for man and wife, and they say they do, and I then declare them to be man and wife for ever more, and so and so, in the Scotch way you observe.

The COURT.--Mr. Attorney, (addressing Mr. Scarlett, who is attorney-general for the county palatine,) is it by a fellow like this, that you mean to prove the custom of the law of Scotland as to valid marriage?

Here the blacksmith’s examination terminated.

* * * * *

SPRING.

Oh, how delightful to the soul of man, How like a renovating spirit comes, Fanning his cheek, the breath of infant Spring! Morning awakens in the orient sky With purpler light, beneath a canopy Of lovely clouds, their edges tipped with gold; And from his palace, like a deity, Darting his lustrous eye from pole to pole, The glorious sun comes forth, the vernal sky To walk rejoicing. To the bitter north Retire wild winter’s forces--cruel winds-- And griping frosts--and magazines of snow-- And deluging tempests. O’er the moisten’d fields A tender green is spread; the bladed grass Shoots forth exuberant; th’ awakening trees, Thawed by the delicate atmosphere, put forth Expanding buds; while, with mellifluous throat, The warm ebullience of internal joy, The birds hymn forth a song of gratitude To him who sheltered, when the storms were deep, And fed them through the winter’s cheerless gloom.

Beside the garden path, the crocus now Puts forth its head to woo the genial breeze, And finds the snowdrop, hardier visitant, Already basking in the solar ray. Upon the brook the water-cresses float More greenly, and the bordering reeds exalt Higher their speary summits. Joyously, From stone to stone, the ouzel flits along, Startling the linnet from the hawthorn bough; While on the elm-tree, overshadowing deep The low-roofed cottage white, the blackbird sits Cheerily hymning the awakened year.

Turn to the ocean--how the scene is changed. Behold the small waves melt upon the shore With chastened murmur! Buoyantly on high The sea-gulls ride, weaving a sportive dance, And turning to the sun their snowy plumes. With shrilly pipe, from headland or from cape, Emerge the line of plovers, o’er the sands Fast sweeping; while to inland marsh the hern, With undulating wing scarce visible, Far up the azure concave journies on! Upon the sapphire deep, its sails unfurl’d, Tardily glides along the fisher’s boat, Its shadow moving o’er the moveless tide; The bright wave flashes from the rower’s oar, Glittering in the sun, at measured intervals; And, casually borne, the fisher’s voice, Floats solemnly along the watery waste; The shepherd boy, enveloped in his plaid, On the green bank, with blooming furze o’ertopped, Listens, and answers with responsive note.

* * * * *

~Eccentric Biography.~

JAMES CHAMBERS.

This unfortunate being, well known by the designation of “the poor poet,” was born at Soham, in Cambridgeshire, in 1748, where his father was a leather-seller, but having been unfortunate in business, and marrying a second wife, disputes and family broils arose. It was probably from this discomfort in his paternal dwelling-place, that he left home never to return. At first, and for an uncertain period, he was a maker and seller of nets and some small wares. Afterwards, he composed verses on birthdays and weddings, acrostics on names, and such like matters. Naturally mild and unassuming in his manners, he attracted the attention and sympathy of many, and by this means lived, or, rather, suffered life! That his mind was diseased there can be no doubt, for no sane being would have preferred an existence such as his. What gave the first morbid turn to his feelings is perhaps unknown. His sharp, lively, sparkling eye might have conveyed an idea that he had suffered disappointment in the tender passion; while, from the serious tendency of many of his compositions, it may be apprehended that religion, or false notions of religion, in his very young days, operated to increase the unhappiness that distressed his faculties. Unaided by education of any kind, he yet had attained to write, although his MSS. were scarcely intelligible to any but himself; he could spell correctly, was a very decent grammarian, and had even acquired a smattering of Latin and Greek.

From the age of sixteen to seventy years, poor Chambers travelled about the county of Suffolk, a sort of wandering bard, gaining a precarious subsistence by selling his own effusions, of which he had a number printed in cheap forms. Among the poorer people of the country, he was mostly received with a hearty welcome; they held him in great estimation as a poet, and sometimes bestowed on him a small pecuniary recompense for the ready adaptation of his poetical qualities, in the construction of verses on certain occasions suitable to their taste or wishes. Compositions of this nature were mostly suggested to him by his muse during the stillness of night, while reposing in some friendly barn or hay-loft. When so inspired, he would immediately arise and commit the effusion to paper. His memory was retentive, and, to amuse his hearers, he would repeat most of his pieces by heart. He wandered for a considerable time in the west of Suffolk, particularly at Haverhill; and Mr. John Webb, of that place, in his poem entitled “Haverhill,” thus notices him:--

An hapless outcast, on whose natal day No star propitious beam’d a kindly ray. By some malignant influence doom’d to roam The world’s wide dreary waste, and know no home. Yet heav’n to cheer him as he pass’d along, Infus’d in life’s sour cup the sweets of song. Upon his couch of straw, or bed of hay, The poetaster tun’d the acrostic lay: On him an humble muse her favours shed, And nightly musings earn’d his daily bread. Meek, unassuming, modest shade! forgive This frail attempt to make thy memory live. Minstrel, adieu!--to me thy fate’s unknown; Since last I saw you, many a year has flown. Full oft has summer poured her fervid beams, And winter’s icy breath congeal’d the streams. Perhaps, lorn wretch! unfriended and alone In hovel vile, thou gav’st thy final groan! Clos’d the blear’d eye, ordain’d no more to weep, And sunk, unheeded sunk, in death’s long sleep!

Chambers left Haverhill, never to return to it, in the year 1790. In peregrinating the country, which he did in every change of sky, through storms, and through snow, or whatever might betide, he was often supported entirely by the spontaneous benevolence of those who witnessed his wanderings. In his verses on a snow-storm, he says:--

This vile raiment hangs in tatters; No warm garment to defend: O’er my flesh the chill snow scatters; No snug hut!--no social friend!

About four years before his death, while sojourning in Woodbridge, sleeping in a miserable hut on the barrack ground, and daily wandering about the town, with every visible mark of misery to distress the eye, his condition became a libel upon the feelings of the inhabitants of the place; a few gentlemen determined he should no longer wander in such a state of wretchedness, offered to clothe and cleanse him, and provide a comfortable room, bed, &c. and a person to shave him and wash for him; and they threatened, if he would not comply, to take him home to where he belonged.

His aversion to a poor-house amounted to horror: he expresses somewhat to that effect in one of his poems----

’Mongst Belial’s sons of contention and strife, To breathe out the transient remains of my life!

This dread operated in behalf of those who desired to assist him. His wretched hovel was emptied, its miserable accumulations were consigned to the flames, and he was put into a new habitation, clothed from head to foot, and so metamorphosed, that but few knew him at first sight. A bedstead and bedding, a chair, table, and necessary crockery were provided for his comfort, but the poor creature was often heard to exclaim, of the cleansing and burning, that “it was the worst day’s work he ever met with.” After a few short weeks he left this home, and a shilling a week allowed him by a gentleman, besides some weekly pence, donations from ladies in the town, for a life of wandering privation and, at times, of absolute want, until the closing scene of his weary pilgrimage. He breathed his last on the 4th of January, 1827, in an unoccupied farm-house belonging to Mr. Thurston of Stradbroke, where he had been permitted the use of two rooms. Within a few days before, he had been as well as usual, but he suddenly became ill, and had the attention of two women, neighbours, who provided him warm gruel, and a few things his situation required. Some one had given him a warm blanket, and when he died there was food in the house, with tenpence halfpenny in money, a few scraps of poetry, and a bushel of wheat which he had gleaned in the harvest. A decent coffin and shroud were provided, and he was buried in Stradbrook churchyard.[99]

Chambers was literally one of the poor at all times; and hence his annals are short and simple. Disregard of personal appearance was natural to his poverty-stricken circumstances and melancholy disposition; for the wheel of his fortune was fixed by habit, as by a nail in a sure place, to constant indigence. Neglected in his youth, and without fixed employment, he brooded throughout life on his hopeless condition, without a friend of his own rank who could participate in his sorrows. He was a lonely man, and a wanderer, who had neither act nor part in the common ways of the world.

[99] The Ipswich Journal, January 31, 1827.

* * * * *

~Vauxhall.~

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

For the Table Book.

Characters--Mr. Greenfat, Mrs. Greenfat, Masters Peter and Humphrey Greenfat, Misses Theodosia and Arabella Greenfat, and Mr. John Eelskin.

Seen dispersedly in various parts of the gardens.

Master Peter. Oh my! what a sweet place! Why, the lamps are thicker than the pears in our garden, at Walworth: what a load of oil they must burn!

Miss Arabella. Mamma, is that the lady mayoress, with the ostridge feathers, and the pink satin gown?

Mrs. Greenfat. No, my love; that’s Miss Biddy Wilkins, of Gutter-lane! (To a waiter.) You rude fellow, you’ve trod on my dress, and your nasty foot has torn off one of my flounces.

Miss Theodosia. John, (to Mr. Eelskin,) how very pretty that hilluminated walk looks. Dear me! do you see the fountain? How vastly reviving this hot weather, isn’t it?

Mr. Eelskin. Ah, my beloved Theodosia! how should I notice the beauties of the scene in your company--when your eyes are brighter than the lamps, and your voice is sweeter than the music? In vain the fiddlers fiddle, and the singers sing, I can hear nothing--listen to nothing--but my adorable Theodosia!

Master Humphrey. La, papa, what’s that funny round place, with flags on the top, and ballad women and men with cocked hats inside?

Mr. Greenfat. That’s the Hawkestraw.

Mrs. Greenfat. Hush, my dear; it’s vulgar to talk loud. Dosee, my love, don’t hang so on Mr. John’s arm, you’ll quite fatigue him. That’s Miss Tunstall--Miss Tunstall’s going to sing. Now, my pretty Peter, don’t talk so fast.

Miss Arabella. Does that lady sing in French, mamma?

Mrs. Greenfat. No, child, it’s a senthemental air, and they never have no meaning?

Miss Theodosia. That’s the overthure to Friedshots; Eelskin, do you like it?

Mr. Eelskin. On your piano I should. But shall I take you out of this glare of light? Would you choose a ramble in the dark walk, and a peep at the puppet-show-cosmoramas?

Mr. Greenfat. I hates this squalling. (Bell rings.) What’s that for?

Mr. Eelskin. That’s for the fant-toe-sheeni, and the balancing man.

Mr. Greenfat. Well then, let’s go and look at Mr. Fant-toe-sheeni.

Mrs. Greenfat. Oh, goodness, how I’m squeedged. Pray don’t push so, sir--I’m astonished at your rudeness, mam! You’ve trod on my corn, and lamed me for the evening!

Mr. Greenfat. Sir, how dare you suffer your wife to tread on my wife’s toes?

Master Peter. My stars, sister, he’s got a bagginette on his nose!

Mrs. Greenfat. Mr. John, will you put little Humphy on your shoulder, and show him the fant-oh-see-ne?

Master Humphrey. I can see now, mamma; there’s Punch and Judy, mamma! Oh, my! how well they do dance!

Mr. Greenfat. I can see this in the streets for nothing.

Mrs. Greenfat. Yes, Mr. Greenfat, but not in such good company!

Mr. Eelskin. This, my beautiful Theodosia, is the musical temple; it’s very elegant--only it never plays. Them paintings on the walls were painted by Mungo Parke and Hingo Jones; the archatechture of this room is considered very fine!

Master Peter. Oh, I’m so hot. (Bell rings.)

Mr. Eelskin. That’s for the hyder-hawlics. We’d better go into the gallery, and then the ladies won’t be in the crowd.

Mr. Greenfat. Come along then; we want to go into the gallery. A shilling a-piece, indeed! I wonder at your impudence! Why, we paid three and sixpence a head at the door.

Mr. Eelskin. Admission to the gallery is hextra.

Mr. Greenfat. Downright robbery!--I won’t pay a farthing more.

Miss Arabella. See, mamma, water and fire at once!--how droll!

Mrs. Greenfat. Pray be kind enough to take off your hat, sir; my little boy can’t see a bit. Humphy, my dear, hold fast by the railing, and then you won’t lose your place. Oh, Mr. John, how very close and sultry it is!

Mr. Greenfat. What outlandish hussey’s that, eh, John?

Mr. Eelskin. That’s the female juggler, sir.

Miss Theodosia. Are those real knives, do you think, John?

Mr. Eelskin. Oh, no doubt of it; only the edges are blunt to prevent mischief. Who’s this wild-looking man? Oh, this is the male juggler: and now we shall have a duet of juggling!

Mrs. Greenfat. Can you see, Peter?--Bella, my love, can you see? Mr. John, do you take care of Dosee? Well, I purtest I never saw any thing half so wonderful: did you, Mr. Greenfat?

Mr. Greenfat. Never: I wonder when it will be over?

Mr. Eelskin. We’d better not go away; the ballet will begin presently, and I’m sure you’ll like the dancing, Miss, for, excepting the Westrisis, and your own sweet self, I never saw better dancing.

Miss Theodosia. Yes, I loves dancing; and at the last Cripplegate ball, the master of the ceremonies paid me several compliments.

Miss Arabella. Why do all the dancers wear plaids, mamma?

Mrs. Greenfat. Because it’s a cool dress, dear.

Mr. Greenfat. Well, if a girl of mine whisked her petticoats about in that manner, I’d have her horsewhipped.

Mr. Eelskin. Now we’ll take a stroll till the concert begins again. This is the marine cave--very natural to look at, Miss, but nothing but paint and canvass, I assure you. This is the rewolving evening war for the present; after the fire-works, it still change into his majesty, King George. Yonder’s the hermit and his cat.

Master Peter. Mamma, does that old man always sit there?

Mrs. Greenfat. I’m sure I don’t know, child; does he, Mr. Eelskin?

Mr. Greenfat. Nonsense--it’s all gammon!

Mr. Eelskin. This way, my angel; the concert has recommenced.

Miss Theodosia. Oh, that’s Charles Taylor; I likes his singing; he’s such a merry fellow: do hancore him, John.

Mrs. Greenfat. Dosee, my dear, you’re too bold; it was a very impurent song: I declare I’m quite ashamed of you!

Mr. Greenfat. Never mince matters; always speak your mind, girl.

Mr. Eelskin. The fire-works come next. Suppose we get nearer the Moorish tower, and look for good places, as Mr. G. dislikes paying for the gallery. Now you’ll not be afeard; there’ll not be the least danger, depend.

Mrs. Greenfat. Is there much smoke, Mr. John?--Do they fire many cannons?--I hates cannons--and smoke makes me cough. (Bell rings.) Run, run, my dears--Humphy, Peter, Bella, run! Mr. Greenfat, run, or we shall be too late! Eelskin and Dosee are a mile afore us! What’s that red light? Oh, we shall all be burnt! What noise is that?--Oh, it’s the bomb in the Park!--We shall all be burnt!

Mr. Greenfat. Nonsense, woman, don’t frighten the children!

Miss Theodosia. Now you’re sure the rockets won’t fall on my new pink bonnet, nor the smoke soil my French white dress, nor the smell of the powder frighten me into fits?--Now you’re quite sure of it, John?

Mr. Eelskin. Quite sure, my charmer: I have stood here repeatedly, and never had a hair of my head hurt. See, Blackmore is on the rope; there he goes up--up--up!--Isn’t it pretty, Miss?

Miss Theodosia. Oh, delightful!--Does he never break his neck?

Mr. Eelskin. Never--it’s insured! Now he descends. How they shoot the maroons at him! Don’t be afeard, lovee, they sha’n’t hurt you. See, Miss, how gracefully he bows to you.--Isn’t it terrific?

Miss Theodosia. Is this all?--I thought it would last for an hour, at least. John, I’m so hungry; I hope papa means to have supper?

Master Peter. Mamma, I’m so hungry.

Master Humphrey. Papa, I’m so dry.

Miss Arabella. Mamma, I want somewhat to eat.

Mrs. Greenfat. Greenfat, my dear, we must have some refreshments.

Mr. Greenfat. Refreshments! where will you get them? All the boxes are full.--Oh, here’s one. Waiter! what, the devil, call this a dish of beef?--It don’t weigh three ounces! Bring half a gallon of stout, and plenty of bread. Can’t we have some water for the children?

Mr. Eelskin. Shouldn’t we have a little wine, sir?--it’s more genteeler.

Mr. Greenfat. Wine, Eelskin, wine!--Bad sherry at six shillings a bottle!--Couldn’t reconcile it to my conscience.--We’ll stick to the stout.

Mrs. Greenfat. Eat, my loves.--Some more bread for Bella.--There’s a bit of fat for you, Peter.--Humphy, you shall have my crust.--Pass the stout to Dosee, Mr. John.--Don’t drink it all, my dear!

Mr. Greenfat. Past two o’clock!--Shameful!--Waiter, bring the bill. Twelve shillings and eightpence--abominable!--Charge a shilling a pot for stout--monstrous! Well, no matter; we’ll walk home. Come along.

Master Peter. Mamma, I’m so tired.

Miss Arabella. Mamma, my legs ache so.

Master Humphrey. Papa, I wish you’d carry me.

Mr. Greenfat. Come along--it will be five o’clock before we get home!

[Exeunt omnes.

H.

* * * * *

TO MY TEA-KETTLE.

For the Table Book.

1.

For many a verse inspired by tea, (A never-failing muse to me) MY KETTLE, let this tribute flow, Thy charms to blazon. And tell thy modest worth, although Thy face be brazen.

2.

Let others boast the madd’ning bowl, That raises but to sink the soul, Thou art the Bacchus that alone I wish to follow: From thee I tipple Helicon, My best Apollo!

3.

’Tis night--my children sleep--no noise Is heard, except thy cheerful voice; For when the wind would gain mine ear, Thou sing’st the faster-- As if thou wert resolv’d to cheer Thy lonely master.

4.

And so thou dost: those brazen lungs Vent no deceit, like human tongues: That honest breath was never known To turn informer: And for thy feelings--all must own That none are warmer.

5.

But late, another eye and ear Would mark thy form, thy music hear: Alas! how soon our pleasures fly, Returning never! That ear is deaf--that friendly eye Is clos’d for ever!

6.

Be thou then, now, my friend, my guide, And humming wisdom by my side, Teach me so patiently to bear Hot-water troubles, That they may end, like thine, in air, And turn to bubbles.

7.

Let me support misfortune’s fire Unhurt; and, when I fume with ire. Whatever friend my passion sees, And near me lingers, Let him still handle me with ease. Nor burn his fingers.

8.

O! may my memory, like thy front. When I am cold, endure the brunt Of vitriol envy’s keen assaults, And shine the brighter, And ev’ry rub--that makes my faults Appear the lighter.

SAM SAM’S SON.

* * * * *

TO MY TEA-POT.

For the Table Book.

1.

MY TEA-POT! while thy lips pour forth For me a stream of matchless worth, I’ll pour forth my rhymes for thee: Don Juan’s verse is gross, they say; But I will pen a grocer lay, Commencing--“Amo tea.”

2.

Yes--let Anacreon’s votary sip His flowing bowl with feverish lip, And breathe abominations; Some day he’ll be bowl’d out for it-- He’s brewing mischief, while I sit And brew my Tea-pot-ations.

3.

After fatigue, how dear to me The maid who suits me to a T, And makes the water bubble. From her red hand when I receive The evergreen, I seem to give At T. L. no trouble.

4.

I scorn the hop, disdain the malt, I hate solutions sweet and salt, Injurious I vote ’em; For tea my faithful palate yearns; Thus--though my fancy never turns, It always is tea-totum!

5.

Yet some assure me whilst I sip, That thou hast stain’d thy silver lip With sad adulterations-- Slow poison drawn from leaves of sloe, That quickly cause the quick to go, And join their dead relations.

6.

Aunt Malaprop now drinks noyeau Instead of Tea, and well I know That she prefers it greatly: She says, “Alas! I give up Tea, There’s been so much adultery Among the grocers lately!”

7.

She warns me of Tea-dealers’ tricks-- Those double-dealing men, who mix Unwholesome drugs with some Tea ’Tis bad to sip--and yet to give Up sipping’s worse; we cannot live “Nec sine Tea, nec cum Tea.”

8.

Yet still, tenacious of my Tea, I think the grocers send it me Quite pure, (’tis what they call so.) Heedless of warnings, still I get “Tea veniente die, et Tea decedente,” also.

SAM SAM’S SON.

Vol. I.--15.

From a sepia drawing, obligingly communicated by J. S. J., the reader is presented with this view of a church, “hallowed by being the sepulchral enclosure of the remains of the immortal Shakspeare.” It exemplifies the two distinct styles, the early pointed and that of the fourteenth century. The tower is of the first construction; the windows of the transepts possess a preeminent and profuse display of the mullions and tracery characteristic of the latter period.[100]

This structure is spacious and handsome, and was formerly collegiate, and dedicated to the Holy Trinity. A row of limes trained so as to form an arched avenue form an approach to the great door. A representation of a portion of this pleasant entrance is in an engraving of the church in the “Gentleman’s Magazine” for 1807.

Another opportunity will occur for relating particulars respecting the venerable edifice, and the illustrious bard, whose birth and burial at Stratford upon Avon confer on the town imperishable fame.

[100] Mr. Carter, in the Gentleman’s Magazine, 1816.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. XII.

[From the “Brazen Age,” an Historical Play, by Thomas Heywood, 1613.]

Venus courts Adonis.

Venus. Why doth Adonis fly the Queen of Love, And shun this ivory girdle of my arms? To be thus scarf’d the dreadful God of War Would give me conquer’d kingdoms. For a kiss, But half like this, I could command the Sun Rise ’fore his hour, to bed before his time; And, being love-sick, change his golden beams, And make his face pale as his sister Moon. Look on me, Adon, with a stedfast eye, That in these chrystal glasses I may see My beauty that charms Gods, makes Men amazed And stown’d with wonder. Doth this roseat pillow Offend my Love? With my white fingers will I clap thy cheek; Whisper a thousand pleasures in thy ear. Adonis. Madam, you are not modest. I affect The unseen beauty that adorns the mind: This looseness makes you foul in Adon’s eye. If you will tempt me, let me in your face Read blusfulness and fear; a modest fear Would make your cheek seem much more beautiful. Venus. ------wert thou made of stone, I have heat to melt thee; I am Queen of Love. There is no practive art of dalliance Of which I am not mistress, and can use. I have kisses that can murder unkind words, And strangle hatred that the gall sends forth; Touches to raise thee, were thy spirits half dead; Words that can pour affection down thy ears. Love me! thou can’st not chuse; thou shalt not chuse. Adonis. Madam, you woo not well. Men covet not These proffer’d pleasures, but love sweets denied. These prostituted pleasures surfeit still; Where’s fear, or doubt, men sue with best good will. Venus. Thou canst instruct the Queen of Love in love. Thou shalt not, Adon, take me by the hand; Yet, if thou needs will force me, take my palm. I’ll frown on him: alas! my brow’s so smooth, It will not bear a wrinkle.--Hie thee hence Unto the chace, and leave me; but not yet: I’ll sleep this night upon Endymion’s bank, On which the Swain was courted by the Moon. Dare not to come; thou art in our disgrace: Yet, if thou come, I can afford thee place!

* * * * *

Phœbus jeers Vulcan.

Vul. Good morrow, Phœbus; what’s the news abroad?-- For thou see’st all things in the world are done, Men act by day-light, or the sight of sun. Phœb. Sometime I cast my eye upon the sea, To see the tumbling seal or porpoise play. There see I merchants trading, and their sails Big-bellied with the wind; sea fights sometimes Rise with their smoke-thick clouds to dark my beams Sometimes I fix my face upon the earth, With my warm fervour to give metals, trees, Herbs, plants and flowers, life. Here in gardens walk Loose Ladies with their Lovers arm in arm. Yonder the laboring Plowman drives his team. Further I may behold main battles pitcht; And whom I favour most (by the wind’s help) I can assist with my transparent rays. Here spy I cattle feeding; forests there Stored with wild beasts; here shepherds with their lasses, Piping beneath the trees while their flocks graze. In cities I see trading, walking, bargaining, Buying and selling, goodness, badness, all things-- And shine alike on all. Vul. Thrice happy Phœbus, That, whilst poor Vulcan is confin’d to Lemnos, Hast every day these pleasures. What news else? Phœb. No Emperor walks forth, but I see his state; Nor sports, but I his pastimes can behold. I see all coronations, funerals, Marts, fairs, assemblies, pageants, sights and shows. No hunting, but I better see the chace Than they that rouse the game. What see I not? There’s not a window, but my beams break in; No chink or cranny, but my rays pierce through; And there I see, O Vulcan, wondrous things: Things that thyself, nor any God besides, Would give belief to. And, shall I tell thee, Vulcan, ’tother day What I beheld?--I saw the great God Mars-- Vul. God Mars-- Phœb. As I was peeping through a cranny, a-bed-- Vul. Abed! with whom?--some pretty Wench, I warrant. Phœb. She was a pretty Wench. Vul. Tell me, good Phœbus, That, when I meet him, I may flout God Mars; Tell me, but tell me truly, on thy life. Phœb. Not to dissemble, Vulcan, ’twas thy Wife!

* * * * *

The Peers of Greece go in quest of Hercules, and find him in woman’s weeds, spinning with Omphale.

Jason. Our business was to Theban Hercules. ’Twas told us, he remain’d with Omphale, The Theban Queen. Telamon. Speak, which is Omphale? or which Alcides? Pollux. Lady, our purpose was to Hercules; Shew us the man. Omphale. Behold him here. Atreus. Where? Omphale. There, at his task. Jason. Alas, this Hercules! This is some base effeminate Groom, not he That with his puissance frighted all the earth. Hercules. Hath Jason, Nestor, Castor, Telamon, Atreus, Pollux, all forgot their friend? We are the man. Jason. Woman, we know thee not: We came to seek the Jove-born Hercules, That in his cradle strangled Juno’s snakes, And triumph’d in the brave Olympic games. He that the Cleonean lion slew. Th’ Erimanthian boar, the bull of Marathon. The Lernean hydra, and the winged hart. Telamon. We would see the Theban That Cacus slew, Busiris sacrificed, And to his horses hurl’d stern Diomed To be devoured. Pollux. That freed Hesione From the sea whale, and after ransack’d Troy, And with his own hand slew Laomedon. Nestor. He by whom Dercilus and Albion fell; He that Œcalia and Betricia won. Atreus. That monstrous Geryon with his three heads vanquisht, With Linus, Lichas that usurpt in Thebes, And captived there his beauteous Megara. Pollux. That Hercules by whom the Centaurs fell, Great Achelous, the Stymphalides, And the Cremona giants: where is he? Telamon. That trait’rous Nessus with a shaft transfixt. Strangled Antheus, purged Augeus’ stalls, Won the bright apples of th’ Hesperides. Jason. He that the Amazonian baldrick won; That Achelous with his club subdued, And won from him the Pride of Caledon, Fair Deianeira, that now mourns in Thebes For absence of the noble Hercules! Atreus. To him we came; but, since he lives not here, Come, Lords; we will return these presents back Unto the constant Lady, whence they came. Hercules. Stay, Lords-- Jason. ’Mongst women?-- Hercules. For that Theban’s sake, Whom you profess to love, and came to seek, Abide awhile; and by my love to Greece, I’ll bring before you that lost Hercules, For whom you came to enquire. Telamon. It works, it works-- Hercules. How have I lost myself! Did we all this? Where is that spirit become, That was in us? no marvel, Hercules, That thou be’st strange to them, that thus disguised Art to thyself unknown!--hence with this distaff, And base effeminate chares; hence, womanish tires; And let me once more be myself again. Your pardon, Omphale!

* * * * *

I cannot take leave of this Drama without noticing a touch of the truest pathos, which the writer has put into the mouth of Meleager, as he is wasting away by the operation of the fatal brand, administered to him by his wretched Mother.

My flame encreaseth still--Oh father Œneus; And you Althea, whom I would call Mother, But that my genius prompts me thou’rt unkind: And yet farewell!

What is the boasted “Forgive me, but forgive me!” of the dying wife of Shore in Rowe, compared with these three little words?

C. L.

* * * * *

~Topography.~

ST. MARGARET’S AT CLIFF.

For the Table Book.

--------Stand still. How fearful And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low! The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head: The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark, Diminish’d to her cock; her cock, a buoy, Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge, That on the unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high.--

SHAKSPEARE.

The village of St. Margaret’s at Cliff is situated at a small distance from the South Foreland, and about a mile from the high road half way between Dover and Deal. It was formerly of some consequence, on account of its fair for the encouragement of traders, held in the precincts of its priory, which, on the dissolution of the monastic establishments by Henry VIII., losing its privilege, or rather its utility, (for the fair is yet held,) the village degenerated into an irregular group of poor cottages, a decent farm-house, and an academy for boys, one of the best commercial school establishments in the county of Kent. The church, though time has written strange defeatures on its mouldering walls, still bears the show of former importance; but its best claim on the inquisitive stranger is the evening toll of its single bell, which is generally supposed to be the curfew, but is of a more useful and honourable character. It was established by the testament of one of its inhabitants in the latter part of the seventeenth century, for the guidance of the wanderer from the peril of the neighbouring precipices, over which the testator fell, and died from the injuries he received. He bequeathed the rent of a piece of land for ever, to be paid to the village sexton for tolling the bell every evening at eight o’clock, when it should be dark at that hour.

The cliffs in the range eastward of Dover to the Foreland are the most precipitous, but not so high as Shakspeare’s. They are the resort of a small fowl of the widgeon species, but something less than the widgeon, remarkable for the size of its egg, which is larger than the swan’s, and of a pale green, spotted with brown; it makes its appearance in May, and, choosing the most inaccessible part of the precipice, deposits its eggs, two in number, in holes, how made it is difficult to prove: when the young bird is covered with a thin down, and before any feathers appear, it is taken on the back of the parent, carried to the sea, and abandoned to its own resources, which nature amply supplies means to employ, in the myriads of mackerel fry that at that season colour the surface of the deep with a beautiful pale green and silver. This aquatic wanderer is said to confine its visit to the South Foreland and the seven cliffs at Beachy-head, and is known by the name of Willy. Like the gull, it is unfit for the table, but valuable for the downy softness of its feathers.

It was in this range of Dover cliffs that Joe Parsons, who for more than forty years had exclusively gathered samphire, broke his neck in 1823. Habit had rendered the highest and most difficult parts of these awful precipices as familiar to this man as the level below. Where the overhanging rock impeded his course, a rope, fastened to a peg driven into a cliff above, served him to swing himself from one projection to another: in one of these dangerous attempts this fastening gave way, and he fell to rise no more. Joe had heard of Shakspeare, and felt the importance of a hero. It was his boast that he was a king too powerful for his neighbours, who dared not venture to disturb him in his domain; that nature alone was his lord, to whom he paid no quittance. All were free to forage on his grounds, but none ventured. Joe was twice wedded; his first rib frequently attended and looked to the security of his ropes, and would sometimes terrify him with threats to cast him loose; a promise of future kindness always ended the parley, and a thrashing on the next quarrel placed Joe again in peril. Death suddenly took Judith from this vale of tears; Parsons awoke in the night and found her brought up in an everlasting roadstead: like a true philosopher and a quiet neighbour, Joe took his second nap, and when day called out the busy world to begin its matin labour, Joe called in the nearest gossip to see that all was done that decency required for so good a wife. His last helpmate survives her hapless partner. No one has yet taken possession of his estate. The inquisitive and firm-nerved stranger casts his eyes below in vain: he that gathered samphire is himself gathered. The anchored bark, the skiff, the choughs and crows, the fearful precipice, and the stringy root, growing in unchecked abundance, bring the bard and Joe Parsons to remembrance, but no one now attempts the “dreadful trade.”

K. B.

* * * * *

TO A SEA-WEED

PICKED UP AFTER A STORM.

Exotic!--from the soil no tiller ploughs, Save the rude surge;--fresh stripling from a grove Above whose tops the wild sea-monsters rove, --Have not the genii harbour’d in thy boughs, Thou filmy piece of wonder!--have not those Who still the tempest, for thy rescue strove, And stranded thee thus fair, the might to prove Of spirits, that the caves of ocean house?

How else, from capture of the giant-spray, Hurt-free escapest thou, slight ocean-flower? --As if Arachne wove, thus faultless lay The full-develop’d forms of fairy-bower; --Who that beholds thee thus, nor with dismay Recalls thee struggling thro’ the storm’s dark hour![101]

[101] Poems and Translations from Schiller.

* * * * *

MARRIAGE OF THE SEA.

The doge of Venice, accompanied by the senators, in the greatest pomp, marries the sea every year.

Those who judge of institutions by their appearance only, think this ceremony an indecent and extravagant vanity; they imagine that the Venetians annually solemnize this festival, because they believe themselves to be masters of the sea. But the wedding of the sea is performed with the most noble intentions.

The sea is the symbol of the republic: of which the doge is the first magistrate, but not the master; nor do the Venetians wish that he should become so. Among the barriers to his domination, they rank this custom, which reminds him that he has no more authority over the republic, which he governs with the senate, than he has over the sea, notwithstanding the marriage he is obliged to celebrate with her. The ceremony symbolizes the limits of his power, and the nature of his obligations.

* * * * *

OLD COIN INSCRIPTIONS.

To read an inscription on a silver coin which, by much wear, is become wholly obliterated, put the poker in the fire; when red hot, place the coin upon it, and the inscription will plainly appear of a greenish hue, but will disappear as the coin cools. This method was practised at the Mint to discover the genuine coin when the silver was last called in.

* * * * *

THE LADY AND THE TROUBADOUR.

For the Table Book.

[Emeugarde, daughter of Jacques de Tournay, Lord of Croiton, in Provence, becoming enamoured of a Troubadour, by name Enguilbert de Marnef, who was bound by a vow to repair to the Camp of the Crusaders in Palestine, besought him on the eve of his departure to suffer her to accompany him: de Marnef at first resolutely refused; but at length, overcome by her affectionate solicitations, assented, and was joined by her the same night, after her flight from her father’s chastel, in the garb of a guild brother of the joyeuse science.

CHRONIQUE DE POUTAILLER]

Enguilbert! oh Enguilbert, the sword is in thine hand, Thou hast vowed before our Lady’s shrine to seek the Sainted land: --Thou goest to fight for glory--but what will glory be, If thou lov’st me, and return’st to find a tomb and dust for me?

Look on me Enguilbert, for I have lost the shame That should have stayed these tears and prayers from one of Tournay’s name: --Look on me, my own bright-eyed Love--oh wilt thou leave me--say To droop as sunless flowers do, lacking thee--light of my day?

Oh say that I may wend with thee--I’ll doff my woman’s ’tire, Sling my Father’s sword unto my side, and o’er my back my lyre: I’ll roam with thee a Troubadour, by day--by night, thy bride-- --Speak Enguilbert--say yes,--or see my heart break if denied.

Oh shouldst thou fall, my Enguilbert, whose lips thy wounds will close?-- Who but thine own fond Emeugarde should watch o’er thy repose? And pierced, and cold her faithful breast must be e’er spear or sword Should ought of harm upon thee wreak, my Troubadour--my Lord.

--Nay smile not at my words, sweet-heart--the Goss hath slender beak But brings its quarry nobly down--I love tho’ I am weak --My Blood hath coursed thro’ Charlemagne’s veins, and better it should flow Upon the field with Infidels’, than here congeal with woe.

--Ah Enguilbert--my soul’s adored! the tear is in thine eye; Thou wilt not--can’st not leave me like the widowed dove to die: --No--no--thine arm is round me--that kiss on my hot brow Spoke thy assent, my bridegroom love,--we are ONE for ever now.

J. J. K.

* * * * *

THE GOLDEN TOOTH.

In 1593, it was reported that a Silesian child, seven years old, had lost all its teeth, and that a golden tooth had grown in the place of a natural double one.

In 1595, Horstius, professor of medicine in the university of Helmstadt, wrote the history of this golden tooth. He said it was partly a natural event, and partly miraculous, and that the Almighty had sent it to this child, to console the Christians for their persecution by the Turks.

In the same year, Rullandus drew up another account of the golden tooth.

Two years afterwards, Ingosteterus, another learned man, wrote against the opinion which Rullandus had given on this tooth of gold. Rullandus immediately replied in a most elegant and erudite dissertation.

Libavius, a very learned man, compiled all that had been said relative to this tooth, and subjoined his remarks upon it.

Nothing was wanting to recommend these erudite writings to posterity, but proof that the tooth was gold--a goldsmith examined it, and found it a natural tooth artificially gilt.

* * * * *

LE REVENANT.

“There are but two classes of persons in the world--those who are hanged, and those who are not hanged: and it has been my lot to belong to the former.”

There is a pathetic, narrative, under the preceding title and motto in “Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine,” of the present month, (April, 1827.) It is scarcely possible to abridge or extract from it, and be just to its writer. Perhaps the following specimen may induce curiosity to the perusal of the entire paper in the journal just named.

“I have been hanged, and am alive,” says the narrator. “I was a clerk in a Russia broker’s house, and fagged between Broad-street Buildings and Batson’s coffee-house, and the London-docks, from nine in the morning to six in the evening, for a salary of fifty pounds a-year. I did this--not contentedly--but I endured it; living sparingly in a little lodging at Islington for two years; till I fell in love with a poor, but very beautiful girl, who was honest where it was very hard to be honest; and worked twelve hours a-day at sewing and millinery, in a mercer’s shop in Cheapside, for half a guinea a-week. To make short of a long tale--this girl did not know how poor I was; and, in about six months, I committed seven or eight forgeries, to the amount of near two hundred pounds. I was seized one morning--I expected it for weeks--as regularly as I awoke--every morning--and carried, after a very few questions, for examination before the lord mayor. At the Mansion-house I had nothing to plead. Fortunately my motions had not been watched; and so no one but myself was implicated in the charge--as no one else was really guilty. A sort of instinct to try the last hope made me listen to the magistrate’s caution, and remain silent; or else, for any chance of escape I had, I might as well have confessed the whole truth at once. The examination lasted about half an hour; when I was fully committed for trial, and sent away to Newgate.

“The shock of my first arrest was very slight indeed; indeed I almost question if it was not a relief, rather than a shock, to me. For months, I had known perfectly that my eventual discovery was certain. I tried to shake the thought of this off; but it was of no use--I dreamed of it even in my sleep; and I never entered our counting-house of a morning, or saw my master take up the cash-book in the course of the day, that my heart was not up in my mouth, and my hand shook so that I could not hold the pen--for twenty minutes afterwards, I was sure to do nothing but blunder. Until, at last, when I saw our chief clerk walk into the room, on new year’s morning, with a police officer, I was as ready for what followed, as if I had had six hours’ conversation about it. I do not believe I showed--for I am sure I did not feel it--either surprise or alarm. My ‘fortune,’ however, as the officer called it, was soon told. I was apprehended on the 1st of January; and the sessions being then just begun, my time came rapidly round. On the 4th of the same month, the London grand jury found three bills against me for forgery; and, on the evening of the 5th, the judge exhorted me to ‘prepare for death;’ for ‘there was no hope that, in this world, mercy could be extended to me.’

“The whole business of my trial and sentence passed over as coolly and formally as I would have calculated a question of interest, or summed up an underwriting account. I had never, though I lived in London, witnessed the proceedings of a criminal court before; and I could hardly believe the composure and indifference--and yet civility--for there was no show of anger or ill-temper--with which I was treated; together with the apparent perfect insensibility of all the parties round me, while I was rolling on--with a speed which nothing could check, and which increased every moment--to my ruin! I was called suddenly up from the dock, when my turn for trial came, and placed at the bar; and the judge asked, in a tone which had neither severity about it, nor compassion--nor carelessness, nor anxiety--nor any character or expression whatever that could be distinguished--‘If there was any counsel appeared for the prosecution?’ A barrister then, who seemed to have some consideration--a middle aged, gentlemanly-looking man--stated the case against me--as he said he would do--very ‘fairly and forbearingly;’ but, as soon as he read the facts from his brief, ‘that only’--I heard an officer of the gaol, who stood behind me, say--‘put the rope about my neck.’ My master then was called to give his evidence; which he did very temperately--but it was conclusive. A young gentleman, who was my counsel, asked a few questions in cross-examination, after he had carefully looked over the indictment: but there was nothing to cross-examine upon--I knew that well enough--though I was thankful for the interest he seemed to take in my case. The judge then told me, I thought more gravely than he had spoken before--‘That it was time for me to speak in my defence, if I had any thing to say.’ I had nothing to say. I thought one moment to drop down upon my knees, and beg for mercy; but, again--I thought it would only make me look ridiculous; and I only answered--as well as I could--‘That I would not trouble the court with any defence.’ Upon this, the judge turned round, with a more serious air still, to the jury, who stood up all to listen to him as he spoke. And I listened too--or tried to listen attentively--as hard as I could; and yet--with all I could do--I could not keep my thoughts from wandering! For the sight of the court--all so orderly, and regular, and composed, and formal, and well satisfied--spectators and all--while I was running on with the speed of wheels upon smooth soil downhill, to destruction--seemed as if the whole trial were a dream, and not a thing in earnest! The barristers sat round the table, silent, but utterly unconcerned, and two were looking over their briefs, and another was reading a newspaper; and the spectators in the galleries looked on and listened as pleasantly, as though it were a matter not of death going on, but of pastime or amusement; and one very fat man, who seemed to be the clerk of the court, stopped his writing when the judge began, but leaned back in his chair, with his hands in his breeches’ pockets, except once or twice that he took a snuff; and not one living soul seemed to take notice--they did not seem to know the fact--that there was a poor, desperate, helpless creature--whose days were fast running out--whose hours of life were even with the last grains in the bottom of the sand-glass--among them! I lost the whole of the judge’s charge--thinking of I know not what--in a sort of dream--unable to steady my mind to any thing, and only biting the stalk of a piece of rosemary that lay by me. But I heard the low, distinct whisper of the foreman of the jury, as he brought in the verdict--‘GUILTY,’--and the last words of the judge, saying--‘that I should be hanged by the neck until I was dead;’ and bidding me ‘prepare myself for the next life, for that my crime was one that admitted of no mercy in this.’ The gaoler then, who had stood close by me all the while, put his hand quickly upon my shoulder, in an under voice, telling me, to ‘Come along!’ Going down the hall steps, two other officers met me; and, placing me between them, without saying a word, hurried me across the yard in the direction back to the prison. As the door of the court closed behind us, I saw the judge fold up his papers, and the jury being sworn in the next case. Two other culprits were brought up out of the dock; and the crier called out for--‘The prosecutor and witnesses against James Hawkins, and Joseph Sanderson, for burglary!’

“I had no friends, if any in such a case could have been of use to me--no relatives but two; by whom--I could not complain of them--I was at once disowned.--There was but one person then in all the world that seemed to belong to me; and that one was Elizabeth Clare! And, when I thought of her, the idea of all that was to happen to myself was forgotten--I covered my face with my hands, and cast myself on the ground; and I wept, for I was in desperation.--She had gone wild as soon as she had heard the news of my apprehension--never thought of herself, but confessed her acquaintance with me. The result was, she was dismissed from her employment--and it was her only means of livelihood.

“She had been every where--to my master--to the judge that tried me--to the magistrates--to the sheriffs--to the aldermen--she had made her way even to the secretary of state! My heart did misgive me at the thought of death; but, in despite of myself, I forgot fear when I missed her usual time of coming, and gathered from the people about me how she was employed. I had no thought about the success or failure of her attempt. All my thoughts were--that she was a young girl, and beautiful--hardly in her senses, and quite unprotected--without money to help, or a friend to advise her--pleading to strangers--humbling herself perhaps to menials, who would think her very despair and helpless condition, a challenge to infamy and insult. Well, it mattered little! The thing was no worse, because I was alive to see and suffer from it. Two days more, and all would be over; the demons that fed on human wretchedness would have their prey. She would be homeless--pennyless--friendless--she would have been the companion of a forger and a felon; it needed no witchcraft to guess the termination.----

“We hear curiously, and read every day, of the visits of friends and relatives to wretched criminals condemned to die. Those who read and hear of these things the most curiously, have little impression of the sadness of the reality. It was six days after my first apprehension, when Elizabeth Clare came, for the last time, to visit me in prison! In only these short six days her beauty, health, strength--all were gone; years upon years of toil and sickness could not have left a more worn-out wreck. Death--as plainly as ever death spoke--sat in her countenance--she was broken-hearted. When she came, I had not seen her for two days. I could not speak, and there was an officer of the prison with us too: I was the property of the law now; and my mother, if she had lived, could not have blest, or wept for me, without a third person, and that a stranger, being present. I sat down by her on my bedstead, which was the only place to sit on in my cell, and wrapped her shawl close round her, for it was very cold weather, and I was allowed no fire; and we sat so for almost an hour without exchanging a word.----

* * * * *

“She was got away, on the pretence that she might make one more effort to save me, with a promise that she should return again at night. The master was an elderly man, who had daughters of his own; and he promised--for he saw I knew how the matter was--to see Elizabeth safe through the crowd of wretches among whom she must pass to quit the prison. She went, and I knew that she was going for ever. As she turned back to speak as the door was closing, I knew that I had seen her for the last time. The door of my cell closed. We were to meet no more on earth. I fell upon my knees--I clasped my hands--my tears burst out afresh--and I called on God to bless her.”----

The mental and bodily sufferings of the condemned man in his cell, his waking dreams, and his dead sleep till the morning of execution, though of intense interest in the narrative, are omitted here that the reader may at once accompany the criminal to the place of execution.----

“I remember beginning to move forward through the long arched passages which led from the press-room to the scaffold. I saw the lamps that were still burning--for the daylight never entered here: I heard the quick tolling of the bell, and the deep voice of the chaplain reading as he walked before us--

‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, shall live. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God!’

“It was the funeral service--the order for the grave--the office for those that were senseless and dead--over us, the quick and the living----

“I felt once more--and saw! I felt the transition from these dim, close, hot, lamp-lighted subterranean passages, to the open platform and steps at the foot of the scaffold, and to day. I saw the immense crowd blackening the whole area of the street below me. The windows of the shops and houses opposite, to the fourth story, choked with gazers. I saw St. Sepulchre’s church through the yellow fog in the distance, and heard the pealing of its bell. I recollect the cloudy, misty morning; the wet that lay upon the scaffold--the huge dark mass of building, the prison itself, that rose beside, and seemed to cast a shadow over us--the cold, fresh breeze, that, as I emerged from it, broke upon my face. I see it all now--the whole horrible landscape is before me. The scaffold--the rain--the faces of the multitude--the people clinging to the house-tops--the smoke that beat heavily downwards from the chimneys--the waggons filled with women, staring in the inn-yards opposite--the hoarse low roar that ran through the gathered crowd as we appeared. I never saw so many objects at once so plainly and distinctly in all my life as at that one glance; but it lasted only for an instant.

“From that look, and from that instant, all that followed is a blank----”

To what accident the narrator owes his existence is of little consequence, compared with the moral to be derived from the sad story.--“The words are soon spoken, and the act is soon done, which dooms a wretched creature to an untimely death; but bitter are the pangs--and the sufferings of the body are among the least of them--that he must go through before he arrives at it!”

In the narrative there is more than seems to be expressed. By all who advocate or oppose capital punishment--by every being with a human heart, and reasoning powers--it should be read complete in the pages of “Blackwood.”

*

Lang may wor Tyneside lads sae true, In heart byeth blithe an’ mellow, Bestow the praise that’s fairly due To this bluff, honest fellow-- And when he’s hamper’d i’ the dust, Still i’ wor memory springin’, The times we’ve run till like to brust To hear blind Willie singin’.

NEWCASTLE SONG.

WILLIAM PURVIS, or, as he is generally styled, blind Willie, is a well-known character, and native of Newcastle, where he has resided since his infancy. He was born blind, and is the son of Margaret Purvis, who died in All Saints’ workhouse, February 7, 1819, in her hundredth year.

Willie is, indeed, as the ingenious Mr. Sykes calls him in his “Local Records,” a “famous musician,” for he has long been celebrated for his minstrelsy throughout the northern counties, but more particularly so in Northumberland. In Newcastle, Willie is respected by all--from the rudest to the gentlest heart all love him--children seize his hand as he passes--and he is ever an equally welcome guest at the houses of the rich and the hovels of the pitmen. The hoppings of the latter are cheered by the soul-inspiring sound of his viol: nay, he is, I may truly say, a very particle of a pitman’s existence, who, after a hard day’s labour, considers it a pleasure of the most exquisite nature to repair to some neighbouring pot-house, there to enjoy Willie’s music, and listen to the rude ballads he is in the habit of composing and singing to the accompaniment of his own music. Poor Willie! may he live long and live happy. When he dies many a tear will fall from eyes that seldom weep, and hearts that know little of the more refined sensations of our nature will heave a sigh. Willie will die, but not his fame will die. In many of those humorous provincial songs, with which Newcastle abounds more than any other town I am acquainted with--the very airs as well as the words of which possess a kind of local nationality--“Blind Willie” is the theme. These songs are the admiration of all who know how to appreciate genuine humour; several of them have been sung for years, and I venture to prophecy, will be sung by future generations.

Among the characters who have noticed “Willie” may be mentioned the present duke of Northumberland, sir Matthew White Ridley, the late Stephen Kemble, Esq. and the admirable comedian Matthews. Sir Matthew White Ridley is a most particular favourite with “Willie,” and it is no uncommon occurrence to hear Willie, as he paces along the streets of Newcastle, muttering to himself “Sir Maffa! sir Maffa! canny sir Maffa! God bless sir Maffa!”

One of Willie’s greatest peculiarities is thus alluded to by Mr. Sykes:--“He has travelled the streets of Newcastle time out of mind without a covering upon his head. Several attempts have been made, by presenting him with a hat, to induce him to wear one, but after having suffered it for a day or two it is thrown aside, and the minstrel again becomes uncovered, preferring the exposure of his pate to the ‘pelting of the pitiless storm.’” The likeness that accompanies this notice is from a large quarto engraving, published at Newcastle, and will doubtless be acceptable to numerous readers of that populous district wherein blind Willie is so popular.

* * * * *

FARMERS.

IN

1722.

Man to the plough; Wife to the cow; Girl to the sow; Boy to the mow; And your rents will be netted.

1822.

Man tally-ho; Miss piano; Wife silk and satin; Boy Greek and Latin; And you’ll all be Gazetted.

G.[102]

[102] The Times.

* * * * *

A REVERIE.

For the Table Book.

----On a cool delightful evening which succeeded one of the scorching days of last summer, I sallied forth for a walk in the neighbourhood of the city of ----. Chance led me along a path usually much frequented, which was then covered thick with the accumulated dust of a long drought; it bore the impression of a thousand busy feet, of every variety of form and size; from the first steps of the infant, whose nurse had allowed it to toddle his little journey to the outstretched arms of her who was almost seated to receive him, to the hobnailed slouch of the carter, whose dangling lash and dusty jacket annoyed the well-dressed throng. But three pair of footsteps, which were so perfect that they could not long have preceded my own, more than all, attracted my attention; those on the left certainly bore the impress of the delicately formed foot of a female; the middle ones were shaped by the ample square-toed, gouty shoe of a senior; and those on the right were as certainly placed there by the Wellington boot of some dandy; they were extravagantly right and left, the heel was small and high, for the middle of the foot did not tread on earth.--My imagination was instantly at work, to tenant these “leathern conveniences;” the last-mentioned I felt so certain were inhabited by an officer of the lancers, or an hussar who had witnessed Waterloo’s bloody fight, that I could almost hear the tinkle of his military spur. I pictured him young, tall, handsome, with black mustachios, dark eyes, and, as the poet says,

“His nose was large with curved line Which some men call the aquiline, And some do say the Romans bore Such noses ’fore them to the war.”

The strides were not so long as a tall man would make, but this I accounted for by supposing they were accommodated to the hobbling gait of the venerable gentleman in the centre, who I imagined “of the old school,” and to wear one of those few self-important wigs, which remain in this our day of sandy scratches. As these powdered coverings never look well without a three cocked hat, I had e’en placed one upon it, and almost edged it with gold lace, which, however, would not do--it had rather loo much of by-gone days:--to my “mind’s eye” he was clothed in a snuff-coloured suit, and one of his feet, which was not too gouty to admit of a leather shoe, had upon it a large silver buckle. My “high fancy” formed the lady a charming creature, sufficiently en bon point, with an exceedingly genteel figure; not such as two parallel lines would describe, but rather broad on the shoulders, gently tapering to the waist, then gradually increasing in a delicately flowing outline, such as the “statue that enchants the world” would exhibit, if animated and clothed in the present fashionable dress; her voice, of course, was delightful, and the mild expression of her face to be remembered through life--it could not be forgotten; in short, she was as Sterne says, “all that the heart wishes or the eye looks for in woman.” My reverie had now arrived at its height, my canvass was full, my picture complete, and I was enjoying the last delicate touches of creative fancy, when a sudden turn in the road placed before me three persons, who, on a moment’s reflection, I felt constrained to acknowledge as the authors of the footsteps which had led me into such a pleasing delusion; but--no more like the trio of my imagination, than “Hyperion to a satyr!” The dandy had red hair, the lady a red nose, and the middle man was a gouty sugar-baker; all very good sort of people, no doubt, except that they overthrew my aerial castle. I instantly retraced my steps, and was foolish enough to be sulky, nay, a very “anatomie of melancholy;” till a draught of “Burton’s” liquid amber at supper made me friends with the world again----

ETA.

* * * * *

HIGHLAND TRADITION.

MACGREGOR.

About the middle of the sixteenth century, the eldest son of Lamond, of Cowel, in Argyleshire, was hunting the red deer in Glenfine. At the same time the only son of Macgregor, of Glenstrae, the chief of that once powerful clan, was on a similar excursion in the same place, which was the boundary between the extensive territories of these two great families. Young Lamond had pierced a prime hart with an arrow; and the noble animal, galled by the shaft, which stuck in the wound, plunged into the river, and bent his course into Macgregor’s country. He was followed by Lamond, who outran all his companions. It unfortunately fell out, that a hart had been wounded by the young Macgregor at the same time, among his own hills. The two deer crossed each other in their flight, and the first that fell was claimed by both the hunters. The youths, flushed by the ardour of the chase, and totally unknown to each other, hotly disputed. They were armed, as was the fashion of those days, and fought, and the young Macgregor fell. Lamond cut his way through the attendants, but was keenly pursued. Having wonderful fleetness of foot, he made his way forward; and ignorant of the country and of the people, and almost exhausted with thirst, hunger, anguish, and fatigue, rushed into the house of Macgregor of Glenstrae, on whose mercy he threw himself, telling him that he had slain a man. Macgregor received him, and had given him refreshment, when the pursuers arrived, and told the unfortunate man the woful tale--that his son had fallen--his only child--the last of his ancient race--the hope of his life--the stay of his age. The old man was at this period left surrounded by enemies crafty and powerful--he, friendless and alone. The youth was possessed of every virtue that a father’s heart could wish; his destroyer was now in his hands; but he had pledged his promise for his safety, and that pledge must be redeemed. It required all the power and influence of the aged chief to restrain the fury of his people from slaying young Lamond at the moment; and even that influence, great as it was, could only protect him, on an assurance that on the next morning his life should be solemnly sacrificed for their beloved Gregor.

In the middle of the night, Macgregor led Lamond forth by the hand, and, aware of his danger, himself accompanied him to the shore of Lochfine, where he procured a boat, made Lamond enter it, and ordered the boatmen to convey him safely across the loch into his own country. “I have now performed my promise,” said the old man, “and henceforth I am your enemy--beware the revenge of a father for his only son!”

Before this fatal event occurred, the persecution against the unfortunate Macgregors had commenced, and this sad accident did not contribute to diminish it. The old laird of Glenstrae struggled hard to maintain his estate and his independence, but his enemies prevailed against him. The conduct of young Lamond was grateful and noble. When he succeeded to the ample possessions of his ancestors, he beseeched old Macgregor to take refuge under his roof. There the aged chief was treated as a father, and ended his days.

* * * * *

HY-JINKS.

A SCOTCH AMUSEMENT.

This is a drunken sort of game.--The queff, or cup, is filled to the brim, then one of the company takes a pair of dice, and cries “Hy-jinks,” and throws. The number he casts points out the person that must drink; he who threw beginning at himself number one, and so round, till the number of the person agree with that of the dice, (which may fall upon himself, if the number be within twelve,) then he sets the dice to him, or bids him take them. He on whom they fall is obliged to drink, or pay a small sum of money as forfeit; then he throws and so on: but if he forgets to cry “Hy-jinks” he pays a forfeiture. Now, he, on whom it falls to drink, gets all the forfeited money in the bank, if he drinks, and orders the cup to be filled again, and then throws. If he errs in the articles, he loses the privilege of drawing the money. The articles are (1 drink;) 2 draw; 3 fill; 4 cry “Hy-jinks;” 5 count just; 6 choose your double man; viz. when two equal numbers of the dice is thrown, the person whom you choose must pay double forfeit, and so must you when the dice is in his hand.

A rare project this, and no bubble I can assure you, for a covetous fellow may save money, and get himself as drunk as he can desire in less than an hour’s time.[103]

S. S. S.

[103] Notes on Allan Ramsay’s Elegy upon Maggy Johnston.

* * * * *

~Clubs.~

THE SILENT CLUB.

There was at Amadan a celebrated academy. Its first rule was framed in these words:--

“The members of this academy shall think much--write little--and be as mute as they can.”

A candidate offered himself--he was too late--the vacancy was filled up--they knew his merit, and lamented their disappointment in lamenting his own. The president was to announce the event; he desired the candidate should be introduced.

He appeared with a simple and modest air, the sure testimony of merit. The president rose, and presented a cup of pure water to him, so full, that a single drop more would have made it overflow; to this emblematic hint he added not a word but his countenance expressed deep affliction.

The candidate understood that he could not be received because the number was complete, and the assembly full; yet he maintained his courage, and began to think by what expedient, in the same kind of language, he could explain that a supernumerary academician would displace nothing, and make no essential difference in the rule they had prescribed.

Observing at his feet a rose, he picked it up, and laid it gently upon the surface of the water, so gently that not a drop of it escaped. Upon this ingenious reply, the applause was universal; the rule slept or winked in his favour. They presented immediately to him the register upon which the successful candidate was in the habit of writing his name. He wrote it accordingly; he had then only to thank them in a single phrase, but he chose to thank them without saying a word.

He figured upon the margin the number of his new associates, 100; then, having put a cipher before the figure 1, he wrote under it--“their value will be the same”--0100.

To this modesty the ingenious president replied with a politeness equal to his address: he put the figure 1 before the 100, and wrote, “they will have eleven times the value they had--1100.”

* * * * *

CHARLESTOWN UGLY CLUB.[104]

For the Table Book.

By a standing law of this “ugly club,” their club-room must always be the ugliest room in the ugliest house of the town. The only furniture allowed in this room is a number of chairs, contrived with the worst taste imaginable; a round table made by a back-woodsman; and a Dutch looking-glass, full of veins, which at one glance would make even a handsome man look a perfect “fright.” This glass is frequently sent to such gentlemen as doubt their qualifications, and neglect or decline to take up their freedom in the club.

When an ill-favoured gentleman first arrives in the city, he is waited upon, in a civil and familiar manner, by some of the members of the club, who inform him that they would be glad of his company on the next evening of their meeting; and the gentleman commonly thanks the deputation for the attention of the club, to one so unworthy as himself, and promises to consider the matter.

It sometimes happens, that several days elapse, and the “strange” gentleman thinks no more of the club. He has perhaps repeatedly looked into his own glass, and wondered what, in the name of sense, the club could have seen in his face, that should entitle him to the distinction they would confer on him.

He is, however, waited upon a second time by the most respectable members of the whole body, with a message from the president, requesting him not to be diffident of his qualifications, and earnestly desiring “that he will not fail to attend the club the very next evening--the members will feel themselves highly honoured by the presence of one whose appearance has already attracted the notice of the whole society.”

“Zounds!” he says to himself on perusing the billet, “what do they mean by teasing me in this manner? I am surely not so ugly,” (walking to his glass,) “as to attract the notice of the whole town on first setting my foot upon the wharf!”

“Your nose is very long,” cries the spokesman of the deputation. “Noses,” says the strange gentleman, “are no criterion of ugliness: it’s true, the tip-end of mine would form an acute angle with a base line drawn horizontally from my under lip; but I defy the whole club to prove, that acute angles were ever reckoned ugly, from the days of Euclid down to this moment, except by themselves.”

“Ah, sir,” answers the messenger, “how liberal has nature been in bestowing upon you so elegant a pair of lantern jaws! believe me, sir, you will be a lasting honour to the club.”

“My jaws,” says the ugly man in a pet, “are such as nature made them: and Aristotle has asserted, that all her works are beautiful.”

The conversation ends for the present. The deputation leaves the strange gentleman to his reflections, with wishes and hopes that he will consider further.

Another fortnight elapses, and the strange gentleman, presuming the club have forgotten him, employs the time in assuming petit-maître airs, and probably makes advances to young ladies of fortune and beauty. At the expiration of this period, he receives a letter from a pretended female, (contrived by the club,) to the following purport:--

“My dear sir,

“There is such a congeniality between your countenance and mine, that I cannot help thinking you and I were destined for each other. I am unmarried, and have a considerable fortune in pine-barren land, which, with myself, I wish to bestow upon some deserving man; and from seeing you pass several times by my window, I know of no one better entitled to both than yourself. I am now almost two years beyond my grand climacteric, and am four feet four inches in height, rather less in circumference, a little dropsical, have lovely red hair and a fair complexion, and, if the doctor do not deceive me, I may hold out twenty years longer. My nose is, like yours, rather longer than common; but then to compensate, I am universally allowed to have charming eyes. They somewhat incline to each other, but the sun himself looks obliquely in winter, and cheers the earth with his glances. Wait upon me, dear sir, to-morrow evening.

“Yours till death, &c.

“M. M.”

“What does all this mean?” cries the ugly gentleman, “was ever man tormented in this manner! Ugly clubs, ugly women! imps and fiends, all in combination to persecute me, and make my life miserable! I am to be ugly, it seems, whether I will or not.”

At this critical juncture, the president of the club, who is the very pink of ugliness itself, waits upon the strange gentleman, and takes him by the hand. “My dear sir,” says he, “you may as well walk with me to the club as not. Nature has designed you for us, and us for you. We are a set of men who have resolution enough to dare to be ugly; and have long let the world know, that we can pass the evening, and eat and drink together with as much social glee and real good humour as the handsomest of them. Look into this Dutch glass, sir, and be convinced that we cannot do without you.”

“If it must be so, it must,” cries the ugly gentleman, “there seems to be no alternative; I will even do as you say!”

It appears from a paper in “The American Museum” of 1790, that by this mode the “ugly club” of Charleston has increased, is increasing, and cannot be diminished. According to the last accounts, “strange” gentlemen who do not comply with invitations to join the club in person are elected “honorary” members, and their names enrolled nolens volens.

P. N.

[104] See col. 264.

* * * * *

SUMMER DRINKS.

IMPERIAL.

Take two gallons of water, two ounces of ginger bruised, and two lemons; boil them together; when lukewarm, pour the whole on a pound and a half of loaf sugar, and two ounces of cream of tartar; add four table spoonfuls of yeast, and let them work together for six hours; then strain the liquor, and bottle it off in small stone bottles: it will be ready for use in a few hours.

SHERBET.

Take nine Seville oranges and three lemons, grate off the yellow from the rinds, and put the raspings into a gallon of water, with three pounds of double refined sugar, and boil it to a candy height; then take it off the fire, and add the pulp of the oranges and lemons; keep stirring it till it be almost cold, then put it in a vessel for use.

LEMON WATER.

Put two slices of lemon, thinly pared, into a tea-pot, with a little bit of the peel, and a bit of sugar, or a large spoonful of capillaire, pour in a pint of boiling water, and stop it close for two hours.

GINGER BEER.

To four gallons of water, put three pounds of brown sugar, two ounces of ginger, one ounce and a half of hops, and about half a pound of fern-root cut small; boil these together till there be about three gallons. To colour it, burn a little sugar and put it in the liquor. Pour it into a vessel when cold, add two table-spoonfuls of barm, and then proceed as with common beer.

* * * * *

CABBAGE, AND TAILORS.

The Roman name Brassica came, as is supposed, from “præséco,” because it was cut off from the stalk: it was also called Caulis in Latin, on account of the goodness of its stalks, and from which the English name Cole, Colwort, or Colewort, is derived. The word cabbage, by which all the varieties of this plant are now improperly called, means the firm head or ball that is formed by the leaves turning close over each other: from that circumstance we say the cole has cabbaged.--From thence arose the cant word applied to tailors, who formerly worked at the private houses of their customers, where they were often accused of cabbaging: which means the rolling up pieces of cloth instead of the list and shreds, which they claim as their due.[105]

[105] Phillips’s Hist. of Cultivated Vegetables.

* * * * *

APRIL.

FROM THE FRENCH OF REMY BELLEAU.

APRIL! sweet month, the daintiest of all. Fair thee befall: April! fond hope of fruits that lie In buds of swathing cotton wrapt, There closely lapt Nursing their tender infancy--

April! that dost thy yellow, green, and blue, Around thee strew, When, as thou go’st, the grassy floor Is with a million flowers depaint, Whose colours quaint Have diaper’d the meadows o’er--

April! at whose glad coming zephyrs rise With whisper’d sighs, Then on their light wings brush away, And hang amid the woodlands fresh Their aery mesh, To tangle Flora on her way--

April! it is thy hand that doth unlock, From plain and rock, Odours and hues, a balmy store, That breathing lie on Nature’s breast, So richly blest, That earth or heaven can ask no more--

April! thy blooms, amid the tresses laid Of my sweet maid, Adown her neck and bosom flow; And in a wild profusion there, Her shining hair With them hath blent a golden glow--

April! the dimpled smiles, the playful grace, That in the face Of Cytherea haunt, are thine: And thine the breath, that, from the skies, The deities Inhale, an offering at thy shrine--

’Tis thou that dost with summons blythe and soft, High up aloft, From banishment these heralds bring. These swallows, that along the air Send swift, and bear Glad tidings of the merry spring.

April! the hawthorn and the eglantine, Purple woodbine, Streak’d pink, and lily-cup and rose, And thyme, and marjoram, are spreading, Where thou art treading, And their sweet eyes for thee unclose.

The little nightingale sits singing aye On leafy spray, And in her fitful strain doth run A thousand and a thousand changes. With voice that ranges Through every sweet division

April! it is when thou dost come again, That love is fain With gentlest breath the fires to wake, That cover’d up and slumbering lay, Through many a day, When winter’s chill our veins did slake.

Sweet month, thou seest at this jocund prime Of the spring time, The hives pour out their lusty young, And hear’st the yellow bees that ply, With laden thigh, Murmuring the flow’ry wilds among.

MAY shall with pomp his wavy wealth unfold, His fruits of gold, His fertilizing dews, that swell In manna on each spike and stem And like a gem, Red honey in the waxen cell.

Who will may praise him, but my voice shall be, Sweet month for thee; Thou that to her do’st owe thy name, Who saw the sea-wave’s foamy tide Swell and divide, Whence forth to life and light she came.

* * * * *

ETYMOLOGY.

The following are significations of a few common terms:--

Steward literally means the keeper of the place; it is compounded of the two old words, stede and ward: by the omission of the first d and e the word steward is formed.

Marshal means one who has the care of horses: in the old Teutonic, mare was synonymous with horse, being applied to the kind; scale signified a servant.

Mayor is derived from the Teutonic Meyer, a lover of might.

Sheriff is compounded of the old words shyre and reve--an officer of the county, one who hath the overlooking of the shire.

Yeoman is the Teutonic word gemen, corrupted in the spelling, and means a commoner.

Groom signifies one who serves in an inferior station. The name of bridegroom was formerly given to the new-married man, because it was customary for him to wait at table on his bride and friends on his wedding day.

* * * * *

All our words of necessity are derived from the German; our words of luxury and those used at table, from the French. The sky, the earth, the elements, the names of animals, household goods, and articles of food, are the same in German as in English; the fashions of dress, and every thing belonging to the kitchen, luxury, and ornament, are taken from the French; and to such a degree of exactness, that the names of animals which serve for the ordinary food of men, such as ox, calf, sheep, when alive, are called the same in English as in German; but when they are served up for the table they change their names, and are called beef, veal, mutton, after the French.[106]

[106] Dutens.

* * * * *

ORGANS.

For the Table Book.

A few particulars relative to organs, in addition to those at col. 260, may be interesting to musical readers.

The instrument is of so great antiquity, that neither the time nor place of invention, nor the name of the inventor, is identified; but that they were used by the Greeks, and from them borrowed by the Latins, is generally allowed. St. Jerome describes one that could be heard a mile off; and says, that there was an organ at Jerusalem, which could be heard at the Mount of Olives.

Organs are affirmed to have been first introduced into France in the reign of Louis I., A. D. 815, and the construction and use of them taught by an Italian priest, who learned the art at Constantinople. By some, however, the introduction of them into that country is carried as far back as Charlemagne, and by others still further.

The earliest mention of an organ, in the northern histories, is in the annals of the year 757, when the emperor Constantine, surnamed Copronymus, sent to Pepin of France, among other rich presents, a “musical machine,” which the French writers describe to have been composed of “pipes and large tubes of tin,” and to have imitated sometimes the “roaring of thunder,” and, at others, the “warbling of a flute.”

Bellarmine alleges, that organs were first used in churches about 660. According to Bingham, they were not used till after the time of Thomas Aquinas, about A. D. 1250. Gervas, the monk of Canterbury, who flourished about 1200, says, they were in use about a hundred years before his time. If his authority be good, it would countenance a general opinion, that organs were common in the churches of Italy, Germany, and England, about the tenth century.

March, 1827.

* * * * *

PERPLEXING MARRIAGES.

At Gwennap, in Cornwall, in March 1823, Miss Sophia Bawden was married to Mr. R. Bawden, both of St. Day. By this marriage, the father became brother-in-law to his son; the mother, mother-in-law to her sister; the mother-in-law of the son, his sister-in-law; the sister of the mother-in-law, her daughter-in-law; the sister of the daughter-in-law, her mother-in-law; the son of the father, brother-in-law to his mother-in-law, and uncle to his brothers and sisters; the wife of the son, sister-in-law to her father-in-law, and aunt-in-law to her husband; and the offspring of the son and his wife would be grandchildren to their uncle and aunt, and cousins to their father.

* * * * *

In an account of Kent, it is related that one Hawood had two daughters by his first wife, of which the eldest was married to John Cashick the son, and the youngest to John Cashick the father. This Cashick the father had a daughter by his first wife, whom old Hawood married, and by her had a son: with the exception of the former wife of old Cashick, all these persons were living at Faversham in February, 1650, and his second wife could say as follows:--

My father is my son, and | My sister is my daughter, I’m mother’s mother; | I’m grandmother to my brother.

* * * * *

STEPS RE-TRACED.

Catherine de Medicis made a vow, that if some concerns which she had undertaken terminated successfully, she would send a pilgrim on foot to Jerusalem, and that at every three steps he advanced, he should go one step back.

It was doubtful whether there could be found a man sufficiently strong and patient to walk, and go back one step at every third. A citizen of Verberie, who was a merchant, offered to accomplish the queen’s vow most scrupulously, and her majesty promised him an adequate recompense. The queen was well assured by constant inquiries that he fulfilled his engagement with exactness, and on his return, he received a considerable sum of money, and was ennobled. His coat of arms were a cross and a branch of palm-tree. His descendants preserved the arms; but they degenerated from their nobility, by resuming the commerce which their ancestor quitted.[107]

[107] Nouv. Hist. de Duch. de Valois.

* * * * *

~Street Circulars.~

No. I.

For the Table Book.

WHISTLING JOE.

He whistles as he goes for want of bread.[108]

* * * * *

Old books declare,--in Plutus’ shade, Whistling was once a roaring trade,-- Great was the call for nerve and gristle; That Charon, with his Styx in view, Pierced old Phlegethon through and through, And whist-led in the ferry-whistle--

That Polyphemus whistled when He p-layed the pipe r in a pen, And sought Ulysses’ bark to launch; That Troy, King Priam had not lost, But for the whistlers that were horsed[109] Within the horse’s wooden paunch.

Jupiter was a whist-ling wight, And Juno heard him with delight; And Boreas was a reedy swain, Awak’ning Venus from the sea: But of the Moderns?--Joe is he That whistles in the streets for gain.

You wonder as you hear the tone Sound like a herald in a zone Distinctly clear, minutely sweet; You list and Joe is dancing, now You laugh, and Joe returns a bow Returning in the crooked street.

He scrapes a stick across his arm And knocks his knees, in need, to charm;[110] Instead of tabor and a fiddle, Et omne solis,--on his sole! He, solus omnis, like a pole Supports his body in the middle.

Thus, of the sprites that creep, or beg, With wither’d arm, or wooden leg, Uncatalogued in Bridewell’s missal; Joe is the fittest for relief, He whistles gladness in his grief,[111] And hardly earns it for his whistle.

J. R. P.

[108] Vide Dryden’s Cymon,

“He whistled as he went for want of thought.”

[109] This word rhymes with lost, to oblige the cockneys.

[110] Like the punning clown in the stocks, that whistled Over the wood laddie!

[111]

“Whistle! and I will come to thee, my love.”

* * * * *

Vol. I.--16.

~Maundy Thursday.~

THE THURSDAY BEFORE GOOD FRIDAY.

There are ample particulars of the present usages on this day at the chapel royal, St. James’s, in the Every-Day Book, with accounts of celebrations in other countries; to these may be added the ceremonies at the court of Vienna, recently related by Dr. Bright:--

“On the Thursday of this week, which was the 24th of March, a singular religious ceremony was celebrated by the court. It is known in German catholic countries by the name of the Fusswaschung, or the ‘washing of the feet.’ The large saloon, in which public court entertainments are given, was fitted up for the purpose; elevated benches and galleries were constructed round the room for the reception of the court and strangers; and in the area, upon two platforms, tables were spread, at one of which sat twelve men, and at the other twelve women. They had been selected from the oldest and most deserving paupers, and were suitably clothed in black, with handkerchiefs and square collars of white muslin, and girdles round their waists.

“The emperor and empress, with the archdukes and archduchesses, Leopoldine and Clementine, and their suites, having all previously attended mass in the royal chapel, entered and approached the table to the sound of solemn music. The Hungarian guard followed, in their most splendid uniform, with their leopard-skin jackets falling from their shoulders, and bearing trays of different meats, which the emperor, empress, archdukes, and attendants, placed on the table, in three successive courses, before the poor men and women, who tasted a little, drank each a glass of wine, and answered a few questions put to them by their sovereigns. The tables were then removed, and the empress and her daughters the archduchesses, dressed in black, with pages bearing their trains, approached. Silver bowls were placed beneath the bare feet of the aged women. The grand chamberlain, in a humble posture, poured water upon the feet of each in succession, from a golden urn, and the empress wiped them with a fine napkin she held in her hand. The emperor performed the same ceremony on the feet of the men, and the rite concluded amidst the sounds of sacred music.”

* * * * *

~Good Friday--Easter.~

“VISITING THE CHURCHES” IN FRANCE.

On Good Friday the churches are all dressed up; canopies are placed over the altars, and the altars themselves are decorated with flowers and other ornaments, and illuminated with a vast number of wax candles. In the evening every body of every rank and description goes a round of visits to them. The devout kneel down and repeat a prayer to themselves in each; but the majority only go to see and be seen--to admire or to criticise the decorations of the churches and of each other--to settle which are arranged with the most taste, which are the most superb. This may be called the feast of caps, for there is scarcely a lady who has not a new cap for the occasion.

Easter Sunday, on the contrary, is the feast of hats; for it is no less general for the ladies on that day to appear in new hats. In the time of the convents, the decoration of their churches for Passion-week was an object in which the nuns occupied themselves with the greatest eagerness. No girl dressing for her first ball ever bestowed more pains in placing her ornaments to the best advantage than they bestowed in decorating their altars. Some of the churches which we visited looked very well, and very showy: but the weather was warm; and as this was the first revival of the ceremony since the revolution, the crowd was so great that they were insupportably hot.

A number of Egyptians, who had accompanied the French army on its evacuation of Egypt, and were settled at Marseilles, were the most eager spectators, as indeed I had observed them to be on all occasions of any particular religious ceremonies being performed. I never saw a more ugly or dirty-looking set of people than they were in general, women as well as men, but they seemed fond of dress and ornament. They had swarthy, dirty-looking complexions, and dark hair; but were not by any means to be considered as people of colour. Their hair, though dark, had no affinity with that of the negroes; for it was lank and greasy, not with any disposition to be woolly. Most of the women had accompanied French officers as chères amies: the Egyptian ladies were indeed said to have had in general a great taste for the French officers.[112]

[112] Miss Plumptre.

* * * * *

PHLEBOTOMY.

Bleeding was much in fashion in the middle ages. In the fifteenth century, it was the subject of a poem; and Robert Boutevylleyn, a founder, claimed in the abbey of Pipewell four bleedings per annum. Among the monks this operation was termed “minution.”

In some abbeys was a bleeding-house, called “Fleboto-maria.” There were certain festivals when this bleeding was not allowed. The monks desired often to be bled, on account of eating meat.

In the order of S. Victor, the brethren were bled five times a year; in September, before Advent, before Lent, after Easter, and at Pentecost, which bleeding lasted three days. After the third day they came to Mattins, and were in the convent; on the fourth day, they received absolution in the chapter. In another rule, one choir was bled at the same time, in silence and psalmody, sitting in order in a cell.[113]

[113] Fosbroke’s British Monachism.

* * * * *

OLD CEREMONIES, &c.

ORDER OF THE MAUNDAY, MADE AT GREENWICH ON THE 19TH OF MARCH, 1572; 14 ELIZ. From No. 6183 Add. MSS. in the British Museum.

Extracted by W. H. DEWHURST

For the Table Book.

First.--The hall was prepared with a long table on each side, and formes set by them; on the edges of which tables, and under those formes, were lay’d carpets and cushions, for her majestie to kneel when she should wash them. There was also another table set across the upper end of the hall, somewhat above the foot pace, for the chappelan to stand at. A little beneath the midst whereof, and beneath the said foot pace, a stoole and cushion of estate was pitched for her majestie to kneel at during the service time. This done, the holy water, basons, alms, and other things, being brought into the hall, and the chappelan and poore folkes having taken the said places, the laundresse, armed with a faire towell, and taking a silver bason filled with warm water and sweet flowers, washed their feet all after one another, and wiped the same with his towell, and soe making a crosse a little above the toes kissed them. After hym within a little while followed the subalmoner, doing likewise, and after hym the almoner hymself also. Then lastly, her majestie came into the hall, and after some singing and prayers made, and the gospel of Christ’s washing of his disciples’ feet read, 39 ladyes and gentlewomen (for soe many were the poore folkes, according to the number of the yeares complete of her majestie’s age,) addressed themselves with aprons and towels to waite upon her majestie, and she kneeling down upon the cushions and carpets, under the feete of the poore women, first washed one foote of every one of them in soe many several basons of warm water and sweete flowers, brought to her severally by the said ladies and gentlewomen, then wiped, crossed, and kissed them, as the almoner and others had done before. When her majestie had thus gone through the whole number of 39, (of which 20 sat on the one side of the hall, and 19 on the other,) she resorted to the first again, and gave to each one certain yardes of broad clothe, to make a gowne, so passing to them all. Thirdly, she began at the first, and gave to each of them a pair of shoes. Fourthly, to each of them a wooden platter, wherein was half a side of salmon, as much ling, six red herrings, and cheat lofes of bread.[114] Fifthly, she began with the first again, and gave to each of them a white wooden dish with claret wine. Sixthly, she received of each waiting lady and gentlewoman their towel and apron, and gave to each poore woman one of the same; and after this the ladies and gentlewomen waited noe longer, nor served as they had done throwe out the courses before. But then the treasurer of the chamber (Mr. Hennage) came to her majestie with 39 small white purses, wherein were also 39 pence, (as they saye,) after the number of yeares to her majesties said age, and of him she received and distributed them severally. Which done, she received of him soe manye leather purses alsoe, each containing 20 sh. for the redemption of her majestie’s gown, which (as men saye) by ancient ordre she ought to give some of them at her pleasure; but she, to avoide the trouble of suite, which accustomablie was made for that preferment, had changed that rewarde into money, to be equally divided amongst them all, namely, 20 sh. a peice, and she alsoe delivered particularly to the whole companye. And so taking her ease upon the cushion of estate, and hearing the quire a little while, her majestie withdrew herself, and the company departed: for it was by that time the sun was setting.

W. L(AMBERT.)

TAKEN BY W. H. DEWHURST FROM THE SAME MSS.

EXTRACTS from the churchwarden’s accompts of the parish of St. Helen, in Abingdon, Berkshire, from the first year of the reign of Philip and Mary, to the thirty-fourth of Q. Elizabeth, now in the possession of the Rev. Mr. GEORGE BENSON.

With some Observations on them, by the late professor J. WARD.

+------------------------------------------------------+------+------+ | Ann. MDLV. or 1 & 2 of Phil. and Mary. | s. | d. | | | | | |Payde for makeinge the roode, and peynting the same | 5 | 4 | | for makeinge the herse lights, and paschall tapers | 11 | 1 | | for makeinge the roode lyghtes | 10 | 6 | | for a legend | 5 | 0 | | for a hollie water pott | 6 | 0 | | | | | | Ann. MDLVI. or 2 & 3 of P. and M. | | | | | | | |Payde for a boke of the articles | 0 | 2 | | for a shippe of frankencense | 0 | 20 | | for new wax, and makeinge the herse lights | 5 | 8 | | for the font taper, and the paskall taper | 6 | 7 | |Receyved for the holye loof lyghts | 33 | 4 | | for the rode lyghtes at Christmas | 23 | 2ob. | | at the buryall and monethes mynd of George Chynche| 0 | 22 | | for 12 tapers, at the yeres mynd of Maister John | | | | Hide | 0 | 21 | | at the buriall and monethes mynd of the good wiff | | | | Braunche | 12 | 4 | | | | | | Ann. MDLVII. or 3 & 4 of P. and M. | | | | | | | |Receyved of the parishe of the rode lyghts at | | | |Christmas | 21 | 9 | | of the clarke for the holye loft | 36 | 8 | | at the buryall of Rich. Ballerd for 4 tapers | 0 | 6 | | | | | | * * * * * | | | | | | | |Payde for peynting the roode of Marie and John, the | | | |patron of the churche | 6 | 8 | | to fasten the tabernacle where the patron of the | | | | church now standeth | 0 | 8 | | for the roode Marie and John, with the patron of the| | | | churche | 18 | 0 | | for makeing the herse lyghts | 3 | 8 | | for the roode Marie and John, and the patron of the | | | | churche | 7 | 0 | | to the sextin, for watching the sepulter two nyghts | 0 | 8 | | to the suffrigan for hallowing the churche yard, and| | | | other implements of the church | 30 | 0 | | for the waste of the pascall and for holye yoyle | 5 | 10 | | | | | | Ann. MDLVIII. MDLIX. or 4 & 5 of P. | | | | & M. and 1 & 2 of Eliz. | | | | | | | |Receyved for roode lyghts at Xmas, 1558. | 18 | 6 | | for roode lyghts at Xmas, 1559 | 18 | 3ob. | | at Ester, for the pascall lyghte, 1558 | 34 | 0 | | for waxe to thense the church on Ester daye | 0 | 20 | | at Ester, for the pascall lyghte, 1559 | 35 | 0 | | for the holie loff, 1558 | 34 | 0 | | for the holie loff, 1559 | 34 | 8 | | | | | | * * * * * | | | | | | | |Payde to the bellman for meate, drinke, and cooles, | | | |watching the sepulture | 0 | 19 | | for the communion boke | 5 | 0 | | for takeing down the altere | 0 | 20 | | for 4 song bokes and a sawter | 6 | 8 | | | | | | Ann. MDLX. or 3 of Eliz. | | | | | | | |Payde for tymber and makeing the communion table | 6 | 0 | | for a carpet for do | 2 | 8 | | for mending and paving the place where the aultere | | | | stoode | 2 | 8 | | for too dossin of morres belles | 1 | 0 | | for fower new saulter bockes | 8 | 0 | | for gathering the herse lyghtes | 4 | 0 | | | | | | Ann. MDLXI. or 4 of Eliz. | | | | | | | |Payde for 4 pownde of candilles upon Cristmas daye in | | | |the morning for the masse | 0 | 12 | | for a table of the commandementes and cealender, or | | | | rewle to find out the lessons and spallmes, and for | | | | the frame | 2 | 0 | | to the somner for bringing the order for the roode | | | | lofte | 0 | 8 | | to the carpenter for takeing down the roode lofte,| | | | and stopping the holes in the wall, where the | | | | joisces stoode | 15 | 8 | | to the peynter for wrigting the scripture, where | | | | roode lofte stoode and overthwarte the same isle | 3 | 4 | | to the clarkes for maynteyning and repeyring the | | | | song bokes in the quyre | 4 | 0 | | | | | | Ann. MDLXII. or 5 of Eliz. | | | | | | | |Payde for a bybill for the church | 10 | 0 | | | | | | Ann. MDLXIII. or 6 of Eliz. | | | | | | | |Payde for a boke of Wendsdayes fasting, which contayns| | | |omellies | 0 | 6 | | | | | | Ann. MDLXIV. or 7 of Eliz. | | | | | | | |Payde for a communion boke | 4 | 0 | | for reparations of the cross in the market place | 5 | 2 | | | | | | Ann. MDLXV. or 8 of Eliz. | | | | | | | |Payde for too bokes of common prayer agaynste | | | |invading of the Turke | 0 | 6 | | for a repetition of the communion boke | 4 | 0 | | | | | | Ann. MDLXVI. or 9 of Eliz. | | | | | | | |Payde for setting up Robin Hoode’s bowere | 0 | 18 | | | | | | Ann. MDLXXIII. or 16 of Eliz. | | | | | | | |Payde for a quire of paper to make four bokes of | | | |Geneva salmes | 0 | 4 | | for 2 bockes of common prayer new sett forth | 0 | 4 | | | | | | Ann. MDLXXIV. or 17 of Eliz. | | | | | | | |Payde for candilles for the church at Cristmas | 0 | 15 | | | | | | Ann. MDLXXVI. MDLXXVII. or 19 & 20 of Eliz. | | | | | | | |Payde for a new byble | 40 | 0 | | for a booke of common prayer | 7 | 0 | | for wrytyng the commandements in the quyre, and | | | | peynting the same. | 19 | 0 | | | | | | Ann. MDLXXVIII. or 21 of Eliz. | | | | | | | |Payde for a booke of the articles | 0 | 10 | | | | | | Ann. MDXCI. or 34 of Eliz. | | | | | | | |Payde for an houre glasse for the pulpitt. | 0 | 4 | +------------------------------------------------------+------+------+

OBSERVATIONS, &C. ON THE PRECEDING CHARGES.

The churchwarden’s accounts of a particular parish[115] may in themselves be thought, justly, as a matter of no great consequence, and not worthy of much regard. But these seem to deserve some consideration, as they relate to a very remarkable period in our history, and prove by facts the great alterations that were made in religious affairs under the reigns of queen Mary and queen Elizabeth, together with the time and manner of putting them into execution; and may therefore serve both to confirm and illustrate several things related by our ecclesiastical historians.

1. We find mention made in these extracts of the rood and rood loft. By the former of which was meant either a crucifix, or the image of some saint erected in popish churches. And here that name is given to the images of saint Mary and saint John, and to saint Helen, the patroness of the church. These images were set in shrines, or tabernacles, and the place where they stood was called the rood loft, which was commonly over or near the passage out of the body of the church into the chancel. In 1548, the first of king Edward VI., all images and their shrines were ordered to be taken down, as bishop Burnett informs us. But they were restored again on the accession of queen Mary, as we find here, by the first article.

2. The ship for frankincense, mentioned in the year 1556, was a small vessel in the form of a ship or boat, in which the Roman catholics burn frankincense to perfume their churches and images.

3. The boke of articles, purchased in 1556, seems to be that which was printed and sent over the kingdom by order of queen Mary, at the end of the year 1554, containing instructions to the bishops for visiting the clergy.

4. We find frequent mention made of lights and other expenses at a funeral, the months mind, the years and two years mind, and the obit of deceased persons, which were masses performed at those seasons for the rest of their souls; the word mind, meaning the same as memorial or remembrance. And so it is used in a sermon yet extant of bishop Fisher, entitled A mornynge remembrance had at the monteth minde of the most noble prynces Margarete, countesse of Richmonde and Darbye, &c. As to the term obits, services of that kind seem to have been annually performed. The office of the mass for each of these solemnities may be seen in the Roman Missal, under the title of Missal pro defunctis. And it appears by the different sums here charged, that the expenses were suited to persons of all ranks, that none might be deprived of the benefit which was supposed to accrue from them.

5. It was customary in popish countries on Good Friday to erect a small building, to represent the sepulchre of our Saviour. In this they put the host, and set a person to watch both that night and the next. On the following morning very early, the host being taken out, Christ is risen. This was done here in 1557 and two following years, the last of which was in the reign of queen Elizabeth. Du Fresne has given us a particular account of this ceremony as performed at Rouen in France, where three persons in female habits used to go to the sepulchre, in which two others were placed to represent angels, who told them Christ was risen. (Latin Glossary, under the words Sepulchro officinum.) The building mentioned must have been very slight, since the whole expense amounted to no more than seventeen shillings and sixpence.

6. In the article of wax to thense the church, under the year 1558, the word thense is, I presume, a mistake for cense, as they might use wax with the frankincense in censing or perfuming the church.

7. In 1559 the altar was taken down, and in 1560 the communion table was put in its place, by order of queen Elizabeth.

8. Masses for the dead continued to this time, but here, instead of a moneths mynde, the expression is a months monument. But as that office was performed at the altar, and this being taken down that year, the other could not be performed. And yet we have the word mass applied to the service performed on Christmas-day the year following.

9. The morrice bells, mentioned under the year 1560 as purchased by the parish, were used in their morrice dances, a diversion then practised at their festivals; in which the populace might be indulged from a political view, to keep them in good humour.

10. In 1561 the rood loft was taken down, and in order to obliterate its remembrance, (as had been done before in the reign of king Edward VI.,) some passages out of the Bible were painted in the place where it stood, which could give but little offence, since the images had been removed the preceding year by the queen’s injunction, on the representation of the bishops.

11. In 1562 a Bible is said to have been bought for the church, which cost ten shillings. This, I suppose, was the Geneva Bible, in 4to., both on account of its low price, and because that edition, having the division of verses, was best suited for public use. It was an English translation, which had been revised and corrected by the English exiles at Geneva, in queen Mary’s reign, and printed there in 1560, with a dedication to queen Elizabeth. In the year 1576 we find another Bible was bought, which was called the New Bible, and is said to have cost forty shillings; which must have been the large folio, usually called archbishop Parker’s Bible, printed at London, in 1568, by Richard Jugge, the queen’s printer. They had prayer-books, psalters, and song-books, for the churches in the beginning of this reign, as the whole Bible was not easily to be procured.

12. In 1565 there is a charge of sixpence for two common prayer-books against invading the Turke. It was then thought the common cause of the Christian states in Europe to oppose the progress of the Turkish arms by all methods, both civil and religious. And this year the Turks made a descent upon the Isle of Malta, where they besieged the town and castle of St. Michael four months, when, on the approach of the Christian fleet, they broke up the siege, and suffered considerable loss in their flight. (Thuanus; lib. 38.) And as the war was afterwards carried on between them and the emperor Maximillian in Hungary, the like prayer-books were annually purchased for the parish till the year 1569 inclusive.[116]

13. In 1566 there is an article of eighteenpence for setting up Robin Hoode’s bowere. This, I imagine, might be an arbour or booth, erected by the parish, at some festival. Though for what purpose it received that name I know not, unless it was designed for archers.

14. In 1573 charge is made of paper for four bookes of Geneva psalms. It is well known, that the vocal music in parochial churches received a great alteration under the reign of queen Elizabeth, being changed from antiphonyes into metrical psalmody, which is here called the Geneva psalms.

15. In the year 1578 tenpence were paid for a book of the articles. These articles were agreed to and subscribed for by both houses of convocation in 1562, and printed the year following. But in 1571, being again revised and ratified by act of parliament, they seem to have been placed in churches.

16. The last article in these extracts is fourpence for an houre glass for the pulpit. How early the custom was of using hour glasses in the pulpit, I cannot say; but this is the first instance of it I ever met with.

It is not to be thought that the same regulations were all made within the same time in all other places. That depended with the several bishops of their dioceses, and according to their zeal for the Reformation. Abingdon lies in the diocese of Salisbury, and, as bishop Jewel, who was first nominated to that see by queen Elizabeth, and continued in it till the year 1571, was so great a defender of the reformed religion, it is not to be doubted but every thing was there carried on with as much expedition as was judged consistent with prudence.

[114] Manchet, or cheat-bread.

[115] Fuller’s Hist. of Waltham Abbey, p. 13. T. Lewis’s Hist. of the English Translation of the Bible, p. 199.

[116] Pref ad Camdeni “Eliz.” p. xxix. l. i. g.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. XIII.

[From the “Battle of Alcazar, a Tragedy,” 1594.]

Muly Mahamet, driven from his throne into a desart, robs the Lioness to feed his fainting Wife Calipolis.

Muly. Hold thee, Calipolis; feed, and faint no more. This flesh I forced from a Lioness; Meat of a Princess, for a Princess’ meat. Learn by her noble stomach to esteem Penury plenty in extremest dearth; Who, when she saw her foragement bereft, Pined not in melancholy or childish fear; But, as brave minds are strongest in extremes, So she, redoubling her former force, Ranged through the woods, and rent the breeding vaults Of proudest savages, to save herself. Feed then, and faint not, fair Calipolis; For, rather than fierce famine shall prevail To gnaw thy entrails with her thorny teeth. The conquering Lioness shall attend on thee, And lay huge heaps of slaughter’d carcases As bulwarks in her way to keep her back. I will provide thee of a princely Ospray, That, as she flieth over fish in pools, The fish shall turn their glistering bellies up, And thou shall take the liberal choice of all. Jove’s stately Bird with wide-commanding wing Shall hover still about thy princely head. And eat down fowls by shoals into thy lap. Feed then, and faint not, fair Calipolis.[117]

* * * * *

[From the “Seven Champions of Christendom,” by John Kirk, acted 1638.]

Calib, the Witch, in the opening Scene, in a Storm.

Calib. Ha! louder a little; so, that burst was well. Again; ha, ha! house, house your heads, ye fear-struck mortal fools, when Calib’s consort plays A hunts-up to her. How rarely doth it languell In mine ears! these are mine organs; the toad, The bat, the raven, and the fell whistling bird, Are all my anthem-singing quiristers. Such sapless roots, and liveless wither’d woods, Are pleasanter to me than to behold The jocund month of May, in whose green head of youth The amorous Flora strews her various flowers, And smiles to see how brave she has deckt her girl. But pass we May, as game for fangled fools, That dare not set a foot in Art’s dark, sec- -ret, and bewitching path, as Calib has. Here is my mansion Within the rugged bowels of this cave, This crag, this cliff, this den; which to behold Would freeze to ice the hissing trammels of Medusa. Yet here enthroned I sit, more richer in my spells And potent charms, than is the stately Mountain Queen, Drest with the beauty of her sparkling gems, To vie a lustre ’gainst the heavenly lamps. But we are sunk in these antipodes; so choakt With darkness is great Calib’s cave, that it Can stifle day. It can?--it shall--for we do loath the light; And, as our deeds are black, we hug the night. But where’s this Boy, my GEORGE, my Love, my Life, Whom Calib lately dotes on more than life? I must not have him wander from my love Farther than summons of my eye, or beck, Can call him back again. But ’tis my fiend- -begotten and deform’d Issue[118], misleads him: For which I’ll rock him in a storm of hail. And dash him ’gainst the pavement on the rocky den; He must not lead my Joy astray from me. The parents of that Boy, begetting him, Begot and bore the issue of their deaths; Which done[119], the Child I stole, Thinking alone to triumph in his death, And bathe my body in his popular gore: But dove-like Nature favour’d so the Child, That Calib’s killing knife fell from her hand; And, ’stead of stabs, I kiss’d the red-lipt Boy.

* * * * *

[From “Two Tragedies in One,” by Robert Yarrington, who wrote in the reign of Elizabeth.]

Truth, the Chorus, to the Spectators.

All you, the sad Spectators of this Act, Whose hearts do taste a feeling pensiveness Of this unheard-of savage massacre: Oh be far off to harbour such a thought, As this audacious murderer put in act! I see your sorrows flow up to the brim, And overflow your cheeks with brinish tears: But though this sight bring surfeit to the eye, Delight your ears with pleasing harmony, That ears may countercheck your eyes, and say, “Why shed you tears? this deed is but a Play.”[120]

* * * * *

Murderer to his Sister, about to stow away the trunk of the body, having severed it from the limbs.

Hark, Rachel! I will cross the water strait, And fling this middle mention of a Man Into some ditch.

It is curious, that this old Play comprises the distinct action of two Atrocities; the one a vulgar murder, committed in our own Thames Street, with the names and incidents truly and historically set down; the other a Murder in high life, supposed to be acting at the same time in Italy, the scenes alternating between that country and England: the Story of the latter is mutatis mutandis no other than that of our own “Babes in the Wood,” transferred to Italy, from delicacy no doubt to some of the family of the rich Wicked Uncle, who might yet be living. The treatment of the two differs as the romance-like narratives in “God’s Revenge against Murder,” in which the Actors of the Murders (with the trifling exception that they were Murderers) are represented as most accomplished and every way amiable young Gentlefolks of either sex--as much as that differs from the honest unglossing pages of the homely Newgate Ordinary.

C. L.

[117] This address, for its barbaric splendor of conception, extravagant vein of promise, not to mention some idiomatic peculiarities, and the very structure of the verse, savours strongly of Marlowe; but the real author, I believe, is unknown.

[118] A sort of young Caliban, her son, who presently enters, complaining of a “bloody coxcomb” which the Young Saint George had given him.

[119] Calib had killed the parents of the Young Saint George.

[120] The whole theory of the reason of our delight in Tragic Representations, which has cost so many elaborate chapters of Criticism, is condensed in these four last lines: Aristotle quintessentialised.

* * * * *

~The Old Bear Garden~

AT BANKSIDE, SOUTHWARK.

BEAR BAITING--MASTERS OF THE BEARS AND DOGS--EDWARD ALLEYN--THE FALCON TAVERN, &C.

The Bull and the Bear baiting, on the Bankside, seem to have preceded, in point of time, the several other ancient theatres of the metropolis. The precise date of their erection is not ascertained, but a Bear-garden on the Bankside is mentioned by one Crowley, a poet, of the reign of Henry VIII., as being at that time in existence. He informs us, that the exhibitions were on a Sunday, that they drew full assemblies, and that the price of admission was then one halfpenny!

“What follie is this to keep with danger, A great mastive dog, and fowle ouglie bear; And to this end, to see them two fight, With terrible tearings, a ful ouglie sight. And methinkes those men are most fools of al, Whose store of money is but very smal; And yet every Sunday they wil surely spend One penny or two, the bearward’s living to mend.

“At Paris garden each Sunday, a man shal not fail To find two or three hundred for the bearwards vale, One halfpenny apiece they use for to give, When some have no more in their purses, I believe; Wel, at the last day, their conscience wil declare, That the poor ought to have al that they may spare. If you therefore give to see a bear fight, Be sure God his curse upon you wil light!”

Whether these “rough games,” as a certain author terms them, were then exhibited in the same or similar amphitheatres, to those afterwards engraved in our old plans, or in the open air, the extract does not inform us. Nor does Stowe’s account afford any better idea. He merely tells us, that there were on the west bank “two bear gardens, the old and the new; places, wherein were kept beares, bulls, and other beasts to be bayted; as also mastives in several kenels, nourished to bayt them. These beares and other beasts,” he adds, “are there kept in plots of ground, scaffolded about, for the beholders to stand safe.”

In Aggass’s plan, taken 1574, and the plan of Braun, made about the same time, these plots of ground are engraved, with the addition of two circi, for the accommodation of the spectators, bearing the names of the “Bowll Baytyng, and the Beare Baytinge.” In both plans, the buildings appear to be completely circular, and were evidently intended as humble imitations of the ancient Roman amphitheatre. They stood in two adjoining fields, separated only by a small slip of land; but some differences are observable in the spots on which they are built.

In Aggas’s plan, which is the earliest, the disjoining slip of land contains only one large pond, common to the two places of exhibition; but in Braun, this appears divided into three ponds, besides a similar conveniency near each theatre. The use of these pieces of water is very well explained in Brown’s Travels, (1685) who has given a plate of the “Elector of Saxony his beare garden at Dresden,” in which is a large pond, with several bears amusing themselves in it; his account of which is highly curious:

“In the hunting-house, in the old town,” says he, “are fifteen bears, very well provided for, and looked unto. They have fountains and ponds, to wash themselves in, wherein they much delight: and near to the pond are high ragged posts or trees, set up for the bears to climb up, and scaffolds made at the top, to sun and dry themselves; where they will also sleep, and come and go as the keeper calls them.”

The ponds, and dog-kennels, for the bears on the Bankside, are clearly marked in the plans alluded to; and the construction of the amphitheatres themselves may be tolerably well conceived, notwithstanding the smallness of the scale on which they are drawn. They evidently consisted, within-side, of a lower tier of circular seats for the spectators, at the back of which, a sort of screen ran all round, in part open, so as to admit a view from without, evident in Braun’s delineation, by the figures who are looking through, on the outside. The buildings are unroofed, and in both plans shown during the time of performance, which in Aggas’s view is announced by the display of little flags or streamers on the top. The dogs are tied up in slips near each, ready for the sport, and the combatants actually engaged in Braun’s plan. Two little houses for retirement are at the head of each theatre.

The amusement of bear-baiting in England existed, however, long before the mention here made of it. In the Northumberland Household Book, compiled in the reign of Henry VII., enumerating “al maner of rewardis customable usede yearely to be yeven by my Lorde to strangers, as players, mynstraills, or any other strangers, whatsomever they be,” are the following:

“Furst, my Lorde usith and accustomyth to gyff yerely, the Kinge or the Queene’s barwarde. If they have one, when they custome to com unto hym, yearely--vj. s. viij. d.”

“Item, my Lorde usith and accustomyth to gyfe yerly, when his Lordshipe is at home, to his barward, when he comyth to my Lorde in Christmas, with his Lordshippe’s beests, for makynge of his Lordship pastyme, the said xij. days--xx. s.”

It made one of the favourite amusements of the romantic age of queen Elizabeth, and was introduced among the princely pleasures of Kenilworth in 1575, where the droll author of the account introduces the bear and dogs deciding their ancient grudge per duellum.[121]

“Well, Syr (says he), the bearz wear brought foorth intoo coourt, the dogs set too them, too argu the points eeven face to face, they had learnd coounsell allso a both parts: what may they be coounted parciall that are retained but a to syde, I ween. No wery feers both tou and toother eager in argument: if the dog in pleadyng woold pluk the bear by the throte, the bear with trauers woould claw him again by the skaip, confess and a list; but a voyd a coold not that waz bound too the bar: and hiz counsell toll’d him that it coold be too him no poliecy in pleading. Thearfore, thus with fending and proouing, with plucking and tugging, skratting and byting, by plain tooth and nayll, a to side and toother, such erspes of blood and leather was thear between them, az a month’s licking, I ween, wyl not recoover, and yet remain az far oout az euer they wear. It waz a sport very pleazaunt of theez beastys: to see the bear with hiz pink nyez leering after hiz enmiez approch, the nimblness and wayt of ye dog too take his auauntage, and the fors and experiens of the bear agayn to auoyd the assauts: if he wear bitten in one place, hoow he woold pynch in anoother too get free: that if he wear taken onez, then what shyft with byting, with clawyng, with roring, torsing and tumbling, he woold work to wynde hymself from them; and when he was lose, to shake hiz earz twyse or thryse wyth the blud and the slaver aboout hiz fiznamy, was a matter of a goodly releef.”

It is not to be wondered at, that an amusement, thus patronised by the great, and even by royalty itself, ferocious as it was, should be the delight of the vulgar, whose untutored taste it was peculiarly calculated to please. Accordingly, bear-baiting seems to have been amazingly frequented, at this time, especially on Sundays. On one of these days, in 1582, a dire accident befell the spectators. The scaffolding suddenly gave way, and multitudes of people were killed, or miserably maimed. This was looked upon as a judgment, and as such was noticed by divines, and other grave characters, in their sermons and writings. The lord mayor for that year (sir Thomas Blanke) wrote on the occasion to the lord treasurer, “that it gave great reason to acknowledge the hand of God, for breach of the Lord’s Day,” and moved him to redress the same.

Little notice, however, was taken of his application; the accident was forgot; and the barbarous amusement soon followed as much as ever, Stowe assuring us, in his work, printed many years afterwards, “that for baiting of bulls and bears, they were, till that time, much frequented, namely, in bear gardens on the Bankside.” The commonalty could not be expected to reform what had the sanction of the highest example, and the labours of the moralist were as unavailing as in the case of pugilism in the present day.

In the succeeding reign, the general introduction of the drama operated as a check to the practice, and the public taste took a turn. One of these theatres gave place to “the Globe;” the other remained long after. This second theatre, which retained its original name of the “Bear-baiting,” was rebuilt on a larger scale, about the beginning of James the First’s reign; and of an octagonal form instead of round, as before; in which respect it resembled the other theatres on the Bankside. The first engraving in this article contains a view of it in this state, from the long print of London by Vischer, usually called the Antwerp view. In this representation, the slips, or dog-kennels, are again distinctly marked, as well as the ponds. The second engraving, from Hollar’s view about 1648, shows it as it was a third time rebuilt on a larger scale, and again of the circular shape, when “plays” and prize-fighting were added to the amusements exhibited at it.

In the reign of James I. the “Bear-garden” was under the protection of royalty, and the mastership of it made a patent place. The celebrated actor Alleyn enjoyed this lucrative post, as keeper of the king’s wild beasts, or master of the royal bear-garden, situated on the Bankside, in Southwark. The profits of this place are said by his biographer to have been immense, sometimes amounting to 500_l._ a year; and well account for the great fortune he raised. A little before his death he sold his share and patent to his wife’s father, Mr. Hinchtoe, for 580_l._

We have a good account of the “Bear-baiting,” in the reign of Charles II., by one Mons. Jorevin, a foreigner, whose observations on this country were published in 1672,[122] and who has given us the following curious detail of a visit he paid to it:--

“We went to see the Bergiardin, by Sodoark,[123] which is a great amphitheatre, where combats are fought between all sorts of animals, and sometimes men, as we once saw. Commonly, when any fencing-masters are desirous of showing their courage and their great skill, they issue mutual challenges, and, before they engage, parade the town with drums and trumpets sounding, to inform the public there is a challenge between two brave masters of the science of defence, and that the battle will be fought on such a day. We went to see this combat, which was performed on a stage in the middle of this amphitheatre, where, on the flourishes of trumpets, and the beat of drums, the combatants entered, stripped to their shirts. On a signal from the drum, they drew their swords, and immediately began the fight, skirmishing a long time without any wounds. They were both very skilful and courageous. The tallest had the advantage over the least; for, according to the English fashion of fencing, they endeavoured rather to cut, than push in the French manner; so that by his height he had the advantage of being able to strike his antagonist on the head, against which, the little one was on his guard. He had, in his turn, an advantage over the great one, in being able to give him the Jarnac stroke, by cutting him on his right ham, which he left in a manner quite unguarded. So that, all things considered, they were equally matched. Nevertheless, the tall one struck his antagonist on the wrist, which he almost cut off; but this did not prevent him from continuing the fight, after he had been dressed, and taken a glass or two of wine to give him courage, when he took ample vengeance for his wound; for a little afterwards, making a feint at the ham, the tall man, stooping in order to parry it, laid his whole head open, when the little one gave him a stroke, which took off a slice of his head, and almost all his ear. For my part, I think there is an inhumanity, a barbarity, and cruelty, in permitting men to kill each other for diversion. The surgeons immediately dressed them, and bound up their wounds; which being done, they resumed the combat, and both being sensible of their respective disadvantages, they therefore were a long time without giving or receiving a wound, which was the cause that the little one, failing to parry so exactly, being tired with this long battle received a stroke on his wounded wrist, which dividing the sinews, he remained vanquished, and the tall conqueror received the applause of the spectators. For my part, I should have had more pleasure in seeing the battle of the bears and dogs, which was fought the following day on the same theatre.”

It does not appear at what period the Bear-baiting was destroyed, but it was, probably, not long after the above period. Strype, in his first edition of Stowe, published 1720, speaking of “Bear Alley,” on this spot, says, “Here is a glass-house, and about the middle a new-built court, well-inhabited, called Bear-garden Square; so called, as built in the place where the Bear-garden formerly stood, until removed to the other side of the water; which is more convenient for the butchers, and such like, who are taken with such rustic sports as the baiting of bears and bulls.” The theatre was evidently destroyed to build this then new court.[124]

According to an entry in the Parochial Books in 1586, one Morgan Pope agreed to pay the parish of St. Saviour, Southwark, for the Bear-garden, and the ground where the dogs were kept, 6_s._ 8_d._ arrears and 6_s._ 8_d._ for tithes.

The old Bear-garden at Bankside, and the Globe theatre wherein Shakspeare’s plays were originally performed, and he himself sometimes acted, was in the manor or liberty of Paris Garden. Near this, and in the same manor, were the Hope, the Swan, and the Rose theatres. It appears from “an ancient Survey on vellum made in the reign of queen Elizabeth,” that “Olde Paris Garden Lane” ran from Bankside, in the direction of the present Blackfriars-road, to stairs at the river’s-side near to, or perhaps on the very spot now occupied by, the Surry end of Blackfriars-bridge, and opposite to this lane in the road of the Bankside stood an old stone cross, which, therefore, were it remaining, would now stand in Blackfriars-road, near Holland-street, leading to the present Falcon glass-house, opposite to which site was the old Falcon tavern, celebrated for having been the daily resort of Shakspeare and his dramatic companions. Till of late years, the Falcon inn was a house of great business, and the place from whence coaches went to all parts of Kent, Surry, and Sussex. In 1805, before the old house was taken down, Mr. Wilkinson, of Cornhill, caused a drawing to be made, and published an engraving of it. “The Bull and Bear Baiting” were two or three hundred yards eastward of the Falcon, and beyond were the Globe and the other theatres just mentioned. “The site of the Old Bear-garden retaining its name, is now occupied by Mr. Bradley’s extensive iron-foundery, in which shot and shells are cast for the government.”[125]

The royal officer, called the “master of the bears and dogs,” under queen Elizabeth and king James I., had a fee of a farthing per day. Sir John Darrington held the office in 1600, when he was commanded on a short notice to exhibit before the queen in the Tilt-yard; but not having a proper stock of animals, he was obliged to apply to Edward Alleyn, (the founder of Dulwich-college,) and Philip Henslow, then owner of the Bear-garden in Southwark, for their assistance. On his death, king James granted the office to sir William Steward, who, it seems, interrupted Alleyn and Henslow as not having a license, and yet refused to take their stock at a reasonable price, so that they were obliged to buy his patent. Alleyn and Henslow complained much of this in a petition to the king, containing many curious circumstances, which Mr. Lysons has published at length. Alleyn held this office till his death, or very near it: he is styled by it in the letters patent for the foundation of his college in 1620. Among his papers there is a covenant from Peter Street, for the building at the Bear-garden, fifty-six feet long and sixteen wide, the estimate of the carpenter’s work being sixty-five pounds.

The latest patent discovered to have been granted for the office of master of the bears and dogs is that granted to sir Sanders Duncombe in 1639, for the sole practising and profit of the fighting and combating of wild and domestic beasts in England, for fourteen years.

This practice was checked by the parliament in 1642. On the 10th of December in that year, Mr. Whittacre presented in writing an examination of the words expressed by the master of the Bear-garden, “that he would cut the throats of those that refused to subscribe a petition:” whereupon it was resolved, on the question “that Mr. Godfray, master of the Bear-garden, shall be forthwith committed to Newgate--Ordered, the masters of the Bear-garden, and all other persons who have interest there, be enjoined and required by this house, that for the future they do not permit to be used the game of bear-baiting in these times of great distraction, till this house do give further order herein.” The practice, however, did not wholly discontinue in the neighbourhood of London till 1750. Of late years this public exhibition was revived in Duck-lane, Westminster, and at the present time is not wholly suppressed.

[121] Princely Pleasures of Kenilworth, p. 22, quoted by Mr. Pennant, in his Account of London, p 36.

[122] Republished in the Antiquarian Repertory, Ed. 1806, under the title of “A Description of England and Ireland, in the 17th Century, by Mons. Jorevin.” vol. iv. p. 549.

[123] Bear-garden, Southwark.

[124] Lond. Illustrat.

[125] Manning and Bray’s Surry.

* * * * *

~Literature.~

A NEW POEM.

“AHAB, in four Cantos. BY S. R. JACKSON.”

Mr. Jackson, the author of several poems, whose merits he deems to have been disregarded, puts forth “Ahab,” with renewed hope, and a remarkable address. He says--

“Reader, hast thou not seen a solitary buoy floating on the vast ocean? the waves dash against it, and the broad keel of the vessel sweeps over and presses it down, yet it rises again to the surface, prepared for every assault--I am like that buoy. Thrice have I appeared before you, thrice have the waves of neglect passed over me, and once more I rise, a candidate for your good opinion. My wish is not merely to succeed, but to merit success. Palmam qui meruit ferat, was the motto of one who will never be forgotten, and I hope to quote it without seeming to be presumptuous. I am told by some who are deemed competent judges, that I am deserving of encouragement, and I here solicit it.

“During the printing of this work, one has criticised a rough rhyme, another cried--‘Ha! what, you turned poet?’ and giving his head a significant shake, said, ‘better mind Cocker.’ ‘So I would,’ I replied, ‘but Cocker won’t mind me.’ In all the various changes of my life the Muse has not deserted me: beloved ones have vanished--friends have deceived--but she has remained faithful. One critic has advised this addition, another that curtailment; but remembering the story of the old man and the boy, and the ass, I plod on: not that I am indifferent to opinion--far from it; but there are persons whose advice one cannot take--who find fault merely for the sake of talking, and impale an author from mere spleen.

“The poem now submitted to your notice is founded on the 21st and 22d chapters in the First Book of Kings: in it I have endeavoured to show, that crime always brings its own punishment; that whenever we do wrong, an inward monitor reminds us of it: and have sought to revive in the spirits of Englishmen that patriotic feeling which is daily becoming more dormant.

“At this season,[126] when the leaves are falling fast, booksellers, as well as trees, get cold-hearted--they will not purchase; nor can I blame them, for if the tide of public opinion sets in against poetry, they would be wrong to buy what they cannot sell. Yet they might, some of them at least, treat an author more respectfully; they might look at his work, it would not take them a long time to do so; and they could then tell if it would suit them or not. Unfortunately, a manuscript need but be in verse, and it will be worth nothing. I fancy the booksellers are like the horse in the team, they have carried the poet’s bells so long that they have become weary of the jingle. Be this as it may, I have tried, and could not get a purchaser. It was true I had published before, but my productions came out unaided, and remained unnoticed. I had no patron’s name to herald mine. I sent copies to the Reviews, but, with the exception of the Literary Chronicle and Gentleman’s Magazine, they were unnoticed. The doors to publicity being thus closed against me, what could I do, but fail, as better bards have done before me----”

There is an affecting claim in the versified conclusion of the preface.

“’Tis done! the work of many a pensive hour Is o’er: the fruit is gather’d from the tree, Warm’d by care’s sun, and by affliction’s shower Water’d and ripen’d in obscurity. Few hopes have I that it may welcome be; Yet do I not give way to black despair; Small barks have liv’d through many a stormy sea, Small birds wing’d far their way through boundless air And joy’s sweet rose tow’rd o’er the weeds of envious care.

“With these feelings I submit my poem to notice, and but request such patronage as it may deserve.”

The following invocation, which commences the poem, will arrest attention.

“God! whom my fathers worshipp’d, God of all, From mid thy throne of brightness hear my call: And though unworthiest I of earthly things, To wake the harp of David’s silent strings; Though, following not the light which in my path Shone bright to guide me, I have brav’d thy wrath, And walk’d with other men in darkness, yet, If penitent, my heart its sins regret-- If, bending lowly at thy shrine, I crave Thy aid to guide my bark o’er life’s rough wave, Till all the shoals of error safely past, In truth’s calm haven I repose at last: O, let that sweet, that unextinguish’d beam Which fondly came to wake me from my dream, Again appear my wand’ring steps to guide, Lest my soul sink, and perish in its pride. I ask not, all-mysterious as Thou art, To see Thee, but to feel Thee in my heart; Unfetter’d by the various rules and forms That bound the actions of earth’s subtle worms, From worldly arts and prejudices free, To know that Thou art God, and worship Thee. And, whether on the tempest’s sweeping wing Thou comest, or the breath that wakes the spring, If in the thunder’s roar thy voice I hear, Or the loud blast that marks the closing year; Or in the gentle music of the breeze, Stirring the leaves upon the forest trees; Still let me feel thy presence, let me bear In mind that Thou art with me every where. And oh! since inspiration comes from Thee To mortal mind, like rain unto the tree, Bidding it flourish and put forth its fruit, So bid my soul, whose voice has long been mute, Awaken; give me words of fire to sing The deeds and fall of Israel’s hapless king.”

Perhaps the reader may be further propitiated in the author’s behalf by the

“DEDICATION.”

“TO THE REV. CHRISTOPHER BENSON, M. A. Prebendary of Worcester, and Rector of St. Giles in the Fields.

“Sir--Being wholly unused to patronage, I know not how to invoke it, but by plainly saying, that I wish for protection to whatever may be deemed worthy of regard in the following pages.

“I respectfully dedicate the poem to you, sir, from a deep sense of the esteem wherein you are held; and, I openly confess, with considerable anxiety that you may approve, and that your name may sanction and assist my efforts.

“In strictness perhaps I ought to have solicited your permission to do this; but, with the wishes I have expressed, and conscious of the rectitude of my motives, I persuade myself that you will see I could not afford to hazard your declining, from private feelings, a public testimony of unfeigned respect, from a humble and unknown individual.

“I am, sir, your most obedient

And sincerely devoted servant,

“SAMUEL RICHARD JACKSON.

“Sept. 29, 1826.”

Mr. Jackson has other offspring besides the productions of his muse, and their infant voices may be imagined to proclaim in plain prose that the present volume, and it is a volume--a hundred pages in full sized octavo--is published for the author, by Messrs. Sherwood and Co. “price 4s. in boards.”--Kind-hearted readers will take the hint.

[126] Michaelmas, 1826.

* * * * *

PULPIT CLOCKS, AND HOUR GLASSES.

In the annals of Dunstable Priory is this item: “In 1483, made a clock over the pulpit.”

A stand for a hour-glass still remains in many pulpits. A rector of Bibury used to preach two hours, regularly turning the glass. After the text, the esquire of the parish withdrew, smoked his pipe, and returned to the blessing. Lecturers’ pulpits have also hour-glasses. The priest had sometimes a watch found him by the parish.[127]

[127] Fosbroke’s British Monachism.

* * * * *

~Easter.~

RESTORATION OF THE CATHOLIC RELIGION IN FRANCE.

The catholic religion was that in which the French were brought up; and they were, from habit at least, if not from conviction, attached to it: so far was its overthrow from meeting with the general approbation and concurrence of the nation, that if it was acquiesced in for a time, it was merely from a feeling of inability to avert the blow; and the persecution which it experienced only served, as all persecution does, to endear the object of it more strongly to them.

Such would have been the effect, even if the attempt made had only been to substitute by force some other mode of faith in its place; but when the question was to annihilate religion itself, no sane mind could possibly dream of ultimate success. The sense of dependence upon some unseen power far above our comprehension, is a principle inherent in human nature;--no nation has yet been discovered, how remote soever from civilisation in its customs and manners, in which some ideas of a power superior to all earthly ones were not to be found.

The French are generally characterised as fond of novelty, and always seeking after it with eagerness; and yet, however paradoxical it may appear, it is no less true, that in many respects no people adhere more tenaciously to ancient habits and customs. Nothing contributed so essentially to the final overthrow of the violent revolutionists--no, not even the horror excited by the torrents of blood which they shed--as their endeavouring all at once to deprive the people of many habits and customs which they particularly cherished; nor did any thing contribute more strongly to Bonaparte’s power, than his restoring them.

These reflections were suggested to Miss Plumptre by one of the most remarkable scenes that occurred while she was at Paris--the procession to the church of Nôtre-Dame on Easter Sunday, for the public restoration of the catholic worship. The free exercise of their religion had been for several months allowed to the people, and the churches, which had long been shut, were reopened; but this was the first occasion on which the constituted authorities had, as a body, assisted in any religious ceremony. As to the reestablishment of religion being grateful to the people, not a doubt remained in her mind; every opportunity which had been afforded her of investigating the matter, since she first landed in France, had given her so strong a conviction of it, that it could not be increased by any thing she was about to witness. But another experiment which was to be made on the occasion was a greater subject of curiosity; and this was, that the procession and ceremonies were to be in some sort a revival of the ancient court splendour and pageantry.

Deeply impressed with this kind of curiosity, and knowing that the only way to be fully informed of the sentiments of the people was to make one among them, she and her friends took their stations in the square before the great entrance to the Palais-royal, where a double rank of soldiers formed a lane to keep a passage clear for the procession. They procured chairs from a neighbouring house, which served as seats till the cavalcade began, and then they stood on them to see it pass. She describes the ceremonies in the following manner.

The square was thronged with people, and we could with the utmost facility attend to the sentiments uttered by the circle round us. The restoration of religion seemed to engage but a small part of their attention--that was an idea so familiar to them, that it had almost ceased to excite emotion; but they were excessively occupied by speculations on the procession, which report had said was to be one of the most magnificent sights ever seen in France, at least since the banishment of royalty with all its brilliant train of appendages.

At length it began:--It consisted first of about five thousand of the consular guard, part infantry, part cavalry; next followed the carriages of the senate, the legislative body, the tribunate, and all the public officers, with those of the foreign ambassadors, and some private carriages. After these came the eight beautiful cream-coloured horses which had been just before presented to Bonaparte by the king of Spain, each led by a young Mameluke, in the costume of his country; and then Roustan, Bonaparte’s Mameluke, friend, and attendant, upon all occasions. Then came the coach with the three consuls, drawn by eight horses, with three footmen behind, who, with the coachmen, were all in rich liveries, green velvet laced with gold, and bags: the servants of some of the great public officers were also in bags and liveries. About a hundred dragoons following the consular carriage closed the procession.

A sort of cynical philosopher who stood near us made a wry face every now and then, as the procession passed, and once or twice muttered in his teeth, Qui est-ce qui peut dire que cet homme là n’a point de l’ostentation? “Who will pretend to say that this man is not ostentatious?” But the multitude, after having been lavish of “charmant!” “superbe!” “magnifique!” and other the like epithets, to all that preceded the consular carriage, at last, when they saw that appear with the eight horses, and the rich liveries and bags, gave a general shout, and exclaimed, Ah, voilà encore la bourse et la livrée!--oh, comme ça est beau!--Comme ça fait plaisir! voilà! qui commence véritablement un peu à prendre couleur! “Ah! see there again the bag and the livery!--Oh, how handsome that is!--What pleasure it gives to see it!--This begins indeed to assume something like an appearance!” Nor in the pleasure they felt at the revival of this parade, did the idea seem once to intrude itself, of examining into the birth of him who presided over it, or his pretensions to being their chief magistrate: it was enough that their ancient hobby-horse was restored, and it was matter of indifference to them by whom the curb which guided it was held. Among those whom I had a more particular opportunity of observing, was a well-dressed and respectable-looking man, about the middle age, who from his appearance might be supposed some creditable tradesman. He had been standing by me for some time before the procession began, and we had entered into conversation; he was eloquent in his eulogium of Bonaparte, for having made such an extraordinary progress in calming the spirit of faction, which had long harassed the country; and particularly he spoke with exultation of his having so entirely silenced the Jacobins, that there appeared every reason to hope that their influence was fallen, never to rise again. He was among the most eager in his expressions of admiration of the procession; and at the conclusion of it, turning to me, he said, with a very triumphant air and manner, Comme les Jacobins seront hébêtés de tout ceci. “How the Jacobins will be cast down with all this!”

While the procession was passing, the remarks were confined to general exclamation, as the objects that presented themselves struck the fancy of the spectators; but when all was gone by, comparisons in abundance began to fly about, between the splendour here displayed, and the mean appearance of every thing during the reign of Jacobinism, which all ended to the disadvantage of the latter, and the advantage of the present system: Tout étoit si mesquine dans ce tems là--Ceci est digne d’une nation telle que la France. “Every thing was so mean in those days--This is worthy of such a nation as France.” Some, who were too much behind to have seen the consular carriage, were eager in their inquiries about it. They could see, and had admired, the bags and liveries, but they could not tell what number of horses there were to the carriage; and they learned, with great satisfaction, that there were eight. Ah, c’est bien, they said, c’est comme autrefois--enfin nous reconnoissons notre pays. “Ah, ’tis well--’tis as formerly--at length we can recognise our own country again.” And then the troops--never was any thing seen plus superbe, plus magnifique--and they were all French, no Swiss guards. Here the ancien régime came in for a random stroke.

After discussing these things for a while, the assembly dispersed into different parts of the town, some going towards the church, to try whether any thing further was to be seen there; but most went to walk in the gardens of the Thuilleries, and other parts, to see the preparations for the illumination in the evening, and thus pass the time away till the procession was likely to return. We employed ourselves in this manner; and, after walking about for near two hours, resumed our former stations. Here we saw the procession return in the same order that it had gone; when it was received with similar notes of approbation. In the evening there was a concert for the public in the gardens of the Thuilleries, and the principal theatres were opened to the public gratis. The chateau and gardens of the Thuilleries were brilliantly illuminated, as were the public offices and the theatres, and there were fireworks in different parts of the town.

A very striking thing observable in this day, was the strong contrast presented between a great gathering together of the people in France and in England; and I must own that this contrast was not to the advantage of my own fellow-countrymen. On such occasions honest John Bull thinks he does not show the true spirit of liberty, unless he jostles, squeezes, elbows, and pushes his neighbours about as much as possible. Among the Parisian populace, on the contrary, there is a peaceableness of demeanour, a spirit of order, and an endeavour in each individual to accommodate his neighbour, which I confess I thought far more pleasing--shall I not say also more civilized--than honest John’s free-born elbowing and pushing. All the liberty desired by a Frenchman on such occasions, is that of walking about quietly to observe all that passes, and of imparting his observations and admiration to his neighbour; for talk he must--he would feel no pleasure unless he had some one to whom his feelings could be communicated.

We went the next morning to see the decorations of Nôtre-Dame, before they were taken down. All that could be done to give the church a tolerable appearance had been effected; and when full of company its dilapidated state might perhaps be little seen; but empty, that was still very conspicuous. The three consuls sat together under a canopy, Bonaparte in the middle, with Cambaceres on his right hand, and Lebrun on his left. Opposite to them sat cardinal Caprara, the pope’s legate, under a corresponding canopy.

A very curious circumstance attending this solemnity was, that the sermon was preached by the very same person who had preached the sermon at Rheims on the coronation of Louis XVI., Monsieur Boisgelin, then archbishop of Aix, in Provence, now archbishop of Tours. His discourse was allowed by all who heard it to be a very judicious one. He did not enter into politics, or launch into fulsome flattery of those in power; but dwelt principally on the necessity of an established religion, not only as a thing right in itself, but as essential to the preservation of good morals among the people--illustrating his argument by the excesses into which they had been led during the temporary abandonment of religion, and bestowing commendation upon those by whom it had been restored.[128]

* * * * *

EASTER AT PORTAFERRY, BELFAST, &C.

For the Table Book.

On Easter Monday several hundred of young persons of the town and neighbourhood of Portaferry, county of Down, resort, dressed in their best, to a pleasant walk near that town, called “The Walter.” The avowed object of each person is to see the fun, which consists in the men kissing the females, without reserve, whether married or single. This mode of salutation is quite a matter of course; it is never taken amiss, nor with much show of coyness; the female must be very ordinary indeed, who returns home without having received at least a dozen hearty busses. Tradition is silent as to the origin of this custom, which of late years is on the decline, especially in the respectability of the attendants.

On the same day several thousands of the working classes of the town and vicinity of Belfast, county of Antrim, resort to the Cave-hill, about three miles distant, where the day is spent in dancing, jumping, running, climbing the rugged rocks, and drinking. Here many a rude brawl takes place, many return home with black eyes and bloody noses, and in some cases with broken bones. Indeed it is with them the greatest holiday of the year, and to not a few it furnishes laughable treats to talk about, till the return of the following spring. On this evening a kind of dramatic piece is usually brought forward at the Belfast Theatre, called “The Humours of the Cave-hill.”

S. M. S.

[128] Miss Plumptre.

* * * * *

OLD MAP OF SCOTLAND.

In the year 1545 was published at Antwerp, the Cosmography of Peter Apianus, “expurgated from all faults,” by Gemma Frisius, a physician and mathematician of Louvain. It is sufficient to say, that in this correct “expurgated” work, Scotland is an island, of which York is one of the chief cities.[129]

[129] Fosbroke’s British Monachism.

* * * * *

PEN BEHIND THE EAR--PAPER.

The custom of carrying a pen behind the ear, lately common, is ancient. In the life of S. Odo is the following passage: “He saw a pen sticking above his ear, in the manner of a writer.”

Mabillon says, that he could find no paper books more ancient than the tenth century: but the pen made of a feather was certainly common in the seventh century; and though ascribed to the classical ancients, by Montfaucon’s mistaking a passage of Juvenal, it is first mentioned by Adrian de Valois, a writer of the fifth century. This rather precedes Beckmann, who places the first certain account of it to Isadore.[130]

[130] Fosbroke’s British Monachism.

* * * * *

~Suburban Sonnets.~

IV.

HAMPSTEAD.

HAMPSTEAD! I doubly venerate thy name, Because ’twas in thy meadows that I grew Enamour’d of that literary fame Which youthful poets eagerly pursue, And first beheld that beauty-beaming form, Which death too quickly tore from my embrace, That peerless girl, whose blushes were as warm As ever glow’d upon a virgin face! Hence, lovely village! I am still thy debtor, For pleasures now irrevocably flown-- For that transcendant maid, who, when I met her Along thy meadows musing, and alone, Look’d like a spirit from the realms above, Sent down to prove the sov’reignty of Love!

V.

THE NEW RIVER.

Thou pleasant river! in the summer time About thy margin I delight to stray, Perusing Byron’s captivating rhyme, And drinking inspiration from his lay! For there is something in thy placid stream That gives a keener relish to his song, And makes the spirit of his numbers seem More fascinating as I move along:-- There is besides upon thy waves a moral, With which it were ridiculous to quarrel; For, like the current of our lives, they flow Thro’ multifarious channels, till they go Down into darkness, and preserve no more The “form and feature” they possess’d before!

VI.

MINERVA TERRACE, ISLINGTON.

Ye, who are anxious for a “country seat,” Pure air, green meadows, and suburban views, Rooms snug and light, not over large, but neat, And gardens water’d with refreshing dews, May find a spot adapted to your taste, Near Barnsbury-park, or rather Barnsbury-town, Where ev’ry thing looks elegant and chaste, And wealth reposes on a bed of down! I, therefore, strongly recommend to those Who want a pure and healthy situation, To choose MINERVA TERRACE, and repose ’Midst prospects worthy of their admiration;-- How long they’ll last is quite another thing, Not longer, p’rhaps, than the approaching spring!

J. G.

Islington, March 25, 1827.

Vol. I.--17.

“Buy a fine singing-bird!”

The criers of singing birds are extinct: we have only the bird-sellers. This engraving, therefore, represents a by-gone character: it is from a series of etchings called the “Cries of London,” by Marcellus Lauron, a native of the Hague, where he was born in 1653. He came to England with his father, by whom he was instructed in painting. He drew correctly, studied nature diligently, copied it closely, and so surpassed his contemporaries in drapery, that sir Godfrey Kneller employed him to clothe his portraits. He likewise excelled in imitating the different styles of eminent masters, executed conversation pieces of considerable merit, and died at London in 1705. His “London Cries” render his name familiar, on account of the popularity which these performances still possess, and there being among them likenesses of several “remarkable people” of the times. “Lauron’s Cries” are well known to collectors, with whom the portrait of a pedlar, if a “mentioned print,” is quite as covetable as a peer’s.

Mr. Fenn of East Dereham, Norfolk, writing to the Rev. Mr. Granger, who was the Linnæus of “engraved British portraits,” sends him a private etching or two of a “Mr. Orde’s doing,” and says, “He is a fellow of King’s College, Cambridge, and is exceedingly lucky in taking off any peculiarity of person. Mr. Orde is a gentleman of family and fortune, and in these etchings makes his genius a conveyance of his charity, as he gives the profits arising from the local sale of the impressions in the University, to the originals from whom he draws his likenesses.--Randal, the orangeman, got enough by the sale of himself to equip himself from head to food: he always calls his oranges, &c. by some name corresponding to the time he sells them; as, at the commencement, Commencement oranges; at a musical entertainment, Oratorio oranges. By this humour he is known throughout the University, where he is generally called Dr. Randal. His likeness, manner, and gait, are exactly taken off.--The Clare-hall fruit-woman too is very striking, as indeed are all the etchings.”[131]

Mr. Malcolm tells of a negro-man abroad, who cried “balloon lemons, quality oranges, quality lemons, holiday limes, with a certain peculiarity, and whimsicality, that recommended him to a great deal of custom. He adventured in a lottery, obtained a prize of five thousand dollars, became raving mad, through excess of joy, and died in a few days.”

Lauron’s “London Cries” will be further noticed: in the mean time it may suffice to say, that this is the season wherein a few kidnappers of the feathered tribe walk about with their little prisoners, and tempt young fanciers to “buy a fine singing bird.”

April 9, 1827.

*

[131] Letters between Rev. J. Granger, &c.

* * * * *

~Garrick Plays.~

No. XIV.

[From the “Arraignment of Paris,” a Dramatic Pastoral, by George Peel, 1584.]

Flora dresses Ida Hill, to honour the coming of the Three Goddesses.

Flora. Not Iris in her pride and bravery Adorns her Arch with such variety; Nor doth the Milk-white Way in frosty night Appear so fair and beautiful in sight, As done these fields, and groves, and sweetest bowers, Bestrew’d and deck’d with parti-colour’d flowers. Along the bubbling brooks, and silver glide, That at the bottom doth in silence slide, The watery flowers and lilies on the banks Like blazing comets burgeon all in ranks; Under the hawthorn and the poplar tree, Where sacred Phœbe may delight to be: The primrose, and the purple hyacinth, The dainty violet, and the wholesome minth; The double daisy, and the cowslip (Queen Of summer flowers), do over-peer the green; And round about the valley as ye pass, Ye may ne see (for peeping flowers) the grass.-- They are at hand by this. Juno hath left her chariot long ago, And hath return’d her peacocks by her Rainbow; And bravely, as becomes the Wife of Jove, Doth honour by her presence to our grove: Fair Venus she hath let her sparrows fly, To tend on her, and make her melody; Her turtles and her swans unyoked be, And flicker near her side for company: Pallas hath set her tigers loose to feed, Commanding them to wait when she hath need: And hitherward with proud and stately pace, To do us honour in the sylvan chace, They march, like to the pomp of heav’n above, Juno, the Wife and Sister of King Jove, The warlike Pallas, and the Queen of Love.

* * * * *

The Muses, and Country Gods, assemble to welcome the Goddesses.

Pomona. ------ with country store like friends we venture forth. Think’st, Faunus, that these Goddesses will take our gifts in worth? Faunus. Nay, doubtless; for, ’shall tell thee, Dame, ’twere better give a thing, A sign of love, unto a mighty person, or a King, Than to a rude and barbarous swain both bad and basely born: FOR GENTLY TAKES THE GENTLEMAN THAT OFT THE CLOWN WILL SCORN.

* * * * *

The Welcoming Song.

Country Gods. O Ida, O Ida, O Ida, happy hill! This honour done to Ida may it continue still! Muses. Ye Country Gods, that in this Ida wonne, Bring down your gifts of welcome, For honour done to Ida.

Gods. Behold in sign of joy we sing, And signs of joyful welcome bring. For honour done to Ida.

Pan. The God of Shepherds, and his mates With country cheer salutes your States: Fair, wise, and worthy, as you be! And thank the gracious Ladies Three, For honour done to Ida.

* * * * *

Paris. Œnone.

Paris. Œnone, while we bin disposed to walk, Tell me, what shall be subject of our talk. Thou hast a sort of pretty tales in store; ’Dare say no nymph in Ida’s woods hath more. Again, beside thy sweet alluring face, In telling them thou hast a special grace. Then prithee, sweet, afford some pretty thing, Some toy that from thy pleasant wit doth spring. Œn. Paris, my heart’s contentment, and my choice Use thou thy pipe, and I will use my voice; So shall thy just request not be denied, And time well spent, and both be satisfied. Paris. Well, gentle nymph, although thou do me wrong, That can ne tune my pipe unto a song, Me list this once, Œnone, for thy sake, This idle task on me to undertake.

(They sit under a tree together.)

Œn. And whereon then shall be my roundelay? For thou hast heard my store long since, ’dare say-- How Saturn did divide his kingdom tho’ To Jove, to Neptune, and to Dis below: How mighty men made foul successless war Against the Gods, and State of Jupiter: How Phorcyas’ ’ympe, that was so trick and fair, That tangled Neptune in her golden hair, Became a Gorgon for her lewd misdeed;-- A pretty fable, Paris, for to read; A piece of cunning, trust me for the nonce, That wealth and beauty alter men to stones: How Salmacis, resembling Idleness, Turns men to women all thro’ wantonness: How Pluto raught Queen Pluto’s daughter thence, And what did follow of that love-offence: Of Daphne turn’d into the Laurel Tree, That shews a myrror of virginity: How fair Narcissus, tooting on his shade, Reproves disdain, and tells how form doth vade: How cunning Philomela’s needle tells, What force in love, what wit in sorrow, dwells: What pains unhappy Souls abide in Hell, They say, because on Earth they lived not well,-- Ixion’s wheel, proud Tantal’s pining woe, Prometheus’ torment, and a many moe; How Danaus’ daughters ply their endless task; What toil the toil of Sysiphus doth ask. All these are old, and known, I know; yet, if thou wilt have any, Chuse some of these; for, trust me else, Œnone hath not many. Paris. Nay, what thou wilt; but since my cunning not compares with thine, Begin some toy that I can play upon this pipe of mine. Œn. There is a pretty Sonnet then, we call it CUPID’S CURSE: “They that do change old love for new, pray Gods they change for worse.”

(They sing.)

Œn. Fair, and fair, and twice so fair, As fair as any may be, The fairest shepherd on our green, A Love for any Lady.

Paris. Fair, and fair, and twice so fair, As fair as any may be, Thy Love is fair for thee alone, And for no other Lady.

Œn. My Love is fair, my Love is gay. And fresh as bin the flowers in May, And of my Love my roundelay, My merry, merry, merry roundelay, Concludes with Cupid’s Curse: They that do change old love for new. Pray Gods they change for worse.

Both. {Fair, and fair, &c.} (repeated.) {Fair, and fair, &c.}

Œn. My Love can pipe, my Love can sing, My Love can many a pretty thing, And of his lovely praises ring My merry, merry, merry roundelays Amen to Cupid’s Curse: They that do change old love for new, Pray Gods they change for worse.

Both. {Fair, and fair, &c.} (repeated.) {Fair, and fair, &c.}

* * * * *

TO MY ESTEEMED FRIEND, AND EXCELLENT MUSICIAN, V. N., ESQ.

DEAR SIR,

I conjure you in the name of all the Sylvan Deities, and of the Muses, whom you honour, and they reciprocally love and honour you,--rescue this old and passionate Ditty--the very flower of an old forgotten Pastoral, which had it been in all parts equal, the Faithful Shepherdess of Fletcher had been but a second name in this sort of Writing----rescue it from the profane hands of every common Composer: and in one of your tranquillest moods, when you have most leisure from those sad thoughts, which sometimes unworthily beset you; yet a mood, in itself not unallied to the better sort of melancholy; laying by for once the lofty Organ, with which you shake the Temples; attune, as to the Pipe of Paris himself, to some milder and more love-according instrument, this pretty Courtship between Paris and his (then-not as yet-forsaken) Œnone. Oblige me; and all more knowing Judges of Music and of Poesy; by the adaptation of fit musical numbers, which it only wants to be the rarest Love Dialogue in our language.

Your Implorer,

C. L.

* * * * *

~Etymology.~

“For the NONCE.”

The original of nonce, an old word used by George Peel, is uncertain: it signifies purpose, intent, design.

I saw a wolf Nursing two whelps; I saw her little ones In wanton dalliance the teat to crave, While she her neck wreath’d from them for the NONCE.

Spenser.

They used at first to fume the fish in a house built for the NONCE.

Carew.

When in your motion you are hot. And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepared him A chalice for the NONCE.

Such a light and metall’d dance; Saw you never; And they lead men for the NONCE, That turn round like grindle stones.

Ben Jonson.

A voider for the NONCE, I wrong the devil should I pick their bones.

Cleaveland.

Coming ten times for the NONCE, I never yet could see it flow but once.

Cotton.

These authorities, adduced by Dr. Johnson, Mr. Archdeacon Nares conceives to have sufficiently explained the meaning of the word, which, though obsolete, is still “provincially current.” He adds, that it is sometimes written nones, and exemplifies the remark by these quotations:--

The mask of Monkes, devised for the nones.

Mirror for Magistrates.

And cunningly contrived them for the nones In likely rings of excellent device.

Drayton.

We also find “for the nones” in Chaucer.

* * * * *

THE BANQUET OF THE DEAD, OR GENERAL BIBO’S TALE.

A LEGEND OF KIRBY MALHAMDALE CHURCH-YARD, CRAVEN, YORKSHIRE.

For the Table Book.

Come all ye jovial farmers bold, and damsels sweet and fair, And listen unto me awhile a doleful tale you’ll hear.

Bloody Squire, or Derbyshire Tragedy.

PROEM.

On Sheep-street-hill, in the town of Skipton, in Craven, is a blacksmith’s-shop, commonly called “the parliament-house.” During the late war it was the resort of all the eccentric characters in the place, who were in the habit of assembling there for the purpose of talking over the political events of the day, the knowledge whereof was gleaned from a daily paper, taken in by Mr. Kitty Cook, the occupier of the premises, and to the support of which the various members contributed. One winter’s morning in the year 1814, owing to a very heavy snow, the mail was detained on its road to the great discomfiture and vexation of the respectable parliamentary members, who were all as usual at their posts at the hour of nine. There happened on that morning to be a full house, and I very well recollect that Tom Holderd, General Bibo, Roger Bags, Duke Walker, Town Gate Jack, and Bill Cliff of Botany,[132] all of whom are since dead, were present. After the members had waited a long time, without the accustomed “folio of four pages” making its appearance, general Bibo arose and turning to the speaker, who in pensive melancholy was reclining on the anvil, he thus addressed him:--

“Mr. Speaker, I am convinced that the mail will not arrive to day, (hear! hear!) and therefore, that the members of this honourable house may not, at the hour of twelve, which is fast approaching, go home to their dinners without having something to communicate to their wives and families, I will, with your permission, relate one of those numerous legendary tales, with which our romantic district so much abounds--May I do so?”

Kitty upon this gave the anvil a thundering knock, which was his usual signal of assent, and the general proceeded to relate the full particulars, from which is extracted the following

~Legend.~

It was the 14th day of July, in the year 17--, when the corpse of a villager was interred in the romantic church-yard of Kirby Malhamdale. The last prayer of the sublime burial service of the English church was said, and the mourners had taken a last lingering look at the narrow tenement which enshrined mortality. All had departed, with the exception of the sexton, a village lad of the name of Kitchen, and a soldier, whose long, flowing, silvery hair and time-worn frame bespoke a very advanced age; he was seated on a neighbouring stone. The grave was not entirely filled up, and a scull, the melancholy remnant of some former occupier of the same narrow cell, was lying beside it. Kitchen took up the scull, and gazed on the sockets, eyeless then, but which had contained orbs, that perhaps had reflected the beam sent from beauty’s eye, glowed with fury on the battle-field, or melted at the tale of compassion. The old soldier observed the boy, and approaching him said, “Youth! that belonged to one who died soon after the reign of queen Mary. His name was Thompson, he was a military man, and as mischievous a fellow as ever existed--ay, for many a long year he was a plague to Kirby Malhamdale.”

“Then,” replied the boy, “doubtless his death was a benefit, as by it the inhabitants of the valley would be rid from a pest.”

“Why, as to that point,” answered the veteran, “I fear you are in the wrong. Thompson’s reign is not yet finished; ’tis whispered he often returns and visits the scenes of his childhood, nay, even plays his old tricks over again. It is by no means improbable, that at this very instant he is at no great distance, and listening to our conversation.”

“What,” ejaculated the boy, “he will neither rest himself nor allow other people to do so, the old brute!” and he kicked the scull from him.

“Boy,” said the soldier, “you dare not do that again.”

“Why not?” asked Kitchen, giving it at the same time another kick.

“Kick it again,” said the soldier.

The boy did so.

The veteran smiled grimly, as if pleased with the spirit which the boy manifested, and said, in a joking way, “Now take up that scull, and say to it--Let the owner of this meet me at the midnight hour, and invite me to a banquet spread on yon green stone by his bony fingers--

Come ghost, come devil, Come good, come evil, Or let old Thompson himself appear, For I will partake of his midnight cheer.”[133]

Kitchen, laughing with the glee of a schoolboy, and with the thoughtlessness incident to youth, repeated the ridiculous lines after his director, and then leaving the church-yard vaulted over the stile leading to the school-house, where, rejoining his companions, he quickly forgot the scene wherein he had been engaged; indeed it impressed him so little, that he never mentioned the circumstance to a single individual.

The boy at his usual hour of ten retired to rest, and soon fell into a deep slumber, from which he was roused by some one rattling the latch of his door, and singing beneath his window. He arose and opened the casement. It was a calm moonlight night, and he distinctly discerned the old soldier, who was rapping loudly at the door, and chanting the elegant stanzas he had repeated at the grave of the villager.

“And what pray now may you be wanting at this time of night?” asked the boy, wholly undaunted by the strangeness of the visitation. “If you cannot lie in bed yourself, you ought to allow others to rest.”

“What,” replied the old man, “hast thou so soon forgotten thy promise?” and he repeated the lines “Come good, come evil, &c.”

Kitchen laughed at again hearing the jingle of these ridiculous rhymes, which to him seemed to be “such as nurses use to frighten babes withal.” At this the soldier’s countenance assumed a peculiar expression, and the full gaze of his dark eye, which appeared to glow with something inexpressibly wild and unearthly, was bent upon the boy, who, as he encountered it, felt an indescribable sensation steal over him, and began to repent of his incautious levity. After a short silence the stranger again addressed him, but in tones so hollow and sepulchral, that his youthful blood was chilled, and his heart beat strongly and quickly in his bosom.

“Boy, thy word must be kept! Promises made with the grave are not to be lightly broken--

“Amidst the cold graves of the coffin’d dead Is the table deck’d and the banquet spread; Then haste thee thither without delay, For nigh is the time, away! away!”

“Then be it as you wish,” said the boy, in some slight degree resuming his courage; “go; I will follow.” On hearing this the soldier departed, and Kitchen watched his figure till it was wholly lost in the mists of the night.

* * * * *

At a short distance from Kirby Malhamdale church, on the banks of the Aire, was a small cottage, the residence of the Rev. Mr. ----, the rector of the parish, [General Bibo mentioned his name, but I shall not, for if I did some of his descendants might address themselves to the Table Book, and contradict the story of their ancestor having been engaged in so strange an adventure as that contained in the sequel of this legend.] Mr. ---- had from his earliest years been addicted to scientific and literary pursuits, and was generally in his study till a late hour. On this eventful night he was sitting at a table strewed with divers ancient tomes, intently perusing an old Genevan edition of the Institutes of John Calvin. While thus employed, and buried in profound meditation, the awful and death-like stillness was broken, and he was roused from his reverie by a hurried and violent knocking at the door. He started from his chair, and rushing out to ascertain the cause of this strange interruption, beheld Kitchen with a face as pale as a winding-sheet. “Kitchen, what brings you here at this untimely hour?” asked the clergyman. The boy was silent, and appeared under the influence of extreme terror. Mr. ----, on repeating the question, had a confused and indistinct account given him of all the circumstances. The relation finished, Mr. ---- looked at the boy, and thus addressed him: “Yes, I thought some evil would come of your misdeeds; for some time past your conduct has been very disorderly, you having long set a bad example to the lads of Malhamdale. But this is no time for upbraiding. I will accompany you, and together we will abide the result of your rash engagement.”

Mr. ---- and the boy left the rectory, and proceeded along the road leading to the church-yard; as they entered the sacred precinct, the clock of the venerable pile told the hour of midnight. It was a beautiful night--scarcely a cloud broke the cerulean appearance of the heavens--countless stars studded heaven’s deep blue vault--the moon was glowing in her highest lustre, and shed a clear light on the old grey church tower and the distant hills--scarcely a breeze stirred the trees, then in their fullest foliage--every inmate of the village-inn[134] was at rest--there was not a sound, save the murmuring of the lone mountain river, and the deep-toned baying of the watchful sheep-dog.

Mr. ---- looked around, but, seeing no one, said to the boy, “Surely you have been dreaming--your tale is some illusion, some chimera of the brain. The occurrences of the day have been embodied in your visions, and the over excitement created by the scene at the tomb has worked upon your imagination.”

“Oh no, sir!” said Kitchen, “but his eyes which glared so fearfully upon me could not have been a deception. I saw his tall figure, and heard his hollow sepulchral voice sing those too well-remembered lines, but--Heavens! did you not see it?” He started, and drawing nearer to the priest, pointed to the eastern window of the edifice. Mr. ---- looked in the direction, and saw a dark shadowy form gliding amid the tombstones. It approached, and as its outline became more distinctly marked, he recognised the mysterious being described to him in his study by the terrified boy.--The figure stopped, and looking long and earnestly at them said, “One! two! How is this? I have one more guest than I invited; but it matters not, all is ready, follow me--

“Amidst the cold graves of the coffin’d dead, Is the table deck’d and the banquet spread.”

The figure waved its arm impatiently, and beckoning them to follow moved on in the precise and measured step of an old soldier. Having reached the eastern window, it turned the corner of the building, and proceeded directly to the old green stone, near Thompson’s grave. The thick branches of an aged yew-tree partially shaded the spot from the silver moonlight, which was peacefully falling on the neighbouring graves, and gave to this particular one a more sombre and melancholy character than the rest. Here was, indeed, a table spread, and its festive preparations formed a striking contrast with the awful mementos strewed around. Never in the splendid and baronial halls of De Clifford,[135] never in the feudal mansion of the Nortons,[136] nor in the refectory of the monks of Sawley, had a more substantial banquet been spread. Nothing was wanting there of roast or boiled--the stone was plentifully decked; yet it was a fearful sight to see, where till now but the earthworm had ever revelled, a banquet prepared as for revelry. The boy looked on the stone, and as he gazed on the smoking viands a strange thought crossed his brow--at what fire were those provisions cooked. The seats placed around were coffins, and Kitchen every instant seemed to dread lest their owners should appear, and join the sepulchral banquet. Their ghostly host having placed himself at the head of the table, motioned his guests to do the same, and they did so accordingly. Mr. ---- then in his clerical character rose to ask the accustomed blessing, when he was interrupted. “It cannot be,” said the stranger as he rose; “I cannot hear at my board a protestant grace. When I trod the earth as a mortal, the catholic religion was the religion of the land! It was the blessed faith of my forefathers, and it was mine. Within those walls I have often listened to the solemnization of the mass, but now how different! listen!” He ceased. The moon was overcast by a passing cloud, the great bell tolled, a screech-owl flew from the tower, lights were seen in the building, and through one of the windows Mr. ---- beheld distinctly the bearings of the various hatchments, and a lambent flame playing over the monument of the Lamberts--music swelled through the aisles, and unseen beings with voices wilder than the unmeasured notes

Of that strange lyre, whose strings The genii of the breezes sweep,

chanted not a Gratias agimus, but a De Profundis. All was again still, and the stranger spoke, “What you have heard is my grace. Is not a De Profundis the most proper one to be chanted at the banquet of the dead?”

Mr. ----, who was rather an epicure, now glanced his eye over the board, and finding that that necessary appendage to a good supper, salt, was wanting, said, in an astonished tone, “Why, where’s the salt?” when immediately the stranger and his feast vanished, and of all that splendid banquet nothing remained, save the mossy stone whereon it was spread.

* * * * *

Such was the purport of general Bibo’s tale; and why those simple words had so wondrous an effect has long been a subject of dispute with the illuminati of Skipton and Malhamdale. Many are the conjectures, but the most probable one is this,--the spectre on hearing the word salt was perhaps reminded of the Red Sea, and having, like all sensible ghosts, a dislike to that awful and tremendous gulf, thought the best way to avoid being laid there was to make as precipitate a retreat as possible.

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