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 6 of 8)
Scud. If what I feel I could express in words, Methinks I could speak joy enough to men To banish sadness from all love for ever. O thou that reconcilest the faults of all Thy frothy sex, and in thy single self Confines! nay has engross’d, virtue enough To frame a spacious world of virtuous women! Had’st thou been the beginning of thy sex, I think the devil in the serpent’s skin Had wanted cunning to o’er-come thy goodness; And all had lived and died in innocency, The whole creation--. Who’s there?--come in-- Nevill (entering.) What up already, Scudmore? Scud. Good morrow, my dear Nevill? Nev. What’s this? a letter! sure it is not so-- Scud. By heav’n, you must excuse me. Come, I know You will not wrong my friendship, and your manners, To tempt me so. Nev. Not for the world, my friend. Good morrow-- Scud. Nay, Sir, neither must you Depart in anger from this friendly hand. I swear I love you better than all men, Equally with all virtue in the world: Yet this would be a key to lead you to A prize of that importance-- Nev. Worthy friend, I leave you not in anger,--what d’ye mean?-- Nor am I of that inquisitive nature framed, To thirst to know your private businesses. Why, they concern not me: if they be ill, And dangerous, ’twould grieve me much to know them; If good, they be so, though I know them not: Nor would I do your love so gross a wrong, To covet to participate affairs Of that near touch, which your assured love Doth not think fit, or dares not trust me with. Scud. How sweetly doth your friendship play with mine, And with a simple subtlety steals my heart Out of my bosom! by the holiest love That ever made a story, you are a man With all good so replete, that I durst trust you Ev’n with this secret, were it singly mine. Nev. I do believe you. Farewell, worthy friend. Scud. Nay, look you, this same fashion does not please me. You were not wont to make your visitation So short and careless. Nev. ’Tis your jealousy, That makes you think it so; for, by my soul, You’ve given me no distaste in keeping from me All things that might be burdensome, and oppress me.-- In truth, I am invited to a Wedding; And the morn faster goes away from me, That I go toward it: and so good morrow-- Scud. Good morrow, Sir. Think I durst show it you-- Nev. Now, by my life, I not desire it, Sir Nor ever lov’d these prying list’ning men, That ask of others ’states and passages: Not one among a hundred but proves false, Envious and sland’rous, and will cut that throat He twines his arms about. I love that Poet, That gave us reading “Not to seek ourselves Beyond ourselves.” Farewell. Scud. You shall not go. I cannot now redeem the fault I have made To such a friend, but in disclosing all. Nev. Now, if you love me, do not wrong me so; I see you labour with some serious thing, And think, like fairies’ treasure, to reveal it Will burst your breast,--’tis so delicious, And so much greater than the continent. Scud. O you have pierced my entrails with your words, And I must now explain all to your eyes. (Gives him the Letter.) Read; and be happy in my happiness. Nev. Yet think on’t; keep thy secret and thy friend Sure and entire. Oh give not me the means To become false hereafter; or thyself A probable reason to distrust thy friend, Though he be ne’er so near. I will not see it. Scud. I die, by heav’n, if you deny again. I starve for counsel; take it, look upon it. If you do not, it is an equal plague As if it been known and published. For God’s sake, read; but with this caution,-- By this right hand, by this yet unstain’d sword, Were you my father flowing in these waves, Or a dear son exhausted out of them, Should you betray the soul of all my hopes, Like the two Brethren (though love made them Stars) We must be never more both seen again. Nev. I read it, fearless of the forfeiture:-- Yet warn you, be as cautelous not to wound My integrity with doubt, on likelihoods From misreport, but first exquire the truth, (reads.) Scud. She is the food, the sleep, the air I live by-- Nev. (having read the Letter.) O heav’n, we speak like Gods, and do like Dogs!-- Scud. What means my-- Nev. This day this Bellafront, this rich heir Is married unto Count Frederick; And that’s the Wedding I was going to. Scud. I prithee do not mock me;--married!-- Nev. It is no matter to be plaid withal; But yet as true, as women all are false. Scud. O that this stroke were thunder to my breast, For, Nevill, thou hast spoke my heart in twain; And with the sudden whirlwind of thy breath Hast ravish’d me out of a temperate soil, And set me under the red burning zone. Nev. For shame, return thy blood into thy face Know’st not how slight a thing a Woman is? Scud. Yes; and how serious too.--
Scudmore, afterwards, forsaken.
Scud. Oh God! What an internal joy my heart has felt, Sitting at one of these same idle plays, When I have seen a Maid’s Inconstancy Presented to the life; how glad my eyes Have stole about me, fearing lest my looks Should tell the company contented there, I had a Mistress free of all such thoughts.
He replies to his friend, who adjures him to live.
Scud. The sun is stale to me; to-morrow morn, As this, ’twill rise, I see no difference; The night doth visit me but in one robe; She brings as many thoughts, as she wears stare When she is pleasant, but no rest at all: For what new strange thing should I covet life then; Is she not false whom only I thought true? Shall Time (to show his strength) make Scudmore live, Till (perish the vicious thought) I love not thee; Or thou, dear friend, remove thy heart from me!--
C. L.
* * * * *
~Ancient Music~
SUPERIOR TO MODERN.
“That the music of the ancients,” says Jeremy Collier, “could command farther than the modern, is past dispute. Whether they were masters of a greater compass of notes, or knew the secret of varying them the more artificially; whether they adjusted the intervals of silence more exactly, had their hands or their voices further improved, or their instruments better contrived; whether they had a deeper insight into the philosophy of nature, or understood the laws of the union of the soul and body more thoroughly; and thence were enabled to touch the passions, strengthen the sense, or prepare the medium with greater advantage; whether they excelled us in all, or in how many of these ways, is not so clear however, this is certain, that our improvements in this kind are little better than ale-house crowds (fiddles) with respect to theirs.”
The effects of music among the ancients, are said to have been almost miraculous. The celebrated ode of Dryden has made every one acquainted with the magic power of Timotheus over the emotions of the human heart. And all, who have read any thing of ancient history, must have remarked the wonderful effects attributed to the musical instrument in the hand of a master.
Among a hundred other stories, which evince the power of music, is the following:
Pythagoras was once likely to be troubled at his lecture, by a company of young men, inflamed with wine, and petulant with the natural insolence of youthful levity. The philosopher wished to repress their turbulence; but forbore to address them in the language of philosophy, which they would either not have attended to, or have treated with derision. He said nothing; but ordered the musician to play a grave majestic tune, of the Doric style. The effect was powerful and instantaneous. The young men were brought to their sober senses, were ashamed of their wanton behaviour, and with one accord tore off the chaplets of flowers with which they had decorated their temples in the hour of convivial gaiety. They listened to the philosopher. Their hearts were opened to instruction by music, and the powerful impression being well timed, produced in them a permanent reformation.
How desirable is it to revive the music of Pythagoras! How concise a method of philosophizing to the purpose! What sermon or moral lecture would have produced a similar effect so suddenly?
But nothing of this kind was ever produced by the most successful efforts of modern music. Let us suppose a case somewhat similar to the preceding. Let us imagine a number of intoxicated rakes entering the theatre with a professed intention to cause a riot. Such a case has often been real. The music in the orchestra has done all that it could do to sooth the growing rage; but it was as impotent and contemptible as a pistol against a battery. It would be a fine thing for the proprietors, if a tune or two could save the benches, and the fiddlers preclude the carpenters. But Timotheus and the Doric strains are no more; yet, surely, in so general a study of music it might be expected that something of their perfection might be revived.[313]
[313] Vicesimus Knox.
* * * * *
MUSICAL ANECDOTES.
A GRAND MOVEMENT.
A musical instrument-maker of Bremen was on the point of failure, and his creditors watched him so close, that he could not get a pin’s worth carried away. He bethought himself of a singular stratagem for deceiving his watchmen. He got together about a hundred and fifty musicians, his friends, in the shop, and set them all playing with the different instruments there, the overture of the “Gazza Ladra.” As it was night, at each movement of the orchestra, he contrived to throw some article of furniture from the back window, and the fall was so managed, that, from the noise of the instruments, no one perceived it. At last, to finish the affair so happily begun, at the end of the concert, each musician went out with his instrument. The artist went out last, and locked the shop-door, leaving nothing to his creditors but a bust of Ramus.
AN ACCOMPANIMENT.
The most singular spit in the world is that of the count de Castel Maria, one of the most opulent lords of Treviso. This spit turns one hundred and thirty different roasts at once, and plays twenty-four tunes, and whatever it plays, corresponds to a certain degree of cooking, which is perfectly understood by the cook. Thus, a leg of mutton à l’Anglaise, will be excellent at the 12th air; a fowl à la Flamande, will be juicy at the 18th, and so on. It would be difficult, perhaps, to carry farther the love of music and gormandizing.[314]
[314] Furet de Londres.
* * * * *
BEETHOVEN.
Ludwig von Beethoven was born in 1770 at Bonn, where his father was then tenor singer in the chapel of the elector of Cologne. At an unusually early age he was able to perform that first of all works for forming a finished player on the organ or the piano-forte, the preludes and fugues of Sebastian Bach, called “Le Clavecin bien tempéré.” At this time he displayed equal progress in composition; for, in the same year, he published variations to a march, sonatas, and songs, all for the piano-forte.
In 1792, he was sent by the elector to Vienna, as court-organist, to study the theory of music under the celebrated J. Haydn, who, on leaving Vienna for London two years after, intrusted his pupil to the care of the learned Albrechtsberger. He was then more distinguished for his performance than his composition. Judging by the criticisms of his early works, harshness of modulation, melodies more singular than pleasing, and an evident struggle to be original, were among the principal faults of which he was accused. Severe as these critics were on him as a composer, they were lavish in their praises of him as a player. In their opinion, no one could equal him in spirit and brilliancy of execution; and nothing more was wanting to perfect his performance, than more precision and distinctness of touch. His greatest power consisted in extemporary performance, and in the art of varying any given theme without the least premeditation. In this he approached nearest to Mozart, and has never had a rival since.
The precarious situation of the court of Cologne during the war, and the death of the elector in 1801, in whom the art of music lost one of its most zealous patrons, induced Beethoven to choose Vienna as his permanent residence. As original and independent in his general way of thinking, as in his musical productions, a decided enemy to flattery, an utter stranger to every thing dishonourable, he disdained to court the favour of any one, however wealthy or high in rank. He has consequently resided nearly thirty years in that splendid metropolis, in open hostility with many; and in friendship with only a few, whom the admiration of his great genius will not allow to take offence, either at the singularity of his manner, or the candour with which he gives his honest opinions. Till very lately, he had hardly any other emolument than what his compositions produced him, and consequently he was too often in circumstances very unworthy of such a great genius.
In Austria, the native composers have experienced a neglect similar to that which Frederick the Great displayed to the literati of Prussia. Salieri, the Italian, has all the honours and emoluments of principal maestro di capella to their majesties; whereas the inimitable Beethoven relies entirely on his own strength, without the smallest portion of imperial munificence. It must have been a consideration like this, together with the increase of difficulties, that determined him, in 1809, to accept an offer from the new Westphalian court of Jerome Buonaparte, of the situation of maestro di capella. Fortunately, for the honour of Vienna and of Austria, the archduke Rudolph, and the princes Lobkowitz and Kinsky, induced him to alter this resolution. In expressions at once the most favourable and delicate, these princes had a document drawn up, by which they settled on Beethoven an annuity of 4000 florins, with no other condition, than that so long as he derives the benefit of it, he must reside at Vienna, or in some other part of the Austrian dominions; but he cannot travel into foreign countries, unless with the consent of his patrons. Vienna has thus become the place of his abode during the principal part of his life. Although he had a great wish to see foreign countries, particularly England, he has never applied for leave of absence to the archduke Rudolph, who is now his only patron, the princes Lobkowitz and Kinsky being dead. It has, however, been doubted whether his presence would add, either here or any where else, to his celebrity. His warmth of temper, extreme frankness, and singularity of manners, (which he is little able to rule according to the prescribed forms of society,) his little reserve in judging of people, and above all, his great deafness, seem little calculated to endear his person to the true admirers of his genius. Notwithstanding these foibles, which more frequently belong to great than to ordinary men, his character, as a man and as a citizen, ranks deservedly high. There is a rectitude in his moral conduct, which ensures to him the esteem of every honourable person.
Beethoven’s works are universally acknowledged to be, for the greater part, productions of the highest order. In the loftier strains of composition, he has attained so eminent a rank, that it is difficult to say who excels him. In many of his orchestral symphonies, overtures, quartettos for the violin, concertos, trios, and sonatas for the piano-forte, he may be placed without the slightest presumption by the side of Haydn and Mozart. His overture to the “Men of Prometheus,” and his piano-forte concerto in C minor, Op. 37, would alone be sufficient to immortalize him. They will ever be heard with delight after any overture or concerto, even of Mozart. A list of his works is copied from that very excellent periodical work, the “Harmonicon,” into the “Biographical Dictionary of Musicians,” from whence the present notice of Beethoven is derived.
The talents of a Haydn and Mozart raised instrumental composition in Germany to an astonishing elevation; and Beethoven may be said not only to have maintained the art in that stupendous altitude, but even in some respects to have brought it to still higher perfection. Reichardt, in his letters from Vienna, says, “Haydn drew his quartets from the pure source of his sweet and unsophisticated nature, his captivating simplicity and cheerfulness; in these works he is still without an equal. Mozart’s mightier genius and richer imagination took a more extended range, and embodied in several passages the most profound and sublime qualities of his own mind. Moreover, he was much greater as a performer than Haydn, and as such, expected more from instruments than the latter did. He also allowed more merit to highly wrought and complicated compositions, and thus raised a gorgeous palace within Haydn’s fairy bower. Of this palace Beethoven was an early inmate; and in order adequately to express his own peculiar forms of style, he had no other means but to surmount the edifice with that defying and colossal tower, which no one will probably presume to carry higher with impunity.”
“If any man,” says the Quarterly Musical Review, “can be said to enjoy an almost universal admiration as a composer, it is Beethoven; who, disdaining to copy his predecessors in any, the most distant, manner, has, notwithstanding, by his energetic, bold, and uncommon style of writing, carried away the prize from our modern Olympus. His peculiar beauties may be enumerated as follows: originality of invention--uncommon passages--a very energetic manner--imitative passages almost innumerable--and abstruse scientific modulation. The first of these peculiarities, no sincere lover of music who has heard any of his symphonies will refuse to admit; and it is principally to this prominent feature in all his works that the fame he has acquired is owing. There is something in the first movements of all his overtures and symphonies, which, to the hearer, conveys a clear impression that the piece is not similar to any he ever heard before by other composers. The frequent employment of discords unresolved with a full harmony, the apparent sombre cast of expression by a continual richness and depth of the bass, the evident preparation for some beautiful allegro or vivace movement; all these conspire to raise the author in our estimation, and to keep our attention alive. Yet, when he does lead us to the quick, it is not upon a light, unmeaning, or dance-like passage, that he chooses to work; conscious of his resources, he gives an excellent subject, gradually rising into importance as the instruments one after the other join in the stringed chorus; and when (as Maister Mace would say) ‘that vast concording unity’ of the whole band comes ‘thundering in,’ we perceive with what admirable skill the orchestra are brought together, and afterwards, to the latter part of the piece, continue our admiration of the scientific manner in which the parts are worked up. The conclusion leaves us in regret.”
In Beethoven’s “Mount of Olives,” the introductory symphony is considered to be so affecting and appropriate as to be equal, if not superior, to Haydn’s introduction, or representation of “Chaos” in the “Creation.” The whole is a striking instance of his originality of invention. With respect to his energetic manner, nearly the whole of his works abound with specimens of this description of beauty. Yet, however, in the midst of his energy, variety, and abstruseness, ideas may sometimes be discovered which create enthusiasm solely from their simplicity. Of this description is the well-known passage in his “Battle Sinfonia,” where the one fifer is supposed to be heard attempting to rally the disordered ranks of the French army, by playing their national air of “Malbrouk,” which he performs in a minor key, from his own presumed thirst and fatigue.
It is said that Beethoven does not write down a single note of his compositions till he has mentally completed them, and that he holds his own earlier compositions in contempt. He usually passes the summer at the pleasant village of Baden, about twelve miles from Vienna. He is very deaf, but can hear without the assistance of any machine, when addressed loudly and distinctly. His principal amusement in the country is taking long walks in the most romantic parts of the vicinity; these excursions he sometimes extends even through the night.[315]
[315] Biographical Dict. of Musicians.
* * * * *
ANNE DE MONTMORENCY.
Of the sanguinary character of this constable of France some idea may be formed by the specimen which Brantome has given of his favourite orders.--“Go! Let me see those rascals stabbed or shot directly! Hang me that fellow on yonder tree! Hack me to pieces those scoundrels this moment, who dared to defend that church against the king’s forces! Set fire to that village, d’ye hear! Burn me all the country for a mile round this spot!”
* * * * *
To the Editor.
Dear sir,--Perhaps you may esteem the enclosed as a curiosity worthy of a place in the Table Book. It is a genuine specimen of the assignats used in lieu of money during the French revolution. I believe there are very few now to be had. It was given to me by a French gentleman, whose father (a native of Normandy) had lost considerable sums by them. He had unfortunately converted most of his property into assignats, as a precaution during those times, which, although eventually of so much benefit to the French nation, were so distressing while they lasted. But when the use of coin was resumed, he found his intention frustrated, and himself deprived of all his fortune.
This gentleman had been the means of assisting the duke and duchess of Chartres in their escape to England, after having concealed them for some time in his own house. They left him with reiterated assurances of liberal recompense and future patronage, should they ever be so fortunate as to return to their native country:--they did return--but their Norman benefactor was forgotten--he never heard any thing more of them.--“Telle est la récompense de loyauté!” was the concluding remark of his son, who related the story to me. He was a pleasant specimen of a Frenchman--light, kind-hearted, and extremely enthusiastic; but his enthusiasm was equally bestowed on the most important or the most trivial occasion. I have seen him rise from his seat, stretch his clasped hands out at full length, and utter with rapturous ecstasy through his clenched teeth, “Ah, Dieu! que c’étoit beau!” when perhaps the subject of his eulogy was the extraordinary leap of some rope-dancer, or the exaggerated shout of some opera-singer, whose greatest recommendation was, that she possessed “une voix à enlever le toit.” He had a habit of telling immensely long stories, and always forgot that you had heard him relate them often and often before. He used to tack his sentences together by an awful “alors,” which was the sure sign of his being in the humour (although by the by he never was otherwise) for telling one of his pet anecdotes, or, more properly interminable narratives, for such he made them by his peculiar tact at spinning them out. He had three special favourites;--the one above related of aristocratic ingratitude;--another about Buonaparte’s going incognito every morning, while he was at Boulogne sur Mer, to drink new milk at the cottage of an old woman, with whom he used to take snuff, and talk quite familiarly;--and the last and best-beloved, an account of his own good fortune in having once actually spoken with the emperor Napoleon Buonaparte himself! He had been an officer on board one of the ships belonging to the flotille destined for the invasion of England, and almost adored Buonaparte as a sort of God. He was perhaps as affectionate-hearted a human being as could possibly exist, and I never heard him speak bitterly against any one, excepting Messieurs les Clergés.
I have digressed considerably, but the assignat is merely a matter of curiosity to look at, and does not admit of much comment.
I am, dear sir,
Your respectful admirer,
M. H.
June 28, 1827.
* * * * *
BUYING AND SELLING.
A merchant shall hardly keep himself from doing wrong; and an huckster shall not be freed from sin.
As a nail sticketh fast between the joinings of the stones; so doth sin stick close between buying and selling.
Ecclesiasticus.
It has been observed in the House of Commons, “That commerce tends to corrupt the morals of a people.” If we examine the expression, we shall find it true, in a certain degree.
Perhaps every tradesman can furnish out numberless instances of small deceit. His conduct is marked with a littleness, which though allowed by general consent, is not strictly just. A person with whom I have long been connected in business, asked if I had dealt with his relation whom he had brought up, and who had lately entered into commercial life. I answered in the affirmative. He replied, “He is a very honest fellow.” I told him I saw all the finesse of a tradesman about him. “Oh, rejoined my friend, a man has a right to say all he can in favour of his own goods.”
Nor is the seller alone culpable. The buyer takes an equal share in the deception. Though neither of them speak their sentiments, they well understand each other. Whilst a treaty is agitating, the buyer pronounces against the article; but when finished, the seller whispers to his friend, “It is well sold,” and the buyer smiles at the bargain. The commercial track is a line of minute deceits.
But, on the other hand, it does not seem possible for a man in trade to pass this line, without wrecking his reputation; which, if once broken, can never be made whole. The character of a tradesman is valuable; it is his all; therefore, whatever seeds of the vicious kind may shoot forth in the mind, they are carefully watched and nipped in the bud, that they may never blossom into action.
Having stated the accounts between morality and trade, I shall leave the reader to draw the balance, and only ask, “Whether the people in trade are more corrupt than those out?” If the curious reader will lend an attentive ear to a pair of farmers in the market, bartering for a cow, he will find as much dissimulation as at St. James’s, or at any other saint’s, but couched in more homely phrase. The man of well-bred deceit is “infinitely your friend--it would give him immense pleasure to serve you!” while the man in the frock “will be ---- if he tells you a word of a lie!”
Having occasion for a horse, in 1759, I mentioned it to an acquaintance, and informed him of the uses the animal was wanted for; he assured me he had one that would exactly suit; which he showed in the stable, and held the candle pretty high, “for fear of affecting the straw.” I told him it was needless to examine him, for I should rely upon his word, being conscious he was too much my friend to deceive me; I therefore bargained, and caused him to be sent home. But by the light of the sun which next morning illumined the heavens, I perceived the horse was “greased” on all fours. I therefore, in gentle terms, upbraided my friend with duplicity, when he replied with some warmth, “I would cheat my own brother in a horse.” Had this honourable friend stood a chance of selling me a horse once a week, his own interest would have prevented him from deceiving me.
A man enters into business with a view of acquiring a fortune--a laudable motive! That property which arises from honest industry is an honour to its owner; the repose of his age, the reward of a life of attention; but great as the advantage seems, yet, being of a private nature, it is one of the least in the mercantile walk. For the intercourse occasioned by traffic gives a man a view of the world, and of himself; removes the narrow limits that confine his judgment, expands the mind, opens his understanding, removes his prejudices, and polishes his manners. Civility and humanity are ever the companions of trade; the man of business is the man of liberal sentiment: if he be not the philosopher of nature he is the friend of his country. A barbarous and commercial people is a contradiction.[316]
[316] Hutton’s History of Birmingham.
* * * * *
LONGEVITY
OF A REMARKABLE HIGHLANDER.
In August, 1827, John Macdonald expired in his son’s house, in the Lawnmarket, at the advanced age of one hundred and seven years. He was born in Glen Tinisdale, in the Isle of Skye, and, like the other natives of that quarter, was bred to rural labour. Early one morning in his youth, when looking after his black cattle, he was surprised by the sight of two ladies, as he thought, winding slowly round a hill, and approaching the spot where he stood. When they came up, they inquired for a well or stream, where a drink of water could be obtained. He conducted them to the “Virgin Well,” an excellent spring, which was held in great reverence on account of its being the scene of some superstitious and legendary tales. When they had quenched their thirst, one of the ladies rewarded Macdonald with a shilling, the first silver coin of which he was possessed. At their own request he escorted them to a gentleman’s house at some distance, and there, to his great surprise and satisfaction, he learned that the two “ladies” were Flora Macdonald and prince Charles Stewart.
This was the proudest incident in Macdonald’s patriarchal life; and, when surrounded by his Celtic brethren, he used to dilate on all the relative circumstances with a sort of hereditary enthusiasm, and more than the common garrulity of age. He afterwards turned joiner, and bore a conspicuous part in the building of the first protestant church which was erected in the island of North Uist. He came to Edinburgh twenty-three years before his death, and continued to work at his trade till he was ninety-seven years of age.
Macdonald was a temperate, regular-living man, and never paid a sixpence to a surgeon for himself, nor had an hour’s sickness in the whole course of his life. He used to dance regularly on New-year’s day, along with some Highland friends, to the bagpipe. On New-year’s day, 1825, he danced a reel with the father, the son, the grandson, and great-grandson, and was in more than his usual spirits. His hearing was nothing impaired, and till within three weeks of his demise he could have threaded the finest needle with facility, without glasses.[317]
[317] Scotsman, August, 1827.
* * * * *
~Discoveries~
OF THE
ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.
No. V.
Having examined what knowledge the ancients had in logic and metaphysics, we are now to consider with the same impartiality, what general or particular discoveries they made in physics, astronomy, mathematics, mechanics, and the other sciences.
OF BODIES--THE INCORPOREALITY OF THEIR ELEMENTS.--LEIBNITZ.
Although the distance may appear considerable between metaphysics and physics, yet an idea of their connection runs through the whole system of Leibnitz. He founds this on the principle, employed long ago by Archimedes, “that there must be a sufficient reason for every thing.” Leibnitz inquires, why bodies are extended in length, breadth, and thickness. He holds, that to discover the origin of extension, we must come at something unextended, and without parts; in short, at existences entirely simple; and he contends, that “things extended” could have had no existence, but for “things entirely simple.”
The foundations of this system were, in effect, long since laid by Pythagoras and his disciples. Traces of it are in Strato of Lampsacus, who succeeded Theophrastus in the Lyceum; in Democritus; in Plato, and those of his school; and in Sextus Empiricus, who has even furnished entire arguments to Leibnitz for establishing “the necessity of seeking for the reason of compound things, in those which never had external existence.” Moderatus Gaditanus, in relation to the numbers of Pythagoras, says, “Numbers are, so to speak, an assemblage of units, a progressive multitude which arises from unity, and finds there its ultimate cause.” And Hermias, expounding the doctrine of the Pythagoreans, says, that, according to them, “the unit, or simple essence, was the origin and principle of all things.”
Sextus Empiricus deems it unworthy of a philosopher to advance, that what falls under the notice of our senses, could be the principle of all things; for things sensible ought to be derived from what is not so. Things compounded of other things cannot possibly be themselves a principle; but what constitutes those things may. Those who affirm that atoms, similar parts, particles, or those bodies which only are to be apprehended by the intellect itself, are the primary elements of all things, in one respect say true, in another not. In so far as they acknowledge for principles, only such things as fall not under our senses, they are right; but they are wrong in apprehending those to be corporeal principles: for as those bodies which fall not under our senses, precede those which do, they themselves are preceded also by what is of another nature: and as the letters are not a discourse, though they go into the composition of it, neither are the elements of body, body: but since they must be either corporeal or incorporeal, it follows, that they are incorporeal. To this end he argues, that “bodies are composed of incorporeal principles, not to be comprehended but by the mind itself.”
To the same effect, Scipio Aquilianus, treating of the opinion of Alcmæon, the Pythagorean, concerning the principles of things, reduces it to a syllogism. “What precedes body in the order of nature, is the principle of body; number is such a thing; therefore number is the principle of body. The second of these propositions is proved thus:--Of two things, that is the first, which may be conceived independent of the other, whilst that other cannot of it. Now number may be conceived independently of body, but not body of number; wherefore number is antecedent to body in the order of nature.”
Marcilius Ficinus imputes to Plato the same notion, and gives us the substance of that philosopher’s thoughts. “The different species of all sorts of compounds may be traced out to something which in itself is uncompounded; as the boundaries of body to a point, which has no boundary; numbers to a unit, which consists not of numbers; and elements to what has nothing in it mixt or elementary.” Marcilius Ficinus expresses the system in a few words. “Compounds are reducible into things uncompounded, and these again into what is still more simple.” One sees here those compounds of Leibnitz, which, when reduced to their simple parts, terminate in the Deity for their cause and source.
Plotinus also affirms, that “there must be in bodies some principle, or substratum, entirely different from any thing corporeal.”
These quotations accord with passages in Plutarch concerning Heraclitus. There are passages in Stobæus, from Epicurus, Xenocrates, and Diodorus, to a similar purport; and a remarkable one in Hebrews xi. 3. “Through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of God, so that things which are seen were not made of things which do appear.”[318]
It every where appears that Leibnitz drew many of his notions from Plato; and he defines his “monads,” just as Plato does his ideas, τα ὁντπως ὁντα, “things really existing.” An erudite German says, “I am assured by one of my friends, who was himself informed of it by a learned Italian, who went to Hanover to satisfy an ardent desire he had of being acquainted with Mr. Leibnitz, and spent three weeks with him, that this great man, at parting, said to him: ‘Sir you have often been so good as to insinuate, that you looked upon me as a man of some knowledge. Now, sir, I’ll show you the sources whence I drew it all;’ and immediately taking him by the hand, led him into his study, showing him all the books he had; which were Plato, Aristotle, Plutarch, Sextus Empiricus, Euclid, Archimedes, Pliny, Seneca, and Cicero.”
Leibnitz and Parmenides agree in these particulars:--
1. The existence and essence of things are different.
2. The essence of things existent, is without the things themselves.
3. There are, in nature, similar and dissimilar things.
4. The similar are conceived, as in existence essentially the same.
5. Whatever exists is reducible to certain classes, and specific forms.
6. All those forms have their existence in the unity; that is, in God; and hence the whole is one.
7. Science consists in the knowledge, not of individuals, but of kinds or species.
8. This knowledge differs from that of things existing externally.
9. Forms or ideas, as they exist in God, escape the observation of men.
10. Hence men perceive nothing perfectly.
11. Our mental notions are but the shades or resemblances of ideas.
OF ANIMATED NATURE.--BUFFON.
Buffon’s theory respecting universal matter, generation, and nutrition, so much resembles what was taught by some of the ancients, that it is difficult not to think that his ideas drew their origin from that first school. It appears indeed, that he had attentively read the ancients, and knew how to value them. He says himself, that “the ancients understood much better, and made a greater progress in the natural history of animals and minerals, than we have done. They abounded more in real observations; and we ought to have made much better advantage of their illustrations and remarks.” Yet Buffon does not seem to have perceived the analogy which every where reigns between his system and that of the ancients.
Anaxagoras thought that bodies were composed of small, similar, or homogeneous particles; that those bodies, however, admitted a certain quantity of small particles that were heterogene, or of another kind; but that to constitute any body to be of a particular species, it sufficed, that it was composed of a great number of small particles, similar and constitutive of that species. Different bodies were masses of particles similar among themselves; dissimilar, however, relatively to those of any other body, or to the mass of small particles belonging to a different species. Thus, the ancients taught, that blood was formed of many drops or particles, each of which had blood in it; that a bone was formed of many small bones, which from their extreme littleness evaded our view; and these similar parts they called ομοιομερειας similaritates. Likewise, that nothing was properly liable to generation, or corruption, to birth, or to death; generations of every kind, being no other than an assemblage of small particles constituent of the kind; and the destruction of a body being no other than the disunion of many small bodies of the same sort, which always preserving a natural tendency to reunite, produce again, by their conjunction with other similar particles, other bodies of the same species. Vegetation and nutrition were but means employed by nature for the continuation of beings; thus, the different juices of the earth being composed of a collection of innumerable small particles intermixed, constituting the different parts of a tree or flower for example, take, according to the law of nature, different arrangements; and by the motion originally impressed upon them, proceed till, arriving at the places destined and proper for them, they collect themselves and halt, to form all the different parts of that tree or flower; in the same manner as many small imperceptible leaves go to the formation of the leaves we see, many little parts of the fruits of different kinds to the composition of those which we eat; and so of the rest. The same, with respect to the nutrition of animals. The bread we eat, and the other aliments we take, turn themselves, according to the ancients, into hair, veins, arteries, nerves, and all the other parts of our body; because there are, in those aliments, the constituent parts of blood, nerves, bones, hair, &c. which, uniting with one another, make themselves by their coalition perceptible, which they were not before, because of their infinite littleness.
Empedocles believed, that matter had in it a living principle, a subtile active fire, which put all in motion; and this Buffon calls, by another name, “organized matter, always active; or animated organic matter.” According to Empedocles, “this matter was distributed through the four elements, among which it had an uniting force to bind them, and a separating to put them asunder; for the small parts either mutually embraced, or repelled one another; whence nothing in reality perished, but every thing was in perpetual vicissitude.”
Empedocles had a sentiment, which Buffon follows, in the same terms; where he says, that “the sexes contain all the small parts analogous to the body of an animal, and necessary to its production.”
Plotinus, investigating what might be the reason of this sympathy and attraction in nature, discovered it to proceed from such a “harmony and assimilation of the parts, as bound them together when they met,” or repelled them when they were dissimilar; he says, that it is the variety of these assimilations that concurs to the formation of an animal; and calls this binding, or dissolving force, “the magic of the universe.”
Anaxagoras thought as Buffon does, that there is no preexistent seed, involving infinite numbers of the same kind one within another; but an ever active organic matter, always ready so to adapt itself, as to assimilate, and render other things conformable to that wherein it resides. The species of animals and vegetables can never therefore exhaust themselves; but as long as an individual subsists, the species will be always new. It is as extensive now as it was at the beginning, and all will subsist of themselves, till they are annihilated by the Creator.
It would be easy to show, that in morals and politics, as in physics, the most eminent moderns have said nothing new. Hobbes has advanced nothing, but what he found in the writings of the Grecian and Latin philosophers; and above all, in those of Epicurus. Montesquieu also assumes from the ancients the principles of his system; and Machiavel those of his politics from Aristotle, though we have attributed to his genius the whole honour of having invented them. But these discussions would detain the reader too long; we hasten therefore to another field of contemplation, not less fruitful of testimony, in support of the position, that the most celebrated philosophers among the moderns have taken what they advance from the works of the ancients.
[318] Perhaps this principle derives further illustration from scripture. “In the beginning was the Word.” John i, 1. ED.
* * * * *
For the Table Book.
GRASSHOPPERS.
“Sauter de branche en branche.”
The stream may flow, the wheel may run, The corn in vain be brown’d in sun, And bolting-mills, like corks, be stoppers; Save that their clacks, like noisy rain, Make floor of corn in root and grain By virtue of their HOPPERS.
And London sportsmen (sportsmen?) meet To shoot at sparrows twenty feet Like ginger-beer escaping,--poppers: Pigeons are thus hu_man_e_ly_ shot. And thus they go to pie and pot, Poor pulse and crum-b-led HOPPERS!
Trees in their shrouds resemble men, And they who “cut may come again,” To take their tithe as legal loppers: Soldiers and sailors, after wars, In spite of glory, fame, and stars,-- Are they not pen-sion HOPPERS?
Yet more than these, in summer’s even, There hop, between the blades of Heaven And hailstones pearly droppers, Insects of mirth, whose songs so shrill Delight the ears of vale and hill, The grassy, green--GRASS-HOPPERS.
Aug. 1827.
J. R. P.
* * * * *
For the Table Book.
WASPS.
A grocer’s shop at Camberwell--“the Grasshopper”--is much visited by wasps for the sweets of the sugar hogsheads. The shop is closed on Sundays, but they find entrance into it by creeping privately through the keyhole of the door.
C. W. P.
* * * * *
THE BARLEY-MOW.
To the Editor.
My dear sir,--Nothing could possibly exceed the heartfelt pleasure I enjoyed when the last load was drawn into the farm-yard; and the farmer, and his men and women, witnessed the completion of the “Barley-mow.” Their huzzas filled the scenery, and the barns and church replied. The carters and horses were trimmed with boughs and wild flowers. The hedges siding the lanes, and the patriarch elms and walnut-trees, as the survivors of templar consecrations to the demesne, took their tithes, to the joy of birds; and the fields had still a generous strewing of ears for the peasant-gleaners, who, like ants, collected a small store for the days of frost and adversity. The farmer’s heart gladdened with the reward of his labours. The ale-bottle, when held upward, gurgled its choice liquid into many thirsty throats. Every thing and every body showed satisfaction. The housewife came forth with a rake in her hand, in her sun-shielding gloves and broad flat bonnet, and she sung the rejoicings of her peace in a minor key, suitable to her taste of harmony. Her daughter too came tripping in a lightsome gait and charming advance, towards her sire and myself, with cake and cider, dimpling and exhilarating.
By this time the “Barley-mow” was coning to a point, and the stray ears were plucked out of its bulging sides.
The evening closing into eternity, the peaceful aspect of nature sweetly accorded with the quiet sensations of thankfulness, glowing in the grateful breasts of the persons cast in this out-of-town spot. The increasing pall of dusk, when the work was ended, drew the labourers into a circle within their master’s welcome domicile. Here the farmer and his wife and family were assembled, and, without pride’s distinction, regaled the sharers of their summer-toil with that beverage that warms the feelings of hope into real joy. This was the triumph of the “Barley-mow.” Every tongue praised, as every energy assisted it. It was a heartfelt celebration. Songs were sung, and they danced down the midnight. The foot of Time stepped lightly, till the weather-featured clock toll’d the end of the joyful recreation. Sincerity, unity, and hospitality were blended: the master was satisfied with his servants--the servants were thankful with their means of support. My thoughts rebounded high, as my sympathies awakened to so much happiness in so small a compass. Ere satiety arrived the companions separated. My candle was ready; I shook hands with my friends; and, after penning you this outline, retired with benevolent impressions and aspirations in behalf of a cheerful country life, arising from contented habits and industrious courses.
The two following stanzas were audible for a long time in the neighbouring ruralries:
Let the scythe and sickle lie Undisturb’d for many a day Labour stoops without a sigh, And grisly care is gay Bless the harrow and the plough. Bless the glorious Barley-mow!
Now the miller’s hoppers play; Now the maltster’s kiln is dry Empty casks prepare the way, And mirth is in the eye: Praise the sun and trim the bough,-- Hail the golden Barley-mow!
I am, my dear sir,
Yours very truly,
J. R. P.
T----n T----e,
August 1, 1827.
* * * * *
HANGING THE SHUTTLE.
To the Editor.
Sir,--The custom of “hanging the shuttle” arose out of the introduction of a “spring loom,” which an eminent clothier at Langley ventured, in 1794, to have erected in one of his cottages, built for the use of his men.
One person performing nearly as much work in this loom as two persons, the weavers in the neighbourhood met at the “Plough,” to consider the best means of opposing the success of the one-shuttle stranger.
After sundry resolutions were passed, declarative that spring-looms would prove hurtful to weavers of the old school, they suspended a shuttle to a bacon rack by a skein of tangled yarn over the table round which they sat. Meeting every Saturday-night at this inn, they pledged their affiance to the “shuttle,” and continued the custom till their meetings were fruitless.
The “hanging the shuttle” over them signified that no honest weaver should work a spring-loom to the injury of his fellow-workman. This prejudice having subsided and most of the weavers that assembled at the “Plough” being dead, their sons agree to the prevailing and supposed improvements.
I am, sir,
Yours respectfully,
*, *, P.
July 28, 1827.
* * * * *
For the Table Book.
THE STEPS OF PERFECTION.
Paraphrased from the Latin of John Owen.
FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY.
/Y ---------- S / / T ---------- A / H - I ------ S - T
T - R - E || E - I - S
I - A - P || D - R - E
A - H - O || I - A - P
F - C - H || F - C - S
5 7 4 5 7 4
When VIRTUE her examples drew in heaven, Seven steps to reach them were to mortals given:-- HOPE, so desirous to be first, attains Four of the SEVEN: but FAITH five precepts gains: LOVE is the chief, for Love the two excels, And in the virtue of PERFECTION dwells.
P.
* * * * *
NEWSPAPER ORTHOGRAPHY, 1682.
From the “True Protestant Mercury,”
No. 162.
ADVERTISEMENT.
Lost, a Flowered silk Manto (Mantua) Gown of a sable and Gold Coulor, lined with Black, betwixt Arniseed Clere (St. Agnes le Clair) and the White Houses at Hogsden (Hoxton) on Wednesday last, the 19th instant, about 4 or 5 a clock in the Afternoon. Any one that can give Intelligence of the said Manto Gown to Mr. Blewit’s, at the Rose and Crown in Loathberry, shall have 10_s._ for their pains.
* * * * *
~Poetry.~
For the Table Book.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB’S ARMY.
And it came to pass that night, that the Angel of the Lord went out, and smote in the camp of the Assyrians an hundred fourscore and five thousand: and when they arose early in the morning, behold, they were all dead corpses!--2 Kings, xix. 35.
The sun in his beauty had sunk to rest, And with magic colours illumin’d the west, Casting o’er the temple his brightest gold, The temple,--Jehovah’s dwelling of old: The flowers were clos’d by the evening breeze, That sadly sigh’d through Lebanon’s trees; The moon was up, so pale and bright, (She look’d more beautiful that night,) Whilst numerous stars were round her gleaming-- Stars in silent beauty beaming.
The Fiend of Fear his dark wings spread O’er the city of God, and fill’d it with dread; But the king at the altar prostrate lay, And plac’d on Jehovah’s arm his stay; In anxious watching he pass’d the night, Waiting the return of the morning light, When forth his embattled hosts should move, The power of Jehovah on the Heathen to prove!
The Assyrian hosts were proud in their might, And in revelry spent the commencement of night, ’Till the power of wine o’er their coward-souls creeping, Each man in his armour lay prostrate, sleeping!
At the midnight watch the angel of God O’er the Assyrian camp spread his wings abroad: On his brow was plac’d a crown of light, Which shone like a meteor in the gloom of night, And quench’d, with its brightness, the moon’s pale sheen, Which her sickly rays flung over the scene: His flowing robe in large folds roll’d, Spangled with gems and bright with gold! As over the Assyrian camp he pass’d, He breathed upon them a poisonous blast-- It blanch’d their cheeks-and without a groan Each soul was hurried to his long, long home!
At the morning watch in the Assyrian camp Was heard no sound of the war-horse tramp! The bright sun rose, like a bridegroom dress’d, And illumin’d the camp from east to west; But there was no spear in his bright beam gleaming, Nor polish’d mail his reflected light streaming: The spear and the armour were cover’d with rust, And prostrate the warrior lay down in the dust! To arms! to arms! the trumpet sounded-- The echoes in mockery the blast resounded! Sennacherib waited his embattled host, The pride of his heart and his impious boast;-- The trumpet was sounded again and again, Its shrill notes echoing o’er the prostrate slain;-- But his bands were bound in the slumber of death, Nor heeded the war-stirring clarion’s breath! The angel of God had pass’d over the host-- In the grasp of Death lay Sennacherib’s host!
O. N. Y.
July, 1827.
* * * * *
For the Table Book.
NIXON’S PROPHECIES.--MR. CANNING.
Mr. Canning’s decease on the 8th of August, 1827, occasioned the following article in the newspapers.
THE DEATH OF MR. CANNING PREDICTED BY NIXON, THE ASTROLOGER.
In an old book, entitled The Prophecies of Robert Nixon, printed in the year 1701, is the following prophetic declaration, which appears to refer to the late melancholy event, which has deprived the English nation of one of her brightest ornaments:--“In the year 1827 a man will raise himself by his wisdom to one of the most exalted offices in the state. His king will invest him with great power, as a reward for his zeal. England will be greatly rejoiced. A strong party will enter into a league against him, but their envy and hatred will not prevail. The power of God, which reigneth over all, will cut him off in his prime, and the nation will bitterly bemoan her loss. Oh, England? beware of thy enemies. A great friend thou wilt lose in this man.”
* * * * *
The preceding is a prediction made after the event--a mere “hoax” on the credulous. There is nothing of the kind among the prophecies imputed to Nixon, who was not an astrologer, and probably existed nowhere but in the imagination of the writer of the manuscript copied by the “Lady Cowper.”
* * * * *
BUSH EELS.
At this season when persons, at inns in Lincolnshire, ask for “eel-pie,” they are presently provided with “bush eels;” namely, snakes, caught for that purpose in the bushes, and sold to the landlords cheaply, which are made into stews, pies, and fries.
P.
Vol. II.--35.
Lord Edward Bruce was eldest son of sir Edward, baron of Kinloss, so created by James I. in 1603, to whom the king gave the dissolved abbey of Kinloss, in Ayrshire, after he had been instrumental in his succession to the crown of England; whither accompanying the king, he was made master of the rolls in 1604, died in 1610, and was buried in the Rolls chapel. His son, the lord Edward, killed in duel by sir Edward Sackville in 1613, was succeeded by his brother, who was created earl of Elgin in 1633 and an English baron in 1641.
Sir Edward Sackville, by whose hand the lord Edward Bruce fell, was younger brother to Richard Sackville, earl of Dorset, on whose death he succeeded to the title. He was lord president of the council, a joint lord keeper, and filled several other distinguished offices under Charles I., to whom he adhered, by whose side he fought at the battle of Edge-hill, and whose death he took so much to heart, that he never afterwards stirred out of his house in Salisbury-court, but died there on the 17th of July, 1652.
Between these noblemen there arose a quarrel, which terminated in their duel; and all that is, or probably can be known respecting it, is contained in the following correspondence, preserved in a manuscript in Queen’s college library, Oxford.[319]
A Monsieur, Monsieur Sackvile.
“I that am in France, hear how much you attribute to yourself in this time, that I have given the world leave to ring your praises; and for me, the truest almanack, to tell you how much I suffer. If you call to memory, when as I gave you my hand last, I told you I reserved the heart for a truer reconciliation. Now be that noble gentleman, my love once spoke, and come and do him right that could recite the tryals you owe your birth and country, were I not confident your honour gives you the same courage to do me right, that it did to do me wrong. Be master of your own weapons and time; the place wheresoever, I will wait on you. By doing this, you shall shorten revenge, and clear the idle opinion the world hath of both our worths.
“ED. BRUCE.”
A Monsieur, Monsieur Baron de Kinloss.
“As it shall be always far from me to seek a quarrel, so will I always be ready to meet with any that is desirous to make tryal of my valour, by so fair a course as you require. A witness whereof yourself shall be, who, within a month, shall receive a strict account of time, place, and weapon, where you shall find me ready disposed to give honourable satisfaction, by him that shall conduct you thither. In the mean time, be as secret of the appointment, as it seems you are desirous of it.
“E. SACKVILE.”
A Monsieur, Monsieur Baron de Kinloss.
“I am at Tergose, a town in Zeland, to give what satisfaction your sword can render you, accompanied with a worthy gentleman for my second, in degree a knight. And, for your coming, I will not limit you a peremptory day, but desire you to make a definite and speedy repair, for your own honour, and fear of prevention; at which time you shall find me there.
“E. SACKVILE.”
Tergose, 10th of August, 1613.
A Monsieur, Monsieur Sackvile.
“I have received your letter by your man, and acknowledge you have dealt nobly with me; and now I come, with all possible haste, to meet you.
“E. BRUCE.”
The combat was fierce, and fatal to lord Bruce. The survivor, sir Edward Sackville, describes it in a letter, which will be inserted at a future time. For the present purpose it is merely requisite to state, that lord Stowell, in a communication to the earl of Aberdeen, president of the Society of Antiquarians, dated February 15, 1822, seems to have determined the spot whereon the duel was fought, and the place of lord Bruce’s interment. From that communication, containing an account of the discovery of his heart, with representations of the case wherein it was enclosed, the following detail is derived, together with the engravings.
It has always been presumed that the duel was fought under the walls of Antwerp; but the combatants disembarked at Bergen-op-Zoom, and fought near that town, and not Antwerp. The circumstances are still well remembered at Bergen, while at Antwerp there is not a trace of them. A small piece of land, a mile and a half from the Antwerp gate of Bergen, goes by the name of Bruce-land; it is recorded as the spot where Bruce fell; and, according to tradition, was purchased by the parties to fight upon. The spot is unclaimed at the present day, and marked by a little earthen boundary, which separates it from the surrounding corn-fields. It was considered, until the French revolution, as free ground, where any person might take refuge without being liable to arrest. Lord Bruce was buried at Bergen, and a monument is stated to have been erected to his memory within the great Protestant church, which was nearly destroyed in the siege of 1747.
In consequence of a tradition, that the heart of lord Edward Bruce had been sent from Holland, and interred in the vault or burying-ground adjoining the old abbey church of Culross, in Perthshire, sir Robert Preston directed a search in that place in 1808, with the following result.--Two flat stones, without inscription, about four feet in length and two in breadth, were discovered about two feet below the level of the pavement, and partly under an old projection in the wall of the old building. These stones were strongly clasped together with iron; and when separated, a silver case, or box, of foreign workmanship, shaped like a heart, was found in a hollow or excavated place between them. Its lid was engraved with the arms and name “Lord Edward Bruse;” it had hinges and clasps; and when opened, was found to contain a heart, carefully embalmed, in a brownish coloured liquid. After drawings were taken of it, as represented in the present engravings, it was carefully replaced in its former situation. There was a small leaden box between the stones in another excavation; the contents of which, whatever they were originally, appeared reduced to dust.
Some time after this discovery, sir Robert Preston caused a delineation of the silver case, according to the exact dimensions, with an inscription recording its exhumation and re-deposit, to be engraved on a brass plate, and placed upon the projection of the wall where the heart was found.[320]
It is a remarkable fact, that the cause of the quarrel between lord Bruce and sir Edward Sackvile has remained wholly undetected, notwithstanding successive investigations at different periods. The last was conducted by the late lord Leicester, and several gentlemen, whose habits and love of investigation are equally well known, but they were unable to discover the slightest clue to the object of their anxious and diligent inquiry. Lord Clarendon, in his “History of the Rebellion,” records the combat as an occurrence of magnitude, from its sanguinary character and the eminence of the parties engaged in it. He does not say any thing respecting the occasion of the feud, although lord Bruce’s challenge seems to intimate that it was matter of public notoriety.
[319] Collins’s Peerage.
[320] Archæologia, xx. 515.
* * * * *
HEART BURIAL.
During the rebuilding of part of the church of Chatham, Kent, in 1788, there was found in one of the vaults a leaden pot, containing, according to an inscription, the heart of a woman, one Hester Harris. The pot appeared to have been nailed up to the side of the vault, there being a piece of lead soldered on for that purpose.[321]
[321] Gent. Mag. 1789.
* * * * *
POETICAL QUID PRO QUO.
A Greek poet frequently offered little compliments to Augustus, with hopes of some small reward. His poems were worthless and unnoticed, but as he persisted in his adulation, Augustus amused himself with writing an epigram in praise of the poet, and when he received the next customary panegyric, presented his lines to the bard with surprising gravity. The poor man took and read them, and with apparent delight deliberately drew forth two farthings, and gave them to the emperor, saying, “This is not equal to the demands of your situation, sire; but ’tis all I have: if I had more I would give it to you.” Augustus could not resist this; he burst into laughter, and made the poet a handsome present.
* * * * *
POCKETS.
Mr. Gifford relates the preceding anecdote, in a note on his Juvenal, from Macrobius. He makes the poet draw the farthings from his “pocket:” but the pocket was unknown to the Greeks and Romans. Mr. Fosbroke says the men used the girdle, and the women their bosom; and that Strutt thinks the scrip, and purse, or bag, were succedanea. The Anglo-Saxon and Norman women wore pocketting sleeves; and sleeves with pockets in them, mentioned by DuCange, Matthew Paris, Malmesbury, and Knighton, were searched, before the wearers could be admitted to the royal presence. Sleeve pockets are still worn by the monks in Portugal.
* * * * *
POCKET HANDKERCHIEFS.
These useful appendages to dress were certainly not in use with the Greeks. The most ancient text wherein handkerchiefs are expressly mentioned, describes them as long cloths, called oraria, used and worn by senators “ad emungendum et exspuendum;” that use is said to have grown out of the convenience of the orarium, which is supposed to have been merely used at first to wave for applause in the public shows. Mr. Fosbroke presumes it to have been the “swat-cloth” of the Anglo-Saxons; for one called mappula and manipulus was then worn on the left side to wipe the nose. In subsequent ages there was the manuariolum, one carried in the hand during summer, on account of perspiration. Queen Elizabeth wore handkerchiefs of party-coloured silk, or cambric, edged with gold lace.
* * * * *
PICKPOCKETS.
The old robbers, in the “good old times,” when purses were carried in the hand or borne at the side, cut them away, and carried them off with the contents, and hence they were called “cut-purses.” In the scarce “History of Highwaymen,” by Smith, there is a story of a ludicrous private robbery, from “the person” of a man, mistakenly committed by one of these cut-purses. One of Shakspeare’s rogues, Autolycus, says, that “to have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is necessary for a cut-purse.” Of course, “pickpockets” are of modern origin; they “came up” with the wearing of pockets.
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays~
No. XXXI.
[From the “Triumphant Widow,” a Comedy, by the Duke of Newcastle, 1677.]
Humours of a Thief going to Execution.
Officers. Room for the prisoner there, room for the prisoner.
Footpad. Make room there; ’tis a strange thing a man cannot go to be hanged without crowding for it.
1st Fellow. Pray, Sir, were not you a kin to one Hinde?[322]
Footpad. No; I had run faster away then.
2d Fellow. Pray, prisoner, before your death clear your conscience, and tell me truly, &c.
(all ask him questions about robberies.)
Margery. I am sure you had my Lady’s gilt caudle cup.
Footpad. Yes, and would have kept it; but she has it again, has she not?
James. And the plate out of my buttery--
Footpad. Well, and had she not it again? what a plague would you have? you examine me, as if you would hang me, after I am hanged. Pray, officers, rid me of these impertinent people, and let me die in quiet.
1st Woman. O lord! how angry he is! that shews he is a right reprobate, I warrant you.
Footpad. I believe, if all of you were to be hanged, which I hope may be in good time, you would not be very merry.
2d Woman. Lord, what a down look he has!
1st Woman. Aye, and what a cloud in his forehead, goody Twattle, mark that--
2d Woman. Aye, and such frowning wrinkles, I warrant you, not so much as a smile from him.
Footpad. Smile, quoth she! Tho’ tis sport for you, ’tis none for me, I assure you.
1st Woman. Aye, but ’tis so long before you are hanged.
Footpad. I wish it longer, good woman.
1st Fellow. Prithee, Mr. Thief, let this be a warning to you for ever doing the like again.
Footpad. I promise you it shall.
2d Woman. That’s well; thank you with all my heart, la! that was spoken like a precious godly man now.
1st Woman. By my truly, methinks now he is a very proper man, as one shall see in a summer’s day.
Footpad. Aye, so are all that are hanged; the gallows adds a great deal of grace to one’s person.
2d Woman. I vow he is a lovely man; ’tis pity he should be taken away, as they say, in the flower of his age.
1st Officer. Come, dispatch, dispatch; what a plague shall we stay all day, and neglect our business, to hang one thief?
2d Officer. Pray, be hanged quickly, Sir; for I am to go to a Fair hard by.
1st Officer. And I am to meet some friends to drink out a stand of ale by and by.
1st Woman. Nay, pray let him speak, and die like a Christian.
2d Woman. O, I have heard brave speeches at this place before.
Footpad. Well, good people--if I may be bold to call you so--this Pulpit was not of my chusing. I shall shortly preach mortality to you without speaking, therefore pray take example by me, and then I know what will become of ye. I will be, I say, your memento mori, hoping you will all follow me.
1st Fellow. O he speaks rarely.
2d Fellow. Aye, does Latin it.
Footpad. I have been too covetous, and at last taken for it, and am very sorry for it. I have been a great sinner, and condemned for it, which grieves me not a little, that I made not my escape, and so I heartily repent it, and so I die with this true confession.
1st Woman (weeping). Mercy on him, for a better man was never hanged.
2d Woman. So true and hearty repentance, and so pious.
2d Fellow. Help him up higher on the ladder. Now you are above us all.
Footpad. Truly I desire you were all equal with me; I have no pride in this world.
1st Fellow. Will you not sing, Sir, before you are hanged?
Footpad. No, I thank you; I am not so merrily disposed.
Hangman. Come, are you ready?
Footpad. Yes, I have been preparing for you these many years.
1st Woman. Mercy on him, and save his better part.
2d Woman. You see what we must all come to.
(horn blows a reprieve.)
Officer. A reprieve! how came that?
Post. My Lady Haughty procured it.
Footpad. I will always say, while I live, that her Ladyship is a civil person.
1st Fellow. Pish, what must he not be hanged now?
2d Fellow. What, did we come all this way for this?
1st Woman. Take all this pains to see nothing?
Footpad. Very pious good people, I shall shew you no sport this day.
* * * * *
[From “Mamamouchi,” a Comedy, by Edward Ravenscroft, 1675.]
Foolish Lender.
Debtor. As to my affairs, you know I stand indebted to you.
Creditor. A few dribbling sums, Sir.
Debt. You lent ’em me very frankly, and with a great deal of generosity, and much like a gentleman.
Cred. You are pleased to say so.
Debt. But I know how to receive kindnesses, and to make returns according to the merits of the person that obliges me.
Cred. No man better.
Debt. Therefore pray let’s see how our accounts stand.
Cred. They are down here in my table book.
Debt. I am a man that love to acquit myself of all obligations as soon----
Cred. See the memorandum.
Debt. You have set it all down.
Cred. All.
Debt. Pray read--
Cred. Lent, the second time I saw you, one hundred guineas.
Debt. Right.
Cred. Another time fifty.
Debt. Yes.
Cred. Lent for a certain occasion, which I did not tell you, one hundred and fifty.
Debt. Did I not? that I should conceal any thing from my friend!
Cred. No matter.
Debt. It looks like mistrust, which is a wrong to friendship--
Cred. O Lord!
Debt. I am so ashamed!--for I dare trust my soul with you. I borrowed it, to lend a person of quality, whom I employed to introduce me to the King, and recommend to his particular favour, that I might be able to do you service in your affairs.
Cred. O did you so? then that debt is as it were paid; I’ll cross it out.
Debt. By no means; you shall have it, or I vow--
Cred. Well, Sir, as you please.
Debt. I vow I would ne’er have borrowed of you again, as long as you lived--but proceed--
Cred. Another time one hundred--
Debt. O, that was to send into France to my wife to bring her over, but the Queen would not part with her then; and since, she is fallen sick--
Cred. Alas!
Debt. But pretty well recovered--
Cred. These four sums make up four hundred guineas--
Debt. Just as can be; a very good account. Put down two hundred more, which I will borrow of you now; and then it will be just six hundred: that is, if it will be no inconvenience to you--
Cred. Euh, not in the least--
Debt. It is to make up a sum of two thousand pounds, which I am about to lay up in houses I have bought; but if it incommode you, I can have it elsewhere--
Cred. O, by no means--
Debt. You need but tell me, if it will be any trouble--
Cred. Lord, Sir, that you will think so--
Debt. I know some will be glad of the occasion to serve me; but these are favours only to be asked of special friends. I thought you, being my most esteemed friend, would take it ill, if you should come to hear of it, that I did not ask you first--
Cred. It is a great honour.
C. L.
[322] A noted Highwayman in those days.
* * * * *
FURS.--TIPPETS AND SCARFS.
To the Editor.
Dear sir,--Dr. Whitaker, in his “History of Craven,” makes several extracts from the Compotus of Bolton in Craven, a folio of a thousand pages, kept by the monastery; which book begins in 1290 and ends in 1325. On one item, “In fururâ de Buget, v_s._,” the doctor has the following note, which may be interesting to others besides the lovers of the delightful science of heraldry.
“In Fururâ de Buget. In the middle ages, fur of different species formed an elegant and comfortable appendage, not only to professional habits, but to the ordinary dress of both sexes, from the sovereign to the private gentleman. Beneath the latter rank, none but the coarsest kinds were ever in use, which they certainly wore; for Chaucer, who intended to clothe his personification of Avarice in the garb of Poverty, allows her, notwithstanding, ‘a burnette cote, furred with no meniveere, but with a furre rough of lambe skynnes, hevy and blacke.’ (Rom. Ros.) The different sorts enumerated in the Compotus are, the buget, or budge, gris, de ventre leporino, the white fur of the hare’s belly, and de pellibus agninis, or lambs’ skins. The last of these, which still forms the lining of the hoods of the bachelors of arts at Cambridge, was anciently worn both by bishops and noblemen. For the first, see Mr. Warton’s note on ‘Comus,’ edit. i. p. 146; and the inventory of the wardrope of the second earl of Cumberland in that volume. With respect to budge, or buget, it is understood by Mr. Warton (note on Comus, line 709) to be fur in general; but this interpretation is negatived by the terms of the present article, fururâ de buget. Whatever budge may have been, it is unknown to Du Cange, who has, with immense labour and erudition, collected every thing known on the subject in the middle ages. It was certainly scarce and expensive, being used for the lining of the prior’s (Bolton) hood alone. After all, I suspect it to have been the skin of the Lithuanian weasel.[323] Even as late as Dr. Caiius’s time, the hoods of the regent masters of arts of Cambridge were lined ‘pelle arminâ seu Lituana candidâ.’ Lituan is sometimes used by the old writers on heraldry as synonymous with ermine. If I am right in my conjecture, therefore, budge so nearly resembled ermine, that either skin might be used indifferently as a badge of the same academical rank. And this accounts for Milton’s epithet ‘budge,’ as applied to doctors, whose congregation robes at Cambridge are still faced with ermine. Gris, I think, was the skin of the grey, or badger.[324] The sleeves of Chaucer’s monk, ‘a fayre prelate,’ who was gayly and expensively habited, were ‘purfited with gris:’ and in the head of a bishop in painted glass, I have a fine specimen of this fur in the form of a tippet about the neck.
“It seems that, in the middle ages, ecclesiastics were apt to luxuriate in the use of beautiful and costly furs: ‘Ovium itaque et agnorum despiciuntur exuviæ; ermelini, gibelini (sables) martores exquiruntur et vulpes.’ This vanity was checked by an English sumptuary law--‘Statutum est ne quis escarleto, in Anglorum gente, sabelino, vario, vel grisèo uteretur,’ Brompton, Anno 1188. Again, in two MSS. quoted by Du Cange, to whom I am also indebted for the foregoing passage, the expensive furs are enumerated thus,
‘Vairs et gris, et ermines, et sables de rosie:’
and again,
‘Sables, ermines, et vair, et gris.’
Vair was the skin of the Mus Ponticus, a kind of weasel, the same animal with the ermine, but in a different state, i. e. killed in summer when the belly was white and the back brown, whence it obtained the name of ‘Varia.’ The ancient mineveere was ‘minuta varia,’ or fur composed of these diminutive skins; and Drayton was learned and accurate when he gave his well-dressed shepherd ‘mittons[325] of bauson’s skin;’ that is, of gris, and a hood of mineveere. With respect to sables, I have only to add, that from their grave and sober elegance, they were retained as tippets in the habits of bishops and other dignitaries in England to the time of queen Elizabeth, when they gave place to a similar ornament of silk, the origin of the present scarf, which continued to be called a tippet till the reign of Charles II. See Baxter’s life, where we find that puritan, when sworn in king’s chaplain, refusing to wear the tippet.”
I am, &c.
T. Q. M.
[323] I have since discovered that budge is the same with “shanks,” one of the many kinds of fur enumerated in the statute of the 24th Hen. VIII.; that is, a very delicate white skin stripped from the legs of a fine haired kid, and almost equal in value, as well as in appearance, to ermine. It is not impossible that the name may have been derived from the verb “budge,” as the legs are the instruments of locomotion. See Minshew, in voce Furre. Note to second edit. Whitaker’s Craven.
[324] In the dialect of Craven, cornfactors or millers are called badgers. Why is this?--the derivation in Mr. Carr’s work, “Horæ Momenta Cravenæ,” Teut. Ratsen discurrere, seems to me very far-fetched. I am inclined to think that millers obtained the name from the colour of their clothes. T. Q. M.
[325] Mittons are gloves with no fingers, having only a place for the thumb. They are much worn in Craven, and the Scotch shepherds, many of whom are constantly there, earn a little money by the sale of them: they knit them with common wood skewers. T. Q. M.
* * * * *
BUDGE BACHELORS.--BUDGE-ROW.
In the old lord mayors’ processions of London, there were, in the first division, the “budge bachelors marching in measured order.”[326] These budge-bachelors go in the “Lord Mayor’s Show” to the present day, dressed in blue gowns trimmed with budge coloured fur, white. Bishop Corbet, in his “Iter Boreale,” speaks of
----------- a most officious drudge, His face and gown drawn out with the same budge;
implying, that his beard and habit were of like colour. Budge-row, Cannon-street, according to Stow, was “so called of budge-fur, and of skinners dwelling there.”
*
[326] See the “London Pageant” of 1680, in “Hone on Mysteries.”
* * * * *
DAIRY POETRY.
To the Editor.
Sir,--You may perhaps think the “Old Arm Chair” worthy a place in your amusing columns. It is the production of a self-taught, or natural genius, like Bloomfield, living in the fens of this place, and carrying on the business of a small dairyman.
Isle of Ely,
Yours obediently,
Aug. 14, 1827.
M. W.
THE OLD ARM CHAIR.
See Table Book, vol. i. p. 786.
What recollections of the past, Of scenes gone by, and days that were, Crowd through my mind whene’er I cast A look upon my father’s chair.
How often have I climb’d his knees To pat his cheek, and stroke his hair; The kind paternal kiss to seize, When seated in this old arm chair.
And much of monitory lore, Which bade me of the world beware; His tongue has utter’d o’er and o’er, When seated in this old arm chair.
When ev’ning call’d us round the hearth. And storms disturb’d the wintry air; What merry tales of social mirth Have issued from this old arm chair.
With summer’s toil and heat o’ercome, When weary nature sought repair; Oft has he thrown his languid frame, Exhausted, in this old arm chair.
When adverse fortune cross’d his road, And bow’d him down with anxious care; How has he sigh’d beneath the load, When seated in this old arm chair.
But death long since has clos’d his eyes; And peacefully he slumbers, where A grassy turf is seen to rise, And fills no more this old arm chair.
Ev’n that which does those scenes recall, Which age and wasting worms impair Must shortly into pieces fall, And cease to be an old arm chair.
Yet while its smallest parts remain, My fancy shall behold him there; And memory stir those thoughts again, Of him who fill’d the old arm chair.
* * * * *
For the Table Book.
SONNET
TO T. HOOD, ESQ. WRITTEN AFTER READING HIS “PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.”
Delightful bard! what praises meet are thine, More than my verse can sound to thee belong; Well hast thou pleaded, with a tongue divine, In this thy sweet and newly breathed song, Where, like the stream, smooth numbers gliding throng; Gather’d, methinks I see the elfin race, With the Immortal standing them among, Smiling benign with more than courtly grace; Rescued I see them,--all their gambols trace, With their fair queen Titania in her bower, And all their avocations small embrace, Pictur’d by thee with a Shakspearean power-- O when the time shall come thy soul must flee, Then may some hidden spirit plead for thee.
EDWARD MOXON.
* * * * *
For the Table Book.
THE QUINTAIN.
----------------- My better parts Are all thrown down; and that which here stands up, Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.
As You Like it.
Mr. Chalmers, in his edition of Shakspeare, gives the following annotation on the preceding passage:--“A quintain was a post, or butt, set up for several kinds of martial exercises, against which they threw their darts, and exercised their arms. But all the commentators are at variance about this word, and have illustrated their opinions with cuts, for which we must refer the reader to the new edition, 21 vols. 8vo.”
Ben, the satirical sorrel Ben Jonson, thus notices this same quintin, quintain, or gwyntyn, as the Welsh spell it:--
----------- At quintin he In honour of his bridal-tee. Hath challenged either wide countee; Come cut and long taile, for there be Six batchelors as bold as he, Adjuting to his company, And each one hath his livery.
The word gwyntyn literally meant vane, and was corrupted by the English into quintin, or quintain. Thus, we may naturally suppose, that this ancient custom, and more particularly bridal game, was borrowed by the Britons from the Welsh, who had it from the Romans on their invasion of England. It is mentioned by Minshew, as being a sport held every fifth year among the Olympic games, or it was the last of the πενταθλοι, used on the fifth or last day of the Olympics: it is supposed to be a Roman game, and left in this island ever since their time.
Dr. Kennet, in his “Parochial Antiquities,” from Dr. Plot, says, that at the village of Blackthorn, through which the Roman road lay, they use it at their weddings to this day, on the common green, with much solemnity and mirth.[327]
Dr. Johnson says, I know not from whence it is derived; Minshew deduces it from quintus, and calls it a game celebrated every fifth year; palus quintanus, and from quintaine, French. It is, says he, an upright post, on the top of which a cross-post turned upon a pin; at one end of the cross-post was a broad board, and at the other a heavy sand-bag; the play was, to ride against the broad end with a lance, and pass by before the sand-bag, coming round, should strike the tilter to the ground. Sir Henry Spelman, who was a spectator of the game, coincides with this account, and says, “by which means, striking at the board, whirls round the bag and endangers the striker.” At weddings, in England and Wales, it was a constant amusement, and so generally practised in the latter country, that it may almost be said to class with their sports and manners.
In Roberts’s “Popular Antiquities of Wales,”[328] there is the following account of this ancient manly amusement. “On the day of the ceremony, the nuptial presents having previously been made, and the marriage privately celebrated at an early hour, the signal to the friends of the bridegroom was given by the piper, who was always present on these occasions, and mounted on a horse trained for the purpose; and the cavalcade being all mounted, set off at full speed, with the piper playing in the midst of them, for the house of the bride. The friends of the bride in the mean time having raised various obstructions to prevent their access to the house of the bride, such as ropes of straw across the road, blocking up the regular one, &c., and the quintain; the rider in passing struck the flat side, and if not dexterous was overtaken, and perhaps dismounted, by the sand-bag, and became a fair object for laughter. The gwyntyn was also guarded by champions of the opposite party; who, if it was passed successfully, challenged the adventurers to a trial of skill at one of the four and twenty games--a challenge which could not be declined; and hence to guard the gwyntyn was a service of high adventure.”
In Henry the Third’s time, or about the year 1253, it was much in fashion in almost every part of the kingdom: this game was sometimes played, by hanging a shield upon a staff fixed in the ground, and the skilful squire riding by struck the shield in such a manner as to detach it from its ligatures;[329] but this was of a less dangerous nature, and only used when the quintain could not be obtained.
There was another, but more hazardous manner, to those who were not skilled by habit in the use of the lance and javelin. It consisted of two large poles being drove into the ground, far enough apart to allow a man on horseback to ride full speed between them: at the top of these was an immense heavy sand-bag, fixed on a pivot, so as to swing freely round, and backward and forward, with amazing rapidity: this the young aspirant for chivalric honours delighted in, as a grand treat for the display of his personal bravery and contempt for danger. He commenced by reining in his steed opposite to the sand-bag, then dashing away at full speed, at the same time hurling the javelin at the bag with considerable force, and passing between the poles before it could resume its original position. Many of the squires and yeomen of Richard with the Lion-heart, held it in great esteem; and they would often pass through the supporters, regain their javelin, return back before the bag had sufficient time to fall, and ride bravely off without a single blow from this heavy instrument of pleasure. He who executed this feat in a handsome manner was declared victor, and the prize to which he became entitled was a peacock.
In the princely fête given by sir Rhys ap Thomas, in honour of his being admitted companion of the illustrious order of the Garter, it is mentioned thus:--“When they had dined they went to visit eache captaine in his quarters, wheare they found everie man in action, some wrestling, some hurling at the barr, some taking of the pike, some running at the quintaine, &c.” Dr. Watts thus explains it:--“A ludicrous and sportive way of tilting or running on horseback at some mark hung on high, moveable, and turning round; which, while the riders strike at with lances, unless they ride quickly off, the versatile beam strikes upon their shoulders.”
I earnestly recommend for the perusal of the reader, (if he delights in “merie deedes an’ greenewoodee sportes, inn thee brighte formes of ladees highh, immersed in uncouthe donjons, by treacherouse kings, greate lords, an’ mightee knights,”) the tale of “Castle Baynard,” in which he will find many very interesting customs, and more particularly, an excellent delineation of the above game. The author of this delightful little story is Hal Willis, who is possessed of considerable talent, and a knowledge of our ancestorial manners.
F. C. N.
[327] Vide also Mat. Paris: and Strype’s “History of London,” vol. i. 1st part, page 249, who delineates its figure.
[328] Page 162.
[329] Mill’s History of Chivalry.
* * * * *
A FARTHING LORD.
Lord Braco, an ancestor of the earl of Fife, was remarkable for practising that celebrated rule, “Get all you can, and keep all you get.” One day, walking down the avenue from his house, he saw a farthing lying at his feet, which he took up and carefully cleaned. A beggar passing at the same time, entreated his lordship would give him the farthing, saying, it was not worth a nobleman’s attention. “Fin’ a farthing to yoursel’, puir body,” replied his lordship, and carefully put the coin into his breeches pocket.
In addition to being his own farthing fin’er, his lordship was his own factor and rent-collector. A tenant who called upon him to pay his rent happened to be deficient a single farthing. This amount could not be excused; and the farmer had to seek the farthing. When the business was adjusted, the countryman said to his lordship, “Now Braco, I wou’d gie ye a shillin’ for a sight o’ a’ the goud an’ siller ye hae.”--“Weel, mon,” replied Braco, “it’s no cost ye ony mair;” and accordingly, for and in consideration of the aforesaid sum, in hand first well and truly paid, his lordship exhibited several iron boxes filled with gold and silver coin. “Now,” says the farmer, “I’m as rich as yoursel’, Braco.”--“Aye, mon!” said his lordship, “how can that be?”--“Because I’ve seen it--an’ you can do nae mair.”
* * * * *
SINGULAR TOLL.
SKIPTON IN CRAVEN.
From a paper of Henry the Eighth’s time, among the MSS. at Skipton, I find that the following singular toll was anciently levied in Skirack and Crookrise:
“Note, that theise customes hayth ben used tyme out of mynd, by y^{e} report of Rob. Garth, forster ther; the whych s-ay-eth, that he in all his tyme, and his father afore him in y^{t} office, always hayth taken the sayd customes:
“First, that ev’ry bryde cumynge that waye shulde eyther gyve her lefte shoo or III_s._ IV_d._ to the forster of Crookryse, by way of custome or gaytcloys.”
The rest only relate to tolls taken for the passage of sheep, cattle, and wool.
The commutation was so high, that I suppose the penalty would generally be paid in kind; and by this ungallant custom, the poor brides of Craven would be reduced to tread the rugged ways of Crookrise in the situation of the light-footed sons of Thestius--
----το λαιον ιχνος αναζβυλοι ωοδος, Τονδ εν ωεδιλοις.--
Eurip. in Fragm.[330]
[330] Dr. Whitaker’s History of Craven.
* * * * *
A CURIOUS NARRATIVE.
For the Table Book.
PRINCE GEORGE OF DENMARK, AND SIR JOHN AND LADY DUDDLESTONE.
The following very remarkable anecdote is accompanied by a reference to the only work of any authority wherein I have met with it.
Prince George of Denmark, the nominal king-consort to queen Anne, in passing through Bristol, appeared on the Exchange, attended only by one gentleman, a military officer, and remained there till the merchants had pretty generally withdrawn, not one of them having sufficient resolution to speak to him, as perhaps they might not be prepared to ask such a guest to their houses. But this was not the case with all who saw him, for a person, whose name was John Duddlestone, a bodice-maker, in Corn-street, went up and asked the prince if he was not the husband of the queen, who informed him he was. John Duddlestone then told the prince, that he had observed, with a great deal of concern, that none of the merchants had invited him home to dinner, adding, it was not for want of love to the queen or to him, but because they did not consider themselves prepared to entertain so great a man; but John said, he was ashamed to think of his dining at an inn, and requested him to go and dine with him, and bring the gentleman along with him, informing him that he had a piece of good beef and a plum pudding, and ale of his dame’s own brewing. The prince admired the loyalty of the man, and though he had bespoke a dinner at the White Lion, went with him; and when they got to the house, Duddlestone called his wife, who was up stairs, desiring her to put on a clean apron and come down, for the queen’s husband and another gentleman were come to dine with them; she accordingly came down with her clean blue apron, and was immediately saluted by the prince. In the course of the dinner, the prince asked him if he ever went to London? He said, that since the ladies had worn stays instead of bodices, he sometimes went to buy whalebone; whereupon the prince desired him to take his wife when he went again, at the same time giving him a card, to facilitate his introduction to him at court.
In the course of a little time, John Duddlestone took his wife behind him to London, and, with the assistance of the card, found easy admittance to the prince, and by him they were introduced to the queen, who invited them to an approaching dinner, informing them that they must have new clothes for the occasion, allowing them to choose for themselves. Each therefore chose purple velvet, such as the prince had then on, which was accordingly provided for them, and in that dress they were introduced by the queen herself, as the most loyal persons in the city of Bristol, and the only ones in that city who had invited the prince her husband to their house; and after the entertainment, the queen, desiring him to kneel down, laid a sword on his head, and (to use lady Duddlestone’s own words) said to him, “Ston up, sir Jan.”
Sir “Jan” was offered money, or a place under government, but he did not choose to accept of either, informing the queen that he had “fifty pounds out at use,” and he apprehended that the number of people he saw about her must be very expensive. The queen, however, made lady Duddlestone a present of her gold watch from her side, which “my lady” considered as no small ornament, when she went to market, suspended over a blue apron.
I first found this interesting account in “Corry’s History of Bristol,” which was published a few years ago; but whence it was derived that author does not mention. As the editor of the Table Book is equally uninformed, perhaps some of his correspondents may be able to point out its origin; and, if it be authentic, communicate some particulars respecting the worthy knight and his dame.
* * * * *
~Discoveries~
OF THE
ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.
No. VI.
THE CORPUSCULAR PHILOSOPHY.
The two illustrious moderns, Newton and Gassendi, attribute the continual change which happens in bodies to the different figure and magnitude of their minute corpuscles; and affirm, that their different junction or separation, and the variety of their arrangement, constitute the differences of bodies. This corpuscular philosophy can be traced from the times of Democritus, to its founder Moschus the Phœnician. It does not appear that the Phœnician school admitted the indivisibility of atoms; whereas, Leucippus, Democritus, and Epicurus did. And so the philosophers in all ages, down to the Cartesians and Newtonians, admit the same. Aristotle, as great in metaphysics as able in mathematics, treats of it in his works of both kinds. A modern proposition respecting it has been deemed new, although anciently it was expressed in almost the very same terms.
The Newtonians say, “that the smallest parcel of matter is able to cover the largest extent of space, by the number of parts into which it may be divided; and that without so much as leaving any one pore of the smallest dimension uncovered.” Anaxagoras had previously said, that each body, of whatever size, was infinitely divisible; insomuch, that a particle so small as the half of the foot of the minutest insect, might furnish out of itself parts sufficient for covering an hundred million of worlds, without ever becoming exhaustible as to the number of its parts. Democritus expressed the like proposition, when he affirmed that it was “possible to make a world out of an atom.” Chrysippus says the same, when he maintains that a drop of wine may be divided into a number of parts, each of itself sufficient to mingle with all the small particles of the ocean.
MOTION--ITS ACCELERATION--THE FALL OF BODIES.
The ancients, as well as the moderns, define motion to be change of place, or the passing from one place to another; they knew the acceleration of bodies in falling, but not so exactly as to determine its law or cause. It was an axiom of Aristotle and the Peripatetics, that a body in falling acquired a celerity of motion, proportionable to its distance from the place whence the motion began; but they knew not that this increase of the celerity of falling bodies was uniform, and that the spaces passed over in equal times increased proportionably to the unequal numbers 1, 3, 5, 7, &c. Two mistakes of Aristotle hindered him from arriving at the truth. The first was, that there were two tendencies in body; one downwards, carrying it to the centre, in those that were heavy; the other upwards, removing it from it, in those that were light. His second error was, that he thought different bodies rolled through space with a celerity proportional to their masses. He did not consider that the resistance of the medium was the only cause of this difference; for supposing them to move through an irresisting medium, or in vacuo, the lightest bodies would then fall with the same velocity as the heaviest. This is demonstrated by means of the air-pump, wherein paper, lead, and gold, descend with equal swiftness.
Yet all the ancients were not thus ignorant. Lucretius, instructed in the principles of Democritus and Epicurus, arrived at this knowledge, and supports it by such arguments, as might do honour to the most experienced naturalist of our times.--“Admitting that there was nothing in the vacuum to resist the motion of bodies, it necessarily followed, that the lightest would descend with a celerity equal to the weightiest; that where there was no resistance in the medium, bodies must always move through equal spaces in equal times; but that the case would be different in such mediums, as opposed divers degrees of resistance to the bodies passing through them.” Hereupon, he alleges the very same reasonings which Galileo draws from experience to support his theory. He says, that “the difference of velocities ought to increase or abate, according to the difference of resistance in the medium; and that because air and water resist bodies differently, they fall through these mediums with different degrees of velocity.” We shall presently see, that the ancients were acquainted with the principle of gravitation.
* * * * *
GRASSINGTON THEATRICALS.
To the Editor.
Dear sir,--When I sent you the sketch of “Tom Airay” of this place, and his associates, I was not aware that the practice of acting plays was a very ancient one in the parish of Linton, (in which this place is.) The following extract from Whitaker’s history will prove this to have been the case, and that Airay was “the last of a bright band.” It will doubtless be perused with interest by many of the inhabitants of Craven, very few of whom I am inclined to think know of the circumstance. Whitaker’s history is an expensive work, and only in the hands of a few.
“Many of these amusements were long after in use at Linton. But the most popular of their amusements was the practice of acting old plays, continued, I have no doubt, from the old ‘Kirk Sights,’ and clerk plays, though I can trace it in Craven no farther than 1606, where I find the following article in the accounts of Francis, earl of Cumberland:--
“‘Item, paid to the yonge men of the town, (Skipton,) being his l’ps tenants and servants, to fit them for acting plays this Christmas, IIII_s._’
“In the interval of a century from this time, it does not seem that they had much improved their stock of dramas; for, within the recollection of old persons with whom I have conversed, one of their favourite performances was ‘The Iron Age,’ by Heywood, a poet of the reign of James I., whose work, long since become scarce, and almost forgotten, had probably been handed down from father to son, through all that period. But in every play, whether tragedy or comedy, the Vice constituted one of the dramatis personæ, and was armed, as of old, with a sword of lath, and habited in a loose party-coloured dress, with a fur-cap, and fox’s brush behind. In some parts of Craven these personages were called clowns, as in Shakspeare’s time, and too often and too successfully attempted to excite a laugh by ribaldry and nonsense of their own; a practice which is very properly reprehended in Hamlet.
“In the ‘Destruction of Troy’ this personage easily united with Thersites; but he was often found in situations where his appearance was very incongruous, as ex. gr. in ‘George Barnwell.’ These rustic actors had neither stage nor scenes, but performed in a large room, what is called the ‘house,’[331] of an ordinary dwelling.
“Sometimes they fabricated a kind of rude drama for themselves; in which case, as it is not likely that the plot would be very skilfully developed, the performers entered one by one, and each uttered a short metrical prologue, which they very properly chose to call a fore-speech. For why should these honest Englishmen be indebted to the Grecian stage for the word prologue, when they were certainly beholden to it for nothing else?
“In these fabrications, I believe, the subjects were frequently taken from printed plays; but the texture was of very inferior workmanship. For this I must beg my reader to give me credit; though, if all readers had the same relish for what, in the language of dulness, is called low, with Dr. Farmer and Mr. Warton, I could excite more than a smile by their travestie of the ‘Merchant of Venice.’ An old inhabitant of this place, (Linton,) whom I well knew, had the reputation of a dramatic manufacturer, though he had, in reality, no talents beyond those of an actor. But his fame drew upon him an awkward application; which, as the stated price of these services was three half crowns, he parried very dexterously by demanding half a guinea. Thus much for the chapter of amusements.”
In mentioning Airay’s stage companions I forgot to name Sim Coates, one of the principal. He was a club-footed man, and used to perform the “Fair Penitent!” He is lately dead.
I am, &c.
Grassington in Craven,
T. Q. M.
Aug. 1, 1827.
[331] So is a kitchen called in the Craven dialect.
* * * * *
THE GIN ACT--NAMES OF DRAMS.
On the 29th of September, 1736, when the bill against spirituous liquors took place, several people at Norwich, Bristol, and other places, as well as at London, made themselves very merry on the “Death of Madam Gin,” and some of both sexes got soundly drunk at her “funeral,” for which the mob made a formal procession, but committed no outrage.
A double guard for some days mounted at Kensington; the guard at St. James’s, and the horse-guards at Whitehall, were reinforced; a guard was placed at the Rolls Office, Chancery-lane; and a detachment of the life and horse grenadier guards paraded in Covent Garden, &c. in order to suppress any tumult that might happen at the going down of spirituous liquors.
Several of the distillers took out licenses to sell wine, others made preparations to take to the brewing-trade, and some went down to Oxford and Cambridge to open taverns there. The accounts of that period state, that the university of Oxford intended to try their right with them; the privilege of licensing vintners having been granted to it by a charter of Henry VIII., and afterwards confirmed by an act of parliament in 13 Elizabeth.
The distillers and others in different parts of the town sold a liquor, which seems to have been wine, with spices infused therein; and several continuing to sell spirituous liquors contrary to the act, informations were laid against them to the commissioners of excise.
Drams under the following names were sold at several brandy-shops in High Holborn, St. Giles’s, Tothill-street, Rosemary-lane, Shoreditch, the Mint, Kent-street, &c. viz. “Sangree,” “Tow Row,” “Cuckold’s Comfort,” “Parliament Gin,” “Bob,” “Make Shift,” “The Last Shift,” “The Ladies’ Delight,” “The Balk,” “King Theodore of Corsica,” “Cholick and Gripe Waters.” These denominations were with a view to evade the late act.
On the 14th of October, 1736, there came on before the commissioners of excise the trials of Mr. Robert Kirkpatrick, surgeon and apothecary in Turnmill-street, and Mr. John Thomas, chymist at Shoreditch, on informations for retailing spirituous liquors, contrary to the intent and meaning of the act; and they were both found guilty. The penalty was one hundred pounds each.
G. K.
* * * * *
A YOUNG POET’S OWN EPITAPH.
A few weeks before John Keats died of decline, at Rome, a gentleman, who was sitting by his bedside, spoke of an inscription to his memory. Keats desired that there should be no mention of his name or country. “If there be any thing,” he said, “let it be, Here lies the body of one whose name was writ in water.”
* * * * *
For the Table Book.
TIME.
Oh Time, that ever with resistless wing Cuts off our joys and shortens all our pain, Thou great destroyer that doth always bring Relief to man--all bow beneath thy reign; Nations before thee fall, and the grim king Of death and terror follows in thy train. Thou bring’st the cup of Lethe to the mind, Which else on earth no joy could ever find.
Little in youth we think upon thy flight, Nor catch the lesson of each passing day, Till, when too late, it bursts upon our sight, And thou hast crowned us with thy cap of grey: Our friends for ever fled, and all the light That gilded this dim world hath passed away On to eternity--thro’ that sad portal Which parts us, and assures us man is mortal.
Thou teachest us the vanity of earth. With which, in spite of thee, we are delighted, And lead’st us quickly onward from our birth Unto old age, then leav’st us there benighted; Where all our earthly pleasures, joys, and mirth Fade fast away, like young leaves seared and blighted. And hope, that lured us onward, then, we find, Was but an ignis fatuus of the mind.
S.
* * * * *
HACKERSTON’S COW.
This is a Scotch proverb, the application of which may be inferred from the following account of its origin. A tenant of lord Hackerston, who was one of the judges of the court of session, one day waited on his lordship with a woful countenance. “My lord,” said he, “I am come to inform your lordship of a sad misfortune, my cow has gored one of your lordship’s cows, so that I fear it cannot live.”--“Well, then, you must pay for it.”--“Indeed, my lord, it was not my fault, and you know I am a very poor man.”--“I can’t help that, I say you must pay for it; I am not to lose my cow.”--“Well, my lord, if it must be so I cannot say against your lordship,--but stop, my lord, I believe I have made a mistake, it was your lordship’s cow that gored mine.” “O! that is quite a different affair,--go along and don’t trouble me, I am busy--go along, I say.”
* * * * *
ROPE-RIDING ON HORSEBACK, ON ST. MARK’S DAY AT VENICE.
The gaiety and splendour exhibited in the place of St. Mark at Venice on this anniversary, is extremely attractive. Formerly, among the remarkable customs in honour of this the patron saint of the city, it was usual for a man to ascend and descend a rope stretched from the summit of St. Mark’s tower, and secured at a considerable distance from the base.
On the last day of February, 1680, the doge, the senate, and the imperial ambassador, with about fifty thousand spectators, beheld the annual solemnity. In the first place appeared certain butchers, in their roast-meat clothes; one of which, with a Persian scimitar, cut off the heads of three oxen, one after another, at one blow, to the admiration of the beholders, who had never seen the like either in Venice, or any other part of the world. But that which caused greater wonder was this:--A person, adorned in a tinsel riding habit, having a gilt helmet upon his head, and holding in his right hand a lance, in his left a helmet made of a thin piece of plate gilded, and sitting upon a white horse, with a swift pace ambled up a rope six hundred feet long, fastened from the quay to the top of St. Mark’s tower. When he had arrived half way, his tinsel coat fell off, and he made a stand, and stooping his lance submissively, saluted the doge sitting in the palace, and flourished the banner three times over his head. Then, resuming his former speed, he went on, and, with his horse, entered the tower where the bell hangs; and presently returning on foot, he climbed up to the highest pinnacle of the tower; where, sitting on the golden angel, he flourished his banner again several times. This performed, he descended to the bell-tower; and there taking horse, rode down again to the bottom in like manner as he had ascended.[332]
“Whoever,” says Mrs. Piozzi, “sees St. Mark’s Place lighted up of an evening, adorned with every excellence of human art, and pregnant with pleasure, expressed by intelligent countenances sparkling with every grace of nature--the sea washing its walls--the moon-beams dancing on its subjugated waves--sport and laughter resounding from the coffee-houses--girls with guitars skipping about the square--masks and merry-makers singing as they pass you--unless a barge with a band of music is heard at some distance upon the water, and calls attention to sounds made sweeter by the element over which they are brought;--whoever is led suddenly,” says Mrs. Piozzi, “to this scene of seemingly perennial gaiety, will be apt to exclaim in Venice, as Eve does to Adam in Milton,
With thee conversing, I forget all time, All seasons, and their change--all please alike!”
[332] Malcolm’s Manners of Europe.
* * * * *
REV MR. WILSON, THE MAN IN THE MOON.
It will now give pain to no one, if I notice Mr. Wilson, formerly curate of Halton Gill, near Skipton in Craven, and father of the late Rev. Edward Wilson, canon of Windsor. He wrote a tract, entitled “The Man in the Moon,” which was seriously meant to convey the knowledge of common astronomy in the following strange vehicle:
A cobbler, Israel Jobson by name, is supposed to ascend first to the top of Pennigint; and thence, as a second stage equally practicable, to the moon! after which he makes a tour of the whole solar system. From this excursion, however, the traveller brings back little information which might not have been had upon earth, excepting that the inhabitants of one of the planets, I forget which, were made of “pot metal.” The work contains some other extravagancies; but the writer, after all, was a man of talent, and has abundantly shown that had he been blessed with a sound mind and a superior education, he would have been capable of much better things. If I had the book before me I could quote single sentences here and there, which in point of composition rise to no mean degree of excellence. It is rarely to be met with, having, as I am told, been industriously bought up by his family. I have only seen one copy, and my recollection of what I read in it is not very particular.[333]
Mr. Wilson had also good mechanical hands, and carved well in wood, a talent which he applied to several whimsical purposes. But his chef-d’œuvre was an oracular head, like that of friar Bacon and the disciple of the famous Escotillo, with which he diverted himself and amazed his neighbours, till a certain reverend wiseacre threatened to complain of the poor man to his metropolitan as an enchanter! After this the oracle was mute.[334]
[333] Could any reader of the Table Book forward a copy?--ED.
[334] Rev. Dr. Whitaker’s History of Craven.
* * * * *
SUMMER SHOWERS--SCORCHED LEAVES.
In the summer, after some days of fine weather, during the heat of the day, if a storm happens, accompanied with a few light showers of rain, and the sun appears immediately after with its usual splendour, it burns the foliage and the flowers on which the rain had fallen, and destroys the hopes of the orchard. The intense heat, which the ardour of the sun produces at that time on the leaves and flowers, is equal to that of burning iron. Naturalists have sought for the cause of this strange effect, but they have said nothing which satisfies a reasonable mind. This is, however, the fact: in the serene days of the summer it is visible that there gathers on the foliage and the flowers, as, indeed, on every other part, a little dust, sometimes more and sometimes less, scattered by the wind. When the rain falls on this dust, the drops mix together, and take an oval or round form, as we may frequently observe in our houses on the dusty floor, when servants scatter water before they sweep. These globes of water form convex lenses, which produce the same effect as burning mirrors. Should the rain be heavy and last long, the sun would not produce this burning heat, because the force and duration of the rain will have destroyed the dust that formed these drops of water; and the drops, losing their globular form, in which alone consisted their caustic power, will be dispersed.[335]
[335] Peter Huet.
* * * * *
ROYAL SUMMER-HOUSE, IN SIAM.
The king of Siam has in one of his country palaces a most singular pavilion. The tables, the chairs, the closets, &c. are all composed of crystal. The walls, the ceiling, and the floors, are formed of pieces of plate glass, of about an inch thick, and six feet square, so nicely united by a cement, which is as transparent as glass itself, that the most subtile fluid cannot penetrate. There is but one door, which shuts so closely, that it is as impenetrable to the water as the rest of this singular building. A Chinese engineer constructed it thus as a certain remedy against the insupportable heat of the climate. This pavilion is twenty-eight feet in length, and seventeen in breadth; it is placed in the midst of a great basin, paved and ornamented with marble of various colours. They fill this basin with water in about a quarter of an hour, and it is emptied as quickly. When you enter the pavilion the door is immediately closed, and cemented with mastic, to hinder the water from entering; it is then that they open the sluices; and this great basin is soon filled with water, which is even suffered to overflow the land; so that the pavilion is entirely under water, except the top of the dome, which is left untouched for the benefit of respiration. Nothing is more charming than the agreeable coolness of this delicious place, while the extreme heat of the sun boils the surface of the freshest fountains.[336]
[336] Furetiere.
* * * * *
SPANISH PUNCTILIO.
On occasion of the decease of the queen mother of Spain in 1696, the Paris papers gravely relate the following particulars of a dispute respecting precedence.
The officers of the crown and the grandees of the kingdom assembled at the usual time to open her majesty’s will; but finding that the first lady of the queen’s chamber, who ought by virtue of her office to have been present, was absent, the august body sent a messenger, requesting her attendance. The first lady, deeming the message a gross attack upon her privileges and high importance, indignantly replied, that it was her indispensable duty not to leave her deceased royal mistress, and therefore the nobles must wait on her.
Thereupon ensued a negotiation by messages, which occupied eight hours. In the course of the discussion, the grandees insisted on their claims of precedence as an aggregate body, yet, individually, they considered themselves happy when complying with the commands of the ladies. Fixed in her resolution, the lady high-chamberlain acquainted her opponents with her final determination. The decision of the great officers and grandees was equally unalterable; but at the last they proposed, that “without rising from their seats, or moving themselves, they should be carried to a room at an equal distance between their own apartment and the lady high-chamberlain’s, who should be carried to the same place, seated upon a high cushion, in the same manner as she sat in the queen’s chamber, to the end it might be said, that neither side had made a step to meet each other.” It seems that the performance of the solemnity happily terminated the important difference.
* * * * *
BOSWELLIANA.
The following anecdotes are related by, or relate to, the well-known James Boswell, who conducted Dr. Johnson to the Highlands of Scotland.
It may be recollected that when Boswell took the doctor to his father’s house, the old laird of Auchinleck remarked, that “Jamie had brought an odd kind o’ a chiel’ wi’ him.” “Sir,” said Boswell, “he is the grand luminary of our hemisphere,--quite a constellation, sir.”--“Ursa Major, (the Great Bear,) I suppose,” said the laird.
Some snip-snap wit was wont to pass between sire and son. “Jamie” was bred an advocate, and sometimes pleaded at the bar. Pleading, on a particular occasion, before his father, who, at that time, was “Ordinary on the bills,” and saying something which his lordship did not like, he exclaimed to Jamie, “Ye’re an ass, mon.”--“No, my lord,” replied Jamie, “I am not an ass, but I am a colt, the foal of an ass!”
In 1785, Boswell addressed “a Letter to the People of Scotland” on a proposed alteration in the court of session. He says in this pamphlet, “When a man of probity and spirit, a lord Newhall, whose character is ably drawn in prose by the late lord president Arniston, and elegantly in verse by Mr. Hamilton of Bangour,--when such a man sits among our judges, should they be disposed to do wrong, he can make them hear and tremble. My honoured father told me, (the late lord Auchinleck,) that sir Walter Pringle ‘spoke as one having authority’--even when he was at the bar, ‘he would cram a decision down their throats.’”
Boswell tells, in the same “Letter,” that “Duncan Forbes of Culloden, when lord president of the court, gave every day as a toast at his table, ‘Here’s to every lord of session who does not deserve to be hanged!’ Lord Auchinleck and lord Monboddo, both judges, but since his time, are my authority,” says Boswell, “for this.--I do not say that the toast was very delicate, or even quite decent, but it may give some notion what sort of judges there may be.”
It is further related by Boswell, that a person was executed to please his laird. “Before the heritable jurisdictions were abolished, a man was tried for his life in the court of one of the chieftains. The jury were going to bring him in ‘not guilty,’ but somebody whispered them, that ‘the young laird had never seen an execution,’ upon which their verdict was--‘death;’ and the man was hanged accordingly.”
This is only to be paralleled by the story of the highland dame, whose sense of submission to the chief of her clan induced her to insinuate want of proper respect in her husband, who had been condemned, and showed some reluctance to the halter. “Git up, Donald,” said the “guid wife,” to her “ain guid man,” “Git up, Donald, and be hangit, an’ dinna anger the laird.”
* * * * *
BOWEL COMPLAINTS.
A RECIPE.
The writer of a letter to the editor of the “Times,” signed “W.” in August, 1827, communicates the following prescription, as particularly useful in diarrhœa, accompanied by inflammation of the bowels:--
Take of confection of catechu 2 drachms; simple cinnamon water 4 ounces; and syrup of white poppies 1 ounce. Mix them together, and give one or two table-spoonfuls twice or thrice a day as required. To children under ten years of age give a single dessert-spoon, and under two years a tea-spoonful, two or three times, as above stated.
This mixture is very agreeable, and far preferable to the spirituous and narcotic preparations usually administered. In the course of a few hours it abates the disorder, and in almost every instance infallibly cures the patient. During the fruit season it is especially valuable.
* * * * *
~Epitaph~
ON A MARINE OFFICER
Here lies retired from busy scenes A First Lieutenant of Marines; Who lately lived in peace and plenty On board the ship the Atalanta: Now, stripp’d of all his warlike show, And laid in box of elm below, Confined to earth in narrow borders, He rises not till further orders.[337]
[337] From the “Notes of a Bookworm.”
Vol. II.--36.
For the Table Book.
This eccentric individual, whose fertile pen procured him notoriety, was the son of a small grocer at March in the Isle of Ely. To use his favourite expression, he “came forth” on Friday, the 13th of April, 1735, O. S. He received the rudiments of his education under “dame Hawkins,” from whom he was removed to a most sagacious schoolmaster, named Wendall; and he “astonished his schoolfellows by the brilliancy of his genius,” till he was bound to his cousin Coward, of Lynn, to learn the art and mystery of a “glover and breeches-maker.” He had nearly passed through his apprenticeship, and attained to the age of twenty, unconscious of the numerous “ills that flesh is heir to,” when one day gazing at a small shop-window, nearly blinded by gloves and second-hand unmentionables, an accidental aperture favoured him with a glimpse of the too charming Miss Barbara Green, in the act of making wash-leather gloves. She was a maiden, and though something more than fifty, her fading beauty rendered her, to Nathan, all that
“Youthful poets fancy when they love.”
From that moment his eyes lost their lustre,--
“Love, like a worm i’ th’ bud, preyed on his damask cheek.”
He was to be seen pursuing his avocations at his “board of green cloth” day by day, sitting
----“Like Patience on a monument Smiling at grief.”
He “never told his love” till chance enabled him to make the idol of his hope the offer of his hand. “No,” said the too fascinating Barbara Green, “I will be an Evergreen.” The lady was inexorable, and Nathan was in despair; but time and reflection whispered “grieving’s a folly,” and “it’s better to have any wife than none,” and Nathan took unto himself another, with whom he enjoyed all the “ecstatic ecstasies” of domestic felicity.
Nathan’s business at Lynn became inadequate to his wants, and he removed to the village of Dersingham, a few miles distant; and there, as a “glover, poet, haberdasher, green-grocer, and psalm-singer,” he vegetated remote from vulgar throng, and beguiled his leisure by “cogitating in cogibundity of cogitation.”--Here it was, he tells us, that in 1775 he had a “wonderful, incomprehensible, and pathetic dream”--a vision of flames, in the shapes of “wig-blocks” and “Patagonian cucumbers,” attended with horrid crashes, like the noise of a thousand Merry Andrew’s rackets, which terrified and drove him to the “mouth of the sea;” where, surrounded by fire and water, he could only escape from dreadful destruction by--awaking. He believed that the fiery wig-blocks were “opened to him” in a dream as a caution, to preserve him from temptation. It was soon after this that, seeing one of his neighbours at the point of death, he “cogitated” the following
“REFLECTION.
“What creatures are we! Under the hands of he, Who created us for to be, Objects of his great mercy: And the same must I be, When years seventy, Creep upon me.”
On another occasion, while his wife was dangerously ill, Nathan, sitting by her bedside, became overwhelmed with “the influence of fancy,” and believing her actually dead, concocted this
“EPITAPH.
“My wife is dead,--she was the best, And I her bosom friend; Yes, she is gone,--her soul’s at rest, And I am left to mend.”
Nathan made a trifling mistake; for, “to his great surprise,” his wife recovered, and the epitaph was put by till the proper time should arrive.
Nathan’s dexterity in wielding his pen enabled him to serve unlettered swains in other matters, besides their nether garments. He wrote letters for them “on love or business,” in
“Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.”
The following ending of a “Love-letter written by particular desire,” is a specimen of his “effusions in prose.”
----“Marriage is like war; the battle causes fear, but the sweet hope of winning at the last stimulates us to proceed. But the effects of matrimony are much more agreeable than war, because the engagement may be accomplished without being prejudicial to the welfare of society. Were I to mention all the comparisons my warm imagination could furnish me with, it would swell this letter to a very great bulk.
“So to conclude;--the many inconveniences attending my being in business alone, are beyond conception; and I wish the fatigue to be abated by sharing it with some congenial soul, who may be intrusted with both secrets and circumstances, and all affairs of importance, too tedious to mention.”
Filled with self-importance by a lively sense of his vast acquirements, and his amazing utility to his village neighbours, he turned his thoughts to the “affairs of the nation” in the year 1799, and projected the salvation of the empire, by a plan of finance for raising adequate supplies to carry on the war against France with vigour. This he submitted in a spirited memorial, addressed
“TO THE HON. WM. PITT, First of Ministers, &c. &c. &c.
“May it please your gracious Honour, Dear sir, to take into your honourable consideration the undermentioned business, which at this critical crisis and expensive period wants very much to be put in practice, to the advantage of the world, the benefit of our own government, the public’s welfare, and the glory of Dersingham.”
Nathan’s memorial runs to great length, but he states its real “business” in a few words.--“Beloved and honourable sir, be not angry at my proposal, if not approved of, which is, to beg of all dukes, lords, earls, baronets, country squires, profound justices, gentlemen, great and rich farmers, topping tradesmen, and others, who, to my certain and inconceivable knowledge, have so much unnecessary ornamental and useless plate, of all sorts and descriptions, to deliver up the same immediately to government, to be made into money for the support of this just and necessary war. Honoured sir, my plan is not to debar any one from having a sufficient quantity of such like plate, but only that which stands and remains useless and unused, which would raise many hundreds, if not thousands of money. I have but little, yet I am (so is my wife, in God’s name) minded, willing, and desirous, out of half a dozen teaspoons, to deliver up half, which you know, mighty sir, will be exactly three.”
Nathan proceeds to say, that “Many useless things, such as great waiters, tea-kettles, frying and sauce pans, and sundry other articles in the gold and silver way, too tedious to mention, were they now turned into money, would supply your wants of cash. Brass, earthenware, pipe-clay, china and glass, nothing can be sweeter, nor look neater, and sufficient for any man or woman upon earth to eat and drink out of.--Mr. Pitt, these sentiments I deliver from my heart; they are the dictates of wisdom and the fruit of experience.--Was our good and gracious king, as also yourself, worthy Mr. Pitt, once to come down into the country, and take a survey of matters, you would be astonished how abundance of individuals live. Pray, sir, in God’s name, take off a few taxes from the necessaries of life, especially salt, sugar, leather, and parchment. I myself have but six or seven shillings a week coming in, and sometimes not that, by losses and bad debts; and now corn is risen, we labour under great apprehension in other articles.--Dear and noble sir, I once heard a sermon preached on a thanksgiving day, for the proclamation of peace, by one Rev. Mr. Stony, at Lynn, Norfolk, mentioning the whole calamities of the war; and he brought your honourable father in, very fine. I wish from the bottom of my heart I may shortly hear such a like one preached upon yourself.”
In conclusion, Nathan thus inquires of Mr. Pitt, “Honoured sir, from whence comes wars, and rumours of wars, cock-fightings, and burglaries?” Finally, says Nathan, “The limits of one sheet of paper being filled, I must conclude, with wishing well to our good and gracious king, the queen, and all the royal family; as also to your honour, Mr. Pitt, your consort, sons and daughters, (if any,) and family in general.”
Nathan established his public character by his epistle to Mr. Pitt. He made known its contents to all his friends, and shortly after he had transmitted it, he received an acknowledgment of thanks and a promise of reward, in a scrawling hand with an unintelligible signature; whereupon he sagely consoled himself with this remark, that great men, “despising the common, plebeian method of writing, generally scratch their names so illegible, that neither themselves nor any body else can read them.”
Nathan’s notoriety was now at its height. He usually visited Lynn once or twice a week; and flattered by the general encomiums bestowed on his transcendent abilities by his admirers in that ancient town, he ventured to disclose a long-cherished hope, the object of his ardent ambition, to appear in print as an author. His desire was fostered by several literary youths, resident in Lynn, to whom he submitted his writings for arrangement, and in 1800 they were published to the world under the title of “Quaint Scraps, or Sudden Cogitations.” Previous to its appearance, he received repeated congratulations on the forthcoming book. Among other “Commendatory Verses” was a poetical address, purporting to have been written in America, addressed “To Nathan Coward, the sage Author of Scraps and Cogitations, by Barnabas Boldero, LL.D. VS. MOPQ. &c. of the Cogitating College, Philadelphia.” This pleasing testimonial required Milton, and the “far-famed bards of elder times,” to give place to the rising luminary of the poetical hemisphere.
“Avaunt! avaunt! hide your diminish’d heads! When the sun shines the stars should seek their beds. No longer clouds the dawning light imprison. The golden age is come! a mighty sun has risen A mighty sun, whose congregated rays At Dersingham pour forth their dazzling blaze; Not there alone, but e’en throughout all nations, Beam Nathan’s Scraps and Sudden Cogitations! None better knows Pindaric odes to write, None e’er a better love-song can indite; None better knows to play the tragic part, Or with sweet anthems captivate the heart; None better knows to sport extemp’re wit, Or with strange spells avert an ague fit; None better knows to frame th’ elegiac air, Or with the nasal Jews harp charm the ear.”
This address is printed entire in Nathan’s book, which consisted of epitaphs, love-letters, valentines, cures for the ague and consumption, reflections, songs, &c. &c. The preface, the sketch of his life, and the conclusion to the work, were drawn up by Nathan’s youthful editors. Through them Nathan appealed to the reviewers in an address, containing the following spirited passage:--“It is ye, ye mites of criticism, it is ye alone I fear; for, like your namesakes, the greater the richness and goodness of the cheese the more destructive are your depredations, and the more numerous your partisans.” Towards the public, the poet of Dersingham was equally candid and courageous.--“I shun the general path of authors,” says Nathan, “and instead of ‘feeling conscious of the numerous defects, and submitting my trifles, with all possible humility, to the candour of a generous public,’ I venture to assert, that the public must receive the greatest advantage from my labours; and every member of society shall bless the hour that ushered into existence my ‘Quaint Scraps and my Sudden Cogitations.’ For what author, were he actually conscious of his numerous defects, would wish to trust himself to the mercy of that generous public, whom every one condemns for want of discernment and liberality. No, I profess, and I am what I do profess, a man of independent spirit! and although I have hitherto dwelt in obscurity, and felt the annihilating influence of oppression and the icy grasp of poverty, yet I have ever enjoyed the praiseworthy luxury of having an opinion of my own; because,--I am conscious of the inferiority of the opinions of others.”
These were some of the preliminary means by which, with an honesty worthy to be imitated by authors of greater fame, Nathan aspired to win “golden opinions.” The final sentence of his valedictory address “to the reader” is remarkable for feeling and dignity. “I am conscious,” says Nathan, “that I begin to fade; and be assured, that if I should be so fortunate as to blossom a few years longer, it must be entirely imputed to the animating influence of your praises, which will be grateful as the pure and renovating dews of heaven. And when at length the soft breeze of evening shall fly over the spot where I once bloomed, the traveller will refresh it with the soft tears of melancholy, and sigh at the frailty of all sublunary grandeur.”
His wish accomplished, and his book published, Nathan’s spare person, (about the middle size,) clad in tight leather “shorts,” frequently ambulated the streets of Lynn, and he had the ineffable pleasure of receiving loud congratulations from his numerous friends. Here, perhaps, his literary career had terminated, had not Napoleon’s abortive threats of invasion roused Nathan to take his stand, with daring pen, in defiance of the insolent foe. Our patriotic author produced a “Sermon” on the impending event. His former editorial assistants again aided him, and announced his intentions by a prospectus, setting forth that, on such an occasion, “when address, argument, and agitation, elegy, epitaph, and epithalamium, puff, powder, poetry, and petition, have been employed to invigorate and inspirit the minds of Englishmen, it surely must be a matter of serious exultation, that a writer of such superlative celebrity as Nathan Coward should draw his pen in defence of the common cause.--Cold and disloyal indeed must be that breast which, even on the bare perusal, does not feel the glow of enthusiastic patriotism,--does not beat with rapture at the pride of Dersingham, the glory of his country, and the admiration of the universe.”
“Rise, Britons, rise, and rising nobly raise Your joyful Pæans to great Nathan’s praise; Nathan, whose powers all glorious heights can reach, Now charm an ague,--now a Sermon preach;-- Nathan, who late, as time and cause seem’d fit, Despatch’d a letter to great premier Pitt. Showing how quick the public in a dash Might change their spoons and platters into cash; And now with zeal, attach’d to name nor party, Thunders out vengeance ’gainst great Buonaparte; Zeal that no rival bard shall e’er exceed; To prove your judgment, quickly buy and read.”
Soon after the publication of his “Sermon,” Nathan became more sensible to the infirmities of “threescore years and ten.” And the epitaph on his wife having been duly appropriated, for in good time she died, he removed to Liverpool, where he had a daughter married and settled, and there, in her arms, about the year 1815, he breathed his last at the age of eighty.--Requiescat in pace.
K.
* * * * *
PETER AND MARY.
Dr. Soams, master of Peterhouse, Cambridge, towards the close of the sixteenth century, by a whimsical perverseness deprived the college over which he presided of a handsome estate. Mary, the widow of Thomas Ramsey, lord mayor of London, in 1577, after conferring several favours on that foundation, proffered to settle five hundred pounds a year (a very large income at that period) upon the house, provided that it might be called “The college of Peter and Mary.” “No!” said the capricious master, “Peter, who has lived so long single, is too old now for a female partner.” Fuller says it was “a dear jest by which to lose so good a benefactress.” The lady, offended by the doctor’s fantastic scruple, turned the stream of her benevolence to the benefit of other public foundations.
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays.~
No. XXXII.
[From “Love’s Metamorphosis,” a Comedy, by John Lily, M. A. 1601.]
Love half-denied is Love half-confest.
Nisa. Niobe, her maid.
Nisa. I fear Niobe is in love.
Niobe. Not I, madam; yet must I confess, that oftentimes I have had sweet thoughts, sometimes hard conceits; betwixt both, a kind of yielding; I know not what; but certainly I think it is not love: sigh I can, and find ease in melancholy: smile I do, and take pleasure in imagination: I feel in myself a pleasing pain, a chill heat, a delicate bitterness; how to term it I know not; without doubt it may be Love; sure I am it is not Hate.
* * * * *
[From “Sapho and Phao,” a Comedy, by the same Author, 1601.]
Phao, a poor Ferryman, praises his condition.--He ferries over Venus; who inflames Sapho and him with a mutual passion.
Phao. Thou art a ferryman, Phao, yet a freeman; possessing for riches content, and for honours quiet. Thy thoughts are no higher than thy fortunes, nor thy desires greater than thy calling. Who climbeth, standeth on glass, and falleth on thorn. Thy heart’s thirst is satisfied with thy hand’s thrift, and thy gentle labours in the day turn to sweet slumbers in the night. As much doth it delight thee to rule thy oar in a calm stream, as it doth Sapho to sway the sceptre in her brave court. Envy never casteth her eye low, ambition pointeth always upward, and revenge barketh only at stars. Thou farest delicately, if thou have a fare to buy any thing. Thine angle is ready, when thy oar is idle; and as sweet is the fish which thou gettest in the river, as the fowl which others buy in the market. Thou needest not fear poison in thy glass, nor treason in thy guard. The wind is thy greatest enemy, whose might is withstood by policy. O sweet life! seldom found under a golden covert, often under a thatcht cottage. But here cometh one; I will withdraw myself aside; it may be a passenger.
Venus, Phao; She, as a mortal.
Venus. Pretty youth, do you keep the ferry, that conducteth to Syracusa?
Phao. The ferry, fair lady, that conducteth to Syracusa.
Venus. I fear, if the water should begin to swell, thou wilt want cunning to guide.
Phao. These waters are commonly as the passengers are; and therefore, carrying one so fair in show, there is no cause to fear a rough sea.
Venus. To pass the time in thy boat, can’st thou devise any pastime?
Phao. If the wind be with me, I can angle, or tell tales: if against me, it will be pleasure for you to see me take pains.
Venus. I like not fishing; yet was I born of the sea.
Phao. But he may bless fishing, that caught such an one in the sea.
Venus. It was not with an angle, my boy, but with a net.
Phao. So, was it said, that Vulcan caught Mars with Venus.
Venus. Did’st thou hear so? it was some tale.
Phao. Yea, Madam; and that in the boat did I mean to make my tale.
Venus. It is not for a ferryman to talk of the Gods Loves: but to tell how thy father could dig, and thy mother spin. But come, let us away.
Phao. I am ready to wait--
Sapho, sleepless for love of Phao, who loves her as much, consults with him about some medicinal herb: She, a great Lady; He, the poor Ferryman, but now promoted to be her Gardener.
Sapho. What herbs have you brought, Phao?
Phao. Such as will make you sleep, Madam; though they cannot make me slumber.
Sapho. Why, how can you cure me, when you cannot remedy yourself?
Phao. Yes, madam; the causes are contrary. For it is only a dryness in your brains, that keepeth you from rest. But--
Sapho. But what?
Phao. Nothing: but mine is not so--
Sapho. Nay then, I despair of help, if our disease be not all one.
Phao. I would our diseases were all one!
Sapho. It goes hard with the patient, when the physician is desperate.
Phao. Yet Medea made the ever-waking dragon to snort, when she (poor soul) could not wink.
Sapho. Medea was in love, and nothing could cause her rest but Jason.
Phao. Indeed I know no herb to make lovers sleep but Heart’s Ease: which, because it groweth so high, I cannot reach, for--
Sapho. For whom?
Phao. For such as love--
Sapho. It stoopeth very low, and I can never stoop to it, that----
Phao. That what?
Sapho. That I may gather it. But why do you sigh so, Phao?
Phao. It is mine use, Madam.
Sapho. It will do you harm, and me too: for I never hear one sigh, but I must sigh also.
Phao. It were best then that your Ladyship give me leave to be gone; for I can but sigh--
Sapho. Nay, stay; for now I begin to sigh, I shall not leave, though you be gone. But what do you think best for your sighing, to take it away?
Phao. Yew, Madam.
Sapho. Me!
Phao. No, Madam; Yew of the tree.
Sapho. Then will I love Yew the better. And indeed I think it would make me sleep too; therefore, all other simples set aside, I will simply use only Yew.
Phao. Do, Madam; for I think nothing in the world so good as Yew.
Sapho. Farewell, for this time.
Sapho questions her low-placed Affection.
Sapho. Into the nest of an Alcyon no bird can enter but the Alcyon: and into the heart of so great a Lady can any creep but a great Lord?
Cupid. Sapho cured of her love by the pity of Venus.
Cupid. But what will you do for Phao?
Sapho. I will wish him fortunate. This will I do for Phao, because I once loved Phao: for never shall it be said, that Sapho loved to hate: or that out of love she could not be as courteous, as she was in love passionate.
Phao’s final resolution.
Phao. O Sapho, thou hast Cupid in thy arms, I in my heart; thou kissest him for sport, I must curse him for spite; yet will I not curse him, Sapho, whom thou kissest. This shall be my resolution, wherever I wander, to be as I were ever kneeling before Sapho; my loyalty unspotted, though unrewarded. With as little malice will I go to my grave, as I did lie withal in my cradle. My life shall be spent in sighing and wishing; the one for my bad fortune, the other for Sapho’s good.
C. L.
* * * * *
For the Table Book.
WHITTLE SHEEPSHANKS, ESQ.
Formerly there was a farmer of very extensive property, who was also of great piety, residing in Craven, with the above awkward Christian and surname. He once purchased some sheep of a native of North Britain at one of the Skipton cattle fairs, and not having cash enough with him to pay for them, he said to the man, “I’ve no money by me at present, but I’ll settle with you next fair.” “An’ wha ma ye be, sir?” said the Scotsman. “What, don’t ye know me? I thought every body knew Whittle Sheepshanks.” “Hout! mon,” said the Scotsman, “dinna think to make a fule o’ me; wha’ ever heard sic a name o’ a sheepshanks wi’ a whittle to it.” This so offended Mr. Sheepshanks, that he changed his name to York.
T. Q. M.
* * * * *
For the Table Book.
MY “HOME.”
This is the soothing word that calms the mind under all the various anxieties, mortifications, and disappointments we meet with, day after day, in the busy world. This is the idea that enables us to support the most trying vexations and troubles--it is an antidote for every evil--
My “Home!”--There is a deliciously restful, quiet tone about the word. It presents heavenly ideas of soft ease, and gentle repose to the oppressed mind and languid body--ideas of quiet seclusion, where one’s powers and faculties may be relaxed, and be at rest. The idea of “home” is perhaps the only one which preserves an equal influence over us through all the different periods of life.
The weary child that slowly draws its little tender feet, one after the other, in endeavours to keep up with “dear papa,” who has taken it out for a long walk, looks up in his face with brightening eyes, as he says, “Never mind, we shall soon be home now.” Its tiny fingers take a firmer grasp of the supporting hand of its father, and its poor drooping head half erects, as it thinks of the kind mother who will receive it with words of sympathy for its fatigue, seat it in her lap, lay its face on her cherishing bosom with comforting expressions, and chafe its aching limbs with her soft palms.
The school boy, or girl, when holiday-time comes--with what anxiety do they not look forward to the time of the chaise’s arrival, which is to take them “home!” They both think of the approaching happy meeting with all their affectionate family--the encouraging smile of the proud father--the overwhelming kisses of the fond mother--the vociferous welcomes of the delighted brothers and sisters. Visions of well-merited praise bestowed on the different exhibitions of the neatly executed copybook, the correctly worked sums, (those tremendously long phalanxes of figures, that call forth the mirthful astonishment of the younger party,) the well-recited Latin lines, and the “horribly hard” translation, pass before his mind.--She anticipates the admiration that will be elicited by the display of certain beautiful needlework, (that pernicious destroyer of female health, both bodily and mental,) which, at the expense of shape and eyesight, is perhaps brought to such perfection as exactly to imitate the finest “Brussels.”--Alas, poor WOMAN! How comes it that we are so blind to our own good, as to employ in such trifling and even injurious pursuits all your faculties, which (inferior to man’s, as man assumes they are) might still be cultivated and developed, so as to add mental acquirements to your gentle qualities, and render you a still more amiable and desirable companion for us.
The man while busy at his daily occupation thinks of going “home” after the fatigues of the day with ecstasy. He knows that on his return he shall find an affectionate face to welcome him--a warm snug room--a bright fire--a clean hearth--the tea-things laid--the sofa wheeled round on the rug--and, in a few minutes after his entrance, his wife sitting by his side, consoling him in his vexations, aiding him in his plans for the future, or participating in his joys, and smiling upon him for the good news he may have brought home for her--his children climbing on the hassock at his feet, leaning over his knees to eye his face with joyous eagerness, that they may coaxingly win his intercession with “dear mamma” for “only half an hour longer.”----
I have hitherto looked only at the bright side of the picture. I am unhappily aware that there are individuals who never can know the luxury of “home.” Mr. Charles Lamb says, that “the home of the very poor is no home.” And I also aver, that the home of the very rich is no home. He may be constantly at home if he chooses, therefore he can never know the delightful sensation of a return to it, after having been obliged (for with human beings the chief charm of a thing seems to arise from its being denied to us) to remain out all day. Besides, “home” should be a place of simplicity and quiet retirement after the turmoil of the world. Do the rich find these amid their numerous guests and officious domestics--their idle ceremony, and pomp, and ostentation? This is not the “ease and comfort” (that greatest source of an Englishman’s delight) which should be peculiar to “home.”----
There is, likewise, another being who never can taste the truly exquisite enjoyment of “home:”--I mean the “Old Bachelor.” He returns to his lodging (I will not say to his “home”)--there may be every thing he can possibly desire in the shape of mere external comforts, provided for him by the officious zeal and anxious wish to please of Mrs. Smith, (his housekeeper,) but still the room has an air of chilling vacancy:--the very atmosphere of the apartment has a dim, uninhabited appearance--the chairs, set round with provoking neatness, look reproachfully useless and unoccupied--and the tables and other furniture shine with impertinent and futile brightness. All is dreary and repelling. No gentle face welcomes his arrival--no loving hand meets his--no kind looks answer the listless gaze he throws round the apartment as he enters. He sits down to a book--alone. There is no one sitting by his side to enjoy with him the favourite passage, the apt remark, the just criticism--no eyes in which to read his own feelings--his own tastes are unappreciated and unreflected--he has no resource but himself--no one to look up to but himself--all his enjoyment, all his happiness must emanate from himself. He flings down the volume in despair--buries his face in his hands--thinks of her who might have been his beloved and heart-cheering companion--she is gone!----
HOME!--scene of tenderly cherished infancy--of youthful buoyancy, brilliant with enjoying and hopeful feelings--of maturer and exquisite happiness--of all our best feelings--towards thee does my heart ever yearn in constant and grateful affection!--
M. H.
* * * * *
For the Table Book.
THE BLACKBERRY BLOSSOM.
WRITTEN IN EPPING FOREST.
The maiden’s blush, Sweet blackberry blossom, thou Wearest, in prickly leaves that rove O’er friendlike turning bough.
Companionship Thine attributes, thou givest Likeness of virtue shielded safe From lives with whom thou livest.
What is mankind? But like thy wand’ring?--Time Leads mortals through the maze of life, And thousands hopewards climb.
A sudden blast-- Then what of hope remains? Beauty full soon by sickness falls, And pleasures die in pains.
But fruit succeeds-- Thou ripenest by the sky: May human hearts bear fruits of peace Before in earth they lie!
August 19, 1827.
----
* * * * *
NOTES ON A TOUR, CHIEFLY PEDESTRIAN, FROM SKIPTON IN CRAVEN, YORKSHIRE, TO KESWICK, IN CUMBERLAND.
“I hate the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba and say ’tis all barren.”--Sterne
July 14, 1827. Left Skipton for Keswick. The road from Skipton to Burnsal exhibits some romantic scenery, which the muse of Wordsworth has made classic ground. About half a mile from Rilston, on the right-hand side of the road, are the ruins of Norton tower, one of the principal scenes in the poem of the “White Doe of Rylstone.” Having visited the tower before, I did not think it worth while to reascend the immense precipice on which it stands.
15th, Sunday. Previously to the commencement of the service at Burnsal church, I sketched the “lich-gate,” which differs considerably from the beautiful one of Beckenham, in Kent; a drawing whereof is in my friend Mr. Hone’s Table Book. The manner wherein the gate turns on its pivot is rather curious, and will be best exemplified by the drawing above. The church, an old structure, apparently of the reign of Henry VII., is pleasantly situated on “the banks of the crystal Wharfe.” While attending divine service, one or two things struck me as remarkable. The church has an organ, on which two voluntaries were played; one after the psalms for the day, and the other after the second lesson; but during the singing of the metrical psalms the organ was silent. Instead of it two or three strange-looking countrymen in the organ gallery raised an inharmonious noise with a small fiddle, a flute, and a clarinet. Why do the churchwardens allow this? The gallery of the church should not be allowed to resemble the interior of an ale-house at a village feast. The church would have looked better had it been cleaner: the pew wherein I sat was covered with cobwebs. The business of the churchwardens seemed to me to consist rather in thumping the heads of naughty boys than in looking after the state of the church.
Afternoon, same day. At Linton, about two miles up the river, arrived during the time of service. This church has suffered much from the “beautifiers;” who, amongst other equally judicious improvements, have placed a Venetian window over the altar of the Gothic edifice: the present incumbent, the Rev. Mr. Coulthurst, is about to remove it. The altar rails were covered with garlands made of artificial flowers. Church garlands were formerly made of real flowers. They are borne before the corpses of unmarried young women. I have heard an old woman in Durham sing the following stanza, which evidently alludes to the custom:--
When I am dead, before I be buried, Hearken ye maidens fair, this must ye do-- Make me a garland of marjoram and lemon thyme, Mixed with the pansy, rosemary, and rue.
The practice of bearing the garlands is still very common in the country churches in Craven.
In the church-yard is the following inscription on a stone, date 1825! The march of intellect is surely here proceeding at a rapid pace!
Remember man, that paseth by As thou is now so once was I; And as I is so must thou be, Prepare thyself to follow me.
Some one had written beneath,
To follow you’s not my intent, Unless I knew which way you went.
July 16. Went from Linton over the moors to Clapham; passed through Skirethorns, over Skirethorns moor, by Malham Water, by the side of Pennygent, through Great and Little Stainforth, over ---- moor,[338] through Wharfe and Austwick. Malham Water is a beautiful lake, well worthy of the traveller’s notice; it is supposed to be the source of the river Aire, which springs in the neighbourhood. About a mile from it is the famous chasm Gordale. (Vide Gray’s Journal.) From ---- moor,[339] above the village of Little Stainforth, is a sublime view of mountain scenery, in which Pennygent is a principal object. No traveller should pass through Little Stainforth without seeing the waterfall below the bridge. There is a finer one in the neighbourhood, but I was ignorant of it when I passed through the village. From the waterfall the bridge appears to great advantage; the arch has a fine span. There are, I was told, some curious caves in this part. N.B. This day’s journey taught me that the information of the peasantry with respect to distances is not to be depended upon: at Little Stainforth I was informed it was three miles to Clapham; six would have been nearer the mark.
July 17, 18. Kirby Lonsdale. This town is on the banks of the Lune, which here winds through a finely wooded valley. It has an elegant old bridge. In one of the battlements is a stone, resembling a Roman altar, with this inscription--FEARE GOD, HONORE TE KINGE, 1683. Why and when placed there I know not. Drunken Barnaby’s “Aulam factam in tabernam,” may be seen in the main street: it is still used as an inn. The church is a handsome structure; near the altar rails I observed the table of consanguinity placed.[340] At the west end is a fine Norman doorway, a considerable sufferer by “beautifying.” In the church-yard, on a neat pyramidal tombstone, is the following melancholy inscription:--
Eastern side.
SACRED to the Memory of
ALICE CLARK, Aged 31 years;
AGNES WALLING, Aged 25;
BELLA CORNTHWAITE, Aged 20;
HANNAH ARMSTRONG, Aged 18;
AGNES NICHOLSON, Aged 17:
All of whom were hurried into eternity by the awful conflagration by fire of the Rose and Crown Hotel, in this town, on the night of the 6 December, 1820.
Western side.
In the midst of life we are in Death.
Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting thou art, O God!
Thou turnest man to destruction, and sayest, Return, ye children of men.
Thou carriest them away as with a flood; they are as a sleep: in the morning they are like grass which springeth up.
In the morning it flourisheth and groweth up: in the evening it is cut down and withered.
Erected by voluntary contributions.
All the sufferers in this dreadful conflagration seem to have been young. “Whom the Gods love die young,” I think is said by one of the Grecian poets.
A walk, extending from the north gate of the church-yard along the banks of the Lune, affords a delightful prospect of the county, with several gentlemen’s seats. N.B. The Rev. Mr. Hunt, the author of an elegant version of Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered, was once curate here. I believe the well-known Carus Wilson is the officiating minister at present.
18th, Evening--At Kendal. At Cowbrow half way between Kirby Lonsdale and this place, is the following stanza, beneath a sign representing a ploughboy:--
The weather’s fair, the season’s now, Drive on my boys, God speed the plough; All you my friends pray call and see What jolly boys we plough_men_ be.
Had this “poetry” been in the neighbourhood of Durham, I should have suspected it to have been written either by the late Baron Brown, or Vet. Doc. Marshall, though I do not think the doctor would have made such a bull as runs in the last line.
19. Left Kendal for Bowness. Arrived there in the evening, and took up my quarters at the posting-house at the entrance of the village. From the front windows of the inn is a good view of Windermere. At the time of my arrival it was invisible; both lake and village were enveloped in a thick mist. About eight o’clock the mist dispersed, the sky grew clear, and Windermere was seen in all its beauty. This is the largest of the English lakes; and, according to Mr. Athey’s Guide, is ten miles in length. The hills around it are delightfully wooded, but the scenery is tame when compared with that of the more northern lakes. Bell’s Island is now called Curwen’s Island, from its being the country residence of Mr. Curwen: it is the largest of the numerous islands on Windermere. In Bowness church-yard is a tomb to the memory of Rassellas Belfield, an Abyssinian. Near Troutbeck bridge, in the neighbourhood, is the seat of the laureate of the Palmy isle. In the midst of the village is a tree on which notices of sales are posted. Bowness is to the inhabitants of Kendal what Hornsey is to the cocknies, and during the summer months gipsying excursions are very frequent. On the evening that I arrived some Oxonians were “astonishing the natives:” they seemed to think that, as they were from college, they had a right to give themselves airs. The inhabitants appeared to regard them with mingled looks of pity and derision.
July 20. Left Bowness for Grassmere, through Ambleside and Rydal. At the last place I turned aside to see Rydal Mount, the residence of the celebrated poet, Wordsworth. While proceeding to his cottage, an old woman popped out her head from the window of a rude hut, and asked me if I should like to see the waterfall: I entered her dwelling, where a good fire of sticks and turf was burning on the hearth; and, from the conversation of the dame, I gleaned that she was a dependant on the bounty of Lady le Fleming, in whose grounds the waterfall was: she at length conducted me to it. This waterfall is certainly a fine one, but as seen through the window of a summer-house it has rather a cockney appearance. Rydal Hall is a huge uncouth building; the beautifiers have made the old mansion look like a factory: when I first saw it from the road I mistook it for one. N.B. For seeing the waterfall, the price is “what you choose!”
I now proceeded to Rydal Mount, which, from the trees surrounding it, can hardly be seen from the road: the approach is shaded by beautiful laurels--proper trees for the residence of Wordsworth! While reconnoitring I was caught in a heavy thunder-shower, and should have been drenched, had not a pretty servant girl invited me into the kitchen, where I sat for at least an hour. On the dresser, in a large wicker cage, were two turtledoves; these, I learnt, were great favourites, or rather pets, (that was the word,) with the bard. The shower having ceased, I obtained Mrs. Wordsworth’s leave to walk through the garden: from the mount in it I gained an excellent view of the front part of the house. I had scarcely reached the village of Rydal when another shower drove me into a cottage, from the door of which I had my first view of the author of the Lyrical Ballads: he is rather tall, apparently about fifty years of age; he was dressed in a hair cap, plaid coat, and white trowsers. It was gratifying to hear how the Rydal peasantry spoke of this good man. One said he was kind to the poor; another, that he was very religious; another, that he had no pride, and would speak to any body: all were loud in his praise.
At Rydal is a neat gothic church, lately erected at the sole cost of Lady le Fleming. I have not seen any new church that pleased me so much as this; the east end is finely conceived, and both the exterior and interior reflect the highest credit on the taste and talent of the artist, Mr. Webster of Kendal. I wished Mr. Hone had seen it with me, for I know he would have been delighted with it. The church tower forms a pretty object from many parts of the neighbourhood. Rydal lake is small, but very romantic. On some of the surrounding hills I observed those rude erections of loose stones which the country boys are in the habit of building, and which they call men. Wordsworth alludes to these men in his Lyrical Ballads:--
To the top of high[341] ---- they chanc’d to climb, And there did they build, without mortar or lime, A man on the top of the crag.
A few of these “men” being provided with arms, resemble crosses, and transport the imagination of the beholder to catholic countries. The “Opium Eater” resides in this part; I saw him; his name is De Q----.
July 21. Grassmere. Arrived here at nine in the morning, and took up my quarters at Jonathan Bell’s, the Grassmere inn. This is a most lovely village. The poem of the “City of the Plague,” in which its lake and church are so exquisitely described, conveys but a faint idea of its beauties--even my favourite, Wilson, has failed in delineating this fairy spot. On entering, the first object that struck me was the church and its cemetery.
There is a little church-yard on the side Of a low hill that hangs o’er Grassmere lake. Most beautiful it is! a vernal spot Enclos’d with wooded rocks, where a few graves Lie shelter’d, sleeping in eternal calm-- Go thither when you will, and that sweet spot Is bright with sunshine.
Death put on The countenance of an angel, in the spot Which he had sanctified----
City of the Plague.
I found the description correct, with the exception of the sunshine passage; for when I entered the church-yard not a sun ray smiled on the graves; but, on the contrary, gloomy clouds were frowning above. The church door was open, and I discovered that the villagers were strewing the floors with fresh rushes. I learnt from the old clerk, that, according to annual custom, the rush-bearing procession would be in the evening. I asked the clerk if there were any dissenters in the neighbourhood; he said, no, not nearer than Keswick, where there were some that called themselves Presbyterians; but he did not know what they were, he believed them to be a kind of papishes.[342] During the whole of this day I observed the children busily employed in preparing garlands of such wild flowers as the beautiful valley produces, for the evening procession, which commenced at nine, in the following order:--The children (chiefly girls) holding these garlands, paraded through the village, preceded by the Union band, (thanks to the great drum for this information;) they then entered the church, where the three largest garlands were placed on the altar, and the remaining ones in various other parts of the place. (By the by, the beautifiers have placed an ugly window above the altar, of the nondescript order of architecture.) In the procession I observed the “Opium Eater,” Mr. Barber, an opulent gentleman residing in the neighbourhood, Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth, Miss Wordsworth, and Miss Dora Wordsworth. Wordsworth is the chief supporter of these rustic ceremonies. The procession over, the party adjourned to the ball-room, a hayloft, at my worthy friend, Mr. Bell’s, where the country lads and lasses tripped it merrily and heavily. They called the amusement dancing, but I called it thumping; for he who could make the greatest noise seemed to be esteemed the best dancer; and, on the present occasion, I think Mr. Pooley, the schoolmaster, bore away the palm. Billy Dawson, the fiddler, boasted to me of having been the officiating minstrel at this ceremony for the last six and forty years. He made grievous complaints of the outlandish tunes which the “Union band chaps” introduce: in the procession of this evening they annoyed Billy by playing the “Hunters’ Chorus in Friskits.” “Who,” said Billy, “can keep time with such a queer thing?” Amongst the gentlemen dancers was one Dan Burkitt; he introduced himself to me, by seizing my coat collar in a mode that would have given a Burlington Arcade lounger the hysterics, and saying, “---- I’m old Dan Burkitt, of Wytheburn, sixty-six years old--not a better jigger in Westmoreland.” No, thought I, nor a greater tosspot. On my relating this to an old man present, he told me not to judge of Westmoreland manners by Dan’s; “for,” said he, “you see, sir, he is a statesman, and has been at Lunnon, and so takes liberties.” In Westmoreland, farmers residing on their own estate are called “statesmen.” The dance was kept up till a quarter to twelve, when a livery-servant entered, and delivered the following verbal message to Billy--“Master’s respects, and will thank you to lend him the fiddlestick.” Billy took the hint; the sabbath morn was at hand, and the pastor of the parish had adopted this gentle mode of apprizing the assembled revellers that they ought to cease their revelry. The servant departed with the fiddlestick, the chandelier was removed, and when the village clock struck twelve not an individual was to be seen out of doors in the village. No disturbance of any kind interrupted the dance: Dan Burkitt was the only person at all “how came you so?” and he was “non se ipse” before the jollity commenced. He told me he was “seldom sober;” and I believed what he said. The rush-bearing is now, I believe, almost entirely confined to Westmoreland. It was once customary in Craven, as appears from the following extract from Dr. Whitaker:--“Among the seasons of periodical festivity, was the rush-bearing, or the ceremony of conveying fresh rushes to strew the floor of the parish church. This method of covering floors was universal in houses while floors were of earth, but is now confined to places of worship: the bundles of the girls were adorned with wreaths of flowers, and the evening concluded with a dance. In Craven the custom has wholly ceased.”
In Westmoreland the custom has undergone a change. Billy remembered when the lasses bore the rushes in the evening procession, and strewed the church floor at the same time that they decorated the church with garlands; now, the rushes are laid in the morning by the ringer and clerk, and no rushes are introduced in the evening procession. I do not like old customs to change; for, like mortals, they change before they die altogether.
The interest of the scene at Grassmere was heightened to me, by my discovering that the dancing-room of the rush-bearers was the ball-room of Mr. Wilson’s children’s dance. The dancing-master described so exquisitely in his poem is John Carradus. From an old inhabitant of Grassmere I had the following anecdotes of the now professor of moral philosophy. He was once a private in the Kendal local militia; he might have been a captain, but not having sufficient knowledge of military tactics, he declined the honour.
Wilson, while in the militia, was billeted at one of the Kendal inns, where a brother private was boasting of his skill in leaping, and stated, that he never met with his equal. Wilson betted a guinea that he would outleap him; the wager was accepted, and the poet came off victorious, having leaped seven yards; his bragging antagonist leaped only five. Mr. Wilson appears to have been celebrated in Westmoreland for these things; being a good climber of trees, an excellent swimmer, and a first-rate leaper.
The poet had a curious fancy in wearing his hair in long curls, which flowed about his neck. His sergeant noticed these curls, and remarked, that in the militia they wanted men and not puppies; requesting, at the same time, that he would wear his hair like other Christians. The request of the sergeant was complied with, and the poet’s head was soon deprived of its tresses. On a friend blaming him for submitting to the orders of a militia sergeant, he coolly said, “I have acted correctly; it is the duty of an inferior soldier to submit to a superior.”
While in the militia, Wilson opposed himself to seven beggars, or trampers, of “Younghusband’s gang,” who were insulting a poor man. In this fray the bard got two black eyes; “but,” added the narrator, “no matter--he got ’em in a good cause.”
July 22, Sunday. Attended church. After service sketched the font, which appeared to be of great antiquity. Near the altar is the following inscription on a beautiful marble monument, designed and executed by Webster of Kendal: the poetry is by Wordsworth.
IN THE BURIAL GROUND
Of this church are deposited the remains of JEMIMA ANN DEBORAH, second Daughter of Sir EGERTON BRYDGES, of Denton Court, Kent, Bart. She departed this life, at the Ivy Cottage, Rydal, May 25, 1822, Aged 28 years. This memorial is erected by her husband, EDWARD QUILLINAN.
These vales were saddened with no common gloom When good Jemima perished in her bloom; When, such the awful will of Heaven, she died By flames breathed on her from her own fire-side. On earth we dimly see, and but in part We know, yet faith sustains the sorrowing heart: And she the pure, the patient, and the meek, Might have fit epitaph could feelings speak: If words could tell, and monuments record, How treasures lost are inwardly deplored, No name by grief’s fond eloquence adorned, More than Jemima’s would be praised and mourned The tender virtues of her blameless life, Bright in the daughter, brighter in the wife; And in the cheerful mother brightest shone-- That light hath past away--the will of God be done.
From the church-yard I transcribed the following inscriptions:--
HERE LIETH
The body of THOMAS, the son of WILLIAM and MARY WORDSWORTH. He died on the 1st of December, A. D. 1812.
Six months to six years added, he remained Upon this sinful earth by sin unstained. O blessed Lord, whose mercy then removed A child whom every eye that looked on loved, Support us, teach us calmly to resign What we possessed, and now is wholly thine.
* * * * *
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
WILLIAM GREEN, the last 23 years of whose life were passed in the neighbourhood, where, by his skill and industry as an artist, he produced faithful representations of the county, and lasting memorials of its more perishable features.
He was born at Manchester, And died at Ambleside, On the 29 Day of April, 1823, in the 63 year of his age, deeply lamented by a numerous family, and universally respected.
HIS AFFLICTED WIDOW Caused this stone to be erected.
Green was a surprising man, and his sketches of mountain scenes are correctly executed, though I never liked his manner of drawing; and in his colouring there is something glaring and unnatural. But the fame of Green does not rest on his abilities as an artist. As the historian of the English maintains, his descriptive talents were of the first order. His entertaining and invaluable “Guide” will be perused by posterity with increased admiration. There is a charm about it which I have not found in any other of the numerous publications of a similar nature. I have been informed, however, that notwithstanding its excellence its sale was limited, and the author was out of pocket by it.
July 23. Ascended Silvertop or Silverhow, a hill at Grassmere. It is not very high, but from its unevenness it is not easy to reach the summit. The view from it is rather extensive, considering its very moderate height. When I ascended there was a considerable mist, yet I could distinguish Windermere, Rydal lake and church, and the surrounding objects. To day I leave Grassmere; I do it with regret, but with hopes of once more visiting it, and seeing Jonathan Bell again. He is one of the pleasantest fellows I ever met with, and I shall recommend the Grassmere inn to all my friends who may visit the lakes.
July 24. Walked to Keswick. The road from Grassmere is so well described in Mr. Otley’s small guide, (which has been of the greatest use to me,) that it would be only a waste of time and paper to particularize its numerous interesting objects. The road passes by Thulmere, or contracted Lake, (so called from its sudden contraction in the middle, where there is a neat bridge,) through the greatest part of Saint John’s Vale, so celebrated by sir Walter Scott’s poem, the “Bridal of Triermain.” Opposite Wytheburn chapel, (which is the smallest I ever saw,) I entered into conversation with a labouring man, who was well acquainted with the late Charles Gouche, the “gentle pilgrim of nature,” who met an untimely death by falling over one of the precipices of Helvellyn. Some time previous to his death he had lodged at the Cherry Tree, near Wytheburn. The man related many anecdotes of him, but none particularly interesting. Mr. Gouche was an enthusiastic admirer of poetry, which he would frequently recite to him and others of his friends.
Keswick is a neat town. The Greta runs through it; but, alas! its once pure waters have become polluted by the filthy factories now on its banks. Having been obliged to leave Keswick in the afternoon of the day after my arrival, I was unable to see much of it or its neighbourhood. I paid a hasty visit to Derwentwater and the falls of Lowdore. The latter, from the dryness of the season, much disappointed me. I saw the Druid’s Temple on the old road to Penrith; it is a circle formed of rough stones. The common people pretend these stones cannot be counted, but I found no difficulty in ascertaining their number to be forty-eight. A barbarian once recommended the owner to blast these stones for walling, but happily for the antiquary his suggestion was not attended to. Green, in his guide, speaking of this spot, alludes to the very erroneous opinion that the druidical was a polytheistic religion.--N.B. Skiddaw has a majestic appearance when viewed from Keswick. Southey’s house is at the foot.
* * * * *
During my residence in the above parts I collected the following scraps, by whom written, or whether original, I know not.
SONNET.
The nimble fancy of all beauteous Greece Fabled young Love an everlasting boy, That through the blithe air, like a pulse of joy, Wing’d his bright way--a life that could not cease, Nor suffer diminution or increase; Whose quiver, fraught with quaint delicious woes, And wounds that hurt not--thorns plucked from the rose Making the fond heart hate its stagnant fence-- Was ever full. Oh musical conceit Of old Idolatry, and youthful time, Fit emanation of a happy clime, Where but to live, to move, to breathe, was sweet; And love indeed came floating on the air, A winged God, for ever fresh and fair!
SONNET.
It must be so--my infant love must find In my own breast a cradle and a grave; Like a rich jewel hid beneath the wave, Or rebel spirit bound within the rind Of some old [wither’d] oak--or fast enshrin’d In the cold durance of an echoing cave---- Yet better thus, than cold disdain to brave; Or worse, to taint the quiet of that mind That decks its temple with unearthly grace, Together must we dwell my dream and I-- Unknown then live, and unlamented die Rather than dim the lustre of that face, Or drive the laughing dimple from its place, Or heave that white breast with a painful sigh.
SONNET.
Few lov’d the youthful bard, for he was one Whose face, tho’ with intelligence it beam’d, Was ever sad; if with a smile it gleam’d It was but momentary, like the sun Darting one bright ray thro’ the thunder cloud-- He lov’d the secret vale, and not the crowd And hum of populous cities--some would say There was a secret labouring in his breast, That made him cheerless and disturb’d his rest; Whose influence sad he could not drive away. What caused the young bard’s woe was never known, Yet, once, a wanderer deem’d an hapless flame Consum’d his life away, for one, whose name He heard him breathe, upon the mountains lone!
SONG.
She is not fair to outward view, As many maidens be; Her loveliness I never knew, Until she smil’d on me. O then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light.
But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne’er reply; And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye-- Her very frowns are fairer far, Than smiles of other maidens are.
SONG.
I have lived, and I have loved, Have lived, and loved in vain; Some joy, and many woes, have proved, Which may not be again. My heart is old--my eye is sere-- Joy wins no smile, and grief no tear. I would hope, if hope I could, Tho’ sure to be deceived; There’s sweetness in a thought of good, If ’tis not quite believed-- But fancy ne’er repeats the strain That memory once reproves, for vain.
Here endeth my journal.
T. Q. M.
[338, 339] I cannot remember the names: the map of Yorkshire I have affords no clue.
[340] This seems a pretty general custom in Westmoreland. Do the young people of this county need informing that “a man may not marry his grandmother?”
[341] I quote from memory, and cannot fill up the blank.
[342] The only instance of dissent I heard of betwixt Kendal and Keswick, was a private Unitarian chapel at a gentleman’s seat near Bowness. At Kendal and Keswick the dissenters are very numerous.
* * * * *
GENDERS.--JAMES HARRIS.
A good translation of Xenophon’s Cyropædia is much wanted. That by Ashley is vilely done; though Mr. Harris has pronounced a high eulogium on it in his Philological Inquiries.
Mr. Harris was an excellent Greek scholar, but beyond that he does not seem to have great merit as a writer. In his “Hermes,” speaking of the grammatical genders, he says, they are founded on a “reasoning which discovers, even in things without sex, a distant analogy to that great distinction, which, according to Milton, animates the world.” To this he adds, in a note, “Linnæus has traced the distinction of sexes through the vegetable world, and made it the basis of his botanic method.” Should not one be induced to think from this, that Linnæus classed some plants as male, and others as female, from their form and character? when, in fact, they are classed according to the number and form of those parts on which the fructification of the plants actually depends. What becomes of this supposed analogy in the German language, where the sun is feminine, and the moon masculine?
Lowth, in his grammar, mentions the poetical advantage our language derives from making all inanimate things neuter, by the power it gives of personification by the mere change of gender.[343]
[343] Pye.
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For the Table Book.
WHAT IS LIFE?
What is life? ’tis like the ocean, In its placid hours of rest, Sleeping calmly--no emotion Rising in its tranquil breast.
But too soon the heavenly sky Is obscured by nature’s hand, And the whirlwind passing by Leaves a wreck upon the strand.
S.
* * * * *
DOCTOR LETTSOM.
To the Editor.
Sir,--Few inherited better qualities or were more eccentric than the late Dr. Lettsom. While he associated with literary men, communicated with literary works, and wrote and published his medical experience, he gave gratuitous aid to the needy, and apportioned his leisure to useful and practical purposes.
In a work, called “Moods and Tenses,” lately published, I find anecdotes of the doctor, which I had sent to a literary publication,[344] reprinted without acknowledgment, and extracted since into other works. In addition to the printed anecdotes of so amiable a man, I trust, sir, you will not be unwilling further to illustrate his character by an anecdote or two, until now untold.
The first is of a Lady and her Servant. The doctor was once called in to attend a sick lady and her maid-servant. On entering the passage, he was asked by the nurse into the lady’s chamber. “Very well,” said he mildly, “but is there not a servant ill also.” “Yes, sir,” was the reply. “Then let me prescribe for her first,” he rejoined, “as her services will be first wanted.” His request was complied with; and as he predicted so it proved,--by the second visit the servant was convalescent. “I generally find this the case,” observed the doctor, good-humouredly, to his friend; “Servants want physic only, but their mistresses require more skill than physic. This is owing to the difference between scrubbing the stairs and scrubbing the teeth.”
The second anecdote refers to books. Whenever a friend borrowed a book from the doctor’s library, he rarely lent it but with this stipulation, that the supposed value of the book should be deposited, with the name of the borrower, and the title of the volume with date, in the vacant place till the book was restored. “Though attended with some pains, I find this a good plan,” said the doctor; “many of my sets would otherwise be imperfect. I feel pleasure in lending my books, (many I give away,) but I like to see my library, like my practice, as regularly conducted as possible.”
The third anecdote relates to the cure of filching. The doctor had a favourite servant, who manifested the frailty of taking that which did not belong to him. John had abstracted a loaf of sugar from the store closet, and sold it to a person that kept a shop. Shortly afterwards, on the carriage passing the shop, the doctor desired John to go in and order a loaf of lump sugar, and to pay for it, which was accordingly done; but when they returned home, John suspecting his master’s motive, made a full confession of the crime, fell on his knees, implored forgiveness, and was pardoned on his solemn promise of future honesty.
The fourth anecdote is worthy of the consideration of medical practitioners. The doctor having been called to a poor “lone woman,” pitied her desolate situation so much, that he shed tears. Her person and room were squalid; her language and deportment indicated that she had seen better days; he took a slip of paper out of his pocket, and wrote with his pencil the following very rare prescription to the overseers of the parish in which she resided:--
“A shilling per diem for Mrs. Maxton: Money, not Physic, will cure her.
Lettsom.”
That the doctor was not a rich man may be easily accounted for, when it is considered that at the houses of the necessitous he gave more fees than he took. At public medical dinners, anniversaries, and lectures, he must be well remembered by many a truly vivacious companion, with a truly benevolent heart and good understanding.
ΠΡΙ
[344] Literary Chronicle, 1819, p. 392.
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For the Table Book.
A FAREWELL.
Go, go, thy heart is still thine own, Go, taste of joy and gladness; I fondly dreamt that heart mine own, To hope so now were madness.
Many a mortal yet will woo thee, Many a lover trust that smile, But, if well as I they knew thee, Few thy beauty would beguile.
Like the merchant who has ventured All his fortune on the sea, So in thee my hopes were center’d, Destin’d soon a wreck to be.
Then fare-thee-well, we meet no more Better had we never met; Thou hast many joys in store, I have none--my sun is set.
S.
* * * * *
“PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE.”
EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES, WRITTEN TO OBLIGE A YOUNG FRIEND, WHO SUGGESTED THE TOPIC.
The PAST, which once was present, then did seem, As doth this present, but “a sick man’s dream.” Now, the remembrance of that past appears, Through the dim distance of receding years, A lovely vision of fair forms:--and yet, How different it was! Fool! to regret What had no being! Time, that faithful tutor, Were I but teachable, might show the FUTURE As the PRESENT is; and yet I paint it Teeming with joy; and my hope doth saint it, With haloes round the fond imagination. And so through life I pass--without a station Whence I can see the present, a reality To be enjoy’d--living on ideality.
August 25, 1827.
*
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For the Table Book.
TOMMY MITCHESON, OF DURHAM.
The above is a well-known character in Durham, called “the philosopher:” and were his literary attainments to be measured by the books he peruses, they would far exceed those of any gentleman in the place. Tommy reads every thing that he can borrow--legal, medical, theological, historical--true narrative, or romance, it matters little to him;--but Tommy has no recollection. On arriving at the last page of a work he is just as wise as before he commenced. A friend of mine once lent him Gibbon’s “Decline and Fall;” and when Tommy returned the last volume, asked him how he liked it. “It is a nice work.”--“Well, how did you like that part about the boxing match between Crib and Molineux?”--“Oh,” said he, “it was the nicest part in the whole book!” Poor Tommy! I can say this of thee; I have lent thee many a book, and have always had them returned clean and unsoiled! I cannot say this of some of my book borrowers.
T. Q. M.
* * * * *
A MAN-LIKING BIRD.
“I have read of a bird,” says Dr. Fuller, in his Worthies of England, “which hath a face like, and yet will prey upon, a man, who coming to the water to drink, and finding there, by reflection, that he had killed one like himself, pineth away by degrees, and never afterwards enjoyeth itself.”
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For the Table Book.
PENNY A LOT.
A SCHOOLBOY’S fruitless RAMBLE THROUGH TOWN.
The morning is warm, and the weather is fine, ’Tis too late for school, and too early to dine; Through the streets as I go for refreshment, or not, All the dainties to sell are, a--Penny a Lot!
Fine pears, by their cheeks, are inviting to taste, With their tails curling round, like bashaws in the east; Red apples in heaps, on a wicker-work spot,-- How d’ye sell them?--These--here, are, a--Penny a Lot!
But your plums--are they cheap? By their Orlean hues They belong to the Indigo Warehouse,--the Blues; And your gages, so green!--are they fresh from the cot?-- From the Garden this morning, sir,--Penny a Lot!
Barcelonas in small wooden measures are piled; How attractive they look to the one-copper child, With his treasure to spend! But what there have ye got? Acid Drops! cries a Jew Boy, a--Penny a Lot!
Nice slices of cocoa-nut, white as the snow, Brazil-nuts and almond-nuts all in a row; Napoleon’s-ribs,--brandy-balls for the sot, And sweet cakes--what are these? Sir, a--Penny a Lot.
Groundsel, chickweed, canes, posies, beads, cresses, and grapes, Currants sodden’d with rains, raisins press’d in their shapes; Seaweeds, shells, and ornaments, fit for a Grot, Are all sold at the rate of, a--Penny a Lot!
What chance has the Far-thing to burn a hole through? What chance has the Half-penny, though it were new? Unbless’d with a purchase, though thirsty and hot, All the order of sale is, a--Penny a Lot.
P.
* * * * *
FISH.
Philip II. of Spain, the consort of our queen Mary, gave a whimsical reason for not eating fish. “They are,” said he, “nothing but element congealed, or a jelly of water.”
It is related of a queen Aterbatis, that she forbad her subjects ever to touch fish, “lest,” said she, with calculating forecast, “there should not be enough left to regale their sovereign.”
Vol. II.--37.
------------- on hands and knees we crawl, And so get safe on board the yawl.
Gostling.
This sheet is dedicated to the five days’ travels, in 1732, of him
That drew th’ essential form of grace, That saw the manners in the face,
and four of his friends. “Some few copies of the Tour,” says Horace Walpole, “were printed by Mr. Nichols. It was a party of pleasure down the river into Kent, undertaken by Mr. Hogarth, Mr. Scott, and three of their friends, in which they intended to have more humour than they accomplished, as is commonly the case in such meditated attempts. The Tour was described in verse by one of the company, and the drawings executed by the painters, but with little merit, except the views taken by Mr. Scott.”
Walpole’s account is an incorrect and contemptuous flout of “a merry, and a very merry” party, consisting--besides Hogarth, and his friend Scott, a landscape painter--of Thornhill, (son of sir James, whose daughter Hogarth married;) Tothall, a woollendraper at the corner of Tavistock-court, Covent-garden, who, being a member of the club at the Bedford coffee-house, became intimate with Hogarth; and Forrest, another of Hogarth’s friends. They “accomplished” much “humour,” as their journal shows; though not to the understanding of Walpole, who was only a fine gentleman, a wit, and an adept in artificial knowledge.
A few months ago, I heard from the lips of the kindest and most exquisite humourist of the age, what seems to me a perfect definition--“Humour is Wit steeped in Mannerism.” Walpole could never say, because he never thought, or felt, any thing like it. He was skilled in imitative matters alone: he brought himself up to Art, and there stopped; his good breeding would not permit him to deviate towards Nature. He talked of it as people of fashion do of trade--a vulgar thing, which they are obliged to hear something about, and cannot help being influenced by.
The “some few copies of the Tour,” which Horace Walpole says “were printed by Mr. Nichols,” and which he represents as having been “described in verse by one of the company,” Mr. Nichols certainly printed in 1781; but that gentleman acquaints us, that it “was the production of the ingenious Mr. W. Gostling, of Canterbury,” who was not of the party. Mr. Nichols reprinted it at the request of some friends, on account of its rarity, in his “Biographical Anecdotes of Hogarth.” The account of the “Tour,” really written “by one of the company,” was in prose; and this, which certainly Walpole had not seen, was edited, and given to the world, by Mr. R. Livesay, in 1782, on nine oblong folio pages, with etchings of the same size.
The Tour in question was not “meditated.” The party set out at midnight, at a moment’s warning, from the Bedford Arms tavern, each with a shirt in his pocket. They had particular departments to attend to. Hogarth and Scott made the drawings; Thornhill (Hogarth’s brother-in-law) the map; Tothall faithfully discharged the joint office of treasurer and caterer; and Forrest wrote the journal. They were out five days only; and on the second night after their return, the book was produced, bound, gilt, and lettered, and read at the same tavern to the members of the club then present. A copy of the journal having been left in the hands of the Rev. Mr. Gostling, (author of “A Walk in and about Canterbury,”) he wrote an imitation of it in Hudibrastic verse, of which Mr. Nichols printed twenty copies as a literary curiosity.[345]
The original Tour by Mr. Forrest, and the versified version of it, are placed on the ensuing pages, from the before-mentioned editions; beginning with Forrest’s from the title-page, viz.
AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT SEEMED MOST REMARKABLE IN THE FIVE DAYS’ PEREGRINATION OF THE FIVE FOLLOWING PERSONS; VIZ. MESSRS. TOTHALL, SCOTT, HOGARTH, THORNHILL, AND FORREST. Begun on Saturday, May 27th, 1732, and finished on the 31st of the same Month. “ABI TU, ET FAC SIMILITER.”--Inscription on Dulwich College Porch. LONDON: Printed for R. Livesay, 1782.
Saturday, May the 27th, we set out with the morning, and took our departure from the Bedford Arms Tavern, in Covent Garden, to the tune of “Why should we quarrel for riches?” The first land we made was Billingsgate, where we dropped anchor at the Dark House.
There Hogarth made a caracatura of a porter, who called himself the Duke of Puddle Dock.[346] The drawing was (by his grace) pasted on the cellar door. We were agreeably entertained with the humours of the place, particularly an explanation of a Gaffer and Gammer, a little gross, though in presence of two of the fair sex. Here we continued till the clock struck one.
Then set sail in a Gravesend boat we had hired for ourselves. Straw was our bed, and a tilt our covering. The wind blew hard at S.E. and by E. We had much rain and no sleep for about three hours. At Cuckold’s Point we sung St. John, at Deptford Pishoken; and in Blackwall Reach eat hung beef and biscuit, and drank right Hollands.
At Purfleet we had a view of the Gibraltar, the Dursley Galley, and Tartar Pink, men of war, from the last of which we took on board the pilot who brought her up the channel. He entertained us with a lieutenant’s account of an insult offered him by the Spaniards, and other affairs of consequence, which naturally made us drowsy; and then Hogarth fell asleep, but soon awaking, was going to relate a dream he had, but falling asleep again, when he awaked forgot he had dreamed at all.
We soon arrived at Gravesend, and found some difficulty in getting ashore, occasioned by an unlucky boy’s having placed his boat between us and the landing-place, and refusing us passage over his vessel; but, as virtue surmounts all obstacles, we happily accomplished this adventure, and arrived at Mr. Bramble’s at six. There we washed our faces and hands, and had our wigs powdered; then drank coffee, eat toast and butter, paid our reckoning, and set out at eight.
We took a view of the building of the New Church, the unknown person’s tomb and epitaph, and the Market place, and then proceeded on foot to Rochester.
Nothing remarkable happened in that journey, except our calling and drinking three pots of beer at an evil house, (as we were afterwards informed,) known by the sign of the Dover Castle, and some small distress Scott suffered in travelling through some clay ground moistened by the rain; but the country being extremely pleasant alleviated his distress, and made him jocund, and about ten we arrived at Rochester.
There we surveyed the fine Bridge, the cathedral, and the Castle; the last well worth observing. It is a very high building, situate on the river Medway, strong built, but almost demolished. With some difficulty we ascended to the top of the battlements, and took a view of a most beautiful country, a fine river, and some of the noblest ships in the world. There is a very curious well cut in the middle wall from the top of the Castle, a considerable depth below its foundation, as we believed: we saw a little boy go down towards the bottom of it by small holes cut in the sides, wherein he placed his hands and feet, and soon returned, bringing up with him a young daw he had taken out of a nest there.
We afterwards traversed the city, saw the Town-house, Watts’s Hospital for relief of six travelling persons, by entertaining them with one night’s lodging, and giving to each fourpence in the morning, provided they are not persons contagiously diseased, rogues, or proctors.
We saw on the front of a house four figures in basso relievo after the antique, done by some modern hand, representing the Seasons; and then came to the Crown inn at twelve. From that time till dinner most of our company slept on several chairs in the dining-room. From one o’clock till three we were at dinner on a dish of soles and flounders, with crab sauce, a calf’s heart stuffed and roasted, the liver fried, and the other appurtenances minced, a leg of mutton roasted, and some green peas, all very good and well drest, with good small beer and excellent port. The boy of the house cleaned all our shoes, and we again set out to seek adventures.
Hogarth and Scott stopped and played at hop-scotch in the colonnade under the Town-hall; and then we walked on to Chatham, bought shrimps and eat them, and proceeded by a round-about way to the king’s store-houses and dock-yard, which are very noble. We went on board the Marlborough and the Royal Sovereign, which last is reckoned one of the finest ships in the navy. We saw the London, the Royal George, and Royal Anne, all first-rate men of war. At six we returned to our quarters at Rochester, and passed the time agreeably till nine, and then, quite fatigued with pleasure, we went to bed.
Sunday at seven awaked. Hogarth and Thornhill related their dreams, and we entered into a conversation on that subject in bed, and left off no wiser than we begun. We arose and missed Scott, who soon came, and acquainted us that he had been on the bridge drawing a view of some part of the river, (vide Drawing the 2d,) and wondered at the people staring at him, till he recollected it was Sunday. We asked him to produce the drawing; and he told us he had not drawn any thing. We were all desirous to have him reconcile this contradiction; but other affairs intervening, prevented our further inquiry.
At nine we breakfasted, and set out over the bridge, through part of Stroud, and by the Medway side. Going through the fields, we were attacked by a severe shower of rain; to escape which Scott retired under a hedge, and lying down had the misfortune to soil the back of his coat----. Uneasy at this, and requiring assistance to be cleaned----, he missed a white cambric handkerchief, which he declared was lent him by his spouse; and though he soon found it, yet was his joy at that success again abated by his fear that it was torn; but being soon convinced that he was more afraid than hurt, we all proceeded merrily to Frendsbury.
We there viewed the church and church-yard, pleasantly situated. There are some bad epitaphs, and in the church is hung up a list of benefactions to the parish, at the bottom of which there is wrote, “Witness our hands,” and subscribed with the name of “William Gibbons, Vicar,” only. This seemed a little odd; but being in such a place we imagined there might be some mystery in it, so inquired no further.
At ten we walked on, and calling a council among ourselves, it was proposed, that if any one was dissatisfied with our past proceedings, or intended progress, he might depatriate, and be allowed money to bear his charges. It was unanimously rejected, and resolved to proceed to Upnor.
We viewed, and Hogarth made a drawing of the castle, and Scott of some shipping riding near it (vide Drawing the 3d). The castle is not very large, but strong, garrisoned with twenty-four men, and the like number of guns, though no more than eight are mounted. I went and bought cockles of an old blind man and woman, who were in a little cock-boat on the river. We made a hurry-scurry dinner at the Smack at the ten-gun battery, and had a battle-royal with sticks, pebbles, and hog’s dung. In this fight Tothall was the greatest sufferer, and his cloaths carried the marks of his disgrace. Some time this occasioned much laughter, and we marched on to the bird’s-nest battery; and, keeping the river and shipping still in view, passed over the hills, and came to Hoo church-yard, where, on a wooden rail over a grave, is an epitaph, supposed to be wrote by a maid-servant on her master, which, being something extraordinary, I shall here transcribe verbatim:
And. wHen. he. Died. you. plainLy. see. Hee. freely. gave. al. to. Sara. passa. Wee. And. in. Doing. so. if. DoTh. prevail. that. Ion. him. can. Well. besTow. this Rayel. On. Year. I. sarved. him. it. is. well. None. BuT. Thanks. beto. God. it. is. al. my. One.
* * * * *
At four we left Hoo and an agreeable widow landlady, who had buried four husbands. As we travelled along this charming country, the weather was exceeding pleasant, and Scott (according to custom) made us laugh by attempting to prove, a man might go over but not through the world; and, for example, pointed to the earth, and asked us to go through that element. Our fixed opinion was, that his argument had less weight than his coat-pockets, which were, by some of the company, filled with pebble-stones, unperceived by him, and he carried them some time; but at last discovering the trick, and being thereby in a condition to knock down all opposition to his argument, we acquiesced.
At five we took a view of Stoke Church, and passed through the church-yard, but saw nothing worth observation till we came to a farm-house not far distant; where, on an elm-tree at the door was placed a high pole, with a board that moved with the wind, painted in form of a cock, over which was a fane weather-cock, and above that a shuttle-cock. This variety of cocks afforded much speculation.
At North-street, a little village we passed through, we all agreed to quarrel; and being near a well of water full to the brim, we dealt about that ammunition for some time, till the cloaths and courage of the combatants were sufficiently cooled; and then, all pleased, travelled on to the town of Stock, and took up our quarters at the Nag’s Head.
At six, whilst supper was getting ready, we walked out to take a view of the low countries thereabouts; and, on an adjacent plain, another sharp engagement happened, in which Tothall and Scott both suffered, by their cloaths being daubed with soft cow-dung.
At seven we returned back and cleaned ourselves; supped, and adjourned to the door; drank punch, stood and sat for our pictures drawn by Hogarth, for which see Drawing the 3d. Night coming on, we drew cuts who should lie single, there being but three beds, and no night-caps. The lot fell to Tothall, and he had the satisfaction of lying alone.
At ten went to bed, and had much laughter at Scott and I being forced to lie together. They threw the stocking, fought perukes, and did a great many pretty tricks in a horn, and then left us. At eleven we arose again, without a candle, and dressed ourselves, our sheets being very damp; then went to bed again in our cloaths, and slept till three.
Monday at three, awaked and cursed our day; our eyes, lips, and hands, being tormented and swelled by the biting of gnats. Notwithstanding this, the God of Sleep being powerful, we soon forgot our miseries, and submitted to be bound fast again in his leaden chains, in which condition we remained till six; then arose, had our shoes cleaned, were shaved, and had our wigs flowered, by a fisherman in his boots and shock hair, without coat or waistcoat, vide Drawing the 4th. We had milk and toast for breakfast, paid our reckoning, and set out for Sheerness at eight.
We passed down Stock Marshes, being directed to keep the road-way, which being heavy walking (much rain having fallen the preceding night) I prevailed on the company to follow me over a style, which led along the beach by a creek side, imagining it as near and a better way; but was deceived, and led the company about two miles astray; but getting into the right road, we soon entered the Isle of Grain, (so called from its fruitfulness, as I conjecture,) and near the church there, we stopped at the Chequer ale-house, kept by Goody Hubbard, who entertained us with salt pork, bread, butter, and buns, and good malt liquor. Here Scott left and lost his penknife, value five shillings. We expected to have got a boat here to carry us over to Sheerness; but the ferry-man did not care to go, and another person we would have employed for that purpose sent us word, that the wind blew too hard. But our landlady put us into a method by which we might possibly get a passage; and that was, to go down the marshes towards the salt-houses, and endeavour to hail the ships in ordinary, and by that means get one of their boats. We accordingly went down to the shore, which was covered with variety of shells, and accidentally espied a little boat coming on our side the water below us, which Thornhill and Tothall went down to meet, and brought up to us, and with some difficulty took us in (the manner of our embarking is delineated in the 5th drawing); and we set sail for Sheerness. The sea ran high the wind blowing hard at S.W. and by S. In our passage we had the pleasure of seeing and hearing the guns fired from the fort and the men of war, and about twelve we landed. We traversed the fort, went round the lines, saw all the fortifications and batteries, and had a delightful prospect of the sea and the island of Sheppy. Scott was laughed at for smelling to the touch-holes of some of the guns lately discharged; and so was Hogarth, for sitting down to cut his toe-nails in the garrison. At one we set out for Queenborough, to which place we walked along the beach, which the spray flew over in many places. Thornhill fell down, and slightly hurt his leg; yet we all perambulated merrily, and arrived at Queenborough about two.
The town is but one street, situate on the east side of a creek, called after the town’s name, and branching out of the Medway near the town. The street is clean and well paved (for a more exact description see the 6th drawing), and answers the description I have had of a Spanish town, viz. there is no sign of any trade, nor were many human creatures to be seen at our first arrival. The church is low and ill built: among many tomb-stones there are but few epitaphs worth noting, and the most material I take to be the following one, viz.
Henry Knight Master of a Shipp to Greenland and Herpooner 24 Voyages
In Greenland I whales Sea horses Bears did Slay Though Now my Body is Intombe in Clay
The town-house or clock-house (as it is called) stands in the middle of the street, supported by four piers, which form four arches, and (it being holiday) was decorated with a flag, in which is delineated the arms of the corporation. We took up our quarters at the Red Lion (which the people call the Swans) fronting the river, and met with a civil, prating landlady; but she being unprovided with beds, we applied to a merry woman at a private house, who furnished us with what we wanted. We then took another walk up the town, had a view of the inside of the church, and a conference with the grave-digger, who informed us of the state of the corporation. Among other things we were told, that the mayor is a custom-house officer, and the parson a sad dog. We found, to our sorrow, that although the town has two market-days, yet there was not one piece of fresh meat of any sort, nor any poultry or fish, except lobsters, to be got; with which, and some eggs and bacon, we made our supper.
We walked up the hill behind the town, to a well of very good water; over which (we were informed) a palace formerly stood, built by King Edward the Third for his Queen Philippa. Whilst we were at the well, two sailors came and drew a bucket of water to drink, and told us, that they and four more, belonging to the Rose man of war, were obliged the day before to attend one of their midshipmen, a son of General S----, in a yawl up the creek, and run the vessel ashore, where the midshipman left them, (without any sustenance, but a few cockles, or one penny of money to buy any,) and went to Sheerness, and was not yet returned, and they half-starved. We gave the fellows six-pence, who were very thankful, and ran towards the town to buy victuals for themselves and their companions, who lay asleep at some distance. We going to view their boat that stuck fast in the mud, one of the sailors returned hastily, and kindly offered us some cockles; this seemed an act of so much gratitude that we followed the fellows into the town, and gave them another sixpence; and they fetched their companions, and all refreshed themselves, and were very thankful and merry.
About seven we passed through the town, and saw and conversed with several pretty women, which we did not expect, not having seen any at our arrival, and returned to our quarters. We got a wooden chair, and placed Hogarth in it in the street, where he made the Drawing No. 6, and gathered a great many men, women, and children, about him, to see his performance. Having finished his drawing, we again walked up town, and at the mayor’s door saw all the sailors before mentioned, who informed me, (with “your worship” at every word) that the midshipman was lately returned from Sheerness, and had been up the creek to see how the boat lay; and coming back, had met a sailor in company with a woman whom the midshipman wanted to be free with, and the sailor opposed, insisting she was his wife, and hindered him from being rude; which the midshipman resenting, was gone to the mayor to redress his grievance. We thought this a very odd affair, but did not stay to see the result of it.
About nine we returned to our quarters, drank to our friends as usual, and emptied several cans of good flip, and all sung merrily; but were quite put out of countenance by some Harwich men, who came with lobsters, and were drinking in the next room. They sung several sea-songs so agreeably, that our St. John could not come in competition, nor could Pishoken save us from disgrace; so that after finishing the evening as pleasantly as possible, we went out of the house the back-way to our lodgings, at near eleven.
When we came there, our landlady had provided a bed for Scott in the garret, which made him grumble, and us laugh: this provoked him so far, that he absolutely refused to lie there; and Tothall, out of pure good-nature, offered him his bed at the house we came from, and that he would lie in the garret. This Scott accepted, and went away; and Tothall going up stairs, found he was to lie on a flock bed, without curtains; so came down again immediately, and went after Scott, at which we were very merry, and slept upon it till six in the morning.
Tuesday morning, at six, Hogarth called me up, and told me, the good woman insisted on being paid for her bed, or having Scott before the mayor; which last we did all in our power to promote, but to no effect; so coming to the public-house where Scott and Tothall lay, we found the doors open (a thing common in this town,) and nobody up. However, Hogarth soon roused them; and then Scott related another distress he had the last night, viz. when he left us, and was going to bed, he perceived something stir under the bed-cloaths, which he (collecting all his courage) was resolved to feel; at which something cried out, (seemingly affrighted,) and scared him out of his wits; but, resuming courage enough to inquire into the nature of affairs, he found it to be a little boy of the house, who had mistook the bed. This relation, according to custom, made us very merry, and Tothall provided some breakfast; after which we left the Swans, and went up town, where our shirts were sent to be washed; but not having time to dry, we took them wet, and had them dried and ironed at the next town.
About ten we quitted Queenborough: the morning was delightful, the country very pleasant, through which we passed very agreeably up to Minster, a little village on the highest part of the island. We laboured hard to climb the hill to the church-yard, it being very steep. We saw there, on a wooden rail over the grave, the following epitaph in verse:
Here Interr’d George Anderson Doth Lye By fallen on an Anchor he did Dye In Sheerness Yard on Good Friday ye 6th of April, I do say All you that Read my Allegy: Be alwaies Ready for to Dye--Aged 42 Years
Our landlord at the George procured us a key of the church, which we entered, and saw there the monuments of Lord Cheyne, of a Spanish Ambassador, and of the Lord Shorland. Scott made a drawing of the Ambassador, (vide Drawing the 7th,) and Hogarth of Lord Shorland (see Drawing the 8th). The legend of the last being remarkable, I shall relate it with all its circumstances. In the reign of Queen Elizabeth, this lord having been to visit a friend on this island, and passing by this church in his way home to Shorland, about two miles off, he saw a concourse of people gathered together in the church-yard; and inquiring the reason, was informed, that the parson who stood by there, refused to bury the corpse brought for that purpose, because there was no money to pay the burial fees. His lordship, being extremely moved at the parson, ordered the people to throw him into the grave, and bury him quick; which they accordingly did, and he died. My lord went home; and there reflecting on what he had done, and fearing to forfeit his life for the offence, he wrote a petition, setting forth the nature of his offence; and hearing the queen was on board one of the ships at the Nore, (to which place she came to take a view of her fleet designed to oppose the Spanish armada,) he took a horse, and rode directly into the sea, and swam to the Nore, above three miles off, and coming to the ship’s side, begged to see her majesty; who came immediately, and he presented his petition. The queen received, read, and granted it; and he, without quitting his horse, swam back again to the island; and coming on the shore met an old woman, who told him, that though the horse had then saved his life, he would be the cause of his death. His lordship fearing (and in order to prevent) the accomplishment of the old woman’s prophecy, alighted from his horse, drew his sword and killed him, and left him there; and his carcass was, by the force of the sea, thrown some little way on the land.
Some years after this, my lord, walking with some of his friends near the sea-side, espied the skull and some other bones of the horse lying there, and relating the foregoing account, happened to kick the skull and hurt one of his toes, which mortified and killed him; and he lies in Minster Church, and a monument is erected over his grave, on which he is figured with a horse’s head (supposed to be in the waves) placed by him. (Vide Drawing the 8th.) This story is so firmly believed in that parish, that a horse’s head, finely gilt, is placed as a weather-cock on the church steeple, and the figure of a horse is struck upon the spindle above that weather-cock, and the church is commonly called the Horse Church. We were so well satisfied of the people’s belief that all they told us was true, that we did not dare to declare our disbelief of one tittle of the story.
We dined at the George, staid till four, then left Minster, and walked to Sheerness; hired a small vessel, (vulgarly called a bomb-boat,) and about five set sail for Gravesend.
The wind blew a fresh gale at E. and by S. Scott grew very sea-sick, and did what was natural in such cases. Soon after, Hogarth grew sick, and was consequently uneasy, which was augmented by our stopping; and Tothall going on board Captain Robinson, in one of the custom-house sloops, riding in Holy Haven, who furnished him with some milk punch, and us with some fire to light our pipes, which was greatly wanted.
It rained hard all the voyage. We saw several porpoises rolling in pursuit of their prey; and one in particular was got so near shore, that we thought he must remain there; but he deceived our expectation, and got off again.
About seven, our sick passengers being recovered, we sailed merrily, and sung St. John, Pishoken, and several other songs and tunes ourselves, and our cockswain entertained us with several sailors’ songs; but our notes were soon changed by our vessel running on, and sticking fast in, the Blye sand, though we were almost in the middle of the channel. It was the tide of ebb, and within about an hour of flood, which gave us some concern, believing we should be forced to continue there some time, and bear the beating of the wind and waves; yet, by the industry of our mariners, and the skilful assistance of Tothall, we got off again in a little time (though with some difficulty); and the wind proving favourable, we arrived safe at Gravesend about ten.
We supped, and drank good wine, and thought our adventures and extraordinary mirth ended, but found otherwise: for a great coat Scott had borrowed for this journey, and left at Gravesend, and travelled without it, we found, on our arrival here, could not be found. This, though grief to him, was sport to us; and he soon got the better of his uneasiness, and grew as merry as we. Thus we continued till pretty late, and then went to bed.
Wednesday, at eight, we arose, breakfasted, and walked about the town. At ten went into a boat we had hired, with a truss of clean straw, a bottle of good wine, pipes, tobacco, and a match. The wind was favourable at S.E. and a mackerel gale. Our passage was very pleasant to all till we came into Eriff Reach, when Scott, being without his great coat, (for the reason above-mentioned,) taking a drawing of some shipping, a flurry of wind caused our vessel to ship a sea, which washed him from head to foot, and nobody else. He, greatly surprised, got up, and drawing the fore-tail of his shirt from out of his breeches, (which were also well soused with salt water,) he held it in both hands opposed to the windward; and the sun shining warm, he was soon dry; and, recovering his surprise, joined with us in laughing at the accident.
We came merrily up the river; and quitting our boat at Billingsgate, got into a wherry that carried us through bridge, and landed at Somerset Water-gate; from whence we walked all together, and arrived at about two at the Bedford Arms, Covent Garden, in the same good-humour we left it to set out on this very pleasant expedition.
I think I cannot better conclude than with taking notice, that not one of the company was unemployed; for Mr. Thornhill made the map, Mr. Hogarth and Mr. Scott the drawings, Mr. Tothall was our treasurer, which (though a place of the greatest trust) he faithfully discharged; and the foregoing Memoir was the work of
E. FORREST.
The veracity of this manuscript is attested by us,
WM. HOGARTH. SAML. SCOTT. WM. TOTHALL. JNO. THORNHILL.
London, May 27, 1732. Accompt of Disbursements for Messieurs Hogarth and Co. viz.
£. s. d. To paid at the Dark-house, Billingsgate 0 0 8½ To paid for a pint of Geneva Hollands 0 1 0 To paid waterman to Gravesend 0 5 0 To paid barber ditto 0 0 10 To paid for breakfast at ditto 0 2 2 To paid for beer on the road to Rochester 0 0 9 To paid for shrimps at Chatham 0 0 9 To paid at the gunnery and dock 0 1 6 To paid bill at Rochester 1 7 3 28. To gave at Upnor for information 0 0 3 To paid at the Smack at ditto 0 4 3 To paid at Hoo 0 1 8 To paid at Stoke 0 11 6 29. To paid at Mother Hubbard’s at Grain 0 3 0 To paid for passage over to Sheerness 0 2 10 To paid for lobsters at Queenborough 0 1 6 To paid for two pots of beer to treat the sexton 0 0 6 To paid for dinner, &c. 0 6 6 To charity gave the sailors 0 1 0 30. To paid for lodgings and maid 0 4 6 To paid for breakfast 0 2 6 To paid for washing shirts 0 1 8 To paid at Minster 0 9 2 To paid at Sheerness 0 1 3 To paid for a boat to Gravesend 0 7 0 31. To paid barber at ditto 0 1 2 To paid for sundry at ditto 1 0 3½ To paid for passage to Somerset House 0 5 6 ---------------- £ 6 6 0 ----------------
_Vouchers produced, examined, and allowed, Per_ E. FORREST. WM. HOGARTH. SAML. SCOTT. JNO. THORNHILL.
* * * * *
The Rev. Mr. Gostling’s version bore the same title and motto as the prose Tour, with this addition,--“Imitated in Hudibrasticks, by one well acquainted with some of the Travellers, and of the places here celebrated, with liberty of some additions.” It is subjoined; viz.
MR. GOSTLING’S ACCOUNT OF HOGARTH’S TOUR.
’Twas first of morn on Saturday, The seven-and-twentieth day of May, When Hogarth, Thornhill, Tothall, Scott, And Forrest, who this journal wrote, From Covent-Garden took departure, To see the world by land and water. Our march we with a song begin; Our hearts were light, our breeches thin. We meet with nothing of adventure Till Billingsgate’s Dark-house we enter. Where we diverted were, while baiting, With ribaldry, not worth relating (Quite suited to the dirty place) But what most pleas’d us was his Grace Of Puddle Dock, a porter grim, Whose portrait Hogarth, in a whim, Presented him in caricature, He pasted on the cellar door.[347] But hark! the Watchman cries “Past one!” ’Tis time that we on board were gone. Clean straw we find laid for our bed, A tilt for shelter over head. The boat is soon got under sail, Wind near S. E. a mack’rel gale, Attended by a heavy rain; We try to sleep, but try in vain, So sing a song, and then begin To feast on biscuit, beef, and gin. At Purfleet find three men of war, The Dursley galley, Gibraltar, And Tartar pink, and of this last The pilot begg’d of us a cast To Gravesend, which he greatly wanted, And readily by us was granted. The grateful man, to make amends, Told how the officers and friends Of England were by Spaniards treated, And shameful instances repeated. While he these insults was deploring, Hogarth, like Premier, fell to snoring, But waking cry’d, “I dream’d”--and then Fell fast asleep, and snor’d again. The morn clear’d up, and after five At port of Gravesend we arrive, But found it hard to get on shore, His boat a young son of a whore Had fix’d just at our landing-place, And swore we should not o’er it pass; But, spite of all the rascal’s tricks, We made a shift to land by six, And up to Mrs. Bramble’s go [A house that we shall better know], There get a barber for our wigs, Wash hands and faces, stretch our legs, Had toast and butter, and a pot Of coffee (our third breakfast) got: Then, paying what we had to pay, For Rochester we took our way, Viewing the new church as we went, And th’ unknown person’s monument. The beauteous prospects found us talk, And shorten’d much our two hours walk, Though by the way we did not fail To stop and take three pots of ale, And this enabled us by ten At Rochester to drink again. Now, Muse, assist, while I declare (Like a true English traveller) What vast variety we survey In the short compass of one day. We scarce had lost the sight of Thames, When the fair Medway’s winding streams, And far-extending Rochester, Before our longing eyes appear: The Castle and Cathedral grace One prospect, so we mend our pace; Impatient for a nearer view, But first must Strood’s rough street trudge through, And this our feet no short one find; However, with a cheerful mind, All difficulties we get o’er, And soon are on the Medway’s shore. New objects here before us rise, And more than satisfy our eyes. The stately Bridge from side to side, The roaring cataracts of the tide, Deafen our ears, and charm our sight, And terrify while they delight. These we pass over to the Town, And take our Quarters at The Crown, To which the Castle is so near, That we all in a hurry were The grand remains on’t to be viewing; It is indeed a noble ruin, Must have been very strong, but length Of time has much impair’d its strength: The lofty Tower as high or higher Seems than the old Cathedral’s spire; Yet we determin’d were to gain Its top, which cost some care and pain; When there arriv’d, we found a well, The depth of which I cannot tell; Small holes cut in on every side Some hold for hands and feet provide, By which a little boy we saw Go down, and bring up a jack-daw. All round about us then we gaze, Observing, not without amaze, How towns here undistinguish’d join, And one vast One to form combine. Chatham with Rochester seems but one, Unless we’re shewn the boundary stone, That and its yards contiguous lie To pleasant Brompton standing high; The Bridge across the raging flood Which Rochester divides from Strood, Extensive Strood, on t’other side, To Frindsbury quite close ally’d, The country round, and river fair, Our prospects made beyond compare, Which quite in raptures we admire; Then down to face of earth retire. Up the Street walking, first of all We take a view of the Town-Hall. Proceeding farther on, we spy A house, design’d to catch the eye, With front so rich, by plastick skill, As made us for a while stand still: Four huge Hobgoblins grace the wall, Which we four Bas Relievo’s call; They the four Seasons represent, At least were form’d for that intent. Then Watts’s Hospital we see (No common curiosity); Endow’d (as on the front appears) In favour of poor travellers; Six such it every night receives, Supper and lodging gratis gives, And to each man next morn does pay A groat, to keep him on his way: But the contagiously infected, And rogues and proctors, are rejected. It gave us too some entertainment To find out what this bounteous man meant, Yet were we not so highly feasted. But that we back to dinner hasted. By twelve again we reach The Crown, But find our meat not yet laid down, So (spite of “Gentlemen, d’ye call?”) On chairs quite fast asleep we fall, And with clos’d eyes again survey In dreams what we have seen to-day; Till dinner’s coming up, when we As ready are as that can be. If we describe it not, we’re undone, You’ll scarce believe we came from London, With due attention then prepare Yourself to hear our bill of fare For our first course a dish there was Of soles and flounders with crab-sauce, A stuff’d and roast calf’s-heart beside, With ’purt’nance minc’d, and liver fry’d; And for a second course, they put on Green pease and roasted leg of mutton. The cook was much commended for’t; Fresh was the beer, and sound the port; So that nem. con. we all agree (Whatever more we have to see) From table we’ll not rise till three. Our shoes are clean’d, ’tis three o’clock, Come let’s away to Chatham-Dock; We shan’t get there till almost four, To see’t will take at least an hour; Yet Scott and Hogarth needs must stop At the Court-Hall to play Scotch hop. To Chatham got, ourselves we treat With Shrimps, which as we walk we eat, For speed we take a round-about- way, as we afterwards found out: At length reach the King’s yards and docks Admire the ships there on the stocks, The men of war afloat we view, Find means to get aboard of two;[348] But here I must not be prolix, For we went home again at six, There smoak’d our pipes, and drank our wine, And comfortably sat till nine, Then, with our travels much improv’d, To our respective beds we mov’d. Sunday at seven we rub our eyes, But are too lazy yet to rise, Hogarth and Thornhill tell their dreams, And, reasoning deeply on those themes, After much learned speculation, Quite suitable to the occasion, Left off as wise as they begun, Which made for us in bed good fun. But by and by, when up we got, Sam Scott was missing, “Where’s Sam Scott?” “Oh! here he comes. Well! whence come you?” “Why from the bridge, taking a view Of something that did highly please me, But people passing by would teaze me With ‘Do you work on Sundays, friend?’ So that I could not make an end.” At this we laugh’d, for ’twas our will Like men of taste that day to kill. So after breakfast we thought good To cross the bridge again to Strood: Thence eastward we resolve to go, And through the Hundred march of Hoo, Wash’d on the north side by the Thames, And on the south by Medway’s streams, Which to each other here incline, Till at the Nore in one they join. Before we Frindsbury could gain, There fell a heavy shower of rain, When crafty Scott a shelter found Under a hedge upon the ground, There of his friends a joke he made, But rose most woefully bewray’d; How against him the laugh was turn’d, And he the vile disaster mourn’d! We work, all hands, to make him clean, And fitter to be fitly seen. But, while we scrap’d his back and side, All on a sudden, out he cried, “I’ve lost my cambrick handkercher, ’Twas lent me by my wife so dear: What I shall do I can’t devise, I’ve nothing left to wipe my eyes.” At last the handkerchief was found, To his great comfort, safe and sound, He’s now recover’d and alive; So in high spirits all arrive At Frindsbury, fatn’d for prospects fair, But we much more diverted were With what the parish church did grace, “A list of some who lov’d the place, In memory of their good actions, And gratitude for their benefactions. Witnes our hands--Will. Gibbons, Vicar--” And no one else.--This made us snicker: At length, with countenances serious, We all agreed it was mysterious, Not guessing that the reason might Be, the Churchwardens could not write. At ten, in council it was mov’d. Whoe’er was tir’d, or disapprov’d Of our proceedings, might go back, And cash to bear his charges take. With indignation this was heard. Each was for all events prepar’d. So all with one consent agreed To Upnor-Castle to proceed, And at the sutler’s there we din’d On such coarse fare as we could find. The Castle was not large, but strong, And seems to be of standing long. Twenty-four men its garrison, And just for every man a gun; Eight guns were mounted, eight men active, The rest were rated non-effective. Here an old couple, who had brought Some cockles in their boat, besought That one of us would buy a few, For they were very fresh and new. I did so, and ’twas charity; He was quite blind, and half blind she. Now growing frolicksome and gay, Like boys, we after dinner play, But, as the scene lay in a fort, Something like war must be our sport: Sticks, stones, and hogs-dung were our weapons, And, as in such frays oft it happens, Poor Tothall’s cloaths here went to pot, So that he could not laugh at Scott. From hence all conquerors we go To visit the church-yard at Hoo. At Hoo we found an Epitaph, Which made us (as ’twill make you) laugh: A servant maid, turn’d poetaster, Wrote it in honour of her master; I therefore give you (and I hope you Will like it well) a Vera Copia: “And . wHen . he . Died . You plainly . see Hee . freely . gave . al . to . Sara . passaWee. And . in . Doing . so . it DoTh . prevail . that . Ion . him . can . well . bes . Tow . this Rayel . On . Year . I sarved . him . it is well . none . BuT Thanks . beto . God . it . is . all my . One.”
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Long at one place we must not stay, ’Tis almost four, let’s haste away. But here’s a sign; ’tis rash, we think, To leave the place before we drink. We meet with liquor to our mind, Our hostess complaisant and kind: She was a widow, who, we found, Had (as the phrase is) been shod round, That is, had buried husbands four, And had no want of charms for more; Yet her we leave, and, as we go, Scott bravely undertook to show That through the world we could not pass, How thin soe’er our breeches was; “’Tis true, indeed, we may go round, But through”--then pointed to the ground. So well he manag’d the debate, We own’d he was a man of weight: And so indeed he was this once, His pockets we had fill’d with stones. But here we’d serv’d ourselves a trick, Of which he might have made us sick; We’d furnish’d him with ammunition Fit to knock down all opposition; And, knowing well his warmth of temper, Out of his reach began to scamper, Till, growing cooler, he pretends His passion feign’d, so all are friends. Our danger now becomes a joke, And peaceably we go to Stoke. About the church we nothing can see To strike or entertain our fancy: But near a farm, or an elm tree, A long pole fix’d upright we see, And tow’rd the top of it was plac’d A weathercock, quite in high taste, Which all of us, ere we go further, Pronounce of the Composite order. First, on a board turn’d by the wind, A painter had a cock design’d, A common weathercock was above it, This turn’d too as the wind did move it; Then on the spindle’s point so small A shuttlecock stuck o’ertopp’d them all. This triple alliance gave occasion To much improving speculation. Alas! we ne’er know when we are well, So at Northfleet again must quarrel; But fought not here with sticks and stones (For those, you know, might break our bones) A well just by, full to the brim, Did fitter for our purpose seem; So furiously we went to dashing, Till our coats wanted no more washing; But this our heat and courage cooling, ’Twas soon high time to leave such fooling. To The Nag’s Head we therefore hie, To drink, and to be turn’d adry. At six, while supper was preparing, And we about the marsh-lands staring, Our two game cocks, Tothall and Scott, To battling once again were got: But here no weapons could they find, Save what the cows dropp’d from behind; With these they pelted, till we fancy Their cloaths look’d something like a tansy. At seven we all come home again, Tothall and Scott their garments clean; Supper we get, and, when that’s o’er, A tiff of punch drink at the door; Then, as the beds were only three, Draw cuts who shall so lucky be As here to sleep without a chum; To Tothall’s share the prize did come; Hogarth and Thornhill, Scott and I, In pairs, like man and wife, must lie. Then mighty frolicksome they grow, At Scott and me the stocking throw, Fight with their wigs, in which perhaps They sleep, for here we found no caps. Up at eleven again we get, Our sheets were so confounded wet; We dress, and lie down in our cloaths; Monday, at three, awak’d and rose. And of the cursed gnats complain, Yet make a shift to sleep again. Till six o’clock we quiet lay, And then got out for the whole day; To fetch a barber out we send; Stripp’d, and in boots, he does attend, For he’s a fisherman by trade; Tann’d was his face, shock was his head; He flowers our wigs and trims our faces, And the top barber of the place is. The cloth is for our breakfast spread, A bowl of milk and toasted bread Are brought, of which while Forrest eats, To draw our pictures Hogarth sits; Thornhill is in the barber’s hands, Shaving himself Will Tothall stands; While Scott is in a corner sitting, And an unfinish’d piece completing. Our reckoning about eight we pay, And take for Isle of Greane our way; To keep the road we were directed, But, as ’twas bad, this rule neglected; A tempting path over a stile Led us astray above a mile; Yet the right road at last we gain, And joy to find ourselves at Greane; Where my Dame Husbands, at The Chequer, Refresh’d us with some good malt liquor; Into her larder then she runs, Brings out salt pork, butter, and buns, And coarse black bread, but that’s no matter, ’Twill fortify us for the water. Here Scott so carefully laid down His penknife which had cost a crown, That all in vain we sought to find it, And, for his comfort, say, “Ne’er mind it;” For to Sheerness we now must go: To this the ferryman says, “No.” We to another man repair’d: He too says, “No--it blows too hard.” But, while we study how to get there, In spite of this tempestuous weather, Our landlady a scheme propos’d, With which we fortunately clos’d, Was to the shore to go, and try To hail the ships in ordinary, So we might get, for no great matter, A boat to take us o’er the water. We haste, and soon the shore we tread, With various kinds of shells bespread, And in a little time we spy’d A boat approaching on our side; The man to take us in agreed, But that was difficult indeed, Till, holding in each hand an oar, He made a sort of bridge to shore, O’er which on hands and knees we crawl, And so get safe on board the yawl. In little time we seated were, And now to Shepey’s coast draw near; When suddenly, with loud report, The cannons roar from ships and fort, And, like tall fellows, we impute To our approach this grand salute. But soon, alas! our pride was humbled, And from this fancy’d height we tumbled, On recollecting that the day The nine and twentieth was of May. The firing had not long been ended, Before at Sheerness we were landed, Where on the battery while we walk, And of the charming prospect talk, Scott from us in a hurry runs, And, getting to the new-fir’d guns, Unto their touch-holes clapp’d his nose; Hogarth sits down, and trims his toes; These whims when we had made our sport, Our turn we finish round the fort, And are at one for Queenborough going: Bleak was the walk, the wind fierce blowing, And driving o’er our heads the spray; On loose beach stones, our pebbly way, But Thornhill only got a fall, Which hurt him little, if at all: So merrily along we go, And reach that famous town by two. Queenborough consists of one short street, Broad, and well-pav’d, and very neat; Nothing like dirt offends the eye, Scarce any people could we spy: The town-house, for the better show Is mounted on a portico Of piers and arches, number four, And crown’d at top with a clock tower; But all this did not reach so high As a flag-staff, that stood just by, On which a standard huge was flying (The borough’s arms, the king’s supplying) Which on high festivals they display To do the honours of the day. As for salutes, excus’d they are, Because they have no cannon there. To the church-yard we first repair, And hunt for choice inscriptions there. Search stones and rails, till almost weary all In hopes to find something material. When one at last, of pyebald style (Though grave the subject) made us smile: Telling us first, in humble prose, “That Henry Knight doth here repose, A Greenland Trader twice twelve year, As master and as harpooner:” Then, in as humble verse, we read (As by himself in person said) “In Greenland I whales, sea-horse, and bears did slay Though now my body is intombed in clay.” The house at which we were to quarter Is call’d The Swans; this rais’d our laughter, Because the sign is The Red Lion, So strange a blunder we cry “Fie on!” But, going in, all neat we see And clean; so was our landlady: With great civility she told us, She had not beds enough to hold us, But a good neighbour had just by, Where some of us perhaps might lie. She sends to ask. The merry dame Away to us directly came, Quite ready our desires to grant, And furnish us with what we want. Back to the church again we go, Which is but small, ill built, and low, View’d the inside, but still we see Nothing of curiosity, Unless we suffer the grave-digger In this our work to make a figure, Whom just beside us now we have, Employ’d in opening of a grave. A prating spark indeed he was, Knew all the scandal of the place, And often rested from his labours, To give the history of his neighbours; Told who was who, and what was what, Till on him we bestow’d a pot. (For he forgot not, you may think, “Masters, I hope you’ll make me drink!”). At this his scurrilous tongue run faster, Till “a sad dog” he call’d his master, Told us the worshipful the Mayor Was but a custom house officer, Still rattling on till we departed, Not only with his tales diverted, But so much wisdom we had got, We treated him with t’other pot. Return we now to the town-hall, That, like the borough, is but small, Under its portico’s a space, Which you may call the market place, Just big enough to hold the stocks, And one, if not two, butchers’ blocks, Emblems of plenty and excess, Though you can no where meet with less: For though ’tis call’d & market-town (As they are not asham’d to own) Yet we saw neither butcher’s meat, Nor fish, nor fowl, nor aught to eat. Once in seven years, they say, there’s plenty, When strangers come to represent ye. Hard at The Swans had been our fare, But that some Harwich men were there, Who lately had some lobsters taken, With which, and eke some eggs and bacon, Our bellies we design to fill; But first will clamber up the hill, A most delightful spot of ground, O’erlooking all the country round; On which there formerly has been The palace of Philippa, queen To the third Edward, as they tell, Now nought remains on’t but a well: But ’tis from hence, says common fame, The borough gets its royal name. Two sailors at this well we meet, And do each other kindly greet: “What brings you here, my lads?” cry we. “Thirst, please your honours, as you see; For (adds the spokesman) we are here Waiting for our young officer, A midshipman on board The Rose, (For General S----’s son he goes) We and our messmates, six in all, Yesterday brought him in our yawl, And when, as we had been commanded, Quite safe and dry we had him landed, By running of her fast aground At tide of ebb, he quickly found That he might go and see Sheerness, So here he left us pennyless, To feast on Queenborough air and water, Or starve, to him ’tis no great matter; While he among his friends at ease is, And will return just when he pleases; Perhaps he may come back to-day; If not, he knows that we must stay.” So one of us gave him a tester, When both cried out, “God bless you, master!” Then ran to rouse their sleeping fellows, To share their fortune at the alehouse. Hence to the creek-side, one and all, We go to see The Rose’s yawl, And found her bedded in the mud, Immovable till tide of flood. The sailors here had cockles got, Which gratefully to us they brought, ’Twas all with which they could regale us; This t’ other sixpence sent to th’ alehouse: So merrily they went their way, And we were no less pleas’d than they. At seven about the town we walk, And with some pretty damsels talk, Beautiful nymphs indeed, I ween, Who came to see, and to be seen. Then to our Swans returning, there We borrow’d a great wooden chair, And plac’d it in the open street, Where, in much state did Hogarth sit To draw the townhouse, church, and steeple, Surrounded by a crowd of people; Tag, rag, and bobtail, stood quite thick there, And cry’d, “What a sweet pretty picture!” This was not finish’d long before We saw, about the Mayor’s fore-door, Our honest sailors in a throng: We call’d one of them from among The rest, to tell us the occasion; Of which he gave us this relation: “Our midshipman is just come back, And chanc’d to meet or overtake A sailor walking with a woman (May be she’s honest, may be common): He thought her handsome, so his honour Would needs be very sweet upon her: But this the seaman would not suf- -fer, and this put him in a huff. ‘Lubber, avast,’ says sturdy John, ‘Avast, I say, let her alone; You shall not board her, she’s my wife. Sheer off, Sir, if you love your life: I’ve a great mind your back to lick;’ And up he held his oaken stick. “Our midship hero this did scare: I’ll swear the peace before the Mayor,” Says he, so to the Mayor’s they trudge: How such a case by such a judge Determin’d was I cannot say, We thought it not worth while to stay: For it strikes nine, “How th’ evening spends “Come, let us drink to all our friends A chearful glass, and eat a bit.” So to our supper down we sit, When something merry check’d our mirth: The Harwich men had got a birth Closely adjoining to our room, And were to spend their evening come: The wall was thin, and they so near, That all they say, or sing, we hear. We sung our songs, we crack’d our jokes, Their emulation this provokes; And they perform’d so joyously, As distanc’d hollow all our glee; So (were it not a bull) I’d say, This night they fairly won the day. Now plenteously we drink of flip, In hopes we shall the better sleep; Some rest the long day’s work requires; Scott to his lodging first retires; His landlady is waiting for him, And to his chamber walks before him; In her fair hand a light she bears, And shows him up the garret-stairs; Away comes he greatly affronted, And his disgrace to us recounted, This makes us game, we roast him for it, “Scott’s too high-minded for a garret.” But Tothall more humanely said, “Come, Scott, be easy, take my bed, And to your garret I will go.” (This great good-nature sure did show) There finding nought him to entertain But a flock-bed without a curtain, He too in haste came back, and got Away to share his bed with Scott, And at eleven each goes to nest, Till Tuesday morn to take his rest. At six comes Hogarth, “Rise, Sirs, rise,” Says he, with roguery in his eyes, “Scott’s landlady is below stairs; And roundly the good woman swears, That for his lodging he shall pay, (Where his tir’d bones he scorn’d to lay) Or he should go before the Mayor.” She’s in the right on’t, we declare, For this would cut the matter short, (At least ’twould make us special sport); But here she balk’d us, and, no doubt, Had wit enough to find us out. Our mark thus miss’d, we kindly go To see how he and Tothall do. We find the doors all open were, (It seems that’s not unusual here) They’re very well, but Scott last night Had been in a most dreadful fright: “When to his room he got,” he said, “And just was stepping into bed, He thought he saw the bed-cloaths stir, So back he flew in mortal fear; But, taking heart of grace, he try’d To feel what ’twas, when out it cry’d; Again he starts, but to his joy It prov’d a little harmless boy, Who by mistake had thither crept, And soundly (till he wak’d him) slept. So from his fears recover’d quite, He got to sleep, and slept all night.” We laugh at this, and he laughs too, For, pray, what better could he do? At ten we leave our Lion-Swans, And to the higher lands advance, Call on our laundress by the way, For the led shirts left yesterday To wash; “She’s sorry, they’re not yet Quite dry!”--“Why then we’ll take them wet They’ll dry and iron’d be, we hope, At Minster, where we next shall stop.” The way was good, the weather fair, The prospects most delightful were. To Minster got, with labour hard We climb’d the hill to the church-yard, But, when arriv’d there, did not fail To read some verses on a rail Well worth transcribing, we agree, Whether you think so, you may see. “Here interr’d George Anderson doth lye, By fallen on an anchor he did dye In Sheerness yard on Good Friday The 6th of April, I do say, All you that read my allegy be alwaies Ready for to dye--aged 42 years.” Of monuments that here they shew Within the church, we drew but two; One an ambassador of Spain’s, T’other Lord Shorland’s dust contains, Of whom they have a wondrous story, Which (as they tell) I’ll lay before ye. [349]The Lord of Shorland, on a day, Chancing to take a ride this way, About a corpse observ’d a crowd, Against their priest complaining loud, That he would not the service say Till somebody his fees should pay. On this his lordship too did rave, And threw the priest into the grave, “Make haste and fill it up,” said he, “We’ll bury both without a fee.” But when got home, and cool, reflecting On the strange part he had been acting, He drew a state up of the case, Humbly petitioning for grace, And to the sea gallop’d away, Where, at that time, a frigate lay, With Queen Elizabeth on board, When (strange to tell!) this hare-brain’d Lord On horseback swam to the ship’s side, And there to see the Queen apply’d. His case she reads; her royal breast Is mov’d to grant him his request. His pardon thankfully he takes, And, swimming still, to land he makes: But on his riding up the beach, He an old woman met, a witch: “This horse, which now your life doth save, Says she, “will bring you to the grave.” “You’ll prove a liar,” says my lord, “You ugly hag!” and with his sword (Acting a most ungrateful part) His panting steed stabb’d to the heart. It happen’d, after many a day, That with some friends he stroll’d that way, And this strange story, as they walk, Became the subject of their talk: When, “There the carcase lies,” he cry’d, “Upon the beach by the sea side.” As ’twas not far, he led them to’t, And kick’d the skull up with his foot, When a sharp bone pierc’d through his shoe, And wounded grievously his toe, Which mortify’d; so he was kill’d, And the hag’s prophecy fulfill’d. See there his cross-legg’d figure laid, And near his feet the horse’s head! The tomb[350] is of too old a fashion To tally well with this narration; But of the truth we would not doubt, Nor put our Cicerone out: It gives a moral hint at least, That gratitude’s due to a beast. So far it’s good, whoever made it, And that it may not fail of credit, A horsehead vane adorns the steeple, And it’s Horse-church call’d by the people. Our shirts dry’d at The George we get, We dine there, and till four we sit; And now in earnest think of home; So to Sheerness again we come, Where for a bum-boat we agree, And about five put off to sea. We presently were under sail, The tide our friend, south-east the gale, Quite wind enough, and some to spare, But we to that accustom’d were. When we had now got past The Nore, And lost the sight of Shepey’s shore, The ebbing tide of Thames we met, The wind against it fiercely set; This made a short and tumbling sea, And finely toss’d indeed were we. The porpoises in stormy weather Are often seen in shoals together About us while they roll and play, One in his gambols miss’d his way, And threw himself so far on shore, We thought he would get off no more; But with great straggling, and some pain, He did, and went to play again. On this we moralising say, “How thoughtless is the love of play!” When we ourselves with sorrow find Our pleasures too with pain conjoin’d. For troubles crowd upon us thick; Our hero, Scott, grows very sick; Poor Hogarth makes wry faces too (Worse faces than he ever drew). You’ll guess what were the consequences, Not overpleasing to our senses; And this misfortune was augmented By Master Tothall’s being acquainted With the commander of a sloop, At Holy Haven near The Hope. “There’s Captain Robinson,” says he, “A friend, whom I must call and see.” Up the ship’s side he nimbly goes, While we lie overwhelm’d with woes, Sick, and of winds and waves the sport, But then he made his visit short, And when a sup of punch he’d got, Some lighted match to us he brought A sovereign cordial this, no doubt, To men whose pipes had long been out. By seven o’clock our sick recover, And all are glad this trouble’s over. Now jovially we sail along, Our cockswain giving song for song. But soon our notes are chang’d; we found Our boat was on Bly-sand aground, Just in the middle of the river; Here Tothall shew’d himself quite clever: And, knowing we must else abide Till lifted by the flowing tide, Work’d without skippers, till the boat Was once more happily afloat. We all applaud his care and skill, So do the boatmen his good-will. Ere long the tide made upward, so With that before the wind we go, And, disembarking about ten, Our Gravesend quarters reach again. Here Madam, smiling, comes to tell How glad she is to see us well: This kind reception we commended; And now thought all our troubles ended; But, when for what we want we call, Something unlucky did befall. When we our travels first began Scott (who’s a very prudent man) Thought a great coat could do no harm, And in the boat might keep him warm; So far perhaps you think him right, As we took water in the night: But when from hence we took our way On foot, the latter end of May, He, quite as reasonably, thought ’Twould be too heavy or too hot; “I’ll leave it here,” says he, “and take It with me at our coming back.” And he most certainly design’d it, But now the thing was, how to find it? We told him he had been mistaken, And did without his hostess reckon. To him it was no jest; he swore, “He left it there three days before.” “This Mrs. Bramble can’t deny.” “Sir, we shall find it by and by:” So out she goes, and rends her throat With “Moll, go find the gem’man’s coat.” The house Moll searches round and round. At last, with much ado, ’twas found-- ’Twas found, that, to the owner’s cost, Or Scott’s, the borrow’d coat was lost. “Coat lost!” says he, stamping and staring. Then stood like dumb, then fell to swearing: He curs’d the ill-concluding ramble, He curs’d Gravesend and mother Bramble. But, while his rage he thus express’d, And we his anger made our jest, Till wrath had almost got the upper- -hand of his reason, in came supper: To this at once his stomach turn’d, No longer it with fury burn’d, But hunger took the place of rage, And a good meal did both assuage. He eat and drank, he drank and eat, The wine commended, and the meat; So we did all, and sat so late, That Wednesday morn we lay till eight. Tobacco then, and wine provide, Enough to serve us for this tide. Get breakfast, and our reckoning pay, And next prepare for London hey; So, hiring to ourselves a wherry, We put off, all alive and merry. The tide was strong, fair was the wind, Gravesend is soon left far behind, Under the tilt on straw we lay, Observing what a charming day, There stretch’d at ease we smoke and drink, Londoners like, and now we think Our cross adventures all are past, And that at Gravesend was the last: But cruel Fate to that says no; One yet shall Fortune find his foe. While we (with various prospects cloy’d) In clouds of smoke ourselves enjoy’d, More diligent and curious, Scott Into the forecastle had got, And took his papers out, to draw Some ships which right ahead he saw. There sat he, on his work intent, When, to increase our merriment, So luckily we shipp’d a sea, That he got sous’d, and only he. This bringing to his mind a thought How much he wanted his great coat, Renew’d his anger and his grief; He curs’d Gravesend, the coat, and thief; And, still to heighten his regret, His shirt was in his breeches wet: He draws it out, and lets it fly, Like a French ensign, till ’tis dry, Then, creeping into shelter safe, Joins with the company and laugh. Nothing more happen’d worthy note: At Billingsgate we change our boat, And in another through bridge get, By two, to Stairs of Somerset, Welcome each other to the shore, To Covent Garden walk once more, And, as from Bedford Arms we started, There wet our whistles ere we parted. With pleasure I observe, none idle Were in our travels, or employ’d ill. Tothall, our treasurer, was just, And worthily discharg’d his trust; (We all sign’d his accounts as fair;) Sam Scott and Hogarth, for their share, The prospects of the sea and land did; As Thornhill of our tour the plan did; And Forrest wrote this true relation Of our five days peregrination. This to attest, our names we’ve wrote all, Viz. Thornhill, Hogarth, Scott, and Tothall.
THE END.
Of whom they have a wondrous story, Which (as they tell) I’ll lay before ye.
Gostling.
[345] Mr. Nichols’s account of Hogarth.
[346] It is to be regretted that his grace’s picture was not preserved in this collection.
[347] This drawing unluckily has not been preserved.
[348] The Royal Sovereign and Marlborough.
[349] This story is quoted by Mr. Grose in his Antiquities, Vol. II. art. Minster Monastery. “The legend,” says Mr. Grose, “has, by a worthy friend of mine, been hitched into doggrel rhyme. It would be paying the reader but a bad compliment to attempt seriously to examine the credibility of the story.”
[350] A cross-legg’d figure in armour, with a shield over his left arm, like that of a Knight Templar, said to represent Sir Robert de Shurland, who by Edward I. was created a Knight banneret for his gallant behaviour at the siege of Carlaverock in Scotland. He lies under a Gothic arch in the south wall, having an armed page at his feet, and on his right side the head of a horse emerging out of the waves of the sea, as in the action of swimming.--GROSE.
Vol. II.--38.
To the Editor.
Sir,--This engraving is from a silver medal, of the same size, which commemorates two events--The first is that of the date of June 1530, which is called the Confession of Augsburgh, to settle the religious disputes, in a Diet, or Assembly of Princes between the Lutherans and the Catholics--The second relates to the celebration of the Centenary of the Diet.
The inscription “Johannes” on the side of the medal dated 1530, is for John Elector of Saxony. The inscription “Joh. Geor.” on the side dated 1630, is for the Elector John George III. The escutcheon with swords saltierwise, accompanying their arms, denotes the dignity of Grand Marshal of the Empire.
The medal is in the possession of John Burrell Vaux, Esq. of Thetford, in Norfolk, who obligingly lent it to me, with permission to have a drawing taken from it for any purpose I pleased, together with a memorandum accompanying it, to the preceding effect. As a friend to the composure of differences, I deemed it suitable to the peaceful columns of the Table Book; and I shall be happy if so striking a memorial, and the events it refers to, receive further illustration from other correspondents.
I am, &c.
H. B.
* * * * *
[By a mistake of the engraver, the present is the only engraving in the present sheet of the Table Book.--EDITOR.]
* * * * *
HIGHLAND EMIGRATION.
Son of the Gaël, how many a wierie change The wing of time has brought across thy hills! How many a deed uncouth, and custom strange, The lofty spirit of thy fathers chills! The usage of thy foes thy region fills, And low thy head is bowed their hand beneath, And driven by innumerable ills, Thy olden race is gone from hill and heath, To live a homeless life, and die a stranger’s death.
The preceding stanza is the first in the poem entitled “The Last Deer of Beann Doran.” On the last two lines its author Mr. James Hay Allan, appends a note as follows:--
In consequence of the enormous advance of rents, and the system of throwing the small crofts into extensive sheep-farms, the Highlands have been so depopulated in the last seventy-seven years,[351] that the inhabitants do not now amount to above one-third of their number at the commencement of that period. An instance of this melancholy fact is very striking in Glen Urcha: in 1745 the east half only of the straith from Dalmallie to Strone sent out a hundred fighting men: at the present day there are not in the same space above thirty. This proportion of decrease is general. During the last twenty years fifteen hundred persons have gone from Argyleshire; three thousand from Inverness; the same number from Ross and Caithness; and five thousand from Sutherland. The desertions have been equal in the isles. Pennant, speaking of the inhabitants of Skie, says: “Migrations and depression of spirit, the last a common cause of depopulation, have since the year 1750 reduced the number from fifteen thousand to between twelve and thirteen: one thousand having crossed the Atlantic; others, sunk beneath poverty, or in despair, ceased to obey the first great command, Increase and multiply.” These observations were written in 1774; so that the depopulation which is mentioned, took place in twenty-four years.
It is impossible to paint the first departings of a people who held the memory of their ancestors, and the love of their soil, a part of their soul. Unacquainted with any mechanical art, and unable to obtain for their overflowing numbers an agricultural or pastoral employment in their own country, they were obliged to abandon their native land, and seek an asylum in the unpeopled deserts of the western world. The departing inhabitants of each straith and hamlet gathered into bands, and marched out of their glens with the piper playing before them the death lament, “Cha pill! cha pill! cha pill me tulle!”--“Never! never! never shall I return!” Upon the spot where they were to lose sight of their native place, and part from those who were to remain behind, they threw themselves upon the ground in an agony of despair, embracing the earth, moistening the heather with their tears, and clinging with hopeless anguish to the necks and plaids of the friends whom they were to see no more. When the hour of separation was past, they went forth upon the world a lonely, sad, expatriated race, rent from all which bound them to the earth, and lost amid the tide of mankind: none mixed with them in character, none blended with them in sympathy. They were left in their simplicity to struggle with fraud, ignorance, and distress, a divided people set apart to misfortune.
* * * * *
In the third stanza of the poem on “Beann Doran,” its author says,
There was a time--alas! full long ago, Wide forests waved upon thy mountains’ side.
On these lines Mr. Allan remarks as follows:--
Almost every district of the Highlands bears the trace of the vast forests with which at no very distant period the hills and heaths were covered: some have decayed with age, but large tracts were purposely destroyed in the latter end of the sixteenth and the early part of the seventeenth century. On the south side of Beann Nevis a large pine forest, which extended from the western braes of Lochabar to the black water and the mosses of Ranach, was burned to expel the wolves. In the neighbourhood of Loch Sloi a tract of woods, nearly twenty miles in extent, was consumed for the same purpose; and at a later period a considerable part of the forests adjoining to Lochiel was laid waste by the soldiers of Oliver Cromwell, in their attempts to subdue the Clan Cameron. Nothing of late years has tended more to the destruction of the small woods than the pasturage of sheep. Wherever these animals have access to a copse-wood which has been cut down, they entirely stunt its growth, and sometimes destroy it altogether, by continually eating off the young shoots as soon as they appear. A considerable quantity of the yet remaining woods is also too frequently sacrificed to the avarice of the proprietors. On the west bank of Loch Catrine, near the Trossachs, a ground which ought now to have been as sacred as the vale of Tempe, a beautiful copse-wood has been cut and sold within a recent period; and there appears in its place only the desolate side of a naked heather hill. It is not above sixty years since Glen Urcha has been divested of a superb forest of firs some miles in extent. The timber was bought by a company of Irish adventurers, who paid at the rate of sixpence a tree for such as would now have been valued at five guineas. After having felled the whole of the forest, the purchasers became bankrupt, and dispersed: the overseer of the workmen was hanged at Inverara, for assassinating one of his men. The laird never received the purchase of his timber, and a considerable number of the trees were left upon the spot where they fell, or by the shores of Loch Awe, where they were carried for conveyance, and gradually consumed by the action of the weather. Those mosses where the ancient forests formerly stood, are overspread with the short stocks of trees still standing where they grew. Age has reduced them almost to the core, and the rains and decay of the earth have cleared them of the soil: yet their wasted stumps, and the fangs of their roots, retain their original shape, and stand amid the hollows, the realization of the skeletons of trees in the romance of Leonora. Abundance of these remains of an older world are to be seen in Glen Urcha and its neighbourhood. In Corrai Fhuar, Glen Phinglass, and Glen Eitive, they are met at every step. In the first, a few living firs are yet thriving; but they are surrounded on every side by the shattered stumps, fallen trunks, and blasted limbs of a departed forest.
It is difficult to conceive the sad emotions which are excited by this picture of an aged existence falling without notice, and consuming in the deepest solitude and silence: on every side lie different stages of decay, from the mouldered and barkless stock, half overgrown with grass and moss, to the overturned tree, yet bearing on its crashed limbs the withered leaves of its last summer. In Glen Phinglass there is no longer any living timber; but the remains of that which it once produced are of greater magnitude than those in Corrai Fhuar. In this tract the trees were chiefly oak; firs were, however, intermixed among them, and in the upper part of the glen is the stump of one six feet in diameter. At intervals are stocks of oak from five to seven or eight feet in height; they are all of a great size and age: some are still covered with bark, and yet bear a few stunted shoots; but many are so old, that the mossy earth has grown on one side to their top, and the heath has begun to tuft them over like ivy. In Glen Eitive the remains are less obliterated: many of the scathed and knotted stumps yet bear a thin head of wreathed and dwarfish boughs, and in some places trunks of immense oaks, straight as a mast, yet lie at the foot of the stump from which they were snapped. I know not how to describe the feelings with which I have gazed upon these relics of the ancient forests which once covered the hills, and looked up to the little feathery copse-wood which is all that now remains upon the side of the mountain. What must be the soul of that man who can look upon the change without a thought? who hears the taunts of the stranger revile the nakedness of his land, and who can stand upon his hill and stretch his eye for an hundred miles over the traces of gigantic woods, and say, “This is mine;” and yet ask not the neglected earth for its produce, nor strive to revive the perished glory of his country, and which to be reanimated needs but to be sought?
The success of those who have possessed this patriotism ought to be a source of emulation, and is a monument of reproach to those who do not follow their example. The princely avenues of Inverara, the beautiful woods of Glengarrie, the plantations of Duntroon, and the groves of Athol, must excite in a stranger, admiration; in a native, pride and gratitude--pride in the produce of his country, and gratitude to the noble possessors who have preserved and cherished that which every Scottish proprietor ought to support, the honour and the interest of his fathers’ land.
* * * * *
Mr. Allan’s elegant poem is a “lament” on the desertion of the Highlands by its ancient inhabitants. He says:--
Full often in the valleys still and lone, The ruins of deserted huts appear. And here and there grown o’er for many a year, Half-hidden ridges in the heath are seen, Where once the delving plough and waving corn had been.
In a note on this stanza, Mr. Allan eloquently depicts the depopulated districts, viz.:--
Upon the narrow banks of lonely streams, amid the solitude of waste moors, in the bosom of desolate glens, and on the eminences of hills given to the foxes and the sheep, are seen the half-mouldered walls of ruined huts, and the mossy furrows of abandoned fields, which tell the existence of a people once numerous and rich. In these melancholy traces of desolation are sometimes seen the remains of eight or twelve houses bereft of their roofs, and mouldering into a promiscuous heap. Upon one farm in the straith of Glen Urcha there were “sixty years since” thirty-seven “smokes;” at this day they are all extinguished, except four. A less extensive but more striking instance of this falling away of the people will still farther illustrate the lines in the poem. I was one evening passing up a solitary glen between Glen Phinglass and Loch Bhoile; the day was fast closing, and wearied with hunting, and at a distance from the inhabited straiths, I wished to discover some house where I might obtain refreshment. As I turned the shoulder of the hill, I came upon a small level plain where four glens met. In the midst stood two cottages, and I hastened forward in the hopes of obtaining a stoup of milk and a barley scone. As I drew near I remarked that no smoke issued from the chimney, no cattle stood in the straith, nor was there any sign of the little green kale yard, which is now found in the precincts of a highland cottage. I was something discouraged by the quiet and desolation which reigned around; but knowing the solitude and poverty of the shepherds of the outward bounds, I was not surprised. At length, however, as I drew near, I saw the heath growing in the walls of the huts, the doors were removed, and the apertures of the windows had fallen into chasms. As I stopped and looked round, I observed a level space which had been once a field: it was yet green and smooth, and the grass-grown ridges of long-neglected furrows were perceivable, retiring beneath the encroaching heather. Familiarity with such objects prevented surprise and almost reflection; but hunger and weariness reminded me not to linger, and I pursued my way towards Loch Bhoile. As I turned into the north-west glen, I again discovered before me a small house by the side of the burn, and the compactitude of its walls and the freshness of its grey roof as the setting sun glinted upon its ridge, assured me that it was not deserted. I hastened onward, but again I was deceived. When I came near, I found that although it had not been so long uninhabited, it was forsaken like the rest: the small wooden windows were half-closed; the door stood open, and moss had crept upon the sill; the roof was grown over with a thick and high crop of long-withered grass: a few half-burnt peats lay in a corner of the hearth, and the smoke of its last fire was yet hanging on the walls. In the narrow sandy path near the door was a worn space, which yet seemed smoothened by the tread of little feet, and showed the half-deranged remains of children’s playhouses built with pebbles and fragments of broken china: the row of stepping-stones yet stood as they had been placed in the brook, but no foot-mark was upon them, and it was doubtless many a day since they had been crossed, save by the foxes of the hill.
[351] Mr. Allan’s poems, the “Bridal of Caölchairn,” the “Last Deer of Beann Doran,” &c. were published by Carpenter, Bond-street, in 1822.
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays.~
No. XXXIII.
[From the “True Trojans, or Fuimus Troes,” an Historical Play, Author unknown, 1633.]
Invocation of the Druids to the Gods of Britain, on the invasion of Cæsar.
Draw near, ye Heav’nly Powers, Who dwell in starry bowers; And ye, who in the deep On mossy pillows sleep; And ye who keep the centre, Where never light did enter; And ye whose habitations Are still among the nations, To see and hear our doings, Our births, our wars, our wooings; Behold our present grief Belief doth beg relief.
By the vervain and lunary, By fern seed planetary, By the dreadful misletoe Which doth on holy oak grow, Draw near, draw near, draw near.
Help us beset with danger, And turn away your anger; Help us begirt with trouble, And now your mercy double; Help us opprest with sorrow And fight for us to-morrow. Let fire consume the foeman, Let air infest the Roman, Let seas intomb their fury, Let gaping earth them bury. Let fire, and air, and water, And earth conspire their slaughter.
By the vervain, &c.
We’ll praise then your great power, Each month, each day, each hour, And blaze in lasting story Your honour and your glory. High altars lost in vapour, Young heifers free from labour, White lambs for suck still crying, Shall make your music dying, The boys and girls around, With honey suckles crown’d; The bards with harp and rhiming Green bays their brows entwining, Sweet tune and sweeter ditty, Shall chaunt your gracious pity.
By the vervain, &c.
Another, to the Moon.
Thou Queen of Heav’n, Commandress of the deep, Lady of lakes, Regent of woods and deer; A Lamp, dispelling irksome night; the Source Of generable moisture; at whose feet Wait twenty thousand Naiades!--thy crescent Brute elephants adore, and man doth feel Thy force run through the zodiac of his limbs. O thou first Guide of Brutus to this isle, Drive back these proud usurpers from this isle. Whether the name of Cynthia’s silver globe, Or chaste Diana with a gilded quiver, Or dread Proserpina, stern Dis’s spouse, Or soft Lucina, call’d in child-bed throes, Doth thee delight: rise with a glorious face. Green drops of Nereus trickling down thy cheeks, And with bright horns united in full orb Toss high the seas, with billows beat the banks, Conjure up Neptune, and th’ Æolian slaves, Protract both night and winter in a storm, That Romans lose their way, and sooner land At sad Avernus’ than at Albion’s strand. So may’st thou shun the Dragon’s head and tail! So may Endymion snort on Latmian bed! So may the fair game fall before thy bow!-- Shed light on us, but light’ning on our foe.
* * * * *
[From the “Twins,” a Comedy, by W. Rider, A. M. 1655.]
Irresolution.
I am a heavy stone, Rolled up a hill by a weak child: I move A little up, and tumble back again.
Resolution for Innocence.
My noble mind has not yet lost all shame. I will desist. My love, that will not serve me As a true subject, I’ll conquer as an enemy. O Fame, I will not add another spot To thy pure robe. I’ll keep my ermine honour Pure and alive in death; and with my end I’ll end my sin and shame: like Charicles, Who living to a hundred years of age Free from the least disease, fearing a sickness, To kill it killed himself, and made his death The period of his health.
* * * * *
[From “Sir Giles Goosecap,” a Comedy, Author Unknown, 1606.]
Friendship in a Lord; modesty in a Gentleman.
Clarence, (to some musicians). Thanks, gentle friends; Is your good lord, and mine, gone up to bed yet? Momford. I do assure you not, Sir, not yet, nor yet, my deep and studious friend, not yet, musical Clarence. Clar. My Lord-- Mom. Nor yet, then sole divider of my Lordship. Clar. That were a most unfit division, And far above the pitch of my low plumes. I am your bold and constant guest, my Lord. Mom. Far, far from bold, for thou hast known me long, Almost these twenty years, and half those years Hast been my bedfellow, long time before This unseen thing, this thing of nought indeed, Or atom, call’d my Lordship, shined in me; And yet thou mak’st thyself as little bold To take such kindness, as becomes the age And truth of our indissoluble love, As our acquaintance sprong but yesterday; Such is thy gentle and too tender spirit. Clar. My Lord, my want of courtship makes me fear I should be rude; and this my mean estate Meets with such envy and detraction, Such misconstructions and resolv’d misdooms Of my poor worth, that should I be advanced Beyond my unseen lowness but one hair, I should be torn in pieces by the spirits That fly in ill-lung’d tempests thro’ the world, Tearing the head of virtue from her shoulders, If she but look out of the ground of glory; ’Twixt whom, and me, and every worldly fortune, There fights such sour and curst antipathy, So waspish and so petulant a star, That all things tending to my grace and good Are ravish’d from their object, as I were A thing created for a wilderness, And must not think of any place with men.
* * * * *
[From the “English Monsieur,” a Comedy by the Hon. James Howard, 1674.]
The humour of a conceited Traveller, who is taken with every thing that is French.
English Monsieur. Gentlemen, if you please, let us dine together.
Vaine. I know a cook’s shop, has the best boiled and roast beef in town.
Eng. Mons. Sir, since you are a stranger to me, I only ask you what you mean; but, were you acquainted with me, I should take your greasy proposition as an affront to my palate.
Vaine. Sir, I only meant, by the consent of this company, to dine well together.
Eng. Mons. Do you call dining well, to eat out of a French house.
Vaine. Sir, I understand you as little as you do beef.
Eng. Mons. Why then, to interpret my meaning plainly, if ever you make me such offer again, expect to hear from me next morning--
Vaine. What, that you would not dine with me--
Eng. Mons. No, Sir; that I will fight with you. In short, Sir, I can only tell you, that I had once a dispute with a certain person in this kind, who defended the English way of eating; whereupon I gent him a challenge, as any man that has been in France would have done. We fought; I killed him: and whereabouts do you think I hit him?
Vaine. I warrant you, in the small guts--
Eng. Mons. I run him through his mistaken palate; which made me think the hand of justice guided my sword.
* * * * *
Eng. Mons. Madam, leading your Ladyship, puts me in mind of France.
Lady. Why, Sir?
Eng. Mons. Because you lead so like French ladies.
Lady. Sir, why look you so earnestly on the ground?
Eng. Mons. I’ll lay a hundred pounds, here has been three English ladies walking up before us.
Crafty. How can you tell, Sir?
Eng. Mons. By being in France.
Crafty. What a devil can he mean?
Eng. Mons. I have often in France observed in gardens, when the company used to walk after a small shower of rain, the impression of the French ladies’ feet. I have seen such bon mien in their footsteps, that the King of France’s Maitre de Daunce could not have found fault with any one tread amongst them all. In this walk I find the toes of the English ladies ready to tread one upon another.
* * * * *
Vaine. Monsieur Frenchlove, well met--
Eng. Mons. I cannot say the like to you, Sir, since I’m told you’ve done a damn’d English trick.
Vaine. In what?
Eng. Mons. In finding fault with a pair of tops I wore yesterday; and, upon my parol, I never had a pair sat better in my life. My leg look’d in ’em not at all like an English leg.
Vaine. Sir, all that I said of your tops was, that they made such a rushing noise as you walk’d, that my mistress could not hear one word of the love I made to her.
Eng. Mons. Sir, I cannot help that; for I shall justify my tops in the noise they were guilty of, since ’twas Alamode of France. Can you say ’twas an English noise.
Vaine. I can say, though your tops were made in France, they made a noise in England.
Eng. Mons. But still, Sir, ’twas a French noise--
Vaine. But cannot a French noise hinder a man from hearing?
Eng. Mons. No, certainly, that’s a demonstration; for, look you, Sir, a French noise is agreeable to the air, and therefore not unagreeable, and therefore not prejudicial, to the hearing; that is to say, to a person that has seen the world.
The Monsieur comforts himself, when his mistress rejects him, that “’twas a denial with a French tone of voice, so that ’twas agreeable:” and, at her final departure, “Do you see, Sir, how she leaves us? she walks away with a French step.”
C. L.
* * * * *
THOU AND YOU, IN POETRY.
The promiscuous use of thou and you is a common error among all our poets, not the best or most accurate excepted.
The cause of this anomaly is not of difficult investigation. The second person singular not being colloquial with us, (for we never use it to our familiar friends like the French,) it at once elevates our language above the level of common discourse--a most essential object to the poet, and therefore he readily adopts it; but when it comes to govern a verb, the combination of st is so harsh that he as readily abandons it.
In Pope’s Eloisa to Abelard, the singular pronoun is constantly used till verse 65:
“--Heaven listen’d while you sung;”
for thou sungst (without considering the rhyme) would have been intolerable.
In lines 107, 109, the verb canst thou has a good effect; as by lengthening the syllable by position it becomes more emphatic, and the harshness is amply compensated by the superior force of canst thou to can you. The fastidious critic therefore would do well, before he passes his sentence, to consider whether an inaccuracy, which is never discovered except it be sought after, is not fairly entitled to the favour Aristotle grants to those deviations from strict propriety which tend to heighten the interest of a poem.
This change however is absolutely indefensible when used for the sake of rhyme only. Many instances of this occur in the same poem; the most striking will be found in two succeeding couplets:
O come! O! teach me nature to subdue, Renounce my love, my life, myself,--and you: Fill my fond heart with God alone; for he Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.
In some cases this change is strictly justifiable; as, when a person is addressed in a different style. For example, in Thomson’s Tancred and Sigismunda, when Siffredi discloses to Tancred that he is the king, he says,
Forgive me, sir! this trial of your heart.
For the respectful appellation sir demands the more colloquial term of address, but he immediately adds with animation,
Thou! thou! art he!
And so in Tancred’s subsequent speech to Siffredi, he first says,
I think, my lord! you said the king intrusted To you his will!--
but soon after adds, in a more impassioned tone,
On this alone I will not bear dispute, Not even from thee, Siffredi!
The same distinction will, in general, be found in the speeches of Sigismunda to Tancred.[352]
[352] Pye.
* * * * *
HARVEST-CATCH IN NORFOLK.
To the Editor.
Sir,--Your Every-Day Book contains several interesting accounts relating to the present joyous season of the year. Amongst others, a correspondent ~G. H. J.~ (in vol. ii. col. 1168,) has furnished us with some amusing particulars of the old customs of the harvest supper. It should seem, however, that he is but imperfectly acquainted with the old “catch” of this country. That which he has given is evidently compounded of two different songs in use on these occasions, and I have no doubt when you have read and compared them you will be of my opinion. A few years more, and probably (but for your notice of them) they will be entirely forgotten.
The health-drinking catch, which is always the last thing before parting, is as follows:--
First the mistress:--
Now supper is over, and all things are past, Here’s our mistress’s good health in a full flowing glass; She is a good mistress, she provides us good cheer, Here’s our mistress’s good health, boys--Come drink half your beer-- She is a good mistress, she provides us good cheer, Here’s our mistress’s good health, boys--Come drink off your beer.
During the time the catch is going round the whole party are standing, and, with the exception of the drinker, they join in chorus. The glass circulates, beginning with the “Lord” in regular succession through the “company:” after that it is handed to the visitors,--the harvestmen of gone-by days,--who are not, or ought not to be, forgotten on the occasion. If the drinker be taken off his guard, and should drink off his beer at the pause in the catch, he is liable to a forfeit: if one of the chorus misplaces the words half and off, which not unfrequently happens at the heel of an evening, he incurs a similar penalty.
After the mistress the master:--
Here’s health to our master, the lord of the feast, God bless his endeavours, and give him increase, And send him good crops, that we may meet another year, Here’s our master’s good health, boys--Come drink half your beer. God send him good crops, &c.--Come drink off your beer.
Where the beer flows very freely, and there is a family, it is sometimes usual to carry on the catch, through the different branches, with variations composed for the purpose, perhaps at the spur of the moment: some of these I have known very happily conceived. The other glee to which I alluded in the beginning of my letter, and which I conceive ~G. H. J.~ to have had in view, is this:--
Here’s health unto our master, the founder of the feast, God grant, whenever he shall die, his soul may go to rest, And that all things may prosper whate’er he has in hand, For we are all his servants, and are at his command; So drink, boys, drink, and mind you do none spill, For if you do You shall drink two, For ’tis our master’s will!
If the foregoing be acceptable, it will be a satisfaction to have contributed a trifle to a miscellany, which has afforded a fund of instruction and amusement to
Your constant reader and admirer,
~T. B. H.~
Norfolk, August 20, 1827.
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POTTED VENISON.
Sir Kenelm Digby, in a fanciful discourse on “Sympathy,” affirms, that the venison which is in July and August put into earthern pots, to last the whole year, is very difficult to be preserved during the space of those particular months which are called the fence-months; but that, when that period is passed, nothing is so easy as to keep it gustful (as he words it) during the whole year after. This he endeavours to find a cause for from the “sympathy” between the potted meat, and its friends and relations, courting and capering about in its native park.
* * * * *
For the Table Book.
THE DEFEAT OF TIME;
OR A
TALE OF THE FAIRIES.
Titania, and her moonlight Elves, were assembled under the canopy of a huge oak, that served to shelter them from the moon’s radiance, which, being now at her full noon, shot forth intolerable rays--intolerable, I mean, to the subtil texture of their little shadowy bodies--but dispensing an agreeable coolness to us grosser mortals. An air of discomfort sate upon the Queen, and upon her Courtiers. Their tiny friskings and gambols were forgot; and even Robin Goodfellow, for the first time in his little airy life, looked grave. For the Queen had had melancholy forebodings of late, founded upon an ancient Prophecy, laid up in the records of Fairy Land, that the date of Fairy existence should be then extinct, when men should cease to believe in them. And she knew how that the race of the Nymphs, which were her predecessors, and had been the Guardians of the sacred floods, and of the silver fountains, and of the consecrated hills and woods, had utterly disappeared before the chilling touch of man’s incredulity; and she sighed bitterly at the approaching fate of herself and of her subjects, which was dependent upon so fickle a lease, as the capricious and ever mutable faith of man. When, as if to realise her fears, a melancholy shape came gliding in, and that was--TIME, who with his intolerable scythe mows down Kings and Kingdoms; at whose dread approach the Fays huddled together, as a flock of timorous sheep, and the most courageous among them crept into acorn cups, not enduring the sight of that ancientest of Monarchs. Titania’s first impulse was to wish the presence of her false Lord, King Oberon, who was far away, in the pursuit of a strange Beauty, a Fay of Indian Land--that with his good lance and sword, like a faithful knight and husband, he might defend her against TIME. But she soon checked that thought as vain, for what could the prowess of the mighty Oberon himself, albeit the stoutest Champion in Fairy Land, have availed against so huge a Giant, whose bald top touched the skies. So in the mildest tone she besought the Spectre, that in his mercy he would overlook, and pass by, her small subjects, as too diminutive and powerless to add any worthy trophy to his renown. And she besought him to employ his resistless strength against the ambitious Children of Men, and to lay waste their aspiring works, to tumble down their towers and turrets, and the Babels of their pride, fit objects of his devouring Scythe, but to spare her and her harmless race, who had no existence beyond a dream; frail objects of a creed; that lived but in the faith of the believer. And with her little arms, as well as she could, she grasped the stern knees of TIME, and waxing speechless with fear, she beckoned to her chief attendants, and Maids of Honour, to come forth from their hiding places, and to plead the Plea of the Fairies. And one of those small delicate creatures came forth at her bidding, clad all in white like a Chorister, and in a low melodious tone, not louder than the hum of a pretty bee--when it seems to be demurring whether it shall settle upon this sweet flower or that, before it settles--set forth her humble Petition. “We Fairies,” she said, “are the most inoffensive race that live, and least deserving to perish. It is we that have the care of all sweet melodies, that no discords may offend the Sun, who is the great Soul of Music. We rouse the lark at morn; and the pretty Echos, which respond to all the twittering quire, are of our making. Wherefore, great King of Years, as ever you have loved the music which is raining from a morning cloud, sent from the messenger of day, the Lark, as he mounts to Heaven’s gate, beyond the ken of mortals; or if ever you have listened with a charmed ear to the Night Bird, that
in the flowery spring, Amidst the leaves set makes the thickets ring Of her sour sorrows, sweeten’d with her song:
spare our tender tribes; and we will muffle up the sheep-bell for thee, that thy pleasure take no interruption, whenever thou shall listen unto Philomel.”
And TIME answered, that “he had heard that song too long; and he was even wearied with that ancient strain, that recorded the wrongs of Tereus. But if she would know in what music TIME delighted, it was, when sleep and darkness lay upon crowded cities, to hark to the midnight chime, which is tolling from a hundred clocks, like the last knell over the soul of a dead world; or to the crush of the fall of some age-worn edifice, which is as the voice of himself when he disparteth kingdoms.”
A second female Fay took up the Plea, and said, “We be the handmaids of the Spring, and tend upon the birth of all sweet buds; and the pastoral cowslips are our friends, and the pansies; and the violets, like nuns; and the quaking hare-bell is in our wardship; and the Hyacinth, once a fair youth, and dear to Phœbus.”
Then TIME made answer, in his wrath striking the harmless ground with his hurtful scythe, that “they must not think that he was one that cared for flowers, except to see them wither, and to take her beauty from the rose.”
And a third Fairy took up the Plea, and said, “We are kindly Things; and it is we that sit at evening, and shake rich odours from sweet bowers upon discoursing lovers, that seem to each other to be their own sighs; and we keep off the bat, and the owl, from their privacy, and the ill-boding whistler; and we flit in sweet dreams across the brains of infancy, and conjure up a smile upon its soft lips to beguile the careful mother, while its little soul is fled for a brief minute or two to sport with our youngest Fairies.”
Then SATURN (which is TIME) made answer, that “they should not think that he delighted in tender Babes, that had devoured his own, till foolish Rhea cheated him with a Stone, which he swallowed, thinking it to be the infant Jupiter.” And thereat in token he disclosed to view his enormous tooth, in which appeared monstrous dints, left by that unnatural meal; and his great throat, that seemed capable of devouring up the earth and all its inhabitants at one meal. “And for Lovers,” he continued, “my delight is, with a hurrying hand to snatch them away from their love-meetings by stealth at nights, and to ravish away hours from them like minutes whilst they are together, and in absence to stand like a motionless statue, or their leaden Planet of mishap (whence I had my name), till I make their minutes seem ages.”
Next stood up a male fairy, clad all in green, like a forester, or one of Robin Hood’s mates, and doffing his tiny cap, said, “We are small foresters, that live in woods, training the young boughs in graceful intricacies, with blue snatches of the sky between; we frame all shady roofs and arches rude; and sometimes, when we are plying our tender hatches, men say, that the tapping woodpecker is nigh: and it is we that scoop the hollow cell of the squirrel; and carve quaint letters upon the rinds of trees, which in sylvan solitudes sweetly recall to the mind of the heat-oppressed swain, ere he lies down to slumber, the name of his Fair One, Dainty Aminta, Gentle Rosalind, or Chastest Laura, as it may happen.”
SATURN, nothing moved with this courteous address, bade him be gone, or “if he would be a woodman, to go forth, and fell oak for the Fairies’ coffins, which would forthwith be wanting. For himself, he took no delight in haunting the woods, till their golden plumage (the yellow leaves) were beginning to fall, and leave the brown black limbs bare, like Nature in her skeleton dress.”
Then stood up one of those gentle Fairies, that are good to Man, and blushed red as any rose, while he told a modest story of one of his own good deeds. “It chanced upon a time,” he said, “that while we were looking cowslips in the meads, while yet the dew was hanging on the buds, like beads, we found a babe left in its swathing clothes--a little sorrowful deserted Thing; begot of Love, but begetting no love in others; guiltless of shame, but doomed to shame for its parents’ offence in bringing it by indirect courses into the world. It was pity to see the abandoned little orphan, left to the world’s care by an unnatural mother, how the cold dew kept wetting its childish coats; and its little hair, how it was bedabbled, that was like gossamer. Its pouting mouth, unknowing how to speak, lay half opened like a rose-lipt shell, and its cheek was softer than any peach, upon which the tears, for very roundness, could not long dwell, but fell off, in clearness like pearls, some on the grass, and some on his little hand, and some haply wandered to the little dimpled well under his mouth, which Love himself seemed to have planned out, but less for tears than for smilings. Pity it was, too, to see how the burning sun scorched its helpless limbs, for it lay without shade, or shelter, or mother’s breast, for foul weather or fair. So having compassion on its sad plight, my fellows and I turned ourselves into grasshoppers, and swarmed about the babe, making such shrill cries, as that pretty little chirping creature makes in its mirth, till with our noise we attracted the attention of a passing rustic, a tenderhearted hind, who wondering at our small but loud concert, strayed aside curiously, and found the babe, where it lay on the remote grass, and taking it up, lapt it in his russet coat, and bore it to his cottage, where his wife kindly nurtured it, till it grew up a goodly personage. How this Babe prospered afterwards, let proud London tell. This was that famous Sir Thomas Gresham, who was the chiefest of her Merchants, the richest, the wisest. Witness his many goodly vessels on the Thames, freighted with costly merchandise, jewels from Ind, and pearls for courtly dames, and silks of Samarcand. And witness more than all, that stately Bourse (or Exchange) which he caused to be built, a mart for merchants from East and West, whose graceful summit still bears, in token of the Fairies’ favours, his chosen crest, the Grasshopper. And, like the Grasshopper, may it please you, great King, to suffer us also to live, partakers of the green earth!”
The Fairy had scarce ended his Plea, when a shrill cry, not unlike the Grasshopper’s, was heard. Poor Puck--or Robin Goodfellow, as he is sometimes called--had recovered a little from his first fright, and in one of his mad freaks had perched upon the beard of old TIME, which was flowing, ample, and majestic, and was amusing himself with plucking at a hair, which was indeed so massy, that it seemed to him that he was removing some huge beam of timber rather than a hair; which TIME by some ill chance perceiving, snatched up the Impish Mischief with his great hand, and asked “What it was?”
“Alas!” quoth Puck, “A little random Elf am I, born in one of Nature’s sports, a very weed, created for the simple sweet enjoyment of myself, but for no other purpose, worth, or need, that ever I could learn. ’Tis I, that bob the Angler’s idle cork, till the patient man is ready to breathe a curse. I steal the morsel from the Gossip’s fork, or stop the sneezing Chanter in mid Psalm; and when an infant has been born with hard or homely features, mothers say, that I changed the child at nurse; but to fulfil any graver purpose I have not wit enough, and hardly the will. I am a pinch of lively dust to frisk upon the wind, a tear would make a puddle of me, and so I tickle myself with the lightest straw, and shun all griefs that might make me stagnant. This is my small philosophy.”
Then TIME, dropping him on the ground, as a thing too inconsiderable for his vengeance, grasped fast his mighty Scythe; and now not Puck alone, but the whole State of Fairies had gone to inevitable wreck and destruction, had not a timely Apparition interposed, at whose boldness TIME was astounded, for he came not with the habit, or the forces, of a Deity, who alone might cope with TIME, but as a simple Mortal, clad as you might see a Forester, that hunts after wild coneys by the cold moonshine; or a Stalker of stray deer, stealthy and bold. But by the golden lustre in his eye, and the passionate wanness in his cheek, and by the fair and ample space of his forehood, which seemed a palace framed for the habitation of all glorious thoughts, he knew that this was his great Rival, who had power given him to rescue whatsoever victims TIME should clutch, and to cause them to live for ever in his immortal verse. And muttering the name of SHAKSPEARE, TIME spread his Roc-like wings, and fled the controuling presence. And the liberated Court of the Fairies, with Titania at their head, flocked around the gentle Ghost, giving him thanks, nodding to him, and doing him curtesies, who had crowned them henceforth with a permanent existence, to live in the minds of men, while verse shall have power to charm, or Midsummer moons shall brighten.
* * * * *
What particular endearments passed between the Fairies and their Poet, passes my pencil to delineate; but if you are curious to be informed, I must refer you, gentle reader, to the “Plea of the Fairies,” a most agreeable Poem, lately put forth by my friend, Thomas Hood: of the first half of which the above is nothing but a meagre, and a harsh, prose-abstract. Farewell.
ELIA.
The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.
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PARODIES ON HORACE.
Mr. James Petit Andrews, the continuator of Dr. Henry’s History of England, mentions a whimsical instance of literary caprice--a parody of Horace, by a German, David Hoppius, who had interest enough to have his book printed at Brunswick, in 1568, under the particular protection of the elector of Saxony. Hoppius, with infinite labour, transformed the odes and epodes of Horace into pious hymns, preserving the original measure, and, as far as possible, the words of the Roman poet. “The classical reader,” Mr. Andrews says, “will, at one glance, comprehend the amazing difficulties which such a parodist must undergo, and will be surprised to find these productions not wanting in pure Latinity.” A specimen or two are annexed.
Ad Pyrrham. Ode v. lib. 1.
Quis multâ gracilis te puer in rosâ Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus Grato, Pyrrha, sub antro? Cui flavam religas comam Simplex munditiis? &c.
Ad Mariam Deiparam. Parodia v. lib. 1.
Quis fœno recubans, in grac li tenet Innexus teneris te, pia, fasciis Blandus, Virgo, puellus? Cui primos adhibes cibos. Dives munditiis? &c.
In Juliam Barinen. Ode viii. lib 2.
Ulla si juris tibi pejerati Pœna, Barine, nocuisset unquam, Dente si nigro fieres, vel uno Turpior unqui. Crederem--Sed tu simul obligasti Perfidum votis caput, enitescis Pulchrior multo, juvenumque prodis Publica cura, &c.
Προσφωγησις Christi ad Peccatorem. Parodia ix. lib. 2.
Ulla si juris tibi pejerati Culpa, peccator, doluisset unquam Mente, si tantum fieres vel unâ Tristior hora Plauderem--Sed tu, simul obligasti Perfidum votis caput, ingemiscis Ob scelus nunquam, scelerumque prodis Publicus autor, &c.
In Bacchum. Ode xxiii. lib. 3.
Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui Plenum, Quæ in nemora, aut quod agor in specus, Velox mente novâ; quibus Antris, egregie Cæsaris audiar Æternum meditans decus Stellis inserere et consilio Jovis, &c.
Ad Christum. Parodia xxiii. lib. 3.
Quo me, Christe, feram mali Plenum, Quæ in nemora, aut quos fugiam in specus, Pressus mole gravi? Quibus Antris ob maculam criminis occultar Æternam meditans facem Infernum effugere, et simplicium Stygis? &c.
* * * * *
A GENTLEMAN’S FASHION.
In the reign of Henry VII. sir Philip Calthrope, a Norfolk knight, sent as much cloth, of fine French tauney, as would make him a gown, to a tailor in Norwich. It happened one John Drakes, a shoemaker, coming into the shop, liked it so well, that he went and bought of the same as much for himself, enjoining the tailor to make it of the same fashion. The knight was informed of this, and therefore commanded the tailor to cut his gown as full of holes as his sheers could make. John Drakes’s was made “of the same fashion,” but he vowed he never would be of the gentleman’s fashion again.
* * * * *
~Discoveries~
OF THE
ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.
No. VII.
In the present stage of the inquiry will be adduced examples of the knowledge of the ancients, respecting the essential principles that “uphold the world.”
GRAVITY, ATTRACTION--THE LAW OF SQUARING THE DISTANCES--CENTRIPETAL AND CENTRIFUGAL FORCE.
The moderns, who imagine that they were the first to discover universal gravitation, have only trod in the paths of the ancients. It is true, that they have demonstrated the laws of gravitation, but this is all.
Besides universal gravitation, the ancients knew that the circular motion described by the planets in their courses, is the result of two moving forces combined--a rectilinear and a perpendicular; which, united together, form a curve. They knew also why these two contrary forces retain the planets in their orbs; and explained themselves, as the moderns do, excepting only the terms of “centripetal” and “centrifugal;” instead of which, however, they used what was altogether equivalent.
They also knew the inequality of the course of the planets, ascribing it to the variety of their weights reciprocally considered, and of their proportional distances; or, which is the same thing, in more modern terms, they knew the “law of the inverse ratio of the square of the distance from the centre of the revolution.”
Some have thought, that in Empedocles’s system the foundation of Newton’s was to be found; imagining, that under the name of “love,” he intended to intimate a law, or power, which separated the parts of matter, in order to join itself to them, and to which nothing was wanting but the name of attraction; and that by the term “discord,” he intended to describe another force, which obliged the same parts to recede from one another, and which Newton calls a repelling force.
The Pythagoreans and Platonics perceived the necessity of admitting the force of two powers, viz. projection and gravity, in order to account for the revolution of the planets. Timæus, speaking of the soul of the world, which animates all nature, says, that “God hath endowed it with two powers, which, in combination, act according to certain numeric proportions.”
Plato clearly asserts, that God had impressed upon the planets “a motion which was the most proper for them.” This could be nothing else than that perpendicular motion, which has a tendency to the centre of the universe, that is, gravity; and what coincides with it, a lateral impulse, rendering the whole circular.
Diogenes Laertius says, that at the beginning, the bodies of the universe were agitated tumultuously, and with a disorderly movement; but that God afterwards regulated their course, by laws natural and proportional.
Anaxagoras being asked what it was that retained the heavenly bodies in their orbit, notwithstanding their gravity, remarkably answered, that “the rapidity of their course preserved them in their stations; and that should the celerity of their motions abate, the equilibrium of the world being broken, the whole machine would fall to ruin.”
Plutarch, who knew almost all the shining truths of astronomy, in explaining what it was that made bodies tend towards the earth, attributes it to “a reciprocal attraction, whereby all terrestrial bodies have this tendency, and which collects into one the parts constituting the sun and moon, and retains them in their spheres.” He afterwards applies these particular phenomena to others more general; and, from what happens in our globe, deduces, according to the same principle, whatever must thence happen respectively in each celestial body; and then considers them in their relative connections one towards another. He illustrates this general relationship and connection, by instancing what happens to our moon in its revolution round the earth, comparing it to “a stone in a sling, which is impressed by two powers at once;” that of projection, which would carry it away, were it not retained by the embrace of the sling; which, like the central force, keeps it from wandering, whilst the combination of the two moves it in a circle. In another place, he speaks “of an inherent power in bodies, that is, in the earth, and other planets, of attracting to themselves whatever is within their reach.” In these two passages, there is a plain reference to the centripetal force, which binds the planets to their proper, or common centres; and to the centrifugal, which makes them roll in circles at a distance.
The ancients, then, attribute to the celestial bodies a tendency towards one common centre, and a reciprocal attractive power. It appears also, that they knew, as well as the moderns, that the cause of gravitation, that attracted all things, did not reside solely in the centre of the earth. Their ideas were even more philosophic; for they taught, that “this power was diffused through every particle of the terrestrial globe, and compounded of the various energy residing in each.”
It remains to inquire, whether they knew the law by which gravity acts upon the celestial bodies, that it was in an inverse proportion of their quantity of matter, and the square of their distance. Certainly they were not ignorant, that the planets in their courses observed a constant and invariable proportion; though some sought for it in the difference of the quantity of matter contained in the masses, of which the planets were composed; and others, in the difference of their distances. Lucretius, after Democritus and Aristotle, thought that “the gravity of bodies was in proportion to the quantity of matter of which they were composed.” It is true, that the penetration and sagacity of a Newton, a Gregory, and a Maclaurin, were requisite to perceive and discover, in the few fragments of the ancients now remaining, the inverse law respecting the squares of the distances, a doctrine which Pythagoras had taught; but they acknowledge that it was contained in those writings; and they avail themselves of the authority of Pythagoras, to give weight to their system.
Plutarch, of all the philosophers who have spoken of Pythagoras, had a better opportunity of entering into the ideas of that great man, and has explained them better than any one besides. Pliny, Macrobius, and Censorinus, have also spoken of the harmony which Pythagoras observed to reign in the course of the planets; but Plutarch makes him say, that it is probable that the bodies of the planets, their distances, the intervals between their spheres, the celerity of their courses and revolutions, are not only proportionable among themselves, but to the whole of the universe. Dr. Gregory declares it to be evident, that Pythagoras understood, that the gravitation of the planets towards the sun was in a reciprocal ratio of their distance from that luminary; and that illustrious modern, followed herein by Maclaurin, makes that ancient philosopher speak thus:--
“A musical string, says Pythagoras, yields the very same tone with any other of twice its length, because the tension of the latter, or the force whereby it is extended, is quadruple to that of the former; and the gravity of one planet is quadruple to that of any other, which is at double the distance. In general, to bring a musical string into unison with one of the same kind, shorter than itself, its tension ought to be increased in proportion as the square of its length exceeds that of the other; and that the gravity of any planet may become equal to that of any other nearer the sun, it ought to be increased in proportion as the square of its distance exceeds that of the other. If, therefore, we should suppose musical strings stretched from the sun to each of the planets, it would be necessary, in order to bring them all to unison, to augment or diminish their tensions, in the very same proportion as would be requisite to render the planets themselves equal in gravity. This, in all likelihood, gave foundation for the reports, that Pythagoras drew his doctrine of harmony from the spheres.”[353]
Galileo duly honours Plato, by acknowledging that he is indebted to him for his first idea of the method of determining, how the different degrees of velocity ought to produce that uniformity of motion discernible in the revolutions of the heavenly bodies. His account is, that “Plato being of opinion that no movable thing could pass from a state of rest to any determinate degree of velocity, so as perpetually and equably to remain in it, without first passing through all the inferior degrees of celerity or retardation; he thence concludes, that God, after having created the celestial bodies, determining to assign to each a particular degree of celerity, in which they should always move, impressed upon them, when he drew them from a state of rest, such a force as made them run through their assigned spaces, in that natural and direct way wherein we see the bodies around us pass from rest into motion, by a continual and successive acceleration. And he adds, that having brought them to that degree of motion, wherein he intended they should perpetually remain, he afterwards changed the perpendicular into a circulary direction, that being the only course that can preserve itself uniform, and make a body without ceasing keep at an equal distance from its proper centre.”
This acknowledgment of Galileo is remarkable. It is a homage to antiquity from an inventive genius, who least of any, owes his eminence to the aid of the ancients. It is the disposition of noble minds to arrogate to themselves as little as possible any merit, but what they have the utmost claim to; and thus Galileo and Newton, the greatest of modern philosophers, set an example, which will never be imitated but by men of distinguished greatness.
[353] Gregorii Astronomiæ Elementa; and Maclaurin’s Systems of the Philosophers, in a discourse prefixed to his philosophy of Newton, p. 32. Wallis, vol. iii. p. 138 and 150.
* * * * *
AVON MILL, WILTS.
THE GLEANING OR LEASING CAKE.
To the Editor.
Sir,--It may not be deemed an intrusion to inform your readers, that when Avon Mill was devoted to the grinding of corn it was very centrally situated for the convenience of the poor gleaners. This mill, then kept by a family of the name of Tanner, (the sons were renowned swimmers,) had also much business with the neighbouring farmers and maltsters. At the time, dame Tanner, one of the best-hearted women then living, had a custom of her own, (perhaps to discharge the dictates of a good conscience for the double toll taken by the millers.) She made after the harvest-season a cake, somewhat after the manner of the Jews’ passover cakes, given to their Gentile friends, which she called the “Gleaning cake,” and gave it to every poor person that brought gleaned corn to be ground at the mill. A few years after her death the mill was purchased (I think a chancery suit was pending) for a clothing manufactory, (one pair of stones only being kept,) which it still remains. When the shearing machines were here first introduced to cut and dress cloth by water, detachments of troops were nightly stationed in the lanes and mill to prevent large bodies of the shearmen, then out of employ, from setting fire to the premises. At subsequent periods much business has been done here in the manufacture of superfine broadcloth, but owing to the fluctuation of trade Avon Mill has not generally done half the work of its water power.
A neighbouring mill, once also a great corn mill, at Christian Malford, but which is now a spacious edifice, has shared nearly the same fate and devotedness. The water-wheels being partly undershot on this beautiful river, the water in autumn is often insufficient to the demand; but when after heavy rains the floods are out, the meadows present a sheet of blue expanse truly picturesque, and the bridges, by the depth and rapidity of the current near the mills, are nearly impassable. Many peasants returning home, and farmers riding from market, have by their adventure missed their way and been drowned.
A “pretty considerable number” of ghost stories are floating in the memories of the aged cottagers, of persons appearing after death on the Avon and its banks in this part of the country.
I am, sir,
Yours respectfully,
AN OLD CORRESPONDENT.
T----n, T----e,
August 21, 1827.
* * * * *
SONG.
I long to forget thee! but every sweet scene Reminds me too strongly of days that have been; Where can I look round me, but something recalls Our friendship, our love,--and my spirit enthralls? Each nook of the mountain--each cot of the gill-- The rush of the river--the flow of the rill-- The trees of the forest--the gems of the lea-- All whisper of childhood, of virtue, and thee.
When in spring-time the violets and primroses bloom, When in summer the wild thyme is wafting perfume; When autumn is mellowly tinging the trees, And in winter’s cold blast when the mountain streams freeze; When bright glows the sun-ray--when soft moon-light shines On the aged church tower, and dark waving pines-- Each season shall tell of some ever-fled bliss, Of the press of thine hand, or the balm of thy kiss.
Thou wert long the sole theme of my earliest lays, And my wild harp’s first breathings were all in thy praise; When in fancy that wild harp I hung on the yew, I thought not the fancy would e’er prove untrue. I deem’d not the form that beside me reclin’d In the haunt of the green-wood would e’er prove unkind-- Unkind to a heart that but liv’d for thy love, And has pray’d for thy weal to the spirit above.
’Tis evening! the hues of the sun-set are fled-- A deep sombre mist o’er the valley is spread-- The tall cliffs are wrapp’d in the shades of the night, And Dernebrook no longer is lapsing in light: The burst of the morning the gloom shall dispel, And a halo of glory gild valley and fell-- Yet a shade o’er my destiny ever will be, And, Emma! that shade is--remembrance of thee!
T. Q. M.
* * * * *
TRASHING.
A BRIDAL CUSTOM IN YORKSHIRE.
To the Editor.
Morley, near Leeds, July 21, 1827.
Sir,--There is a custom prevalent in various parts of Yorkshire, which I do not remember to have seen noticed in the works of Strutt, Brand, Fosbroke, or any other learned writer upon such subjects. It is called “trashing,” which signifies pelting people with old shoes on their return from church on the wedding-day. There were certain offences which subjected the parties formerly to this disagreeable liability; such as refusing to contribute to scholars’ “potations,” or other convivialities; but in process of time the reason of the thing became forgotten, and “trashing” was indiscriminately practised among the lower orders. Turf-sods or mud being substituted for lack of old shoes, and generally thrown in jest and good-humour rather than in anger or ill-will.
Although it is true that an old shoe is to this day called “a trash,” yet it did not, certainly, give the name to the nuisance. To “trash” originally signified, to clog, incumber, or impede the progress of any one; (see Todd’s Johnson;) and agreeably to this explanation we find the rope tied by sportsmen round the necks of fleet pointers to tire them well, and check their speed, is hereabouts universally called the “trashcord,” or dog trash. But why old shoes in particular were selected as the missiles most proper for impeding the progress of new married persons, it is now perhaps impossible to discover.
Yours respectfully,
N. S.
* * * * *
BILBOCQUET.
In 1595, Henry III. of France diverted himself, when passing through the streets of Paris, by playing with a “bilbocquet,” a cup and ball. The dukes d’Epernon and de Joyeuse accompanied him in his childish frolic, which, by this example, became so general, that gentlemen, pages, lackeys, and all sorts of people, great and small, made the management of the “bilbocquet” a serious and perpetual study. The same king traversed his capital with a basket hanging by a girdle from his neck, out of which peeped the heads of half a dozen puppies.
* * * * *
REMARKABLE CHARACTERS.
I.--ERASMUS.
Erasmus, while a schoolboy, composed a panegyric on king Philip, (father of Charles V.,) on his coming out of Spain into Germany. His majesty took such notice of his early wit, that he honoured him with a yearly pension during his life.
King Henry VIII. of England wrote to him with his own hand, ordered him several very valuable presents, offered him a house and land, with six hundred florins a year, if he would reside in England.
Francis I., king of France, also wrote to him, offering him a bishopric, and one thousand florins a year, if he would live in France.
The emperor Charles V. offered him a bishopric in Sicily, made him one of his privy council, allowed him a pension of four hundred florins a year, and promised to make it five hundred, if he would occasionally reside in his court.
Sigismond, king of Poland, and Ferdinand, king of Hungary, were very bountiful to him, and repeatedly invited him to dwell in their dominions.
Ann, princess of Verona, allowed him a pension of one hundred florins a year.
Frederick, duke of Saxony, and William, duke of Gulick, made him several presents.
Pope Adrian VI. wrote to him three times with his own hand; and pope Clement VII., on being raised to the purple, sent him five hundred florins, and invited him to Rome.
Pope Paul III. intended to have raised him to the rank of cardinal, if death had not prevented him.
William Warham, archbishop of Canterbury, gave him an exhibition.
Cardinal Wolsey allowed him a pension out of a prebend at York.
The bishops of Lincoln and Rochester liberally supplied him with money, &c. on all occasions.
Polidore Virgil sent him money to buy a horse, and the lord Cromwell sent him thirty angels.
Lord Mountjoy, sir Thomas More, bishop Tonstall, and dean Collet, were his constant benefactors.
Cardinal Mattheo offered him a pension of five hundred a year to live in Rome, and sent him a cup of pure gold.
Albertus, archbishop, cardinal, and elector of Mentz, sent him also a cup of gold, richly ornamented with precious stones.
Cardinal Campegius, among other presents, sent him a ring of great value.
Stanislaus Olmucensis sent him a silver bowl, double gilt, with four pieces of gold, ancient coin.
The bishop of Basil offered him half the revenue of his bishopric.
Thurxo, bishop of Uratislavo, went six days’ journey out of his way to see him.
William, earl of Eyrenberg, gave him a dagger, which by the inscription “he wished in the hearts of all his enemies.”
* * * * *
II.--NICHOLAS WOOD, THE GLUTTON.
One Nicholas Wood, of Harrison, in the county of Kent, yeoman, did eat with ease a whole sheep of sixteen shillings price, and that raw, at one meal. Another time he eat thirty dozen of pigeons. At sir William Sedley’s he eat as much as would have sufficed thirty men. At lord Wotton’s in Kent, he devoured in one meal eighty-four rabbits; another time eighteen yards of black pudding, London measure. He once eat sixty pounds of cherries, and said they were but wastemeat. He eat a whole hog, and afterwards swallowed three peck of damsons: this was after breakfast, at which he had taken a pottle of milk and pottage, with bread, butter, and cheese.
“He eat in my presence,” saith Taylor, the water-poet, “six penny wheaten loaves, three sixpenny veal-pies, one pound of fresh butter, one good dish of thornback, and a sliver of a peck household loaf, an inch thick, all within the space of an hour; the house yielding no more he retired unsatisfied.”
One John Dale, at Lenham, laid him a wager, he could fill his belly for him with good wholesome victuals for two shillings. He took this wager and said, when he had finished the two shillings worth, he would eat up a sirloin of beef. Dale, however, brought six pots of mighty ale and twelve new penny white loaves, which he sopped therein, the powerful fume whereof conquered this gluttonous conqueror, and laid him asleep before he had finished his meal, whereby the roast beef was preserved and the wager lost.
Wood spent all his estate in provender for his enormous stomach, and, although a landed man and a true labourer, he died very poor in 1630.
SAM SAM’S SON.
* * * * *
JUST JUDGMENT.
A GOOD JUDGE, AND A GOOD JURY.
It is of most essential importance to the due administration of justice that juries should be sensible of their own dignity; and, when occasion requires, that they should not implicitly and servilely bow to the opinion of any judge, however high he may be held in estimation. An instance of the beneficial result of a jury asserting, in a respectful manner, the privilege of having an opinion of their own, occurred, not at the assizes now holding, but not very long ago. Two men were indicted for a burglary: after the counsel for the prosecution had opened, the amiable and learned judge who presided, addressing the jury, said, “Gentlemen, there does not appear to me any probability that a case of burglary can be made out against the prisoners, it is therefore needless to occupy your time any further.” The jury having, however, conferred for a short time, the foreman replied, “With perfect deference to your lordship’s opinion we should rather prefer hearing the evidence.” To this his lordship readily assented: the case went on, and the guilt of the prisoners was proved beyond the possibility of a doubt. After the verdict was returned, the learned judge said, “Well, gentlemen of the jury, I will not say that you are better lawyers than I am, but I am quite sure that in the present instance you have proved yourself to be better judges.”[354]
[354] Times, August 27, 1827.
* * * * *
OLD ENGLISH ALE.
About 1620 some doctors and surgeons, during their attendance on an English gentleman, who was diseased at Paris, discoursed on wines and other beverages; and one physician, who had been in England, said, “The English had a drink which they call ale, and which he thought the wholesomest liquor that could be drank; for whereas the body of man is supported by natural heat and radical moisture, there is no drink conduceth more to the preservation of the one, and the increase of the other, than ale: for, while the Englishmen drank only ale, they were strong, brawny, able men, and could draw an arrow an ell long; but when they fell to wine and beer, they are found to be much impaired in their strength and age:” and so the ale bore away the bell among the doctors.[355]
[355] Howell.
* * * * *
A SOLDIER’S AGE.
Napoleon, in his Italian successes, took a Hungarian battalion prisoners. The colonel, an old man, complained bitterly of the French mode of fighting--by rapid and desultory attacks, on the flank, the rear, the lines of communication, &c., concluding by saying, “that he fought in the army of Maria Theresa.”
“You must be old?” said Napoleon.
“Yes, I am either sixty or seventy.”
“Why, colonel, you have certainly lived long enough to know how to count years a little more closely?”
“General,” said the Hungarian, “I reckon my money, my shirts, and my horses; but as for my years, I know that nobody will want to steal them, and that I shall never lose one of them!”
* * * * *
COUNSELS AND CAUTIONS
BY DR. A. HUNTER.
BEWARE!
Leave your purse and watch at home when you go to the playhouse or an auction room.
TRAVELLING.
When you take a journey in winter put on two shirts; you will find them much warmer than an additional waistcoat.
BUILDING REPAIRS.
If you mean to buy a house that you intend to alter and improve, be sure to double the tradesman’s estimate.
YOUR STAIRCASE.
Paint the steps a stone colour; it will save scouring and soap.
HOUSEKEEPING.
If you are in trade keep no more houses than you can support; a summer-house and a winter-house have forced many a man into a poor-house.
ENOUGH SHOULD SUFFICE.
A man who has obtained a competency, and ventures upon a speculation that may be capable of consuming all that he has already got, stakes ease and comfort against beggary and disgrace.
LOQUACITY.
A gossip has no home.
Vol. II.--39.
To the Editor.
Corporations in old times kept fools, and there are still traces of the custom. The antiquary admires the carving of a fool, “a motley fool,” at the porchway of the King John tavern at Exeter, and contemplates it as probably the faithful representation of an obsolete servant of that ancient city; while the traveller endeavours to obtain a sight of the “noted Captain Cooke, all alive! alive!”--the most public, and not the least important officer of its lively corporation.
A tract, published without a title-page, yet symbolically, as it were, bearing a sort of half-head, whereby it is denominated “A Pamphlet called Old England for Ever!” is the production of captain Cooke himself; and a lithographed print represents that “noted” personage “drawn from nature,” in his full costume, as “Captain of the Sheriffs troop at 74 assizes for the county of Devon.” An engraving from the print is at the head of this article; the original is “published by George Rowe, 38, Paris-street, Exeter,” price only a shilling. The present representation is merely to give the reader some notion of the person of the captain, previously to introducing so much of his “particular confession, life, character, and behaviour,” as can be extracted from his aforesaid printed narrative.
The tract referred to, though denominated “Old England for Ever,” seems intended to memorialize “Captain Cooke--for ever.” Aspiring to eclipse the celebrated autobiography of “P. P. Clerk of this Parish,” the captain calls his literary production “a pamphlet of patriotic home achievements during the late direful war from 1793 to 1815;” and, accordingly, it is a series, to adopt his own words, of “twenty-two years multifarious but abridged memoirs, novelties, anecdotes, genealogy, and bulletins, by the author’s natural instinct.”
The first most important information resulting from the captain’s “natural instinct,” is this:--that “the duke of Wellington, marshal Blucher, the allied officers, and armies, defeated the atheist, the enemy of the Sabbath and of peace to the world, on Sunday, 18th of June 1815, at half after eight o’clock in the evening:” which day the captain, therefore, calls “an indelible day;” and says, “I built a cottage that year, and have a tablet over my door--Waterloo Cottage, in memory of Europe’s victory, Sunday, 18th June, 1815; and I went to Wellington-hill to see the foundation-stone laid for a Wellington column, in honour of the duke. So much for Buonaparte’s fanfaronade!--At daybreak of the 15th of July, he (Buonaparte) surrendered himself to the English captain Maitland, of the Bellerophon--an appropo name to the refugee.--I was called up the next morning at one o’clock; I wrote twenty letters to country gentlemen of the O!-be-joyful news, by the same morning’ post. I have been often called up on express news.”
From hence may be deduced the value of the captain and his opinions in the city of Exeter; and, no doubt, due importance will be attached to his proposition, that “parliament should always meet of a Friday or Saturday, and prorogue of a Monday, to prevent sabbath-breaking as little as possible;” and that “the mails should be prohibited from blowing their horns in the dead of the night or morning, in towns or villages.” It was contemplated to carry these measures into effect by joint stock companies, wherein all the captain’s friends were shareholders, when the “panic” came down from London by an opposition coach, and destroyed public confidence in the captain’s plans. They are noticed here in the order wherein he states them himself; and, pursuing the like order, it is proper to state, in the first place, something of the house wherein this self-eminent person was born; then, something respecting “Ashburton Pop;” and, lastly, something respecting his apprenticeship, and his services as a loyal man and a saddler to “the city of Exeter, and the corporation and trade thereof.”
“I was born,” says the captain, “at the Rose and Crown public-house on the old bridge, in the borough town of Ashburton, 1765; where a good woollen-manufactory has been carried on; and it has produced a great character, or so, for learning:” and “has been as famous for a beverage, called Ashburton Pop, as London is for porter. I recollect its sharp feeding good taste, far richer than the best small beer, more of the champaign taste, and what was termed a good sharp bottle. When you untied and hand-drew the cork, it gave a report louder than a pop-gun, to which I attribute its name; its contents would fly up to the ceiling; if you did not mind to keep the mouth of the stone bottle into the white quart cup, it filled it with froth, but not over a pint of clear liquor. Three old cronies would sit an afternoon six hours, smoke and drink a dozen bottles, their reckoning but eight-pence each, and a penny for tobacco. The pop was but twopence a bottle. It is a great novel loss to the town; because its recipe died with its brewer about 1785.”
From the never-enough-sufficiently to be lamented and for-ever-departed “Pop,” the captain returns to himself. “My mother,” says he, “put me apprentice at fifteen to the head saddler in Exeter, the late Mr. Charter, whom I succeeded when I came of age, and have lived in the same house thirty-seven years, up to 1817, where my son now lives, under the firm of Cooke and Son.” He evidently takes great pleasure in setting forth the names of his customers; and he especially relates, “I got to be saddler, through the late Charles Fanshawe, recorder of Exeter, to the late lord Elliott Heathfield, colonel of dragoons. His lordship was allowed to be one of the first judges of horses and definer of saddlery in the kingdom; his lordship’s saddle-house consisted from the full bristed to the demy pick, shafto, Hanoverian, to the Dutch pad-saddles; and from the snaffle, Pelham, Weymouth, Pembroke, Elliott, Mameluke, and Chifney bridles. Chifney was groom to the prince regent. Besides all this, the vast manage horse-tackling, tomies, dumb-jockies, hobbles, lunging, lifting, and side reins. His lordship’s saddle and riding-house was a school for a saddler and dragoon. And I had the honour of being saddler to other colonels of dragoons, connoisseurs of saddlery, when they were at Exeter quarters.”
Here the captain’s enthusiasm increases: “I could write,” says he, “a treatise on all the parts of the bearings and the utility of all the kinds of saddles, bridles, stirrups, and harness-collars, made for the last thirty years, for the benefit of horse or rider; from the bullock-back horse to the finest withered.” With just judgment, while on the saddle, the captain expatiates on the mode of riding to the best advantage. “As is said, keep your head cool, feet warm, and live temperate, and you won’t need the doctor, without something is amiss; so let your saddle clear your finger with all your weight in the stirrups going down hill; the same on the hind part with all your weight on the seat going up hill; you won’t need the saddler without something is amiss.” A miss is as good as a mile, and the captain diverges to a “great mystery,” which must be related in his own words:--
“The great mystery to know a horse’s age is between five and eight years old. A horse may live to thirty; but not one out of a thousand but what are worked out of their lives at fifteen. From their sucking first teeth, they loose, and get their permanent teeth at five years old; at six they have a small pit-hole, a bean’s eye, a cavity in two of their outer lower teeth; at seven they have this mark but in one, the outside tooth; at eight years old the teeth are all filled up; then the mark is out of the mouth. But dealers and judges look to the upper teeth; there is a mark to twelve years old, but no vestige afterward. An old horse has long large teeth, worn off on the top edge. The prime of a horse is between six and twelve years of age. He is weak and faint before six, and stiff and dull after twelve. Some say a horse is out of mark at seven; but it is at eight. The average age of horses is at twelve years--the average of man not at the half of his time appointed on earth!”
To a posey of poesy, occupying nearly a page in this part of the pamphlet, it is impossible to do justice with equal satisfaction to the reader and the captain; yet, in courtesy, it is proper to cull
----------------- a twig, Or two, to stick about his wig.
As a specimen of the materials whereon he relies for a laurel crown, the following lines are drawn out from his “snarl” of versifyings:--
As few began the world, so I multiplied. Plain, at twenty-one, I did begin Which in my manuscript was seen. Tho’ I did not know the use of grammar, I was well supported by my hammer. I sticked to my King, leather, and tools; And, for order, wrote a set of shop rules. Working with the hands only is but part, The head’s the essential to make the work smart.
After this poetical effusion the captain rises to “the height of his great argument,” his undying doings. “Now,” says the captain, “now for my sixty home achievements during the late war for my king and country.” Alas! the captain seems to have disdained the “use of numbers,” except when inspired by the muses, or the “sweet voices” of the people of Exeter, when they honoured him with a “Skimmington,” which he passes over with a modesty equal to that of the Roman general who never mentioned his great ovation. The captain’s “sixty achievements” are doubtless in his pamphlet; but they in “wrong order go,” and are past the arithmetician’s art to enumerate. The chief of them must be gathered from his own account. Foremost stands “the labour I took in pleasing and accommodating my customers;” and almost next, “the many hours I have knocked my head, as it were, against Samuel Johnson, to find words for handbills and advertisements all at my own expense, to avoid inflammatory pamphlets. I gloried in the name of ‘John Bull,’ and shall to my life’s end. I went into the pot-houses at Exeter, and treated with mugs round, and gave loyal toasts and sentiments. I became a volunteer in the infantry, before the cavalry were equipped by my brother tradesmen, that they should not say my loyalty was for trade. After this, I joined the second troop of the first Devon Royal Cavalry. One of my advertisements in the difficult times, at a guinea each, in the Exeter, Sherborne, and Sun, which was then the ministerial paper, was reprinted for its loyalty and novelty in Philadelphia, and in two miscellaneous volumes of Literary Leisure, by Solomon Sumpter, Esq.; and from the attention I paid to the nobility, gentry, dragoon and militia officers, &c. when they tarried at Exeter or its neighbourhood, it was a pleasure and an honour mixed with fatigue. Besides my own business, I procured for them, gratis, manors, estates, houses, lodgings, carriages, horses, servants, fish, fowl, hunting, shooting, and trout fishing. I may say John Cooke, the saddler of Exeter, is known from England to the Indies; on the Continent, Ireland, in Scotland, by the lord chief baron Dundas, from Berwick-upon-Tweed to Penzance. I had two direction-posts at my door during the war, that no one had in the kingdom beside; one to the various places and distances, from Exeter to London 170 miles, &c. &c.; the other a large sheet of paper written as a daily monitor gratis, a bulletin of news, to cheer people in the worst of times, to guide them in the constitutional road. I even made myself a direction-post, and wore a conspicuous breastplate painted with this motto, ‘Fear God, honour the king, and revere his ministers;’ which made not only the auditory, but the judges, sheriff, and counsel stare at me. I went from Exeter to London, to the funeral of lord Nelson, the late hero of the Nile, in 1805.” The truth of the latter of the captain’s achievements “nobody can deny.” He did go to the funeral, and sat on a wall in solemn silence, fast asleep, while it passed, and then returned to Exeter, great as the great Bourbon, who
------------------- with forty thousand men, Went up the hill, and then came down again.
From hence the captain diverges to other of his achievements. “I used to rise, before we had firemen, at the dead of night or morning with my apprentices at any alarm of fire, desiring all women, children, and lookers on, if they did not help they were of harm, being in the way. I put in my bulletins, you are to take the left of all you meet in riding, and the right in walking. I was the means of the watering cart to lay the dust of the streets in summer. I have subscribed to all the institutions at Exeter, and at rejoicings of news I was not behindhand. When I saw the allied sovereigns in London, I compared colonel Hain of the North Devon, if he wore mustachios, to marshal Blucher, who came forward to his window at signals; Mr. Chubb, of St. Thomas, Exeter, and Mr. Gribble, attornies, of Newton Bushel, to the emperor Alexander in face; the king of Prussia and his sons like healthy English country esquires in their best clothes. I saw the duke of Wellington, who looked thinner than his picture. I saw Buonaparte at Torbay, exact like his picture; a huge stiff broad back, strong neck, big calf to his legs, he looked about fifty, and about five feet eight, resembling a country master builder, a sturdy one, full of thought as about a building.--I end this pamphlet. Four words: thought is the quickest; time the wisest; the laws of necessity the strongest; truth the most durable.
“This from a Devonshire Jog-trot, who has done enough to be termed a public character in his way; a John Bull tradesman.
“JOHN COOKE.”
“Waterloo Cottage,
18th Feb. 1819.”
So end the achievements of the chief of the javelin-men of Exeter, written by himself, concerning whom, give me leave, Mr. Editor, to inquire, if there be any thing more to be told than is set down in his book. I think that captain Cooke’s “Skimmington” took place after he favoured the public with appearing in print; and I remember to have heard that the procession was highly ludicrous, and honoured by every shop in the High-street of Exeter being closed, and every window above being filled. I may venture to affirm in behalf of your readers, that an account of it would be highly amusing; and if it be agreeable to your inclination, as I think it may, that such a narrative of the recent celebration of a very ancient custom should be permanently recorded, do me the favour to let me express an earnest hope that some of your Exeter readers will enable you to give particulars in the Table Book.
I. V.
[Communications respecting the ceremony referred to in the preceding letter will be very acceptable, and are therefore solicited.--EDITOR.]
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays.~
No. XXXIV.
[From the “Antipodes,” further extracts: see No. XX]
A Doctor humours his patient, who is crazed with reading lying books of travels, by pretending that he himself has been a great traveller in his time.
Peregrine, the patient. Doctor. Lady.
Peregrine. All the world over have you been? Doctor. Over and under too. Per. In the Antipodes? Doct. Yes, through and through. Nor isle nor angle in the other world But I have made discovery of. Do you Think, Sir, to the Antipodes such a journey? Per. I think there’s none beyond it, and that Mandevil Was the only man came near it. Doct. Mandevil went far. Per. Beyond all English legs that I can read of. Doct. What think you, Sir, of Drake, our famous countryman? Per. Drake was a Didapper to Mandevil. Candish and Hawkins, Frobisher, all our voyagers Went short of Mandevil: but had he reach’d To this place--here--yes here--this wilderness; And seen the trees of the sun and moon, that speak, And told King Alexander of his death; He then Had left a passage ope for travellers, That now is kept and guarded by wild beasts; Dragons and serpents, elephants white and blue; Unicorns and lions, of many colours; And monsters more, as numberless as nameless. Doct. Stay there-- Per. Read here else: can you read? Is it not true? Doct. No truer, than I have seen it You hear me not deny that all is true, That Mandevil delivers of his travels; Yet I myself may be as well believed. Per. Since you speak reverently of him, say on. Doct. Of Europe I’ll not speak, ’tis too near home; Who’s not familiar with the Spanish garb, Th’ Italian cringe, French shrug, and German hug? Nor will I trouble you with my observations Fetch’d from Arabia, Paphlagonia, Mesopotamia, Mauritania, Syria, Thessalia, Persia, India; All still is too near home: tho’ I have touch’d The clouds upon the Pyrenean mountains; And been on Paphos hill, where I have kiss’d The image of bright Venus; all is still Too near home to be boasted. They sound In a far traveller’s ear, Like the reports of those, that beggingly Have put out on returns from Edinburgh, Paris, or Venice; or perhaps Madrid, Whither a Millaner may with half a nose Smell out his way; and is not near so difficult, As for some man in debt, and unprotected, To walk from Charing Cross to the Old Exchange. No, I will pitch no neare than the Antipodes; That which is furthest distant; foot to foot Against our region. Lady. What, with their heels upwards? Bless us, how ’scape they breaking of their necks? Doct. They walk upon firm earth, as we do here; And have the firmament over their heads, As we have here. Lady. And yet just under us! Where is Hell then? if they, whose feet are toward us At the lower part of the world, have Heaven too Beyond their heads, where’s Hell? Doct. You may find that Without enquiry.
Scene, at the Antipodes.
N.B. In the Antipodes, every thing goes contrary to our manners: wives rule their husbands; servants govern their masters; old men go to school again, &c.
Son. Servant. Gentleman, and Lady, natives. English Traveller.
Servant (to his young Master.) How well you saw Your father to school to day, knowing how apt He is to play the truant! Son. But is he not Yet gone to school? Servant. Stand by, and you shall see.
Enter three old men with satchels.
All three. (singing) Domine, domine, duster: Three knaves in a cluster. Son. O this is gallant pastime. Nay, come on. Is this your school? was that your lesson, ha? 1st old man. Pray now, good son, indeed, indeed-- Son. Indeed You shall to school. Away with him; and take Their wagships with him, the whole cluster of ’em. 2d old man. You sha’nt send us now, so you sha’nt-- 3d old man. We be none of your father, so we be’nt-- Son. Away with ’em, I say; and tell their school mistress What truants they are, and bid her pay ’em soundly. All three. Oh, oh, oh! Lady. Alas! will nobody beg pardon for The poor old boys? English Traveller. Do men of such fair years here go to school? Gentleman. They would die dunces else. These were great scholars in their youth; but when Age grows upon men here, their learning wastes. And so decays, that if they live until Threescore, their sons send them to school again; They’d die as speechless else as new-born children. English Traveller. Tis a wise nation; and the piety Of the young men most rare and commendable. Yet give me, as a stranger, leave to beg Their liberty this day. Son. Tis granted. Hold up your heads, and thank the gentleman, Like scholars, with your heels now.
All three. Gratias, gratias, gratias. (exeunt singing.)
* * * * *
[From the “Asparagus Garden,” a Comedy, by the same Author, 1634.]
Private Conference.
Father-in-Law. You’ll not assault me in my own house, nor urge me beyond my patience with your borrowing attempts.
Spendthrift Knight. I have not used the word of loan or borrowing; Only some private conference I requested.
Fath. Private conference! a new-coined word for borrowing of money. I tell you, your very face, your countenance, tho’ it be glossed with knighthood, looks so borrowingly, that the best words you give me are as dreadful as Stand and Deliver.--Your riotousness abroad, and her long night-watchings at home, shortened my daughter’s days, and cast her into her grave; and ’twas not long before all her estate was buried too.
Spend. I wish my life might have excused Her’s far more precious; never had a man A juster cause to mourn.
Fath. Nor mourn’d more justly, it is your only wearing; you have just none other; nor have had any means to purchase better any time these seven years, I take it; by which means you have got the name of the Mourning Knight.
Timothy Hoyden, the Yeoman’s Son, desires to be made a Gentleman. He consults with his friends.
Moneylack. Well, Sir, we will take the speediest course with you. Hoyd. But must I bleed? Mon. Yes, you must bleed; your father’s blood must out. He was but a Yeoman, was he? Hoyd. As rank a Clown (none dispraised) as any in Somersetshire. Mon. His foul rank blood of bacon and pease porritch Must out of you to the last dram--
Springe. Fear nothing, Sir. Your blood shall be taken out by degrees; and your veins replenished with pure blood still, as you lose the puddle.
Hoyd. I was bewitch’d, I think, before I was begot, to have a Clown to my father. Yet my mother said she was a Gentlewoman.
Spr. Said! what will not women say?
Mon. Be content, Sir; here’s half a labour saved: you shall bleed but of one side. The Mother vein shall not be pricked.
Old Striker, after a quarrelling bout with old Touchwood.
Touchwood. I have put him into these fits this forty years, and hope to choke him at last, (aside; and exit.)
Striker. Huh, huh, huh! so he is gone, the villain’s gone in hopes that he has killed me, when my comfort is he has recovered me. I was heart-sick with a conceit, which lay so mingled with my flegm, that I had perished if I had not broke it, and made me spit it out; hem, he is gone, and I’ll home merrily. I would not he should know the good he has done me for half my estate; nor would I be at peace with him to save it all. I would not lose his hatred for all the good neighbourhood of the parish.
His malice works upon me Past all the drugs and all the Doctors’ counsels, That e’er I coped with; he has been my vexation E’er since my wife died; if the rascal knew it, He would be friends, and I were instantly But a dead man; I could not get another To anger me so handsomely.
C. L.
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BEAR AND TENTER.
To the Editor.
Morley, near Leeds, July, 1827.
Sir,--On surveying the plays and pastimes of children, in these northern parts especially, it has often struck me with respect to some of them, that if traced up to their origin, they would be found to have been “political satires to ridicule such follies and corruptions of the times, as it was, perhaps, unsafe to do in any other manner.” In this conjecture I have lately been confirmed, by meeting with a curious paper, copied from another periodical work by a contributor to the old London Magazine, vol. for 1738, p. 59. It is an article which many would doubtless be glad to find in the Table Book, and nobody more so than myself, as it would be a capital accompaniment to my present remarks.
To come at once to the point; we have, or rather had, a few years ago, a game called the “bear and tenter,” (or bear and bear warden, as it would be called in the south,) which seems, certainly, to have been one of the sort alluded to. A boy is made to crawl as a bear upon his hands and knees, round whose neck is tied a rope which the keeper holds at a few yards’ distance. The bystanders then buffet the bear, who is protected only by his keeper, who, by touching any of the assailants, becomes liberated; the other is then the bear, and the buffeted bear becomes the keeper, and so on. If the “tenter” is sluggish or negligent in defence of his charge, it is then that the bear growls, and the blows are turned upon the guardian, wholly or partially, as the bearbaiters elect.
Now, my conjecture as to the origin of the game of “bear and tenter” is this.--Our English youths and their tutors, or companions, were formerly distinguished in foreign countries by the names of the bear and the bear leader, from the absurd custom of sending out the former, (a boisterous, ungovernable set,) and putting them under the care of persons unfit to accompany them. These bears were at first generally sprigs of royalty or nobility, as headstrong as need be; and the tutor was often some needy scholar, a Scotsman, or a courtier, who knew little more of the world than his pupil; but who, when he had put on his bag-wig and sword, was one of the most awkward and ridiculous figures imaginable. While these people were abroad, there can be no doubt that they were formerly the dupes and laughingstocks of those who dealt with them; and that, in exchange for the cash out of which they were cheated, they brought home a stock of exotic follies, sufficient to render them completely preposterous characters in the eyes of their own countrymen. Considering therefore how much good English gold was wasted and lost in these travels, how hurtful to the national pride the practice was, and how altered for the worse were both guardian and ward, it is not to be wondered at if the middling and lower classes of Englishmen were highly incensed or disgusted. But as complaints would, at least, be unavailing when such persons as “Baby Charles” and “Stenny” Buckingham were the “bear and tenter,” the people revenged themselves, as far as they dared, by the institution of this game, in which they displayed pretty well what hard knocks, ill treatment, derision, and scorn, awaited those who forsook their homes to wander in a land of strangers. And not only so, but they illustrated, at the same time, the contamination which ensued the touch of bad tutors, and the general character of the parties ridiculed.
I am well aware, Mr. Editor, that there was formerly a pastime of buffeting the bear; but that, as I apprehend, was a very different sport from that of “bear and tenter,” and had not a political origin. That this had, I am well assured, from the game being kept up in these parts, where the Stuarts were ever almost universally execrated; where patriotism once shone forth in meridian splendour, and the finest soldiers that the world ever saw, were arranged under the banners of Cromwell, of Fairfax, or of Lambert.
I remain, yours respectfully,
N. S.
* * * * *
GLANCES AT BOOKS ON MY TABLE.
THE HISTORY and Antiquities of WESTON FAVELL, in the County of Northampton. By JOHN COLE, Editor of ‘Herveiana,’ &c. SCARBOROUGH: Printed (only 50 copies) and published by John Cole; and Longman and Co. London, 1827.--8vo. pp. 74.
According to Mr. Cole, Weston Favell is entered in Domesday book as “Westone,” and the addition of Favell was derived from a family of that name, who formerly possessed the manor. From each of three mansions standing there at the commencement of the last century, but not one of which remained at its close, the important equipage of a “coach and six” formerly issued to the admiration of the villagers. The church is dedicated to St. Peter, “and consists of a body, south porch, and chancel, with a coped tower at the west end, containing five bells.” Mr. C. remarks, on the authority of tradition, that the tower had once a spire to it, which was many years ago destroyed by lightning; and this observation induces him to cite, by way of note, that “Tradition is a very poetical, a very pleasing personáge; we like to meet him in our travels, and always ask him a question. You will find him grey and blind, sitting among old ruins, and ‘Death standing, dim, behind.’”
Mr. Cole copies several monumental inscriptions within the church, chiefly in memory of the Hervey family, and one especially on his favourite, viz.:--
HERE LIE THE REMAINS OF THE REV. JAMES HERVEY, A. M. LATE RECTOR OF THIS PARISH: THAT VERY PIOUS MAN AND MUCH ADMIRED AUTHOR! WHO DIED DEC. 25TH 1758 IN THE 45TH YEAR OF HIS AGE.
Reader expect no more to make him known Vain the fond Elegy and figur’d Stone, A name more lasting shall his Writings give; There view displayed his heavenly Soul, and live.
Such are the lines on the tomb of the author of the “Meditations among the Tombs; Reflections on a Flower Garden; and Contemplations on the Night, and on the Starry Heavens.” He was buried under the middle of the communion-table in the chancel: when his body was conveyed to the church it was covered, according to his express desire, with the poor’s pall. He was the most popular rector of Weston Favell, of which living he was the patron and incumbent, as his father had been. Hervey was not born in that parish, but in the neighbouring one of Hardingston.
In this house (the representation of which is derived from Mr. Cole’s History of Weston Favell) the author of the “Meditations” first saw light. He was instructed by his mother in reading till the age of seven, and then sent to the free grammar-school at Northampton, where he remained till seventeen, at which age his father placed him at Lincoln college, Oxford, and there he resided seven years, and gained an exhibition of twenty pounds. In 1736 he returned to his father, who was then rector of Weston Favell, and became his curate. In May, 1737, he succeeded the celebrated George Whitefield in the curacy of Dummer, Hampshire, and in about a twelvemonth removed to Stoke Abbey, Devon, where he lived with his friend, Mr. Orchard, upwards of two years. In 1739 he accepted the curacy of Bideford, which he retained till his final settlement at Weston Favell, where he
To ampler plenitude and sweeter days Proceeded hourly.
It was in Hervey’s native parish, Hardingston, that the battle of Northampton was fought on the 10th of July, 1460, and king Henry VI. taken prisoner by the earl of Warwick: the duke of Buckingham, the earl of Shrewsbury, and other noblemen were killed: and many of the slain were buried in the convent of Delapre, and at St. John’s hospital, Northampton. In Hardingston parish is a military work, supposed to have been raised by the Danes, and therefore called the Danes’ camp.
The wake of Weston Favell is held on the next Sunday after St. Peter’s day. In the afternoon the rector preaches an appropriate sermon, the choristers prepare suitable psalms, and throngs of visitants from the neighbouring villages attend the service in the church. During the first three or four days of the feast-week there are dances at the inns, with games at bowls and quoits, and throughout the week there are dinner and tea-parties from the environs, whose meetings usually conclude with a ball. On St. Valentine’s day the village lads and lasses assemble, and go round with a wish of “Good morrow, morrow, Valentine!” to the principal inhabitants, who give money to the juvenile minstrels. On Shrove Tuesday, at noon, it is the custom to ring one of the church-bells, called the “Pancake bell;” its sound intimates a holiday and allowance of sport to the village youngsters. The fifth of November is jovially celebrated with a bonfire, which may be viewed throughout a circuit of many miles. Christmas is kept merrily, but the ancient usages of the season have passed away, except the singing by the church-choir, of whose carols Mr. Cole produces three, “which may serve,” he says, “as an addition to Mr. Gilbert’s collection.”
In this “history” there is an engraving of two “figures on bricks, near the pulpit:” the other engravings are from a former work by Mr. Cole, entitled “Herveiana,” (2 vols. foolscap 8vo. 1822,) wherein is collected a large number of particulars concerning Hervey from various sources. The latter work enumerates from Hervey’s “Theron and Aspasio,” the plants of the parish, and agreeably describes the common but beautiful plant, called Cuckoo-pint, or Wake Robin, which abounds under the hedge-rows. It is spoken of by its scientific name: “Arum--a wild herb, which unfolds but one leaf, formed after a very singular pattern, bearing some resemblance to the hare’s ear. It is really one of the prettiest fancies in Nature’s wardrobe, and is so much admired by the country-people, that they have dignified it with the appellation of lords and ladies; because it looks, I suppose, somewhat like a person of quality, sitting with an air of ease and dignity in his open sedan. In autumn, after both flowers have vanished, a spike of scarlet berries, on a simple stalk, is all that remains.”
On the first publication of Hervey’s “Meditations and Contemplations,” and for several years afterwards, they were highly popular, and are still greatly admired by young persons, and others who are delighted by a florid interjectional manner of writing. Hervey’s work occurs in Mr. Bohn’s “Catalogue of the Library of the late reverend and learned Samuel Parr, LL.D.” with the following remarkable note attached to the volume--“This book was the delight of Dr. Parr, when he was a boy; and, for some time, was the model on which he endeavoured to form a style.”
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ARUM--CUCKOO-PINT--STARCH-WORT.
Old John Gerard, who was some time gardener to Cecil lord Burleigh, in the reign of queen Elizabeth, says, in his “Herbal,” that “beares, after they have lien in their dens forty dayes without any manner of sustenance, but what they get with licking and sucking their owne feet, do, as soon as they come forth, eate the herbe Cuckoo-pint, through the windie nature whereof the hungry gut is opened, and made fit againe to receive sustenance.”
Gerard further tells, that “the most pure and white starch is made of the roots of Cuckow-pint; but is most hurtful to the hands of the laundresse that hath the handling of it, for it choppeth, blistereth, and maketh the hands rough and rugged, and withall smarting.” From this ancient domestic use of the arum, it was called “Starch-wort:” it bore other and homelier names, some of them displeasing to a modern ear.
Gerard likewise relates of the arum, medically, that after being sodden in two or three waters, whereby it may lose its acrimony, and fresh put to, being so eaten, it will cut thick and tough humours in the chest and lungs; “but, then, that Cuckow-pint is best that biteth most--but Dragon’s is better for the same purpose.”
I know not whether I have fallen in with the sort of arum “that biteth most,” but, a summer or two ago, walking early in the afternoon through the green lanes to Willsden, and so to Harrow on the Hill, its scarlet granulations among the way-side browse and herbage, occasioned me to recollect the former importance of its root to the housewife, and from curiosity I dug up one to taste. The piece I bit off was scarcely the size of half a split pea, yet it gave out so much acrid milk, that, for more than an hour, my lips and tongue were inflamed and continued to burn, as if cauterized by hot iron; nor did the sensation wholly cease till after breakfast the next morning. Gerard says that, according to Dioscorides, “the root hath a peculiar virtue against the gout,” by way of cataplasm, blister-wise.
Hervey introduces the flower of the Cuckoo-pint as one of the beautiful products of the spring. “The hawthorn in every hedge is partly turgid with silken gems, partly diffused into a milk-white bloom. Not a straggling furze, nor a solitary thicket on the heath, but wears a rural nosegay. Even amidst that neglected dike the arum rises in humble state: most curiously shrouded in her leafy tabernacle, and surrounded with luxuriant families, each distinguished by a peculiar livery of green.” I am almost persuaded that I have seen the fruited arum among the ornaments of gothic architecture, surmounting pinnacles of delicate shrine-work.
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MEMORIALS OF JOHN KEATS.
To the Editor.
Sir,--The anecdote of Keats, which appeared in a late number of your Table Book,[356] recalled his image to my “mind’s eye” as vividly, through the tear of regret, as the long-buried pictures on the walls of Pompeii appear when water is thrown over them; and I turned to reperuse the written record of my feelings, at hearing him spoken of a few months since. These lines I trouble you with, thinking they may gratify the feelings of some one of his friends, and trusting their homeliness may be pardoned for the sake of the feeling which dictated them.
I should also be glad of this opportunity to express the wishes of many of his admirers for a portrait of Keats. There are two in existence; one, a spirited profile sketch by Haydon; the other, a beautiful miniature by his friend Severn; but neither have been engraved. Mr. Severn’s return to England will probably produce some memorial of his “span of life,” and a more satisfactory account of his last moments than can be gleaned from report. The opportunity that would thus be afforded of giving to the world the posthumous remains of his genius, will, it is to be hoped, not be neglected. Such a volume would be incomplete without a portrait; which, if seen by the most prejudiced of his literary opponents, would turn the laugh of contempt into a look of thoughtful regret. Hoping my rhymes will not frustrate my wishes, I remain, sir,
Your obliged correspondent,
and humble servant,
GASTON.
Sept. 13, 1827.
EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES, SUGGESTED BY SOME THOUGHTS AND RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN KEATS, THE POET.
Thy name, dear Keats, is not forgotten quite E’en in this dreary pause--Fame’s dark twilight-- The space betwixt death’s starry-vaulted sky, And the bright dawn of immortality. That time when tear and elegy lie cold Upon the barren tomb, and ere enrolled Thy name upon the list of honoured men, In the world’s volume writ with History’s lasting pen.
No! there are some who in their bosom’s haven Cherish thy mem’ry--on whose hearts are graven The living recollections of thy worth-- Thy frank sincerity, thine ardent mirth; That nobleness of spirit, so allied To those high qualities it quick descried In others’ natures, that by sympathies It knit with them in friendship’s strongest ties-- Th’ enthusiasm which thy soul pervaded-- The deep poetic feeling, which invaded The narrow channel of thy stream of life, And wrought therein consuming, inward strife.-- All these and other kindred excellencies Do those who knew thee dwell upon, and thence is Derived a cordial, fresh remembrance Of thee, as though thou wert but in a trance.
I, too, can think of thee, with friendship’s glow, Who but at distance only didst thee know; And oft thy gentle form flits past my sight In transient day dreams, and a tranquil light, Like that of warm Italian skies, comes o’er My sorrowing heart--I feel thou art no more-- Those mild, pure skies thou long’st to look upon, Till friends, in kindness, bade thee oft “Begone To that more genial clime, and breathe the air Of southern shores; thy wasted strength repair.” Then all the Patriot burst upon thy soul; Thy love of country made thee shun the goal (As thou prophetically felt ’twould be,) Of thy last pilgrimage. Thou cross’d the sea, Leaving thy heart and hopes in England here, And went as doth a corpse upon its bier!
Still do I see thee on the river’s strand Take thy last step upon thy native land-- Still feel the last kind pressure of thy hand. A calm dejection in thy youthful face, To which e’en sickness lent a tender grace-- A hectic bloom--the sacrificial flower, Which marks th’ approach of Death’s all-withering power.
Oft do my thoughts keep vigils at thy tomb Across the sea, beneath the walls of Rome; And even now a tear will find its way, Heralding pensive thoughts which thither stray.-- How must they mourn who feel what I but know? What can assuage their poignancy of woe, If I, a stranger, (save that I had been Where thou wast, and thy gentleness had seen,) Now feel mild sorrow and a welcome sadness As then I felt, whene’er I saw thee, gladness?-- Mine was a friendship all upon one side; Thou knewest me by name and nought beside. In humble station, I but shar’d the smile Of which some trivial thought might thee beguile! Happy in that--proud but to hear thy voice Accost me: inwardly did I rejoice To gain a word from thee, and if a thought Stray’d into utterance, quick the words I caught. I laid in wait to catch a glimpse of thee, And plann’d where’er thou wert that I might be. I look’d on thee as a superior being, Whom I felt sweet content in merely seeing: With thy fine qualities I stor’d my mind; And now thou’rt gone, their mem’ry stays behind. Mixt admiration fills my heart, nor can I tell which most to love--the Poet or the Man.
GASTON.
November, 1826.
[356] Col. 249.
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FUNERALS IN CUMBERLAND.
To the Editor.
Sir,--It is usual at the funeral of a person, especially of a householder, to invite persons to attend the ceremony; and in Carlisle, for instance, this is done on the day of interment by the bellman, who, in a solemn and subdued tone of voice, announces, that “all friends and neighbours of ----, deceased, are requested to take notice, that the body will be lifted at ---- o’clock, to be interred at ---- church.” On this occasion the relatives and persons, invited by note, repair to the dwelling of the deceased, where they usually partake of a cold collation, with wine, &c.; and at the outside of the door a table is set out, bountifully replenished with bread and cheese, ale and spirits, when “all friends and neighbours” partake as they think proper. When the preparations for moving are completed, the procession is accompanied by those persons who are disposed to pay their last mark of respect to the memory of the deceased. This custom, it has been remarked, gives an opportunity for “that indulgence which ought to belong to the marriage feast, and that it is a practice savouring of the gothic and barbarous manners of our unpolished ancestors.” With deference to the writer’s opinion, I would say that the custom is worthy of imitation, and that the assembling together of persons who have only this opportunity of expressing their respect for the memory of the deceased, cannot fail to engage the mind to useful reflections, and is a great contrast to the heartless mode of conducting interments in many other places, where the attendants frequently do not exceed half a dozen.
The procession used often to be preceded by the parish clerk and singers, who sang a portion of the Psalms until they arrived at the church. This part of the ceremony is now, I understand, seldom performed.
I am,
Yours, &c.
W. C.
Newcastle upon Tyne,
August, 1827.
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BIDDEN WEDDINGS
IN CUMBERLAND.
Sir,--It was a prevalent custom to have “bidden weddings” when a couple of respectability and of slender means were on the eve of marriage; in this case they gave publicity to their intentions through the medium of the “Cumberland Pacquet,” a paper published at Whitehaven, and which about twenty-nine years ago was the only newspaper printed in the county. The editor, Mr. John Ware, used to set off the invitation in a novel and amusing manner, which never failed to ensure a large meeting, and frequently the contributions made on the occasion, by the visitors, were of so much importance to the new married couple, that by care and industry they were enabled to make so good “a fend as niver to look ahint them.”[357]
A long absence from the county precludes me from stating whether this “good old custom” continues to be practised: perhaps some of your readers will favour you with additional information on this subject, and if they would also describe any other customs peculiar to this county, it would to me, at least, be acceptable.
The following is a copy of an advertisement, as it appeared in the Cumberland Pacquet in a number for June, 1803:--
A PUBLIC BRIDAL.
JONATHAN and GRACE MUSGRAVE purpose having a PUBLIC BRIDAL, at Low Lorton Bridge End, near Cockermouth, on THURSDAY, the 16th of June, 1803; when they will be glad to see their Friends, and all who may please to favour them with their Company;--for whose Amusement there will be various RACES, for Prizes of different Kinds; and amongst others, a Saddle, and Bridle; and a Silver-tipt Hunting Horn, for Hounds to run for.--There will also be Leaping, Wrestling, &c. &c.
☞ Commodious ROOMS are likewise engaged for DANCING PARTIES, in the Evening.
Come, haste to the BRIDAL!--to Joys we invite You, Which, help’d by the Season, to please You can’t fail: But should LOVE, MIRTH, and SPRING strive in vain to delight You, You’ve still the mild Comforts of LORTON’S sweet VALE.
And where does the GODDESS more charmingly revel? Where, ZEPHYR dispense a more health-chearing Gale, Than where the pure Cocker, meandring the Level, Adorns the calm Prospects of LORTON’S sweet VALE?
To the BRIDAL then come;--taste the Sweets of our Valley; Your Visit, good Cheer and kind Welcome shall hail. Round the Standard of Old ENGLISH CUSTOM, we’ll rally,-- And be blest in Love, Friendship, and LORTON’S sweet VALE.
With this, the conclusion of the “bridal bidding,” I conclude, Sir,
Your constant reader,
W. C.
Newcastle upon Tyne,
August, 1827.
[357] An endeavour as to render any additional assistance unnecessary.
* * * * *
~Discoveries~
OF THE
ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.
No. VIII.
THE MILKY WAY.
That lucid whitish zone in the firmament among the fixed stars, which we call the “Milky Way,” was supposed by the Pythagoreans to have once been the sun’s path, wherein he had left that trace of white, which we now observe there. The Peripatetics asserted, after Aristotle, that it was formed of exhalations, suspended high in air. These were gross mistakes; but all the ancients were not mistaken. Democritus, without the aid of a telescope, preceded Galileo in remarking, that “what we call the milky way, contained in it an innumerable quantity of fixed stars, the mixture of whose distant rays occasioned the whiteness which we thus denominate;” or, to express it in Plutarch’s words, it was “the united brightness of an immense number of stars.”
THE FIXED STARS--PLURALITY OF WORLDS.
The conceptions of the ancients respecting the fixed stars were not less clear than ours. Indeed, the opinions of the moderns on this subject have been adopted within a century from those great masters, after having been rejected during many ages. It would be reckoned almost an absurdity at present, to doubt of those stars being suns like ours, each respectively having planets of their own, revolving around them, and forming various solar systems, more or less resembling ours. Philosophy, at present, admits this theory, derived from the ancients, and founded on the most solid reasonings of astronomical science. The elegant work of Fontenelle, on the “Plurality of Worlds,” first rendered the conception familiar to common minds.
This notion of a plurality of worlds was generally inculcated by the Greek philosophers. Plutarch, after giving an account of it, says, that “he was so far from finding fault with it, that he thought it highly probable there had been, and were, like this of ours, an innumerable, though not absolutely infinite, multitude of worlds; wherein, as well as here, were land and water, invested by sky.”
Anaximenes was one of the first who taught, that “the stars were immense masses of fire, around which certain terrestrial globes, imperceptible to us, accomplished their periodic revolutions.” By these terrestrial globes, turning round those masses of fire, he evidently meant planets, such as ours, subordinate to their own sun, and forming a solar system.
Anaximenes agreed with Thales in this opinion, which passed from the Ionic to the Italic sect; who held, that every star was a world, containing in itself a sun and planets, all fixed in that immense space, which they called ether.
Heraclides, and all the Pythagoreans likewise taught, that “every star was a world, or solary system, having, like this of ours, its sun and planets, invested with an atmosphere of air, and moving in the fluid ether, by which they were sustained.” This opinion seems to have been of still more ancient origin. There are traces of it in the verses of Orpheus, who lived in the time of the Trojan war, and taught that there was a plurality of worlds; a doctrine which Epicurus also deemed very probable.
Origen treats amply of the opinion of Democritus, saying, that “he taught, that there was an innumerable multitude of worlds, of unequal size, and differing in the number of their planets; that some of them were as large as ours, and placed at unequal distances; that some were inhabited by animals, which he could not take upon him to describe; and that some had neither animals, nor plants, nor any thing like what appeared among us.” The philosophic genius of the illustrious ancient discerned, that the different nature of those spheres necessarily required inhabitants of different kinds.
This opinion of Democritus surprised Alexander into a sudden declaration of his unbounded ambition. Ælian reports, that this young prince, upon hearing Democritus’s doctrine of a plurality of worlds, burst into tears, upon reflecting that he had not yet so much as conquered one of them.
It appears, that Aristotle also held this opinion, as did likewise Alcinoüs, the Platonist. It is also ascribed to Plotinus; who held besides, that the earth, compared to the rest of the universe, was one of the meanest globes in it.
SATELLITES.--VORTICES.
In consequence of the ancient doctrine of the plurality of worlds, Phavorinus remarkably conjectured the possibility of the existence of other planets, besides those known to us. “He was astonished how it came to be admitted as certain, that there were no other wandering stars, or planets, but those observed by the Chaldeans. As for his part, he thought that their number was more considerable than was vulgarly given out, though they had hitherto escaped our notice.” Here he probably alludes to the satellites, which have since been manifested by means of the telescope; but it required singular penetration to be capable of forming the supposition, and of having, as it were, predicted this discovery. Seneca mentions a similar notion of Democritus; who supposed, that there were many more of them, than had yet come within our view.
However unfounded may be the system of vortices promulgated by Descartes, yet, as there is much of genius and fancy in it, the notion obtained great applause, and ranks among those theories which do honour to the moderns, or rather to the ancients, from whom it seems to have been drawn, notwithstanding its apparent novelty. In fact, Leucippus taught, and after him Democritus, that “the celestial bodies derived their formation and motion from an infinite number of atoms, of every sort of figure; which encountering one another, and clinging together, threw themselves into vortices; which being thoroughly agitated and circumvolved on all sides, the most subtile of those particles that went to the composition of the whole mass, made towards the utmost skirts of the circumferences of those vortices; whilst the less subtile, or those of a coarser element, subsided towards the centre, forming themselves into those spherical concretions, which compose the planets, the earth, and the sun.” They said, that “those vortices were actuated by the rapidity of a fluid matter, having the earth at the centre of it; and that the planets were moved, each of them, with more or less violence, in proportion to their respective distance from that centre.” They affirmed also, that the celerity with which those vortices moved, was occasionally the cause of their carrying off one another; the most powerful and rapid attracting, and drawing into itself, whatever was less so, whether planet or whatever else.
Leucippus seems also to have known that grand principle of Descartes, that “all revolving bodies endeavour to withdraw from their centre, and fly off in a tangent.”
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RELIQUIÆ THOMSONIANA.
To the Editor.
Sir,--The article relating to Thomson, in a recent number of the Table Book, cannot fail to have deeply interested many of your readers, and in the hope that further similar communications may be elicited, I beg to offer the little I can contribute.
The biographical memoranda, the subject of the conversation in the article referred to, are said to have been transmitted to the earl of Buchan by Mr. Park. It is not singular that no part of it appears in his lordship’s “Essays on the Lives and Writings of Fletcher of Saltoun, and the Poet Thomson, 1792.” 8vo. Mr. Park’s communication was clearly too late for the noble author’s purpose. The conversation professes to have been in October, 1791; to my own knowledge the volume was finished and ready for publication late in the preceding September, although the date 1792 is affixed to the title.
Thomson, it is believed, first tuned his Doric reed in the porter’s lodge at Dryburgh, more recently the residence of David Stuart Erskine, earl of Buchan; hence the partiality which his lordship evinced for the memory of the poet. At p. 194 of the Essays are verses to Dr. De (la) Cour, in Ireland, on his Prospect of Poetry, which are there ascribed to Thomson, and admitted as such by Dr. Thomson, who directed the volume through the press; although it is certain that Thomson in his lifetime disavowed them. The verses to Dr. De la Cour appeared in the Daily Journal for November 1734; and Cave, the proprietor and editor of the Gentleman’s Magazine, at the end of the poetical department in that miscellany for August, 1736, states himself “assured, from Mr. Thomson, that, though the verses to Dr. De la Cour have some lines from his Seasons, he knew nothing of the piece till he saw it in the Daily Journal.”
The appellation of the “oily man of God,” in the Essays, p. 258, was intended by the earl of Buchan for Dr. Murdoch, who was subsequently a biographer of Thomson. Such designations would puzzle a conjuror to elucidate, did not contemporary persons exist to afford a clue to them.
The recent number of the Table Book is not at hand, but from some MS. papers now before me,--James Robertson, surgeon to the household at Kew, who married the sister of Amanda, was the bosom friend of Thomson for more than twenty years. His conversation is said to have been facetious and intelligent, and his character exemplarily respectable. He died at his residence on Richmond Green after four days’ illness, 28th October, 1791, in his eighty-fourth year.
The original MS. of the verses to Miss Young, the poet’s Amanda, on presenting her with his “Seasons,” printed in the Essays, p. 280, were communicated by a Mr. Ramsay, of Ocherlyne, to his lordship. Some other presentation lines, with the Seasons, to the poet Lyttleton, were transcribed from a blank leaf of the book at Hagley, by Johnstone, bishop of Worcester, and transmitted by his son to the earl of Buchan in 1793 or 1794, consequently too late for publication. They follow here:--
Go, little book, and find our friend, Who Nature and the Muses loves; Whose cares the public virtues blend, With all the softness of the groves.
A fitter time thou can’st not choose His fostering friendship to repay:-- Go then, and try, my rural muse, To steal his widowed hours away.
Among the autograph papers which I possess of Ogle, who published certain versifications of Chaucer, as also a work on the Gems of the Ancients, are some verses by Thomson, never yet printed; and their transcripts, Mr. Editor, make their obeisance before you:--
Come, gentle god of soft desire! Come and possess my happy breast; Not fury like, in flames and fire, In rapture, rage, and nonsense drest.
These are the vain disguise of love, And, or bespeak dissembled pains, Or else a fleeting fever prove, The frantic passion of the veins.
But come in Friendship’s angel-guise, Yet dearer thou than friendship art, More tender spirit at thine eyes, More sweet emotions at thy heart.
Oh come! with goodness in thy train; With peace and transport, void of storm. And would’st thou me for ever gain? Put on Amanda’s waning form.
The following, also original, were written by Thomson in commendation of his much loved Amanda:--
Sweet tyrant Love, but hear me now! And cure while young this pleasing smart, Or rather aid my trembling vow, And teach me to reveal my heart.
Tell her, whose goodness is my bane, Whose looks have smil’d my peace away, Oh! whisper how she gives me pain, Whilst undesigning, frank, and gay.
’Tis not for common charms I sigh, For what the vulgar, beauty call; ’Tis not a cheek, a lip, an eye, But ’tis the soul that lights them all.
For that I drop the tender tear, For that I make this artless moan; Oh! sigh it, Love, into her ear, And make the bashful lover known.
In the hope that the present may draw forth further reliquiæ of the poet of the “Seasons” in your excellent publication, I beg leave to subscribe myself,
Sir, &c.
WILL O’ THE WISP.
Sept. 17, 1827.
* * * * *
THE BERKSHIRE MISER.
The economy and parsimony of the Rev. Morgan Jones, late curate of Blewbury, a parish about six miles from Wallingford, were almost beyond credibility; he having outdone, in many instances, the celebrated Elwes, of Marcham.
For many of the last years of Mr. Jones’s ministerial labours, he had no servant to attend any of his domestic concerns; and he never had even the assistance of a female within his doors for the last twelve years. The offices of housemaid, chamber-maid, cook, and scullion, and even most part of his washing and mending, were performed by himself; he was frequently known to beg needles and thread at some of the farm-houses, to tack together his tattered garments, at which, from practice, he had become very expert. He was curate of Blewbury upwards of forty-three years; and the same hat and coat served him for his every-day dress during the whole of that period. The brim of his hat had, on one side, (by much handling,) been worn off quite to the crown, but on coming one day from the hamlet of Upton across the fields, he luckily met with an old left-off hat, stuck up for a scarecrow. He immediately secured the prize, and with some tar-twine, substituted as thread, and a piece of the brim, quite repaired the deficiencies of his beloved old one, and ever after wore it in common, although the old one was of a russet brown, and the new brim nearly as black as jet. His coat, when he first came from Ashton Keyns in 1781, was a surtout much the worse for wear; after some time he had it turned inside out, and made up into a common one. Whenever it became rent or torn, it was as speedily tacked together with his own hands: at length pieces fell out and were lost, and, as he found it necessary, he cut pieces off the tail to make good the upper part, until the coat was reduced to a jacket, stuck about with patches of his own applying. In this hat and coat, when at home on working days, he was constantly decorated, but he never wore it abroad or before strangers, except he forgot himself, as he several times had been much vexed at the ridicule his grotesque appearance had excited when seen by those with whom he was not much acquainted. This extraordinary coat (or more properly jacket) is now in the possession of one of the parishioners, and prized as a curiosity. His stockings were washed and mended by himself, and some of them had scarcely a vestige of the original worsted. He had a great store of new shirts, which had never been worn, but for many years his stock became reduced to one in use; his parsimony would not permit him to have this washed more than once in two or three months, for which he reluctantly paid a poor woman fourpence. He always slept without his shirt, that it might not want washing too often, and by that means be worn out; and he always went without one while it was washed, and very frequently at other times. This solitary shirt he mended himself, and as fast as it required to be patched in the body he ingeniously supplied it by cutting off the tail; but, as nothing will last for ever, by this constant clipping it unfortunately became too short to reach down his small-clothes. This, of course, was a sad disaster, and there was some fear least one of the new ones must be brought into use; but, after a diligent search, he fortunately found in one of his drawers the top part of a shirt with a frill on, which had probably lain by ever since his youthful and more gay days. This with his usual sagacity, he tacked on, to the tail of the old one, with the frill downwards, and it was thus worn until the day before he left Blewbury. Latterly his memory became impaired. He several times forgot to change his dress, and was more than once seen at the burial of a corpse dressed in this ludicrous and curious manner, with scarcely a button on any part of his clothes, but tied together in various parts with string. In this state he was by strangers mistaken for a beggar, and barely escaped being offered their charity.
His diet was as singular as his dress, for he cooked his pot only once a week, which was always on a Sunday. For his subsistence he purchased but three articles, which he denominated two necessaries and a luxury:--the necessaries were bread and bacon, the luxury was tea. For many years his weekly allowance of bread was half a gallon per week; and in the season, when his garden produced fruit, or when he once or twice a week procured a meal at his neighbours’, his half-gallon loaf lasted him a day or two of the following week; so that in five weeks he often had no more than four half-gallon loaves. He was also equally abstemious in his other two articles. He frequently ate with his parishioners; yet for the last ten years there was but a solitary instance of a person eating with him in return, and that a particular friend, who obtained only a bit of bread with much difficulty and importunity. For the last fifteen years there was never within his doors any kind of spirits, beer, butcher’s meat, butter, sugar, lard, cheese, or milk; nor any niceties, of which he was particularly fond when they came free of expense, but which he could never find the heart to purchase. His beverage was cold water; and at morning and evening weak tea, without milk or sugar.
However cold the weather, he seldom had a fire, except to cook with, and that was so small that it might easily have been hid under a half-gallon measure. He was often seen roving the churchyard to pick up bits of stick, or busily lopping his shrubs or fruit-trees to make this fire, while his woodhouse was crammed with wood and coal, which he could not prevail upon himself to use. In very cold weather he would frequently get by some of his neighbours’ fires to warm his shivering limbs; and, when evening came, retire to bed for warmth, but generally without a candle, as he allowed himself only the small bits left of those provided for divine service in the church by the parish.
He was never known to keep dog, cat, or any other living creature: and it is certain the whole expenses of his house did not amount to half a crown a week for the last twenty years; and, as the fees exceeded that sum, he always saved the whole of his yearly salary, which never was more than fifty pounds per annum. By constantly placing this sum in the funds, and the interest, with about thirty pounds per annum more, (the rent of two small estates left by some relations,) he, in the course of forty-three years, amassed many thousand pounds, as his bankers, Messrs. Child and Co., of Fleet-street, can testify.
In his youthful days he made free with the good things of this life; and when he first came to Blewbury, he for some time boarded with a person by the week, and during that time was quite corpulent: but, as soon as he boarded and lived by himself, his parsimony overcame his appetite, so that at last he became reduced almost to a living skeleton. He was always an early riser, being seldom in bed after break of day; and, like all other early risers, he enjoyed an excellent state of health; so that for the long space of forty-three years he omitted preaching only two Sundays.
His industry was such, that he composed with his own hand upwards of one thousand sermons; but for the last few years his hand became tremulous, and he wrote but little; he therefore only made alterations and additions to his former discourses, and this generally on the back of old marriage licenses, or across old letters, as it would have been nearly death to him to have purchased paper. His sermons were usually plain and practical, and his funeral discourses were generally admired; but the fear of being noticed, and the dread of expense, was an absolute prohibition to his sending any thing to the press, although he was fully capable, being well skilled in the English and Latin languages. The expense of a penny in the postage of a letter has been known to deprive him of a night’s rest! and yet, at times, pounds did not grieve him. He was a regular and liberal subscriber to the Bible, Missionary, and the other societies for the propagation of the Gospel and the conversion of the Jews; and more than once he was generous enough to give a pound or two to assist a distressed fellow-creature.
Although very fond of ale, he spent only one sixpence on that liquor during the forty-three years he was curate of Blewbury; but it must be confessed he used to partake of it too freely when he could have it without cost, until about ten years ago, when at a neighbour’s wedding, having taken too much of this his favourite beverage, it was noticed and talked of by some of the persons present. Being hurt by this, he made a vow never more to taste a drop of that or any other strong liquor; and his promise he scrupulously and honestly kept, although contrary to his natural desires, and exposed to many temptations.[358]
[358] Devizes Gazette, Sept. 1827.
* * * * *
A BALLAD.
For the Table Book.
“A very fine gentleman treads the lawn, He passes our cottage duly; We met in the grove the other morn, And he vow’d to love me truly; He call’d me his dear, his love, his life, And told me his heart was burning; But he never once said--will you be my wife? So I left him his offers spurning.”
“And what were his offers to thee, my child?” Old Woodland said to Nancy-- “Oh many things, which almost beguil’d Your simple daughter’s fancy; He talk’d of jewels, laces, and gold, Of a castle, servants, and carriage; And I could have lov’d the youth so bold, But he never talk’d of marriage.
“So I drew back my hand, and saved my lips, For I cared not for his money; And I thought he was like the bee which sips From ev’ry flower its honey: Vet I think his heart is a little bent Towards me,” said Nancy, “and marriage; For last night, as soon as to sleep I went, I dream’d of a castle and carriage.”
“’Twere wrong, my child,” old Woodland said, “Such idle dream to cherish The roses of life full soon will fade, They never should timeless perish; The flower that’s pluck’d will briefly die, Tho’ placed on a peerless bosom; And ere you look with a loving eye, Think, think on a fading blossom.”
C. COLE.
August 22, 1827.
Vol. II.--40.
“-------------- ’Twas strange; ’twas passing strange! ’Twas pitiful! ’twas wond’rous pitiful!”
I thought, in the Every-Day Book, that I had done with “Hagbush-lane” altogether--the tale of the poor man’s wrongs, when “the proud man’s contumely” grew into open aggression, had passed from me; and I presumed that, for his little while on this side the grave, the oppressed might “go free,” and “hear not the voice of the oppressor”--but when selfishness is unwatched it has a natural tendency to break forth, and a sudden and recent renewal of an outrage, which every honest mind had condemned, furnishes a fresh story. It is well related in the following letter:--
To the Editor.
Sir,--In the first volume of the Every-Day Book you have favoured the lovers of rural scenery with an historical and descriptive notice of Hagbush-lane, Islington, accompanied with an engraving of the “mud edifice” which formerly stood there; of which you have given “the simple annals:”--its erection by a poor labourer who, else, had no shelter for himself, wife, and child, to “shrink into,” when “pierced by wintry winds;”--its demolition by the wealthy occupants of the neighbouring fields;--the again-houseless man’s endeavour to rebuild his hovel;--the rich man’s repetition of the destruction of his half-finished hut;--and finally, the labourer’s succeeding in the erection of a cottage, more commodious than the first, where he continued unmolested to sell small beer to poor workmen and wayfarers.--Allow me, sir, the melancholy task of informing you of the “final destruction” of this sample of rusticity.--Hagbush-lane is despoiled of its appropriate ornament.
I have ever been an admirer of the beautiful scenery that is to be met with on that side of the metropolis; and never, since reading your interesting narrative and description, have I strolled that way, without passing through Hagbush-lane. On entering the wide part from the field by Copenhagen-house, one day last week, I was sadly astonished at the change--the cottage, with its garden-rails and benches, had disappeared; and the garden was entirely laid waste: trees, bushes, and vegetables rudely torn up by the roots, lay withering where they had flourished. Upon the site of his demolished dwelling stood the poor old man, bent by affliction as much as by age, leaning on his stick. From the heartbroken expression of his features, it did not take me a moment to guess the cause of this devastation:--the opulent landholder has, for the third time, taken this ungentle expedient to rid his pastures of a neighbouring “nuisance”--the hut of cheerless poverty.
The distressed old rustic stated, that on Thursday, (which was the sixth of September,) at about six o’clock in the morning, before the inmates had arisen, a party of workmen came to the cottage; and, merely informing them that “they must disturb them,” instantly commenced the work of destruction. His dwelling was soon levelled with the ground; and the growth of his garden torn up, and thrown in a heap into the lane. He declared, with a tear, that “it had ruined him for ever, and would be the death of him.” I did not ask him many questions: it had been a sin to probe his too deeply wounded feelings.
Proceeding up the lane, to where it is crossed by the new road, I perceived that, in the open space by the road-side, at the entrance into the narrow part of the lane, the old man had managed to botch up, with pieces of board and old canvass, a miserable shed to shelter him. It was surrounded with household utensils, and what materials he had saved from the ruins of his cottage--a most wretched sty--but little larger than the dog-kennel that was erected near it, from which a faithful cur barked loudly at the intruder’s footstep.
Being a stranger in the neighbourhood, I cannot pretend to know any thing of the motives that have induced his rich neighbours thus to distress the poor and aged man;--perhaps they are best known to themselves, and it is well if they can justify them to any but themselves!--but surely, surely he will not be suffered to remain thus exposed in the approaching season,
“--all amid the rigours of the year, In the wild depth of winter, while without The ceaseless winds blow ice.”----
Perhaps, sir, I give too much room to my feelings. My intention was but to inform you of a regretted change in a scene which you have noticed and admired in the Every-Day Book. Should you consider it worthy of further notice in the Table Book, you will oblige me by putting it forward in what form best pleases yourself.
I remain, &c.
SO AND SO.
Sept. 19, 1827.
This communication, accompanied by the real name and address of its warmhearted writer, revived my recollections and kindled my feelings. I immediately wrote to a friend, who lives in the vicinage of Hagbush-lane, requesting him to hasten to the site of the old cottage, which was quite as well known to him as to me, and bring me a drawing of the place in its present state, with such particulars of the razing of the edifice as he could obtain. His account, as I collect it from verbal narration, corroborates that of my correspondent.
So complete has been the devastation, that a drawing of the spot whereon the cottage stood would merely be a view of the level earth. My friend walked over it, and along Hagbush-lane, till he came into the new road, (leading from the King’s Head at Holloway to the lower road from London to Kentish Town.) Immediately at the corner of the continuation of Hagbush-lane, which begins on the opposite side of the new road, he perceived a new hut, and near it the expelled occupant of the cottage, which had been laid waste in the other part of the lane. On asking the old man respecting the occasion and manner of his ejectment, he cried. It was a wet and dreary day; and the poor fellow in tears, and his hastily thrown up tenement, presented a cheerless and desolate scene. His story was short. On the Thursday, (mentioned in the letter,) so early as five in the morning, some men brought a ladder, a barrow, and a pickaxe, and ascending the ladder began to untile the roof, while the old man and his wife were in bed. He hastily rose; they demanded of him to unlock the door; on his refusing they burst it open with the pick-axe, and having thus forced an entrance compelled his wife to get up. They then wantonly threw out and broke the few household utensils, and hewed down the walls of the dwelling. In the little garden, they rooted up and destroyed every tree, shrub, and vegetable; and finally, they levelled all vestiges which could mark the place, as having been used or cultivated for the abode and sustenance of human beings. Some of the less destructible requisites of the cottage they trundled in the barrow up the lane, across the road, whither the old man and his wife followed, and were left with the few remnants of their miserable property by the housebreakers. On that spot they put together their present hut with a few old boards and canvass, as represented in the engraving, and there they remain to tell the story of their unredressed wrongs to all who desire the particulars.
The old man represents the “ringleader,” as he calls him, in this last work of ruin, to be the foreman of a great cow-keeping landholder and speculator, to whose field-possessions the cottage on the waste was adjacent. Who employed this “ringleader” and his followers? Who was the instigating and protecting accessary before and after this brutal housebreaking, and wilful waste?
The helpless man got his living by selling small beer, and a little meat, cooked by his wife, to others as poor and helpless as themselves; and they eked out their existence by their garden produce. In the summer of 1825 I heard it said, that their cottage was the resort and drinking-place of idle and disorderly persons. I took some pains to ascertain the fact; but could never trace it beyond--the most dubitable authority--general report. It is quite true, that I saw persons there whom I preferred not to sit down with, because their manners and habits were different from my own; yet I not unfrequently took a cup of the old man’s beer among them, and silently watched them, and sometimes talked with them; and, for any thing that I could observe--and I know myself to be a close observer--they were quite as honourable and moral, as persons of more refined language and dress, who frequent respectable coffee-houses. I had been, too, withinside the cottage, which was a place of rude accommodation for no more than its settled occupants. It was on the outside that the poor couple entertained their customers, who usually sat on the turf seat against the foot-path side of the hut, or on an empty barrel or two, or a three-legged milking-stool. On the hedge side of the cottage was a small low lean-to, wherein the old man kept a pig to fatten. At the front end was an enclosure of a few feet of ground, with domestic fowls and their callow broods, which ran about cackling, and routing the earth for their living. In the rear of the cottage was a rod or two of ground banked off, and well planted with potatoes, cabbages, and other garden stuff, where I have often seen the old man fully employed in weeding and cultivating; digging up old, or preparing for new crops, or plashing and mending his little fences. Between his vegetables, and his live stock, and his few customers, he had enough to do; and I never saw him idle. I never saw him sitting down to drink with them; and if he had, there was nothing among them but the small beer. From the early part of the spring to the end of the year just mentioned, I have been past and loitered near the cottage at all hours of the day, from the early dawn, before even the sun, or the inmates had risen, till after they had gone to rest, and the moon was high, and the stars were in their courses. Never in the hours I spent around the place by day or night, did I see or hear any persons or practices that would be termed disorderly by any but the worst judges of human nature and morals--the underbred overpolite, and vulgarly overdressed. There I have seen a brickmaker or two with their wives and daughters sitting and regaling, as much at home, and as sober and innocent, as parties of French ladies and gentlemen at Chedron’s in Leicester-square; and from these people, if spoken to civilly, there was language as civil. There I have seen a comfortably dressed man, in a clean shirt, and a coat and hat as good as a Fleet-street tradesman’s, with a jug of small “entire” before him, leisurely at work on a pair of shoes, joining in the homely conversation, and in choruses of old English songs, raised by his compeers. There, too, I have heard a company of merry-hearted labourers and holiday-making journeymen, who had straggled away from their smithies and furnaces in the lanes of London, to breathe the fresh air, pealing out loud laughter, while the birds whistled over their heads from the slender branches of the green elms. In the old man I saw nothing but unremitting industry; and in his customers nothing but rude yet inoffensive good-nature. He was getting his bread by the sweat of his brow, and his brow was daily moistened by labour.
When I before related something of this poor man’s origin,[359] and his former endurances, I little suspected that I should have to tell that, after the parochial officers of Islington had declined to receive him into the poor-house, the parish would suffer him to be molested as a labourer on its waste. He has been hunted as a wild beast; and, perhaps, had he been a younger man, and with vindictive feelings, he might have turned round upon his enemies, and lawlessly avenged himself for the lawless injuries inflicted on him. Vagrancy is easily tempted to criminality, and the step is short.
It is scarcely three weeks since the old cottager was in a snug abode of his own handmaking, with a garden that had yielded support to him and his wife through the summer, and roots growing in it for their winter consumption. These have been mercilessly laid waste at the coming-in of the inclement season. Will no one further investigate the facts, and aid him in obtaining “indemnity for the past, and security for the future?”
Respecting the rights of the parish of Islington in Hagbush-lane, as the ancient and long disused north road into London, I do not pretend to determine; because, after the warm discussions and strong resolutions of its vestries, sometime ago, respecting a part of this road which had been partially appropriated to private use, the parish may have thoroughly good reasons for acquiescing in the entire stopping up of a carriage thoroughfare, between the back road to Holloway and Islington upper street, which, if now open, would be of great use. Many of the inhabitants, however may not be so easily satisfied as a few that the individual, who has at length wholly enclosed it, and shut it against the public, has any more right to stop up, and take the ground of this highway to himself, than to enclose so much of the road to Holloway through which the mails pass.
I have often perambulated Hagbush-lane, as the old London north road, from Old-street across the City-road, the Lower and Upper Islington, and Holloway roads, by the Islington workhouse, on to the Bull ring field; (which is in private hands, no one knows how;) from thence, over the site of the destroyed cottage to the old man’s present hut; then along the meadows; across the Highgate-archway-cut into other meadows, through which it winds back again, and recrosses the archway-cut, and afterwards crosses the London road, between stately elms, towards Hornsey.
Perhaps the Commissioners of Crown Lands, or Woods and Forests, may find it convenient and easy to institute an inquiry into the encroachments of Hagbush-lane, as a disused public road; and devise a method of obtaining its worth, in aid of the public service.
Meantime, the aggression on the old cottager must not be forgotten. The private wrong he has sustained is in the nature of a public wrong; and it is open to every one to consider of the means by which these repeated breaches of the peace may be prevented, and redress be obtained for the poor man’s injuries.
*
[359] In the first volume of the Every-Day Book, No. 28, which contains the account of Hagbush-lane and its vicinage, col. 857 to 872.
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays.~
No. XXXV.
[From the “Hectors,” a Comedy; by Edmund Prestwick, 1641.]
A Waiting Maid wheedles an old Justice into a belief, that her Lady is in love with him.
Maid. I think there never was Woman of so strange a humour as she is for the world; for from her infancy she ever doted on old men. I have heard her say, that in these her late law troubles, it has been no small comfort to her, that she hath been conversant with grave counsellors and serjeants; and what a happiness she had sometimes to look an hour together upon the Judges. She will go and walk a whole afternoon in Charter House Garden, on purpose to view the ancient Gentlemen there. Not long ago there was a young Gentleman here about the town who, hearing of her riches, and knowing this her humour, had almost got her, by counterfeiting himself to be an old man.
Justice. And how came he to miss her?
Maid. The strangliest that ever you heard; for all things were agreed, the very writings drawn, and when he came to seal them, because he set his name without using a pair of spectacles, she would never see him more.
Justice. Nay, if she can love an old man so--well--
The Waiting Maid places the Justice, where he can overhear a sham discourse of the Lady with a pretended Brother.
Brother. What is the matter, Sister? you do not use to be so strange to me.
Lady. I do not indeed; but now methinks I cannot conceal any thing; yet I could wish you could now guess my thoughts, and look into my mind; and see what strange passions have ruled there of late, without forcing me to strain my modesty.
Broth. What, are you in love with anybody? Come, let me know the party; a brother’s advice may do you no harm.
Sist. Did you not see an ancient gentleman with me, when you came in?
Broth. What, is it any son or kinsman of his?
Sist. No, no. (She weeps.)
Broth. Who then?
Sist. I have told you--
Broth. What, that feeble and decrepit piece of age--
Sist. Nay, brother--
Broth. That sad effect of some threescore years and ten--that antic relique of the last century--
Sist. Alas, dear brother, it is but too true.
Broth. It is impossible.
Sist. One would think so indeed.
Broth. I grant, you may bear a reverence and regard, as to your father’s ashes, or your grandsire’s tomb.
Sist. Alas, brother, you know I never did affect those vain though pleasing braveries of youth, but still have set my mind on the more noble part of man, which age doth more refine and elaborate, than it doth depress and sink this same contemptible clod.
Justice. I see, she loves me.
* * * * *
[From “Hey for Honesty,” a Comedy, by T. Randolph, 1651.]
To Plutus.
Did not Will Summers break his wind for thee? And Shakespeare therefore writ his comedy? All things acknowledge thy vast power divine, Great God of Money, whose most powerful shine Gives motion, life; day rises from thy sight, Thy setting though at noon makes pitchy night. Sole catholic cause of what we feel and see, All in this all are but the effects of thee.
Riches above Poverty; a syllogism.
--My major, That which is most noble, is most honorable. But Poverty is more noble. My minor I prove thus. Whose houses are most ancient, those are most noble. But Poverty’s houses are most ancient; for some of them are so old, like Vicarage houses, they are every hour in danger of falling.
Stationer’s Preface before the Play.
Reader, this is a pleasant Comedy, though some may judge it satirical, ’tis the more like Aristophanes, the father; besides, if it be biting, ’tis a biting age we live in; then biting for biting. Again, Tom Randal, the adopted son of Ben Jonson, being the Translator hereof, followed his father’s steps. They both of them loved Sack, and harmless mirth, and here they shew it; and I, that know myself, am not averse from it neither. This I thought good to acquaint thee with. Farewell. Thine, F.J.
* * * * *
[From the “Example,” a Tragi-Comedy, by Jas. Shirley, 1638.]
The humour of a wary Knight, who sleeps all day, and wakes all night, for security.--He calls up his Household at midnight.
Plot. Dormant, why Dormant, thou eternal sleeper Who would be troubled with these lethargies About him? are you come, dreamer?
Dormant (entering.) Would I were so happy. There’s less noise in a steeple upon a Coronation-day. O sleep, sleep, tho’ it were a dead one, would be comfortable. Your Worship might be pleased to let my fellow Old-rat watch as well as I.
Plot. Old-rat! that fellow is a drone.
Dorm. He has slept this half hour on the iron chest. Would I were in my grave to take a nap; death would do me a courtesy; I should be at rest, and hear no noise of “Dormant.”
Plot. Hah! what’s the matter?
Dorm. Nothing but a yawn, Sir, I do all I can to keep myself waking.
Plot. ’Tis done considerately. This heavy dulness Is the disease of souls. Sleep in the night!
Dorm. Shall I wake my fellow Old-rat? he is refreshed. Plot. Do; but return you with him: I have business with both-- Dorm. To hear us join in opinion of what’s a clock! They talk of Endymion: now could I sleep three lives.
(exit.)
Plot. When other men measure the hours with sleep, Careless of where they are and whom they trust, Exposing their condition to danger Of plots, I wake and wisely think prevention. Night was not made to snore in; but so calm, For our imaginations to be stirring About the world; this subtle world, this world Of plots and close conspiracy. There is No faith in man nor woman. Where’s this Dormant? Dorm. (re-entering with Old-rat.) Here is the sleepy vermin. Old. It has been day this two hours. Plot. Then ’tis time for me to go to bed. Dorm. Would my hour were once come! Plot. Keep out daylight, and set up a fresh taper. Dorm. By that time we have dined, he will have slept out his first sleep. Old. And after supper call for his breakfast. Plot. You are sure ’tis morning? Dorm. As sure as I am sleepy.
C. L.
* * * * *
For the Table Book.
IMPERIAL FATE.
-----------------Let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of Kings:-- How some have been depos’d, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d; Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping killed; All murder’d:--For within the hollow crown, That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Keeps Death his court--
RICHARD II.
Does any man envy the situation of monarchs? Let him peruse the following statement, which particularizes the deaths of the forty-seven Roman emperors, from Julius Cæsar to Constantine the Great; only thirteen of whom encountered “the last enemy” in the ordinary course of nature:--
B. C.
42. Julius Cæsar was murdered by Brutus and others in the senate-house.
A. D.
15. AUGUSTUS CÆSAR died a natural death.
39. Tiberius was smothered with pillows, at the instigation of Macro, the friend of Caligula.
42. Caligula was stabbed by Cherea and other conspirators, when retiring from the celebration of the Palatine games.
55. Claudius was poisoned by the artifice of his wife Aggrippina.
69. Nero in the midst of a general revolt was condemned to death by the senate. Upon hearing of which he killed himself with a dagger.
69. Sergius Galba conspired against by Otho, by whose partisans he was beheaded.
70. Otho destroyed himself, to avoid further contest with his competitor Vitellius.
70. Vitellius was massacred by the populace, who threw his dead body into the Tiber.
79. VESPASIAN died a natural death.
81. Titus. It is suspected that his death was hastened by his brother Domitian.
96. Domitian was murdered by Stephanus and other conspirators.
98. NERVA died a natural death.
117. TRAJAN ditto.
138. ADRIAN ditto.
161. Titus Antoninus, called Antoninus Pius, ditto.
180. MARCUS AURELIUS, called Antoninus the Philosopher, ditto.
192. Commodus was strangled by Narcissus and other conspirators.
192. Pertinax was murdered by the soldiers.
195. Didius Julian was beheaded by the soldiers.
211. SEPTIMUS SEVERUS died a natural death.
217. Caracalla and Geta, joint emperors. Geta was killed by his brother Caracalla, who was afterwards killed by Martial.
218. Opillius Macrinus was killed by the partisans of Heliogabalus.
222. Heliogabalus was murdered by the soldiers, who threw his dead body into the Tiber.
235. Alexander was beheaded by the soldiers.
238. Maximin was murdered by his own guards.
238. Maximus and Balbinus, joint emperors, were both murdered by the prætorian guards.
243. Gordian was murdered by order of Philip, whom he had associated with him in the command of the empire.
248. Philip was murdered by the soldiers.
251. Decius destroyed himself, after having been defeated by the Goths.
253. Gallus was slain in battle, with his competitor Emilianus.
259. Valerian was taken prisoner by Sapor, king of Persia, who caused him to be cruelly murdered.
268. Galienus was slain by his own soldiers.
270. CLAUDIUS died a natural death.
275. Aurelian was murdered by Menesthus and other conspirators.
275. TACITUS died a natural death.
282. Probus was murdered by his soldiers.
284. Carus and his sons, Carinus and Numerian, joint emperors. The father was struck dead by lightning, and both his sons were murdered.
304. Dioclesian and Maximian, joint emperors. Dioclesian resigned the empire, and died either by poison or madness. Maximian also resigned, but was afterwards condemned to death by Constantine.
306. CONSTANTIUS and { joint emperors, both 311. GALERIUS, { died a natural death.
343. CONSTANTINE the Great died a natural death.
Where did these events occur? Among the savage tribes of interior Africa, or the rude barbarians of northern Europe? No: but in Rome--imperial Rome--in her “high and palmy state,” when she was mistress of the world, and held within her dominion all the science and literature of which the earth could boast. Surely we may with reason doubt, whether the moral improvement of mankind invariably keeps pace with their intellectual advancement.
O. Z.
* * * * *
ILL-FATED ROYAL FAMILIES.
THE LINE OF CHARLEMAGNE.
The successors of Charlemagne in his French dominions, were examples of a melancholy destiny.
His son, Louis le Debonnaire, died for want of food, in consequence of a superstitious panic.
His successor, Charles the Bald, was poisoned by his physician.
The son of Charles, Louis the Stutterer, fell also by poison.
Charles, king of Aquitaine, brother to Louis, was fatally wounded in the head by a lord, named Albuin, whom he was endeavouring, by way of frolic, to terrify, in disguise.
Louis III., successor to Louis the Stutterer, riding through the streets of Tours, pursued the handsome daughter of a citizen named Germond, till the terrified girl took refuge in a house; and the king, thinking more of her charms than of the size of the gateway, attempting to force his horse after her, broke his back, and died.
His successor, Carloman, fell by an ill-directed spear, thrown, by his own servant, at a wild boar.
Charles the Fat perished of want, grief, and poison, all together.
His successor, Charles the Simple, died in prison of penury and despair.
Louis the Stranger, who succeeded him, was bruised to death as he was hunting.
Lotharius and Louis V., the two last kings of the race of Charlemagne, were both poisoned by their wives.
After a revolution of two hundred and thirty years, there remained of the whole line of Charlemagne, only Charles, duke of Lorrain; and he, after ineffectually struggling in defence of his rights against Hugh Capet, sunk beneath the fortune of his antagonist, and ended his life and race in solitary confinement.
The French historians observe, that the epithets given to the princes of the line of Charlemagne, were, almost all, expressive of the contemptuous light in which that family was held by the people over whom it reigned.
THE STUARTS.
The royal line of Stuart was as steadily unfortunate as any ever recorded in history. Their misfortunes continued with unabated succession, during three hundred and ninety years.
Robert III. broke his heart, because his eldest son Robert was starved to death, and his youngest, James, was made a captive.
James I., after having beheaded three of his nearest kindred, was assassinated by his own uncle, who was tortured to death for it.
James II. was slain by the bursting of a piece of ordnance.
James III., when flying from the field of battle, was thrown from his horse, and murdered in a cottage, into which he had been carried for assistance.
James IV. fell in Flodden field.
James V. died of grief for the wilful ruin of his army at Solway Moss.
Henry Stuart, lord Darnley, was assassinated, and then blown up in his palace.
Mary Stuart was beheaded in England.
James I. (and VI. of Scotland) died, not without suspicion of being poisoned by lord Buckingham.
Charles I. was beheaded at Whitehall.
Charles II. was exiled for many years; and when he ascended the throne became a slave to his pleasures: he lived a sensualist, and died miserably.
James II. abdicated the crown, and died in banishment.
Anne, after a reign, which though glorious, was rendered unhappy by party disputes, died of a broken heart, occasioned by the quarrels of her favoured servants.
The posterity of James II. remain proscribed and exiled.
* * * * *
~Original Poetry.~
For the Table Book.
TALES OF TINMOUTHE PRIORIE.
No. I.
THE MAIDEN OF THE SEA.
“Al maner Mynstralcye, “That any man kan specifye,
* * * * *
“And many unkouth notys new, “Offe swiche folke als lovid trewe.”
JOHN LIDGATE.
O loud howls the wind o’er the blue, blue deep, And loud on the shore the dashing waves sweep, And merk is the night by land and by sea, And woe to the stranger that’s out on the lea.
Closed fast is the gate of the priory hall,[360] Unscathed stand the towers of the castle[361] so tall, High flare the flames on the hearth-stane so wide, But woe to the stranger that crosses the tide.
Hark! hark! at the portal who’s voice is so bold-- It cannot be open’d for silver or gold-- The foeman is near with his harrying brand, And brent are the homes of Northumberland.
I’m no foeman, no Scot, in sooth now to say, But a minstral who weareth the peaceful lay; Wynken de Mowbray the Prior doth know, Then open the gate, for the north winds blow.
Who hath not heard De Mowbray’s song? The softest harp in the minstrel throng; O many a true love tale can he sing, And touch the heart with his melting string.
Now while the welkin with tempest raves, And the angry ocean maddens his waves, Around the hearth-stane we’ll listen to thee, And beguile the long night with minstralcye.
O sweet and wild is the harper’s strain, As its magic steals o’er the raptur’d brain, And hush’d is the crowd of hearers all, As thronged they sit in the priory hall.
“O what is sweeter and softer than thou “Heather-bell on the mountain brow? “And what is more pure than the sparkling dew “That kisses that heather-bell so blue? “Yes! far far sweeter and purer is she, “The dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.
“What is more sweet in the leafy grove “Than the nightingale’s plaintive song of love? “And what is more gay than the lark of spring, “As he carrols lightly on heaven-bent wing? “O yes, more sweet and more gay is she, “The dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.
“Her raven-tresses in ringlets flow, “Her step is more light than the forest doe, “Her dark eyes shine ’neath their silken lash, “Like the bright but lambent light’ning flash “Of a summer eve, as noiseless it plays “’Midst a million stars of yet softer rays.
“The beauteous Eltha’s evening song “Is wafted o’er the swelling wave, “And it catches the ear, as it steals along, “Of wondering seamen, while billows lave “In gentle murmurs his vessel’s prow, “As he voyages to where the cedars grow.
“A shallop is riding upon the sea, “With her broad sail furl’d to the mast; “A pennon brave floats fair and free “On the breeze, as it whispers past:
“And who is that stranger of lofty mien “Who is rock’d on the salt, salt tide? “-----He is from a foreign land I ween, “A stranger of meikle pride.
“He has heard the beauteous Eltha’s notes “Borne far on the eventide breeze, “Like the eastern perfume that distant floats “O’er the silver surfac’d seas.
“The stranger hath seen dark Eltha’s eye, “As it glanc’d o’er the wave so green; “And mark’d her tresses of raven-dye, “(More beauteous than golden sheen,) “Interwoven with sea-flowers of whiten’d hue, “Such flowers as never in garden grew, “But pluck’d from the caverns of ocean deep “By the last stormy waves’ fast rushing sweep, “And left on the strand as a tribute to thee, “Thou dark-eyed Maiden of the Sea.
“The stranger lov’d dark Eltha’s lay, “And he lov’d her bright, bright eye; “And he sued for the love of that maiden gay, “As she wander’d the ocean nigh.
“He gain’d her love, for his form had grace, “And stately was his stride; “His gentlesse show’d him of noble race, “Tho’ roaming on billows wide:-- “But fair skims the breeze o’er the placid sea, “And the stranger must hie to a far countrie.
“Dark Eltha still sings but her song is slow, “And the west wind catches its mournful “The mariners wonder the changed lay, “As their slothful barks calm lingering stay: “The songstress’ cheek is wan and pale, “And her tresses neglected float on the gale; “The sea flower is thrown on its rocky bed, “The once gay Eltha’s peace is fled, “The eye of the Maiden is dark and bright, “But it rivals no more the diamond’s light.
“Now many a day thou hast gaz’d o’er the sea “For the bark of thy lover in vain, “And many a storm thou hast shudder’d to see “Spread its wings o’er the anger’d main: “--Is he faithless the stranger?--forgetful of thee? “Thou beauteous Maiden of the Sea.
“On many a whiten’d sail hast thou gaz’d, “Till the lazy breeze bore it on, “But they pass, and thy weary eyes are glaz’d, “As they trace the bark just gone: “None have the pennon, so free and fair, “As the stranger ship which once tarried there.
“On yon tall cliff to whose broken base “Loud surging waves for ever race, “A form is bent o’er the fearful height, “So eager, that a feather’s weight “Would cast its poised balance o’er, “And leave a mangled corse on the shore.
“-----’Tis Eltha’s form, that with eager glance, “Scans the wide world of waves, as they dance, “Uprais’d by the sigh of the east wind chill, “Which wafts to the ear the scream so shrill “Of the whirling sea mews, as landward they fly, “--To seamen a mark that the storm is nigh.
“And what is yon distant speck on the sea, “That seems but a floating beam, “Save that a pennon fair and free “Waves in the sun’s bright gleam?
“A bark is driven with rapid sail, “Its pennon far spread on the moaning gale, “A foamy track at its angry keel, “And the billows around it maddening reel; “The white fring’d surges dash over its prow “As its masts to the pressing canvass bow--
“But O with rapid, fiend-like, haste, “The breeze rolls o’er the watery waste, “And louder is heard the deaf’ning roar “Of the waves dashing fierce on the trembling shore, “Ten thousand eddying billows recede, “And return again with an arrow’s speed, “Till the flaky foam on the wind is spread, “Far, far above their ocean bed, “And boom o’er the cliff where Eltha’s form “Is seen to await the deadly storm.
“Keep to the wind with a taughten’d sheet,[362] “Thou bark from a stranger land, “No daring northern pilot would meet “A storm like this near the strand; “No kindly haven of shelter is here, “Then whilst thou may,--to seaward steer; “But thou com’st, with a wide and flowing sail, “To a rock bound coast in an eastern gale, “Thou wilt see the danger around thee at last, “When the hour of safety for ever is past;
“----And O it is past, thou art now embay’d, “And around thee gathers the evening shade, “Thy last sun has set in a red, red sky, “Thy last Vesper hymn is the fearful cry “Of the ominous sea bird shrieking on high. “The night and the storm have hidden from view “The fated ship and her gallant crew, “And the last sight seen on the foamy sea “Was a pennon broad streaming fair and free.
* * * * *
“The morrow is come and the storm is o’er, “And the billows more slowly dash, “But shatter’d timbers are spread on the shore “Beyond the ebb-waves’ wash: “Still are the hearts of the gallant band “Which erst did beat so true; “They’ll never more see their fatherland, “Where their playful childhood grew.
“And on a shelving rock is seen, “Enwrapp’d in a shroud of sea-weed green, “A noble corse, whose marble brow “Is cluster’d with locks of auburn hue; “And even in death, his manly form “Seems to mock the rage of the northern storm. “In his hand is clasp’d a jewel rare “Enshrining a lock of black, black hair: “And on his cold breast, near his heart, is display’d “A golden gift of the dark-ey’d maid.
“The lovely Eltha’s smiles are fled, “And she wildly looks o’er the ocean-bed “With sunken glance and a pale, pale cheek, “And her once bounding step is slow and weak; “On the wave she launches the blue sea-shell “Which swims for a moment then sinks in the swell “And wilder’d she bends o’er the chrystal billow “As it eddying whirls to its coral pillow: “She fancys a faëry bark is sped “To bring her cold love from the land of the dead; “But no tears on her sunken eye-lids quiver, “Her reason is fled for ever!--for ever!--”
De Mowbray’s soft harp ceas’d the mournful strain But awaken’d the broken notes once again, like the throb of the heart strings when dying they sever, They stop--thrill--stop--and are silent for ever.
ALPHA.
September, 1827.
[360, 361] Tynemouth castle and priory, which stand together on a bleak promontory.
[362] Keep to the wind, &c. This line is a technical description of the sails of a vessel when contending against the wind.--αλφα.
* * * * *
For the Table Book.
MY POCKET-BOOK.
I crave good Mr. Du B----’s pardon for my “flat burglary” with regard to the title of the present little paper. It is very far from my intention to endeavour in any way to place myself in competition with that great satirical genius, of whose very superior talents and brilliant wit I am pleased to be thus afforded an opportunity of avowing myself an ardent admirer: but as this title suits my purpose, I must entreat his permission to appropriate it, and merely remind him of the poet Puff’s excuse on a somewhat similar occasion--“All that can be said is--that two people happened to hit upon the same thought, (title,) and Shakspeare (Du B----) made use of it first, that is all.”
Pocket-books (as implied by their name) were originally intended as portable receptacles for our different memoranda, remarks and communications. But now it is no longer honoured by an immediate attendance on our person; its station at present is confined to the bureau, desk, or private drawer. What man who can boast of being d’un assez bon air would consent to injure his exquisite adonisation of coat, by wearing a pocket-book in his side-breast pocket, and thus ungratefully frustrate all poor Mr. Stultz’s efforts at an exact and perfect fit. The ladies, for some reason, concerning which I do not so much as venture even a surmise, (for Heaven forefend that I should attempt to dive into these sacred mysteries, or, as “Uncle Selby” would call them, femalities,) have entirely given up the use of pockets, therefore I would advise that memorandum-books destined for the use of the fair sex should in future be styled--reticule-books.
Old pocket-books are like some old ladies’ chests of drawers--delightful things to rummage and recur to. Looking over an old pocket-book is like revisiting scenes of past happiness after a lapse of years. Recollections and associations of both a painful and pleasurable nature are vividly recalled, or forcibly present themselves to our mind. Treasured letters, private remarks, favourite quotations, dates of days spent in peculiar enjoyment, all these meet our eye, and rise up like the shadows of those past realities connected with them, whose memory they are intended to perpetuate to us.
----Pocket-books are indexes to their owner’s mind--were it an allowable action to inspect another’s pocket-book, we might form a tolerably shrewd guess at the character and disposition of its possessor. On picking up a lost pocket-book by chance in the streets, one can be at no loss to divine the quality of its former proprietor. A large rusty black leather pocket-book, looking more like a portmanteau than a memorandum book, stuffed with papers half printed, half written, blank stamp receipts, churchwarden’s orders and directions, long lists of parishioners, with a small ink-horn in one corner--denotes the property of a tax-gatherer. The servant-maid’s is an old greasy red morocco one--in the blank leaf is written in straggling characters reaching from the top of one side to the bottom of the other--
Sarah Price her book, God give her grace therein to look.
In the part designated “cash account” are various items, for the most part concerning tea, sugar, and ribbon. Among the memoranda are the following:--“Spent last Easter Monday was a twel’month with Tom Hadley, at Greenwich--in great hopes I shall get leave to go again this year. My next wages comes due 4th August, 18--. Jane Thompson says she pays only 4s. for the best sowtchong tea; and I pay 4s. 6d.--to speak to Mr. Ilford the grocer about it.”--The pockets are crammed full of songs and ballads, of which her favourites are “Black eyed Susan,” “Auld Robin Gray,” and “Lord William and Fair Margaret.” Perhaps a letter from Tom Hadley, an old silver coin, his gift, and a lucky penny with a hole in it.--The young lady’s is elegantly bound in red and gilt. In the blank leaf is written in a little niminy piminy hand-writing--“To my sweet friend Ellen Woodmere, from her affectionate Maria Tillotson.” Quotations from Pope, Young, Thomson, Lord Byron, and Tom Moore, occupy the blank pages--“Memoranda. June 16th saw Mrs. Siddons riding in her chariot in Hyde Park. Mem. Wonder why pa’ won’t let me read dear lord Byron’s new work the ‘Don Juan’--there must be something odd in it. Mem. To remember and ask Maria what she paid a yard for that beautiful lace round her collar. Mem. What a horrid wretch that Robespierre must have been! I’m glad he was killed himself at last. Mem. To tell pa’ that it is quite impossible for me to go to the ball next Tuesday without a new lutstring dress. Mem. How I wish I had been Joan of Arc!--But I would not have put on the men’s clothes again in prison--I wonder why she did so--How silly!”--In the pockets are some of her dear Maria’s letters--a loose leaf torn out of sir Charles Grandison describing Miss Harriet Byron’s dress at the masquerade--and several copies of verses and sonnets, the productions of some of her former schoolfellows.
The old bachelor’s pocket-book is of russia leather, glossy with use, yet still retaining its grateful and long-enduring odour. The memoranda chiefly consist of the dates of those days on which he had seen or spoken to remarkable or celebrated people. Opposite the prognostics concerning weather, which he has since found incorrect, are to be seen the words: “No such thing”--“Pshaw, the fellow talks about what he does not understand”--“Absurd folly,” &c.--In the pockets are sundry square scraps of paper cut out at different periods from old newspapers--a copy of “The Means to be used for the recovery of persons apparently drowned”--a watch-paper cut out for him by his little grand-niece--and, (wrapped up in several folds of silver paper,) a long ringlet of auburn hair with its wavy drop, and springy relapse as you hold it at full-length between your finger and thumb. Among the leaves is a small sprig of jasmin which she had worn in her bosom a whole evening at a party, and which he had gently possessed himself of, on taking leave of her for the night.----
M. H.
* * * * *
WOMEN.
That venerable people--who were the ancients to those whom we call the ancients--the wise Egyptians, in the disposition which they allotted to the genders of their nouns, paid a singular and delicate compliment to the fair sex. In the four elements, beginning with water, they appointed the ocean, as a rough boisterous existence, to the male sex; but streams and fountains they left to the more gentle females. As to earth, they made rocks and stones male; but arable and meadow lands female. Air they divided thus: to the masculine gender, rough winds and hurricanes of every kind; to the female, the sky and the zephyrs. Fire, when of a consuming nature, they made male, but artificial and harmless flames they rendered feminine.
* * * * *
~Discoveries~
OF THE
ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.
No. IX.
* * * * *
~To the Reader.~
In the present volume has been commenced, and will be concluded, a series of Articles under this title, which to some readers may not have been sufficiently attractive. It is therefore now re-stated, that they present very curious particulars concerning the extent to which the ancients were acquainted with several popular systems and theories, usually supposed to have originated in modern times.
Sir Isaac Newton’s Theory of Colours appears, by the succeeding paper, to have been imagined above two thousand years ago. The History of Ancient Philosophy is pregnant with similar instances of discrimination. It is hoped that this may justify the present attempt to familiarize the reader with the knowledge of the Ancients in various branches of Natural Philosophy, and the Elements of the Human Mind. Succeeding papers will be found to relate to their acquaintance with the Motion of the Earth--the Antipodes--Planetary Revolutions--Comets--the Moon--Air--Air-guns--Thunder--Earthquakes--the Magnet--the Tides--the Circulation of the Blood--Chirurgery--Chemistry--Malleability of Glass--Painting on Glass--Gunpowder--the Sexes of Plants--the Pendulum--Light--Perspective--the Quadrature of the Circle--Burning Glasses--the Precession of the Equinoxes--Mechanics--Architecture--Sculpture--Painting--Music, &c.
* * * * *
SIR ISAAC NEWTON’S THEORY OF COLOURS INDICATED BY PYTHAGORAS AND PLATO.
That wonderful theory, whereby is investigated and distinguished from one another the variety of colours that constitute the uniform appearance, called light, establishes the glory of sir Isaac Newton, and is an eternal monument of his extraordinary sagacity. Its discovery was reserved for an age when philosophy had arrived at its fullest maturity; and yet it is to be found in the writings of some of the most eminent men of ancient times.
Pythagoras, and his disciples after him, entertained sufficiently just conceptions of the formation of colours. They taught that “they resulted solely from the different modification of reflected light;” or, as a modern author, in explaining the sentiments of the Pythagoreans, expresses it, “light reflecting itself with more or less vivacity, forms by that means our different sensations of colour.” The same philosophers, “in assigning the reason of the difference of colours, ascribe it to a mixture of the elements of light; and divesting the atoms, or small particles of light, of all manner of colour, impute every sensation of that kind to the motions excited in our organs of sight.”
The disciples of Plato contributed not a little to the advancement of optics, by the important discovery they made, that light emits itself in straight lines, and that the angle of incidence is always equal to the angle of reflection.
Plato terms colours “the effect of light transmitted from bodies, the small particles of which were adapted to the organ of sight.” This seems precisely what sir Isaac Newton teaches in his “Optics,” viz. that “the different sensations of each particular colour are excited in us by the difference of size in those small particles of light which form the several rays; those small particles occasioning different images of colour, as the vibration is more or less lively, with which they strike our sense.” But the ancient philosopher went further. He entered into a detail of the composition of colours; and inquired into “the visible effects that must arise from a mixture of the different rays of which light itself is composed.” He advances, however, that “it is not in the power of man exactly to determine what the proportion of this mixture should be in certain colours.” This sufficiently shows, that he had an idea of this theory, though he judged it almost impossible to unfold it. He says, that “should any one arrive at the knowledge of this proportion, he ought not to hazard the discovery of it, since it would be impossible to demonstrate it by clear and convincing proofs:” and yet he thought “certain rules might be laid down respecting this subject, if in following and imitating nature we could arrive at the art of forming a diversity of colours, by the combined intermixture of others.”
It is to be remarked, that Plato adds what may be regarded as constituting the noblest tribute that can be offered in praise of sir Isaac Newton; “Yea, should ever any one,” exclaims that fine genius of antiquity, “attempt by curious research to account for this admirable mechanism, he will, in doing so, but manifest how entirely ignorant he is of the difference between divine and human power. It is true, that God can intermingle those things one with another, and then sever them at his pleasure, because he is, at the same time, all-knowing and all-powerful; but there is no man now exists, nor ever will perhaps, who shall ever be able to accomplish things so very difficult.”
What an eulogium is this from the pen of Plato! How glorious is he who has successfully accomplished what appeared impracticable to the prince of ancient philosophers! Yet what elevation of genius, what piercing penetration into the most intimate secrets of nature, displays itself in these passages concerning the nature and theory of colours, at a time when Greek philosophy was in its infancy!
* * * * *
LIGHT--Aristotle and Descartes.
Although the system of Descartes, respecting the propagation of light in an instant, has been discarded since Cassini discovered that its motion is progressive; yet it may not be amiss to show from whence he obtained the idea. His opinion was, that light is the mere action of a subtile matter upon the organs of sight. This subtile matter he supposes to fill all that space which lies between the sun and us; and that the particle of it, which is next to the sun, receiving thence an impulse, instantaneously communicates it to all the rest, between the sun and the organ of sight. To evidence this, Descartes introduces the comparison of a stick; which, by reason of the continuity of its parts, cannot in any degree be moved lengthways at one end, without instantaneously being put into the same degree of motion at the other end. Whoever will be at the pains to read, attentively, what Aristotle hath written concerning light, will perceive that he defines it to be the action of a subtile, pure, and homogeneous matter. Philoponus, explaining the manner in which this action was performed, makes use of the instance of a long string, which being pulled at one end, will instantaneously be moved at the other: he resembles the sun, to the man who quills the string; the subtile matter, to the string itself; and the instantaneous action of the one, to the movement of the other. Simplicius, in his commentary upon this passage of Aristotle, expressly employs the motion of a stick, to intimate how light, acted upon by the sun, may instantaneously impress the organs of sight. This comparison of a stick seems to have been made use of first, by Chrysippus--lastly, by Descartes.
* * * * *
~Durhamiana.~
For the Table Book.
WILLEY WALKER AND JOHN BOLTON.
Willey Walker, a well-known Durham character, who has discovered a new solar system different from all others, is a beadsman of the cathedral; or, as the impudent boys call a person of his rank, from the dress he wears, “a blue mouse.” It is Willey’s business to toll the curfew: but to our story. In Durham there are two clocks, which, if I may so express myself, are both official ones; viz. the cathedral clock, and the gaol or county clock. The admirers of each are about equal: some of the inhabitants regulating their movements by one, and some by the other. Three or four years ago it happened, during the middle of the winter, that the two clocks varied considerably; there was only three quarters of an hour’s difference between them. The citizens cared very little about this slight discrepancy, but it was not at all relished by the guard of the London and Edinburgh mail, who spoke on the subject to the late John Bolton, the regulator of the county clock. John immediately posted off to the cathedral, where he met Willey Walker, and the following dialogue is said to have passed between them.
Bolton. Willey, why doa’nt ye keep t’ abba clock reet--there’s a bit difference between it and mine?
Willey. Why doa’nt ye keep yours so--it never gans reet?
Bolton. Mine’s set by the sun, Willey! (Bolton was an astronomer.)
Willey. By the sun! Whew! whew! whew! Why, are ye turned fule? Nebody would think ye out else! and ye pretend to be an astronomer, and set clocks by ’t’ sun in this windy weather!--ther’s ne depending on it: the winds, man, blaw sa, they whisk the sun about like a whirligig!
Bolton, petrified by the outpouring of Willey’s astronomical knowledge, made no answer.
Bolton was a very eccentric character, and a great natural genius: from a very obscure origin he rose to considerable provincial celebrity. Such was his contempt of London artists, that he described himself on his sign as being “from Chester-le-Street, not London.” He was an indefatigable collector of curiosities; and had a valuable museum, which most strangers visited. His advertisements were curious compositions, often in doggerel verse. He was a good astronomer and a believer in astrology. He is interred in Elvet church-yard: a plain stone marks the place, with the following elegant inscription from the classic pen of veterinary doctor Marshall. I give it as pointed.
Ingenious artist! few thy skill surpast In works of art. Yet death has beat at last. Tho’ conquer’d. Yet thy deeds will ever shine, Time cant destroy a genius large as thine!
Bolton built some excellent organs and turret clocks. For one of the latter, which he made for North Shields, he used to say, he was not paid: and the following notice in his shop, in large characters, informed his customers of the fact--“North Shields clock never paid for!”
R. I. P. Preb. Butt.
* * * * *
A SENSUALIST AND HIS CONSCIENCE.
The following lines, written in the year 1609, are said, in the “Notes of a Bookworm,” to have induced Butler to pursue their manner in his “Hudibras.”
DIALOGUE.
Glutton. My belly I do deify. Echo. Fie! Gl. Who curbs his appetite’s a fool. Echo. Ah! fool! Gl. I do not like this abstinence. Echo. Hence! Gl. My joy’s a feast, my wish is wine. Echo. Swine. Gl. We epicures are happy truly. Echo. You lie. Gl. May I not, Echo, eat my fill? Echo. Ill. Gl. Will it hurt me if I drink too much? Echo. Much. Gl. Thou mock’st me, nymph, I’ll not believe it. Echo. Believe it. Gl. Do’st thou condemn, then, what I do? Echo. I do. Gl. Is it that which brings infirmities? Echo. It is. Gl. Then, sweetest Temperance, I’ll love thee. Echo. I love thee. Gl. If all be true which thou dost tell. To gluttony I bid farewell. Echo. Farewell!
* * * * *
PLAYWRIGHT-ING.
To the Editor.
Sir,--The following short matter-of-fact narrative, if inserted in your widely circulated miscellany, may in some degree tend to lessen the number of dramatic aspirants, and afford a little amusement to your readers.
I was, at the age of sixteen, apprenticed to a surgeon, and had served but two years of my apprenticeship, when I began to conceive that I had talents for something superior to the profession I had embraced. I imagined that literature was my forte; and accordingly I tried my skill in the composition of a tale, wherein I was so far successful, as to obtain its insertion in a “periodical” of the day. This was succeeded by others; some of which were rejected, and some inserted. In a short time, however, I perceived that I had gained but little fame, and certainly no profit. I therefore determined to attempt dramatic writing, by which I imagined that I should acquire both fame and fortune. Accordingly, after much trouble, I concocted a plot, and in three months completed a farce! I submitted it to my friends, all of whom declared it to be “an excellent thing;” and that if merit met with its due reward, my piece would certainly be brought out. Flattered and encouraged by their good opinion, I offered it, with confidence of success, to the proprietors of Drury-lane theatre. In the space of a week, however, my piece was returned, with a polite note, informing me, that it was “not in any way calculated for representation at that theatre.” I concluded that it could not have been read; and having consoled myself with that idea, I transmitted it to the rival theatre. One morning, after the lapse of a few days, my hopes were clouded by a neat parcel, which I found to contain my manuscript, with the same polite but cutting refusal, added to which was an assurance, “that it had been read most attentively.” I inwardly execrated the Covent Garden “reader” for a fool, and determined to persevere. At the suggestion of my friends I made numerous alterations, and submitted my farce to the manager of the Haymarket theatre, relying upon his liberality; but, after the usual delay of a week, it was again returned. At the Lyceum it also met with a similar fate. I was much hurt by these rejections, yet determined to persevere. The minor theatres remained for me, and I applied to the manager of one of these establishments, who, in the course of time, assured me, that my piece should certainly be produced. I was delighted at the brilliant prospects which seemed to open to me, and I fancied that I was fast approaching the summit of my ambition. Three tedious months ensued before I was summoned to attend the rehearsal; but I was then much pleased at the pains the actors appeared to have taken in acquiring their parts. The wished-for night arrived. I never dreamed of failure; and I invited a few of my select friends to witness its first representation--it was the last: for, notwithstanding the exertions of the performers, and the applause of my worthy friends, so unanimous was the hostility of the audience, that my piece was damned!--damned, too, at a minor theatre! I attributed its failure entirely to the depraved taste of the audience. I was disgusted; and resolved, from that time, never more to waste my talents in endeavouring to amuse an unappreciating and ungrateful public. I have been firm to that resolution. I relinquished the making up of plays for the more profitable occupation of making up prescriptions, and am now living in comfort upon the produce of my profession.
AUCTOR.
* * * * *
EPIGRAM.
A few years ago a sign of one of the Durham inns was removed, and sent to Chester-le-Street, by way of a frolic. It was generally supposed that the feat was achieved by some of the legal students then in that city; and a respectable attorney there was so fully persuaded of it, that he immediately began to make inquiries corroborative of his suspicions. The circumstances drew forth the following epigram from our friend T. Q. M., which has never appeared in print.
From one of our inns was a sign taken down. And sent by some wags to a neighbouring town. To a limb of the law the freak caus’d much vexation, And he went through the streets making wild lamentation; And breathing revenge on the frolicsome sparks, Who, he had not a doubt, were the “gentlemen clerks.”[363] From the prophets methinks we may inference draw To prove how perverse was this man of the law. For we find it inscrib’d in the pages divine-- “A perverse generation looks after a sign!”
[363] A favourite expression of the legal gentleman alluded to.
* * * * *
THE ROMANS.
The whole early part of the Roman history is very problematical. It is hardly possible to suppose the Romans could have made so conspicuous a figure in Italy, and not be noticed by Herodotus, who finished his history in Magna Græcia. Neither is Rome mentioned by Aristotle, though he particularly describes the government of Carthage. Livy, a writer by no means void of national prejudice, expressly says, they had never heard of Alexander; and here we surely may say in the words of the poet,
“Not to know him, argues themselves unknown.”
Pliny, it is true, quotes a passage of Theophrastus, to show that a certain Greek writer, named Clitarchus, mentions an embassy from the Romans to Alexander; but this can never be set against the authority of Livy, especially as Quintilian gives no very favourable opinion of the veracity of the Greek historian in these words,--“Clitarchi, probatur ingenium, fides infamatur.”[364]
[364] H. J. Pye.
* * * * *
A LITERARY BLUNDER.
When the Utopia of sir Thomas More was first published, it occasioned a pleasant mistake. This political romance represents a perfect, but visionary republic, in an island supposed to have been newly discovered in America. As this was the age of discovery, (says Granger,) the learned Budæus, and others, took it for a genuine history; and considered it as highly expedient, that missionaries should be sent thither, in order to convert so wise a nation to Christianity.
* * * * *
TREASURE DIGGING.
A patent passed the great seal in the fifteenth year of James I., which is to be found in Rymer, “to allow to Mary Middlemore, one of the maydes of honor to our deerest consort queen Anne, (of Denmark,) and her deputies, power and authority, to enter into the abbies of Saint Albans, Glassenbury, Saint Edmundsbury, and Ramsay, and into all lands, houses, and places, within a mile, belonging to said abbies;” there to dig, and search after treasure, supposed to be hidden in such places.
* * * * *
PERSONAL CHARMS DISCLAIMED.
BY A LADY.
If any human being was free from personal vanity it must have been the second duchess d’Orleans, Charlotte Elizabeth of Bavaria. In one of her letters, (dated 9th August, 1718,) she says, “I must certainly be monstrously ugly. I never had a good feature. My eyes are small, my nose short and thick, my lips broad and thin. These are not materials to form a beautiful face. Then I have flabby, lank cheeks, and long features, which suit ill with my low stature. My waist and my legs are equally clumsy. Undoubtedly I must appear to be an odious little wretch; and had I not a tolerably good character, no creature could enduer me. I am sure a person must be a conjuror to judge by my eyes that I have a grain of wit.”
* * * * *
FORCIBLE ABDUCTION.
The following singular circumstance is related by Dr. Whitaker in his History of Craven:--
Gilbert Plumpton, in the 21 of Henry II., committed something like an Irish marriage with the heiress of Richard Warelwas, and thereby incurred the displeasure of Ranulph de Glanville, great justiciary, who meant to have married her to a dependant of his own. Plumpton was in consequence indicted and convicted of a rape at Worcester; but at the very moment when the rope was fixed, and the executioner was drawing the culprit up to the gallows, Baldwin, bishop of Worcester, running to the place, forbade the officer of justice, in the name of the Almighty, to proceed: and thus saved the criminal’s life.
* * * * *
POLITENESS.
A polite behaviour can never be long maintained without a real wish to please; and such a wish is a proof of good-nature. No ill-natured man can be long well-bred. No good-natured man, however unpolished in his manners, can ever be essentially ill-bred. From an absurd prejudice with regard to good-nature, some people affect to substitute good temper for it; but no qualities can be more distinct: many good-tempered people, as well as many fools, are very ill-natured; and many men of first-rate genius--with which perhaps entire good temper is incompatible--are perfectly good-natured.
* * * * *
A FRENCH TRIBUTE TO ENGLISH INTEGRITY.
The Viscount de Chateaubriand gratefully memorializes his respect for the virtue of a distressed family in London by the following touching narrative prefixed to his Indian tale, entitled “The Natchez:”--
When I quitted England in 1800 to return to France, under a fictitious name, I durst not encumber myself with too much baggage. I left, therefore, most of my manuscripts in London. Among these manuscripts was that of The Natchez, no other part of which I brought to Paris but René, Atala, and some passages descriptive of America.
Fourteen years elapsed before the communication with Great Britain was renewed. At the first moment of the Restoration I scarcely thought of my papers; and if I had, how was I to find them again? They had been left locked up in a trunk with an Englishwoman, in whose house I had lodged in London. I had forgotten the name of this woman; the name of the street and the number of the house had likewise escaped my memory.
In consequence of some vague and even contradictory information which I transmitted to London, Messrs. de Thuisy took the trouble to make inquiries, which they prosecuted with a zeal and perseverance rarely equalled. With infinite pains they at length discovered the house where I resided at the west end of the town; but my landlady had been dead several years, and no one knew what had become of her children. Pursuing, however, the clue which they had obtained, Messrs. de Thuisy, after many fruitless excursions, at last found out her family in a village several miles from London.
Had they kept all this time the trunk of an emigrant, a trunk full of old papers, which could scarcely be deciphered? Might they not have consigned to the flames such a useless heap of French manuscripts? On the other hand, if my name, bursting from its obscurity, had attracted, in the London journals, the notice of the children of my former landlady, might they not have been disposed to make what profit they could of those papers, which would then acquire a certain value?
Nothing of the kind had happened. The manuscripts had been preserved, the trunk had not even been opened. A religious fidelity had been shown by an unfortunate family towards a child of misfortune. I had committed with simplicity the result of the labours of part of my life to the honesty of a foreign trustee, and my treasure was restored to me with the same simplicity. I know not that I ever met with any thing in my life which touched me more than the honesty and integrity of this poor English family.
* * * * *
DEVONSHIRE WRESTLING.
For the Table Book.
Abraham Cann, the Devonshire champion, and his brother wrestlers of that county, are objected to for their play with the foot, called “showing a toe” in Devonshire; or, to speak plainly, “kicking.” Perhaps neither the objectors, nor Abraham and his fellow-countrymen, are aware, that the Devonshire custom was also the custom of the Greeks, in the same sport, three thousand years ago. The English reader may derive proof of this from Pope’s translation of Homer’s account of the wrestling match at the funeral of Patroclus, between Ulysses and Ajax, for prizes offered by Achilles:--
Scarce did the chief the vigorous strife propose, When tower-like Ajax and Ulysses rose. Amid the ring each nervous rival stands, Embracing rigid, with implicit hands: Close lock’d above, their heads and arms are mixt; Below, their planted feet, at distance fixt. Now to the grasp each manly body bends; The humid sweat from every pore descends; Their bones resound with blows; sides, shoulders, thighs Swell to each gripe, and bloody tumours rise. Nor could Ulysses, for his art renown’d, O’erturn the strength of Ajax on the ground; Nor could the strength of Ajax overthrow The watchful caution of his artful foe.
While the long strife e’en tir’d the lookers on, Thus to Ulysses spoke great Telamon: Or let me lift thee, chief, or lift thou me; Prove we our force, and Jove the rest decree: He said, and straining, heav’d him off the ground With matchless strength; that time Ulysses found The strength t’evade, and, where the nerves combine, His ancle struck: the giant fell supine; Ulysses following, on his bosom lies; Shouts of applause run rattling through the skies. Ajax to lift, Ulysses next essays; He barely stirr’d him but he could not raise: His knee lock’d fast, the foe’s attempt deny’d, And grappling close, they tumble side by side.
Here we find not only “the lock,” but that Ulysses, who is described as renowned for his art, attains to the power of throwing his antagonist by the device of Abraham Cann’s favourite kick near the ancle.
I. V.
Vol. II.--41.
Yet thus could, in a savage-styled land, A few--reviled, scorn’d, hated of the whole-- Stretch forth for Peace the unceremonious hand, And stamp Truth, even on a sealed scroll. They call’d not God, or men, in proof to stand: They pray’d no vengeance on the perjured soul: But Heaven look’d down, and, moved with wonder, saw A compact fram’d, where Time might bring no flaw.
This stanza is in a delightful little volume, entitled “The Desolation of Eyam; the Emigrant, a tale of the American Woods; and other poems: By William and Mary Howitt, authors of the Forest Minstrel, &c.” The feeling and beauty of one of the poems, “Penn and the Indians,” suggested the present engraving, after a celebrated print from a picture by the late Benjamin West. The following particulars are chiefly related by Mr. Clarkson, respecting the scene it represents.
King Charles II., in consideration of a considerable sum due from the crown for the services of admiral sir William Penn, granted to his son, the ever-memorable William Penn, and his heirs, in perpetuity, a great tract of land on the river Delaware, in America; with full power to erect a new colony there, to sell lands, to make laws, to create magistrates, and to pardon crimes. In August, 1682, Penn, after having written to his wife and children a letter eminently remarkable for its simplicity and patriarchal spirit, took an affectionate leave of them; and, accompanied by several friends, embarked at Deal, on board the Welcome, a ship of three hundred tons burthen. The passengers, including himself, were not more than a hundred. They were chiefly quakers, and most of them from Sussex, in which county his house at Warminghurst was seated. They sailed about the first of September, but had not proceeded far to sea, when the small-pox broke out so virulently, that thirty of their number died. In about six weeks from the time of their leaving the Downs they came in sight of the American coast, and shortly afterwards landed at Newcastle, in the Delaware river.
William Penn’s first business was to explain to the settlers of Dutch and Swedish extraction the object of his coming, and the nature of the government he designed to establish. His next great movement was to Upland, where he called the first general assembly, consisting of an equal number, for the province and for the territories, of all such freemen as chose to attend. In this assembly the frame of government, and many important regulations, were settled; and subsequently he endeavoured to settle the boundaries of his territory with Charles lord Baltimore, a catholic nobleman, who was governor and proprietor of the adjoining province of Maryland, which had been settled with persons of his own persuasion.
Penn’s religious principles, which led him to the practice of the most scrupulous morality, did not permit him to look upon the king’s patent, or legal possession according to the laws of England, as sufficient to establish his right to the country, without purchasing it by fair and open bargain of the natives, to whom, only, it properly belonged. He had therefore instructed commissioners, who had arrived in America before him, to buy it of the latter, and to make with them at the same time a treaty of eternal friendship. This the commissioners had done; and this was the time when, by mutual agreement between him and the Indian chiefs, it was to be publicly ratified. He proceeded, therefore, accompanied by his friends, consisting of men, women, and young persons of both sexes, to Coaquannoc, the Indian name for the place where Philadelphia now stands. On his arrival there he found the Sachems and their tribes assembling. They were seen in the woods as far as the eye could carry, and looked frightful both on account of their number and their arms. The quakers are reported to have been but a handful in comparison, and these without any weapon; so that dismay and terror had come upon them, had they not confided in the righteousness of their cause.
It is much to be regretted, when we have accounts of minor treaties between William Penn and the Indians, that there is not in any historian an account of this, though so many mention it, and though all concur in considering it as the most glorious of any in the annals of the world. There are, however, relations in Indian speeches, and traditions in quaker families, descended from those who were present on the occasion, from which we may learn something concerning it. It appears that, though the parties were to assemble at Coaquannoc, the treaty was made a little higher up, at Shackamaxon. Upon this Kensington now stands; the houses of which may be considered as the suburbs of Philadelphia. There was at Shackamaxon an elm tree of a prodigious size. To this the leaders on both sides repaired, approaching each other under its widely-spreading branches. William Penn appeared in his usual clothes. He had no crown, sceptre, mace, sword, halberd, or any insignia of eminence. He was distinguished only by wearing a sky-blue sash[365] round his waist, which was made of silk net-work, and which was of no larger apparent dimensions than an officer’s military sash, and much like it except in colour. On his right hand was colonel Markham, his relation and secretary, and on his left his friend Pearson; after whom followed a train of quakers. Before him were carried various articles of merchandise; which, when they came near the Sachems, were spread upon the ground. He held a roll of parchment, containing the confirmation of the treaty of purchase and amity, in his hand. One of the Sachems, who was the chief of them, then put upon his own head a kind of chaplet, in which appeared a small horn. This, as among the primitive eastern nations, and according to Scripture language, was an emblem of kingly power; and whenever the chief, who had a right to wear it, put it on, it was understood that the place was made sacred, and the persons of all present inviolable. Upon putting on this horn the Indians threw down their bows and arrows, and seated themselves round their chiefs in the form of a half-moon upon the ground. The chief Sachem then announced to William Penn, by means of an interpreter, that the nations were ready to hear him.
Having been thus called upon, he began. The Great Spirit, he said, who made him and them, who ruled the heaven and the earth, and who knew the innermost thoughts of man, knew that he and his friends had a hearty desire to live in peace and friendship with them, and to serve them to the utmost of their power. It was not their custom to use hostile weapons against their fellow-creatures, for which reason they had come unarmed. Their object was not to do injury, and thus provoke the Great Spirit, but to do good. They were then met on the broad pathway of good faith and good will, so that no advantage was to be taken on either side, but all was to be openness, brotherhood, and love. After these and other words, he unrolled the parchment, and by means of the same interpreter, conveyed to them, article by article, the conditions of the purchase, and the words of the compact then made for their eternal union. Among other things, they were not to be molested in their lawful pursuits even in the territory they had alienated, for it was to be common to them and the English. They were to have the same liberty to do all things therein relating to the improvement of their grounds, and providing sustenance for their families, which the English had. If any disputes should arise between the two, they should be settled by twelve persons, half of whom should be English and half Indians. He then paid them for the land, and made them many presents besides, from the merchandise which had been spread before them. Having done this, he laid the roll of parchment on the ground; observing again, that the ground should be common to both people. He then added, that he would not do as the Marylanders did; that is, call them children or brothers only; for often parents were apt to whip their children too severely, and brothers sometimes would differ: neither would he compare the friendship between him and them to a chain; for the rain might sometimes rust it, or a tree might fall and break it; but he should consider them as the same flesh and blood with the Christians, and the same as if one man’s body were to be divided into two parts. He then took up the parchment, and presented it to the Sachem who wore the horn in the chaplet, and desired him and the other Sachems to preserve it carefully for three generations; that their children might know what had passed between them, just as if he had remained himself with them to repeat it.
That William Penn must have done and said a great deal more on this interesting occasion than has now been represented, there can be no doubt. What has been related may be depended upon. It is to be regretted, that the speeches of the Indians on this memorable day have not come down to us. It is only known, that they solemnly pledged themselves, according to their country manner, to live in love with William Penn and his children as long as the sun and moon should endure.
Thus ended this famous treaty, of which more has been said in the way of praise than of any other ever transmitted to posterity. “This,” said Voltaire, “was the only treaty between those people and the Christians that was not ratified by an oath, and that was never broken.” “William Penn thought it right,” says the abbé Raynal, “to obtain an additional right by a fair and open purchase from the aborigines; and thus he signalized his arrival by an act of equity, which made his person and principles equally beloved. Here it is the mind rests with pleasure upon modern history, and feels some kind of compensation for the disgust, melancholy, and horror, which the whole of it, but particularly that of the European settlements in America, inspires.” Noble, in his Continuation of Granger, says, “He occupied his domains by actual bargain and sale with the Indians. This fact does him infinite honour, as no blood was shed, and the Christian and the barbarian met as brothers. Penn has thus taught us to respect the lives and properties of the most unenlightened nations.”--“Being now returned,” says Robert Proud, in his History of Pennsylvania, “from Maryland to Coaquannoc, he purchased lands of the Indians, whom he treated with great justice and sincere kindness. It was at this time when he first entered personally into that friendship with them, which ever afterwards continued between them, and which for the space of more than seventy years was never interrupted, or so long as the quakers retained power in the government. His conduct in general to these people was so engaging, his justice in particular so conspicuous, and the counsel and advice which he gave them were so evidently for their advantage, that he became thereby very much endeared to them; and the sense thereof made such deep impressions on their understandings, that his name and memory will scarcely ever be effaced while they continue a people.”
The great elm-tree, under which this treaty was made, became celebrated from that day. When in the American war the British general Simcoe was quartered at Kensington, he so respected it, that when his soldiers were cutting down every tree for fire-wood, he placed a sentinel under it, that not a branch of it might be touched. In 1812 it was blown down, when its trunk was split into wood, and cups and other articles were made of it, to be kept as memorials of it.
LINES
On receiving from Dr. Rush, of Philadelphia, a piece of the Tree under which William Penn made his Treaty with the Indians, and which was blown down in 1812, converted to the purpose of an Inkstand.
BY WILLIAM ROSCOE, ESQ.
From clime to clime, from shore to shore, The war-fiend raised his hateful yell, And midst the storm that realms deplore, Penn’s honour’d tree of concord fell.
And of that tree, that ne’er again Shall Spring’s reviving influence know, A relic, o’er th’ Atlantic main, Was sent--the gift of foe to foe!
But though no more its ample shade Wave green beneath Columbia’s sky, Though every branch be now decay’d, And all its scatter’d leaves be dry;
Yet, midst this relic’s sainted space, A health-restoring flood shall spring, In which the angel-form of Peace May stoop to dip her dove-like wing.
So once the staff the prophet bore, By wondering eyes again was seen To swell with life through every pore, And bud afresh with foliage green.
The wither’d branch again shall grow, Till o’er the earth its shade extend-- And this--the gift of foe to foe-- Become the gift of friend to friend.
In the “Conditions” between William Penn, as Proprietary and Governor of Pennsylvania, and the Adventurers and Purchasers in the same province, “in behalf of the Indians it was stipulated, that, as it had been usual with planters to overreach them in various ways, whatever was sold to them in consideration of their furs should be sold in the public market-place, and there suffer the test, whether good or bad: if good, to pass; if not good, not to be sold for good; that the said native Indians might neither be abused nor provoked. That no man should by any ways or means, in word or deed, affront or wrong any Indian, but he should incur the same penalty of the law as if he had committed it against his fellow-planter; and if any Indian should abuse, in word or deed, any planter of the province, that the said planter should not be his own judge upon the said Indian, but that he should make his complaint to the governor of the province, or his deputy, or some inferior magistrate near him, who should to the utmost of his power take care with the king of the said Indian, that all reasonable satisfaction should be made to the said injured planter. And that all differences between planters and Indians should be ended by twelve men, that is, by six planters and six Indians, that so they might live friendly together, as much as in them lay, preventing all occasions of heart-burnings and mischief. These stipulations in favour of the poor natives will for ever immortalize the name of William Penn; for, soaring above the prejudices and customs of his time, by which navigators and adventurers thought it right to consider the inhabitants of the lands they discovered as their lawful prey, or as mere animals of the brute-creation, whom they might treat, use, and take advantage of at their pleasure, he regarded them as creatures endued with reason, as men of the like feelings and passions with himself, as brethren both by nature and grace, and as persons, therefore, to whom the great duties of humanity and justice were to be extended, and who, in proportion to their ignorance, were the more entitled to his fatherly protection and care.”[366]
* * * * *
The identical roll of parchment given by William Penn to the Indians was shown by their descendants to some English officers some years ago. This information, with the following passages, will be found in the “Notes” to “Penn and the Indians,” the poem, by “William and Mary Howitt,” from whence the motto is taken:--
“What shows the scrupulous adherence of the Indians to their engagements in the most surprising light is, that long after the descendants of Penn ceased to possess political influence in the state, in comparatively recent times, when the Indian character was confessedly lowered by their intercourse with the whites, and they were instigated both by their own injuries and the arts of the French to make incursions into Pennsylvania, the ‘Friends’ were still to them a sacred and inviolable people. While the tomahawk and the scalping-knife were nightly doing their dreadful work in every surrounding dwelling--theirs were untouched; while the rest of the inhabitants abandoned their houses and fled to forts for security,--they found more perfect security in that friendship which the wisdom and virtue of Penn had conciliated, and which their own disinterested principles made permanent.”
* * * * *
In endeavouring to conclude with a specimen of the elegant poem of “William and Mary Howitt,” an unexpected difficulty of selection occurs--it is a piece of continuous beauty that can scarcely be extracted from, without injury to the stanzas selected; and therefore, presuming on the kind indulgence of the amiable authors, it is here presented entire:--
PENN AND THE INDIANS.
* * * * *
“I will not compare our friendship to a chain; for the rain might sometimes rust it, or a tree might fall and break it; but I shall consider you as the same flesh and blood as the Christians; and the same as if one man’s body were to be divided into two parts.”
W. PENN’S SPEECH TO THE INDIANS.
* * * * *
There was a stir in Pennsylvanian woods: A gathering as the war-cry forth had gone; And, like the sudden gush of Autumn floods, Stream’d from all points the warrior-tribes to one. Ev’n in the farthest forest solitudes, The hunter stopped the battle-plume to don, And turn’d with knife, with hatchet, and with bow, Back, as to bear them on a sudden foe.
Swiftly, but silently, each dusky chief Sped ’neath the shadow of continuous trees; And files whose feet scarce stirr’d the trodden leaf; And infant-laden mothers, scorning ease; And childhood, whose small footsteps, light and brief, Glanced through the forest, like a fluttering breeze, Followed--a numerous, yet a silent band,-- As to some deed, high, fateful, and at hand.
But where the foe? By the broad Delaware, Where flung a shadowy elm its branches wide,-- In peaceful garments, and with hands that bare No sign of war,--a little band they spied. Could these be whom they sought? And did they fare Forth from their deserts, in their martial pride, Thus at their call? They did. No trumpet’s tongue Had pierced their wild-woods with a voice so strong.
Who were they? Simple pilgrims:--it may be, Scarce less than outcasts from their native isles,-- From Britain,--birth-place of the great and free, Where heavenly lore threw round its brightest smiles, Then why depart? Oh seeming mockery! Were they not here, on this far shore, exiles, Simply because, unawed by power or ban, They worshipped God but would not bow to man?
Oh! Truth! Immortal Truth! on what wild ground Still hast thou trod through this unspiritual sphere! The strong, the brutish, and the vile surround Thy presence, lest thy streaming glory cheer The poor, the many, without price or bound. Drowning thy voice, they fill the popular ear, In thy high name, with canons, creeds, and laws, Feigning to serve, that they may mar thy cause.
And the great multitude doth crouch, and bear The burden of the selfish. That emprize, That lofty spirit of virtue which can dare To rend the bands of Error from all eyes; And from the freed soul pluck each sensual care, To them is but a fable. Therefore lies Darkness upon the mental desert still; And wolves devour, and robbers walk at will.
Yet, ever and anon, from thy bright quiver, The flaming arrows of thy might are strown; And, rushing forth, thy dauntless children shiver The strength of foes who press too near thy throne. Then, like the sun, or thy Almighty Giver, Thy light is through the startled nations shown: And generous indignation tramples down The sophist’s web, and the oppressor’s crown.
Oh might it burn for ever! But in vain-- For vengeance rallies the alarmed host, Who from men’s souls draw their dishonest gain. For thee they smite, audaciously they boast, Even while thy sons are in thy bosom slain. Yet this is thy sure solace,--that, not lost, Each drop of blood, each tear,--Cadmean seed, Shall send up armed champions in thy need.
And these were of that origin. Thy stamp Was on their brows, calm, fearless, and sublime. And they had held aloft thy heavenly lamp; And borne its odium as a fearful crime, And therefore, through their quiet homes the tramp Of Rain passed,--laying waste all that Time Gives us of good; and, where Guilt fitly dwells, Had made them homes in execrable cells.
We dwell in peace;--they purchased it with blood. We dwell at large;--’twas they who wore the chain, And broke it. Like the living rocks they stood, Till their invincible patience did restrain The billows of men’s fury. Then the rude Shock of the past diffused a mild disdain Through their pure hearts, and an intense desire For some calm land where freedom might respire.
Some land where they might render God his due, Nor stir the gall of the blind zealot’s hate. Some land where came Thought’s soul-refreshing dew And Faith’s sublimer visions. Where elate, Their simple-hearted children they might view, Springing in joy,--heirs of a blest estate: And where each worn and weary mind might come From every realm, and find a tranquil home.
And they sought this. Yet, as they now descried From the near forest, pouring, horde on horde, Armed, painted, plumed in all their martial pride, The dwellers of the woods--the men abhorred As fierce, perfidious, and with blood bedyed, Felt they no dread? No;--for their breasts were stored With confidence which pure designs impart, And faith in Him who framed the human heart.
And they--the children of the wild--why came They at this summons? Swiftly it had flown Far through their woods, like wind, or wind-sent flame, Followed by rumours of a stirring tone, Which told that, all unlike, except in name, To those who yet had on their shores been known, These white men--wearers of the peaceful vest,-- Craved, in their vales, a brother’s home and rest.
On the red children of the desert, fell The tidings, like spring’s first delicious breath; For they had loved the strangers all too well; And still--though reaping ruin, scorn, and death For a frank welcome, and broad room to dwell, Given to the faithless boasters of pure faith,-- Their wild, warm feelings kindled at the sight Of Virtue arm’d but with her native might.
What term we savage? The untutored heart Of Nature’s child is but a slumbering fire; Prompt at each breath, or passing touch, to start Into quick flame, as quickly to retire: Ready alike, its pleasance to impart, Or scorch the hand which rudely wakes its ire: Demon or child, as impulse may impel; Warm in its love, but in its vengeance fell.
And these Columbian warriors to their strand Had welcomed Europe’s sons,--and rued it sore, Men with smooth tongues, but rudely armed hand; Fabling of peace when meditating gore; Who, their foul deeds to veil, ceased not to brand The Indian name on every Christian shore. What wonder, on such heads, their fury’s flame Burst, till its terrors gloomed their fairer fame.
For they were not a brutish race, unknowing Evil from good; their fervent souls embraced With virtue’s proudest homage to o’erflowing The mind’s inviolate majesty. The past To them was not a darkness; but was glowing With splendour which all time had not o’ercast; Streaming unbroken from creation’s birth, When God communed and walked with men on earth.
Stupid idolatry had never dimmed The Almighty image in their lucid thought. To him alone their jealous praise was hymned; And hoar Tradition, from her treasury, brought Glimpses of far-off times, in which were limned His awful glory: and their prophets taught Precepts sublime,--a solemn ritual given, In clouds and thunder, to their sires from heaven.
And, in the boundless solitude which fills, Even as a mighty heart, their wild domains; In caves and glens of the unpeopled hills; And the deep shadow that for ever reigns Spirit-like in their woods; where, roaring, spills The giant cataract to the astounded plains, Nature, in her sublimest moods, had given, Not man’s weak lore,--but a quick flash from heaven.
Roaming, in their free lives, by lake and stream; Beneath the splendour of their gorgeous sky; Encamping, while shot down night’s starry gleam, In piny glades, where their forefathers lie; Voices would come, and breathing whispers seem To rouse within the life which may not die; Begetting valorous deeds, and thoughts intense, And a wild gush of burning eloquence.
Such were the men who round the pilgrims came. Oh! righteous heaven! and thou, heaven-dwelling sun! How from my heart spring tears of grief and shame, To think how runs--and quickly shall have run O’er earth, for twice a thousand years, your flame, Since, for man’s weal, Christ’s victories were won; Since dying, to his sons, love’s gift divine He gave, the bond of brotherhood and the sign.--
Where shines the symbol? Europe’s mighty states, The brethren of the cross--from age to age, Have striven to quench in blood their quenchless hates; Or--cease their armed hosts awhile their rage, ’Tis but that Peace may half unclose her gates In mockery; that each diplomatic sage May treat and sign, while War recruits his power And grinds the sword fresh millions to devour.
Yet thus could, in a savage-styled land, A few,--reviled, scorn’d, hated of the whole, Stretch forth for peace the unceremonious hand, And stamp Truth, even upon a sealed scroll. They called not God, or men, in proof to stand: They prayed no vengeance on the perjured soul: But heaven look’d down, and moved with wonder saw A compact framed, where time might bring no flaw.
Yet, through the land no clamorous triumph spread. Some bursts of natural eloquence were there: Somewhat of his past wrongs the Indian said; Of deeds design’d which now were given to air. Some tears the mother o’er her infant shed, As through her soul pass’d Hope’s depictions fair; And they were gone--the guileless scene was o’er; And the wild woods absorb’d their tribes once more.
Ay, years have rolled on years, and long has Penn Pass’d, with his justice, from the soil he bought; And the world’s spirit, and the world’s true men Its native sons with different views have sought. Crushing them down till they have risen again With bloodiest retribution; yet have taught, Even while their hot revenge spread fire and scath, Their ancient, firm, inviolable faith.
When burst the war-whoop at the dead of night, And the blood curdled at the dreadful sound; And morning brought not its accustomed light To thousands slumbering in their gore around; Then, like oases in the desert’s blight, The homes of Penn’s peculiar tribe were found: And still the scroll he gave, in love and pride, Their hands preserve,--earth has not such beside.
Yes; prize it, waning race, for never more Shall your wild glades another Penn behold: Pure, dauntless legislator, who did soar Higher than dared sublimest thought of old. That antique lie which bent the great of yore, And ruleth still--Expedience stern and cold, He pluck’d with scorn from its usurped car And showed Truth strong, and glorious as a star.
The vast, the ebbless, the engulphing tide Of the white population still rolls on! And quail’d has your romantic heart of pride,-- The kingly spirit of the woods is gone. Farther, and farther do ye wend to hide Your wasting strength; to mourn your glory flown, And sigh to think how soon shall crowds pursue Down the lone stream where glides the still canoe.
And ye, a beautiful nonentity, ere long, Shall live but with past marvels, to adorn Some fabling theme, some unavailing song. But ye have piled a monument of scorn For trite oppression’s sophistry of wrong. Proving, by all your tameless hearts have borne, What now ye might have been, had ye but met With love like yours, and faith unwavering yet.
The authors of “Penn and the Indians” justly observe in the last note upon their exalted poem, that “it is William Penn’s peculiar honour to stand alone as a statesman, in opposing principle to expedience, in public as well as in private life. Even Aristides, the very beau-ideal of virtuous integrity, failed in this point. The success of the experiment has been as splendid as the most philosophic worshipper of abstract morals could have hoped for or imagined.” These sentences exemplify an expression elsewhere--“Politics are Morals.”
*
[365] This sash is now in the possession of Thomas Kett, Esq. of Seething-hall, near Norwich.
[366] Mr. Clarkson’s Life of W. Penn.
* * * * *
QUAKERS.
ORIGIN OF THE TERM.
On the 30th of October, 1650, the celebrated George Fox being at a lecture delivered in Derby by a colonel of the parliament’s army, after the service was over addressed the congregation, till there came an officer who took him by the hand, and said, that he, and the other two that were with him, must go before the magistrates. They were examined for a long time, and then George Fox, and one John Fretwell of Staniesby, a husbandman, were committed to the house of correction for six months upon pretence of blasphemous expressions. Gervas Bennet, one of the two justices who signed their mittimus, hearing that Fox bade him, and those about him, “tremble at the word of the Lord,” regarded this admonition so lightmindedly, that from that time, he called Fox and his friends Quakers. This new and unusual denomination was taken up so eagerly, that it soon ran over all England, and from thence to foreign countries.[367] It has since remained their distinctive name, insomuch, that to the present time they are so termed in acts of parliament; and in their own declarations on certain public occasions, and in addresses to the king, they designate themselves “the people called Quakers.” The community, in its rules and minutes, for government and discipline, denominates itself “The Society of Friends.”
*
[367] Sewel.
* * * * *
~The Will~
OF JOHN KEATS, THE POET.
To the Editor.
Sir,--Underneath I send you a copy of a document which “poor Keats” sent to Mr. ----, in August, 1820, just before his departure for Italy.
This paper was intended by him to operate as his last will and testament, but the sages of Doctors’ Commons refused to receive it as such, for reasons which to a lawyer would be perfectly satisfactory, however the rest of the world might deem them deficient in cogency:--
COPY.
“My share of books divide amongst my friends. In case of my death this scrap of paper may be serviceable in your possession.
“All my estate, real and personal, consists in the hopes of the sale of books, published or unpublished. Now I wish ---- and you to be the first paid creditors--the rest is in nubibus--but, in case it should shower, pay ---- the few pounds I owe him.”
Although too late to afford him any satisfaction or comfort, it did “shower” at last; and that, too, from a source which, in its general aspect, bears all the gloominess of a cloud, without any of its refreshing or fertilizing anticipations--I mean the Court of Chancery. This unexpected “shower” was sufficiently copious to enable the fulfilment of all the wishes expressed in the above note. His friends have therefore the gratification of knowing that no pecuniary loss has been (or need have been) sustained, by any one of those with whom he was connected, either by friendship or otherwise.
I am, Sir, &c. O. Z.
~Old London Cries.~
These engravings pretty well describe the occupations of the figures they represent. The cry of “Fine writing-ink” has ceased long ago; and the demand for such a fork as the woman carries is discontinued. They are copied from a set of etchings formerly mentioned--the “Cries of London,” by Lauron. The following of that series are worth describing, because they convey some notion of cries which we hear no longer in the streets of the metropolis.
Buy a new Almanack?
A woman bears book-almanacks before her, displayed in a round basket.
London’s Gazette here.
A woman holds one in her hand, and seems to have others in her lapped-up apron.
Buy any Wax or Wafers?
A woman carries these requisites for correspondence in a small hand-basket, or frail, with papers open in the other hand.
My Name, and your Name, your Father’s Name, and Mother’s Name.
A man bears before him a square box, slung from his shoulders, containing type-founders’ letters, in small cases, each on a stick; he holds one in his hand. I well remember to have heard this very cry when a boy. The type-seller composed my own name for me, which I was thereby enabled to imprint on paper with common writing ink. I think it has become wholly extinct within the last ten years.
Old Shoes for some Brooms.
A man with birch-brooms suspended behind him on a stick. His cry intimates, that he is willing to exchange them for old shoes; for which a wallet at his back, depending from his waist, seems a receptacle.
Remember the poor Prisoners!
A man, with a capacious covered basket suspended at his back by leather handles, through which his arms pass; he holds in his right hand a small, round, deep box with a slit in the top, through which money may be put: in his left hand is a short walking-staff for his support. In former times the prisoners in different gaols, without allowance, deputed persons to walk the streets and solicit alms for their support, of passengers and at dwelling-houses. The basket was for broken-victuals.
Fritters, piping hot Fritters.
A woman seated, frying the fritters on an iron with four legs, over an open fire lighted on bricks; a pan of batter by her side: two urchins, with a small piece of money between them, evidently desire to fritter it.
Buy my Dutch Biskets?
A woman carries them open in a large, round, shallow arm-basket on her right arm; a smaller and deeper one, covered with a cloth, is on her left.
Who’s for a Mutton Pie, or a Christmas Pie?
A woman carries them in a basket hanging on her left arm, under her cloak; she rings a bell with her right hand.
Lilly white Vinegar, Threepence a Quart.
The vinegar is in two barrels, slung across the back of a donkey; pewter measures are on the saddle in the space between them. The proprietor walks behind--he is a jaunty youth, and wears flowers on the left side of his hat, and a lilly white apron; he cracks a whip with his left hand; and his right fingers play with his apron strings.
Old Satin, old Taffety, or Velvet.
A smart, pretty-looking lass, in a high-peaked crowned-hat, a black hood carelessly tied under her chin, handsomely stomachered and ruffled, trips along in high-heeled shoes, with bows of ribbons on the insteps; a light basket is on her right arm, and her hands are crossed with a quality air.
Scotch or Russia Cloth.
A comfortably clothed, stout, substantial-looking, middle-aged man, in a cocked hat, (the fashion of those days,) supporting with his left hand a pack as large as his body, slung at his back; his right hand holds his yard measure, and is tucked into the open bosom of his buttoned coat; a specimen of his cloth hangs across his arm. Irish and Holland linen have superseded Scotch and Russia.
Four pair for a Shilling, Holland Socks.
A woman cries them, with a shilling’s-worth in her hand; the bulk of her ware is in an open box before her. Our ancestors took great precautions against wet from without--they took much within. They were soakers and sockers.
Long Thread Laces, long and strong.
A miserably tattered-clothed girl and boy carry long sticks with laces depending from the ends, like cats-o’-nine tails. This cry was extinct in London for a few years, while the females dressed naturally--now, when some are resuming the old fashion of stiff stays and tight-lacing, and pinching their bowels to inversion, looking unmotherly and bodiless, the cry has been partially revived.
Pretty Maids, pretty Pins, pretty Women.
A man, with a square box sideways under his left arm, holds in his right hand a paper of pins opened. He retails ha’p’orths and penn’orths, which he cuts off from his paper. I remember when pins were disposed of in this manner in the streets by women--their cry was a musical distich--
Three-rows-a-penny, pins, Short whites, and mid-dl-ings!
Fine Tie, or a fine Bob, sir!
A wig-seller stands with one on his hand, combing it, and talks to a customer at his door, which is denoted by an inscription to be in “Middle-row, Holbourn.” Wigs on blocks stand on a bracketed board outside his window. This was when every body, old and young, wore wigs--when the price for a common one was a guinea, and a journeyman had a new one every year--when it was an article in every apprentice’s indenture that his master should find him in “one good and sufficient wig, yearly, and every year, for, and during, and unto the expiration, of the full end, and term, of his apprenticeship.”
Buy my fine Singing Glasses!
They were trumpet-formed glass tubes, of various lengths. The crier blows one of half his own height. He holds others in his left hand, and has a little box, and two or three baskets, slung about his waist.
Japan your Shoes, your honour!
A shoeblack. A boy, with a small basket beside him, brushes a shoe on a stone, and addresses himself to a wigged beau, who carries his cocked-hat under his left arm, with a crooked-headed walking-stick in his left hand, as was the fashion among the dandies of old times. I recollect shoeblacks formerly at the corner of almost every street, especially in great thoroughfares. There were several every morning on the steps of St. Andrew’s church Holborn, till late in the forenoon. But the greatest exhibition of these artists was on the site of Finsbury-square, when it was an open field, and a depository for the stones used in paving and street-masonry. There, a whole army of shoeblacks intercepted the citizens and their clerks, on their way from Islington and Hoxton to the counting houses and shops in the city, with “Shoeblack, your honour!” “Black your shoes, sir!”
Each of them had a large, old tin-kettle, containing his apparatus, viz. a capacious pipkin, or other large earthen-pot, containing the blacking, which was made of ivory black, the coarsest moist sugar, and pure water with a little vinegar--a knife--two or three brushes--and an old wig. The old wig was an indispensable requisite to a shoeblack; it whisked away the dust, or thoroughly wiped off the wet dirt, which his knife and brushes could not entirely detach; a rag tied to the end of a stick smeared his viscid blacking on the shoe, and if the blacking was “real japan,” it shone. The old experienced shoe-wearers preferred an oleaginous, lustreless blacking. A more liquid blacking, which took a polish from the brush, was of later use and invention. Nobody, at that time, wore boots, except on horseback; and every body wore breeches and stockings: pantaloons or trousers were unheard of. The old shoeblacks operated on the shoes while they were on the feet, and so dexterously as not to soil the fine white cotton stocking, which was at one time the extreme of fashion, or to smear the buckles, which were universally worn. Latterly, you were accommodated with an old pair of shoes to stand in, and the yesterday’s paper to read, while your shoes were cleaning and polishing, and your buckles were whitened and brushed. When shoestrings first came into vogue, the prince of Wales (now the king) appeared with them in his shoes, and a deputed body of the buckle-makers of Birmingham presented a petition to his royal highness to resume the wearing of buckles, which was good-naturedly complied with. Yet in a short time shoestrings entirely superseded buckles. The first incursion on the shoeblacks was by the makers of “patent cake-blacking,” on sticks formed with a handle, like a small battledoor; they suffered a more fearful invasion from the makers of liquid blacking in bottles. Soon afterwards, when “Day and Martin” manufactured the ne plus ultra of blacking, private shoeblacking became general, public shoeblacks rapidly disappeared, and now they are extinct. The last shoeblack that I remember in London, sat under the covered entrance of Red Lion-court, Fleet-street, within the last six years.
*
* * * * *
ANTIQUARIAN MEMORANDUM.
For the Table Book.
CHAIR AT PAGE’S LOCK.
At a little alehouse on the Lea, near Hoddesdon, called “Page’s Lock,” there is a curious antique chair of oak, richly carved. It has a high, narrow back inlaid with cane, and had a seat of the same, which last is replaced by the more durable substitute of oak. The framework is beautifully carved in foliage, and the top rail of the back, as also the front rail between the legs, have the imperial crown in the centre. The supports of the back are twisted pillars, surmounted with crowns, by way of knobs, and the fore-legs are shaped like beasts’ paws.
The date is generally supposed to be that of Elizabeth; and this is confirmed by the circumstance of the chairs in the long gallery of Hatfield-house, in Hertfordshire, being of similar construction, but without the crowns. The date of these latter chairs is unquestionably that of Elizabeth, who visited her treasurer, Burleigh, whose seat it was. The circumstance of the crowns being carved on the chair above-named, and their omission in those at Hatfield would seem to imply a regal distinction and we may fairly infer, that it once formed part of the furniture of queen Elizabeth’s hunting-lodge situate on Epping forest, not many miles from Hoddesdon.
GASTON.
* * * * *
MINISTER OF KIRKBY LONSDALE, KIRKBY KENDAL.--LUNE BRIDGE.
To the Editor.
Sir,--The Tenth Part of your interesting publication, the Table Book, has been lent to me by one of your constant readers; who, aware of the interest which I take in every thing connected with Westmoreland, pointed out the Notes of T. Q. M. on a Pedestrian Tour from Skipton to Keswick.[368]
It is not my intention to review those notes, or to point out the whole of his inaccuracies; but I shall select one, which, in my humble judgment, is quite inexcusable. After stating that the Rev. Mr. Hunt was once the curate of Kir_k_by (not K_ir_by, as your correspondent spells it) Lonsdale, he adds, “I believe the well-known Carus Wilson is the officiating minister at present.” What your narrator means by the appellation “well known,” he alone can determine--and to which of the family he would affix the term, I cannot possibly imagine. The eldest son is rector of Whittington, an adjoining parish; the second son of the same family is vicar of Preston, in Lancashire; the third is the curate of Tunstal, in the same county. These are all the gentlemen of that family who are, or ever were, “officiating ministers:” and I can safely assure your correspondent, that not one of them ever was the officiating minister of Kirkby Lonsdale. The vicar is the Rev. Mr. Sharp; who the curate is I forget, but an inquirer could have easily ascertained it; and an inquiry would have furnished him with some very curious details respecting the actual incumbent.
By the way, let me mention the curious fact of this town retaining its ancient name, while Kendal, a neighbouring town, has lost, in common parlance, a moiety of its name. In all legal documents Kendal is described as Kirkby Kendal, as the former is Kirkby Lons-dale; and the orthography is important, as it shows at once the derivation of these names. Kirk-by-Lon’s-dale, and Kirk-by-Ken or Kent-dale, evidently show, that the prominent object, the churches of those towns on the banks of their respective river, the Lune, Loyne, or Lon, as it is variously written, and the Kent or Ken, and their dales, or vallies, furnished the cognomen.
I should be much obliged to T. Q. M. if he would point out the house where my friend Barnabee
---------------------- viewed An hall, which like a taverne shewed Neate gates, white walls, nought was sparing, Pots brimful, no thought of caring.
If a very curious tradition respecting the very fine and remarkable bridge over the river Lune, together with a painting of it done for me by a cobbler at Lancaster, would be at all interesting to you, I shall be happy to send them to your publishers. The picture is very creditable to the artist; and after seeing it, I am sure you will say, that however (if ever) just, in former days, the moderns furnish exceptions to the well-known maxim--
Ne sutor ultra crepidam.
I am, sir,
your obedient servant,
BOB SHORT.
London, Sept. 25, 1827.
[368] Col. 271, &c.
* * * * *
~Discoveries~
OF THE
ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.
No. X.
THE COPERNICAN SYSTEM THAT OF THE ANCIENTS.
Copernicus places the sun in the centre of our system, the fixed stars at the circumference, and the earth and other planets in the intervening space; and he ascribes to the earth not only a diurnal motion around its axis, but an annual motion round the sun. This simple system, which explains all the appearances of the planets and their situations, whether processional, stationary, or retrograde, was so fully and distinctly inculcated by the ancients, that it is matter of surprise it should derive its name from a modern philosopher.
Pythagoras thought that the earth was a movable body, and, so far from being the centre of the world, performed its revolutions around the region of fire, that is the sun, and thereby formed day and night. He is said to have obtained this knowledge among the Egyptians, who represented the sun emblematically by a beetle, because that insect keeps itself six months under ground, and six above; or, rather, because having formed its dung into a ball, it afterwards lays itself on its back, and by means of its feet whirls that ball round in a circle.
Philolaüs, the disciple of Pythagoras, was the first publisher of that and several other opinions belonging to the Pythagorean school. He added, that the earth moved in an oblique circle, by which, no doubt, he meant the zodiac.
Plutarch intimates, that Timæus Locrensis, another disciple of Pythagoras, held the same opinion; and that when he said the planets were animated, and called them the different measures of time, he meant no other than that they served by their revolutions to render time commensurable; and that the earth was not fixed to a spot, but was carried about by a circular motion, as Aristarchus of Samos, and Seleucus afterwards taught.
This Aristarchus of Samos, who lived about three centuries before Jesus Christ, was one of the principal defenders of the doctrine of the earth’s motion. Archimedes informs us, “That Aristarchus, writing on this subject against some of the philosophers of his own age, placed the sun immovable in the centre of an orbit, described by the earth in its circuit.” Sextus Empiricus cites him, as one of the principal supporters of this opinion.
From a passage in Plutarch it appears, that Cleanthes accused Aristarchus of impiety and irreligion, by troubling the repose of Vesta and the Larian gods; when, in giving an account of the phenomena of the planets in their courses, he taught that heaven, or the firmament of the fixed stars, was immovable, and that the earth moved in an oblique circle, revolving at the same time around its own axis.
Theophrastus, as quoted by Plutarch, says in his History of Astronomy, which has not reached our times, that Plato, when advanced in years, gave up the error he had been in, of making the sun turn round the earth; and lamented that he had not placed it in the centre, as it deserved, instead of the earth, which he had put there contrary to the order of nature. Nor is it at all strange that Plato should reassume an opinion which he had early imbibed in the schools of the two celebrated Pythagoreans, Archytas of Tarentum, and Timæus the Locrian, as we see in St. Jerome’s Christian apology against Rufinus. In Cicero we find, that Heraclides of Pontus, who was a Pythagorean, taught the same doctrine. It may be added, that Tycho Brache’s system was known to Vitruvius, as well as were the motions of Venus and Mercury about the sun.
That the earth is round, and inhabited on all sides, and of course that there are Antipodes, or those whose feet are directly opposite to ours, is one of the most ancient doctrines inculcated by philosophy. Diogenes Laertius, in one part of his history, says, that Plato was the first who called the inhabitants of the earth opposite to us “Antipodes.” He does not mean that Plato was the first who taught this opinion, but only the first who made use of the term “Antipodes;” for, in another place, he mentions Pythagoras as the first who taught of When Plutarch wrote, it was a point in. controversy; and Lucretius and Pliny, were oppose this notion, as well as St. Augustine, serve as witnesses that it must have prevailed in their time.
The proofs which the ancients brought of the sphericalness of the earth, were the same that the moderns use. Pliny on this subject observes, that the land which retires out of sight to persons on the deck of a ship, appears still in view to those who are upon the mast. He thence concludes, that the earth is round. Aristotle drew this consequence not only from the circular shadow of the earth on the disk of the moon in eclipse, but also from this, that, in travelling south, we discover other stars, and that those which we saw before, whether in the zenith or elsewhere, change their situation with respect to us.
On whatever arguments the ancients founded their theory, it is certain they clearly apprehended that the planets revolved upon their own axis. Heraclides of Pontus, and Ecphantus, two celebrated Pythagoreans, said, that the earth turned from west to east, just as a wheel does upon its axis or centre. According to Atticus, the platonist, Plato extended this observation from the earth to the sun and other planets. “To that general motion which makes the planets describe a circular course, he added another, resulting from their spherical shape, which made each of them move about its own centre, whilst they performed the general revolution of their course.” Plotinus also ascribes this sentiment to Plato; for speaking of him he says, that besides the grand circular course observed by all the stars in general, Plato thought “they each performed another about their own centre.”
The same notion is ascribed to Nicetas of Syracuse by Cicero, who quotes Theophrastus to warrant what he advances. This Nicetas is he whom Diogenes Laertius names Hycetas, whose opinion, he says, was, that “the celerity of the earth’s motion about its own axis, and otherwise, was the only cause and reason of the apparent revolutions of the heavenly bodies.”
How useful the invention of telescopes has been to the astronomical observations of the moderns is particularly evident from their discovery, that the planets revolve on their axis, a discovery founded on the periodical revolution of the spots observed on their disks; so that every planet performs two revolutions, by one of which it is carried with others about a common centre; and, by the other, moves upon its axis round its own. Yet all that the moderns have advanced in this respect, serves only to confirm to the ancients the glory of being the first discoverers, by the aid of reason alone. The moderns in this are to the ancients, as the French philosophers to sir Isaac Newton; all whose labours and travail, in visiting the poles and equator to determine the figure of the earth, served only to confirm what sir Isaac had thought of it, without so much as stirring from his closet.
* * * * *
GRAVESEND.
A MOTHER AND HER CHILDREN.
To the Editor.
Rochester, Sept. 29, 1827.
Sir,--On the beach at Gravesend yesterday morning, I saw a gaily dressed young female walking and fondling an infant in her arms, whom she called Henry; with a fine, lively, bluff boy of about three years old running before, who suddenly venturing to interrupt the gravity of a goat, by tickling his beard with a switch, became in immediate danger of over-punishment from the provoked animal. I ran to “the rescue,” and received warm thanks for its achievement. After the manner of mothers she kissed and scolded her “dear Lobski,” as she called the little rogue; and I involuntarily and inquisitively repeated the appellation. “Sir,” said she,--and she smiled--“it is perfectly ridiculous; but his father and I so frequently give him that name in joke, that we sometimes let it fall when in earnest--his real Christian name is Robert.” I laughed at the whim, shook hands with young “Lobski,” wished his mother good morning, set off by the first conveyance to London, and wholly forgot my little adventure.
----It was brought to my recollection this afternoon through an incident on the roof of a stage-coach, by which I was travelling to Rochester with several passengers; all of whom, except myself, alighted at Gravesend. One of them, a Londoner, a young man of facetious remark, let an expression or two fall, from whence I strongly suspected he was the husband of Lobski’s mother. He had sat next to me at the back of the coach, and had been particularly anxious respecting the safety of a goose--whereon, as I learned, he anticipated to regale with his wife in honour of Michaelmas. Being left to pursue the short remainder of my journey alone, I was proceeding to change my place in the rear, for the box-seat, when I perceived a letter, with the direction so obliterated by friction, as to be undecipherable. There could not be a doubt that it had escaped from my late fellow-traveller’s pocket; and as it seemed to have been left to me as an _air_loom, I took the liberty to examine the contents. It was from his wife; and in connection with my surmise, and with my beach-story, it furnished the strongest presumptive evidence that I had rightly conjectured his identity. He was an entire stranger to the driver; and I am scarcely sorry that the absence of all clue to his address at Gravesend, or in London, allows me a fair opportunity of laying before the readers of the Table Book a sprightly epistle, from a mother who leaves her home in the metropolis to visit Gravesend, as a watering place, with a couple of young children whom she loves, and with the pleasure of expecting and receiving an occasional pop-visit from her good man.
COPY OF THE LETTER.
Gravesend, Thursday aft.
Dear Henry,--We arrived here after a very pleasant voyage in one of the Calais steamers. Lobski, as usual, was, and is, quite at home. He really appears to be the flower of Gravesend. He spars with all the sailors who notice him, which are not a few--nods to the old women--halloes at the boys, and runs off with their hoops--knocks at the windows with his stick--hunts the fowls and pigs, because they run away from him--and admires the goats, because they are something new. As we walk on the beach he looks out for “anoner great ship”--kisses the little girls--thumps Mary--and torments me. The young ones in the road call him “Cock Robin.” He is, indeed, what E. D. calls “a tainted one.”
Upon first coming down I immediately commenced inquiries about the bathing, and found some who talked of mud-rubbing. No one gave it such a character as Mrs. E.--I met with a lady on the beach, who told me she had brought a little boy of hers down last year to be mud-rubbed; but after a month’s stay his legs were no way improved--she then bathed him for a month, and the boy is a fine little fellow. I considered, as Lobski’s legs really brought us here, it was best to bathe him at once; and accordingly paid 5_s._ 3_d._ for a month, otherwise it is 1_s._ each time. Since going in, which he took pretty well, considering the instantaneous plunge, he calls to me when he looks at the sea, “There is my tub, Ma.” He was rather frightened, and thought he fell into the water, but not near so much, the guide says, as most children are. Harry is getting fatter every day, and very jealous of Bob when with me--but, out of doors, the little fellow glories in seeing Lobski run on before. They grow very fond of each other.
Monday will be a grand day here in choosing the mayor, and at night a mock election takes place, with fireworks, &c.--and this day month Greenwich-fair is held in the fields. The people here are any thing but sociable, and “keep themselves to themselves.” The sailors are the most obliging, and very communicative--they usually carry Bob over any dirty place or so for me--and, to tell the truth, I have almost changed my mind from a parson to a sailor.
If you can, do come down on Sunday; but, by no means, empty-handed, or rather, empty-pocketed--my cash is now very low, though I have been as saving as possible. I find no alteration in the price of provisions except potatoes and milk--every thing else I think is as in London. I should like some pens, paper, and a book or two--for one, the Duchess D’Orleans’ Court of Louis the XIV., I think it is--and any thing, as poor Mrs. ---- says, _w_ery amusing; for the evenings are “cursedly” dull--stop--it’s your own word--and as I have said it, it may relieve a little of this evening’s ennui. Whatever you bring you can put into the little portmanteau, which I shall find very useful when we return. Bob and Harry send you a kiss apiece, and mine “I will twist up in a piece of paper, and bring with me when I come to town.”
This is a scribble--but Bob is asleep on my lap.
I am, my dear Harry,
Yours, very affectionately,
***** ****
N.B. Please to send me word the day of the month, and what’s o’clock.
Can you, Mr. Editor, imagine any thing more expressive of loneliness, and desire for intelligence, than this young wife’s capital N.B., with the execratory citation from her husband’s vocabulary--or more sportively affectionate than the “twist up” of her kiss, with “Bob” Lobski asleep on her lap. I like a letter, and a letter writer of this sort mightily: one with a fearless and strong expression of feeling--as in the epithet about the dull evenings, which a female can scarcely extenuate, except by such a confession and assignment to its right owner, implying its impropriety, as this female makes. How oddly, and yet how well, her fondness for reading and her domestic management collocate--the Memoirs of the Court of Louis XIV. and the price of provisions. How natural is her momentary hesitation between mud-rubbing and bathing. Then the instant determination, so essential when there is no time to spare, marks such “decision of character!”--even the author of the excellent essay on that noble quality would admire it. I presume that “Lobski” may be rickety; and I take this opportunity of observing, on the authority of a medical friend, that town-bred children, who eat profusely of sugar, and are pampered with sweets, usually are. Sugar has the effect of softening the bones, and causes the rickets: it should form no part of the food of rickety children, or only in a small degree; and such children should be allowed and encouraged to eat common salt freely.
To return however to the letter.--I should really like to know the secret of the allusion respecting the “parson” and the “sailor,” so naturally called forth by the playful services of the tars; which, I have observed, are ever exerted on such occasions, and remind one of the labours of Hercules with the distaff. Her account of Lobski’s “animated nature” is so pretty and true a sketch of boyish infancy, that you may perceive the hand of the mother in every line. In the anticipation of the mayoralty show and the fair, and the unsociableness of Gravesend society, I think I can trace something of the woman. I hope she may live to see her boys “good men and true,” gladdening her heart by fearless well-doing. She must look well to Lobski:--he’s a “Pickle.” It is in the power of a mother to effect more in the formation of a child’s early disposition than the father.
Lastly, that you may be assured of the genuineness of the letter I found, and have copied, the original accompanies this communication to your publishers; with authority, if its ownership be claimed, to deliver it to the claimant, on the production of a line in the handwriting of the epistle itself.
I am, Sir, &c.
CURIO SO.
* * * * *
“POOR BILLY W----.”
For the Table Book.
Some years ago my pen was employed to attempt the sketch of a Character, but apprehending that the identity might be too strong and catch his eye,--he was my friend, and a great reader of “periodicals”--I desisted. I meant to say nothing ill-natured, yet I feared to offend a harmless and inoffensive man, and I destroyed what had given me an hour’s amusement. The reason no longer exists--death has removed him. Disease and a broken spirit, occasioned by commercial misfortunes and imprudences, weighed him down, and the little sphere in which he used to shine has lost its chief attraction.
----What a man he was!--of the pure, real London cut. Saint Paul’s was stamped on his forehead. He was the great oracle of a certain coffee-house, not a hundred miles from Gray’s Inn; where he never dined but in one box, nor placed himself but in one situation. His tavern dignities were astounding--the waiters trembled at his approach--his orders were obeyed with the nicest precision. For some years he was the king of the room--he was never deposed, nor did he ever abdicate. His mode of calling for his pint of wine, and the bankrupt part of the Gazette, had a peculiar character past describing. I have now and then seen a “rural,” in the same coffee-room, attempt the thing--but my friend was “Hyperion to a satyr.”----
----I have him in my eye now--traversing to the city and back--regulating his watch by the Royal Exchange clock daily; and daily boasting he had the best “goer” in England. Like his watch, he was a curious piece of mechanism. He seldom quitted London, for he was persuaded every thing would “stand still” in his absence. It seemed, as though he imagined that St. Paul’s clock would not strike--that the letters by the general post would not be delivered.--Was he not right? To me, the city was a “void” without him.----
----What a referee he was! He would tell you the price of stocks on any past day; and dilate for hours on the interesting details in the charters of the twelve city companies. He had a peculiar mode of silencing an antagonist who ventured to obtrude an opinion--by adducing a scriptural maxim, “Study to be quiet,” and “mind your own business;” and now and then a few Latin mottos, obtained from the Tablet of Memory, would be used with great felicity. His observations were made in an elevated tone, they commanded attention--he used to declare that “money was money;” that “many people were great fools;” and that “bankrupts could not be expected to pay much.” After a remark of this kind he would take a pinch of snuff, with grave self-complacency, and throw his snuff-box on the table with inimitable importance--a species of dignified ingenuity that lived and died with him. His medical panacea was a certain “vegetable sirup,” whereon he would descant, by the hour together, as a specific for all human maladies, and affirm “your physicians and apothecaries--mere humbugs!”----
Then, he would astound the coffee-room by declaring he once bid the king of Spain £700,000 for the island of Porto Rico--this was his grandest effort, and if his ear ever caught the question “Who is he?” uttered by a country listener, his thrown-back shoulders and expansion of chest betrayed the delight he felt, that his bounce had been overheard.
Now and then, on a Saturday, he would break his city chains, and travel to “The Spaniard” at Hampstead for a dinner; but no argument or persuasion could get him to Richmond. His reply was always the same--“the hotels at Richmond employ too much capital.” He was an economist.
In his pleasantest humours, and he had few unpleasant ones, after dining with him I have sometimes importuned him to pay the whole bill; his answer was peculiar and conclusive; “My good friend,” said he, “if I had adopted the plan of paying for others, I might have kept company with all the princes and nobles in the land, instead of plebeians like you.”
His Sunday, till one o’clock, was passed in “spelling the newspapers;” after that he walked on the north side of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, with his hands behind him, till three--he then entered Lincoln’s Inn chapel, and returned to boiled beef and suet pudding at five, which were always brought to him first.--If an old friend or two dropped in, his happiness was complete.
He was a philosopher too, at least he indulged in a sort of philosophy, and I am not sure that it was not a good sort, although not a very elevated or poetical one. He evinced a disregard for life. The sooner “we are all dead the better” was one of his favourite phrases. And now he is dead.--Peace to his ashes!
This is the only tablet raised to his memory; the inscription is feeble, but it has the novelty of truth, and may occasion some of his many acquaintances to remember the quaintness and eccentricities of “POOR BILLY W----.”
W. H.
* * * * *
ABORIGENES.
This word is explained in every dictionary, English, Latin, or French, as a general name for the indigenous inhabitants of a country; when in reality it is the proper name of a peculiar people of Italy, who were not indigenous, but supposed to have been a colony of Arcadians. The error has been founded chiefly on the supposed derivation of the word from ab origine. Never (except in Swift’s ludicrous work) was a more eccentric etymology--a preposition, with its governed case, made plural by the modern final s! The university of Oxford, some years ago, added to this solecism by a public prize poem on the Aboriginal Britons.
The most rational etymology of the word seems to be a compound of the Greek words απο, ορος, and γενος, a race of mountaineers. So Virgil calls them,
“--Genus indocile ac dispersum montibus altis.”
It seems more probable, that the name of the oldest settlers in Italy should have a Greek than a Latin derivation.
The preceding remarks are by a late poet-laureate, Mr. Pye, who concludes by inquiring, what should we say of the etymologist who were to deduce the name of an ancient British tribe from the modern English?
* * * * *
TASTING DAYS.
To the Editor.
Sir,--Few men enjoy, or deserve better living than the citizens of London. When they are far on the journey of life, and have acquired a useful fame in their respective companies, their elevation is delightful and complacent. Not a subject is proposed, nor a matter of reference considered, but, as a living author has observed, “it must begin or finish with a dinner.” Thus originated a most exquisite anticipation to the select few, the “Tasting Day,”--a day which precedes all good general eating and drinking days. Mr. Abernethy (who, by the by, is not afraid of dish or glass) may lecture profitably on abstinence, and the “Lancet” may breathe a satirical vein, yet, in compliance with social fellowship and humane gourmanderie, London citizens proudly patronise the preceding and succeeding engagements of “Tasting Days.”
I am, sir,
Your brother cit,
AN OLD TASTER.
* * * * *
CURIOUS SIGN.
For the Table Book.
“A little learning is a dangerous thing.”
So said Pope, and so say I. At Halton East, near Skipton-in Craven, the following inscription arrests the attention of every passer-by:--
WATKINSON’S
ACADAMY
Whatever man has done man may do.
Also
DEALER IN GROCERIES,
&c.
TIM. T----.
* * * * *
ORDERS TO MARCH.
The following parody, on a stanza of the “Blue Bonnets over the Border,” is put forth, as an advertisement, by a hatter, at Brighton, named March.
March! March! has the best hats to sell, Try him, you’ll find him no wily deceiver; March!--march! go and he’ll use you well. His is the warehouse for buying a beaver. Come then, my masters, Doff your old castors, Ragged and torn, or howe’er in disorder: For a new topper, a Round hat or opera, March is the man, so give him an order. March! March! has the best hats to sell, &c.
Vol. II.--42.
A homely picture of a homely place, Where rustic labour plies its honest toil, And gains a competence.
*
On a fine summer’s day I alighted, with my friend W----, from the roof of a stage-coach at Croydon, for a by-way walk, in a part unknown to both. We struck to the eastward through Addiscombe--it is scarcely a village, and only remarkable for the East India Company having seated it with a military establishment; which, as peaceable persons, we had no desire to see, though we could not help observing some cannon in a meadow, as smooth-shaven, and with as little of nature-like aspect, as a drill-sergeant’s face. Further onward we met a well-mounted horseman, whom some of my old readers may easily imagine I could not fail to remember--“mine host” of the “Swan” at West Wickham--the recognition was mutual and being in search of an adventure, I asked him for a direction to any little public-house within a mile or two, that was worth looking at on account of its antiquity and rustic appearance. He despaired of any thing “absolutely” of the kind in the neighbourhood; but, from his description of what he thought might be “something” near it, we took a lane to the left, and soon came to the house. Like too many of our ancient churches it had been “repaired and beautified”--deprived of every thing venerable--and was as unpicturesque as the overseers of the reparations could make it. We found better entertainment within than without--a cheerful invitation to the bar, where we had a cool glass of good ale with a biscuit, and the sight of a fine healthy family as they successively entered for something or other that was wanted. Having refreshed and exchanged “good-morning” with the good-natured proveditors of “good entertainment for man and horse,” we turned to the left, and at a stone’s throw crossed into a lane, having a few labourers’ cottages a little way along on the right, and soon came to the Broom-maker’s, represented in the engraving.
We had a constant view all the way up the lane, from beyond the man climbing the ladder, of the flickering linen at the point of the rod waving on the broom-stack. The flag was erected by the labourers on the carrying of the last shoulder-load of the rustic pile--an achievement quite as important to the interests of the Broom-maker, as the carrying of Seringapatam to the interests of the “Honourable Company.”
Having passed the Broom-maker’s, which stands at the corner of the lane we had come up, and being then in the road across Shirley Common towards Addington, we interchanged expressions of regret that we had not fallen in with any thing worth notice. A look-back induced a halt; we returned a few steps, and taking seats at the angle on the bank, I thought I perceived “capabilities,” in the home-view before our eyes, for a Table Book notice. The loaded man, near the pile of poling, is represented proceeding towards a spot at some thirty yards distance, where a teamed waggon-frame was standing. It belonged to the master of the place--a tall, square-shouldered, middle-aged, active man, who looked as one having authority-who laboured, and was a master of labourers. He, and another man, and a lad, were employed, “all without hurry or care,” in loading the wain with poling. As I stood observing their progress he gave me a frank “Good-day, sir!” and I obtained some information from him respecting his business. His name is on his carts “John Bennett, Shirley Common.” He calls himself a “Broom-maker and Wood-dealer,” and he has more the character of a Wood-cutter than the figure of the Wood-man in the popular print. He and his men cut the materials for broom-making chiefly from the neighbouring common, and the wood he deals in from adjacent woods and copses. He sells the greater part of his brooms to shopkeepers and other consumers in Streatham and Camberwell. Much of his poling is sent farther off. A good deal, he told me, had gone to the duke of Devonshire for fencing; the load then preparing was for like use on a farm at Streatham, belonging to Mr. Hoare, of the Golden Cross, Charing Cross. He eyed W---- seated on the bank, sketching the spot, and said, that as soon as he had finished loading the wain, he would show us what was “going on in-doors.” Accordingly when he had concluded he walked with me to W----, who, by that time, had nearly finished. Seeing what had been effected in that way, he had “a sort of notion that the gentleman might like, perhaps, to take off an old broom-maker, then at work, inside--as curious an old chap as a man might walk a summer’s day without seeing--one that nobody could make either head or tail of--what you call an original.”
W---- and I were as desirous of something new as were the ancient inhabitants of Athens; and in search of it we entered the broom-manufactory--a small, warm, comfortable barn, with a grateful odour in it from the heath and birch-wood. Four or five persons were busy at work. Foremost within the door was the unmistakeable old “original.” Like his fellow-workmen he wore a leathern apron, and a heavy leathern sleeve on the left arm; and with that hand and arm he firmly held and compressed the heath into round bundles, of proper consistency and size, and strongly bound them with the other. He was apparently between sixty and seventy years of age, and his labour, which to a young man seemed light, was to him heavy, for it required muscular strength. There was some difficulty in getting him to converse. He was evidently suspicious; and, as he worked, his apprehensions quickened him to restlessness and over-exertion. To “take him off” while thus excited, and almost constantly in a bending posture, was out of the question. I therefore handed him a jug of his master’s home-brewed, and told him our wish. His countenance lighted up, and I begged him to converse with me for a few minutes, and to look me full in the face; I also assured him of the “wherewithal” for a jug of ale at night. He willingly entered into the compact, but the inquietude natural to his features was baffling to the hand that held the pencil. By this time the rumour that “Old Davy” was having his head “taken off” brought his master’s wife, and her daughters and sons, from the cottage, and several workmen from another outhouse, to witness the execution, Opposite to him was W---- with his sketch-book; his desire for a “three-quarter” view of the “original” occasioned me to seat myself on a heap of birch sideways, that the old man’s face might be directed to me in the required position. The group around us was numerous and differently interested: some kept their eyes upon “Old Davy;” others upon me, while I talked to him; as many as could command a view of the sketch-book were intent upon the progress of the portrait; and a few, who were excluded, endeavoured on tiptoe, and with outstretched necks, to obtain peeps at what was going on. W. steadily employed on the likeness--the old man “sitting,” cunningly smiling, looking unutterably wise at me, while W---- was steadily endeavouring for the likeness--the surrounding spectators, and the varied expressions of their various faces--the gleams of broken light from the only opening that admitted it, the door-way--the broad masses of shadow, and the rich browns of the shining birch and spreading heath, rudely and unequally piled, formed a picture which I regretted that W---- was a prominent figure in, because, engaged as he was, he could neither see nor sketch it.
This old labourer’s eccentricity was exceedingly amusing. He said his name was David Boxall; he knew not, or would not know, either where he was born, or where he had worked, or any thing more of himself, than that there he was; “and now,” said he, “make of me what you can.” “Ah!” said his master, in a whisper, “if you can make anything of him, sir, it’s more than we have been able to do.” The old fellow had a dissenting “humph” for every thing advanced towards him--except the ale-jug. The burthen of his talk was--he thought about nothing, cared about nothing--not he--why should he? Yet he was a perpetual inquirer. Craftily leering his quick-glancing eye while he asked a question, he waited, with a sarcastic smile, for an answer; and when given, out came his usual gruff “humph,” and “how do you know?” He affected to listen to explanations, while he assumed a knowing grin, to persuade his hearers that he knew better. His knowledge, however, was incommunicable, and past all finding out. He continually indulged in “hum!” and “ha!” and a sly look; and these, to his rustic auditors, were signs of wisdom. He was what they called a “knowing old chap.” He had been the best broom-maker in the manufactory, and had earned excellent wages. When I saw him he was infirm, and did not get more than fourteen or sixteen shillings a week. Mr. Bennett’s men are paid piece-work, and can easily earn a guinea week. After the sketching was over, and his people had retired to their labour, we walked with him through his little garden of fruit-trees and vegetables to another shed, where they fashioned broom-handles, and some common husbandry implements of wood. On recrossing the garden he gathered us cherries from the trees, and discoursed on his hives of bees by the hedge-side. Having given something to his men to spend in drink, and to “Old Davy” something especially, we brought off his head, which would cost more to exhibit than a better subject, and therefore it has since rested without disturbance.
From the Broom-maker’s at Shirley Common, we had a pleasant walk into Addington, where there is a modern-built palace of the archbishop of Canterbury, with extensive old gardens and large hot-houses, and several good houses. We had passed Mr. Maberly’s seat and grounds on our way. A turn in the road gave us a view of Addington church in a retired spot, beyond a row of town-built dwellings, with little gardens in front, and a shop or two. The parish clerk lives in one of them. Upon request he accompanied us, with the keys, to the church, of ancient structure, lately trimmed up, and enclosed by a high wall and gates. There was nothing within worth seeing, except a tomb with disfigured effigies, and a mutilated ill-kept register-book, which, as it belonged to the immediate parish of the archbishop, seemed very discreditable. The “Cricketers,” nearly opposite to the church, accommodated us with as good refreshment as the village afforded, in a capacious parlour. The house is old, with a thatched roof. We found it an excellent resting-place; every way better, as an inn, than we could have expected in a spot so secluded. We had rambled and loitered towards it, and felt ourselves more wearied when about to depart than we wished; and, as a farmer’s family cart stood at the door, with the farmer himself in it, I proposed to W. to attempt gaining a lift. The farmer’s son, who drove it, said, that it was going our way, and that a ride was at our service. The driver got up in front, W. followed, and when I had achieved the climbing, I found him in conflict with a young calf, which persisted in licking his clothes. He was soon relieved from the inconvenience, by its attentions, in like manner, being shifted to me. The old farmer was a little more than “fresh,” and his son a little less. We had a laughable jolt upstanding, along a little frequented road; and during our progress I managed to bind the calf to good behaviour. Leaving West Wickham on our left, and its pleasant church and manor-house on the right, we ascended Keston Common, and passed over it, as we had nearly all the way, in merry conversation with the old farmer, who dwelt with great glee on his youthful fame, as one of the best cricket-players in Kent. We alighted before we came to the “Fox” public-house, where our companions accepted of a magnum of stiff grog in recompense for their civility. From thence we skirted Holwood, till we arrived at my old “head-quarters,” the “Cross” at Keston; and there we were welcomed by “mine host,” Mr. Young, and took tea. A walk to Bromley, and a stage from thence, brought us to “the Elephant”--and so home.
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THE WOOD FEAST.
To the Editor.
Sir,--In the autumn it is customary at Templecoomb, a small village in Somersetshire, and its neighbourhood, for the steward of the manor to give a feast, called the “Wood feast,” to farmers and other consumers that buy their wood for hurdles, rick-fasts in thatching, poles, spikes, and sundry other uses.
When the lots are drawn in the copses, and each person has paid down his money, the feast is provided “of the best,” and few attend it but go home with the hilarity which good cheer inspires. This annual treat has its uses; for the very recollection of the meeting of old friends and keeping of old customs gives an impetus to industry which generally secures for his lordship his tenants’ Wood money--most excellent fuel for the consumption of the nobility.
I am, Sir, your constant reader,
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Sept. 1827.
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CHOOSING COMMON CONSTABLES.
For the Table Book.
It is annually the custom to hold a meeting, duly summoned, on Startley Common, Wilts, for the choice of new constables for the hundreds of the county. Lots are cast for those who are to serve for the ensuing year; and afterwards the parties present adjourn to a house for refreshment, which costs each individual about seventeen shillings. This may almost be regarded as an equivalent for serving the office--the lots mostly fall on the absentees.
P.
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~Garrick Plays.~
No. XXXVI.
[From “Love’s Dominion, a Dramatic Pastoral,” by Richard Flecknoe, 1634.]
Invocation to Silence.
Still-born Silence, thou that art Floodgate of the deeper heart; Offspring of a heavenly kind; Frost o’ th’ mouth and thaw o’ th’ mind; Secresy’s Confident, and he That makes religion Mystery; Admiration’s speaking’st tongue,-- Leave thy desart shades, among Reverend Hermits’ hallow’d cells, Where retir’d’st Devotion dwells: With thy Enthusiasms come; Seize this Maid, and strike her dumb.
Fable.
Love and Death o’ th’ way once meeting, Having past a friendly greeting, Sleep their weary eye-lids closing, Lay them down, themselves reposing; When this fortune did befall ’em, Which after did so much appal ’em; Love, whom divers cares molested, Could not sleep; but, whilst Death rested, All away in haste he posts him. But his haste full dearly costs him; For it chanced, that, going to sleeping, Both had giv’n their darts in keeping Unto Night; who (Error’s Mother) Blindly knowing not th’ one from th’ other, Gave Love Death’s, and ne’er perceiv’d it, Whilst as blindly Love receiv’d it: Since which time, their darts confounding, Love now kills, instead of wounding; Death, our hearts with sweetness filling, Gently wounds, instead of killing.
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[From “Andronicus,” a Tragedy, by Philonax Lovekin, 1661.]
Effect of Religious Structures on different minds.
Crato. I grieve the Chapel was defaced; ’twas stately. Cleobulus. I love no such triumphant Churches-- They scatter my devotion; whilst my sight Is courted to observe their sumptuous cost, I find my heart lost in my eyes; Whilst that a holy horror seems to dwell Within a dark obscure and humble cell. Crato. But I love Churches, mount up to the skies For my devotion rises with their roof: Therein my soul doth heav’n anticipate.
Song for Sleep.
Come, Somnus, with thy potent charms, And seize this Captive in thy arms; And sweetly drop on every sense Thy soul-refreshing influence. His sight, smell, hearing, touch, and taste, Unto the peace do thou bind fast.-- On working brains, at school all day, At night thou dost bestow a play, And troubled minds thou dost set free; Thou mak’st both friends and foes agree: All are alike, who live by breath, In thee, and in thy brother Death.
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[From “Don Quixote,” a Comedy, in three parts, by Thomas D’Urfey, 1694.]
Dirge, at the hearse of Chrysostom.
Sleep, poor Youth, sleep in peace, Relieved from love and mortal care; Whilst we, that pine in life’s disease, Uncertain-bless’d, less happy are.
Couch’d in the dark and silent grave, No ills of fate thou now can’st fear; In vain would tyrant Power enslave, Or scornful Beauty be severe.
Wars, that do fatal storms disperse, Far from thy happy mansion keep; Earthquakes, that shake the universe, Can’t rock thee into sounder sleep.
With all the charms of peace possest, Secure from life’s torment or pain, Sleep, and indulge thyself with rest; Nor dream thou e’er shalt rise again.[369]
C. L.
[369] i. e. “may thy sleep be so profound, as not even by dreams of a resurrection to be disturbed:” the language of passion, not of sincere profaneness.
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ÆSOP IN RUSSIA.
PETER THE GREAT’S SUMMER GARDEN.
Schræder, a celebrated Swedish gardener, was employed by the czar to execute a plan he had approved of, for the gardens of his summer palace. The work was already far advanced, and among the different parts that were finished, were two large divisions adjoining to the principal avenue, opposite to each other, enclosed with a hedge, and covered with turf. The czar, who came often to see the progress of his undertaking, on observing the two grass-plots, conceived a design of converting this place of mere amusement into a kind of school. “I am very well satisfied,” said the czar to the gardener, “with your performance, as well as with the variety and beauty of the several divisions that are finished: however, you must not be angry if I change the form of these two spots of ground. I should wish that the persons who walk in the garden might find the means of cultivating their minds; but in what way can we contrive this?”