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Transcriber’s Notes

  Typographical transcription used: text between ~tildes~,
  _underscores_, and =equal signs= represents text printed in the
  original work in blackletter, italics and bold face, respectively.
  Small capitals have been transcribed as ALL CAPITALS. Superscript text
  has been transcribed as ^{text}.

  More transcriber’s notes (including a list of corrections) may be
  found at the end of this text.


[Illustration: PETRARCH’S INKSTAND.

IN THE POSSESSION OF MISS EDGEWORTH, PRESENTED TO HER BY A LADY.]

    By beauty won from soft Italia’s land,
    Here Cupid, Petrarch’s Cupid, takes his stand.
    Arch suppliant, welcome to thy fav’rite isle,
    Close thy spread wings, and rest thee here awhile;
    Still the true heart with kindred strains inspire,
    Breathe all a poet’s softness, all his fire;
    But if the perjured knight approach this font,
    Forbid the words to come as they were wont,
    Forbid the ink to flow, the pen to write,
    And send the false one baffled from thy sight.

  _Miss Edgeworth._




  THE
  EVERY-DAY BOOK
  AND
  TABLE BOOK;

  OR,

  EVERLASTING CALENDAR 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, MONTHS, AND SEASONS,

  AND A

  PERPETUAL KEY TO THE ALMANAC;

  INCLUDING

  ACCOUNTS OF THE WEATHER, RULES FOR HEALTH AND CONDUCT, REMARKABLE AND
  IMPORTANT ANECDOTES, FACTS, AND NOTICES, IN CHRONOLOGY, ANTIQUITIES,
  TOPOGRAPHY, BIOGRAPHY, NATURAL HISTORY, ART, SCIENCE, AND GENERAL
  LITERATURE; DERIVED FROM THE MOST AUTHENTIC SOURCES, AND VALUABLE
  ORIGINAL COMMUNICATIONS, WITH POETICAL ELUCIDATIONS, FOR DAILY USE AND
  DIVERSION.

  BY WILLIAM HONE.

    I tell of festivals, and fairs, and plays,
    Of merriment, and mirth, and bonfire blaze;
    I tell of Christmas-mummings, new year’s day,
    Of twelfth-night king and queen, and children’s play;
    I tell of valentines, and true-love’s-knots,
    Of omens, cunning men, and drawing lots:

    I tell of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers,
    Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers;
    I tell of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
    Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes;
    I tell of groves, of twilights, and I sing
    The court of Mab, and of the fairy king.

  HERRICK.

  WITH FOUR HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SIX ENGRAVINGS.

  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. III.

  LONDON:
  PRINTED FOR THOMAS TEGG,
  73, CHEAPSIDE.


J. Haddon, Printer, Castle Street, Finsbury.




PREFACE.


On the close of the EVERY-DAY BOOK, which commenced on New Year’s Day,
1825, and ended in the last week of 1826, I began this work.

The only prospectus of the TABLE BOOK was the eight versified lines on
the title-page. They appeared on New Year’s Day, prefixed to the first
number; which, with the successive sheets, to the present date,
constitute the volume now in the reader’s hands, and the entire of my
endeavours during the half year.

So long as I am enabled, and the public continue to be pleased, the
TABLE BOOK will be continued. The kind reception of the weekly numbers,
and the monthly parts, encourages me to hope that like favour will be
extended to the half-yearly volume. Its multifarious contents and the
illustrative engravings, with the help of the copious index, realize my
wish, “to please the young, and help divert the wise.” Perhaps, if the
good old window-seats had not gone out of fashion, it might be called a
parlour-window book--a good name for a volume of agreeable reading
selected from the book-case, and left lying about, for the constant
recreation of the family, and the casual amusement of visitors.

  W. HONE.

  _Midsummer_, 1827.


THE FRONTISPIECE.

PETRARCH’S INKSTAND.

Miss Edgeworth’s lines express her estimation of the gem she has the
happiness to own. That lady allowed a few casts from it in bronze, and a
gentleman who possesses one, and who favours the “_Table Book_” with his
approbation, permits its use for a frontispiece to this volume. The
engraving will not be questioned as a decoration, and it has some claim
to be regarded as an elegant illustration of a miscellany which draws
largely on art and literature, and on nature itself, towards its supply.

“I delight,” says Petrarch, “in my pictures. I take great pleasure also
in images; they come in show more near unto nature than pictures, for
they do but appear; but these are felt to be substantial, and their
bodies are more durable. Amongst the Grecians the art of painting was
esteemed above all handycrafts, and the chief of all the liberal arts.
How great the dignity hath been of statues; and how fervently the study
and desire of men have reposed in such pleasures, emperors and kings,
and other noble personages, nay, even persons of inferior degree, have
shown, in their industrious keeping of them when obtained.” Insisting on
the golden mean, as a rule of happiness, he says, “I possess an amazing
collection of books, for attaining this, and every virtue: great is my
delight in beholding such a treasure.” He slights persons who collect
books “for the pleasure of boasting they have them; who furnish their
chambers with what was invented to furnish their minds; and use them no
otherwise than they do their Corinthian tables, or their painted tables
and images, to look at.” He contemns others who esteem not the true
value of books, but the price at which they may sell them--“a new
practice” (observe it is Petrarch that speaks) “crept in among the rich,
whereby they may attain one art more of unruly desire.” He repeats, with
rivetting force, “I have great plenty of books: where such scarcity has
been lamented, this is no small possession: I have an inestimable many
of books!” He was a diligent collector, and a liberal imparter of these
treasures. He corresponded with Richard de Bury, an illustrious prelate
of our own country, eminent for his love of learning and learned men,
and sent many precious volumes to England to enrich the bishop’s
magnificent library. He vividly remarks, “I delight passionately in my
books;” and yet he who had accumulated them largely, estimated them
rightly: he has a saying of books worthy of himself--“a wise man seeketh
not quantity but sufficiency.”

Petrarch loved the quiet scenes of nature, and these can scarcely be
observed from a carriage or while riding, and are never enjoyed but on
foot; and to me--on whom that discovery was imposed, and who am
sometimes restrained from country walks, by necessity--it was no small
pleasure, when I read a passage in his “View of Human Nature,” which
persuaded me of his fondness for the exercise: “A journey on foot hath
most pleasant commodities; a man may go at his pleasure; none shall stay
him, none shall carry him beyond his wish; none shall trouble him; he
hath but one labour, the labour of nature--to go.”

In “The Indicator” there is a paper of peculiar beauty, by Mr. Leigh
Hunt, “on receiving a sprig of myrtle from Vaucluse,” with a paragraph
suitable to this occasion: “We are supposing that all our readers are
acquainted with Petrarch. Many of them doubtless know him intimately.
Should any of them want an introduction to him, how should we speak of
him in the gross? We should say, that he was one of the finest gentlemen
and greatest scholars that ever lived; that he was a writer who
flourished in Italy in the fourteenth century, at the time when Chaucer
was young, during the reigns of our Edwards; that he was the greatest
light of his age; that although so fine a writer himself, and the author
of a multitude of works, or rather because he was both, he took the
greatest pains to revive the knowledge of the ancient learning,
recommending it every where, and copying out large manuscripts with his
own hand; that two great cities, Paris and Rome, contended which should
have the honour of crowning him; that he was crowned publicly, in the
metropolis of the world, with laurel and with myrtle; that he was the
friend of Boccaccio the father of Italian prose; and lastly, that his
greatest renown nevertheless, as well as the predominant feelings of his
existence, arose from the long love he bore for a lady of Avignon, the
far-famed Laura, whom he fell in love with on the 6th of April, 1327, on
a Good Friday; whom he rendered illustrious in a multitude of sonnets,
which have left a sweet sound and sentiment in the ear of all after
lovers; and who died, still passionately beloved, in the year 1348, on
the same day and hour on which he first beheld her. Who she was, or why
their connection was not closer, remains a mystery. But that she was a
real person, and that in spite of all her modesty she did not show an
insensible countenance to his passion, is clear from his long-haunted
imagination, from his own repeated accounts, from all that he wrote,
uttered, and thought. One love, and one poet, sufficed to give the whole
civilized world a sense of delicacy in desire, of the abundant riches to
be found in one single idea, and of the going out of a man’s self to
dwell in the soul and happiness of another, which has served to refine
the passion for all modern times; and perhaps will do so, as long as
love renews the world.”

At Vaucluse, or Valchiusa, “a remarkable spot in the old poetical region
of Provence, consisting of a little deep glen of green meadows
surrounded with rocks, and containing the fountain of the river Sorgue,”
Petrarch resided for several years, and composed in it the greater part
of his poems.

The following is a translation by sir William Jones, of

AN ODE, BY PETRARCH,

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF VALCHIUSA

          Ye clear and sparkling streams!
          (Warm’d by the sunny beams)
    Through whose transparent crystal Laura play’d;
          Ye boughs that deck the grove,
          Where Spring her chaplets wove,
    While Laura lay beneath the quivering shade;
          Sweet herbs! and blushing flowers!
          That crown yon vernal bowers,
    For ever fatal, yet for ever dear;
          And ye, that heard my sighs
          When first she charm’d my eyes,
    Soft-breathing gales! my dying accents hear.
          If Heav’n has fix’d my doom,
          That Love must quite consume
    My bursting heart, and close my eyes in death
          Ah! grant this slight request,--
          That here my urn may rest,
    When to its mansion flies my vital breath.
          This pleasing hope will smooth
          My anxious mind, and soothe
    The pangs of that inevitable hour;
          My spirit will not grieve
          Her mortal veil to leave
    In these calm shades, and this enchanting bower
          Haply, the guilty maid
          Through yon accustom’d glade
    To my sad tomb will take her lonely way
          Where first her beauty’s light
          O’erpower’d my dazzled sight,
    When love on this fair border bade me stray:
          There, sorrowing, shall she see,
          Beneath an aged tree,
    Her true, but hapless lover’s lowly bier;
          Too late her tender sighs
          Shall melt the pitying skies,
    And her soft veil shall hide the gushing tear
          O! well-remember’d day,
          When on yon bank she lay,
    Meek in her pride, and in her rigour mild;
          The young and blooming flowers,
          Falling in fragrant showers,
    Shone on her neck, and on her bosom smil’d
          Some on her mantle hung,
          Some in her locks were strung,
    Like orient gems in rings of flaming gold;
          Some, in a spicy cloud
          Descending, call’d aloud,
    “Here Love and Youth the reins of empire hold.”
          I view’d the heavenly maid
          And, rapt in wonder, said--
    “The groves of Eden gave this angel birth,”
          Her look, her voice, her smile,
          That might all Heaven beguile,
    Wafted my soul above the realms of earth
          The star-bespangled skies
          Were open’d to my eyes;
    Sighing I said, “Whence rose this glittering scene?”
          Since that auspicious hour,
          This bank, and odorous bower,
    My morning couch, and evening haunt have been.
          Well mayst thou blush, my song,
          To leave the rural throng
    And fly thus artless to my Laura’s ear,
          But, were thy poet’s fire
          Ardent as his desire,
    Thou wert a song that Heaven might stoop to hear

It is within probability to imagine, that the original of this “ode” may
have been impressed on the paper, by Petrarch’s pen, from the inkstand
of the frontispiece.




Vol. I.--1.


  THE
  TABLE BOOK.

Formerly, a “Table Book” was a memorandum book, on which any thing was
graved or written without ink. It is mentioned by Shakspeare. Polonius,
on disclosing Ophelia’s affection for Hamlet to the king, inquires

    “When I had seen this hot love on the wing,
    ----------------------- what might you,
    Or my dear majesty, your queen here, think,
    If I had play’d the desk, or table-book?”

Dr. Henry More, a divine, and moralist, of the succeeding century,
observes, that “Nature makes clean the _table-book_ first, and then
portrays upon it what she pleaseth.” In this sense, it might have been
used instead of a _tabula rasa_, or sheet of blank writing paper,
adopted by Locke as an illustration of the human mind in its incipiency.
It is figuratively introduced to nearly the same purpose by Swift: he
tells us that

    “Nature’s fair table-book, our tender souls,
    We scrawl all o’er with old and empty rules,
    Stale memorandums of the schools.”

Dryden says, “Put into your _Table-Book_ whatsoever you judge
worthy.”[1]

I hope I shall not unworthily err, if, in the commencement of a work
under this title, I show what a _Table Book_ was.

Table books, or tablets, of wood, existed before the time of Homer, and
among the Jews before the Christian æra. The table books of the Romans
were nearly like ours, which will be described presently; except that
the leaves, which were two, three, or more in number, were of wood
surfaced with wax. They wrote on them with a style, one end of which was
pointed for that purpose, and the other end rounded or flattened, for
effacing or scraping out. Styles were made of nearly all the metals, as
well as of bone and ivory; they were differently formed, and resembled
ornamented skewers; the common style was iron. More anciently, the
leaves of the table book were without wax, and marks were made by the
iron style on the bare wood. The Anglo-Saxon style was very handsome.
Dr. Pegge was of opinion that the well-known jewel of Alfred, preserved
in the Ashmolean museum at Oxford, was the head of the style sent by
that king with Gregory’s Pastoral to Athelney.[2]

A gentleman, whose profound knowledge of domestic antiquities surpasses
that of preceding antiquaries, and remains unrivalled by his
contemporaries, in his “Illustrations of Shakspeare,” notices Hamlet’s
expression, “My _tables_,--meet it is I set it down.” On that passage he
observes, that the Roman practice of writing on wax tablets with a style
was continued through the middle ages; and that specimens of wooden
tables, filled with wax, and constructed in the fourteenth century, were
preserved in several of the monastic libraries in France. Some of these
consisted of as many as twenty pages, formed into a book by means of
parchment bands glued to the backs of the leaves. He says that in the
middle ages there were table books of ivory, and sometimes, of late, in
the form of a small portable book with leaves and clasps; and he
transfers a figure of one of the latter from an old work[3] to his own:
it resembles the common “slate-books” still sold in the stationers’
shops. He presumes that to such a table book the archbishop of York
alludes in the second part of King Henry IV.,

    “And therefore will he wipe his tables clean
    And keep no tell tale to his memory.”

As in the middle ages there were table-books with ivory leaves, this
gentleman remarks that, in Chaucer’s “Sompnour’s Tale,” one of the
friars is provided with

    “A pair of tables all of _ivory_,
    And a pointel ypolished fetishly,
    And wrote alway the names, as he stood,
    Of alle folk that yave hem any good.”

He instances it as remarkable, that neither public nor private museums
furnished specimens of the table books, common in Shakspeare’s time.
Fortunately, this observation is no longer applicable.

A correspondent, understood to be Mr. Douce, in Dr. Aikin’s “Athenæum,”
subsequently says, “I happen to possess a table-book of Shakspeare’s
time. It is a little book, nearly square, being three inches wide and
something less than four in length, bound stoutly in calf, and fastening
with four strings of broad, strong, brown tape. The title as follows:
‘Writing Tables, with a Kalender for xxiiii yeeres, with sundrie
necessarie rules. The Tables made by Robert Triple. London, Imprinted
for the Company of Stationers.’ The tables are inserted immediately
after the almanack. At first sight they appear like what we call
asses-skin, the colour being precisely the same, but the leaves are
thicker: whatever smell they may have had is lost, and there is no gloss
upon them. It might be supposed that the gloss has been worn off; but
this is not the case, for most of the tables have never been written on.
Some of the edges being a little worn, show that the middle of the leaf
consists of paper; the composition is laid on with great nicety. A
silver style was used, which is sheathed in one of the covers, and which
produces an impression as distinct, and as easily obliterated as a
black-lead pencil. The tables are interleaved with common paper.”

In July, 1808, the date of the preceding communication, I, too,
possessed a table book, and silver style, of an age as ancient, and
similar to that described; except that it had not “a Kalender.” Mine was
brought to me by a poor person, who found it in Covent-garden on a
market day. There were a few ill-spelt memoranda respecting vegetable
matters formed on its leaves with the style. It had two antique slender
brass clasps, which were loose; the ancient binding had ceased from long
wear to do its office, and I confided it to Mr. Wills, the almanack
publisher in Stationers’-court, for a better cover and a silver clasp.
Each being ignorant of what it was, we spoiled “a _table-book_ of
Shakspeare’s time.”

The most affecting circumstance relating to a table book is in the life
of the beautiful and unhappy “Lady Jane Grey.” “Sir John Gage, constable
of the Tower, when he led her to execution, desired her to bestow on him
some small present, which he might keep as a perpetual memorial of her:
she gave him her _table-book_, wherein she had just written three
sentences, on seeing her husband’s body; one in Greek, another in Latin,
and a third in English. The purport of them was, that human justice was
against his body, but the divine mercy would be favourable to his soul;
and that, if her fault deserved punishment, her youth at least, and her
imprudence, were worthy of excuse, and that God and posterity, she
trusted, would show her favour.”[4]

       *       *       *       *       *

Having shown what the ancient table book was, it may be expected that I
should say something about


_My_

TABLE BOOK.

The title is to be received in a larger sense than the obsolete
signification: the old table books were for private use--mine is for
the public; and the more the public desire it, the more I shall be
gratified. I have not the folly to suppose it will pass from _my_ table
to _every_ table, but I think that not a single sheet can appear on the
table of any family without communicating some information, or affording
some diversion.

On the title-page there are a few lines which briefly, yet adequately,
describe the collections in my _Table Book_: and, as regards my own
“sayings and doings,” the prevailing disposition of my mind is perhaps
sufficiently made known through the _Every-Day Book_. In the latter
publication, I was inconveniently limited as to room; and the labour I
had there prescribed to myself, of commemorating _every_ day, frequently
prevented me from topics that would have been more agreeable to my
readers than the “two grains of wheat in a bushel of chaff,” which I
often consumed my time and spirits in endeavouring to discover--and did
not always find.

In my _Table Book_, which I hope will never be out of “season,” I take
the liberty to “annihilate both time and space,” to the extent of a few
lines or days, and lease, and talk, when and where I can, according to
my humour. Sometimes I present an offering of “all sorts,” simpled from
out-of-the-way and in-the-way books; and, at other times, gossip to the
public, as to an old friend, diffusely or briefly, as I chance to be
more or less in the giving “vein,” about a passing event, a work just
read, a print in my hand, the thing I last thought of, or saw, or heard,
or, to be plain, about “whatever comes uppermost.” In short, my
collections and recollections come forth just as I happen to suppose
they may be most agreeable or serviceable to those whom I esteem, or
care for, and by whom I desire to be respected.

MY TABLE BOOK is enriched and diversified by the contributions of my
friends; the teemings of time, and the press, give it novelty; and what
I know of works of art, with something of imagination, and the
assistance of artists, enable me to add pictorial embellishment. My
object is to blend information with amusement, and utility with
diversion.

MY TABLE BOOK, therefore, is a series of continually shifting scenes--a
kind of literary kaleidoscope, combining popular forms with singular
appearances--by which youth and age of all ranks may be amused; and to
which, I respectfully trust, many will gladly add something, to improve
its views.

  [1] Johnson.

  [2] Fosbroke’s Encyclopædia of Antiquities.

  [3] Gesner De rerum fossilium figuris, &c. Tigur. 1565. 12mo.

  [4] Glossary by Mr. Archd. Nares.


  ~Ode to the New Year~

  From the _Every Day Book_: set to Music for the _Table Book_,

  BY J. K.

[Illustration: Music]

    All hail to the birth of the Year! See golden-hair’d
    Phœbus afar, Prepares to renew his career, And is
    mounting his dew-spangled car. Stern Winter congeals every
    brook, That murmur’d so lately with glee, And places a
    snowy peruke On the head of each bald-pated tree.

  ⁂ For the remaining verses, see the _Every-Day Book_, vol ii. p. 25.


~The New Year.~


HAGMAN-HEIGH.

Anciently on new year’s day the Romans were accustomed to carry small
presents, as new year’s gifts, to the senators, under whose protection
they were severally placed. In the reigns of the emperors, they flocked
in such numbers with valuable ones, that various decrees were made to
abolish the custom; though it always continued among that people. The
Romans who settled in Britain, or the families connected with them by
marriage, introduced these new year’s gifts among our forefathers, who
got the habit of making presents, even to the magistrates. Some of the
fathers of the church wrote against them, as fraught with the greatest
abuses, and the magistrates were forced to relinquish them. Besides the
well-known anecdote of sir Thomas More, when lord chancellor,[5] many
instances might be adduced from old records, of giving a pair of gloves,
some with “linings,” and others without. Probably from thence has been
derived the fashion of giving a pair of gloves upon particular
occasions, as at marriages, funerals, &c. New year’s gifts continue to
be received and given by all ranks of people, to commemorate the sun’s
return, and the prospect of spring, when the gifts of nature are shared
by all. Friends present some small tokens of esteem to each
other--husbands to their wives, and parents to their children. The
custom keeps up a cheerful and friendly intercourse among acquaintance,
and leads to that good-humour and mirth so necessary to the spirits in
this dreary season. Chandlers send as presents to their customers large
mould candles; grocers give raisins, to make a Christmas pudding, or a
pack of cards, to assist in spending agreeably the long evenings. In
barbers’ shops “thrift-box,” as it is called, is put by the apprentice
boys against the wall, and every customer, according to his inclination,
puts something in. Poor children, and old infirm persons, beg, at the
doors of the charitable, a small pittance, which, though collected in
small sums, yet, when put together, forms to them a little treasure; so
that every heart, in all situations of life, beats with joy at the
nativity of his Saviour.

The _Hagman Heigh_ is an old custom observed in Yorkshire on new year’s
eve, as appertaining to the season. The keeper of the pinfold goes round
the town, attended by a rabble at his heels, and knocking at certain
doors, sings a barbarous song, beginning with--

    “Tonight it is the new year’s night, to-morrow is the day;
    We are come about for our right and for our ray,
    As we us’d to do in old king Henry’s day:
    Sing, fellows, sing, _Hagman Heigh_,” &c.

The song always concludes with “wishing a merry Christmas and a happy
new year.” When wood was chiefly used as fuel, in heating ovens at
Christmas, this was the most appropriate season for the _hagman_, or
wood-cutter, to remind his customers of his services, and to solicit
alms. The word _hag_ is still used in Yorkshire, to signify a wood. The
“hagg” opposite to Easby formerly belonged to the abbey, to supply them
with fuel. Hagman may be a name compounded from it. Some derive it from
the Greek Αγιαμηνη, the holy month, when the festivals of the church for
our Saviour’s birth were celebrated. Formerly, on the last day of the
year, the monks and friars used to make a plentiful harvest, by begging
from door to door, and reciting a kind of carol, at the end of every
stave of which they introduced the words “agia mene,” alluding to the
birth of Christ. A very different interpretation, however, was given to
it by one John Dixon, a Scotch presbyterian minister, when holding forth
against this custom in one of his sermons at Kelso. “Sirs, do you know
what the _hagman_ signifies? It is the devil to be in the house; that is
the meaning of its Hebrew original.”[6]

       *       *       *       *       *


SONNET

ON THE NEW YEAR.

    When we look back on hours long past away,
      And every circumstance of joy, or woe
      That goes to make this strange beguiling show,
    Call’d life, as though it were of yesterday,
    We start to learn our quickness of decay.
      Still flies unwearied Time;--on still we go
      And whither?--Unto endless weal or woe,
    As we have wrought our parts in this brief play.
    Yet many have I seen whose thin blanched locks
      But ill became a head where Folly dwelt,
    Who having past this storm with all its shocks,
      Had nothing learnt from what they saw or felt:
    Brave spirits! that can look, with heedless eye,
    On doom unchangeable, and fixt eternity.

  [5] Every-Day Book, i. 9.

  [6] Clarkson’s History of Richmond, cited by a correspondent, A. B.


~Antiquities.~


WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

The following letter, written by Horace Walpole, in relation to the
tombs, is curious. Dr. ----, whom he derides, was Dr. Zachary Pearce,
dean of Westminster, and editor of Longinus, &c.

  _Strawberry-hill, 1761._

I heard lately, that Dr. ----, a very learned personage, had consented
to let the tomb of Aylmer de Valence, earl of Pembroke, a very great
personage, be removed for Wolfe’s monument; that at first he had
objected, but was wrought upon by being told that _hight_ Aylmer was a
knight templar, a very wicked set of people as his lordship had heard,
though he knew nothing of them, as they are not mentioned by Longinus. I
own I thought this a made story, and wrote to his lordship, expressing
my concern that one of the finest and most ancient monuments in the
abbey should be removed; and begging, if it was removed, that he would
bestow it on me, who would erect and preserve it here. After a
fortnight’s deliberation, the bishop sent me an answer, civil indeed,
and commending my zeal for antiquity! but avowing the story under his
own hand. He said, that at first they had taken Pembroke’s tomb for a
knight templar’s;--observe, that not only the man who shows the tombs
names it every day, but that there is a draught of it at large in Dart’s
Westminster;--that upon discovering whose it was, he had been very
unwilling to consent to the removal, and at last had obliged Wilton to
engage to set it up within ten feet of where it stands at present. His
lordship concluded with congratulating me on publishing learned authors
at my press. I don’t wonder that a man who thinks Lucan a learned
author, should mistake a tomb in his own cathedral. If I had a mind to
be angry, I could complain with reason,--as having paid forty pounds for
ground for my mother’s funeral--that the chapter of Westminster sell
their church over and over again: the ancient monuments tumble upon
one’s head through their neglect, as one of them did, and killed a man
at lady Elizabeth Percy’s funeral; and they erect new waxen dolls of
queen Elizabeth, &c. to draw visits and money from the mob.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Biographical Memoranda.~


COMETARY INFLUENCE.

Brantome relates, that the duchess of Angoulême, in the sixteenth
century, being awakened during the night, she was surprised at an
extraordinary brightness which illuminated her chamber; apprehending it
to be the fire, she reprimanded her women for having made so large a
one; but they assured her it was caused by the moon. The duchess ordered
her curtains to be undrawn, and discovered that it was a comet which
produced this unusual light. “Ah!” exclaimed she, “this is a phenomenon
which appears not to persons of common condition. Shut the window, it is
a comet, which announces my departure; I must prepare for death.” The
following morning she sent for her confessor, in the certainty of an
approaching dissolution. The physicians assured her that her
apprehensions were ill founded and premature. “If I had not,” replied
she, “seen the signal for death, I could believe it, for I do not feel
myself exhausted or peculiarly ill.” On the third day after this event
she expired, the victim of terror. Long after this period all
appearances of the celestial bodies, not perfectly comprehended by the
multitude, were supposed to indicate the deaths of sovereigns, or
revolutions in their governments.

       *       *       *       *       *


TWO PAINTERS.

When the duke d’Aremberg was confined at Antwerp, a person was brought
in as a spy, and imprisoned in the same place. The duke observed some
slight sketches by his fellow prisoner on the wall, and, conceiving they
indicated talent, desired Rubens, with whom he was intimate, and by whom
he was visited, to bring with him a pallet and pencils for the painter,
who was in custody with him. The materials requisite for painting were
given to the artist, who took for his subject a group of soldiers
playing at cards in the corner of a prison. When Rubens saw the picture,
he cried out that it was done by Brouwer, whose works he had often seen,
and as often admired. Rubens offered six hundred guineas for it; the
duke would by no means part with it, but presented the painter with a
larger sum. Rubens exerted his interest, and obtained the liberty of
Brouwer, by becoming his surety, received him into his house, clothed as
well as maintained him, and took pains to make the world acquainted with
his merit. But the levity of Brouwer’s temper would not suffer him long
to consider his situation any better than a state of confinement; he
therefore quitted Rubens, and died shortly afterwards, in consequence of
a dissolute course of life.


[Illustration: ~Representation of a Pageant Vehicle and Play.~]

    The state, and reverence, and show,
    Were so attractive, folks would go
    From all parts, ev’ry year, to see
    These pageant-plays at Coventry.

This engraving is from a very curious print in Mr. Sharp’s “Dissertatien
on the Pageants or Dramatic Mysteries, anciently performed at
Coventry.”

Coventry is distinguished in the history of the drama, because, under
the title of “Ludus _Coventriæ_,” there exists a manuscript volume of
most curious early plays, not yet printed, nor likely to be, unless
there are sixty persons, at this time sufficiently concerned for our
ancient literature and manners, to encourage a spirited gentleman to
print a limited number of copies. If by any accident the manuscript
should be destroyed, these plays, the constant theme of literary
antiquaries from Dugdale to the present period, will only be known
through the partial extracts of writers, who have sometimes inaccurately
transcribed from the originals in the British Museum.[7]

Mr. Sharp’s taste and attainments qualifying him for the task, and his
residence at Coventry affording him facility of research among the
muniments of the corporation, he has achieved the real labour of drawing
from these and other unexplored sources, a body of highly interesting
facts, respecting the vehicles, characters, and dresses of the actors in
the pageants or dramatic mysteries anciently performed by the trading
companies of that city; which, together with accounts of municipal
entertainments of a public nature, form his meritorious volume.

Very little has been known respecting the stage “properties,” before the
rise of the regular drama, and therefore the abundant matter of that
nature, adduced by this gentleman, is peculiarly valuable. With “The
Taylors’ and Shearemens’ Pagant,” complete from the original manuscript,
he gives the songs and the _original music_, engraved on three plates,
which is eminently remarkable, because it is, perhaps, the only existing
specimen of the melodies in the old Mysteries. There are ten other
plates in the work; one of them represents the club, or maul, of Pilate,
a character in the pageant of the Cappers’ company. “By a variety of
entries it appears he had a club or maul, stuffed with wool; and that
the exterior was formed of leather, is authenticated by the actual
existence of such a club or maul, discovered by the writer of this
Dissertation, in an antique chest within the Cappers’ chapel, (together
with an iron cresset, and some fragments of armour,) where it had
probably remained ever since the breaking up of the pageant.” The
subject of the Cappers’ pageant was usually the trial and crucifixion of
Christ, and the descent into hell.

The pageant vehicles were high scaffolds with two rooms, a higher and a
lower, constructed upon four or six wheels; in the lower room the
performers dressed, and in the higher room they played. This higher
room, or rather, as it may be called, the “stage,” was all open on the
top, that the beholders might hear and see. On the day of performance
the vehicles were wheeled, by men, from place to place, throughout the
city; the floor was strewed with rushes; and to conceal the lower room,
wherein the performers dressed, cloths were hung round the vehicle:
there is reason to believe that, on these cloths, the subject of the
performance was painted or worked in tapestry. The higher room of the
Drapers’ vehicle was embattled, and ornamented with carved work, and a
crest; the Smiths’ had vanes, burnished and painted, with streamers
flying.

In an engraving which is royal quarto, the size of the work, Mr. Sharp
has laudably endeavoured to convey a clear idea of the appearance of a
pageant vehicle, and of the architectural appearance of the houses in
Coventry, at the time of performing the Mysteries. So much of that
engraving as represents the vehicle is before the reader on the
preceding page. The vehicle, supposed to be of the Smiths’ company, is
stationed near the Cross in the Cross-cheaping, and the time of action
chosen is the period when Pilate, on the charges of Caiphas and Annas,
is compelled to give up Christ for execution. Pilate is represented on a
throne, or chair of state; beside him stands his son with a sceptre and
poll-axe, and beyond the Saviour are the two high priests; the two armed
figures behind are knights. The pageant cloth bears the symbols of the
passion.

Besides the Coventry Mysteries and other matters, Mr. Sharp notices
those of Chester, and treats largely on the ancient setting of the watch
on Midsummer and St. John’s Eve, the corporation giants, morris dancers,
minstrels, and waites.

       *       *       *       *       *

I could not resist the very fitting opportunity on the opening of the
new year, and of the _Table Book_ together, to introduce a memorandum,
that so important an accession has accrued to our curious literature,
as Mr. Sharp’s “Dissertation on the Coventry Mysteries.”

  [7] By a notice in Mr. Sharp’s “Dissertation,” he proposes to publish
  the “Coventry Mysteries,” with notes and illustrations, in two vols.
  octavo: 100 copies on royal paper, at three guineas; and 25, on
  imperial paper, at five guineas. Notwithstanding he limits the entire
  impression to these 125 copies, and will commence to print as soon as
  the _names_ of sixty subscribers are sent to his publishers, it
  appears that this small number is not yet complete. The fact is
  mentioned here, because it will be a reproach to the age if such an
  overture is not embraced.

       *       *       *       *       *


“THE THING TO A T.”

A young man, brought up in the city of London to the business of an
undertaker, went to Jamaica to better his condition. Business
flourished, and he wrote to his father in Bishopsgate-street to send
him, with a quantity of black and grey cloth, twenty gross of black
_Tacks_. Unfortunately he had omitted the top to his T, and the order
stood twenty gross of black _Jacks_. His correspondent, on receiving the
letter, recollected a man, near Fleet-market, who made quart and pint
tin pots, ornamented with painting, and which were called _black Jacks_,
and to him he gave the order for the twenty gross of _black Jacks_. The
maker, surprised, said, he had not so many ready, but would endeavour to
complete the order; this was done, and the articles were shipped. The
undertaker received them with other consignments, and was astonished at
the mistake. A friend, fond of speculation, offered consolation, by
proposing to purchase the whole at the invoice price. The undertaker,
glad to get rid of an article he considered useless in that part of the
world, took the offer. His friend immediately advertised for sale a
number of fashionable punch vases just arrived from England, and sold
the jacks, gaining 200 per cent.!

The young undertaker afterwards discoursing upon his father’s blunder,
was told by his friend, in a jocose strain, to order a gross of
warming-pans, and see whether the well-informed correspondents in London
would have the sagacity to consider such articles necessary in the
latitude of nine degrees north. The young man laughed at the suggestion,
but really put in practice the joke. He desired his father in his next
letter to send a gross of warming-pans, which actually, and to the great
surprise of the son, reached the island of Jamaica. What to do with this
cargo he knew not. His friend again became a purchaser at prime cost,
and having knocked off the covers, informed the planters, that he had
just imported a number of newly-constructed sugar ladles. The article
under that name sold rapidly, and returned a large profit. The parties
returned to England with fortunes, and often told the story of the black
jacks and warming-pans over the bottle, adding, that “Nothing is lost in
a good market.”

       *       *       *       *       *


BOOKS.

    ----------------------------------- Give me
    Leave to enjoy myself. That place, that does
    Contain my books, the best companions, is
    To me a glorious court, where hourly I
    Converse with the old sages and philosophers;
    And sometimes for variety, I confer
    With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels;
    Calling their victories, if unjustly got,
    Unto a strict account; and in my fancy,
    Deface their ill-placed statues. Can I then
    Part with such constant pleasures, to embrace
    Uncertain vanities? No: be it your care
    To augment a heap of wealth: it shall be mine
    To increase in knowledge.

  FLETCHER.

       *       *       *       *       *


IMAGINATION.

Imagination enriches every thing. A great library contains not only
books, but “the assembled souls of all that men held wise.” The moon is
Homer’s and Shakspeare’s moon, as well as the one we look at. The sun
comes out of his chamber in the east, with a sparkling eye, “rejoicing
like a bridegroom.” The commonest thing becomes like Aaron’s rod, that
budded. Pope called up the spirits of the Cabala to wait upon a lock of
hair, and justly gave it the honours of a constellation; for he has hung
it, sparkling for ever, in the eyes of posterity. A common meadow is a
sorry thing to a ditcher or a coxcomb; but by the help of its dues from
imagination and the love of nature, the grass brightens for us, the air
soothes us, we feel as we did in the daisied hours of childhood. Its
verdures, its sheep, its hedge-row elms,--all these, and all else which
sight, and sound, and association can give it, are made to furnish a
treasure of pleasant thoughts. Even brick and mortar are vivified, as of
old at the harp of Orpheus. A metropolis becomes no longer a mere
collection of houses or of trades. It puts on all the grandeur of its
history, and its literature; its towers, and rivers; its art, and
jewellery, and foreign wealth; its multitude of human beings all intent
upon excitement, wise or yet to learn; the huge and sullen dignity of
its canopy of smoke by day; the wide gleam upwards of its lighted lustre
at night-time; and the noise of its many chariots, heard, at the same
hour, when the wind sets gently towards some quiet suburb.--_Leigh
Hunt._

       *       *       *       *       *


ACTORS.

Madame Rollan, who died in 1785, in the seventy-fifth year of her age,
was a principal dancer on Covent-garden stage in 1731, and followed her
profession, by private teaching, to the last year of her life. She had
so much celebrity in her day, that having one evening sprained her
ancle, no less an actor than Quin was ordered by the manager to make an
apology to the audience for her not appearing in the dance. Quin, who
looked upon all dancers as “the mere garnish of the stage,” at first
demurred; but being threatened with a forfeiture, he growlingly came
forward, and in his coarse way thus addressed the audience:

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,

“I am desired by the manager to inform you, that the dance intended for
this night is obliged to be postponed, on account of mademoiselle Rollan
having dislocated her ancle: I wish it had been her neck.”

       *       *       *       *       *

In Quin’s time Hippesley was the Roscius of low comedy; he had a large
scar on his cheek, occasioned by being dropped into the fire, by a
careless nurse, when an infant, which gave a very whimsical cast to his
features. Conversing with Quin concerning his son, he told him, he had
some thoughts of bringing him on the stage. “Oh,” replied the cynic, “if
that is your intention, I think it is high time you should burn his
face.”

       *       *       *       *       *

On one of the first nights of the opera of Cymon at Drury-lane theatre,
when the late Mr. Vernon began the last air in the fourth act, which
runs,

    “Torn from me, torn from me, which way did they take her?”

a dissatisfied musical critic immediately answered the actor’s
interrogation in the following words, and to the great astonishment of
the audience, in the exact tune of the air,

    “Why towards Long-acre, towards Long-acre.”

This unexpected circumstance naturally embarrassed poor Vernon, but in a
moment recovering himself, he sung in rejoinder, the following words,
instead of the author’s:

    “Ho, ho, did they so,
     Then I’ll soon overtake her,
          I’ll soon overtake her.”

Vernon then precipitately made his exit amidst the plaudits of the whole
house.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Home Department.~


POTATOES.

If potatoes, how much soever frosted, be only carefully excluded from
the atmospheric air, and the pit not opened until some time after the
frost has entirely subsided, they will be found not to have sustained
the slightest injury. This is on account of their not having been
exposed to a sudden change, and thawing gradually.

A person inspecting his potato heap, which had been covered with turf,
found them so frozen, that, on being moved, they rattled like stones: he
deemed them irrecoverably lost, and, replacing the turf, left them, as
he thought, to their fate. He was not less surprised than pleased, a
considerable time afterwards, when he discovered that his potatoes,
which he had given up for lost, had not suffered the least detriment,
but were, in all respects, remarkably fine, except a few near the spot
which had been uncovered. If farmers keep their heaps covered till the
frost entirely disappears, they will find their patience amply rewarded.

       *       *       *       *       *


~London.~

LOST CHILDREN.

The Gresham committee having humanely provided a means of leading to the
discovery of lost or strayed children, the following is a copy of the
bill, issued in consequence of their regulation:--

  TO THE PUBLIC.

  _London._

If persons who may have lost a child, or found one, in the streets, will
go with a written notice to the Royal Exchange, they will find boards
fixed up near the medicine shop, for the purpose of posting up such
notices, (_free of expense_.) By fixing their notice at this place, it
is probable the child will be restored to its afflicted parents on the
same day it may have been missed. The children, of course, are to be
taken care of in the parish where they are found until their homes are
discovered.

From the success which has, within a short time, been found to result
from the _immediate_ posting up notices of this sort, there can be
little doubt, when the knowledge of the above-mentioned boards is
general, but that _many_ children will be _speedily_ restored. It is
recommended that a bellman be sent round the neighbourhood, as
heretofore has been usually done.

Persons on receiving this paper are requested to fix it up in their
shop-window, or other conspicuous place.

       *       *       *       *       *

The managers of Spa-fields chapel improving upon the above hint, caused
a board to be placed in front of their chapel for the same purpose, and
printed bills which can be very soon filled up, describing the child
lost or found, in the following forms:--

     CHILD LOST.            CHILD FOUND.

  Sex           Age    | Sex           Age
  Name                 | Name
  Residence            | May be heard of at
  Further particulars  | Further particulars

The severe affliction many parents suffer by the loss of young children,
should induce parish officers, and others, in populous neighbourhoods,
to adopt a plan so well devised to facilitate the restoration of strayed
children.


TICKET PORTERS.

By an Act of common council of the city of London, Heygate, mayor, 1823,
the ticket porters are not to exceed five hundred.

A ticket porter, when plying or working, is to wear his ticket so as to
be plainly seen, under a penalty of 2_s._ 6_d._ for each offence.

No ticket porter is to apply for hire in any place but on the stand,
appointed by the acts of common council, or within six yards thereof,
under a penalty of 5_s._

  +--------------------------------------------------------+-------+
  |                  FARES OF TICKET-PORTERS.              |  For  |
  |                                                        | every |
  +----------------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+  half |
  |                |  Qr.  | Half  |  One  |  1½   |  Two  | mile  |
  |                | Mile. | Mile. | Mile. | Mile. | Mile. | far-  |
  |                |       |       |       |       |       | ther. |
  |                | ----- | ----- | ----- | ----- | ----- | ----- |
  |                |_s. d._|_s. d._|_s. d._|_s. d._|_s. d._|_s. d._|
  |For any Package,|       |       |       |       |       |       |
  |Letter, &c. not |       |       |       |       |       |       |
  |exceeding 56    |       |       |       |       |       |       |
  |lbs.            | 0   4 | 0   6 | 0   9 | 1   0 | 1   6 | 0   6 |
  |Above 56 lbs.   |       |       |       |       |       |       |
  |and not ex-     |       |       |       |       |       |       |
  |ceeding 112 lbs.| 0   6 | 0   9 | 1   0 | 1   6 | 2   0 | 0   9 |
  |Above 112 lbs.  |       |       |       |       |       |       |
  |and not ex-     |       |       |       |       |       |       |
  ceeding 168 lbs. | 0   8 | 1   0 | 1   6 | 2   0 | 2   6 | 1   0 |
  +----------------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+-------+
  |  For every parcel above 14 lbs. which they may have to bring   |
  |          back, they are allowed half the above fares.          |
  +----------------------------------------------------------------+

A ticket porter not to take more than one job at a time, penalty 2_s._
6_d._

Seven, or more, rulers of the society, to constitute a court.

The governor of the society, with the court of rulers, to make
regulations, and annex reasonable penalties for the breach thereof, not
exceeding 20_s._ for each offence, or three months’ suspension. They may
discharge porters who persist in breach of their orders.

The court of rulers to hear and determine complaints in absence of the
governor.

Any porter charging more than his regular fare, finable on conviction to
the extent of 20_s._, by the governor, or the court of rulers.

Persons employing any one within the city, except their own servants or
ticket porters, are liable to be prosecuted.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Manners.~


OLIVER CROMWELL.

The following is an extract from one of Richard Symons’s Pocket-books,
preserved amongst the Harleian MSS. in the British Museum, No. 991. “At
the marriage of his daughter to Rich, in Nov. 1657, the lord protector
threw about sack-posset among all the ladyes to soyle their rich
cloaths, which they tooke as a favour, and also wett sweetmeats; and
daubed all the stooles where they were to sit with wett sweetmeats; and
pulled off Rich his peruque, and would have thrown it into the fire, but
did not, yet he sate upon it.”

       *       *       *       *       *


OLD WOMEN.

De Foe remarks in his “Protestant Monastery,” that “If any whimsical or
ridiculous story is told, ’tis of an _Old Woman_. If any person is
awkward at his business or any thing else, he is called an _Old Woman_
forsooth. Those were brave days for young people, when they could swear
the old ones out of their lives, and get a woman hanged or burnt only
for being a little too old--and, as a warning to all ancient persons,
who should dare to live longer than the young ones think convenient.”

       *       *       *       *       *


DUEL WITH A BAG.

Two gentlemen, one a Spaniard, and the other a German, who were
recommended, by their birth and services, to the emperor Maximilian
II., both courted his daughter, the fair Helene Scharfequinn, in
marriage. This prince, after a long delay, one day informed them, that
esteeming them equally, and not being able to bestow a preference, he
should leave it to the force and address of the claimants to decide the
question. He did not mean, however, to risk the loss of one or the
other, or perhaps of both. He could not, therefore, permit them to
encounter with offensive weapons, but had ordered a large bag to be
produced. It was his decree, that whichever succeeded in putting his
rival into this bag should obtain the hand of his daughter. This
singular encounter between the two gentlemen took place in the face of
the whole court. The contest lasted for more than an hour. At length the
Spaniard yielded, and the German, Ehberhard, baron de Talbert, having
planted his rival in the bag, took it upon his back, and very gallantly
laid it at the feet of his mistress, whom he espoused the next day.

Such is the story, as gravely told by M. de St. Foix. It is impossible
to say what the feelings of a successful combatant in a duel may be, on
his having passed a small sword through the body, or a bullet through
the _thorax_, of his antagonist; but might he not feel quite as elated,
and more consoled, on having put his adversary “into a _bag_?”

       *       *       *       *       *


“A NEW MATRIMONIAL PLAN.”

This is the title of a bill printed and distributed four or five years
ago, and now before me, advertising “an establishment where persons of
all classes, who are anxious to sweeten life, by repairing to the _altar
of Hymen_, have an opportunity of meeting with proper partners.” The
“plan” says, “their personal attendance is not absolutely necessary, a
statement of facts is all that is required at first.” The method is
simply this, for the parties to become _subscribers_, the amount to be
regulated according to circumstances, and that they should be arranged
in classes in the following order, viz.

  “_Ladies._

  “1st Class. I am twenty years of age, heiress to an estate in the
  county of Essex of the value of 30,000_l._, well educated, and of
  domestic habits; of an agreeable, lively disposition and genteel
  figure. Religion that of my future husband.

  “2d Class. I am thirty years of age, a widow, in the grocery line in
  London--have children; of middle stature, full made, fair complexion
  and hair, temper agreeable, worth 3,000_l._

  “3d Class. I am tall and thin, a little lame in the hip, of a lively
  disposition, conversable, twenty years of age, live with my father,
  who, if I marry with his consent, will give me 1,000_l._

  “4th Class. I am twenty years of age; mild disposition and manners;
  allowed to be personable.

  “5th Class. I am sixty years of age; income limited; active, and
  rather agreeable.

  “_Gentlemen._

  “1st Class. A young gentleman with dark eyes and hair; stout made;
  well educated; have an estate of 500_l._ per annum in the county of
  Kent; besides 10,000_l._ in the three per cent. consolidated
  annuities; am of an affable disposition, and very affectionate.

  “2d Class. I am forty years of age, tall and slender, fair complexion
  and hair, well tempered and of sober habits, have a situation in the
  Excise of 300_l._ per annum, and a small estate in Wales of the annual
  value of 150_l._

  “3d Class. A tradesman in the city of Bristol, in a ready-money
  business, turning 150_l._ per week, at a profit of 10_l._ per cent.,
  pretty well tempered, lively, and fond of home.

  “4th Class. I am fifty-eight years of age; a widower, without
  incumbrance; retired from business upon a small income; healthy
  constitution; and of domestic habits.

  “5th Class. I am twenty-five years of age; a mechanic, of sober
  habits; industrious, and of respectable connections.

“It is presumed that the public will not find any difficulty in
describing themselves; if they should, they will have the assistance of
the managers, who will be in attendance at the office, No. 5, Great St.
Helen’s, Bishopgate-street, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, between
the hours of eleven and three o’clock.--Please to inquire for Mr.
Jameson, up one pair of stairs. All letters to be post paid.

“The subscribers are to be furnished with a list of descriptions, and
when one occurs likely to suit, the parties may correspond; and if
mutually approved, the interview may be afterwards arranged. Further
particulars may be had as above.”

Such a strange device in our own time, for catching would-be lovers,
seems incredible, and yet here is the printed plan, with the name and
address of the match-making gentleman you are to inquire for “up one
pair of stairs.”

       *       *       *       *       *


~Topographical Memoranda.~


CLERICAL LONGEVITY.

The following is an authentic account, from the “Antiquarian Repertory,”
of the incumbents of a vicarage near Bridgenorth in Shropshire. Its
annual revenue, till the death of the last incumbent here mentioned, was
not more than about seventy pounds per annum, although it is a very
large and populous parish, containing at least twenty hamlets or
townships, and is scarcely any where less than four or five miles in
diameter. By a peculiar idiom in that country, the inhabitants of this
large district are said to live “in Worfield-home:” and the adjacent, or
not far distant, parishes (each of them containing, in like manner, many
townships, or hamlets) are called Claverly, or Clarely-home,
Tatnall-home, Womburn-home, or, as the terminating word is every where
pronounced in that neighbourhood, “whome.”

“A list of the vicars of Worfield in the diocese of Lichfield and
Coventry, and in the county of Salop, from 1564 to 1763, viz.

“Demerick, vicar, last popish priest, conformed during the six first
years of Elizabeth. He died 1564.

  Barney, vicar      44 years; died 1608.
  Barney, vicar      56 years; died 1664.
  Hancocks, vicar    42 years; died 1707.
  Adamson, vicar     56 years; died 1763.

Only 4 vicars in 199 years.”

       *       *       *       *       *


SPELLING FOR A WAKE.

Proclamation was made a few years ago, at Tewkesbury, from a written
paper, of which the following is a copy:--

  “HOBNAIL’S WAKE--This his to give notis on Tusday next--a Hat to be
  playd at bac sord fore. Two Belts to be tuseld fore. A plum cack to be
  gump in bags fowr. A pond of backer to be bold for, and a showl to
  danc lot by wimen.”


THE BEAUTIES OF SOMERSET.

A BALLAD.

    I’m a Zummerzetzhire man,
    Zhew me better if you can,
      In the North, Zouth, East, or West;
    I waz born in Taunton Dean,
    Of all places ever seen
      The richest and the best.

  OLD BALLAD

Tune, _Alley Croker_.

    That Britain’s like a precious gem
      Set in the silver ocean,
    Our Shakspeare sung, and none condemn
      Whilst most approve the notion,--
    But various parts, we now declare,
      Shine forth in various splendour,
    And those bright beams that shine most fair,
      The western portions render;--
        O the counties, the matchless western counties,
          But far the best,
          Of all the rest,
        Is Somerset for ever.

    For come with me, and we’ll survey
      Our hills and vallies over,
    Our vales, where clear brooks bubbling stray
      Through meads of blooming clover;
    Our hills, that rise in giant pride,
      With hollow dells between them,
    Whose sable forests, spreading wide,
      Enrapture all who’ve seen them;
        O the counties, &c.

    How could I here forgetful be
      Of all your scenes romantic,
    Our rugged rocks, our swelling sea,
      Where foams the wild Atlantic!
    There’s not an Eden known to men
      That claims such admiration,
    As lovely Culbone’s peaceful glen,
      The Tempe of the nation;
        O the counties, &c.

    To name each beauty in my rhyme
      Would prove a vain endeavour,
    I’ll therefore sing that cloudless clime
      Where _Summer_ sets for ever;
    Where ever dwells the Age of Gold
      In fertile vales and sunny,
    Which, like the promis’d land of old,
      O’erflows with milk and honey;
        O the counties, &c.

    But O! to crown my county’s worth,
      What all the rest surpasses,
    There’s not a spot in all the earth
      Can boast such lovely lasses;
    There’s not a spot beneath the sun
      Where hearts are open’d wider.
    Then let us toast them every one,
      In bowls of native cider;
        O the counties, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Weather.~


A NEW HYGROMETER.

A new instrument to measure the degrees of moisture in the atmosphere,
of which the following is a description, was invented by M. Baptist
Lendi, of St. Gall:

In a white flint bottle is suspended a piece of metal, about the size of
a hazle nut, which not only looks extremely beautiful, and contributes
to the ornament of a room, but likewise predicts every possible change
of weather twelve or fourteen hours before it occurs. As soon as the
metal is suspended in the bottle with water, it begins to increase in
bulk, and in ten or twelve days forms an admirable pyramid, which
resembles polished brass; and it undergoes several changes, till it has
attained its full dimensions. In rainy weather, this pyramid is
constantly covered with pearly drops of water; in case of thunder or
hail, it will change to the finest red, and throw out rays; in case of
wind or fog, it will appear dull and spotted; and previously to snow, it
will look quite muddy. If placed in a moderate temperature, it will
require no other trouble than to pour out a common tumbler full of
water, and to put in the same quantity of fresh. For the first few days
it must not be shaken.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Omniana.~


CALICO COMPANY.

A red kitten was sent to the house of a linen-draper in the city; and,
on departing from the maternal basket, the following lines were
written:--

THE RED KITTEN.

    O the red red kitten is sent away,
    No more on parlour hearth to play;
    He must live in the draper’s house,
    And chase the rat, and catch the mouse,
    And all day long in silence go
    Through bales of cotton and calico.

      After the king of England fam’d,
    The red red kitten was Rufus nam’d.
    And as king Rufus sported through
    Thicket and brake of the Forest New,
    The red red kitten Rufus so
    Shall jump about the calico.

      But as king Rufus chas’d the deer,
    And hunted the forest far and near,
    Until as he watch’d the jumpy squirrel,
    He was shot by Walter Tyrrel;
    So, if Fate shall his death ordain,
    Shall kitten Rufus by dogs be slain,
    And end his thrice three lives of woe
    Among the cotton and calico.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Twelfth-Day~

SONNET

TO A PRETTY GIRL IN A PASTRY-COOK’S SHOP.

    _Sweet_ Maid, for thou art _maid_ of many _sweets_,
      Behind thy counter, lo! I see thee standing,
    Gaz’d at by wanton wand’rers in the streets,
      While _cakes_, to _cakes_, thy _pretty fist_ is handing.

    Light as a _puff_ appears thy every motion,
      Yet thy replies I’ve heard are sometimes _tart_;
    I deem thee a _preserve_, yet I’ve a notion
      That warm as _brandied cherries_ is thy heart.

    Then be not to thy lover like an _ice_,
      Nor sour as _raspberry vinegar_ to one
    Who owns thee for a _sugar-plum_ so nice,
      Nicer than _comfit_, _syllabub_, or _bun_.

    I love thee more than all the girls so natty,
    I do, indeed, my _sweet_, my _savoury_ PATTY.

       *       *       *       *       *


“HOLLY NIGHT” AT BROUGH.

_For the Table Book._

The ancient custom of carrying the “holly tree” on Twelfth Night, at
Brough in Westmoreland, is represented in the accompanying engraving.

Formerly the “Holly-tree” at Brough was really “holly,” but ash being
abundant, the latter is now substituted. There are two head inns in the
town; which provide for the ceremony alternately, though the good
townspeople mostly lend their assistance in preparing the tree, to every
branch of which they fasten a torch. About eight o’clock in the evening,
it is taken to a convenient part of the town, where the torches are
lighted, the town band accompanying and playing till all is completed,
when it is removed to the lower end of the town; and, after divers
salutes and huzzas from the spectators, is carried up and down the town,
in stately procession, usually by a person of renowned strength, named
Joseph Ling. The band march behind it, playing their instruments, and
stopping every time they reach the town bridge, and the cross, where the
“holly” is again greeted with shouts of applause. Many of the
inhabitants carry lighted branches and flambeaus; and rockets, squibs,
&c. are discharged on the joyful occasion. After the tree is thus
carried, and the torches are sufficiently burnt, it is placed in the
middle of the town, when it is again cheered by the surrounding
populace, and is afterwards thrown among them. They eagerly watch for
this opportunity; and, clinging to each end of the tree, endeavour to
carry it away to the inn they are contending for, where they are allowed
their usual quantum of ale and spirits, and pass a “_merry night_,”
which seldom breaks up before two in the morning.

[Illustration: ~Carrying the “Holly Tree” at Brough, Westmoreland.~]

    To every branch a torch they tie,
    To every torch a light apply;
    At each new light send forth huzzas
    Till all the tree is in a blaze;
    And then bear it flaming through the town,
    With minstrelsy, and rockets thrown.

Although the origin of this usage is lost, and no tradition exists by
which it can be traced, yet it may not be a strained surmise to derive
it from the church ceremony of the day when branches of trees were
carried in procession to decorate the altars, in commemoration of the
offerings of the Magi, whose names are handed down to us as Melchior,
Gaspar, and Balthasar, the patrons of travellers. In catholic countries,
flambeaus and torches always abound in their ceremonies; and persons
residing in the streets through which they pass, testify their zeal and
piety by providing flambeaus at their own expense, and bringing them
lighted to the doors of their houses.

  W. H. H.


~Note.~

  COMMUNICATIONS for the _Table Book_ addressed to _me_, in a parcel, or
  under cover, to the care of the publishers, will be gladly received.

  NOTICES TO CORRESPONDENTS will appear on the wrappers of the monthly
  parts _only_.

  THE TABLE BOOK, therefore, after the present sheet, will be printed
  continuously, without matter of this kind, or the intervention of
  temporary titles, unpleasant to the eye, when the work comes to be
  bound in volumes.

  LASTLY, because this is the last opportunity of the kind in my power,
  I beg to add that some valuable papers which could not be included in
  the _Every-Day Book_, will appear in the _Table Book_.

  MOREOVER LASTLY, I earnestly solicit the immediate activity of my
  friends, to oblige and serve me, by sending _any_ thing, and _every_
  thing they can collect or recollect, which they may suppose at all
  likely to render my _Table Book_ instructive, or diverting.

  W. HONE.




Vol. I.--2.


[Illustration: ~Emigration of the Deer from Cranbourn Chase, 1826~]

    The genial years increase the timid herd
      Till wood and pasture yield a scant supply;
    Then troop the deer, as at a signal word,
      And in long lines o’er barren downs they hie,
    In search what food far vallies may afford--
      Less fearing man, their ancient enemy,
      Than in their native chase to starve and die.

The deer of Cranbourn chase usually average about ten thousand in
number. In the winter of 1826, they were presumed to amount to from
twelve to fifteen thousand. This increase is ascribed to the unusual
mildness of recent winters, and the consequent absence of injuries which
the animals are subject to from severe weather.

In the month of November, a great number of deer from the woods and
pastures of the Chase, between Gunvile and Ashmore, crossed the narrow
downs on the western side, and descended into the adjacent parts of the
vale of Blackmore in quest of subsistence. There was a large increase in
the number about twelve years preceding, till the continued deficiency
of food occasioned a mortality. Very soon afterwards, however, they
again increased and emigrated for food to the vallies, as in the present
instance. At the former period, the greater part were not allowed or
were unable to return.

The tendency of deer to breed beyond the means of support, afforded by
parks and other places wherein they are kept, has been usually regulated
by converting them into venison. This is clearly more humane than
suffering the herds so to enlarge, that there is scarcely for “every one
a mouthfull, and no one a bellyfull.” It is also better to pay a good
price for good venison in season, than to have poor and cheap venison
from the surplus of starving animals “killed off” in mercy to the
remainder, or in compliance with the wishes of landholders whose grounds
they invade in their extremity.

The emigration of the deer from Cranbourn Chase suggests, that as such
cases arise in winter, their venison may be bestowed with advantage on
labourers, who abound more in children than in the means of providing
for them; and thus the surplus of the forest-breed be applied to the
support and comfort of impoverished human beings.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Cranbourn._

Cranbourn is a market town and parish in the hundred of Cranbourn,
Dorsetshire, about 12 miles south-west from Salisbury, and 93 from
London. According to the last census, it contains 367 houses and 1823
inhabitants, of whom 104 are returned as being employed in trade. The
parish includes a circuit of 40 miles, and the town is pleasantly
situated in a fine champaign country at the north-east extremity of the
county, near Cranbourn Chase, which extends almost to Salisbury. Its
market is on a Thursday, it has a cattle market in the spring, and its
fairs are on St. Bartholomew’s and St. Nicholas’ days. It is the capital
of the hundred to which it gives its name, and is a vicarage valued in
the king’s books at £6. 13_s._ 4_d._ It is a place of high antiquity,
famous in the Saxon and Norman times for its monastery, its chase, and
its lords. The monastery belonged to the Benedictines, of which the
church at the west end of the town was the priory.[8]

       *       *       *       *       *


_Affray in the Chase._

On the night of the 16th of December, 1780, a severe battle was fought
between the keepers and deer-stealers on Chettle Common, in Bursey-stool
Walk. The deer-stealers had assembled at Pimperne, and were headed by
one Blandford, a sergeant of dragoons, a native of Pimperne, then
quartered at Blandford. They came in the night in disguise, armed with
deadly offensive weapons called swindgels, resembling flails to thresh
corn. They attacked the keepers, who were nearly equal in number, but
had no weapons but sticks and short hangers. The first blow was struck
by the leader of the gang, it broke a knee-cap of the stoutest man in
the chase, which disabled him from joining in the combat, and lamed him
for ever. Another keeper, from a blow with a swindgel, which broke three
ribs, died some time after. The remaining keepers closed in upon their
opponents with their hangers, and one of the dragoon’s hands was severed
from the arm, just above the wrist, and fell on the ground; the others
were also dreadfully cut and wounded, and obliged to surrender.
Blandford’s arm was tightly bound with a list garter to prevent its
bleeding, and he was carried to the lodge. The Rev. William Chafin, the
author of “Anecdotes respecting Cranbourn Chase,” says, “I saw him there
the next day, and his hand in the window: as soon as he was well enough
to be removed, he was committed, with his companions, to Dorchester
gaol. The hand was buried in Pimperne church-yard, and, as reported,
with the honours of war. Several of these offenders were labourers,
daily employed by Mr. Beckford, and had, the preceding day, dined in his
servants’ hall, and from thence went to join a confederacy to rob their
master.” They were all tried, found guilty and condemned to be
transported for seven years; but, in consideration of their great
suffering from their wounds in prison, the humane judge, sir Richard
Perryn, commuted the punishment to confinement for an indefinite term.
The soldier was not dismissed from his majesty’s service, but suffered
to retire upon half-pay, or pension; and set up a shop in London, which
he denoted a game-factor’s. He dispersed hand-bills in the public
places, in order to get customers, and put one into Mr. Chafin’s hand in
the arch-way leading into Lincoln’s-inn-square. “I immediately
recognised him,” says Mr. Chafin, “as he did me; and he said, that if I
would deal with him, he would use me well, for he had, in times past,
had many hares and pheasants of mine; and he had the assurance to ask
me, if I did not think it a good breeding-season for game!”

       *       *       *       *       *


_Buck-hunting._

_Buck_-hunting, in former times, was much more followed, and held in
much greater repute, than now. From letters in Mr. Chafin’s possession,
dated in June and July 1681, he infers, that the summers then were much
hotter than in the greater part of the last century. The time of meeting
at Cranbourn Chase in those days seems invariably to have been at four
o’clock in the evening; it was the custom of the sportsmen to take a
slight repast at two o’clock, and to dine at the most fashionable hours
of the present day. Mr. Chafin deemed hunting in an evening well-judged,
and advantageous every way. The deer were at that time upon their legs,
and more easily found; they were empty, and more able to run, and to
show sport; and as the evening advanced, and the dew fell, the scent
gradually improved, and the cool air enabled the horses and the hounds
to recover their wind, and go through their work without injury; whereas
just the reverse of this would be the hunting late in a morning. What
has been mentioned is peculiar to Buck-hunting only.

_Stag_-hunting is in some measure a summer amusement also; but that
chase is generally much too long to be ventured on in an evening. It
would carry the sportsman too far distant from their homes. It is
absolutely necessary, therefore, in pursuing the stag, to have the whole
day before them.

It was customary, in the last century, for sportsmen addicted to the
sport of Buck-hunting, and who regularly followed it, to meet every
season on the 29th day of May, king Charles’s restoration, with
oak-boughs in their hats or caps, to show their loyalty, (velvet caps
were chiefly worn in those days, even by the ladies,) and to hunt young
male deer, in order to enter the young hounds, and to stoop them to
their right game, and to get the older ones in wind and exercise,
preparatory to the commencement of the buck-killing season.

This practice was termed “blooding the hounds;” and the young deer
killed were called “blooding-deer,” and their venison was deemed fit for
an epicure. It was reported, that an hind quarter of this sort of
venison, which had been thoroughly hunted, was once placed on the table
before the celebrated Mr. Quin, at Bath, who declared it to be the
greatest luxury he ever met with, and ate very heartily of it. But this
taste seems not to have been peculiar to Mr. Quin; for persons of high
rank joined in the opinion: and even judges, when on their circuits,
indulged in the same luxury.

The following is an extract from a steward’s old accompt-book, found in
the noble old mansion of Orchard Portman, near Taunton, in Somersetshire

  “10th August
  1680.
  Delivered Sr William, in the
  higher Orial, going a hunting
  with the Judges               £2. 0_s._ 0_d._”

From hence, therefore, it appears, that in those days buck-hunting, for
there could be no other kind of hunting meant, was in so much repute,
and so much delighted in, that even the judges could not refrain from
partaking in it when on their circuits; and it seems that they chose to
hunt their own venison, which they annually received from Orchard park
at the time of the assizes. “I cannot but deem them good judges,” says
Mr. Chafin, “for preferring hunted venison to that which had been shot.”

       *       *       *       *       *


_Other Sports of Cranbourn Chase._

Besides buck-hunting, which certainly was the principal one, the chase
afforded other rural amusements to our ancestors in former days. “I am
well aware,” Mr. Chafin says, in preparing some notices of them, “that
there are many young persons who are very indifferent and care little
about what was practised by their ancestors, or how they amused
themselves; they are looking forward, and do not choose to look back:
but there may be some not so indifferent, and to whom a relation of the
sports of the field in the last century may not be displeasing.” These
sports, in addition to hunting, were hawking, falconry, and cocking.

Packs of hounds were always kept in the neighbourhood of the chase, and
hunted there in the proper seasons. There were three sorts of animals of
chase besides deer, viz. foxes, hares, and mertincats: the race of the
latter are nearly extinct; their skins were too valuable for them to be
suffered to exist. At that time no hounds were kept and used for any
particular sort of game except the buck-hounds, but they hunted casually
the first that came in their way.

       *       *       *       *       *


_First Pack of Fox-hounds._

The first real steady pack of fox-hounds established in the western part
of England was by Thomas Fownes, Esq. of Stepleton, in Dorsetshire,
about 1730. They were as handsome, and fully as complete in every
respect, as any of the most celebrated packs of the present day. The
owner was obliged to dispose of them, and they were sold to Mr. Bowes,
in Yorkshire, the father of the late lady Strathmore, at an immense
price. They were taken into Yorkshire by their own attendants, and,
after having been viewed and much admired in their kennel, a day was
fixed for making trial of them in the field, to meet at a famous
hare-cover near. When the huntsman came with his hounds in the morning,
he discovered a great number of sportsmen, who were riding in the cover,
and whipping the furzes as for a hare; he therefore halted, and informed
Mr. Bowes that he was unwilling to throw off his hounds until the
gentlemen had retired, and ceased the slapping of whips, to which his
hounds were not accustomed, and he would engage to find a fox in a few
minutes if there was one there. The gentlemen sportsmen having obeyed
the orders given by Mr. Bowes, the huntsman, taking the wind of the
cover, threw off his hounds, which immediately began to feather, and
soon got upon a drag into the cover, and up to the fox’s kennel, which
went off close before them, and, after a severe burst over a fine
country, was killed, to the great satisfaction of the whole party. They
then returned to the same cover, not one half of it having been drawn,
and very soon found a second fox, exactly in the same manner as before,
which broke cover immediately over the same fine country: but the chase
was much longer; and in the course of it the fox made its way to a
nobleman’s park. It had been customary to stop hounds before they could
enter it, but the best-mounted sportsmen attempted to stay the
Dorsetshire hounds in vain. The dogs topped the highest fences, dashed
through herds of deer and a number of hares, without taking the least
notice of them; and ran in to their fox, and killed him some miles
beyond the park. It was the unanimous opinion of the whole hunt, that it
was the finest run ever known in that country. A collection of
field-money was made for the huntsman much beyond his expectations; and
he returned to Stepleton in better spirits than he left it.

Before this pack was raised in Dorsetshire, the hounds that hunted
Cranbourn Chase, hunted all the animals promiscuously, except the deer,
from which they were necessarily kept steady, otherwise they would not
have been suffered to hunt in the chase at all.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Origin of Cranbourn Chase._

This royal chase, always called “The King’s Chase,” in the lapse of ages
came into possession of an earl of Salisbury. It is certain that after
one of its eight distinct walks, called Fernditch Walk, was sold to the
earl of Pembroke, the entire remainder of the chase was alienated to
lord Ashley, afterwards earl of Shaftesbury. Alderholt Walk was the
largest and most extensive in the whole Chase; it lies in the three
counties of Hants, Wilts, and Dorset; but the lodge and its
appurtenances is in the parish of Cranbourn, and all the Chase courts
are held at the manor-house there, where was also a prison for offenders
against the Chase laws. Lord Shaftesbury deputed rangers in the
different walks in the year 1670, and afterwards dismembering it,
(though according to old records, it appears to have been dismembered
long before,) by destroying Alderholt Walk; he sold the remainder to Mr.
Freke, of Shroton, in Dorsetshire, from whom it lineally descended to
the present possessor, lord Rivers.

       *       *       *       *       *

Accounts of Cranbourn Chase can be traced to the æra when king John, or
some other royal personage, had a hunting-seat at Tollard Royal, in the
county of Wilts. Hence the name of “royal” to that parish was certainly
derived. There are vestiges in and about the old palace, which clearly
evince that it was once a royal habitation: and it still bears the name
of “King John’s House.” There are large cypress trees growing before the
house, the relics of grand terraces may be easily traced, and the
remains of a park to which some of them lead. A gate at the end of the
park at the entrance of the Royal Chase, now called “Alarm Gate,” was
the place probably where the horn was blown to call the keepers to their
duty in attending their lord in his sports. There is also a venerable
old wych-elm tree, on the Chase side of the “Alarm Gate,” under which
lord Arundel, the possessor of Tollard Royal, holds a court annually, on
the first Monday in the month of September. A view of the mansion in its
present state, is given in the “Gentleman’s Magazine” for September
1811.

  [8] Hutchins’s Dorset. Capper.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Barley-break.~

Mr. Strutt, the indefatigable historian of the “Sports and Pastimes of
the People of England,” says of _Barley-break_: “The excellency of this
sport seems to have consisted in running well, but I know not its
properties.” Beyond this Mr. Strutt merely cites Dr. Johnson’s quotation
of two lines from sir Philip Sidney, as an authority for the word.
Johnson, limited to a mere dictionary explanation, calls it “a kind of
rural play; a trial of swiftness.”

Sidney, in his description of the rural courtship of Urania by Strephon,
conveys a sufficient idea of “Barley-break.” The shepherd seeks the
society of his mistress wherever he thinks it likely to find her.

    Nay ev’n unto her home he oft would go,
      Where bold and hurtless many play he tries;
    Her parents liking well it should be so,
      For simple goodness shined in his eyes:
    Then did he make her laugh in spite of woe
      So as good thoughts of him in all arise;
    While into none doubt of his love did sink,
    For not himself to be in love did think.

This “sad shepherd” held himself towards Urania according to the usual
custom and manner of lovers in such cases.

    For glad desire, his late embosom’d guest,
      Yet but a babe, with milk of sight he nurst:
    Desire the more he suckt, more sought the breast
      Like dropsy-folk, still drink to be athirst;
    Till one fair ev’n an hour ere sun did rest,
      Who then in Lion’s cave did enter first,
    By neighbors pray’d, she went abroad thereby
    At _Barley-break_ her sweet swift foot to try.

    Never the earth on his round shoulders bare
      A maid train’d up from high or low degree,
    That in her doings better could compare
      Mirth with respect, few words with courtesie,
    A careless comeliness with comely care,
      Self-guard with mildness, sport with majesty
    Which made her yield to deck this shepherd’s band:
    And still, believe me, Strephon was at hand.

    Then couples three be straight allotted there,
      They of both ends the middle two do fly;
    The two that in mid-place, Hell,[9] called were,
      Must strive with waiting foot, and watching eye,
    To catch of them, and them to Hell to bear,
      That they, as well as they, Hell may supply
    Like some which seek to salve their blotted name
    With other’s blot, till all do taste of shame.

    There you may see, soon as the middle two
      Do coupled towards either couple make,
    They false and fearful do their hands undo,
      Brother his brother, friend doth his friend forsake,
    Heeding himself, cares not how fellow do,
      But of a stranger mutual help doth take:
    As perjured cowards in adversity,
    With sight of fear, from friends to fremb’d[10] doth fly,

The game being played out with divers adventurers

    All to second _Barley-break_ again are bent.

During the second game, Strephon was chased by Urania.

    Strephon so chased did seem in milk to swim;
      He ran, but ran with eye o’er shoulder cast,
    More marking her, than how himself did go,
      Like Numid’s lions by the hunters chased,
    Though they do fly, yet backwardly do glow
      With proud aspect, disdaining greater haste:
    What rage in them, that love in him did show;
    But God gives them instinct the man to shun,
    And he by law of _Barley-break_ must run.

Urania caught Strephon, and he was sent by the rules of the sport to the
condemned place, with a shepherdess, named Nous, who affirmed

    ---------it was no right, for his default,
      Who would be caught, that she should go--
    But so she must. And now the third assault
      Of _Barley-break_.------

Strephon, in this third game, pursues Urania; Klaius, his rival suitor,
suddenly interposed.

    For with pretence from Strephon her to guard,
      He met her full, but full of warefulness,
    With in-bow’d bosom well for her prepared,
      When Strephon cursing his own backwardness
    Came to her back, and so, with double ward,
      Imprison’d her, who both them did possess
    As heart-bound slaves.------

    Her race did not her beauty’s beams augment,
      For they were ever in the best degree,
    But yet a setting forth it some way lent,
      As rubies lustre when they rubbed be;
    The dainty dew on face and body went,
      As on sweet flowers, when morning’s drops we see:
    Her breath then short, seem’d loth from home to pass,
    Which more it moved, the more it sweeter was.

    Happy, O happy! if they so might bide
      To see their eyes, with how true humbleness,
    They looked down to triumph over pride;
      With how sweet blame she chid their sauciness--
    Till she brake from their arms------
    And farewelling the flock, did homeward wend,
    And so, that even, the _Barley-break_ did end.

This game is mentioned by Burton, in his “Anatomy of Melancholy,” as one
of our rural sports, and by several of the poets, with more or less of
description, though by none so fully as Sidney, in the first eclogue of
the “Arcadia,” from whence the preceding passages are taken.

The late Mr. Gifford, in a note on Massinger, chiefly from the
“Arcadia,” describes Barley-break thus: “It was played by six people,
(three of each sex,) who were coupled by lot. A piece of ground was then
chosen, and divided into three compartments, of which the middle one was
called _hell_. It was the object of the couple condemned to this
division to catch the others, who advanced from the two extremities; in
which case a change of situation took place, and hell was filled by the
couple who were excluded by preoccupation from the other places: in this
_catching_, however, there was some difficulty, as, by the regulations
of the game, the middle couple were not to separate before they had
succeeded, while the others might break hands whenever they found
themselves hard pressed. When all had been taken in turn, the last
couple were said to be in _hell_, and the game ended.”

Within memory, a game called Barley-break has been played among stacks
of corn, in Yorkshire, with some variation from the Scottish game
mentioned presently. In Yorkshire, also, there was another form of it,
more resembling that in the “Arcadia,” which was played in open ground.
The childish game of “Tag” seems derived from it. There was a “tig,” or
“tag,” whose touch made a prisoner, in the Yorkshire game.

       *       *       *       *       *


BARLA-BREIKIS.

In Scotland there is a game nearly the same in denomination as
“Barley-break,” though differently played. It is termed
“Barla-breikis,” or “Barley-bracks.” Dr. Jamieson says it is generally
played by young people, in a corn-yard about the stacks; and hence
called _Barla-bracks_, “One stack is fixed as the _dule_ or goal, and
one person is appointed to catch the rest of the company, who run out
from the _dule_. He does not leave it till they are all out of his
sight. Then he sets out to catch them. Any one who is taken, cannot run
out again with his former associates, being accounted a prisoner, but is
obliged to assist his captor in pursuing the rest. When all are taken,
the game is finished; and he who is first taken, is bound to act as
catcher in the next game. This innocent sport seems to be almost
entirely forgotten in the south of Scotland. It is also falling into
desuetude in the north.”[11]

  [9] It may be doubted whether in the rude simplicity of ancient times,
  this word in the game of Barley-break was applied in the same manner
  that it would be in ours.

  [10] _Fremeb_, (obsolete,) strange, foreign. _Ash._ Corrupted from
  _fremd_, which, in Saxon and Gothic, signified a stranger, or an
  enemy. _Nares._

  [11] Mr. Archdeacon Nares’s Glossary.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Scraps.~


PLATE TAX.

An order was made in the house of lords in May, 1776, “that the
commissioners of his majesty’s excise do write circular letters to all
such persons whom they have reason to suspect to have _plate_, as also
to those who have not paid regularly the duty on the same.” In
consequence of this order, the accountant-general for household plate
sent to the celebrated John Wesley a copy of the order. John’s answer
was laconic:--

  “Sir,

“I have _two_ silver tea-spoons in London, and _two_ at Bristol. This is
all the plate which I have at present; and I shall not buy any more
while so many round me want bread. I am, Sir,

  “Your most humble servant,

  “JOHN WESLEY.”

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DIAL.

    This shadow on the dial’s face,
      That steals, from day to day,
    With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
      Moments, and months, and years away
    This shadow, which in every clime,
      Since light and motion first began,
    Hath held its course sublime;
      What is it?--Mortal man!
    It is the scythe of Time.
      --A shadow only to the eye.
      It levels all beneath the sky.


[Illustration: ~Mock funeral of a Bath Chairman.~]

    A chairman late’s a chairman dead,
    And to his grave, by chairman sped,
    They wake him, as they march him through
    The streets of Bath, to public view.

  _To the Editor._

  _Bath._

Sir,--I beg leave to transmit for your use the following attempt at
description of an old and singular custom, performed by the chairman of
this my native city, which perhaps you are not altogether a stranger to,
and which is still kept up among them as often as an opportunity permits
for its performance. Its origin I have not been able to trace, but its
authenticity you may rely on, as it is too often seen to be forgotten by
your Bath readers. I have also accompanied it with the above imperfect
sketch, as a further illustration of their manner of burying the “dead,”
alias, exposing a drunkard of their fraternity. The following is the
manner in which the “obsequies” to the intoxicated are performed.

If a chairman, known to have been “dead” drunk over night, does not
appear on his station before ten o’clock on the succeeding morning, the
“undertaker,” _Anglice_, his partner, proceeds, with such a number of
attendants as will suffice for the ceremony, to the house of the _late_
unfortunate. If he is found in bed, as is usually the case, from the
effects of his sacrifice to the “jolly God,” they pull him out of his
nest, hardly permitting him to dress, and place him on the “bier,”--a
chairman’s horse,--and, throwing a coat over him, which they designate
a “pall,” they perambulate the circuit of his station in the following
order:--

1. _The sexton_--a man tolling a small hand-bell.

2. _Two mutes_--each with a black stocking on a stick.

3. _The torch bearer_--a man carrying a lighted lantern.

4. _The “corpse”_ borne on the “hearse,” carried by two chairmen,
covered with the aforesaid pall.

The procession is closed by the “mourners” following after, two and two;
as many joining as choose, from the station to which the drunkard
belongs.

After exposing him in this manner to the gaze of the admiring crowd that
throng about, they proceed to the public-house he has been in the habit
of using, where his “wake” is celebrated in joviality and mirth, with a
gallon of ale at his expense. It often happens that each will contribute
a trifle towards a further prolongation of the carousal, to entrap
others into the same deadly snare; and the day is spent in baiting for
the chances of the next morning, as none are exempt who are not at their
post before the prescribed hour.

  I am, &c.

  W. G.

       *       *       *       *       *


~William Gifford, Esq.~

On Sunday morning, the 31st of December, 1826, at twenty minutes before
one o’clock, died, “at his house in James-street, Buckingham-gate, in
the seventy-first year of his age, William Gifford, Esq., author of the
‘Baviad and Mæviad,’ translator of ‘Juvenal and Persius,’ and editor of
the ‘Quarterly Review,’ from its commencement down to the beginning of
the year just past. To the translation of ‘Juvenal’ is prefixed a memoir
of himself, which is perhaps as modest and pleasant a piece of
autobiography as ever was written.”--_The Times_, January 1, 1827.

       *       *       *       *       *


INTERESTING

~Memoir of Mr. Gifford.~

BY HIMSELF--VERBATIM.

I am about to enter on a very uninteresting subject: but all my friends
tell me that it is necessary to account for the long delay of the
following work; and I can only do it by adverting to the circumstances
of my life. Will this be accepted as an apology?

I know but little of my family and that little is not very precise: My
great-grandfather (the most remote of it, that I ever recollect to have
heard mentioned) possessed considerable property at Halsbury, a parish
in the neighbourhood of Ashburton; but whether acquired or inherited, I
never thought of asking, and do not know.

He was probably a native of Devonshire, for there he spent the last
years of his life; spent them, too, in some sort of consideration, for
Mr. T. (a very respectable surgeon of Ashburton) loved to repeat to me,
when I first grew into notice, that he had frequently hunted with his
hounds.[12]

My grandfather was on ill terms with him: I believe, not without
sufficient reason, for he was extravagant and dissipated. My father
never mentioned his name, but my mother would sometimes tell me that he
had ruined the family. That he spent much, I know; but I am inclined to
think, that his undutiful conduct occasioned my great-grandfather to
bequeath a considerable part of his property from him.

My father, I fear, revenged in some measure the cause of my
great-grandfather. He was, as I have heard my mother say, “a very wild
young man, who could be kept to nothing.” He was sent to the
grammar-school at Exeter; from which he made his escape, and entered on
board a man of war. He was reclaimed from this situation by my
grandfather, and left his school a second time, to wander in some
vagabond society.[13] He was now probably given up; for he was, on his
return from this notable adventure, reduced to article himself to a
plumber and glazier, with whom he luckily staid long enough to learn the
business. I suppose his father was now dead, for he became possessed of
two small estates, married my mother,[14] (the daughter of a carpenter
at Ashburton,) and thought himself rich enough to set up for himself;
which he did, with some credit, at South Molton. Why he chose to fix
there, I never inquired; but I learned from my mother, that after a
residence of four or five years, he thoughtlessly engaged in a dangerous
frolic, which drove him once more to sea: this was an attempt to excite
a riot in a Methodist chapel; for which his companions were prosecuted,
and he fled.

My father was a good seaman, and was soon made second in command in the
Lyon, a large armed transport in the service of government: while my
mother (then with child of me) returned to her native place, Ashburton,
where I was born, in April, 1756.

The resources of my mother were very scanty. They arose from the rent of
three or four small fields, which yet remained unsold. With these,
however, she did what she could for me; and as soon as I was old enough
to be trusted out of her sight, sent me to a schoolmistress of the name
of Parret, from whom I learned in due time to read. I cannot boast much
of my acquisitions at this school; they consisted merely of the contents
of the “Child’s Spelling Book:” but from my mother, who had stored up
the literature of a country town, which, about half a century ago,
amounted to little more than what was disseminated by itinerant
ballad-singers, or rather, readers, I had acquired much curious
knowledge of Catskin, and the Golden Bull, and the Bloody Gardener, and
many other histories equally instructive and amusing.

My father returned from sea in 1764. He had been at the siege of the
Havannah; and though he received more than a hundred pounds for prize
money, and his wages were considerable; yet, as he had not acquired any
strict habits of economy, he brought home but a trifling sum. The little
property yet left was therefore turned into money; a trifle more was got
by agreeing to renounce all future pretensions to an estate at
Totness;[15] and with this my father set up a second time as a glazier
and house painter. I was now about eight years old, and was put to the
freeschool, (kept by Hugh Smerdon,) to learn to read, and write and
cipher. Here I continued about three years, making a most wretched
progress, when my father fell sick and died. He had not acquired wisdom
from his misfortunes, but continued wasting his time in unprofitable
pursuits, to the great detriment of his business. He loved drink for the
sake of society, and to this he fell a martyr; dying of a decayed and
ruined constitution before he was forty. The town’s-people thought him a
shrewd and sensible man, and regretted his death. As for me, I never
greatly loved him; I had not grown up with him; and he was too prone to
repulse my little advances to familiarity, with coldness, or anger. He
had certainly some reason to be displeased with me, for I learned little
at school, and nothing at home, although he would now and then attempt
to give me some insight into his business. As impressions of any kind
are not very strong at the age of eleven or twelve, I did not long feel
his loss; nor was it a subject of much sorrow to me, that my mother was
doubtful of her ability to continue me at school, though I had by this
time acquired a love for reading.

I never knew in what circumstances my mother was left: most probably
they were inadequate to her support, without some kind of exertion,
especially as she was now burthened with a second child about six or
eight months old. Unfortunately she determined to prosecute my father’s
business; for which purpose she engaged a couple of journeymen, who,
finding her ignorant of every part of it, wasted her property, and
embezzled her money. What the consequence of this double fraud would
have been, there was no opportunity of knowing, as, in somewhat less
than a twelvemonth, my poor mother followed my father to the grave. She
was an excellent woman, bore my father’s infirmities with patience and
good humour, loved her children dearly, and died at last, exhausted with
anxiety and grief more on their account than her own.

I was not quite thirteen when this happened, my little brother was
hardly two; and we had not a relation nor a friend in the world. Every
thing that was left, was seized by a person of the name of Carlile, for
money advanced to my mother. It may be supposed that I could not dispute
the justice of his claims; and as no one else interfered, he was
suffered to do as he liked. My little brother was sent to the
alms-house, whither his nurse followed him out of pure affection: and I
was taken to the house of the person I have just mentioned, who was also
my godfather. Respect for the opinion of the town (which, whether
correct or not, was, that he had amply repaid himself by the sale of my
mother’s effects) induced him to send me again to school, where I was
more diligent than before, and more successful. I grew fond of
arithmetic, and my master began to distinguish me; but these golden days
were over in less than three months. Carlile sickened at the expense;
and, as the people were now indifferent to my fate, he looked round for
an opportunity of ridding himself of a useless charge. He had previously
attempted to engage me in the drudgery of husbandry. I drove the plough
for one day to gratify him; but I left it with a firm resolution to do
so no more, and in despite of his threats and promises, adhered to my
determination. In this, I was guided no less by necessity than will.
During my father’s life, in attempting to clamber up a table, I had
fallen backward, and drawn it after me: its edge fell upon my breast,
and I never recovered the effects of the blow; of which I was made
extremely sensible on any extraordinary exertion. Ploughing, therefore,
was out of the question, and, as I have already said, I utterly refused
to follow it.

As I could write and cipher, (as the phrase is,) Carlile next thought of
sending me to Newfoundland, to assist in a storehouse. For this purpose
he negotiated with a Mr. Holdsworthy of Dartmouth, who agreed to fit me
out. I left Ashburton with little expectation of seeing it again, and
indeed with little care, and rode with my godfather to the dwelling of
Mr. Holdsworthy. On seeing me, this great man observed with a look of
pity and contempt, that I was “too small,” and sent me away sufficiently
mortified. I expected to be very ill received by my godfather, but he
said nothing. He did not however choose to take me back himself, but
sent me in the passage-boat to Totness, from whence I was to walk home.
On the passage, the boat was driven by a midnight storm on the rocks,
and I escaped almost by miracle.

My godfather had now humbler views for me, and I had little heart to
resist any thing. He proposed to send me on board one of the Torbay
fishing-boats; I ventured, however, to remonstrate against this, and the
matter was compromised by my consenting to go on board a coaster. A
coaster was speedily found for me at Brixham, and thither I went when
little more than thirteen.

My master, whose name was Full, though a gross and ignorant, was not an
ill-natured, man; at least, not to me: and my mistress used me with
unvarying kindness; moved perhaps by my weakness and tender years. In
return, I did what I could to requite her, and my good will was not
overlooked.

Our vessel was not very large, nor our crew very numerous. On ordinary
occasions, such as short trips to Dartmouth, Plymouth, &c. it consisted
only of my master, an apprentice nearly out of his time, and myself:
when we had to go further, to Portsmouth for example, an additional hand
was hired for the voyage.

In this vessel (the Two Brothers) I continued nearly a twelvemonth; and
here I got acquainted with nautical terms, and contracted a love for the
sea, which a lapse of thirty years has but little diminished.

It will be easily conceived that my life was a life of hardship. I was
not only a “shipboy on the high and giddy mast,” but also in the cabin,
where every menial office fell to my lot: yet if I was restless and
discontented, I can safely say, it was not so much on account of this,
as of my being precluded from all possibility of reading; as my master
did not possess, nor do I recollect seeing during the whole time of my
abode with him, a single book of any description, except the Coasting
Pilot.

As my lot seemed to be cast, however, I was not negligent in seeking
such information as promised to be useful; and I therefore frequented,
at my leisure hours, such vessels as dropt into Torbay. On attempting to
get on board one of these, which I did at midnight, I missed my footing,
and fell into the sea. The floating away of the boat alarmed the man on
deck, who came to the ship’s side just in time to see me sink. He
immediately threw out several ropes, one of which providentially (for I
was unconscious of it) intangled itself about me, and I was drawn up to
the surface, till a boat could be got round. The usual methods were
taken to recover me, and I awoke in bed the next morning, remembering
nothing but the horror I felt, when I first found myself unable to cry
out for assistance.

This was not my only escape, but I forbear to speak of them. An escape
of another kind was now preparing for me, which deserves all my notice,
as it was decisive of my future fate.

On Christmas day (1770) I was surprised by a message from my godfather,
saying that he had sent a man and horse to bring me to Ashburton; and
desiring me to set out without delay. My master, as well as myself,
supposed it was to spend the holydays there; and he therefore made no
objection to my going. We were, however, both mistaken.

Since I had lived at Brixham, I had broken off all connection with
Ashburton. I had no relation there but my poor brother,[16] who was yet
too young for any kind of correspondence; and the conduct of my
godfather towards me, did not entitle him to any portion of my
gratitude, or kind remembrance. I lived therefore in a sort of sullen
independence on all I had formerly known, and thought without regret of
being abandoned by every one to my fate. But I had not been overlooked.
The women of Brixham, who travelled to Ashburton twice a week with fish,
and who had known my parents, did not see me without kind concern,
running about the beach in a ragged jacket and trousers. They mentioned
this to the people of Ashburton, and never without commiserating my
change of condition. This tale, often repeated, awakened at length the
pity of their auditors, and, as the next step, their resentment against
the man who had reduced me to such a state of wretchedness. In a large
town, this would have had little effect; but in a place like Ashburton,
where every report speedily becomes the common property of all the
inhabitants, it raised a murmur which my godfather found himself either
unable or unwilling to encounter: he therefore determined to recall me;
which he could easily do, as I wanted some months of fourteen, and was
not yet bound.

All this, I learned on my arrival; and my heart, which had been cruelly
shut up, now opened to kinder sentiments, and fairer views.

After the holydays I returned to my darling pursuit, arithmetic: my
progress was now so rapid, that in a few months I was at the head of the
school, and qualified to assist my master (Mr. E. Furlong) on any
extraordinary emergency. As he usually gave me a trifle on those
occasions, it raised a thought in me, that by engaging with him as a
regular assistant, and undertaking the instruction of a few evening
scholars, I might, with a little additional aid, be enabled to support
myself. God knows, my ideas of support at this time were of no very
extravagant nature. I had, besides, another object in view. Mr. Hugh
Smerdon (my first master) was now grown old and infirm; it seemed
unlikely that he should hold out above three or four years; and I fondly
flattered myself that, notwithstanding my youth, I might possibly be
appointed to succeed him. I was in my fifteenth year, when I built these
castles: a storm, however, was collecting, which unexpectedly burst upon
me, and swept them all away.

On mentioning my little plan to Carlile, he treated it with the utmost
contempt; and told me, in his turn, that as I had learned enough, and
more than enough, at school, he must be considered as having fairly
discharged his duty; (so, indeed, he had;) he added, that he had been
negotiating with his cousin, a shoemaker of some respectability, who had
liberally agreed to take me without a fee, as an apprentice. I was so
shocked at this intelligence, that I did not remonstrate; but went in
sullenness and silence to my new master, to whom I was soon after
bound,[17] till I should attain the age of twenty-one.

The family consisted of four journeymen, two sons about my own age, and
an apprentice somewhat older. In these there was nothing remarkable; but
my master himself was the strangest creature!--He was a Presbyterian,
whose reading was entirely confined to the small tracts published on the
Exeter Controversy. As these (at least his portion of them) were all on
one side, he entertained no doubt of their infallibility, and being
noisy and disputacious, was sure to silence his opponents; and became,
in consequence of it, intolerably arrogant and conceited. He was not,
however, indebted solely to his knowledge of the subject for his
triumph: he was possessed of Fenning’s Dictionary, and he made a most
singular use of it. His custom was to fix on any word in common use, and
then to get by heart the synonym, or periphrasis by which it was
explained in the book; this he constantly substituted for the simple
term, and as his opponents were commonly ignorant of his meaning, his
victory was complete.

With such a man I was not likely to add much to my stock of knowledge,
small as it was; and, indeed, nothing could well be smaller. At this
period, I had read nothing but a black letter romance, called Parismus
and Parismenus, and a few loose magazines which my mother had brought
from South Molton. With the Bible, indeed, I was well acquainted; it was
the favourite study of my grandmother, and reading it frequently with
her, had impressed it strongly on my mind; these then, with the
Imitation of Thomas à Kempis, which I used to read to my mother on her
death-bed, constituted the whole of my literary acquisitions.

As I hated my new profession with a perfect hatred, I made no progress
in it; and was consequently little regarded in the family, of which I
sunk by degrees into the common drudge: this did not much disquiet me,
for my spirits were now humbled. I did not however quite resign the hope
of one day succeeding to Mr. Hugh Smerdon, and therefore secretly
prosecuted my favourite study, at every interval of leisure.

These intervals were not very frequent; and when the use I made of them
was found out, they were rendered still less so. I could not guess the
motives for this at first; but at length I discovered that my master
destined his youngest son for the situation to which I aspired.

I possessed at this time but one book in the world: it was a treatise on
algebra, given to me by a young woman, who had found it in a
lodging-house. I considered it as a treasure; but it was a treasure
locked up; for it supposed the reader to be well acquainted with simple
equation, and I knew nothing of the matter. My master’s son had
purchased Fenning’s Introduction: this was precisely what I wanted; but
he carefully concealed it from me, and I was indebted to chance alone
for stumbling upon his hiding-place. I sat up for the greatest part of
several nights successively, and, before he suspected that his treatise
was discovered, had completely mastered it. I could now enter upon my
own; and that carried me pretty far into the science.

This was not done without difficulty. I had not a farthing on earth, nor
a friend to give me one: pen, ink, and paper, therefore, (in despite of
the flippant remark of Lord Orford,) were, for the most part, as
completely out of my reach, as a crown and sceptre. There was indeed a
resource; but the utmost caution and secrecy were necessary in applying
to it. I beat out pieces of leather as smooth as possible and wrought my
problems on them with a blunted awl: for the rest, my memory was
tenacious, and I could multiply and divide by it, to a great extent.

Hitherto I had not so much as dreamed of poetry: indeed I scarcely knew
it by name; and, whatever may be said of the force of nature, I
certainly never “lisp’d in numbers.” I recollect the occasion of my
first attempt: it is, like all the rest of my non-adventures, of so
unimportant a nature, that I should blush to call the attention of the
idlest reader to it, but for the reason alleged in the introductory
paragraph. A person, whose name escapes me, had undertaken to paint a
sign for an ale-house: it was to have been a lion, but the unfortunate
artist produced a dog. On this awkward affair, one of my acquaintance
wrote a copy of what we called verse: I liked it; but fancied I could
compose something more to the purpose: I made the experiment, and by the
unanimous suffrage of my shopmates was allowed to have succeeded.
Notwithstanding this encouragement, I thought no more of verse, till
another occurrence, as trifling as the former, furnished me with a
fresh subject: and thus I went on, till I had got together about a dozen
of them. Certainly, nothing on earth was ever so deplorable: such as
they were, however, they were talked of in my little circle, and I was
sometimes invited to repeat them, even out of it. I never committed a
line to paper for two reasons; first, because I had no paper; and
secondly--perhaps I might be excused from going further; but in truth I
was afraid, as my master had already threatened me, for inadvertently
hitching the name of one of his customers into a rhyme.

The repetitions of which I speak were always attended with applause, and
sometimes with favours more substantial: little collections were now and
then made, and I have received sixpence in an evening. To one who had
long lived in the absolute want of money, such a resource seemed a
Peruvian mine: I furnished myself by degrees with paper, &c., and what
was of more importance, with books of geometry, and of the higher
branches of algebra, which I cautiously concealed. Poetry, even at this
time, was no amusement of mine: it was subservient to other purposes;
and I only had recourse to it, when I wanted money for my mathematical
pursuits.

But the clouds were gathering fast. My master’s anger was raised to a
terrible pitch, by my indifference to his concerns, and still more by
the reports which were daily brought to him of my presumptuous attempts
at versification. I was required to give up my papers, and when I
refused, my garret was searched, and my little hoard of books discovered
and removed, and all future repetitions prohibited in the strictest
manner.

This was a very severe stroke, and I felt it most sensibly; it was
followed by another severer still; a stroke which crushed the hopes I
had so long and so fondly cherished, and resigned me at once to despair.
Mr. Hugh Smerdon, on whose succession I had calculated, died, and was
succeeded by a person not much older than myself, and certainly not so
well qualified for the situation.

I look back on that part of my life which immediately followed this
event, with little satisfaction; it was a period of gloom, and savage
unsociability: by degrees I sunk into a kind of coporeal torpor; or, if
roused into activity by the spirit of youth, wasted the exertion in
splenetic and vexatious tricks, which alienated the few acquaintances
whom compassion had yet left me. So I crept on in silent discontent,
unfriended and unpitied; indignant at the present, careless of the
future, an object at once of apprehension and dislike.

From this state of abjectness I was raised by a young woman of my own
class. She was a neighbour; and whenever I took my solitary walk, with
my Wolfius in my pocket, she usually came to the door, and by a smile,
or a short question, put in the friendliest manner, endeavoured to
solicit my attention. My heart had been long shut to kindness, but the
sentiment was not dead in me: it revived at the first encouraging word;
and the gratitude I felt for it was the first pleasing sensation which I
had ventured to entertain for many dreary months.

Together with gratitude, hope, and other passions still more enlivening,
took place of that uncomfortable gloominess which so lately possessed
me: I returned to my companions, and by every winning art in my power,
strove to make them forget my former repulsive ways. In this I was not
unsuccessful; I recovered their good will, and by degrees grew to be
somewhat of a favourite.

My master still murmured, for the business of the shop went on no better
than before: I comforted myself, however, with the reflection that my
apprenticeship was drawing to a conclusion, when I determined to
renounce the employment for ever, and to open a private school.

In this humble and obscure state, poor beyond the common lot, yet
flattering my ambition with day-dreams, which, perhaps, would never have
been realized, I was found in the twentieth year of my age by Mr.
William Cookesley, a name never to be pronounced by me without
veneration. The lamentable doggerel which I have already mentioned, and
which had passed from mouth to mouth among people of my own degree, had
by some accident or other reached his ear, and given him a curiosity to
inquire after the author.

It was my good fortune to interest his benevolence. My little history
was not untinctured with melancholy, and I laid it fairly before him:
his first care was to console; his second, which he cherished to the
last moment of his existence, was to relieve and support me.

Mr. Cookesley was not rich: his eminence in his profession, which was
that of a surgeon, procured him, indeed, much employment; but in a
country town, men of science are not the most liberally rewarded: he
had, besides, a very numerous family, which left him little for the
purposes of general benevolence: that little, however, was cheerfully
bestowed, and his activity and zeal were always at hand to supply the
deficiencies of his fortune.

On examining into the nature of my literary attainments, he found them
absolutely nothing: he heard, however, with equal surprise and pleasure,
that amidst the grossest ignorance of books, I had made a very
considerable progress in the mathematics. He engaged me to enter into
the details of this affair, and when he learned that I had made it in
circumstances of peculiar discouragement, he became more warmly
interested in my favour, as he now saw a possibility of serving me.

The plan that occurred to him was naturally that which had so often
suggested itself to me. There were indeed several obstacles to be
overcome; I had eighteen months yet to serve; my handwriting was bad,
and my language very incorrect; but nothing could slacken the zeal of
this excellent man; he procured a few of my poor attempts at rhyme,
dispersed them amongst his friends and acquaintance, and when my name
was become somewhat familiar to them, set on foot a subscription for my
relief. I still preserve the original paper; its title was not very
magnificent, though it exceeded the most sanguine wishes of my heart: it
ran thus, “A Subscription for purchasing the remainder of the time of
William Gifford, and for enabling him to improve himself in Writing and
English Grammar.” Few contributed more than five shillings, and none
went beyond ten-and-sixpence: enough, however, was collected to free me
from my apprenticeship,[18] and to maintain me for a few months, during
which I assiduously attended the Rev. Thomas Smerdon.

At the expiration of this period, it was found that my progress (for I
will speak the truth in modesty) had been more considerable than my
patrons expected: I had also written in the interim several little
pieces of poetry, less rugged, I suppose, than my former ones, and
certainly with fewer anomalies of language. My preceptor, too, spoke
favourably of me; and my benefactor, who was now become my father and my
friend, had little difficulty in persuading my patrons to renew their
donations, and to continue me at school for another year. Such
liberality was not lost upon me; I grew anxious to make the best return
in my power, and I redoubled my diligence. Now, that I am sunk into
indolence, I look back with some degree of scepticism to the exertions
of that period.

In two years and two months from the day of my emancipation, I was
pronounced by Mr. Smerdon, fit for the University. The plan of opening a
writing school had been abandoned almost from the first; and Mr.
Cookesley looked round for some one who had interest enough to procure
me some little office at Oxford. This person, who was soon found, was
Thomas Taylor, Esq. of Denbury, a gentleman to whom I had already been
indebted for much liberal and friendly support. He procured me the place
of Bib. Lect. at Exeter College; and this, with such occasional
assistance from the country as Mr. Cookesley undertook to provide, was
thought sufficient to enable me to live, at least, till I had taken a
degree.

During my attendance on Mr. Smerdon I had written, as I observed before,
several tuneful trifles, some as exercises, others voluntarily, (for
poetry was now become my delight,) and not a few at the desire of my
friends.[19] When I became capable, however, of reading Latin and Greek
with some degree of facility, that gentleman employed all my leisure
hours in translations from the classics; and indeed I scarcely know a
single school-book, of which I did not render some portion into English
verse. Among others, JUVENAL engaged my attention, or rather my
master’s, and I translated the tenth Satire for a holyday task. Mr.
Smerdon was much pleased with this, (I was not undelighted with it
myself,) and as I was now become fond of the author, he easily persuaded
me to proceed with him; and I translated in succession the third, the
fourth, the twelfth, and, I think, the eighth Satires. As I had no end
in view but that of giving a temporary satisfaction to my benefactors, I
thought little more of these, than of many other things of the same
nature, which I wrote from time to time, and of which I never copied a
single line.

On my removing to Exeter College, however, my friend, ever attentive to
my concerns, advised me to copy my translation of the tenth Satire and
present it, on my arrival, to the Rev. Dr. Stinton, (afterwards Rector,)
to whom Mr. Taylor had given me an introductory letter: I did so, and it
was kindly received. Thus encouraged, I took up the first and second
Satires, (I mention them in the order they were translated,) when my
friend, who had sedulously watched my progress, first started the idea
of going through the whole, and publishing it by subscription, as a
scheme for increasing my means of subsistence. To this I readily
acceded, and finished the thirteenth, eleventh, and fifteenth Satires:
the remainder were the work of a much later period.

When I had got thus far, we thought it a fit time to mention our design;
it was very generally approved of by my friends; and on the first of
January, 1781, the subscription was opened by Mr. Cookesley at
Ashburton, and by myself at Exeter College.

So bold an undertaking so precipitately announced, will give the reader,
I fear, a higher opinion of my conceit than of my talents; neither the
one nor the other, however, had the smallest concern with the business,
which originated solely in ignorance: I wrote verses with great
facility, and I was simple enough to imagine that little more was
necessary for a translator of Juvenal! I was not, indeed, unconscious of
my inaccuracies: I knew that they were numerous, and that I had need of
some friendly eye to point them out, and some judicious hand to rectify
or remove them: but for these, as well as for every thing else, I looked
to Mr. Cookesley, and that worthy man, with his usual alacrity of
kindness, undertook the laborious task of revising the whole
translation. My friend was no great Latinist, perhaps I was the better
of the two; but he had taste and judgment, which I wanted. What
advantages might have been ultimately derived from them, there was
unhappily no opportunity of ascertaining, as it pleased the Almighty to
call him to himself by a sudden death, before we had quite finished the
first Satire. He died with a letter of mine, unopened, in his hands.

This event, which took place on the 15th of January, 1781, afflicted me
beyond measure.[20] I was not only deprived of a most faithful and
affectionate friend, but of a zealous and ever active protector, on whom
I confidently relied for support: the sums that were still necessary for
me, he always collected; and it was to be feared that the assistance
which was not solicited with warmth, would insensibly cease to be
afforded.

In many instances this was actually the case: the desertion, however,
was not general; and I was encouraged to hope, by the unexpected
friendship of Servington Savery, a gentleman who voluntarily stood forth
as my patron, and watched over my interests with kindness and attention.

Some time before Mr. Cookesley’s death, we had agreed that it would be
proper to deliver out, with the terms of subscription, a specimen of the
manner in which the translation was executed.[21] To obviate any idea of
selection, a sheet was accordingly taken from the beginning of the first
Satire. My friend died while it was in the press.

After a few melancholy weeks, I resumed the translation; but found
myself utterly incapable of proceeding. I had been so accustomed to
connect the name of Mr. Cookesley with every part of it, and I laboured
with such delight in the hope of giving him pleasure, that now, when he
appeared to have left me in the midst of my enterprise, and I was
abandoned to my own efforts, I seemed to be engaged in a hopeless
struggle, without motive or end: and his idea, which was perpetually
recurring to me, brought such bitter anguish with it, that I shut up the
work with feelings bordering on distraction.

To relieve my mind, I had recourse to other pursuits. I endeavoured to
become more intimately acquainted with the classics, and to acquire some
of the modern languages: by permission too, or rather recommendation, of
the Rector and Fellows, I also undertook the care of a few pupils: this
removed much of my anxiety respecting my future means of support. I
have a heartfelt pleasure in mentioning this indulgence of my college:
it could arise from nothing but the liberal desire inherent, I think, in
the members of both our Universities, to encourage every thing that
bears even the most distant resemblance to talents; for I had no claims
on them from any particular exertions.

The lapse of many months had now soothed and tranquillized my mind, and
I once more returned to the translation, to which a wish to serve a
young man surrounded with difficulties had induced a number of
respectable characters to set their names; but alas, what a
mortification! I now discovered, for the first time, that my own
inexperience, and the advice of my too, too partial friend, had engaged
me in a work, for the due execution of which my literary attainments
were by no means sufficient. Errors and misconceptions appeared in every
page. I had, perhaps, caught something of the spirit of Juvenal, but his
meaning had frequently escaped me, and I saw the necessity of a long and
painful revision, which would carry me far beyond the period fixed for
the appearance of the volume. Alarmed at the prospect, I instantly
resolved (if not wisely, yet I trust honestly,) to renounce the
publication for the present.

In pursuance of this resolution, I wrote to my friend in the country,
(the Rev. Servington Savery,) requesting him to return the subscription
money in his hands to the subscribers. He did not approve of my plan;
nevertheless he promised, in a letter, which now lies before me, to
comply with it; and, in a subsequent one, added that he had already
begun to do so.

For myself, I also made several repayments; and trusted a sum of money
to make others, with a fellow collegian, who, not long after, fell by
his own hands in the presence of his father. But there were still some
whose abode could not be discovered, and others, on whom to press the
taking back of eight shillings would neither be decent nor respectful:
even from these I ventured to flatter myself that I should find pardon,
when on some future day I should present them with the Work, (which I
was still secretly determined to complete,) rendered more worthy of
their patronage, and increased by notes, which I now perceived to be
absolutely necessary, to more than double its proposed size.

In the leisure of a country residence, I imagined that this might be
done in two years: perhaps I was not too sanguine: the experiment,
however, was not made, for about this time a circumstance happened,
which changed my views, and indeed my whole system of life.

I had contracted an acquaintance with a person of the name of ----,
recommended to my particular notice by a gentleman of Devonshire, whom I
was proud of an opportunity to oblige. This person’s residence at Oxford
was not long, and when he returned to town I maintained a correspondence
with him by letters. At his particular request, these were enclosed in
covers, and sent to Lord Grosvenor: one day I inadvertently omitted the
direction, and his lordship, necessarily supposing the letter to be
meant for himself, opened and read it. There was something in it which
attracted his notice; and when he gave it to my friend, he had the
curiosity to inquire about his correspondent at Oxford; and, upon the
answer he received, the kindness to desire that he might be brought to
see him upon his coming to town: to this circumstance, purely accidental
on all sides, and to this alone, I owe my introduction to that nobleman.

On my first visit, he asked me what friends I had, and what were my
prospects in life; and I told him that I had no friends, and no
prospects of any kind. He said no more; but when I called to take leave,
previous to returning to college, I found that this simple exposure of
my circumstances had sunk deep into his mind. At parting, he informed me
that he charged himself with my present support, and future
establishment; and that till this last could be effected to my wish, I
should come and reside with him. These were not words, of course: they
were more than fulfilled in every point. I did go, and reside with him;
and I experienced a warm and cordial reception, a kind and affectionate
esteem, that has known neither diminution nor interruption from that
hour to this, a period of twenty years![22]

In his lordship’s house I proceeded with Juvenal, till I was called upon
to accompany his son (one of the most amiable and accomplished young
noblemen that this country, fertile in such characters, could ever
boast) to the continent. With him, in two successive tours, I spent many
years; years of which the remembrance will always be dear to me, from
the recollection that a friendship was then contracted, which time and a
more intimate knowledge of each other, have mellowed into a regard that
forms at once the pride and happiness of my life.

It is long since I have been returned and settled in the bosom of
competence and peace; my translation frequently engaged my thoughts, but
I had lost the ardour and the confidence of youth, and was seriously
doubtful of my abilities to do it justice. I have wished a thousand
times that I could decline it altogether; but the ever-recurring idea
that there were people of the description already mentioned, who had
just and forcible claims on me for the due performance of my engagement,
forbad the thought; and I slowly proceeded towards the completion of a
work in which I should never have engaged, had my friend’s inexperience,
or my own, suffered us to suspect for a moment the labour, and the
talents of more than one kind, absolutely necessary to its success in
any tolerable degree. Such as I could make it, it is now before the
public.

    -------- majora canamus.

_End of the Memoir._

       *       *       *       *       *


MR. GIFFORD.

Having attained an university education by private benevolence, and
arrived at noble and powerful patronage by a circumstance purely
accidental Mr. Gifford possessed advantages which few in humble life
dare hope, and fewer aspire to achieve. He improved his learned leisure
and patrician aid, till, in 1802, he published his translation of
Juvenal, with a dedication to earl Grosvenor, and the preceding memoir.
In 1806, the work arrived to a second edition, and in 1817 to a third;
to the latter he annexed a translation of the Satires of Persius, which
he likewise dedicated to earl Grosvenor, with “admiration of his talents
and virtues.” He had previously distinguished himself by the “Baviad and
Mæviad,” a satire unsparingly severe on certain fashionable poetry and
characters of the day; and which may perhaps be referred to as the best
specimen of his powers and inclination. He edited the plays of
Massinger, and the works of Ben Jonson, whom he ably and successfully
defended from charges of illiberal disposition towards Shakspeare, and
calumnies of a personal nature, which had been repeated and increased by
successive commentators. He lived to see his edition of Ford’s works
through the press, and Shirley’s works were nearly completed by the
printer before he died.

When the “Quarterly Review” was projected, Mr. Gifford was selected as
best qualified to conduct the new journal, and he remained its editor
till within two years preceding his death. Besides the private
emoluments of his pen, Mr. Gifford had six hundred pounds a year as a
comptroller of the lottery, and a salary of three hundred pounds as
paymaster of the band of gentlemen-pensioners.

       *       *       *       *       *

To his friend, Dr. Ireland, the dean of Westminster, who was the
depositary of Mr. Gifford’s wishes in his last moments, he addressed,
during their early career, the following imitation of the “Otium Divos
Rogat” of Horace.--“I transcribe it,” says Mr. Gifford, “for the press,
with mingled sensations of gratitude and delight, at the favourable
change of circumstances which we have both experienced since it was
written.”

    Wolfe rush’d on death in manhood’s bloom,
    Paulet crept slowly to the tomb;
        Here breath, there fame was given:
    And that wise Power who weighs our lives,
    By _contras_, and by _pros_, contrives
        To keep the balance even.

    To thee she gave two piercing eyes,
    A body, just of Tydeus’ size,
        A judgment sound, and clear;
    A mind with various science fraught,
    A liberal soul, a threadbare coat,
        And forty pounds a year.

    To me, one eye, not over good;
    Two sides, that, to their cost, have stood
        A ten years’ hectic cough;
    Aches, stitches, all the numerous ills
    That swell the dev’lish doctors’ bills,
        And sweep poor mortals off.

    A coat more bare than thine; a soul
    That spurns the crowd’s malign controul;
        A fix’d contempt of wrong;
    Spirits above affliction’s pow’r,
    And skill to charm the lonely hour
        With no inglorious song.

  [12] The matter is of no consequence--no, not even to myself. From my
  family I derived nothing but a name which is more, perhaps, than I
  shall leave: but (to check the sneers of rude vulgarity) that family
  was among the most ancient and respectable of this part of the
  country, and, not more than three generations from the present, was
  counted among the wealthiest.--Σχιας οναρ!

  [13] He had gone with Bamfylde Moor Carew, then an old man.

  [14] Her maiden name was Elizabeth Cain. My father’s christian name
  was Edward.

  [15] This consisted of several houses, which had been thoughtlessly
  suffered to fall into decay, and of which the rents had been so long
  unclaimed, that they could not now be registered unless by an
  expensive litigation.

  [16] Of my brother here introduced for the last time, I must yet say a
  few words. He was literally,

    The child of misery baptized in tears;

  and the short passage of his life did not belie the melancholy presage
  of his infancy. When he was seven years old, the parish bound him out
  to a husbandman of the name of Leman, with whom he endured incredible
  hardships, which I had it not in my power to alleviate. At nine years
  of age he broke his thigh, and I took that opportunity to teach him to
  read and write. When my own situation was improved, I persuaded him to
  try the sea; he did so; and was taken on board the Egmont, on
  condition that his master should receive his wages. The time was now
  fast approaching when I could serve him, but he was doomed to know no
  favourable change of fortune: he fell sick, and died at Cork.

  [17] My indenture, which now lies before me, is dated the 1st of
  January, 1772.

  [18] The sum my master received was six pounds.

  [19] As I have republished one of our old poets, it may be allowable
  to mention that my predilection for the drama began at an early
  period. Before I left school, I had written two tragedies, the Oracle
  and the Italian.

  My qualifications for this branch of the art may be easily
  appreciated; and, indeed, I cannot think of them without a
  smile.--These rhapsodies were placed by my indulgent friend, who
  thought well of them, in the hands of two respectable gentlemen, who
  undertook to convey them to the manager of ----: I am ignorant of
  their fate. The death of Mr. Cookesley broke every link of my
  connection with the majority of my subscribers, and when subsequent
  events enabled me to renew them, I was ashamed to inquire after what
  was most probably unworthy of concern.

  [20] I began this unadorned narrative on the 15th of January, 1801:
  twenty years have therefore elapsed since I lost my benefactor and my
  friend. In the interval I have wept a thousand times at the
  recollection of his goodness; I yet cherish his memory with filial
  respect; and at this distant period, my heart sinks within me at every
  repetition of his name.

  [21] Many of these papers were distributed; the terms, which I extract
  from one of them, were these: “The work shall be printed in quarto,
  (without notes,) and be delivered to the Subscribers in the month of
  December next.

  “The price will be sixteen shillings in boards, half to be paid at the
  time of subscribing, the remainder on delivery of the book.”

  [22] I have a melancholy satisfaction in recording that this revered
  friend and patron lived to witness my grateful acknowledgment of his
  kindness. He survived the appearance of the translation but a very few
  days, and I paid the last sad duty to his memory, by attending his
  remains to the grave. To me--this laborious work has not been happy:
  the same disastrous event that marked its commencement, has embittered
  its conclusion; and frequently forced upon my recollection the
  calamity of the rebuilder of Jericho, “He laid the foundation thereof
  in Abiram, his first born, and set up the gates thereof in his
  youngest son, Segub.” 1806.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Omniana.~


ADVERTISEMENT.

The following is a literal copy of an English card, circulated by the
master of an hotel, at Ghent:--

“Mr. Dewit, in the Golden Apple, out of the Bruges Gate at Ghent, has
the honour to prevent the Persons who would come at his house, that they
shall find there always good and spacious Lodging, a Table served at
their taste, Wine of any quality, ect. Besides he hires Horses and
Chaises, which shall be of a great conveniency for the Travellers; the
Bark of Bruges depart and arrives every day before his door. He dares
flatter himself that they shall be satisfied; as well with the cheapness
of the price, as with the cares such an establishment requires.”

       *       *       *       *       *


CAPITAL FOR BANKING.

A nobleman’s footman in Hampshire, to whom two years’ wages were due,
demanded the sum from his master, and gave notice that he would quit
his place. The master inquired the reason of the man’s precipitancy, who
told his lordship, “that he and a fellow-servant were about to set up a
_country bank_, and they wanted the wages for a _capital_!”

       *       *       *       *       *


MARCH OF INTELLECT.

In “The Times,” a few days since, appeared the following
advertisement:--“To SCHOOL ASSISTANTS.--Wanted, a respectable gentleman
of good character, capable of teaching the classics as far as Homer, and
Virgil. Apply, &c. &c.” A day or two after the above had appeared, the
gentleman to whom application was to be made received a letter as
follows:--“Sir--With reference to an advertisement which _were_ inserted
in _The Times_ newspaper a few days since, respecting a school
assistant, I beg to state that I should be happy to fill that situation;
but as most of my _frends_ reside in London, and not knowing how far
Homer and Virgil _is_ from town, I beg to state that I should not like
to engage to teach the _classics_ farther than _Hammersmith_ or _Turnham
Green_, or at the very utmost distance, farther than _Brentford_,
_Wating_ your reply, I am, Sir, &c. &c.

  “John Sparks.”

The schoolmaster, judging of the classical abilities of this “youth of
promise,” by the wisdom displayed in his letter, considered him too dull
a _spark_ for the situation, and his letter remained unanswered. (This
puts us in mind of a person who once advertised for a “_strong coal
heaver_,” and a poor man calling upon him the day after, saying, “he had
not got such a thing as a ‘_strong coal heaver_,’ but he had brought a
‘_strong coal scuttle_,’ made of the best iron; and if that would answer
the purpose, he should have it a bargain.”)--_Times, 1st January, 1827_.

       *       *       *       *       *


MISSING A STYLE.

Soon after the publication of Miss Burney’s novel, called “Cecilia,” a
young lady was found reading it. After the general topics of praise were
exhausted, she was asked whether she did not greatly admire the style?
Reviewing the incidents in her memory, she replied, “The style? the
style?--Oh! sir, I am not come to that yet!”




Vol. I.--3.


[Illustration: ~The Newsman.~]

    “I, that do _bring_ the news.”

  _Shakspeare._

    Our calling, however the vulgar may deem,
    Was of old, both on high and below, in esteem.
    E’en the gods were to much curiosity given,
    For Hermes was only the Newsman of heaven.

    Hence with wings to his cap, and his staff, and his heels,
    He depictured appears, which our myst’ry reveals,
    That _news_ flies like wind, to raise sorrow or laughter,
    While leaning on Time, _Truth_ comes heavily after.

  _Newsmen’s Verses_, 1747.

The newsman is a “lone person.” His business, and he, are distinct from
all other occupations, and people.

All the year round, and every day in the year, the newsman must rise
soon after four o’clock, and be at the newspaper offices to procure a
few of the first morning papers allotted to him, at extra charges, for
particular orders, and despatch them by the “early coaches.” Afterwards,
he has to wait for his share of the “regular” publication of each paper,
and he allots these as well as he can among some of the most urgent of
his town orders. The _next_ publication at a later hour is devoted to
his remaining customers; and he sends off his boys with different
portions according to the supply he successively receives. Notices
frequently and necessarily printed in different papers, of the hour of
final publication the preceding day, guard the interests of the
newspaper proprietors from the sluggishness of the indolent, and quicken
the diligent newsman. Yet, however skilful his arrangements may be, they
are subject to unlooked for accidents. The late arrival of foreign
journals, a parliamentary debate unexpectedly protracted, or an article
of importance in one paper exclusively, <DW44> the printing and defer
the newsman. His patience, well-worn before he gets his “_last_ papers,”
must be continued during the whole period he is occupied in delivering
them. The sheet is sometimes half snatched before he can draw it from
his wrapper; he is often chid for delay when he should have been praised
for speed; his excuse, “_All_ the papers were _late_ this morning,” is
better heard than admitted, for neither giver nor receiver has time to
parley; and before he gets home to dinner, he hears at one house that
“Master has waited for the paper these two hours;” at another, “Master’s
gone out, and says if you can’t bring the paper earlier, he won’t have
it all;” and some ill-conditioned “master,” perchance, leaves positive
orders, “Don’t take it in, but tell the man to bring the bill; and I’ll
pay it and have done with him.”

Besides buyers, every newsman has readers at so much each paper per
hour. One class stipulates for a journal always at breakfast; another,
that it is to be delivered exactly at such a time; a third, at any time,
so that it is left the full hour; and among all of these there are
malecontents, who permit nothing of “time or circumstance” to interfere
with their personal convenience. Though the newsman delivers, and allows
the use of his paper, and fetches it, for a stipend not half equal to
the lowest paid porter’s price for letter-carrying in London, yet he
finds some, with whom he covenanted, objecting, when it is called
for,--“I’ve not had my breakfast,”--“The paper did not come at the
proper time,”--“I’ve not had leisure to look at it yet,”--“It has not
been left an hour,”--or any other pretence equally futile or untrue,
which, were he to allow, would prevent him from serving his readers in
rotation, or at all. If he can get all his morning papers from these
customers by four o’clock, he is a happy man.

Soon after three in the afternoon, the newsman and some of his boys must
be at the offices of the evening papers; but before he can obtain his
requisite numbers, he must wait till the newsmen of the Royal Exchange
have received theirs, for the use of the merchants on ’Change. Some of
the first he gets are hurried off to coffee-house and tavern keepers.
When he has procured his full quantity, he supplies the remainder of his
town customers. These disposed of, then comes the hasty folding and
directing of his reserves for the country, and the forwarding of them to
the post-office in Lombard-street, or in parcels for the mails, and to
other coach-offices. The Gazette nights, every Tuesday and Friday, add
to his labours,--the publication of second and third editions of the
evening papers is a super-addition. On what he calls a “regular day,” he
is fortunate if he find himself settled within his own door by seven
o’clock, after fifteen hours of running to and fro. It is now only that
he can review the business of the day, enter his fresh orders, ascertain
how many of each paper he will require on the morrow, arrange his
accounts, provide for the money he may have occasion for, eat the only
quiet meal he could reckon upon since that of the evening before, and
“steal a few hours from the night” for needful rest, before he rises the
next morning to a day of the like incessant occupation: and thus from
Monday to Saturday he labours every day.

The newsman desires no work but his own to prove “Sunday no Sabbath;”
for on him and his brethren devolves the circulation of upwards of fifty
thousand Sunday papers in the course of the forenoon. His Sunday dinner
is the only meal he can ensure with his family, and the short remainder
of the day the only time he can enjoy in their society with certainty,
or extract something from, for more serious duties or social converse.

The newsman’s is an out-of-door business at all seasons, and his life is
measured out to unceasing toil. In all weathers, hail, rain, wind, and
snow, he is daily constrained to the way and the fare of a wayfaringman.
He walks, or rather runs, to distribute information concerning all sorts
of circumstances and persons, except his own. He is unable to allow
himself, or others, time for intimacy, and therefore, unless he had
formed friendships before he took to his servitude, he has not the
chance of cultivating them, save with persons of the same calling. He
may be said to have been divorced, and to live “separate and apart” from
society in general; for, though he mixes with every body, it is only for
a few hurried moments, and as strangers do in a crowd.

Cowper’s familiar description of a newspaper, with its multiform
intelligence, and the pleasure of reading it in the country, never
tires, and in this place is to the purpose.

    This folio of four pages, happy work!
    Which not ev’n critics criticise; that holds
    Inquisitive Attention, while I read,
    Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,
    Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break,
    What is it, but a map of busy life,
    Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
    Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
    Births, deaths, and marriages---------------
    ------------------------The grand debate,
    The popular harangue, the tart reply,
    The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
    And the loud laugh--------------------------
    Cat’racts of declamation thunder here;
    There forests of no meaning spread the page,
    In which all comprehension wanders lost;
    While fields of pleasantry amuse us there,
    With merry descants on a nation’s woes.
    The rest appears a wilderness of strange
    But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks,
    And lilies for the brows of faded age,
    Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,
    Heav’n, earth, and ocean, plunder’d of their sweets,
    Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,
    Sermons, and city feasts, and fav’rite airs,
    Æthereal journies, submarine exploits,
    And Katerfelto, with his hair an end
    At his own wonders, wand’ring for his bread.
      ’Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,
    To peep at such a world; to see the stir
    Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
    To hear the roar she sends through all her gates,
    At a safe distance, where the dying sound
    Falls a soft murmur on th’ uninjured ear.
    Thus sitting, and surveying thus, at ease,
    The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
    To some secure and more than mortal height,
    That lib’rates and exempts us from them all.

This is an agreeable and true picture, and, with like felicity, the poet
paints the bearer of the newspaper.

      Hark! ’tis the twanging horn o’er yonder bridge,
    That with its wearisome but needful length
    Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
    Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;--
    He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
    With spatter’d boots, strapp’d waist, and frozen locks
    News from all nations lumb’ring at his back.
    True to his charge, the close pack’d load behind
    Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
    Is to conduct it to the destin’d inn;
    And, having dropp’d th’ expected bag, pass on.
    He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
    Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief
    Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
    To him indiff’rent whether grief or joy.

Methinks, as I have always thought, that Cowper here missed the
expression of a kind feeling, and rather tends to raise an ungenerous
sentiment towards this poor fellow. As the bearer of intelligence, of
which he is ignorant, why should it be

    “To him indiff’rent whether grief or joy?”

If “cold, and yet cheerful,” he has attained to the “practical
philosophy” of bearing ills with patience. He is a frozen creature that
“whistles,” and therefore called “light-hearted wretch.” The poet
refrains to “look with a gentle eye upon this _wretch_,” but, having
obtained the newspaper, determines to enjoy himself, and cries

      Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
    Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
    And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
    Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
    That cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each,
    So let us welcome peaceful ev’ning in.

This done, and the bard surrounded with means of enjoyment, he directs
his sole attention to the newspaper, nor spares a thought in behalf of
the wayworn messenger, nor bids him “God speed!” on his further forlorn
journey through the wintry blast.

In London scarcely any one knows the newsman but a newsman. His
customers know him least of all. Some of them seem almost ignorant that
he has like “senses, affections, passions,” with themselves, or is
“subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and
cooled by the same winter and summer.” They are indifferent to him in
exact ratio to their attachment to what he “serves” them with. Their
regard is for the newspaper, and not the newsman. Should he succeed in
his occupation, they do not hear of it: if he fail, they do not care for
it. If he dies, the servant receives the paper from his successor, and
says, when she carries it up stairs, “If you please, the newsman’s
dead:” they scarcely ask where he lived, or his fall occasions a
pun--“We always said he _was_, and now we have proof that he _is_, the
_late_ newsman.” They are almost as unconcerned as if he had been the
postman.

Once a year, a printed “copy of verses” reminds every newspaper reader
that the hand that bore it is open to a small boon. “The Newsman’s
Address to his Customers, 1826,” deploringly adverts to the general
distress, patriotically predicts better times, and seasonably intimates,
that in the height of annual festivities he, too, has a heart capable of
joy.

    ------------------“although the muse complains
    And sings of woes in melancholy strains,
    Yet Hope, at last, strikes up her trembling wires,
    And bids Despair forsake your glowing fires.
    While, as in olden time, Heaven’s gifts you share,
    And Englishmen enjoy their Christmas fare;
    While at the social board friend joins with friend,
    And smiles and jokes and salutations blend;
    Your Newsman wishes to be social too,
    And would enjoy the opening year with you:
    Grant him your annual gift, he will not fail
    To drink your health once more with Christmas ale:
    Long may you live to share your Christmas cheer,
    And he still wish you many a happy year!”

The losses and crosses to which newsmen are subject, and the minutiæ of
their laborious life, would form an instructive volume. As a class of
able men of business, their importance is established by excellent
regulations, adapted to their interests and well-being; and their
numerous society includes many individuals of high intelligence,
integrity, and opulence.

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


~The Drama.~


LICENSE FOR ENACTING A PLAY.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--As many of your readers may not have had an opportunity of knowing
the form and manner in which dramatic representations were permitted, by
the Master of the Revels, upon the restoration of the Stuarts, I submit
a transcript of a licence in my possession. It refers to a drama, called
“Noah’s Flood,” apparently not recorded in any dramatic history. It is
true, Isaac Reed, in the “Biographia Dramatica,” 1782, vol. ii. p. 255,
cites “Noah’s Flood, or the Destruction of the World, an opera, 1679,
4to.,” and ascribes it to “Edward Ecclestone,” but it is questionable
whether this was the “play” for which the license below was obtained, as
Reed, or perhaps George Steevens, the commentator, who assisted the
former considerably in the compilation of that work, as it appeared in
1782, expressly entitles it “an opera.”

Reed states his inability to furnish any particulars of Ecclestone, and
his continuator, Mr. Stephen Jones, has not added a single word.
Ecclestone was a comedian, though I cannot immediately cite my
authority. His opera of “Noah’s Flood,” which is excessively scarce, is
said, by Reed, to be “of the same nature with Dryden’s ‘State of
Innocence,’ but falls infinitely short of the merit of that poem.” This
may be readily believed; for we are informed that the unhappy
bookseller, to prevent the whole impression rotting on his shelves,
again obtruded it for public patronage, with a new title, “The
Cataclasm, or General Deluge of the World,” 1684, 4to.; and again as
“The Deluge, or Destruction of the World,” 1691, 4to., with the addition
of sculptures. These attempts probably exhausted the stock on hand, as,
some years afterwards, it was reprinted in 12mo., with the title of
“Noah’s Flood, or the History of the General Deluge,” 1714. Many plays
were reprinted by Meares, Feales, and others, at the commencement of the
last century, as stock-plays; and Reed’s assertion, that this was an
imposition, is correct, so far as it came forth as a new production, the
preface stating that the author was unknown.

The license alluded to is on a square piece of parchment, eleven inches
high, by thirteen wide. The office seal, red wax, covered by a piece of
white paper, is engraved in one of the volumes of George Chalmers’s
“Apology for the Believers of the Shakspeare Papers.”

_The License._

“To all Mayors Sherriffs Justices of the Peace Bayliffs Constables
Headboroughs, and all other his Maties. Officers, true Leigmen & loueing
Subiects, & to euery of them greeting. Know yee that wheras George
Bayley of London Musitioner desires of me a Placard to make Shew of a
Play called Noah’s fflood wth other Seuerall Scenes. These are therfore
by vertue of his Maties. Lettrs. Pattents made ouer vnto me vnder the
great Seale of England to licence & allow the said George Bayley wth
eight Servants wch are of his Company to make shew of the said Play
called Noah’s flood wth other Scenes requireing you and euery of you in
his Maties Name to pmitt & Suffer the said Persons to shew the said Play
called Noah’s flood, and to be aiding & assisting them & euery of them
if any wrong or iniury be offered vnto him or any of them Provided that
he and they doe not act any thing offensiue against ye lawes of God or
of the Land, and that he & they doe make shew of the said Noah’s flood
at lawfull times wth Exception of the Lords Day or any other Day in the
time of Devine Service, or on any other day prohibited by Proclamation
or other lawfull Authority. And this Licence to continue for a year and
noe longre from the day of the date hearof and to Serue throughout the
Kingdome of England Scotland & Ireland & all other his Maties.
Territories & Dominions the said Geo. Bayly haueing giuen me security
for his good behauiour that hee doe not intrench vpon the lawes of the
land. Giuen at his Maties. Office of the Revills vnder my hand & Seale
of the said Office the fowerteenth day of Aprill one thousand six
hundred sixty and two & in the fowerteenth year of the raigne of o’r
Soueraigne Lord Charles ye Second by the grace of God of England
Scotland ffrance and Ireland King Defender of the faith &c.

  J. POYNTZ.”

A marginal memorandum, below the seal, contains a direction to the
persons named in this license, thus:--

“You are to allow him either Town hall Guild hall Schoole house or some
other convenient place for his use & to continue in any one place for ye
space of fforty Daies.”

The above transcript is literal in every respect: and trusting that it
may be deemed worthy insertion,

  I am, Sir, &c.

  WILL O’ THE WHISP.

       *       *       *       *       *

The identical seal of the office of the Revels, mentioned in the
preceding letter, was engraven on wood, and is now in the possession of
Francis Douce, Esq. F. S. A.

       *       *       *       *       *


THOMAS AIRAY,

  THE GRASSINGTON MANAGER AND HIS THEATRICAL COMPANY, CRAVEN, YORKSHIRE.

_For the Table Book._

    “Nothing like this in _London_!”

  _John Reeve_ in Peregrine Proteus.

At this season, every thing appears dull and lifeless in the
neighbourhood of my favourite mountain village. In my younger days it
was otherwise. Christmas was then a festival, enlivened by a round of
innocent amusements, which the present enlightened age has pronounced
superstitious or trifling. Formerly we had a theatre, at this season,
and perhaps a few particulars relating to it may not be uninteresting.

Gentle reader! should you ever visit Skipton-in-Craven, go on the
market-day, and stand opposite to the vicarage-house in the High-street;
there you will see a cart with this inscription, “Thomas Airay,
Grassington and Skipton carrier.” Keep your eye on that cart, and about
the hour of three in the afternoon you will behold approach the owner, a
little, fat, old man, with reddish whiskers and a jolly face, that
Liston or John Reeve would not be ashamed to possess. In that
countenance a mere tyro in physiognomy may discover a roguish slyness, a
latent archness, a hidden mine of fun and good humour. Then when Airay
walks, mark his stately gait, and tell me if it does not proclaim that
he has worn the sock and buskin, and trod the Thespian floor: he was the
manager of the Grassington theatre--the “Delawang” of Craven.

I fancy some rigid moralist bestowing a cold glance on poor Tom, and
saying to himself, “Ah, old man, this comes of acting; had you, in your
youth, followed some industrious pursuit, nor joined an idle strolling
company, instead of now being a country carrier, you might have been
blessed with a comfortable independence!” Think not so harshly of Airay;
though not the manager of a patent theatre, nor of one “by royal
authority,” he never was a stroller, nor an associate with vagabonds,
nor did he ever, during his theatrical career, quake under the terrors
of magisterial harshness, or fear the vagrant act.

    No idle, worthless, wandering man was he,
      But in the dales, of honest parents bred,
    Train’d to a life of honest industry,
      He with the lark in summer left his bed,
      Thro’ the sweet calm, by morning twilight shed,
    Walking to labour by that cheerful song,
      And, making a pure pleasure of a tread,
    When winter came with nights so dark and long,
    ’Twas his, with mimic art, to amuse a village throng!

Tom Airay’s sole theatre was at Grassington; and that was only “open for
the season”--for a few weeks in the depth of winter, when the inclemency
of the weather, which in these mountainous parts is very severe,
rendered the agricultural occupations of himself and companions
impossible to be pursued. They chose rather to earn a scanty pittance by
acting, than to trouble their neighbours for eleemosynary support.

The _corps dramatique_ of Tom Airay consisted chiefly of young men,
(they had no actresses,) who moved in the same line of life as the
manager, and whose characters were equally respectable with his, which
was always unassailable; for, setting aside our hero’s occasionally
getting tipsy at some of the neighbouring feasts, nothing can be said
against him. He is a worthy member of society, has brought up a large
family respectably, and, if report speak truth, has realized about a
thousand pounds.

Few of Tom Airay’s company are living, and the names of many have
escaped me. There was honest Peter W----, whose face peeped from behind
the green curtain like the full moon. He was accounted a bit of a wag:
ever foremost in mischief, he, more than once, almost blew up the stage
by gunpowder, half suffocated the audience by assafœtida, and was wont
to put hot cinders in the boots of his associates. He has “left the
mimic scene to die indeed,” and sleeps peacefully under the beautiful
lime-trees of Kirby Malhamdale church-yard, undisturbed by the murmur of
that mountain stream, which, rippling over its pebbly channel, hymns, as
it were, his requiem. Then there was Isaac G----, the fiddler and comic
singer: _he_ exists no longer. There was Waddilove, and Frankland of
Hetton, and Bill Cliff, the Skipton poet and bailiff--all dead! There
were, also, the Hetheringtons, and Jack Solomon the besom maker, and
Tommy Summersgill the barber and clock maker, and Jack L---- the
politician of Threshfield, who regarded John Wilkes as his tutelary
saint, and settled in the Illinois, from whence he occasionally sends a
letter to his old friends, informing them what a paltry country England
is, what a paradise the new world is, and how superior the American
rivers are to those

    “That through our vallies run
      Singing and dancing in the gleams
    Of summer’s cloudless sun.”

Besides these, there were fifteen or sixteen others from Arncliffe,
Litton, Coniston, Kilnsay, and the other romantic villages that enliven
our heath-clad hills.

The “Grassington theatre,” or rather “playhouse,” for it never received
a loftier appellation, where (to borrow the phraseology of the Coburg)
our worthies received their “nightly acclamations of applause,” has been
pulled down, but I will endeavour to describe it. It was an old
limestone “lathe,” the Craven word for barn, with huge folding-doors,
one containing a smaller one, through which the audience was admitted to
the pit and gallery, for there were no boxes. Yet on particular
occasions, such as when the duke of Devonshire or earl of Thanet
good-naturedly deigned to patronise the performances, a “box” was fitted
up, by railing off a part of the pit, and covering it, by way of
distinction, with brown paper, painted to represent drapery. The prices
were, pit sixpence, and gallery threepence. I believe they had no half
price. The stage was lighted by five or six halfpenny candles, and the
decorations, considering the poverty of the company, were tolerable. The
scenery was respectable; and though sometimes, by sad mishap, the sun or
moon would take fire, and expose the tallow candle behind it, was very
well managed--frequently better than at houses of loftier pretension.
The dresses, as far as material went, were good; though not always in
character. An outlaw of the forest of Arden sometimes appeared in the
guise of a Craven waggoner, and the holy friar, “whose vesper bell is
the bowl, ding dong,” would wear a bob wig, cocked hat, and the surplice
of a modern church dignitary. These slight discrepancies passed
unregarded by the audience; the majority did not observe them, and the
few who did were silent; there were no prying editors to criticise and
report. The audience was always numerous, (no empty benches _there_) and
respectable people often formed a portion. I have known the village
lawyer, the parson of the parish, and the doctor comfortably seated
together, laughing heartily at Tom Airay strutting as Lady Randolph, his
huge Yorkshire clogs peeping from beneath a gown too short to conceal
his corduroy breeches, and murdering his words in a manner that might
have provoked Fenning and Bailey from their graves, to break the
manager’s head with their weighty publications. All the actors had a bad
pronunciation. Cicero was called _Kikkero_, (which, by the by, is
probably the correct one;) Africa was called _Afryka_, fatigued was
_fattygewed_, and pageantry was always called _paggyantry_. Well do I
remember Airay exclaiming, “What _pump_, what _paggyantry_ is there
here!” and, on another occasion, saying, “_Ye damons o’ deeth come
sattle my swurd!_” The company would have spoken better, had they not,
on meeting with a “dictionary word,” applied for information to an old
schoolmaster, who constantly misled them, and taught them to pronounce
in the most barbarous mode he could devise; yet such was the awe
wherewith they were accustomed to regard this dogmatical personage, and
the profound respect they paid to his abilities, that they received his
deceiving tricks with thankfulness. One of them is too good to be
omitted: Airay, in some play or farce, happened to meet with this stage
direction, “they sit down and play a game at piquet;” the manager did
not understand the term “piquet,” and the whole of the _corps
dramatique_ were equally ignorant--as a _dernier ressort_, application
was made to their old friend, the knight of the birch, who instructed
them that “piquet” was the French word for _pie-cut_, and what they had
to do was to make a large pie, and sit round a table and eat it; and
this, on the performance of the piece, they actually did, to the great
amusement of the few who were acquainted with the joke. When Tom was
informed of the trick, he wittily denominated it a _substantial_ one.

The plays usually performed at Grassington were of the regular drama,
the productions of Shakspeare, Dryden, Otway, or Lillo. George Barnwell
has many a time caused the Craven maids to forget “Turpin,” and
“Nevison,” and bloody squires, and weep at the shocking catastrophe of
the grocer’s apprentice. Melodramas were unknown to them, and happy had
it been for the dramatic talent of this country if they had remained
unknown elsewhere; for since these innovations, mastiff dogs, monkeys,
and polichinellos have followed in rapid succession, and what _monstrum
horrendum_ will next be introduced, is difficult to conceive. We may
say,

    “Alas, for the drama, its day has gone by.”

At the time of Airay’s glory, had the word melodrama been whispered
in his ear, he would probably have inquired what sort of a beast
it was, what country it came from, and whether one was in the
tower?--Grassington being too poor to support a printer, the play-bills
were written, and by way of making the performances better known, the
parish bellman was daily employed to cry the play in a couplet composed
by the manager. I only remember one.

    Guy in his youth, our play we call,
    At six to the hay-mow[23] hie ye all!

This not only apprized the inhabitants of the play for the evening, but
frequently the novelty of the mode induced a passing stranger to honour
the house with his presence. It was also preferable to printing, for
that was an expense the proceeds of the house could not afford.

While thus hastily sketching the peculiarities of Airay and his
associates, it would be unjust not to state in conclusion, that their
performances were always of a moral character; if any indelicate
sentiment or expression occurred in their plays, it was omitted; nothing
was uttered that could raise a blush on the female cheek. Nor were the
audiences less moral than the manager: not an instance can be recorded
of riot or indecency. In these respects, Tom Airay’s theatre might serve
as a model to the patent houses in town, wherein it is to be feared the
original intent of the stage, that of improving the mind by inculcating
morality, is perverted. Whenever Airay takes a retrospective glance at
his theatrical management, he can do it with pleasure; for never did he
pander to a depraved appetite, or render his barn a spot wherein the
vicious would covet to congregate.

  T. Q. M.

  [23] In Craven, the hay is not stacked as in the south, but housed in
  barns, which from this custom are called hay-mows.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Literary Novelty.~

“THE SYBIL’S LEAVES, _or a Peep into Futurity_, published by Ackermann,
Strand, and Lupton Relfe, Cornhill,” consist of sixty lithographic
verses on as many cards, in a case bearing an engraved representation of
a party in high humour consulting the cards. Thirty of them are designed
for ladies, and as many for gentlemen: a lady is to hold the gentleman’s
pack, and _vice versa_. From these packs, each lady or gentleman wishing
to have “the _most important_ points _infallibly_ predicted” is to draw
a card.

The idea of telling fortunes at home is very pleasant; and the variety
of “the Sybil’s Leaves” assists to as frequent opportunities of
re-consultation as the most inveterate craver can desire. A lady
condemned by one of the leaves to “wither on the virgin thorn,” on
turning over a new leaf may chance to be assured of a delightful
reverse; and by a like easy process, a “disappointed gentleman” become,
at last, a “happy man.”

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ~The ancient River Fleet at Clerkenwell.~]

    Lo! hither Fleet-_brook_ came, in former times call’d the Fleet-
        _river_,
    Which navies once rode on, in present times hidden for ever,
    Save where water-cresses and sedge mark its oozing and creeping,
    In yonder old meadows, from whence it lags slowly--as weeping
    Its present misgivings, and obsolete use, and renown--
    And bearing its burdens of shame and abuse into town,
    On meeting the buildings sinks into the earth, nor aspires
    To decent-eyed people, till forced to the Thames at Blackfri’rs.

  *

In 1825, this was the first open view nearest London of the ancient
River Fleet: it was taken during the building of the high-arched walls
connected with the House of Correction, Cold-bath-fields, close to which
prison the river ran, as here seen. At that time, the newly-erected
walls communicated a peculiarly picturesque effect to the stream flowing
within their confines. It arrived thither from Bagnigge-wells, on its
way to a covered channel, whereby it passes between Turnmill-street, and
again emerging, crosses Chick-lane, now called West-street, near
Field-lane, at the back of which it runs on, and continues under
Holborn-bridge, Fleet-market, and Bridge-street, till it reaches the
Thames, close to the stairs on the west side of Blackfriars-bridge. The
bridge, whereby boys cross the stream in the engraving, is a large iron
pipe for conveying water from the New River Company’s works, to supply
the houses in Grays-inn-lane. A few years ago, the New River water was
conducted across this valley through wooden pipes. Since the drawing was
made, the Fleet has been diverted from the old bed represented in the
print, through a large barrel drain, into the course just mentioned,
near Turnmill-street. This notice of the deviation, and especially the
last appearance of the river in its immemorial channel, may be of
interest, because the Fleet is the only ancient stream running into
London which is not yet wholly lost to sight.

The River Fleet at its source, in a field on the London side of the
Hampstead ponds, is merely a sedgy ditchling, scarcely half a step
across, and “winds its sinuosities along,” with little increase of width
or depth, to the road from the Mother Red Cap to Kentish Town, beneath
which road it passes through the pastures to Camden Town; and in one of
these pastures, the canal, running through the Tunnel at Pentonville to
the City-road, is conveyed over it by an arch. From this place its width
increases, till it reaches towards the west side of the road leading
from Pancras Workhouse to Kentish Town. In the rear of the houses on
that side of the road, it becomes a brook, washing the edge of the
garden in front of the premises late the stereotype-foundery and
printing-offices of Mr. Andrew Wilson, which stand back from the road;
and, cascading down behind the lower road-side houses, it reaches the
Elephant and Castle, in front of which it tunnels to Battle-bridge, and
there levels out to the eye, and runs sluggishly to Bagnigge-wells,
where it is at its greatest width, which is about twelve feet across;
from thence it narrows to the House of Correction, and widens again near
Turnmill-street, and goes to the Thames, as above described.

In a parliament held at Carlile, in 35 Edward I., 1307, Henry Lacy earl
of Lincoln complained that, in former times, the course of water running
under Holborn-bridge and Fleet-bridge into the Thames, had been of such
breadth and depth that ten or twelve ships at once, “navies with
merchandise,” were wont to come to Fleet-bridge, and some of them to
Holborn-bridge; yet that, by filth of the tanners and others, and by
raising of wharfs, and especially by a diversion of the water in the
first year of king John, 1200, by them of the New Temple, for their
mills without Baynard’s Castle, and by other impediments, the course was
decayed, and ships could not enter as they were used. On the prayer of
the earl, the constable of the Tower, with the mayor and sheriffs of
London, were directed to take with them honest and discreet men to
inquire into the former state of the river, to leave nothing that might
hurt or stop it, and to restore it to its wonted condition. Upon this,
the river was cleansed, the mills were removed, and other means taken
for the preservation of the course; but it was not brought to its old
depth and breadth, and therefore it was no longer termed a river, but a
brook, called Turne-mill or Tremill Brook, because mills were erected on
it.

After this, it was cleansed several times; and particularly in 1502, the
whole course of Fleet Dike, as it was then called, was scoured down to
the Thames, so that boats with fish and fuel were rowed to Fleet-bridge
and Holborn-bridge.

In 1589, by authority of the common council of London, a thousand marks
were collected to draw several of the springs at Hampstead-heath into
one head, for the service of the City with fresh water where wanted, and
in order that by such “a follower,” as it was termed, the channel of the
brook should be scoured into the Thames. After much money spent, the
effect was not obtained, and in Stow’s time, by means of continual
encroachments on the banks, and the throwing of soil into the stream, it
became worse clogged than ever.[24]

After the Fire of London, the channel was made navigable for barges to
come up, by the assistance of the tide from the Thames, as far as
Holborn-bridge, where the Fleet, otherwise Turnmill-brook, fell into
this, the wider channel; which had sides built of stone and brick, with
warehouses on each side, running under the street, and used for the
laying in of coals, and other commodities. This channel had five feet
water, at the lowest tide, at Holborn-bridge, the wharfs on each side
the channel were thirty feet broad, and rails of oak were placed along
the sides of the ditch to prevent people from falling into it at night.
There were four bridges of Portland stone over it; namely, at Bridewell,
Fleet-street, Fleet-lane, and Holborn.

When the citizens proposed to erect a mansion-house for their lord
mayor, they fixed on Stocks-market, where the Mansion-house now stands,
for its site, and proposed to arch the Fleet-ditch, from Holborn to
Fleet-street, and to remove that market to the ground they would gain by
that measure. In 1733, therefore, they represented to the House of
Commons, that although after the Fire of London the channel of the Fleet
had been made navigable from the Thames to Holborn-bridge, yet the
profits from the navigation had not answered the charge; that the part
from Fleet-bridge to Holborn-bridge, instead of being useful to trade,
had become choked with mud, and was therefore a nuisance, and that
several persons had lost their lives by falling into it. For these and
other causes assigned, an act passed, vesting the fee simple of the site
referred to in the corporation for ever, on condition that drains should
be made through the channel, and that no buildings on it should exceed
fifteen feet in height. The ditch was accordingly arched over from
Holborn to Fleet-bridge, where the present obelisk in Bridge-street now
stands, and Fleet-market was erected on the arched ground, and opened
with the business of Stocks-market, on the 30th of September, 1737.

In 1765, the building of Blackfriars-bridge rendered it requisite to
arch over the remainder, from Fleet-bridge to the Thames; yet a small
part remained an open dock for a considerable time, owing to the
obstinate persistence of a private proprietor.[25]

Previous to the first arching of the Fleet, Pope, in “The Dunciad,”
imagined the votaries of Dulness diving and sporting in Fleet-ditch,
which he then called

    The king of <DW18>s! than whom no sluice of mud
    With deeper sable blots the silver flood.

“I recollect,” says Pennant, “the present noble approach to
Blackfriars-bridge, the well-built opening of Chatham-place, a muddy and
genuine ditch.” It has of late been rendered a convenient and capacious
sewer.

       *       *       *       *       *

During the digging of Fleet-ditch, in 1676, with a view to its
improvement after the Fire of London, between the Fleet-prison and
Holborn-bridge, at the depth of fifteen feet, several Roman utensils
were discovered; and, a little lower, a great quantity of Roman coins,
of silver, copper, brass, and various other metals, but none of gold;
and at Holborn-bridge, two brass lares, or household gods, of the
Romans, about four inches in length, were dug out; one a Ceres, and the
other a Bacchus. The great quantity of coins, induces a presumption that
they were thrown into this river by the Roman inhabitants of the city,
on the entry of Boadicea, with her army of enraged Britons, who
slaughtered their conquerors, without distinction of age or sex. Here
also were found arrow-heads, spur-rowels of a hand’s breadth, keys,
daggers, scales, seals with the proprietors’ names in Saxon characters,
ship counters with Saxon characters, and a considerable number of
medals, crosses, and crucifixes, of a more recent age.[26]

Sometime before the year 1714, Mr. John Conyers, an apothecary in
Fleet-street, who made it his chief business to collect antiquities,
which about that time were daily found in and about London, as he was
digging in a field near the Fleet not far from Battle-bridge, discovered
the body of an elephant, conjectured to have been killed there, by the
Britons, in fight with the Romans; for, not far from the spot, was found
an ancient British spear, the head of flint fastened into a shaft of
good length.[27] From this elephant, the public-house near the spot
where it was discovered, called the Elephant and Castle, derives its
sign.

There are no memorials of the extent to which the river Fleet was
anciently navigable, though, according to tradition, an anchor was found
in it as high up as the Elephant and Castle, which is immediately
opposite Pancras workhouse, and at the corner of the road leading from
thence to Kentish-town. Until within these few years, it gave motion to
flour and flatting mills at the back of Field-lane, near Holborn.[28]

That the Fleet was once a very serviceable stream there can be no doubt,
from what Stow relates. The level of the ground is favourable to the
presumption, that its current widened and deepened for navigable
purposes to a considerable extent in the valley between the
Bagnigge-wells-road and Gray’s-inn, and that it might have had
accessions to its waters from other sources, besides that in the
vicinity of Hampstead. Stow speaks of it under the name of the “_River
of Wels_, in the west part of the citie, and _of old_ so called of the
_Wels_;” and he tells of its running from the moor near the north corner
of the wall of Cripplegate postern. This assertion, which relates to the
reign of William the Conqueror, is controverted by Maitland, who
imagines “great inattention” on the part of the old chronicler. It is
rather to be apprehended, that Maitland was less an antiquary than an
inconsiderate compiler. The drainage of the city has effaced proofs of
many appearances which Stow relates as existing in his own time, but
which there is abundant testimony of a different nature to corroborate;
and, notwithstanding Maitland’s objection, there is sufficient reason to
apprehend that the river of Wells and the Fleet river united and flowed,
in the same channel, to the Thames.

  [24] Stow’s Survey.

  [25] Noorthouck.

  [26] Maitland. Pennant.

  [27] Letter from Bagford to Hearne.

  [28] Nelson’s History of Islington.


~January.~

If you are _ill_ at this season, there is no occasion to send for the
doctor--only _stop eating_. Indeed, upon general principles, it seems to
me to be a mistake for people, every time there is any little thing the
matter with them, to be running in such haste for the “doctor;” because,
if you are going to die, a doctor can’t help you; and if you are
not--there is no occasion for him.[29]

       *       *       *       *       *


ANGLING IN JANUARY.

    Dark is the ever-flowing stream,
      And snow falls on the lake;
    For now the noontide sunny beam
      Scarce pierces bower and brake;
    And flood, or envious frost, destroys
    A portion of the angler’s joys.

    Yet still we’ll talk of sports gone by,
      Of triumphs we have won,
    Of waters we again shall try,
      When sparkling in the sun;
    Of favourite haunts, by mead or dell.
    Haunts which the fisher loves so well.

    Of stately Thames, of gentle Lea,
      The merry monarch’s seat;
    Of Ditton’s stream, of Avon’s brae,
      Or Mitcham’s mild retreat;
    Of waters by the meer or mill,
    And all that tries the angler’s skill.

  _Annals of Sporting._

       *       *       *       *       *


PLOUGH MONDAY.

The first Monday after Twelfth-day is so denominated, and it is the
ploughman’s holyday.

Of late years at this season, in the islands of Scilly, the young people
exercise a sort of gallantry called “goose-dancing.” The maidens are
dressed up for young men, and the young men for maidens; and, thus
disguised, they visit their neighbours in companies, where they dance,
and make jokes upon what has happened in the island; and every one is
humorously “told their own,” without offence being taken. By this sort
of sport, according to yearly custom and toleration, there is a spirit
of wit and drollery kept up among the people. The music and dancing
done, they are treated with liquor, and then they go to the next house
of entertainment.[30]

  [29] Monthly Magazine, January, 1827.

  [30] Strutt’s Sports, 307.


~Topography.~


WILLY-HOWE, YORKSHIRE.

_For the Table Book._

There is an artificial mount, by the side of the road leading from North
Burton to Wold Newton, near Bridlington, in Yorkshire, called
“Willy-howe,” much exceeding in size the generality of our “hows,” of
which I have often heard the most preposterous stories related. A cavity
or division on the summit is pointed out as owing its origin to the
following circumstance:--

A person having intimation of a large chest of gold being buried
therein, dug away the earth until it appeared in sight; he then had a
train of horses, extending upwards of a quarter of a mile, attached to
it by strong iron traces; by these means he was just on the point of
accomplishing his purpose, when he exclaimed--

    “Hop Perry, prow Mark,
    Whether God’s will or not, we’ll have this ark.”

He, however, had no sooner pronounced this awful blasphemy, than all the
traces broke, and the chest sunk still deeper in the hill, where it yet
remains, all his future efforts to obtain it being in vain.

The inhabitants of the neighbourhood also speak of the place being
peopled with fairies, and tell of the many extraordinary feats which
this diminutive race has performed. A fairy once told a man, to whom it
appears she was particularly attached, if he went to the top of
“Willy-howe” every morning, he would find a guinea; this information,
however, was given under the injunction that he should not make the
circumstance known to any other person. For some time he continued his
visit, and always successfully; but at length, like our first parents,
he broke the great commandment, and, by taking with him another person,
not merely suffered the loss of the usual guinea, but met with a severe
punishment from the fairies for his presumption. Many more are the tales
which abound here, and which almost seem to have made this a consecrated
spot; but how they could at first originate, is somewhat singular.

That “Hows,” “Carnedds,” and “Barrows,” are sepulchral, we can scarcely
entertain a doubt, since in all that have been examined, human bones,
rings, and other remains have been discovered. From the coins and urns
found in some of them, they have been supposed the burial-places of
Roman generals. “But as hydrotaphia, or urn-burial, was the custom among
the Romans, and interment the practice of the Britons, it is reasonable
to conjecture, where such insignia are discovered, the tumuli are the
sepulchres of some British chieftains, who fell in the Roman service.”
The size of each tumulus was in proportion to the rank and respect of
the deceased; and the labour requisite to its formation was considerably
lessened by the number employed, each inferior soldier being obliged to
contribute a certain quantum to the general heap. That the one of which
we are speaking is the resting-place of a great personage may be easily
inferred, from its magnitude; its name also indicates the same thing,
“WILLY-HOWE,” being _the hill of many_, or _the hill made by many_; for
in Gibson’s Camden we find “_Willy_ and _Vili_ among the English Saxons,
as _Viele_ at this day among the Germans, signified _many_. So
_Willielmus_, the defender of many. _Wilfred_, peace to many.” Supposing
then a distinguished British chieftain, who fell in the imperial
service, to have been here interred, we may readily imagine that the
Romans and Britons would endeavour to stimulate their own party by
making his merits appear as conspicuous as possible; and to impress an
awe and a dread on the feelings of their enemies, they would not
hesitate to practise what we may call a pardonable fraud, in a
pretension that the fairies were his friends, and continued to work
miracles at his tomb. At the first glance, this idea may seem to require
a stretch of fancy, but we can more readily reconcile it when we
consider how firm was the belief that was placed in miracles; how
prevalent the love that existed, in those dark ages of ignorance and
superstition, to whatever bore that character; and how ready the Romans,
with their superior sagacity, would be to avail themselves of it. The
Saxons, when they became possessed of the country, would hear many
strange tales, which a species of bigoted or unaccountable attachment to
the marvellous would cause to be handed down from generation to
generation, each magnifying the first wonder, until they reached the
climax, whence they are now so fast descending. Thus may probably have
arisen the principal feature in the history of their origin.

This mode of sepulture appears to be very ancient, and that it was very
general is sufficiently demonstrated by the hills yet remaining in
distant parts of the world. Dr. Clarke, who noticed their existence in
Siberia and Russian-Tartary, thinks the practice is alluded to in the
Old Testament in these passages: “They raised a great heap of stones on
Achan;” “and raised a great heap of stones on the king of Ai;” “they
laid a heap of stones on Absalom.” In the interior of South Africa, the
Rev. J. Campbell “found a large heap of small stones, which had been
raised by each passenger adding a stone to the heap; it was intended as
a monument of respect to the memory of a king, from a remote nation, who
was killed in the vicinity, and whose head and hands were interred in
that spot.”

The number of these mounds in our own country is very considerable; and
I trust they will remain the everlasting monuments of their own
existence. Their greatest enemy is an idle curiosity, that cannot be
satisfied with what antiquaries relate concerning such as have been
examined, but, with a vain arrogance, assumes the power of digging
though them at pleasure. For my own part, I must confess, I should like
to be a witness of what they contain, yet I would hold them sacred, so
far as not to have them touched with the rude hand of Ignorance.
Whenever I approach these venerable relics, my mind is carried back to
the time when they were young; since then, I consider what years have
rolled over years, what generations have followed generations, and feel
an interest peculiarly and delicately solemn, in the fate of those whose
dust is here mingled with its kindred dust.

  T. C.

_Bridlington._

       *       *       *       *       *


HORN CHURCH IN ESSEX.

_For the Table Book._

In reply to the inquiry by Ignotus, in the _Every-Day Book_, vol. ii. p.
1650, respecting the origin of affixing horns to a church in Essex, I
find much ambiguity on the subject, and beg leave to refer to that
excellent work, “Newcourt’s Repertorium,” vol. ii. p. 336, who observes,
on the authority of Weaver, “The inhabitants here say, by tradition,
that this church, dedicated to St. Andrew, was built by a female
convert, to expiate for her former sins, and that it was called
Hore-church at first, till by a certain king, but by whom they are
uncertain, who rode that way, it was called Horned-church, who caused
those horns to be put out at the east end of it.”

The vane, on the top of the spire, is also in the form of an ox’s head,
with the horns. “The hospital had neither college nor common seal.”

  ~m.~


~Customs.~


THE PRESENT BOAR’S HEAD CAROL.

_For the Table Book._

Mr. Editor,--In reading your account of the “Boar’s Head Carol,” in your
_Every-Day Book_, vol. i. p. 1619, I find the _old_ carol, but not the
words of the carol as sung _at present_ in Queen’s College, Oxford, on
Christmas-day. As I think it possible you may never have seen them, I
now send you a copy as they were sung, or, more properly, chanted, in
the hall of Queen’s, on Christmas-day, 1810, at which time I was a
member of the college, and assisted at the chant.

    A boar’s head in hand bear I,
    Bedeck’d with bays and rosemary;
    And I pray you, my masters, be merry,
    Quot estis in convivio.--
        Caput apri defero,
        Reddens laudes Domino.

    The boar’s head, as I understand,
    Is the rarest dish in all this land;
    And when bedeck’d with a gay garland
    Let us servire cantico.--
        Caput apri, &c.

    Our steward hath provided this,
    In honour of the King of bliss:
    Which on this day to be served is
    In reginensi atrio.--
        Caput apri, &c.

  I am, &c.

  A QUONDAM QUEENSMAN.

       *       *       *       *       *


BEATING THE LAPSTONE.

_For the Table Book._

There is a custom of “beating the lapstone,” the day after Christmas, at
Nettleton, near Burton. The shoemakers beat the lapstone at the houses
of all water-drinkers, in consequence of a neighbour, Thomas Stickler,
who had not tasted malt liquor for twenty years, having been made tipsy
by drinking only a _half pint of ale_ at his shoemaker’s, at Christmas.
When he got home, he tottered into his house, and his good dame said,
“John, where have you been?--why, you are in liquor?”--“No, I am not,”
hiccuped John, “I’ve only _fell over the lapstone_, and that has _beaten
my leg_, so as I can’t walk quite right.” Hence the annual practical
joke--“beating the lapstone.”

  P.


~Manners.~


GAMBLING-HOUSES A CENTURY AGO.

From “The London Mercury” of January 13, 1721-2.

There are, it seems, in the parish of Covent-garden, twenty-two such
houses, some of which clear sometimes 100_l._, and seldom less than
40_l._ a night. They have their proper officers, both civil and
military, with salaries proportionable to their respective degrees, and
the importance they are of in the service, viz.

_A commissioner_, or commis, who is always a proprietor of the
gaming-house: he looks in once a night, and the week’s account is
audited by him and two others of the proprietors.

_A director_, who superintends the room.

_The operator_, the dealer at faro.

_Croupees_ two, who watch the card, and gather the money for the bank.

_A puff_, one who has money given him to play, in order to decoy others.

_A clerk_, who is a check upon the puff, to see that he sinks none of
that money.--A _squib_ is a puff of a lower rank, and has half the
salary of a puff.

_A flasher_, one who sits by to swear how often he has seen the bank
stript.

_A dunner_, waiters.

_An attorney_, or solicitor.

_A captain_, one who is to fight any man that is peevish or out of
humour at the loss of his money.

_An usher_, who takes care that the porter, or grenadier at the door,
suffers none to come in but those he knows.

_A porter_, who, at most of the gaming-houses, is a soldier hired for
that purpose.

_A runner_, to get intelligence of all the meetings of the justices of
the peace, and when the constables go upon the search.

Any link-boy, coachman, chairman, drawer, or other person, who gives
notice of the constables being upon the search, has half a guinea.

       *       *       *       *       *

~Omniana.~


TASTE.

Taste is the discriminating talisman, enabling its owner to see at once
the real merits of persons and things, to ascertain at a glance the true
from the false, and to decide rightly on the value of individuals.

Nothing escapes him who walks the world with his eyes touched by this
ointment; they are open to all around him--to admire, or to condemn--to
gaze with rapture, or to turn away with disgust, where another shall
pass and see nothing to excite the slightest emotion. The fair creation
of nature, and the works of man afford _him_ a wide field of continual
gratification. The brook, brawling over its bed of rocks or pebbles,
half concealed by the overhanging bushes that fringe its banks--or the
great river flowing, in unperturbed majesty, through a wide vale of
peace and plenty, or forcing its passage through a lofty range of
opposing hills--the gentle knoll, and the towering mountain--the rocky
dell, and the awful precipice--the young plantation, and the venerable
forest, are alike to him objects of interest and of admiration.

So in the works of man, a foot-bridge, thrown across a torrent, may be
in it as gratifying to the man of taste as the finest arch, or most
wonderful chain-bridge in the world; and a cottage of the humblest order
may be so beautifully situated, so neatly kept, and so tastefully
adorned with woodbine and jessamine, as to call forth his admiration
equally with the princely residence of the British landholder, in all
its pride of position, and splendour of architecture.

In short, this faculty is applicable to every object; and he who finds
any thing too lofty or too humble for his admiration, does not possess
it. It is exercised in the every-day affairs of life as much as in the
higher arts and sciences.--_Monthly Magazine._

       *       *       *       *       *


TWO RAVENS, ABROAD.

On the quay at Nimeguen, in the United Provinces, _two ravens_ are kept
at the public expense; they live in a roomy apartment, with a large
wooden cage before it, which serves them for a _balcony_. These birds
are feasted every day with the choicest fowls, with as much exactness as
if they were for a gentleman’s table. The privileges of the city were
granted originally upon the observance of this strange custom, which is
continued to this day.

       *       *       *       *       *


TWO RAVENS, AT HOME.

In a MS. of the late Rev. Mr. Gough, of Shrewsbury, it is related, that
one Thomas Elkes, of Middle, in Shropshire, being guardian to his eldest
brother’s child, who was young, and stood in his way to a considerable
estate, hired a poor boy to entice him into a corn field to gather
flowers, and meeting them, sent the poor boy home, took his nephew in
his arms, and carried him to a pond at the other end of the field, into
which he put the child, and there left him. The child being missed, and
inquiry made after him, Elkes fled, and took the road to London; the
neighbours sent two horsemen in pursuit of him, who passing along the
road near South Mims, in Hertfordshire, saw two ravens sitting on a cock
of hay making an unusual noise, and pulling the hay about with their
beaks, on which they went to the place, and found Elkes asleep under the
hay. He said, that these _two ravens_ had followed him from the time he
did the fact. He was brought to Shrewsbury, tried, condemned, and hung
in chains on Knockinheath.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE LAST TREE OF THE FOREST.

    Whisper, thou tree, thou lonely tree,
      One, where a thousand stood!
    Well might proud tales be told by thee,
      Last of the solemn wood!

    Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs,
      With leaves yet darkly green?
    Stillness is round, and noontide glows--
      Tell us what thou hast seen!

    “I have seen the forest-shadows lie
      Where now men reap the corn;
    I have seen the kingly chase rush by,
      Through the deep glades at morn.

    “With the glance of many a gallant spear
      And the wave of many a plume,
    And the bounding of a hundred deer
      It hath lit the woodland’s gloom.

    “I have seen the knight and his train ride past,
      With his banner borne on high;
    O’er all my leaves there was brightness cast
      From his gleamy panoply.

    “The pilgrim at my feet hath laid
      His palm-branch ’midst the flowers,
    And told his beads, and meekly pray’d,
      Kneeling at vesper-hours.

    “And the merry men of wild and glen,
      In the green array they wore,
    Have feasted here with the red wine’s cheer,
      And the hunter-songs of yore.

    “And the minstrel, resting in my shade,
      Hath made the forest ring
    With the lordly tales of the high crusade,
      Once loved by chief and king.

    “But now the noble forms are gone,
      That walk’d the earth of old;
    The soft wind hath a mournful tone,
      The sunny light looks cold.

    “There is no glory left us now
      like the glory with the dead:--
    I would that where they slumber low,
      My latest leaves were shed.”

    Oh! thou dark tree, thou lonely tree,
      That mournest for the past!
    A peasant’s home in thy shade I see,
      Embower’d from every blast.

    A lovely and a mirthful sound
      Of laughter meets mine ear;
    For the poor man’s children sport around
      On the turf, with nought to fear.

    And roses lend that cabin’s wall
      A happy summer-glow,
    And the open door stands free to all,
      For it recks not of a foe.

    And the village-bells are on the breeze
      That stirs thy leaf, dark tree!--
    --How can I mourn, amidst things like these,
      For the stormy past with thee?

  F. H. _New Monthly Magazine._

       *       *       *       *       *


MISS POLLY BAKER.

Towards the end of 1777, the abbé Raynal calling on Dr. Franklin found,
in company with the doctor, their common friend, Silas Deane. “Ah!
monsieur l’abbé,” said Deane, “we were just talking of you and your
works. Do you know that you have been very ill served by some of those
people who have undertaken to give you information on American affairs?”
The abbé resisted this attack with some warmth; and Deane supported it
by citing a variety of passages from Raynal’s works, which he alleged to
be incorrect. At last they came to the anecdote of “Polly Baker,” on
which the abbé had displayed a great deal of pathos and sentiment. “Now
here,” says Deane, “is a tale in which there is not one word of truth.”
Raynal fired at this, and asserted that he had taken it from an
authentic memoir received from America. Franklin, who had amused himself
hitherto with listening to the dispute of his friends, at length
interposed, “My dear abbé,” said he, “shall I tell you the truth? When I
was a young man, and rather more thoughtless than is becoming at our
present time of life, I was employed in writing for a newspaper; and, as
it sometimes happened that I wanted genuine materials to fill up my
page, I occasionally drew on the stores of my imagination for a tale
which might pass current as a reality--now this very anecdote of Polly
Baker was one of my inventions.”


BREAD SEALS.

The new conundrum of “bread pats,” as the ladies call the epigrammatic
impressors that their work-boxes are always full of now, pleases me
mightily. Nothing could be more stupid than the old style of
_affiche_--an initial--carefully engraved in a hand always perfectly
unintelligible; or a crest--necessarily out of its place, nine times in
ten, in female correspondence--because nothing could be more
un-“germane” than a “bloody dagger” alarming every body it met, on the
outside of an order for minikin pins! or a “fiery dragon,” threatening a
French mantua-maker for some undue degree of tightness in the fitting of
the sleeve! and then the same emblem, recurring through the whole
letter-writing of a life, became tedious. But now every lady has a
selection of axioms (in flower and water) always by her, suited to
different occasions. As, “Though lost to _sight_, to memory dear!”--when
she writes to a friend who has lately had his eye poked out. “Though
absent, unforgotten!”--to a female correspondent, whom she has not
written to for perhaps the three last (twopenny) posts; or, “_Vous le
meritez!_” with the figure of a “rose”--emblematic of every thing
beautiful--when she writes to a lover. It was receiving a note with this
last seal to it that put the subject of seals into my mind; and I have
some notion of getting one engraved with the same motto, “Vous le
meritez,” only with the personification of a _horsewhip_ under it,
instead of a “rose”--for peculiar occasions. And perhaps a second would
not do amiss, with the same emblem, only with the motto, “_Tu l’auras!_”
as a sort of corollary upon the first, in cases of emergency! At all
events, I patronise the system of a variety of “posies;” because where
the inside of a letter is likely to be stupid, it gives you the chance
of a joke upon the out.--_Monthly Magazine_

       *       *       *       *       *


BLEEDING FOR OUR COUNTRY.

It is related of a Lord Radnor in Chesterfield’s time, that, with many
good qualities, and no inconsiderable share of learning, he had a strong
desire of being thought skilful in physic, and was very expert in
bleeding. Lord Chesterfield knew his foible, and on a particular
occasion, wanting his vote, came to him, and, after having conversed
upon indifferent matters, complained of the headach, and desired his
lordship to feel his pulse. Lord Radnor immediately advised him to lose
blood. Chesterfield complimented his lordship on his chirurgical skill,
and begged him to try his lancet upon him. “A propos,” said lord
Chesterfield, after the operation, “do you go to the house today?” Lord
Radnor answered, “I did not intend to go, not being sufficiently
informed of the question which is to be debated; but you, that have
considered it, which side will you be of?”--The wily earl easily
directed his judgment, carried him to the house, and got him to vote as
he pleased. Lord Chesterfield used to say, that none of his friends had
been as patriotic as himself, for he had “_lost his blood for the good
of his country_.”

       *       *       *       *       *


~Social Happiness.~


A VILLAGE NEW YEAR.

_For the Table Book._

“Almack’s” may be charming,--an assembly at the “Crown and Anchor,” and
a hop of country quality at the annual “Race Ball,” or a more popular
“set to” at a fashionable watering-place, may delight--but a lady of
city or town cannot conceive the emotions enjoyed by a party collected
in the village to see the “old year” out and the “new year” in. At this
time, the “country dance” is of the first importance to the young and
old, yet not till the week has been occupied by abundant provisions of
meat, fruit tarts, and mince pies, which, with made wines, ales, and
spirits, are, like the blocks for fuel, piled in store for all
partakers, gentle and simple. Extra best beds, stabling, and hay, are
made ready,--fine celery dug,--the china service and pewter plates
examined,--in short, want and wish are anticipated, nothing is omitted,
but every effort used to give proofs of genuine hospitality. This year,
if there is to be war in Portugal, many widowed hearts and orphan
spirits may be diverted from, not to, a scene which is witnessed in
places where peace and plenty abound. However, I will not be at war by
conjecture, but suppose much of the milk of human kindness to be shared
with those who look at the sunny side of things.

After tea, at which the civilities of the most gallant of the young
assist to lighten the task of the hostess, the fiddler is announced, the
“country dance” begins, and the lasses are all alive; their eyes seem
lustrous and their animal spirits rise to the zero of harmonious and
beautiful attraction. The choosing of partners and tunes with favourite
figures is highly considered. Old folks who have a leg left and are
desirous of repeating the step (though not so light) of fifty years
back, join the dance; and the floor, whether of stone or wood, is swept
to notes till feet are tired. This is pursued till suppertime at ten
o’clock. Meantime, the “band” (called “waits” in London) is playing
before the doors of the great neighbours, and regaled with beer, and
chine, and pies; the village “college youths” are tuning the handbells,
and the admirers of the “steeple chase” loiter about the church-yard to
hear the clock strike twelve, and startle the air by high mettle sounds.
Methodist and Moravian dissenters assemble at their places of worship to
watch out the old year, and continue to “watch” till four or five in the
new year’s morning. Villagers, otherwise disposed, follow the church
plan, and commemorate the vigils in the old unreformed way. After a
sumptuous supper,--at which some maiden’s heart is endangered by the
roguish eye, or the salute and squeeze by stealth, dancing is resumed,
and, according to custom, a change of partners takes place, often to the
joy and disappointment of love and lovers. At every rest--the fiddler
makes a squeaking of the strings--this is called _kiss ’em!_ a practice
well understood by the _tulip_ fanciers. The pipes, tobacco, and
substantials are on the _qui vive_, by the elders in another part of the
house, and the pint goes often to the cellar.

As the clock strikes a quarter to twelve, a bumper is given to the “old
friend,” standing, with three farewells! and while the church bells
strike out the departure of his existence, another bumper is pledged to
the “new infant,” with three standing hip, hip, hip--huzzas! It is
further customary for the dance to continue all this time, that the
union of the years should be cemented by friendly intercourse. Feasting
and merriment are carried on until four or five o’clock, when, as the
works of the kitchen have not been relaxed, a pile of sugar toast is
prepared, and every guest must partake of its sweetness, and praise it
too, before separation. Headaches, lassitude, and paleness, are thought
little of, pleasure suppresses the sigh, and the spirit of joy keeps the
undulations of care in proper subjection--Happy times these!--Joyful
opportunities borrowed out of youth to be repaid by ripened
memory!--snatched, as it were, from the wings of Time to be written on
his brow with wrinkles hereafter.

  R. P.




Vol. I.--4.


[Illustration: ~The last Likeness of the Duke of York.~

(NOW FIRST ENGRAVED)

FROM THE BUST BY BEHNES, EXECUTED FOR HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS IN 1826.]

    In the rude block aspiring talent sees
    Its patron’s face, and hews it out with ease;
    Ere fail’d the royal breath, the marble breath’d,
    And lives to be by gratitude enwreath’d.

  *

Towards the close of the year 1825, the duke of York commenced to sit
for this bust at his late residence in the Stable-yard, St. James’s;
and, in the summer of 1826, continued to give sittings, till its final
completion, at the artist’s house, in Dean-street, Soho. The marble was
then removed, for exhibition, to the Royal Academy, and from thence sent
home to his royal highness, at Rutland-house. The duke and his royal
sister, the princess Sophia, were equally delighted with the true and
spirited likeness, and gratified by its possession, as a work of art.

The duke of York, on giving his orders to Mr. Behnes, left entirely to
him the arrangement of the figure. With great judgment, and in reference
to his royal highness’s distinguished station, the artist has placed
armour on the body, and thrown a military cloak over the shoulders.
This judicious combination of costume imparts simplicity and breadth to
the bust, and assists the manly dignity of the head. The duke’s fine
open features bear the frank and good-natured expression they constantly
wore in life: the resemblance being minutely faithful, is as just to his
royal highness’s exalted and benevolent character, as it is creditable
to Mr. Behnes’s execution. The present engraving is a hasty sketch of
its general appearance. His royal highness kindly permitted Mr. Behnes
to take casts from the sculpture. Of the many, therefore, who
experienced the duke of York’s friendship or favour, any one who desires
to hold his royal highness’s person in remembrance, has an opportunity
of obtaining a fac-simile of the original bust, which is as large as
life.

Mr. Behnes was the last artist to whom the duke sat, and, consequently,
this is his last likeness. The marble was in the possession of his royal
highness during his long illness, and to the moment of his death, in
Arlington-street. Its final destination will be appropriated by those to
whom he was most attached, and on whom the disposition of such a
memorial necessarily devolves.

       *       *       *       *       *

To the ample accounts of the duke of York in the different journals, the
_Table Book_ brings together a few particulars omitted to be collected,
preceded by a few notices respecting his royal highness’s title, a
correct list of all the dukes of York from their origin, and, first,
with an interesting paper by a gentleman who favoured the _Every-Day
Book_ with some valuable genealogical communications.

       *       *       *       *       *


SHAKSPEARE’S DUKES OF YORK, &C.

_For the Table Book._

The elastic buoyancy of spirits, joined with the rare affability of
disposition, which prominently marked the character of the prince whose
recent loss we deplore, rendered him the enthusiastic admirer and steady
supporter of the English stage. I hope I shall not be taken to task for
alluding to a trifling coincidence, on recalling to recollection how
largely the mighty master of this department, our immortal Shakspeare,
has drawn upon his royal highness’s illustrious predecessors in title,
in those unrivalled dramatic sketches which unite the force of genius
with the simplicity of nature, whilst they impart to the strictly
accurate annals of our national history some of the most vivid
illuminations which blaze through the records of our national eloquence.

The touches of a master-hand giving vent to the emanations of a mighty
mind are, perhaps, no where more palpably traced, than throughout those
scenes of the historical play of Richard II., where Edmund of Langley,
duke of York, (son of king Edward III.,) struggles mentally between
sentiments of allegiance to his weak and misguided sovereign on the one
hand, and, on the other hand, his sense of his other nephew
Bolingbroke’s grievous wrongs, and the injuries inflicted on his country
by a system of favouritism, profusion, and oppression.

Equal skill and feeling are displayed in the delineation of his son
Rutland’s devoted attachment to his dethroned benefactor, and the adroit
detection, at a critical moment, of the conspiracy, into which he had
entered for Richard’s restoration.

In the subsequent play of Henry V., (perhaps the most heart-stirring of
this interesting series,) we learn how nobly this very Rutland (who had
succeeded his father, Edmund of Langley, as duke of York) repaid Henry
IV.’s generous and unconditional pardon, by his heroic conduct in the
glorious field of Agincourt, where he sealed his devotion to his king
and country with his blood.

Shakspeare has rendered familiar to us the intricate plans of deep-laid
policy, and the stormy scenes of domestic desolation, through which his
nephew and successor, Richard, the next duke of York, obtained a glimpse
of that throne, to which, according to strictness, he was legitimately
entitled just before

    “York overlook’d the town of York.”

The licentious indulgence, the hard-hearted selfishness, the reckless
cruelty, which history indelibly stamps as the characteristics of his
son and successor, Edward, who shortly afterwards seated himself firmly
on the throne, are presented to us in colours equally vivid and
authentic. The interestingly pathetic detail of the premature extinction
in infancy of his second son, prince Richard, whom he had invested with
the title of York, is brought before our eyes in the tragedy of Richard
III., with a forcible skill and a plaintive energy, which set the
proudest efforts of preceding or following dramatic writers at defiance.

To “bluff king Hal,” (who, during the lifetime of his elder brother,
Arthur, prince of Wales, had next borne this exclusively royal title of
duke of York,) ample justice is rendered, in every point of view, in
that production, as eminent for its gorgeous pageantry as for its
subdued interest, in which most of our elder readers must have been
sufficiently fortunate to witness the transcendant merits of Mrs.
Siddons, as Queen Catherine, surpassing even her own accustomed
excellence.

Had, contrary to the wonted career of the triumph of human intellect, a
Shakspeare enraptured and adorned the next generation, what studies
would not the characters and fates of the martyred Charles I., and his
misguided son, James II., have afforded to his contemplation. Both these
sovereigns, during the lives of their respective elder brothers, bore
the title of duke of York.

The counties of York and Lancaster are the only two in England from
which the titles conferred have been exclusively enjoyed by princes of
the blood royal. It may be safely asserted, that neither of these
designations has ever illustrated an individual, who was not either son,
brother, grandson, or nephew of the sovereign of this realm.

Richard, duke of York, killed at the battle of Wakefield, may, at first
sight, strike the reader as an exception to this assertion, he being
only cousin to Henry VI.; but we ought to bear in mind, that this
Richard was himself entitled to that throne, of which his eldest son
shortly afterwards obtained possession, under the title of Edward IV.

By the treaty of Westphalia, concluded at Munster, in 1648, which put an
end to the memorable war that desolated the fairest portion of the
civilized world during thirty years, it was stipulated that the
bishopric of Osnaburgh, then secularized, should be alternately
possessed by a prince of the catholic house of Bavaria, and the
protestant house of Brunswick Lunenburgh. It is somewhat remarkable, on
the score of dates, that the Bavarian family enjoyed but one
presentation between the death of Ernest Augustus, duke of York, in
1728, and the presentation of his great, great, great nephew, the
lamented prince whose loss, in 1827, is so deeply and justly deplored.

  W. P.

       *       *       *       *       *


OTHO, EARL OF YORK.

More than five centuries before a prince of the house of Brunswick sat
on the British throne, there is a name in the genealogy of the Guelphs
connected with the title of York.

Until the time of Gibbon, the learned were inclined to ascribe to Azo,
the great patriarch of the house of Este, a direct male descent from
Charlemagne: the brilliant result of this able investigator’s researches
prove, in Azo’s behalf, four certain lineal ascents, and two others,
highly probable,

    “------ from the pure well of _Italian_ undefiled.”

Azo, marquis or lord of Tuscany, married Cunegunda, a daughter of a
Guelph, who was also sister of a Guelph, and heiress of the last Guelph.
The issue of this alliance was Guelph I., who, at a time before titles
were well settled, was either duke or count of Altdorff. He was
succeeded by his son, Henry the Black, who married Wolfhildis, heiress
of Lunenburgh, and other possessions on the Elbe, which descended to
their son, Henry the Proud, who wedded Gertrude, the heiress of Saxony,
Brunswick, and Hanover. These large domains centered in their eldest
son, Henry the Lion, who married Maud, daughter of Henry II., king of
England, and, in the conflicts of the times, lost all his possessions,
except his allodial territories of Lunenburgh, Brunswick, and Hanover.
The youngest son of this marriage was William of Winchester, or
Longsword, from whom descended the dukes of Brunswick and Lunenburgh, in
Germany, progenitors to the house of Hanover. His elder brother, Otho,
is said to have borne the title of York.

This Otho, duke of Saxony, the eldest son of Henry the Lion, and Maud,
was afterwards emperor of Germany; but previous to attaining the
imperial dignity, he was created earl of York by Richard I., king of
England, who, according to some authorities, subsequently exchanged with
Otho, and gave him the earldom of Poictou for that of York. Otho’s
relation to this kingdom, as earl of York, and grandson of Henry II., is
as interesting as his fortunes were remarkable.

The emperor, Henry VI., having died, and left his son, Frederick, an
infant three months old, to the care of his brother Philip, duke of
Suabia; the minority of Frederick tempted pope Innocent to divest the
house of Suabia of the imperial crown, and he prevailed on certain
princes to elect Otho, of Saxony, emperor: other princes reelected the
infant Frederick. The contention continued between the rival
candidates, with repeated elections. Otho, by flattering the clergy,
obtained himself to be crowned at Rome, and assumed the title of Otho
IV.; but some of his followers having been killed by the Roman citizens
he meditated revenge, and instead of returning to Germany, reconquered
certain possessions usurped from the empire by the pope. For this
violence Otho was excommunicated by the holy father, who turned his
influence in behalf of the youthful Frederick, and procured him to be
elected emperor instead. Otho had a quarrel with Philip Augustus, king
of France, respecting an old wager between them. Philip, neither
believing nor wishing that Otho could attain the imperial dignity, had
wagered the best city in his kingdom against whichever he should select
of Otho’s baggage horses, if he carried his point. After Otho had
achieved it, he seriously demanded the city of Paris from Philip, who
quite as seriously refused to deliver up his capital. War ensued, and in
the decisive battle of Bovines, called the “battle of the spurs,” from
the number of knights who perished, Philip defeated Otho at the head of
two hundred thousand Germans. The imperial dragon, which the Germans, in
their wars, were accustomed to plant on a great armed chariot with a
guard chosen from the flower of the army, fell into the hands of the
victors, and the emperor himself barely escaped at the hazard of his
life. This battle was fought in August, 1215; and Otho, completely
vanquished, retreated upon his devotions, and died in 1218, without
issue.[31]

The wager, in its consequences so disastrous to the Germans, and so
illustrious to the French arms, was made with Philip while Otho was
passing through France on his way from the court of England. Collectors
of “engraved British portraits,” and the portraits of persons who “come
into England,” should look to this. How many illustrated “Grangers” are
there with a portrait of Otho IV., earl of York?

       *       *       *       *       *


THE DUKES OF YORK.


I.

Edmund Plantagenet, surnamed De Langley, from his birth-place, fifth son
of king Edward III., was first created earl of Cambridge by his father,
and afterwards created duke of York by his nephew, Richard II. He was
much influenced by his brother, the duke of Gloucester; and an
historian of the period calls him “a soft prince.” It is certain that he
had few stirring qualities, and that passive virtues were not valued in
an age when they were of little service to contending parties. In 1402,
three years after the accession of Henry IV., he died at his manor of
Langley, and was interred in the priory there.


II.

Edward Plantagenet, _second_ duke of York, was son of the first duke,
grandson to Edward III., and great uncle to Henry V., by whose side he
valiantly fought and perished, in the field of Agincourt, October 25,
1415.


III.

Richard Plantagenet, _third_ duke of York, nephew of the second duke,
and son of Richard earl of Cambridge, who was executed for treason
against Henry V., was restored to his paternal honours by Henry VI., and
allowed to succeed to his uncle’s inheritance. As he was one of the most
illustrious by descent, so he became one of the most powerful subjects
through his dignities and alliances. After the death of the duke of
Bedford, the celebrated regent of France, he was appointed to succeed
him, and with the assistance of the valorous lord Talbot, afterwards
earl of Shrewsbury, maintained a footing in the French territories
upwards of five years. The incapacity of Henry VI. incited him to urge
his claim to the crown of England in right of his mother, through whom
he descended from Philippa, only daughter of the duke of Clarence,
_second_ son to Edward III.; whereas the king descended from the duke of
Lancaster, _third_ son of that monarch. The duke’s superiority of
descent, his valour and mildness in various high employments, and his
immense possessions, derived through numerous successions, gave him
influence with the nobility, and procured him formidable connections. He
levied war against the king, and without material loss slew about five
thousand of the royal forces at St. Alban’s, on the 22d of May, 1452.
This was the first blood spilt in the fierce and fatal quarrel between
the rival houses of York and Lancaster, which lasted thirty years, was
signalized by twelve pitched battles, cost the lives of eighty princes
of the blood, and almost annihilated the ancient nobility of England.
After this battle, the duke’s irresolution, and the heroism of Margaret,
queen of Henry VI., caused a suspension of hostilities. The leaders on
both sides assented to meet in London, and be solemnly reconciled. The
duke of York led the queen in solemn procession to St. Paul’s, and the
chiefs of one party marched hand in hand with the chiefs of the other.
It was a public demonstration of peace, with secret mutual distrust; and
an accident aroused the slumbering strife. One of the king’s retinue
insulted one of the earl of Warwick’s; their companions fought, and both
parties in every county flew to arms. The battle of Bloreheath, in
Staffordshire, 23d September, 1459, was won by the Lancastrians. At the
battle of Northampton, 10th July, 1560, the Yorkists had the victory,
and the king was taken prisoner. A parliament, summoned in the king’s
name, met at Westminster, which the duke of York attended; and, had he
then seated himself on the throne in the House of Lords, the deadly feud
might have been ended by his being proclaimed king; but his coolness and
moderation intimidated his friends, and encouraged his enemies. His
personal courage was undoubted, but he was deficient in political
courage. The parliament deliberated, and though they declared the duke’s
title indefeasible, yet they decided that Henry should retain the crown
during life. They provided, however, that till the king’s decease the
government should be administered by the duke, as the true and lawful
heir of the monarchy; and in this arrangement Richard acquiesced.
Meanwhile, queen Margaret, with her infant son, appealed to the barons
of the north against the settlement in the south, and collected an army
with astonishing celerity. The duke of York hastened with five thousand
troops to quell what he imagined to be the beginning of an insurrection,
and found, near Wakefield, a force of twenty thousand men. He threw
himself into Sandal castle, but with characteristic bravery, imagining
he should be disgraced by remaining between walls in fear of a female,
he descended onto the plain of Wakefield on the 24th of December, and
gave battle to the queen, who largely outnumbering his little army,
defeated and slew him; and his son, the earl of Rutland, an innocent
youth of seventeen, having been taken prisoner, was murdered in cold
blood by the lord de Clifford. Margaret caused the duke’s head to be cut
off, and fixed on the gates of the city of York, with a paper crown on
it in derision of his claim. He perished in the fiftieth year of his
age, worthy of a better fate.


IV.

Edward Plantagenet, _fourth_ duke of York, eldest son of the last,
prosecuted his father’s pretensions, and defeated the earl of Pembroke,
half brother to Henry VI., at Mortimer’s Cross, in Herefordshire.
Shortly afterwards, queen Margaret advanced upon London, and gained a
victory over the Yorkists under the earl of Warwick, at the second
battle of St. Alban’s, and, at the same time, regained possession of the
person of her weak husband. Pressed by the Yorkists, she retreated to
the north and the youthful duke, remarkable for beauty of person,
bravery, affability, and every popular quality, entered the capital
amidst the acclamations of the citizens. Elated by his success, he
resolved to openly insist on his claim, and treat his adversaries as
rebels and traitors. On the 3d of March, 1460, he caused his army to
muster in St. John’s Fields, Clerkenwell; and after an harangue to the
multitude surrounding his soldiery, the tumultuary crowd were asked
whether they would have Henry of Lancaster, or Edward, eldest son of the
late duke of York, for king. Their “sweet voices” were for the latter;
and this show of popular election was ratified by a great number of
bishops, lords, magistrates, and other persons of distinction, assembled
for that purpose at Baynard’s Castle. On the morrow, the duke went to
St. Paul’s and offered, and had Te Deum sung, and was with great royalty
conveyed to Westminster, and there in the great hall sat in the king’s
seat, with St. Edward’s sceptre in his hand. On the 29th of March, 1461,
he fought the fierce and bloody battle of Touton, wherein he issued
orders to give no quarter, and there were above thirty-six thousand
slain. This slaughter confirmed him king of England, and he reigned
upwards of twenty years under the title of Edward IV., defiling his fame
and power by effeminacy and cruelty. The title of York merged in the
royal dignity.


V.

Richard Plantagenet, of Shrewsbury, _fifth_ duke of York, son of Edward
IV., was murdered in the tower while young, with his elder brother,
Edward V., by order of their uncle, the duke of Gloucester, afterwards
Richard III.


VI.

Henry Tudor, _sixth_ duke of York, was so created by his father Henry
VII., whom he succeeded as king, under the title of Henry VIII., and
stained our annals with heartless crimes.


VII.

Charles Stuart, _seventh_ duke of York, was second son of James I., by
whom he was created to that title in 1604, and whom he succeeded in the
throne as Charles I.


VIII.

James Stuart, a younger son of Charles I., was the _eighth_ duke of
York. While bearing this title during the reign of his brother Charles
II., he manifested great personal courage as a naval commander, in
several actions with the Dutch. Under the title of James II., he
incompetently filled the throne and weakly abdicated it.


IX.

Ernest Augustus Guelph, _ninth_ duke of York, duke of Albany, earl of
Ulster, and bishop of Osnaburgh, was brother to George Lewis Guelph,
elector of Hanover, and king of England as George I., by letters from
whom, in 1716, he was dignified as above, and died in 1728, unmarried.


X.

Edward Augustus, _tenth_ duke of York, duke of Albany, and earl of
Ulster, was second son of Frederick prince of Wales, and brother to king
George III., by whom he was created to those titles. He died at Monaco,
in Italy, September 17, 1767, unmarried.


XI.

THE LATE DUKE OF YORK.

Frederick, _eleventh_ Duke of York, was brother of His Majesty King
George IV., and second son of his late Majesty King George III., by whom
he was advanced to the dignities of Duke of the Kingdom of Great
Britain, and of Earl of the Kingdom of Ireland, by the titles of Duke of
York and of Albany in Great Britain, and of Earl of Ulster in Ireland,
and presented to the Bishopric of Osnaburgh. His Royal Highness was
Commander-in-Chief of all the Land Forces of the United Kingdom, Colonel
of the First Regiment of Foot Guards, Colonel-in-chief of the 60th
Regiment of Infantry, Officiating Grand Master of the Order of the Bath,
High Steward of New Windsor, Warden and Keeper of the New Forest
Hampshire, Knight of the Garter, Knight of the Order of the Holy Ghost
in France, of the Black Eagle in Russia, the Red Eagle in Prussia, of
St. Maria Theresa in Austria, of Charles III. in Spain, Doctor of Civil
Law, and Fellow or the Royal Society.

The late duke of York was born on the 16th of August, 1763; he died on
the 5th of January, 1827. A few miscellaneous memoranda are extracted
from journals of the dates they refer to.

       *       *       *       *       *

The duke of York was sent to Germany to finish his education. On the 1st
of August, 1787, his royal highness, after having been only five days on
the road from Hanover to Calais, embarked at that port, on board a
common packet-boat, for England, and arrived at Dover the same
afternoon. He was at St. James’s-palace the following day by half-past
twelve o’clock; and, on the arrival of the prince of Wales at
Carlton-house, he was visited by the duke, after an absence of four
years, which, far from cooling, had increased the affection of the royal
brothers.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the 20th of December, in the same year, a grand masonic lodge was
held at the Star and Garter in Pall-mall. The duke of Cumberland as
grand-master, the prince of Wales, and the duke of York, were in the new
uniform of the Britannic-lodge, and the duke of York received another
degree in masonry; he had some time before been initiated in the first
mysteries of the brotherhood.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the 5th of February, 1788, the duke of York appeared in the Court of
King’s Bench, and was sworn to give evidence before the grand jury of
Middlesex, on an indictment for fraud, in sending a letter to his royal
highness, purporting to be a letter from captain Morris, requesting the
loan of forty pounds. The grand jury found the indictment, and the
prisoner, whose name does not appear, was brought into court by the
keeper of Tothill-fields Bridewell, and pleaded not guilty, whereupon he
was remanded, and the indictment appointed to be tried in the sittings
after the following term; but there is no account of the trial having
been had.

       *       *       *       *       *

In December of the same year, the duke ordered two hundred and sixty
sacks of coals to be distributed among the families of the married men
of his regiment, and the same to be continued during the severity of the
weather.

       *       *       *       *       *

In 1788, pending the great question of the regency, it was contended on
that side of the House of Commons from whence extension of royal
prerogative was least expected, that from the moment parliament was made
acquainted with the king’s incapacity, a _right_ attached to the prince
of Wales to exercise the regal functions, in the name of his father. On
the 15th of December, the duke of York rose in the House of Lords, and a
profound silence ensued. His royal highness said, that though perfectly
unused as he was to speak in a public assembly, yet he could not refrain
from offering his sentiments to their lordships on a subject in which
the dearest interests of the country were involved. He said, he entirely
agreed with the noble lords who had expressed their wishes to avoid any
question which tended to induce a discussion on the rights of the
prince. The fact was plain, that no such claim of right had been made on
the part of the prince; and he was confident that his royal highness
understood too well the sacred principles which seated the house of
Brunswick on the throne of Great Britain, ever to assume or exercise any
power, _be his claim what it might_, not derived from the will of the
people, expressed by their representatives and their lordships in
parliament assembled. On this ground his royal highness said, that he
must be permitted to hope that the wisdom and moderation of all
considerate men, at a moment when temper and unanimity were so
peculiarly necessary, on account of the dreadful calamity which every
description of persons must in common lament, but which he more
particularly felt, would make them wish to avoid pressing a decision,
which certainly was not _necessary_ to the great object expected from
parliament, and which must be most painful in the discussion to a family
already sufficiently agitated and afflicted. His royal highness
concluded with saying, that these were the sentiments of an honest
heart, equally influenced by duty and affection to his royal father, and
attachment to the constitutional rights of his subjects; and that he was
confident, if his royal brother were to address them in his place as a
peer of the realm, that these were the sentiments which he would
distinctly avow.

       *       *       *       *       *

His majesty in council having declared his consent, under the great
seal, to a contract of matrimony between his royal highness the duke of
York and her royal highness the princess Frederique Charlotte Ulrique
Catherine of Prussia, eldest daughter of the king of Prussia, on the
29th of September, 1791, the marriage ceremony was performed at Berlin.
About six o’clock in the afternoon, all the persons of the blood royal
assembled in gala, in the apartments of the dowager queen, where the
diamond crown was put on the head of princess Frederica. The generals,
ministers, ambassadors, and the high nobility, assembled in the white
hall. At seven o’clock, the duke of York, preceded by the gentlemen of
the chamber, and the court officers of state, led the princess his
spouse, whose train was carried by four ladies of the court, through all
the parade apartments; after them went the king, with the queen dowager,
prince Lewis of Prussia, with the reigning queen, and others of the
royal family to the white hall, where a canopy was erected of crimson
velvet, and also a crimson velvet sofa for the marriage ceremony. The
royal couple placed themselves under the canopy, before the sofa, the
royal family stood round them, and the upper counsellor of the
consistory, Mr. Sack, made a speech in German. This being over, rings
were exchanged; and the illustrious couple, kneeling on the sofa, were
married according to the rites of the reformed church. The whole ended
with a prayer. Twelve guns, placed in the garden, fired three rounds,
and the benediction was given. The new-married couple then received the
congratulations of the royal family, and returned in the same manner to
the apartments, where the royal family, and all persons present, sat
down to card-tables; after which, the whole court, the high nobility,
and the ambassadors, sat down to supper, at six tables. The first was
placed under a canopy of crimson velvet, and the victuals served in gold
dishes and plates. The other five tables, at which sat the generals,
ministers, ambassadors, all the officers of the court, and the high
nobility, were served in other apartments.

During supper, music continued playing in the galleries of the first
hall, which immediately began when the company entered the hall. At the
dessert, the royal table was served with a beautiful set of china, made
in the Berlin manufactory. Supper being over, the whole assembly
repaired to the white hall, where the trumpet, timbrel, and other music
were playing; and the _flambeau_ dance was begun, at which the ministers
of state carried the torches. With this ended the festivity. The
ceremony of the re-marriage of the duke and duchess of York took place
at the Queen’s Palace, London, on the 23d of November.

The duchess of York died on the 6th of August, 1820.


THE DANCE OF TORCHES.

As a note of illustration on this dance at the Prussian nuptials of the
duke and duchess of York, reference may be had to a slight mention of
the same observance on the marriage of the prince royal of Prussia with
the princess of Bavaria, in the _Every-Day Book_, vol. i. p. 1551. Since
that article, I find more descriptive particulars of it in a letter from
baron Bielfeld, giving an account of the marriage of the prince of
Prussia with the princess of Brunswick Wolfenbuttle, at Berlin, in 1742.
The baron was present at the ceremonial.

“As soon as their majesties rose from table, the whole company returned
into the white hall; from whence the altar was removed, and the room was
illuminated with fresh wax lights. The musicians were placed on a stage
of solid silver. Six lieutenant generals, and six ministers of state,
stood, each with a white wax torch in his hand, ready to be lighted, in
conformity to a ceremony used in the German courts on these occasions,
which is called ‘_the dance of torches_,’ in allusion to the torch of
Hymen. This dance was opened by the new married prince and princess, who
made the tour of the hall, saluting the king and the company. Before
them went the ministers and the generals, two and two, with their
lighted torches. The princess then gave her hand to the king, and the
prince to the queen; the king gave his hand to the queen mother, and the
reigning queen to prince Henry; and in this manner all the princes and
princesses that were present, one after the other, and according to
their rank, led up the dance, making the tour of the hall, almost in the
step of the Polognese. The novelty of this performance, and the sublime
quality of the performers, made it in some degree agreeable. Otherwise
the extreme gravity of the dance itself, with the continual round and
formal pace of the dancers, the frequent going out of the torches, and
the clangour of the trumpets that rent the ear, all these I say made it
too much resemble the dance of the Sarmates, those ancient inhabitants
of the prodigious woods of this country.”

       *       *       *       *       *

On the 7th of June, 1794, about four o’clock in the morning, a fire
broke out at the duke of York’s palace at Oatlands. It began in the
kitchen, and was occasioned by a beam which projected into the chimney,
and communicated to the roof. His royal highness’s armoury was in that
wing of the building where the fire commenced, in which forty pounds of
gunpowder being deposited, a number of most curious war-like
instruments, which his royal highness had collected on the continent,
were destroyed. Many of the guns and other weapons were presented from
the king of Prussia, and German officers of distinction, and to each
piece was attached its history. By the seasonable exertions of the
neighbourhood, the flames were prevented from spreading to the main part
of the building. The duchess was at Oatlands at the time, and beheld the
conflagration from her sleeping apartment, in the centre of the mansion,
from which the flames were prevented communicating by destroying a
gateway, over the wing that adjoined to the house. Her royal highness
gave her orders with perfect composure, directed abundant refreshment to
the people who were extinguishing the flames, and then retired to the
rooms of the servants at the stables, which are considerably detached
from the palace. His majesty rode over from Windsor-castle to visit her
royal highness, and staid with her a considerable time.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the 8th of April, 1808, whilst the duke of York was riding for an
airing along the King’s-road towards Fulham, a drover’s dog crossed, and
barked in front of the horse. The animal, suddenly rearing, fell
backwards, with the duke under him; and the horse rising, with the
duke’s foot in the stirrup, dragged him along, and did him further
injury. When extricated, the duke, with great cheerfulness, denied he
was much hurt, yet two of his ribs were broken, the back of his head and
face contused, and one of his legs and arms much bruised. A gentleman in
a hack chaise immediately alighted, and the duke was conveyed in it to
York-house, Piccadilly, where his royal highness was put to bed, and in
due time recovered to the performance of his active duties.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the 6th of August, 1815, the duke of York, on coming out of a
shower-bath, at Oatlands, fell, from the slippery state of the oilcloth,
and broke the large bone of his left arm, half way between the shoulder
and the elbow-joint. His royal highness’s excellent constitution at that
time assisted the surgeons, and in a fortnight he again attended to
business.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the 11th of October, in the same year, his royal highness’s library,
at his office in the Horse-guards consisting of the best military
authors, and a very extensive collection of maps, were removed to his
new library (late her majesty’s) in the Green-park. The assemblage is
the most perfect collection of works on military affairs in the kingdom.

       *       *       *       *       *

It appears, from the report of the commissioners of woods, forests, and
land revenues, in 1816, that the duke of York purchased of the
commissioners the following estates: 1. The manor of Byfleet and
Weybridge, with Byfleet or Weybridge-park, and a capital messuage and
offices, and other messuages and buildings there. 2. The manor of Walton
Leigh, and divers messuages and lands therein. 3. A capital messuage
called Brooklands, with offices, gardens, and several parcels of land,
situated at Weybridge. 4. A farm-house, and divers lands, called
Brooklands-farm, at Weybridge. 5. A messuage and lands, called Childs,
near Weybridge. 6. Two rabbit-warrens within the manor of Byfleet and
Weybridge. To this property was to be added all lands and premises
allotted to the preceding by virtue of any act of enclosure. The sale
was made to his royal highness in May, 1809, at the price of £74,459.
3_s._; but the money was permitted to remain at the interest of 3½ per
cent. till the 10th of June, 1815, when the principal and interest
(amounting, after the deduction of property-tax, and of the rents,
which, during the interval, had been paid to the crown, to £85,135.
5_s._ 9_d._) were paid into the Bank of England, to the account of the
commissioners for the new street. His royal highness also purchased
about twenty acres of land in Walton, at the price of £1294. 2_s._ 3_d._

       *       *       *       *       *

While the duke was in his last illness, members on both sides of the
House of Commons bore spontaneous testimony to his royal highness’s
impartial administration of his high office as commander-in-chief; and
united in one general expression, that no political distinction ever
interfered to prevent the promotion of a deserving officer.

A statement in bishop Watson’s Memoirs, is a tribute to his royal
highness’s reputation.

“On the marriage of my son in August, 1805, I wrote,” says the bishop,
“to the duke of York, requesting his royal highness to give him his
protection. I felt a consciousness of having, through life, cherished a
warm attachment to the house of Brunswick, and to those principles
which had placed it on the throne, and of having on all occasions acted
an independent and honourable part towards the government of the
country, and I therefore thought myself justified in concluding my
letter in the following terms:--‘I know not in what estimation your
royal highness may hold my repeated endeavours, in moments of danger, to
support the religion and the constitution of the country; but if I am
fortunate enough to have any merit with you on that score, I earnestly
request your protection for my son. I am a bad courtier, and know little
of the manner of soliciting favours through the intervention of others,
but I feel that I shall never know how to forget them, when done to
myself; and, under that consciousness, I beg leave to submit myself

  ‘Your Royal Highness’s

  ‘Most grateful servant,

  ‘R. LANDAFF.’

“I received a very obliging answer by the return of the post, and in
about two months my son was promoted, without purchase, from a majority
to a lieutenant-colonelcy in the Third Dragoon Guards. After having
experienced, for above twenty-four years, the neglect of his majesty’s
ministers, I received great satisfaction from this attention of his son,
and shall carry with me to my grave a most grateful memory of his
goodness. I could not at the time forbear expressing my acknowledgment
in the following letter, nor can I now forbear inserting it in these
anecdotes. The whole transaction will do his royal highness no discredit
with posterity, and I shall ever consider it as an honourable testimony
of his approbation of my public conduct.

  ‘_Calgarth Park, Nov. 9, 1805._’

    ------ ‘Do, my lord of Canterbury,
    But one good turn, and he’s your friend for ever.’

‘Thus Shakspeare makes Henry VIII. speak of Cranmer; and from the bottom
of my heart, I humbly entreat your royal highness to believe, that the
sentiment is as applicable to the bishop of Landaff as it was to
Cranmer.

‘The _bis dat qui cito dat_ has been most kindly thought of in this
promotion of my son; and I know not which is most dear to my feelings,
the matter of the obligation, or the noble manner of its being
conferred. I sincerely hope your royal highness will pardon this my
intrusion, in thus expressing my most grateful acknowledgments for them
both.

  ‘R. LANDAFF.’”

  [31] Hist. of House of Austria. Rapin. Favine.


~Mr. Charles Lamb.~

_To the Editor._

  DEAR SIR,

It is not unknown to you, that about sixteen years since I published
“Specimens of English Dramatic Poets, who lived about the Time of
Shakspeare.” For the scarcer Plays I had recourse to the Collection
bequeathed to the British Museum by Mr. Garrick. But my time was but
short, and my subsequent leisure has discovered in it a treasure rich
and exhaustless beyond what I then imagined. In it is to be found almost
every production in the shape of a Play that has appeared in print, from
the time of the old Mysteries and Moralities to the days of Crown and
D’Urfey. Imagine the luxury to one like me, who, above every other form
of Poetry, have ever preferred the Dramatic, of sitting in the princely
apartments, for such they are, of poor condemned Montagu House, which I
predict will not speedily be followed by a handsomer, and culling at
will the flower of some thousand Dramas. It is like having the range of
a Nobleman’s Library, with the Librarian to your friend. Nothing can
exceed the courteousness and attentions of the Gentleman who has the
chief direction of the Reading Rooms here; and you have scarce to ask
for a volume, before it is laid before you. If the occasional Extracts,
which I have been tempted to bring away, may find an appropriate place
in your _Table Book_, some of them are weekly at your service. By those
who remember the “Specimens,” these must be considered as mere
after-gleanings, supplementary to that work, only comprising a longer
period. You must be content with sometimes a scene, sometimes a song; a
speech, or passage, or a poetical image, as they happen to strike me. I
read without order of time; I am a poor hand at dates; and for any
biography of the Dramatists, I must refer to writers who are more
skilful in such matters. My business is with their poetry only.

  Your well-wisher,

  C. LAMB.

  _January, 27, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. I.

  [From “King John and Matilda,” a Tragedy by Robert Davenport, acted in
  1651.]

John, not being able to bring Matilda, the chaste daughter of the old
Baron Fitzwater, to compliance with his wishes, causes her to be
poisoned in a nunnery.


  SCENE. _John. The Barons_: they being as yet ignorant of the murder,
  and having just come to composition with the King after tedious wars.
  Matilda’s hearse is brought in by Hubert.

      _John._ Hubert, interpret this apparition.
      _Hubert._ Behold, sir,
    A sad-writ Tragedy, so feelingly
    Languaged, and cast; with such a crafty cruelty
    Contrived, and acted; that wild savages
    Would weep to lay their ears to, and (admiring
    To see themselves outdone) they would conceive
    Their wildness mildness to this deed, and call
    Men more than savage, themselves rational.
    And thou, Fitzwater, reflect upon thy _name_,[32]
    And turn the _Son of Tears_. Oh, forget
    That Cupid ever spent a dart upon thee;
    That Hymen ever coupled thee; or that ever
    The hasty, happy, willing messenger
    Told thee thou had’st a daughter. Oh look here!
    Look here, King John, and with a trembling eye
    Read your sad act, Matilda’s tragedy.
      _Barons._ Matilda!
      _Fitzwater._ By the lab’ring soul of a much-injured man,
    It is my child Matilda!
      _Bruce._ Sweet niece!
      _Leicester._ Chaste soul!
      _John._ Do I stir, Chester?
    Good Oxford, do I move? stand I not still
    To watch when the griev’d friends of wrong’d Matilda
    Will with a thousand stabs turn me to dust,
    That in a thousand prayers they might be happy?
    Will no one do it? then give a mourner room,
    A man of tears. Oh immaculate Matilda,
    These shed but sailing heat-drops, misling showers
    The faint dews of a doubtful April morning;
    But from mine eyes ship-sinking cataracts,
    Whole clouds of waters, wealthy exhalations,
    Shall fall into the sea of my affliction,
    Till it amaze the mourners.
      _Hubert._ Unmatch’d Matilda;
    Celestial soldier, that kept a fort of chastity
    ’Gainst all temptations.
      _Fitzwater._ Not to be a Queen,
    Would she break her chaste vow. Truth crowns your reed;
    Un_match’d_ Matilda was her name indeed.
      _John._ O take into your spirit-piercing praise
    My scene of sorrow. I have well-clad woes,
    Pathetic epithets to illustrate passion,
    And steal true tears so sweetly from all these,
    Shall touch the soul, and at once pierce and please.
           [_Peruses the Motto and Emblems on the hearse._
    “To Piety and Purity”--and “Lillies mix’d with Roses”--
    How well you have apparell’d woe! this Pendant,
    To Piety and Purity directed,
    Insinuates a chaste soul in a clean body,
    Virtue’s white Virgin, Chastity’s red Martyr!
    Suffer me then with this well-suited wreath
    To make our griefs ingenious. Let all be dumb,
    Whilst the king speaks her Epicedium.
      _Chester._ His very soul speaks sorrow.
      _Oxford._ And it becomes him sweetly.
      _John._ Hail Maid and Martyr! lo on thy breast,
    Devotion’s altar, chaste Truth’s nest,
    I offer (as my guilt imposes)
    Thy merit’s laurel, Lillies and Roses;
    Lillies, intimating plain
    Thy immaculate life, stuck with no stain;
    Roses red and sweet, to tell
    How sweet red sacrifices smell.
    Hang round then, as you walk about this hearse,
    The songs of holy hearts, sweet virtuous verse.
      _Fitzwater._ Bring Persian silks, to deck her monument;
      _John._ Arabian spices, quick’ning by their scent;
      _Fitzwater._ Numidian marble, to preserve her praise,
      _John._ Corinthian ivory, her shape to praise:
      _Fitzwater._ And write in gold upon it, In this breast
    Virtue sate mistress, Passion but a guest.
      _John._ Virtue is sweet; and, since griefs bitter be,
    Strew her with roses, and give rue to me.
      _Bruce._ My noble brother, I’ve lost a wife and son;[33]
    You a sweet daughter. Look on the king’s penitence;
    His promise for the public peace. Prefer
    A public benefit.[34] When it shall please,
    Let Heaven question him. Let us secure
    And quit the land of Lewis.[35]
      _Fitzwater._ Do any thing;
    Do all things that are honorable; and the Great King
    Make you a good king, sir! and when your soul
    Shall at any time reflect upon your follies,
    Good King John, weep, weep very heartily;
    It will become you sweetly. At your eyes
    Your sin stole in; there pay your sacrifice.
      _John._ Back unto Dunmow Abbey. There we’ll pay
    To sweet Matilda’s memory, and her sufferings,
    A monthly obsequy, which (sweet’ned by
    The wealthy woes of a tear-troubled eye)
    Shall by those sharp afflictions of my face
    Court mercy, and make grief arrive at grace.

    _Song._

            Matilda, now go take thy bed
            In the dark dwellings of the dead;
            And rise in the great waking day
            Sweet as incence, fresh as May.
    Rest there, chaste soul, fix’d in thy proper sphere,
    Amongst Heaven’s fair ones; all are fair ones there.
    Rest there, chaste soul, whilst we here troubled say:
    Time gives us griefs, Death takes our joys away.

This scene has much passion and poetry in it, if I mistake not. The last
words of Fitzwater are an instance of noble temperament; but to
understand him, the character throughout of this mad, merry, feeling,
insensible-seeming lord, should be read. That the venomous John could
have even counterfeited repentance so well, is out of nature; but
supposing the possibility, nothing is truer than the way in which it is
managed. These old playwrights invested their bad characters with
notions of good, which could by no possibility have coexisted with their
actions. Without a soul of goodness in himself, how could Shakspeare’s
Richard the Third have lit upon those sweet phrases and inducements by
which he attempts to win over the dowager queen to let him wed her
daughter. It is not Nature’s nature, but Imagination’s substituted
nature, which does almost as well in a fiction.

  (_To be continued._)

  [32] Fitzwater: son of water. A striking instance of the compatibility
  of the _serious pun_ with the expression of the profoundest sorrows.
  Grief, as well as joy, finds ease in thus playing with a word. Old
  John of Gaunt in Shakspeare thus descants on his _name_: “Gaunt, and
  gaunt indeed;” to a long string of conceits, which no one has ever yet
  felt as ridiculous. The poet Wither thus, in a mournful review of the
  declining estate of his family, says with deepest nature:--

    The very name of Wither shows decay.

  [33] Also cruelly slain by the poisoning John.

  [34] i. e. of peace; which this monstrous act of John’s in this play
  comes to counteract, in the same way as the discovered Death of Prince
  Arthur is like to break the composition of the King with his Barons in
  Shakspeare’s Play.

  [35] The Dauphin of France, whom they had called in, as in
  Shakspeare’s Play.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Literature.~


GLANCES AT NEW BOOKS ON MY TABLE.

“CONSTABLE’S MISCELLANY of _original and selected Publications_” is
proposed to consist of various works on important and popular subjects,
with the view of supplying certain chasms in the existing stock of
useful knowledge; and each author or subject is to be kept separate, so
as to enable purchasers to acquire all the numbers, or volumes, of each
book, distinct from the others. The undertaking commenced in the first
week of the new year, 1827, with the first number of Captain Basil
Hall’s voyage to Loo-Choo, and the complete volume of that work was
published at the same time.

       *       *       *       *       *

“EARLY METRICAL TALES, _including the History of Sir Egeir, Sir Gryme,
and Sir Gray-Steill_.” Edinb. 1826. sm. 8vo. 9_s._ (175 copies printed.)
The most remarkable poem in this elegant volume is the rare Scottish
romance, named in the title-page, which, according to its present
editor, “would seem, along with the poems of sir David Lindsay, and the
histories of Robert the Bruce, and of sir William Wallace, to have
formed the standard productions of the vernacular literature of the
country.” In proof of this he adduces several authorities; “and yet it
is remarkable enough, that every ancient copy should have hitherto
eluded the most active and unremitting research.” The earliest printed
edition is presumed to have issued from the press of Thomas Bassandyne,
“the first printer of the sacred Scriptures in Scotland.” An inventory
of his goods, dated 18th October, 1577, contains an item of three
hundred “Gray Steillis,” valued at the “pece VI_d._ summa £VII. x. o.”
Its editor would willingly give the sum-total of these three hundred
copies for “_one_ of the said _Gray-Steillis_, were he so fortunate as
to meet with it.” He instances subsequent editions, but the only copy he
could discover was printed at Aberdeen in 1711, by James Nicol, printer
to the town and university; and respecting this, which, though of so
recent date, is at present unique, “the editor’s best acknowledgments
are due to his friend, Mr. Douce, for the kind manner in which he
favoured him with the loan of the volume, for the purpose of
republication.” On the 17th of April, 1497, when James IV. was at
Stirling: there is an entry in the treasurer’s accounts, “Item, that
samyn day to twa Sachelaris that _sang Gray Steil_ to the King, IX_s._”
In MS. collections made at Aberdeen in 1627, called a “Booke for the
Lute,” by Robert Gordon, is the _air_ of “Gray-Steel;” and a satirical
poem in Scottish rhyme on the marquis of Argyle, printed in 1686, is
“appointed to be sung according _to the tune_ of old Gray Steel.” These
evidences that the poem was sung, manifest its popularity. There are
conjectures as to who the person denominated Sir Gray Steel really was,
but the point is undetermined.

In this volume there are thirteen poems. 1. _Sir Gray-Steill_ above
spoken of. 2. _The Tales of the Priests of Peblis_, wherein the three
priests of Peebles, having met to regale on St. Bride’s day, agree, each
in turn, to relate a story. 3. _Ane Godlie Dreame_, by lady Culross. 4.
_History of a Lord and his three Sons_, much resembling the story of
Fortunatus. 5. _The Ring of the Roy Robert_, the printed copies of which
have been modernized and corrupted. 6. _King Estmere_, an old romantic
tale. 7. _The Battle of Harlaw_, considered by its present editor “as
the original of rather a numerous class of Scotish historical ballads.”
8. _Lichtoun’s Dreme_, printed for the first time from the Bannatyne
MS. 1568. 9. _The Murning Maiden_, a poem “written in the Augustan age
of Scotish poetry.” 10. _The Epistill of the Hermeit of Alareit_, a
satire on the Grey Friers, by Alexander earl of Glencairn. 11. _Roswall
and Lillian_, a “pleasant history,” (chanted even of late in Edinburgh,)
from the earliest edition discovered, printed in 1663, of which the only
copy known is in the Advocates’ Library, from the Roxburghe sale. 12.
_Poem by Glassinberry_, a name for the first time introduced into the
list of early Scotish poets, and the poem itself printed from “Gray’s
MS.” 13. _Sir John Barleycorn_, from a stall-copy printed in 1781, with
a few corrections, concerning which piece it is remarked, that Burns’s
version “cannot be said to have greatly improved it.” There is a
vignette to this ballad, “designed and etched by the ingenious young
artist, W. Geikie,” of Edinburgh, from whence I take the liberty to
_cut_ a figure, not for the purpose of conveying an idea of this
“Allan-a-Maut,” who is surrounded with like “good” company by Mr.
Geikie’s meritorious pencil, but to extend the knowledge of Mr. Geikie’s
name, who is perfectly unknown to me, except through the single print I
refer to, which compels me to express warm admiration of his correct
feeling, and assured talent.

[Illustration]

Besides Mr. Geikie’s beautiful etching, there is a frontispiece by W. H.
Lizars from a design by Mr. C. Kirkpatrick Sharpe, and a portrait of
Alexander earl of Eglintoune 1670, also by Mr. Lizars, from a curiously
illuminated parchment in the possession of the present earl.


SAYING NOT MEANING.

BY WILLIAM BASIL WAKE.

_For the Table Book._

    Two gentlemen their appetite had fed,
    When, opening his toothpick-case, one said,
    “It was not until lately that I knew
    That _anchovies_ on terrâ firmâ grew.”
    “Grew!” cried the other, “yes, they _grow_, indeed,
      Like other fish, but not upon the land;
    You might as well say grapes grow on a reed,
                Or in the Strand!”

        “Why, sir,” return’d the irritated other,
                      “My brother,
                When at Calcutta,
        Beheld them bonâ fide growing;
                He wouldn’t utter
        A lie for love or money, sir; so in
      This matter you are thoroughly mistaken.”
    “Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no credit
    To the assertion--none e’er saw or read it;
      Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken.”

        “Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you are
                Perverse--in short--”
        “Sir,” said the other, sucking his cigar,
                And then his port--
    “If you _will_ say impossibles are true,
      You may affirm just any thing you please--
    That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue,
      And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese!
    Only you must not _force_ me to believe
    What’s propagated merely to deceive.”

    “Then you force me to say, sir, you’re a fool,”
                Return’d the bragger.
    Language like this no man can suffer cool;
                It made the listener stagger;
        So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied,
                “The traveller _lied_
        Who had the impudence to tell it you.”
    “Zounds! then d’ye mean to swear before my face
    That anchovies don’t grow like cloves and mace?”
                “I do!”

    Disputants often after hot debates
      Leave the contention as they found it--bone,
    And take to duelling, or thumping _têtes_;
      Thinking, by strength of artery, to atone
    For strength of argument; and he who winces
    From force of words, with force of arms convinces!

    With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint,
      Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding,
      Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading
    (Their hearts already loaded) serv’d to show
    It might be better they shook hands--but no;
      When each opines himself, though frighten’d, right,
      Each is, in courtesy, oblig’d to fight!
    And they _did_ fight: from six full measured paces
      The unbeliever pull’d his trigger first;
    And fearing, from the braggart’s ugly faces,
      The whizzing lead had whizz’d its very worst,
    Ran up, and with a _duelistic_ tear,
            (His ire evanishing like morning vapours,)
    Found _him_ possess’d of one remaining ear,
      Who, in a manner sudden and uncouth,
      Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth:
    For, while the surgeon was applying lint,
    He, wriggling, cried--“The deuce is in’t--
            Sir! I meant--_capers_!”

       *       *       *       *       *


~Characters.~


THE OLD GENTLEMAN.

Our old gentleman, in order to be exclusively himself, must be either a
widower or a bachelor. Suppose the former. We do not mention his precise
age, which would be invidious;--nor whether he wears his own hair or a
wig; which would be wanting in universality. If a wig, it is a
compromise between the more modern scratch and the departed glory of the
toupee. If his own hair, it is white, in spite of his favourite
grandson, who used to get on the chair behind him, and pull the silver
hairs out, ten years ago. If he is bald at top, the hair-dresser,
hovering and breathing about him like a second youth, takes care to give
the bald place as much powder as the covered; in order that he may
convey, to the sensorium within, a pleasing indistinctness of idea
respecting the exact limits of skin and hair. He is very clean and neat;
and in warm weather is proud of opening his waistcoat half way down, and
letting so much of his frill be seen; in order to show his hardiness as
well as taste. His watch and shirt-buttons are of the best; and he does
not care if he has two rings on a finger. If his watch ever failed him
at the club or coffee-house, he would take a walk every day to the
nearest clock of good character, purely to keep it right. He has a cane
at home, but seldom uses it, on finding it out of fashion with his
elderly juniors. He has a small cocked hat for gala days, which he lifts
higher from his head than the round one, when made a bow to. In his
pockets are two handkerchiefs, (one for the neck at night-time,) his
spectacles, and his pocket-book. The pocket-book, among other things,
contains a receipt for a cough, and some verses cut out of an odd sheet
of an old magazine, on the lovely duchess of A., beginning--

    When beauteous Mira walks the plain.

He intends this for a common-place book which he keeps, consisting of
passages in verse and prose cut out of newspapers and magazines, and
pasted in columns; some of them rather gay. His principal other books
are Shakspeare’s Plays and Milton’s Paradise Lost; the Spectator, the
History of England; the works of Lady M. W. Montague, Pope, and
Churchill; Middleton’s Geography, the Gentleman’s Magazine; Sir John
Sinclair on Longevity; several plays with portraits in character;
Account of Elizabeth Canning, Memoirs of George Ann Bellamy, Poetical
Amusements at Bath-Easton, Blair’s Works, Elegant Extracts; Junius as
originally published; a few pamphlets on the American War and Lord
George Gordon, &c. and one on the French Revolution. In his sitting
rooms are some engravings from Hogarth and Sir Joshua; an engraved
portrait of the Marquis of Granby; ditto of M. le Comte de Grasse
surrendering to Admiral Rodney; a humorous piece after Penny; and a
portrait of himself, painted by Sir Joshua. His wife’s portrait is in
his chamber, looking upon his bed. She is a little girl, stepping
forward with a smile and a pointed toe, as if going to dance. He lost
her when she was sixty.

The Old Gentleman is an early riser, because he intends to live at least
twenty years longer. He continues to take tea for breakfast, in spite of
what is said against its nervous effects; having been satisfied on that
point some years ago by Dr. Johnson’s criticism on Hanway, and a great
liking for tea previously. His china cups and saucers have been broken
since his wife’s death, all but one, which is religiously kept for his
use. He passes his morning in walking or riding, looking in at auctions,
looking after his India bonds or some such money securities, furthering
some subscription set on foot by his excellent friend sir John, or
cheapening a new old print for his portfolio. He also hears of the
newspapers; not caring to see them till after dinner at the
coffee-house. He may also cheapen a fish or so; the fishmonger
soliciting his doubting eye as he passes, with a profound bow of
recognition. He eats a pear before dinner.

His dinner at the coffee-house is served up to him at the accustomed
hour, in the old accustomed way, and by the accustomed waiter. If
William did not bring it, the fish would be sure to be stale, and the
flesh new. He eats no tart; or if he ventures on a little, takes cheese
with it. You might as soon attempt to persuade him out of his senses, as
that cheese is not good for digestion. He takes port; and if he has
drank more than usual, and in a more private place, may be induced by
some respectful inquiries respecting the old style of music, to sing a
song composed by Mr. Oswald or Mr. Lampe, such as--

    Chloe, by that borrowed kiss,

or

    Come, gentle god of soft repose;

or his wife’s favourite ballad, beginning--

    At Upton on the Hill
    There lived a happy pair.

Of course, no such exploit can take place in the coffee-room; but he
will canvass the theory of that matter there with you, or discuss the
weather, or the markets, or the theatres, or the merits of “my lord
North” or “my lord Rockingham;” for he rarely says simply, lord; it is
generally “my lord,” trippingly and genteelly off the tongue. If alone
after dinner, his great delight is the newspaper; which he prepares to
read by wiping his spectacles, carefully adjusting them on his eyes, and
drawing the candle close to him, so as to stand sideways betwixt his
ocular aim and the small type. He then holds the paper at arm’s length,
and dropping his eyelids half down and his mouth half open, takes
cognizance of the day’s information. If he leaves off, it is only when
the door is opened by a new comer, or when he suspects somebody is
over-anxious to get the paper out of his hand. On these occasions, he
gives an important hem! or so; and resumes.

In the evening, our Old Gentleman is fond of going to the theatre, or of
having a game of cards. If he enjoy the latter at his own house or
lodgings, he likes to play with some friends whom he has known for many
years; but an elderly stranger may be introduced, if quiet and
scientific; and the privilege is extended to younger men of letters;
who, if ill players, are good losers. Not that he is a miser; but to win
money at cards is like proving his victory by getting the baggage; and
to win of a younger man is a substitute for his not being able to beat
him at rackets. He breaks up early, whether at home or abroad.

At the theatre, he likes a front row in the pit. He comes early, if he
can do so without getting into a squeeze, and sits patiently waiting for
the drawing up of the curtain, with his hands placidly lying one over
the other on the top of his stick. He generously admires some of the
best performers, but thinks them far inferior to Garrick, Woodward, and
Clive. During splendid scenes, he is anxious that the little boy should
see.

He has been induced to look in at Vauxhall again, but likes it still
less than he did years back, and cannot bear it in comparison with
Ranelagh. He thinks every thing looks poor, flaring, and jaded. “Ah!”
says he, with a sort of triumphant sigh, “Ranelagh was a noble place!
Such taste, such elegance, such beauty! There was the duchess of A. the
finest woman in England, sir; and Mrs. L., a mighty fine creature; and
lady Susan what’s her name, that had that unfortunate affair with sir
Charles. Sir, they came swimming by you like the swans.”

The Old Gentleman is very particular in having his slippers ready for
him at the fire, when he comes home. He is also extremely choice in his
snuff, and delights to get a fresh box-full at Gliddon’s, in
King-street, in his way to the theatre. His box is a curiosity from
India. He calls favourite young ladies by their Christian names, however
slightly acquainted with them; and has a privilege also of saluting all
brides, mothers, and indeed every species of lady on the least holiday
occasion. If the husband for instance has met with a piece of luck, he
instantly moves forward, and gravely kisses the wife on the cheek. The
wife then says, “My niece, sir, from the country;” and he kisses the
niece. The niece, seeing her cousin biting her lips at the joke, says,
“My cousin Harriet, sir;” and he kisses the cousin. He never recollects
such weather, except during the great frost, or when he rode down with
Jack Skrimshire to Newmarket. He grows young again in his little
grand-children, especially the one which he thinks most like himself;
which is the handsomest. Yet he likes best perhaps the one most
resembling his wife; and will sit with him on his lap, holding his hand
in silence, for a quarter of an hour together. He plays most tricks with
the former, and makes him sneeze. He asks little boys in general who was
the father of Zebedee’s children. If his grandsons are at school, he
often goes to see them; and makes them blush by telling the master or
the upper-scholars, that they are fine boys, and of a precocious genius.
He is much struck when an old acquaintance dies, but adds that he lived
too fast; and that poor Bob was a sad dog in his youth; “a very sad dog,
sir, mightily set upon a short life and a merry one.”

When he gets very old indeed, he will sit for whole evenings, and say
little or nothing; but informs you, that there is Mrs. Jones (the
housekeeper),--“_She’ll_ talk.”--_Indicator._

       *       *       *       *       *


A HAPPY MEETING.

    And doth not a meeting like this make amends
      For all the long years I’ve been wand’ring away?
    To see thus around me my youth’s early friends,
      As smiling and kind as in that happy day!
    Though haply o’er some of your brows, as o’er mine,
      The snow-fall of time may be stealing--what then
    Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
      We’ll wear the gay tinge of youth’s roses again.

    What soften’d remembrances come o’er the heart,
      In gazing on those we’ve been lost to so long!
    The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part
      Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,
    As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
      When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
    So many a feeling, that long seem’d effaced,
      The warmth of a meeting like this brings to light.

    And thus, as in memory’s bark, we shall glide
      To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,
    Tho’ oft we may see, looking down on the tide,
      The wreck of full many a hope shining through--
    Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers
      That once made a garden of all the gay shore,
    Deceiv’d for a moment, we’ll think them still ours,
      And breath the fresh air of life’s morning once more

    So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,
      Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;
    And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,
      For want of some heart that could echo it near.
    Ah! well may we hope, when this short life is gone,
      To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,
    For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast’ning on,
      Is all we enjoy of each other in this.

    But come--the more rare such delights to the heart,
      The more we should welcome, and bless them the more--
    They’re ours when we meet--they’re lost when we part,
      Like birds that bring summer, and fly when ’tis o’er,
    Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,
      Let Sympathy pledge us, thro’ pleasure thro’ pain,
    That fast as a feeling but touches one link,
      Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.

       *       *       *       *       *


LINES TO HIS COUSIN

ON THE NEW YEAR,

BY A WESTMINSTER BOY.

    Time rolls away! another year
    Has rolled off with him; hence ’tis clear
      His lordship keeps his carriage
    A single man, no doubt;--and thus
    Enjoys himself without the fuss
      And great expense of marriage.

    His wheel still rolls (and like the river
    Which Horace mentions) still for ever
      _Volvitur et volvetur_.
    In vain you _run against him_; place
    your fleetest filly in the race,--
      Here’s ten to one he’ll beat her.

    Of all he sees, he takes a tithe,
    With that tremendous sweeping scythe,
      Which he keeps always going;
    While every step he takes, alas!
    Too plainly proves that _flesh is grass_,
      When he sets out a _mowing_.

    And though his hungry ravenous maw
    Is crammed with food, both dress’d and raw,
      I’ll wager any betting,
    His appetite has ever been
    Just like his scythe, sharp-set and keen,
      Which never wanted _whetting_.

    Could you but see the mighty treat
    Prepared, when he sits down to eat
      His breakfast or his dinner,--ah,
    Not vegetable--flesh,--alone,
    But timber, houses, iron, stone,
      He eats the very china.

    When maidens pray that he will spare
    Their teeth, complexion, or their hair,
      Alas! he’ll never hear ’em;
    Grey locks and wrinkles hourly show,
    What Ovid told us years ago,
      _Ut Tempus edax rerum!_

    In vain, my dearest girl, you choose
    (Your face to wash) Olympic dews;
      In vain you paint or rouge it;
    He’ll play such havoc with your youth,
    That ten years hence you’ll say with truth
      Ah Edward!--_Tempus fugit!_

    The glass he carries in his hand
    Has ruin in each grain of sand;
      But what I most deplore is,
    He breaks the links of friendship’s chain,
    And barters youthful love for gain:
      _Oh, Tempora! oh, Mores!_

    One sole exception you shall find,
    (_Unius generis_ of its kind,)
      Wherever fate may steer us;
    Tho’ wide his universal range,
    Time has no power the heart to change
      Of your AMICUS VERUS.

  _Bath Herald._

       *       *       *       *       *


GERMAN UNIVERSITIES.

Germany, which embraces a population of thirty-six millions of people,
has twenty-two universities. The following table contains their names
according to the order of their foundation, and the number of professors
and students:

  +-------------+--------+-----------+---------+
  |             |  When  | Number of | Number  |
  |Universities.|founded.|Professors.|   of    |
  |             |        |           |Students.|
  +-------------+--------+-----------+---------+
  |Prague       |  1348  |    55     |  1449   |
  |Vienna       |  1365  |    77     |  1688   |
  |Heidelberg   |  1368  |    55     |   626   |
  |Warsbourg    |  1403  |    31     |   660   |
  |Leipsig      |  1409  |    81     |  1384   |
  |Rostock      |  1419  |    34     |   201   |
  |Fribourg     |  1450  |    35     |   556   |
  |Griefswald   |  1456  |    30     |   227   |
  |Bâle         |  1460  |    24     |   214   |
  |Tubingen     |  1477  |    44     |   827   |
  |Marbourg     |  1527  |    38     |   304   |
  |Kœnisberg    |  1544  |    23     |   303   |
  |Jena         |  1558  |    51     |   432   |
  |Giessen      |  1607  |    39     |   371   |
  |Kiel         |  1665  |    26     |   238   |
  |Halle        |  1694  |    64     |  1119   |
  |Breslau      |  1702  |    49     |   710   |
  |Gœttengen    |  1734  |    89     |  1545   |
  |Erlangen     |  1743  |    34     |   498   |
  |Landshut     |  1803  |    48     |   623   |
  |Berlin       |  1810  |    86     |  1245   |
  |Bonn         |  1818  |    42     |   526   |
  +-------------+--------+-----------+---------+

Of this number six belong to Prussia, three to Bavaria, two to the
Austrian States, two to the Grand Duchy of Baden, two to the Electorate
of Hesse-Cassel, and one to each of the following states--Saxony,
Wurtemberg, Denmark, Hanover, the Grand Duchies of Mecklenbergh-Schweren
and of Saxe-Weimar, and Switzerland. The total number of professors is
1055, embracing not only the ordinary and extraordinary professors, but
also the private lecturers, whose courses of reading are announced in
the half-yearly programmes. Catholic Germany, which reckons nineteen
millions of inhabitants, has only six universities; while Protestant
Germany, for seventeen millions of inhabitants, has seventeen. Of the
students there are 149 for every 250,000 in the Protestant states, while
there are only 68 for the same number in the Catholic states. It must,
however, be mentioned, that this estimate does not take in those
Catholic ecclesiastics who do not pursue their studies in the
universities, but in private seminaries.--The universities of Paderborn
and Munster, both belonging to Prussia, and which had only two
faculties, those of theology and philosophy, were suppressed; the first
in 1818, and the second in 1819; but that of Munster has been
reestablished, with the three faculties of theology, philosophy, and
medicine.




Vol. I.--5.


[Illustration: ~Colley Cibber’s youngest Daughter.~]

    Last of her sire in dotage--she was used
      By him, as children use a fav’rite toy;
    Indulg’d, neglected, fondled, and abus’d,
      As quick affection of capricious joy,
    Or sudden humour of dislike dictated:
          Thoughtlessly rear’d, she led a thoughtless life;
    And she so well beloved became most hated:
    A helpless mother, and a wife unblest,
          She pass’d precocious womanhood in strife;
    Or, in strange hiding-places, without rest;
          Or, wand’ring in disquietude for bread:
    Her father’s curse--himself first cause of all
    That caused his ban--sunk her in deeper thrall,
          Stifling her heart, till sorrow and herself were dead.

  *

“THE LIFE OF MRS. CHARLOTTE CHARKE, _youngest daughter of Colley Cibber,
Esq. written by herself_,” is a curious narrative of remarkable
vicissitudes. She dedicates it to herself, and aptly concludes her
dedication by saying, “Permit me, madam, to subscribe myself, for the
future, what I ought to have been some years ago, your real friend, and
humble servant, CHARLOTTE CHARKE.”

In the “Introduction” to the recent reprint of this singular work, it is
well observed, that “her Life will serve to show what very strange
creatures _may_ exist, and the endless diversity of habits, tastes, and
inclinations, which may spring up spontaneously, like weeds, in the
hot-bed of corrupt civilization.” She was born when Mrs. Cibber was
forty-five years old, and when both her father and mother had ceased to
expect an addition to their family: the result was that Charlotte Cibber
was a spoiled child. She married Mr. Richard Charke, an eminent violin
player, of dissolute habits; and, after a course of levities, consequent
upon the early recklessness of her parents, she was repudiated by her
father. When she wrote her life, she was in great penury: it was
published in eight numbers, at three-pence each. In the last, which
appeared on the 19th of April, 1755, she feelingly deplores the failure
of her attempts to obtain forgiveness of her father, and says, “I cannot
recollect any crime I have been guilty of that is unpardonable.” After
intimating a design to open an oratorical academy, for the instruction
of persons going on the stage, she mentions her intention to publish
“Mr. Dumont’s history, the first number of which will shortly make its
appearance.” This was a novel she was then writing, which a bookseller
treated with her for, in company with Mr. Samuel Whyte of Dublin, who
thus describes her distressed situation:--

“Cibber the elder had a daughter named Charlotte, who also took to the
stage; her subsequent life was one continued series of misfortune,
afflictions, and distress, which she sometimes contrived a little to
alleviate by the productions of her pen. About the year 1755, she had
worked up a novel for the press, which the writer accompanied his friend
the bookseller to hear read; she was at this time a widow, having been
married to one Charke a musician, long since dead. Her habitation was a
wretched thatched hovel, situated on the way to Islington in the
purlieus of Clerkenwell Bridewell, not very distant from the New River
Head, where at that time it was usual for the scavengers to leave the
cleansings of the streets, &c. The night preceding a heavy rain had
fallen, which rendered this extraordinary seat of the muses almost
inaccessible, so that in our approach we got our white stockings
enveloped with mud up to the very calves, which furnished an appearance
much in the present fashionable style of half-boots. We knocked at the
door, (not attempting to pull the latch string,) which was opened by a
tall, meagre, ragged figure, with a blue apron, indicating, what else we
might have doubted, the feminine gender,--a perfect model for the copper
captain’s tattered landlady; that deplorable exhibition of the fair sex,
in the comedy of Rule-a-Wife. She with a torpid voice and hungry smile
desired us to walk in. The first object that presented itself was a
dresser, clean, it must be confessed, and furnished with three or four
coarse delf plates, two brown platters, and underneath an earthen pipkin
and a black pitcher with a snip out of it. To the right we perceived and
bowed to the mistress of the mansion sitting on a maimed chair under the
mantle-piece, by a fire, merely sufficient to put us in mind of
starving. On one hob sat a monkey, which by way of welcome chattered at
our going in; on the other a tabby cat, of melancholy aspect! and at our
author’s feet on the flounce of her dingy petticoat reclined a dog,
almost a skeleton! he raised his shagged head, and, eagerly staring with
his bleared eyes, saluted us with a snarl. ‘Have done, Fidele! these are
friends.’ The tone of her voice was not harsh; it had something in it
humbled and disconsolate; a mingled effort of authority and
pleasure.--Poor soul! few were her visitors of that description--no
wonder the creature barked!.--A magpie perched on the top ring of her
chair, not an uncomely ornament! and on her lap was placed a mutilated
pair of bellows, the pipe was gone, an advantage in their present
office, they served as a succedaneum for a writing-desk, on which lay
displayed her hopes and treasure, the manuscript of her novel. Her
ink-stand was a broken tea-cup, the pen worn to a stump; she had but
one! a rough deal board with three hobbling supporters was brought for
our convenience, on which, without farther ceremony, we contrived to sit
down and entered upon business:--the work was read, remarks made,
alterations agreed to, and thirty guineas demanded for the copy. The
squalid handmaiden, who had been an attentive listener, stretched
forward her tawny length of neck with an eye of anxious
expectation!--The bookseller offered five!--Our authoress did not appear
hurt; disappointments had rendered her mind callous; however, some
altercation ensued. This was the writer’s first initiation into the
mysteries of bibliopolism and the state of authorcraft. He, seeing both
sides pertinacious, at length interposed, and at his instance the wary
haberdasher of literature doubled his first proposal, with this saving
proviso, that his friend present would pay a moiety and run one half the
risk; which was agreed to. Thus matters were accommodated, seemingly to
the satisfaction of all parties; the lady’s original stipulation of
fifty copies for herself being previously acceded to. Such is the story
of the once-admired daughter of Colley Cibber, Poet Laureate and
patentee of Drury-lane, who was born in affluence and educated with care
and tenderness, her servants in livery, and a splendid equipage at her
command, with swarms of time-serving sycophants officiously buzzing in
her train; yet, unmindful of her advantages and improvident in her
pursuits, she finished the career of her miserable existence on a
dunghill.”[36]

Mr. Whyte’s account of the “reading the manuscript,” a subject worthy of
Wilkie’s pencil, is designed to be illustrated by the engraving at the
head of this article. Of Mrs. Charke, after that interview, nothing
further is known, except that she kept a public-house, at Islington, and
is said to have died on the 6th of April, 1760.[37] Her brother
Theophilus was wrecked, and perished on his way to Dublin, in October,
1758; her father died on the 12th of December, in the year preceding.
Her singular “Narrative” is printed verbatim in the seventh volume of
“Autobiography,” with the life of the late “Mary Robinson,” who was also
an actress, and also wrote her own “Memoirs.”

  [36] Whyte’s Collection of Poems, second edition. Dublin, 1792.

  [37] Biog. Dram.

       *       *       *       *       *


AN INEDITED BALLAD.

_To the Editor._

Dear Sir,--A friend of mine, who resided for some years on the borders,
used to amuse himself by collecting old ballads, printed on halfpenny
sheets, and hawked up and down by itinerant minstrels. In his
common-place book I found one, entitled “The Outlandish Knight,”
evidently, from the style, of considerable antiquity, which appears to
have escaped the notice of Percy, and other collectors. Since then I
have met with a printed one, from the popular press of Mr. Pitts, the
six-yards-for-a-penny song-publisher, who informs me that he has printed
it “ever since he was a printer, and that Mr. Marshall, his predecessor,
printed it before him.” The ballad has not improved by circulating
amongst Mr. Pitts’s friends; for the heroine, who has no name given her
in my friend’s copy, is in Mr. Pitts’s called “Polly;” and there are
expressions _contra bonos mores_. These I have expunged; and, to render
the ballad more complete, added a few stanzas, wherein I have
endeavoured to preserve the simplicity of the original, of which I
doubt if a correct copy could now be obtained. As it is, it is at the
service of your _Table Book_.

The hero of the ballad appears to be of somewhat the same class as the
hero of the German ballad, the “Water King,” and in some particulars
resembles the ballad of the “Overcourteous Knight,” in Percy’s Reliques.

  I am, dear sir, &c.

  -- -- --

  _Grange-road, Bermondsey, Jan. 8, 1827._


THE OUTLANDISH KNIGHT.

    ---------------“Six go true,
    The _seventh_ askew.”

  _Der Freischutz Travestie._

    An outlandish knight from the north lands came,
      And he came a wooing to me;
    He told me he’d take me unto the north lands,
      And I should his fair bride be.

    A broad, broad shield did this strange knight wield,
      Whereon did the red-cross shine,
    Yet never, I ween, had that strange knight been
      In the fields of Palestine.

    And out and spake this strange knight,
      This knight of the north countrie,
    O, maiden fair, with the raven hair,
      Thou shalt at my bidding be.

    Thy sire he is from home, ladye,
      For he hath a journey gone,
    And his shaggy blood-hound is sleeping sound,
      Beside the postern stone.

    Go, bring me some of thy father’s gold,
      And some of thy mother’s fee,
    And steeds twain of the best, in the stalls that rest
      Where they stand thirty and three.

           *       *       *       *       *

    She mounted her on her milk-white steed,
      And he on a dapple grey,
    And they forward did ride, till they reach’d the sea-side,
      Three hours before it was day.

    Then out and spake this strange knight,
      This knight of the north countrie,
    O, maiden fair, with the raven hair,
      Do thou at my bidding be.

    Alight thee, maid, from thy milk-white steed,
      And deliver it unto me;
    Six maids have I drown’d, where the billows sound,
      And the seventh one thou shalt be.

    But first pull off thy kirtle fine,
      And deliver it unto me;
    Thy kirtle of green is too rich, I ween,
      To rot in the salt, salt sea.

    Pull off, pull off thy silken shoon,
      And deliver them unto me;
    Methinks that they are too fine and gay
      To rot in the salt, salt sea.

    Pull off, pull off thy bonnie green plaid,
      That floats in the breeze so free;
    It is woven fine with the silver twine,
      And comely it is to see.

    If I must pull off my bonnie green plaid,
      O turn thy back to me;
    And gaze on the sun which has just begun
      To peer o’er the salt, salt sea.

    He turn’d his back on the dameselle
      And gaz’d on the bright sunbeam--
    She grasp’d him tight with her arms so white,
      And plung’d him into the stream.

    Lie there, sir knight, thou false-hearted wight,
      Lie there instead of me;
    Six damsels fair thou hast drown’d there,
      But the seventh has drowned thee.

    That ocean wave was the false one’s grave,
      For he sunk right hastily;
    Though with dying voice faint, he pray’d to his saint,
      And utter’d an Ave Marie.

    No mass was said for that false knight dead,
      No convent bell did toll;
    But he went to his rest, unshriv’d and unblest--
      Heaven’s mercy on his soul!

           *       *       *       *       *

    She mounted her on her dapple-grey steed,
      And led the steed milk-white;
    She rode till she reach’d her father’s hall,
      Three hours before the night.

    The parrot, hung in the lattice so high,
      To the lady then did say,
    Some ruffian, I fear, has led thee from home,
      For thou hast been long away.

    Do not prattle, my pretty bird,
      Do not tell tales of me;
    And thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold,
      Instead of the greenwood tree.

    The earl as he sat in his turret high,
      On hearing the parrot did say,
    What ails thee, what ails thee, my pretty bird?
      Thou hast prattled the live-long day.

    Well may I prattle, the parrot replied,
      And call, brave earl, on thee;
    For the cat has well nigh reach’d the lattice so high,
      And her eyes are fix’d on me.

    Well turn’d, well turn’d, my pretty bird,
      Well turn’d, well turn’d for me;
    Thy cage shall be made of the glittering gold,
      Instead of the greenwood tree.

       *       *       *       *       *


PRIDE AND GOOD-WILL.

It is related of a certain class of French nobility, who, in their
winter residence at Aix, were objects of dislike from their arrogance
and self-importance, that they were beloved and esteemed for their
kindness and benevolence by the dependants around their _chateaus_ in
the country. Many instances might be cited to show that the respect paid
them was no more than they deserved; and one is particularly striking:--

A seigneur, when he resided in the country, used to distribute among the
women and children, and the old men who were unable to work in the
field, raw wool, and flax, which they spun and wove into cloth or stuff
at their pleasure: every week they were paid wages according to the
quantity of work done, and had a fresh supply of raw materials whenever
it was wanted. At the end of the year, a general feast was given by the
seigneur to the whole village, when all who had been occupied in
spinning and weaving brought in their work, and a prize of a hundred
livres was given to each person who had spun the best skein, and woven
the best web. They had a dinner in a field adjoining to the chateau, at
which the seigneur himself presided, and on each side of him sat those
who had gained the prizes. The evening was concluded with a dance. The
victors, besides the hundred livres, had their work given them: the rest
were allowed to purchase theirs at a very moderate price, and the money
resulting from it was laid by to distribute among any persons of the
village who wanted relief on account of sickness, or who had suffered
from unavoidable accident, either in their persons or property. At the
death of this excellent man, who unfortunately left no immediate heirs
to follow his good example, the village presented a scene of the
bitterest lamentation and distress: the peasants assembled round the
body, and it was almost forced away from them for interment. They
brought their shuttles, their distaffs, their skeins of thread and
worsted, their pieces of linen and stuff, and strewed them upon his
grave, saying that now they had lost their patron and benefactor, they
could no longer be of use to them. If this man felt the pride of
conscious superiority, it was scarcely to be condemned when accompanied
with such laudable exertions to render himself, through that
superiority, a benefactor to society.[38]

  [38] Miss Plumptre.


~Garrick Plays.~

No. II.

  [From the “Parliament of Bees,” a Masque, by John Day, printed 1607.
  Whether this singular production, in which the Characters are all
  _Bees_, was ever acted, I have no information to determine. It is at
  least as capable of representation, as we can conceive the “Birds” of
  Aristophanes to have been.]

Ulania, a female Bee, confesses her passion for Meletus, who loves
Arethusa.

      ------- not a village Fly, nor meadow Bee,
    That trafficks daily on the neighbour plain,
    But will report, how all the Winged Train
    Have sued to me for Love; when we have flown
    In swarms out to discover fields new blown.
    Happy was he could find the forward’st tree,
    And cull the choicest blossoms out for me;
    Of all their labours they allow’d me some
    And (like my champions) mann’d me out, and home:
    Yet loved I none of them. Philon, a Bee
    Well-skill’d in verse and amorous poetry,
    As we have sate at work, both of one Rose,[39]
    Has humm’d sweet Canzons, both in verse and prose,
    Which I ne’er minded. Astrophel, a Bee
    (Although not so poetical as he)
    Yet in his full invention quick and ripe,
    In summer evenings, on his well-tuned pipe,
    Upon a woodbine blossom in the sun,
    (Our hive being clean-swept, and our day’s work done),
    Would play me twenty several tunes; yet I
    Nor minded Astrophel, nor his melody.
    Then there’s Amniter, for whose love fair Leade
    (That pretty Bee) flies up and down the mead
    With rivers in her eyes; without deserving
    Sent me trim Acorn bowls of his own carving,
    To drink May dews and mead in. Yet none of these,
    My hive-born Playfellows and fellow Bees,
    Could I affect, until this strange Bee came;
    And him I love with such an ardent flame,
    Discretion cannot quench.--
                      He labours and toils,
    Extracts more honey out of barren soils
    Than twenty lazy Drones. I have heard my Father,
    Steward of the Hive, profess that he had rather
    Lose half the Swarm than him. If a Bee, poor or weak,
    Grows faint on his way, or by misfortune break
    A wing or leg against a twig; alive,
    Or dead, he’ll bring into the Master’s Hive
    Him and his burthen. But the other day,
    On the next plain there grew a fatal fray
    Betwixt the Wasps and us; the wind grew high,
    And a rough storm raged so impetuously,
    Our Bees could scarce keep wing; then fell such rain,
    It made our Colony forsake the plain,
    And fly to garrison: yet still He stood,
    And ’gainst the whole swarm made his party good;
    And at each blow he gave, cried out _His Vow,
    His Vow, and Arethusa_!--On each bough
    And tender blossom he engraves her name
    With his sharp sting. To Arethusa’s fame
    He consecrates his actions; all his worth
    Is only spent to character her forth.
    On damask roses, and the leaves of pines,
    I have seen him write such amorous moving lines
    In Arethusa’s praise, as my poor heart
    Has, when I read them, envied her desert;
    And wept and sigh’d to think that he should be
    To her so constant, yet not pity me.

           *       *       *       *       *

Porrex, Vice Roy of Bees under King Oberon, describes his large
prerogative.

    To Us (who, warranted by Oberon’s love.
    Write Ourself _Master Bee_), both field and grove,
    Garden and orchard, lawns and flowery meads,
    (Where the amorous wind plays with the golden heads
    Of wanton cowslips, daisies in their prime,
    Sun-loving marigolds; the blossom’d thyme,
    The blue-vein’d violets and the damask rose;
    The stately lily, Mistress of all those);
    Are allow’d and giv’n, by Oberon’s free areed,
    Pasture for me, and all my swarms to feed.

       *       *       *       *       *

      ------------the doings,
    The births, the wars, the wooings,

of these pretty little winged creatures are with continued liveliness
portrayed throughout the whole of this curious old Drama, in words which
Bees would talk with, could they talk; the very air seems replete with
humming and buzzing melodies, while we read them. Surely Bees were never
so be-rhymed before.

  C. L.

  [39] Prettily pilfered from the sweet passage in the Midsummer Night’s
  Dream, where Helena recounts to Hermia their school-days’ friendship:

    We, Hermia, like two artificial Gods,
    Created with our needles both one flower,
    Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Biographical Memoranda.~


JOHN SCOT, A FASTING FANATIC.

In the year 1539, there lived in Scotland one John Scot, no way
commended for his learning, for he had none, nor for his good qualities,
which were as few. This man, being overthrown in a suit of law, and
knowing himself unable to pay that wherein he was adjudged, took
sanctuary in the abbey of Holyrood-house; where, out of discontent, he
abstained from all meat and drink, by the space of thirty or forty days
together.

Fame having spread this abroad, the king would have it put to trial,
and to that effect shut him up in a private room within the castle of
Edinburgh, whereunto no man had access. He caused a little water and
bread to be set by him, which he was found not to have diminished in the
end of thirty days and two. Upon this he was dismissed, and, after a
short time, he went to Rome, where he gave the like proof of his fasting
to pope Clement VII.; from whence he went to Venice, carrying with him a
testimony of his long fasting under the pope’s seal: and there also he
gave the like proof thereof. After long time, returning into England, he
went up into the pulpit in St. Paul’s Church-yard, where he gave forth
many speeches against the divorce of king Henry VIII. from his queen
Katherine, inveighing bitterly against him for his defection from the
see of Rome; whereupon he was thrust into prison, where he continued
fasting for the space of fifty days: what his end was I read
not.--_Spotswood, &c._

       *       *       *       *       *


HART THE ASTROLOGER.

There lived in Houndsditch, about the year 1632, one Alexander Hart, who
had been a soldier formerly, a comely old man, of good aspect, he
professed questionary astrology and a little of physic; his greatest
skill was to elect young gentlemen fit times to play at dice, that they
might win or get money. Lilly relates that “he went unto him for
resolutions for three questions at several times, and he erred in every
one.” He says, that to speak soberly of him he was but a cheat, as
appeared suddenly after; for a rustical fellow of the city, desirous of
knowledge, contracted with Hart, to assist for a conference with a
spirit, and paid him twenty pounds of thirty pounds the contract. At
last, after many delays, and no spirit appearing, nor money returned,
the young man indicted him for a cheat at the Old Bailey in London. The
jury found the bill, and at the hearing of the cause this jest happened:
some of the bench inquired what Hart did? “He sat like an alderman in
his gown,” quoth the fellow; at which the court fell into a laughter,
most of the court being aldermen. He was to have been set upon the
pillory for this cheat; but John Taylor the water poet being his great
friend, got the lord chief justice Richardson to bail him, ere he stood
upon the pillory, and so Hart fled presently into Holland, where he
ended his days.[40]

  [40] Autobiography, vol. ii, Lilly’s Life.


REV. THOMAS COOKE.

The verses at the end of the following letter may excuse the insertion
of a query, which would otherwise be out of place in a publication not
designed to be a channel of inquiry.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--I should feel much obliged, if the _Table Book_ can supply some
account of a clergyman of the name of Thomas Cooke, who, it is supposed,
resided in Shropshire, and was the author of a very beautiful poem, in
folio, (published by subscription, about ninety years since,) entitled
“The Immortality of the Soul.” I have a very imperfect copy of this
work, and am desirous of ascertaining, from any of your multifarious
readers, whether or not the poem ever became public, and where it is
probable I could obtain a glimpse of a perfect impression. Mine has no
title-page, and about one moiety of the work has been destroyed by the
sacrilegious hands of some worthless animal on two legs!

The list of subscribers plainly proves that Mr. Cooke must have been a
man of good family, and exalted connections. On one of the blank leaves
in my copy, the following lines appear, written by Mr. Cooke himself;
and, considering the trammels by which he was confined, I think the
verses are not without merit; at any rate, the subject of them appears
to have been a beautiful creature.

By giving this article a place in the _Table Book_, you will much oblige

  Your subscriber and admirer,

  G. J. D.

  _Islington-green._


AN ACROSTIC

On a most beautiful and accomplished young Lady. London, 1748.

    M  eekness--good-humour--each transcendent grace,
    I  s seen conspicuous on thy joyous face;
    S  weet’s the carnation to the rambling bee,
    S  o art thou, CHARLOTTE! always sweet to me!

    C  an aught compare successfully with those
    H  igh beauties which thy countenance compose,
    A  ll doubly heighten’d by that gentle mind,
    R  enown’d on earth, and prais’d by ev’ry wind?
    L  ov’d object! no--then let it be thy care
    O  f fawning friends, at all times, to beware--
    T  o shun this world’s delusions and disguise,
    T  he knave’s soft speeches, and the flatt’rer’s lies,
    E  steeming virtue, and discarding vice!

    G  o where I may, howe’er remote the clime,
    W  here’er my feet may stray, thy charms sublime,
    I  llustrious maid! approv’d and prais’d by all,
    L  ike some enchantment shall my soul enthrall--
    L  ight ev’ry path--illuminate my mind--
    I  nspire my pen with sentiments refin’d--
    A  nd teach my tongue on this fond pray’r to dwell,
    “M ay Heav’n preserve the maid it loves so well!”

  THOMAS COOKE.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Varieties.~


CURIOUS PLAY BILL.

The following remarkable theatrical announcement is a mixed appeal of
vanity and poverty to the taste and feelings of the inhabitants of a
town in Sussex.

  (_Copy._)

At the old theatre in East Grinstead, on Saturday, May, 1758, will be
represented (by particular desire, and for the benefit of Mrs. P.) the
deep and affecting Tragedy of Theodosius, or the Force of Love, with
magnificent scenes, dresses, &c.

Varanes, by Mr. P., who will strive, as far as possible, to support the
character of this fiery Persian Prince, in which he was so much admired
and applauded at Hastings, Arundel, Petworth, Midworth, Lewes, &c.

Theodosius, by a young gentleman from the University of Oxford, who
never appeared on any stage.

Athenais, by Mrs. P. Though her present condition will not permit her to
wait on gentlemen and ladies out of the town with tickets, she hopes, as
on former occasions, for their liberality and support.

Nothing in Italy can exceed the altar, in the first scene of the play.
Nevertheless, should any of the Nobility or Gentry wish to see it
ornamented with flowers, the bearer will bring away as many as they
choose to favour him with.

As the coronation of Athenais, to be introduced in the fifth act,
contains a number of personages, more than sufficient to fill all the
dressing-rooms, &c., it is hoped no gentlemen and ladies will be
offended at being refused admission behind the scenes.

N. B. The great yard dog, that made so much noise on Thursday night,
during the last act of King Richard the Third, will be sent to a
neighbour’s over the way; and on account of the prodigious demand for
places, part of the stable will be laid into the boxes on one side, and
the granary be open for the same purpose on the other.

  _Vivat Rex._[41]

       *       *       *       *       *


IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.

At Chester, in the beginning of the year 1790, a reputable farmer, on
the evening of a market-day, called at the shop of Mr. Poole,
bookseller, and, desiring to speak with him at the door, put a shilling
into his hand, telling him, “he had owed it to him many years.” The
latter asked, for what? To which the farmer replied, that “When a boy,
in buying a book-almanac at his shop, he had stolen another--the
reflection of which had frequently given him much uneasiness.” If any
one who sees this ever wronged his neighbour, let him be encouraged by
the courage of the farmer of Chester, to make reparation in like manner,
and so make clean his conscience.

       *       *       *       *       *


CONSCIENCE.

    ----------There is no power in holy men,
    Nor charm in prayer--nor purifying form
    Of penitence--nor outward look--nor fast--
    Nor agony--nor, greater than all these,
    The innate tortures of that deep despair,
    Which is remorse without the fear of hell.
    But all in all sufficient to itself
    Would make a hell of heaven--can exorcise
    From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense
    Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge
    Upon itself; there is no future pang
    Can deal that justice on the self-condemn’d
    He deals on his own soul.

  _Byron._

       *       *       *       *       *

EPITAPH BY DR. LOWTH, late bishop of London, on a monument in the church
of Cudesden, Oxfordshire, to the memory of his daughter, translated from
the Latin:--

    Dear as thou didst in modest worth excel,
    More dear than in a daughter’s name--farewell!
    Farewell, dear Mary--but the hour is nigh
    When, if I’m worthy, we shall meet on high:
    Then shall I say, triumphant from the tomb,
    “Come, to thy father’s arms, dear Mary, come!”

       *       *       *       *       *


INSCRIPTION

From the book at Rigi, in Switzerland.

    Nine weary up-hill miles we sped
      The setting sun to see;
    Sulky and grim he went to bed.
      Sulky and grim went we.

    Seven sleepless hours we past, and then,
      The rising sun to see,
    Sulky and grim we rose again.
      Sulky and grim rose he.

  [41] Boaden’s Life of Mrs. Siddons.


[Illustration: ~Antiquarian Hall,~ ALIAS ~Will. Will-be-so, of Lynn,~]

    A goose-herd in the fen-lands; next, he
    Be-doctor’d Norfolk cows; much vext, he
    Turn’d bookseller, and poetaster,
    And was a tolerable master
    Of title-pages, but his rhymes
    Were shocking, at the best of times.
    However, he was very honest,
    And now, poor fellow, he is--“_non est_.”

  *

_For the Table Book._

WILLIAM HALL, or as he used to style himself, “Antiquarian Hall,” “Will.
Will-be-so,” and “Low-Fen-Bill-Hall,” or, as he was more generally
termed by the public, “Old Hall,” died at Lynn, in Norfolk, on the 24th
of January, 1825. From some curious autobiographical sketches in rhyme,
published by himself, in the decline of life, it appears that he was
born on June 1, O.S. 1748, at Willow Booth, a small island in the fens
of Lincolnshire, near Heckington Ease, in the parish of South Kyme.

    “Kyme, God knows.
    Where no corn grows,
    Nothing but a little hay;
      And the water comes,
    And takes it all away.”

His ancestors on the father’s side were all “fen slodgers,” having lived
there for many generations; his mother was

    ----------“a half Yorkshire
    The other half was Heckington,
    Vulgar a place as and one.”

When about four years old, he narrowly escaped drowning; for, in his own
words, he

    ------“overstretching took a slip,
    And popp’d beneath a merchant’s ship;[42]
    No soul at hand but me and mother;
    Nor could I call for one or other.”

She, however, at the hazard of her own life, succeeded in saving her
son’s. At eleven years old, he went to school, in Brothertoft chapel,
for about six months, in which time he derived all the education he ever
received. His love of reading was so great, that as soon as he could
manage a gunning-boat, he used to employ his Sundays either in seeking
for water-birds’ eggs, or to

    ---------“_shouve_ the boat
    A catching fish, to make a groat,
    And sometimes with a snare or hook;
    Well, what was’t for?--to buy a book,
    Propensity so in him lay.”

Before he arrived at man’s estate, he lost his mother, and soon
afterwards his father married again. Will. himself, on arriving at
man’s estate, married “Suke Holmes,” and became a “gozzard,” or
gooseherd; that is, a keeper and breeder of geese, for which the fens
were, at that time, famous throughout the kingdom, supplying the London
markets with fowls, and the warehouses with feathers and quills. In
these parts, the small feathers are plucked from the live geese five
times a year, at Lady-tide, Midsummer, Lammas, Michaelmas, and
Martinmas, and the larger feathers and quills are pulled twice. Goslings
even are not spared, for it is thought that early plucking tends to
increase the succeeding feathers. It is said that the mere plucking
hurts the fowl very little, as the owners are careful not to pull until
the feathers are ripe: those plucked after the geese are dead, are
affirmed not to be so good. The number of geese kept by Will. must have
been very great, for his “brood geese,” alone, required five coombs of
corn for daily consumption.

The inundations to which the fens were then liable, from breaches, or
overflowing of the banks, overwhelmed him with difficulties, and ruined
his prospects.

    “The poor old geese away were floated,
    Till some high lands got lit’rally coated;
    Nor did most peasants think it duty
    Them to preserve, but made their booty;
    And those who were ‘not worth a goose,’
    On other people’s liv’d profuse.”

After many vicissitudes and changes of residence, he settled at
Marshland, in Norfolk, where his wife practised phlebotomy and
midwifery, while he officiated as an auctioneeer, cowleech, &c. &c.
Indeed he appeared to have been almost bred to the doctoring profession,
for his own mother was

    --------“a good cow-doctor,
    And always doctor’d all her own,
    Being cowleech both in flesh and bone.”

His mother-in-law was no less skilful, for in Will.’s words

    “She in live stock had took her care,
    And of recipes had ample share,
    Which I retain unto this day.”

His father-in-law was an equally eminent practitioner; when, says Will.,

    “I married Sukey Holmes, her father
    Did more than them put altogether;
    Imparted all his skill to me,
    Farrier, cowleech, and surgery,
    All which he practised with success.”

Will. tells of a remarkable and surprising accident, which closed his
career as a cowleech.

    “The rheumatism, (dreadful charm,)
    Had fix’d so close in my left arm,
    So violent throbb’d, that without stroke
    To touch--it absolutely broke!
    Went with a spring, made a report,
    And hence in cowleech spoil’d my sport;
    Remain’d so tender, weak, and sore,
    I never dare attempt it more.”

Thus disqualified, he removed to Lynn, and opening a shop in
Ferry-street, commenced his operations as a purchaser and vender of old
books, odds and ends, and old articles of various descriptions; from
whence he obtained the popular appellation of “Old Hall.” On a board
over the door, he designated this shop the

  ~“Antiquarian Library,”~

and thus quaintly announced his establishment to the public:

    ---------“In Lynn, Ferry-street,
    Where, should a stranger set his feet,
    Just cast an eye, read ‘Antiquary!’
    Turn in, and but one hour tarry,
    Depend upon’t, to his surprise, sir,
    He would turn out somewhat the wiser.”

He had great opportunity to indulge in “Bibliomania,” for he acquired an
extensive collection of scarce, curious, and valuable books, and became,
in fact, the only dealer in “old literature” at Lynn. He versified on
almost every occasion that seemed opportune for giving himself and his
verses publicity; and, in one of his rhyming advertisements, he
alphabetised the names of ancient and modern authors, by way of
catalogue. In addition to his bookselling business, he continued to
practise as an auctioneer. He regularly kept a book-stall, &c. in Lynn
Tuesday-market, from whence he occasionally knocked down his articles to
the best bidder; and he announced his sales in his usual whimsical
style. His hand-bill, on one of these occasions, runs thus:

“LYNN, 19th SEPTEMBER, 1810.

    “First Tuesday in the next October,
    Now do not doubt but we’ll be sober!
    If Providence permits us action,
    You may depend upon
             AN AUCTION,
                   At the stall
    That’s occupied by WILLIAM HALL.
    To enumerate a task would be,
    So best way is to come and see;
    But not to come too vague an errant,
    We’ll give a sketch which we will warrant.
      “About _one hundred books_, in due lots,
    And pretty near the same in _shoe-lasts_;
    _Coats_, _waistcoats_, _breeches_, shining _buttons_,
    Perhaps ten thousand _leather cuttings_.
    Sold at per pound, your lot but ask it,
    Shall be weigh’d to you in a basket;
    Some lots of _tools_, to make a try on.
    About one hundred weight of _iron_;
    _Scales_, _earthenware_, _arm-chairs_, a _tea-urn_,
    _Tea-chests_, a _herring-tub_, and so on;
    With various more, that’s our intention,
    Which are too tedious here to mention.
      “N. B. To undeceive, ’fore you come nigher,
    The duty charg’d upon the buyer;
    And, should we find we’re not perplext,
    We’ll keep it up the Tuesday next.”

During repeated visits to his surviving relatives in his native fens, he
observed the altered appearance of the scene from the improved method of
drainage. It had become like “another world,” and he resolved

    ------------------ “to try
    His talent for posterity;”

and “make a book,” under the title of “The Low Fen Journal,” to comprise
“a chain of Incidents relating to the State of the Fens, from the
earliest Account to the present Time.” As a specimen of the work he
published, in the summer of 1812, an octavo pamphlet of twenty-four
pages, called a “Sketch of Local History,” by “_Will. Will-be-so_,”
announcing

    “If two hundred subscribers will give in their aid,
    The whole of this journal is meant to be laid
    Under public view.”

This curious pamphlet of odds and ends in prose and rhyme, without order
or arrangement, contained a “caution to the buyer.”

    “Let any read that will not soil or rend it,
    But should they ask to borrow, _pray don’t lend it_!
    Advise them, ‘_Go and buy_;’ ’twill better suit
    My purpose; and with you prevent dispute.
    With me a maxim ’tis, he that won’t buy
    Does seldom well regard his neighbour’s property;
    And did you chew the bit, so much as I do
    From lending books, I think ’twould make you shy too.”

In the course of the tract, he presented to “the critics” the following
admonitory address.

    “Pray, sirs, consider, had you been
    Bred where whole winters nothing’s seen
    But naked flood for miles and miles,
    Except a boat the eye beguiles;
    Or coots, in clouds, by buzzards teaz’d,
    Your ear with seeming thunder seiz’d
    From rais’d decoy,--there ducks on flight,
    By tens of thousands darken light;
    None to assist in greatest need,
    Parents but very badly read,
    No conversation strike the mind,
    But of the lowest, vulgar kind;
    Five miles from either church or school,
    No coming there, but cross a pool;
    Kept twenty years upon that station,
    With only six months’ education;
    Traverse the scene, then weigh it well,
    Say, _could you better write or spell_?”

One extract, in prose, is an example of the disposition and powers of
his almost untutored mind, viz.

  “_No animation without generation_ seems a standing axiom in
  philosophy: but upon tasting the berry of a plant greatly resembling
  brooklime, but with a narrower leaf, I found it attended with a loose
  fulsomeness, very different from any thing I had ever tasted; and on
  splitting one of them with my nail, out sprang a fluttering maggot,
  which put me upon minute examination. The result of which was, that
  every berry, according to its degree of maturity, contained a
  proportionate maggot, up to the full ripe shell, where a door was
  plainly discerned, and the insect had taken its flight. I have ever
  since carefully inspected the herb, and the result is always the same,
  viz. if you split ten thousand of the berries, you discover nothing
  but an animated germ. It grows in shallow water, and is frequently
  accompanied with the water plantain. Its berry is about the size of a
  red currant, and comes on progressively, after the manner of juniper
  in the berry: the germ is first discoverable about the middle of July,
  and continues till the frost subdues it. And my conjectures lead me to
  say, that one luxurious plant shall be the mother of many scores of
  flies. I call it the _fly berry plant_.”

Thus far the “Sketch.” He seems to have caught the notion of his “Low
Fen Journal” from a former fen genius, whose works are become of great
price, though it must be acknowledged, more for their quaintness and
rarity, than their intrinsic merit. Will. refers to him in the following
apologetical lines.

    “Well, on the earth he knows of none,
      With a full turn just like his mind;
    Nor only one that’s dead and gone,
      Whose genius stood as his inclin’d:
    No doubt the public wish to know it,
    _John Taylor_, call’d the _water poet_,
    Who near two centuries ago
    Wrote much such nonsense as I do.”

The sale of the “Sketch” not answering his expectations, no further
symptoms of the “Journal” made their appearance at that time.

In the summer of 1815, after forty-three years’ practice as an
auctioneer, he announced his retirement by the following laconic
farewell.

    “RAP SENIOR’s given it up at last,
    With thanks for ev’ry favour past;
    Alias ‘ANTIQUARIAN HALL’
    Will never more be heard to brawl;
    As auctioneer no more will lie,
    But’s thrown his wicked hammer by.
    Should you prefer him to appraise,
    He’s licensed for future days;
    Or still employ him on commission,
    He’ll always treat on fair condition,
    For goods brought to him at his stand.
    Or at your home, to sell by hand;
    Or should you want his _pen’s_ assistance,
    He’ll wait on you at any distance,
    To lot, collect, in place of clerk,
    Or prevent moving goods i’ th’ dark;
    In short, for help or counsel’s aid,
    You need not of him be afraid.”

The harvest of 1816 proved wet and unfavourable, and he thought “it
almost exceeded any thing in his memory;” wherefore the world was
favoured with “Reflections upon Times, and Times and Times! or a more
than Sixty Years’ Tour of the Mind,” by “_Low-Fen-Bill-Hall_.” This was
an octavo pamphlet of sixteen pages, in prose, quite as confused as his
other productions, “transmitting to posterity,” as the results of sixty
years’ experience, that “the frequency of thunderstorms in the
spring,”--“the repeated appearance of water-spouts,”--“an innumerable
quantity of black snails,”--“an unusual number of field mice,”--and “the
great many snakes to be seen about,” are _certain_ “indications of a wet
harvest.” To these observations, intermingled with digression upon
digression, he prefixed as one of the mottoes, an extremely appropriate
quotation from _Deut._ c. 32. v. 29, “O that they were wise, that they
_understood_ this!”

In the spring of 1818, when in his seventieth year, or, as he says,
“David’s gage being near complete,” he determined on an attempt to
publish his “Low Fen Journal,” in numbers; the first of which he thus
announced:

    “_A Lincolnshire rais’d medley pie_,
    An original miscellany,
    Not meant as canting, _puzzling mystery_,
    But for a general true FEN HISTORY,
    Such as design’d some time ago,
    By him ’yclept _Will_. _Will-be-so_;
    Here’s Number ONE for publication,
    If meet the public’s approbation,
    _Low-Fen-Bill-Hall_ his word engages
    To send about two hundred pages,
    Collected by his gleaning pains,
    Mix’d with the fruit of his own brains.”

This specimen of the work was as unintelligible as the before-mentioned
introductory “Sketch,” partaking of the same autobiographical,
historical, and religious character, with acrostic, elegiac, obituarian,
and other extraneous pieces in prose and rhyme. His life had been passed
in vicissitude and hardship, “oft’ pining for a bit of bread;” and from
experience, he was well adapted to

    ------------------------- “tell,
    To whom most extra lots befell;
    Who liv’d for months on stage of planks,
    ’Midst captain Flood’s most swelling pranks,
    Five miles from any food to have,
    Yea often risk’d a wat’ry grave;”

yet his facts and style were so incongruous that speaking of the
“Sketch,” he says, when he

    -------------“sent it out,
    Good lack! to know what ’twas about?
    He might as well have sent it muzzled,
    For half the folks seem’d really puzzled.
    Soliciting for patronage,
    He might have spent near half an age;
    From all endeavours undertook,
    He could not get it to a book.”

Though the only “historical” part of the first number of his “Fen
Journal,” in twenty-four pages, consisted of prosaic fragments of his
grandfather’s “poaching,” his mother’s “groaning,” his father’s
“fishing,” and his own “conjectures;” yet he tells the public, that

    “Protected by kind Providence,
    I mean in less than twelve months hence,
    Push’d by no very common sense,
    To give six times as much as here is,
    And hope there’s none will think it dear is,
    Consid’ring th’ matter rather queer is.”

In prosecution of his intentions, No. 2 shortly followed; and, as it was
alike heterogeneous and unintelligible, he says he had “caught the
Swiftiania, in running digression on digression,” with as many whimseys
as “Peter, Martin, and John had in twisting their father’s will.” He
expected that this “gallimaufry” and himself would be consecrated to
posterity, for he says,

    “’Tis not for lucre that I write,
    But something lasting,--to indite
    What may redound to purpose good,
    (If hap’ly can be understood;)
    And, as time passes o’er his stages
    Transmit my mind to future ages.”

On concluding his second number, he “gratefully acknowledges the
liberality of his subscribers, and is apprehensive the _Interlope_ will
find a very partial acceptance; but it being so congenial an interlude
to the improvement of _Low Fen_ and _Billinghay Dale_ manners, to be
hereafter shown, he hopes it will not be considered detrimental, should
his work continue.” Such, however, was not the case, for his literary
project terminated: unforeseen events reduced his finances, and he had
not

    -----------------------“Pecune
    Enough, to keep his harp in tune.”

The care of a large family of orphan grandchildren, in indigent
circumstances, having devolved upon him, he became perplexed with
extreme difficulties, and again experienced the truth of his own
observation, that

    “If two steps forward, oft’ three back,
    Through life had been his constant track.”

Attracted by the “bodies of divinity,” and other theological works,
which his “antiquarian library” contained, his attention was
particularly directed to the fundamental truths of religion, and the
doctrines of “the various denominations of the Christian world.” The
result was, that without joining any, he imbibed such portions of the
tenets of each sect, that his opinions on this subject were as singular
as on every other. Above all sectaries, yet not entirely agreeing even
with them, he “loved and venerated” the “Moravians or United Brethren,”
for their meek, unassuming demeanour, their ceaseless perseverance in
propagating the gospel, and their boundless love towards the whole human
race. Of his own particular notions, he thus says,

    “If I on doctrines have right view,
    Here’s this for me, and that for you;
    Another gives my neighbour comfort,
    A stranger comes with one of some sort.
    When after candid scrutinizing,
    We find them equally worth prizing;
    ’Cause all in gospel love imparted,
    Nor is there any one perverted;
    Only as they may seem unlike,
    Nor can on other’s fancy strike:
    Whereas from due conformity,
    O! what a spread of harmony,
    Each with each, bearing and forbearing.
    All wishing for a better hearing,
    Would in due time, then full improve
    Into _one family of love_:
    Instead of shyness on each other,
    My fellow-christian, sister, brother,
    And each in candour thus impart,
    You have my fellowship and heart;
    Let this but be the _root_ o’ th’ sense,
    _Jesus the Christ_, my confidence,
    As given in the Father’s love,
    No other system I approve.”

After a short illness, towards the conclusion of his seventy-eighth
year, death closed his mortal career. Notwithstanding his eccentricity,
he was “devoid of guile,” plain and sincere in all transactions, and his
memory is universally respected.--“Peace to his ashes”--(to use his own
expressions,)

    “Let all the world say worst they can,
    He was an upright, honest man.”

  K.

  [42] A coal-lighter.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Winter.~

_For the Table Book._

    WINTER! I love thee, for thou com’st to me
      Laden with joys congenial to my mind,
    Books that with bards and solitude agree,
      And all those virtues which adorn mankind.
    What though the meadows, and the neighb’ring hills,
      That rear their cloudy summits in the skies--
    What though the woodland brooks, and lowland rills,
      That charm’d our ears, and gratified our eyes.
    In thy forlorn habiliments appear?
      What though the zephyrs of the summer tide,
    And all the softer beauties of the year
      Are fled and gone, kind Heav’n has not denied
    Our books and studies, music, conversation,
    And ev’ning parties for our recreation;
    And these suffice, for seasons snatch’d away,
    Till SPRING leads forth the slowly-length’ning day.

  B. W. R.

       *       *       *       *       *


A WINTER’S DAY.

_For the Table Book._

The horizontal sun, like an orb of molten gold, casts “a dim religious
light” upon the surpliced world: the beams, reflected from the dazzling
snow, fall upon the purple mists, which extend round the earth like a
zone, and in the midst the planet appears a fixed stud, surpassing the
ruby in brilliancy.

Now trees and shrubs are borne down with sparkling congelations, and the
coral clusters of the hawthorn and holly are more splendid, and offer a
cold conserve to the wandering schoolboy. The huntsman is seen riding to
covert in his scarlet livery, the gunner is heard at intervals in the
uplands, and the courser comes galloping down the hill side, with his
hounds in full chase before him. The farmer’s boy, who is forced from
his warm bed, to milk cows in a cold meadow, complains it’s a “burning”
shame that he should be obliged to go starving by himself, while “their
wench” has nothing else to do but make a fire, and boil the tea-kettle.
Now, Mrs. Jeremy Bellclack, properly so called, inasmuch as the
unmentionables are amongst her peculiar attributes, waked by the
mail-coach horn, sounding an Introit to the day, orders her husband,
poor fellow, to “just get up and look what sort of a morning it is;” and
he, shivering at the _bare_ idea, affects to be fast asleep, till a
second summons, accompanied by the contact of his wife’s heavy hand,
obliges him to paddle across the ice-cold plaster floor; and the trees
and church-steeples, stars, spears, and saws, which form an elegant
tapestry over the windows, seem to authorize the excuse that he “can’t
see,” while, shivering over the dressing-table, he pours a stream of
visible breath on the frozen pane.

After breakfast, Dicky, “with shining morning face,” appears in the
street, on his way to school, with his Latin grammar in one hand, and a
slice of bread and butter in the other, to either of which he pays his
devoirs, and “slides and looks, and slides and looks,” all the way till
he arrives at “the house of bondage,” when his fingers are so benumbed,
that he is obliged to warm his slate, and even then they refuse to cast
up figures, “of their own accord.” In another part of the school, Joe
Lazy finds it “so ’nation cold,” that he is quite unable to learn the
two first lines of his lesson,--and he plays at “cocks and dollars” with
Jem Slack in a corner. The master stands before the fire, like the
Colossus of Rhodes, all the morning, to the utter discomfiture of the
boys, who grumble at the monopoly, and secretly tell one another, that
they pay for the fire, and ought to have the benefit of it. At length he
says, “You may go, boys;” whereupon ensues such a pattering of feet,
shutting of boxes, and scrambling for hats, as beats Milton’s “busy hum
of men” all to nothing, till they reach their wonted slide in the yard,
where they suddenly stop on discovering that “that _skinny_ old
creature, Bet Fifty, the cook,” has bestrewed it from end to end with
sand and cinders. Frost-stricken as it were, they stare at one another,
and look unutterable things at the aforesaid “skinny old creature;” till
Jack Turbulent, ring-leader-general of all their riots and rebellions,
execrates “old Betty, cook,” with the fluency of a parlour boarder, and
hurls a well-wrought snowball at the Gorgon, who turns round in a
passion to discover the delinquent, when her pattens, unused to such
quick rotatory motion, slip from under her feet, and “down topples she,”
to the delight of the urchins around her, who drown her cries and
threats in reiterated bursts of laughter.

Now, the Comet stage-coach, bowling along the russet- road, with
a long train of vapour from the horses’ nostrils, looks really like a
comet. At the same time, Lubin, who has been sent to town by his
mistress with a letter for the post-office, and a strict injunction to
return speedily, finds it impossible to pass the blacksmith’s shop,
where the bright sparks fly from the forge; and he determines “just” to
stop and look at the blaze “a bit,” which, as he says, “raly does one’s
eyes good of a winter’s morning;” and then, he just blows the bellows a
bit, and finds it so pleasant to listen to the strokes of Vulcan’s wit,
and his sledge-hammer, alternately, that he continues blowing up the
fire, till, at length, he recollects what a “blowing up” he shall have
from his “Missis” when he gets home, and forswears the clang of
horse-shoes and plough-irons, and leaves the temple of the Cyclops, but
not without a “longing, ling’ring look behind” at Messrs. Blaze and
_Company_.

From the frozen surface of the pond or lake, men with besoms busily
clear away the drift, for which they are amply remunerated by voluntary
contributions from every fresh-arriving skater; and black ice is
discovered between banks of snow, and ramified into numerous transverse,
oblique, semicircular, or elliptical branches. Here and there, the snow
appears in large heaps, like rocks or islands, and round these the
proficients in the art

    “Come and trip it as they go
     On the light, fantastic toe,”

winding and sailing, one amongst another, like the smooth-winged
swallows, which so lately occupied the same surface. While these are
describing innumerable _circles_, the sliding fraternity in another part
form _parallel lines_; each, of each class, vies with the other in feats
of activity, all enjoy the exhilarating pastime, and every face is
illumined with cheerfulness. The philosophic skater, big with theory,
convinced, as he tells every one he meets, that the whole art consists
“_merely_ in transferring the centre of gravity from _one_ foot to the
_other_,” boldly essays a demonstration, and instantly transfers it from
_both_, so as to honour the frozen element with a sudden salute from
that part of the body which usually gravitates on a chair; and the wits
compliment him on the superior knowledge by which he has “broken the
ice,” and the little lads run to see “what a big star the gentleman has
made!” and think it must have hurt him “above a bit!”

It is now that the different canals are frozen up, and goods are
conveyed by the stage-waggon, and “it’s a capital time for the
turnpikes;” and those who can get brandy, drink it; and those who can’t,
drink ale; and those who are unable to procure either, do much better
without them. And now, ladies have red noses, and the robin, with his
little head turned knowingly on one side, presents his burning breast at
the parlour window, and seems to crave a dinner from the noontide
breakfast. In such a day, the “son and heir” of the “gentleman retired
from business” bedizens the drawing-room with heavy loads of prickly
evergreen; and bronze candlebearers, porcelain figures, and elegant
chimney ornaments, look like prince Malcolm’s soldiers at “Birnam wood,”
or chorister boys on a holy Thursday; and his “Ma” nearly falls into
hysterics on discovering the mischief; and his “Pa” begins to scold him
for being so naughty; and the budding wit asks, as he runs out of the
room, “Why, don’t you know that these are the _holly days_?” and his
father relates the astonishing instance of early genius at every club,
card-party, or vestry-meeting for a month to come. Now, all the pumps
are frozen, old men tumble down on the flags, and ladies “look blue” at
their lovers. Now, the merry-growing bacchanal begins to thaw himself
with frequent potations of wine; bottle after bottle is sacrificed to
the health of his various friends, though his own health is sacrificed
in the ceremony; and the glass that quaffs “the prosperity of the
British constitution,” ruins his own.

And now, dandies, in rough great coats and fur collars, look like
Esquimaux Indians; and the fashionables of the _fair_ sex, in white
veils and swans-down muffs and tippets, have (begging their pardons)
very much the appearance of polar bears. Now, Miss Enigmaria Conundrina
Riddle, poring over her new pocket-book, lisps out, “Why are ladies in
winter like tea-kettles?” to which old Mr. Riddle, pouring forth a dense
ringlet of tobacco-smoke, replies, “Because they dance and sing;” but
master Augustus Adolphus Riddle, who has heard it before, corrects him
by saying, “No, Pa, that’s not it--it’s because they are furred up.”
Now, unless their horses are turned up, the riders are very likely to be
turned down; and deep wells are dry, and poor old women, with a
“well-a-day!” are obliged to boil down snow and icicles to make their
tea with. Now, an old oak-tree, with only one branch, looks like a man
with a rifle to his shoulder, and the night-lorn traveller trembles at
the prospect of having his head and his pockets _rifled_ together. Now,
sedan-chairs, and servants with lanterns, are “flitting across the
night,” to fetch home their masters and mistresses from oyster-eatings,
and quadrille parties. And now, a young lady, who had retreated from the
heat of the ballroom, to take the benefit of the north wind, and caught
a severe cold, calls in the doctor, who is quite convinced of the
correctness of the old adage, “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.”

Now, the sultana of the night reigns on her throne of stars, in the blue
zenith, and young ladies and gentlemen, who had shivered all day by the
parlour fire, and found themselves in danger of annihilation when the
door by chance had been left a little way open, are quite warm enough to
walk together by moonlight, though every thing around them is actually
petrified by the frost.

Now, in my chamber, the last ember falls, and seems to warn us as it
descends, that though we, like it, may shine among the brilliant, and be
cherished by the great (grate,) we must mingle our ashes. The wasted
candle, too, is going the way of all flesh, and the writer of these
“night thoughts,” duly impressed with the importance of his own
mortality, takes his farewell of his anti-critical readers in the
language of the old song,--

    “Gude night, an’ joy be wi’ you all!”

  _Lichfield._

  J. H.

       *       *       *       *       *


TAKE NOTICE.

A correspondent who has seen the original of the following notice,
written at Bath, says, it would have been placed on a board in a garden
there, had not a friend advised its author to the contrary:

  “ANY PERSON TRESPACE HERE
  SHALL BE PROSTICUTED
  ACCORDING TO LAW.”

       *       *       *       *       *


THE BAZAAR.

_For the Table Book._

    The Bazaar in Soho
    Is completely the go.--

  (_Song._)

      Put it down in the bill
      Is the fountain of ill,--
      This has every shopkeeper undone--
    Bazaars never trust, so down with your dust,
      And help us to diddle all London.

  (_Song._)

       *       *       *       *       *

    Oh how I’ve wish’d for some time back
      To ride to the Bazaar,
    And I declare the day looks fair
      Now won’t you go, mamma?
    For there our friends we’re sure to meet,
      So let us haste away,
    My cousins, too, last night told you,
      They’d all be there to-day.

          With a “How do you do,
          Ma’am?” “How are you?
            How dear the things all are!”
          Throughout the day
          You hear them say,
            At fam’d Soho Bazaar.

    Some look at this thing, then at that,
      But vow they’re all too high;
    “How much is this?”--“Two guineas, miss!”
      “Oh, I don’t want to _buy_!”
    Look at these pretty books, my love,
      I think it soon will rain;
    There’s Mrs. Howe, I saw her bow,
      Why don’t you bow again?

          With a “How do you do.
          Ma’am?” “How are you?
            How dear the things all are!”
          Throughout the day
          You hear them say,
            At fam’d Soho Bazaar.

    Just see that picture on the box,
      How beautifully done!
    “It isn’t high, ma’am, won’t you buy?
      It’s only one pound one.”
    How pretty all these bonnets look
      With red and yellow strings;
    Some here, my dear, don’t go too near,
      You mustn’t touch the things.

          With a “How do you do,
          Ma’am?” “How are you?
            How dear the things all are!”
          Throughout the day
          You hear them say,
            At fam’d Soho Bazaar.

    Miss Muggins, have you seen enough?
      I’m sorry I can’t stay;
    There’s Mrs. Snooks, how fat she looks
      She’s coming on this way:
    Dear madam, give me leave to ask
      You,--how your husband is?--
    Why, Mr. Snooks has lost his looks,
      He’s got the _rheumatiz_!

          With a “How do you do.
          Ma’am?” “How are you?
            How dear the things all are!”
          Throughout the day
          You hear them say,
            At fam’d Soho Bazaar.

    “Tom! see that girl, how well she walks
      But faith, I must confess,
    I never saw a girl before
      In such a style of dress.”
    “Why, really, Jack, I think you’re right,
      Just let me look a while;
                           (_looking through his glass_)
    I like her _gait_ at any rate,
      But don’t quite like her _style_.”

          With a “How do you do,
          Ma’am?” “How are you?
            How dear the things all are!”
          Throughout the day
          You hear them say,
            At fam’d Soho Bazaar.

    “That vulgar lady’s standing there
      That every one may view her;”--
    “Sir, that’s my daughter;”--“No, not her;
      I mean the next one to her:”
    “Oh, that’s my niece,”--“Oh no, not her,”--
      “You seem, sir, quite amused;”
    “Dear ma’am,--heyday!--what shall I say?
      I’m really quite confused.”

          With a “How do you do,
          Ma’am?” “How are you?
            How dear the things all are!”
          Throughout the day
          You hear them say,
            At fam’d Soho Bazaar.

    Thus beaux and belles together meet,
      And thus they spend the day;
    And walk and talk, and talk and walk.
      And then they _walk_ away.
    If you have half an hour to spare,
      The better way by far
    Is here to lounge it, with a friend,
      In the Soho Bazaar.

          With a “How do you do,
          Ma’am?” “How are you?
            How dear the things all are!”
          Throughout the day
          You hear them say,
            At fam’d Soho Bazaar.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Omniana.~


THE SEASON OUT OF TOWN.

_For the Table Book._

    The banks are partly green; hedges and trees
      Are black and shrouded, and the keen wind roars,
    Like dismal music wand’ring over seas,
      And wailing to the agitated shores.

    The fields are dotted with manure--the sheep
      In unshorn wool, streak’d with the shepherd’s red,
    Their undivided peace and friendship keep,
      Shaking their bells, like children to their bed.

    The roads are white and miry--waters run
      With violence through their tracks--and sheds, that flowers
    In summer graced, are open to the sun,
      Which shines in noonday’s horizontal hours.

    Frost claims the night; and morning, like a bride,
      Forth from her chamber glides; mist spreads her vest;
    The sunbeams ride the clouds till eventide,
      And the wind rolls them to ethereal rest.

    Sleet, shine, cold, fog, in portions fill the time;
      Like hope, the prospect cheers; like breath it fades;
    Life grows in seasons to returning prime,
      And beauty rises from departing shades.

  _January, 1827._

  P.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE SIEGE OF BELGRADE.

  _Addressed to the Admirers of Alliteration, and the Advocates of Noisy
  Numbers._

    Ardentem aspicio atque arrectis auribis asto.--_Virgil._

    An Austrian army awfully arrayed,
    Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade:
    Cossack commanders cannonading come,
    Dealing destruction’s devastating doom;
    Every endeavour engineers essay,
    For fame, for fortune fighting--furious fray!
    Generals ’gainst generals grapple, gracious G--d!
    How honours heaven heroic hardihood!
    Infuriate--indiscriminate in ill--
    Kinsmen kill kindred--kindred kinsmen kill:
    Labour low levels loftiest, longest lines,
    Men march ’mid mounds, ’mid moles, ’mid murderous mines:
    Now noisy noxious numbers notice nought
    Of outward obstacles, opposing ought,--
    Poor patriots!--partly purchased--partly press’d,
    Quite quaking, quickly, “Quarter! quarter!” quest;
    Reason returns, religious right redounds,
    Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds.
    Truce to thee, Turkey, triumph to thy train
    Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine!
    Vanish, vain victory! vanish, victory vain!
    Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome were
    Xerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xaviere
    Yield, yield, ye youths! ye yeomen, yield your yell!
    Zeno’s, Zampatee’s, Zoroaster’s zeal,
    Attracting all, arms against acts appeal!

       *       *       *       *       *


NAMES OF PLACES.

_For the Table Book._

The names of towns, cities, or villages, which terminate in _ter_, such
as Ches_ter_, Cas_ter_, Ces_ter_, show that the Romans, in their stay
among us, made fortifications about the places where they are now
situated. In the Latin tongue _Castra_ is the name of these
fortifications--such are Castor, Chester, Doncaster, Leicester: _Don_
signifies a mountain, and _Ley_, or _Lei_, ground widely overgrown.

In our ancient tongue _wich_, or _wick_, means a place of refuge, and is
the termination of Warwick, Sandwich, Greenwich, Woolwich, &c.

_Thorp_, before the word village was borrowed from the French, was used
in its stead, and is found at the end of many towns’ names.

_Bury_, _Burgh_, or _Berry_, signifies, metaphorically, a town having a
wall about it, sometimes a high, or chief place.

_Wold_ means a plain open country.

_Combe_, a valley between two hills.

_Knock_, a hill.

_Hurst_, a woody place.

_Magh_, a field.

_Innes_, an island.

_Worth_, a place situated between two rivers.

_Ing_, a tract of meadows.

_Minster_ is a contraction of monastery.

  SAM SAM’S SON.

       *       *       *       *       *


SONNET

_For the Table Book._

    The snowdrop, rising to its infant height,
      Looks like a sickly child upon the spot
      Of young nativity, regarding not
    The air’s caress of melody and light
    Beam’d from the east, and soften’d by the bright
      Effusive flash of gold:--the willow stoops
    And muses, like a bride without her love,
      On her own shade, which lies on waves, and droops
    Beside the natal trunk, nor looks above:--
    The precipice, that torrents cannot move,
      Leans o’er the sea, and steadfast as a rock,
    Of dash and cloud unconscious, bears the rude
      Continuous surge, the sounds and echoes mock:
    Thus Mental Thought enduring, wears in solitude.

  1827.

  *, *, P.




Vol. I.--6.


[Illustration: ~The Font of Harrow Church.~]

    ---------------------- thus saved
    From guardian-hands which else had more depraved.

Some years ago, the fine old font of the ancient parish church of
Harrow-on-the-Hill was torn from that edifice, by the “gentlemen of the
parish,” and given out to mend the roads with. The feelings of _one_
parishioner (to the honour of the sex, a female) were outraged by this
act of parochial Vandalism; and she was allowed to preserve it from
destruction, and place it in a walled nook, at the garden front of her
house, where it still remains. By her obliging permission, a drawing of
it was made the summer before last, and is engraved above.

On the exclusion of Harrow font from the church, the parish officers put
up the marble wash-hand-basin-stand-looking-thing, which now occupies
its place, inscribed with the names of the churchwardens during whose
reign venality or stupidity effected the removal of its precessor. If
there be any persons in that parish who either venerate antiquity, or
desire to see “right things in right places,” it is possible that, by a
spirited representation, they may arouse the indifferent, and shame the
ignorant to an interchange: and force an expression of public thanks to
the lady whose good taste and care enabled it to be effected. The
relative situation and misappropriation of each font is a stain on the
parish, easily removable, by employing a few men and a few pounds to
clap the paltry usurper under the spout of the good lady’s house, and
restore the noble original from that degrading destination, to its
rightful dignity in the church.

  *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. III.

  [From the “Rewards of Virtue,” a Comedy, by John Fountain, printed
  1661.]

_Success in Battle not always attributable to the General._

        ----------Generals oftimes famous grow
    By valiant friends, or cowardly enemies;
    Or, what is worse, by some mean piece of chance.
    Truth is, ’tis pretty to observe
    How little Princes and great Generals
    Contribute oftentimes to the fame they win.
    How oft hath it been found, that noblest minds
    With two short arms, have fought with fatal stars;
    And have endeavour’d with their dearest blood
    To mollify those diamonds, where dwell
    The fate of kingdoms; and at last have faln
    By vulgar hands, unable now to do
    More for their cause than die; and have been lost
    Among the sacrifices of their swords;
    No more remember’d than poor villagers,
    Whose ashes sleep among the common flowers,
    That every meadow wears: whilst other men
    With trembling hands have caught a victory,
    And on pale foreheads wear triumphant bays.
    Besides, I have thought
    A thousand times; in times of war, when we
    Lift up our hands to heaven for victory;
    Suppose some virgin Shepherdess, whose soul
    Is chaste and clean as the cold spring, where she
    Quenches all thirsts, being told of enemies,
    That seek to fright the long-enjoyed Peace
    Of our Arcadia hence with sound of drums,
    And with hoarse trumpets’ warlike airs to drown
    The harmless music of her oaten reeds,
    Should in the passion of her troubled sprite
    Repair to some small fane (such as the Gods
    Hear poor folks from), and there on humble knees
    Lift up her trembling hands to holy Pan,
    And beg his helps: ’tis possible to think,
    That Heav’n, which holds the purest vows most rich,
    May not permit her still to weep in vain,
    But grant her wish, (for, would the Gods not hear
    The prayers of poor folks, they’d ne’er bid them pray);
    And so, in the next action, happeneth out
    (The Gods still using means) the Enemy
    May be defeated. The glory of all this
    Is attributed to the General,
    And none but he’s spoke loud of for the act;
    While she, from whose so unaffected tears
    His laurel sprung, for ever dwells unknown.[43]

       *       *       *       *       *

_Unlawful Solicitings._

                               When I first
    Mention’d the business to her all alone,
    Poor Soul, she blush’d, as if already she
    Had done some harm by hearing of me speak,
    Whilst from her pretty eyes two fountains ran
    So true, so native, down her fairest cheeks;
    As if she thought herself obliged to cry,
    ’Cause all the world was not so good as she.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Proportion in Pity._

    There must be some proportion still to pity
    Between ourselves and what we moan: ’tis hard
    For Men to be ought sensible, how Moats
    Press Flies to death. Should the Lion, in
    His midnight walks for prey, hear some poor worms
    Complain for want of little drops of dew,
    What pity could that generous creature have
    (Who never wanted small things) for those poor
    Ambitions? yet these are their concernments,
    And but for want of these they pine and die.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Modesty a bar to preferment._

    Sure ’twas his modesty. He might have thriven
    Much better possibly, had his ambition
    Been greater much. They oftimes take more pains
    Who look for Pins, than those who find out Stars.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Innocence vindicated at last._

    Heav’n may awhile correct the virtuous;
    Yet it will wipe their eyes again, and make
    Their faces whiter with their tears. Innocence
    Conceal’d is the Stoln Pleasure of the Gods,
    Which never ends in shame, as that of Men
    Doth oftimes do; but like the Sun breaks forth,
    When it hath gratified another world;
    And to our unexpecting eyes appears
    More glorious thro’ its late obscurity.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Dying for a Beloved Person._

    There is a gust in Death, when ’tis for Love,
    That’s more than all that’s taste in all the world.
    For the true measure of true Love is Death;
    And what falls short of this, was never Love:
    And therefore when those tides do meet and strive
    And both swell high, but Love is higher still,
    This is the truest satisfaction of
    The perfectest Love: for here it sees itself
    Indure the highest test; and then it feels
    The sum of delectation, since it now
    Attains its perfect end; and shows its object,
    By one intense act, all its verity:
    Which by a thousand and ten thousand words
    It would have took a poor dilated pleasure
    To have imperfectly express’d.

_Urania makes a mock assignation with the King, and substitutes the
Queen in her place. The King describes the supposed meeting to the
Confident, whom he had employed to solicit for his guilty passion._

    Pyrrhus, I’ll tell thee all. When now the night
    Grew black enough to hide a sculking action;
    And Heav’n had ne’er an eye unshut to see
    Her Representative on Earth creep ’mongst
    Those poor defenceless worms, whom Nature left
    An humble prey to every thing, and no
    Asylum but the dark; I softly stole
    To yonder grotto thro’ the upper walks,
    And there found my Urania. But I found her,
    I found her, Pyrrhus, not a Mistress, but
    A Goddess rather; which made me now to be
    No more her Lover, but Idolater.
    She only whisper’d to me, as she promised,
    Yet never heard I any voice so loud;
    And, tho’ her words were gentler far than those
    That holy priests do speak to dying Saints,
    Yet never thunder signified so much.
    And (what did more impress whate’er she said)
    Methought her whispers were my injured Queen’s,
    Her manner just like her’s! and when she urged,
    Among a thousand things, the injury
    I did the faithful’st Princess in the world;
    Who now supposed me sick, and was perchance
    Upon her knees offering up holy vows
    For him who mock’d both Heav’n and her, and was
    Now breaking of that vow he made her, when
    With sacrifice he call’d the Gods to witness:
    When she urged this, and wept, and spake so like
    My poor deluded Queen, Pyrrhus, I trembled;
    Almost persuaded that it was her angel
    Spake thro’ Urania’s lips, who for her sake
    Took care of me, as something she much loved.
    It would be long to tell thee all she said,
    How oft she sigh’d, how bitterly she wept:
    But the effect--Urania still is chaste;
    And with her chaster lips hath promised to
    Invoke blest Heav’n for my intended sin.

  C. L.

  [43] Is it possible that Cowper might have remembered this sentiment
  in his description of the advantages which the world, that scorns him,
  may derive from the noiseless hours of the contemplative man?

                    Perhaps she owes
    Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring
    And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes,
    When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint
    Walks forth to meditate at eventide,
    And think on her, who thinks not on herself.

  _Task._

       *       *       *       *       *


THE CUSHION DANCE.

_For the Table Book._

The concluding dance at a country wake, or other general meeting, is the
“Cushion Dance;” and if it be not called for when the company are tired
with dancing, the fiddler, who has an interest in it which will be seen
hereafter, frequently plays the tune to remind them of it. A young man
of the company leaves the room; the poor young women, uninformed of the
plot against them, suspecting nothing; but he no sooner returns, bearing
a cushion in one hand and a pewter pot in the other, than they are aware
of the mischief intended, and would certainly make their escape, had
not the bearer of cushion and pot, aware of the invincible aversion
which young women have to be saluted by young men, prevented their
flight by locking the door, and putting the key in his pocket. The dance
then begins.

The young man advances to the fiddler, drops a penny in the pot, and
gives it to one of his companions; cushion then dances round the room,
followed by pot, and when they again reach the fiddler, the cushion says
in a sort of recitative, accompanied by the music, “This dance it will
no farther go.”

The fiddler, in return, sings or says, for it partakes of both, “I pray,
kind sir, why say you so?”

The answer is, “Because Joan Sanderson won’t come to.”

“But,” replies the fiddler, “she must come to, and she shall come to,
whether she will or no.”

The young man, thus armed with the authority of the village musician,
recommences his dance round the room, but stops when he comes to the
girl he likes best, and drops the cushion at her feet; she puts her
penny in the pewter pot, and kneels down with the young man on the
cushion, and he salutes her.

When they rise, the woman takes up the cushion, and leads the dance, the
man following, and holding the skirt of her gown; and having made the
circuit of the room, they stop near the fiddler, and the same dialogue
is repeated, except, as it is now the woman who speaks, it is _John_
Sanderson who won’t come to, and the fiddler’s mandate is issued to
_him_, not her.

The woman drops the cushion at the feet of her favourite man; the same
ceremony and the same dance are repeated, till every man and woman, the
pot bearer last, has been taken out, and all have danced round the room
in a file.

The pence are the perquisite of the fiddler.

  H. N.

P.S. There is a description of this dance in Miss Hutton’s “Oakwood
Hall.”

       *       *       *       *       *


THE CUSHION DANCE.

_For the Table Book._

“Saltabamus.”

    The village-green is clear and dight
      Under the starlight sky;
    Joy in the cottage reigns to night,
      And brightens every eye:
    The peasants of the valley meet
      Their labours to advance,
    And many a lip invites a treat
      To celebrate the “Cushion Dance.”

    A pillow in the room they hide,
      The door they slily lock;
    The bold the bashful damsels chide,
      Whose heart’s-pulse seem to rock:
    “Escape?”--“Not yet!--no key is found!”--
      “Of course, ’tis lost by chance;”--
    And flutt’ring whispers breathe around
      “The Cushion Dance!--The Cushion Dance!”

    The fiddler in a corner stands,
      He gives, he rules the game;
    A rustic takes a maiden’s hands
      Whose cheek is red with shame:
    At custom’s shrine they seal their truth,
      Love fails not here to glance;--
    Happy the heart that beats in youth,
      And dances in the “Cushion Dance!”

    The pillow’s carried round and round,
      The fiddler speaks and plays;
    The choice is made,--the charm is wound,
      And parleys conquer nays:--
    “For shame! I will not thus be kiss’d,
      Your beard cuts like a lance;
    Leave off--I’m sure you’ve sprained my wrist
      By kneeling in this ‘Cushion Dance!’”

    “’Tis aunt’s turn,--what in tears?--I thought
      You dearly loved a joke;
    Kisses are sweeter stol’n than bought,
      And vows are sometimes broke.
    Play up!--play up!--aunt chooses Ben;
      Ben loves so sweet a trance!
    Robin to Nelly kneels again,
      --Is Love not in the ‘Cushion dance?’”

    Laughter is busy at the heart,
      Cupid looks through the eye,
    Feeling is dear when sorrows part
      And plaintive comfort’s nigh,
    “Hide not in corners, Betsy, pray,”
      “Do not so colt-like prance;
    One kiss, for memory’s future day,
      --Is Life not like a ‘Cushion Dance?’”

    “This Dance it will no further go!”
      “Why say you thus, good man?”
    “Joan Sanderson will not come to!”
      “She must,--’tis ‘Custom’s’ plan:”
    “Whether she will or no, must she
      The proper course advance;
    Blushes, like blossoms on a tree,
      Are lovely in the ‘Cushion Dance.’”

    “This Dance it will no further go!”
      “Why say you thus, good lady?”
    “John Sanderson will not come to!”
      “Fie, John! the Cushion’s ready:”
    “He must come to, he shall come to,
      ’Tis Mirth’s right throne pleasance;
    How dear the scene, in Nature’s view
      To Lovers in a ‘Cushion Dance!’”

    “Ho! princum prancum!”--Love is blest,
      Both Joan and John submit;
    Friends smiling gather round and rest.
      And sweethearts closely sit;--
    Their feet and spirits languid grown,
      Eyes, bright in silence, glance
    Like suns on seeds of beauty sown,
      And nourish’d in the “Cushion Dance.”

    In times to come, when older we
      Have children round our knees;
    How will our hearts rejoice to see
      Their lips and eyes at ease.
    Talk ye of Swiss in valley-streams,
      Of joyous pairs in France;
    None of their hopes-delighting dreams
      Are equal to the “Cushion Dance.”

    ’Twas here my Maiden’s love I drew
      By the hushing of her bosom;
    She knelt, her mouth and press were true,
      And sweet as rose’s blossom:--
    E’er since, though onward we to glory,
      And cares our lives enhance,
    Reflection dearly tells the “story”--
      Hail!--hail!--thou “happy Cushion Dance.”

  J. R. PRIOR.

  _Islington._

       *       *       *       *       *


ST. SEPULCHRE’S BELL.

_For the Table Book._

On the right-hand side of the altar of St. Sepulchre’s church is a
board, with a list of charitable donations and gifts, containing the
following item:--

                                       £. _s._ _d._
  1605. Mr. Robert Dowe gave           50   0    0
        for ringing the greatest
        bell in this church on the
        day the condemned prisoners
        are executed, and
        for other services, _for
        ever_, concerning such
        condemned prisoners, for
        which services _the sexton_
        is paid £1. 6_s._ 8_d._

Looking over an old volume of the Newgate Calendar, I found some
elucidation of this inscription. In a narrative of the case of Stephen
Gardner, (who was executed at Tyburn, February 3, 1724,) it is related
that a person said to Gardner, when he was set at liberty on a former
occasion, “Beware how you come here again, or the _bellman_ will
certainly say his verses over you.” On this saying there is the
following remark:--

“It has been a very ancient practice, on the night preceding the
execution of condemned criminals, for the _bellman_ of the parish of
St. Sepulchre, to go under Newgate, and, ringing his bell, to repeat the
following verses, as a piece of friendly advice to the unhappy wretches
under sentence of death:--

    All you that in the condemn’d hold do lie,
    Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die;
    Watch all, and pray, the hour is drawing near,
    That you before the Almighty must appear:
    Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
    That you may not to eternal flames be sent.
    And when St. Sepulchre’s bell to-morrow tolls,
    The Lord above have mercy on your souls!
                            Past twelve o’clock!”

In the following extract from Stowe’s London,[44] it will be shown that
the above verses ought to be repeated by a clergyman, instead of a
bellman:--

“Robert Doue, citizen and merchant taylor, of London, gave to the parish
church of St. Sepulchres, the somme of £50. That after the several
sessions of London, when the prisoners remain in the gaole, as condemned
men to death, expecting execution on the morrow following: the _clarke_
(that is the _parson_) of the church shoold come in the night time, and
likewise early in the morning, to the window of the prison where they
lye, and there ringing certain toles with a hand-bell appointed for the
purpose, he doth afterwards (in most Christian manner) put them in mind
of their present condition, and ensuing execution, desiring them to be
prepared therefore as they ought to be. When they are in the cart, and
brought before the wall of the church, there he standeth ready with the
same bell, and, after certain toles, rehearseth an appointed praier,
desiring all the people there present to pray for them. The beadle also
of Merchant Taylors’ Hall hath an honest stipend allowed to see that
this is duely done.”

Probably the discontinuance of this practice commenced when malefactors
were first executed at Newgate, in lieu of Tyburn. The donation most
certainly refers to the verses. What the “_other services_” are which
the donor intended to be done, and for which the sexton is paid £1.
6_s._ 8_d._, and which are to be “_for ever_,” I do not know, but I
presume those services (or some other) are now continued, as the board
which contains the donation seems to me to have been newly painted.

  EDWIN S----.

  _Carthusian-street, Jan. 1827._

  [44] Page 25 of the quarto edition, 1618.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE DEATH OF THE RED KING

    “Come, listen to a tale of times of old;
    Come, for ye know me.”

  SOUTHEY.

    Who is it that rides thro’ the forest so green,
    And gazes with joy on the beautiful scene,
    With the gay prancing war-horse, and helmeted head?
    ’Tis the monarch of England, stern William the Red.

    Why starts the proud courser? what vision is there?
    The trees are scarce mov’d by the still breathing air--
    All is hush’d, save the wild bird that carols on high,
    The forest bee’s hum, and the rivulet’s sigh.

    But, lo! a dark form o’er the pathway hath lean’d
    ’Tis the druid of Malwood, the wild forest-fiend
    The terror of youth, of the aged the fear--
    The prophet of Cadenham, the death-boding seer!

    His garments were black as the night-raven’s plume.
    His features were veil’d in mysterious gloom,
    His lean arm was awfully rais’d while he said,
    “Well met, England’s monarch, stern William the Red!

    “Desolation, death, ruin, the mighty shall fall--
    Lamentation and woe reign in Malwood’s wide hall!
    Those leaves shall all fade in the winter’s rude blast,
    And thou shalt lie low ere the winter be past.”

    “Thou liest, vile caitiff, ’tis false, by the rood,
    For know that the contract is seal’d with my blood,
    ’Tis written, I never shall sleep in the tomb
    Till Cadenham’s oak in the winter shall bloom!

    “But say what art thou, strange, unsearchable thing,
    That dares to speak treason, and waylay a king?”--
    “Know, monarch, I dwell in the beautiful bowers
    Of Eden, and poison I shed o’er the flowers.

    “In darkness and storm o’er the ocean I sail,
    I ride on the breath of the night-rolling gale--
    I dwell in Vesuvius, ’mid torrents of flame,
    Unriddle my riddle, and tell me my name!”

    O pale grew the monarch, and smote on his breast,
    For who was the prophet he wittingly guess’d:
    “_O, Jesu-Maria!_” he tremblingly said,
    “_Bona Virgo!_”--he gazed--but the vision had fled.

    ’Tis winter--the trees of the forest are bare,
    How keenly is blowing the chilly night air!
    The moonbeams shine brightly on hard-frozen flood,
    And William is riding thro’ Cadenham’s wood.

    Why looks he with dread on the blasted oak tree?
    Saint Swithin! what is it the monarch can see?
    Prophetical sight! ’mid the desolate scene,
    The oak is array’d in the freshest of green!

    He thought of the contract, “Thou’rt safe from the tomb,
    Till Cadenham’s oak in the winter shall bloom;”
    He thought of the druid--“The mighty shall fall,
    Lamentation and woe reign in Malwood’s wide hall.”

    As he stood near the tree, lo! a swift flying dart
    Hath struck the proud monarch, and pierc’d thro’ his heart;
    ’Twas the deed of a friend, not the deed of a foe,
    For the arrow was aim’d at the breast of a roe.

    In Malwood is silent the light-hearted glee,
    The dance and the wassail, and wild revelrie;
    Its chambers are dreary, deserted, and lone,
    And the day of its greatness for ever hath flown.

    A weeping is heard in Saint Swithin’s huge pile--
    “_Dies Iræ_” resounds thro’ the sable-dight aisle--
    ’Tis a dirge for the mighty, the mass for the dead--
    The funeral anthem for William the Red!

  AQUILA.

       *       *       *       *       *


~London.~

DESCRIBED BY A WRITER IN 1634.

I will first take a survey of the long-continued deformity in the shape
of your city, which is of your buildings.

Sure your ancestors contrived your narrow streets in the days of
wheel-barrows, before those greater engines, carts, were invented. Is
your climate so hot, that as you walk you need umbrellas of tiles to
intercept the sun? or are your shambles so empty, that you are afraid to
take in fresh air, lest it should sharpen your stomachs? Oh, the goodly
landscape of Old Fish-street! which, if it had not the ill luck to be
crooked, was narrow enough to have been your founder’s perspective; and
where the garrets, perhaps not for want of architecture, but through
abundance of amity, are so narrow, that opposite neighbours may shake
hands without stirring from home. Is unanimity of inhabitants in wide
cities better exprest than by their coherence and uniformity of
building, where streets begin, continue, and end, in a like stature and
shape?[45] But yours, as if they were raised in a general resurrection,
where every man hath a several design, differ in all things that can
make a distinction. Here stands one that aims to be a palace, and next
it, one that professes to be a hovel; here a giant, there a dwarf; here
slender, there broad; and all most admirably different in faces, as well
as in their height and bulk. I was about to defy any Londoner, who dares
to pretend there is so much ingenious correspondence in this city, as
that he can show me one house like another; yet your houses seem to be
reversed and formal, being compared to the fantastical looks of the
moderns, which have more ovals, niches, and angles, than in your
custards, and are enclosed with pasteboard walls, like those of
malicious Turks, who, because themselves are not immortal, and cannot
dwell for ever where they build, therefore wish not to be at charge to
provide such lastingness as may entertain their children out of the
rain; so slight and prettily gaudy, that if they could move, they would
pass for pageants. It is your custom, where men vary often the mode of
their habits, to term the nation fantastical; but where streets
continually change fashion, you should make haste to chain up your city,
for it is certainly mad.

You would think me a malicious traveller, if I should still gaze on your
mis-shapen streets, and take no notice of the beauty of your river,
therefore I will pass the importunate noise of your watermen, (who
snatch at fares, as if they were to catch prisoners, plying the gentry
so uncivilly, as if they had never rowed any other passengers than
bear-wards,) and now step into one of your peascod-boats, whose tilts
are not so sumptuous as the roofs of gondolas; nor, when you are within,
are you at the ease of a _chaise-à-bras_.

The commodity and trade of your river belong to yourselves; but give a
stranger leave to share in the pleasure of it, which will hardly be in
the prospect and freedom of air; unless prospect, consisting of variety,
be made up with here a palace, there a wood-yard; here a garden, there a
brewhouse; here dwells a lord, there a dyer; and between both, _duomo
commune_.

If freedom of air be inferred in the liberty of the subject, where every
private man hath authority, for his own profit, to smoke up a
magistrate, then the air of your Thames is open enough, because it is
equally free. I will forbear to visit your courtly neighbours at
Wapping, not that it will make me giddy to shoot your bridge, but that I
am loath to describe the civil silence at Billingsgate, which is so
great, as if the mariners were always landing to storm the harbour;
therefore, for brevity’s sake, I will put to shore again, though I
should be so constrained, even without my galoshes, to land at
Puddle-dock.

I am now returned to visit your houses where the roofs are so low, that
I presumed your ancestors were very mannerly, and stood bare to their
wives; for I cannot discern how they could wear their high-crowned hats:
yet I will enter, and therein oblige you much, when you know my
aversion to a certain weed that governs amongst your coarser
acquaintance, as much as lavender among your coarser linen; to which, in
my apprehension, your sea-coal smoke seems a very Portugal perfume. I
should here hasten to a period, for fear of suffocation, if I thought
you so ungracious as to use it in public assemblies; and yet I see it
grow so much in fashion, that methinks your children begin to play with
broken pipes instead of corals, to make way for their teeth. You will
find my visit short; I cannot stay to eat with you, because your bread
is too heavy, and you distrain the light substance of herbs. Your drink
is too thick, and yet you are seldom over curious in washing your
glasses. Nor will I lodge with you, because your beds seem no bigger
than coffins; and your curtains so short, as they will hardly serve to
enclose your carriers in summer, and may be held, if taffata, to have
lined your grandsire’s skirts.

I have now left your houses, and am passing through your streets, but
not in a coach, for they are uneasily hung, and so narrow, that I took
them for sedans upon wheels. Nor is it safe for a stranger to use them
till the quarrel be decided, whether six of your nobles, sitting
together, shall stop and give way to as many barrels of beer. Your city
is the only metropolis in Europe, where there is wonderful dignity
belonging to carts.

I would now make a safe retreat, but that methinks I am stopped by one
of your heroic games called foot-ball; which I conceive (under your
favour) not very conveniently civil in the streets, especially in such
irregular and narrow roads as Crooked-lane. Yet it argues your courage,
much like your military pastime of throwing at cocks; but your metal
would be much magnified (since you have long allowed those two valiant
exercises in the streets) were you to draw your archers from Finsbury,
and, during high market, let them shoot at butts in Cheapside. I have
now no more to say, but what refers to a few private notes, which I
shall give you in a whisper, when we meet in Moorfields, from whence
(because the place was meant for public pleasure, and to show the
munificence of your city) I shall desire you to banish your laundresses
and bleachers, whose acres of old linen make a show like the fields of
Carthagena, when the five months’ shifts of the whole fleet are washed
and spread.[46]

  [45] If a disagreement of neighbours were to be inferred from such a
  circumstance, what but an unfavourable inference would be drawn from
  our modern style of architecture, as exemplified in Regent-street,
  where the houses are, as the leopard’s spots are described to be, “no
  two alike, and every one different.”

  [46] Sir W. Davenant.

       *       *       *       *       *


A FATHER’S HOME.

_For the Table Book._

    When oppress’d by the world, or fatigu’d with its charms,
      My weary steps homeward I tread--
    ’Tis there, midst the prattlers that fly to my arms,
      I enjoy purer pleasures instead.

    Hark! the rap at the door is known as their dad’s,
      And rushing at once to the lock,
    Wide open it flies, while the lasses and lads
      Bid me welcome as chief of the flock.

    Little _baby_ himself leaves the breast for a gaze
      Glad to join in th’ general joy,
    While with outstretched arms and looks of amaze
      He seizes the new purchas’d toy.

    Then _Harry_, the next, climbs the knee to engage
      His father’s attention again;
    But _Bob_, springing forward almost in a rage,
      Resolves his own rights to maintain.

    Oh, ye vot’ries of pleasure and folly’s sad crew,
      From your midnight carousals depart!
    Look here for true joys, ever blooming and new,
      When I press _both_ these boys to my heart.

    Poor grimalkin purs softly--the tea-kettle sings,
      Midst glad faces and innocent hearts,
    Encircling my table as happy as kings,
      Right merrily playing their parts.

    And _Bill_ (the sly rogue) takes a lump, when he’s able,
      Of sugar, so temptingly sweet,
    And, archly observing, hides under the table
      The spoil, till he’s ready to eat.

    While _George_, the big boy, talks of terrible “sums”
      He perform’d so correctly at school;
    _Bill_ leeringly tells, with his chin on his thumbs,
      “He was whipt there for playing the fool!”

    This raises a strife, till in choleric mood
      Each ventures a threat to his brother,
    But their hearts are so good, let a stranger intrude,
      They’d fight to the last for each other.

    There _Nan_, the sweet girl, she that fags for the whole,
      And keeps the young urchins in order,
    Exhibits, with innocence charming the soul,
      Her sister’s fine sampler and border.

    _Kitty_ sings to me gaily, then chatting apace
      Helps her mother to darn or to stitch,
    Reminding me most of that gay laughing face
      Which once did my fond heart bewitch.

    While _she!_ the dear partner of all my delight,
      Contrives them some innocent play;
    Till, tired of all, in the silence of night,
      They dream the glad moments away.

    Oh, long may such fire-side scenes be my lot!
      Ye children, be virtuous and true!
    And think when I’m aged, alone in my cot,
      How I minister’d comfort to you.

    When my vigour is gone, and to manhood’s estate
      Ye all shall be happily grown,
    Live near me, and, anxious for poor father’s fate
      Show the world that you’re truly my own.


[Illustration: ~Stanmore Toll-House.~]

    Its ornamental look, and public use,
    Combine to render it worth observation.

Our new toll-houses are deservedly the subject of frequent remark, on
account of their beauty. The preceding engraving is intended to convey
an idea of Stanmore-gate, which is one of the handsomest near London.
The top is formed into a large lantern; when illuminated, it is an
important mark to drivers in dark nights.

It may be necessary to add, that the present representation was not
destined to appear in this place; but the indisposition of a gentleman
engaged to assist in illustrating this work, has occasioned a sudden
disappointment.

       *       *       *       *       *


“STATUTES” AND “MOPS.”

_To the Editor._

Sir,--Although your unique and curious work, the _Every-Day Book_,
abounds with very interesting accounts of festivals, fairs, wassails,
wakes, and other particulars concerning our country manners, and will be
prized by future generations as a rare and valuable collection of the
pastimes and customs of their forefathers, still much of the same nature
remains to be related; and as I am anxious that the _Country Statute_,
or _Mop_, (according to the version of the country people generally,)
should be snatched from oblivion, I send you a description of this
custom, which, I hope, will be deemed worthy a place in the _Table
Book_. I had waited to see if some one more competent to a better
account than myself would achieve the task, when that short but
significant word FINIS, attached to the _Every-Day Book_, arouses me
from further delay, and I delineate, as well as I am able, scenes which,
but for that work, I possibly should have never noticed.

Some months ago I solicited the assistance of a friend, a respectable
farmer, residing at Wootton, in Warwickshire, who not only very readily
promised to give me every information he possessed on the subject, but
proposed that I should pass a week at his farm at the time these
Statutes were holding. So valuable an opportunity of visiting them and
making my own observations, I, of course, readily embraced. Before I
proceed to lay before you the results, it may be as well, perhaps, to
give something like a definition of the name applied to this peculiar
custom, as also when and for what purpose the usage was established.
“Statutes,” or “Statute Sessions,” otherwise called “Petit Sessions,”
are meetings, in every hundred of each shire in England where they are
held, to which the constables and others, both householders and
servants, repair for the determining of differences between masters and
servants; the rating, by the sheriff or magistrates, of wages for the
ensuing year; and the bestowing of such people in service as are able to
serve, and refuse to seek, or cannot get masters.

The first act of parliament for regulating servants’ wages passed in the
year 1351, 25th Edward III. At an early period labourers were serfs, or
slaves, and consequently there was no law upon the subject. The
immediate cause of the act of Edward III. was that plague which wasted
Europe from 1347 to 1349, and destroyed a great proportion of its
inhabitants. The consequent scarcity of labourers, and the high price
demanded for labour, caused those who employed them to obtain
legislative enactments, imposing fines on all who gave or accepted more
than a stipulated sum. Since that period there have been various
regulations of a similar nature. By the 13th of Richard II. the justices
of every county were to meet once a year, between Easter and Michaelmas,
to regulate, according to circumstances, the rates of wages of
agricultural servants for the year ensuing, and cause the same to be
proclaimed. But though this power was confirmed to the justices by the
5th of Elizabeth, this part of the custom of Statute Sessions is almost,
if not quite, fallen into disuse. It is probable that in the years
immediately succeeding the first enactment the population was so
restored as to cause the laws to be relaxed, though they still remain as
an example of the wisdom of past ages. However this may be, it is
certain, that all that is at present understood by “Statutes,” or, as
the vulgar call them, “Mops,” is the assembling of masters and servants,
the former to seek the latter, and the latter to obtain employment of
the former. It is undoubtedly a mutual accommodation; for although the
servants now rate and ask what wages they think fit, still they have an
opportunity of knowing how wages are usually going, and the masters have
hundreds, and, in some cases, thousands of servants to choose from.

The “Statute” I first attended was held at Studley, in Warwickshire, at
the latter end of September. On arriving, between twelve and one
o’clock, at the part of the Alcester road where the assembly was held,
the place was filling very fast by groups of persons of almost all
descriptions from every quarter. Towards three o’clock there must have
been many thousands present. The appearance of the whole may be pretty
accurately portrayed to the mind of those who have witnessed a country
fair; the sides of the roads were occupied with stalls for gingerbread,
cakes, &c., general assortments of hardware, japanned goods, waggoner’s
frocks, and an endless variety of wearing apparel, suitable to every
class, from the farm bailiff, or dapper footman, to the unassuming
ploughboy, or day-labourer.

The public-houses were thoroughly full, not excepting even the private
chambers. The scene out of doors was enlivened, here and there, by some
wandering minstrel, or fiddler, round whom stood a crowd of men and
boys, who, at intervals, eagerly joined to swell the chorus of the song.
Although there was as large an assemblage as could be well remembered,
both of masters and servants, I was given to understand that there was
very little hiring. This might happen from a twofold cause; first, on
account of its being one of the early Statutes, and, secondly, from the
circumstance of the servants asking what was deemed (considering the
pressure of the times) exorbitant wages. The servants were, for the most
part, bedecked in their best church-going clothes. The men also wore
clean white frocks, and carried in their hats some emblem or insignia of
the situation they had been accustomed to or were desirous to fill: for
instance, a waggoner, or ploughboy, had a piece of whipcord in his hat,
some of it ingeniously plaited in a variety of ways and entwined round
the hatband; a cow-man, after the same manner, had some cow-hair; and to
those already mentioned there was occasionally added a piece of sponge;
a shepherd had wool; a gardener had flowers, &c. &c.

The girls wishing to be hired were in a spot apart from the men and
boys, and all stood not unlike cattle at a fair waiting for dealers.
Some of them held their hands before them, with one knee protruding,
(like soldiers standing at ease,) and never spoke, save when catechised
and examined by a master or mistress as to the work they had been
accustomed to; and then you would scarce suppose they had learned to say
anything but “Ees, sur,” or “No, sur,” for these were almost the only
expressions that fell from their lips. Others, on the contrary,
exercised no small degree of self-sufficient loquacity concerning their
abilities, which not unusually consisted of a good proportion of main
strength, or being able to drive or follow a variety of kinds of plough.
Where a master or mistress was engaged in conversation with a servant
they were usually surrounded by a group, with their mouths extended to
an angle of near forty-five degrees, as if to catch the sounds at the
aperture; this in some, perhaps, was mere idle curiosity, in others,
from desire to know the wages asked and given, as a guide for
themselves. I observed a seeming indifference about the servants in
securing situations. They appeared to require a certain sum for wages,
without reference to any combination of circumstances or the state of
the times; and however exorbitant, they rarely seemed disposed to meet
the master by proposing something lower; they would stand for some time
and hear reasons why wages should be more moderate, and at the
conclusion, when you would suppose they were either willing, in some
measure, to accede to the terms, or to offer reasons why they should
not, you were mortified to know, that the usual answer was, “Yo’ll find
me yarn it, sur,” or “I conna gue for less.”

When a bargain is concluded on at a “Statute,” it is the custom to
ratify it immediately, and on the spot, by the master presenting to the
servant what is termed “earnest money,” which is usually one shilling,
but it varies according to circumstances; for instance, if a servant
agrees to come for less than he at first asked, it is, perhaps, on the
condition that his earnest is augmented, probably doubled or trebled, as
may be agreed on.

The contract arises upon the hiring: if the hiring be general, without
any particular time limited, the law construes it to be hiring for one
year; but the contract may be made for any longer or shorter period.
Many farmers are wary enough to hire their servants for fifty-one weeks
only, which prevents them having any claim upon that particular parish
in case of distress, &c. We frequently find disputes between two
parishes arising out of Statute-hirings brought to the assizes or
sessions for settlement.

When the hiring is over, the emblems in the hats are exchanged for
ribbons of almost every hue. Some retire to the neighbouring grounds to
have games at bowls, skittles, or pitching, &c. &c., whilst the more
unwary are fleeced of their money by the itinerant Greeks and black legs
with E. O. tables, pricking in the garter, the three thimbles &c. &c.
These tricksters seldom fail to reap abundant harvests at the Statutes.
Towards evening each lad seeks his lass, and they hurry off to spend the
night at the public-houses, or, as is the case in some small villages,
at private houses, which, on these occasions, are licensed for the time
being.

To attempt to delineate the scenes that now present themselves, would on
my part be presumption indeed. It rather requires the pencil of Hogarth
to do justice to this varied picture. Here go round the

    “Song and dance, and mirth and glee;”

but I cannot add, with the poet,

    “In one _continued_ round of harmony:”

for, among such a mingled mass, it is rare but that in some part discord
breaks in upon the rustic amusements of the peaceably inclined. The
rooms of the several houses are literally crammed, and usually remain so
throughout the night, unless they happen to be under restrictions from
the magistrates, in which case the houses are shut at a stated hour, or
the license risked. Clearances, however, are not easily effected. At a
village not far from hence, it has, ere now, been found necessary to
disturb the reverend magistrate from his peaceful slumbers, and require
his presence to quell disturbances that almost, as a natural
consequence, ensue, from the landlords and proprietors of the houses
attempting to turn out guests, who, under the influence of liquor, pay
little regard to either landlord or magistrate. The most peaceable way
of dealing, is to allow them to remain till the morning dawn breaks in
and warns them home.

The time for Statute-hiring commences about the beginning of September,
and usually closes before old Michaelmas-day, that being the day on
which servants enter on their new services, or, at least, quit their old
ones. Yet there are some few Statutes held after this time, which are
significantly styled “Runaway Mops;” one of this kind is held at
Henley-in-Arden, on the 29th of October, being also St. Luke’s fair.
Three others are held at Southam, in Warwickshire, on the three
successive Mondays after old Michaelmas-day. To these Statutes all
repair, who, from one cause or other, decline to go to their new
places, together with others who had not been fortunate enough to
obtain situations. Masters, however, consider it rather hazardous to
hire at these Statutes, as they are in danger of engaging with servants
already hired, who capriciously refuse to go to their employment; and if
any person hire or retain a servant so engaged, the first hirer has his
action for damages against the master and servant; yet, if the new
master did not know his servant had been hired before, no action will
lie against him, except he refuse to give him up on information and
demand. Characters are sometimes required by the master hiring; and
these, to the great detriment of society, are given in such a loose and
unreserved manner, that (to use the language of the author of the
Rambler) you may almost as soon depend on the circumstance of an
acquittal at the Old Bailey by way of recommendation to a servant’s
honesty, as upon one of these characters.

If a master discovers that a servant is not capable of performing the
stipulated work, or is of bad character, he may send the servant to
drink the “earnest money;” and custom has rendered this sufficient to
dissolve the contract. On the other hand, if a servant has been deceived
by the master in any particular, a release is obtained by returning the
“earnest.” If, however, there is no just ground of complaint, it is at
the master’s option to accept it, and _vice versâ_. The Statutes I have
visited for the purpose of gaining these particulars are Studley,
Shipston-on-Stour, and Aston-Cantlow, all in Warwickshire. I observed no
particular difference either in the business or the diversions of the
day, but Studley was by far the largest. At Stratford-on-Avon, and some
other places, there is bull-roasting, &c., which, of course, adds to the
amusement and frolic of the visitors.

I believe I have now pretty well exhausted my notes, and I should not
have been thus particular, but that I believe Statute-hiring is a custom
peculiar to England. I shall conclude by making an extract from Isaac
Bickerstaffe’s “Love in a Village.” In scenes the 10th and 11th there is
a green, with the prospect of a village, and the representation of a
Statute, and the following conversation, &c. takes place:--

  _Hodge._ This way, your worship, this way. Why don’t you stand aside
  there? Here’s his worship a-coming.

  _Countrymen._ His worship!

  _Justice Woodcock._ Fy! fy! what a crowd’s this! Odds, I’ll put some
  of them in the stocks. (_Striking a fellow._) Stand out of the way,
  sirrah.

  _Hodge._ Now, your honour, now the sport will come. The gut-scrapers
  are here, and some among them are going to sing and dance. Why,
  there’s not the like of our Statute, mun, in five counties; others are
  but fools to it.

  _Servant Man._ Come, good people, make a ring; and stand out,
  fellow-servants, as many of you as are willing and able to bear a-bob.
  We’ll let my masters and mistresses see we can do something at least;
  if they won’t hire us it sha’n’t be our fault. Strike up the Servants’
  Medley.

AIR.

_Housemaid._

    I pray, gentles, list to me,
    I’m young and strong, and clean, you see;
    I’ll not turn tail to any she,
      For work that’s in the country.
    Of all your house the charge I take,
    I wash, I scrub, I brew, I bake;
    And more can do than here I’ll speak,
      Depending on your bounty.

_Footman._

    Behold a blade, who knows his trade.
      In chamber, hall, and entry:
    And what though here I now appear,
      I’ve served the best of gentry.
        A footman would you have,
        I can dress, and comb, and shave;
      For I a handy lad am:
        On a message I can go,
        And slip a billet-doux,
      With your humble servant, madam.

_Cookmaid._

    Who wants a good cook my hand they must cross;
    For plain wholesome dishes I’m ne’er at a loss;
    And what are your soups, your ragouts, and your sauce,
      Compared to old English roast beef?

_Carter._

    If you want a young man with a true honest heart,
    Who knows how to manage a plough and a cart,
    Here’s one to your purpose, come take me and try;
    You’ll say you ne’er met with a better than I,
                                  Geho, dobin, &c.

_Chorus._

    My masters and mistresses hither repair,
    What servants you want you’ll find in our fair;
    Men and maids fit for all sorts of stations there be,
    And as for the wages we sha’n’t disagree.

Presuming that these memoranda may amuse a number of persons who,
chiefly living in large towns and cities, have no opportunity of being
otherwise acquainted with “Statutes,” or “Mops,” in country-places,

  I am, &c.

  _Birmingham._

  W. PARE

       *       *       *       *       *


HAM AND STILTON.

_For the Table Book._

THE POET’S EPISTLE OF THANKS TO A FRIEND AT BIRMINGHAM.

    “Perlege Mæonio cantatas carmine ranas,
    Et frontem nugi, solvere disce meis.”

  MARY.

    Dear Friend,--I feel constrain’d to say,
    The present sent the other day
    Claims my best thanks, and while design’d
    To please the taste, it warm’d my mind.
    Nor, wonder not it should inspire
    Within my breast poetic fire!

    The Cheese seem’d like some growing state,
    Compos’d of little folks and great;
    Though we denominate them _mites_,
    They call each other Stiltonites.
    And ’tis most fit, where’er we live,
    The land our epithet should give:
    Romans derive their name from Rome,
    And Turks, you know, from Turkey come.

    Gazing with “microscopic eye”
    O’er Stilton land, I did espy
    Such wonders, as would make those stare
    Who never peep’d or travell’d there.
    The country where this race reside
    Abounds with crags on ev’ry side:
    Its geographic situation
    Is under constant variation;
    Now hurried up, then down again--
    No fix’d abode can it maintain:
    And, like the Lilliputian clime,
    We read about in olden time,
    Huge giants compass it about,
    Who dig within, and cut without,
    And at a mouthful--direful fate!
    A city oft depopulate!

    And, then, in Stilton, you must know
    There is a spot, call’d _Rotten-row_;
    A soil more marshy than the rest,
    Therefore by some esteem’d the best.
    The natives here, whene’er they dine,
    Drink nothing but the choicest wine;
    Which through each street comes flowing down,
    Like water in New Sarum’s town.
    In such a quarter, you may guess,
    The leading vice is drunkenness.
    Come hither any hour of day,
    And you shall see whole clusters lay
    Reeling and floundering about,
    As though it were a madman’s rout.
    Those who dwell nearer the land’s end,
    Where rarely the _red show’rs_ descend,
    Are in their turns corporeal
    More sober and gymnastical
    Meandering in kindred dust,
    They gauge, and with the _dry-rot_ burst,
    For we may naturally think,
    They live not long who cannot drink.
    Alas! poor Stilton! where’s the muse
    To sing thy downfall will refuse?
    Melpomene, in mournful verse,
    Thy dire destruction will rehearse:
    Comus himself shall grieve and weep,
    As notes of woe his gay lyre sweep;
    For who among thy countless band
    The fierce invaders can withstand?
    Nor only _foreign_ foes are thine--
    Children thou hast, who undermine
    Thy massive walls that ’girt thee round.
    And ev’ry corner seems unsound.
    A few more weeks, and we shall see
    Stilton, the fam’d-will cease to be!

    Before, however, I conclude,
    I wish to add, that gratitude
    Incites me to another theme
    Beside coagulated cream.
    ’Tis not about the _village_ Ham,
    Nor yet the _place_ call’d Petersham--
    Nor more renowned Birmingham:
    Nor is it _fried_ or _Friar Bacon_,
    The Muse commands me verse to make on.
    Nor _pig_mies, (as the poet feigns,)
    A people once devour’d by cranes,
    Of these I speak not--my intention
    Is something nearer home to mention;
    Therefore, at once, for pig’s hind leg
    Accept my warmest thanks, I beg.
    The meat was of the finest sort,
    And worthy of a dish at court.

    Lastly, I gladly would express
    The grateful feelings I possess
    For such a boon--th’ attempt is vain,
    And hence in wisdom I refrain
    From saying more than what you see--
    Farewell! sincerely yours,

  B.C.

  To E. T. Esq.

  _Jan. 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


LOVES OF THE <DW64>s.

AT NEW PALTZ, UNITED STATES.

_Phillis Schoonmaker_ v. _Cuff Hogeboon_.

This was an action for a breach of the marriage promise, tried before
’squire De Witt, justice of the peace and quorum. The parties, as their
names indicate, were black, or, as philanthropists would say, _coloured
folk_. Counsellor Van Shaick appealed on behalf of the lady. He
recapitulated the many verdicts which had been given of late in favour
of injured innocence, much to the honour and gallantry of an American
jury. It was time to put an end to these faithless professions, to these
cold-hearted delusions; it was time to put a curb upon the false tongues
and false hearts of pretended lovers, who, with honied accents, only
woo’d to ruin, and only professed to deceive. The worthy counsellor
trusted that no injurious impressions would be made on the minds of the
jury by the colour of his client--

    “’Tis not a set of features,
    This _tincture of the skin_, that we admire.”

She was black, it was true; so was the honoured wife of Moses, the most
illustrious and inspired of prophets. Othello, the celebrated Moor of
Venice, and the victorious general of her armies, was black, yet the
lovely Desdemona saw “Othello’s visage in his mind.” In modern times, we
might quote his sable majesty of Hayti, or, since that country had
become a republic, the gallant Boyer.--He could also refer to Rhio Rhio,
king of the Sandwich Islands, his copper- queen, and madame
Poki, so hospitably received, and fed to death by their colleague the
king of England--nay, the counsellor was well advised that the brave
general Sucre, the hero of Ayacucho, was a dark mulatto. What, then, is
colour in estimating the griefs of a forsaken and ill-treated female?
She was poor, it was true, and in a humble sphere of life; but love
levels all distinctions; the blind god was no judge, and no respecter of
colours; his darts penetrated deep, not skin deep; his client, though
black, was flesh and blood, and possessed affections, passions,
resentments, and sensibilities; and in this case she confidently threw
herself upon the generosity of a jury of freemen--of men of the north,
as the friends of the northern president would say, of men who did not
live in Missouri, and on sugar plantations; and from such his client
expected just and liberal damages.

Phillis then advanced to the bar, to give her testimony. She was, as her
counsel represented, truly made up of flesh and blood, being what is
called a strapping wench, as black as the ace of spades. She was dressed
in the low Dutch fashion, which has not varied for a century,
linsey-woolsey petticoats, very short, blue worsted stockings, leather
shoes, with a massive pair of silver buckles, bead ear-rings, her woolly
hair combed, and face sleek and greasy. There was no “dejected ’haviour
of visage”--no broken heart visible in her face--she looked fat and
comfortable, as if she had sustained no damage by the perfidy of her
swain. Before she was sworn, the court called the defendant, who came
from among the crowd, and stood respectfully before the bench. Cuff was
a good-looking young fellow, with a tolerably smartish dress, and
appeared as if he had been in the metropolis taking lessons of
perfidious lovers--he cast one or two cutting looks at Phillis,
accompanied by a significant turn up of the nose, and now and then a
contemptuous ejaculation of Eh!--Umph!--Ough!--which did not disconcert
the _fair_ one in the least, she returning the compliment by placing her
arms a-kimbo, and surveying her lover from head to foot. The court
inquired of Cuff whether he had counsel? “No, massa, (he replied) I tell
my own ’tory--you see massa ’Squire, I know de gentlemen of de jury
berry vell--dere is massa Teerpenning, of Little ’Sophus, know him berry
vell--I plough for him;--den dere is massa Traphagan, of our town--how
he do massa?--ah, dere massa Topper, vat prints de paper at Big
’Sophus--know him too;--dere is massa Peet Steenberg--know him too--he
owe me little money:--I know ’em all massa ’Squire;--I did go to get
massa Lucas to plead for me, but he gone to the Court of Error, at
Albany;--Massa Sam Freer and massa Cockburn said they come to gib me
good character, but I no see ’em here.”

Cuff was ordered to stand aside, and Phillis was sworn.

Plaintiff said she did not know how old she was; believed she was
sixteen; she looked nearer twenty-six; she lived with Hons Schoonmaker;
was brought up in the family. She told her case as pathetically as
possible:--

“Massa ’Squire,” said she, “I was gone up to massa Schoonmaker’s lot, on
Shaungum mountain, to pile brush; den Cuff, he vat stands dare, cum by
vid de teem, he top his horses and say, ‘How de do, Phillis?’ or, as she
gave it, probably in Dutch, ‘How gaud it mit you’ ‘Hail goot,’ said I;
den massa he look at me berry hard, and say, Phillis, pose you meet me
in the nite, ven de moon is up, near de barn, I got sumting to say--den
I say, berry bell, Cuff, I vill--he vent up de mountain, and I vent
home; ven I eat my supper and milk de cows, I say to myself, Phillis,
pose you go down to de barn, and hear vat Cuff has to say. Well, massa
’Squire, I go, dare was Cuff sure enough, he told heaps of tings all
about love; call’d me Wenus and Jewpeter, and other tings vat he got out
of de playhouse ven he vent down in the <DW72> to New York, and he ax’d
me if I’d marry him before de Dominie, Osterhaut, he vat preached in
Milton, down ’pon Marlbro’. I say, Cuff, you make fun on me; he say no,
‘By mine zeal, I vil marry you, Phillis;’ den he gib me dis here as
earnest.”--Phillis here drew from her huge pocket an immense pair of
scissars, a jack knife, and a wooden pipe curiously carved, which she
offered as a testimony of the promise, and which was sworn to as the
property of Cuff, who subsequently had refused to fulfil the contract.

Cuff admitted that he had made her a kind of promise, but it was
conditional. “I told her, massa ’Squire, that she was a slave and a
<DW65>, and she must wait till the year 27, then all would be free,
cording to the new constitution; den she said, berry vell, I bill wait.”

Phillis utterly denied the period of probation; it was, she said, to
take place “ben he got de new corduroy breeches from Cripplely <DW53>, de
tailor; he owe three and sixpence, and massa <DW53> won’t let him hab ’em
vidout de money: den Cuff he run away to Varsing; I send <DW53> Crook, de
constable, and he find um at Shaudakin, and he bring him before you,
massa.”

The testimony here closed.

The court charged the jury, that although the testimony was not
conclusive, nor the injury very apparent, yet the court was not
warranted in taking the case out of the hands of the jury. A promise had
evidently been made, and had been broken; some differences existed as to
the period when the matrimonial contract was to have been fulfilled, and
it was equally true and honourable, as the court observed, that in 1827
slavery was to cease in the state, and that fact might have warranted
the defendant in the postponement; but of this there was no positive
proof, and as the parties could neither read nor write, the presents
might be construed into a marriage promise. The court could see no
reason why these humble Africans should not, in imitation of their
betters, in such cases, appeal to a jury for damages; but it was
advisable not to make those damages more enormous than circumstances
warranted, yet sufficient to act as a lesson to those  gentry,
in their attempts to imitate fashionable infidelity.

The jury brought in a verdict of “Ten dollars, and costs, for the
plaintiff.”

The defendant not being able to pay, was committed to Kingston jail, a
martyr to his own folly, and an example to all others in like cases
offending.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE RETROSPECT.

    I have not heard thy name for years;
      Thy memory ere thyself is dead;
    And even I forget the tears
      That once for thy lov’d sake were shed.

    There was a time when thou didst seem
      The light and breath of life to me--
    When, e’en in thought, I could not dream
      That less than mine thou e’er could be:--

    Yet now it is a chance that brought
      Thy image to my heart again;
    A single flower recall’d the thought--
      Why is it still so full of pain?

    The jasmine, round the casement twin’d,
      Caught mine eye in the pale moonlight.
    It broke my dream, and brought to mind
      Another dream--another night.

    As then, I by the casement leant,
      As then, the silver moonlight shone
    But not, as then, another bent
      Beside me--I am now alone.

    The sea is now between us twain
      As wide a gulf between each heart;
    Never can either have again
      An influence on the other’s part.

    Our paths are different; perchance mine
      May seem the sunniest of the two:
    The lute, which once was only thine,
      Has other aim, and higher view.

    My song has now a wider scope
      Than when its first tones breath’d thy name;
    My heart has done with Love--and hope
      Turn’d to another idol--Fame.

    ’Tis but one destiny; one dream
      Succeeds another--like a wave
    Following its bubbles--till their gleam
      Is lost, and ended in the grave.

    Why am I sorrowful? ’Tis not
      One thought of thee has brought the tear
    In sooth, thou art so much forgot,
      I do not even wish thee here.

    Both are so chang’d, that did we meet
      We might but marvel we had lov’d:
    What made our earliest dream so sweet?--
      Illusions--long, long since remov’d.

    I sorrow--but it is to know
      How still some fair deceit unweaves--
    To think how all of joy below
      Is only joy while it deceives.

    I sorrow--but it is to feel
      Changes which my own mind hath told:--
    What, though time polishes the steel,
      Alas! it is less bright than cold.

    Have more smiles, and fewer tears;
      But tears are now restrain’d for shame:
    Task-work the smiles my lip now wears,
      That once like rain and sunshine came.

    Where is the sweet credulity,
      Happy in that fond trust it bore,
    Which never dream’d the time would be
      When it could hope and trust no more?

    Affection, springing warmly forth--
      Light word, light laugh, and lighter care
    Life’s afternoon is little worth--
      The dew and warmth of morning air.

    I would not live again love’s hour;
      But fain I would again recall
    The feelings which upheld its power--
      The truth, the hope, that made it thrall.

    I would renounce the worldliness,
      Now too much with my heart and me;
    In one trust more, in one doubt less,
      How much of happiness would be!--

    Vainer than vain! Why should I ask
      Life’s sweet but most deceiving part?
    Alas! the bloom upon the cheek
      Long, long outlives that of the heart.

  L. E. L.--_Monthly Magazine._

       *       *       *       *       *


TIMBER IN BOGS.

It is stated in the second report of the commissioners on the bogs of
Ireland, that _three_ distinct growths of timber, covered by three
distinct masses of bog, are discovered on examination. But whether these
morasses were at first formed by the destruction of whole forests, or
merely by the stagnation of water in places where its current was choked
by the fall of a few trees, and by accumulations of branches and leaves,
carried down from the surrounding hills, is a question.

Professor Davy is of opinion, that in many places where forests had
grown undisturbed, the trees on the outside of the woods grew stronger
than the rest, from their exposure to the air and sun; and that, when
mankind attempted to establish themselves near these forests, they cut
down the large trees on their borders, which opened the internal part,
where the trees were weak and slender, to the influence of the wind,
which, as is commonly to be seen in such circumstances, had immediate
power to sweep down the whole of the internal parts of the forest. The
large timber obstructed the passage of vegetable recrement, and of earth
falling towards the rivers; the weak timber, in the internal part of the
forest after it had fallen, soon decayed, and became the food of future
vegetation.

Mr. Kirwan observes, that whatever trees are found in bogs, though the
wood may be perfectly sound, the bark of the timber has uniformly
disappeared, and the decomposition of this bark forms a considerable
part of the nutritive substance of morasses. Notwithstanding this
circumstance, tanning is not to be obtained in analysing bogs; their
antiseptic quality is however indisputable, for animal and vegetable
substances are frequently found at a great depth in bogs, without their
seeming to have suffered any decay; these substances cannot have been
deposited in them at a very remote period, because their form and
texture is such as were common a few centuries ago. In 1786 there were
found, seventeen feet below the surface of a bog in Mr. Kirwan’s
district, a woollen coat of coarse, but even, network, exactly in the
form of what is now called a spencer; a razor, with a wooden handle,
some iron heads of arrows, and large wooden bowls, some only half made,
were also found, with the remains of turning tools: these were obviously
the wreck of a workshop, which was probably situated on the borders of a
forest. The coat was presented by him to the Antiquarian Society. These
circumstances countenance the supposition, that the encroachments of men
upon forests destroyed the first barriers against the force of the wind,
and that afterwards, according to sir H. Davy’s suggestion, the trees of
weaker growth, which had not room to expand, or air and sunshine to
promote their increase, soon gave way to the elements.

       *       *       *       *       *


MODES OF SALUTATION.

Greenlanders have none, and laugh at the idea of one person being
inferior to another.

Islanders near the Philippines take a person’s hand or foot, and rub it
over their face.

Laplanders apply their noses strongly against the person they salute.

In New Guinea, they place leaves upon the head of those they salute.

In the Straits of the Sound they raise the left foot of the person
saluted, pass it gently over the right leg, and thence over the face.

The inhabitants of the Philippines bend very low, placing their hands on
their cheeks, and raise one foot in the air, with the knee bent.

An Ethiopian takes the robe of another and ties it about him, so as to
leave his friend almost naked.

The Japanese take off a slipper, and the people of Arracan their
sandals, in the street, and their stockings in the house, when they
salute.

Two <DW64> kings on the coast of Africa, salute by snapping the middle
finger three times.

The inhabitants of Carmene, when they would show a particular
attachment, breathe a vein, and present the blood to their friend as a
beverage.

If the Chinese meet, after a long separation, they fall on their knees,
bend their face to the earth two or three times, and use many other
affected modes. They have also a kind of ritual, or “academy of
compliments,” by which they regulate the number of bows, genuflections,
and words to be spoken upon any occasion. Ambassadors practise these
ceremonies forty days before they appear at court.

In Otaheite, they rub their noses together.

The Dutch, who are considered as great eaters, have a morning
salutation, common amongst all ranks, “Smaakelyk eeten?”--“May you eat a
hearty dinner.” Another is, “Hoe vaart awe.”--“How do you sail?”
adopted, no doubt, in the early periods of the republic, when they were
all navigators and fishermen.

The usual salutation at Cairo is, “How do you sweat?” a dry hot skin
being a sure indication of a destructive ephemeral fever. Some author
has observed, in contrasting the haughty Spaniard with the frivolous
Frenchman, that the proud, steady gait and inflexible solemnity of the
former, were expressed in his mode of salutation, “Come esta?”--“How do
you stand?” whilst the “Comment vous portez-vous?” “How do you carry
yourself?” was equally expressive of the gay motion and incessant action
of the latter.

The common salutation in the southern provinces of China, amongst the
lower orders, is, “Ya fan?”--“Have you eaten your rice?”

In Africa, a young woman, an intended bride, brought a little water in a
calabash, and kneeling down before her lover, desired him to wash his
hands; when he had done this, the girl, with a tear of joy sparkling in
her eyes, drank the water; this was considered as the greatest proof she
could give of her fidelity and attachment.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Omniana.~


POETRY.

_For the Table Book._

    The poesy of the earth, sea, air, and sky,
      Though death is powerful in course of time
    With wars and battlements, will never die.
      But triumph in the silence of sublime
      Survival. Frost, like tyranny, might climb
    The nurseling germs of favourite haunts; the roots
      Will grow hereafter. Terror on the deep
      Is by the calm subdu’d, that Beauty e’en might creep
    On moonlight waves to coral rest. The fruits
      Blush in the winds, and from the branches leap
    To mossy beds existing in the ground.
      Stars swim unseen, through solar hemispheres,
    Yet in the floods of night, how brightly round
      The zone of poesy, they reflect the rolling years.

  P.

       *       *       *       *       *


A BAD SIGN.

During a late calling out of the North Somerset yeomanry, at Bath, the
service of one of them, a “Batcome boy,” was enlivened by a visit from
his sweetheart; after escorting her over the city, and being fatigued
with showing her what she had “ne’er zeed in all her life,” he knocked
loudly at the door of a house in the Crescent, against which a hatchment
was placed, and on the appearance of the powdered butler, boldly ordered
“two glasses of scalded wine, as hot as thee canst make it.” The man,
staring, informed him he could have no scalded wine there--’twas no
public-house. “Then dose thee head,” replied Somerset, “what’st hang out
thik there zign var.”

       *       *       *       *       *


INSCRIPTION

  FOR A TOMB TO THE MEMORY OF CAPTAIN HEWITSON, OF THE SHIP, TOWN OF
  ULVERSTON.

_By James Montgomery, Esq._

    Weep for a seaman, honest and sincere,
    Not cast away, but brought to anchor here;
    Storms had o’erwhelm’d him, but the conscious wave
    Repented, and resign’d him to the grave:
    In harbour, safe from shipwreck, now he lies,
    Till Time’s last signal blazes through the skies:
    Refitted in a moment, then shall he
    Sail from this port on an eternal sea.




Vol. I.--7.


[Illustration: ~My Snuff-box.~]

He only who is “noseless himself” will deem this a trifling article. My
prime minister of pleasure is my snuff-box. The office grew out of my
“liking a pinch, now and then,” and carrying a bit of snuff, screwed up
in paper, wherewith, some two or three times a day, I delighted to treat
myself to a sensation, and a sneeze. Had I kept a journal of my
snuff-taking business from that time, it would have been as instructive
as “the life of that learned antiquary, Elias Ashmole, Esq., drawn up by
himself by way of diary;” in submitting which to the world, its
pains-taking editor says, that such works “let us into the secret
history of the affairs of their several times, discover the springs of
motion, and display many valuable, though minute circumstances,
overlooked or unknown to our general historians; and, to conclude all,
satiate our largest curiosity.” A comparative view of the important
annals of Mr. Ashmole, and some reminiscent incidents of my
snuff-taking, I reserve for my autobiography.

To manifest the necessity of my present brief undertaking, I beg to
state, that I still remain under the disappointment of drawings,
complained of in the former sheet. I resorted on this, as on all
difficult occasions, to a pinch of snuff; and, having previously
resolved on taking “the first thing that came uppermost,” for an
engraving and a topic, my hand first fell on the top of my snuff-box. If
the reader be angry because I have told the truth, it is no more than I
expect; for, in nine cases out of ten, a preference is given to a
pretence, though privily known to be a falsehood by those to whom it is
offered.

As soon as I wear out one snuff-box I get another--a silver one, and I,
parted company long ago. My customary boxes have been _papier-maché_,
plain black: for if I had any figure on the lid it was suspected to be
some hidden device; an answer of direct negation was a ground of doubt,
offensively expressed by an insinuating smile, or the more open rudeness
of varied questions. This I could only resist by patience; but the
_parlement_ excise on that virtue was more than I could afford, and
therefore my choice of a black box. The last of that colour I had worn
out, at a season when I was unlikely to have more than three or four
visitors worth a pinch of snuff, and I then bought _this_ box, because
it was two-thirds cheaper than the former, and because I approved the
pictured ornament. While the tobacconist was securing my shilling, he
informed me that the figure had utterly excluded it from the choice of
every one who had noticed it. My selection was agreeable to him in a
monied view, yet, both he, and his man, eyed the box so unkindly, that I
fancied they extended their dislike to me; and I believe they did. Of
the few who have seen it since, it has been favourably received by only
one--my little Alice--who, at a year old, prefers it before all others
for a plaything, and even accepts it as a substitute for myself, when I
wish to slip away from her caresses. The elder young ones call it the
“ugly old man,” but _she_ admires it, as the innocent infant, in the
story-book, did the harmless snake, with whom he daily shared his
bread-and-milk breakfast. I regard it as the likeness of an infirm human
being, who, especially requiring comfort and protection, is doomed to
neglect and insult from childhood to the grave; and all this from no
self-default, but the accident of birth--as if the unpurposed cruelty of
nature were a warrant for man’s perversion and wickedness. Of the
individual I know nothing, save what the representation seems to
tell--that he lives in the world, and is not of it. His basket, with a
few pamphlets for sale, returns good, in the shape of knowledge, to evil
doers, who, as regards himself, are not to be instructed. His upward
look is a sign--common to these afflicted ones--of inward hope of
eternal mercy, in requital for temporal injustice: besides that, and his
walking-staff, he appears to have no other support on earth. The
intelligence of his patient features would raise desire, were he alive
and before me, to learn by what process he gained the understanding they
express: his face is not more painful, and I think scarcely less wise
than Locke’s, if we may trust the portrait of that philosopher. In the
summer, after a leisure view of the Dulwich gallery for the first time,
I found myself in the quiet parlour of a little-frequented road-side
house, enjoying the recollections of a few glorious pictures in that
munificent exhibition; while pondering with my box in my hand, the print
on its lid diverted me into a long reverie on what he, whom represented,
might have been under other circumstances, and I felt not alone on the
earth while there was another as lonely. Since then, this “garner for my
grain” has been worn out by constant use; with every care, it cannot
possibly keep its service a month longer. I shall regret the loss: for
its little Deformity has been my frequent and pleasant companion in many
a solitary hour;--the box itself is the only one I ever had, wherein
simulated or cooling friendship has not dipped.

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. IV.

  [From “All Fools” a Comedy by George Chapman: 1605.]

_Love’s Panegyric._

    -------------’tis Nature’s second Sun,
    Causing a spring of Virtues where he shines;
    And as without the Sun, the world’s Great Eye,
    All colours, beauties, both of art and nature,
    Are given in vain to man; so without Love
    All beauties bred in women are in vain,
    All virtues born in men lie buried;
    For Love _informs_ them as the Sun doth colours
    And as the Sun, reflecting his warm beams
    Against the earth, begets all fruits and flowers
    So Love, fair shining in the inward man,
    Brings forth in him the honourable fruits
    Of valour, wit, virtue, and haughty thoughts.
    Brave resolution, and divine discourse.

_Love with Jealousy._

    --------such Love is like a smoky fire
    In a cold morning. Though the fire be chearful,
    Yet is the smoke so foul and cumbersome,
    ’Twere better lose the fire than find the smoke.

_Bailiffs routed._

    I walking in the place where men’s Law Suits
    Are heard and pleaded, not so much as dreaming
    Of any such encounter; steps me forth
    Their valiant Foreman with the word “I ’rest you.”
    I made no more ado but laid these paws
    Close on his shoulders, tumbling him to earth;
    And there sat he on his posteriors
    Like a baboon: and turning me about,
    I strait espied the whole troop issuing on me.
    I step me back, and drawing my old friend here.
    Made to the midst of ’em, and all unable
    To endure the shock, all rudely fell in rout.
    And down the stairs they ran in such a fury,
    As meeting with a troop of Lawyers there,
    Mann’d by their Clients (some with ten, some with twenty,
    Some five, some three; he that had least had one),
    Upon the stairs, they bore them down afore them.
    But such a rattling then there was amongst them.
    Of ravish’d Declarations, Replications,
    Rejoinders, and Petitions, all their books
    And writings torn, and trod on, and some lost,
    That the poor Lawyers coming to the Bar
    Could say nought to the matter, but instead
    Were fain to rail, and talk beside their books,
    Without all order.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Late Lancashire Witches,” a Comedy, by Thomas Heywood.]

_A Household Bewitched._

    My Uncle has of late become the sole
    Discourse of all the country; for of a man respected
    As master of a govern’d family,
    The House (as if the ridge were fix’d below,
    And groundsils lifted up to make the roof)
    All now’s turn’d topsy-turvy,
    In such a retrograde and preposterous way
    As seldom hath been heard of, I think never.
    The Good Man
    In all obedience kneels unto his Son;
    He with an austere brow commands his Father.
    The Wife presumes not in the Daughter’s sight
    Without a prepared curtsy; the Girl she
    Expects it as a duty; chides her Mother,
    Who quakes and trembles at each word she speaks.
    And what’s as strange, the Maid--she domineers
    O’er her young Mistress, who is awed by her.
    The Son, to whom the Father creeps and bends,
    Stands in as much fear of the groom his Man!
    All in such rare disorder, that in some
    As it breeds pity, and in others wonder,
    So in the most part laughter. It is thought,
    This comes by WITCHCRAFT.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From “Wit in a Constable,” a Comedy, by Henry Glapthorn.]

_Books._

     _Collegian._ Did you, ere we departed from the College,
    O’erlook my Library?
      _Servant._ Yes, Sir; and I find,
    Altho’ you tell me Learning is immortal,
    The paper and the parchment ’tis contain’d in
    Savours of much mortality.
    The moths have eaten more
    Authentic Learning, than would richly furnish
    A hundred country pedants; yet the worms
    Are not one letter wiser.

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE TURK IN CHEAPSIDE

_For the Table Book._

TO MR. CHARLES LAMB.

I have a favour to ask of you. My desire is this: I would fain see a
stream from thy Hippocrene flowing through the pages of the _Table
Book_. A short article on the old Turk, who used to vend rhubarb in the
City, I greatly desiderate. Methinks you would handle the subject
delightfully. They tell us he is gone----

We have not seen him for some time past--Is he really dead? Must we
hereafter speak of him only in the past tense? You are said to have
divers strange items in your brain about him--Vent them I beseech you.

Poor Mummy!--How many hours hath he dreamt away on the sunny side of
Cheap, with an opium cud in his cheek, mutely proffering his drug to the
way-farers! That deep-toned bell above him, doubtless, hath often
brought to his recollection the loud Allah-il-Allahs to which he
listened heretofore in his fatherland--the city of minaret and mosque,
old Constantinople. Will he never again be greeted by the nodding
steeple of Bow?--Perhaps that ancient beldame, with her threatening head
and loud tongue, at length effrayed the sallow being out of existence.

Hath his soul, in truth, echapped from that swarthy cutaneous case of
which it was so long a tenant? Hath he glode over that gossamer bridge
which leads to the paradise of the prophet of Mecca? Doth he pursue his
old calling among the faithful? Are the blue-eyed beauties (those living
diamonds) who hang about the neck of Mahomet ever qualmish? Did the
immortal Houris lack rhubarb?

Prithee teach us to know more than we do of this Eastern mystery! Have
some of the ministers of the old Magi eloped with him? Was he in truth a
Turk? We have heard suspicions cast upon the authenticity of his
complexion--was its tawniness a forgery? Oh! for a _quo warranto_ to
show by what authority he wore a turban! Was there any hypocrisy in his
sad brow?--Poor Mummy!

The editor of the _Table Book_ ought to perpetuate his features. He was
part of the living furniture of the city--Have not our grandfathers seen
him?

The tithe of a page from thy pen on this subject, surmounted by “a true
portraicture & effigies,” would be a treat to me and many more. If thou
art stil ELIA--if thou art yet that gentle creature who has
immortalized his predilection for the sow’s baby--roasted without
sage--this boon wilt thou not deny me. Take the matter upon thee
speedily.--Wilt thou not endorse thy Pegasus with this pleasant fardel?

An’ thou wilt not I shall be malicious and wish thee some trifling evil:
to wit--by way of revenge for the appetite which thou hast created among
the reading public for the infant progeny--the rising generation of
swine--I will wish that some of the old demoniac leaven may rise up
against thee in the modern pigs:--that thy sleep may be vexed with
swinish visions; that a hog in armour, or a bashaw of a boar of three
tails, may be thy midnight familiar--thy incubus;--that matronly sows
may howl after thee in thy walks for their immolated offspring;--that
Mab may tickle thee into fits “with a tithe-pig’s tail;”--that
wheresoever thou goest to finger cash for copyright, instead of being
paid in coin current, thou mayst be enforced to receive thy
_per-sheetage_ in guinea-pigs;--that thou mayst frequently dream thou
art sitting on a hedge-hog;--that even as Oberon’s Queen doated on the
translated Bottom, so may thy batchelorly brain doat upon an ideal image
of the swine-faced lady----

Finally, I will wish, that when next G. D. visits thee, he may, by
mistake, take away thy hat, and leave thee his own----

“Think of that Master Brook.”--

  Yours ever,

  E. C.  _M. D._

  _January 31, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


~Literature.~


GLANCES AT NEW BOOKS ON MY TABLE.

  SPECIMENS OF BRITISH POETESSES; selected, and chronologically
  arranged, by the Rev. _Alexander Dyce_, 1827, cr. 8vo. pp. 462.

Mr. Dyce remarks that, “from the great Collections of the English Poets,
where so many worthless compositions find a place, the productions of
women have been carefully excluded.” This utter neglect of female talent
produces a counteracting effort: “the object of the present volume is to
exhibit the growth and progress of the genius of our countrywomen in the
department of poetry.” The collection of “Poems by eminent Ladies,”
edited by the elder Colman and Bonnel Thornton, contained specimens of
only eighteen female writers; Mr. Dyce offers specimens of the poetry
of eighty-eight, ten of whom are still living. He commences with the
dame Juliana Berners, Prioress of the Nunnery of Sopwell, “who resembled
an abbot in respect of exercising an extensive manorial jurisdiction,
and who hawked and hunted in common with other ladies of distinction,”
and wrote in rhyme on field sports. The volume concludes with Miss
Landon, whose initials, L. E. L., are attached to a profusion of
talented poetry, in different journals.

The following are not to be regarded as examples of the charming variety
selected by Mr. Dyce, in illustration of his purpose, but rather as
“specimens” of peculiar thinking, or for their suitableness to the
present time of the year.

Our language does not afford a more truly noble specimen of verse,
dignified by high feeling, than the following chorus from “The Tragedy
of Mariam, 1613,” ascribed to lady Elizabeth Carew.

_Revenge of Injuries._

      The fairest action of our human life
        Is scorning to revenge an injury;
      For who forgives without a further strife.
        His adversary’s heart to him doth tie.
    And ’tis a firmer conquest truly said,
    To win the heart, than overthrow the head.

      If we a worthy enemy do find,
        To yield to worth it must be nobly done;
      But if of baser metal be his mind,
        In base revenge there is no honour won.
    Who would a worthy courage overthrow,
    And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?

      We say our hearts are great and cannot yield;
        Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor:
      Great hearts are task’d beyond their power, but seld
        The weakest lion will the loudest roar.
    Truth’s school for certain doth this same allow,
    High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.

      A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn,
        To scorn to owe a duty overlong;
      To scorn to be for benefits forborne,
        To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong.
    To scorn to bear an injury in mind,
    To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind.

      But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have,
        Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind;
      Do we his body from our fury save,
        And let our hate prevail against our mind?
    What can, ’gainst him a greater vengeance be,
    Than make his foe more worthy far than he?

      Had Mariam scorn’d to leave a due unpaid,
        She would to Herod then have paid her love,
      And not have been by sullen passion sway’d.
        To fix her thoughts all injury above
    Is virtuous pride. Had Mariam thus been proud.
    Long famous life to her had been allow’d.

Margaret duchess of Newcastle, who died in 1673, “filled nearly twelve
volumes folio with plays, poems, orations, philosophical discourses,”
and miscellaneous pieces. Her lord also amused himself with his pen.
This noble pair were honoured by the ridicule of Horace Walpole, who had
more taste than feeling; and, notwithstanding the great qualities of the
duke, who sacrificed three quarters of a million in thankless devotion
to the royal cause, and, though the virtues of his duchess are
unquestionable, the author of “The Dormant and Extinct Baronage of
England” joins Walpole in contempt of their affection, and the means
they employed to render each other happy during retirement. This is an
extract from one of the duchess’s poems:--

_Melancholy._

    I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun,
    Sit on the banks by which clear waters run;
    In summers hot down in a shade I lie.
    My music is the buzzing of a fly;
    I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass,
    In fields, where corn is high, I often pass;
    Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see,
    Some brushy woods, and some all champains be;
    Returning back, I in fresh pastures go,
    To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low;
    In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on,
    Then I do live in a small house alone;
    Altho’ tis plain, yet cleanly ’tis within,
    Like to a soul that’s pure and clear from sin;
    And there I dwell in quiet and still peace,
    Not fill’d with cares how riches to increase;
    I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures,
    No riches are, but what the mind intreasures.
    Thus am I solitary, live alone.
    Yet better lov’d, the more that I am known;
    And tho’ my face ill-favour’d at first sight,
    After acquaintance it will give delight.
    Refuse me not, for I shall constant be,
    Maintain your credit and your dignity.

Elizabeth Thomas, (born 1675, died 1730,) in the fifteenth year of her
age, was disturbed in her mind, by the sermons she heard in attending
her grandmother at meetings, and by the reading of high predestinarian
works. She “languished for some time,” in expectation of the publication
of bishop Burnet’s work on the Thirty-nine Articles. When she read it,
the bishop seemed to her more candid in stating the doctrines of the
sects, than explicit in his own opinion; and, in this perplexity,
retiring to her closet, she entered on a self-discussion, and wrote the
following poem:--

_Predestination, or, the Resolution._

    Ah! strive no more to know what fate
      Is preordain’d for thee:
    ’Tis vain in this my mortal state,
      For Heaven’s inscrutable decree
      Will only be reveal’d in vast Eternity.
          Then, O my soul!
    Remember thy celestial birth,
    And live to Heaven, while here on earth:
        Thy God is infinitely true.
        All Justice, yet all Mercy too:
      To Him, then, thro’ thy Saviour, pray
      For Grace, to guide thee on thy way,
        And give thee Will to do.
    But humbly, for the rest, my soul!
      Let Hope, and Faith, the limits be
      Of thy presumptuous curiosity!

Mary Chandler, born in 1687, the daughter of a dissenting minister at
Bath, commended by Pope for her poetry, died in 1745. The specimen of
her verse, selected by Mr. Dyce, is

_Temperance._

    Fatal effects of luxury and ease!
    We drink our poison, and we eat disease,
    Indulge our senses at our reason’s cost,
    Till sense is pain, and reason hurt, or lost.
    Not so, O Temperance bland! when rul’d by thee,
    The brute’s obedient, and the man is free.
    Soft are his slumbers, balmy is his rest,
    His veins not boiling from the midnight feast.
    Touch’d by Aurora’s rosy hand, he wakes
    Peaceful and calm, and with the world partakes
    The joyful dawnings of returning day,
    For which their grateful thanks the whole creation pay,
    All but the human brute: ’tis he alone,
    Whose works of darkness fly the rising sun.
    ’Tis to thy rules, O Temperance! that we owe
    All pleasures, which from health and strength can flow;
    Vigour of body, purity of mind,
    Unclouded reason, sentiments refin’d,
    Unmixt, untainted joys, without remorse,
    Th’ intemperate sinner’s never-failing curse.

Elizabeth Tollet (born 1694, died 1754) was authoress of Susanna, a
sacred drama, and poems, from whence this is a seasonable extract:--

_Winter Song._

    Ask me no more, my truth to prove,
    What I would suffer for my love:
    With thee I would in exile go,
    To regions of eternal snow;
    O’er floods by solid ice confin’d;
    Thro’ forest bare with northern wind;
    While all around my eyes I cast,
    Where all is wild and all is waste.
    If there the timorous stag you chase,
    Or rouse to fight a fiercer race,
    Undaunted I thy arms would bear,
    And give thy hand the hunter’s spear.
    When the low sun withdraws his light,
    And menaces an half year’s night.
    The conscious moon and stars above
    Shall guide me with my wandering love.
    Beneath the mountain’s hollow brow.
    Or in its rocky cells below,
    Thy rural feast I would provide;
    Nor envy palaces their pride;
    The softest moss should dress thy bed,
    With savage spoils about thee spread;
    While faithful love the watch should keep.
    To banish danger from thy sleep.

Mrs. Tighe died in 1810. Mr. Dyce says, “Of this highly-gifted
Irishwoman, I have not met with any poetical account; but I learn, from
the notes to her poems, that she was the daughter of the Rev. William
Blachford, and that she died in her thirty-seventh year. In the _Psyche_
of Mrs. Tighe are several pictures, conceived in the true spirit of
poetry; while over the whole composition is spread the richest glow of
purified passion.” Besides specimens from that delightful poem, Mr. Dyce
extracts

_The Lily_.

    How wither’d, perish’d seems the form
      Of yon obscure unsightly root!
    Yet from the blight of wintry storm,
      It hides secure the precious fruit.

    The careless eye can find no grace,
      No beauty in the scaly folds,
    Nor see within the dark embrace
      What latent loveliness it holds.

    Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales,
      The lily wraps her silver vest,
    Till vernal suns and vernal gales
      Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast.

    Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap
      The undelighting slighted thing;
    There in the cold earth buried deep,
      In silence let it wait the Spring.

    Oh! many a stormy night shall close
      In gloom upon the barren earth,
    While still, in undisturb’d repose,
      Uninjur’d lies the future birth;

    And Ignorance, with sceptic eye,
      Hope’s patient smile shall wondering view;
    Or mock her fond credulity,
      As her soft tears the spot bedew.

    Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear!
      The sun, the shower indeed shall come;
    The promis’d verdant shoot appear.
      And nature bid her blossoms bloom.

    And thou, O virgin Queen of Spring!
      Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed,
    Bursting thy green sheath’d silken string,
      Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed;

    Unfold thy robes of purest white,
      Unsullied from their darksome grave,
    And thy soft petals’ silvery light
      In the mild breeze unfetter’d wave.

    So Faith shall seek the lowly dust
      Where humble Sorrow loves to lie,
    And bid her thus her hopes intrust,
      And watch with patient, cheerful eye;

    And bear the long, cold wintry night,
      And bear her own degraded doom,
    And wait till Heaven’s reviving light,
      Eternal Spring! shall burst the gloom.

Every one is acquainted with the beautiful ballad which is the subject
of the following notice; yet the succinct history, and the present
accurate text, may justify the insertion of both.

_Lady Anne Barnard._

Born ---- died 1825.

  Sister of the late Earl of Balcarras, and wife of Sir Andrew Barnard,
  wrote the charming song of _Auld Robin Gray_.

  A quarto tract, edited by “the Ariosto of the North,” and circulated
  among the members of the Bannatyne Club, contains the original ballad,
  as corrected by Lady Anne, and two Continuations by the same
  authoress; while the Introduction consists almost entirely of a very
  interesting letter from her to the Editor, dated July 1823, part of
  which I take the liberty of inserting here:--

  “‘Robin Gray,’ so called from its being the name of the old herd at
  Balcarras, was born soon after the close of the year 1771. My sister
  Margaret had married, and accompanied her husband to London; I was
  melancholy, and endeavoured to amuse myself by attempting a few
  poetical trifles. There was an ancient Scotch melody, of which I was
  passionately fond; ---- ----, who lived before your day, used to sing
  it to us at Balcarras. She did not object to its having improper
  words, though I did. I longed to sing old Sophy’s air to different
  words, and give to its plaintive tones some little history of virtuous
  distress in humble life, such as might suit it. While attempting to
  effect this in my closet, I called to my little sister, now Lady
  Hardwicke, who was the only person near me, ‘I have been writing a
  ballad, my dear; I am oppressing my heroine with many misfortunes. I
  have already sent her Jamie to sea--and broken her father’s arm--and
  made her mother fall sick--and given her Auld Robin Gray for her
  lover; but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow within the four
  lines, poor thing! Help me to one.’--‘Steal the cow, sister Anne,’
  said the little Elizabeth. The cow was immediately _lifted_ by me, and
  the song completed. At our fireside, and amongst our neighbours,
  ‘Auld Robin Gray’ was always called for. I was pleased in secret with
  the approbation it met with; but such was _my dread_ of being
  suspected of writing _anything_, perceiving the shyness it created in
  those who could write _nothing_, that I carefully kept my own
  secret.        *       *       *       *

  “Meantime, little as this matter seems to have been worthy of a
  dispute, it afterwards became a party question between the sixteenth
  and eighteenth centuries. ‘Robin Gray’ was either a very very ancient
  ballad, composed perhaps by David Rizzio, and a great curiosity, or a
  very very modern matter, and no curiosity at all. I was persecuted to
  avow whether I had written it or not,--where I had got it. Old Sophy
  kept my counsel, and I kept my own, in spite of the gratification of
  seeing a reward of twenty guineas offered in the newspapers to the
  person who should ascertain the point past a doubt, and the still more
  flattering circumstance of a visit from Mr. Jerningham, secretary to
  the Antiquarian Society, who endeavoured to entrap the truth from me
  in a manner I took amiss. Had he asked me the question obligingly, I
  should have told him the fact distinctly and confidentially. The
  annoyance, however, of this important ambassador from the Antiquaries,
  was amply repaid to me by the noble exhibition of the ‘Ballat of Auld
  Robin Gray’s Courtship,’ as performed by dancing-cogs under my window.
  It proved its popularity from the highest to the lowest, and gave me
  pleasure while I hugged myself in obscurity.”

  The two versions of the second part were written many years after the
  first; in them, Auld Robin Gray falls sick,--confesses that he himself
  stole the cow, in order to force Jenny to marry him,--leaves to Jamie
  all his possessions,--dies,--and the young couple, of course, are
  united. Neither of the Continuations is given here, because, though
  both are beautiful, they are very inferior to the original tale, and
  greatly injure its effect.

_Auld Robin Gray_.[47]

    When the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame,
    When a’ the weary world to quiet rest are gane,
    The woes of my heart fa’ in showers frae my ee,
    Unken’d by my gudeman, who soundly sleeps by me.

    Young Jamie loo’d me weel, and sought me for his bride;
    But saving ae crown-piece, he’d naething else beside.
    To make the crown a pound,[48] my Jamie gaed to sea;
    And the crown and the pound, O they were baith for me!

    Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day.
    My father brak his arm, our cow was stown away;
    My mother she fell sick--my Jamie was at sea--
    And auld Robin Gray, oh! he came a-courting me,

    My father cou’dna work--my mother cou’dna spin;
    I toil’d day and night, but their bread I cou’dna win;
    Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi’ tears in his ee,
    Said, “Jenny, oh! for their sakes, will you marry me?”

    My heart it said na, and I look’d for Jamie back;
    But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack:
    His ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie dee?
    Or, wherefore am I spar’d to cry out, Woe is me!

    My father argued sair--my mother didna speak,
    But she look’d in my face till my heart was like to break;
    They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea;
    And so auld Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me.

    I hadna been his wife a week but only four,
    When mournfu’ as I sat on the stane at my door,
    I saw my Jamie’s ghaist--I cou’dna think it he,
    Till he said, “I’m come hame, my love, to marry thee!”

    O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a’;
    Ae kiss we took, nae mair--I bad him gang awa.
    I wish that I were dead, but I’m no like to dee;
    For O, I am but young to cry out, Woe is me!

    I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin;
    I darena think o’ Jamie, for that wad be a sin.
    But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be,
    For auld Robin Gray, oh! he is sae kind to me.

The great and remarkable merit of Mr. Dyce is, that in this beautifully
printed volume, he has reared imperishable columns to the honour of the
sex, without a questionable trophy. His “specimens” are an assemblage so
individually charming, that the mind is delighted by every part whereon
the eye rests, and scrupulosity itself cannot make a single rejection on
pretence of inadequate merit. He comes as a rightful herald, marshalling
the perfections of each poetess, and discriminating with so much
delicacy, that each of his pages is a page of honour to a high-born
grace, or dignified beauty. His book is an elegant tribute to departed
and living female genius; and while it claims respect from every lady in
the land for its gallantry to the fair, its intrinsic worth is sure to
force it into every well-appointed library.

  [47] The text of the corrected copy is followed.

  [48] “I must also mention” (says lady Anne, in the letter already
  quoted) “the laird of Dalziel’s advice, who, in a _tête-à-tête_,
  afterwards said, ‘My dear, the next time you sing that song, try to
  change the words a wee bit, and instead of singing, ‘To make the crown
  a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea,’ say, to make it twenty merks, for a
  Scottish pund is but twenty pence, and Jamie was na such a gowk as to
  leave Jenny and gang to sea to lessen his gear. It is that line
  [whisper’d he] that tells me that sang was written by some bonnie
  lassie that didna ken the value of the Scots money quite so well as an
  auld writer in the town of Edinburgh would have kent it.’”


[Illustration: ~Hiring Servants at a Statute Fair.~]

This engraving may illustrate Mr. Pare’s account of the Warwickshire
“statute” or “mop,”[49] and the general appearance of similar fairs for
hiring servants. Even in London, bricklayers, and other house-labourers,
still carry their respective implements to the places where they stand
for hire: for which purpose they assemble in great numbers in Cheapside
and at Charing-cross, every morning, at five or six o’clock. It is
further worthy of observation, that, in old Rome, there were particular
spots in which servants applied for hire.

Dr. Plott, speaking of the Statutes for hiring servants, says, that at
Bloxham the carters stood with their whips in one place, and the
shepherds with their crooks in another; but the maids, as far as he
could observe, stood promiscuously. He adds, that this custom seems as
old as our Saviour; and refers to _Matt._ xx. 3, “And he went out about
the third hour and saw others standing idle in the market-place.”

In the statistical account of Scotland, it is said that, at the parish
of Wamphray, “_Hiring fairs_ are much frequented: _those who are to hire
wear a green sprig in their hat_: and it is very seldom that servants
will hire in any other place.”

Of ancient _chartered_ fairs may be instanced as an example, the fair of
St. Giles’s Hill or Down, near Winchester, which William the Conqueror
instituted and gave as a kind of revenue to the bishop of Winchester. It
was at first for three days, but afterwards by Henry III., prolonged to
sixteen days. Its jurisdiction extended seven miles round, and
comprehended even Southampton, then a capital and trading town.
Merchants who sold wares at that time within that circuit forfeited them
to the bishop. Officers were placed at a considerable distance, at
bridges and other avenues of access to the fair, to exact toll of all
merchandise passing that way. In the mean time, all shops in the city
of Winchester were shut. A court, called the pavilion, composed of the
bishop’s justiciaries and other officers, had power to try causes of
various sorts for seven miles round. The bishop had a toll of every load
or parcel of goods passing through the gates of the city. On St. Giles’s
eve the mayor, bailiffs, and citizens of Winchester delivered the keys
of the four gates to the bishop’s officers. Many and extraordinary were
the privileges granted to the bishop on this occasion, all tending to
obstruct trade and to oppress the people. Numerous foreign merchants
frequented this fair; and several streets were formed in it, assigned to
the sale of different commodities. The surrounding monasteries had shops
or houses in these streets, used only at the fair; which they held under
the bishop, and often let by lease for a term of years. Different
counties had their different stations.

According to a curious record of the establishment and expenses of the
household of Henry Percy, the fifth earl of Northumberland, A.D. 1512,
the stores of his lordship’s house at Wresille, for the whole year, were
laid in from fairs. The articles were “wine, wax, beiffes, muttons,
wheite, and malt.” This proves that fairs were then the principal marts
for purchasing necessaries in large quantities, which are now supplied
by frequent trading towns: and the mention of “beiffes and muttons,”
(which are salted oxen and sheep,) shows that at so late a period they
knew little of breeding cattle.

The monks of the priories of Maxtoke in Warwickshire, and of Bicester in
Oxfordshire, in the time of Henry VI., appear to have laid in yearly
stores of various, yet common necessaries, at the fair of Stourbridge,
in Cambridgeshire, at least one hundred miles distant from either
monastery.

  [49] At p. 171.

       *       *       *       *       *


~February 14.~


VALENTINE’S DAY.

    Now each fond youth who ere essay’d
    An effort in the tinkling trade,
    Resumes to day; and writes and blots
    About true-love and true-love’s-knots;
    And opens veins in ladies’ hearts;
    (Or _steels_ ’em) with two cris-cross darts,--
              (There must be two)
              Stuck through (and through)
    His own: and then to s’cure ’em better
    He doubles up his single letter--
        Type of his state,
          (Perchance a hostage
        To double fate)
          For single postage
    Emblem of his and my _Cupidity_;
    With p’rhaps like happy end--stupidity.

       *       *       *       *       *


FRENCH VALENTINES.

Menage, in his Etymological Dictionary, has accounted for the term
“Valentine,” by stating that Madame Royale, daughter of Henry the Fourth
of France, having built a palace near Turin, which, in honour of the
saint, then in high esteem, she called the Valentine, at the first
entertainment which she gave in it, was pleased to order that the ladies
should receive their lovers for the year by lots, reserving to herself
the privilege of being independent of chance, and of choosing her own
partner. At the various balls which this gallant princess gave during
the year, it was directed that each lady should receive a nosegay from
her lover, and that, at every tournament, the knight’s trappings for his
horse should be furnished by his allotted mistress, with this proviso,
that the prize obtained should be hers. This custom, says Menage,
occasioned the parties to be called “Valentines.”[50]

       *       *       *       *       *

An elegant writer, in a journal of the present month, prepares for the
annual festival with the following


LEGEND OF ST. VALENTINE.

    From Britain’s realm, in olden time,
    By the strong power of truths sublime.
      The pagan rites were banish’d;
    And, spite of Greek and Roman lore,
    Each god and goddess, fam’d of yore,
      From grove and altar vanish’d.

    And they (as sure became them best)
    To Austin and Paulinius’ hest
      Obediently submitted,
    And left the land without delay--
    Save Cupid, who still held a sway
    Too strong to passively obey,
      Or be by saints outwitted.

    For well the boy-god knew that he
    Was far too potent, e’er to be
    Depos’d and exil’d quietly
      From his belov’d dominion;
    And sturdily the urchin swore
    He ne’er, to leave the British shore,
      Would move a single pinion.

    The saints at this were sadly vex’d,
    And much their holy brains perplex’d,
      To bring the boy to reason;
    And, when they found him bent to stay,
    They built up convent-walls straightway,
      And put poor Love in prison.

    But Cupid, though a captive made,
    Soon met, within a convent shade,
      New subjects in profusion:
    Albeit he found his pagan name
    Was heard by pious maid and dame
      With horror and confusion.

    For all were there demure and coy,
    And deem’d a rebel heathen boy
      A most unsaintly creature;
    But Cupid found a way with ease
    His slyest vot’ries tastes to please,
      And yet not change a feature.

    For, by his brightest dart, the elf
    Affirm’d he’d turn a saint himself,
      To make their scruples lighter;
    So gravely hid his dimpled smiles,
    His wreathed locks, and playful wiles,
      Beneath a bishop’s mitre.

    Then Christians rear’d the boy a shrine.
    And youths invok’d Saint Valentine
      To bless their annual passion;
    And maidens still his name revere,
    And, smiling, hail his day each year--
    A day to village lovers dear,
      Though saints are out of fashion.

  A. S.

  Monthly Magazine.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another is pleased to treat the prevailing topic of the day as one of
those “whims and oddities,” which exceedingly amuse the reading world,
and make e’en sighing lovers smile.


SONG

FOR THE 14TH OF FEBRUARY.

_By a General Lover._

“Mille gravem telis exhaustâ pene pharetrâ.”

    Apollo has peep’d through the shutter,
      And waken’d the witty and fair;
    The boarding-school belle’s in a flutter,
      The twopenny post’s in despair:
    The breath of the morning is flinging
      A magic on blossom, on spray;
    And cockneys and sparrows are singing
      In chorus on Valentine’s Day.

    Away with ye, dreams of disaster,
      Away with ye, visions of law,
    Of cases I never shall master,
      Of pleadings I never shall draw:
    Away with ye, parchments and papers.
      Red tapes, unread volumes, away;
    It gives a fond lover the vapours
      To see you on Valentine’s Day.

    I’ll sit in my nightcap, like Hayley,
      I’ll sit with my arms crost, like Spain,
    Till joys, which are vanishing daily,
      Come back in their lustre again:
    Oh, shall I look over the waters,
      Or shall I look over the way,
    For the brightest and best of Earth’s daughters,
      To rhyme to on Valentine’s Day?

    Shall I crown with my worship, for fame’s sake,
      Some goddess whom Fashion has starr’d,
    Make puns on Miss Love and her namesake.
      Or pray for a _pas_ with Brocard?
    Shall I flirt, in romantic idea,
      With Chester’s adorable clay,
    Or whisper in transport, “Si mea[51]
      Cum Vestris----” on Valentine’s Day?

    Shall I kneel to a Sylvia or Celia,
      Whom no one e’er saw or may see,
    A fancy-drawn Laura Amelia,
      An _ad libit._ Anna Marie?
    Shall I court an initial with stars to it,
      Go mad for a G. or a J.
    Get Bishop to put a few bars to it,
      And print it on Valentine’s Day?

    Alas! ere I’m properly frantic
      With some such pure figment as this.
    Some visions, not quite so romantic,
      Start up to demolish the bliss;
    Some Will o’ the Wisp in a bonnet
      Still leads my lost wit quite astray,
    Till up to my ears in a sonnet
      I sink upon Valentine’s Day.

    The Dian I half bought a ring for,
      On seeing her thrown in the ring;
    The Naiad I took such a spring for,
      From Waterloo Bridge, in the spring;
    The trembler I saved from a robber, on
      My walk to the Champs Elysée!--
    The warbler that fainted at Oberon,
      Three months before Valentine’s Day.

    The gipsy I once had a spill with,
      Bad lack to the Paddington team!
    The countess I chanced to be ill with
      From Dover to Calais by steam;
    The lass that makes tea for Sir Stephen,
      The lassie that brings in the tray;
    It’s odd--but the betting is even
      Between them on Valentine’s Day.

    The white hands I help’d in their nutting;
      The fair neck I cloak’d in the rain;
    The bright eyes that thank’d me for cutting
      My friend in Emmanuel-lane;
    The Blue that admires Mr. Barrow;
      The Saint that adores Lewis Way;
    The Nameless that dated from Harrow
      Three couplets last Valentine’s Day.

    I think not of Laura the witty,
      For, oh! she is married at York!
    I sigh not for Rose of the City,
      For, ah! she is buried at Cork!
    Adèle has a braver and better
      To say what I never could say;
    Louise cannot construe a letter
      Of English on Valentine’s Day.

    So perish the leaves in the arbour,
      The tree is all bare in the blast!
    Like a wreck that is drifting to harbour,
      I come to thee, Lady, at last.
    Where art thou so lovely and lonely?
      Though idle the lute and the lay,
    The lute and the lay are thine only,
      My fairest, on Valentine’s Day.

    For thee I have open’d my Blackstone,
      For thee I have shut up myself;
    Exchanged my long curls for a Caxton,
      And laid my short whist on the shelf;
    For thee I have sold my old Sherry,
      For thee I have burn’d my new play;
    And I grow philosophical--very!
      Except upon Valentine’s Day.

  Φ

  New Monthly Magazine.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the poems of Elizabeth Trefusis there is a “Valentine” with an
expression of feeling which may well conclude the extracts already
produced.

    When to Love’s influence woman yields,
    She loves for life! and daily feels
    Progressive tenderness!--each hour
    Confirms, extends, the tyrant’s power!
    Her lover is her god! her fate!--
    Vain pleasures, riches, worldly state,
    Are trifles all!--each sacrifice
    Becomes a dear and valued prize,
    If made for him, e’en tho’ he proves
    Forgetful of their former loves.

  [50] Dr. Drake’s Shakspeare and his Times. See also the _Every-Day
  Book_ for large particulars of the day.

  [51] “Si mea cum Vestris valuissent vota!”--Ovid, _Met._

       *       *       *       *       *


AIR AND EXERCISE

FOR LADIES.

There is a notion, that air spoils the complexion. It is possible, that
an exposure to all weathers might do so; though if a gipsy beauty is to
be said to have a bad complexion, it is one we are very much inclined to
be in love with. A russeton apple has its beauty as well as a peach. At
all events, a spoilt complexion of this sort is accompanied with none of
the melancholy attending the bad complexions that arise from late hours,
and spleen, and plodding, and indolence, and indigestion. Fresh air puts
a wine in the blood that lasts from morning to night, and not merely for
an hour or two after dinner. If ladies would not carry buttered toast in
their cheeks, instead of roses, they must shake the blood in their
veins, till it spins clear. Cheerfulness itself helps to make good
blood; and air and exercise make cheerfulness. When it is said, that air
spoils the complexion, it is not meant that breathing it does so, but
exposure to it. We are convinced it is altogether a fallacy, and that
nothing but a constant exposure to the extremes of heat and cold has any
such effect. The not breathing the fresh air is confessedly injurious;
and this might be done much oftener than is supposed. People might
oftener throw up their windows, or admit the air partially, and with an
effect sensible only to the general feelings. We find, by repeated
experiments, that we can write better and longer with the admission of
air into our study. We have learnt also, by the same experience, to
prefer a large study to a small one; and here the rich, it must be
confessed, have another advantage over us. They pass their days in large
airy rooms--in apartments that are field and champain, compared to the
closets that we dignify with the name of parlours and drawing-rooms. A
gipsy and they are in this respect, and in many others, more on a
footing; and the gipsy beauty and the park beauty enjoy themselves
accordingly. Can we look at that extraordinary race of persons--we mean
the gipsies--and not recognise the wonderful physical perfection to
which they are brought, solely by their exemption from some of our most
inveterate notions, and by dint of living constantly in the fresh air?
Read any of the accounts that are given of them, even by writers the
most opposed to their way of life, and you will find these very writers
refuting themselves and their proposed ameliorations by confessing that
no human beings can be better formed, or healthier, or happier than the
gipsies, so long as they are kept out of the way of towns and their
sophistications. A suicide is not known among them. They are as merry as
the larks with which they rise; have the use of their limbs to a degree
unknown among us, except by our new friends the gymnasts; and are as
sharp in their faculties as the perfection of their frames can render
them. A glass of brandy puts them into a state of unbearable transport.
It is a superfluous bliss; wine added to wine: and the old learn to do
themselves mischief with it, and level their condition with stockbrokers
and politicians. Yet these are the people whom some wiseacres are for
turning into bigots and manufacturers. They had much better take them
for what they are, and for what Providence seems to have intended
them--a memorandum to keep alive among us the belief in nature, and a
proof to what a physical state of perfection the human being can be
brought, solely by inhaling her glorious breath, and being exempt from
our laborious mistakes. If the intelligent and the gipsy life could ever
be brought more together, by any rational compromise, (and we do not
despair of it, when we see that calculators begin to philosophize,) men
might attain the greatest perfection of which they are capable.
Meanwhile the gipsies have the advantage of it, if faces are any index
of health and comfort. A gipsy with an eye fit for a genius, it is not
difficult to meet with; but where shall we find a genius, or even a
fundholder, with the cheek and health of a gipsy?

There is a fact well known to physicians, which settles at once the
importance of fresh air to beauty, as well as health. It is, that in
proportion as people stay at home, and do not set their lungs playing as
they ought, the blood becomes dark, and lags in its current; whereas the
habit of inhaling the air out of doors reddens it like a ruby, and makes
it clear and brisk. Now the darker the blood, the more melancholy the
sensations, and the worse the complexion.

It is common with persons who inherit a good stock of health from their
ancestors, to argue that they take no particular pains to preserve it,
and yet are well. This may be true; and it is also true, that there is a
painstaking to that effect, which is superfluous and morbid, and helps
to do more harm than good. But it does not follow from either of these
truths, that a neglect of the rational means of retaining health will
ultimately be good for any body. Healthy people may live a good while
upon their stock. Children are in the habit of doing it. But healthy
children, especially those who are foolishly treated upon an assumption
that health consists in being highly fed, and having great beef-eating
cheeks, very often turn out sickly at last; and grown-up people, for the
most part, at least in great towns, have as little really good health,
as children in general are given credit for the reverse. Nature does
indeed provide liberally for abuses; but the abuse will be felt at last.
It is generally felt a long while before it is acknowledged. Then comes
age, with all its train of regrets and superstitions; and the beauty and
the man, besides a world perhaps of idle remorse, which they would not
feel but for their perverted blood, could eat their hearts out for
having been such fools as not to secure a continuance of good looks and
manly feelings, for want of a little handsome energy.

The ill taste of existence that is so apt to come upon people in middle
life, is too often attributed to moral causes. Moral they are, but very
often not in the sense imagined. Whatever causes be mixed up with them,
the greatest of all is, in ninety-nine instances out of a hundred, no
better or grander than a non-performance of the common duties of health.
Many a fine lady takes a surfeit for a tender distress; and many a real
sufferer, who is haunted by a regret, or takes himself for the most
ill-used of bilious old gentlemen, might trace the loftiest of his woes
to no better origin than a series of ham-pies, or a want of proper use
of his boots and umbrella.[52]

  [52] New Monthly Magazine.

       *       *       *       *       *


A SONG.

    Young Joe, he was a carman gay,
      As any town could show;
    His team was good, and, like his pence,
      Was always on the go;
    A thing, as every jackass knows,
      Which often leads to _wo_!

    It fell out that he fell in love,
      By some odd chance or whim,
    With Alice Payne--beside whose eyes
      All other eyes were dim:
    The painful tale must out--indeed,
      She was _A Pain_ to him.

    For, when he ask’d her civilly
      To make one of _they_ two,
    She whipp’d her tongue across her teeth,
      And said, “D’ye think it true,
    I’d trust my _load_ of life with _sich_
      A waggoner as you?

    “No, no--to be a carman’s wife
      Will ne’er suit Alice Payne;
    I’d better far a lone woman
      For evermore remain,
    Than have it said, while in my youth,
      My life is on the _wain_!”

    “Oh, Alice Payne! Oh, Alice Payne!
      Why won’t you meet with me?”
    Then up she curl’d her nose, and said,
      “Go axe your axletree;
    I tell you, Joe, this--once for all--
      My _joe_ you shall not be.”

    She spoke the fatal “no,” which put
      A spoke into his wheel--
    And stopp’d his happiness, as though
      She’d cry _wo!_ to his _weal_:--
    These women ever steal our hearts,
      And then their own they _steel_.

    So round his melancholy neck
      Poor Joe his drag-chain tied,
    And hook’d it on a hook--“Oh! what
      A weight is life!” he cried;
    Then off he cast himself--and thus
      The cast-off carman died!

    Howbeit, as his son was set,
      (Poor Joe!) at set of sun,
    They laid him in his lowly grave,
      And gravely that was done;
    And she stood by, and laugh’d outright--
      How wrong--the guilty one!

    But the day of retribution comes
      Alike to prince and hind,
    As surely as the summer’s sun
      Must yield to wintry wind:
    Alas! she did not mind his peace--
      So she’d no peace of mind.

    For when she sought her bed of rest,
      Her rest was all on thorns;
    And there another lover stood,
      Who wore a pair of horns:
    His little tiny feet were cleft,
      And cloven, like a fawn’s;

    His face and garb were dark and black,
      As daylight to the blind;
    And a something undefinable
      Around his skirt was twin’d--
    As if he wore, like other pigs,
      His pigtail out behind.

    His arms, though less than other men’s,
      By no means _harm-less_ were:
    Dark elfin locks en lock’d his brow--
      You might not call them hair;
    And, oh! it was a _gas-tly_ sight
      To see his eye-balls glare.

    And ever, as the midnight bell
      Twelve awful strokes had toll’d,
    That dark man by her bedside stood,
      Whilst all her blood run cold;
    And ever and anon he cried,
      “I could a _tail_ unfold!”

    And so her strength of heart grew less,
      For heart-less she had been;
    And on her pallid cheek a small
      Red hectic spot was seen:
    You could not say her life was spent
      Without a spot, I wean.

    And they who mark’d that crimson light
      Well knew the treach’rous bloom--
    A light that shines, alas! alas!
      To light us to our tomb:
    They said ’twas like thy cross, St. Paul’s,
      The _signal_ of her _doom_.

    And so it prov’d--she lost her health,
      When breath she needed most--
    Just as the winning horse gets blown
      Close by the winning-post.
    The ghost, he gave up plaguing her--
      So she gave up the ghost.

  H. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


~London.~

MODERN IMPROVEMENTS.

In the annals of the world there have never been such rapid changes and
such vast improvements as have occurred in this metropolis during the
last seven years. We have no occasion now to refer to Pennant to produce
exclamations of surprise at the wonderful changes in London; our own
recollections are sufficient. Oxford-street seems half a mile nearer to
Charing Cross than in the days of our youth. Swallow-street, with all
the dirty courts in its vicinity, have been swallowed up, and replaced
by one of the most magnificent streets in Europe; a street, which may
vie with the Calle d’Alcala in Madrid, with the Quartier du Chapeau
Rouge at Bourdeaux, or the Place de Louis Quinze at Paris. We must, for
the present, overlook the defects of the architectural detail of this
street, in the contemplation of the great and general improvement which
its construction has produced in the metropolis.

Other streets are proposed by the same active genius under which
Regent-street has been accomplished; the vile houses which surrounded
and hid the finest portico in London--that of St. Martin’s church--are
already taken down; a square is to be formed round this building, with
two large openings into the Strand, and plans are already in agitation
to lay open other churches in the same manner. Even the economical
citizens have given us a peep at St. Bride’s--being ashamed again to
hide beauties which accident had given them an opportunity of displaying
to greater advantage. One street is projected from Charing Cross to the
British Museum, terminating in a square, of which the church in
Hart-street is to form the centre; another is intended to lead to the
same point from Waterloo-bridge, by which this structure, which is at
present almost useless, will become the great connecting thoroughfare
between the north and south sides of the Thames: this street is, indeed,
a desideratum to the proprietors of the bridge, as well as to the public
at large. Carlton-house is already being taken down--by which means
Regent-street will terminate at the south end, with a view of St.
James’s Park, in the same manner as it does at the north end, by an
opening into the Regent’s Park.

Such is the general outline of the late and the projected improvements
in the heart of the metropolis; but they have not stopped here. The king
has been decorating Hyde Park with lodges, designed by Mr. Decimus
Burton, which are really gems in architecture, and stand unrivalled for
proportion, chasteness, and simplicity, amidst the architectural
productions of the age.

Squares are already covering the extensive property of lord Grosvenor in
the fields of Chelsea and Pimlico; and crescents and colonnades are
planned, by the architect to the bishop of London, on the ground
belonging to the diocese at Bayswater.

But all suburban improvements sink into insignificance, when compared
with what has been projected and attained within the last seven years in
the Regent’s Park. This new city of palaces has appeared to have started
into existence like the event of a fairy tale. Every week showed traces
of an Aladdin hand in its progress, till, to our astonishment, we ride
through streets, squares, crescents, and terraces, where we the other
day saw nothing but pasture land and Lord’s-cricket-ground;--a barn is
replaced by a palace--and buildings are constructed, one or two of which
may vie with the proudest efforts of Greece and Rome.

The projector, with true taste, has called the beauties of landscape to
the aid of architectural embellishment; and we accordingly find groves,
and lawns, and streams intersecting the numerous ranges of terraces and
villas; while nature, as though pleased at the efforts of art, seems to
have exerted herself with extraordinary vigour to emulate and second the
efforts of the artist.

In so many buildings, and amidst so much variety, there must,
consequently, be many different degrees of architectural excellence, and
many defects in architectural composition; but, taken as a whole, and
the short time occupied in its accomplishment, the Regent’s Park may be
considered as one of the most extraordinary creations of architecture
that has ever been witnessed. It is the only speculation of the sort
where elegance seems to have been considered equally with profit in the
disposition of the ground. The buildings are not crowded together with
an avaricious determination to create as much frontage as possible; and
we cannot bestow too much praise on the liberality with which the
projector has given up so much space to the squares, roads, and
plantations, by which he has certainly relinquished many sources of
profit for the pleasure and convenience of the public.

It is in the contemplation of these additions and improvements to our
metropolis, that we doubly feel the blessings and effects of that peace
which has enabled the government, as well as private individuals, to
attempt to make London worthy of the character it bears in the scale of
cities; and we are happy now to feel proud of the architectural beauty,
as we always have of the commercial influence, of our metropolis.[53]

  [53] Monthly Magazine.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE SPELLS OF HOME.

    There blend the ties that strengthen
      Our hearts in hours of grief,
    The silver links that lengthen
      Joys visits when most brief!
    Then, dost thou sigh for pleasure?
      O! do not widely roam!
    But seek that hidden treasure
      At home, dear home!

  BERNARD BARTON.

       *       *       *       *       *

    By the soft green light in the woody glade,
    On the banks of moss where thy childhood play’d;
    By the waving tree thro’ which thine eye
    First look’d in love to the summer sky;
    By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
    Of the primrose-tufts in the grass beneath,
    Upon thy heart there is laid a spell--
    Holy and precious--oh! guard it well!

    By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
    Which hath lull’d thee into many a dream;
    By the shiver of the ivy-leaves,
    To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves;
    By the bees’ deep murmur in the limes,
    By the music of the Sabbath-chimes;
    By every sound of thy native shade,
    Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

    By the gathering round the winter hearth,
    When twilight call’d unto household mirth,
    By the fairy tale or the legend old
    In that ring of happy faces told;
    By the quiet hours when hearts unite
    In the parting prayer, and the kind “good-night;”
    By the smiling eye and the loving tone,
    Over thy life has the spell been thrown.

    And bless that gift!--it hath gentle might,
    A guardian power and a guiding light!
    It hath led the freeman forth to stand
    In the mountain-battles of his land;
    It hath brought the wanderer o’er the seas,
    To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze;
    And back to the gates of his father’s hall,
    It hath won the weeping prodigal.

    Yes! when thy heart in its pride would stray,
    From the loves of its guileless youth away;
    When the sullying breath of the world would come,
    O’er the flowers it brought from its childhood’s home;
    Think thou again of the woody glade,
    And the sound by the rustling ivy made;
    Think of the tree at thy parent’s door,
    And the kindly spell shall have power once more!

  F. H.

Monthly Magazine.

       *       *       *       *       *


BOOKS.

    ’Twere well with most, if books, that could engage
    Their childhood, pleased them at a riper age;
    The man approving what had charmed the boy,
    Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy;
    And not with curses on his art, who stole
    The gem of truth from his unguarded soul.

  COWPER.

If there be one word in our language, beyond all others teeming with
delightful associations, _Books_ is that word. At that magic name what
vivid retrospections of by-gone times, what summer days of unalloyed
happiness “when life was new,” rush on the memory! even now the spell
retains its power to charm: the beloved of my youth is the solace of my
declining years: such is the enduring nature of an early attachment to
literature.

The first book that inspired me with a taste for reading, was _Bunyan’s
Pilgrim’s Progress_; never shall I forget the intense emotion with which
I perused this pious and interesting fiction: the picturesque
descriptions and quaint moralities blended with this fine allegory,
heightened the enchantment, which to a youthful and fervid imagination,
“unsated yet with garbage,” was complete. From henceforward my bias was
determined; the passion grew with my growth, and strengthened with my
strength; and I _devoured_ all the books that fell in my way, as if
“appetite increased by what it fed on.” My next step was,--I commenced
_collector_. Smile, if you will, reader, but admire the benevolence of
creative wisdom, by which the means of happiness are so nicely adjusted
to the capacity for enjoyment: for, slender, as in those days were my
finances, I much doubt if the noble possessor of the _unique edition_ of
BOCCACCIO, marched off with his envied prize at the cost of _two
thousand four hundred pounds_, more triumphantly, than I did with my
sixpenny pamphlet, or dog’s eared volume, destined to form the nucleus
of my future library.

The moral advantages arising out of a love of books are so obvious, that
to enlarge upon such a topic might be deemed a gratuitous parade of
truisms; I shall therefore proceed to offer a few observations, as to
the best modes of deriving both pleasure and improvement from the
cultivation of this most fascinating and intellectual of all pursuits.
Lord Bacon says, with his usual discrimination, “Some books are to be
tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested;”
this short sentence comprises the whole practical wisdom of the subject,
and in like manner by an extension of the principle, the choice of a
library must be regulated. “Few books, well selected, are best,” is a
maxim useful to all, but more especially to young collectors: for let it
be remembered, that economy in our pleasures invariably tends to enlarge
the sphere of our enjoyments. Fuller remarks, “that it is a vanity to
persuade the world one hath much learning by getting a great library;”
and the supposition is equally erroneous, that a _large_ collection
necessarily implies a _good_ one. The truth is, were we to discard all
the works of a mere temporary interest, and of solemn trifling, that
incumber the fields of literature, the magnitude of numerous vast
libraries would suddenly shrink into most diminutive dimensions, for the
number of good original authors is comparatively few; study therefore
_quality_ rather than _quantity_ in the selection of your books. As
regards the _luxuries_ of the library, keep a rigid watch upon your
inclinations; for though it must not be denied that there is a rational
pleasure in seeing a favourite author _elegantly attired_, nothing is
more ridiculous than this taste pushed to the extreme; for then this
refined pursuit degenerates into a mere hobbyhorse, and once fairly
mounted, good-by to prudence and common sense! The Bibliomaniac is thus
pleasantly satirized by an old poet in the “Shyp of Fooles.”

    Styll am I besy _bok assemblynge_,
    For to have plenty it is a pleasaunt thynge
    In my conceit, and to have them ay in hand,
    _But what they mene do I not understande_!

When we survey our well-furnished bookshelves, the first thought that
suggests itself, is the _immortality of intellect_. Here repose the
living monuments of those master spirits destined to sway the empire of
mind; the historian, the philosopher, and the poet, “of imagination all
compact!” and while the deeds of mighty conquerors hurry down the stream
of oblivion, the works of these men survive to after-ages; are enshrined
in the memories of a grateful posterity, and finally stamp upon
national character the permanent impress of their genius.

Happy we, who are early taught to cherish the society of these _silent_
friends, ever ready to amuse without importunity, and instruct without
the austerity of reproof. Let us rest assured that it is “mind that
makes the body rich,” and that in the cultivation of our intellect we
secure an inexhaustible store of present gratification, and a source of
pleasurable recollections which will never fail to cheer the evening of
life.

  J. H.

       *       *       *       *       *


ETIQUETTE.

Philosophy may rave as it will, “little things are great to little men,”
and the less the man, the greater is the object. A king at arms is, in
his own estimation, the greatest king in Europe, and a German baron is
not more punctilious than a master of the ceremonies. The first desire
with all men is power, the next is the semblance of power; and it is
perhaps a happy dispensation that those who are cut off from the
substantial rights of the citizen, should find a compensation in the
“decorations” of the slave; as in all other moral cases the vices of the
individual are repressed by those of the rest of the community. The
pride of Diogenes trampled on the pride of Plato; and the vanity of the
excluded may be trusted for keeping within bounds the vanity of the
preeminent and the privileged. The great enemy, however, of etiquette is
civilisation, which is incessantly at work, simplifying society.
Knowledge, by opening our eyes to the substances of things, defends us
from the juggle of forms; and Napoleon, when he called a throne a mere
chair, with gilt nails driven into it, epitomised one of the most
striking results of the revolutionary contest. Strange that he should
have overlooked or disregarded the fact in the erection of his own
institutions! Ceremonial is a true paper currency, and passes only as
far as it will be taken. The representative of a thousand pounds,
unbacked by credit, is a worthless rag of paper, and the highest
decoration which the king can confer, if repudiated by opinion, is but a
piece of blue riband. Here indeed the sublime touches the ridiculous,
for who shall draw the line of demarcation between my lord Grizzle and
the gold stick? between Mr. Dymock, in Westminster-hall, and his
representative “on a real horse” at Covent-garden?--Every day the
intercourse of society is becoming more and more easy, and a man of
fashion is as little likely to be ceremonious in trifles, as to appear
in the costume of sir Charles Grandison, or to take up the quarrels of
lord Herbert of Cherbury.[54]

  [54] New Monthly Magazine.

       *       *       *       *       *


INDICATIONS.

WRITTEN IN THE FROST.

_For the Table Book._

    I know that the weather’s severe, by the noses
      That run between eyes smartly lash’d by the fair;
    By the coxcombs that muff-led are smiling at roses
      Got into the cheeks, and got out of the air.

    By the skates, (slipp’ry fish) for the Serpentine’s Fleet
      By the rise of the coal; by the shot-birds that fall
    By the chilly old people that creep to the heat;
      And the ivy-green branches that creep to the wall.

    By the chorus of boys sliding over the river,
      The grumbles of men sliding over the flags;
    The beggars, poor wretches! half naked, that shiver!
      The sportsmen, poor horsemen! turn’d out on their nags!

    By the snow standing over the plant and the fountain;
      The chilbain-tribes, whose understanding is weak;
    The wild-ducks of the valley, the drift of the mountain,
      And, like Niobé, street-plugs all tears from the Creek:

    And I know, by the icelets from nature’s own shops,
      By the fagots just cut, and the cutting wind’s tone,
    That the weather will freeze half the world if it stops,
      If it goes, it will thaw t’other half to the bone.

  *, *, P.

  _Jan 27._

       *       *       *       *       *


ADOPTION.

There is a singular system in France relative to the adoption of
children. A family who has none, adopts as their own a fine child
belonging to a friend, or more generally to some poor person, (for the
laws of population in the poor differ from those in the rich;) the
adoption is regularly enregistered by the civil authorities, and the
child becomes heir-at-law to the property of its new parents, and cannot
be disinherited by any subsequent caprice of the parties; they are bound
to support it suitably to their rank, and do every thing due to their
offspring.[55]

  [55] New Monthly Magazine.

       *       *       *       *       *


A ROYAL SIMILE.

“Queen Elizabeth was wont to say, upon the commission of _sales_, that
the commissioners used her like _strawberry_-wives, that laid two or
three great strawberries at the mouth of their pottle, and all the rest
were little ones; so they made her two or three great prices of the
first particulars, but fell straightways.”[56]

  [56] Apophthegms Antiq.




Vol. I.--8.


[Illustration: ~Blind Hannah.~]

    Sightless, and gently led her unseen round,
    She daily creeps, and draws a soothing sound
    Of Psalmody, from out her viol’ strings,
    To company some plaintive words she sings.

  *

This young woman sojourns in the neighbourhood of the ancient scene of
the “Pretty Bessee” and her old father, the “Blind Beggar of
Bethnal-green”--

    “His marks and his tokens were known full well,
    He always was led with a dog and a bell.”

Her name is Hannah Brentford. She is an inhabitant of Bunhill-row,
twenty-four years old, and has been blind from the time she had the
small-pox, two and twenty years ago. She sings hymns, and accompanies
herself on the violin. Her manner is to “give out” two lines of words,
and chant them to “a quiet tune;” and then she gives out another two
lines; and so she proceeds till the composition is finished. Her voice,
and the imitative strains of her instrument, are one chord of ’plaining
sound, beautifully touching. She supports herself, and an aged mother,
on the alms of passengers in the streets of Finsbury, who “please to
bestow their charity on the _blind_”--“the _poor_ blind.” They who are
not pierced by her “sightless eye-balls” have no sight: they who are
unmoved by her virginal melody have “ears, and they hear not.” Her eyes
are of agate--she is one of the “poor _stone_ blind”--

  “most musical, most melancholy.”

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. V.

  [From “Arden of Feversham his true and lamentable Tragedy,” Author
  unknown. 1592.]

_Alice Arden with Mosbie her Paramour conspire the murder of her
Husband._

      _Mos._ How now, Alice, what sad and passionate?
    Make me partaker of thy pensiveness;
    Fire divided burns with lesser force.
      _Al._ But I will dam that fire in my breast,
    Till by the force thereof my part consume.
    Ah Mosbie!
      _Mos._ Such deep pathaires, like to a cannon’s burst,
    Discharged against a ruinated wall,
    Breaks my relenting heart in thousand pieces.
    Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore;
    Thou know’st it will, and ’tis thy policy
    To forge distressful looks, to wound a breast
    Where lies a heart which dies when thou art sad.
    It is not Love that loves to anger Love.
      _Al._ It is not Love that loves to murther Love.
      _Mos._ How mean you that?
      _Al._ Thou know’st how dearly Arden loved me.
      _Mos._ And then----
      _Al._ And then--conceal the rest, for ’tis too bad,
    Lest that my words be carried to the wind,
    And publish’d in the world to both our shames.
    I pray thee, Mosbie, let our springtime wither;
    Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds.
    Forget, I pray thee, what has past betwixt us;
    For now I blush and tremble at the thoughts.
      _Mos._ What, are you changed?
      _Al._ Aye, to my former happy life again;
    From title of an odious strumpet’s name
    To honest Arden’s wife, not Arden’s honest wife--
    Ha Mosbie! ’tis thou hast rifled me of that,
    And made me slanderous to all my kin.
    Even in my forehead is thy name engraven,
    A mean Artificer, that low-born name!
    I was bewitcht; woe-worth the hapless hour
    And all the causes that enchanted me.
      _Mos._ Nay, if thou ban, let me breathe curses forth;
    And if you stand so nicely at your fame,
    Let me repent the credit I have lost.
    I have neglected matters of import,
    That would have ’stated me above thy state;
    For-slow’d advantages, and spurn’d at time;
    Aye, Fortune’s right hand Mosbie hath forsook,
    To take a wanton giglot by the left.
    I left the marriage of an honest maid,
    Whose dowry would have weigh’d down all thy wealth;
    Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee.
    This certain good I lost for changing bad,
    And wrapt my credit in thy company.
    I was bewitcht; that is no theme of thine;
    And thou unhallow’d hast enchanted me.
    But I will break thy spells and exorcisms,
    And put another sight upon these eyes,
    That shew’d my heart a raven for a dove.
    Thou art not fair; I view’d thee not till now:
    Thou art not kind; till now I knew thee not:
    And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt,
    Thy worthless copper shews thee counterfeit.
    It grieves me not to see how foul thou art,
    But mads me that ever I thought thee fair.
    Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds;
    I am too good to be thy favourite.
      _Al._ Aye, now I see, and too soon find it true,
    Which often hath been told me by my friends,
    That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth;
    Which too incredulous I ne’er believed.
    Nay, hear me speak, Mosbie, a word or two;
    I’ll bite my tongue if I speak bitterly.
    Look on me, Mosbie, or else I’ll kill myself.
    Nothing shall hide me from thy stormy look;
    If thou cry War, there is no Peace for me.
    I will do penance for offending thee;
    And burn this Prayer Book, which I here use,
    The Holy Word that has converted me.
    See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves,
    And all the leaves; and in this golden Cover
    Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell,
    And thereon will I chiefly meditate,
    And hold no other sect but such devotion.
    Wilt thou not look? is all thy Love o’erwhelm’d?
    Wilt thou not hear? what malice stops thy ears?
    Why speakst thou not? what silence ties thy tongue?
    Thou hast been sighted as the Eagle is,
    And heard as quickly as the fearful Hare
    And spoke as smoothly as an Orator,
    When I have bid thee hear, or see, or speak:
    And art thou sensible in none of these?
    Weigh all thy good turns with this little fault,
    And I deserve not Mosbie’s muddy looks.
    A fence of trouble is not thicken’d still;
    Be clear again; I’ll ne’er more trouble thee.
      _Mos._ O fie, no; I’m a base artificer;
    My wings are feather’d for a lowly flight.
    Mosbie, fie, no; not for a thousand pound
    Make love to you; why, tis unpardonable.
    We Beggars must not breathe, where Gentiles are.
      _Al._ Sweet Mosbie is as Gentle as a King,
    And I too blind to judge him otherwise.
    Flowers sometimes spring in fallow lands;
    Weeds in gardens, Roses grow on thorns:
    So, whatsoe’er my Mosbie’s father was,
    Himself is valued Gentle by his worth.
      _Mos._ Ah how you women can insinuate,
    And clear a trespass with your sweet set tongue.
    I will forget this quarrel, gentle Alice,
    Provided I’ll be tempted so no more.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Arden, with his friend Franklin, travelling at night to Arden’s house
at Feversham, where he is lain in wait for by Ruffians, hired by Alice
and Mosbie to murder him; Franklin is interrupted in a story he was
beginning to tell by the way of a_ BAD WIFE, _by an indisposition,
ominous of the impending danger of his friend_.

      _Arden._ Come, Master Franklin, onwards with your tale.
      _Frank._ I’ll assure you, Sir, you task me much.
    A heavy blood is gather’d at my heart;
    And on the sudden is my wind so short,
    As hindereth the passage of my speech.
    So fierce a qualm yet ne’er assailed me.
      _Arden._ Come, Master Franklin, let us go on softly;
    The annoyance of the dust, or else some meat
    You ate at dinner cannot brook with you.
    I have been often so, and soon amended.
      _Frank._ Do you remember where my tale did leave?
      _Arden._ Aye, where the Gentleman did check his wife--
      _Frank._ She being reprehended for the fact,
    Witness produced that took her with the fact,
    Her glove brought in which there she left behind,
    And many other assured arguments,
    Her Husband ask’d her whether it were not so--
      _Arden._ Her answer then? I wonder how she look’d,
    Having forsworn it with so vehement oaths,
    And at the instant so approved upon her.
      _Frank._ First did she cast her eyes down on the earth,
    Watching the drops that fell amain from thence;
    Then softly draws she out her handkercher,
    And modestly she wipes her tear-stain’d face:
    Then hemm’d she out (to clear her voice it should seem),
    And with a majesty addrest herself
    To encounter all their accusations--
    Pardon me, Master Arden, I can no more;
    This fighting at my heart makes short my wind.
      _Arden._ Come, we are almost now at Raynum Down;
    Your pretty tale beguiles the weary way,
    I would you were in case to tell it out.

  [_They are set upon by the Ruffians._]

       *       *       *       *       *


~Music.~

_For the Table Book._


GOD SAVE THE KING.

JOHN BULL.

In answer to an inquiry in _The Times_, respecting the author of “God
save the King,” the writers of several letters in that journal, during
the present month, concur in ascribing the air of the “national anthem”
to Dr. John Bull. This opinion results from recent researches, by the
curious in music, which have been published in elaborate forms.

Dr. John Bull was a celebrated musician, born about 1563, in
Somersetshire. His master in music was William Blitheman, organist of
the chapel royal to queen Elizabeth, in which capacity he was much
distinguished. Bull, on the death of his master in 1591, was appointed
his successor. In 1592 he was created doctor in the university of
Cambridge; and in 1596, at the recommendation of her majesty, he was
made professor of music to Gresham college, which situation he resigned
in 1607. During more than a year of his professorship, Mr. Thomas Bird,
son of the venerable William Bird, exercised the office of a substitute
to Dr. Bull, while he travelled on the continent for the recovery of his
health. After the decease of queen Elizabeth, Bull was appointed
chamber-musician to king James. In 1613, Dr. Bull finally quitted
England, and entered into the service of the archduke, in the
Netherlands. He afterwards seems to have settled at Lubec, from which
place many of his compositions, in the list published by Dr. Ward, are
dated; one of them so late as 1622, the supposed year of his decease.
Dr. Bull has been censured for quitting his establishment in England;
but it is probable that the increase of health and wealth was the cause
and consequence of his removal. He seems to have been praised at home
more than rewarded. The professorship of Gresham college was not then a
sinecure. His attendance on the chapel royal, for which he had 40_l._
per annum, and on the prince of Wales, at a similar salary, though
honourable, were not very lucrative appointments for the first performer
in the world, at a time when scholars were not so profitable as at
present, and there was no public _performance_ where this most wonderful
musician could display his abilities. A list of more than two hundred of
Dr. Bull’s compositions, vocal and instrumental, is inserted in his
life, the whole of which, when his biography was written in 1740, were
preserved in the collection of Dr. Pepusch. The chief part of these were
pieces for the organ and virginal.[57]

Anthony à Wood relates the following anecdote of this distinguished
musician, when he was abroad for the recovery of his health in 1601:--

“Dr. Bull hearing of a famous musician belonging to a certain cathedral
at St. Omer’s, he applied himself as a novice to him, to learn something
of his faculty, and to see and admire his works. This musician, after
some discourse had passed between them, conducted Bull to a vestry or
music-school joining to the cathedral, and showed to him a lesson or
song of forty parts, and then made a vaunting challenge to any person in
the world to add one more part to them, supposing it to be so complete
and full that it was impossible for any mortal man to correct or add to
it; Bull thereupon desiring the use of pen, ink, and ruled paper, such
as we call music paper, prayed the musician to lock him up in the said
school for two or three hours; which being done, not without great
disdain by the musician, Bull in that time, or less, added forty more
parts to the said lesson or song. The musician thereupon being called
in, he viewed it, tried it, and retried it; at length he burst out into
a great ecstasy, and swore by the great God, that he that added those
forty parts must either be the devil, or Dr. Bull, &c. Whereupon Bull
making himself known, the musician fell down and adored him. Afterwards
continuing there and in those parts for a time, he became so much
admired, that he was courted to accept of any place or preferment
suitable to his profession, either within the dominions of the emperor,
king of France, or Spain; but the tidings of these transactions coming
to the English court, queen Elizabeth commanded him home.”[58]

Dr. Burney disregards the preceding account as incredible; but Wood was
a most accurate writer: and Dr. Bull, besides being a great master, was
a lover of the difficulties in his science, and was therefore likely to
seek them with delight, and accomplish them in a time surprisingly short
to those who study melody rather than intricacy of composition.

It is related that in the reign of James I. “July the 16th, 1607, his
majesty and prince Henry, with many of the nobility, and other
honourable persons, dined at Merchant Taylors’ hall, it being the
election-day of their master and wardens; when the company’s roll being
offered to his majesty, he said he was already free of another company,
but that the prince should grace them with the acceptance of his
freedom, and that he would himself see when the garland was put on his
head, which was done accordingly. During their stay, they were
entertained with a great variety of music, both voices and instruments,
as likewise with several speeches. And, while the king sat at dinner,
Dr. Bull, who was free of that company, being in a cittizen’s gowne,
cappe, and hood, played most excellent melodie uppon a small payre of
organs, placed there for that purpose onely.”

From the only works of Dr. Bull in print, some lessons in the
“Parthenia--the first music that was ever printed for the virginals,” he
is deemed to have possessed a power of execution on the harpsichord far
beyond what is generally conceived of the masters of that time. As to
his lessons, they were, in the estimation of Dr. Pepusch, not only for
the harmony and contrivance, but for air and modulation, so excellent,
that he scrupled not to prefer them to those of Couperin, Scarlatti, and
others of the modern composers for the harpsichord.

Dr. Pepusch had in his collection a book of lessons very richly bound,
which had once been queen Elizabeth’s; in this were contained many
lessons of Bull, so very difficult, that hardly any master of the
doctor’s time was able to play them. It is well known, that Dr. Pepusch
married the famous opera singer, signora Margarita de L’Pine, who had a
very fine hand on the harpsichord: as soon as they were married, the
doctor inspired her with the same sentiments of Bull as he himself had
long entertained, and prevailed on her to practise his lessons; in which
she succeeded so well, as to excite the curiosity of numbers to resort
to his house at the corner of Bartlett’s-buildings, in Fetter-lane, to
hear her. There are no remaining evidences of her unwearied application,
in order to attain that degree of excellence which it is known she
arrived at; but the book itself is yet in being, which in some parts of
it is so discoloured by continual use, as to distinguish with the utmost
degree of certainty the very lessons with which she was most delighted.
One of them took up twenty minutes to go through it.[59]

Dr. Burney says, that Pepusch’s preference of Bull’s compositions to
those of Couperin and Scarlatti, rather proves that the doctor’s taste
was bad, than that Bull’s music was good; and he remarks, in reference
to some of them, “that they may be heard by a lover of music, with as
little emotion as the clapper of a mill, or the rumbling of a
post-chaise.” It is a misfortune to Dr. Bull’s fame, that he left little
evidence of his great powers, except the transcendantly magnificent air
of “God save the king.”

  _February, 1827._

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


COMPANY OF MUSICIANS

OF THE CITY OF LONDON.

King James I., upon what beneficial principle it is now difficult to
discover, by letters-patent incorporated the musicians of the city of
London into a company, and they still continue to enjoy privileges in
consequence of their constituting a fraternity and corporation; bearing
arms azure, a swan, argent, within a tressure counter-flure, or: in a
chief, gules, a rose between two lions, or: and for their crest the
celestial sign Lyra, called by astronomers the Orphean Lyre. Unluckily
for the _bon-vivans_ of this tuneful tribe, they have no hall in the
city for festive delights! However, on days of greatest _gourmandise_,
the members of this body are generally too busily employed in
exhilarating others, comfortably to enjoy the fruits of good living
themselves. And here historical integrity obliges me to say, that this
company has ever been held in derision by real professors, who have
regarded it as an institution as foreign to the cultivation and
prosperity of good music, as the train-bands to the art of war. Indeed,
the only uses that have hitherto been made of this charter seem the
affording to aliens an easy and cheap expedient of acquiring the freedom
of the city, and enabling them to pursue some more profitable and
respectable trade than that of fiddling; as well as empowering the
company to keep out of processions, and city-feasts, every street and
country-dance player, of superior abilities to those who have the honour
of being styled the “_Waits of the corporation_.”[60]

       *       *       *       *       *


EFFECTS OF MUSIC.

Sultan Amurath, that cruel prince, having laid siege to Bagdad, and
taken it, gave orders for putting thirty thousand Persians to death,
notwithstanding they had submitted, and laid down their arms. Among the
number of these unfortunate victims was a musician. He besought the
officer, who had the command to see the sultan’s orders executed, to
spare him but for a moment, while he might be permitted to speak to the
emperor. The officer indulged him with his entreaty; and, being brought
before the emperor, he was permitted to exhibit a specimen of his art.
Like the musician in Homer, he took up a kind of psaltry, resembling a
lyre, with six strings on each side, and accompanied it with his voice.
He sung the taking of Bagdad, and the triumph of Amurath. The pathetic
tones and exulting sounds which he drew from the instrument, joined to
the alternate plaintiveness and boldness of his strains, rendered the
prince unable to restrain the softer emotions of his soul. He even
suffered him to proceed until, overpowered with harmony, he melted into
tears of pity, and relented of his cruel intention. He spared the
prisoners who yet remained alive, and gave them instant liberty.

  [57] Dictionary of Musicians. Hawkins.

  [58] Wood’s Fasti, anno 1586.

  [59] Hawkins.

  [60] Burney.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Topography.~


THE YORKSHIRE GIPSY.[61]

_For the Table Book._

The Gipsies are pretty well known as streams of water, which, at
different periods, are observed on some parts of the Yorkshire Wolds.
They appear toward the latter end of winter, or early in spring;
sometimes breaking out very suddenly, and, after running a few miles,
again disappearing. That which is more particularly distinguished by the
name of _The Gipsy_, has its origin near the Wold-cottage, at a distance
of about twelve miles W. N. W. from Bridlington. The water here does not
rise in a body, in one particular spot, but may be seen oozing and
trickling among the grass, over a surface of considerable extent, and
where the ground is not interrupted by the least apparent breakage;
collecting into a mass, it passes off in a channel, of about four feet
in depth, and eight or ten in width, along a fertile valley, toward the
sea, which it enters through the harbour at Bridlington; having passed
the villages of Wold Newton, North Burton, Rudston, and Boynton. Its
uncertain visits, and the amazing quantity of water sometimes discharged
in a single season, have afforded subjects of curious speculation. One
writer displays a considerable degree of ability in favour of a
connection which he supposes to exist between it and the ebbing and
flowing spring, discovered at Bridlington Quay in 1811. “The appearance
of this water,” however, to use the words of Mr. Hinderwell, the
historian of Scarborough, “is certainly influenced by the state of the
seasons,” as there is sometimes an intermission of three or four years.
It is probably occasioned by a surcharge of water descending from the
high lands into the vales, by subterraneous passages, and, finding a
proper place of emission, breaks out with great force.

After a secession of five years, the Gipsy made its appearance in
February, 1823; a circumstance which some people had supposed as
unlikely to occur, owing to the alterations effected on the _Carrs_,
under the Muston and Yedingham drainage act.

We are told, that the ancient Britons exalted their rivers and streams
into the offices of religion, and whenever an object had been thus
employed, it was reverenced with a degree of sanctity ever afterwards;
and we may readily suppose, that the sudden and extraordinary appearance
of this stream, after an interval of two or three successive years,
would awaken their curiosity, and excite in them a feeling of sacred
astonishment. From the Druids may probably have descended a custom,
formerly prevalent among the young people at North Burton, but now
discontinued: it was--“going to meet the Gipsy,” on her first approach.
Whether or not this meeting was accompanied by any particular ceremony,
the writer of this paragraph has not been able to ascertain.

  T. C.

_Bridlington._

       *       *       *       *       *


WILTSHIRE ABROAD AND AT HOME.

_To the Editor._

    There is a land, of every land the pride,
    Beloved by heaven o’er all the world beside,
    Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
    And milder moons emparadise the night.

    A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
    Time-tutor’d age, and love-exalted youth;
    The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
    The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,

    Views not a realm so beautiful and fair,
    Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
    In every clime the magnet of his soul,
    Touch’d by remembrance, trembles to that pole.

    For in this land of heaven’s peculiar grace,
    The heritage of Nature’s noblest race,
    There is a spot of earth, supremely blest,
    A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest;

    Where man, creation’s tyrant, casts aside
    His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride;
    While in his softened looks benignly blend
    The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.

    Here woman reigns--the mother, daughter, wife,
    Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
    In the clear heaven of her delightful eye
    An angel guard of loves, and graces lie;
    Around her knees domestic duties meet,
    And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.

    Where shall that _land_, that _spot of earth_ be found?
    Art thou a man? a patriot? look around;
    Oh, thou shalt find, howe’er thy footsteps roam,
    That land _thy_ country, and that spot _thy_ home.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Editor,--As your _Table Book_ may be considered an extensively
agreeable and entertaining continuation of your _Every-Day Book_, allow
me a column, wherein, without wishing to draw attention too frequently
to one subject, I would recur again to the contributions of your
correspondent, in vol. ii. page 1371, of the _Every-Day Book_, my
observations at page 1584, and his notices at page 1606. Your “Old
Correspondent” is, I presume, a native of this part of the country. He
tells us, page 1608, that his ancestors came from the Priory; in another
place, that he is himself an antiquarian; and, if I am not much mistaken
in the signatures, you have admitted his poetical effusions in some of
your numbers. Assuming these to be facts, he will enter into the feeling
conveyed by the lines quoted at the head of this article, and agree with
me in this observation, that every man who writes of the spot, or the
county so endeared, should be anxious that truth and fiction should not
be so blended together as to mislead us (the inhabitants) who read your
miscellany; and that we shall esteem it the more, as the antiquities,
the productions, and the peculiarities of this part of our county are
noticed in a proper manner.

As your correspondent appears to have been anxious to set himself right
with regard to the inaccuracies I noticed in his account of Clack, &c.,
I will point out that he is still in error in one slight particular.
When he visits this county again, he will find, if he should direct his
footsteps towards Malmsbury and its venerable abbey, (now the church,)
the tradition is, that the boys of a school, kept in a room that once
existed over the antique and curious entrance to the abbey, revolted and
killed their master. Mr. Moffatt, in his history of Malmsbury, (ed.
1805,) has not noticed this tradition.

Excuse my transcribing from that work, the subjoined “Sonnet to the
Avon,” and let me express a hope that your correspondent may also favour
us with some effusions in verse upon that stream, the scene of warlike
contests when the boundary of the Saxon kingdom, or upon other subjects
connected with our local history.

Upon this river, meandering through a fine and fertile tract of country,
Mr. Moffatt, after noticing the earlier abbots of Malmsbury, adds, “The
ideas contained in the following lines were suggested by the perusal of
the history of the foundation of Malmsbury abbey:

“_Sonnet to the Avon._

    “Reclined beside the willow shaded stream,
      On which the breath of whispering zephyr plays,
      Let me, O Avon, in untutor’d lays
    Assert thy fairest, purest, right to fame.

    What tho’ no myrtle bower thy banks adorn,
      Nor sportive Naiads wanton in thy waves;
      No glittering sands of gold, or coral caves,
    Bedeck the channel by thy waters worn:

    Yet thou canst boast of honours passing these,
      For when fair science left her eastern seat,
      Ere Alfred raised her sons a fair retreat,
    Where Isis’ laurels tremble in the breeze;
      ’Twas there, near where thy curling streamlet flows,
      E’en in yon dell, the Muses found repose.”

This interesting period in the history of the venerable abbey, its
supposed connection with Bradenstoke Priory, the admired scenery of the
surrounding country, the events of past ages blended into the exertions
of a fertile imagination, and the many traditions still floating in the
minds of the inhabitants, would form materials deserving the attention
of a writer disposed to wield his pen in that department of literature,
which has been so successfully cultivated in the northern and other
parts of our island.

If by the observation, “that his ancestors came from the Priory,” your
correspondent means Bradenstoke Priory, he will allow me to direct his
attention to the fact of the original register of that establishment
being in the British Museum. I refer him to the “Beauties of England and
Wales.”

As your correspondent probably resides in London, he may be induced to
obtain access to this document, in which I conclude he would have no
difficulty; and if you, Mr. Editor, could favour us in your publication
with an engraving of this Priory, it would be acceptable.

I appreciate the manner in which your correspondent noticed my remarks,
and wish him success in his literary efforts, whether relating to
objects in this vicinity, or to other matters. One remark only I will
add,--that I think he should avoid the naming of respectable
individuals: the mention of names may cause unpleasant feelings in a
neighbourhood like this, however unintentional on his part. I should
have considered it better taste in an antiquarian to have named the
person in possession of the golden image, in preference to the childish
incident stated to have occurred when Bradenstoke Priory was occupied by
a former respectable inhabitant, Mrs. Bridges.

Your correspondent will excuse the freedom of this observation; his
ready pen could perhaps relate to you the detail of a tragical event,
said by tradition to have occurred at Dauntsey, where the mansion of the
late earl of Peterborough now stands, and “other tales of other times.”

  A READER.[62]

  _Lyneham, Wilts,_

  _January 23, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


OLD BIRMINGHAM CONJURERS.

BY MR. WILLIAM HUTTON.

No _head_ is a vacuum. Some, like a paltry cottage, are ill
accommodated, dark, and circumscribed; others are capacious as
Westminster-hall. Though none are immense, yet they are capable of
immense furniture. The more room is taken up by knowledge, the less
remains for credulity. The more a man is acquainted with things, the
more willing to “give up the _ghost_.” Every town and village, within my
knowledge, has been pestered with spirits, which appear in horrid forms
to the imagination in the winter night--but the spirits which haunt
Birmingham, are those of industry and luxury.

If we examine the whole parish, we cannot produce one _old_ “witch;” but
we have numbers of young, who exercise a powerful influence over us.
Should the ladies accuse the harsh epithet, they will please to
consider, I allow them, what of all things they most wish for,
_power_--therefore the balance is in my favour.

If we pass through the planetary worlds, we shall be able to muster two
conjurers, who endeavoured to “shine with the stars.” The first, John
Walton, who was so busy in casting the nativity of others, that he
forgot his own. Conscious of an application to himself, for the
discovery of stolen goods, he employed his people to steal them. And
though, for many years confined to his bed by infirmity, he could
conjure away the property of others, and, for a reward, conjure it back
again.

The prevalence of this evil, induced the legislature, in 1725, to make
the _reception_ of stolen goods capital. The first sacrifice to this law
was the noted Jonathan Wild.

The officers of justice, in 1732, pulled Walton out of his bed, in an
obscure cottage, one furlong from the town, now Brickiln-lane, carried
him to prison, and from thence to the gallows--they had better have
carried him to the work-house, and his followers to the anvil.

To him succeeded Francis Kimberley, the only reasoning animal, who
resided at No. 60, in Dale-end, from his early youth to extreme age. A
hermit in a crowd! The windows of his house were strangers to light. The
shutters forgot to open; the chimney to smoke. His cellar, though amply
furnished, never knew moisture.

He spent threescore years in filling six rooms with such trumpery as was
just too good to be thrown away, and too bad to be kept. His life was as
inoffensive as long. Instead of _stealing_ the goods which other people
used, he _purchased_ what he could not use himself. He was not difficult
in his choice of the property that entered his house; if there was
_bulk_, he was satisfied.

His dark house, and his dark figure, corresponded with each other. The
apartments, choked up with lumber, scarcely admitted his body, though of
the skeleton order. Perhaps leanness is an appendage to the science, for
I never knew a corpulent conjurer. His diet, regular, plain, and
slender, showed at how little expense life might be sustained. His
library consisted of several thousand volumes, not one of which, I
believe, he ever read; having written, in characters unknown to all but
himself, his name, the price, and the date, in the title-page, he laid
them by for ever. The highest pitch of his erudition was the annual
almanack.

He never wished to approach a woman, or be approached by one. Should the
rest of men, for half a century, pay no more attention to the fair, some
angelic hand might stick up a note like the arctic circle over one of
our continents, “this world to be let.”

If he did not cultivate the acquaintance of the human species, the
spiders, more numerous than his books, enjoyed an uninterrupted reign of
quiet. The silence of the place was not broken; the broom, the book,
the dust, or the web, was not disturbed. Mercury and his shirt performed
their revolutions together; and Saturn changed _his_ with his coat. He
died in 1756, as conjurers usually die, unlamented.[63]

  [61] The word is not pronounced the same as _gipsy_, a fortune-teller;
  the _g_, in this case, being sounded hard as in _gimlet_.

  [62] I am somewhat embarrassed by this difference between two valued
  correspondents, and I hope neither will regard me in an ill light, if
  I venture to interpose, and deprecate controversy beyond an extent
  which can interest the readers of the _Table Book_. I do not say that
  it has passed that limit, and hitherto all has been well; perhaps,
  however, it would be advisable that “A Reader” should confide to me
  his name, and that he and my “Old Correspondent,” whom I know, should
  allow me to introduce them to each other. I think the result would be
  mutually satisfactory.

  W. H.


  [63] Hist. of Birmingham.

       *       *       *       *       *


PATIENCE.

_For the Table Book_

    As the pent water of a mill-dam lies
      Motionless, yielding, noiseless, and serene.
    Patience waits meekly with companioned eyes;
      Or like the speck-cloud, which alone is seen
    Silver’d within blue space, ling’ring for air
      On which to sail prophetic voyages;
    Or as the fountain stone that doth not wear,
      But suits itself to pressure, and with ease
    Diverts the dropping crystal; or the wife
      That sits beside her husband and her love
    Subliming to another state and life,
      Off’ring him consolation as a dove,--
    Her sighs and tears, her heartache and her mind
    Devout, untired, calm, precious, and resign’d.

  *, *, P.

       *       *       *       *       *


~British Portraits.~

  CATALOGUE OF PAINTED BRITISH PORTRAITS, comprising most of the
  Sovereigns of England, from Henry I. to George IV., and many
  distinguished personages; principally the productions of Holbein,
  Zucchero, C. Jansen, Vandyck, Hudson, Reynolds, Northcote, &c. _Now
  selling at the prices affixed, by_ HORATIO RODD, _17, Air-street,
  Piccadilly_. 1827.

This is an age of book and print catalogues; and lo! we have a picture
dealer’s catalogue of portraits, painted in oil, from the price of two
guineas to sixty. There is only one of so high value as the latter sum,
and this is perhaps the most interesting in Mr. Rodd’s collection, and
he has allowed the present engraving from it. The picture is in size
thirty inches by twenty-five. The subjoined particulars are from the
catalogue.

[Illustration: ~Simon Lord Lovat.~

FROM THE ORIGINAL PICTURE BY HOGARTH, LATELY DISCOVERED.]

“To the present time, none of Hogarth’s biographers appear to have been
aware of the ‘local habitation’ of the original painting from which the
artist published his etching, the popularity of which, at the period to
which it alludes, was so great, that a printseller offered for it its
weight in gold: that offer the artist rejected; and he is said to have
received from its sale, for many weeks, at the rate of twelve pounds
each day. The impressions could not be taken off so fast as they were
wanted, though the rolling-press was at work all night by the week
together.

“Hogarth said himself, that lord Lovat’s portrait was taken at the White
Hart-inn, at St. Alban’s, in the attitude of relating on his fingers the
numbers of the rebel forces: ‘Such a general had so many men, &c.;’ and
remarked that the muscles of Lovat’s neck appeared of unusual strength,
more so than he had ever seen. Samuel Ireland, in his Graphic
Illustrations of Hogarth, vol. i. p. 146, states that Hogarth was
invited to St. Alban’s for the express purpose of being introduced to
Lovat, who was then resting at the White Hart-inn, on his way to London
from Scotland, by Dr. Webster, a physician residing at St. Alban’s, and
well known to Boswell, Johnson, and other eminent literary characters of
that period. Hogarth had never seen Lovat before, and was, through the
doctor’s introduction, received with much cordiality, even to the kiss
fraternal, which was then certainly not very pleasant, as his lordship,
being under the barber’s hands, left in the salute much of the lather on
the artist’s face. Lord Lovat rested two or three days at St. Alban’s,
and was under the immediate care of Dr. Webster, who thought his
patient’s illness was feigned with his usual cunning, or if at all real,
arose principally from his apprehension of danger on reaching London.
The short stay of Lovat at St. Alban’s allowed the artist but scanty
opportunity of providing the materials for a complete picture; hence
some carpenter was employed on the instant to glue together some deal
board, and plane down one side, which is evident from the back being in
the usual rough state in which the plank leaves the saw-pit. The
painting, from the thinness of the priming-ground, bears evident proof
of the haste with which the portrait was accomplished. The course
lineament of features so strongly exhibited in his countenance, is
admirably hit off; so well has Duncombe expressed it,

    ‘Lovat’s hard features Hogarth might command;’

for his pencil was peculiarly adapted to such representation. It is
observable the button holes of the coat, &c., are reversed in the
artist’s etching, which was professed to be ‘drawn from the life, &c.;’
and in the upper corner of the picture are satirical heraldic insignia,
allusive to the artist’s idea of his future destiny.”

The “satirical heraldic insignia,” mentioned in the above description,
and represented in the present engraving, do not appear in Hogarth’s
well-known whole length etching of lord Lovat. The picture is a
half-length; it was found in the house of a poor person at Verulam, in
the neighbourhood of St. Alban’s, where Hogarth painted it eighty years
ago, and it is a singular fact, that till its discovery a few weeks ago,
such a picture was not known to have been executed. In all probability,
Hogarth obliged his friend, Dr. Webster, with it, and after the doctor’s
death it passed to some heedless individual, and remained in obscurity
from that time to the present.[64] Further observation on it is
needless; for persons who are interested concerning the individual whom
Hogarth has portrayed, or who are anxious respecting the works of that
distinguished artist, have an opportunity of seeing it at Mr. Rodd’s
until it is sold.

As regards the other portraits in oil, collected by Mr. Rodd, and now
offered by him for sale, after the manner of booksellers, “at the prices
annexed,” they can be judged of with like facility. Like booksellers,
who tempt the owners of empty shelves, with “long sets to fill up” at
small prices, Mr. R. “acquaints the nobility and gentry, having spacious
country mansions, that he has many portraits of considerable interest as
specimens of art, but of whom the picture is intended to represent,
matter of doubt: as such pictures would enliven many of their large
rooms, and particularly the halls, they may be had at very low prices.”

Mr. Rodd’s ascertained pictures really form a highly interesting
collection of “painted British Portraits,” from whence collectors may
select what they please: his mode of announcing such productions, by way
of catalogue, seems well adapted to bring buyers and sellers together,
and is noticed here as an instance of spirited departure from the
ancient trading rule, viz.

    Twiddle your thumbs
    Till a customer comes.

  *

  [64] There is an account of lord Lovat in the _Every-Day Book_.

       *       *       *       *       *


DEATH’S DOINGS.

“I am now worth one hundred thousand pounds,” said old Gregory, as he
ascended a hill, which commanded a full prospect of an estate he had
just purchased; “I am now worth one hundred thousand pounds, and here,”
said he, “I’ll plant an orchard: and on that spot I’ll have a pinery--

“Yon farm houses shall come down,” said old Gregory, “they interrupt my
view.”

“Then, what will become of the farmers?” asked the steward, who attended
him.

“That’s their business,” answered old Gregory.

“And that mill must not stand upon the stream,” said old Gregory.

“Then, how will the villagers grind their corn?” asked the steward.

“That’s not my business,” answered old Gregory.

So old Gregory returned home--ate a hearty supper--drank a bottle of
port--smoked two pipes of tobacco--and fell into a profound
slumber--and awoke no more; and the farmers reside on their lands--and
the mill stands upon the stream--and the villagers rejoice that Death
did “business” with old Gregory.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE BARBER.

_For the Table Book._

Barbers are distinguished by peculiarities appertaining to no other
class of men. They have a _caste_, and are a race of themselves. The
members of this ancient and gentle profession--foul befall the libeller
who shall designate it a _trade_--are mild, peaceable, cheerful, polite,
and communicative. They mingle with no cabal, have no interest in
factions, are “open to all parties, and influenced by none;” and they
have a good, kind, or civil word for everybody. The cheerful morning
salutation of one of these cleanly, respectable persons is a “handsell”
for the pleasures of the day; serenity is in its tone, and comfort
glances from its accompanying smile. Their small, cool, clean, and
sparingly-furnished shops, with sanded floor and towelled walls,
relieved by the white-painted, well-scoured shelves, scantily adorned
with the various implements of their art, denote the snug system of
economy which characterises the owners. Here, only, is the looking-glass
not an emblem of vanity: it is placed to reflect, and not to flatter.
You seat yourself in the lowly, antique chair, worn smooth by the backs
of half a century of beard-owners, and instantly feel a full repose from
fatigue of body and mind. You find yourself in attentive and gentle
hands, and are persuaded that no man can be in collision with his shaver
or hair-dresser. The very operation tends to set you on better terms
with yourself: and your barber hath not in his constitution the
slightest element of difference. The adjustment of a curl, the clipping
of a lock, the trimming of a whisker, (that much-cherished and
highly-valued adornment of the face,) are matters of paramount
importance to both parties--threads of sympathy for the time, unbroken
by the divesture of the thin, soft, ample mantle, that enveloped you in
its snowy folds while under his care. Who can entertain ill-humour, much
less vent his spleen, while wrapt in the symbolic vestment? The veriest
churl is softened by the application of the warm emollient brush, and
calmed into complacency by the light-handed hoverings of the comb and
scissors. A smile, a compliment, a remark on the weather, a diffident,
side-wind inquiry about politics, or the passing intelligence of the
day, are tendered with that deference, which is the most grateful as
well as the handsomest demonstration of politeness. Should you, on
sitting down, half-blushingly request him to cut off “as large a lock as
he can, merely,” you assure him, “that you may detect any future change
in its colour,” how skilfully he extracts, from your rather thin head of
hair, a graceful, flowing lock, which self-love alone prevents you from
doubting to have been grown by yourself: how pleasantly you contemplate,
in idea, its glossiness from beneath the intended glass of the
propitiatory locket. A web of delightful associations is thus woven; and
the care he takes to “make each particular hair to stand on end” to your
wishes, so as to let you know he surmises your destination, completes
the charm.--We never hear of people cutting their throats in a barber’s
shop, though the place is redolent of razors. No; the ensanguined spots
that occasionally besmirch the whiteness of the revolving towel is from
careless, unskilful, and opiniated individuals, who mow their own
beards, or refuse to restrain their risibility. I wonder how any can
usurp the province of the barber, (once an almost exclusive one,) and
apply unskilful, or unpractised hands so near to the grand canal of
life. For my own part, I would not lose the daily elevation of my tender
nose, by the velvet-tipped digits of my barber--no, not for an
independence!

The genuine barber is usually (like his razors) well-tempered; a man
unvisited by care; combining a somewhat hasty assiduity, with an easy
and respectful manner. He exhibits the best part of the character of a
Frenchman--an uniform exterior suavity, and _politesse_. He seems a
faded nobleman, or _émigré_ of the old _régime_. And surely if the souls
of men transmigrate, those of the old French _noblesse_ seek the
congenial soil of the barber’s bosom! Is it a degradation of worthy and
untroubled spirits, to imagine, that they animate the bodies of the
harmless and unsophisticated?

In person the barber usually inclines to the portly; but is rarely
obese. His is that agreeable plumpness betokening the man at ease with
himself and the world--and the utter absence of that fretfulness
ascribed to leanness. Nor do his comely proportions and fleshiness make
leaden the heels, or lessen the elasticity of his step, or transmute his
feathery lightness of hand to heaviness. He usually wears powder, for
it looks respectable, and is professional withal. The last of the almost
forgotten and quite despised race of pigtails, once proudly cherished by
all ranks--now proscribed, banished, or, if at all seen, diminished in
stateliness and bulk, “shorn of its fair proportions,”--lingers fondly
with its former nurturer; the neat-combed, even-clipped hairs, encased
in their tight swathe of black ribbon, topped by an airy bow, nestle in
the well-clothed neck of the modern barber. Yet why do I call him
_modern_? True, he lives in our, but he belongs to former times, of
which he is the remembrancer and historian--the days of bags, queues,
clubs, and periwigs, when a halo of powder, pomatum, and frizzed curls
encircled the heads of our ancestors. That glory is departed; the brisk
and agile tonsor, once the genius of the toilet, no longer directs, with
the precision of a cannoneer, rapid discharges of scented atoms against
bristling batteries of his own creation. “The _barber’s_ occupation’s
gone,” with all the “pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious _wigs_!”

Methinks I detect some unfledged reader, upon whose head of hair the sun
of the eighteenth century never shone, glancing his “mind’s eye” to one
of the more recent and fashionable professors of the art of
“_ciseaurie_”--one of the chemical perfumers, or self-esteemed
practitioners of the present day, in search of an exemplification of my
description:--he is at fault. Though _he_ may deem Truefit or Macalpine
models of skill, and therefore of description, I must tell him I
recognise none such. I speak of the last generation, (between which and
the present, Ross, and Taylor of Whitechapel, are the connecting links,)
the last remnants of whom haunt the solitary, well-paved, silent
corners, and less frequented streets of London--whose windows exhibit no
waxen busts, bepainted and bedizened in fancy dresses and flaunting
feathers, but one or two “old original” blocks or _dummies_, crowned
with sober-looking, respectable, stiff-buckled, brown wigs, such as our
late venerable monarch used to wear. There is an aboriginal wig-maker’s
shop at the corner of an inn-yard in Bishopsgate-street; a “repository”
of hair; the window of which is full of these primitive caxons, all of a
sober brown, or simpler flaxen, with an occasional contrast of rusty
black, forming, as it were, a finis to the by-gone fashion. Had our
first forefather, Adam, been bald, he could not have worn a more simply
artificial imitation of nature than one of these wigs--so frank, so
sincere, and so _warm_ an apology for want of hair, scorning to deceive
the observer, or to crown the veteran head with adolescent curls. The
ancient wig, whether a simple scratch, a plain bob, or a splendid
periwig, was one which a man might modestly hold on one hand, while with
the other he wiped his bald pate; but with what grace could a modern
wig-wearer dismount a specific deception, an elaborate imitation of
natural curls to exhibit a hairless scalp? It would be either a censure
on his vanity, or a sarcasm on his otherwise unknown deficiency. The old
wig, on the contrary, was a plain acknowledgment of want of hair;
avowing the comfort, or the inconvenience, (as it might happen,) with an
independent indifference to mirth or pity; and forming a decent covering
to the head that sought not to become either a decoration or deceit.
Peace to the _manes_ of the primitive artificers of human hair--the true
skull-thatchers--the architects of towering toupees--the engineers of
flowing periwigs!

The wig-makers (as they still denominate themselves) in Lincoln’s-inn
and the Temple, are quite of the “old school.” Their shady, cool,
cleanly, classic recesses, where embryo chancellors have been measured
for their initiatory forensic wigs; where the powdered glories of the
bench have ofttimes received a _re_-revivification; where some “old
Bencher” still resorts, in his undress, to have his nightly growth of
beard shaven by the “particular razor;” these powder-scented nooks,
these legal dressing-closets seem, like the “statutes at large,” to
resist, tacitly but effectually, the progress of innovation. They are
like the old law offices, which are scattered up and down in various
corners of the intricate maze of “courts,” constituting the
“Temple”--unchangeable by time; except when the hand of death removes
some old tenant at will, who has been refreshed by the cool-borne
breezes from the river, or soothed by the restless monotony of the
plashing fountain, “sixty years since.”--But I grow serious.--The barber
possesses that distinction of gentleness, a soft and white hand, of
genial and equable temperature, neither falling to the “zero” of
chilliness, nor rising to the “fever heat” of perspiration, but usually
lingering at “blood heat.” I know not if any one ever shook hands with
his barber: there needs no such outward demonstration of goodwill; no
grip, like that we bestow upon an old friend returned after a long
absence, by way of rivet, as it were, to that link in the chain of
friendship. His air of courtesy keeps a good understanding floating
between him and his customers, which, if ruffled by a hasty departure,
or dismissal, is revived the next day by the sun-light of his morning
smile!

The barber’s hand is unlike that of any other soft hand: it is not
flabby, like that of a sensualist; nor arid, and thin, like a student’s;
nor dead white, like that of a delicate female; but it is _naturally_
warm, of a glowing, transparent colour, and of a cushiony, elastic
softness. Beneath its conciliatory touch, as it prepares the skin for
the sweeping course of the razor, and its gentle pressure, as it
inclines the head to either side, to aid the operation of the scissors,
a man may sit for hours, and feel no weariness. Happy must he be who
lived in the days of long, or full-dressed hair, and resigned himself
for a full hour to the passive luxury of hair-dressing! A morning’s
toilette--(for a gentleman, I mean; being a bachelor, I am uninitiated
in the arcana of a lady’s dressing-room)--a morning’s toilette in those
days was indeed an important part of the “business of life:” there were
the curling-irons, the comb, the pomatum, the powder-puff, the
powder-knife, the mask, and a dozen other requisites to complete the
elaborate process that perfected that mysterious “frappant, or
tintinabulant appendage” to the back part of the head. Oh! it must have
been a luxury--a delight surpassing the famed baths and cosmetics of the
east.

I have said that the barber is a gentle man; if not in so many words, I
have at least pointed out that distinguishing trait in him. He is also a
humane man: his occupation of torturing hairs leaves him neither leisure
nor disposition to torture ought else. He looks as respectable as he is;
and he is void of any appearance of deceit or cunning. There is less of
personality or egotism about him than mankind in general: though he
possesses an idiosyncrasy, it is that of his class, not of himself. As
he sits, patiently renovating some dilapidated peruke, or perseveringly
presides over the developement of grace in some intractable bush of
hair, or stands at his own threshold, in the cleanly pride of white
apron and hose, lustrous shoes, and exemplary jacket, with that studied
yet seeming disarrangement of hair, as though subduing, as far as
consistent with propriety, the visible appearance of technical skill--as
he thus, untired, goes the never-varying round of his pleasant
occupation, and active leisure, time seems to pass unheeded, and the
wheel of chance, scattering fragments of circumstance from the rock of
destiny, continues its relentless and unremittent revolution, unnoticed
by him. He hears not the roar of the fearful engine, the groans and
sighs of despair, or the wild laugh of exultation, produced by its
mighty working. All is remote, strange, and intricate, and belongs not
to him to know. He dwells in an area of peace--a magic circle whose area
might be described by his obsolete sign-pole!

Nor does the character of the barber vary in other countries. He seems
to flourish in unobtrusive prosperity all the world over. In the east,
the clime most congenial to his avocations, the voluminous beard makes
up for the deficiency of the ever-turbaned, close-shorn skull, and he
exhibits the triumph of his skill in its most special department.
Transport an English barber to Samarcand, or Ispahan, and, saving the
language, he would feel quite at home. Here he reads the newspaper, and,
unless any part is contradicted by his customers, he believes it all: it
is his oracle. At Constantinople the chief eunuch would confide to him
the secrets of the seraglio as if he were a genuine disciple of Mahomet;
and with as right good will as ever old “gossip” vented a bit of scandal
with unconstrained volubility of tongue. He would listen to, aye and put
faith in, the relations of the coffee-house story-tellers who came to
have their beards trimmed, and repaid him with one of their inventions
for his trouble. What a dissection would a barber’s brain afford, could
we but discern the mine of latent feuds and conspiracies laid up there
in coil, by their spleenful and mischievous inventors. I would that I
could unpack the hoarded venom, all hurtless in that “cool grot,” as
destructive stores are deposited in an arsenal, where light and heat
never come. His mind admits no spark of malice to fire the train of
jealousy, or explode the ammunition of petty strife; and it were well
for the world and society, if the intrigue and spite of its inhabitants
could be poured, like the “cursed juice of Hebenon,” into his ever-open
ear, and be buried for ever in the oblivious chambers of his brain. Vast
as the caverned ear of Dionysius the tyrant, his contains in its
labyrinthine recesses the collected scandal of neighbourhoods, the
chatter of households, and even the crooked policy of courts; but all is
decomposed and neutralized there. It is the very quantity of this
freight of plot and detraction that renders him so harmless. It is as
ballast to the sails of his judgment. He mixes in no conspiracy,
domestic or public. The foulest treason would remain “pure in the last
recesses of _his_ mind.” He knows not of, cares not for, feels no
interest in all this material of wickedness, any more than the
unconscious paper that bears on its lettered forehead the “sixth
edition” of a bulletin.

Amiable, contented, respected race!--I exclaim with Figaro, “Oh, that I
were a happy barber!”

  GASTON.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Books.~


THE KING OF INDIA’S LIBRARY.

Dabshelim, king of India, had so numerous a library, that a hundred
brachmans were scarcely sufficient to keep it in order; and it required
a thousand dromedaries to transport it from one place to another. As he
was not able to read all these books, he proposed to the brachmans to
make extracts from them of the best and most useful of their contents.
These learned personages set themselves so heartily to work, that in
less than twenty years they had compiled of all these extracts a little
encyclopædia of twelve thousand volumes, which thirty camels could carry
with ease. They had the honour to present it to the king. But, how great
was their amazement, on his giving them for answer, that it was
impossible for him to read thirty camel-loads of books. They therefore
reduced their extracts to fifteen, afterwards to ten, then to four, then
to two dromedaries, and at last there remained only so much as to load a
mule of ordinary stature.

Unfortunately, Dabshelim, during this process of melting down his
library, was grown old, and saw no probability of living to exhaust its
quintessence to the last volume. “Illustrious sultan,” said his vizir,
the sage Pilpay, “though I have but a very imperfect knowledge of your
royal library, yet I will undertake to deliver you a very brief and
satisfactory abstract of it. You shall read it through in one minute,
and yet you will find matter in it for reflecting upon throughout the
rest of your life.” Having said this, Pilpay took a palm leaf, and wrote
upon it with a golden style the four following sentences:--

1. The greater part of the sciences comprise but one single
word--_Perhaps_: and the whole history of mankind contains no more than
three--they are _born_, _suffer_, _die_.

2. Love nothing but what is good, and do all that thou lovest to do;
think nothing but what is true, and speak not all that thou thinkest.

3. O kings! tame your passions, govern yourselves; and it will be only
child’s play to you to govern the world.

4. O kings! O people! it can never be often enough repeated to you, what
the half-witted venture to doubt, that there is no happiness without
virtue, and no virtue without the fear of God.

       *       *       *       *       *


ENCOURAGEMENT TO AUTHORS.

Whether it is perfectly consistent in an author to solicit the
indulgence of the public, though it may stand first in his wishes,
admits a doubt; for, if his productions will not bear the light, it may
be said, why does he publish? but, if they will, there is no need to ask
a favour; the world receives one from him. Will not a piece
everlastingly be tried by its merit? Shall we esteem it the higher,
because it was written at the age of thirteen? because it was the effort
of a week? delivered extempore? hatched while the author stood upon one
leg? or cobbled, while he cobbled a shoe? or will it be a
recommendation, that it issues forth in gilt binding? The judicious
world will not be deceived by the tinselled purse, but will examine
whether the contents are sterling.

       *       *       *       *       *


POETICAL ADVICE.

_For the Table Book._

I have pleasure in being at liberty to publish a poetical letter to a
young poet from one yet younger; who, before the years of manhood, has
attained the height of knowing on what conditions the muse may be
successfully wooed, and imparts the secret to his friend. Some lines
towards the close, which refer to his co-aspirant’s effusions, are
omitted.

To R. R.

    To you, dear Rowland, lodg’d in town,
    Where Pleasure’s smile soothes Winter’s frown,
    I write while chilly breezes blow,
    And the dense clouds descend in snow.
    For Twenty-six is nearly dead,
    And age has whiten’d o’er her head;
    Her velvet robe is stripp’d away,
    Her watery pulses hardly play;
    Clogg’d with the withering leaves, the wind
    Comes with his blighting blast behind,
    And here and there, with prying eye,
    And flagging wings a bird flits by;
    (For every Robin _sparer_ grows,
    And every Sparrow _robbing_ goes.)
    The Year’s two eyes--the sun and moon--
    Are fading, and will fade full soon;[65]
    With shattered forces Autumn yields,
    And Winter triumphs o’er the fields.

    So thus, alas! I’m gagg’d it seems,
    From converse of the woods and streams,
    (For all the countless rhyming rabble
    Hold leaves can whisper-waters babble)
    And, house-bound for whole weeks together
    By stress of lungs, and stress of weather,
    Feed on the more delightful strains
    Of howling winds, and pelting rains;
    Which shake the house, from rear to van,
    Like valetudinarian;
    Pouring innumerable streams
    Of arrows, thro’ a thousand seams:
    Arrows so fine, the nicest eye
    Their thickest flight can ne’er descry,--
    Yet fashion’d with such subtle art,
    They strike their victim to the heart;
    While imps, that fly upon the point,
    Raise racking pains in every joint.

    Nay, more--these winds are thought magicians.
    And supereminent physicians:
    For men who have been kill’d outright,
    They cure again at dead of night.
    That double witch, who erst did dwell
    In Endor’s cave, raised Samuel;
    But they each night raise countless hosts
    Of wandering sprites, and sheeted ghosts;
    Turn shaking locks to clanking chains,
    And howl most supernatural strains:
    While all our dunces lose their wits,
    And pass the night in ague-fits.

    While this _nocturnal series blows_
    I hide my head beneath the clothes,
    And sue the power whose dew distils
    The only balm for human ills.
    All day the sun’s prevailing beam
    Absorbs this dew from Lethe’s stream:
    All night the falling moisture sheds
    Oblivion over mortal heads.
    Then sinking into sleep I fall,
    And leave them _piping_ at their _ball_.
    When morning comes--no summer’s morn--
    I wake and find the spectres gone;
    But on the casement see emboss’d
    A mimic world in crusted frost;
    Ice-bergs, high shores, and wastes of snow,
    Mountains above, and seas below;
    Or, if Imagination bids,
    Vast crystal domes, and pyramids.
    Then starting from my couch I leap,
    And shake away the dregs of sleep,
    Just breathe upon the grand array,
    And ice-bergs slide in seas away.

    Now on the scout I sally forth,
    The weather-cock due E. by N.
    To meet some masquerading fog,
    Which makes all nature dance incog.
    And spreads blue devils, and blue looks,
    Till exercised by tongues and books.

    Books, do I say? full well I wist
    A book’s a famous exorcist!
    A book’s the tow that makes the tether
    That binds the quick and dead together;
    A speaking trumpet under ground,
    That turns a silence to a sound;
    A magic mirror form’d to show,
    Worlds that were dust ten thousand years ago.
    They’re aromatic cloths, that hold
    The mind embalm’d in many a fold,
    And look, arrang’d in dust-hung rooms,
    Like mummies in Egyptian tombs;
    --Enchanted echoes, that reply,
    Not to the ear, but to the eye;
    Or pow’rful drugs, that give the brain,
    By strange contagion, joy or pain.

    A book’s the phœnix of the earth,
    Which bursts in splendour from its birth:
    And like the moon without her wanes,
    From every change new lustre gains;
    Shining with undiminish’d light,
    While ages wing their idle flight.

    By such a glorious theme inspired
    Still could I sing--but you are tired:
    (Tho’ adamantine lungs would do,
    Ears should be adamantine too,)
    And thence we may deduce ’tis better
    To answer (’faith ’tis time) your letter.

    To answer first what first it says.
    Why will you speak of partial praise?
    I spoke with honesty and truth,
    And now you seem to doubt them both.
    The lynx’s eye may seem to him,
    Who always has enjoy’d it, dim:
    And brilliant thoughts to you may be
    What common-place ones are to me.
    You note them not--but cast them by,
    As light is lavish’d by the sky;
    Or streams from Indian mountains roll’d
    Fling to the ocean grains of gold.
    But still we know the gold is fine--
    But still we know the light’s divine.

    As to the Century and Pope,
    The thought’s not so absurd, I hope.
    I don’t despair to see a throne
    Rear’d above his--and p’rhaps your own.
    The course is clear, the goal’s in view,
    ’Tis free to all, why not to you?

    But, ere you start, you should survey
    The towering falcon strike her prey:
    In gradual sweeps the sky she scales,
    Nor all at once the bird assails,
    But hems him in--cuts round the skies,
    And gains upon him as he flies.
    Wearied and faint he beats the air in vain,
    Then shuts his flaggy wings, and pitches to the plain.
    Now, falcon! now! One stoop--but one,
    The quarry’s struck--the prize is won!

    So he who hopes the palm to gain,
    So often sought--and sought in vain,
    Must year by year, as round by round,
    In easy circles leave the ground:
    ’Tis time has taught him how to rise,
    And naturalized him to the skies.
    Full many a day Pope trod the vales,
    Mid “silver streams and murmuring gales.”
    Long fear’d the rising hills to tread,
    Nor ever dared the mountain-head.

    It needs not Milton to display,--
    Who let a life-time slide away,
    Before he swept the sounding string,
    And soar’d on Pegasean wing,--
    Nor Homer’s ancient form--to show
    The Laurel takes an age to grow;
    And he who gives his name to fate,
    Must plant it early, reap it late;
    Nor pluck the blossoms as they spring,
    So beautiful, yet perishing.

           *       *       *       *       *

    More I would say--but, see, the paper
    Is nearly out--and so’s my taper.
    So while I’ve space, and while I’ve light,
    I’ll shake your hand, and bid good-night.

  F. P. H.

_Croydon, Dec. 17, 1826._

  [65]

    To shield this line from criticism--’Tis
    Parody--not Plagiarism.


       *       *       *       *       *


~Anecdotes.~


GENERAL WOLFE.

It is related of this distinguished officer, that his death-wound was
not received by the common chance of war.

Wolfe perceived one of the sergeants of his regiment strike a man under
arms, (an act against which he had given particular orders,) and knowing
the man to be a good soldier, reprehended the aggressor with much
warmth, and threatened to reduce him to the ranks. This so far incensed
the sergeant, that he deserted to the enemy, where he meditated the
means of destroying the general. Being placed in the enemy’s left wing,
which was directly opposed to the right of the British line, where Wolfe
commanded in person, he aimed at his old commander with his rifle, and
effected his deadly purpose.

       *       *       *       *       *


DR. KING--_His_ PUN.

The late Dr. King, of Oxford, by actively interfering in some measures
which materially affected the university at large, became very popular
with some individuals, and as obnoxious with others. The mode of
expressing disapprobation at either of the universities in the
senate-house, or schools, is by scraping with the feet: but deviating
from the usual custom, a party was made at Oxford to hiss the doctor at
the conclusion of a Latin oration he had to make in public. This was
accordingly done: the doctor, however, did not suffer himself to be
disconcerted, but turning round to the vice-chancellor, said, very
gravely, in an audible voice, “Laudatur ab _His_.”

       *       *       *       *       *


~February.~

Conviviality and good cheer may convert the most dreary time of the year
into a season of pleasure; and association of ideas, that great source
of our keenest pleasures, may attach delightful images to the howling
wind of a bleak winter’s night, and the hoarse screeching and mystic
hooting of the ominous owl.[66]

WINTER.

    When icicles hang by the wall,
      And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
    And Tom bears logs into the hall,
      And milk comes frozen home in pail;
        When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
        Then nightly sings the staring owl,
                Tu-who;
        Tu-whit tu-who, a merry note,
        While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

    When all aloud the wind doth blow,
      And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
    And birds sit brooding in the snow,
      And Marian’s nose looks red and raw:
        Then roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
        And nightly sings the staring owl,
                Tu-who;
        Tu-whit tu-who, a merry note,
        While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

  _Shakspeare._

To “keel” the pot is an ancient spelling for “cool,” which is the past
participle of the verb: see Tooke’s “Diversions of Purley,” where this
passage is so explained.

  [66] Dr. Forster’s Perennial Calendar.




Vol. I.--9.


[Illustration: ~Monument at Lucerne, designed by Thorwaldsen,~

TO THE MEMORY OF THE SWISS GUARDS WHO WERE MASSACRED AT THE TUILLERIES,
ON THE TENTH OF AUGUST, 1792.]

The engraving above is executed from a clay figure, modelled by a Swiss
artist from the original. It was obligingly sent to the editor, for the
present purpose, by the gentleman to whom it belongs. The model was
presented to him by a friend, who, in answer to his inquiries on the
subject, wrote him a letter, of which the following is an extract:--

“The _Terra Incognita_ you mention comes from Lucerne, in Switzerland,
and is the model of a colossal work, cut in the solid rock, close to
that city, on the grounds of general Pfyffer. It is from a design
furnished by Thorwaldsen, which is shown close by. The ‘L’envoi,’ as don
Armado calls it, is as follows:--‘The Helvetian lion, even in death,
protects the lilies of France.’ The monument was executed by the Swiss,
in memory of their countrymen, who were massacred, on the 10th of
August, at the Tuilleries, in defending Louis XVI. from the _sans
culottes_. The names of those who perished are engraved beneath the
lion.”

The particulars of the dreadful slaughter, wherein these helpless
victims fell, while defending the palace and the person of the
unfortunate monarch, are recorded in different works within the reach of
every person who desires to be acquainted with the frightful details.
About sixty who were not killed at the moment, were taken prisoners, and
conducted to the town-hall of the commons of Paris, for summary trial:
but the ferocious females who mingled in the mobs of those terrifying
times, rushed in bodies to the place, with cries of vengeance, and the
unhappy men were delivered up to their fury, and every individual was
murdered on the spot.


~Garrick Plays.~

No. VI.

  [From the “Chaste Maid in Cheapside,” a Comedy, by Thomas Middleton,
  1620.]

_Citizen to a Knight complimenting his Daughter._

    Pish, stop your words, good Knight, ’twill make her blush else,
    Which are wound too high for the Daughters of the Freedom;
    Honour, and Faithful Servant! they are compliments
    For the worthy Ladies of White Hall or Greenwich;
    Ev’n plain, sufficient, subsidy words serve us, Sir.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Master Allwit (a Wittol) describes his contentment._

                      I am like a man
    Finding a table furnish’d to his hand,
    (As mine is still for me), prays for the Founder,
    Bless the Right worshipful, the good Founder’s life:
    I thank him, he[67] has maintain’d my house these ten years;
    Not only keeps my Wife, but he keeps me.
    He gets me all my children, and pays the nurse
    Weekly or monthly, puts me to nothing,
    Rent, nor Church dues, not so much as the Scavenger;
    The happiest state that ever man was born to.
    I walk out in a morning, come to breakfast,
    Find excellent cheer, a good fire in winter;
    Look in my coal-house, about Midsummer eve,
    That’s full, five or six chaldron new laid up;
    Look in my back yard, I shall find a steeple
    Made up with Kentish <DW19>s, which o’erlooks
    The water-house and the windmills. I say nothing,
    But smile, and pin the door. When she lies in,
    (As now she’s even upon the point of grunting),
    A Lady lies not in like her; there’s her imbossings,
    Embroiderings, spanglings, and I know not what,
    As if she lay with all the gaudy shops
    In Gresham’s Burse about her; then her restoratives,
    Able to set up a young ’Pothecary,
    And richly store the Foreman of a Drug shop;
    Her sugars by whole loaves, her wines by rundlets,
    I see these things, but like a happy man
    I pay for none at all, yet fools think it mine;
    I have the name, and in his gold I shine:
    And where some merchants would in soul kiss hell,
    To buy a paradise for their wives, and dye
    Their conscience in the blood of prodigal heirs,
    To deck their Night-piece; yet, all this being done,
    Eaten with jealousy to the inmost bone;
    These torments stand I freed of. I am as clear
    From jealousy of a wife, as from the charge.
    O two miraculous blessings! ’tis the Knight,
    Has ta’en that labour quite out of my hands.
    I may sit still, and play; he’s jealous for me,
    Watches her steps, sets spies. I live at ease.
    He has both the cost and torment; when the string
    Of his heart frets, I feed fat, laugh, or sing.

           *       *       *       *       *

    I’ll go bid Gossips[68] presently myself,
    That’s all the work I’ll do; nor need I stir,
    But that it is my pleasure to walk forth
    And air myself a little; I am tyed
    To nothing in this business; what I do
    Is merely recreation, not constraint.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Rescue from Bailiffs by the Watermen._

    ----I had been taken by eight Serjeants,
    But for the honest Watermen, I am bound to ’em.
    They are the most requiteful’st people living;
    For, as they get their means by Gentlemen,
    They’re still the forward’st to help Gentlemen.
    You heard how one ’scaped out of the Blackfriars[69]
    But a while since from two or three varlets,
    Came into the house with all their rapiers drawn,
    As if they’d dance the sword-dance on the stage,
    With candles in their hands, like Chandlers’ Ghosts!
    Whilst the poor Gentleman, so pursued and banded,
    Was by an honest pair of oars safe landed.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From “London Chanticleers,” a rude Sketch of a Play, printed 1659,
  but evidently much older.]

_Song in praise of Ale._

1.

    Submit, Bunch of Grapes,
    To the strong Barley ear;
    The weak Wine no longer
    The laurel shall wear.

2.

    Sack, and all drinks else,
    Desist from the strife;
    Ale’s the only Aqua Vitæ,
    And liquor of life.

3.

    Then come, my boon fellows,
    Let’s drink it around;
    It keeps us from grave,
    Though it lays us on ground.

4.

    Ale’s a Physician,
    No Mountebank Bragger;
    Can cure the chill Ague,
    Though it be with the Stagger.

5.

    Ale’s a strong Wrestler,
    Flings all it hath met;
    And makes the ground slippery,
    Though it be not wet.

6.

    Ale is both Ceres,
    And good Neptune too;
    Ale’s froth was the sea,
    From which Venus grew.

7.

    Ale is immortal;
    And be there no stops
    In bonny lads’ quaffing,
    Can live without hops.[70]

8.

    Then come, my boon fellows,
    Let’s drink it around;
    It keeps us from grave,
    Though it lays us on ground.

  C. L.

  [67] A rich old Knight, who keeps Allwit’s Wife.

  [68] To his Wife’s Lying-in.

  [69] Alsatia, I presume.

  [70] The original distinction of Beer from the old Drink of our
  Forefathers, which was made without that ingredient.

       *       *       *       *       *


~The Drama.~


CHARLOTTE CHARKE.

The novel called “Mr. Dumont,” by this unfortunate woman, was published
in the year 1755 in one volume, twelves, by H. Slater, of Drury-lane,
who may be presumed to have been the bookseller that accompanied Mr.
Whyte to her miserable dwelling, for the purpose of hearing her read the
manuscript. Since the account at col. 125, I met with an advertisement
of November, 1742, from whence it appears that she and her daughter,
“_Miss_ Charke,” performed at one of those places of public amusement at
that period, when, to evade the law, under pretence of a musical
entertainment, a play and the usual afterpiece were frequently
represented by way of divertisement, although they constituted the sole
attraction. The notice referred to is altogether a curiosity: it runs
thus:--

“_For the Benefit of a Person who has a mind to get Money_: AT THE NEW
THEATRE in James-street near the Haymarket, on Monday next, will be
performed a CONCERT of vocal and instrumental Musick, divided into TWO
PARTS. Boxes 3_s._ Pit 2_s._ Gallery 1_s._ Between the two parts of the
Concert will be performed a _Tragedy_, call’d THE FATAL CURIOSITY,
written by the late Mr. Lillo, author of George Barnwell. The part of
Mrs. Wilmot by _Mrs._ CHARKE (who originally performed it at the
Haymarket;) _The rest of the parts by a Set of People who will perform
as well as they can, if not as well as they wou’d, and the best can do
no more_. With variety of Entertainments, viz. Act I. A Preamble on the
Kettle drums, by Mr. Job Baker, particularly, _Larry Grovy_, accompanied
with French Horns. Act II. A new Peasant Dance by Mons. Chemont and
Madem Peran, just arriv’d piping hot from the Opera at Paris. To which
will be added a Ballad-Opera, call’d THE DEVIL TO PAY; The part of Nell
by _Miss_ CHARKE _who performed Princess Elizabeth at Southwark_.
Servants will be allow’d to keep places on the stage--Particular care
will be taken to perform with the utmost decency, and to prevent
mistakes, the Bills for the day will be blue and black, &c.”

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


THE BLOODY HAND.

_For the Table Book._

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

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

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

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

  I am, sir,

  1827.

  -- --.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Music.~


ORGANS IN CHURCHES.


THE TEMPLE CHURCH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [71] Hawkins.

       *       *       *       *       *


MISERIES OF TRAVELLING.


STEAM _versus_ COACH.

_For the Table Book._

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

  _Don Juan_, c. 10. v. 72.

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


_Stage-coach Adventures_.

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

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

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

  GASPARD.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE UGLY CLUB.

_From a New York Paper._

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

  HIS HOMELINESS.

  _Aug. 13._

       *       *       *       *       *


~Antiquities.~


SCIPIO’S SHIELD.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


[Illustration: ~A Bronze Antique, found in the Thames,~

IN DIGGING FOR THE FOUNDATION OF NEW LONDON BRIDGE, JANUARY, 1827.]

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

_To the Editor._

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: ~Another View of the same ancient Bronze~,

SHOWING THE MOUTH, AND THE ORIFICE AT THE TOP OF THE HEAD.]

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

  I remain, yours, respectfully,

  M. BLACKMORE.

  _Wandsworth, Feb. 9, 1827._

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


JACK O’ LENT.

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

    ---------“Throwing cudgels
    At _Jack a Lents_ or Shrove-cocks.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the “Jack o’ _Lent_,” we derive the familiar term among children,
“Jack o’ _Lanthorn_.”

  [72] Brand’s Popular Antiquities.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Shrove Tuesday~

AND

~Ash Wednesday.~

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

  [73] The _Every-Day Book._

  [74] Miss Plumptre.


~Quinquagesima.~


CARNIVAL IN SPAIN.

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

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

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

  [75] Doblado’s Letters from Spain.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE LIEGE ALMANAC.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [76] Repository of Arts.

       *       *       *       *       *


DISCOVERY OF MADEIRA.

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

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

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


TOMB OF MACHAM’S ANNA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Health.~


GOOD EATING.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Books.~


READING ALOUD.

BY MARGARET DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE.

1671.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Aphorisms.~

BY LAVATER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Manners.~


THE PARLIAMENT CLUBS.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


RIGHT AND LEFT HAND.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


THE DEATH OF LEILA.

_For the Table Book_.

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

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

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

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

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

  B. W. R.

_Islington_, 1827.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Omniana.~


RATTING.

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


BUNGAY HAND-BILL.

(_Copy._)

PONY LOST.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


NOMINATIVE CASE.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


DISCOUNT FOR CASH.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


SPORTING.

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

  [77] Dr. Aikin’s Athenæum.


~March.~


“STOP AND READ.”

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

THE FIRST OF MARCH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




Vol. I.--10.


[Illustration: ~The Story of the Scotch Soldier.~]

    “Upon my soul it’s a fact.”

  MATTHEWS--_and Self_.

_For the Table Book._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  J. J. K.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Highland Legend.~

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

THE LADY OF THE HILL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  W. F. D.--_Indicator._


~Marriage Customs.~


HIGHLAND WEDDINGS.

BY JOHN HAY ALLAN, ESQ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


FLINGING THE STOCKING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. VII.

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

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

_Scene, a Tavern._

_Rainsworth, Foster, Goodwin. To them enters Frank Forest._

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

    _Exeunt._

_Enter Two Drawers._

_1st Dr._ Stay the gentlemen, they have killed a man. O sweet Mr.
Francis. One run to his father’s.

_2d Dr._ Hark, hark, I hear his father’s voice below ’tis ten to one he
is come to fetch him home to supper and now he may carry him home to his
grave.

    _Enter the Host, old Forest, and Susan his daughter._

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

    _Enter young Mr. Forest._

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

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

_Men._

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

_Women._

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

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

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ~Billy Boots.~]

_For the Table Book._

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

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

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

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

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

  K.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~The Drama.~


“THE GREAT UNKNOWN”

KNOWN.

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

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

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

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

This toast was drank with enthusiastic cheering.

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

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

Sir WALTER SCOTT.--“_Not unknown now_, Mr. Bailie.”

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

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

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

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

_Glee_--“Lightly tread his hallowed ground.”

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Hot Meals.~


POWELL, THE FIRE-EATER.

    “Oh! for a muse of _fire_!”

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

  _Ashbourn, Derbyshire, Jan. 20, 1755._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

GENIUS UNREWARDED.

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

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

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

O tempora! O mores![81]

  [81] Lounger’s Common Place Book




Vol. I.--11.


[Illustration: ~March Fair, at Brough, Westmoreland.~]

_For the Table Book_

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

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

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

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

Jack Deighton mostly plays at the greatest dance, namely, at the Swan
inn; and his companion, Horn, at one of the others; the dances are
merely jigs, three reels, and four reels, and country dances, and _no
more_ than three sets can dance at a time. It is a matter of course to
give the fiddler a penny or two-pence each dance; sometimes however
another set slips in after the tune’s begun, and thus trick the player.
By this time nearly all the stalls are cleared away, and the “merry
neet” is the only place to resort to for amusement. The fiddle and
clarinet are to be heard every where; and it is astonishing what money
is taken by the fiddlers. Some of the “spice wives,” too, stop till the
next morning, and go round with their cakes at intervals, which they
often sell more of than before.

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

  W. H. H.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE TWELVE GEMS

OF THE TWELVE MONTHS.

_For the Table Book._

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

JANUARY.

_Jacinth_, or _Garnet_ denotes constancy and fidelity in every
engagement.

FEBRUARY.

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

MARCH.

_Bloodstone_ denotes courage and secrecy in dangerous enterprises.

APRIL.

_Sapphire_, or _Diamond_ denotes repentance and innocence.

MAY.

_Emerald_, successive love.

JUNE.

_Agate_ ensures long life and health.

JULY.

_Ruby_, or _Cornelian_ ensures the forgetfulness or cure of evils
springing from friendship or love.

AUGUST.

_Sardonix_ ensures conjugal felicity.

SEPTEMBER.

_Chrysolite_ preserves from, or cures folly.

OCTOBER.

_Aquamarine_, or _Opal_ denotes misfortune and hope.

NOVEMBER.

_Topaz_ ensures fidelity and friendship.

DECEMBER.

_Turquoise_, or _Malakite_ denotes the most brilliant success and
happiness in every circumstance of life.

  E. M. S.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. VIII.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

_Song._

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

_Dirge._

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

_Another._

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

           *       *       *       *       *

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

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

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Necromancy.~


THE DEAN OF BADAJOS.

BY THE ABBE BLANCHET.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don Torribio, without being alarmed, immediately repeated the three
mysterious words which the reader was desired to remember; and going to
a window, cried out with all his force, “Jacintha, you need spit but one
partridge; for my friend, the dean, will _not_ sup here to-night.”

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Phrenology.~

_For the Table Book._

    “You look but on the _outside_ of affairs.”

  KING JOHN.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


TO THE RHONE

_For the Table Book._

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

  B. W. R.

  _Upper Park Terrace._

       *       *       *       *       *


ADVICE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ~Tommy Sly, of Durham.~]

_For the Table Book._

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

  EX DUNELMENSIS.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Topography.~


WESTMINSTER ABBEY.


BURIAL FEES.

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

FEES

  In the _Cloisters_                                           £19  6  0

  If a grave-stone _more_                          £4  4  0

  In the _Abbey_                                                54 18  0

  If a grave-stone _more_                           7  7  0

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

  Mr. Glanvill can tell about the decorations.

  Penalty for burying in linen                                   2 10  0

  Always take full particulars of age and death.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~St. David’s Day.~


THE LEEK.

_Written by_ WILLIAM LEATHART, _Llywydd_.

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

AIR--_Pen Rhaw_.

I.

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

II.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


THE WELSH HARP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

           *       *       *       *       *

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

           *       *       *       *       *

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

           *       *       *       *       *

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

           *       *       *       *       *

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

           *       *       *       *       *

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

           *       *       *       *       *

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

           *       *       *       *       *

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

           *       *       *       *       *

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WINTER’S MORN.

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

  SOTHEBY.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Characters.~


MRS. AURELIA SPARR.

_For the Table Book._

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

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

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

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

  N.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Wine.~


EWART’S OLD PORT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  E.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Beauty.~


A NATURAL COMPLIMENT.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ.

BY SIR WILLIAM JONES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


“OUR LIVES AND PROPERTIES.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [84] History of Birmingham.

       *       *       *       *       *


A MUSICAL CRASH.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


FASHIONABLE RELIGION.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


A POLITE TOWN.

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




Vol. I.--12.


[Illustration: ~Ancient British Pillar, Valle Crucis Abbey, North
Wales.~]

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

  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Hard Fare.~


ACCOUNT OF A STONE-EATER.

BY FATHER PAULIAN.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A STONE EATER.

A FRAGMENT.

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


FRANCIS BATTALIA.

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

  [86] Gentleman’s Magazine.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. IX.

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

_Proverb-monger_.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_She Wit._

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_Master Goursey proposes to his Son a Wife_.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_Wandering in the dark all night._

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

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

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Characters.~


AGRESTILLA.

_For the Table Book._

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

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

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

We arrived at the place of our destination; my mind expanded with
pleasure at the sight of large rooms, wide staircases, and windows
affording the prospect of verdure. The stone-floors and the paucity of
window curtains, to say nothing of blinds to exclude the sun, appeared
to me inconveniences to be remedied by the expenditure of a few francs;
but Agrestilla, as pertinacious in her serenity as Althea in her
querulousness, decided that we ought to take things in the rough, and
make anything do “in the country.” Scraps of carpet and ells of muslin
are attainable by unassisted effort, stimulated by necessity, and I
acquired and maintained tolerable ease of mind and body, till we came to
discuss together the grand article of society. My maxim is, the best or
none at all. I love conversation, but hate feasting and visiting.
Agrestilla lays down no maxim, but her practice is, good if possible--if
not, second-best; at all events, a number of guests and frequent
parties. Though she is not vain of her mind or of her person, yet the
display of fine clothes and good dishes, and the secret satisfaction of
shining forth the queen of her company, make up her enjoyment:
Agrestilla’s taste is gregarious. To my extreme sorrow and apprehension,
we received an invitation to dine with a family unknown to me, and
living nine miles off! To refuse was impossible, the plea of
preengagement is inadmissible with people who tell you to “choose your
day,” and as to pretending to be sick, I hold it to be presumptuous and
wicked. The conveyance was to be a cart! the time of departure six in
the morning! Terrified and aghast, I demanded, “How are we to get
through the day?” No work! no books! no subjects of mutual interest to
talk upon!--“Oh! dear me, time soon passes ‘in the country;’ we shall be
three hours going, the roads are very bad, then comes breakfast, and
then walking round the garden, and then dinner and coming home early.”
This invitation hung over my mind like an incubus,--like an eye-tooth
firm in the head to be wrenched out,--like settling-day to a defaulter,
or auricular confession to a ceremonious <DW7> and bad liver. My only
hope was in the weather. The clouds seemed to be for ever filling and
for ever emptying, like the pitchers of the Danaides. The street, court,
and garden became all impassable, without the loan of Celestine’s
_sabots_ (anglice wooden shoes.) Celestine is a stout Norman girl, who
washes the dishes, and wears a holland-mob and a linsey-woolsey
petticoat. Certainly, thought I, in my foolish security, while this
deluge continues nobody will think of visiting “in the country.” But
vain and illusive was my hope! Agrestilla declared her intention of
keeping her engagement “if it rained cats and dogs;” and the weather
cleared up on the eve of my execution, and smiled in derision of my woe.
The cart came. Jemmy Dawson felt as much anguish in his, but he did not
feel it so long. We were lumbered with inside packages, bundles, boxes,
and baskets, accumulated by Agrestilla; I proposed their being secured
with cords (_lashed_ is the sea-term) to prevent them from rolling
about, crushing our feet and grazing our legs at every jolt.
Agrestilla’s politeness supprest an exclamation of amazement, that
people could mind such trifles “in the country!”--for her part, she
never made difficulties.--Being obliged to maintain the equilibrium of
my person by clinging to each side of the cart with my two hands, I had
much to envy those personages of the Hindû mythology, who are provided
with six or seven arms: as for my bonnet it was crushed into all manner
of shapes, my brain was jarred and concussed into the incapacity to tell
whether six and five make eleven or thirteen, and my feet were “all
murdered,” as the Irish and French say. What exasperated my sufferings
was the reflection on my own folly in incurring so much positive evil,
to pay and receive a mere compliment! Had it been to take a reprieve to
a dear friend going to be hanged, to carry the news of a victory, or
convey a surgeon to the wounded, I should have thought nothing and said
less of the matter; but for a mere dinner among strangers, a long day
without interest and occupation!--really I consider myself as having
half incurred the guilt of suicide. Six or seven times at least, the
horse, painfully dragging us the whole way by the strain of every nerve
and sinew, got stuck in the mud, and was to be flogged till he plunged
out of it. More than once we tottered upon ridges of incrusted mud, when
a very little matter would have turned us over. I say nothing about
_Rut_land--I abhor and disdain a pun--but we did nothing but cross ruts
to avoid puddles, and cross them back again to avoid stones, and the
ruts were all so deep as to leave but one semicircle of the wheel
visible. I never saw such roads--the Colossus of Rhodes would have been
knee-deep in them. At last we arrived--Agrestilla as much out of
patience at my calling it an evil to have my shins bruised black and
blue, while engaged in a party of pleasure “in the country,” as I to
find the expedition all pain and no pleasure. We turned out of the cart
in very bad condition; all our dress “clean put on,” as the housewives
say, rumpled and soiled, our limbs stiff, our faces flushed, and by far
too fevered to eat, and too weary to walk. How I thought, like a
shipwrecked mariner, not upon my own “fireside,” as English novelists
always say, but upon my quiet, comfortable room, books, work,
independence, and _otium_ with or without _dignitate_ (let others decide
that.) Oh! the _fag_ of talking when one has nothing to say, smiling
when one is ready to cry, and accepting civilities when one feels them
all to be inflictions! Of the habits, the manners, the appearance, and
the conversation of our hosts, I will relate nothing; I have eaten their
bread, as the Arabs say, and owe them the tribute of thanks and silence.
Agrestilla was as merry as possible all day; she has lived in the
company of persons of sense and education, but--nobody expects
refinement “in the country!” In vain I expostulate with her, pleading in
excuse of what she terms my fastidiousness, that I cannot change my
fixed notions of elegance, propriety, and comfort, to conform to the
habits of those to whom such terms are as _lingua franca_ to a Londoner,
what he neither understands nor cares for.

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

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

  N.

       *       *       *       *       *

FEMALE FRIENDSHIP.

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

  _Miss Mitford._

       *       *       *       *       *

LINES TO A SPARROW.

WHO COMES TO MY WINDOW EVERY MORNING FOR HIS BREAKFAST.

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

            I’m afraid it’s too plain
            You’re a villain in _grain_,
    But in that you resemble your neighbours,
            For mankind have agreed
            It is right to _suck seed_,
    Then, like you, _hop the twig_ with their labours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [87] Examiner Feb. 12, 1815.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ~Hut. Alderson, Bellman of Durham.~]

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

  OLD SONG.


THE BISHOP OF BUTTERBY.

A SKETCH, BY ONE OF HIS PREBENDARIES.

_For the Table Book_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SAINT GILES

_His Holie Legend_:

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

1.

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

2.

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

3.

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

4.

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

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

6.

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

7.

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

8.

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

9.

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

10.

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

11.

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

12.

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

_Finis coronat opus._

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

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

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

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

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

  THREE RINGS--_Ding dong! ding dong! ding dong!_

  _Hut._ To be sold by auction--

  _1 Boy._ Speak up! speak up! Hut.

  _Hut._ Hod your jaw--at the Queen’s _heed_ in--

  _2 Boy._ The town of Butterby.

  _Hut._ I’ll smash your heed wi’ the bell--the Queen’s _heed_ in the
  _Bailya_--a large collection of--

  _3 Boy._ Pews, pulpits, and organs.

  _Hut._ I’ll rap your canister--of valuable--_buiks_ the property of--

  _1 Boy._ The bishop of Butterby.

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

  _2 Boy._ Tommy Sly--

  _Hut._ Mr. Thwaites on the premises: the sale to commence at seven
  o’clock in the evening _prizizely_.

  _All._ Huih! hooeh! hooeh!

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

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

  R. I. P.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

  _March 12, 1827._

  [88] Vide Mr. Dixon’s View of Durham.

  [89] Ibid.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


THE DRAYMAN.

_For the Table Book._

    Lie heavy on him, _earth_! for he
    Laid many a _heavy load_ on thee.

  _Epig._ 23, CHRISTMAS _Treat_.

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

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

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

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

  J. R. P.

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *


SONNET.

FROM THE SPANISH OF QUEVEDO.

_For the Table Book._

“_En el mundo naciste, no a emmendarle._”

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


ACQUAINTANCE TABLE.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~The Royal Table.~


ORIGIN OF

MARKING THE KING’S DISHES

WITH THE COOKS’ NAMES.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


MONEY--WEIGHTS AND MEASURES.

POUND, is derived from the Latin word _pondus_.

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


OLD MUG-HOUSES.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


“AS DRUNK AS DAVID’S SOW.”

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

       *       *       *       *       *


SINGULAR RETURN.

_For the Table Book._

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

“STREET.”

_Baker-street_--badly paved--rascally lighted--with one old woman of a
watchman.

“TITLE, QUALITY, CALLING, OR BUSINESS.”

No _title_--no _quality_--no _calling_, except when my wife and sixteen
children call for bread and butter--and as for _business_, I _have_
none. Times are bad, and there’s no _business_ to be done.

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

No _freehold_ property--no _copyhold_ property--no _leasehold_ property.
In fact, no _property_ at all! I live by my _wits_, as one half of the
world live, and am therefore NOT _qualified_.

  GASPARD.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Suburban Sonnets.~

I.

ISLINGTON.

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

II.

HAGBUSH LANE.

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

III.

HIGHGATE.

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

  J. G.

_Islington._




Vol. I.--13.


[Illustration: ~Shepherd’s Well, Hampstead.~]

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

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

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

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

  *

  _March 19, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. X.

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

_Cripple offers to fit Frank Golding with ready made Love Epistles._

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

    Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds,
    But Harry Harry!

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

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

  C. L.

  [92] The full title of this Play is “The Fair Maid of the Exchange,
  with the humours of the <DW36> of Fenchurch.” The above Satire
  against some Dramatic Plagiarists of the time, is put into the mouth
  of the <DW36>, who is an excellent fellow, and the Hero of the
  Comedy. Of his humour this extract is a sufficient specimen; but he is
  described (albeit a tradesman, yet wealthy withal) with heroic
  qualities of mind and body; the latter of which he evinces by rescuing
  his Mistress (the Fair Maid) from three robbers by the main force of
  one crutch lustily applied; and the former by his foregoing the
  advantages which this action gained him in her good opinion, and
  bestowing his wit and finesse in procuring for her a husband, in the
  person of his friend Golding, more worthy of her beauty, than he could
  conceive his own maimed and halting limbs to be. It would require some
  boldness in a dramatist now-a-days to exhibit such a Character; and
  some luck in finding a sufficient Actor, who would be willing to
  personate the infirmities, together with the virtues, of the Noble
  <DW36>.

       *       *       *       *       *


ERRATA.

GARRICK PLAYS, NO. IX.

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

    “Blushing forth golden hair and glorious red”--

a sun-bright line spoiled:--

    _Blush_ for _Blushing_.

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

    “Restrained liberty attain’d is sweet,”

should have a full stop.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


SNUFF AND TOBACCO.

_For the Table Book._

In the year 1797 was circulated the following:--

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

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

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

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

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

  W. P.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE SMOKER’S SONG.

_For the Table Book._

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

  CHARLES LAMB.

1.

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

2.

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

3.

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

4.

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

5.

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

6.

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

7.

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

8.

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

9.

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

10.

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

11.

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

12.

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

  O. N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Old Customs and Manners~

BY JOHN AUBREY, 1678

EX MS. COLL. ASHMOL. MUS. OXFORD.


_Education._

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


_Chimneys._

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


_Painted Cloths._

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


_Libels._

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


_Christmas._

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


_Easter._

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


_Salutations._

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


_Court Rudeness._

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


_Travellers in France._

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


_Private Heralds._

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

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

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

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

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

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


_Private Armories._

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


_Justices’ Halls._

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


_Inns._

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


_Gentry Meetings._

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


_Hawking._

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


_Church-houses--Poor-rates._

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

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


_Glass Windows._

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


_Men’s Coats._

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


_Church-building._

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

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


_New Moon._

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


_Husbandry--Shepherds._

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


_Architecture._

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

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


_Trumpets--Sheriffs’ Trumpets._

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


_Younger Brothers._

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


_Learning, and learned Men._

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


_Gentry and their Children._

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

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

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


_Fans._

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


_University Flogging._

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


[Illustration: ~Young Lambs to sell.~]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  *

  _March 19, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


LINES ON HAPPINESS.

_For the Table Book._

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

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

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

  J. B. O.

       *       *       *       *       *


HUMAN LIFE.

BY GOETHE.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


VALEDICTORY STANZAS.

_For the Table Book._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  H.

       *       *       *       *       *


EFFECT OF CONSCIENCE.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Anecdotes~

OF

HENRY THE GREAT.


PUBLIC LIBEL.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


LIBELLOUS DRAMA.

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

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

  [93] Perefixe.

  [94] L’Etoile, Hist. d’Henri IV.

       *       *       *       *       *


CUSTOM AT SCARBOROUGH.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


LINES TO A BARREL ORGAN.

_For the Table Book._

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

  GASTON.

       *       *       *       *       *


MINISTERIAL FAVOUR.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


DUDLEY OF PORTSMOUTH.

“I’M A GOING!”

_For the Table Book._

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

  JEHOIADA.

       *       *       *       *       *


ROYAL DECISION.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Biographiana.~


REV. THOMAS COOKE.

_To the Editor._

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

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

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

    “Cooke shall be Prior, and Concanen Swift;”

to which the following note is appended:--

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

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

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

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

  “_Mr. Thomas Cooke_,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I remain, sir,

  Your obedient servant and subscriber,

  * * * *   * * * * * * * *

  _Oxford, Jan. 29, 1827._


VERSES,

OCCASIONED BY THE LAMENTED DEATH OF MR. ALEXANDER POPE.

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

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

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

  THOMAS COOKE.

       *       *       *       *       *


DUKE OF YORK

ALBANY AND CLARENCE.

_For the Table Book._

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

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

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

  ~M.~

       *       *       *       *       *


DOMESTIC ARRANGEMENTS.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Riddle.~


A LITERARY CHARACTER.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *


ANSWER

TO THE PRECEDING.

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

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

  _Cheltenham._

       *       *       *       *       *


THE MERRY MONARCH,

AND “BLYTHE COCKPEN.”

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Topography.~


SINGULAR INTERMENT.

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

  “Samuel Baldwin, esq. sojourner in this parish, was _immersed_,
  without the Needles, _sans cérémonie_, May 20.”

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

       *       *       *       *       *


ODD SIGNS.

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

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

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

    Pray SUP-PORTER.




Vol. I.--14.


[Illustration: ~Elvet Bridge, Durham.~]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XI.

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

_The free humour of a Noble Housekeeper._

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

_Excess of Epithets, enfeebling to Poetry._

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

_Doggrell, the foolish Poet, described._

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

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

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

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

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

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


ANCIENT WAGGERY.

_For the Table Book._

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


_How Maister Hobson hung out a lanterne and candlelight._

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

       *       *       *       *       *


_How Maister Hobson found out the Pye-stealer._

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


THE FIRST VIOLET.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


YORKSHIRE SAYING.

_For the Table Book._

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

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

  T. Q. M.

       *       *       *       *       *


TO CONTENTMENT.

I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

  [96] From Dunton’s “Athenian Sport.”

       *       *       *       *       *


~Biography.~


PIETRE METASTASIO.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


A DEATH-BED:

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

_For the Table Book._

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

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

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

  _London, 10 Feb. 1827._

  L.

       *       *       *       *       *


LINES

FOR THE

TABLE BOOK.

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

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

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

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

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

  _February 21, 1827._

  AMICUS.

       *       *       *       *       *


WAVERLEY.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~A Young Artist’s Letter~

FROM SWITZERLAND.

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

  EXTRACT,

  _Interlaken, Switzerland._

  Sunday, Sept. 10, 1826.

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

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

[Illustration]

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

[Illustration]

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

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

Interlaken is surrounded by mountains, and its scenery for sketches
delicious. It is a village, built nearly all of wood; the houses are
the prettiest things I ever saw: they are in this way,

[Illustration]

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

[Illustration]

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

[Illustration]

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Gretna Green Marriages.~


THE BLACKSMITH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who are you, Laing?

Why, I live in Springfield.

Well, what did you do in this affair?

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

Did you know them?

I did not.

Do you see them in court?

Why, no I cannot say.

What did you do?

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

What did they do then?

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

In fact, you married them after the usual way?

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

Were they both agreeable?

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

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

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

What else did you do?

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

Where did she get the note?

How do I know.

What did the gentleman say to you?

Oh, you ask what did he treat me with.

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

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

Did you give them a certificate?

Oh! yes, I gave it to the lady.

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

Did the gentleman and lady converse freely with you?

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

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

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

Yes, sure I did, and so and so.

Well, how much?

Thirty or forty pounds or thereabouts, as may be.

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

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

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

O yes, it is in the old common form.

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

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

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

Never.

How long are you practising this delightful art?

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

How old are you?

I am now beyond seventy-five.

What do you do to get your livelihood?

I do these.

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

I was a gentleman.

What do you call a gentleman?

Being sometimes poor, sometimes rich.

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

I followed many occupations.

Were you not an ostler?

No, I were not.

What else were you then?

Why, I was a merchant once.

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

Yes, may be.

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

Never.

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

That is not the general way altogether.

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

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

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

I do not say that, as it may be.

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

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

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

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

  _Re-examined_ by Mr. SCARLETT.

Well, is it the irregular mode?

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

You mean your own good old unregular mode?

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

What form of words do you use?

Why, you come before me, and say--

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

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

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

Here the blacksmith’s examination terminated.

       *       *       *       *       *


SPRING.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Eccentric Biography.~


JAMES CHAMBERS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


~Vauxhall.~

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

_For the Table Book._

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

_Seen dispersedly in various parts of the gardens._

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

_Miss Arabella._ Mamma, is that the lady mayoress, with the _ostridge_
feathers, and the pink satin gown?

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

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

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

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

_Mr. Greenfat._ That’s the _Hawkestraw_.

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

_Miss Arabella._ Does that lady sing in French, mamma?

_Mrs. Greenfat._ No, child, it’s a _senthemental_ air, and they never
have no meaning?

_Miss Theodosia._ That’s the _overthure_ to _Friedshots_; Eelskin, do
you like it?

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

_Mr. Greenfat._ I hates this squalling. (_Bell rings._) What’s that for?

_Mr. Eelskin._ That’s for the _fant-toe-sheeni_, and the balancing man.

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

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

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

_Master Peter._ My stars, sister, he’s got a _bagginette_ on his nose!

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Mr. John, will you put little Humphy on your shoulder,
and show him the _fant-oh-see-ne_?

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

_Mr. Greenfat._ I can see this in the streets for nothing.

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

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

_Master Peter._ Oh, I’m so hot. (_Bell rings._)

_Mr. Eelskin._ That’s for the _hyder-hawlics_. We’d better go into the
gallery, and then the ladies won’t be in the crowd.

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

_Mr. Eelskin._ Admission to the gallery is _hextra_.

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

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

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

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

_Mr. Eelskin._ That’s the female juggler, sir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Because it’s a cool dress, dear.

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

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

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

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

_Mr. Greenfat._ Nonsense--it’s all gammon!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Master Peter._ Mamma, I’m so hungry.

_Master Humphrey._ Papa, I’m so dry.

_Miss Arabella._ Mamma, I want somewhat to eat.

_Mrs. Greenfat._ Greenfat, my dear, we must have some refreshments.

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

_Mr. Eelskin._ Shouldn’t we have a little _wine_, sir?--it’s more
genteeler.

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

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

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

_Master Peter._ Mamma, I’m so tired.

_Miss Arabella._ Mamma, my legs ache so.

_Master Humphrey._ Papa, I wish you’d carry me.

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

  [_Exeunt omnes._

  H.

       *       *       *       *       *


TO MY TEA-KETTLE.

_For the Table Book._

1.

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

2.

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

3.

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

4.

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

5.

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

6.

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

7.

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

8.

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

  SAM SAM’S SON.

       *       *       *       *       *


TO MY TEA-POT.

_For the Table Book._

1.

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

2.

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

3.

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

4.

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

5.

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

6.

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

7.

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

8.

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

  SAM SAM’S SON.




Vol. I.--15.


[Illustration: ~Stratford upon Avon Church.~]

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

This structure is spacious and handsome, and was formerly collegiate,
and dedicated to the Holy Trinity. A row of limes trained so as to form
an arched avenue form an approach to the great door. A representation of
a portion of this pleasant entrance is in an engraving of the church in
the “Gentleman’s Magazine” for 1807.

Another opportunity will occur for relating particulars respecting the
venerable edifice, and the illustrious bard, whose birth and burial at
Stratford upon Avon confer on the town imperishable fame.

  [100] Mr. Carter, in the Gentleman’s Magazine, 1816.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XII.

  [From the “Brazen Age,” an Historical Play, by Thomas Heywood, 1613.]

_Venus courts Adonis._

      _Venus._ Why doth Adonis fly the Queen of Love,
    And shun this ivory girdle of my arms?
    To be thus scarf’d the dreadful God of War
    Would give me conquer’d kingdoms. For a kiss,
    But half like this, I could command the Sun
    Rise ’fore his hour, to bed before his time;
    And, being love-sick, change his golden beams,
    And make his face pale as his sister Moon.
    Look on me, Adon, with a stedfast eye,
    That in these chrystal glasses I may see
    My beauty that charms Gods, makes Men amazed
    And stown’d with wonder. Doth this roseat pillow
    Offend my Love?
    With my white fingers will I clap thy cheek;
    Whisper a thousand pleasures in thy ear.
      _Adonis._ Madam, you are not modest. I affect
    The unseen beauty that adorns the mind:
    This looseness makes you foul in Adon’s eye.
    If you will tempt me, let me in your face
    Read blusfulness and fear; a modest fear
    Would make your cheek seem much more beautiful.
      _Venus._ ------wert thou made of stone,
    I have heat to melt thee; I am Queen of Love.
    There is no practive art of dalliance
    Of which I am not mistress, and can use.
    I have kisses that can murder unkind words,
    And strangle hatred that the gall sends forth;
    Touches to raise thee, were thy spirits half dead;
    Words that can pour affection down thy ears.
    Love me! thou can’st not chuse; thou shalt not chuse.
      _Adonis._ Madam, you woo not well. Men covet not
    These proffer’d pleasures, but love sweets denied.
    These prostituted pleasures surfeit still;
    Where’s fear, or doubt, men sue with best good will.
      _Venus._ Thou canst instruct the Queen of Love in love.
    Thou shalt not, Adon, take me by the hand;
    Yet, if thou needs will force me, take my palm.
    I’ll frown on him: alas! my brow’s so smooth,
    It will not bear a wrinkle.--Hie thee hence
    Unto the chace, and leave me; but not yet:
    I’ll sleep this night upon Endymion’s bank,
    On which the Swain was courted by the Moon.
    Dare not to come; thou art in our disgrace:
    Yet, if thou come, I can afford thee place!

       *       *       *       *       *

_Phœbus jeers Vulcan._

      _Vul._ Good morrow, Phœbus; what’s the news abroad?--
    For thou see’st all things in the world are done,
    Men act by day-light, or the sight of sun.
      _Phœb._ Sometime I cast my eye upon the sea,
    To see the tumbling seal or porpoise play.
    There see I merchants trading, and their sails
    Big-bellied with the wind; sea fights sometimes
    Rise with their smoke-thick clouds to dark my beams
    Sometimes I fix my face upon the earth,
    With my warm fervour to give metals, trees,
    Herbs, plants and flowers, life. Here in gardens walk
    Loose Ladies with their Lovers arm in arm.
    Yonder the laboring Plowman drives his team.
    Further I may behold main battles pitcht;
    And whom I favour most (by the wind’s help)
    I can assist with my transparent rays.
    Here spy I cattle feeding; forests there
    Stored with wild beasts; here shepherds with their lasses,
    Piping beneath the trees while their flocks graze.
    In cities I see trading, walking, bargaining,
    Buying and selling, goodness, badness, all things--
    And shine alike on all.
      _Vul._ Thrice happy Phœbus,
    That, whilst poor Vulcan is confin’d to Lemnos,
    Hast every day these pleasures. What news else?
      _Phœb._ No Emperor walks forth, but I see his state;
    Nor sports, but I his pastimes can behold.
    I see all coronations, funerals,
    Marts, fairs, assemblies, pageants, sights and shows.
    No hunting, but I better see the chace
    Than they that rouse the game. What see I not?
    There’s not a window, but my beams break in;
    No chink or cranny, but my rays pierce through;
    And there I see, O Vulcan, wondrous things:
    Things that thyself, nor any God besides,
    Would give belief to.
    And, shall I tell thee, Vulcan, ’tother day
    What I beheld?--I saw the great God Mars--
      _Vul._ God Mars--
      _Phœb._ As I was peeping through a cranny, a-bed--
      _Vul._ Abed! with whom?--some pretty Wench, I warrant.
      _Phœb._ She was a pretty Wench.
      _Vul._ Tell me, good Phœbus,
    That, when I meet him, I may flout God Mars;
    Tell me, but tell me truly, on thy life.
      _Phœb._ Not to dissemble, Vulcan, ’twas thy Wife!

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Peers of Greece go in quest of Hercules, and find him in woman’s
weeds, spinning with Omphale._

      _Jason._ Our business was to Theban Hercules.
    ’Twas told us, he remain’d with Omphale,
    The Theban Queen.
      _Telamon._ Speak, which is Omphale? or which Alcides?
      _Pollux._ Lady, our purpose was to Hercules;
    Shew us the man.
      _Omphale._ Behold him here.
      _Atreus._ Where?
      _Omphale._ There, at his task.
      _Jason._ Alas, _this_ Hercules!
    This is some base effeminate Groom, not he
    That with his puissance frighted all the earth.
      _Hercules._ Hath Jason, Nestor, Castor, Telamon,
    Atreus, Pollux, all forgot their friend?
    We are the man.
      _Jason._ Woman, we know thee not:
    We came to seek the Jove-born Hercules,
    That in his cradle strangled Juno’s snakes,
    And triumph’d in the brave Olympic games.
    He that the Cleonean lion slew.
    Th’ Erimanthian boar, the bull of Marathon.
    The Lernean hydra, and the winged hart.
      _Telamon._ We would see the Theban
    That Cacus slew, Busiris sacrificed,
    And to his horses hurl’d stern Diomed
    To be devoured.
      _Pollux._ That freed Hesione
    From the sea whale, and after ransack’d Troy,
    And with his own hand slew Laomedon.
      _Nestor._ He by whom Dercilus and Albion fell;
    He that Œcalia and Betricia won.
      _Atreus._ That monstrous Geryon with his three heads vanquisht,
    With Linus, Lichas that usurpt in Thebes,
    And captived there his beauteous Megara.
      _Pollux._ That Hercules by whom the Centaurs fell,
    Great Achelous, the Stymphalides,
    And the Cremona giants: where is he?
      _Telamon._ That trait’rous Nessus with a shaft transfixt.
    Strangled Antheus, purged Augeus’ stalls,
    Won the bright apples of th’ Hesperides.
      _Jason._ He that the Amazonian baldrick won;
    That Achelous with his club subdued,
    And won from him the Pride of Caledon,
    Fair Deianeira, that now mourns in Thebes
    For absence of the noble Hercules!
      _Atreus._ To him we came; but, since he lives not here,
    Come, Lords; we will return these presents back
    Unto the constant Lady, whence they came.
      _Hercules._ Stay, Lords--
      _Jason._ ’Mongst women?--
      _Hercules._ For that Theban’s sake,
    Whom you profess to love, and came to seek,
    Abide awhile; and by my love to Greece,
    I’ll bring before you that lost Hercules,
    For whom you came to enquire.
      _Telamon._ It works, it works--
      _Hercules._ How have I lost myself!
    Did we all this? Where is that spirit become,
    That was in us? no marvel, Hercules,
    That thou be’st strange to them, that thus disguised
    Art to thyself unknown!--hence with this distaff,
    And base effeminate chares; hence, womanish tires;
    And let me once more be myself again.
    Your pardon, Omphale!

       *       *       *       *       *

I cannot take leave of this Drama without noticing a touch of the truest
pathos, which the writer has put into the mouth of Meleager, as he is
wasting away by the operation of the fatal brand, administered to him by
his wretched Mother.

    My flame encreaseth still--Oh father Œneus;
    And you Althea, whom I would call Mother,
    But that my genius prompts me thou’rt unkind:
    _And yet farewell_!

What is the boasted “Forgive me, but forgive me!” of the dying wife of
Shore in Rowe, compared with these three little words?

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Topography.~


ST. MARGARET’S AT CLIFF.

_For the Table Book._

    --------Stand still. How fearful
    And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low!
    The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air
    Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down
    Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!
    Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:
    The fishermen that walk upon the beach
    Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark,
    Diminish’d to her cock; her cock, a buoy,
    Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge,
    That on the unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes,
    Cannot be heard so high.--

  SHAKSPEARE.

The village of St. Margaret’s at Cliff is situated at a small distance
from the South Foreland, and about a mile from the high road half way
between Dover and Deal. It was formerly of some consequence, on account
of its fair for the encouragement of traders, held in the precincts of
its priory, which, on the dissolution of the monastic establishments by
Henry VIII., losing its privilege, or rather its utility, (for the fair
is yet held,) the village degenerated into an irregular group of poor
cottages, a decent farm-house, and an academy for boys, one of the best
commercial school establishments in the county of Kent. The church,
though time has written strange defeatures on its mouldering walls,
still bears the show of former importance; but its best claim on the
inquisitive stranger is the evening toll of its single bell, which is
generally supposed to be the curfew, but is of a more useful and
honourable character. It was established by the testament of one of its
inhabitants in the latter part of the seventeenth century, for the
guidance of the wanderer from the peril of the neighbouring precipices,
over which the testator fell, and died from the injuries he received. He
bequeathed the rent of a piece of land for ever, to be paid to the
village sexton for tolling the bell every evening at eight o’clock, when
it should be dark at that hour.

The cliffs in the range eastward of Dover to the Foreland are the most
precipitous, but not so high as Shakspeare’s. They are the resort of a
small fowl of the widgeon species, but something less than the widgeon,
remarkable for the size of its egg, which is larger than the swan’s, and
of a pale green, spotted with brown; it makes its appearance in May,
and, choosing the most inaccessible part of the precipice, deposits its
eggs, two in number, in holes, how made it is difficult to prove: when
the young bird is covered with a thin down, and before any feathers
appear, it is taken on the back of the parent, carried to the sea, and
abandoned to its own resources, which nature amply supplies means to
employ, in the myriads of mackerel fry that at that season colour the
surface of the deep with a beautiful pale green and silver. This aquatic
wanderer is said to confine its visit to the South Foreland and the
seven cliffs at Beachy-head, and is known by the name of Willy. Like the
gull, it is unfit for the table, but valuable for the downy softness of
its feathers.

It was in this range of Dover cliffs that Joe Parsons, who for more than
forty years had exclusively gathered samphire, broke his neck in 1823.
Habit had rendered the highest and most difficult parts of these awful
precipices as familiar to this man as the level below. Where the
overhanging rock impeded his course, a rope, fastened to a peg driven
into a cliff above, served him to swing himself from one projection to
another: in one of these dangerous attempts this fastening gave way, and
he fell to rise no more. Joe had heard of Shakspeare, and felt the
importance of a hero. It was his boast that he was a king too powerful
for his neighbours, who dared not venture to disturb him in his domain;
that nature alone was his lord, to whom he paid no quittance. All were
free to forage on his grounds, but none ventured. Joe was twice wedded;
his first rib frequently attended and looked to the security of his
ropes, and would sometimes terrify him with threats to cast him loose; a
promise of future kindness always ended the parley, and a thrashing on
the next quarrel placed Joe again in peril. Death suddenly took Judith
from this vale of tears; Parsons awoke in the night and found her
brought up in an everlasting roadstead: like a true philosopher and a
quiet neighbour, Joe took his second nap, and when day called out the
busy world to begin its matin labour, Joe called in the nearest gossip
to see that all was done that decency required for so good a wife. His
last helpmate survives her hapless partner. No one has yet taken
possession of his estate. The inquisitive and firm-nerved stranger casts
his eyes below in vain: he that gathered samphire is himself gathered.
The anchored bark, the skiff, the choughs and crows, the fearful
precipice, and the stringy root, growing in unchecked abundance, bring
the bard and Joe Parsons to remembrance, but no one now attempts the
“dreadful trade.”

  K. B.

       *       *       *       *       *


TO A SEA-WEED

PICKED UP AFTER A STORM.

    Exotic!--from the soil no tiller ploughs,
      Save the rude surge;--fresh stripling from a grove
      Above whose tops the wild sea-monsters rove,
    --Have not the genii harbour’d in thy boughs,
    Thou filmy piece of wonder!--have not those
      Who still the tempest, for thy rescue strove,
      And stranded thee thus fair, the might to prove
    Of spirits, that the caves of ocean house?

    How else, from capture of the giant-spray,
      Hurt-free escapest thou, slight ocean-flower?
    --As if Arachne wove, thus faultless lay
      The full-develop’d forms of fairy-bower;
    --Who that beholds thee thus, nor with dismay
      Recalls thee struggling thro’ the storm’s dark hour![101]

  [101] Poems and Translations from Schiller.

       *       *       *       *       *


MARRIAGE OF THE SEA.

The doge of Venice, accompanied by the senators, in the greatest pomp,
marries the sea every year.

Those who judge of institutions by their appearance only, think this
ceremony an indecent and extravagant vanity; they imagine that the
Venetians annually solemnize this festival, because they believe
themselves to be masters of the sea. But the wedding of the sea is
performed with the most noble intentions.

The sea is the symbol of the republic: of which the doge is the first
magistrate, but not the master; nor do the Venetians wish that he should
become so. Among the barriers to his domination, they rank this custom,
which reminds him that he has no more authority over the republic, which
he governs with the senate, than he has over the sea, notwithstanding
the marriage he is obliged to celebrate with her. The ceremony
symbolizes the limits of his power, and the nature of his obligations.

       *       *       *       *       *


OLD COIN INSCRIPTIONS.

To read an inscription on a silver coin which, by much wear, is become
wholly obliterated, put the poker in the fire; when red hot, place the
coin upon it, and the inscription will plainly appear of a greenish hue,
but will disappear as the coin cools. This method was practised at the
Mint to discover the genuine coin when the silver was last called in.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE LADY AND THE TROUBADOUR.

_For the Table Book._

  [Emeugarde, daughter of Jacques de Tournay, Lord of Croiton, in
  Provence, becoming enamoured of a Troubadour, by name Enguilbert de
  Marnef, who was bound by a vow to repair to the Camp of the Crusaders
  in Palestine, besought him on the eve of his departure to suffer her
  to accompany him: de Marnef at first resolutely refused; but at
  length, overcome by her affectionate solicitations, assented, and was
  joined by her the same night, after her flight from her father’s
  chastel, in the garb of a guild brother of the joyeuse science.

  CHRONIQUE DE POUTAILLER]

    Enguilbert! oh Enguilbert, the sword is in thine hand,
    Thou hast vowed before our Lady’s shrine to seek the Sainted land:
    --Thou goest to fight for glory--but what will _glory_ be,
    If thou lov’st me, and return’st to find a tomb and dust for _me_?

    Look on me Enguilbert, for I have lost the shame
    That should have stayed these tears and prayers from one of
        Tournay’s name:
    --Look on me, my own bright-eyed Love--oh wilt thou leave me--say
    To droop as sunless flowers do, lacking thee--light of _my_ day?

    Oh say that I may wend with thee--I’ll doff my woman’s ’tire,
    Sling my Father’s sword unto my side, and o’er my back my lyre:
    I’ll roam with thee a Troubadour, by day--by night, thy bride--
    --Speak Enguilbert--say _yes_,--or see my heart break if denied.

    Oh shouldst thou fall, my Enguilbert, whose lips thy wounds will
        close?--
    Who but thine own fond Emeugarde should watch o’er thy repose?
    And pierced, and cold her faithful breast must be e’er spear or
        sword
    Should ought of harm upon thee wreak, my Troubadour--my Lord.

    --Nay smile not at my words, sweet-heart--the Goss hath slender beak
    But brings its quarry nobly down--I _love_ tho’ I am _weak_
    --My Blood hath coursed thro’ Charlemagne’s veins, and better it
        should _flow_
    Upon the field with Infidels’, than here _congeal_ with woe.

    --Ah Enguilbert--my soul’s adored! the tear is in thine eye;
    Thou wilt not--can’st not leave me like the widowed dove to die:
    --No--no--thine arm is round me--that kiss on my hot brow
    Spoke thy assent, my bridegroom love,--_we are_ ONE _for ever now_.

  J. J. K.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE GOLDEN TOOTH.

In 1593, it was reported that a Silesian child, seven years old, had
lost all its teeth, and that a golden tooth had grown in the place of a
natural double one.

In 1595, Horstius, professor of medicine in the university of Helmstadt,
wrote the history of this golden tooth. He said it was partly a natural
event, and partly miraculous, and that the Almighty had sent it to this
child, to console the Christians for their persecution by the Turks.

In the same year, Rullandus drew up another account of the golden
tooth.

Two years afterwards, Ingosteterus, another learned man, wrote against
the opinion which Rullandus had given on this tooth of gold. Rullandus
immediately replied in a most elegant and erudite dissertation.

Libavius, a very learned man, compiled all that had been said relative
to this tooth, and subjoined his remarks upon it.

Nothing was wanting to recommend these erudite writings to posterity,
but proof that the tooth was gold--a goldsmith examined it, and found it
a natural tooth artificially gilt.

       *       *       *       *       *


LE REVENANT.

  “There are but two classes of persons in the world--those who are
  hanged, and those who are not hanged: and it has been my lot to belong
  to the former.”

There is a pathetic, narrative, under the preceding title and motto in
“Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine,” of the present month, (April, 1827.)
It is scarcely possible to abridge or extract from it, and be just to
its writer. Perhaps the following specimen may induce curiosity to the
perusal of the entire paper in the journal just named.

“I have been _hanged_, and am _alive_,” says the narrator. “I was a
clerk in a Russia broker’s house, and fagged between Broad-street
Buildings and Batson’s coffee-house, and the London-docks, from nine in
the morning to six in the evening, for a salary of fifty pounds a-year.
I did this--not contentedly--but I endured it; living sparingly in a
little lodging at Islington for two years; till I fell in love with a
poor, but very beautiful girl, who was honest where it was very hard to
be honest; and worked twelve hours a-day at sewing and millinery, in a
mercer’s shop in Cheapside, for half a guinea a-week. To make short of a
long tale--this girl did not know how poor I was; and, in about six
months, I committed seven or eight forgeries, to the amount of near two
hundred pounds. I was seized one morning--I expected it for weeks--as
regularly as I awoke--every morning--and carried, after a very few
questions, for examination before the lord mayor. At the Mansion-house I
had nothing to plead. Fortunately my motions had not been watched; and
so no one but myself was implicated in the charge--as no one else was
really guilty. A sort of instinct to try the last hope made me listen to
the magistrate’s caution, and remain silent; or else, for any chance of
escape I had, I might as well have confessed the whole truth at once.
The examination lasted about half an hour; when I was fully committed
for trial, and sent away to Newgate.

“The shock of my first arrest was very slight indeed; indeed I almost
question if it was not a relief, rather than a shock, to me. For months,
I had known perfectly that my eventual discovery was certain. I tried to
shake the thought of this off; but it was of no use--I dreamed of it
even in my sleep; and I never entered our counting-house of a morning,
or saw my master take up the cash-book in the course of the day, that
my heart was not up in my mouth, and my hand shook so that I could not
hold the pen--for twenty minutes afterwards, I was sure to do nothing
but blunder. Until, at last, when I saw our chief clerk walk into the
room, on new year’s morning, with a police officer, I was as ready for
what followed, as if I had had six hours’ conversation about it. I do
not believe I showed--for I am sure I did not feel it--either surprise
or alarm. My ‘fortune,’ however, as the officer called it, was soon
told. I was apprehended on the 1st of January; and the sessions being
then just begun, my time came rapidly round. On the 4th of the same
month, the London grand jury found three bills against me for forgery;
and, on the evening of the 5th, the judge exhorted me to ‘prepare for
death;’ for ‘there was no hope that, in this world, mercy could be
extended to me.’

“The whole business of my trial and sentence passed over as coolly and
formally as I would have calculated a question of interest, or summed up
an underwriting account. I had never, though I lived in London,
witnessed the proceedings of a criminal court before; and I could hardly
believe the composure and indifference--and yet civility--for there was
no show of anger or ill-temper--with which I was treated; together with
the apparent perfect insensibility of all the parties round me, while I
was rolling on--with a speed which nothing could check, and which
increased every moment--to my ruin! I was called suddenly up from the
dock, when my turn for trial came, and placed at the bar; and the judge
asked, in a tone which had neither severity about it, nor
compassion--nor carelessness, nor anxiety--nor any character or
expression whatever that could be distinguished--‘If there was any
counsel appeared for the prosecution?’ A barrister then, who seemed to
have some consideration--a middle aged, gentlemanly-looking man--stated
the case against me--as he said he would do--very ‘fairly and
forbearingly;’ but, as soon as he read the facts from his brief, ‘that
only’--I heard an officer of the gaol, who stood behind me, say--‘put
the rope about my neck.’ My master then was called to give his evidence;
which he did very temperately--but it was conclusive. A young gentleman,
who was my counsel, asked a few questions in cross-examination, after he
had carefully looked over the indictment: but there was nothing to
cross-examine upon--I knew that well enough--though I was thankful for
the interest he seemed to take in my case. The judge then told me, I
thought more gravely than he had spoken before--‘That it was time for me
to speak in my defence, if I had any thing to say.’ I had nothing to
say. I thought one moment to drop down upon my knees, and beg for mercy;
but, again--I thought it would only make me look ridiculous; and I only
answered--as well as I could--‘That I would not trouble the court with
any defence.’ Upon this, the judge turned round, with a more serious air
still, to the jury, who stood up all to listen to him as he spoke. And I
listened too--or tried to listen attentively--as hard as I could; and
yet--with all I could do--I could not keep my thoughts from wandering!
For the sight of the court--all so orderly, and regular, and composed,
and formal, and well satisfied--spectators and all--while I was running
on with the speed of wheels upon smooth soil downhill, to
destruction--seemed as if the whole trial were a dream, and not a thing
in earnest! The barristers sat round the table, silent, but utterly
unconcerned, and two were looking over their briefs, and another was
reading a newspaper; and the spectators in the galleries looked on and
listened as pleasantly, as though it were a matter not of death going
on, but of pastime or amusement; and one very fat man, who seemed to be
the clerk of the court, stopped his writing when the judge began, but
leaned back in his chair, with his hands in his breeches’ pockets,
except once or twice that he took a snuff; and not one living soul
seemed to take notice--they did not seem to know the fact--that there
was a poor, desperate, helpless creature--whose days were fast running
out--whose hours of life were even with the last grains in the bottom of
the sand-glass--among them! I lost the whole of the judge’s
charge--thinking of I know not what--in a sort of dream--unable to
steady my mind to any thing, and only biting the stalk of a piece of
rosemary that lay by me. But I heard the low, distinct whisper of the
foreman of the jury, as he brought in the verdict--‘GUILTY,’--and the
last words of the judge, saying--‘that I should be hanged by the neck
until I was dead;’ and bidding me ‘prepare myself for the next life, for
that my crime was one that admitted of no mercy in this.’ The gaoler
then, who had stood close by me all the while, put his hand quickly upon
my shoulder, in an under voice, telling me, to ‘Come along!’ Going down
the hall steps, two other officers met me; and, placing me between
them, without saying a word, hurried me across the yard in the direction
back to the prison. As the door of the court closed behind us, I saw the
judge fold up his papers, and the jury being sworn in the next case. Two
other culprits were brought up out of the dock; and the crier called out
for--‘The prosecutor and witnesses against James Hawkins, and Joseph
Sanderson, for burglary!’

“I had no friends, if any in such a case could have been of use to
me--no relatives but two; by whom--I could not complain of them--I was
at once disowned.--There was but one person then in all the world that
seemed to belong to me; and that one was Elizabeth Clare! And, when I
thought of her, the idea of all that was to happen to myself was
forgotten--I covered my face with my hands, and cast myself on the
ground; and I wept, for I was in desperation.--She had gone wild as soon
as she had heard the news of my apprehension--never thought of herself,
but confessed her acquaintance with me. The result was, she was
dismissed from her employment--and it was her only means of livelihood.

“She had been every where--to my master--to the judge that tried me--to
the magistrates--to the sheriffs--to the aldermen--she had made her way
even to the secretary of state! My heart did misgive me at the thought
of death; but, in despite of myself, I forgot fear when I missed her
usual time of coming, and gathered from the people about me how she was
employed. I had no thought about the success or failure of her attempt.
All my thoughts were--that she was a young girl, and beautiful--hardly
in her senses, and quite unprotected--without money to help, or a friend
to advise her--pleading to strangers--humbling herself perhaps to
menials, who would think her very despair and helpless condition, a
challenge to infamy and insult. Well, it mattered little! The thing was
no worse, because I was alive to see and suffer from it. Two days more,
and all would be over; the demons that fed on human wretchedness would
have their prey. She would be homeless--pennyless--friendless--she would
have been the companion of a forger and a felon; it needed no witchcraft
to guess the termination.----

“We hear curiously, and read every day, of the visits of friends and
relatives to wretched criminals condemned to die. Those who read and
hear of these things the most curiously, have little impression of the
sadness of the reality. It was six days after my first apprehension,
when Elizabeth Clare came, for the last time, to visit me in prison! In
only these short six days her beauty, health, strength--all were gone;
years upon years of toil and sickness could not have left a more
worn-out wreck. Death--as plainly as ever death spoke--sat in her
countenance--she was broken-hearted. When she came, I had not seen her
for two days. I could not speak, and there was an officer of the prison
with us too: I was the property of the law now; and my mother, if she
had lived, could not have blest, or wept for me, without a third person,
and that a stranger, being present. I sat down by her on my bedstead,
which was the only place to sit on in my cell, and wrapped her shawl
close round her, for it was very cold weather, and I was allowed no
fire; and we sat so for almost an hour without exchanging a word.----

       *       *       *       *       *

“She was got away, on the pretence that she might make one more effort
to save me, with a promise that she should return again at night. The
master was an elderly man, who had daughters of his own; and he
promised--for he saw I knew how the matter was--to see Elizabeth safe
through the crowd of wretches among whom she must pass to quit the
prison. She went, and I knew that she was going for ever. As she turned
back to speak as the door was closing, I knew that I had seen her for
the last time. The door of my cell closed. We were to meet no more on
earth. I fell upon my knees--I clasped my hands--my tears burst out
afresh--and I called on God to bless her.”----

  The mental and bodily sufferings of the condemned man in his cell, his
  waking dreams, and his dead sleep till the morning of execution,
  though of intense interest in the narrative, are omitted here that the
  reader may at once accompany the criminal to the place of
  execution.----

  “I remember beginning to move forward through the long arched passages
  which led from the press-room to the scaffold. I saw the lamps that
  were still burning--for the daylight never entered here: I heard the
  quick tolling of the bell, and the deep voice of the chaplain reading
  as he walked before us--

  ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth
  in me, though he were dead, shall live. And though after my skin
  worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God!’

“It was the funeral service--the order for the grave--the office for
those that were senseless and dead--over us, the quick and the
living----

“I felt once more--and saw! I felt the transition from these dim, close,
hot, lamp-lighted subterranean passages, to the open platform and steps
at the foot of the scaffold, and to day. I saw the immense crowd
blackening the whole area of the street below me. The windows of the
shops and houses opposite, to the fourth story, choked with gazers. I
saw St. Sepulchre’s church through the yellow fog in the distance, and
heard the pealing of its bell. I recollect the cloudy, misty morning;
the wet that lay upon the scaffold--the huge dark mass of building, the
prison itself, that rose beside, and seemed to cast a shadow over
us--the cold, fresh breeze, that, as I emerged from it, broke upon my
face. I see it all now--the whole horrible landscape is before me. The
scaffold--the rain--the faces of the multitude--the people clinging to
the house-tops--the smoke that beat heavily downwards from the
chimneys--the waggons filled with women, staring in the inn-yards
opposite--the hoarse low roar that ran through the gathered crowd as we
appeared. I never saw so many objects at once so plainly and distinctly
in all my life as at that one glance; but it lasted only for an instant.

“From that look, and from that instant, all that followed is a
blank----”

To what accident the narrator owes his existence is of little
consequence, compared with the moral to be derived from the sad
story.--“The words are soon spoken, and the act is soon done, which
dooms a wretched creature to an untimely death; but bitter are the
pangs--and the sufferings of the body are among the least of them--that
he must go through before he arrives at it!”

In the narrative there is more than seems to be expressed. By all who
advocate or oppose capital punishment--by every being with a human
heart, and reasoning powers--it should be read complete in the pages of
“Blackwood.”

  *


[Illustration: ~Blind Willie, the Newcastle Minstrel.~]

    Lang may wor Tyneside lads sae true,
      In heart byeth blithe an’ mellow,
    Bestow the praise that’s fairly due
      To this bluff, honest fellow--
    And when he’s hamper’d i’ the dust,
      Still i’ wor memory springin’,
    The times we’ve run till like to brust
      To hear blind Willie singin’.

  NEWCASTLE SONG.

WILLIAM PURVIS, or, as he is generally styled, blind Willie, is a
well-known character, and native of Newcastle, where he has resided
since his infancy. He was born blind, and is the son of Margaret Purvis,
who died in All Saints’ workhouse, February 7, 1819, in her hundredth
year.

Willie is, indeed, as the ingenious Mr. Sykes calls him in his “Local
Records,” a “famous musician,” for he has long been celebrated for his
minstrelsy throughout the northern counties, but more particularly so in
Northumberland. In Newcastle, Willie is respected by all--from the
rudest to the gentlest heart all love him--children seize his hand as he
passes--and he is ever an equally welcome guest at the houses of the
rich and the hovels of the pitmen. The hoppings of the latter are
cheered by the soul-inspiring sound of his viol: nay, he is, I may truly
say, a very particle of a pitman’s existence, who, after a hard day’s
labour, considers it a pleasure of the most exquisite nature to repair
to some neighbouring pot-house, there to enjoy Willie’s music, and
listen to the rude ballads he is in the habit of composing and singing
to the accompaniment of his own music. Poor Willie! may he live long and
live happy. When he dies many a tear will fall from eyes that seldom
weep, and hearts that know little of the more refined sensations of our
nature will heave a sigh. Willie will die, but not his fame will die. In
many of those humorous provincial songs, with which Newcastle abounds
more than any other town I am acquainted with--the very airs as well as
the words of which possess a kind of local nationality--“Blind Willie”
is the theme. These songs are the admiration of all who know how to
appreciate genuine humour; several of them have been sung for years, and
I venture to prophecy, will be sung by future generations.

Among the characters who have noticed “Willie” may be mentioned the
present duke of Northumberland, sir Matthew White Ridley, the late
Stephen Kemble, Esq. and the admirable comedian Matthews. Sir Matthew
White Ridley is a most particular favourite with “Willie,” and it is no
uncommon occurrence to hear Willie, as he paces along the streets of
Newcastle, muttering to himself “Sir Maffa! sir Maffa! canny sir Maffa!
God bless sir Maffa!”

One of Willie’s greatest peculiarities is thus alluded to by Mr.
Sykes:--“He has travelled the streets of Newcastle time out of mind
without a covering upon his head. Several attempts have been made, by
presenting him with a hat, to induce him to wear one, but after having
_suffered_ it for a day or two it is thrown aside, and the minstrel
again becomes uncovered, preferring the exposure of his pate to the
‘pelting of the pitiless storm.’” The likeness that accompanies this
notice is from a large quarto engraving, published at Newcastle, and
will doubtless be acceptable to numerous readers of that populous
district wherein blind Willie is so popular.

       *       *       *       *       *


FARMERS.

IN

1722.

      Man to the plough;
      Wife to the cow;
      Girl to the sow;
      Boy to the mow;
    And your rents will be netted.

1822.

      Man tally-ho;
      Miss piano;
      Wife silk and satin;
      Boy Greek and Latin;
    And you’ll all be _Gazetted_.

  G.[102]

  [102] The Times.

       *       *       *       *       *


A REVERIE.

_For the Table Book._

----On a cool delightful evening which succeeded one of the scorching
days of last summer, I sallied forth for a walk in the neighbourhood of
the city of ----. Chance led me along a path usually much frequented,
which was then covered thick with the accumulated dust of a long
drought; it bore the impression of a thousand busy feet, of every
variety of form and size; from the first steps of the infant, whose
nurse had allowed it to toddle his little journey to the outstretched
arms of her who was almost seated to receive him, to the hobnailed
slouch of the carter, whose dangling lash and dusty jacket annoyed the
well-dressed throng. But three pair of footsteps, which were so perfect
that they could not long have preceded my own, more than all, attracted
my attention; those on the left certainly bore the impress of the
delicately formed foot of a female; the middle ones were shaped by the
ample square-toed, gouty shoe of a senior; and those on the right were
as certainly placed there by the Wellington boot of some dandy; they
were extravagantly right and left, the heel was small and high, for the
middle of the foot did not tread on earth.--My imagination was instantly
at work, to tenant these “leathern conveniences;” the last-mentioned I
felt so certain were inhabited by an officer of the lancers, or an
hussar who had witnessed Waterloo’s bloody fight, that I could almost
hear the tinkle of his military spur. I pictured him young, tall,
handsome, with black mustachios, dark eyes, and, as the poet says,

    “His nose was large with curved line
    Which some men call the aquiline,
    And some do say the Romans bore
    Such noses ’fore them to the war.”

The strides were not so long as a tall man would make, but this I
accounted for by supposing they were accommodated to the hobbling gait
of the venerable gentleman in the centre, who I imagined “of the old
school,” and to wear one of those few self-important wigs, which remain
in this our day of sandy scratches. As these powdered coverings never
look well without a three cocked hat, I had e’en placed one upon it, and
almost edged it with gold lace, which, however, would not do--it had
rather loo much of by-gone days:--to my “mind’s eye” he was clothed in a
snuff- suit, and one of his feet, which was not too gouty to
admit of a leather shoe, had upon it a large silver buckle. My “high
fancy” formed the lady a charming creature, sufficiently _en bon point_,
with an exceedingly genteel figure; not such as two parallel lines would
describe, but rather broad on the shoulders, gently tapering to the
waist, then gradually increasing in a delicately flowing outline, such
as the “statue that enchants the world” would exhibit, if animated and
clothed in the present fashionable dress; her voice, of course, was
delightful, and the mild expression of her face to be remembered through
life--it could not be forgotten; in short, she was as Sterne says, “all
that the heart wishes or the eye looks for in woman.” My reverie had now
arrived at its height, my canvass was full, my picture complete, and I
was enjoying the last delicate touches of creative fancy, when a sudden
turn in the road placed before me three persons, who, on a moment’s
reflection, I felt constrained to acknowledge as the authors of the
footsteps which had led me into such a pleasing delusion; but--no more
like the trio of my imagination, than “Hyperion to a satyr!” The dandy
had red hair, the lady a red nose, and the middle man was a gouty
sugar-baker; all very good sort of people, no doubt, except that they
overthrew my aerial castle. I instantly retraced my steps, and was
foolish enough to be sulky, nay, a very “anatomie of melancholy;” till a
draught of “Burton’s” liquid amber at supper made me friends with the
world again----

  ETA.

       *       *       *       *       *


HIGHLAND TRADITION.

MACGREGOR.

About the middle of the sixteenth century, the eldest son of Lamond, of
Cowel, in Argyleshire, was hunting the red deer in Glenfine. At the same
time the only son of Macgregor, of Glenstrae, the chief of that once
powerful clan, was on a similar excursion in the same place, which was
the boundary between the extensive territories of these two great
families. Young Lamond had pierced a prime hart with an arrow; and the
noble animal, galled by the shaft, which stuck in the wound, plunged
into the river, and bent his course into Macgregor’s country. He was
followed by Lamond, who outran all his companions. It unfortunately fell
out, that a hart had been wounded by the young Macgregor at the same
time, among his own hills. The two deer crossed each other in their
flight, and the first that fell was claimed by both the hunters. The
youths, flushed by the ardour of the chase, and totally unknown to each
other, hotly disputed. They were armed, as was the fashion of those
days, and fought, and the young Macgregor fell. Lamond cut his way
through the attendants, but was keenly pursued. Having wonderful
fleetness of foot, he made his way forward; and ignorant of the country
and of the people, and almost exhausted with thirst, hunger, anguish,
and fatigue, rushed into the house of Macgregor of Glenstrae, on whose
mercy he threw himself, telling him that he had slain a man. Macgregor
received him, and had given him refreshment, when the pursuers arrived,
and told the unfortunate man the woful tale--that his son had
fallen--his only child--the last of his ancient race--the hope of his
life--the stay of his age. The old man was at this period left
surrounded by enemies crafty and powerful--he, friendless and alone. The
youth was possessed of every virtue that a father’s heart could wish;
his destroyer was now in his hands; but he had pledged his promise for
his safety, and that pledge must be redeemed. It required all the power
and influence of the aged chief to restrain the fury of his people from
slaying young Lamond at the moment; and even that influence, great as it
was, could only protect him, on an assurance that on the next morning
his life should be solemnly sacrificed for their beloved Gregor.

In the middle of the night, Macgregor led Lamond forth by the hand, and,
aware of his danger, himself accompanied him to the shore of Lochfine,
where he procured a boat, made Lamond enter it, and ordered the boatmen
to convey him safely across the loch into his own country. “I have now
performed my promise,” said the old man, “and henceforth I am your
enemy--beware the revenge of a father for his only son!”

Before this fatal event occurred, the persecution against the
unfortunate Macgregors had commenced, and this sad accident did not
contribute to diminish it. The old laird of Glenstrae struggled hard to
maintain his estate and his independence, but his enemies prevailed
against him. The conduct of young Lamond was grateful and noble. When he
succeeded to the ample possessions of his ancestors, he beseeched old
Macgregor to take refuge under his roof. There the aged chief was
treated as a father, and ended his days.

       *       *       *       *       *


HY-JINKS.

A SCOTCH AMUSEMENT.

This is a drunken sort of game.--The _queff_, or cup, is filled to the
brim, then one of the company takes a pair of dice, and cries
“Hy-jinks,” and throws. The number he casts points out the person that
must drink; he who threw beginning at himself number one, and so round,
till the number of the person agree with that of the dice, (which may
fall upon himself, if the number be within twelve,) then he sets the
dice to him, or bids him take them. He on whom they fall is obliged to
drink, or pay a small sum of money as forfeit; then he throws and so on:
but if he forgets to cry “Hy-jinks” he pays a forfeiture. Now, he, on
whom it falls to drink, gets all the forfeited money in the bank, if he
drinks, and orders the cup to be filled again, and then throws. If he
errs in the articles, he loses the privilege of drawing the money. The
articles are (1 _drink_;) 2 _draw_; 3 _fill_; 4 _cry_ “Hy-jinks;” 5
_count just_; 6 _choose your double man_; viz. when two equal numbers of
the dice is thrown, the person whom you choose must pay double forfeit,
and so must you when the dice is in his hand.

A rare project this, and no bubble I can assure you, for a covetous
fellow may save money, and get himself as drunk as he can desire in less
than an hour’s time.[103]

  S. S. S.

  [103] Notes on Allan Ramsay’s Elegy upon Maggy Johnston.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Clubs.~

THE SILENT CLUB.

There was at Amadan a celebrated academy. Its first rule was framed in
these words:--

“The members of this academy shall think much--write little--and be as
mute as they can.”

A candidate offered himself--he was too late--the vacancy was filled
up--they knew his merit, and lamented their disappointment in lamenting
his own. The president was to announce the event; he desired the
candidate should be introduced.

He appeared with a simple and modest air, the sure testimony of merit.
The president rose, and presented a cup of pure water to him, so full,
that a single drop more would have made it overflow; to this emblematic
hint he added not a word but his countenance expressed deep affliction.

The candidate understood that he could not be received because the
number was complete, and the assembly full; yet he maintained his
courage, and began to think by what expedient, in the same _kind of
language_, he could explain that a supernumerary academician would
displace nothing, and make no essential difference in the rule they had
prescribed.

Observing at his feet a rose, he picked it up, and laid it gently upon
the surface of the water, _so_ gently that not a drop of it escaped.
Upon this ingenious reply, the applause was universal; the rule slept or
winked in his favour. They presented immediately to him the register
upon which the successful candidate was in the habit of writing his
name. He wrote it accordingly; he had then only to thank them in a
single phrase, but he chose to thank them without saying a word.

He figured upon the margin the number of his new associates, 100; then,
having put a cipher before the figure 1, he wrote under it--“_their
value will be the same_”--0100.

To this modesty the ingenious president replied with a politeness equal
to his address: he put the figure 1 before the 100, and wrote, “_they
will have eleven times the value they had_--1100.”

       *       *       *       *       *


CHARLESTOWN UGLY CLUB.[104]

_For the Table Book._

By a standing law of this “ugly club,” their club-room must always be
the ugliest room in the ugliest house of the town. The only furniture
allowed in this room is a number of chairs, contrived with the worst
taste imaginable; a round table made by a back-woodsman; and a Dutch
looking-glass, full of veins, which at one glance would make even a
handsome man look a perfect “fright.” This glass is frequently sent to
such gentlemen as doubt their qualifications, and neglect or decline to
take up their freedom in the club.

When an ill-favoured gentleman first arrives in the city, he is waited
upon, in a civil and familiar manner, by some of the members of the
club, who inform him that they would be glad of his company on the next
evening of their meeting; and the gentleman commonly thanks the
deputation for the attention of the club, to one so unworthy as himself,
and promises to consider the matter.

It sometimes happens, that several days elapse, and the “strange”
gentleman thinks no more of the club. He has perhaps repeatedly looked
into his own glass, and wondered what, in the name of sense, the club
could have seen in his face, that should entitle him to the distinction
they would confer on him.

He is, however, waited upon a second time by the most respectable
members of the whole body, with a message from the president, requesting
him not to be diffident of his qualifications, and earnestly desiring
“that he will not fail to attend the club the very next evening--the
members will feel themselves highly honoured by the presence of one
whose appearance has already attracted the notice of the whole society.”

“Zounds!” he says to himself on perusing the billet, “what do they mean
by teasing me in this manner? I am surely not so ugly,” (walking to his
glass,) “as to attract the notice of the whole town on first setting my
foot upon the wharf!”

“Your nose is very long,” cries the spokesman of the deputation.
“Noses,” says the strange gentleman, “are no criterion of ugliness: it’s
true, the tip-end of mine would form an acute angle with a base line
drawn horizontally from my under lip; but I defy the whole club to
prove, that acute angles were ever reckoned ugly, from the days of
Euclid down to this moment, except by themselves.”

“Ah, sir,” answers the messenger, “how liberal has nature been in
bestowing upon you so elegant a pair of lantern jaws! believe me, sir,
you will be a lasting honour to the club.”

“My jaws,” says the ugly man in a pet, “are such as nature made them:
and Aristotle has asserted, that all her works are beautiful.”

The conversation ends for the present. The deputation leaves the strange
gentleman to his reflections, with wishes and hopes that he will
consider further.

Another fortnight elapses, and the strange gentleman, presuming the club
have forgotten him, employs the time in assuming _petit-maître_ airs,
and probably makes advances to young ladies of fortune and beauty. At
the expiration of this period, he receives a letter from a pretended
female, (contrived by the club,) to the following purport:--

  “My dear sir,

“There is such a congeniality between your countenance and mine, that I
cannot help thinking you and I were destined for each other. I am
unmarried, and have a considerable fortune in pine-barren land, which,
with myself, I wish to bestow upon some deserving man; and from seeing
you pass several times by my window, I know of no one better entitled to
both than yourself. I am now almost two years beyond my grand
climacteric, and am four feet four inches in height, rather less in
circumference, a little dropsical, have lovely red hair and a fair
complexion, and, if the doctor do not deceive me, I may hold out twenty
years longer. My nose is, like yours, rather longer than common; but
then to compensate, I am universally allowed to have charming eyes. They
somewhat incline to each other, but the sun himself looks obliquely in
winter, and cheers the earth with his glances. Wait upon me, dear sir,
to-morrow evening.

  “Yours till death, &c.

  “M. M.”

“What does all this mean?” cries the ugly gentleman, “was ever man
tormented in this manner! Ugly clubs, ugly women! imps and fiends, all
in combination to persecute me, and make my life miserable! I am to be
ugly, it seems, whether I will or not.”

At this critical juncture, the president of the club, who is the very
pink of ugliness itself, waits upon the strange gentleman, and takes him
by the hand. “My dear sir,” says he, “you may as well walk with me to
the club as not. Nature has designed you for us, and us for you. We are
a set of men who have resolution enough to dare to be ugly; and have
long let the world know, that we can pass the evening, and eat and drink
together with as much social glee and real good humour as the handsomest
of them. Look into this Dutch glass, sir, and be convinced that we
cannot do without you.”

“If it must be so, it must,” cries the ugly gentleman, “there seems to
be no alternative; I will even do as you say!”

It appears from a paper in “The American Museum” of 1790, that by this
mode the “ugly club” of Charleston has increased, is increasing, and
cannot be diminished. According to the last accounts, “strange”
gentlemen who do not comply with invitations to join the club in person
are elected “honorary” members, and their names enrolled _nolens
volens_.

  P. N.

  [104] See col. 264.

       *       *       *       *       *


SUMMER DRINKS.


IMPERIAL.

Take two gallons of water, two ounces of ginger bruised, and two lemons;
boil them together; when lukewarm, pour the whole on a pound and a half
of loaf sugar, and two ounces of cream of tartar; add four table
spoonfuls of yeast, and let them work together for six hours; then
strain the liquor, and bottle it off in small stone bottles: it will be
ready for use in a few hours.


SHERBET.

Take nine Seville oranges and three lemons, grate off the yellow from
the rinds, and put the raspings into a gallon of water, with three
pounds of double refined sugar, and boil it to a candy height; then take
it off the fire, and add the pulp of the oranges and lemons; keep
stirring it till it be almost cold, then put it in a vessel for use.


LEMON WATER.

Put two slices of lemon, thinly pared, into a tea-pot, with a little bit
of the peel, and a bit of sugar, or a large spoonful of capillaire, pour
in a pint of boiling water, and stop it close for two hours.


GINGER BEER.

To four gallons of water, put three pounds of brown sugar, two ounces of
ginger, one ounce and a half of hops, and about half a pound of
fern-root cut small; boil these together till there be about three
gallons. To colour it, burn a little sugar and put it in the liquor.
Pour it into a vessel when cold, add two table-spoonfuls of barm, and
then proceed as with common beer.

       *       *       *       *       *


CABBAGE, AND TAILORS.

The Roman name Brassica came, as is supposed, from “præséco,” because it
was cut off from the stalk: it was also called Caulis in Latin, on
account of the goodness of its stalks, and from which the English name
Cole, Colwort, or Colewort, is derived. The word cabbage, by which all
the varieties of this plant are now improperly called, means the firm
head or ball that is formed by the leaves turning close over each other:
from that circumstance we say the cole has cabbaged.--From thence arose
the cant word applied to tailors, who formerly worked at the private
houses of their customers, where they were often accused of cabbaging:
which means the rolling up pieces of cloth instead of the list and
shreds, which they claim as their due.[105]

  [105] Phillips’s Hist. of Cultivated Vegetables.

       *       *       *       *       *


APRIL.

FROM THE FRENCH OF REMY BELLEAU.

    APRIL! sweet month, the daintiest of all.
    Fair thee befall:
      April! fond hope of fruits that lie
    In buds of swathing cotton wrapt,
    There closely lapt
      Nursing their tender infancy--

    April! that dost thy yellow, green, and blue,
    Around thee strew,
      When, as thou go’st, the grassy floor
    Is with a million flowers depaint,
    Whose colours quaint
      Have diaper’d the meadows o’er--

    April! at whose glad coming zephyrs rise
    With whisper’d sighs,
      Then on their light wings brush away,
    And hang amid the woodlands fresh
    Their aery mesh,
      To tangle Flora on her way--

    April! it is thy hand that doth unlock,
    From plain and rock,
      Odours and hues, a balmy store,
    That breathing lie on Nature’s breast,
    So richly blest,
      That earth or heaven can ask no more--

    April! thy blooms, amid the tresses laid
    Of my sweet maid,
      Adown her neck and bosom flow;
    And in a wild profusion there,
    Her shining hair
      With them hath blent a golden glow--

    April! the dimpled smiles, the playful grace,
    That in the face
      Of Cytherea haunt, are thine:
    And thine the breath, that, from the skies,
    The deities
      Inhale, an offering at thy shrine--

    ’Tis thou that dost with summons blythe and soft,
    High up aloft,
      From banishment these heralds bring.
    These swallows, that along the air
    Send swift, and bear
      Glad tidings of the merry spring.

    April! the hawthorn and the eglantine,
    Purple woodbine,
      Streak’d pink, and lily-cup and rose,
    And thyme, and marjoram, are spreading,
    Where thou art treading,
      And their sweet eyes for thee unclose.

    The little nightingale sits singing aye
    On leafy spray,
      And in her fitful strain doth run
    A thousand and a thousand changes.
    With voice that ranges
      Through every sweet division

    April! it is when thou dost come again,
    That love is fain
      With gentlest breath the fires to wake,
    That cover’d up and slumbering lay,
    Through many a day,
      When winter’s chill our veins did slake.

    Sweet month, thou seest at this jocund prime
    Of the spring time,
      The hives pour out their lusty young,
    And hear’st the yellow bees that ply,
    With laden thigh,
      Murmuring the flow’ry wilds among.

    MAY shall with pomp his wavy wealth unfold,
    His fruits of gold,
      His fertilizing dews, that swell
    In manna on each spike and stem
    And like a gem,
      Red honey in the waxen cell.

    Who will may praise him, but my voice shall be,
    Sweet month for thee;
      Thou that to her do’st owe thy name,
    Who saw the sea-wave’s foamy tide
    Swell and divide,
      Whence forth to life and light she came.

       *       *       *       *       *


ETYMOLOGY.

The following are significations of a few common terms:--

_Steward_ literally means the keeper of the place; it is compounded of
the two old words, _stede_ and _ward_: by the omission of the first _d_
and _e_ the word steward is formed.

_Marshal_ means one who has the care of horses: in the old Teutonic,
_mare_ was synonymous with horse, being applied to the kind; _scale_
signified a servant.

_Mayor_ is derived from the Teutonic _Meyer_, a lover of might.

_Sheriff_ is compounded of the old words _shyre_ and _reve_--an officer
of the county, one who hath the overlooking of the shire.

_Yeoman_ is the Teutonic word _gemen_, corrupted in the spelling, and
means a commoner.

_Groom_ signifies one who serves in an inferior station. The name of
bridegroom was formerly given to the new-married man, because it was
customary for him to wait at table on his bride and friends on his
wedding day.

       *       *       *       *       *

All our words of necessity are derived from the German; our words of
luxury and those used at table, from the French. The sky, the earth, the
elements, the names of animals, household goods, and articles of food,
are the same in German as in English; the fashions of dress, and every
thing belonging to the kitchen, luxury, and ornament, are taken from the
French; and to such a degree of exactness, that the names of animals
which serve for the ordinary food of men, such as _ox_, _calf_, _sheep_,
when alive, are called the same in English as in German; but when they
are served up for the table they change their names, and are called
_beef_, _veal_, _mutton_, after the French.[106]

  [106] Dutens.

       *       *       *       *       *


ORGANS.

_For the Table Book._

A few particulars relative to organs, in addition to those at col. 260,
may be interesting to musical readers.

The instrument is of so great antiquity, that neither the time nor place
of invention, nor the name of the inventor, is identified; but that they
were used by the Greeks, and from them borrowed by the Latins, is
generally allowed. St. Jerome describes one that could be heard a mile
off; and says, that there was an organ at Jerusalem, which could be
heard at the Mount of Olives.

Organs are affirmed to have been first introduced into France in the
reign of Louis I., A. D. 815, and the construction and use of them
taught by an Italian priest, who learned the art at Constantinople. By
some, however, the introduction of them into that country is carried as
far back as Charlemagne, and by others still further.

The earliest mention of an organ, in the northern histories, is in the
annals of the year 757, when the emperor Constantine, surnamed
Copronymus, sent to Pepin of France, among other rich presents, a
“musical machine,” which the French writers describe to have been
composed of “pipes and large tubes of tin,” and to have imitated
sometimes the “roaring of thunder,” and, at others, the “warbling of a
flute.”

Bellarmine alleges, that organs were first used in churches about 660.
According to Bingham, they were not used till after the time of Thomas
Aquinas, about A. D. 1250. Gervas, the monk of Canterbury, who
flourished about 1200, says, they were in use about a hundred years
before his time. If his authority be good, it would countenance a
general opinion, that organs were common in the churches of Italy,
Germany, and England, about the tenth century.

  _March_, 1827.

       *       *       *       *       *


PERPLEXING MARRIAGES.

At Gwennap, in Cornwall, in March 1823, Miss Sophia Bawden was married
to Mr. R. Bawden, both of St. Day. By this marriage, the father became
brother-in-law to his son; the mother, mother-in-law to her sister; the
mother-in-law of the son, his sister-in-law; the sister of the
mother-in-law, her daughter-in-law; the sister of the daughter-in-law,
her mother-in-law; the son of the father, brother-in-law to his
mother-in-law, and uncle to his brothers and sisters; the wife of the
son, sister-in-law to her father-in-law, and aunt-in-law to her husband;
and the offspring of the son and his wife would be grandchildren to
their uncle and aunt, and cousins to their father.

       *       *       *       *       *

In an account of Kent, it is related that one Hawood had two daughters
by his first wife, of which the eldest was married to John Cashick the
son, and the youngest to John Cashick the father. This Cashick the
father had a daughter by his first wife, whom old Hawood married, and by
her had a son: with the exception of the former wife of old Cashick, all
these persons were living at Faversham in February, 1650, and his second
wife could say as follows:--

    My father is my son, and | My sister is my daughter,
    I’m mother’s mother; | I’m grandmother to my brother.

       *       *       *       *       *


STEPS RE-TRACED.

Catherine de Medicis made a vow, that if some concerns which she had
undertaken terminated successfully, she would send a pilgrim on foot to
Jerusalem, and that at every three steps he advanced, he should go one
step back.

It was doubtful whether there could be found a man sufficiently strong
and patient to walk, and go back one step at every third. A citizen of
Verberie, who was a merchant, offered to accomplish the queen’s vow most
scrupulously, and her majesty promised him an adequate recompense. The
queen was well assured by constant inquiries that he fulfilled his
engagement with exactness, and on his return, he received a considerable
sum of money, and was ennobled. His coat of arms were a cross and a
branch of palm-tree. His descendants preserved the arms; but they
degenerated from their nobility, by resuming the commerce which their
ancestor quitted.[107]

  [107] Nouv. Hist. de Duch. de Valois.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Street Circulars.~

No. I.

_For the Table Book._


WHISTLING JOE.

    He whistles as he goes for want of _bread_.[108]

       *       *       *       *       *

    Old books declare,--in Plutus’ shade,
    Whistling was once a roaring trade,--
      Great was the call for nerve and gristle;
    That Charon, with his Styx in view,
    Pierced old Phlegethon through and through,
      And whist-led in the ferry-whistle--

    That Polyphemus whistled when
    He p-layed the pipe r in a pen,
      And sought Ulysses’ bark to launch;
    That Troy, King Priam had not lost,
    But for the whistlers that were horsed[109]
      Within the horse’s wooden paunch.

    Jupiter was a whist-ling wight,
    And Juno heard him with delight;
      And Boreas was a reedy swain,
    Awak’ning Venus from the sea:
    But of the Moderns?--Joe is he
      That whistles in the streets for gain.

    You wonder as you hear the tone
    Sound like a herald in a zone
      Distinctly clear, minutely sweet;
    You list and Joe is dancing, now
    You laugh, and Joe returns a bow
      Returning in the crooked street.

    He scrapes a stick across his arm
    And knocks his knees, in need, to charm;[110]
      Instead of tabor and a fiddle,
    _Et omne solis_,--on his sole!
    He, _solus omnis_, like a pole
      Supports his body in the middle.

    Thus, of the sprites that creep, or beg,
    With wither’d arm, or wooden leg,
      Uncatalogued in Bridewell’s missal;
    Joe is the fittest for relief,
    He whistles gladness in his grief,[111]
      And _hardly_ earns it for his _whistle_.

  J. R. P.

  [108] Vide Dryden’s Cymon,

    “He whistled as he went for want of _thought_.”


  [109] This word rhymes with _lost_, to oblige the cockneys.

  [110] Like the punning clown in the stocks, that whistled _Over the
  wood laddie!_

  [111]

    “Whistle! and I will come to thee, my love.”


       *       *       *       *       *




Vol. I.--16.


~Maundy Thursday.~

THE THURSDAY BEFORE GOOD FRIDAY.

There are ample particulars of the present usages on this day at the
chapel royal, St. James’s, in the _Every-Day Book_, with accounts of
celebrations in other countries; to these may be added the ceremonies at
the court of Vienna, recently related by Dr. Bright:--

“On the Thursday of this week, which was the 24th of March, a singular
religious ceremony was celebrated by the court. It is known in German
catholic countries by the name of the _Fusswaschung_, or the ‘washing of
the feet.’ The large saloon, in which public court entertainments are
given, was fitted up for the purpose; elevated benches and galleries
were constructed round the room for the reception of the court and
strangers; and in the area, upon two platforms, tables were spread, at
one of which sat twelve men, and at the other twelve women. They had
been selected from the oldest and most deserving paupers, and were
suitably clothed in black, with handkerchiefs and square collars of
white muslin, and girdles round their waists.

“The emperor and empress, with the archdukes and archduchesses,
Leopoldine and Clementine, and their suites, having all previously
attended mass in the royal chapel, entered and approached the table to
the sound of solemn music. The Hungarian guard followed, in their most
splendid uniform, with their leopard-skin jackets falling from their
shoulders, and bearing trays of different meats, which the emperor,
empress, archdukes, and attendants, placed on the table, in three
successive courses, before the poor men and women, who tasted a little,
drank each a glass of wine, and answered a few questions put to them by
their sovereigns. The tables were then removed, and the empress and her
daughters the archduchesses, dressed in black, with pages bearing their
trains, approached. Silver bowls were placed beneath the bare feet of
the aged women. The grand chamberlain, in a humble posture, poured water
upon the feet of each in succession, from a golden urn, and the empress
wiped them with a fine napkin she held in her hand. The emperor
performed the same ceremony on the feet of the men, and the rite
concluded amidst the sounds of sacred music.”

       *       *       *       *       *


~Good Friday--Easter.~


“VISITING THE CHURCHES” IN FRANCE.

On _Good Friday_ the churches are all dressed up; canopies are placed
over the altars, and the altars themselves are decorated with flowers
and other ornaments, and illuminated with a vast number of wax candles.
In the evening every body of every rank and description goes a round of
visits to them. The devout kneel down and repeat a prayer to themselves
in each; but the majority only go to see and be seen--to admire or to
criticise the decorations of the churches and of each other--to settle
which are arranged with the most taste, which are the most superb. This
may be called the _feast of caps_, for there is scarcely a lady who has
not a new _cap_ for the occasion.

Easter Sunday, on the contrary, is the _feast of hats_; for it is no
less general for the ladies on that day to appear in new _hats_. In the
time of the convents, the decoration of their churches for Passion-week
was an object in which the nuns occupied themselves with the greatest
eagerness. No girl dressing for her first ball ever bestowed more pains
in placing her ornaments to the best advantage than they bestowed in
decorating their altars. Some of the churches which we visited looked
very well, and very showy: but the weather was warm; and as this was the
first revival of the ceremony since the revolution, the crowd was so
great that they were insupportably hot.

A number of Egyptians, who had accompanied the French army on its
evacuation of Egypt, and were settled at Marseilles, were the most eager
spectators, as indeed I had observed them to be on _all_ occasions of
any particular religious ceremonies being performed. I never saw a more
ugly or dirty-looking set of people than they were in general, women as
well as men, but they seemed fond of dress and ornament. They had
swarthy, dirty-looking complexions, and dark hair; but were not by any
means to be considered as people of colour. Their hair, though dark, had
no affinity with that of the <DW64>s; for it was lank and greasy, not
with any disposition to be woolly. Most of the women had accompanied
French officers as _chères amies_: the Egyptian ladies were indeed said
to have had in general a great taste for the French officers.[112]

  [112] Miss Plumptre.

       *       *       *       *       *


PHLEBOTOMY.

Bleeding was much in fashion in the middle ages. In the fifteenth
century, it was the subject of a poem; and Robert Boutevylleyn, a
founder, claimed in the abbey of Pipewell four bleedings _per annum_.
Among the monks this operation was termed “minution.”

In some abbeys was a bleeding-house, called “Fleboto-maria.” There were
certain festivals when this bleeding was not allowed. The monks desired
often to be bled, on account of eating meat.

In the order of S. Victor, the brethren were bled five times a year; in
September, before Advent, before Lent, after Easter, and at Pentecost,
which bleeding lasted three days. After the third day they came to
Mattins, and were in the convent; on the fourth day, they received
absolution in the chapter. In another rule, one choir was bled at the
same time, in silence and psalmody, sitting in order in a cell.[113]

  [113] Fosbroke’s British Monachism.

       *       *       *       *       *


OLD CEREMONIES, &c.

  ORDER OF THE MAUNDAY, MADE AT GREENWICH ON THE 19TH OF MARCH, 1572; 14
  ELIZ. From No. 6183 Add. MSS. in the British Museum.

  Extracted by W. H. DEWHURST

  _For the Table Book._

First.--The hall was prepared with a long table on each side, and formes
set by them; on the edges of which tables, and under those formes, were
lay’d carpets and cushions, for her majestie to kneel when she should
wash them. There was also another table set across the upper end of the
hall, somewhat above the foot pace, for the chappelan to stand at. A
little beneath the midst whereof, and beneath the said foot pace, a
stoole and cushion of estate was pitched for her majestie to kneel at
during the service time. This done, the holy water, basons, alms, and
other things, being brought into the hall, and the chappelan and poore
folkes having taken the said places, the laundresse, armed with a faire
towell, and taking a silver bason filled with warm water and sweet
flowers, washed their feet all after one another, and wiped the same
with his towell, and soe making a crosse a little above the toes kissed
them. After hym within a little while followed the subalmoner, doing
likewise, and after hym the almoner hymself also. Then lastly, her
majestie came into the hall, and after some singing and prayers made,
and the gospel of Christ’s washing of his disciples’ feet read, 39
ladyes and gentlewomen (for soe many were the poore folkes, according to
the number of the yeares complete of her majestie’s age,) addressed
themselves with aprons and towels to waite upon her majestie, and she
kneeling down upon the cushions and carpets, under the feete of the
poore women, first washed one foote of every one of them in soe many
several basons of warm water and sweete flowers, brought to her
severally by the said ladies and gentlewomen, then wiped, crossed, and
kissed them, as the almoner and others had done before. When her
majestie had thus gone through the whole number of 39, (of which 20 sat
on the one side of the hall, and 19 on the other,) she resorted to the
first again, and gave to each one certain yardes of broad clothe, to
make a gowne, so passing to them all. Thirdly, she began at the first,
and gave to each of them a pair of shoes. Fourthly, to each of them a
wooden platter, wherein was half a side of salmon, as much ling, six red
herrings, and cheat lofes of bread.[114] Fifthly, she began with the
first again, and gave to each of them a white wooden dish with claret
wine. Sixthly, she received of each waiting lady and gentlewoman their
towel and apron, and gave to each poore woman one of the same; and after
this the ladies and gentlewomen waited noe longer, nor served as they
had done throwe out the courses before. But then the treasurer of the
chamber (Mr. Hennage) came to her majestie with 39 small white purses,
wherein were also 39 pence, (as they saye,) after the number of yeares
to her majesties said age, and of him she received and distributed them
severally. Which done, she received of him soe manye leather purses
alsoe, each containing 20 sh. for the redemption of her majestie’s gown,
which (as men saye) by ancient ordre she ought to give some of them at
her pleasure; but she, to avoide the trouble of suite, which
accustomablie was made for that preferment, had changed that rewarde
into money, to be equally divided amongst them all, namely, 20 sh. a
peice, and she alsoe delivered particularly to the whole companye. And
so taking her ease upon the cushion of estate, and hearing the quire a
little while, her majestie withdrew herself, and the company departed:
for it was by that time the sun was setting.

  W. L(AMBERT.)

TAKEN BY W. H. DEWHURST FROM THE SAME MSS.

  EXTRACTS _from the churchwarden’s accompts of the parish_ of St.
  Helen, in Abingdon, Berkshire, _from the first year of the reign of
  Philip and Mary, to the thirty-fourth of Q. Elizabeth_, now in the
  possession of the Rev. Mr. GEORGE BENSON.

With some Observations on them, by the late professor J. WARD.

  +------------------------------------------------------+------+------+
  | _Ann._ MDLV. or 1 & 2 _of Phil. and Mary_.           | _s._ | _d._ |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for makeinge the _roode_, and peynting the same |   5  |   4  |
  |  for makeinge the herse lights, and paschall tapers  |  11  |   1  |
  |  for makeinge the roode lyghtes                      |  10  |   6  |
  |  for a legend                                        |   5  |   0  |
  |  for a hollie water pott                             |   6  |   0  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |        _Ann._ MDLVI. or 2 & 3 _of P. and M._         |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for a boke of the _articles_                    |   0  |   2  |
  |  for a _shippe of frankencense_                      |   0  |  20  |
  |  for new wax, and makeinge the herse lights          |   5  |   8  |
  |  for the font taper, and the paskall taper           |   6  |   7  |
  |Receyved for the holye loof lyghts                    |  33  |   4  |
  |  for the rode lyghtes at Christmas                   |  23  | 2ob. |
  |  at the buryall and _monethes mynd_ of George Chynche|   0  |  22  |
  |  for 12 tapers, at the _yeres mynd_ of Maister John  |      |      |
  |  Hide                                                |   0  |  21  |
  |  at the buriall and _monethes mynd_ of the good wiff |      |      |
  |  Braunche                                            |  12  |   4  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |      _Ann._ MDLVII. or 3 & 4 _of P. and M._          |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Receyved of the parishe of the rode lyghts at         |      |      |
  |Christmas                                             |  21  |   9  |
  |  of the clarke for the holye loft                    |  36  |   8  |
  |  at the buryall of Rich. Ballerd for 4 tapers        |   0  |   6  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |          *       *       *       *       *           |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for peynting the _roode_ of Marie and John, the |      |      |
  |patron of the churche                                 |   6  |   8  |
  |  to fasten the tabernacle where the patron of the    |      |      |
  |  church now standeth                                 |   0  |   8  |
  |  for the roode Marie and John, with the patron of the|      |      |
  |  churche                                             |  18  |   0  |
  |  for makeing the _herse lyghts_                      |   3  |   8  |
  |  for the roode Marie and John, and the patron of the |      |      |
  |  churche                                             |   7  |   0  |
  |  to the sextin, for watching the sepulter two nyghts |   0  |   8  |
  |  to the suffrigan for hallowing the churche yard, and|      |      |
  |  other implements of the church                      |  30  |   0  |
  |  for the waste of the pascall and for holye yoyle    |   5  |  10  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |       _Ann._ MDLVIII. MDLIX. or 4 & 5 _of P.         |      |      |
  |             & M. and_ 1 & 2 _of Eliz._               |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Receyved for _roode lyghts_ at Xmas, 1558.            |  18  |   6  |
  |  for roode lyghts at Xmas, 1559                      |  18  | 3ob. |
  |  at Ester, for the pascall lyghte, 1558              |  34  |   0  |
  |  for waxe to _thense_ the church on Ester daye       |   0  |  20  |
  |  at Ester, for the pascall lyghte, 1559              |  35  |   0  |
  |  for the holie loff, 1558                            |  34  |   0  |
  |  for the holie loff, 1559                            |  34  |   8  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |           *       *       *       *       *          |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde to the bellman for meate, drinke, and cooles,   |      |      |
  |watching the sepulture                                |   0  |  19  |
  |  for the _communion boke_                            |   5  |   0  |
  |  for _takeing down the altere_                       |   0  |  20  |
  |  for 4 song bokes and a sawter                       |   6  |   8  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |         _Ann._ MDLX. or 3 _of Eliz._                 |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for tymber and makeing the communion table      |   6  |   0  |
  |  for a carpet for do                                 |   2  |   8  |
  |  for mending and paving the place where the aultere  |      |      |
  |  stoode                                              |   2  |   8  |
  |  for too dossin of _morres belles_                   |   1  |   0  |
  |  for fower new saulter bockes                        |   8  |   0  |
  |  for gathering the herse lyghtes                     |   4  |   0  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |            _Ann._ MDLXI. or 4 _of Eliz._             |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for 4 pownde of candilles upon Cristmas daye in |      |      |
  |the morning for the _masse_                           |   0  |  12  |
  |  for a table of the commandementes and cealender, or |      |      |
  |  rewle to find out the lessons and spallmes, and for |      |      |
  |  the frame                                           |   2  |   0  |
  |  to the somner for bringing the order for the roode  |      |      |
  |  lofte                                               |   0  |   8  |
  |  to the carpenter _for takeing down the roode lofte_,|      |      |
  |  and stopping the holes in the wall, where the       |      |      |
  |  joisces stoode                                      |  15  |   8  |
  |  to the peynter for wrigting the scripture, where    |      |      |
  |  roode lofte stoode and overthwarte the same isle    |   3  |   4  |
  |  to the clarkes for maynteyning and repeyring the    |      |      |
  |  song bokes in the quyre                             |   4  |   0  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |            _Ann._ MDLXII. or 5 _of Eliz._            |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for a _bybill_ for the church                   |  10  |   0  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |          _Ann._ MDLXIII. or 6 _of Eliz._             |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for a boke of Wendsdayes fasting, which contayns|      |      |
  |omellies                                              |   0  |   6  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |           _Ann._ MDLXIV. or _7 of Eliz._             |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for a communion boke                            |   4  |   0  |
  |  for reparations of the cross in the market place    |   5  |   2  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |            _Ann._ MDLXV. or 8 _of Eliz._             |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for too _bokes of common prayer agaynste        |      |      |
  |invading of the Turke_                                |   0  |   6  |
  |  for a repetition of the _communion boke_            |   4  |   0  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |            _Ann._ MDLXVI. or 9 _of Eliz._            |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for setting up _Robin Hoode’s bowere_           |   0  |  18  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |          _Ann._ MDLXXIII. or 16 _of Eliz._           |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for a quire of paper to make four bokes of      |      |      |
  |_Geneva salmes_                                       |   0  |   4  |
  |  for 2 bockes of common prayer new sett forth        |   0  |   4  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |           _Ann._ MDLXXIV. or 17 _of Eliz._           |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for candilles for the church at Cristmas        |   0  |  15  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |   _Ann._ MDLXXVI. MDLXXVII. or 19 & 20 _of Eliz._    |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for a new byble                                 |  40  |   0  |
  |  for a booke of common prayer                        |   7  |   0  |
  |  for wrytyng the commandements in the quyre, and     |      |      |
  |  peynting the same.                                  |  19  |   0  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |         _Ann._ MDLXXVIII. or 21 _of Eliz._           |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for a _booke of the articles_                   |   0  |  10  |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |           _Ann._ MDXCI. or 34 _of Eliz._             |      |      |
  |                                                      |      |      |
  |Payde for an _houre glasse for the pulpitt_.          |   0  |   4  |
  +------------------------------------------------------+------+------+


OBSERVATIONS, &C. ON THE PRECEDING CHARGES.

The churchwarden’s accounts of a particular parish[115] may in
themselves be thought, justly, as a matter of no great consequence, and
not worthy of much regard. But these seem to deserve some consideration,
as they relate to a very remarkable period in our history, and prove by
facts the great alterations that were made in religious affairs under
the reigns of queen Mary and queen Elizabeth, together with the time and
manner of putting them into execution; and may therefore serve both to
confirm and illustrate several things related by our ecclesiastical
historians.

1. We find mention made in these extracts of the _rood_ and _rood loft_.
By the former of which was meant either a crucifix, or the image of some
saint erected in popish churches. And here that name is given to the
images of saint Mary and saint John, and to saint Helen, the patroness
of the church. These images were set in shrines, or tabernacles, and the
place where they stood was called the rood loft, which was commonly over
or near the passage out of the body of the church into the chancel. In
1548, the first of king Edward VI., all images and their shrines were
ordered to be taken down, as bishop Burnett informs us. But they were
restored again on the accession of queen Mary, as we find here, by the
first article.

2. The _ship for frankincense_, mentioned in the year 1556, was a small
vessel in the form of a ship or boat, in which the Roman catholics burn
frankincense to perfume their churches and images.

3. The _boke of articles_, purchased in 1556, seems to be that which was
printed and sent over the kingdom by order of queen Mary, at the end of
the year 1554, containing instructions to the bishops for visiting the
clergy.

4. We find frequent mention made of lights and other expenses at a
_funeral_, the _months mind_, the _years_ and _two years mind_, and the
_obit_ of deceased persons, which were masses performed at those seasons
for the rest of their souls; the word _mind_, meaning the same as
_memorial_ or _remembrance_. And so it is used in a sermon yet extant of
bishop Fisher, entitled _A mornynge remembrance had at the monteth minde
of the most noble prynces Margarete, countesse of Richmonde and Darbye_,
&c. As to the term _obits_, services of that kind seem to have been
annually performed. The office of the mass for each of these solemnities
may be seen in the _Roman Missal_, under the title of _Missal pro
defunctis_. And it appears by the different sums here charged, that the
expenses were suited to persons of all ranks, that none might be
deprived of the benefit which was supposed to accrue from them.

5. It was customary in popish countries on Good Friday to erect a small
building, to represent the sepulchre of our Saviour. In this they put
the host, and set a person to watch both that night and the next. On the
following morning very early, the host being taken out, Christ is risen.
This was done here in 1557 and two following years, the last of which
was in the reign of queen Elizabeth. Du Fresne has given us a particular
account of this ceremony as performed at Rouen in France, where three
persons in female habits used to go to the sepulchre, in which two
others were placed to represent angels, who told them Christ was risen.
(_Latin Glossary_, under the words _Sepulchro officinum_.) The building
mentioned must have been very slight, since the whole expense amounted
to no more than seventeen shillings and sixpence.

6. In the article of _wax to thense the church_, under the year 1558,
the word _thense_ is, I presume, a mistake for cense, as they might use
wax with the frankincense in censing or perfuming the church.

7. In 1559 the _altar_ was taken down, and in 1560 the communion table
was put in its place, by order of queen Elizabeth.

8. Masses for the dead continued to this time, but here, instead of a
_moneths mynde_, the expression is _a months monument_. But as that
office was performed at the altar, and this being taken down that year,
the other could not be performed. And yet we have the word _mass_
applied to the service performed on Christmas-day the year following.

9. The _morrice bells_, mentioned under the year 1560 as purchased by
the parish, were used in their morrice dances, a diversion then
practised at their festivals; in which the populace might be indulged
from a political view, to keep them in good humour.

10. In 1561 the _rood loft_ was taken down, and in order to obliterate
its remembrance, (as had been done before in the reign of king Edward
VI.,) some passages out of the Bible were painted in the place where it
stood, which could give but little offence, since the images had been
removed the preceding year by the queen’s injunction, on the
representation of the bishops.

11. In 1562 a _Bible_ is said to have been bought for the church, which
cost ten shillings. This, I suppose, was the _Geneva_ Bible, in 4to.,
both on account of its low price, and because that edition, having the
division of verses, was best suited for public use. It was an English
translation, which had been revised and corrected by the English exiles
at Geneva, in queen Mary’s reign, and printed there in 1560, with a
dedication to queen Elizabeth. In the year 1576 we find another _Bible_
was bought, which was called the _New_ Bible, and is said to have cost
forty shillings; which must have been the large folio, usually called
archbishop _Parker’s_ Bible, printed at London, in 1568, by Richard
Jugge, the queen’s printer. They had _prayer-books_, _psalters_, and
_song-books_, for the churches in the beginning of this reign, as the
whole Bible was not easily to be procured.

12. In 1565 there is a charge of sixpence for _two common prayer-books
against invading the Turke_. It was then thought the common cause of the
Christian states in Europe to oppose the progress of the Turkish arms by
all methods, both civil and religious. And this year the Turks made a
descent upon the Isle of Malta, where they besieged the town and castle
of St. Michael four months, when, on the approach of the Christian
fleet, they broke up the siege, and suffered considerable loss in their
flight. (Thuanus; lib. 38.) And as the war was afterwards carried on
between them and the emperor Maximillian in Hungary, the like
prayer-books were annually purchased for the parish till the year 1569
inclusive.[116]

13. In 1566 there is an article of eighteenpence for _setting up Robin
Hoode’s bowere_. This, I imagine, might be an arbour or booth, erected
by the parish, at some festival. Though for what purpose it received
that name I know not, unless it was designed for archers.

14. In 1573 charge is made of paper for _four bookes of Geneva psalms_.
It is well known, that the vocal music in parochial churches received a
great alteration under the reign of queen Elizabeth, being changed from
_antiphonyes_ into metrical psalmody, which is here called the _Geneva_
psalms.

15. In the year 1578 tenpence were paid for a book of the articles.
These articles were agreed to and subscribed for by both houses of
convocation in 1562, and printed the year following. But in 1571, being
again revised and ratified by act of parliament, they seem to have been
placed in churches.

16. The last article in these extracts is fourpence for _an houre glass
for the pulpit_. How early the custom was of using hour glasses in the
pulpit, I cannot say; but this is the first instance of it I ever met
with.

It is not to be thought that the same regulations were all made within
the same time in all other places. That depended with the several
bishops of their dioceses, and according to their zeal for the
Reformation. Abingdon lies in the diocese of Salisbury, and, as bishop
Jewel, who was first nominated to that see by queen Elizabeth, and
continued in it till the year 1571, was so great a defender of the
reformed religion, it is not to be doubted but every thing was there
carried on with as much expedition as was judged consistent with
prudence.

  [114] Manchet, or cheat-bread.

  [115] Fuller’s Hist. of Waltham Abbey, p. 13. T. Lewis’s Hist. of the
  English Translation of the Bible, p. 199.

  [116] Pref ad Camdeni “Eliz.” p. xxix. l. i. g.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XIII.

  [From the “Battle of Alcazar, a Tragedy,” 1594.]

_Muly Mahamet, driven from his throne into a desart, robs the Lioness to
feed his fainting Wife Calipolis._

      _Muly._ Hold thee, Calipolis; feed, and faint no more.
    This flesh I forced from a Lioness;
    Meat of a Princess, for a Princess’ meat.
    Learn by her noble stomach to esteem
    Penury plenty in extremest dearth;
    Who, when she saw her foragement bereft,
    Pined not in melancholy or childish fear;
    But, as brave minds are strongest in extremes,
    So she, redoubling her former force,
    Ranged through the woods, and rent the breeding vaults
    Of proudest savages, to save herself.
    Feed then, and faint not, fair Calipolis;
    For, rather than fierce famine shall prevail
    To gnaw thy entrails with her thorny teeth.
    The conquering Lioness shall attend on thee,
    And lay huge heaps of slaughter’d carcases
    As bulwarks in her way to keep her back.
    I will provide thee of a princely Ospray,
    That, as she flieth over fish in pools,
    The fish shall turn their glistering bellies up,
    And thou shall take the liberal choice of all.
    Jove’s stately Bird with wide-commanding wing
    Shall hover still about thy princely head.
    And eat down fowls by shoals into thy lap.
    Feed then, and faint not, fair Calipolis.[117]

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Seven Champions of Christendom,” by John Kirk, acted 1638.]

_Calib, the Witch, in the opening Scene, in a Storm._

      _Calib._ Ha! louder a little; so, that burst was well.
    Again; ha, ha! house, house your heads, ye fear-struck
    mortal fools, when Calib’s consort plays
    A hunts-up to her. How rarely doth it languell
    In mine ears! these are mine organs; the toad,
    The bat, the raven, and the fell whistling bird,
    Are all my anthem-singing quiristers.
    Such sapless roots, and liveless wither’d woods,
    Are pleasanter to me than to behold
    The jocund month of May, in whose green head of youth
    The amorous Flora strews her various flowers,
    And smiles to see how brave she has deckt her girl.
    But pass we May, as game for fangled fools,
    That dare not set a foot in Art’s dark, sec-
    -ret, and bewitching path, as Calib has.
    Here is my mansion
    Within the rugged bowels of this cave,
    This crag, this cliff, this den; which to behold
    Would freeze to ice the hissing trammels of Medusa.
    Yet here enthroned I sit, more richer in my spells
    And potent charms, than is the stately Mountain Queen,
    Drest with the beauty of her sparkling gems,
    To vie a lustre ’gainst the heavenly lamps.
    But we are sunk in these antipodes; so choakt
    With darkness is great Calib’s cave, that it
    Can stifle day. It can?--it shall--for we do loath the light;
    And, as our deeds are black, we hug the night.
    But where’s this Boy, my GEORGE, my Love, my Life,
    Whom Calib lately dotes on more than life?
    I must not have him wander from my love
    Farther than summons of my eye, or beck,
    Can call him back again. But ’tis my fiend-
    -begotten and deform’d Issue[118], misleads him:
    For which I’ll rock him in a storm of hail.
    And dash him ’gainst the pavement on the rocky den;
    He must not lead my Joy astray from me.
    The parents of that Boy, begetting him,
    Begot and bore the issue of their deaths;
    Which done[119], the Child I stole,
    Thinking alone to triumph in his death,
    And bathe my body in his popular gore:
    But dove-like Nature favour’d so the Child,
    That Calib’s killing knife fell from her hand;
    And, ’stead of stabs, I kiss’d the red-lipt Boy.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From “Two Tragedies in One,” by Robert Yarrington, who wrote in the
  reign of Elizabeth.]

_Truth, the Chorus, to the Spectators._

    All you, the sad Spectators of this Act,
    Whose hearts do taste a feeling pensiveness
    Of this unheard-of savage massacre:
    Oh be far off to harbour such a thought,
    As this audacious murderer put in act!
    I see your sorrows flow up to the brim,
    And overflow your cheeks with brinish tears:
    But though this sight bring surfeit to the eye,
    Delight your ears with pleasing harmony,
    That ears may countercheck your eyes, and say,
    “Why shed you tears? this deed is but a _Play_.”[120]

       *       *       *       *       *

_Murderer to his Sister, about to stow away the trunk of the body,
having severed it from the limbs._

    Hark, Rachel! I will cross the water strait,
    And fling this middle mention of a Man
    Into some ditch.

It is curious, that this old Play comprises the distinct action of two
Atrocities; the one a vulgar murder, committed in our own Thames Street,
with the names and incidents truly and historically set down; the other
a Murder in high life, supposed to be acting at the same time in Italy,
the scenes alternating between that country and England: the Story of
the latter is _mutatis mutandis_ no other than that of our own “Babes in
the Wood,” transferred to Italy, from delicacy no doubt to some of the
family of the rich Wicked Uncle, who might yet be living. The treatment
of the two differs as the romance-like narratives in “God’s Revenge
against Murder,” in which the Actors of the Murders (with the trifling
exception that they _were Murderers_) are represented as most
accomplished and every way amiable young Gentlefolks of either sex--as
much as _that_ differs from the honest unglossing pages of the homely
Newgate Ordinary.

  C. L.

  [117] This address, for its barbaric splendor of conception,
  extravagant vein of promise, not to mention some idiomatic
  peculiarities, and the very structure of the verse, savours strongly
  of Marlowe; but the real author, I believe, is unknown.

  [118] A sort of young Caliban, her son, who presently enters,
  complaining of a “bloody coxcomb” which the Young Saint George had
  given him.

  [119] Calib had killed the parents of the Young Saint George.

  [120] The whole theory of the reason of our delight in Tragic
  Representations, which has cost so many elaborate chapters of
  Criticism, is condensed in these four last lines: _Aristotle
  quintessentialised_.

       *       *       *       *       *


~The Old Bear Garden~

AT BANKSIDE, SOUTHWARK.

  BEAR BAITING--MASTERS OF THE BEARS AND DOGS--EDWARD ALLEYN--THE FALCON
  TAVERN, &C.

The Bull and the Bear baiting, on the Bankside, seem to have preceded,
in point of time, the several other ancient theatres of the metropolis.
The precise date of their erection is not ascertained, but a Bear-garden
on the Bankside is mentioned by one Crowley, a poet, of the reign of
Henry VIII., as being at that time in existence. He informs us, that the
exhibitions were on a Sunday, that they drew full assemblies, and that
the price of admission was then one halfpenny!

    “What follie is this to keep with danger,
    A great mastive dog, and fowle ouglie bear;
    And to this end, to see them two fight,
    With terrible tearings, a ful ouglie sight.
    And methinkes those men are most fools of al,
    Whose store of money is but very smal;
    And yet every _Sunday_ they wil surely spend
    One penny or two, the bearward’s living to mend.

    “At _Paris garden_ each _Sunday_, a man shal not fail
    To find two or three hundred for the bearwards vale,
    _One halfpenny_ apiece they use for to give,
    When some have no more in their purses, I believe;
    Wel, at the last day, their conscience wil declare,
    That the poor ought to have al that they may spare.
    If you therefore give to see a bear fight,
    Be sure God his curse upon you wil light!”

Whether these “rough games,” as a certain author terms them, were then
exhibited in the same or similar amphitheatres, to those afterwards
engraved in our old plans, or in the open air, the extract does not
inform us. Nor does Stowe’s account afford any better idea. He merely
tells us, that there were on the west bank “_two bear gardens_, the
_old_ and the _new_; places, wherein were kept beares, bulls, and other
beasts to be bayted; as also mastives in several kenels, nourished to
bayt them. These beares and other beasts,” he adds, “are there kept in
plots of ground, scaffolded about, for the beholders to stand safe.”

In Aggass’s plan, taken 1574, and the plan of Braun, made about the same
time, these plots of ground are engraved, with the addition of two
_circi_, for the accommodation of the spectators, bearing the names of
the “_Bowll Baytyng_, and the _Beare Baytinge_.” In both plans, the
buildings appear to be completely circular, and were evidently intended
as humble imitations of the ancient Roman amphitheatre. They stood in
two adjoining fields, separated only by a small slip of land; but some
differences are observable in the spots on which they are built.

In Aggas’s plan, which is the earliest, the disjoining slip of land
contains only one large pond, common to the two places of exhibition;
but in Braun, this appears divided into three ponds, besides a similar
conveniency near each theatre. The use of these pieces of water is very
well explained in Brown’s Travels, (1685) who has given a plate of the
“Elector of Saxony his beare garden at Dresden,” in which is a large
pond, with several bears amusing themselves in it; his account of which
is highly curious:

“In the hunting-house, in the old town,” says he, “are fifteen bears,
very well provided for, and looked unto. They have _fountains_ and
_ponds_, to wash themselves in, wherein they much delight: and near to
the pond are high _ragged posts_ or _trees_, set up for the bears to
climb up, and _scaffolds_ made at the top, to sun and dry themselves;
where they will also sleep, and come and go as the keeper calls them.”

The ponds, and dog-kennels, for the bears on the Bankside, are clearly
marked in the plans alluded to; and the construction of the
amphitheatres themselves may be tolerably well conceived,
notwithstanding the smallness of the scale on which they are drawn. They
evidently consisted, within-side, of a lower tier of circular seats for
the spectators, at the back of which, a sort of screen ran all round, in
part open, so as to admit a view from without, evident in Braun’s
delineation, by the figures who are looking through, on the outside. The
buildings are unroofed, and in both plans shown during the time of
performance, which in Aggas’s view is announced by the display of little
flags or streamers on the top. The dogs are tied up in slips near each,
ready for the sport, and the combatants actually engaged in Braun’s
plan. Two little houses for retirement are at the head of each theatre.

The amusement of bear-baiting in England existed, however, long before
the mention here made of it. In the Northumberland Household Book,
compiled in the reign of Henry VII., enumerating “al maner of rewardis
customable usede yearely to be yeven by my Lorde to strangers, as
players, mynstraills, or any other strangers, whatsomever they be,” are
the following:

  “Furst, my Lorde usith and accustomyth to gyff yerely, the Kinge or
  the Queene’s barwarde. If they have one, when they custome to com unto
  hym, yearely--vj. s. viij. d.”

  “Item, my Lorde usith and accustomyth to gyfe yerly, when his
  Lordshipe is at home, to his barward, when he comyth to my Lorde in
  Christmas, with his Lordshippe’s beests, for makynge of his Lordship
  pastyme, the said xij. days--xx. s.”

[Illustration: ~The Bear Garden in Southwark~, A. D. 1574.

FROM THE LONG PRINT OF LONDON BY VISCHER CALLED THE ANTWERP VIEW.]

It made one of the favourite amusements of the romantic age of queen
Elizabeth, and was introduced among the princely pleasures of Kenilworth
in 1575, where the droll author of the account introduces the bear and
dogs deciding their ancient grudge per duellum.[121]

“Well, Syr (says he), the bearz wear brought foorth intoo coourt, the
dogs set too them, too argu the points eeven face to face, they had
learnd coounsell allso a both parts: what may they be coounted parciall
that are retained but a to syde, I ween. No wery feers both tou and
toother eager in argument: if the dog in pleadyng woold pluk the bear by
the throte, the bear with trauers woould claw him again by the skaip,
confess and a list; but a voyd a coold not that waz bound too the bar:
and hiz counsell toll’d him that it coold be too him no poliecy in
pleading. Thearfore, thus with fending and proouing, with plucking and
tugging, skratting and byting, by plain tooth and nayll, a to side and
toother, such erspes of blood and leather was thear between them, az a
month’s licking, I ween, wyl not recoover, and yet remain az far oout az
euer they wear. It waz a sport very pleazaunt of theez beastys: to see
the bear with hiz pink nyez leering after hiz enmiez approch, the
nimblness and wayt of ye dog too take his auauntage, and the fors and
experiens of the bear agayn to auoyd the assauts: if he wear bitten in
one place, hoow he woold pynch in anoother too get free: that if he wear
taken onez, then what shyft with byting, with clawyng, with roring,
torsing and tumbling, he woold work to wynde hymself from them; and when
he was lose, to shake hiz earz twyse or thryse wyth the blud and the
slaver aboout hiz fiznamy, was a matter of a goodly releef.”

[Illustration: ~The Bear Garden in Southwark~, A. D. 1648.

FROM THE LARGE FOUR-SHEET VIEW OF LONDON BY HOLLAR.

THE LAST KNOWN REPRESENTATION OF THE PLACE]

It is not to be wondered at, that an amusement, thus patronised by the
great, and even by royalty itself, ferocious as it was, should be the
delight of the vulgar, whose untutored taste it was peculiarly
calculated to please. Accordingly, bear-baiting seems to have been
amazingly frequented, at this time, especially on _Sundays_. On one of
these days, in 1582, a dire accident befell the spectators. The
scaffolding suddenly gave way, and multitudes of people were killed, or
miserably maimed. This was looked upon as a judgment, and as such was
noticed by divines, and other grave characters, in their sermons and
writings. The lord mayor for that year (sir Thomas Blanke) wrote on the
occasion to the lord treasurer, “that it gave great reason to
acknowledge the hand of God, for breach of the Lord’s Day,” and moved
him to redress the same.

Little notice, however, was taken of his application; the accident was
forgot; and the barbarous amusement soon followed as much as ever, Stowe
assuring us, in his work, printed many years afterwards, “that for
baiting of bulls and bears, they were, till that time, much frequented,
namely, in bear gardens on the Bankside.” The commonalty could not be
expected to reform what had the sanction of the highest example, and the
labours of the moralist were as unavailing as in the case of pugilism in
the present day.

In the succeeding reign, the general introduction of the drama operated
as a check to the practice, and the public taste took a turn. One of
these theatres gave place to “the Globe;” the other remained long after.
This second theatre, which retained its original name of the
“Bear-baiting,” was rebuilt on a larger scale, about the beginning of
James the First’s reign; and of an octagonal form instead of round, as
before; in which respect it resembled the other theatres on the
Bankside. The _first_ engraving in this article contains a view of it in
this state, from the long print of London by Vischer, usually called the
Antwerp view. In this representation, the slips, or dog-kennels, are
again distinctly marked, as well as the ponds. The _second_ engraving,
from Hollar’s view about 1648, shows it as it was a third time rebuilt
on a larger scale, and again of the circular shape, when “plays” and
prize-fighting were added to the amusements exhibited at it.

In the reign of James I. the “Bear-garden” was under the protection of
royalty, and the mastership of it made a patent place. The celebrated
actor Alleyn enjoyed this lucrative post, as keeper of the king’s wild
beasts, or master of the royal bear-garden, situated on the Bankside, in
Southwark. The profits of this place are said by his biographer to have
been immense, sometimes amounting to 500_l._ a year; and well account
for the great fortune he raised. A little before his death he sold his
share and patent to his wife’s father, Mr. Hinchtoe, for 580_l._

We have a good account of the “Bear-baiting,” in the reign of Charles
II., by one Mons. Jorevin, a foreigner, whose observations on this
country were published in 1672,[122] and who has given us the following
curious detail of a visit he paid to it:--

“We went to see the Bergiardin, by Sodoark,[123] which is a great
amphitheatre, where combats are fought between all sorts of animals, and
sometimes men, as we once saw. Commonly, when any fencing-masters are
desirous of showing their courage and their great skill, they issue
mutual challenges, and, before they engage, parade the town with drums
and trumpets sounding, to inform the public there is a challenge between
two brave masters of the science of defence, and that the battle will be
fought on such a day. We went to see this combat, which was performed on
a stage in the middle of this amphitheatre, where, on the flourishes of
trumpets, and the beat of drums, the combatants entered, stripped to
their shirts. On a signal from the drum, they drew their swords, and
immediately began the fight, skirmishing a long time without any wounds.
They were both very skilful and courageous. The tallest had the
advantage over the least; for, according to the English fashion of
fencing, they endeavoured rather to cut, than push in the French manner;
so that by his height he had the advantage of being able to strike his
antagonist on the head, against which, the little one was on his guard.
He had, in his turn, an advantage over the great one, in being able to
give him the Jarnac stroke, by cutting him on his right ham, which he
left in a manner quite unguarded. So that, all things considered, they
were equally matched. Nevertheless, the tall one struck his antagonist
on the wrist, which he almost cut off; but this did not prevent him from
continuing the fight, after he had been dressed, and taken a glass or
two of wine to give him courage, when he took ample vengeance for his
wound; for a little afterwards, making a feint at the ham, the tall man,
stooping in order to parry it, laid his whole head open, when the little
one gave him a stroke, which took off a slice of his head, and almost
all his ear. For my part, I think there is an inhumanity, a barbarity,
and cruelty, in permitting men to kill each other for diversion. The
surgeons immediately dressed them, and bound up their wounds; which
being done, they resumed the combat, and both being sensible of their
respective disadvantages, they therefore were a long time without giving
or receiving a wound, which was the cause that the little one, failing
to parry so exactly, being tired with this long battle received a stroke
on his wounded wrist, which dividing the sinews, he remained vanquished,
and the tall conqueror received the applause of the spectators. For my
part, I should have had more pleasure in seeing the battle of the bears
and dogs, which was fought the following day on the same theatre.”

It does not appear at what period the Bear-baiting was destroyed, but it
was, probably, not long after the above period. Strype, in his first
edition of Stowe, published 1720, speaking of “Bear Alley,” on this
spot, says, “Here is a glass-house, and about the middle a _new-built_
court, well-inhabited, called _Bear-garden Square_; so called, as built
in the place where the Bear-garden formerly stood, until removed to the
other side of the water; which is more convenient for the butchers, and
such like, who are taken with such rustic sports as the baiting of bears
and bulls.” The theatre was evidently destroyed to build this then _new_
court.[124]

According to an entry in the Parochial Books in 1586, one Morgan Pope
agreed to pay the parish of St. Saviour, Southwark, for the Bear-garden,
and the ground where the dogs were kept, 6_s._ 8_d._ arrears and 6_s._
8_d._ for tithes.

The old Bear-garden at Bankside, and the Globe theatre wherein
Shakspeare’s plays were originally performed, and he himself sometimes
acted, was in the manor or liberty of Paris Garden. Near this, and in
the same manor, were the Hope, the Swan, and the Rose theatres. It
appears from “an ancient Survey on vellum made in the reign of queen
Elizabeth,” that “Olde Paris Garden Lane” ran from Bankside, in the
direction of the present Blackfriars-road, to stairs at the river’s-side
near to, or perhaps on the very spot now occupied by, the Surry end of
Blackfriars-bridge, and opposite to this lane in the road of the
Bankside stood an old stone cross, which, therefore, were it remaining,
would now stand in Blackfriars-road, near Holland-street, leading to the
present Falcon glass-house, opposite to which site was the old Falcon
tavern, celebrated for having been the daily resort of Shakspeare and
his dramatic companions. Till of late years, the Falcon inn was a house
of great business, and the place from whence coaches went to all parts
of Kent, Surry, and Sussex. In 1805, before the old house was taken
down, Mr. Wilkinson, of Cornhill, caused a drawing to be made, and
published an engraving of it. “The Bull and Bear Baiting” were two or
three hundred yards eastward of the Falcon, and beyond were the Globe
and the other theatres just mentioned. “The site of the Old Bear-garden
retaining its name, is now occupied by Mr. Bradley’s extensive
iron-foundery, in which shot and shells are cast for the
government.”[125]

The royal officer, called the “master of the bears and dogs,” under
queen Elizabeth and king James I., had a fee of a farthing per day. Sir
John Darrington held the office in 1600, when he was commanded on a
short notice to exhibit before the queen in the Tilt-yard; but not
having a proper stock of animals, he was obliged to apply to Edward
Alleyn, (the founder of Dulwich-college,) and Philip Henslow, then owner
of the Bear-garden in Southwark, for their assistance. On his death,
king James granted the office to sir William Steward, who, it seems,
interrupted Alleyn and Henslow as not having a license, and yet refused
to take their stock at a reasonable price, so that they were obliged to
buy his patent. Alleyn and Henslow complained much of this in a petition
to the king, containing many curious circumstances, which Mr. Lysons has
published at length. Alleyn held this office till his death, or very
near it: he is styled by it in the letters patent for the foundation of
his college in 1620. Among his papers there is a covenant from Peter
Street, for the building at the Bear-garden, fifty-six feet long and
sixteen wide, the estimate of the carpenter’s work being sixty-five
pounds.

The latest patent discovered to have been granted for the office of
master of the bears and dogs is that granted to sir Sanders Duncombe in
1639, for the sole practising and profit of the fighting and combating
of wild and domestic beasts in England, for fourteen years.

This practice was checked by the parliament in 1642. On the 10th of
December in that year, Mr. Whittacre presented in writing an examination
of the words expressed by the master of the Bear-garden, “that he would
cut the throats of those that refused to subscribe a petition:”
whereupon it was resolved, on the question “that Mr. Godfray, master of
the Bear-garden, shall be forthwith committed to Newgate--Ordered, the
masters of the Bear-garden, and all other persons who have interest
there, be enjoined and required by this house, that for the future they
do not permit to be used the game of bear-baiting in these times of
great distraction, till this house do give further order herein.” The
practice, however, did not wholly discontinue in the neighbourhood of
London till 1750. Of late years this public exhibition was revived in
Duck-lane, Westminster, and at the present time is not wholly
suppressed.

  [121] Princely Pleasures of Kenilworth, p. 22, quoted by Mr. Pennant,
  in his Account of London, p 36.

  [122] Republished in the Antiquarian Repertory, Ed. 1806, under the
  title of “A Description of England and Ireland, in the 17th Century,
  by Mons. Jorevin.” vol. iv. p. 549.

  [123] Bear-garden, Southwark.

  [124] Lond. Illustrat.

  [125] Manning and Bray’s Surry.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Literature.~


A NEW POEM.

  “AHAB, in four Cantos. BY S. R. JACKSON.”

Mr. Jackson, the author of several poems, whose merits he deems to have
been disregarded, puts forth “Ahab,” with renewed hope, and a
_remarkable_ address. He says--

“Reader, hast thou not seen a solitary buoy floating on the vast ocean?
the waves dash against it, and the broad keel of the vessel sweeps over
and presses it down, yet it rises again to the surface, prepared for
every assault--I am like that buoy. Thrice have I appeared before you,
thrice have the waves of neglect passed over me, and once more I rise, a
candidate for your good opinion. My wish is not merely to succeed, but
to merit success. _Palmam qui meruit ferat_, was the motto of one who
will never be forgotten, and I hope to quote it without seeming to be
presumptuous. I am told by some who are deemed competent judges, that I
am deserving of encouragement, and I here solicit it.

“During the printing of this work, one has criticised a rough rhyme,
another cried--‘Ha! what, you turned poet?’ and giving his head a
significant shake, said, ‘better mind Cocker.’ ‘So I would,’ I replied,
‘but Cocker won’t mind me.’ In all the various changes of my life the
Muse has not deserted me: beloved ones have vanished--friends have
deceived--but she has remained faithful. One critic has advised this
addition, another that curtailment; but remembering the story of the old
man and the boy, and the ass, I plod on: not that I am indifferent to
opinion--far from it; but there _are_ persons whose advice one cannot
take--who find fault merely for the sake of talking, and impale an
author from mere spleen.

“The poem now submitted to your notice is founded on the 21st and 22d
chapters in the First Book of Kings: in it I have endeavoured to show,
that crime always brings its own punishment; that whenever we do wrong,
an inward monitor reminds us of it: and have sought to revive in the
spirits of Englishmen that patriotic feeling which is daily becoming
more dormant.

“At this season,[126] when the leaves are falling fast, booksellers, as
well as trees, get cold-hearted--they will not purchase; nor can I blame
them, for if the tide of public opinion sets in against poetry, they
would be wrong to buy what they cannot sell. Yet they might, some of
them at least, treat an author more respectfully; they might _look_ at
his work, it would not take them a long time to do so; and they could
then tell if it would suit them or not. Unfortunately, a manuscript need
but be in verse, and it will be worth nothing. I fancy the booksellers
are like the horse in the team, they have carried the poet’s bells so
long that they have become weary of the jingle. Be this as it may, I
have tried, and could not get a purchaser. It was true I had published
before, but my productions came out unaided, and remained unnoticed. I
had no patron’s name to herald mine. I sent copies to the Reviews, but,
with the exception of the Literary Chronicle and Gentleman’s Magazine,
they were unnoticed. The doors to publicity being thus closed against
me, what could I do, but fail, as better bards have done before me----”

There is an affecting claim in the versified conclusion of the preface.

    “’Tis done! the work of many a pensive hour
      Is o’er: the fruit is gather’d from the tree,
    Warm’d by care’s sun, and by affliction’s shower
      Water’d and ripen’d in obscurity.
    Few hopes have I that it may welcome be;
      Yet do I not give way to black despair;
    Small barks have liv’d through many a stormy sea,
      Small birds wing’d far their way through boundless air
      And joy’s sweet rose tow’rd o’er the weeds of envious care.

“With these feelings I submit my poem to notice, and but request such
patronage as it may deserve.”

The following invocation, which commences the poem, will arrest
attention.

    “God! whom my fathers worshipp’d, God of all,
    From mid thy throne of brightness hear my call:
    And though unworthiest I of earthly things,
    To wake the harp of David’s silent strings;
    Though, following not the light which in my path
    Shone bright to guide me, I have brav’d thy wrath,
    And walk’d with other men in darkness, yet,
    If penitent, my heart its sins regret--
    If, bending lowly at thy shrine, I crave
    Thy aid to guide my bark o’er life’s rough wave,
    Till all the shoals of error safely past,
    In truth’s calm haven I repose at last:
    O, let that sweet, that unextinguish’d beam
    Which fondly came to wake me from my dream,
    Again appear my wand’ring steps to guide,
    Lest my soul sink, and perish in its pride.
    I ask not, all-mysterious as Thou art,
    To see Thee, but to feel Thee in my heart;
    Unfetter’d by the various rules and forms
    That bound the actions of earth’s subtle worms,
    From worldly arts and prejudices free,
    To know that Thou art God, and worship Thee.
    And, whether on the tempest’s sweeping wing
    Thou comest, or the breath that wakes the spring,
    If in the thunder’s roar thy voice I hear,
    Or the loud blast that marks the closing year;
    Or in the gentle music of the breeze,
    Stirring the leaves upon the forest trees;
    Still let me feel thy presence, let me bear
    In mind that Thou art with me every where.
    And oh! since inspiration comes from Thee
    To mortal mind, like rain unto the tree,
    Bidding it flourish and put forth its fruit,
    So bid my soul, whose voice has long been mute,
    Awaken; give me words of fire to sing
    The deeds and fall of Israel’s hapless king.”

Perhaps the reader may be further propitiated in the author’s behalf by
the

“DEDICATION.”

  “TO THE REV. CHRISTOPHER BENSON, M. A. Prebendary of Worcester, and
  Rector of St. Giles in the Fields.

“Sir--Being wholly unused to patronage, I know not how to invoke it, but
by plainly saying, that I wish for protection to whatever may be deemed
worthy of regard in the following pages.

“I respectfully dedicate the poem to you, sir, from a deep sense of the
esteem wherein you are held; and, I openly confess, with considerable
anxiety that you may approve, and that your name may sanction and assist
my efforts.

“In strictness perhaps I ought to have solicited your permission to do
this; but, with the wishes I have expressed, and conscious of the
rectitude of my motives, I persuade myself that you will see I could not
afford to hazard your declining, from private feelings, a public
testimony of unfeigned respect, from a humble and unknown individual.

  “I am, sir, your most obedient

  And sincerely devoted servant,

  “SAMUEL RICHARD JACKSON.

  “_Sept. 29, 1826._”

Mr. Jackson has other offspring besides the productions of his muse, and
their infant voices may be imagined to proclaim in plain prose that the
present volume, and it is a volume--a hundred pages in full sized
octavo--is published for the author, by Messrs. Sherwood and Co. “price
4s. in boards.”--Kind-hearted readers will take the hint.

  [126] Michaelmas, 1826.

       *       *       *       *       *


PULPIT CLOCKS, AND HOUR GLASSES.

In the annals of Dunstable Priory is this item: “In 1483, made a _clock_
over the pulpit.”

A stand for a _hour-glass_ still remains in many pulpits. A rector of
Bibury used to preach two hours, regularly turning the _glass_. After
the text, the esquire of the parish withdrew, smoked his pipe, and
returned to the blessing. Lecturers’ pulpits have also hour-glasses. The
priest had sometimes a _watch_ found him by the parish.[127]

  [127] Fosbroke’s British Monachism.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Easter.~


RESTORATION OF THE CATHOLIC RELIGION IN FRANCE.

The catholic religion was that in which the French were brought up; and
they were, from habit at least, if not from conviction, attached to it:
so far was its overthrow from meeting with the general approbation and
concurrence of the nation, that if it was acquiesced in for a time, it
was merely from a feeling of inability to avert the blow; and the
persecution which it experienced only served, as all persecution does,
to endear the object of it more strongly to them.

Such would have been the effect, even if the attempt made had only been
to substitute by force some other mode of faith in its place; but when
the question was to annihilate religion itself, no sane mind could
possibly dream of ultimate success. The sense of dependence upon some
unseen power far above our comprehension, is a principle inherent in
human nature;--no nation has yet been discovered, how remote soever from
civilisation in its customs and manners, in which some ideas of a power
superior to all earthly ones were not to be found.

The French are generally characterised as fond of novelty, and always
seeking after it with eagerness; and yet, however paradoxical it may
appear, it is no less true, that in many respects no people adhere more
tenaciously to ancient habits and customs. Nothing contributed so
essentially to the final overthrow of the violent revolutionists--no,
not even the horror excited by the torrents of blood which they shed--as
their endeavouring all at once to deprive the people of many habits and
customs which they particularly cherished; nor did any thing contribute
more strongly to Bonaparte’s power, than his restoring them.

These reflections were suggested to Miss Plumptre by one of the most
remarkable scenes that occurred while she was at Paris--the procession
to the church of Nôtre-Dame on _Easter Sunday_, for the public
restoration of the catholic worship. The free exercise of their religion
had been for several months allowed to the people, and the churches,
which had long been shut, were reopened; but this was the first occasion
on which the constituted authorities had, as a body, assisted in any
religious ceremony. As to the reestablishment of religion being grateful
to the people, not a doubt remained in her mind; every opportunity
which had been afforded her of investigating the matter, since she first
landed in France, had given her so strong a conviction of it, that it
could not be increased by any thing she was about to witness. But
another experiment which was to be made on the occasion was a greater
subject of curiosity; and this was, that the procession and ceremonies
were to be in some sort a revival of the ancient court splendour and
pageantry.

Deeply impressed with this kind of curiosity, and knowing that the only
way to be fully informed of the sentiments of the people was to make one
among them, she and her friends took their stations in the square before
the great entrance to the Palais-royal, where a double rank of soldiers
formed a lane to keep a passage clear for the procession. They procured
chairs from a neighbouring house, which served as seats till the
cavalcade began, and then they stood on them to see it pass. She
describes the ceremonies in the following manner.

The square was thronged with people, and we could with the utmost
facility attend to the sentiments uttered by the circle round us. The
restoration of religion seemed to engage but a small part of their
attention--that was an idea so familiar to them, that it had almost
ceased to excite emotion; but they were excessively occupied by
speculations on the procession, which report had said was to be one of
the most magnificent sights ever seen in France, at least since the
banishment of royalty with all its brilliant train of appendages.

At length it began:--It consisted first of about five thousand of the
consular guard, part infantry, part cavalry; next followed the carriages
of the senate, the legislative body, the tribunate, and all the public
officers, with those of the foreign ambassadors, and some private
carriages. After these came the eight beautiful cream- horses
which had been just before presented to Bonaparte by the king of Spain,
each led by a young Mameluke, in the costume of his country; and then
Roustan, Bonaparte’s Mameluke, friend, and attendant, upon all
occasions. Then came the coach with the three consuls, drawn by eight
horses, with three footmen behind, who, with the coachmen, were all in
rich liveries, green velvet laced with gold, and bags: the servants of
some of the great public officers were also in bags and liveries. About
a hundred dragoons following the consular carriage closed the
procession.

A sort of cynical philosopher who stood near us made a wry face every
now and then, as the procession passed, and once or twice muttered in
his teeth, _Qui est-ce qui peut dire que cet homme là n’a point de
l’ostentation?_ “Who will pretend to say that this man is not
ostentatious?” But the multitude, after having been lavish of
“_charmant!_” “_superbe!_” “_magnifique!_” and other the like epithets,
to all that preceded the consular carriage, at last, when they saw that
appear with the eight horses, and the rich liveries and bags, gave a
general shout, and exclaimed, _Ah, voilà encore la bourse et la
livrée!--oh, comme ça est beau!--Comme ça fait plaisir! voilà! qui
commence véritablement un peu à prendre couleur!_ “Ah! see there again
the bag and the livery!--Oh, how handsome that is!--What pleasure it
gives to see it!--This begins indeed to assume something like an
appearance!” Nor in the pleasure they felt at the revival of this
parade, did the idea seem once to intrude itself, of examining into the
birth of him who presided over it, or his pretensions to being their
chief magistrate: it was enough that their ancient hobby-horse was
restored, and it was matter of indifference to them by whom the curb
which guided it was held. Among those whom I had a more particular
opportunity of observing, was a well-dressed and respectable-looking
man, about the middle age, who from his appearance might be supposed
some creditable tradesman. He had been standing by me for some time
before the procession began, and we had entered into conversation; he
was eloquent in his eulogium of Bonaparte, for having made such an
extraordinary progress in calming the spirit of faction, which had long
harassed the country; and particularly he spoke with exultation of his
having so entirely silenced the Jacobins, that there appeared every
reason to hope that their influence was fallen, never to rise again. He
was among the most eager in his expressions of admiration of the
procession; and at the conclusion of it, turning to me, he said, with a
very triumphant air and manner, _Comme les Jacobins seront hébêtés de
tout ceci_. “How the Jacobins will be cast down with all this!”

While the procession was passing, the remarks were confined to general
exclamation, as the objects that presented themselves struck the fancy
of the spectators; but when all was gone by, comparisons in abundance
began to fly about, between the splendour here displayed, and the mean
appearance of every thing during the reign of Jacobinism, which all
ended to the disadvantage of the latter, and the advantage of the
present system: _Tout étoit si mesquine dans ce tems là--Ceci est digne
d’une nation telle que la France_. “Every thing was so mean in those
days--This is worthy of such a nation as France.” Some, who were too
much behind to have seen the consular carriage, were eager in their
inquiries about it. They could see, and had admired, the bags and
liveries, but they could not tell what number of horses there were to
the carriage; and they learned, with great satisfaction, that there were
eight. _Ah, c’est bien_, they said, _c’est comme autrefois--enfin nous
reconnoissons notre pays._ “Ah, ’tis well--’tis as formerly--at length
we can recognise our own country again.” And then the troops--never was
any thing seen _plus superbe_, _plus magnifique_--and they were all
French, no Swiss guards. Here the _ancien régime_ came in for a random
stroke.

After discussing these things for a while, the assembly dispersed into
different parts of the town, some going towards the church, to try
whether any thing further was to be seen there; but most went to walk in
the gardens of the Thuilleries, and other parts, to see the preparations
for the illumination in the evening, and thus pass the time away till
the procession was likely to return. We employed ourselves in this
manner; and, after walking about for near two hours, resumed our former
stations. Here we saw the procession return in the same order that it
had gone; when it was received with similar notes of approbation. In the
evening there was a concert for the public in the gardens of the
Thuilleries, and the principal theatres were opened to the public
gratis. The chateau and gardens of the Thuilleries were brilliantly
illuminated, as were the public offices and the theatres, and there were
fireworks in different parts of the town.

A very striking thing observable in this day, was the strong contrast
presented between a great gathering together of the people in France and
in England; and I must own that this contrast was not to the advantage
of my own fellow-countrymen. On such occasions honest John Bull thinks
he does not show the true spirit of liberty, unless he jostles,
squeezes, elbows, and pushes his neighbours about as much as possible.
Among the Parisian populace, on the contrary, there is a peaceableness
of demeanour, a spirit of order, and an endeavour in each individual to
accommodate his neighbour, which I confess I thought far more
pleasing--shall I not say also more civilized--than honest John’s
free-born elbowing and pushing. All the liberty desired by a Frenchman
on such occasions, is that of walking about quietly to observe all that
passes, and of imparting his observations and admiration to his
neighbour; for talk he must--he would feel no pleasure unless he had
some one to whom his feelings could be communicated.

We went the next morning to see the decorations of Nôtre-Dame, before
they were taken down. All that could be done to give the church a
tolerable appearance had been effected; and when full of company its
dilapidated state might perhaps be little seen; but empty, that was
still very conspicuous. The three consuls sat together under a canopy,
Bonaparte in the middle, with Cambaceres on his right hand, and Lebrun
on his left. Opposite to them sat cardinal Caprara, the pope’s legate,
under a corresponding canopy.

A very curious circumstance attending this solemnity was, that the
sermon was preached by the very same person who had preached the sermon
at Rheims on the coronation of Louis XVI., Monsieur Boisgelin, then
archbishop of Aix, in Provence, now archbishop of Tours. His discourse
was allowed by all who heard it to be a very judicious one. He did not
enter into politics, or launch into fulsome flattery of those in power;
but dwelt principally on the necessity of an established religion, not
only as a thing right in itself, but as essential to the preservation of
good morals among the people--illustrating his argument by the excesses
into which they had been led during the temporary abandonment of
religion, and bestowing commendation upon those by whom it had been
restored.[128]

       *       *       *       *       *


EASTER AT PORTAFERRY, BELFAST, &C.

_For the Table Book._

On Easter Monday several hundred of young persons of the town and
neighbourhood of Portaferry, county of Down, resort, dressed in their
best, to a pleasant walk near that town, called “The Walter.” The avowed
object of each person is to see the fun, which consists in the men
kissing the females, without reserve, whether married or single. This
mode of salutation is quite a matter of course; it is never taken amiss,
nor with much show of coyness; the female must be very ordinary indeed,
who returns home without having received at least a dozen hearty busses.
Tradition is silent as to the origin of this custom, which of late years
is on the decline, especially in the respectability of the attendants.

On the same day several thousands of the working classes of the town and
vicinity of Belfast, county of Antrim, resort to the Cave-hill, about
three miles distant, where the day is spent in dancing, jumping,
running, climbing the rugged rocks, and drinking. Here many a rude brawl
takes place, many return home with black eyes and bloody noses, and in
some cases with broken bones. Indeed it is with them the greatest
holiday of the year, and to not a few it furnishes laughable treats to
talk about, till the return of the following spring. On this evening a
kind of dramatic piece is usually brought forward at the Belfast
Theatre, called “The Humours of the Cave-hill.”

  S. M. S.

  [128] Miss Plumptre.

       *       *       *       *       *


OLD MAP OF SCOTLAND.

In the year 1545 was published at Antwerp, the Cosmography of Peter
Apianus, “expurgated from all faults,” by Gemma Frisius, a physician and
mathematician of Louvain. It is sufficient to say, that in this correct
“expurgated” work, Scotland is an _island_, of which _York_ is one of
the chief cities.[129]

  [129] Fosbroke’s British Monachism.

       *       *       *       *       *


PEN BEHIND THE EAR--PAPER.

The custom of carrying a pen behind the ear, lately common, is ancient.
In the life of S. Odo is the following passage: “He saw a pen sticking
above his ear, in the manner of a writer.”

Mabillon says, that he could find no paper books more ancient than the
tenth century: but the pen made of a feather was certainly common in the
seventh century; and though ascribed to the classical ancients, by
Montfaucon’s mistaking a passage of Juvenal, it is first mentioned by
Adrian de Valois, a writer of the fifth century. This rather precedes
Beckmann, who places the first certain account of it to Isadore.[130]

  [130] Fosbroke’s British Monachism.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Suburban Sonnets.~


IV.

HAMPSTEAD.

    HAMPSTEAD! I doubly venerate thy name,
      Because ’twas in thy meadows that I grew
    Enamour’d of that literary fame
      Which youthful poets eagerly pursue,
    And first beheld that beauty-beaming form,
      Which death too quickly tore from my embrace,
    That peerless girl, whose blushes were as warm
      As ever glow’d upon a virgin face!
    Hence, lovely village! I am still thy debtor,
      For pleasures now irrevocably flown--
    For that transcendant maid, who, when I met her
      Along thy meadows musing, and alone,
    Look’d like a spirit from the realms above,
    Sent down to prove the sov’reignty of Love!


V.

THE NEW RIVER.

    Thou pleasant river! in the summer time
      About thy margin I delight to stray,
    Perusing Byron’s captivating rhyme,
      And drinking inspiration from his lay!
    For there is something in thy placid stream
      That gives a keener relish to his song,
    And makes the spirit of his numbers seem
      More fascinating as I move along:--
    There is besides upon thy waves a moral,
    With which it were ridiculous to quarrel;
    For, like the current of our lives, they flow
    Thro’ multifarious channels, till they go
    Down into darkness, and preserve no more
    The “form and feature” they possess’d before!


VI.

MINERVA TERRACE, ISLINGTON.

    Ye, who are anxious for a “country seat,”
      Pure air, green meadows, and suburban views,
    Rooms snug and light, not over large, but neat,
      And gardens water’d with refreshing dews,
    May find a spot adapted to your taste,
      Near Barnsbury-_park_, or rather Barnsbury-_town_,
    Where ev’ry thing looks elegant and chaste,
      And wealth reposes on a bed of down!
    I, therefore, strongly recommend to those
      Who want a pure and healthy situation,
    To choose MINERVA TERRACE, and repose
      ’Midst _prospects_ worthy of their admiration;--
    How long they’ll last is quite another thing,
    Not longer, p’rhaps, than the approaching spring!

  J. G.

  _Islington, March 25, 1827._




Vol. I.--17.


[Illustration: ~London Cries.~]

    “Buy a fine singing-bird!”

The _criers_ of singing birds are extinct: we have only the
bird-_sellers_. This engraving, therefore, represents a by-gone
character: it is from a series of etchings called the “Cries of London,”
by Marcellus Lauron, a native of the Hague, where he was born in 1653.
He came to England with his father, by whom he was instructed in
painting. He drew correctly, studied nature diligently, copied it
closely, and so surpassed his contemporaries in drapery, that sir
Godfrey Kneller employed him to clothe his portraits. He likewise
excelled in imitating the different styles of eminent masters, executed
conversation pieces of considerable merit, and died at London in 1705.
His “London Cries” render his name familiar, on account of the
popularity which these performances still possess, and there being among
them likenesses of several “remarkable people” of the times. “Lauron’s
Cries” are well known to collectors, with whom the portrait of a pedlar,
if a “_mentioned_ print,” is quite as covetable as a peer’s.

Mr. Fenn of East Dereham, Norfolk, writing to the Rev. Mr. Granger, who
was the Linnæus of “engraved British portraits,” sends him a _private_
etching or two of a “Mr. Orde’s doing,” and says, “He is a fellow of
King’s College, Cambridge, and is exceedingly lucky in taking off any
peculiarity of person. Mr. Orde is a gentleman of family and fortune,
and in these etchings makes his genius a conveyance of his charity, as
he gives the profits arising from the local sale of the impressions in
the University, to the originals from whom he draws his
likenesses.--Randal, the orangeman, got enough by the sale of himself to
equip himself from head to food: he always calls his oranges, &c. by
some name corresponding to the time he sells them; as, at the
commencement, _Commencement_ oranges; at a musical entertainment,
_Oratorio_ oranges. By this humour he is known throughout the
University, where he is generally called _Dr._ Randal. His likeness,
manner, and gait, are exactly taken off.--The Clare-hall fruit-woman
too is very striking, as indeed are all the etchings.”[131]

Mr. Malcolm tells of a <DW64>-man abroad, who cried “_balloon_ lemons,
quality oranges, quality lemons, holiday limes, with a certain
peculiarity, and whimsicality, that recommended him to a great deal of
custom. He adventured in a lottery, obtained a prize of five thousand
dollars, became raving mad, through excess of joy, and died in a few
days.”

Lauron’s “London Cries” will be further noticed: in the mean time it may
suffice to say, that this is the season wherein a few kidnappers of the
feathered tribe walk about with their little prisoners, and tempt young
fanciers to “buy a fine singing bird.”

  _April 9, 1827._

  *

  [131] Letters between Rev. J. Granger, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XIV.

  [From the “Arraignment of Paris,” a Dramatic Pastoral, by George Peel,
  1584.]

_Flora dresses Ida Hill, to honour the coming of the Three Goddesses._

      _Flora._ Not Iris in her pride and bravery
    Adorns her Arch with such variety;
    Nor doth the Milk-white Way in frosty night
    Appear so fair and beautiful in sight,
    As done these fields, and groves, and sweetest bowers,
    Bestrew’d and deck’d with parti-colour’d flowers.
    Along the bubbling brooks, and silver glide,
    That at the bottom doth in silence slide,
    The watery flowers and lilies on the banks
    Like blazing comets burgeon all in ranks;
    Under the hawthorn and the poplar tree,
    Where sacred Phœbe may delight to be:
    The primrose, and the purple hyacinth,
    The dainty violet, and the wholesome minth;
    The double daisy, and the cowslip (Queen
    Of summer flowers), do over-peer the green;
    And round about the valley as ye pass,
    Ye may ne see (for peeping flowers) the grass.--
    They are at hand by this.
    Juno hath left her chariot long ago,
    And hath return’d her peacocks by her Rainbow;
    And bravely, as becomes the Wife of Jove,
    Doth honour by her presence to our grove:
    Fair Venus she hath let her sparrows fly,
    To tend on her, and make her melody;
    Her turtles and her swans unyoked be,
    And flicker near her side for company:
    Pallas hath set her tigers loose to feed,
    Commanding them to wait when she hath need:
    And hitherward with proud and stately pace,
    To do us honour in the sylvan chace,
    They march, like to the pomp of heav’n above,
    Juno, the Wife and Sister of King Jove,
    The warlike Pallas, and the Queen of Love.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Muses, and Country Gods, assemble to welcome the Goddesses._

      _Pomona._ ------ with country store like friends we venture forth.
    Think’st, Faunus, that these Goddesses will take our gifts in worth?
      _Faunus._ Nay, doubtless; for, ’shall tell thee, Dame, ’twere
          better give a thing,
    A sign of love, unto a mighty person, or a King,
    Than to a rude and barbarous swain both bad and basely born:
    FOR GENTLY TAKES THE GENTLEMAN THAT OFT THE CLOWN WILL SCORN.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Welcoming Song._

      _Country Gods._ O Ida, O Ida, O Ida, happy hill!
    This honour done to Ida may it continue still!
      _Muses._ Ye Country Gods, that in this Ida wonne,
    Bring down your gifts of welcome,
            For honour done to Ida.

      _Gods._ Behold in sign of joy we sing,
    And signs of joyful welcome bring.
            For honour done to Ida.

      _Pan._ The God of Shepherds, and his mates
    With country cheer salutes your States:
    Fair, wise, and worthy, as you be!
    And thank the gracious Ladies Three,
            For honour done to Ida.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Paris. Œnone._

      _Paris._ Œnone, while we bin disposed to walk,
    Tell me, what shall be subject of our talk.
    Thou hast a sort of pretty tales in store;
    ’Dare say no nymph in Ida’s woods hath more.
    Again, beside thy sweet alluring face,
    In telling them thou hast a special grace.
    Then prithee, sweet, afford some pretty thing,
    Some toy that from thy pleasant wit doth spring.
      _Œn._ Paris, my heart’s contentment, and my choice
    Use thou thy pipe, and I will use my voice;
    So shall thy just request not be denied,
    And time well spent, and both be satisfied.
      _Paris._ Well, gentle nymph, although thou do me wrong,
    That can ne tune my pipe unto a song,
    Me list this once, Œnone, for thy sake,
    This idle task on me to undertake.

(_They sit under a tree together._)

      _Œn._ And whereon then shall be my roundelay?
    For thou hast heard my store long since, ’dare say--
    How Saturn did divide his kingdom tho’
    To Jove, to Neptune, and to Dis below:
    How mighty men made foul successless war
    Against the Gods, and State of Jupiter:
    How Phorcyas’ ’ympe, that was so trick and fair,
    That tangled Neptune in her golden hair,
    Became a Gorgon for her lewd misdeed;--
    A pretty fable, Paris, for to read;
    A piece of cunning, trust me for the nonce,
    That wealth and beauty alter men to stones:
    How Salmacis, resembling Idleness,
    Turns men to women all thro’ wantonness:
    How Pluto raught Queen Pluto’s daughter thence,
    And what did follow of that love-offence:
    Of Daphne turn’d into the Laurel Tree,
    That shews a myrror of virginity:
    How fair Narcissus, tooting on his shade,
    Reproves disdain, and tells how form doth vade:
    How cunning Philomela’s needle tells,
    What force in love, what wit in sorrow, dwells:
    What pains unhappy Souls abide in Hell,
    They say, because on Earth they lived not well,--
    Ixion’s wheel, proud Tantal’s pining woe,
    Prometheus’ torment, and a many moe;
    How Danaus’ daughters ply their endless task;
    What toil the toil of Sysiphus doth ask.
    All these are old, and known, I know; yet, if thou wilt have any,
    Chuse some of these; for, trust me else, Œnone hath not many.
      _Paris._ Nay, what thou wilt; but since my cunning not compares
          with thine,
    Begin some toy that I can play upon this pipe of mine.
      _Œn._ There is a pretty Sonnet then, we call it CUPID’S CURSE:
    “They that do change old love for new, pray Gods they change for
        worse.”

(_They sing._)

      _Œn._ Fair, and fair, and twice so fair,
        As fair as any may be,
      The fairest shepherd on our green,
        A Love for any Lady.

      _Paris._ Fair, and fair, and twice so fair,
        As fair as any may be,
      Thy Love is fair for thee alone,
        And for no other Lady.

      _Œn._ My Love is fair, my Love is gay.
    And fresh as bin the flowers in May,
    And of my Love my roundelay,
    My merry, merry, merry roundelay,
    Concludes with Cupid’s Curse:
    They that do change old love for new.
    Pray Gods they change for worse.

      _Both._ {Fair, and fair, &c.} (_repeated._)
              {Fair, and fair, &c.}

      _Œn._ My Love can pipe, my Love can sing,
    My Love can many a pretty thing,
    And of his lovely praises ring
    My merry, merry, merry roundelays
    Amen to Cupid’s Curse:
    They that do change old love for new,
    Pray Gods they change for worse.

      _Both._ {Fair, and fair, &c.} (_repeated._)
              {Fair, and fair, &c.}

       *       *       *       *       *


TO MY ESTEEMED FRIEND, AND EXCELLENT MUSICIAN, V. N., ESQ.

DEAR SIR,

  I conjure you in the name of all the Sylvan Deities, and of the Muses,
  whom you honour, and they reciprocally love and honour you,--rescue
  this old and passionate _Ditty_--the very flower of an old _forgotten
  Pastoral_, which had it been in all parts equal, the Faithful
  Shepherdess of Fletcher had been but a second name in this sort of
  Writing----rescue it from the profane hands of every common Composer:
  and in one of your tranquillest moods, when you have most leisure from
  those sad thoughts, which sometimes unworthily beset you; yet a mood,
  in itself not unallied to the better sort of melancholy; laying by for
  once the lofty Organ, with which you shake the Temples; attune, as to
  the Pipe of Paris himself, to some milder and more love-according
  instrument, this pretty Courtship between Paris and his (then-not as
  yet-forsaken) Œnone. Oblige me; and all more knowing Judges of Music
  and of Poesy; by the adaptation of fit musical numbers, which it only
  wants to be the rarest Love Dialogue in our language.

  Your Implorer,

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Etymology.~

“_For the_ NONCE.”

The original of _nonce_, an old word used by George Peel, is uncertain:
it signifies purpose, intent, design.

                  I saw a wolf
    Nursing two whelps; I saw her little ones
    In wanton dalliance the teat to crave,
    While she her neck wreath’d from them _for the_ NONCE.

  _Spenser._

  They used at first to fume the fish in a house built _for the_ NONCE.

  _Carew._

        When in your motion you are hot.
    And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepared him
    A chalice _for the_ NONCE.

        Such a light and metall’d dance;
        Saw you never;
        And they lead men _for the_ NONCE,
        That turn round like grindle stones.

  _Ben Jonson._

            A voider _for the_ NONCE,
    I wrong the devil should I pick their bones.

  _Cleaveland._

    Coming ten times _for the_ NONCE,
    I never yet could see it flow but once.

  _Cotton._

These authorities, adduced by Dr. Johnson, Mr. Archdeacon Nares
conceives to have sufficiently explained the meaning of the word, which,
though obsolete, is still “provincially current.” He adds, that it is
sometimes written _nones_, and exemplifies the remark by these
quotations:--

    The mask of Monkes, devised for the _nones_.

  _Mirror for Magistrates._

    And cunningly contrived them for the _nones_
    In likely rings of excellent device.

  _Drayton._

We also find “for the _nones_” in Chaucer.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE BANQUET OF THE DEAD, OR GENERAL BIBO’S TALE.

A LEGEND OF KIRBY MALHAMDALE CHURCH-YARD, CRAVEN, YORKSHIRE.

_For the Table Book._

    Come all ye jovial farmers bold, and damsels sweet and fair,
    And listen unto me awhile a doleful tale you’ll hear.

  _Bloody Squire, or Derbyshire Tragedy._


PROEM.

On Sheep-street-hill, in the town of Skipton, in Craven, is a
blacksmith’s-shop, commonly called “the parliament-house.” During the
late war it was the resort of all the eccentric characters in the place,
who were in the habit of assembling there for the purpose of talking
over the political events of the day, the knowledge whereof was gleaned
from a daily paper, taken in by Mr. Kitty Cook, the occupier of the
premises, and to the support of which the various members contributed.
One winter’s morning in the year 1814, owing to a very heavy snow, the
mail was detained on its road to the great discomfiture and vexation of
the respectable parliamentary members, who were all as usual at their
posts at the hour of nine. There happened on that morning to be a full
house, and I very well recollect that Tom Holderd, General Bibo, Roger
Bags, Duke Walker, Town Gate Jack, and Bill Cliff of Botany,[132] all of
whom are since dead, were present. After the members had waited a long
time, without the accustomed “folio of four pages” making its
appearance, general Bibo arose and turning to the speaker, who in
pensive melancholy was reclining on the anvil, he thus addressed him:--

“Mr. Speaker, I am convinced that the mail will not arrive to day,
(hear! hear!) and therefore, that the members of this honourable house
may not, at the hour of twelve, which is fast approaching, go home to
their dinners without having something to communicate to their wives and
families, I will, with your permission, relate one of those numerous
legendary tales, with which our romantic district so much abounds--May I
do so?”

Kitty upon this gave the anvil a thundering knock, which was his usual
signal of assent, and the general proceeded to relate the full
particulars, from which is extracted the following


~Legend.~

It was the 14th day of July, in the year 17--, when the corpse of a
villager was interred in the romantic church-yard of Kirby Malhamdale.
The last prayer of the sublime burial service of the English church was
said, and the mourners had taken a last lingering look at the narrow
tenement which enshrined mortality. All had departed, with the exception
of the sexton, a village lad of the name of Kitchen, and a soldier,
whose long, flowing, silvery hair and time-worn frame bespoke a very
advanced age; he was seated on a neighbouring stone. The grave was not
entirely filled up, and a scull, the melancholy remnant of some former
occupier of the same narrow cell, was lying beside it. Kitchen took up
the scull, and gazed on the sockets, eyeless _then_, but which had
contained orbs, that perhaps had reflected the beam sent from beauty’s
eye, glowed with fury on the battle-field, or melted at the tale of
compassion. The old soldier observed the boy, and approaching him said,
“Youth! _that_ belonged to one who died soon after the reign of queen
Mary. His name was Thompson, he was a military man, and as mischievous a
fellow as ever existed--ay, for many a long year he was a plague to
Kirby Malhamdale.”

“Then,” replied the boy, “doubtless his death was a benefit, as by it
the inhabitants of the valley would be rid from a pest.”

“Why, as to that point,” answered the veteran, “I fear you are in the
wrong. Thompson’s reign is not yet finished; ’tis whispered he often
returns and visits the scenes of his childhood, nay, even plays his old
tricks over again. It is by no means improbable, that at this very
instant he is at no great distance, and listening to our conversation.”

“What,” ejaculated the boy, “he will neither rest himself nor allow
other people to do so, the old brute!” and he kicked the scull from him.

“Boy,” said the soldier, “you dare not do that again.”

“Why not?” asked Kitchen, giving it at the same time another kick.

“Kick it again,” said the soldier.

The boy did so.

The veteran smiled grimly, as if pleased with the spirit which the boy
manifested, and said, in a joking way, “Now take up that scull, and say
to it--Let the owner of this meet me at the midnight hour, and invite me
to a banquet spread on yon green stone by his bony fingers--

    Come ghost, come devil,
    Come good, come evil,
    Or let old Thompson himself appear,
    For I will partake of his midnight cheer.”[133]

Kitchen, laughing with the glee of a schoolboy, and with the
thoughtlessness incident to youth, repeated the ridiculous lines after
his director, and then leaving the church-yard vaulted over the stile
leading to the school-house, where, rejoining his companions, he quickly
forgot the scene wherein he had been engaged; indeed it impressed him so
little, that he never mentioned the circumstance to a single individual.

The boy at his usual hour of ten retired to rest, and soon fell into a
deep slumber, from which he was roused by some one rattling the latch of
his door, and singing beneath his window. He arose and opened the
casement. It was a calm moonlight night, and he distinctly discerned
the old soldier, who was rapping loudly at the door, and chanting the
elegant stanzas he had repeated at the grave of the villager.

“And what pray now may you be wanting at this time of night?” asked the
boy, wholly undaunted by the strangeness of the visitation. “If you
cannot lie in bed yourself, you ought to allow others to rest.”

“What,” replied the old man, “hast thou so soon forgotten thy promise?”
and he repeated the lines “_Come good, come evil_, &c.”

Kitchen laughed at again hearing the jingle of these ridiculous rhymes,
which to him seemed to be “such as nurses use to frighten babes withal.”
At this the soldier’s countenance assumed a peculiar expression, and the
full gaze of his dark eye, which appeared to glow with something
inexpressibly wild and unearthly, was bent upon the boy, who, as he
encountered it, felt an indescribable sensation steal over him, and
began to repent of his incautious levity. After a short silence the
stranger again addressed him, but in tones so hollow and sepulchral,
that his youthful blood was chilled, and his heart beat strongly and
quickly in his bosom.

“Boy, thy word must be kept! Promises made with the grave are not to be
lightly broken--

    “Amidst the cold graves of the coffin’d dead
    Is the table deck’d and the banquet spread;
    Then haste thee thither without delay,
    For nigh is the time, away! away!”

“Then be it as you wish,” said the boy, in some slight degree resuming
his courage; “go; I will follow.” On hearing this the soldier departed,
and Kitchen watched his figure till it was wholly lost in the mists of
the night.

       *       *       *       *       *

At a short distance from Kirby Malhamdale church, on the banks of the
Aire, was a small cottage, the residence of the Rev. Mr. ----, the
rector of the parish, [General Bibo mentioned his name, but I shall not,
for if I did some of his descendants might address themselves to the
_Table Book_, and contradict the story of their ancestor having been
engaged in so strange an adventure as that contained in the sequel of
this legend.] Mr. ---- had from his earliest years been addicted to
scientific and literary pursuits, and was generally in his study till a
late hour. On this eventful night he was sitting at a table strewed with
divers ancient tomes, intently perusing an old Genevan edition of the
Institutes of John Calvin. While thus employed, and buried in profound
meditation, the awful and death-like stillness was broken, and he was
roused from his reverie by a hurried and violent knocking at the door.
He started from his chair, and rushing out to ascertain the cause of
this strange interruption, beheld Kitchen with a face as pale as a
winding-sheet. “Kitchen, what brings you here at this untimely hour?”
asked the clergyman. The boy was silent, and appeared under the
influence of extreme terror. Mr. ----, on repeating the question, had a
confused and indistinct account given him of all the circumstances. The
relation finished, Mr. ---- looked at the boy, and thus addressed him:
“Yes, I thought some evil would come of your misdeeds; for some time
past your conduct has been very disorderly, you having long set a bad
example to the lads of Malhamdale. But this is no time for upbraiding. I
will accompany you, and together we will abide the result of your rash
engagement.”

Mr. ---- and the boy left the rectory, and proceeded along the road
leading to the church-yard; as they entered the sacred precinct, the
clock of the venerable pile told the hour of midnight. It was a
beautiful night--scarcely a cloud broke the cerulean appearance of the
heavens--countless stars studded heaven’s deep blue vault--the moon was
glowing in her highest lustre, and shed a clear light on the old grey
church tower and the distant hills--scarcely a breeze stirred the trees,
then in their fullest foliage--every inmate of the village-inn[134] was
at rest--there was not a sound, save the murmuring of the lone mountain
river, and the deep-toned baying of the watchful sheep-dog.

Mr. ---- looked around, but, seeing no one, said to the boy, “Surely you
have been dreaming--your tale is some illusion, some chimera of the
brain. The occurrences of the day have been embodied in your visions,
and the over excitement created by the scene at the tomb has worked upon
your imagination.”

“Oh no, sir!” said Kitchen, “but his eyes which glared so fearfully upon
me could not have been a deception. I saw his tall figure, and heard his
hollow sepulchral voice sing those too well-remembered lines,
but--Heavens! did you not see it?” He started, and drawing nearer to the
priest, pointed to the eastern window of the edifice. Mr. ---- looked in
the direction, and saw a dark shadowy form gliding amid the tombstones.
It approached, and as its outline became more distinctly marked, he
recognised the mysterious being described to him in his study by the
terrified boy.--The figure stopped, and looking long and earnestly at
them said, “One! two! How is this? I have one more guest than I invited;
but it matters not, all is ready, follow me--

    “Amidst the cold graves of the coffin’d dead,
    Is the table deck’d and the banquet spread.”

The figure waved its arm impatiently, and beckoning them to follow moved
on in the precise and measured step of an old soldier. Having reached
the eastern window, it turned the corner of the building, and proceeded
directly to the old green stone, near Thompson’s grave. The thick
branches of an aged yew-tree partially shaded the spot from the silver
moonlight, which was peacefully falling on the neighbouring graves, and
gave to this particular one a more sombre and melancholy character than
the rest. Here was, indeed, a table spread, and its festive preparations
formed a striking contrast with the awful mementos strewed around. Never
in the splendid and baronial halls of De Clifford,[135] never in the
feudal mansion of the Nortons,[136] nor in the refectory of the monks of
Sawley, had a more substantial banquet been spread. Nothing was wanting
there of roast or boiled--the stone was plentifully decked; yet it was a
fearful sight to see, where till now but the earthworm had ever
revelled, a banquet prepared as for revelry. The boy looked on the
stone, and as he gazed on the smoking viands a strange thought crossed
his brow--at what fire were those provisions cooked. The seats placed
around were coffins, and Kitchen every instant seemed to dread lest
their owners should appear, and join the sepulchral banquet. Their
ghostly host having placed himself at the head of the table, motioned
his guests to do the same, and they did so accordingly. Mr. ---- then in
his clerical character rose to ask the accustomed blessing, when he was
interrupted. “It cannot be,” said the stranger as he rose; “I cannot
hear at my board a protestant grace. When I trod the earth as a mortal,
the catholic religion was the religion of the land! It was the blessed
faith of my forefathers, and it was mine. Within those walls I have
often listened to the solemnization of the mass, but now how different!
listen!” He ceased. The moon was overcast by a passing cloud, the great
bell tolled, a screech-owl flew from the tower, lights were seen in the
building, and through one of the windows Mr. ---- beheld distinctly the
bearings of the various hatchments, and a lambent flame playing over the
monument of the Lamberts--music swelled through the aisles, and unseen
beings with voices wilder than the unmeasured notes

    Of that strange lyre, whose strings
    The genii of the breezes sweep,

chanted not a Gratias agimus, but a De Profundis. All was again still,
and the stranger spoke, “What you have heard is my grace. Is not a De
Profundis the most proper one to be chanted at the banquet of the dead?”

Mr. ----, who was rather an epicure, now glanced his eye over the board,
and finding that that necessary appendage to a good supper, _salt_, was
wanting, said, in an astonished tone, “Why, where’s the _salt_?” when
immediately the stranger and his feast vanished, and of all that
splendid banquet nothing remained, save the mossy stone whereon it was
spread.

       *       *       *       *       *

Such was the purport of general Bibo’s tale; and why those simple words
had so wondrous an effect has long been a subject of dispute with the
illuminati of Skipton and Malhamdale. Many are the conjectures, but the
most probable one is this,--the spectre on hearing the word _salt_ was
perhaps reminded of the Red Sea, and having, like all sensible ghosts, a
dislike to that awful and tremendous gulf, thought the best way to avoid
being laid there was to make as precipitate a retreat as possible.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kirby, or as it is frequently called, Kirby _Malhamdale_, from the name
of the beautiful valley in which it is situate, is one of the most
sequestered villages in Craven, and well worthy of the attention of the
tourist, from the loveliness of its surrounding scenery and its elegant
church, which hitherto modern barbarity has left unprofaned by
decorations and ornaments, as churchwardens and parish officers style
those acts of Vandalism, by which too many of the Craven churches have
been spoiled, and on which Dr. Whitaker has animadverted in pretty
severe language. That excellent historian and most amiable man, whose
memory will ever be dear to the inhabitants of Craven, speaking of Kirby
church, says, “It is a large, handsome, and uniform building of red
stone, probably of the age of Henry VII. It has one ornament peculiar,
as far as I recollect, to the churches in Craven, to which the Tempests
were benefactors. Most of the columns have in the west side, facing the
congregation as they turned to the altar, an elegant niche and
tabernacle, once containing the statue of a saint. In the nave lies a
grave-stone, with a cross fleury in high relief, of much greater
antiquity than the present church, and probably covering one of the
canons of Dereham.”[137]

At the west end of the church, on each side of the singer’s gallery, are
two emblematical figures, of modern erection, painted on wood; one of
them, Time with his scythe, and this inscription, “Make use of time;”
the other is a skeleton, with the inscription “Remember death.” With all
due deference to the taste of the parishioners, it is my opinion that
these paintings are both unsuited to a Christian temple, and the sooner
they are removed the better. The gloomy mythology of the Heathens ill
accords with the enlightened theology of Christianity.

At the east end of the church are monumental inscriptions to the memory
of John Lambert, the son, and John Lambert, the grandson of the
well-known general Lambert, of roundhead notoriety. The residence of the
Lamberts was Calton-hall, in the neighbourhood; and at Winterburn, a
village about two miles from Calton, is one of the oldest Independent
chapels in the kingdom, having been erected and endowed by the Lamberts
during the usurpation of Cromwell; it is still in possession of this
once powerful sect, and _was_ a picturesque object: it _had_ something
of sturdy non-conformity in its appearance, but alas! modern barbarism
has been at work on it, and given it the appearance of a respectable
barn. The deacons, who “repaired and beautified” it, ought to place
their names over the door of the chapel, in characters readable at a
mile’s distance, that the traveller may be informed by whom the chapel
erected by the Lamberts was deformed.

I often have lamented, that ministers of religion have so little to do
with the repairs of places of worship. The clergy of all denominations
are, in general, men of cultivated minds and refined tastes, and
certainly better qualified to superintend alterations than country
churchwardens and parish officers, who, though great pretenders to
knowledge, are usually ignorant destroyers of the beauty of the edifices
confided to their care.

  T. Q. M.

  _April, 1827._

  [132] The Saint Giles’s of Skipton, where the lower order of
  inhabitants generally reside.

  [133] Should any reader of this day find fault with the inelegant
  manner in which the dialogue is carried on between Kitchen and the
  soldier, in defence I beg leave to say, the dialogue is told as
  general Bibo related it, and though in many parts of the tale I have
  made so many alterations, that I should not be guilty of any
  impropriety in calling it an original: I do not consider myself
  authorized to change the dialogues occasionally introduced.

  [134] In Kirby Malhamdale church-yard is a public house, verifying the
  lines of the satirist:--

    Where God erects a house of prayer,
    The devil builds a chapel there.

  [135] Skipton-castle.

  [136] Rylstone-hall. See Wordsworth’s beautiful poem the White Doe.

  [137] History of Craven.

       *       *       *       *       *


SALT.

The conjecture of T. Q. M. concerning the disappearance of the
spectre-host, and the breaking up of the nocturnal banquet, in the
church-yard of Kirby Malhamdale, is ingenious, and entitled to the
notice of the curious in spectral learning: but it may be as well to
consider whether the _point_ of the legend may not be further
illustrated.

According to Moresin, _salt_ not being liable to putrefaction, and
preserving things seasoned with it from decay, was the emblem of
eternity and immortality, and mightily abhorred by infernal spirits. “In
reference to this symbolical explication, how beautiful,” says Mr.
Brand, “is that expression applied to the righteous, ‘Ye are the _salt_
of the earth!’”

On the custom in Ireland of placing a plate of _salt_ over the heart of
a dead person, Dr. Campbell supposes, in agreement with Moresin’s
remark, that the salt was considered the emblem of the incorruptible
part; “the body itself,” says he, “being the type of corruption.”

It likewise appears from Mr. Pennant, that, on the death of a
highlander, the friends laid on the breast of the deceased a wooden
platter, containing a small quantity of _salt_ and earth, separate and
unmixed; the earth an emblem of the corruptible body--the salt an emblem
of the immortal spirit.

    The body’s _salt_ the soul is, which when gone
    The flesh soone sucks in putrefaction.

  _Herrick._

The custom of placing a plate of _salt_ upon the dead, Mr. Douce says,
is still retained in many parts of England, and particularly in
Leicestershire; but the pewter plate and salt are laid with an intent to
hinder air from getting into the body and distending it, so as to
occasion bursting or inconvenience in closing the coffin. Though this
be the reason for the usage at present, yet it is doubtful whether the
practice is not a vulgar continuation of the ancient symbolical usage;
otherwise, why is _salt_ selected?

To these instances of the relation that _salt_ bore to the dead, should
be annexed Bodin’s affirmation, cited by Reginald Scot; namely, that as
_salt_ “is a sign of eternity, and used by divine commandment in all
sacrifices,” so “_the devil loveth no_ SALT _in his meat_.”--This saying
is of itself, perhaps, sufficient to account for the sudden flight of
the spectre, and the vanishing of the feast in the church-yard of Kirby
Malhamdale on the call for the _salt_.

Finally may be added, _salt_ from the “Hesperides” of Herrick:--

TO PERILLA.

    Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see
    Me, day by day, to steale away from thee?
    Age cals me hence, and my gray haires bid come
    And haste away to mine eternal home;
    ’Twill not be long, Perilla, after this,
    That I must give thee the supremest kisse:
    Dead when I am, first cast in _salt_, and bring
    Part of the creame from that religious spring,
    With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet;
    That done, then wind me in that very sheet
    Which wrapt thy smooth limbs, when thou didst plore
    The gods protection but the night before;
    Follow me weeping to my turfe, and there
    Let fall a primrose, and with it a teare:
    Then, lastly, let some weekly strewings be
    Devoted to the memory of me;
    Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep
    Still in the cold and silent shades of sleep.

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


A CORPORATION.

Mr. Howel Walsh, in a corporation case tried at the Tralee assizes,
observed, that “a corporation cannot blush. It was a body it was true;
had certainly a head--a new one every year--an annual acquisition of
intelligence in every new lord mayor. Arms he supposed it had, and long
ones too, for it could reach at any thing. Legs, of course, when it made
such long strides. A throat to swallow the rights of the community, and
a stomach to digest them! But whoever yet discovered, in the anatomy of
any corporation, either bowels, or a heart?”


[Illustration: ~House at Kirkby-Moorside, Yorkshire,~

WHEREIN THE SECOND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM DIED.]

    In the worst inn’s worst room, with mat half-hung,
    The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,
    On once a flock-bed, but repair’d with straw,
    With tape-ty’d curtains, never meant to draw,
    The George and Garter dangling from that bed
    Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
    Great _Villiers_ lies--alas! how chang’d from him,
    That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim!
    Gallant and gay, in Cliveden’s proud alcove.
    The bow’r of wanton Shrewsbury and Love:
    Or just as gay at council, in a ring
    Of mimick’d Statesmen, and their merry King.
    No wit to flatter, ’reft of all his store!
    No fool to laugh at, which he valued more!
    There victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
    And fame; this lord of useless thousands ends.

  _Pope._

In an amusing and informing topographical tract, written and published
by Mr. John Cole of Scarborough, there is the preceding representation
of the deathbed-house of the witty and dissipated nobleman, whose name
is recorded beneath the engraving. From this, and a brief notice of the
duke in a work possessed by most of the readers of the _Table
Book_,[138] with some extracts from documents, accompanying Mr. Cole’s
print, an interesting idea may be formed of this nobleman’s last
thoughts, and the scene wherein he closed his eyes.

The room wherein he died is marked above by a star * near the window.

Kirkby-Moorside is a market town, about twenty-six miles distant from
Scarborough, seated on the river Rye. It was formerly part of the
extensive possessions of Villiers, the first duke of Buckingham, who was
killed by Felton, from whom it descended with his title to his son, who,
after a profligate career, wherein he had wasted his brilliant talents
and immense property, repaired to Kirkby-Moorside, and died there in
disease and distress.

In a letter to bishop Spratt, dated “Kerby-moor Syde, April 17, 1687,”
the earl of Arran relates that, being accidentally at York on a journey
towards Scotland, and hearing of the duke of Buckingham’s illness, he
visited him. “He had been long ill of an ague, which had made him weak;
but his understanding was as good as ever, and his noble parts were so
entire, that though I saw death in his looks at first sight, he would by
no means think of it.--I confess it made my heart bleed to see the duke
of Buckingham in so pitiful a place, and in so bad a condition.--The
doctors told me his case was desperate, and though he enjoyed the free
exercise of his senses, that in a day or two at most it would kill him,
but they durst not tell him of it; so they put a hard part on me to
pronounce death to him, which I saw approaching so fast, that I thought
it was high time for him to think of another world.--After having
plainly told him his condition, I asked him whom I should send for to be
assistant to him during the small time he had to live: he would make me
no answer, which made me conjecture, and having formerly heard that he
had been inclining to be a Roman Catholic, I asked him if I should send
for a priest; for I thought any act that could be like a Christian, was
what his condition now wanted most; but he positively told me that he
was not of that persuasion, and so would not hear any more of that
subject, for he was of the church of England.--After some time,
beginning to feel his distemper mount, he desired me to send for the
parson of this parish, who said prayers for him, which he joined in very
freely, but still did not think he should die; though this was
yesterday, at seven in the morning, and he died about eleven at night.

“I have ordered the corpse to be embalmed and carried to Helmsley
castle, and there to remain till my lady duchess her pleasure shall be
known. There must be speedy care taken: for there is nothing here but
confusion, not to be expressed. Though his stewards have received vast
sums, there is not so much as one farthing, as they tell me, for
defraying the least expense. But I have ordered his intestines to be
buried at Helmsley, where his body is to remain till farther orders.
Being the nearest kinsman upon the place, I have taken the liberty to
give his majesty an account of his death, and sent his George and blue
ribbon to be disposed as his majesty shall think fit. I have addressed
it under cover to my lord president, to whom I beg you would carry the
bearer the minute he arrives.”

A letter, in Mr. Cole’s publication, written by the dying duke,
confesses his ill-spent life, and expresses sincere remorse for the
prostitution of his brilliant talents.

  “FROM THE YOUNGER VILLIERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, ON HIS DEATHBED TO DR.
  W----

  “Dear doctor,

“I always looked upon you to be a person of true virtue, and know you to
have a sound understanding; for, however I have acted in opposition to
the principles of religion, or the dictates of reason, I can honestly
assure you I have always had the highest veneration for both. The world
and I shake hands; for I dare affirm, we are heartily weary of each
other. O, what a prodigal have I been of that most valuable of all
possessions, _Time_! I have squandered it away with a profusion
unparalleled; and now, when the enjoyment of a few days would be worth
the world, I cannot flatter myself with the prospect of half a dozen
hours. How despicable, my dear friend, is that man who never prays to
his God, but in the time of distress. In what manner can he supplicate
that Omnipotent Being, in his afflictions, whom, in the time of his
prosperity, he never remembered with reverence.

“Do not brand me with infidelity, when I tell you, that I am almost
ashamed to offer up my petitions at the throne of Grace, or to implore
that divine mercy in the next world which I have so scandalously abused
in this.

“Shall ingratitude to man be looked upon as the blackest of crimes, and
not ingratitude to God? Shall an insult offered to a king be looked upon
in the most offensive light, and yet no notice (be) taken when the King
of kings is treated with indignity and disrespect?

“The companions of my former libertinism would scarcely believe their
eyes, were you to show this epistle. They would laugh at me as a
dreaming enthusiast, or pity me as a timorous wretch, who was shocked at
the appearance of futurity; but whoever laughs at me for being right, or
pities me for being sensible of my errors, is more entitled to my
compassion than resentment. A future state may well enough strike terror
into any man who has not acted well in this life; and he must have an
uncommon share of courage indeed who does not shrink at the presence of
God. The apprehensions of death will soon bring the most profligate to a
proper use of his understanding. To what a situation am I now reduced!
Is this odious _little hut_ a suitable lodging for a prince? Is this
anxiety of mind becoming the character of a Christian? From my rank I
might have expected affluence to wait upon my life; from religion and
understanding, peace to smile upon my end: instead of which I am
afflicted with poverty, and haunted with remorse, despised by my
country, and, I fear, forsaken by my God.

“There is nothing so dangerous as extraordinary abilities. I cannot be
accused of vanity now, by being sensible that I was once possessed of
uncommon qualifications, especially as I sincerely regret that I ever
had them. My rank in life made these accomplishments still more
conspicuous, and fascinated by the general applause which they procured,
I never considered the proper means by which they should be displayed.
Hence, to procure a smile from a blockhead whom I despised, I have
frequently treated the virtues with disrespect; and sported with the
holy name of Heaven, to obtain a laugh from a parcel of fools, who were
entitled to nothing but contempt.

“Your men of wit generally look upon themselves as discharged from the
duties of religion, and confine the doctrines of the gospel to meaner
understandings. It is a sort of derogation, in their opinion, to comply
with the rules of Christianity; and they reckon that man possessed of a
narrow genius, who studies to be good.

“What a pity that the holy writings are not made the criterion of true
judgment; or that any person should pass for a fine gentleman in this
world, but he that appears solicitous about his happiness in the next.

“I am forsaken by all my acquaintance, utterly neglected by the friend
of my bosom, and the dependants on my bounty; but no matter! I am not
fit to converse with the former, and have no ability to serve the
latter. Let me not, however, be wholly cast off by the good. Favour me
with a visit as soon as possible. Writing to you gives me some ease,
especially on a subject I could talk of for ever.

“I am of opinion this is the last visit I shall ever solicit from you;
my distemper is powerful; come and pray for the departing spirit of the
poor unhappy

  “BUCKINGHAM.”

The following is from the parish register of Kirkby Moorside.

COPY.

  _buried in the yeare of our Lord [1687.]_

  _April ye 17._

  _Gorges uiluas Lord dooke of bookingam, etc._

This vulgar entry is the only public memorial of the death of a
nobleman, whose abuse of faculties of the highest order, subjected him
to public contempt, and the neglect of his associates in his deepest
distress. If any lesson can reach the sensualist he may read it in the
duke’s fate and repentant letter.

       *       *       *       *       *

The publication of such a tract as Mr. Cole’s, from a provincial press,
is an agreeable surprise. It is in octavo, and bears the quaint title of
the “Antiquarian Trio,” because it describes, 1. The house wherein the
duke of Buckingham died. 2. Rudston church and obelisk. 3. A monumental
effigy in the old town-hall, Scarborough, with a communication to Mr.
Cole from the Rev. J. L. Lisson, expressing his opinion, that it
represents John de Mowbray, who was constable of Scarborough castle in
the reign of Edward II. Engravings illustrate these descriptions, and
there is another on wood of the church of Hunmanby, with a poem, for
which Mr. Cole is indebted to the pen of “the present incumbent, the
Rev. Archdeacon Wrangham, M. A. F. R. S.”

  [138] The _Every-Day Book_.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Literature.~


“SERVIAN POPULAR POETRY, translated by JOHN BOWRING,” 1827.

It is an item of “Foreign Occurrences,” in the “Gentleman’s Magazine,”
July, 1807, that a firman of the grand signior sentenced the whole
Servian nation to extermination, without distinction of age or sex; if
any escaped the sword, they were to be reduced to slavery. Every plain
matter-of-fact man knew from his Gazetteer that Servia was a province of
Turkey in Europe, bounded on the north by the Danube and Save, which
separate it from Hungary, on the east by Bulgaria, on the west by
Bosnia, and on the south by Albania and Macedonia; of course, he
presumed that fire and sword had passed upon the country within these
boundaries, and that the remaining natives had been deported; and
consequently, to render the map of Turkey in Europe perfectly correct,
he took his pen, and blotted out “Servia.” It appears, however, that by
one of those accidents, which defeat _certain_ purposes of state policy,
and which are quite as common to inhuman affairs, in “sublime” as in
Christian cabinets, there was a change of heads in the Turkish
administration. The Janizaries becoming displeased with their new
uniforms, and with the ministers of Selim, the best of grand signiors,
his sublime majesty was graciously pleased to mistake the objects of
their displeasure, and send them the heads of Mahmud Effendi, and a few
ex-ministers, who were obnoxious to himself, instead of the heads of
Achmet Effendi, and others of his household; the discontented therefore
immediately decapitated the latter themselves; and, further, presumed to
depose Selim, and elevate Mustapha to the Turkish throne. According to
an ancient custom, the deposed despot threw himself at the feet of his
successor, kissed the border of his garment, retired to that department
of the seraglio occupied by the princes of the blood who cease to reign,
and Mustapha, girded with the sword of the prophet, was the best of
grand signiors in his stead. This state of affairs at the court of
Constantinople rendered it inconvenient to divert the energies of the
faithful to so inconsiderable an object as the extinction of the Servian
nation; and thus Servia owes its existence to the Janizaries’ dislike of
innovation on their dress; and we are consequently indebted to that
respectable prejudice for the volume of “Servian popular Poetry,”
published by Mr. Bowring. We might otherwise have read, as a dry matter
of history, that the Servian people were exterminated A. D. 1807, and
have passed to our graves without suspecting that they had songs and
bards, and were quite as respectable as their ferocious and powerful
destroyers.

Mr. Bowring’s “Introduction” to his specimens of “Servian popular
Poetry,” is a rapid sketch of the political and literary history of
Servia.

“The Servians must be reckoned among those races who vibrated between
the north and the east; possessing to-day, dispossessed to-morrow; now
fixed, and now wandering: having their head-quarters in Sarmatia for
many generations, in Macedonia for following ones, and settling in
Servia at last. But to trace their history, as to trace their course, is
impossible. At last the eye fixes them between the Sava and the Danube,
and Belgrade grows up as the central point round which the power of
Servia gathers itself together, and stretches itself along the right
bank of the former river, southwards to the range of mountains which
spread to the Adriatic and to the verge of Montengro. Looking yet
closer, we observe the influence of the Venetians and the Hungarians on
the character and the literature of the Servians. We track their
connection now as allies, and now as masters; once the receivers of
tribute from, and anon as tributaries to, the Grecian empire; and in
more modern times the slaves of the Turkish yoke. Every species of
vicissitude marks the Servian annals--annals represented only by those
poetical productions of which these are specimens. The question of their
veracity is a far more interesting one than that of their antiquity. Few
of them narrate events previous to the invasion of Europe by the Turks
in 1355, but some refer to facts coeval with the Mussulman empire in
Adrianople. More numerous are the records of the struggle between the
Moslem and the Christian parties at a later period; and last of all,
they represent the quiet and friendly intercourse between the two
religions, if not blended in social affections, at least associated in
constant communion.”

Respecting the subject more immediately interesting, Mr. Bowring says--

“The earliest poetry of the Servians has a heathenish character; that
which follows is leagued with Christian legends. But holy deeds are
always made the condition of salvation. The whole nation, to use the
idea of Göthe, is imaged in poetical superstition. Events are brought
about by the agency of angels, but the footsteps of Satan can be nowhere
traced; the dead are often summoned from their tombs; awful warnings,
prophecies, and birds of evil omen, bear terror to the minds of the most
courageous.

“Over all is spread the influence of a remarkable, and, no doubt,
antique mythology. An omnipresent spirit--airy and fanciful--making its
dwelling in solitudes--and ruling over mountains and forests--a being
called the _Vila_, is heard to issue its irresistible mandates, and pour
forth its prophetic inspiration: sometimes in a form of female
beauty--sometimes a wilder Diana--now a goddess, gathering or dispersing
the clouds--and now an owl, among ruins and ivy. The Vila, always
capricious, and frequently malevolent, is a most important actor in all
the popular poetry of Servia. The _Trica Polonica_ is sacred to her. She
is equally renowned for the beauty of her person and the swiftness of
her step:--‘Fair as the mountain Vila,’ is the highest compliment to a
Servian lady--‘Swift as the Vila,’ is the most eloquent eulogium on a
Servian steed.

“Of the amatory poems of the Servians, Göthe justly remarks, that, when
viewed all together, they cannot but be deemed of singular beauty; they
exhibit the expressions of passionate, overflowing, and contented
affection; they are full of shrewdness and spirit; delight and surprise
are admirably portrayed; and there is, in all, a marvellous sagacity in
subduing difficulties, and in obtaining an end; a natural, but at the
same time vigorous and energetic tone; sympathies and sensibilities,
without wordy exaggeration, but which, notwithstanding, are decorated
with poetical imagery and imaginative beauty; a correct picture of
Servian life and manners--every thing, in short, which gives to passion
the force of truth, and to external scenery the character of reality.

“The poetry of Servia was wholly traditional, until within a very few
years. It had never found a pen to record it, but has been preserved by
the people, and principally by those of the lower classes, who had been
accustomed to listen and to sing these interesting compositions to the
sound of a simple three-stringed instrument, called a _Gusle_; and it is
mentioned by Göthe, that when some Servians who had visited Vienna were
requested to write down the songs they had sung, they expressed the
greatest surprise that such simple poetry and music as theirs should
possess any interest for intelligent and cultivated minds. They
apprehended, they said, that the artless compositions of their country
would be the subject of scorn or ridicule to those whose poetry was so
polished and so sublime. And this feeling must have been ministered to
by the employment, even in Servia, of a language no longer spoken; for
the productions of literature, though it is certain the natural
affections, the every-day thoughts and associations could not find fit
expression in the old church dialect:--

                            “The talk
    Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
    Of the mind’s business, is the undoubted stalk
    ‘_True song_’ doth grow on.”

“The collection of popular songs, _Narodne srpske pjesme_, from which
most of those which occupy this volume are taken, was made by Vuk, and
committed to paper either from early recollections, or from the
repetition of Servian minstrels. These, he informs us, and his statement
is corroborated by every intelligent traveller, form a very small
portion of the treasure of song which exists unrecorded among the
peasantry. How so much of beautiful anonymous poetry should have been
created in so perfect a form, is a subject well worthy of inquiry. Among
a people who look to music and song as a source of enjoyment, the habit
of improvisation grows up imperceptibly, and engages all the fertilities
of imagination in its exercise. The thought which first finds vent in a
poetical form, if worth preservation, is polished and perfected as it
passes from lip to lip, till it receives the stamp of popular approval,
and becomes as it were a national possession. There is no text-book, no
authentic record, to which it can be referred, whose authority should
interfere with its improvement. The poetry of a people is a common
inheritance, which one generation transfers sanctioned and amended to
another. Political adversity, too, strengthens the attachment of a
nation to the records of its ancient prosperous days. The harps may be
hung on the willows for a while, during the storm and the struggle, but
when the tumult is over, they will be strung again to repeat the old
songs, and recall the time gone by.

“The historical ballads, which are in lines composed of five trochaics,
are always sung with the accompaniment of the _Gusle_. At the end of
every verse, the singer drops his voice, and mutters a short cadence.
The emphatic passages are chanted in a louder tone. ‘I cannot describe,’
says Wessely, ‘the pathos with which these songs are sometimes sung. I
have witnessed crowds surrounding a blind old singer, and every cheek
was wet with tears--it was not the music, it was the words which
affected them.’ As this simple instrument, the Gusle, is never used but
to accompany the poetry of the Servians, and as it is difficult to find
a Servian who does not play upon it, the universality of their popular
ballads may be well imagined.”

While Mr. Bowring pays cheerful homage to a rhyme translation of a
Servian ballad, in the Quarterly Review, No. LXIX. p. 71, he adds, that
it is greatly embellished, and offers a version, in blank verse, more
faithful to the original, and therefore more interesting to the critical
inquirer. The following specimen of Mr. Bowring’s translation may be
compared with the corresponding passage in the Review.

      She was lovely--nothing e’er was lovelier;
    She was tall and slender as the pine tree;
    White her cheeks, but tinged with rosy blushes,
    As if morning’s beam had shone
    Till that beam had reach’d its high meridian;
    And her eyes, they were two precious jewels;
    And her eyebrows, leeches from the ocean;
    And her eyelids, they were wings of swallows;
    Silken tufts the maiden’s flaxen ringlets;
    And her sweet mouth was a sugar casket;
    And her teeth were pearls array’d in order;
    White her bosom, like two snowy dovelets;
    And her voice was like the dovelet’s cooing;
    And her smiles were like the glowing sunshine.

On the eyebrows of the bride, described as “_leeches_ from the ocean,”
it is observable that, with the word leech in Servian poetry, there is
no disagreeable association. “It is the name usually employed to
describe the beauty of the eyebrows, as swallows’ wings are the simile
used for eyelashes.” A lover inquires

    “Hast thou wandered near the ocean?
    Has thou seen the _pijavitza_?[139]
    Like it are the maiden’s eyebrows.”

There is a stronger illustration of the simile in

THE BROTHERLESS SISTERS.

    Two solitary sisters, who
    A brother’s fondness never knew.
    Agreed, poor girls, with one another.
    That they would make themselves a brother.
    They cut them silk, as snow-drops white;
    And silk, as richest rubies bright;
    They carved his body from a bough
    Of box-tree from the mountain’s brow;
    Two jewels dark for eyes they gave;
    For eyebrows, from the ocean’s wave
    They took two leeches; and for teeth
    Fix’d pearls above, and pearls beneath;
    For food they gave him honey sweet.
    And said, “Now live, and speak, and eat.”

The tenderness of Servian poetry is prettily exemplified in another of
Mr. Bowring’s translations.

FAREWELL.

    Against white Buda’s walls, a vine
    Doth its white branches fondly twine:
    O no! it was no vine-tree there
    It was a fond, a faithful pair,
    Bound each to each in earliest vow--
    And, O! they must be severed now!
    And these their farewell words:--“We part--
    Break from my bosom--break--my heart!
    Go to a garden--go, and see,
    Some rose-branch blushing on the tree;
    And from that branch a rose-flower tear,
    Then place it on thy bosom bare;
    And as its leavelets fade and pine,
    So fades my sinking heart in thine.”
    And thus the other spoke: “My love!
    A few short paces backward move,
    And to the verdant forest go;
    There’s a fresh water-fount below;
    And in the fount a marble stone,
    Which a gold cup reposes on;
    And in the cup a ball of snow--
    Love! take that ball of snow to rest
    Upon thine heart within thy breast,
    And as it melts unnoticed there,
    So melts my heart in thine, my dear!”

One other poem may suffice for a specimen of the delicacy of feeling in
a Servian bosom, influenced by the master-passion.

THE YOUNG SHEPHERDS.

    The sheep, beneath old Buda’s wall,
      Their wonted quiet rest enjoy;
    But ah! rude stony fragments fall.
      And many a silk-wool’d sheep destroy;
    Two youthful shepherds perish there,
    The golden George, and Mark the fair.

    For Mark, O many a friend grew sad,
      And father, mother wept for him:
    George--father, friend, nor mother had,
      For him no tender eye grew dim:
    Save one--a maiden far away,
    She wept--and thus I heard her say:

    “My golden George--and shall a song,
      A song of grief be sung for thee--
    ’Twould go from lip to lip--ere long
      By careless lips profaned to be;
    Unhallow’d thoughts might soon defame
    The purity of woman’s name.

    “Or shall I take thy picture fair,
      And fix that picture in my sleeve?
    Ah! time will soon the vestment tear.
      And not a shade, nor fragment leave:
    I’ll not give him I love so well
    To what is so corruptible.

    “I’ll write thy name within a book;
      That book will pass from hand to hand.
    And many an eager eye will look,
      But ah! how few will understand!--
    And who their holiest thoughts can shroud
    From the cold insults of the crowd?”

  [139] The leech.

       *       *       *       *       *


GRETNA GREEN.

_For the Table Book._

This celebrated scene of matrimonial mockery is situated in
Dumfrieshire, near the mouth of the river Esk, nine miles north-west
from Carlisle.

Mr. Pennant, in his journey to Scotland, speaks in the following terms
of Gretna, or, as he calls it, Gretna Green. By some persons it is
written Graitney Green, according to the pronunciation of the person
from whom they hear it:--

“At a short distance from the bridge, stop at the little village of
Gretna--the resort of all amorous couples, whose union the prudence of
parents or guardians prohibits. Here the young pair may be instantly
united by a fisherman, a joiner, or a blacksmith, who marry from two
guineas a job, to a dram of whiskey. But the price is generally adjusted
by the information of the postilions from Carlisle, who are in pay of
one or other of the above worthies; but even the drivers, in case of
necessity, have been known to undertake the sacerdotal office. This
place is distinguished from afar by a small plantation of firs, the
Cyprian grove of the place--a sort of landmark for fugitive lovers. As I
had a great desire to see the high-priest, by stratagem I succeeded. He
appeared in the form of a fisherman, a stout fellow in a blue coat,
rolling round his solemn chaps a quid of tobacco of no common size. One
of our party was supposed to come to explore the coast; we questioned
him about the price, which, after eying us attentively, he left to our
honour. The church of Scotland does what it can to prevent these
clandestine matches, but in vain; for these infamous couplers despise
the fulmination of the kirk, and excommunication is the only penalty it
can inflict.”

The “Statistical Account of Scotland” gives the subsequent
particulars:--“The persons who follow this illicit practice are mere
impostors--priests of their own creation, who have no right whatever
either to marry, or exercise any part of the clerical function. There
are at present more than one of this description in this place; but the
greatest part of the trade is monopolized by a man who was originally a
tobacconist, and not a blacksmith, as is generally believed. He is a
fellow without education, without principle, without morals, and without
manners. His life is a continued scene of drunkenness: his irregular
conduct has rendered him an object of detestation to all the sober and
virtuous part of the neighbourhood. Such is the man (and the description
is not exaggerated) who has had the honour to join in the sacred bonds
of wedlock many people of great rank and fortune from all parts of
England. It is forty years and upwards since marriages of this kind
began to be celebrated here. At the lowest computation, about sixty are
supposed to be solemnized annually in this place.”

_Copy Certificate of a Gretna Green Marriage._

  “Gretnay Green Febry 17 1784

“This is to Sertfay to all persons that may be Cunserned that William
Geades from the Cuntey of Bamph in thee parish of Crumdell and Nelley
Patterson from the Sitey of Ednbrough Both Comes before me and Declares
them Selvese to be Both Single persons and New Mareid by thee way of
thee Church of Englond And Now maried by thee way of thee Church of
Scotland as Day and Deat abuv menchned by me

  DAVID M‘FARSON

         _his_
  WILLIAM [X] GEADES
         _Mark_

  NELLY PATORSON

  _Witness_
  DANELL MORAD”

By the canons and statutes of the church of Scotland, all marriages
performed under the circumstances usually attending them at Gretna
Green, are clearly illegal; for although it may be performed by a
layman, or a person out of orders, yet, as in England, bans or license
are necessary, and those who marry parties clandestinely are subject to
heavy fine and severe imprisonment. Therefore, though Gretna Green be
just out of the limits of the English Marriage Act, that is not
sufficient, unless the forms of the Scottish church are complied with.

  H. M. LANDER.

       *       *       *       *       *


SCOTCH ADAM AND EVE.

The first record for marriage entered into the session-book of the West
Parish of Greenock, commences with _Adam_ and _Eve_, being the Christian
names of the first couple who were married after the book was prepared.
The worthy Greenockians can boast therefore of an ancient origin, but
traces of Paradise or the Garden of Eden in their bleak regions defy
research.

       *       *       *       *       *


BOA CONSTRICTOR.

Jerome speaks of “a dragon of wonderful magnitude, which the Dalmatians
in their native language call _boas_, because they are so large that
they can swallow oxen.” Hence it should seem, that the _boa_-snake may
have given birth to the fiction of dragons.[140]

  [140] Fosbroke’s British Monachism.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Varia.~


PIOUS DIRECTION POST.

Under this title, in a west-country paper of the present year, (1827)
there is the following statement:--

On the highway near Bicton, in Devonshire, the seat of the right hon.
lord Rolle, in the centre of four cross roads, is a directing post with
the following inscriptions, by an attention to which the traveller
learns the condition of the roads over which he has to pass, and at the
same time is furnished with food for meditation:--

_To Woodbury, Topsham, Exeter._--Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and
all her paths are peace.

_To Brixton, Ottery, Honiton._--O hold up our goings in thy paths that
our footsteps slip not.

_To Otterton, Sidmouth, Culliton_, A. D. 1743.--O that our ways were
made to direct that we might keep thy statutes.

_To Budleigh._--Make us to go in the paths of thy commandments, for
therein is our desire.

       *       *       *       *       *


MARSEILLES.

The history of Marseilles is full of interest. Its origin borders on
romance. Six hundred years before the Christian era, a band of piratical
adventurers from Ionia, in Asia Minor, by dint of superior skill in
navigation, pushed their discoveries to the mouth of the Rhone. Charmed
with the white cliffs, green vales, blue waters, and bright skies, which
they here found, they returned to their native country, and persuaded a
colony to follow them to the barbarous shores of Gaul, bearing with them
their religion, language, manners, and customs. On the very day of their
arrival, so says tradition, the daughter of the native chief was to
choose a husband, and her affections were placed upon one of the leaders
of the polished emigrants. The friendship of the aborigines was
conciliated by marriage, and their rude manners were softened by the
refinement of their new allies in war, their new associates in peace. In
arts and arms the emigrants soon acquired the ascendancy, and the most
musical of all the Greek dialects became the prevailing language of the
colony.[141]

  [141] American paper.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Law.~

CHANCERY.

    Unhappy Chremes, neighbour to a peer.
    Kept half his lordship’s sheep, and half his deer;
    Each day his gates thrown down, his fences broke.
    And injur’d still the more, the more he spoke;

    At last resolved his potent foe to awe,
    And guard his right by statute and by law--
    A suit in Chancery the wretch begun;
    Nine happy terms through bill and answer run,
    Obtain’d his cause and costs, and was undone.

       *       *       *       *       *


A DECLARATION IN LAW.

    Fee simple and a simple fee.
      And all the fees in tail.
    Are nothing when compared to thee,
      Thou best of fees--fe-male.

       *       *       *       *       *


LAW AND PHYSIC.

It has been ascertained from the almanacs of the different departments
and of Paris, that there are in France no less than seventeen hundred
thousand eight hundred and forty-three medical men. There are, according
to another calculation, fourteen hundred thousand six hundred and
fifty-one patients. Turning to another class of public men, we find that
there are nineteen hundred thousand four hundred and three pleaders, and
upon the rolls there are only nine hundred and ninety-eight thousand
causes; so that unless the nine hundred and two thousand four hundred
and three superfluous lawyers see fit to fall sick of a lack of fees and
employment, there must remain three hundred thousand one hundred and
ninety-two doctors, with nothing to do but sit with their arms
across.[142]

  [142] Furet.

       *       *       *       *       *


“THE NAUGHTY PLACE.”

A Scotch pastor recognised one of his female parishioners sitting by the
side of the road, a little fuddled. “Will you just help me up with my
bundle, gude mon?” said she, as he stopped.--“Fie, fie, Janet,” cried
the pastor, “to see the like o’ you in sic a plight: do you know where
all drunkards _go_?”--“Ay, sure,” said Janet, “they just _go_ whar a
drap o’ gude drink is to be got.”




Vol. I.--18.


[Illustration: ~May-Day at Lynn in Norfolk.~]

_For the Table Book._

Where May-day is still observed, many forms of commemoration remain, the
rude and imperfect outlines of former splendour, blended with local
peculiarities. The festival appears to have originated about A. M. 3760,
and before Christ 242 years, in consequence of a celebrated courtezan,
named _Flora_, having bequeathed her fortune to the people of Rome, that
they should at this time, yearly, celebrate her memory, in singing,
dancing, drinking, and other excesses; from whence these revels were
called _Floralia_, or May-games.[143] After some years, the senate of
Rome exalted _Flora_ amongst their thirty thousand deities, as the
goddess of flowers, and commanded her to be worshipped, that she might
protect their flowers, fruits, and herbs.[144] During the Catholic age,
a great portion of extraneous ceremony was infused into the celebration,
but that the excesses and lawless misrule attributed to this _Floralian_
festival, by the fanatic enthusiasts of the Cromwellian age, ever
existed, is indeed greatly to be doubted. It was celebrated as a
national festival, an universal expression of joy and adoration, at the
commencement of a season, when nature developes her beauties, dispenses
her bounties, and wafts her “spicy gales,” rich with voluptuous
fragrance, to exhilarate man, and enliven the scenes around him.

In no place where the custom of celebrating May-day still continues does
it present so close a resemblance to its Roman origin as at Lynn. This
perhaps may be attributed to the circumstance of a colony of Romans
having settled there, about the time of the introduction of
Christianity into Britain, and projected the improvement and drainage of
the marsh land and fens, to whom Lynn owes its origin, as the mother
town of the district.[145] That they brought with them their domestic
habits and customs we know; and hence the festival of May-day partakes
of the character of the Roman celebrations.

Early on the auspicious morn, a spirit of emulation is generally excited
among the juveniles of Lynn, in striving who shall be first to arise and
welcome “sweet May-day,” by opening the door to admit the genial
presence of the tutelary goddess,

    -------- borne on Auroral zephyrs
    And deck’d in spangled, pearly, dew-drop gems.

The task of gathering flowers from the fields and gardens for the
intended garland succeeds, and the gatherers frequently fasten the doors
of drowsy acquaintances, by driving a large nail through the handle of
the snack into the door-post, though, with the disappearance of
thumb-snacks, that peculiarity of usage is of course disappearing too.

The Lynn garland is made of two hoops of the same size, fixed
transversely, and attached to a pole or staff, with the end through the
centre, and parallel to the hoops. Bunches of flowers, interspersed with
evergreens, are tied round the hoops, from the interior of which
festoons of blown birds’ eggs are usually suspended, and long strips of
various- ribbons are also pendant from the top. A doll, full
dressed, of proportionate size, is seated in the centre, thus exhibiting
an humble, but not inappropriate representation of _Flora_, surrounded
by the fragrant emblems of her consecrated offerings. Thus completed,
the garlands are carried forth in all directions about the town, each
with an attendant group of musicians, (i. e. _horn-blowers_,[146])
collecting eleemosynary tributes from their acquaintances. The horns,
used only on this occasion, are those of bulls and cows, and the sounds
produced by them when blown in concert, (if the noise from two to
twenty, or perhaps more, may be so termed,) is not unlike the lowing of
a herd of the living animals. Forgetful of their youthful days,
numberless anathemas are ejaculated by the elder inhabitants, at the
tremendous hurricane of monotonous sounds throughout the day. Though
deafening in their tones, there appears something so classically antique
in the use of these horns, that the imagination cannot forbear
depicturing the horn-blowers as the votaries of _Io_ and _Serapis_,[147]
(the Egyptian Isis and Osiris,) in the character of the Lynn juveniles,
sounding their _Io Pæans_ to the honour of _Flora_.

Having been carried about the town, the garland, faded and drooping, is
dismounted from the staff, and suspended across a court or lane, where
the amusement of throwing balls over it, from one to another, generally
terminates the day. The only _public_ garland, amongst the few now
exhibited, and also the largest, is one belonging to the young inmates
of St. James’s workhouse, which is carried by one of the ancient
inhabitants of the asylum, as appears in the sketch, attended by a
numerous train of noisy horn-blowing pauper children, in the parish
livery. Stopping at the door of every respectable house, they collect a
considerable sum, which is dropped through the top of a locked tin
canister, borne by one of the boys.

Previous to the Reformation, and while the festival of May-day continued
under municipal patronage, it was doubtless splendidly celebrated at
Lynn, with other ceremonies now forgotten; but having, by the order of
council in 1644,[148] become illegal, it was severed from the
corporation favour, and in a great measure annihilated. After the
Restoration, however, it resumed a portion of public patronage, and in
1682 two new May-poles were erected; one in the Tuesday market-place,
and the other at St. Anne’s Fort. The festival never entirely recovered
the blow it received under the Commonwealth; the May-poles have long
since disappeared, and probably the remnants, the garlands themselves,
will soon fade away; for the celebration is entirely confined to the
younger branches of the inhabitants. The refinement, or, more strictly
speaking, the degeneracy of the age, has so entirely changed the
national character, that while we ridicule and condemn the simple, and
seemingly absurd, habits of our ancestors, we omit to venerate the
qualities of their hearts; qualities which, unmixed with the alloy of
innovating debasement, are so truly characteristic, that

    ----- “with all their faults, I reiterate them still,
    ------- and, while yet a nook is left,
    Where ancient English customs may be found,
    Shall be constrain’d to love them.”

That the celebration of May-day, as a national festival, should have
been abolished, is not surprising, when we consider the formidable
attacks directed against it by the spirit of fanaticism, both from the
pulpit and the press; a curious specimen of which is here inserted from
“FUNEBRIA FLORÆ, _the Downfall of May-games_,” a scarce tract, published
in 1661 “by Thomas Hall, B. D., and pastor of King’s Norton.”[149] It
is, as the author observes, “a kind of dialogue, and dialogues have ever
been accounted the most lively and delightful, the most facile and
fruitfullest way of teaching. Allusions and similes sink deep, and make
a better impression upon the spirit; a pleasant allusion may do that
which a solid argument sometimes cannot do; as, in some cases, iron may
do that which gold cannot.”--From this curious tract is derived the
following, with some slight omissions--


“INDICTMENT OF FLORA.”

“_Flora_, hold up thy hand, thou art here indicted by the name of
_Flora_, of the city of Rome, in the county of Babylon, for that thou,
contrary to the peace of our sovereign lord, his crown and dignity, hast
brought in a pack of practical fanatics, viz.--ignorants, atheists,
<DW7>s, drunkards, swearers, swashbucklers, maid-marian’s,
morrice-dancers, maskers, mummers, Maypole stealers, health-drinkers,
together with a rascallion rout of fiddlers, fools, fighters, gamesters,
lewd-women, light-women, contemners of magistracy, affronters of
ministry, rebellious to masters, disobedient to parents, misspenders of
time, and abusers of the creature, &c.

“_Judge._ What sayest thou, guilty or not guilty?

“_Prisoner._ Not guilty, my lord.

“_Judge._ By whom wilt thou be tried?

“_Prisoner._ By the pope’s holiness, my lord.

“_Judge._ He is thy patron and protector, and so unfit to be a judge in
this case.

“_Prisoner._ Then I appeal to the prelates and lord bishops, my lord.

“_Judge._ This is but a tiffany put off, for though some of that rank
did let loose the reins to such profaneness, in causing the book of
sports, for the profanation of God’s holy day, to be read in churches,
yet ’tis well known that the gravest and most pious of that order have
abhorred such profaneness and misrule.

“_Prisoner._ Then I appeal to the rout and rabble of the world.

“_Judge._ These are thy followers and thy favourites, and unfit to be
judges in their own case.

“_Prisoner._ My lord, if there be no remedy, I am content to be tried by
a jury.

“_Judge._ Thou hast well said, thou shall have a full, a fair, and a
free hearing.--Crier, call the jury.

“_Crier._ O yes, O yes; all manner of persons that can give evidence
against the prisoner at the bar let them come into court, and they shall
be freely heard.

“_Judge._ Call in the _Holy Scriptures_.

“_Crier._ Make room for the Holy Scriptures to come in.

“_Judge._ What can you say against the prisoner at the bar?

“_Holy Scriptures._ Very much, my lord. I have often told them, that the
night of ignorance is now past, and the light of the gospel is come, and
therefore they must walk as children of the light, denying all
ungodliness and worldly lusts. I have often told them, that they must
shun all the appearance of evil, and have no fellowship with the
unfruitful works of darkness, nor conform themselves like to the wicked
of this world. I have often told them, that our God is a jealous God,
and one that will not endure to have his glory given to idols.

“_Judge._ This is full and to the purpose indeed; but is there no more
evidence to come in?

“_Crier._ Yes, my lord, here is _Pliny_, an ancient writer, famous for
his Natural History.

“_Judge._ What can you say against the prisoner at the bar?

“_Pliny._ My lord, I have long since told them, that these were not
christian, but pagan feasts; they were heathens, (and as such knew not
God,) who first instituted these _Floralia_ and May-games. I have told
them that they were instituted according to the advice of the Sibyl’s
books, in the 516th year after the foundation of the city of Rome, to
prevent the blasting and barrenness of the trees and the fruits of the
earth. (Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. xviii. c. 29.)

“_Judge._ Sir, you have given us good light in this dark case; for we
see that the rise of these feasts was from Pagans, and that they were
ordained by the advice of Sibyl’s books, and not of God’s book; and for
a superstitious and idolatrous end, that thereby _Flora_, not God, might
be pleased, and so bless their fruits and flowers. This is clear, but
have you no more evidence?

“_Crier._ Yes, my lord, here is _Cœlius Lactantius Firmianus_, who lived
about three hundred years after Christ, who will plainly tell you the
rise of these profane sports.

“_Judge._ I have heard of this celestial, sweet, and firm defender of
the faith, and that he was a second Cicero for eloquence in his time.
Sir, what can you say against the prisoner at the bar?

“_Lactantius._ My lord, I have long since declared my judgment against
this _Flora_, in my first book of false religions, &c.

“_Judge._ This is plain and full, I now see that _Lactantius_ is
_Firmianus_, not only sweet, but firm and constant, &c. Have you no more
evidence?

“_Crier._ Yes, my lord, here is the _Synodus Francica_, which was
called, Anno Dom. 742.

“_Judge._ What can you say against the prisoner at the bar?

“_Synodus._ My lord, I have long since decreed, that the people of God
shall have no _pagan feasts_ or interludes, but that they reject and
abominate all the uncleannesses of Gentilism, and that they forbear all
sacrilegious fires, which they call _bonfires_, and all other
observations of the Pagans whatsoever.

“_Judge._ This is clear against all heathenish feasts and customs, of
which this is one. But have you no evidence nearer home?

“_Crier._ Yes, my lord, here is one that will conquer them all, and with
the sword of justice suddenly suppress them.

“_Judge._ Who is that I pray you? Let me see such a man.

“_Crier._ My lord, it is _Charles the Second_, king of Great Britain,
France, and Ireland, defender of the faith.

“_Judge._ Truly he deserves that title, if he shall now appear in
defence of the truth, against that profane rout which lately threatened
the extirpation both of sound doctrine and good life. I hear that the
king is a sober and temperate person, and _one that hates debauchery_; I
pray you let us hear what he saith.

“_Crier._ My lord, the king came into London May 29th, and on the 30th
he published _a Proclamation against Profaneness_, to the great
rejoicing of all good people of the land. When all was running into
profaneness and confusion, we, poor ministers, had nothing left but our
prayers and tears; then, even then, it pleased the Most High to put it
into the heart of our sovereign lord the king, eminently to appear in
the cause of that God who hath so eminently appeared for him, and hath
brought him through so many dangers and difficulties to the throne, and
made so many mountains a plain before him, to testify against the
debauchery and gross profaneness, which, like a torrent, had suddenly
overspread the land. (Proclamation against Profaneness, &c. &c.)

“_Judge._ Now blessed be the Lord, the King of kings, who hath put such
a thing as this into the heart of the king, and blessed be his counsel,
the good Lord recompense it sevenfold into his bosom, and let all the
sons of Belial fly before him; as the dust before the wind, let the
angel of the Lord scatter them.

“_Prisoner._ My lord, I and my retinue are very much deceived in this
Charles the Second; we all conceited that he was for us. My drunkards
cried, “A health to the king;” the swearers swore, “A health to the
king;” the <DW7>, the atheist, the roarer, and the ranter, all
concluded that now their day was come; but alas! how are we deceived!

“_Judge._ I wish that you, and all such as you are, may for ever be
deceived in this kind, and that your eyes may rot in your heads before
you ever see idolatry, superstition, and profaneness countenanced in the
land.--Have you no more evidence to produce against these profane
practices?

“_Crier._ Yes, my lord, here is _an Ordinance of Parliament_ against
them.

“_Prisoner._ My lord, I except against this witness above all the rest;
for it was not made by a full and free parliament of lords and commons,
but by some rump and relic of a parliament, and so is invalid.

“_Judge._ You are quite deceived, for this ordinance was made by lords
and commons when the house was full and free; and those the best that
England ever had, for piety towards God and loyalty to their sovereign.
Let us hear what they say.

“_Ordinance of Parliament._ My lord, I have plainly told them, that
since the profanation of the Lord’s day hath been heretofore greatly
occasioned by May-poles, the lords and commons do therefore ordain that
they shall be taken down and removed, and that no May-pole shall be
hereafter erected or suffered to remain within this kingdom, under the
penalty of five shillings for every week, till such May-pole is taken
down.[150]

“_Judge._ This is to the purpose. This may clearly convince any sober
man of the sinfulness of such practices, and make them abhor them; for
what is forbidden by the laws of men, especially when those laws are
consonant to the laws of God, may not be practised by any person; but
these profane sports being forbidden by the laws of men, are herein
consonant to the laws of God, which condemn such sinful pastimes. Have
you no more evidence besides this ordinance to batter these Babylonish
towers?

“_Crier._ Yes, my lord, here is the _Solemn League and Covenant_, taken
in a solemn manner by king, lords, and commons, the assembly of divines,
the renowned city of London, the kingdom of Scotland, and by many
thousands of ministers and people throughout this nation.

“_Prisoner._ My lord, these things are out of date, and do not bind now
our troubles are over.

“_Judge._ The sixth branch of the covenant will tell you, that we are
bound all the days of our lives to observe these things zealously and
constantly against all opposition; and I suppose every good man thinks
himself bound to preserve the purity of religion, to extirpate popery,
heresy, superstition, and profaneness, not only in times of trouble, but
as duties to be practised in our places and callings all our days. Now
if May-games and misrules do savour of superstition and profaneness, (as
’tis apparent they do,)--if they be contrary to sound doctrine and the
power of godliness, (as to all unprejudiced men they are,)--then, by
this solemn league and sacred covenant, we are bound to root them up.
This is sufficient, if there were no more; but because men are loath to
leave what they dearly love, let us see whether you have any further
evidence?

“_Crier._ Yes, my lord, here is an excellent _Order_ from the _Council
of State_, made this present May, (1661,) wherein they take notice of a
spirit of profaneness and impiety that hath overspread the land;
therefore they order, that the justices of the peace and commissioners
for the militia do use their utmost endeavours to prevent all
licentiousness and disorder, and all profanation of the sabbath; that
they suppress all ale-houses, and all ungodly meetings; that they own
and protect all good men in their pious and sober walking. The council
doth likewise command them to have a special care to prevent profaneness
and disorders of people about _May-poles_ and meetings of that nature,
and their rude and disorderly behaviours towards people, in molesting
them, to get monies to spend vainly at such meetings.

“_Judge._ This is full and to the point indeed, blessed be God, and
blessed be their counsel. But have you yet no more evidence?

“_Crier._ Yes, my lord, here is _Mr. Elton_, a man eminent for piety,
and of known integrity in his time; he hath long since told us, that
such filthy company, where there is such filthy speeches and lascivious
behaviour, with mixed dancing at their merry meetings, &c.; and
therefore to be abhorred by all sober Christians.[151]

“To him assents that great divine, _Dr. Ames_, who tells us, that those
who will shun incontinency and live chastely, must shun such profane
meetings; and take heed of mixed dancing, stage-plays, and such
incentives.[152]

“_Prisoner._ My lord, these were old puritans and precisians, who were
more nice than wise.

“_Crier._ I will produce men of another strain; here are bishops against
you. Bishop _Babington_ hath long since told us, that these sinful
pastimes are the devil’s festival, &c. _being forbidden by scripture_,
which commands us to shun all appearance of evil.[153]

“Here is also bishop _Andrews_, who tells us that we must not only
refrain from evil, but also from the show of evil; and must do things
honest not only before God, but also before men; to this end we must
shun wanton dancing, stage-plays, &c. because our eyes thereby behold
much wickedness, and a man cannot go on these hot coals and not be
burnt, nor touch such pitch and not be defiled, nor see such wanton
actions and not be moved.[154]

“_Judge._ This is pious, and to the purpose; here is evidence
sufficient; I shall now proceed to sentence.

“_Crier._ My lord, I desire your patience to hear one witness more, and
then I have done.

“_Judge._ Who is that which comes so late into court?

“_Crier._ My lord, ’tis the acute and accomplished _Ovid_.

“_Prisoner._ My lord, he is a heathen poet, who lived about twenty years
before Christ.

“_Judge._ His testimony will be the stronger against your heathenish
vanities. _Publius Ovidius Naso_, what can you say against mistress
_Flora_?

“_Ovid._ My lord, I have long since told the world, that the senatorian
fathers at Rome did order the celebration of these Floralian sports to
be yearly observed about the beginning of May, in honour of Flora, that
our fruits and flowers might the better prosper. At this feast there was
drinking, dancing, and all manner, &c.[155]

“_Prisoner._ Sir, you wrong the poet, and may for ought I know wrong me,
by wrapping up his ingenious narrative in so little room--

“_Judge._ I love those whose writings are like jewels, which contain
much worth in a little compass.

“_Crier._ And it please you, my lord, we will now call over the jury,
that the prisoner may see we have done her no wrong.

“_Judge._ Do so.

“_Crier._ Answer to your names--_Holy Scriptures_, ONE--_Pliny_,
TWO--_Lactantius_, THREE--_Synodus Francica_, FOUR--_Charles the
Second_, FIVE--_Ordinance of Parliament_, SIX--_Solemn League and
Covenant_, SEVEN--_Order of the Council of State_, EIGHT--_Messrs. Elton
and Ames_, NINE--_Bishop Babington_, TEN--_Bishop Andrews_,
ELEVEN--_Ovid_, TWELVE.--These, with all the godly in the land, do call
for justice against this turbulent malefactor.

“_Judge._ Flora, thou hast here been indicted for bringing in abundance
of misrule and disorder into church and state; thou hast been found
guilty, and art condemned both by God and man,--by scriptures, fathers,
councils,--by learned and pious divines,--and therefore I adjudge thee
to

  PERPETUAL BANISHMENT,

that thou no more disturb this church and state, lest justice do arrest
thee.”--

  K.

       *       *       *       *       *


ACCOUNT OF A MAY-DAY COLLATION

  _Given by Whitelocke, in the English Manner, (during his Embassy from
  Oliver Cromwell,) to Christina, Queen of Sweden, and some of her
  favourite Ladies and Courtiers._

This being May-day, Whitelocke, according to the invitation he had made
to the queen, put her in mind of it, that as she was his mistress, and
this May-day, he was by the custom of England to wait upon her to take
the air, and to treat her with some little collation, as her servant.

The queen said, the weather was very cold, yet she was very willing to
bear him company after the English mode.

With the queen were Woolfeldt, Tott, and five of her ladies. Whitelocke
brought them to his collation, which he had commanded his servants to
prepare in the best manner they could, and altogether after the English
fashion.

At the table with the queen sat La Belle Countesse, the Countesse
Gabriel Oxenstierne, Woolfeldt, Tott, and Whitelocke; the other ladies
sat in another room. Their meat was such fowl as could be gotten,
dressed after the English fashion, and with English sauces, creams,
puddings, custards, tarts, tanseys, English apples, bon chrétien pears,
cheese, butter, neats’ tongues, potted venison, and sweetmeats, brought
out of England, as his sack and claret also was; his beer was also
brewed, and his bread made by his own servants, in his own house, after
the English manner; and the queen and her company seemed highly pleased
with this treatment: some of her company said, she did eat and drink
more at it than she used to do in three or four days at her own table.

The entertainment was as full and noble as the place would afford, and
as Whitelocke could make it, and so well ordered and contrived, that the
queen said, she had never seen any like it: she was pleased so far to
play the good housewife, as to inquire how the butter could be so fresh
and sweet, and yet brought out of England? Whitelocke, from his cooks,
satisfied her majesty’s inquiry; that they put the salt butter into
milk, where it lay all night, and the next day it would eat fresh and
sweet as this did, and any butter new made, and commended her majesty’s
good housewifery; who, to express her contentment to this collation, was
full of pleasantness and gayety of spirits, both in supper-time, and
afterwards: among other frolics, she commanded Whitelocke to teach her
ladies the English salutation; which, after some pretty defences, their
lips obeyed, and Whitelocke most readily.

She highly commended Whitelocke’s music of the trumpets, which sounded
all supper-time, and her discourse was all of mirth and drollery,
wherein Whitelocke endeavoured to answer her, and the rest of the
company did their parts.

It was late before she returned to the castle, whither Whitelocke waited
on her; and she discoursed a little with him about his business, and the
time of his audience, and gave him many thanks for his noble treatment
of her and her company.

Two days after this entertainment, Mons. Woolfeldt, being invited by
Whitelocke, told him that the queen was extremely pleased with his
treatment of her. Whitelocke excused the meanness of it for her majesty.
Woolfeldt replied, that both the queen and all the company esteemed it
as the handsomest and noblest that they ever saw; and the queen, after
that, would drink no other wine but Whitelocke’s, and kindly accepted
the neats’ tongues, potted venison, and other cakes, which, upon her
commendation of them, Whitelocke sent unto her majesty.[156]

       *       *       *       *       *


MAY-DAY CHEESES.

_To the Editor._

DEAR SIR,--On the first of May, at the village of Randwick, near Stroud,
there has been, from time immemorial, the following custom:--Three large
cheeses, (Gloucester of course,) decked with the gayest flowers of this
lovely season, are placed on litters, equally adorned with flowers, and
boughs of trees waving at the corners. They are thus borne through the
village, accompanied by a joyous throng, shouting and huzzaaing with all
their might and main, and usually accompanied by a little band of music.
They proceed in this manner to the church-yard, where the cheeses being
taken from the litters, and divested of their floral ornaments, are
rolled three times round the church. They are then carried back in the
same state, and in the midst of the village are cut up and distributed
piecemeal to the inhabitants.

  I am, dear, sir, &c.

  C. TOMLINSON.

  _April, 1827._

  [143] Hospinian de Orig. Festorum--Polydore Virgil--and Godwin Antiq.

  [144] Aug. de Civit. Dei--Rosinus de Antiquit. Rom.--and Hall’s
  Funebria Floræ.

  [145] The Romans having undertaken to drain the fens, and rescue marsh
  lands, by strong embankments, from the ravages of the ocean, founded
  Lynn, (it is supposed,) in the reign of the emperor _Claudius_, under
  the direction of _Catus Decianus_, the Roman procurator of the
  _Iceni_, who was the principal superintendant of the canals,
  embankments, and other works of improvement then carried on in the
  fens. He is also thought to have brought over to his assistance, in
  this stupendous labour, a colony of Belgians, or Batavians, from whose
  dialect, the Belgio Celtique, the etymology of Lynn is considered to
  be derived. (Richard’s Hist. of Lynn, vol. i. p. 221.)

  [146] By sound of _trumpet_ all the courtezans in Rome were called to
  the _Floralian_ sports, where they danced, it is said, (though greatly
  to be doubted,) in a state of nudity, about the streets, with the
  _trumpets_ blown before them. Hence Juvenal, (Sat. 60,) speaking of a
  lewd woman, calls her a _Floralian courtezan_ (Godwin Antiq.--Polydore
  Virgil--Farnab. in Martial, Epig. 110. 1.--Hall’s Funebria Floræ.)

  [147] _Io_, in heathen mythology, was the daughter of Inachus,
  transformed by Jupiter into a white heifer, and worshipped under the
  name of _Isis_ by the Egyptians. _Serapis_ was the son of Jupiter and
  Niobe; he first taught the Egyptians to sow corn and plant vines; and,
  after his death, was worshipped as an ox, under the name of _Osiris_.

  [148] Every-Day Book, vol. i. p. 556.

  [149] A copy of Hall’s _Funebria Floræ_ was sold January 20, 1819, in
  the Bindley Collection, for £6. 12_s._ 6_d._

  [150] Ordinance of Parliament, 1644:--see _Every-Day Book_, vol. i. p.
  556.

  [151] Elton’s Exposition of the Second Commandment.

  [152] Ames, Cas. Cons. I v. c. 39.

  [153] Babington on the Seventh Commandment.

  [154] Bishop Andrews’s Exposition of the Seventh Commandment.

  [155] Ovid, Fastorum, lib. v.

  [156] Gentleman’s Magazine, 1822.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Easter.~


EASTER-BOX.

A custom was instituted in the city of Thoulouse by Charlemagne, that at
Easter any Christian might give a box on the ear to a Jew, wherever he
chanced to meet him, as a mark of contempt for the nation, which had, at
that season, crucified the Saviour of mankind. This usage, scandalous in
itself, was sometimes, through zeal, practised with great violence. It
is stated that the eye of a poor Jew was forced out, on that side of the
head whereon the blow was given. In the course of centuries this cruel
custom was commuted for a tax, and the money appropriated to the use of
the church of St. Saturnin.[157] Accounts of the prevalence of this
custom in our own country are related in the _Every-Day Book_, vol. i.

  [157] Miss Plumptre.

       *       *       *       *       *


DOCTOR GIBBS, ALIAS “HUCK’N!”

_For the Table Book._

Dr. Gibbs, commonly called “Huck’n!” was an extraordinary individual,
who followed the profession of an itinerary veterinary surgeon in the
west of England. His ways were different from his neighbours, and his
appearance was so singular, that a stranger might have taken him for a
tramping tinker. Like Morland, he had an unfortunate predilection for
“signs,” under whose influence he was generally to be found. He would
“keep it up to the last,” with his last shilling; and, like the wit in
doctor Kitchiner’s converzaziones, he would “_come at_ seven and _go it_
at eleven.” To love for his profession, he added a love for old
pastimes, customs, and revelries. He was a man, in the fullest extent of
the word, a lover of his country--zealous in his friendships, he
exercised the virtues of humanity, by aiding and even feeding those who
were in severe distress. He spent much, for his means were
considerable--they were derived from his great practice. His knowledge
of his art was profound; a horse’s life was as safe in his hands, as the
writer’s would be in sir Astley Cooper’s.

In his person, “Huck’n!” was muscular, and he stood above the middle
size; his habits gave him an unwieldy motion; his complexion was sandy;
his aspect muddled; large eyebrows pent-housed his small glassy blue
eyes; a wig of many curls, perking over his bald forehead, was closed by
a bush of his own hair, of another colour behind; his whiskers were
carroty, and he usually had an unshorn beard. It was when he entered a
stable, or cow-pen, in his leather apron half-crossed, with his
drug-pouch at his side, that he appeared in a skilful light. His thick
holly walking-stick with a thong run through the top, was tried in the
service, as its worn appearance testified, and many an animal’s mouth
could witness. He rarely pulled the drenching horn, or fleam from his
pocket to operate, but he rolled his tongue over his beloved “pigtail,”
juicily deposited in the nook of a precarious tooth, and
said,--“HUCK’N!” Hence his _nomme de guerre_--and hence the proverb that
outlives him--“he that can _chew_ like _Huck’n!_ may _cure_ like
_Huck’n!_” The meaning of this emphatic monosyllable remains a secret.
Some of the superstitious conjectured, that he used it in stables and
outhouses as a charm to scare the witches from riding the cattle. This
liberty is verily believed by many to exist to this day; hence a
horseshoe is nailed to the sill of the stable-door, that the midnight
hags of “air and broom” may not cross the iron bar-rier.[158]

It is thirty years since “Huck’n” flourished. If he had a home, it was
at Hullavington, near Malmsbury, where as a pharmacist, farrier, and
phlebotomist of high character and respectability, to his patients--who
are known to evince more patience than most of the human species--he was
very attentive. He would cheerfully forego his cheerful glass, his boon
companions, his amusing anecdotes, necessary food, and nocturnal rest,
to administer to the comfort of a poor “dumb creature,” and remain day
and night till life departed, or ease returned. Were he alive he would
tell us, that in our intercourse with the brute creation, we should
exercise humane feelings, and bestir ourselves to assuage the acute
pain, betokened by agonizing looks and groans, in suffering animals.

“HUCK’N!” was an improvident man: under more classical auspices, he
might have stood first in his profession; but he preferred being
“unadorned--adorned the most.” He lived to assist the helpless, and died
in peace. Let persons of higher pretensions do more--“_Huck’n?_”[159]

  J. R. P.

  _March, 1827._

  [158] Vermin and destructive birds are nailed, or rather crucified, on
  the park barns of noblemen by their gamekeepers, to hold intruders _in
  terrorem_, and give ocular proofs of skill and vigilance.

  [159] The Saxon word “_Halidom_” signifies “Holy Judgment:” whence in
  old times, “By my _Halidom_!” was a solemn oath among country
  people.--“By Gonnies!”--“By Gosh!” and a hundred other exclamations,
  may have originated in the avoiding an oath, or the performing a
  pledge--but what is “_Huck’n?_”

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ~Armorial Bearing~

OF THE LORD OF THE MANOR OF

~Stoke Lyne, Oxfordshire~.]

The above print, obligingly presented, is submitted to the reader, with
the following in explanation--

_To the Editor._

SIR,--As I have taken in your _Every-Day Book_, and continue with the
_Table Book_, I send you the subjoined account, which, perhaps, may be
worth your consideration, and the engraved wood-block for your use.

  I remain your well-wisher,

  X.

  AN ACCOUNT OF THE MANOR OF STOKE LYNE IN OXFORDSHIRE, LATE THE
  PROPERTY OF THE EARL AND COUNTESS OF SHIPBROOK.

The lord of the manor has a right, by ancient custom, to bear a hawk
about his arms agreeable to the print: it arose from the following
circumstance. When Charles the First held his parliament at Oxford, the
then lord of Stoke Lyne was particularly useful to the king in his
unfortunate situation, and rendered him service. To reward him he
offered him knighthood, which he declined, and merely requested the
king’s permission to bear behind his coat of arms a hawk, which his
majesty instantly granted. The present lord of the manor is Mr. Cole of
Twickenham, inheriting the estate by descent from the late earl and
countess, and whose family are registered in the parish church as early
as March 22, 1584. There is also a monument of them in the church of
Petersham, 1624; and another branch of the same family were created
baronets, March 4, 1641, supposed to be the oldest family in the county
of Middlesex.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ~May-Day Dance in 1698.~]

This engraving of the milkmaids’ garland, and the costume of themselves
and their fiddler, at the close of the century before last, is from a
print in “Mémoires, &c. par un Voyageur en Angleterre,” an octavo
volume, printed “à la Haye 1698,” wherein it is introduced by the
author, Henry Misson, to illustrate a passage descriptive of the
amusements of London at that time. His account of the usage is to the
following effect:--

On the first of May, and the five or six days following, all the young
and pretty peasant girls, who are accustomed to bear about milk for sale
in the city, dress themselves very orderly, and carry about them a
number of vases and silver vessels, of which they make a pyramid,
adorned with ribbons and flowers. This pyramid they bear on their heads
instead of the ordinary milk-pail, and accompanied by certain of their
comrades and the music of a fiddle, they go dancing from door to door
surrounded by young men and children, who follow them in crowds; and
every where they are made some little present.

       *       *       *       *       *


ISABELLA COLOUR.

The archduke Albert married the infanta Isabella, daughter of Philip II.
king of Spain, with whom he had the Low Countries in dowry. In the year
1602, he laid siege to Ostend, then in the possession of the heretics,
and his pious princess, who attended him in that expedition, made a vow
that till the city was taken she would never change her clothes.
Contrary to expectation, it was three years before the place was
reduced; in which time her highness’s linen had acquired a hue, which
from the superstition of the princess and the times was much admired,
and adopted by the court fashionables under the name of the
“Isabella-colour:” it is a whitish yellow, or soiled buff--better
imagined than described.[160]

  [160] Sir J. Hawkins.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XV.

  [From the “City Night-Cap,” a Tragi-Comedy, by Robert Davenport,
  1651.]

_Lorenzo Medico suborns three Slaves to swear falsely to an adultery
between his virtuous Wife Abstemia, and his Friend Philippo. They give
their testimony before the Duke of Verona, and the Senators._

      _Phil._--how soon
    Two souls, more precious than a pair of worlds,
    Are levell’d below death!
      _Abst._ Oh hark! did you not hear it?
      _Sen._ What, Lady?
      _Abst._ This hour a pair of glorious towers is fallen
    Two goodly buildings beaten with a breath
    Beneath the grave: you all have seen this day
    A pair of souls both cast and kiss’d away.
      _Sen._ What censure gives your Grace?
      _Duke._ In that I am kinsman
    To the accuser, that I might not appear
    Partial in judgment, let it seem no wonder,
    If unto your Gravities I leave
    The following sentence: but as Lorenzo stands
    A kinsman to Verona, so forget not,
    Abstemia still is sister unto Venice.
      _Phil._ Misery of goodness!
      _Abst._ Oh Lorenzo Medico,
    Abstemia’s Lover once, when he did vow,
    And when I did believe; then when Abstemia
    Denied so many princes for Lorenzo,
    Then when you swore:--Oh maids, how men can weep,
    Print protestations on their breasts, and sigh,
    And look so truly, and then weep again,
    And then protest again, and again dissemble!--
    When once enjoy’d, like strange sights, we grow stale;
    And find our comforts, like their wonder, fail.
      _Phil._ Oh Lorenzo!
    Look upon tears, each one of which well-valued
    Is worth the pity of a king; but thou
    Art harder far than rocks, and canst not prize
    The precious waters of truth’s injured eyes.
      _Lor._ Please your Grace, proceed to censure.
      _Duke._ Thus ’tis decreed, as these Lords have set down,
    Against all contradiction: Signor Philippo,
    In that you have thus grossly, Sir, dishonour’d
    Even our blood itself in this rude injury
    Lights on our kinsman, his prerogative
    Implies death on your trespass; but, (your merit
    Of more antiquity than is your trespass),
    That death is blotted out; perpetual banishment,
    On pain of death if you return, for ever
    From Verona and her signories.
      _Phil._ Verona is kind.
      _Sen._ Unto you, Madam,
    This censure is allotted: your high blood
    Takes off the danger of the law; nay from
    Even banishment itself: this Lord, your husband,
    Sues only for a legal fair divorce,
    Which we think good to grant, the church allowing:
    And in that the injury
    Chiefly reflects on him, he hath free licence
    To marry when and whom he pleases.
      _Abst._ I thank ye,
    That you are favorable unto my Love,
    Whom yet I love and weep for.
      _Phil._ Farewell, Lorenzo,
    This breast did never yet harbour a thought
    Of thee, but man was in it, honest man:
    There’s all the words that thou art worth. Of your Grace
    I humbly thus take leave. Farewell, my Lords;--
    And lastly farewell Thou, fairest of many,
    Yet by far more unfortunate!--look up,
    And see a crown held for thee; win it, and die
    Love’s martyr, the sad map of injury.--
    And so remember, Sir, your injured Lady
    Has a brother yet in Venice.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Philippo, at an after-trial, challenges Lorenzo._

      _Phil._--in the integrity,
    And glory of the cause, I throw the pawn
    Of my afflicted honour; and on that
    I openly affirm your absent Lady
    Chastity’s well knit abstract; snow in the fall,
    Purely refined by the bleak northern blast,
    Not freer from a soil; the thoughts of infants
    But little nearer heaven: and if these princes
    Please to permit, before their guilty thoughts
    Injure another hour upon the Lady,
    My right-drawn sword shall prove it.--

       *       *       *       *       *

_Abstemia, decoyed to a Brothel in Milan, is attempted by the Duke’s
Son._

      _Prince._ Do you know me?
      _Abst._ Yes, Sir, report hath given intelligence,
    You are the Prince, the Duke’s son.
      _Prince._ Both in one.
      _Abst._ Report, sure,
    Spoke but her native language. You are none
    Of either.
      _Prince._ How!
      _Abst._ Were you the Prince, you would not sure be slaved
    To your blood’s passion. I do crave your pardon
    For my rough language. Truth hath a forehead free
    And in the tower of her integrity
    Sits an unvanquish’d virgin. Can you imagine,
    ’Twill appear possible you are the Prince?
    Why, when you set your foot first in this house,
    You crush’d obedient duty unto death;
    And even then fell from you your respect.
    Honour is like a goodly old house, which
    If we repair not still with virtue’s hand,
    Like a citadel being madly raised on sand,
    It falls, is swallow’d, and not found.
      _Prince._ If thou rail upon the place, prithee how camest thou
          hither?
      _Abst._ By treacherous intelligence; honest men so,
    In the way ignorant, through thieves’ purlieus go.--
    Are you Son to such a Father?
    Send him to his grave then,
    Like a white almond tree, full of glad days
    With joy that he begot so good a Son.
    O Sir, methinks I see sweet Majesty
    Sit with a mourning sad face full of sorrows,
    To see you in this place. This is a cave
    Of scorpions and of dragons. Oh turn back;
    Toads here engender: ’tis the steam of death;
    The very air poisons a good man’s breath.
      _Prince._ Let me borrow goodness from thy lips. Farewell!
    Here’s a new wonder; I’ve met heav’n in hell.

_Undue praise declined._

    ------ you are far too prodigal in praise,
    And crown me with the garlands of _your_ merit;
    As we meet barks on rivers,--the strong gale
    Being best friends to us,--our own swift motion
    Makes us believe that t’other nimbler rows;
    Swift virtue thinks small goodness fastest goes.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Conspiracy,” a Tragedy by Henry Killigrew, 1638. Author’s
  age 17.]

_The Rightful Heir to the Crown kept from his inheritance: an Angel
sings to him sleeping._

_Song._

    While Morpheus thus does gently lay
      His powerful charge upon each part,
    Making thy spirits ev’n obey
      The silver charms of his dull art;

    I, thy Good Angel, from thy side,--
      As smoke doth from the altar rise,
    Making no noise as it doth glide,--
      Will leave thee in this soft surprise;

    And from the clouds will fetch thee down
      A holy vision, to express
    Thy right unto an earthly crown;
      No power can make this kingdom less.

    But gently, gently, lest I bring
      A start in sleep by sudden flight,
    Playing aloof, and hovering,
      Till I am lost unto the sight.

    This is a motion still and soft;
      So free from noise and cry,
    That Jove himself, who hears a thought,
      Knows not when we pass by.

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE GOOD CLERK.

He writeth a fair and swift hand, and is completely versed in the four
first rules of Arithmetic, in the Rule of Three, (which is sometimes
called the Golden Rule,) and in Practice. We mention these things, that
we may leave no room for cavillers to say, that any thing essential hath
been omitted in our definition; else, to speak the truth, these are but
ordinary accomplishments, and such as every understrapper at a desk is
commonly furnished with. The character we treat of soareth higher.

He is clean and neat in his person; not from a vain-glorious desire of
setting himself forth to advantage in the eyes of the other sex, (with
which vanity too many of our young sparks now-a-days are infected,) but
to do credit (as we say) to the office. For this reason he evermore
taketh care that his desk or his books receive no soil; the which things
he is commonly as solicitous to have fair and unblemished, as the owner
of a fine horse is to have him appear in good keep.

He riseth early in the morning; not because early rising conduceth to
health, (though he doth not altogether despise that consideration,) but
chiefly to the intent that he may be first at the desk. There is his
post--there he delighteth to be; unless when his meals, or necessity,
calleth him away; which time he always esteemeth as lost, and maketh as
short as possible.

He is temperate in eating and drinking, that he may preserve a clear
head and steady hand for his master’s service. He is also partly induced
to this observation of the rules of temperance by his respect for
religion, and the laws of his country; which things (it may once for all
be noted) do add special assistances to his actions, but do not and
cannot furnish the main spring or motive thereto. His first ambition (as
appeareth all along) is to be a good clerk, his next a good Christian, a
good patriot, &c.

Correspondent to this, he keepeth himself honest, not for fear of the
laws, but because he hath observed how unseemly an article it maketh in
the day-book or ledger, when a sum is set down lost or missing; it being
his pride to make these books to agree and to tally, the one side with
the other, with a sort of architectural symmetry and correspondence.

He marrieth, or marrieth not, as best suiteth with his employer’s views.
Some merchants do the rather desire to have married men in their
counting-houses, because they think the married state a pledge for
their servants’ integrity, and an incitement to them to be industrious;
and it was an observation of a late lord mayor of London, that the sons
of clerks do generally prove clerks themselves, and that merchants
encouraging persons in their employ to marry, and to have families, was
the best method of securing a breed of sober, industrious young men
attached to the mercantile interest. Be this as it may, such a character
as we have been describing, will wait till the pleasure of his employer
is known on this point; and regulateth his desires by the custom of the
house or firm to which he belongeth.

He avoideth profane oaths and jesting, as so much time lost from his
employ; what spare time he hath for conversation, which in a
counting-house such as we have been supposing can be but small, he
spendeth in putting seasonable questions to such of his fellows, (and
sometimes _respectfully_ to the master himself,) who can give him
information respecting the price and quality of goods, the state of
exchange, or the latest improvements in book-keeping; thus making the
motion of his lips, as well as of his fingers, subservient to his
master’s interest. Not that he refuseth a brisk saying, or a cheerful
sally of wit, when it comes enforced, is free of offence, and hath a
convenient brevity. For this reason he hath commonly some such phrase as
this in his mouth:--

    It’s a slovenly look
    To blot your book.

Or,

    Red ink for ornament, black for use,
    The best of things are open to abuse.

So upon the eve of any great holiday, of which he keepeth one or two at
least every year, he will merrily say in the hearing of a confidential
friend, but to none other:--

    All work and no play
    Makes Jack a dull boy.

Or,

    A bow always bent must crack at last.

But then this must always be understood to be spoken confidentially,
and, as we say, _under the rose_.

Lastly, his dress is plain, without singularity; with no other ornament
than the quill, which is the badge of his function, stuck under the
dexter ear, and this rather for convenience of having it at hand, when
he hath been called away from his desk, and expecteth to resume his seat
there again shortly, than from any delight which he taketh in foppery
or ostentation. The colour of his clothes is generally noted to be black
rather than brown, brown rather than blue or green. His whole deportment
is staid, modest, and civil. His motto is regularity.----

This character was sketched, in an interval of business, to divert some
of the melancholy hours of a counting-house. It is so little a creature
of fancy, that it is scarce any thing more than a recollection of some
of those frugal and economical maxims which, about the beginning of the
last century, (England’s meanest period,) were endeavoured to be
inculcated and instilled into the breasts of the London
apprentices,[161] by a class of instructors who might not inaptly be
termed _the masters of mean morals_. The astonishing narrowness and
illiberality of the lessons contained in some of those books is
inconceivable by those whose studies have not led them that way, and
would almost induce one to subscribe to the hard censure which Drayton
has passed upon the mercantile spirit:--

    The gripple merchant, born to be the curse
    Of this brave isle.[162]

  [161] This term designated a larger class of young men than that to
  which it is now confined; it took in the articled clerks of merchants
  and bankers, the George Barnwells of the day.

  [162] The Reflector.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Defoeana.~

No. I.


THE TRADESMAN.

I have now lying before me that curious book, by Daniel Defoe, “The
complete English Tradesman.” The pompous detail, the studied analysis of
every little mean art, every sneaking address, every trick and
subterfuge (short of larceny) that is necessary to the tradesman’s
occupation, with the hundreds of anecdotes, dialogues (in Defoe’s
liveliest manner) interspersed, all tending to the same amiable purpose,
namely, the sacrificing of every honest emotion of the soul to what he
calls the main chance--if you read it in an _ironical sense_, and as a
piece of _covered satire_, make it one of the most amusing books which
Defoe ever wrote, as much so as any of his best novels. It is difficult
to say what his intention was in writing it. It is almost impossible to
suppose him in earnest. Yet such is the bent of the book to narrow and
to degrade the heart, that if such maxims were as catching and
infectious as those of a licentious cast, which happily is not the case,
had I been living at that time, I certainly should have recommended to
the grand jury of Middlesex, who presented the Fable of the Bees, to
have presented this book of Defoe’s in preference, as of a far more vile
and debasing tendency. I will give one specimen of his advice to the
young tradesman, on the _government of his temper_. “The retail
tradesman in especial, and even every tradesman in his station, must
furnish himself with a competent stock of patience; I mean that sort of
patience which is needful to bear with all sorts of impertinence, and
the most provoking curiosity that it is impossible to imagine the
buyers, even the worst of them, are or can be guilty of. _A tradesman
behind his counter must have no flesh and blood about him, no passions,
no resentment_; he must never be angry, no not so much as seem to be so,
if a customer tumbles him five hundred pounds worth of goods, and scarce
bids money for any thing; nay, though they really come to his shop with
no intent to buy, as many do, only to see what is to be sold, and though
he knows they cannot be better pleased than they are, at some other shop
where they intend to buy, ’tis all one, the tradesman must take it, he
must place it to the account of his calling, that _’tis his business to
be ill used and resent nothing_; and so must answer as obligingly to
those that give him an hour or two’s trouble and buy nothing, as he does
to those who in half the time lay out ten or twenty pounds. The case is
plain, and if some do give him trouble and do not buy, others make
amends and do buy; and as for the trouble, ’tis the business of the
shop.” Here follows a most admirable story of a mercer, who, by his
indefatigable meanness, and more than Socratic patience under affronts,
overcame and reconciled a lady, who upon the report of another lady that
he had behaved saucily to some third lady, had determined to shun his
shop, but by the over-persuasions of a fourth lady was induced to go to
it; which she does, declaring beforehand that she will buy nothing, but
give him all the trouble she can. Her attack and his defence, her
insolence and his persevering patience, are described in colours worthy
of a Mandeville; but it is too long to recite. “The short inference from
this long discourse,” says he, “is this, that here you see, and I could
give you many examples like this, how and in what manner a shopkeeper
is to behave himself in the way of his business; what impertinences,
what taunts, flouts, and ridiculous things, he must bear in his trade,
and must not show the least return, or the least signal of disgust: he
must have no passions, no fire in his temper; he must be all soft and
smooth: nay, if his real temper be naturally fiery and hot, he must show
none of it in his shop: he must be a perfect, _complete hypocrite_ if he
will be a _complete tradesman_.[163] It is true, natural tempers are not
to be always counterfeited; the man cannot easily be a lamb in his shop,
and a lion in himself; but, let it be easy or hard, it must be done, and
is done: there are men who have, by custom and usage, brought themselves
to it, that nothing could be meeker and milder than they, when behind
the counter, and yet nothing be more furious and raging in every other
part of life; nay, the provocations they have met with in their shops
have so irritated their rage, that they would go up stairs from their
shop, and fall into frenzies, and a kind of madness, and beat their
heads against the wall, and perhaps mischief themselves, if not
prevented, till the violence of it had gotten vent, and the passions
abate and cool. I heard once of a shopkeeper that behaved himself thus
to such an extreme, that when he was provoked by the impertinence of the
customers, beyond what his temper could bear, he would go up stairs and
beat his wife, kick his children about like dogs, and be as furious for
two or three minutes, as a man chained down in Bedlam; and again, when
that heat was over, would sit down and cry faster than the children he
had abused; and after the fit, he would go down into the shop again, and
be as humble, courteous, and as calm as any man whatever; so absolute a
government of his passions had he in the shop, and so little out of it:
in the shop, a soulless animal that would resent nothing; and in the
family a madman: in the shop, meek like a lamb; but in the family,
outrageous like a Lybian lion. The sum of the matter is, it is necessary
for a tradesman to subject himself by all the ways possible to his
business; _his customers are to be his idols: so far as he may worship
idols by allowance, he is to bow down to them and worship them_; at
least, he is not in any way to displease them, or show any disgust or
distaste, whatsoever they may say or do; the bottom of all is, that he
is intending to get money by them, and it is not for him that gets money
to offer the least inconvenience to them by whom he gets it; he is to
consider that, as Solomon says, the borrower is servant to the lender,
so the seller is servant to the buyer.” What he says on the head of
_pleasures and recreations_ is not less amusing:--“The tradesman’s
pleasure should be in his business, his companions should be his books,
(he means his ledger, waste-book, &c.;) and if he has a family, he makes
_his excursions up stairs and no further_:--none of my cautions aim at
restraining a tradesman from diverting himself, as we call it, with his
fireside, or keeping company with his wife and children.”[164]

  [163] As no qualification accompanies this maxim, it must be
  understood as the genuine sentiment of the author.

  [164] The Reflector.

       *       *       *       *       *


MANNERS OF A SPRUCE LONDON MERCER, AND HIS FEMALE CUSTOMER, A HUNDRED
YEARS AGO.

Those who have never minded the conversation of a spruce Mercer, and a
young Lady his Customer that comes to his shop, have neglected a scene
of life that is very entertaining.--His business is to sell as much silk
as he can, at a price by which he shall get what he proposes to be
reasonable, according to the customary profits of the trade. As to the
lady, what she would be at is to please her fancy, and buy cheaper by a
groat or sixpence _per_ yard than the things she wants are usually sold
for. From the impression the gallantry of our sex has made upon her, she
imagines (if she be not very deformed), that she has a fine mien and
easy behaviour, and a peculiar sweetness of voice; that she is handsome,
and if not beautiful, at least more agreeable than most young women she
knows. As she has no pretensions to purchase the same things with less
money than other people, but what are built on her good qualities, so
she sets herself off to the best advantage her wit and discretion will
let her. The thoughts of love are here out of the case; so on the one
hand she has no room for playing the tyrant, and giving herself angry
and peevish airs; and on the other, more liberty of speaking kindly, and
being affable, than she can have almost on any other occasion. She knows
that abundance of well-bred people come to his shop, and endeavours to
render herself as amiable, as virtue and the rules of decency admit of.
Coming with such a resolution of behaviour, she cannot meet with
anything to ruffle her temper.--Before her coach is yet quite stopt, she
is approached by a gentleman-like man, that has every thing clean and
fashionable about him, who in low obeisance pays her homage, and as soon
as her pleasure is known that she has a mind to come in, hands her into
the shop, where immediately he slips from her, and through a by-way,
that remains visible for only half a moment, with great address
intrenches himself behind the counter: here facing her, with a profound
reverence and modish phrase he begs the favour of knowing her commands.
Let her say and dislike what she pleases, she can never be directly
contradicted: she deals with a man, in whom consummate patience is one
of the mysteries of his trade; and whatever trouble she creates, she is
sure to hear nothing but the most obliging language, and has always
before her a cheerful countenance, where joy and respect seem to be
blended with good humour, and all together make up an artificial
serenity, more engaging than untaught nature is able to produce.--When
two persons are so well met, the conversation must be very agreeable, as
well as extremely mannerly, though they talk about trifles. Whilst she
remains irresolute what to take, he seems to be the same in advising
her, and is very cautious how to direct her choice; but when once she
has made it, and is fixed, he immediately becomes positive that it is
the best of the sort, extols her fancy, and the more he looks upon it,
the more he wonders he should not have discovered the preeminence of it
over any thing he has in his shop. By precept, example, and great
observation, he has learned unobserved to slide into the inmost recesses
of the soul, sound the capacity of his customers, and find out their
blind side unknown to them: by all which he is instructed in fifty other
stratagems to make her overvalue her own judgment, as well as the
commodity she would purchase. The greatest advantage he has over her,
lies in the most material part of the commerce between them, the debate
about the price, which he knows to a farthing, and she is wholly
ignorant of: therefore he no where more egregiously imposes upon her
understanding; and though here he has the liberty of telling what lies
he pleases, as to the prime cost and the money he has refused, yet he
trusts not to them only; but, attacking her vanity, makes her believe
the most incredible things in the world, concerning his own weakness and
her superior abilities. He had taken a resolution, he says, never to
part with that piece under such a price, but she has the power of
talking him out of his goods beyond anybody he ever sold to: he protests
that he loses by his silk, but seeing that she has a fancy for it, and
is resolved to give no more, rather than disoblige a lady he has such an
uncommon value for, he will let her have it, and only begs that another
time she will not stand so hard with him. In the mean time the buyer,
who knows that she is no fool and has a voluble tongue, is easily
persuaded that she has a very winning way of talking, and thinking it
sufficient for the sake of good breeding to disown her merit, and in
some witty repartee retort the compliment, he makes her swallow very
contentedly the substance of every thing he tells her. The upshot is,
that with the satisfaction of having saved ninepence _per_ yard, she has
bought her silk exactly at the same price as anybody else might have
done, and often gives sixpence more than, rather than not have sold it,
he would have taken.--

       *       *       *       *       *

We have copied the above from Mandeville’s “Fable of the Bees,” Edition
1725. How far, and in what way, the practice between the same parties
differs at this day, we respectfully leave to our fair shopping friends,
of this present year 1827, to determine.

  L.

       *       *       *       *       *


CURING OF HERRINGS.

_From the Works of Thomas Nash, 1599._

“It is to bee read, or to bee heard of, howe in the punie shipe or
nonage of Cerdicke sandes, when the best houses and walles there were of
mudde, or canvaze, or poldavies entiltments, a fisherman of Yarmouth,
having drawne so many herrings hee wist not what to do with all, hung
the residue, that hee could not sel nor spend, in the sooty roofe of his
shad a drying; or say thus, his shad was a cabinet in _decimo sexto_,
builded on foure crutches, and he had no roome in it, but that garret in
_excelsis_, to lodge them, where if they were drie let them be drie, for
in the sea they had drunk too much, and now hee would force them doo
penance for it. The weather was colde, and good fires hee kept, (as
fishermen, what hardnesse soever they endure at sea, will make all
smoke, but they will make amends for it when they come to land;) and
what with his fiering and smoking, or smokie fiering, in that his narrow
lobby, his herrings, which were as white as whalebone when he hung them
up, nowe lookt as red as a lobster. It was four or five dayes before
either hee or his wife espied it; and when they espied it, they fell
downe on their knees and blessed themselves, and cride, ‘A miracle, a
miracle!’ and with the proclaiming it among their neighbours they could
not be content, but to the court the fisherman would, and present it to
the King, then lying at Burrough Castle two miles off.”

The same facetious author, in enumerating the excellences of herrings,
says, “A red herring is wholesome in a frosty morning: it is most
precious fish-merchandise, because it can be carried through all Europe.
No where are they so well cured as at Yarmouth. The poorer sort make it
three parts of their sustenance. It is every man’s money, from the king
to the peasant. The round or cob, dried and beaten to powder, is a cure
for the stone. Rub a quart-pot, or any measure, round about the mouth
with a red herring, the beer shall never foam or froath in it. A red
herring drawn on the ground will lead hounds a false scent. A broiled
herring is good for the rheumatism. The fishery is a great nursery for
seamen, and brings more ships to Yarmouth than assembled at Troy to
fetch back Helen.”

At the end of what Nash calls “The Play in Praise of Red Herrings,” he
boasts of being the first author who had written in praise of fish or
fishermen: of the latter he wittily and sarcastically says, “For your
seeing wonders in the deep, you may be the sons and heirs of the prophet
Jonas; you are all cavaliers and gentlemen, since the king of fishes
chose you for his subjects; for your selling smoke, you may be
courtiers; for your keeping fasting days, friar-observants; and, lastly,
look in what town there is the sign of the three mariners, the
huff-capped drink in that house you shall be sure of always.”

Should any one desire to be informed to what farther medicinal and
culinary purposes red herring may be applied with advantage, Dodd’s
Natural History of the Herring may be consulted. If what is there
collected were true, there would be little occasion for the _faculty_,
and cookery would no longer be a science.

  G. B.

  _Norwich._

       *       *       *       *       *


~Poetry.~


TO JOVE THE BENEFICENT.

_For the Table Book._

    Oh thou, that holdest in thy spacious hands
      The destinies of men! whose eye surveys
    Their various actions! thou, whose temple stands
      Above all temples! thou, whom all men praise!
    Of good the author! thou, whose wisdom sways
      The universe! all bounteous! grant to me
    Tranquillity, and health, and length of days;
      Good will t’wards all, and reverence unto thee;
    Allowance for man’s failings, of my own
      The knowledge; and the power to conquer all
    Those evil things to which we are too prone--
      Malice, hate, envy--all that ill we call.
    To me a blameless life, Great Spirit! grant,
    Nor burden’d with much care, nor narrow’d by much want.

  S. R. J.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Varia.~


WILSON AND SHUTER.

When Wilson the comedian made his début, it was in the character
formerly supported by Shuter; but, upon his appearance on the stage, the
audience called out for their former favourite, by crying, “Off,
off--_Shuter, Shuter!_” Whereon Wilson, turning round, and with a face
as stupid as art could make it, and suiting his action to his words,
replied, “_Shoot her, shoot her?_” (pointing at the same time to the
female performer on the stage with him,) “I’m sure she does her part
very well.” This well-timed sally of seeming stupidity turned the scale
in his favour, and called down repeated applause, which continued during
the whole of the performance.[165]

       *       *       *       *       *


KITTY WHITE’S PARENTHESIS.

Kitty White, a pupil to old Rich, the comedian, was instructed by
O’Brien, of Drury-lane, how to perform _Sylvia_, in “The Recruiting
Officer.” The lady reciting a passage improperly, he told her it was a
_parenthesis_, and therefore required a different tone of voice, and
greater volubility. “A _parenthesis_!” said Miss White, “What’s that?”
Her mother, who was present, blushing for her daughter’s ignorance,
immediately exclaimed, “Oh, what an infernal limb of an actress will you
make! not to know the meaning of _’prentice_, and that it is the plural
number of _’prentices_!”

       *       *       *       *       *


LADY WALLIS AND MR. HARRIS.

Mr. Harris, patentee of Covent-garden theatre, having received a very
civil message from lady Wallis, offering him her comedy for _nothing_,
Mr. H. observed, upon his perusal, that her ladyship knew the exact
value of it.[166]

       *       *       *       *       *


SMOKY CHIMNIES.

A large bladder filled with air, suspended about half way up the chimney
by a piece of string attached to a stick, and placed across a hoop,
which may be easily fastened by nails, will, it is said, prevent the
disagreeable effects of a smoky chimney.

       *       *       *       *       *


OLD ENGLISH PROVERB.

“_An ounce of mother wit is worth a pound of learning_,” seems well
exemplified in the following dialogue, translated from the German:

Hans, the son of the clergyman, said to the farmer’s son Frederick, as
they were walking together on a fine summer’s evening, “How large is the
moon which we now see in the heavens?”

_Frederick._ As large as a baking-dish.

_Hans._ Ha! ha! ha! As large as a baking-dish? No, Frederick, it is full
as large as a whole country.

_Frederick._ What do you tell me? as large as a whole country? How do
you know it is so large?

_Hans._ My tutor told me so.

While they were talking, Augustus, another boy, came by; and Hans ran
laughing up to him, and said, “Only hear, Augustus! Frederick says the
moon is no bigger than a baking-dish.”

“No?” replied Augustus, “The moon must be at least as big as our barn.
When my father has taken me with him into the city, I have observed,
that the globe on the top of the dome of the cathedral seems like a very
little ball; and yet it will contain three sacks of corn; and the moon
must be a great deal higher than the dome.”

Now which of these three little philosophers was the most
intelligent?--I must give it in favour of the last; though Hans was most
in the right through the instruction of his master. But it is much more
honourable to come even at all near the truth, by one’s own reasoning,
than to give implicit faith to the hypothesis of another.

  [165] Monthly Mirror.

  [166] Ibid.




Vol. I.--19.


[Illustration: ~Seal and Autograph of the Lord High Admiral,~]

[Illustration: ~Charles Lord Howard of Effingham, 1585.~]


OFFICE OF LORD HIGH ADMIRAL.

An engraving of the great seal of Charles Lord Howard of Effingham, as
high admiral of England, with another, his lordship’s autograph, are
presented to the readers of the _Table Book_ from the originals, before
the Editor, affixed to a commission in the first year of that nobleman’s
high office, granting to sir Edward Hoby, knight, the vice-admiralty of
the hundred of Milton, in the county of Kent.[167]

It will be remembered, that the lord Howard of Effingham, afterwards
created earl of Nottingham, was the distinguished admiral of the English
fleet, which, in conjunction with the winds of heaven, dispersed and
destroyed the formidable Spanish armada for the invasion of England in
1588, during the reign of queen Elizabeth. These engraved
representations therefore are no mean illustrations to a short account
of the office of lord high admiral, which, after having been in
commission upwards of a century, is revived in the person of the heir
apparent to the throne.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is commonly said, that we have obtained the term _admiral_ from the
French. The first admiral of France, or that ever had been there by
title of office, was Enguerrand de Bailleul, lord of Coucy, who was so
created by Philip the Hardy in 1284, and under that title appointed to
command a fleet for the conquest of Catalonia and other Spanish
provinces from Peter of Arragon.

The French are presumed to have gained the term in the crusades a little
before this period, under St. Lewis, who instituted the order of “the
ship,” an honour of knighthood, to encourage and reward enterprise
against the Turks. The collar of this order, at the lower end whereof
hung a ship, was interlaced on double chains of gold, with double
scallop-shells of gold, and double crescents of silver interwoven,
“which figured the sandy shore and port of Aigues-Mortes, and, with the
ship, made manifest declaration that this enterprise was to fight with
infidel nations, which followed the false law of Mahomet who bare the
crescent.”[168] The chief naval commander of the Saracens is said to
have been called the _admirante_, and from him the French are
conjectured to have gained their _amiral_: if they did, it was the only
advantage secured to France by the expedition of St. Lewis.[169]

Still, however, whether the French _amiral_, comes from the Saracen
_admirante_ is doubtful; and though the title occurs in French history,
before we discover _admiral_ in our own, it is also doubtful whether we
derive it from our neighbours. The Saxons had an officer, whom from his
duties they called “_Aen-Mere-all_, that is _All upon the sea_:”[170]
this title therefore of our ancient ancestors may reasonably be presumed
to have been the etymon of our _admiral_.

       *       *       *       *       *

William de Leybourne was the first Englishman that had the style of
admiral. At the assembly at Bruges in 1297, (25 Edward I.) he was styled
_Admirallus Maris Regis_, and soon after the office became tripartite.
We subsequently meet with the titles of admiralty of the north and of
the west, and in 1387 (10 Richard II.) we find Richard, son of Allan,
earl of Arundel and Surry, denominated _Admirallus Angliæ_: this is the
earliest mention of that style.[171]

Charles, lord Howard of Effingham, the illustrious high admiral of
Elizabeth, held the office eighteen years under his heroic mistress, and
was continued in it fourteen years longer by her successor James I. In
1619 he was succeeded in it by George, marquis (afterwards the first
duke) of Buckingham, who held the dignity till 1636, (temp. Car. I.)
when it was in commission for a week, and then conferred on Algernon,
earl of Northumberland, and afterwards, by the parliament, on Robert,
earl of Warwick. He surrendered his commission in 1645, under an
ordinance that members should have no employment, and the office was
executed by a committee of both houses, of whom the earl was one. In
1649, the commissioners of the admiralty under the Commonwealth were
allowed three shillings each per diem.

At the restoration of Charles II. in 1660, his brother James, duke of
York, was appointed lord high admiral; but on the passing of the test
act in 1673, being a Roman Catholic, he resigned, and the office was put
in commission, with prince Rupert as first lord, till 1679. It remained
in commission till the end of that reign.

James II. (the duke of York just mentioned) on his accession declared
himself, in council, lord high admiral, and lord general of the navy,
and during his short reign managed the admiralty affairs by Mr.
Secretary Pepys.

Throughout the reign of William III., the admiralty was continued in
commission.

Queen Anne, in 1702, appointed her consort, prince George of Denmark,
lord high admiral of England; he executed the office under that style,
with a council, till 1707, when, on account of the union, he was styled
lord high admiral of Great Britain, and so continued with a council as
before. He died October 28, 1708, and the queen acted by Mr. Secretary
Burchel, till the 29th of November, when her majesty appointed Thomas,
earl of Pembroke, lord high admiral of Great Britain, with a fee of 300
marks per annum. In November, 1709, the admiralty was again put in
commission, and has been so continued from that time till April 1827,
when the duke of Clarence was appointed lord high admiral of Great
Britain.

       *       *       *       *       *

The lord high admiral has the management and controul of all maritime
affairs, and the government of the royal navy. He commissions all naval
officers, from an admiral to a lieutenant; he takes cognizance and
decides on deaths, murders, maims, and all crimes and offences committed
on or beyond sea, in all parts of the world, on the coasts, in all ports
or havens, and on all rivers to the first bridge from the sea. He
appoints deputies for the coasts, coroners for the view of dead bodies
found at sea, or on the waters within his jurisdiction, and judges for
his court of admiralty. To him belongs all fines and forfeitures arising
from the exercise of his office, the goods of pirates, &c. maritime
deodands, wrecks, salvage, sea-prize, waifs and strays, porpoises, and
other great sea-fishes, called royal fishes, whale and sturgeon only
excepted.[172] He is conservator of rivers and public streams, and of
all ships and fisheries, with power to reform unlawful nets and engines;
and he arrests and seizes ships, impresses mariners, pilots, masters,
gunners, bombardiers, and any other persons wheresoever they may be met
with, as often as the naval service may require.[173] Formerly, in
common with other admirals, he wore a whistle suspended by a gold chain,
with which he cheered his men to action, but which has now descended to
the boatswain.[174]

       *       *       *       *       *

The powers of the commission from the lord Howard of Effingham, high
admiral of England, to sir Edward Hoby, may further illustrate the
nature and extent of this high office. The deed itself is in Latin,
fairly engrossed on parchment, with a large and fine illumination,
entirely filling the side and bottom margins, representing a branch of
white roses tinged with red, entwined with a branch of honeysuckle, the
leaves and flowers in fair and proper colours.

This commission empowers “sir Edward Hobbie, knight,” to take cognizance
of, and proceed in all civil and maritime causes, contracts, crimes,
offences, and other matters, appertaining to the jurisdiction of the
English admiralty of the queen in the hundred of Milton in the county of
Kent, and the maritime parts thereof, and thereto adjacent, and to hear
and determine the same: AND to inquire by the oath of good and loyal men
of the said hundred of all traitors, pirates, homicides, and felons, and
of all suicides, and questionable deaths and casualties within such
admiralty jurisdiction, and of their estates, and concerning whatever
appertains to the office of the lord high admiral in the said hundred.
AND of and concerning the anchorage and shores and the royal fishes,
viz. sturgeons, whales, shellfish, (cetis,) porpoises, dolphins, rigge
and grampuses, and generally of all other fishes whatsoever, great and
small, belonging to the queen in her office of chief admiralty of
England: AND to obtain and receive all pecuniary penalties in respect of
crimes and offences belonging to such jurisdiction within the said
hundred, and to decide on all such matters: AND to proceed against all
offenders according to the statutes of the queen and her kingdom, and
according to the admiralty power of mulcting, correcting, punishing,
castigating, reforming, and imprisoning within the said hundred or its
jurisdiction: AND to inquire concerning nets of too small mesh, and
other contrivances, or illicit instruments, for the taking of fish: AND
concerning the bodies of persons wrecked and drowned in the waters of
the hundred: AND concerning the keeping and preservation of the statutes
of the queen and her kingdom in the maritime parts of the said hundred:
AND concerning the wreck of the sea: AND to exercise the office of
coroner, according to the statutes in the third and fourth years of
Edward the First: AND to proceed according to the statutes concerning
the damage of goods upon the sea in the 27th year of Edward III.: “AND
you the aforesaid sir Hobbie, our vice-admiral, commissary, and deputy
in the office of vice-admiralty, in and over the aforesaid hundred of
Milton, we appoint, recommending to you and your locum tenens firmness
in the execution of your duty, and requiring you yearly in Easter and
Michaelmas term to account to the Court of Admiralty your proceedings in
the premises.”---- “Given at Greenwich under our great seal the twelfth
day of the month of July in the year of our Lord from the incarnation
one thousand five hundred and eighty-five, and in the twenty-seventh
year of the reign of our most serene lady Elizabeth by the grace of God
queen of England, France, and Ireland, defender of the faith, &c.”

The “great seal” above mentioned is the great seal of the admiralty,
engraved on a preceding page, and as there represented, of the exact
size of the seal appended to the commission.

  [167] For the loan of this document, the editor is indebted to his
  valuable and valued correspondent J. J. K.

  [168] Favine, b. iii. c 4.

  [169] “This good prince being dead of a dysentry at the camp of
  Carthage in Africa, the fifth day of August One thousand two hundred
  threescore and ten, his body was boiled in wine and water, until that
  the flesh was neatly divided from the bones. His flesh and entrails
  were given to the king of Sicily, monsieur Charles of France, brother
  to the king, who caused them to be interred in the monastery of Mont
  Reall, of the order of St. Benedict, near to the city of Palermo in
  Sicily. But the bones, wrapped up worthily in seare cloth and silks,
  excellently embalmed with most precious perfumes, were carried to St.
  Denis in France: and with them those of his son, monsieur John of
  France, count of Nevers, dying in the camp and of the same disease.”
  _Favine._

  [170] Maitland, Cok. Just. p. i.

  [171] Godolphin’s Admiralty Jurisdiction, 1746.

  [172] Beatson.

  [173] Cowel, &c.

  [174] Fosbroke’s Ency. of Antiquities.

       *       *       *       *       *


MILTON HUNDRED, KENT.

Through a different source than that, whence the commission just set
forth came to hand, the Editor has now before him various original
papers formerly belonging to sir Edward Hoby, concerning his private and
public concerns. The two following relate to the hundred of Milton.

I.

  Articles of the Queene’s Majestie Lands belonging to the Mannor of
  _Milton_ with ther yearly values as they wilbe letten, and of the
  other benefitts belonging to the same mannor, which are now letten by
  her Majestie in farme.

                      _Acres._    _Value._
  Earable Lands          276    13_s._ 4_d._ 184_li._
  Meadowe Lands           39    20_s._        39_li._
  Mershe Lands            12    20_s._        12_li._
  Pasture Lands           80    15_s._        60_li._
  (Shent?) Lands          34     6_s._ 8_d._  11_li._  6_s._  8_d._
  Towne meade             25     5_s._         6_li._  5_s._
                         ---                 ----------------------
                         466                 331_li._  0_s._  8_d._
                         ---                 ----------------------

  Rents of Assise                            115_li._  1_s._ 10_d._
  The Myll                                    12_li._
  Faires and Marketts                         10_li._
  Relieves and Alienac’ons                     4_li._
  Fines and Amercements                        6_li._ 13_s._  4_d._
  Wastes Strayes Fellons }                    13_li._  6_s._  8_d._
  Goods and Wrack of Sea }
                                             ----------------------
                                             161_li._  1_s._ 10_d._
                                             ----------------------
                                             492_li._  2_s._  6_d._
                                             ----------------------

  Articles of the Queene’s Majestie Lands and other benefitts belonging
  to the Hundred of _Marden_ now less letten in farme.

                          _Acres._ _Value._
  Queene’s Lands             9       8_s._     3_li._ 12_s._
  Rents of Assise                             14_li._  9_s._ 5_d._
  Wastes Straies and Fellons goods             3_li._  6_s._ 8_d._
                                              --------------------
                                              21_li._  8_s._ 1_d._
                                              --------------------
    S’m Tot. of the proffitte}
    of bothe the mannors     }               513_li._ 10_s._ 7_d._
    It is oversom’ed viij p. ann.

II.

  SIR EDWARD HOBY _for a Lease of the custodie of_ MILTON _and_ MARDEN.

The Queene’s Ma’tie by warrant of the late Lord Treasourer the sixt daye
of July, in the xiijth Yeare of her Raigne, did graunt Custodia of the
Mannor of Milton, and the Hundred of Milton, and Marden, &c. vnto Thomas
Randolphe for Threescore years, yieldinge 120_li._ yearly rent and vjs.
viijd increase of the rent. Prouiso semper q’d si aliquis alius plus
dare voluerit de incr’o per Annum pro Custod. predict sine fraude vel
malo ingenio Quod tunc idem Thomas Randolphe tantum pro eadem soluere
teneatur si Custod. voluerit her’e sup’dict.

The Lease is by meane conveyance colorably sett over vnto one Thomas
Bodley, but the interest is in one Richard Potman, Attorney towards the
Lawe.

Sr Edward Hoby knight the xxvjth of Maye xlmo Regine nunc, before the
nowe Lord Treasourer and the Barons of the Exchequer did personally cum,
and in wrytinge under his hande, Offer, sine fraude vel malo ingenio, to
increase the Queene’s rent 100li. yearly, which sayd Offer was accepted
and attested, with Mr. Baron Clarke’s hande redy to be inrolled.

Whereupon the sayd Sr Edward Hoby doth humbly praye that Yor Lo’pp
wilbe pleased to gyve warrant for the inrowlinge thereof accordingely,
and that a scire facias maye presently be awarded agaynst the Leasee, to
shewe cause whye the former Pattent shoulde not be repealed, and the
custody aforesayd graunted to the sayd Sr Edward Hoby.

  _Note._

The lyke tender was heretofore made xxxijdo Regine Elizabeth by Richard
Varney Esquyer, agaynst Gregory Wolmer Esquyer, for the Mannor of
Torrington Magna: beinge in extent to her Ma’tie for the dett of
Phillipp Basset, and leased with the like Prouiso, and thereby obteyned
a newe Lease from her Ma’tie.

       *       *       *       *       *

The preceding documents are so far interesting, as they connect sir
Edward Hoby with the hundred of Milton and Maiden, beyond his public
office of vice admiral of the former place, and show the underletting of
the crown lands in the reign of Elizabeth, with something of the means
employed at that time to obtain grants.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XVI.

  [From “Tottenham Court,” a Comedy, by Thomas Nabbs, 1638.]

_Lovers Pursued._

_Worthgood, Bellamie, as travelling together before daylight._

      _Worth._ Come, my Delight; let not such painted griefs
    Press down thy soul: the darkness but presents
    Shadows of fear; which should secure us best
    From danger of pursuit.
      _Bell._ Would it were day!
    My apprehension is so full of horror;
    I think each sound, the air’s light motion
    Makes in these thickets, is my Uncle’s voice,
    Threat’ning our ruins.
      _Worth._ Let his rage persist
    To enterprise a vengeance, we’ll prevent it.
    Wrapt in the arms of Night, that favours Lovers,
    We hitherto have ’scaped his eager search;
    And are arrived near London. Sure I hear
    The Bridge’s cataracts, and such-like murmurs
    As night and sleep yield from a populous number.
      _Bell._ But when will it be day? the light hath comfort:
    Our first of useful senses being lost,
    The rest are less delighted.
      _Worth._ Th’ early Cock
    Hath sung his summons to the day’s approach:
    Twill instantly appear. Why startled, Bellamie?
      _Bell._ Did no amazing sounds arrive thy ear;
    Pray, listen.
      _Worth._ Come, come; ’tis thy fear suggests
    Illusive fancies. Under Love’s protection
    We may presume of safety.
      (_Within._) _Follow, follow, follow._
      _Bell._ Aye me, ’tis sure my Uncle; dear Love Worthgood?
      _Worth._ Astonishment hath seiz’d my faculties.
    My Love, my Bellamie, ha!
      _Bell._ Dost thou forsake me, Worthgood?
                                      (_Exit, as losing him._)
      _Worth._ Where’s my Love?
    Dart from thy silver crescent one fair beam
    Through this black air, thou Governess of Night,
    To shew me whither she is led by fear.
    Thou envious Darkness, to assist us here,
    And then prove fatal!
      (_Within._) _Follow, follow, follow._
      _Worth._ Silence your noise, ye clamorous ministers
    Of this injustice. Bellamie is lost;
    She’s lost to me. Not her fierce Uncle’s rage,
    Who whets your eager aptness to pursue me
    With threats or promises; nor his painted terrors
    Of laws’ severity; could ever work
    Upon the temper of my resolute soul
    To soften it to fear, till she was lost.
    Not all the illusive horrors, which the night
    Presents unto th’ imagination,
    T’ affright a guilty conscience, could possess me,
    While I possess’d my Love. The dismal shrieks
    Of fatal owls, and groans of dying mandrakes,
    Whilst her soft palm warm’d mine, were music to me.--
    Their light appears.--No safety does consist
    In passion or complaints. Night, let thine arms
    Again assist me; and, if no kind minister
    Of better fate guide me to Bellamie,
    Be thou eternal.
      (_Within._) _Follow, follow, follow._

       *       *       *       *       *

_Bellamie, alone, in Marybone Park._

      _Bell._ The day begins to break; and trembling Light,
    As if affrighted with this night’s disaster,
    Steals thro the farthest air, and by degrees
    Salutes my weary longings.--O, my Worthgood,
    Thy presence would have checkt these passions;
    And shot delight thro’ all the mists of sadness,
    To guide my fear safe thro’ the paths of danger:
    Now fears assault me.--’Tis a woman’s voice.
    She sings; and in her music’s chearfulness
    Seems to express the freedom of a heart,
    Not chain’d to any passions.

              _Song, within._

          What a dainty life the Milkmaid leads!
          When over the flowery meads
          She dabbles in the dew,
          And sings to her cow;
          And feels not the pain
          Of Love or Disdain.
          She sleeps in the night, tho’ she toils in the day
          And merrily passeth her time away.

      _Bell._ Oh, might I change my misery
    For such a shape of quiet!

  [From the “Duchess of Suffolk,” an Historical Play, by T. Heywood,
  1631.]

  _A Tragic Pursuit._

_The Duchess, with her little child, preparing to escape by night from
the relentless persecution of the Romanists._

      _Duch._ (_to the Nurse_) Give me my child, and mantle;--now
          Heaven’s pleasure:
    Farewell;--come life or death, I’ll hug my treasure.
    Nay, chide not, pretty babe; our enemies come:
    Thy crying will pronounce thy mother’s doom.
    Be thou but still;
    This gate may shade us from their envious will.

    (_Exit._)

(_A noise of Pursuers. She re-enters._)

      _Duch._ Oh fear, what art thou? lend me wings to fly;
    Direct me in this plunge of misery.
    Nature has taught the Child obedience;
    Thou hast been humble to thy mother’s wish.
    O let me kiss these duteous lips of thine,
    That would not kill thy mother with a cry.
    Now forward, whither heav’n directs; for I
    Can guide no better than thine infancy.
    Here are two Pilgrims bound for Lyon Quay,[175]
    And neither knows one footstep of the way.

    (_Noise again heard._)

      _Duch._ Return you? then ’tis time to shift me hence.

                         (_Exit, and presently Re-enters._)

      _Duch._ Thus far, but heav’n knows where, we have escaped
    The eager pursuit of our enemies,
    Having for guidance my attentive fear.
    Still I look back, still start my tired feet,
    Which never till now measured London street:
    My Honours scorn’d that custom; they would ride;
    Now forced to walk, more weary pain to bide.
    Thou shalt not do so, child; I’ll carry thee
    In Sorrow’s arms to welcome misery.
    Custom must steel thy youth with pinching want,
    That thy great birth in age may bear with scant
    Sleep peaceably, sweet duck, and make no noise:
    Methinks each step is death’s arresting voice.
    We shall meet nurse anon; a dug will come,
    To please my quiet infant: when, nurse, when?

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Duchess, persecuted from place to place, with Berty, her Husband,
takes comfort from her Baby’s smiles._

      _Duch._ Yet we have scaped the danger of our foes;
    And I, that whilom was exceeding weak
    Through my hard travail in this infant’s birth,
    Am now grown strong upon necessity,
    How forwards are we towards Windham Castle?
      _Berty._ Just half our way: but we have lost our friends,
    Thro’ the hot pursuit of our enemies.
      _Duch._ We are not utterly devoid of friends;
    Behold, the young Lord Willoughby smiles on us:
    And ’tis great help to have a Lord our friend.

  C. L.

  [175] From which place she hopes to embark for Flanders.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Theatrical Customs.~


PLAY-BILLS.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--Conjecturing that some slight notices of the early use of
play-bills by our comedians might be interesting to your readers, allow
me respectfully to request the insertion of the following:--

So early as 1587, there is an entry in the Stationers’ books of a
license granted to John Charlewood, in the month of October, “by the
whole consent of the assistants, for the onlye ymprinting of all maner
of bills for players. Provided that if any trouble arise herebye, then
Charlewoode to bear the charges.” Ames, in his _Typogr. Antiq._, p. 342,
referring to a somewhat later date, states, that James Roberts, who
printed in quarto several of the dramas written by the immortal
Shakspeare, also “printed bills for the players;” the license of the
Stationers’ Company had then probably devolved to him. The announcements
of the evening’s or rather afternoon’s entertainment was not circulated
by the medium of a diurnal newspaper, as at present, but broadsides were
pasted up at the corners of the streets to attract the passerby. The
puritanical author of a “Treatise against Idleness, Vaine-playes, and
Interludes,” printed in black letter, without date, but possibly
anterior to 1587, proffers an admirable illustration of the
practice.--“They use,” says he, in his tirade against the players, “to
set up their bills upon postes some certain dayes before, to admonish
the people to make resort to their theatres, that they may thereby be
the better furnished, and the people prepared to fill their purses with
their treasures.” The whimsical John Taylor, the water-poet, under the
head of Wit and Mirth, also alludes to the custom.--“Master Nat. Field,
the player, riding up Fleet-street at a great pace, a gentleman called
him, and asked what play was played that day. He being angry to be
stay’d on so frivolous a demand, answered, that he might see what play
was plaied on every poste. I cry your mercy, said the gentleman, I took
_you_ for a poste, you rode so fast.”

It may naturally be inferred, that the emoluments of itinerant players
could not afford the convenience of a printed bill, and hence from
necessity arose the practice of announcing the play by beat of drum.
Will. Slye, who attended Kempe in the provincial enactment of his “Nine
Men of Gotham,” is figured with a drum. Parolles, in Shakspeare’s “All’s
Well that ends Well,” alludes to this occupation of some of Will. Slye’s
fellows, “Faith, sir, he has led the drum before the English comedians.”

The long detailed titles of some of the early quarto plays induce a
supposition, that the play-bills which introduced them to public notice
were similarly extended. The “pleasant conceited Comedy,” and “the
Bloody Tragedy,” were equally calculated to attract idling gazers on the
bookstalls, or the “walks at St. Paul’s,” and to draw gaping crowds
about some vociferous Autolycus, who was probably an underling belonging
to the company, or a servant to one of the players; for, as they ranked
as gentlemen, each forsooth had his man. A carping satirical writer, who
wrote anonymously “Notes from Blackfriers,” 1617, presents some traces
of a play-bill crier of that period.

    -------------“Prithee, what’s the play?
    The first I visited this twelvemonth day.
    They say--‘A new invented boy of purle,
    That jeoparded his neck to steale a girl
    Of twelve, and lying fast impounded for’t,
    Has hither sent his bearde to act his part,
    Against all those in open malice bent,
    That would not freely to the theft consent:
    Faines all to ’s wish, and in the epilogue
    Goes out applauded for a famous--rogue.’
    --Now hang me if I did not look at first,
    For some such stuff, by the fond-people’s thrust.”

In 1642, the players, who till the subversion of the kingly prerogative
in the preceding year, basked in the sunshine of court favour, and
publicly acknowledged the patronage of royalty, provoked, by their
loyalty, the vengeance of the stern unyielding men in power. The lords
and commons, assembled on the second day of September in the former
year, suppressed stage plays, during these calamitous times, by the
following

_Ordinance._

“Whereas the distressed estate of Ireland, steeped in her own blood, and
the distracted estate of England, threatened with a cloud of blood, by
a Civill Warre; call for all possible meanes to appease and avert the
wrath of God, appearing in these judgments; amongst which, fasting and
prayer having been often tried to be very effectuall, have bin lately,
and are still enjoyned: And whereas public sports doe not well agree
with public calamities, nor publike Stage Playes with the seasons of
humiliation, this being an exercise of sad and pious solemnity, and the
other spectacles of pleasure, too commonly expressing lascivious mirth
and levitie: It is therefore thought fit, and ordeined by the Lords and
Commons in this Parliament assembled, that while these sad causes, and
set times of humiliation doe continue, publike Stage Playes shall cease,
and bee forborne. Instead of which, are recommended to the people of
this land, the profitable and seasonable considerations of repentance,
reconciliation, and peace with God, which probably may produce outward
peace and prosperity, and bring againe times of joy and gladnesse to
these nations.”

The tenour of this ordinance was strictly enforced; many young and
vigorous actors joined the king’s army, in which for the most part they
obtained commissions, and others retired on the scanty pittances they
had earned, till on the restoration, the theatre burst forth with new
effulgence. The play-bill that announced the opening of the new theatre,
in Drury-lane, April 8, 1663, has been already printed in the _Every-Day
Book_. The actors’ names were then, for the first time, affixed to the
characters they represented; and, to evince their loyalty, “Vivat Rex et
Regina,” was appended at the foot of the bills, as it continues to this
day.

In the reign of the licentious Charles II., wherein monopolies of all
kinds were granted to court favourites, licenses were obtained for the
sole printing of play-bills. There is evidence in Bagford’s Collections,
Harl. MSS. No. 5910, vol. ii., that in August, 1663, Roger L’Estrange,
as surveyor of the imprimery and printing presses, had the “sole license
and grant of printing and publishing all ballads, plays, &c. not
previously printed, play-bills, &c.” These privileges he sold to
operative printers. When that license ceased, I have yet to learn.

The play-bills at Bartholomew-fair were in form the same as those used
at the regular theatres; but, as they were given among the populace,
they were only half the size. One that Dogget published recently, in my
possession, had W. R. in the upper corners, as those printed in the
reign of Charles II., had C. R., the royal arms being in the centre.

The luxurious mode of printing in alternate black and red lines, was
adopted in Cibber’s time; the bills of Covent-garden theatre were
generally printed in that manner. The bills of Drury-lane theatre,
within the last ten years, have issued from a private press, set up in a
room below the stage of that theatre. The bills for the royal box, on
his majesty’s visit to either theatre, are printed on white satin.

Connected with these notices of playbills, are the means by which they
were dispersed. A century ago, they were sold in the theatres by young
women, called “orange-girls,” some of whom, Sally Harris and others,
obtained considerable celebrity; these were succeeded by others, who
neither coveted nor obtained notoriety. The “orange-girls” have _gone
out_, and staid married women, who pay a weekly stipend to the box-lobby
fruit-woman, now vend play-bills in the theatre, but derive most of
their emolument from the sale of the “book of the play,” or “the songs”
of the evening. The old cry about the streets, “Choice fruit, and a bill
of the play--Drury-lane or Covent-garden,” is almost extinct; the
barrow-women are obliged to obtain special permission to remain opposite
some friendly shopkeeper’s door; and the play-bills are chiefly hawked
by little beggarly boys.

  I am, sir, &c.

  WILL O’ THE WISP.

  _March, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


THE LINNET FANCY.

_To the Editor of the Table Book._

    It is my fantasie to have these things,
    For they amuse me in my moody hours:
    Their voices waft my soul into the woods:
    Where bends th’ enamour’d willow o’er the stream,
    They make sweet melody.

Of all the earthly things by which the brain of man is twisted and
twirled, heated and cooled, fancy is the most powerful. Like a froward
wife, she invariably leads him by the nose, and almost every man is in
some degree ruled by her. One fancies a horse, another an ass--one a
dog, another a rabbit--one’s delight is in dress, another’s in
negligence--one is a lover of flowers, another of insects--one’s mind
runs on a pigeon, another’s on a hawk--one fancies himself sick, the
doctor fancies he can cure him: death--that stern reality--settles the
matter, by fancying both. One, because he has a little of this life’s
evil assail him, fancies himself miserable, another, as ragged as a
colt, fancies himself happy. One, as ugly as sin, and as hideous as
death, fancies himself handsome--another, a little higher than
six-penn’orth of halfpence, fancies himself a second Saul. In short, it
would take a monthly part of the _Table Book_ to enumerate the different
vagaries of fancy--so multifarious are her forms. Leaving this, proceed
we to one of the fancies which amuse and divert the mind of man in his
leisure and lonely hours--the “_Linnet_ Fancy.”

“Linnet fancy!” I think I hear some taker-up of the _Table Book_ say,
“What’s in a linnet?--rubbish--

    A bird that, when caught,
    May be had for a groat.”

Music! I answer--melody, unrivalled melody--equal to Philomel’s, that
ever _she_-bird of the poets.--I wish they would call things by their
proper names; for, after all, it is a cock--hens never make harmonious
sounds. The fancy is possessed but by a few, and those, generally, of
the “lower orders”--the weavers and cobblers of Whitechapel and
Spitalfields, for instance. A good bird has been known to fetch ten
sovereigns. I have frequently seen three and four given for one.

Whence the song of the linnet was obtained I cannot tell; but, from what
I have heard the tit-lark and sky-lark do, I incline to believe that a
good deal of theirs is in the song of the linnet. This song consists of
a number of _jerks_, as they are called, some of which a bird will dwell
on, and time with the most beautiful exactness: this is termed a
“_weighed_ bird.” Others rattle through it in a hurried manner, and take
to what is termed _battling_; these are birds often “sung” against
others. It is with them as in a party where many are inclined to sing,
the loudest and quickest tires them out; or, as the phrase is, “knocks
them down.” These _jerks_ are as under. Old fanciers remember more, and
regret the spoliation and loss of the good old strain. I have heard some
of them say, that even larks are not so good as they were forty years
ago. The reader must not suppose that the _jerks_ are warbled in the
apple-pie order in which he sees them here: the birds put them forth as
they please: good birds always _finish_ them.

[Illustration: ~London Bird Catcher, 1827.~]

_Jerks._

Tuck--Tuck--Fear.

Tuck, Tuck, Fear--Ic, Ic, Ic.

Tuck, Tuck, Fear--Ic quake-e-weet. This is a _finished jerk_.

Tuck, Tuck, Joey.

Tuck, Tuck, Tuck, Tuck, Joey--Tolloc cha, Ic quake-e-weet.

Tuck, Tuck, Wizzey.

Tuck, Tuck, Wizzey--Tyr, Tyr, Tyr, Cher--Wye wye Cher.

Tolloc, Ejup, R--Weet, weet, weet.

Tolloc, Ejup, R--Weet, cheer.

Tolloc, Ejup, R--Weet, weet, weet--cheer.

Tolloc, Tolloc, cha--Ic, Ic, Ic, Ic quake--Ic, Ic.

Tolloc, Tolloc, cha--Ic, Ic, Ic, Ic, quake--Ic, Ic, Tyr, Fear.

Tolloc, Tolloc, R--Weet, weet, weet, cheer--Tolloc, cha--Ejup.

Tolloc, Tolloc, R--Ejup.

Tolloc, Tolloc, R--Cha, cea--Pipe, Pipe, Pipe.

Tolloc, Tolloc, R--Ejup--Pipe, Pipe, Pipe.

Lug, Lug, G--Cher, Cher, Cher.

Lug, Lug--Orchee, weet.

Lug, Lug, G--Pipe, Pipe, Pipe.

Lug, Lug, G--Ic, Ic, Ic, Ic, quake, e Pipe Chow.

Lug, Lug, E chow--Lug, Ic, Ic, quake e weet.

Lug, Lug, or--cha cea.

Ic Ic R--Ejup--Pipe chow.

Lug, Lug, E chow, Lug, Ic, Ic, quake-e-weet.

Ic, Ic, R--Ejup, Pipe.

Ic, Ic, R--Ejup, Pipe, chow.

Ic Ic--R cher--Wye, wye, cher.

Ic, Ic R, cher--Weet, cheer.

Ic, Ic--quake-e-weet.

Ic, chow--E chow--Ejup, weet.

Tyr, Tyr, Cher--Wye, wye, cher.

Bell, Bell, Tyr.

Ejup, Ejup, Pipe, Chow.

Ejup, Ejup, Pipe.

Ejup, Ejup, Poy.

Peu Poy--Peu Poy. This is when calling to each other.

Cluck, Cluck, Cha.

Cluck, Cluck, Cha, Wisk--R, Wisk.

Ic, quake-e-weet--R Cher.

Ic, Quake-e-Pipe--Tolloc Ic--Tolloc Ic Tolloc Ic--R Cher.

Fear, Fear, weet--Ejup, Pipe, Chow.

Pipe, Pipe, Pipe, Pipe--Ejup, Ejup, Ejup.

Ejup R--Lug, Ic, Ic, quake-e-weet.

Ic, Ic, R, Chow, Ic, Ic, R--Ic, Ic, quake, tyr, fear.

Most of these my own birds do. Several strains have been known of the
linnet, the best of which I believe was Wilder’s.

The method of raising is this. Get a good bird--as soon as _nestlings_
can be had, purchase four, or even six; put them in a large cage, and
feed them with boiled or scalded rape-seed, mixed with bread. This will
do till about three weeks old; then throw in dry seed, rape, flax, and
canary, bruised; they will pick it up, and so be weaned from the moist
food. You may then cage them off in back-cages, and hang them under the
old ones.

If you do not want the trouble of feeding them, buy them at a shop about
a month old, when they are able to crack the seed. Some persons prefer
_branchers_ to nestlings; these are birds caught about July. When they
are just able to fly among the trees, they are in some cases better than
the others; and invariably so, if they take your old bird’s song, being
stronger and steadier. Nestlings lose half their time in playing about
the cage.

As two heads are said to be better than one, so are two birds, therefore
he who wants to raise a strain, should get two good ones, about the end
of May--_stop_ one of them. This is done by putting your cage in a box,
just big enough to hold it, having a door in front to pull up. Some have
a glass in the door to enable them to see the birds; others keep them in
total darkness, only opening their prison to give them food and water.
The common way is to put the cage in the box, and close the door, by a
little at a time, daily, keeping it in a warm place. This is a brutal
practice, which I have never subscribed to, nor ever shall; yet it
_does_ improve the bird, both in feather and song. By the time he has
“moulted off,” the other bird will “come in” stout, and your young ones
will take from him; thus you will obtain good birds.

To render your birds tame, and free in song, move them about; tie them
in handkerchiefs, and put them on the table, or any where that you
safely can; only let their usual place of hanging be out of sight of
each other. Their seeing one another makes them fretful. To prevent
this, have tin covers over their water-pots.

The man who keeps birds _should_ pay attention to them: they cannot
speak, but their motions will often tell him that something is wrong;
and it will then be his business to discover what. He who confines birds
and neglects them, deserves to be confined himself; they merit all we
can do for them, and are grateful. What a fluttering of wings--what a
stretching of necks and legs--what tappings with the bill against the
wires of their cages have I heard, when coming down to breakfast; what a
burst of song--as much as to say, “Here’s master!”

Should any one be induced, from this perusal, to become a _fancier_, let
him be careful with _whom_, and _how_ he deals, or he will assuredly be
taken in. In choosing a bird, let him see that it stands up on its perch
boldly; let it be snake-headed, its feathers smooth and sleek, its
temper good; this you may know by the state of its tail: a bad-tempered
bird generally rubs his tail down to a mere bunch of rags. Hear the bird
_sing_; and be sure to keep the seller at a distance from him; a motion
of his master’s hand, a turn of his head, may stop a bird when about to
do something bad. Let him “go _through_” with his song uninterrupted;
you will then discover his faults.

In this dissertation (if it may be so called) I have merely given what
has come under my own observation; others, who are partial to linnets,
are invited to convey, through the same medium, their knowledge,
theoretical and practical, on the subject.

  I am, sir, &c.

  S. R. J.

       *       *       *       *       *


FOUNDATION OF THE

LONDON UNIVERSITY.

On Monday, the 30th of April, 1827, his royal highness the duke of
Sussex laid the foundation-stone of the London University. The spot
selected for the building is situated at the end of Gower-street, and
comprehends a very extensive piece of ground. The adjacent streets were
crowded with passengers and carriages moving towards the place. The day
was one of the finest of this fine season. The visiters, who were
admitted by cards, were conducted to an elevated platform, which was so
much inclined, that the most distant spectator could readily see every
particular of the ceremony. Immediately before this platform, and at
about three yards distant from it, was another, upon which the
foundation-stone was placed. The persons admitted were upwards of two
thousand, the greatest proportion composed of well-dressed ladies. Every
house in the neighbourhood, which afforded the smallest opportunity of
witnessing the operations, was crowded from the windows to the roof; and
even many windows in Gower-street, from which no view of the scene could
be any way obtained, were filled with company. At a quarter past three
o’clock, the duke of Sussex arrived upon the ground, and was greeted by
the acclamations of the people both inside and outside the paling. When
he descended from his carriage, the band of the third regiment of
foot-guards, which had been upon the ground some time before, playing
occasional airs, struck up “God save the king.” The royal duke, attended
by the committee and stewards, went in procession to the platform, upon
which the foundation-stone was deposited. The stone had been cut exactly
in two, and in the lower half was a rectangular hollow, to receive the
medals and coins, and an inscription engraved upon a copper-plate:--

  DEO OPT. MAX.
  SEMPITERNO ORBIS ARCHITECTO
  FAVENTE
  QVOD FELIX FAVSTVM QVE SIT
  OCTAVVM REGNI ANNVM INEVNTE
  GEORGIO QVARTO BRITANNIARVM
  REGE
  CELSISSIMVS PRINCEPS AVGVSTVS FREDERICVS
  SUSSEXIAE DVX
  OMNIVM BONARVM ARTIVM PATRONVS
  ANTIQVISSIMI ORDINIS ARCHITECTONICI
  PRAESES APVD ANGLOS SVMMVS
  PRIMVM LONDINENSIS ACADEMIAE LAPIDEM
  INTER CIVIVM ET FRATRVM
  CIRCVMSTANTIVM PLAVSVS
  MANV SVA LOCAVIT
  PRID. KAL. MAII.
  OPVS
  <DW37> MVLTVM QVE DESIDERATVM
  VRBI PATRIAE COMMODISSIMVM
  TANDEM ALIQVANDO INCHOATVM EST
  ANNO SALVTIS HVMANAE
  MDCCCXXVII
  ANNO LVCIS NOSTRAE
  MMMMMDCCCXXVII.
  NOMINA CLARISSIMORVM VIRORVM
  QVI SVNT E CONCILIO
  HENRICVS DVX NORFOLCIAE
  HENRICVS MARCHIO DE LANSDOWN
  DOMINVS IOANNES RVSSELL
  IOANNES VICECOMES DVDLEY ET WARD
  GEORGIVS BARO DE AVCKLAND
  HONORABILIS IAC. ABERCROMBIE
  IACOBVS MACINTOSH EQVES
  ALEX. BARING        GEORGIVS BIRKBECK
  HEN. BROUGHAM       THOMAS CAMPBELL
  I. L. GOLDSMID      OLINTHVS GREGORY
  GEORGIVS GROTE      IOSEPHVS HVME
  ZAC. MACAULAY       IACOBVS MILL
  BENIAMINVS SHAW     IOHANNES SMITH
  GVLIELMVS TOOKE     HEN. WARBVRTON
  HEN. WAYMOVTH       IOANNES WISHAW
  THOMAS WILSON
  GVLIELMVS WILKINS, ARCHITECTVS.

After this inscription had been read, the upper part of the stone was
raised by the help of pullies, and his royal highness having received
the coins, medals, and inscription, deposited them in the hollow formed
for their reception. The two parts of the stone were then fastened
together, and the whole was lifted from the ground. A bed of mortar was
next laid upon the ground by the workmen, and his royal highness added
more, which he took from a silver plate, and afterwards smoothed the
whole with a golden trowel, upon which were inscribed the following
words:--“With this trowel was laid the first stone of the London
University, by his royal highness Augustus duke of Sussex, on the 30th
of April, 1827. William Wilkins, architect; Messrs. Lee and Co.,
builders.” The stone was then gradually lowered amidst the cheers of the
assembly, the band playing “God save the king.” His royal highness,
after having proved the stone with a perpendicular, struck it three
times with a mallet, at the same time saying, “May God bless this
undertaking which we have so happily commenced, and make it prosper for
the honour, happiness, and glory, not only of the metropolis, but of the
whole country.”

An oration was then delivered by the Rev. Dr. Maltby, in which he
offered up a prayer to the Almighty in behalf of the proposed
University.

Dr. LUSHINGTON stated, that he had been chosen by the committee as the
organ of their opinions. He remarked that the London University must
effect good. The clouds of ignorance had passed away, and the sun had
broken forth and dispelled the darkness which had hitherto prevailed. No
man dared now to assert that the blessings of education should not be
extended to every, even the lowest, of his majesty’s subjects. He then
expatiated on the advantages which were likely to arise from the
establishment of a London University, and especially on its admission of
Dissenters, who were excluded from the two great Universities. He
concluded by passing an eloquent compliment upon the public conduct of
the duke of Sussex, who, attached to no party, was a friend to
liberality, and promoted by his encouragement any efforts of the
subjects of this realm, whatever their political opinions, if their
motives were proper and praiseworthy.

The duke of SUSSEX acknowledged the compliments paid to him, and stated,
that the proudest day of his life was that upon which he had laid the
first stone of the London University, surrounded as he was by gentlemen
of as high rank, fortune, and character, as any in the kingdom. He was
quite convinced that the undertaking must be productive of good. It
would excite the old Universities to fresh exertions, and force them to
reform abuses. His royal highness concluded, amidst the cheers of the
assembly, by repeating that the present was the happiest day of his
life.

His royal highness and the committee then left the platform, and the
spectators dispersed, highly gratified with the exhibition of the day.

In the evening, the friends and subscribers to the new University dined
together, in the Freemasons’ Hall. On no previous occasion of a similar
nature was that room so crowded; upwards of 420 persons sat down to
table, with his royal highness the duke of Sussex in the chair.

The cloth having been removed, “The King” was drank with three times
three.

The next toast was “The Duke of Clarence, the Lord High Admiral of
England,” and the rest of the royal family. As soon as the royal
chairman, in proposing the above toast, stated the title of the new
office held by his royal brother, the room rang with acclamations.

The duke of NORFOLK then proposed the health of his royal highness the
duke of Sussex, who, he said, had added to the illustrious title which
he inherited by birth, that of the friend of the arts, and the patron of
every liberal institution in the metropolis. (Cheers.)

The toast was drunk with three times three.

His ROYAL HIGHNESS said, that he received what his noble friend had been
pleased to say of him, more as an admonition than as a compliment,
because it brought to his recollection the principles on which his
family was seated on the throne of this country. He was rejoiced at
every circumstance which occurred to refresh his memory on that subject,
and never felt so happy as when he had an opportunity of proving by
acts, rather than professions, how great was his attachment to the cause
of liberty and the diffusion of knowledge. (Cheers.) He repeated what he
had stated in the morning, that the University of London had been
undertaken with no feelings of jealousy or ill-will towards the two
great English Universities already existing, but only to supply a
deficiency, which was notoriously felt, and had been created by changes
in circumstances and time since the foundation of those two great
seminaries of learning. He concluded by once more repeating, that he had
never felt more proud in his life than when he was laying the
foundation-stone of the new University in the presence of some of the
most honest and enlightened men of whom this country could boast.
(Applause.) He then proposed “Prosperity to the University of London,”
which was drunk with three times three, and loud applause.

Mr. BROUGHAM rose amidst the most vehement expressions of approbation.
He rose, he said, in acquiescence to the command imposed upon him by the
council, to return thanks to the royal chairman for the kind and cordial
manner in which he had been pleased to express himself towards the new
University, and also to the company present for the very gratifying
manner in which they had received the mention of the toast. The task had
been imposed upon him, God knew, not from any supposed peculiar fitness
on his part to execute it, but from a well-grounded recollection that he
was amongst the earliest and most zealous promoters of the good work
they were met to celebrate. Two years had not elapsed since he had the
happiness of attending a meeting, at which, peradventure, a great
proportion of those whom he was now addressing were present, for the
purpose of promoting the foundation of the new University, held in the
middle of the city of London, the cradle of all our great
establishments, and of the civil and religious liberties of this land;
the place where those liberties had first been nurtured; near the spot
where they had been watered by the most precious blood of the noblest
citizens; and he much deceived himself if the institution, the
foundation of which they had met to celebrate, was not destined, with
the blessing of Divine Providence, to have an extensive influence in
rendering the liberties to which he had before alluded, eternal in
England, and to spread the light of knowledge over the world. (Cheers.)
On the day which he had referred to, the circumstances under which he
spoke were very different from those which now surrounded him. The
advocates of the University had then to endure the sneers of some, the
more open taunts and jibes of others, accompanied with the timidly
expressed hopes of many friends, and the ardent good wishes and fond
expectations of a large body of enlightened men, balanced however by the
loudly expressed and deep execrations of the enemies of human
improvement, light, and liberty, throughout the world. (Applause.) Now,
however, the early clouds and mists which had hung over the undertaking
had disappeared, and the friends of the new University had succeeded in
raising the standard of the establishment in triumph over its defeated
enemies--they had succeeded in laying the foundation of the University,
amidst the plaudits of surrounding thousands, accompanied by the good
wishes of their kind in every corner of the globe. (Cheers.) The council
had come to a fixed resolution that in the selection of teachers for the
University, no such phrase as “candidate” for votes should ever be used
in their presence. The appointments would be given to those who were
found most worthy; and if the merits, however little known, should be
found to surpass those of others the most celebrated, only in the same
proportion as the dust which turned the balance, the former would
certainly be preferred. Instead of teaching only four or five, or at the
utmost six months in the year, it was intended that the lectures at the
new University should continue nine months in the year. After each
lecture, the lecturer would devote an hour to examining, in turn, each
of the pupils, to ascertain whether he had understood the subject of his
discourse. The lecturer would then apply another hour, three times in
the week, if not six, (the subject was under consideration,) to the
further instruction of such of his pupils as displayed particular zeal
in the search of knowledge. By such means, it was hoped that the pupils
might not only be encouraged to learn what was already known, but to
dash into untried paths, and become discoverers themselves. (Applause.)
The honourable and learned gentleman then proceeded, in a strain of
peculiar eloquence, to defend himself from a charge which had been made
against him, of being inimical to the two great English Universities,
which he designated the two lights and glories of literature and
science. Was it to be supposed that because he had had the misfortune
not to be educated in the sacred haunts of the muses on the Cam or the
Isis, that he would, like the animal, declare the fruit which was beyond
his reach to be sour? He hoped that those two celebrated seats of
learning would continue to flourish as heretofore, and he would be the
last person in the world to do any thing which could tend to impair
their glory. The honourable and learned gentleman said, he would
conclude by repeating the lines from one of our sweetest minstrels,
which he had before quoted in reference to the undertaking which they
had assembled to support. He then quoted the passage prophetically--now
it was applicable as a description of past events:--

    “As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
    Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm;
    Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
    Eternal sunshine settles on its head.”

The ROYAL CHAIRMAN then proposed “The Marquis of Lansdown, and the
University of Cambridge,” which was drank with great applause.

The Marquis of LANSDOWN, on rising, was received with loud cheers. He
felt himself highly honoured, he said, in having his name coupled with
the University in which he had received his education. He felt the
greatest veneration for that institution, and he considered it by no
means inconsistent with that feeling to express the most ardent wishes
for the prosperity of the new University. (Applause.) He was persuaded
that the extension of science in one quarter could not be prejudicial to
its cultivation in another. (Applause.)

“The Royal Society” was next drank, then “Prosperity to the City of
London,” and Mr. Alderman Venables returned thanks.

“Prosperity to the City of Westminster” being drank, Mr. Hobhouse
returned thanks.

“The health of Lord Dudley” was drank with much applause.

Amongst the other toasts were “Prosperity to the Universities of
Scotland and Ireland;” “Henry Brougham, Esq., and the Society for the
Promotion of Useful Knowledge;” “The Duke of Norfolk;” “The Mechanics’
Institution,” &c.

The company did not separate till a late hour.[176]

  [176] The Times.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Syr Delaballe ande the Moncke.~

A LEGENDE OFFE TINMOUTHE PRIORIE.

(_For the Table Book._)

  ~“O horrydde dede toe kylle a manne forre a pygges
  hede.”~--INSCRIPTION.

    Quahat want ye, quahat want ye thoue jollie fryare,
    Sayde Syr Delavalles Wardoure brave;
    Quahat lack ye, quahat lack ye, thoue jollie fryare;--
    ------Saythe--Openne ye portalle, knave,
    Three wearye legues fro ye Pryorye
    Ive com synne ye sonne hathe smylde onne ye sea.

    Nowe naye, nowe naye, thoue halie fryare,
    I maie notte lett ye ynne;
    Syr Delavalles moode ys notte forre ye Roode,
    Ande hee cares nott toe shryve hys synne;
    And schoulde hee retorne quithe hys hoonde and horne,
    Hee will gare thye haliness rynne.

    Forre Chryste hys sak nowe saie nott naie,
    Botte openne ye portalle toe mee;
    Ande I wylle donne a ryche benyzonne
    Forre thye gentlesse ande cortesye:--
    Bye Masse ande bye Roode gyffe thys boone ys quithstoode,
    Thoue shalte perryshe bye sorcerie.

    Y’enne quycklie ye portalle wals opennd wyde,
    Syr Delavalles hal wals made free,
    Ande ye table wals spredde forre ye fryare quithe spede,
    Ande he fesstedde ryghte plentyfullie:
    Dydde a fryare wyghte everre lack off myghte
    Quhenne hee token chepe hostelrye?

    Ande ye fryare hee ate, ande ye fryare hee dronke,
    Tylle ye cellarmonne wonderred fulle sore;
    And hee wysh’d hymm atte home att Saynte Oswynnes tombe,[177]
    Quithe hys relyckes ande myssall lore:
    Botte ye fryare hee ate offe ye vensonne mete,
    Ande ye fryare hee dronke ye more.

    Nowe thys daie wals a daie off wassell keppt,
    Syr Delavalles byrthe daie I weene,
    And monnie a knycghte ande ladye bryghte,
    Ynne Syr Delavalles castell wals seene;
    Botte synne ye sunne onne ye blue sea schonne.
    They’d huntedd ye woodes sae greene.

    And ryche and rare wals ye feste prepardde
    Forre ye knycghtes ande ladyes gaie;
    Ande ye fyelde ande ye floode baythe yyeldedd yere broode
    Toe grace ye festalle daie;
    And ye wynnes fro Espagne wyche longe hadde layne,
    And spyces fro farre Cathaye.

    Botte fyrst ande fayrest offe al ye feste,
    Bye Syr Delavalle pryzd moste dere,
    A fatte boare rostedde ynn seemlye gyze,
    Toe grace hys lordlye chere:
    Ye reke fro ye fyre sore hongerdde ye fryare,
    Ynne spyte of refectynge gere.

    Ande thuss thoughte ye fryare als he sate,
    Y’sse Boare ys ryghte savourie;
    I wot tys noe synn ytts hede toe wynne,
    Gyffe I mote ryghte cunnynglie;
    Ysse goddelesse knycghte ys ane churche hatynge wyghte,
    Toe fylche hymme ne knaverie.

    Quithe yatt hee toke hys lethernne poke,
    Ande whettedde hys knyfe soe shene,
    Ande hee patyentlye sate atte ye kytchenne yate
    Tyll ne villeins quehere thyther seene;
    Yenne quithe meikle drede cutte offe ye boares hede.
    Als thoe ytte nevere hadde beene.

    Yenne ye fryare hee nymblie footedde ye swerde,
    Ande bente hym toe halie pyle;
    Forre ance quithynne yttes sacredde shrynne,
    Hee’d loucgche and joke atte hys guyle;
    Botte hie thee faste quithe thye outmoste haste,
    Forre thye gate ys monnie a myle.

    Nowe Chryste ye save, quehene ye vylleins sawe.
    Ye boare quithouten ye hede,
    They wyst ande grie yatte wytcherie
    Hadde donne ye featouse dede
    Ynne sore dystraughte ye fryare they soucghte,
    Toe helpe y’em ynne yere nede.

    Theye soucghte and soucghte ande lang theye soucghte,
    Ne fryare ne hede cold fynde,
    Forre fryare ande hede farre oer ye mede,
    Were scuddynge ytte lyk ye wynde:
    Botte haste, botte haste, thoue jollie fryare,
    Quehere boltt and barre wylle bynde.

    Ye sunne wals hyghe yane hys journeye flyghte,
    Ande homewarde ye fysher bote rowedde,[178]
    Quehenne ye deepe soundynge horne shoudde Syr Delavalles retorne,
    Quithe hys knychtes ande ladyes proude:
    Ye bagpypes y’sonde ande ye jeste went ronde,
    Ande revelrye merrye ande loude.

    Botte meikle, botte meikle wals ye rage,
    Offe ye hoste and compagnie,
    Quehenne ye tale wals tolde offe ye dede soe bolde,
    Quilke wals layde toe wytcherie:
    Ande howe ynne destraucghte ye moncke they soucghte,
    Ye moneke offe ye Pryorie.

    Now rycghtlie y wyss Syr Delavalle knewe,
    Quehenne tould of ye fryare knave;
    Bye mye knycghthoode I vowe hee schalle derelye rue,
    Thys trycke hee thoucghte soe brave;
    Ande awaie flewe ye knycghte, lyk are egle’s flychte,
    Oere ye sandes of ye northerne wave.

    Ande faste and faste Syr Delavalle rodde,
    Tylle ye Pryorie yate wals ynne vyewe,
    Ande ye knycghte wals awar offe a fryare talle,
    Quithe ane loke baythe tiredde ande grewe,
    Who quithe rapydde spanne oerre ye grene swerde ranne,
    Ye wrathe offe ye knycghte toe eschewe.

    Botte staie, botte staie, thou fryare knave,
    Botte staie ande shewe toe mee,
    Quatte thoue haste ynne yatte leatherne poke,
    Quilke thoue mayest carrie soe hie,
    Now Chryste ye save, sayde ye fryare knave,
    Fire-botte forre ye Pryorie.

    Thoue lyest! thoue lyest! thoue knavyshe preste,
    Thoue lyest untoe mee,
    Ye knycghte hee toke ye leatherne poke,
    Ande hys boare’s hede dydde espie,
    And stylle ye reke fro ye scotchedde cheke,
    Dydde seeme rychte savourie.

    Goddeswotte! botte hadde ye seene ye fryare,
    Quithe his skynne of lividde hue,
    Quehenne ye knycghte drewe outte ye rekynge snoutte,
    Ande floryshodde hys huntynge thewe;
    Gramercye, gramercye, nowe godde Syr Knycghte,
    Als ye Vyrgynne wylle mercye schewe.

    Botte ye knycghte hee bangedde ye fryare aboutte,
    Ande bette hys backe fulle sore;
    And hee bette hym als hee rolledde onne ye swerde,
    Tylle ye fryare dydde loudlie roare:
    Ne mote hee spare ye fryare maire,
    Y’anne Mahounde onne easterene shore.[179]

    Nowe tak ye yatte ye dogge offe ane moncke,
    Nowe tak ye yatte fro mee;
    Ande awaie rodde ye knycghte, ynne grete delycghte,
    Atte hys fete offe flagellrie;
    Ande ye sands dydde resounde toe hys chevalx boundde,[180]
    Als hee rodde nere ye mergynnedde sea.

    Botte whaes yatte hyghes fro ye Pryorie yatte,
    Quithe a crosse soe halie ande talle,
    Ande offe monckes a crowde al yelpynge lowde,
    Atte quahatte mote ye fryare befalle;
    Forre theye seene ye dede fra ye Pryorie hede,
    Ande herde hym piteousse calle.

    Ye fryare hee laye ynne sare distraucghte,
    Al wrythynge ynne grymme dismaie,
    Eche leeshedde wonnde spredde blode onne ye gronde,
    And tyngedde ye daisie gaie:
    Wae fa’ ye dede, ande yere laye ye hede,
    Bothe reekynge als welle mote theye.

    Ne worde hee spak, ne cryne colde mak,
    Quehenne ye pryore cam breathlesse nyghe;
    Botte ye teares y’ranne fro ye halie manne,
    Als hee heavedde monie a syghe:
    Y’nne ye pryore wals redde offe ye savourie hede,
    Y’atte nere ye moncke dydde ly.

    Y’enne theye bore ye moncke toe ye Pryorie yatte,
    Ynne dolorousse steppe ande slowe,
    They vengeannce vowdde, ynne curses loude,
    Onne ye horsmanne wyghte I trowe;
    Ye welkynne range wi yere yammerynges lange,
    Als ye cam ye Pryorie toe.

    A leache offe skylle, quithe meikle care.
    Ande herbes ande conjurie,
    Soone gav ye moncke hys wontedde sponke,
    Forre hys quyppes ande knaverie;
    Quehenne hee tould how ye knycghte, Syr Delavalle hyghte,
    Hadde donne ye batterie.

    Botte woe forre thys knycghte offe hyghe degre,
    And greete als welle hee maie,
    Forre ye fryare y’wot hee batteredde and bruysdde,
    Toke ylle, als ye churchmenne saye,
    Ande ys surelie dede quythouten remede,
    Quithynne yere ande eke a daie.

    Farewelle toe y’re landes, Syr Delavalle bolde,
    Farewelle toe y’re castelles three,
    Y’ere gonne fro thye heyre, tho greiveste thoue saire
    Y’ere gonne toe ye Pryorie;
    Ande thoue moste thole a wollennne stole,
    Ande lacke thye libertie--

    Three lange lange yeres ynne dolefulle gyze,
    Ynne Tynemouthe Abbie praie,
    And monie a masse toe hevenwerde passe,
    Forre ye fryare yatte thou dyddst slaye:
    Thoue mayest loke oere ye sea ande wyshe toe bee free,
    Botte ye pryore offe Tynemouthe saythe naye.

    Quehenne thoue haste spente three lange lange yeres
    Toe ye halie londe thoue moste hie,
    Thye falchyonne wyelde onne ye battelled fyelde,
    Gaynste ye paynimme chevalrie;
    Three crescentes bryghte moste thoue wynne ynne fyghte,
    Ere thoue wynnste thye dere countrie.

    Ande onne ye spotte quehere ye ruthless dede
    Ystayndde ye medowe grene,
    Al fayre toe see ynne masonrie,
    Als talle als ane oakenne treene,
    Thoue moste sette a stonne quithe a legende thereonne,
    Yatte ye murtherre yere hadde beene.

    Ye masses maiste gryevedde Syr Delavalle sore,
    Botte praye he moste ande maye,
    Hee thrummelldde hys bede, ande bente hys hede,
    Thoroughe ye nyhte ande thoroughe ye daye,
    Tylle ye three yeres oerre, hee lepte toe ye shore,
    Ande cryedde toe ye battelle awaye!

    Hee doffedde hys stole offe woolenne coorse,
    Ande donnde ynne knycghtlye pryde,
    Hys blade ande cuirasse, ande sayde ne mo masse,
    Quehyle hee crossedde ye byllowye tyd:
    Ne candle, ne roode, botte ye fyghtynge moode,
    Wals ye moode offe ye borderre syde.

    Soone soone myddst ye foes offe ye halie londe,
    Quehere ye launces thyckestte grewe,
    Wals Syr Delavalle seene, quithe hys brande soe kene,
    Onne hys stede soe stronge ande trewe;
    Ye Pagannes they felle, ande passdde toe helle,
    Ande hee monie a Saracenne slewe.

    Ande hee soone fra ye rankes offe Saladynne bore
    Three crescentes off sylverre sheene,
    Ne paganne knycghte mote quithestonde hys myghte,
    Who foughtenne forre wyffe and wene;
    Saincte George, cryedde ye knycghte, ande Englande’s myghte,
    Orre a bedde nethe ye hyllocke grene.

    Gallantlye rodde Syr Delavalle onne
    Quehere lethal woundes were gyvenne,
    Ande ye onnesettes brave, lyk a swepynge wave,
    Rolldde ye warriors off Chryste toe hevene:
    Botte forre eche halie knycghte y’ slayne ynne fyghte,
    A hondredde fals hertes were ryvenne.

    Nowe brave Syr Delavalles penaunce wals donne,
    Hee hamewerde soughtenne hys waie;
    Fro ye battel playne acrosse ye mayne,
    Toe fayre Englonndes wellcom baie;
    Toe see hys lone bryde, toe ye northe hee hyedde,
    Quithoutenne stoppe orr staye.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Ance maire ys merrye ye borderre londe,
    Harke thoroughe ye myddnyghte gale,
    Ye bagpypes agayne playe a wasselle strayne,
    Ronde ronde flees ye joyaunce tale:
    Monie a joke offe ye fryares poke
    Ys passedde oerre hylle ande dale.

    Ye Ladye Delavalle ance matre smylde,
    Ande sange tylle herre wene onne herre knee,
    Ande pryedde herre knycghte ynne fonde delyghte,
    Quihile hee helde herre lovynglye:
    Ne gryevedde hee maire offe hys dolorres sayre,
    Tho’ stryppedde offe londe ande ffee.

    Atte Werkeworthe castelle, quilke proudlie lookes
    Oerre ye stormie northernne mayne,
    Ye Percye gretedde ye borderre knycghte,
    Quithe hys merryeste mynstrelle strayne:
    Throngedde wals ye hal, quithe nobles alle,
    Toe wellcom ye knycghte agayne.

    Nowe at thys daye quihile yeres rolle onne
    Ande ye knycghte dothe cauldlie ly,
    Ye stonne doth stande onne ye sylente londe
    Toe tellen toe strangeres nyghe.
    Yatte ane horrydde dede forre a pygge hys hede
    Dydde y’ere toe hevenwerdde crye.

       *       *       *       *       *


ON THE ABOVE LEGEND.

_To the Editor._

The legend of “Syr Delavalle and the Moncke” is “owre true a tale.” The
stone syr Delavalle was compelled to erect in commemoration of this
“horryd dede” is (or rather the shattered remains of its shaft are)
still lying close to a neat farmhouse, called Monkhouse, supposed to be
built on the identical spot on which the “flagellrie” was effected, and
is often bent over by the devout lovers of monkish antiquity.

The poem was found amongst the papers of an ingenious friend, who took
pleasure in collecting such rhymes; but as he has been dead many years,
I have no means of ascertaining at what period it was written, or
whether it was the original channel through which the story has come
down to posterity. I have some confused recollection, that I heard it
stated my friend got this, and several similar ballads, from a very old
man who resided at a romantic village, at a short distance from
Tynemouth Priory, called “Holywell.” It is possible that there may be
some account of its source among my lamented friend’s papers, but as
they are very multitudinous and in a confused mass, I have never had
courage to look regularly through them. There are several other poems of
the like description the labour of copying which I may be induced to
undergo should I find that this is within the range of the _Table Book_.

  ALPHA

  _London, April 14, 1827._

  [177] St. Oswyn’s tomb was at Tynemouth Priory.

  [178] There is an old picturesque fishing town, called Callercoats, in
  the direct road between the seat of the Delavals and Tynemouth abbey.

  [179] The whipping described in this ballad was performed within about
  three quarters of a mile from the entrance of the Abbey, within
  hearing and sight of the astonished “halie monckes.”

  [180] The nearest road from Delaval Castle to Tynemouth Abbey is a
  fine sandy beach, beaten hard by the ceaseless dash of the German
  Ocean wave.

       *       *       *       *       *




Vol. I.--20.


[Illustration: ~On Chatham Hill.~]

This sketch, in the pocket-book of an artist, suddenly startled
recollection to the April of my life--the season of sunshine hopes, and
stormy fears--when each hour was a birth-time of thought, and every new
scene was the birth-place of a new feeling. The drawing carried me back
to an October morning in 1797, when I eagerly set off on an errand to
Boughton-hill, near Canterbury, for the sake of seeing the country on
that side of Chatham for the first time. The day was cloudy, with gales
of wind. I reached Chatham-hill, and stood close to this sign, looking
over the flood of the Medway to the Nore, intently peering for a further
sea-view. Flashes of fire suddenly gleamed in the dim distance, and I
heard the report of cannon. Until then, such sounds from the bosom of
the watery element were unknown to me, and they came upon my ear with
indescribable solemnity. We were at war with France; and supposing there
was a battle between two fleets off the coast, my heart beat high; my
thoughts were anxious, and my eyes strained with the hope of catching
something of the scene I imagined. The firing was from the fleet at the
Nore, in expectation of a royal review. The king was then proceeding
from Greenwich to Sheerness, in the royal yacht, attended by the lords
of the admiralty, to go on board the Dutch ships captured by lord
Duncan, at the battle of Camperdown.[181] On my return to Chatham, the
sign of “the Star” was surrounded by sailors, who, with their shipmates
inside the house, were drinking grog out of pewter-pots and earthen
basins, and vociferating “Rule Britannia.”

The following year, on the evening of a glorious summer’s day, I found
refuge in this house from the greatest storm I had then seen. It came
with gusts of wind and peals of thunder from the sea. Standing at the
bow-window, I watched the lightning sheeting the horizon, making visible
the buried objects in the black gloom, and forking fearfully down, while
the rain fell in torrents, and the trees bent before the furious tempest
like rushes. The elements quickly ceased their strife, the moon broke
out, and in a few minutes there was

    The spacious firmament on high,
    And all the blue ethereal sky
    And spangled heavens, a shining frame.

The “Star” in war time was the constant scene of naval and military
orgies, and therefore rather repelled than courted other visitants. It
is now a respectable inn and a stage for the refreshment of coach
travellers. During a hasty trip to Canterbury a short time ago, Mr.
Samuel Williams stopped there long enough to select its sign, and the
character of the view beyond it, as “a bit” for his pencil, which I, in
turn, seized on, and he has engraved it as a decoration for the _Table
Book_.

My readers were instructed at the outset of the work that, if they
allowed me to please myself, we might all be pleased in turn. If I am
sometimes not their most faithful, I am never otherwise than their most
sincere servant; and therefore I add that I am not always gratified by
what gratifies generally, and I have, in this instance, presented a
small matter of my particular liking. I would have done better if I
could. There are times when my mind foils and breaks down suddenly--when
I can no more think or write than a <DW36> can run: at other times it
carries me off from what I ought to do, and sets me to something the
very negative to what I wish. I then become, as it were, possessed; an
untamable spirit has its will of me in spite of myself:--what I have
omitted, or done, in the present instance, illustrates the fact.

  *

  [181] Owing to adverse winds, his majesty could not get farther than
  the Hope.

       *       *       *       *       *


GREENGROCERS’ DEVICES.

_For the Table Book._

Dear Sir,--In my wanderings through the metropolis at this season, I
observe an agreeable and refreshing novelty, an ingenious contrivance to
make mustard and cress seeds grow in pleasant forms over vessels and
basketwork, covered on their exterior with wet flannel, wherein the
seeds are deposited, and take root and grow, to adorn the table or
recess. The most curious which struck me, consisted of a “hedgehog”--a
doll’s head looking out of its vernally-growing clothes--a “Jack in the
green”--a Dutch cheese in “a bower”--“Paul Pry”--and “Pompey’s pillar.”

If greengrocers proceed in these devices, their ingenuity may suggest a
rivalry of signs of a more lasting nature, suitable to the shop windows
of other tradesmen.

  Yours, truly,

  J. R.

  _April 30, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XVII.

  [From the “Parliament of Bees;” further Extracts.]

_Oberon. Flora, a Bee._

      _Ober._ A female Bee! thy character?
      _Flo._ Flora, Oberon’s Gardener,
    Huswive both of herbs and flowers,
    To strew thy shrine, and trim thy bowers,
    With violets, roses, eglantine,
    Daffadown, and blue columbine,
    Hath forth the bosom of the Spring
    Pluckt this nosegay, which I bring
    From Eleusis (mine own shrine)
    To thee, a Monarch all divine;
    And, as true impost of my grove,
    Present it to great Oberon’s love.
      _Ober._ Honey dews refresh thy meads.
    Cowslips spring with golden heads;
    July-flowers and carnations wear
    Leaves double-streakt, with maiden-hair;
    May thy lilies taller grow,
    Thy violets fuller sweetness owe;
    And last of all, may Phœbus love
    To kiss thee: and frequent thy grove.
    As thou in service true shalt be
    Unto our crown and royalty.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oberon holds a Court, in which he sentences the Wasp, the Drone, and
the Humble-bee, for divers offences against the Commonwealth of Bees._

_Oberon. Prorex, his Viceroy; and other Bees._

      _Pro._ And whither must these flies be sent?
      _Ober._ To Everlasting Banishment.
    Underneath two hanging rocks
    (Where babbling Echo sits and mocks
    Poor travellers) there lies a grove,
    With whom the Sun’s so out of love,
    He never smiles on’t: pale Despair
    Calls it his Monarchal Chair.
    Fruit half-ripe hang rivell’d and shrunk
    On broken arms, torn from the trunk:
    The moorish pools stand empty, left
    By water, stol’n by cunning theft
    To hollow banks, driven out by snakes,
    Adders, and newts, that man these lakes:
    The mossy leaves, half-swelter’d, serv’d
    As beds for vermin hunger sterv’d:
    The woods are yew-trees, bent and broke
    By whirlwinds; here and there an oak,
    Half-cleft with thunder. To this grove
    We banish them.
      _Culprits._ Some mercy, Jove!
      _Ober._ You should have cried so in your youth,
    When Chronos and his daughter Truth
    Sojourn’d among you; when you spent
    Whole years in riotous merriment,
    Thrusting poor Bees out of their hives,
    Seizing both honey, wax, and lives.
    You should have call’d for mercy when
    You impaled common blossoms; when,
    Instead of giving poor Bees food,
    You ate their flesh, and drank their blood.
    Fairies, thrust ’em to their fate.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Oberon then confirms Prorex in his Government; and breaks up Session._

      _Ober._----now adieu!
    Prorex shall again renew
    His potent reign: the massy world,
    Which in glittering orbs is hurl’d
    About the poles, be Lord of: we
    Only reserve our Royalty--
    _Field Music._[182] Oberon must away;
    For us our gentle Fairies stay:
    In the mountains and the rocks
    We’ll hunt the Grey, and little Fox,
    Who destroy our lambs at feed,
    And spoil the nests where turtles feed.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From “David and Bethsabe,” a Sacred Drama, by George Peel, 1599.]

_Nathan. David._

      _Nath._ Thus Nathan saith unto his Lord the King:
    There were two men both dwellers in one town;
    The one was mighty, and exceeding rich
    In oxen, sheep, and cattle of the field;
    The other poor, having nor ox, nor calf,
    Nor other cattle, save one little lamb,
    Which he had bought, and nourish’d by his hand.
    And it grew up, and fed with him and his,
    And ate and drank as he and his were wont,
    And in his bosom slept, and was to live
    As was his daughter or his dearest child.--
    There came a stranger to this wealthy man,
    And he refused and spared to take his own,
    Or of his store to dress or make his meat,
    But took the poor man’s sheep, partly poor man’s store;
    And drest it for this stranger in his house.
    What, tell me, shall be done to him for this?
      _Dav._ Now, as the Lord doth live, this wicked man
    Is judged, and shall became the child of death;
    Fourfold to the poor man he shall restore,
    That without mercy took his lamb away.
      _Nath._ THOU ART THE MAN, AND THOU HAST JUDGED THYSELF.--
    David, thus saith the Lord thy God by me:
    I thee anointed King in Israel,
    And saved thee from the tyranny of Saul;
    Thy master’s house I gave thee to possess,
    His wives unto thy bosom I did give,
    And Juda and Jerusalem withal;
    And might, thou know’st, if this had been too small,
    Have given thee more.
    Wherefore then hast thou gone so far astray,
    And hast done evil, and sinned in my sight?
    Urias thou hast killed with the sword,
    Yea with the sword of the uncircumcised
    Thou hast him slain; wherefore from this day forth
    The sword shall never go from thee and thine:
    For thou hast ta’en this Hithite’s wife to thee,
    Wherefore behold I will, saith Jacob’s God,
    In thine own house stir evil up to thee,
    Yea I before thy face will take thy wives,
    And give them to thy neighbour to possess.
    This shall be done to David in the day,
    That Israel openly may see thy shame.
      _Dav._ Nathan, I have against the Lord, I have
    Sinned, oh sinned grievously, and lo!
    From heaven’s throne doth David throw himself,
    And groan and grovel to the gates of hell.
      _Nath._ David, stand up; thus saith the Lord by me,
    David the King shall live, for he hath seen
    The true repentant sorrow of thy heart;
    But for thou hast in this misdeed of thine
    Stirr’d up the enemies of Israel
    To triumph and blaspheme the Lord of Hosts,
    And say, “He set a wicked man to reign
    Over his loved people and his tribes;”
    The Child shall surely die, that erst was born,
    His Mother’s sin, his Kingly Father’s scorn.
      _Dav._ How just is Jacob’s God in all his works!
    But must it die, that David loveth so?
    O that the mighty one of Israel
    Nill change his doom, and says the Babe must die
    Mourn, Israel, and weep in Sion gates;
    Wither, ye cedar trees of Lebanon;
    Ye sprouting almonds with your flowing tops,
    Droop, drown, and drench in Hebron’s fearful streams:
    The Babe must die, that was to David born,
    His Mother’s sin, his Kingly Father’s scorn.

  C. L.

  [182] The hum of Bees.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Dissertations on Doomsday.~

_For the Table Book._


§ I. NAME.

Doomsday Book, one of the most ancient records of England, is the
register from which judgment was to be given upon the value, tenure, and
services of lands therein described.

Other names by which it appears to have been known were Rotulus
Wintoniæ, Scriptura Thesauri Regis, Liber de Wintonia, and Liber Regis.
Sir Henry Spelman adds, Liber Judiciarius, Censualis Angliæ, Angliæ
Notitia et Lustratio, and Rotulus Regis.


§ II. DATE.

The exact time of the Conqueror’s undertaking the Survey, is differently
stated by historians. The Red Book of the Exchequer seems to have been
erroneously quoted, as fixing the time of entrance upon it in 1080; it
being merely stated in that record, that the work was undertaken at a
time subsequent to the total reduction of the island to William’s
authority. It is evident that it was finished in 1086. Matthew Paris,
Robert of Gloucester, the Annals of Waverley, and the Chronicle of
Bermondsey, give the year 1083, as the date of the record; Henry of
Huntingdon, in 1084; the Saxon Chronicle in 1085; Bromton, Simeon of
Durham, Florence of Worcester, the Chronicle of Mailros, Roger Hovedon,
Wilkes, and Hanningford, in 1086; and the Ypodigma Neustriæ and Diceto
in 1087.

The person and property of Odo, bishop of Bayeux, are said to have been
seized by the Conqueror in 1082.


§ III. ORIGIN AND OBJECT.

Ingulphus affirms, that the Survey was made in imitation of the policy
of Alfred, who, at the time he divided the kingdom into counties,
hundreds, and tithings, had an Inquisition taken and digested into a
Register, which was called, from the place in which it was reposited,
the Roll of Winchester. The formation of such a Survey, however, in the
time of Alfred, may be fairly doubted, as we have only a solitary
authority for its existence. The separation of counties also is known to
have been a division long anterior to the time of Alfred. Bishop Kennet
tells us, that Alfred’s Register had the name of Domeboc, from which the
name of _Doomsday Book_ was only a corruption.

Dom-boc is noticed in the laws of Edward the elder, and more
particularly in those of Æthelstan, as the code of Saxon laws.


§ IV. MODE OF EXECUTION.

For the adjusting of this Survey, certain commissioners, called the
king’s justiciaries, were appointed inquisitors: it appears, upon the
oaths of the sheriffs, the lords of each manor, the presbyters of every
church, the reeves of every hundred, the bailiffs, and six villans of
every village, were to inquire into the name of the place, who held it
in the time of Edward (the Confessor,) who was the present possessor,
how many hides in the manor, how many carrucates in demesne, how many
homagers, how many villans, how many cotarii, how many servi, what
freemen, how many tenants in socage, what quantity of wood, how many
meadows and pasture, what mills and fish-ponds, how much added or taken
away, what the gross value in king Edward’s time, what the present
value, and how much each free-man or soch-man had or has. All this was
to be triply estimated; first, as the estate was in the time of the
Confessor; then, as it was bestowed by king William; and, thirdly, as
its value stood at the formation of the Survey. _The jurors were,
moreover, to state whether any advance could be made in the value._ The
writer of the Saxon Chronicle, with some degree of asperity, informs us,
that not a hyde or yardland, not an ox, cow, or hog, were omitted in the
census.


PRINCIPAL MATTERS NOTICED IN THIS RECORD.


§ I. PERSONS.

(1.) After the bishops and abbats, the highest persons in rank were the
Norman barons.

(2.) _Taini_, tegni, teigni, teini, or teinni, are next to be mentioned,
because those of the highest class were in fact nobility, or barons of
the Saxon times. Archbishops, bishops, and abbats, as well as the great
barons, are also called thanes.

(3.) _Vavassores_, in dignity, were next to the barons, and higher
thanes. Selden says, they either held of a mesne lord, and not
immediately of the king, or at least of the king as of an honour or
manor and not in chief. The grantees, says sir Henry Spelman, that
received their estates from the barons or capitanei, and not from the
king, were called valvasores, (a degree above knights.)

(4.) The _aloarii_, alodarii, or alodiarii, tenants in allodium, (a free
estate “possessio libera.”) The _dinges_ mentioned, tom i. fol. 298, are
supposed to have been persons of the same description.

(5.) _Milites._ The term miles appears not to have acquired a precise
meaning at the time of the Survey, sometimes implying a soldier, or mere
military servant, and sometimes a person of higher distinction.

(6.) _Liberi Homines_ appears to have been a term of considerable
latitude; signifying not merely the freeman, or freeholders of a manor,
but occasionally including all the ranks of society already mentioned,
and indeed all persons holding in military tenure. “The ordinary
freemen, before the conquest,” says Kelham, “and at the time of
compiling Doomsday, were under the protection of great men; but what
their quality was, further than that their persons and blood were free,
that is, that they were not nativi, or bondmen, it will give a knowing
man trouble to discover to us.” These freemen are called in the Survey
_liberi homines comendati_. They appear to have placed themselves, by
voluntary homage, under this protection: their lord or patron undertook
to secure their estates and persons, and for this protection and
security they paid to him an annual stipend, or performed some annual
service. Some appear to have sought a patron or protector, for the sake
of obtaining their freedom only; such _the liberi homines comendatione
tantum_ may be interpreted. According to the laws of the Conqueror, a
quiet residence of a year and a day, upon the king’s demesne lands,
would enfranchise a villan who had fled from his lord. “_Item si servi
permanserint sine calumnia per annum et diem in civitatibus nostris vel
burgis in muro vallatis, vel in castris nostris, a die illa liberi
afficiuntur et liberi a jugo servitutis suæ sunt in perpetuum._” The
_commendati dimidii_ were persons who depended upon two protectors, and
paid half to one and half to the other. _Sub commendati_ were under the
command of those who were themselves depending upon some superior lord.
_Sub commendati dimidii_ were those who were under the _commendati
dimidii_, and had two patrons or protectors, and the same as they had.
_Liberi homines integri_ were those who were under the _full_ protection
of one lord, in contradistinction to the _liberi homines dimidii_.
Commendatio sometimes signified the annual rent paid for the protection.
_Liberi homines ad nullam firmam pertinentes_ were those who held their
lands independent of any lord. Of others it is said, “qui remanent in
manu regis.” In a few entries of the Survey, we have _liberæ feminæ_,
and one or two of _liberæ feminæ commendatæ_.

(7.) _Sochmanni_, or _socmens_, were those inferior landowners who had
lands in the soc or franchise of a great baron; privileged villans, who,
though their tenures were absolutely copyhold, yet had an interest equal
to a freehold.

(8.) Of this description of tenantry also were the _rachenistres_, or
_radchenistres_, who appear likewise to have been called _radmanni_, or
_radmans_. It appears that some of the radchenistres, like the sochmen,
were less free than others. Dr. Nash conjectured that the radmanni and
radchenistres were probably a kind of freemen who served on horseback.
Rad-cnihꞇ is usually interpreted by our glossarists _equestris <DW25> sive
miles_, and Raðheꞃe _equestris exercitus_.

(9.) _Villani._ The clearest notion of the tenure of villani is probably
to be obtained from sir W. Blackstone’s Commentaries. “With regard to
folk-land,” says he, “or estates held in villenage, this was a species
of tenure neither strictly Feodal, Norman, nor Saxon, but mixed or
compounded of them all; and which also, on account of the heriots that
usually attend it, may seem to have somewhat Danish in its composition.
Under the Saxon government, there were, as sir William Temple speaks, a
sort of people in a condition of downright servitude, used and employed
in the most servile works, and belonging, both they and their children,
and their effects, to the lord of the soil, like the rest of the cattle
or stock upon it. These seem to have been those who held what was called
the _folk-land_, from which they were removable at the lord’s pleasure.
On the arrival of the Normans here, it seems not improbable that they,
who were strangers to any other than a feodal state, might give some
sparks of enfranchisement to such wretched persons as fell to their
share, by admitting them, as well as others, to the oath of fealty,
which conferred a right of protection, and raised the tenant to a kind
of estate superior to downright slavery, but inferior to every other
condition. This they called _villenage_, and the tenants villeins;
either from the word _vilis_, or else, as sir Edward Coke tells us, a
villa; because they lived chiefly in villages, and were employed in
rustic works of the most sordid kind. They could not leave their lord
without his permission; but if they ran away, or were purloined from
him, might be claimed and recovered by action, like beasts or other
chatels. The villeins could acquire no property either in lands or
goods; but if he purchased either, the lord might enter upon them, oust
the villein, and seize them to his own use, unless he contrived to
dispose of them before the lord had seized them; for the lord had then
lost his opportunity. The law however protected the persons of villeins,
as king’s subjects, against atrocious injuries of the lord.”

(10.) _Bordarii_ of the Survey appear at various times to have received
a great variety of interpretations. Lord Coke calls them “boors, holding
a little house, with some land of husbandry, bigger than a cottage.”
Some have considered them as cottagers, taking their name from living on
the borders of a village or manor; but this is sufficiently refuted by
Doomsday itself, where we find them not only mentioned generally among
the agricultural occupiers of land, but in one instance as “circa aulam
manentes,” dwelling near the manor-house; and even residing in some of
the larger towns. Boꞃð, bishop Kennett notices, was a cottage. The
_cos-cets_, corcez, cozets, or cozez, were apparently the same as the
cottarii and cotmanni; cottagers who paid a certain rent for very small
parcels of land.

(11.) _Bures_, buri, or burs, are noticed in the first volume of
Doomsday itself, as synonymous with _coliberti_. The name of coliberti
was unquestionably derived from the Roman civil law. They are described
by lord Coke as tenants in free socage by free rent. Cowel says, they
were certainly a middle sort of tenants, between servile and free, or
such as held their freedom of tenure under condition of such works and
services, and were therefore the same landholders whom we meet with (in
aftertimes) under the name of conditionales.

Such are the different descriptions of tenantry, and their rights more
particularly noticed in Doomesday.

(12.) _Servi._ It is observed by bishop Kennett, and by Morant after
him, in his History of Essex, that the servi and villani are, all along
in Doomsday, divided from each other; but that no author has fixed the
exact distinction between them. The servi, bishop Kennett adds, might be
the pure villanes, and villanes in gross, who, without any determined
tenure of land, were, at the arbitrary pleasure of the lord, appointed
to servile works, and received their wages and maintenance at the
discretion of the lord. The other were of a superior degree, and were
called villani, because they were villæ or glebæ adscripti, i. e. held
some cottage and lands, for which they were burthened with such stated
servile works as their lords had annexed to them. The Saxon name for
servus was Eꞅne. The ancillæ of the Survey were females, under
circumstances nearly similar to the servi. These were disposed of in the
same way, at the pleasure of the lord. The laws, however, protected
their chastity; they could not be violated with impunity, even by their
owners.

(13.) _Censarii_, _censores_, or _censorii_, were also among the
occupiers of land. They appear to have been free persons, _censum
reddentes_.

(14.) _Porcarii._ Although in one or two instances in Doomsday Survey
mere swine-herds seem to have been intended by _Porcarii_, yet in the
generality of entries in which they are mentioned, they appear in the
rank of free occupiers, who rented the privilege of feeding pigs in the
woodlands, some for money, and some for payments in kind.

(15.) The _homines_, who are so frequently mentioned, included all sorts
of feudatory tenants. They claimed a privilege of having their causes
and persons tried only in the court of their lord, to whom they owed the
duty of submission, and professed dependance.

(16.) _Angli_ and _Anglici_ occur frequently in the Survey among the
under tenants, holding in different capacities.

(17.) Among the _offices_ attached to names, we find accipitrarii or
ancipitrarii, arbalistarii or balistarii arcarii biga, camerarii campo,
constabularius, cubicularius, dapifer, dispensator, equarius, forestarii
huscarli ingeniator, interpres, lagemanni, Latinarius, legatus
liberatores marescal, or marescalcus medici, monitor, pincerna recter
navis regis, scutularius, stalre, stirman or stiremannus regis,
thesaurarius and venatores of a higher description.

(18.) _Offices_ of an _inferior_ description, and trades, are aurifabri,
carpentarii, cemetarii, cervisiarii, coci, coqui, or koci, fabri,
ferrarii, figuli fossarii, fossator, granetarius, hostarius, inguardi,
joculator regis, joculatrix, lanatores, loricati, lorimarius, loripes,
mercatores, missatici, monetarii, parcher, parm’t piscatores, pistores,
portarius potarii, or poters, prebendarii prefecti, prepositi salinarii
servientes, sutores, tonsor, and vigilantes homines. Among
ecclesiastical offices, we have Capicerius, Æcel. Winton the sacrist,
and Matricularias, Æcel. S. Johannis Cestriæ. Buzecarts were mariners.
Hospites, occupiers of houses.

Among the assistants in husbandry, we find apium custos, avantes
homines, berquarii bovarii caprarum mediator daia granatarius
mellitarii, mercennarius, porcarii, and vacarius.

  S. R. F.

       *       *       *       *       *


I. ANCIENT TENURE.

II. MODERN ANECDOTE.

_For the Table Book._


  TENURE OF THE ANCIENT MANOR OF BILSINGTON PRIORY, THE SEAT OF THOMAS
  CARR RIDER, ESQ.

The manor of Bilsington inferior was held in grand sergeantry in the
reign of Edward III. by the service of presenting three maple cups at
the king’s coronation and, at the time of the coronation of Charles
II., by the additional service of carrying the last dish of the second
course to the king’s table. The former service was performed by Thomas
Rider, who was knighted (Mos pro Lege) by his late majesty George III.,
when the king, on receiving the maple cups from the lord of the manor,
turned to the mayor of Oxford, who stood at his right hand, and, having
received from him for his tenure of that city a gold cup and cover, gave
him these three cups in return.

       *       *       *       *       *


  ANECDOTE OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS WASHINGTON AND THE CELEBRATED ADMIRAL
  VERNON, UNCLE TO THE LATE EARL OF SHIPBROOK.

When the admiral was attacking Porto Bello, with his six ships only, as
is described on the medal struck on the occasion, he observed a fine
young man in appearance, who, with the most intrepid courage, attended
with the most perfect calmness, was always in that part of the ship
which was most engaged. After the firing had ceased, he sent his captain
to request he would attend upon him, which he immediately obeyed; and
the admiral entering into conversation, discovered by his answers and
observations that he possessed more abilities than usually fall to the
lot of mankind in general. Upon his asking his name, the young man told
him it was George Washington; and the admiral, on his return home,
strongly recommended him to the attention of the admiralty. This great
man, when he built his house in America, out of gratitude to his first
benefactor, named it “Mount Vernon,” and at this moment it is called so.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Zoology.~


I. THE KING’S OSTRICH.

II. THE HORSE ECLIPSE.

Mr. Joshua Brookes, the eminent anatomist, gave a lecture on Wednesday
evening, the 25th of April, 1827, at the house of the Zoological
Society, in Bruton-street, on the body of an ostrich which his majesty
had presented to the society. The lecture was attended by lord Auckland,
lord Stanley, Dr. Birkbeck, and several other noblemen and gentlemen
distinguished for their devotion to the interests of science. The
ostrich, which was a female, and had been presented to his majesty about
two years before by colonel Denham, had been kept at Windsor, and had
died about three weeks previous to the lecture, of obesity, a disease
which frequently shortens the lives of wild animals of every species,
when attempts are made to domesticate them.

Mr. Brookes commenced by observing, that when he retired from the
practice of anatomy, he did not expect to appear again before the
public; but, as the noble directors of the society had honoured him by
considering that his services might be of some use in forwarding that
most interesting science zoology, he had only to remark that he felt
great pride in adding his mite of information to the mass with which the
society was furnished from other sources. The period had arrived, when
the science of natural history bad fair to reach a height in this
country, which would enable us to rival the establishments founded for
its promotion abroad. The founder of the study of zoology in England was
the great John Hunter; and he was followed by individuals well known to
the scientific world, in Edinburgh, Gottingen, and Amsterdam. In the
latter city, the science of zoology was pursued with great success by
professor Camper, who, when he was in London, invited him (Mr. Brookes)
and a professional friend to breakfast, and treated them with bones,
consisting of the teeth of rats, mice, and deer, served up in dishes
made out of the rock of Gibraltar. The fact was, that the professor had,
shortly before, explored this celebrated rock, in search of bones, for
the purposes of comparative anatomy. The learned lecturer then entered
into a very minute account of the various peculiarities of the ostrich,
and described with great clearness the organs by which this
extraordinary bird was enabled to travel with its excessive speed. This
peculiarity he ascribed to the power of the muscles, which pass from the
pelvis to the foot, and cause the ostrich to stand in a vertical
position, and not like other birds resembling it, on the toes.

For proof of the intimate relation between muscular power and
extraordinary swiftness, Mr. Brookes mentioned that the chief professor
of the Veterinary College had informed him, that upon dissecting the
body of the celebrated racer Eclipse, one of the fleetest horses ever
seen in this kingdom, it was found that he possessed muscles of
unparalleled size. The lecturer here produced an anatomical plate of
Eclipse; for the purpose of displaying his extraordinary muscular power,
and observed, that if he had not told his hearers that it represented a
race-horse, from the size of the muscles they might conclude, that he
was showing them the plate of a cart-horse.[183]

[Illustration: ~Eclipse.~]

This engraving is from a drawing, in a treatise “on the proportions of
Eclipse: by Mr. Charles Vial de Saint Bel, professor of the Veterinary
College of London, &c.” 4to. 1791. Mr. Saint Bel’s work was written with
a view to ascertain the mechanical causes which conspire to augment the
velocity of the gallop; and no single race-horse could have been
selected as a specimen of speed and strength equal to Eclipse. According
to a calculation by the writer just mentioned, Eclipse, free of all
weight, and galloping at liberty in his greatest speed, could cover an
extent of twenty-five feet at each complete action on the gallop; and
could repeat this action twice and one third in each second of time:
consequently, by employing without reserve all his natural and
mechanical faculties on a straight line, he could run nearly four miles
in the space of six minutes and two seconds.

Eclipse was preeminent above all other horses, from having ran repeated
races, without ever having been beat. The mechanism of his frame was
almost perfect; and yet he was neither handsome, nor well proportioned.
Compared with a table of the geometrical portions of the horse, in use
at the veterinary schools of France, Eclipse measured in height one
seventh more than he ought--his neck was one third too long--a
perpendicular line falling from the stifle of a horse should touch the
toe; this line in Eclipse touched the ground, at the distance of half a
head before the toe--the distance from the elbow to the bend of the knee
should be the same as from the bend of the knee to the ground; the
former, in Eclipse, was two parts of a head longer than the latter.
These were some of the remarkable differences between the presumed
standard of proportions in a well-formed horse, and the horse of the
greatest celebrity ever bred in England.

The excellence of Eclipse in speed, blood, pedigree, and progeny, will
be transmitted, perhaps, to the end of time. He was bred by the former
duke of Cumberland, and, being foaled during the “great eclipse,” was
named “Eclipse” by the duke in consequence. His royal highness, however,
did not survive to witness the very great performances he himself had
predicted; for, when a yearling, Eclipse was disposed of by auction,
with the rest of the stud, and a remarkable circumstance attended his
sale. Mr. Wildman, a sporting gentleman, arrived after the sale had
commenced, and a few lots had been knocked down. Producing his watch, he
insisted that the sale had begun before the time advertised. The
auctioneer remonstrated; Mr. Wildman was not to be appeased, and
demanded that the lots already sold should be put up again. The dispute
causing a loss of time, as well as a scene of confusion, the purchasers
said, if there was any lot already sold, which he had an inclination to,
rather than <DW44> progress, it was at his service. Eclipse was the only
lot he had fixed upon, and the horse was transferred to him at the price
of forty-six guineas. At four, or five years old, Captain O’Kelly
purchased him of Mr. Wildman for seventeen hundred guineas. He remained
in Col. O’Kelly’s possession, winning king’s plates and every thing he
ran for, until the death of his owner, who deemed him so valuable, as to
insure the horse’s life for several thousand guineas. He bequeathed him
to his brother, Philip O’Kelly, Esq. The colonel’s decease was in
November, 1787. Eclipse survived his old master little more than a year,
and died on the 27th of February, 1789, in the twenty-sixth year of his
age. His heart weighed 13 lbs. The size of this organ was presumed to
have greatly enabled him to do what he did in speed and strength. He won
more matches than any horse of the race-breed was ever known to have
done. He was at last so worn out, as to have been unable to stand, and
about six months before his death was conveyed, in a machine constructed
on purpose, from Epsom to Canons, where he breathed his last.

Colonel Dennis O’Kelly, the celebrated owner of Eclipse, amassed an
immense fortune by gambling and the turf, and purchased the estate of
Canons, near Edgware, which was formerly possessed by the duke of
Chandos, and is still remembered as the site of the most magnificent
mansion and establishment of modern times. The colonel’s training
stables and paddocks, at another estate near Epsom, were supposed to be
the best appointed in England.

       *       *       *       *       *

Besides O’Kelly’s attachment to Eclipse, he had an affection to a
parrot, which is famed for having been the best bred bird that ever came
to this country. He gave fifty guineas for it at Bristol, and paid the
expenses of the woman who brought it up to town. It not only talked what
is usually termed “every thing,” but sang with great correctness a
variety of tunes, and beat time as he sang; and if perchance he mistook
a note in the tune, he returned to the bar wherein the mistake arose,
and corrected himself, still beating the time with the utmost exactness.
He sang any tune desired, fully understanding the request made. The
accounts of this bird are so extraordinary, that, to those who had not
seen and heard the bird, they appeared fabulous.

  [183] The Times.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE EVENING LARK.

_For the Table Book._

    I love thee better at this hour, when rest
    Is shadowing earth, than e’en the nightingale:
    The loudness of thy song that in the morn
    Rang over heaven, the day has softened down
    To pensive music.

In the evening, the body relaxed by the toil of the day, disposes the
mind to quietness and contemplation. The eye, dimmed by close
application to books or business, languishes for the greenness of the
fields; the brain, clouded by the smoke and vapour of close rooms and
crowded streets, droops for the fragrance of fresh breezes, and sweet
smelling flowers.

    Summer cometh,
    The bee hummeth,
    The grass springeth,
    The bird singeth,
    The flower groweth,
    And man knoweth
        The time is come
        When he may rove
        Thro’ vale and grove.
            No longer dumb.

    There he may hear sweet voices,
      Borne softly on the gale;
    There he may have rich choices
      Of songs that never fail;
    The lark, if he be cheerful,
      Above his head shall tower;
    And the nightingale, if fearful,
      Shall soothe him from the bower.

           *       *       *       *       *

    If red his eye with study,
      If pale with care his cheek,
    To make them bright and ruddy,
      The green hills let him seek.
    The quiet that it needeth
      His mind shall there obtain;
    And relief from care, that feedeth
      Alike on heart and brain.

Urged by this feeling, I rambled along the Old Kent Road, making my way
through the Saturnalian groups, collected by that mob-emancipating-time
Easter Monday; wearied with the dust, and the exclamations of the
multitude, I turned down the lane leading to the fields, near the place
wherein the fair of Peckham is held, and sought for quietness in their
greenness--and found it not. Instead of verdure, there were rows of
dwellings of “plain brown brick,” and a half-formed road, from whence
the feet of man and horse impregnated the air with stifling atoms of
vitrified dust. Proceeding over the Rye, up the lane at the side of
Forest-hill, I found the solitude I needed. The sun was just setting;
his parting glance came from between the branches of the trees, like the
mild light of a lover’s eye, from her long dark lashes, when she
receives the adieu of her beloved, and the promise of meeting on the
morrow. The air was cool and fitful, playing with the leaves, as not
caring to stir them; and as I strayed, the silence was broken by the
voice of a bird--it was the tit-lark. I recognised his beautiful “weet”
and “fe-er,” as he dropped from the poplar among the soft grass; and I
lingered near the wood, in the hope of hearing the nightingale--but he
had not arrived, or was disposed to quiet. Evening closed over me: the
hour came

    When darker shades around us thrown
    Give to thought a deeper tone.

Retracing my steps, I reached that field which stretches from the back
of the Rosemary-branch to the canal; darkness was veiling the earth, the
hum of the multitude was faintly audible; above it, high in the cool and
shadowy air, rose the voice of a sky-lark, who had soared to take a last
look at the fading day, singing his vespers. It was a sweeter lay than
his morning, or mid-day carol--more regular and less ardent--divested of
the fervour and fire of his noontide song--its hurried loudness and
shrill tones. The softness of the present melody suited the calm and
gentle hour. I listened on, and imagined it was a bird I had heard in
the autumn of last year: I recollected the lengthy and well-timed
music--the “cheer che-er,” “weet, weet, che-er”--“we-et, weet,
cheer”--“che-er”--“weet, weet”--“cheer, weet, weet.” I still think it to
have been the very bird of the former season. Since then he had seen

    The greenness of the spring, and all its flowers;
      The ruddiness of summer and its fruits;
    And cool and sleeping streams, and shading bowers
      The sombre brown of autumn, that best suits
    His leisure hours, whose melancholy mind
    Is calm’d with list’ning to the moaning wind,
    And watching sick leaves take their silent way,
    On viewless wings, to death and to decay.

He had survived them, and had evaded the hawk in the cloud, and the
snake in the grass. I felt an interest in this bird, for his lot had
been like mine. The ills of life--as baleful to man, as the bird of prey
and the invidious reptile to the weakest of the feathered race--had
assailed me, and yet I had escaped. The notes in the air grew softer and
fainter--I dimly perceived the flutter of descending wings--one short,
shrill cry finished the song--darkness covered the earth--and I again
sought human habitations, the abodes of carking cares, and heart-rending
jealousies.

  S. R. J.

  _April 16, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


THE VOICE OF SPRING.

    I come, I come! ye have call’d me long;
    I come o’er the mountains with light and song!
    Ye may trace my steps o’er the wakening earth,
    By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth,
    By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
    By the green leaves opening as I pass.

    I have breath’d on the south, and the chestnut flowers
    By thousands have burst from the forest bowers,
    And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
    Are veil’d with wreaths on Italian plains.
    --But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
    To speak of the ruin of the tomb!

    I have pass’d o’er the hills of the stormy north,
    And the larch has hung all his tassels forth;
    The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
    And the rein-deer bounds thro’ the pasture free,
    And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
    And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

    I have sent thro’ the wood-paths a gentle sigh,
    And call’d out each voice of the deep blue sky,
    From the nightbird’s lay thro’ the starry time,
    In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
    To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland lakes,
    When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

    From the streams and founts I have loos’d the chain,
    They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
    They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
    They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs,
    They are bursting fresh from their starry caves,
    And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

    Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
    Where the violets lie, may be now your home;
    Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
    And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly.
    With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
    Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay!

    Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
    The waters are sparkling in wood and glen,
    Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,
    The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth,
    Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
    And youth is abroad in my green domains.

  MRS. HEMANS.

       *       *       *       *       *


MOTHERING SUNDAY.

_For the Table Book._

To the accounts in the _Every-Day Book_ of the observance of _Mid Lent_,
or “Mothering Sunday,” I would add, that the day is scrupulously
observed in this city and neighbourhood; and, indeed, I believe
generally in the western parts of England. The festival is kept here
much in the same way as the 6th of January is with you: that day is
passed over in silence with us.

All who consider themselves dutiful children, or who wish to be so
considered by others, on this day make presents to their mother, and
hence derived the name of “_Mothering_ Sunday.” The family all assemble;
and, if the day prove fine, proceed, after church, to the neighbouring
village to eat frumerty. The higher classes partake of it at their own
houses, and in the evening come the cake and wine. The “_Mothering_
cakes” are very highly ornamented, artists being employed to paint them.
This social meeting does not seem confined to the middling or lower
orders; none, happily, deem themselves too high to be good and amiable.

The custom is of great antiquity; and long, long may it be prevalent
amongst us.

  Your constant reader,

  JUVENIS (N.)

  _Bristol, March 28, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


~Defoeana.~

No. II.


MIXED BREEDS;

OR,

EDUCATION THROWN AWAY.

I came into a public-house once in London, where there was a black
Mulatto-looking man sitting, talking very warmly among some gentlemen,
who I observed were listening very attentively to what he said; and I
sat myself down, and did the like; ’twas with great pleasure I heard him
discourse very handsomely on several weighty subjects; I found he was a
very good scholar, had been very handsomely bred, and that learning and
study was his delight; and more than that, some of the best of science
was at that time his employment: at length I took the freedom to ask
him, if he was born in England? He replied with a great deal of good
humour, but with an excess of resentment at his father, and with tears
in his eyes, “Yes, yes, sir, I am a true born Englishman, to my father’s
shame be it spoken; who, being an Englishman himself, could find in his
heart to join himself to a <DW64> woman, though he must needs know, the
children he should beget, would curse the memory of such an action, and
abhor his very name for the sake of it. Yes, yes, (said he repeating it
again,) I am an Englishman, and born in lawful wedlock; happy it had
been for me, though my father had gone to the devil for wh----m, had he
lain with a cook-maid, or produced me from the meanest beggar in the
street. My father might do the duty of nature to his black wife; but,
God knows, he did no justice to his children. If it had not been for
this black face of mine, (says he, then smiling,) I had been bred to the
law, or brought up in the study of divinity: but my father gave me
learning to no manner of purpose; for he knew I should never be able to
rise by it to any thing but a _learned valet de chambre_. What he put me
to school for I cannot imagine; he spoiled a good tarpawling, when he
strove to make me a gentleman. When he had resolved to marry a slave,
and lie with a slave, he should have begot slaves, and let us have been
bred as we were born: but he has twice ruined me; first with getting me
a frightful face, and then going to paint a gentleman upon me.”--It was
a most affecting discourse indeed, and as such I record it; and I found
it ended in tears from the person, who was in himself the most
deserving, modest, and judicious man, that I ever met with, under a
<DW64> countenance, in my life.

       *       *       *       *       *


CHINESE IDOL.

It had a thing instead of a head, but no head; it had a mouth distorted
out of all manner of shape, and not to be described for a mouth, being
only an unshapen chasm, neither representing the mouth of a man, beast,
fowl, or fish: the thing was neither any of the four, but an incongruous
monster: it had feet, hands, fingers, claws, legs, arms, wings, ears,
horns, every thing mixed one among another, neither in the shape or
place that nature appointed, but blended together, and fixed to a bulk,
not a body; formed of no just parts, but a shapeless trunk or log;
whether of wood, or stone, I know not; a thing that might have stood
with any side forward, or any side backward, any end upward, or any end
downward; that had as much veneration due to it on one side, as on the
other; a kind of _celestial hedgehog_, that was rolled up within itself,
and was every thing every way; formed neither to walk, stand, go, nor
fly; neither to see, hear, nor speak; but merely to instil ideas of
something nauseous and abominable into the minds of men that adored it.

       *       *       *       *       *


MANNERS OF A LONDON WATERMAN, AND HIS FARE, A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

What I have said last [_of the Manners of a spruce London Mercer_,[184]]
makes me think on another way of inviting customers, the most distant in
the world from what I have been speaking of, I mean that which is
practised by the watermen, especially on those whom by their mien and
garb they know to be peasants. It is not unpleasant to see half a dozen
people surround a man they never saw in their lives before, and two of
them that can get the nearest, clapping each an arm over his neck, hug
him in as loving and familiar a manner as if he were their brother newly
come home from an East India voyage; a third lays hold of his hand,
another of his sleeve, his coat, the buttons of it, or any thing he can
come at, whilst a fifth or a sixth, who has scampered twice round him
already without being able to get at him, plants himself directly before
the man in hold, and within three inches of his nose, contradicting his
rivals with an open-mouthed cry, shows him a dreadful set of large
teeth, and a small remainder of chewed bread and cheese, which the
countryman’s arrival had hindered from being swallowed. At all this no
offence is taken, and the peasant justly thinks they are making much of
him; therefore far from opposing them he patiently suffers himself to be
pushed or pulled which way the strength that surrounds him shall direct.
He has not the delicacy to find fault with a man’s breath, who has just
blown out his pipe, or a greasy head of hair that is rubbing against his
chaps: dirt and sweat he has been used to from his cradle, and it is no
disturbance to him to hear half a score people, some of them at his ear,
and the furthest not five feet from him, bawl out as if he was a hundred
yards off: he is conscious that he makes no less noise when he is merry
himself, and is secretly pleased with their boisterous usages. The
hawling and pulling him about he construes in the way it is intended; it
is a courtship he can feel and understand: he can’t help wishing them
well for the esteem they seem to have for him: he loves to be taken
notice of, and admires the Londoners for being so pressing in their
offers of service to him, for the value of threepence or less; whereas
in the country, at the shop he uses, he can have nothing but he must
first tell them what he wants, and, though he lays out three or four
shillings at a time, has hardly a word spoke to him unless it be in
answer to a question himself is forced to ask first. This alacrity in
his behalf moves his gratitude, and unwilling to disoblige any, from his
heart he knows not whom to choose. I have seen a man think all this, or
something like it, as plainly as I could see the nose on his face; and
at the same time move along very contentedly under a load of watermen,
and with a smiling countenance carry seven or eight stone more than his
own weight, to the water side.

  _Fable of the Bees_: 1725.

  [184] See _Table Book_, p. 567.

       *       *       *       *       *


~May.~


MAY GOSLINGS.--MAY BATHERS.

_For the Table Book._

On the first of May, the juvenile inhabitants of Skipton, in Craven,
Yorkshire, have a similar custom to the one in general use on the first
of April. Not content with making their companions _fools_ on one day,
they set apart another, to make them “May _goslings_,” or geese. If a
boy made any one a May gosling on the second of May, the following rhyme
was said in reply:--

    “May-day’s past and gone,
    Thou’s a gosling, and I’m none.”

This distich was also said, _mutatis mutandis_, on the second of April.
The practice of making May goslings was very common about twelve years
ago, but is now dying away.

As the present month is one when very severe colds are often caught by
bathers, it may not be amiss to submit to the readers of the _Table
Book_ the following old saying, which is very prevalent in Skipton:--

    “They who bathe in May
    Will be soon laid in clay;
    They who bathe in June
    Will sing a merry tune.”

  T. Q. M.

       *       *       *       *       *


SAILORS ON THE FIRST OF MAY.

_For the Table Book._

Sir,--You have described the ceremony adopted by our sailors, of shaving
all nautical tyros on crossing the _line_,[185] but perhaps you are not
aware of a custom which prevails annually on the first of May, in the
whale-fishery at Greenland and Davis’s Straits. I therefore send you an
account of the celebration which took place on board the Neptune of
London, in Greenland, 1824, of which ship I was surgeon at that period.

Previous to the ship’s leaving her port, the sailors collected from
their wives, and other female friends, ribands “for the garland,” of
which great care was taken until a few days previous to the first of
May, when all hands were engaged in preparing the said garland, with a
model of the ship.

The garland was made of a hoop, taken from one of the beef casks; this
hoop, decorated with ribands, was fastened to a stock of wood, of about
four feet in length, and a model of the ship, prepared by the carpenter,
was fastened above the hoop to the top of the stock, in such a manner as
to answer the purpose of a vane. The first of May arrives; the tyros
were kept from between decks, and all intruders excluded while the
principal performers got ready the necessary apparatus and dresses. The
barber was the boatswain, the barber’s mate was the cooper, and on a
piece of tarpawling, fastened to the entrance of the fore-hatchway, was
the following inscription:--

  “NEPTUNE’S EASY SHAVING SHOP,

  _Kept by_

  JOHN JOHNSON.”

The performers then came forward, as follows:--First, the fiddler,
playing as well as he could on an old fiddle, “See the conquering hero
comes;” next, four men, two abreast, disguised with matting, rags, &c.
so as to completely prevent them from being recognised, each armed with
a boat-hook; then came Neptune himself, also disguised, mounted on the
carriage of the largest gun in the ship, and followed by the barber,
barber’s mate, swab-bearer, shaving-box carrier, and as many of the
ship’s company as chose to join them, dressed in such a grotesque manner
as to beggar all description. Arrived on the quarter-deck they were met
by the captain, when his briny majesty immediately dismounted, and the
following dialogue ensued:--

_Nept._ Are you the captain of this ship, sir?

_Capt._ I am.

_Nept._ What’s the name of your ship?

_Capt._ The Neptune of London.

_Nept._ Where is she bound to?

_Capt._ Greenland.

_Nept._ What is your name?

_Capt._ Matthew Ainsley.

_Nept._ You are engaged in the whale fishery?

_Capt._ I am.

_Nept._ Well, I hope I shall drink your honour’s health, and I wish you
a prosperous fishery.

  [_Here the captain presented him with three quarts of rum._]

_Nept._ (_filling a glass._) Here’s health to you, captain, and success
to our cause. Have you got any fresh-water sailors on board? for if you
have, I must christen them, so as to make them useful to our king and
country.

_Capt._ We have eight of them on board at your service; I therefore wish
you good morning.

The procession then returned in the same manner as it came, the
candidates for nautical fame following in the rear; after descending the
fore-hatchway they congregated between decks, when all the offerings to
Neptune were given to the deputy, (the cook,) consisting of whiskey,
tobacco, &c. The barber then stood ready with his box of lather, and
the landsmen were ordered before Neptune, when the following dialogue
took place with each, only with the alteration of the man’s name, as
follows:--

_Nept._ (_to another_.) What is your name?

_Ans._ Gilbert Nicholson.

_Nept._ Where do you come from?

_Ans._ Shetland.

_Nept._ Have you ever been to sea before?

_Ans._ No.

_Nept._ Where are you going to?

_Ans._ Greenland.

At each of these answers, the brush dipped in the lather (consisting of
soap-suds, oil, tar, paint, &c.) was thrust into the respondent’s mouth
and over his face; then the barber’s-mate scraped his face with a razor,
made of a piece of iron hoop well notched; his sore face was wiped with
a damask towel, (a boat-swab dipped in filthy water) and this ended the
ceremony. When it was over they undressed themselves, the fiddle struck
up, and they danced and regaled with their grog until they were “_full
three sheets in the wind_.”

  I remain, sir, &c.

  H. W. DEWHURST.

  _Crescent-street,_

  _Euston-square_.

  [185] Every-Day Book, vol. ii.

       *       *       *       *       *


NAVAL ANECDOTE.

During the siege of Acre, Daniel Bryan, an old seaman and captain of the
fore-top, who had been turned over from the Blanche into sir Sidney
Smith’s ship Le Tigré, repeatedly applied to be employed on shore; but,
being an elderly man and rather deaf, his request was not acceded to. At
the first storming of the breach by the French, one of their generals
fell among the multitude of the slain, and the Turks, in triumph, struck
off his head, and, after mangling the body with their sabres, left it a
prey to the dogs, which in that country are of great ferocity, and rove
in herds. In a few days it became a shocking spectacle, and when any of
the sailors who had been on shore returned to their ship, inquiries were
constantly made respecting the state of the French general. To Dan’s
frequent demands of his messmates why they had not buried him, the only
answer he received was, “Go and do it yourself.” One morning having
obtained leave to go and see the town, he dressed himself as though for
an excursion of pleasure, and went ashore with the surgeon in the
jolly-boat. About an hour or two after, while the surgeon was dressing
the wounded Turks in the hospital, in came honest Dan, who, in his
rough, good-natured manner, exclaimed, “I’ve been burying the general,
sir, and now I’m come to see the sick!” Not particularly attending to
the tar’s salute, but fearing that he might catch the plague, which was
making great ravages among the wounded Turks, the surgeon immediately
ordered him out. Returning on board, the cockswain asked of the surgeon
if he had seen old Dan? It was then that Dan’s words in the hospital
first occurred, and on further inquiry of the boat’s crew they related
the following circumstances:--

The old man procured a pick-axe, a shovel, and a rope, and insisted on
being let down, out of a port-hole, close to the breach. Some of his
more juvenile companions offered to attend him. “No!” he replied, “you
are too young to be shot yet; as for me, I am old and deaf, and _my_
loss would be no great matter.” Persisting in his adventure, in the
midst of the firing, Dan was slung and lowered down, with his implements
of action on his shoulder. His first difficulty was to beat away the
dogs. The French levelled their pieces--they were on the instant of
firing at the hero!--but an officer, perceiving the friendly intentions
of the sailor, was seen to throw himself across the file:
instantaneously the din of military thunder ceased, a dead, solemn
silence prevailed, and the worthy fellow consigned the corpse to its
parent earth. He covered it with mould and stones, placing a large stone
at its head, and another at its feet. The unostentatious grave was
formed, but no inscription recorded the fate or character of its
possessor. Dan, with the peculiar air of a British sailor, took a piece
of chalk from his pocket, and attempted to write

  “HERE YOU LIE, OLD CROP!”

He was then, with his pick-axe and shovel, hoisted into the town, and
the hostile firing immediately recommenced.

A few days afterwards, sir Sidney, having been informed of the
circumstance, ordered old Dan to be called into the cabin.--“Well, Dan,
I hear you have buried the French general.”--“Yes, your honour.”--“Had
you any body with you?”--“Yes, your honour.”--“Why, Mr. ---- says you
had not.”--“But I had, your honour.”--“Ah! who had you?”--“God Almighty,
sir.”--“A very good assistant, indeed. Give old Dan a glass of
grog.”--“Thank your honour.” Dan drank the grog, and left the cabin
highly gratified. He was for several years a pensioner in the royal
hospital at Greenwich.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE “RIGHT” LORD LOVAT.

The following remarkable anecdote, communicated by a respectable
correspondent, with his name and address, may be relied on as genuine.

_For the Table Book._

An old man, claiming to be “the _right_ lord Lovat,” i. e. heir to him
who was beheaded in 1745, came to the Mansion-house in 1818 for advice
and assistance. He was in person and face as much like the rebel lord,
if one may judge from his pictures, as a person could be, and the more
especially as he was of an advanced age. He said he had been to the
present lord Lovat, who had given him food and a little money, and
turned him away. He stated his pedigree and claim thus:--The rebel lord
had an only brother, known by the family name of Simon Fraser. Before
lord Lovat engaged in the rebellion, Simon Fraser went to a wedding in
his highland costume; when he entered the room where the party was
assembled, an unfortunate wight of a bagpiper struck up the favourite
march of a clan in mortal enmity with that of Fraser, which so enraged
him, that he drew his dirk and killed the piper upon the spot. Fraser
immediately fled, and found refuge in a mine in Wales. No law
proceedings took place against him as he was absent, and supposed to
have perished at sea. He married in Wales, and had one son, the old man
abovenamed, who said he was about sixty. When lord Lovat was executed
his lands became forfeited; but in course of time, lord L. not having
left a son, the estates were granted by the crown to a collateral
branch, (one remove beyond Simon Fraser,) the present lord, it not being
known that Simon Fraser was alive or had left issue. It is further
remarkable that the applicant further stated, that both he and his
father, Simon Fraser, were called lord Lovat by the miners and other
inhabitants of that spot where he was known.

The old man was very ignorant, not knowing how to read or write, having
been born in the mine and brought up a miner; but he said he had
preserved Simon Fraser’s highland dress, and that he had it in Wales.

       *       *       *       *       *


FAST-PUDDING.

EXTRACT FROM THE FAMOUS HISTORIE OF FRIAR BACON.

_How Friar Bacon deceived his Man, that would fast for conscience sake._

Friar Bacon had only one man to attend him; and he, too, was none of
the wisest, for he kept him in charity more than for any service he had
of him. This man of his, named Miles, never could endure to fast like
other religious persons did; for he always had, in one corner or other,
flesh, which he would eat, when his master eat bread only, or else did
fast and abstain from all things.

Friar Bacon seeing this, thought at one time or other to be even with
him, which he did, one Friday, in this manner: Miles, on the Thursday
night, had provided a great black-pudding for his Friday’s fast; that
pudding he put in his pocket, (thinking to warm it so, for his master
had no fire on those days.) On the next day, who was so demure as Miles!
he looked as though he could not have eat any thing. When his master
offered him some bread, he refused it, saying, his sins deserved a
greater penance than one day’s fast in a whole week. His master
commended him for it, and bid him take heed he did not dissemble, for if
he did, it would at last be known. “Then were I worse than a Turk,” said
Miles. So went he forth, as if he would have gone to pray privately, but
it was for nothing but to _prey_ privily on his black-pudding. Then he
pulled out, and fell to it lustily: but he was deceived, for, having put
one end in his mouth, he could neither get it out again, nor bite it
off; so that he stamped for help. His master hearing him, came; and
finding him in that manner, took hold of the other end of the pudding,
and led him to the hall, and showed him to all the scholars, saying,
“See here, my good friends and fellow-students, what a devout man my
servant Miles is! He loved not to break a fast-day--witness this
pudding, that his conscience will not let him swallow!” His master did
not release him till night, when Miles did vow never to break any
fast-day while he lived.

       *       *       *       *       *


CLERICAL ERRORS.

_For the Table Book._

THE REV. MR. ALCOCK, OF BURNSAL, NEAR SKIPTON, YORKSHIRE.

Every inhabitant of Craven has heard tales of this eccentric person, and
numberless are the anecdotes told of him. I have not the history of
Craven, and cannot name the period of his death exactly, but I believe
it happened between fifty and sixty years ago. He was a learned man and
a wit--so much addicted to waggery, that he sometimes forgot his
office, and indulged in sallies rather unbecoming a minister, but
nevertheless he was a sincere Christian. The following anecdotes are
well known in Craven, and may amuse elsewhere. One of Mr. Alcock’s
friends, at whose house he was in the habit of calling previously to his
entering the church on Sundays, once took occasion to unstitch his
sermon and misplace the leaves. At the church, Mr. Alcock, when he had
read a page, discovered the joke. “Peter,” said he, “thou rascal! what’s
thou been doing with my sermon?” then turning to his congregation he
said, “Brethren, Peter’s been misplacing the leaves of my sermon, I have
not time to put them right, I shall read on as I find it, and you must
make the best of it that you can;” and he accordingly read through the
confused mass, to the astonishment of his flock. On another occasion,
when in the pulpit, he found that he had forgotten his sermon; nowise
disappointed at the loss, he called out to his clerk, “Jonas, I have
left my sermon at home, so hand us up that Bible, and I’ll read ’em a
chapter in Job worth ten of it!” Jonas, like his master, was an oddity,
and used to make a practice of falling asleep at the commencement of the
sermon, and waking in the middle of it, and bawling out “amen,” thereby
destroyed the gravity of the congregation. Mr. Alcock once lectured him
for this, and particularly requested he would not say amen till he had
finished his discourse. Jonas promised compliance, but on the following
Sunday made bad worse, for he fell asleep as usual, and in the middle of
the sermon awoke and bawled out “Amen at a venture!” The Rev. Mr. Alcock
is, I think, buried before the communion-table of Skipton church, under
a slab of blue marble, with a Latin inscription to his memory.

  T. Q. M.

       *       *       *       *       *


REMARKABLE EPITAPH.

_For the Table Book._

FRANK FRY, of Christian Malford, Wilts, whose bones lie undisturbed in
the church-yard of his _native_ village, wrote for himself the following

“EPITAPH.

    “Here lies I
    Who did die;
    I lie did
    As I die did,
    Old Frank Fry!

    “When the worms comes
    To pick up their crumbs,
    They’ll have in I--
    A rare Frank Fry!”

The worms have had, in Frank, a lusty subject--his epitaph is recorded
only in the _Table Book_.

  *, *, P.

       *       *       *       *       *


A MODERN MYSTERY.

_To the Editor._

  _Blackwall, April 13, 1827._

Sir,--As I perceive you sometimes insert in your _Table Book_ articles
similar to the enclosed original printed Notice, you may perhaps think
it worthy of a place in your amusing miscellany; if so, it is much at
your service.

  I am, &c.

  F. W.

(_Literal Copy._)

NOTICE.

  Saturday 30 and on Sunday 31 of the corrent, in the Royal Theatre of
  St. Charles will be represented by the Italian Company the famous Holy
  Drama intitled

  IL TRIONFO DI GIUDITTA,

  O SIA

  LA MORTE D’OLOFERNE.

In the interval of the frist to the second act it shall have a new and
pompous Ball of the composition of John Baptista Gianini, who has by
title:

  IL SACRIFICIO D’ABRAMO,

in which will enter all the excellent corp of Ball, who dance at present
in the said Royal Theatre; the spetacle will be finished with the second
act and Ball analog to the same Drama, all with the nessessary
decoration.

This is who is offered to the Respectable Publick of whom is waited all
the protection and concurrence:

  _It will begin at 8 o’clok._

  Na Officina de Simāo Thaddeo Ferreira. 1811. Com licenca.

       *       *       *       *       *


ODD SIGN.

_For the Table Book._

At West-end, near Skipton in Craven, Yorkshire, a gate hangs, as a sign
to a public-house, with this inscription on it--

    This gate hangs well,
      And hinders none;
    Refresh and pay,
      And travel on.

  J. W.




Vol. I.--21.


[Illustration: ~Pair of Curious Old Snuffers~

_Described on the next page_.]

SNUFFERS.

Perhaps there is no implement of domestic use that we are less
acquainted with, in its old form, than snuffers. I have now before me a
pair, which for their antiquity and elegant workmanship seem worth
attention: the engraving on the other side represents their exact size
and construction.

After some research, I can only meet with particulars of one other pair,
which were found in digging the foundation of a granary, at the foot of
a hill adjoining to Cotton Mansion-house, (formerly the seat of the
respectable family of the Mohuns,) in the parish of St. Peter,
Portisham, about two miles north-east from Abbotsbury in Dorsetshire.
They were of brass, and weighed six ounces. “The great difference,” says
Mr. Hutchins, “between these and modern utensils of the same name and
use is, that these are in shape like a heart fluted, and consequently
terminate in a point. They consist of two equal lateral cavities, by the
edges of which the snuff is cut off and received into the cavities, from
which it is not got out without particular application and trouble.
There are two circumstances attending this little utensil, which seem to
bespeak it of considerable age: the roughness of the workmanship, which
is in all respects as rude and coarse as can be well imagined, and the
awkwardness of the form.” There is an engraving of the Dorsetshire
snuffers in the history of that county.

The snuffers now submitted to notice are superior in design and
workmanship to those found in Dorsetshire. The latter seem of earlier
date, and they divide in the middle of the upper as well as the lower
part, but in one respect both pairs are alike: they are each “in shape
like a heart,” and they each terminate in a point formed exactly in the
manner shown by the present engraving. The print likewise shows that the
box of the snuffers bears a boldly chased winged head of Mercury, who
had more employments and occupations than any other of the ancient
deities. Whether as the director of theft, as the conductor of the
departed to their final destination, as an interpreter to enlighten, or
as an office-bearer constantly in requisition, the portrait of Mercury
is a symbol appropriate to the implement before us. The engraving shows
the exact size of the instrument, and the present appearance of the
chasing, which is in bold relief, and was, originally, very elegant.

These snuffers are plain on the underside, and made without legs. They
were purchased, with some miscellaneous articles, by a person who has
no clue to their former possessors, but who rightly imagined that in an
archæological view they would be acceptable to the _Table Book_.

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XVIII.

  [From “David and Bethsabe:” further Extracts.]

_Absalon, rebelling._

    Now for the crown and throne of Israel,
    To be confirm’d with virtue of my sword,
    And writ with David’s blood upon the blade.
    Now, Jove,[186] let forth the golden firmament,
    And look on him with all thy fiery eyes,
    Which thou hast made to give their glories light.
    To shew thou lovest the virtue of thy hand,
    Let fall a wreath of stars upon my head,
    Whose influence may govern Israel
    With state exceeding all her other Kings.
    Fight, Lords and Captains, that your Sovereign
    May shine in honour brighter than the sun
    And with the virtue of my beauteous rays
    Make this fair Land as fruitful as the fields,
    That with sweet milk and honey overflowed.
    God in the whissing of a pleasant wind
    Shall march upon the tops of mulberry trees,
    To cool all breasts that burn with any griefs;
    As whilom he was good to Moyses’ men,
    By day the Lord shall sit within a cloud,
    To guide your footsteps to the fields of joy;
    And in the night a pillar bright as fire
    Shall go before you like a second sun.
    Wherein the Essence of his Godhead is;
    That day and night you may be brought to peace,
    And never swerve from that delightsome path
    That leads your souls to perfect happiness:
    This he shall do for joy when I am King.
    Then fight, brave Captains, that these joys may fly
    Into your bosoms with sweet victory.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Absalon, triumphant._

      _Absalon._ First Absalon was by the trumpet’s sound
    Proclaim’d thro’ Hebron King of Israel;
    And now is set in fair Jerusalem
    With complete state and glory of a crown.
    Fifty fair footmen by my chariot run;
    And to the air, whose rupture rings my fame,
    Wheree’er I ride, they offer reverence.
    Why should not Absalon, that in his face
    Carries the final purpose of his God,
    (That is, to work him grace in Israel),
    Endeavour to achieve with all his strength
    The state that most may satisfy his joy--
    Keeping his statutes and his covenants sure?
    His thunder is intangled in my hair,
    And with my beauty is his lightning quench’d.
    I am the man he made to glory in,
    When by the errors of my father’s sin
    He lost the path, that led into the Land
    Wherewith our chosen ancestors were blest.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From a “Looking Glass for England and London,” a Tragi-comedy, by
  Thomas Lodge and Robert Green, 1598.]

_Alvida, Paramour to Rasni, the Great King of Assyria, courts a petty
King of Cilicia._

      _Alvida._ Ladies, go sit you down amidst this bower,
    And let the Eunuchs play you all asleep:
    Put garlands made of roses on your heads,
    And play the wantons, whilst I talk awhile.
      _Ladies._ Thou beautiful of all the world, we will.

    (_Exeunt._)

      _Alvida._ King of Cilicia, kind and courteous;
    Like to thyself, because a lovely King;
    Come lay thee down upon thy Mistress’ knee,
    And I will sing and talk of Love to thee.
      _Cilicia._ Most gracious Paragon of excellence,
    It fits not such an abject wretch as I
    To talk with Rasni’s Paramour and Love.
      _Alvida._ To talk, sweet friend! who would not talk with thee?
    Oh be not coy: art thou not only fair?
    Come twine thine arms about this snow-white neck,
    A love-nest for the Great Assyrian King.
    Blushing I tell thee, fair Cilician Prince,
    None but thyself can merit such a grace.
      _Cilica._ Madam, I hope you mean not for to mock me.
      _Alvida._ No, King, fair King, my meaning is to yoke thee,
    Hear me but sing of Love: then by my sighs,
    My tears, my glancing looks, my changed cheer,
    Thou shalt perceive how I do hold thee dear.
      _Cilicia._ Sing, Madam, if you please; but love in jest.
      _Alvida._ Nay, I will love, and sigh at every jest.

    (_She sings._)

            Beauty, alas! where wast thou born,
            Thus to hold thyself in scorn,
            When as Beauty kiss’d to wooe thee?
            Thou by Beauty dost undo me.
                    Heigho, despise me not.

            I and thou in sooth are one,
            Fairer thou, I fairer none:
            Wanton thou; and wilt thou, wanton,
            Yield a cruel heart to plant on?
            Do me right, and do me reason;
            Cruelty is cursed treason.
                    Heigho, I love; Heigho, I love;
                    Heigho, and yet he eyes me not.

      _Cilicia._ Madam your Song is passing passionate.
      _Alvida._ And wilt thou then not pity my estate?
      _Cilicia._ Ask love of them who pity may impart.
      _Alvida._ I ask of thee, sweet; thou hast stole my heart.
      _Cilicia._ Your love is fixed on a greater King.
      _Alvida._ Tut, women’s love--it is a fickle thing.
    I love my Rasni for my dignity:
    I love Cilician King for his sweet eye.
    I love my Rasni, since he rules the world:
    But more I love this Kingly little world.
    How sweet he looks!--O were I Cynthia’s sphere,
    And thou Endymion, I should hold thee dear:
    Thus should mine arms be spread about thy neck,
    Thus would I kiss my Love at every beck.
    Thus would I sigh to see thee sweetly sleep:
    And if thou wak’st not soon, thus would I weep:
    And thus, and thus, and thus: thus much I love thee.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From “Tethys’ Festival,” by Samuel Daniel, 1610.]

_Song at a Court Masque._

    Are they shadows that we see
    And can shadows pleasure give?--
    Pleasures only shadows be,
    Cast by bodies we conceive;
    And are made the things we deem
    In those figures which they seem.--
    But these pleasures vanish fast,
    Which by shadows are exprest:--
    Pleasures are not, if they last;
    In their passing is their best.
    Glory is most bright and gay
    In a flash, and so away.
    Feed apace then, greedy eyes,
    On the wonder you behold;
    Take it sudden as it flies,
    Tho’ you take it not to hold:
    When your eyes have done their part,
    Thought must lengthen it in the heart.

  C. L.

  [186] Jove, for Jehovah.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Scylla and Charybdis.~

ANCIENT AND PRESENT STATE.

    Incidit in Scyllam, cupiens vitare Charybdis.

This Latin verse, which has become proverbial, is thus translated:--

    He falls on Scylla, who Charybdis shuns.

The line has been ascribed to Ovid; it is not, however, in that or any
other classic poet, but has been derived from Philippe Gualtier, a
modern French writer of Latin verses. Charybdis is a whirlpool in the
straits of Messina, on the coast of Sicily, opposite to Scylla, a
dangerous rock on the coast of Italy. The danger to which mariners were
exposed by the whirlpool is thus described by Homer in Pope’s
translation:

    Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms,
    And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms;
    When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves,
    The rough rock roars; tumultuous boil the waves:
    They toss, they foam, a wild confusion raise,
    Like waters bubbling o’er the fiery blaze:
    Eternal mists obscure the aërial plain,
    And high above the rock she spouts the main.
    When in her gulfs the rushing sea subsides,
    She drains the ocean with the refluent tides.
    The rock rebellows with a thundering sound;
    Deep, wondrous deep, below appears the ground.

Virgil imagines the origin of this terrific scene:

    That realm of old, a ruin huge, was rent
    In length of ages from the continent.
    With force convulsive burst the isle away;
    Through the dread opening broke the thund’ring sea:
    At once the thund’ring sea Sicilia tore,
    And sunder’d from the fair Hesperian shore;
    And still the neighbouring coasts and towns divides
    With scanty channels, and contracted tides.
    Fierce to the right tremendous Scylla roars,
    Charybdis on the left the flood devours.

  _Pitt._

A great earthquake in the year 1783 diminished the perils of the
pass.[187] Thirteen years before this event, which renders the scene
less poetical, Brydone thus describes


SCYLLA.

May 19, 1770. Found ourselves within half a mile of the coast of Sicily,
which is low, but finely variegated. The opposite coast of Calabria is
very high, and the mountains are covered with the finest verdure. It was
almost a dead calm, our ship scarce moving half a mile in an hour, so
that we had time to get a complete view of the famous rock of Scylla, on
the Calabrian side, Cape Pylorus on the Sicilian, and the celebrated
Straits of the Faro that runs between them. Whilst we were still some
miles distant from the entry of the Straits, we heard the roaring of the
current, like the noise of some large impetuous river confined between
narrow banks. This increased in proportion as we advanced, till we saw
the water in many places raised to a considerable height, and forming
large eddies or whirlpools. The sea in every other place was as smooth
as glass. Our old pilot told us, that he had often seen ships caught in
these eddies, and whirled about with great rapidity, without obeying
the helm in the smallest degree. When the weather is calm, there is
little danger; but when the waves meet with this violent current, it
makes a dreadful sea. He says, there were five ships wrecked in this
spot last winter. We observed that the current set exactly for the rock
of Scylla, and would infallibly have carried any thing thrown into it
against that point; so that it was not without reason the ancients have
painted it as an object of such terror. It is about a mile from the
entry of the Faro, and forms a small promontory, which runs a little out
to sea, and meets the whole force of the waters, as they come out of the
narrowest part of the Straits. The head of this promontory is the famous
Scylla. It must be owned that it does not altogether come up to the
formidable description that Homer gives of it; the reading of which
(like that of Shakspeare’s Cliff) almost makes one’s head giddy. Neither
is the passage so wondrous narrow and difficult as he makes it. Indeed
it is probable that the breadth of it is greatly increased since his
time, by the violent impetuosity of the current. And this violence too
must have always diminished, in proportion as the breadth of the channel
increased.

Our pilot says, there are many small rocks that show their heads near
the base of the large ones. These are probably the dogs that are
described as howling round the monster Scylla. There are likewise many
caverns that add greatly to the noise of the water, and tend still to
increase the horror of the scene. The rock is near two hundred feet
high. There is a kind of castle or fort built on its summit; and the
town of Scylla, or Sciglio, containing three or four hundred
inhabitants, stands on its south side, and gives the title of prince to
a Calabrese family.


CHARYBDIS.

The harbour of Messina is formed by a small promontory or neck of land
that runs off from the east end of the city, and separates that
beautiful basin from the rest of the Straits. The shape of this
promontory is that of a reaping-hook, the curvature of which forms the
harbour, and secures it from all winds. From the striking resemblance of
its form, the Greeks, who never gave a name that did not either describe
the object or express some of its most remarkable properties, called
this place Zancle, or the Sickle, and feigned that the sickle of Saturn
fell on this spot, and gave it its form. But the Latins, who were not
quite so fond of fable, changed its name to Messina, (from _Messis_, a
harvest,) because of the great fertility of its fields. It is certainly
one of the safest harbours in the world after ships have got in; but it
is likewise one of the most difficult access. The celebrated gulf or
whirlpool of Charybdis lies near to its entry, and often occasions such
an intestine and irregular motion in the water, that the helm loses most
of its power, and ships have great difficulty to get in, even with the
fairest wind that can blow. This whirlpool, I think, is probably formed
by the small promontory I have mentioned; which contracting the Straits
in this spot, must necessarily increase the velocity of the current; but
no doubt other causes, of which we are ignorant, concur, for this will
by no means account for all the appearances which it has produced. The
great noise occasioned by the tumultuous motion of the waters in this
place, made the ancients liken it to a voracious sea-monster perpetually
roaring for its prey; and it has been represented by their authors, as
the most tremendous passage in the world. Aristotle gives a long and a
formidable description of it in his 125th chapter _De Admirandis_, which
I find translated in an old Sicilian book I have got here. It begins,
“Adeo profundum, horridumque spectaculum, &c.” but it is too long to
transcribe. It is likewise described by Homer, 12th of the Odyssey;
Virgil, 3d Æneid; Lucretius, Ovid, Sallust, Seneca, as also by many of
the old Italian and Sicilian poets, who all speak of it in terms of
horror; and represent it as an object that inspired terror, even when
looked on at a distance. It certainly is not now so formidable; and very
probably, the violence of this motion, continued for so many ages, has
by degrees worn smooth the rugged rocks and jutting shelves, that may
have intercepted and confined the waters. The breadth of the Straits
too, in this place, I make no doubt is considerably enlarged. Indeed,
from the nature of things it must be so; the perpetual friction
occasioned by the current must wear away the bank on each side, and
enlarge the bed of the water.

The vessels in this passage were obliged to go as near as possible to
the coast of Calabria, in order to avoid the suction occasioned by the
whirling of the waters in this vortex; by which means when they came to
the narrowest and most rapid part of the Straits, betwixt Cape Pelorus
and Scylla, they were in great danger of being carried upon that rock.
From whence the proverb, still applied to those, who in attempting to
avoid one evil fall into another.

There is a fine fountain of white marble on the key, representing
Neptune holding Scylla and Charybdis chained, under the emblematical
figures of two sea-monsters, as represented by the poets.

The little neck of land, forming the harbour of Messina, is strongly
fortified. The citadel, which is indeed a very fine work, is built on
that part which connects it with the main land. The farthermost point,
which runs out to sea, is defended by four small forts, which command
the entry into the harbour. Betwixt these lie the lazaret, and a
lighthouse to warn sailors of their approach to Charybdis, as that other
on Cape Pelorus is intended to give them notice of Scylla.

It is probably from these lighthouses (by the Greeks called Pharoi) that
the whole of this celebrated Strait has been denominated the Faro of
Messina.

       *       *       *       *       *

According to Brydone, the hazard to sailors was less in his time than
the Nestor of song, and the poet of the Æneid, had depicted in theirs.
In 1824, Capt. W. H. Smyth, to whom a survey of the coast of Sicily was
intrusted by the lords of the Admiralty, published a “Memoir” in 1824,
with the latest and most authentic accounts of these celebrated classic
spots--viz.:


SCYLLA.

As the breadth across this celebrated strait has been so often disputed,
I particularly state, that the Faro Tower is exactly six thousand and
forty-seven English yards from that classical bugbear, the Rock of
Scylla, which, by poetical fiction, has been depicted in such terrific
colours, and to describe the horrors of which, Phalerion, a painter,
celebrated for his nervous representation of the awful and the
tremendous, exerted his whole talent. But the flights of poetry can
seldom bear to be shackled by homely truth, and if we are to receive the
fine imagery, that places the summit of this rock in clouds brooding
eternal mists and tempests--that represents it as inaccessible, even to
a man provided with twenty hands and twenty feet, and immerses its base
among ravenous sea-dogs;--why not also receive the whole circle of
mythological dogmas of Homer, who, though so frequently dragged forth as
an authority in history, theology, surgery, and geography, ought in
justice to be read only as a poet. In the writings of so exquisite a
bard, we must not expect to find all his representations strictly
confined to a mere accurate narration of facts. Moderns of
intelligence, in visiting this spot, have gratified their imaginations,
already heated by such descriptions as the escape of the Argonauts, and
the disasters of Ulysses, with fancying it the scourge of seamen, and
that in a gale its caverns ‘roar like dogs;’ but I, as a sailor, never
perceived any difference between the effect of the surges here, and on
any other coast, yet I have frequently watched it closely in bad
weather. It is now, as I presume it ever was, a common rock, of bold
approach, a little worn at its base, and surmounted by a castle, with a
sandy bay on each side. The one on the south side is memorable for the
disaster that happened there during the dreadful earthquake of 1783,
when an overwhelming wave (supposed to have been occasioned by the fall
of part of a promontory into the sea) rushed up the beach, and, in its
retreat, bore away with it upwards of two thousand people.


CHARYBDIS.

Outside the tongue of land, or Braccio di St. Rainiere, that forms the
harbour of Messina, lies the Galofaro, or celebrated vortex of
Charybdis, which has, with more reason than Scylla, been clothed with
terrors by the writers of antiquity. To the undecked boats of the
Rhegians, Locrians, Zancleans, and Greeks, it must have been formidable;
for, even in the present day, small craft are sometimes endangered by
it, and I have seen several men-of-war, and even a seventy four gun
ship, whirled round on its surface; but, by using due caution, there is
generally very little danger or inconvenience to be apprehended. It
appears to be an agitated water, of from seventy to ninety fathoms in
depth, circling in quick eddies. It is owing probably to the meeting of
the harbour and lateral currents with the main one, the latter being
forced over in this direction by the opposite point of Pezzo. This
agrees in some measure with the relation of Thucydides, who calls it a
violent reciprocation of the Tyrrhene and Sicilian seas; and he is the
only writer of remote antiquity I remember to have read, who has
assigned this danger its true situation, and not exaggerated its
effects. Many wonderful stories are told respecting this vortex,
particularly some said to have been related by the celebrated diver,
Colas, who lost his life here. I have never found reason, however,
during my examination of this spot, to believe one of them.

  [187] Bourn’s Gazetteer.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


A FRAGMENT.

  FROM CORNELIUS MAY’S “JOURNEY TO THE GREATE MARKETT AT
  OLYMPUS”--“SEVEN STARRS OF WITTE.”

    One daye when tired with worldly toil,
      Upp to the Olympian mounte
    I sped, as from soul-cankering care,
      Had ever been my wonte;
    And there the gods assembled alle
      I founde, O strange to tell!
    Chaffering, like chapmen, and around
      The wares they had to sell.
    Eache god had sample of his goodes,
      Which he displaied on high;
    And cried, “How lack ye?” “What’s y’re neede?”
      To every passer by.
    Quoth I, “What have you here to sell?
      To purchase being inclined;”
    Said one, “We’ve art and science here,
      And every gifte of minde.”
    “What coin is current here?” I asked,
      Spoke Hermes in a trice,
    “Industrie, perseverence, toile,
      And life the highest price.”
    I saw Apollo, and went on,
      Liking his wares of olde;
    “Come buy,” said he, “this lyre of mine,
      I’ll pledge it sterling golde;
    This is the sample of its worthe,
      ’Tis cheape at life, come buy!”
    So saying, he drew olde Homer forth,
      And placed him ’neath my eye.
    I turn’d aside, where in a row
      Smalle bales high piled up stood;
    Tyed rounde with golden threades of life.
      And eache inscribed with blood,
    “Travell to far and foreign landes;”
      “The knowledge of the sea;”
    “Alle beastes, and birdes, and creeping thinges,
      And heaven’s immensity;”
    “Unshaken faithe when alle men change,”
      “The patriot’s holy heart;”
    “The might of woman’s love to stay
      When alle besides departe.”
    I next saw things soe strange of forme,
      Their names I mighte not knowe,
    Unlike aught either in heaven or earthe,
      Or in the deeps below;
    Then Hermes to my thoughte replied,
      “Strange as these thinges appeare,
    Gigantic power, the mighte of arte
      And science are laide here;
    Yeare after yeare of toile and thoughte
      Can buy these stores alone;
    Yet boughte, how neare the gods is man,
      What knowledge is made known!
    The power and nature of all thinges,
      Fire, aire, and earthe, and flood.
    Known and made subject to man’s will
      For evill or for good.”
    Next look’d I in a darksome den,
      Webbed o’er with spider’s thread,
    Where bookes were piled, and on eache booke
      I “metaphysics” read;
    Spoke Hermes, “Friend, the price of these
      Is puzzling of the brain,
    A gulf of words which, who gets in,
      Can ne’er get oute again.”
    I then saw “law,” piled up alofte,
      And asked its price to know;
    “Its price is, conscience and good name,”
      Said Hermes, whispering low.
    Nexte, “Physic and divinity,”
      I stood as I was loth,
    To take or leave, with curling lip,
      Said Hermes, “Quackery, both!”
    “Now, friend,” said I, “since of your wares
      You no good thing can telle,
    You are the honestest chapman
      That e’er had wares to selle.”

           *       *       *       *       *

       *       *       *       *       *


DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND:

OR,

MANNERS OF LONDON MERCHANTS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

    _Tempore mutato de nobis fabula narratur._

Decio, a man of great figure, that had large commissions for sugar from
several parts beyond sea, treats about a considerable parcel of that
commodity with Alcander, an eminent West India merchant; both understood
the market very well, but could not agree. Decio was a man of substance,
and thought nobody ought to buy cheaper than himself. Alcander was the
same, and not wanting money, stood for his price. Whilst they were
driving their bargain at a tavern near the Exchange, Alcander’s man
brought his master a letter from the West Indies, that informed him of a
much greater quantity of sugars coming for England than was expected.
Alcander now wished for nothing more than to sell at Decio’s price,
before the news was public; but being a cunning fox, that he might not
seem too precipitant, nor yet lose his customer, he drops the discourse
they were upon, and putting on a jovial humour, commends the
agreeableness of the weather; from whence falling upon the delight he
took in his gardens, invites Decio to go along with him to his country
house, that was not above twelve miles from London. It was in the month
of May, and as it happened upon a Saturday in the afternoon, Decio, who
was a single man, and would have no business in town before Tuesday,
accepts of the other’s civility, and away they go in Alcander’s coach.
Decio was splendidly entertained that night and the day following; the
Monday morning, to get himself an appetite, he goes to take the air upon
a pad of Alcander’s, and coming back meets with a gentleman of his
acquaintance, who tells him news was come the night before that the
Barbadoes fleet was destroyed by a storm; and adds, that before he came
out, it had been confirmed at Lloyd’s coffee-house, where it was thought
sugars would rise twenty-five per cent. by change time. Decio returns to
his friend, and immediately resumes the discourse they had broke off at
the tavern. Alcander who, thinking himself sure of his chap, did not
design to have moved it till after dinner, was very glad to see himself
so happily prevented; but how desirous soever he was to sell, the other
was yet more eager to buy; yet both of them afraid of one another, for a
considerable time counterfeited all the indifference imaginable, till at
last Decio, fired with what he had heard, thought delays might prove
dangerous, and throwing a guinea upon the table, struck the bargain at
Alcander’s price. The next day they went to London; the news proved
true, and Decio got five hundred pounds by his sugars. Alcander, whilst
he had strove to overreach the other, was paid in his own coin: yet all
this is called _fair dealing_; but I am sure neither of them would have
desired to be done by, as they did to each other.

  _Fable of the Bees_, 1725.

       *       *       *       *       *


CHILTERN HUNDREDS.

The acceptance of this office, or stewardship, vacates a seat in
parliament, but without any emolument or profit. Chiltern is a ridge of
chalky hills crossing the county of Bucks, a little south of the centre,
reaching from Tring in Hertfordshire to Henly in Oxford. This district
belongs to the crown, and from time immemorial has given title to the
nominal office of stewards of the Chiltern hundreds. Of this office, as
well as the manor of East Hundred, in Berks, it is remarkable, that
although frequently conferred upon members of parliament, it is not
productive either of honour or emolument; being granted at the request
of any member of that house, merely to enable him to vacate his seat by
the acceptance of a nominal office under the crown; and on this account
it has frequently been granted to three or four members a week.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ~Tommy Bell of Houghton-le-Spring, Durham.~]

This is an eccentric, good-humoured character--a lover of a chirruping
cup--and a favourite with the pitmen of Durham. He dresses like them,
and mixes and jokes with them; and his portrait seems an appropriate
illustration of the following paper, by a gentleman of the north, well
acquainted with their remarkable manners.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE PITMAN.

_For the Table Book._

    “O the bonny pit laddie, the cannie pit laddie,
      The bonny pit laddie for me, O!--
    He sits in a hole, as black as a coal,
      And brings all the white money to me, O!”

  OLD PIT SONG.

Gentle Reader,--Whilst thou sittest toasting thy feet at the glowing
fuel in thy grate, watching in dreaming unconsciousness the various
shapes and fantastic forms appearing and disappearing in the bright, red
heat of thy fire--here a beautiful mountain, towering with its glowing
top above the broken and diversified valley beneath--there a church,
with its pretty spire peeping above an imagined village; or,
peradventure, a bright nob, assuming the ken of human likeness, thy
playful fancy picturing it the semblance of some distant friend--I say,
whilst thou art sitting in this fashion, dost thou ever think of that
race of mortals, whose whole life is spent beyond a hundred fathoms
below the surface of mother earth, plucking from its unwilling bosom the
materials of thy greatest comfort?

The pitman enables thee to set at nought the “pelting of the pitiless
storm,” and render a season of severity and pinching bitterness, one of
warmth, and kindly feeling, and domestic smiles. If thou hast never
heard of these useful and daring men who

             “Contemn the terrors of the mine,
               Explore the caverns, dark and drear,
             Mantled around with deadly dew;
             Where congregated vapours blue,
               Fir’d by the taper glimmering near,
    Bid dire explosion the deep realms invade,
    And earth-born lightnings gleam athwart th’ infernal shade;”[188]

--who dwell in a valley of darkness for thy sake, and whose lives are
hazarded every moment in procuring the light and heat of the flickering
flame--listen with patience, if not with interest, to a short account of
them, from the pen of one who is not unmindful of

    “The simple annals of the poor.”

The pitmen, who are employed in bringing coals to the surface of the
earth, from immensely deep mines, for the London and neighbouring
markets, are a race entirely distinct from the peasantry surrounding
them. They are principally within a few miles of the river Wear, in the
county of Durham, and the river Tyne, which traces the southern boundary
of Northumberland. They reside in long rows of one-storied houses,
called by themselves “pit-rows,” built near the chief entrance to the
mine. To each house is attached a small garden,

    “For ornament or use,”

and wherein they pay so much attention to the cultivation of flowers,
that they frequently bear away prizes at floral exhibitions.

Within the memory of the writer, (and his locks are not yet “silver’d
o’er with age,”) the pitmen were a rude, bold, savage set of beings,
apparently cut off from their fellow men in their interests and
feelings; often guilty of outrage in their moments of ebrious mirth; not
from dishonest motives, or hopes of plunder, but from recklessness, and
lack of that civilization, which binds the wide and ramified society of
a great city. From the age of five or six years, their children are
immersed in the dark abyss of their lower worlds; and when even they
enjoy the “light of the blessed sun,” it is only in the company of their
immediate relations: all have the same vocation, and all stand out, a
sturdy band, separate and apart from the motley mixture of general
humanity.

The pitmen have the air of a primitive race. They marry almost
constantly with their own people; their boys follow the occupations of
their sires--their daughters, at the age of blooming and modest
maidenhood, linking their fate to some honest “_neebor’s bairn_:” thus,
from generation to generation, family has united with family, till their
population has become a dense mass of relationship, like the clans of
our northern friends, “ayont the Cheviot’s range.” The dress of one of
them is that of the whole people. Imagine a man, of only middling
stature, (few are tall or robust,) with several large blue marks,
occasioned by cuts, impregnated with coal-dust, on a pale and swarthy
countenance, a  handkerchief around his neck, a “posied
waistcoat” opened at the breast, to display a striped shirt beneath, a
short blue jacket, somewhat like, but rather shorter than the jackets of
our seamen, velvet breeches, invariably unbuttoned and untied at the
knee, on the “tapering calf” a blue worsted stocking, with white clocks,
and finished downwards by a long, low-quartered shoe, and you have a
pitman before you, equipped for his Saturday’s cruise to “canny
Newcastle,” or for his Sabbath’s gayest holiday.

On a Saturday evening you will see a long line of road, leading to the
nearest large market town, grouped every where with pitmen and their
wives or “lasses,” laden with large baskets of the “stomach’s comforts,”
sufficient for a fortnight’s consumption. They only are paid for their
labour at such intervals; and their weeks are divided into what they
term “pay week,” and “bauf week,” (the etymology of “bauf,”[189] I leave
thee, my kind reader, to find out.)--All merry and happy--trudging home
with their spoils--not unfrequently the thrifty husband is seen “half
seas over,” wrestling his onward way with an obstinate little pig, to
whose hind leg is attached a string, as security for allegiance, while
ever and anon this third in the number of “obstinate graces,” seeks a
sly opportunity of evading its unsteady guide and effecting a retreat
over the road, and “Geordie” (a common name among them) attempts a
masterly retrograde reel to regain his fugitive. A long cart, lent by
the owners of the colliery for the purpose, is sometimes filled with the
women and their marketings, jogging homeward at a smart pace; and from
these every wayfarer receives a shower of taunting, coarse jokes, and
the air is filled with loud, rude merriment. Pitmen do not consider it
any deviation from propriety for their wives to accompany them to the
alehouses of the market town, and join their husbands in their glass and
pint. I have been amused by peeping through the open window of a
pothouse, to see parties of them, men and women, sitting round a large
fir table, talking, laughing, smoking, and drinking con amore; and yet
these poor women are never addicted to excessive drinking. The men,
however, are not particularly abstemious when their hearts are
exhilarated with the bustle of a town.

When the pitman is about to descend to the caverns of his labour, he is
dressed in a checked flannel jacket, waistcoat, and trowsers, with a
bottle or canteen slung across his shoulders, and a satchell or
haversack at his side, to hold provender for his support during his
subterrene sojourn. At all hours, night and day, groups of men and boys
are seen dressed in this fashion wending their way to their colliery,
some carrying sir Humphrey Davy’s (called by them “Davy’s”) safety-lamp,
ready trimmed, and brightened for use. They descend the pit by means of
a basket or “corfe,” or merely by swinging themselves on to a chain,
suspended at the extreme end of the cordage, and are let down, with
inconceivable rapidity, by a steam-engine. Clean and orderly, they
coolly precipitate themselves into a black, smoking, and
bottomless-looking crater, where you would think it almost impossible
human lungs could play, or blood dance through the heart. At nearly the
same moment you see others coming up, as jetty as the object of their
search, drenched and tired. I have stood in a dark night, near the mouth
of a pit, lighted by a suspended grate, filled with flaring coals,
casting an unsteady but fierce reflection on the surrounding swarthy
countenances; the pit emitting a smoke as dense as the chimney of a
steam-engine; the men, with their sooty and grimed faces, glancing about
their sparkling eyes, while the talking motion of their red lips
disclosed rows of ivory; the steam-engines clanking and crashing, and
the hissing from the huge boilers, making a din, only broken by the
loud, mournful, and musical cry of the man stationed at the top of the
pit “shaft,” calling down to his companions in labour at the bottom.
This, altogether, is a scene as wild and fearful as a painter or a poet
could wish to see.

All have heard of the dreadful accidents in coal-mines from explosions
of fire-damp, inundations, &c., yet few have witnessed the heart-rending
scenes of domestic calamity which are the consequence. Aged fathers,
sons, and sons’ sons, a wide branching family, all are sometimes swept
away by a fell blast, more sudden, and, if possible, more terrible, than
the deadly Sirocca of the desert.

Never shall I forget one particular scene of family destruction. I was
passing along a “pit-row” immediately after a “firing,” as the explosion
of fire-damp is called, when I looked into one of the houses, and my
attention became so rivetted, that I scarcely knew I had entered the
room. On one bed lay the bodies of two men, burnt to a livid ash colour;
the eldest was apparently sixty, the other about forty--father and
son:--on another bed, in the same room, were “streaked” three fine boys,
the oldest not more than fifteen--sons of the younger dead--all
destroyed at the same instant by the same destructive blast, let loose
from the mysterious hand of Providence: and I saw--Oh God! I shall never
forget--I saw the vacant, maddened countenance, and quick, wild glancing
eye of the fatherless, widowed, childless being, who in the morning was
smiling in her domestic felicity; whose heart a few hours before was
exultingly beating as she looked on her “_gudeman and bonny bairns_.”
Before the evening sun had set she was alone in the world; without a
prop for her declining age, and every endearing tie woven around her
heart was torn and dissevered. I passed into the neat little garden--it
was the spring time--part of the soil was fresh turned up, and some
culinary plants were newly set:--these had been the morning work of the
younger father--his spade was standing upright in the earth at the last
spot he had laboured at; he had left it there, ready for the evening’s
employment:--the garden was yet blooming with all the delightful
freshness of vernal vegetation its cultivator was withered and dead--his
spade was at hand for another to dig its owner’s grave.

Amidst all their dangers, the pitmen are a cheerful, industrious race of
men. They were a few years ago much addicted to gambling, cock-fighting,
horse-racing, &c. Their spare hours are diverted now to a widely
different channel; they are for the most part members of the Wesleyan
sects; and, not unfrequently in passing their humble but neat
dwellings, instead of brawls and fights you hear a peaceful congregation
of worshippers, uttering their simple prayers; or the loud hymn of
praise breaking the silence of the eventide.

The ancient custom of sword-dancing at Christmas is kept up in
Northumberland, exclusively by these people. They may be constantly seen
at that festive season with their fiddler, bands of swordsmen, Tommy and
Bessy, most grotesquely dressed, performing their annual routine of
warlike evolutions. I have never had the pleasure of seeing the
_Every-Day Book_, but I have no doubt this custom has there been fully
illustrated.

  Ψ

  [188] HUDDESFORD.

  [189] Quære? Whether some wag has not originally given the pitman the
  benefit of this term from _bafler_ or baffolier, to mock or affront;
  “aiblins,” it may be a corruption of our English term “balk,” to
  disappoint.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some years ago a Tynemouth vessel, called the “Northern Star,” was lost,
and the following ballad made on the occasion: the memory of a lady
supplies the words--

_For the Table Book._


THE NORTHERN STAR.

    The Northern Star
    Sail’d over the bar,
      Bound to the Baltic sea--
    In the morning grey
    She stretch’d away,--
      ’Twas a weary day to me.

    For many an hour
    In sleet and shower
      By the lighthouse rock I stray,
    And watch till dark
    For the winged bark
      Of him that is far away.

    The castle’s bound
    I wander round
      Amidst the grassy graves,[190]
    But all I hear
    Is the north wind drear,
      And all I see are the waves.

    Oh roam not there
    Thou mourner fair,
      Nor pour the useless tear,
    Thy plaint of woe
    Is all below--
      The dead--_they_ cannot hear.

    The Northern Star
    Is set afar,
      Set in the Baltic sea,
    And the waves have spread
    The sandy bed,
      That holds thy love from thee.

  [190] Tynemouth-castle, the grounds of which are used as a cemetery.

       *       *       *       *       *


~British Mines.~

_For the Table Book._

Mines of gold and silver, sufficient to reward the conqueror, were found
in Mexico and Peru; but the island of Britain never produced enough of
the precious metals to compensate the invader for the trouble of
slaughtering our ancestors.

Camden mentions gold and silver mines in Cumberland, a mine of silver in
Flintshire, and of gold in Scotland. Speaking of the copper mines of
Cumberland, he says that veins of gold and silver were found intermixed
with the common ore; and in the reign of Elizabeth gave birth to a suit
at law between the earl of Northumberland and another claimant.

Borlase, in his History of Cornwall, relates, “that so late as the year
1753 several pieces of gold were found in what the miners call stream
tin; and silver is now got in considerable quantity from several of our
lead mines.”

A curious paper, concerning the gold mines of Scotland, is given by Mr.
Pennant, in the Appendix, No. 10. to his second part of a “Tour in
Scotland, in 1772;” but still there never was sufficient gold and silver
enough to constitute the price of victory. The other metals, such as
tin, copper, iron, and lead, are found in abundance at this day;
antimony and manganese in small quantities.[191]

Of the _copper_ mines now working in Cornwall, “Dolcoath,” situated near
Camborn, is the deepest, having a 220 fathom level under the adit, which
is 40 fathoms from the surface; so that the total depth is 260 fathoms,
or 1560 feet: it employs upwards of 1000 persons. The “Consolidated
Mines,” in Gwennap, are the most productive perhaps in the world,
yielding from 10_l._ to 12000_l._ a month of copper ore, with a handsome
profit to the shareholders. “Great St. George” is the only productive
mine near St. Agnes, and the only one producing metal to the “English
Mining Association.”

Of the _tin_ mines, “Wheal Nor,” in Breague, is an immense concern,
producing an amazing quantity, and a large profit to the company.
“Carnon Stream,” near Perran, is now yielding a good profit on its
capital. It has a shaft sunk in the middle of the stream. The washings
down from so many mines, the adits of which run in this stream, bring
many sorts of metal, with some curious bits of gold.

Of late years the mine called Wheal Rose, and some others belonging to
sir Christopher Hawkins, have been the most prolific of _lead_, mixed
with a fair proportion of silver. Wheal Penhale, Wheal Hope, and others,
promise favourably.

As yet Wheal Sparnon has not done much in _cobalt_; the quality found in
that mine is very excellent, but quantity is the “one thing needful.”

The immense quantity of _coals_ consumed in the numerous fire-engines
come from Wales; the vessels convey the copper ore, as it is brought by
the copper companies, to their smelting works: it is a back freight for
the shipping.

Altogether, the number of individuals who derive their living by means
of the mineral district of Cornwall must be incalculable; and it is a
great satisfaction to know, that this county suffered _less_ during the
recent bad times than perhaps any other county.

  SAM SAM’S SON.

  _April 30, 1827._

  [191] A Missouri paper states, that copper is in such abundance and
  purity, from the falls of St. Anthony to Lake Superior, that the
  Indians make hatchets and ornaments of it, without any other
  instrument than the hammer. The mines still remain in the possession
  of the Indians.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Angling~

AT THAMES DITTON.

_For the Table Book._

Thames Ditton is a pretty little village, delightfully situated on the
banks of the Thames, between Kingston and Hampton Court palace. During
the summer and autumn, it is the much-frequented resort of the followers
of Isaac Walton’s tranquil occupation.

The Swan inn, only a few paces from the water’s edge, remarkable for the
neatness and comfort of its appearance, and for the still more
substantial attractions of its internal accommodation, is kept by Mr.
John Locke, a most civil, good-natured, and obliging creature; and, what
is not of slight importance to a bon-vivant, he has a wife absolutely
incomparable in the preparation of “stewed eels,” and not to be despised
in the art of cooking a good beef-steak, or a mutton-chop.

But what is most remarkable in this place is its appellation of “_lying_
Ditton”--from what reason I have ever been unable to discover, unless it
has been applied by those cockney anglers, who, chagrined at their want
of sport, have bestowed upon it that very opprobrious designation; and
perhaps not entirely without foundation for when they have been
unsuccessful in beguiling the finny tribe, the fishermen, who attend
them in their punts, are always prepared to assign a cause for their
failure; as that the water is too low--or not sufficiently clear--or too
muddy--or there is a want of rain--or there has been too much of that
element--or--any thing else--except a want of skill in the angler
himself, who patiently sits in his punt, watching the course of his
float down the stream, or its gentle diving under the water, by which he
flatters himself he has a bite, listening to the stories of his
attendant, seated in calm indifference at his side, informing him of the
mortality produced among the gelid tribe by the noxious gas which flows
into the river from the metropolis, the alarming effects from the motion
of the steam-boats on their fishy nerves, and, above all, from their
feeding at that season of year on the green weeds at the bottom.

However, there are many most skilful lovers of the angle who pay weekly,
monthly, or annual visits to this retired spot; amongst whom are
gentlemen of fortune, professional men, and respectable tradesmen. After
the toils of the day, the little rooms are filled with aquatic
sportsmen, who have left the cares of life, and the great city behind
them, and associate in easy conversation, and unrestrained mirth.

One evening last summer there alighted from the coach a gentleman,
apparently of the middle age of life, who first seeing his small
portmanteau, fishing-basket, and rods safely deposited with the
landlord, whom he heartily greeted, walked into the room, and shaking
hands with one or two of his acquaintances, drew a chair to the window,
which he threw up higher than it was before; and, after surveying with a
cheerful countenance the opposite green park, the clear river with its
sedgy islands, and the little flotilla of punts, whose tenants were
busily engaged on their gliding floats, he seemed as delighted as a bird
that has regained his liberty: then, taking from his pocket a paper, he
showed its contents to me, who happened to be seated opposite, and asked
if I was a connoisseur in “single hair;” for, if I was, I should find it
the best that could be procured for love or money. I replied that I
seldom fished with any but gut-lines; yet it appeared, as far as I could
judge, to be very fine. “Fine!” said he, “it would do for the filament
of a spider’s-web; and yet I expect to-morrow to kill with it a fish of
a pound weight. I recollect,” continued he, “when I was but a tyro in
the art of angling, once fishing with an old gentleman, whose passion
for single-hair was so great, that, when the season of the year did not
permit him to pursue his favourite diversion, he spent the greatest part
of his time in travelling about from one end of the kingdom to the
other, seeking the best specimens of this invaluable article. On his
visits to the horse-dealers, instead of scrutinizing the horses in the
customary way, by examining their legs, inquiring into their points and
qualities, or trying their paces, to the unspeakable surprise of the
venders, he invariably walked up to the nether extremities of the
animals, and seized hold of their tails, by which means he was enabled
to select a capital assortment of hairs for his ensuing occupation.”

After the new-comer had finished his amusing anecdote, the noise of a
numerous flock of starlings, which had assembled among the trees in the
park preparatory to their evening adjournment to roost, attracted his
notice by the babel-like confusion of their shrill notes, and led him
again to entertain us with a story touching _their_ peculiarities.

“I remember,” said he, “when I was at a friend’s house in Yorkshire last
autumn, there were such immense numbers of these birds, who sought their
sustenance by day on the neighbouring marshes, and at night came to
roost in his trees, that at length there was not room for their entire
accommodation; the consequence of which was, that it became a matter of
necessity that a separation of their numbers should take place--a part
to other quarters, the remainder to retain possession of their old
haunts. If I might judge from the conflicting arguments which their
confused chatterings seemed to indicate, the contemplated arrangement
was not at all relished by those who were doomed to separate from their
companions--a separation, however, did take place--but the exiles would
not leave the field undisputed. Birds, like aid-de-camps of an army,
flew from one side to the other--unceasing voices gave note of dreadful
preparation--and, at last, both sides took flight at the same instant.
The whirring sound of their wings was perfectly deafening; when they had
attained a great height in the air, the two forces clashed together with
the greatest impetuosity; immediately the sky was obscured with an
appearance like the falling of snow, descending gradually to the earth,
accompanied with a vast quantity of bodies of the starlings, which had
been speared through by hostile beaks-they literally fell like hail. It
was then growing rather dusk; I could merely see the contending flocks
far above me for some time--it became darker--and I returned to narrate
this extraordinary aërial combat to my friend, who in the morning had
the curiosity to accompany me to the field of battle, where we picked
up, according to an accurate calculation, 1087 of these birds, some
quite dead, and others generally severely wounded, with an amazing
quantity of their feathers.”

I saw this amusing gentleman on the following morning sitting quietly in
his punt, exercising his single-hair skill, nearly opposite to the
little fishing-house.

  E. J. H.

  _April, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


TICKLING TROUT.

_For the Table Book._

It is a liberty taken by poachers with the little brook running through
Castle Coombe, to catch trout by _tickling_. I instance the practice
there because I have there witnessed it, although it prevails in other
places. The person employed wades into the stream, puts his bare arms
into the hole where trout resort, slides his fingers under the fish,
feels its position, commences tickling, and the trout falls gradually
into his hand, and is thrown upon the grass. This is a successful snare,
destructive to the abundance of trout, and the angler’s patient
pleasure. The lovers of the “hook and eye” system oppose these ticklish
practices, and the ticklers, when caught, are “punished according to
law,” while the patrons of the “rod and line” escape. Shakspeare may
have hinted at retribution, when he said

    “A thousand men the _fishes_ gnawed upon.”

Pope tell us that men are

    “Pleased with a feather, _tickled_ with a straw.”

  P.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE CLERKS OF CORNWALL.

1. In the last age there was a familiarity between the parson and the
clerk and the people, which our feelings of decorum would revolt at, _e.
g._--“I have seen the ungodly flourish like a _green bay_ tree.”--“How
can that be, maister?” said the clerk of St. Clement’s. Of this I was
myself an ear-witness.

2. At Kenwyn, two dogs, one of which was the parson’s, were fighting at
the west-end of the church; the parson, who was then reading the second
lesson, rushed out of the pew, and went down and parted them, returned
to his pew, and, doubtful where he had left off, asked the clerk,
“Roger, where was I?” “Why down parting the dogs, maister,” said Roger.

3. At Mevagizzey, when non-resident clergymen officiated, it was usual
with the squire of the parish to invite them to dinner. Several years
ago, a non-resident clergyman was requested to do duty in the church of
Mevagizzey on a Sunday, when the Creed of St. Athanasius is directed to
be read. Before he had begun the service, the parish-clerk asked him,
whether he intended to read the Athanasian Creed that morning. “Why?”
said the clergyman. “Because if you do, no dinner for you at the
squire’s, at Penwarne.”

4. A very short time since, parish-clerks used to read the first lesson.
I once heard the St. Agnes clerk cry out, “At the mouth of the burning
_viery vurnis_,--Shadrac, Meshac, and Abednego, _com voath and com
hether_.” [Daniel, chap, iii.]

The clerk of Lamorran, in giving out the Psalm, “Like a timorous bird to
distant mountains fly,” always said, “Like a _temmersum burde_, &c. &c.”
with a shake of the head, and a quavering of the voice, which could not
but provoke risibility.[192]

  [192] Rev. Mr. Polwhele’s Recollections.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Custom~

OBSERVED BY THE

LORD LIEUTENANTS OF IRELAND.

On the great road from London to West Chester, we find, at the principal
inns, the coats of arms of several lord lieutenants of Ireland, framed,
and hung up in the best rooms. At the bottom of these armorial pictures
(as I may call them) is a full display of all the titles of the party,
together with the date of the year when each viceroyship commenced. I
have often inquired the reason of this custom, but never could procure a
satisfactory answer. I do not reprobate the idea of this relique of
ancient dignity, as these heraldic monuments were doubtless intended to
operate as public evidences of the passage of each lord-deputy to his
delegated government. They now seem only to be preserved for the
gratification of the vanity of the capital innkeepers, by showing to
humble travellers that such and such lord lieutenants did them the
honour to stop at their houses; and yet I will not say, but that for
half-a-crown handsomely offered to his excellency’s gentleman, they
might likewise become part of the furniture of every ale-house in
Dunstable.

After fruitless inquiry, accident furnished me with the ground of this
custom, which now only serves to excite a little transitory curiosity.
Having occasion to look into sir Dudley Digge’s “Complete Ambassador,”
published in 1654, I was obliged to the editor for a solution, who, in
the preface, (signed A. H.,) speaking of the reserve of the English
ambassadors, in not making public their negotiations, has this
observation--“We have hardly any notion of them but by their arms, which
are hung up in inns where they passed.”

This paragraph at once accounts for the point before us, and is
sufficient, at the same time, to show that the custom was anciently, and
even in the seventeenth century, common to every ambassador, though it
now only survives with those who go in the greater and more elevated
line of royal representation to Ireland.

  SAMUEL PEGGE.[193]

  [193] Curialia Miscellanea.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


THE BACHELOR’S PLAINT.

AN ODE OF THE OLDEN TIME.

    Hark! the curfew, friend to night,
    Banishes the cheerful light;
    Now the scholar, monk, and sage--
    All by lamp that con the page--
    All to whom the light is dear
    Sigh that sullen knell to hear!
    Labour now with day is done;
    To the wave the weary sun
    Rushes, from its cool to borrow
    Vigour for his course to-morrow:
    Yet, in kindness, scorning quite
    Thus to rob the world of light,
    He lends the moon his useful beams,
    And through the night by proxy gleams.
    Kine unyok’d, sheep safely penn’d,
    Ploughmen, hind, and shepherd wend
    To the hostel’s welcome latch,
    From the tankard’s draught to snatch
    Strength, relax’d, which, blithe of strain,
    Deeds of day they act again!
    Now the nightingale’s sad note
    Through the listening air ’gins float,
    Warning youth in warded tower,
    Maiden in her greenwood bower;
    ’Tis the very witching time,
    Dear alike to love and rhyme!
    Every lover, at the strain,
    Speeds the shady grove to gain,
    Where awaits the treasur’d maid;
    Where each care and toil’s repaid!
    Each fond heart now lightly veers,
    With alternate hopes and fears;
    Each fond heart now sweetly glows,
    With love’s rapturous joys and woes;
    Each fond heart--ah, why not mine!--
    Gently hails the day’s decline;
    But, alas! mine,--woe is me!--
    Is benumb’d by apathy;
    Is indifference’ dull throne--
    There she reigns, unmov’d, alone!
    There one stagnant calm presides,
    Chilling all sweet feelings’ tides!
    Ah, methinks, I fierce despair
    Better than such calm could bear:
    I have nought to hope or fear--
    No emotion claims a tear--
    No soft rapture wakes a smile,
    Meeding centuries of toil!
    Listless, sad, forlorn, I rove,
    Feeling still the heart wants Love!
    Nought to me can pleasure give,
    Shadow of the dead I live!
    No sweet maid’s consenting blush
    On my cheek brings rapture’s flush!
    No fond maiden’s tender tear
    Thrills my soul with transports dear!
    No kind maiden’s kiss bestows
    Blest reward for all my woes!
    No sweet maid’s approving smile
    Beams my labours to beguile!
    Best incentive Love can claim,
    Leading age to wealth and fame.
    A lone and lonely being I,
    Only seem to live--to die!
    With mankind my vacant heart
    Feels as if it had no part!
    Love, thy slave I’d rather be,
    Than free, if this is being free!
    Rather feel thy worst annoy,
    Than live and never know thy joy!
    Come, then, let thy keenest dart,
    Drive this loath’d Freedom from my heart:
    I’ll bear whole ages of thy pain,
    One moment of thy bliss to gain!

  W. T. M.

  _May, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


BRUMMELLIANA.

A great deal used to be said of Beau Nash and his witticisms; but
certainly we never met with any thing of his which was at all equal to
the oracular sentences of the gentleman who gives a name to this
article. Of all the beaux that ever flourished--at least, of all that
ever flourished on the same score--exemplary of waistcoat, and having
authoritative boots from which there was no appeal--he appears to us to
have been the only one who made a proper and perfect union of the
coxcombical and ingenious. Other men may have been as scientific on the
subject of bibs, in a draper-like point of view; and others may have
said as good things, which had none of the colouring arising out of the
consciousness of fashionable preeminence. Beau _Fielding_, we believe,
stands on record as the handsomest of beaux. There is Beau
_Skeffington_, now rather sir Lumley, who, under all his double-breasted
coats and waistcoats, never had any other than a single-hearted soul; he
is to be recorded as the most amiable of beaux; but Beau Brummell for
your more than finished coxcomb. He could be grave enough, but he was
any thing but a solemn coxcomb. He played with his own sceptre. It was
found a grand thing to be able to be a consummate <DW2>, and yet have the
credit of being something greater; and he was both. Never was any thing
more exquisitely conscious, yet indifferent; extravagant, yet judicious.
His superiority in dress gave such importance to his genius, and his
genius so divested of insipidity his superiority in dress, that the
poet’s hyperbole about the lady might be applied to his coat; and

    “You might almost say the body thought.”

It was a moot point which had the more tact, his gloves or his fingers’
ends. He played the balls of wit and folly so rapidly about his head,
that they lost their distinctions in one crowning and brilliant halo.

Mr. Brummell, it is true, is no longer in favour as a settler of
fashions. Why, it is not our business to inquire. But though it may be
said of his waistcoat, like Troy, that it _was_, his wit _is_, and will
remain; and here, for the first time, a few specimens of it are
collected. If George Etheridge himself would not have acknowledged a
brother in George Brummell, then are no two gloves of a colour.

To begin with what is usually reckoned the prince of his good things.
Mr. Brummell having fallen out of favour with an illustrious person,
was of course to be _cut_, as the phrase is, when met in public. Riding
one day with a friend, who happened to be otherwise regarded, and
encountering the personage in question, who spoke to the friend without
noticing Mr. Brummell, he affected the air of one who waits aloof while
a stranger is present; and then, when the great man was moving off, said
to his companion, loud enough for the other to hear, and placidly
adjusting his bibs, “Eh! who is our fat friend?”

Having taken it into his head, at one time, to eat no vegetables, and
being asked by a lady if he had never eaten any in his life, he said,
“Yes, madam, I once eat a pea.”

Being met limping in Bond-street, and asked what was the matter, he said
he had hurt his leg, and “the worst of it was, it was his favourite
leg.”

Somebody inquiring where he was going to dine next day, was told that he
really did not know: “they put me in my coach and take me somewhere.”

He pronounced of a fashionable tailor that he made a good coat, an
exceedingly good coat, all but the collar: nobody could achieve a good
collar but Jenkins.

Having borrowed some money of a city beau, whom he patronised in return,
he was one day asked to repay it; upon which he thus complained to a
friend: “Do you know what has happened?”--“No.”--“Why, do you know,
there’s that fellow, Tomkins, who lent me five hundred pounds, has had
the face to ask me for it; and yet I had called the dog ‘Tom,’ and let
myself dine with him.”

“You have a cold, Mr. Brummell,” observed a sympathizing group. “Why do
you know,” said he, “that on the Brighton road, the other day, that
infidel, Weston, (his valet,) put me into a room with a damp stranger.”

Being asked if he liked port, he said, with an air of difficult
recollection, “Port? port?--Oh, _port_!--Oh, ay; what, the hot
intoxicating liquor so much drank by the lower orders?”

Going to a rout, where he had not been invited, or rather, perhaps,
where the host wished to mortify him, and attempted it, he turned
placidly round to him, and, with a happy mixture of indifference and
surprise, asked him his _name_. “Johnson,” was the answer. “Jauhnson,”
said Brummell, recollecting, and pretending to feel for a card; “Oh, the
name, I remember, was Thaun-son (Thompson;) and Jauhnson and Thaunson,
you know, Jauhnson and Thaunson, are really so much the same kind of
thing!”

A beggar petitioned him for charity “even if it was only a
farthing.”--“Fellow,” said Mr. Brummell, softening the disdain of the
appellation in the gentleness of his tone, “I don’t know the coin.”

Having thought himself invited to somebody’s country seat, and being
given to understand, after one night’s lodging, that he was in error, he
told an unconscious friend in town who asked him what sort of a place it
was, that it was an “exceedingly good place for stopping one night in.”

Speaking lightly of a man, and wishing to convey his maximum of
contemptuous feeling about him, he said, “He is a fellow, now, that
would send his plate up twice for soup.”

It was his opinion, that port, and not porter, should be taken with
cheese. “A gentleman,” said he, “never _malts_ with his cheese, he
always _ports_.”

It being supposed that he once failed in a matrimonial speculation,
somebody condoled with him; upon which he smiled, with an air of better
knowledge on that point, and said, with a sort of indifferent feel of
his neckcloth, “Why, sir, the truth is, I had great reluctance in
cutting the connection; but what could I do? (Here he looked deploring
and conclusive.) Sir, I discovered that the wretch positively ate
cabbage.”

Upon receiving some affront from an illustrious personage, he said that
it was “rather too good. By gad, I have half a mind to cut the young
one, and bring old G--e into fashion.”

When he went visiting, he is reported to have taken with him an
elaborate dressing apparatus, including a silver basin; “For,” said he,
“it is impossible to spit in clay.”

On being asked by a friend, during an unseasonable summer, if he had
ever seen such a one? “Yes,” replied B. “last winter.”

On a reference being made to him as to what sum would be sufficient to
meet the annual expenditure for clothes, he said, “that with a moderate
degree of prudence and economy, he thought it might be managed for eight
hundred per annum.”

He told a friend that he was reforming his way of life, “For instance,”
said he, “I sup early; I take a-a-little lobster, an apricot puff, or
so, and some burnt champaigne, about twelve; and my man gets me to bed
by three.”[194]

  [194] Literary Pocket Book.




Vol. I.--22.


[Illustration: ~The Crooked Billet, on Penge Common.~]

  _Friday, May, -- 1827._

I had appointed this morning with my friend W. for a visit to the
gallery of paintings at Dulwich College; and he was to obtain from a
printseller an admission ticket, and bring it with him. He came
furnished with the ticket, but as the ticket provided that the public
were not to be admitted on a Friday, our seeing the pictures was out of
the question. Neither of us, however, was in a humour to be disappointed
of a holiday; we therefore set out in the direction we had intended. A
coachman hailed us from the box of a Dulwich stage; we gave him an
assenting nod, and mounted the roof: and after a brisk drive through
Walworth and Camberwell, which are now no other way distinguishable from
the metropolis, than by the irregular forms and sizes of the houses, and
the bits of sickly grass and bottle-green poplars that further diversify
them, we attained to the sight of the first out-of-town looking trees
and verdure on the ascent towards Herne-hill. Here we began to feel
“another air;” and during the calm drive down the hill into Dulwich--the
prettiest of all the village entrances in the environs of London--we had
glimpses, between the elms and sycamores, of pleasant lawns And blooming
gardens, with bursts of the fine distances. The calm of the scene was
heightened by the note of the cuckoo: it was no “note of fear” to us--we
remembered our good wives surrounded by their families; they had greeted
our departure with smiles, and hopes that the day would be pleasant, and
that we should enjoy ourselves;--the mother and the children rejoiced in
“father’s holiday” as a day of happiness to them, because it would make
him happier.

Leaving Dulwich College on our right, with an useless regret, that, by
our mistake as to the day, the picture-gallery was closed to us, we
indulged in a passing remark on the discrepancies of the building--the
hall and west wing of the Elizabethan age; the east wing in the Vanbrugh
style; and the gallery differing from each. Alighting, just beyond, at
the end of the old road, and crossing to the new one in the same line,
we diligently perused an awful notice from the parochial authorities
against offenders, and acquainted ourselves with the rewards for
apprehending them. The board seemed to be a standing argument in behalf
of reading and writing, in opposition to some of the respectable
inhabitants of Dulwich, who consider ignorance the exclusive property of
labourers and servants, which they cannot be deprived of without injury
to their morals.

Ascending the hill, and leaving on the left hand a large house, newly
built by a rich timber-merchant, with young plantations that require
years of growth before they can attain sufficient strength to defend the
mansion from the winds, we reached the summit of the hill, and found a
direction-post that pointed us to a choice of several roads. We strolled
into one leading to Penge Common through enclosed woodlands. Our ears
were charmed by throngs of sweet singing birds; we were in a cathedral
of the feathered tribes, where “every denomination” chanted rapturous
praises and thanksgivings; the verger-robins twittered as they
accompanied us with their full sparkling eyes and bright liveried
breasts.--

    Chiefs of the choir, and highest in the heavens,
    As emulous to join the angels’ songs,
    Were soaring larks; and some had dared so far
    They seem’d like atoms sailing in the light;
    Their voices and themselves were scarce discern’d
    Above their comrades, who, in lower air
    Hung buoyant, brooding melody, that fell
    Streaming, and gushing, on our thirsty ears.
    In this celestial chancel we remain’d
    To reverence these creatures’ loud Te Deum--
    A holy office of their simple natures
    To Him--the great Creator and Preserver--
    Whom they instinctively adored.

A gate in the road was opened to us by a poor woman, who had seen our
approach from her road-side dwelling; she had the care of collecting the
toll from horsemen and carriage-drivers--we were _foot_-passengers, and
credited our tailors for the civility. At a few yards beyond this
turnpike we stopped to read a dictatorial intimation:--“All trespassers
on these woods will be prosecuted, and the constables have orders to
take them into custody.” I am not sure that there is a “physiognomy of
hand-writing,” but I am a believer in the physiognomy of style, and the
features of this bespoke a Buonaparte of the hundred who had partaken of
the carvings under an enclosure-act. No part was fenced off from the
common road, and the land had been open to all till spoliation deprived
the commoners of their ancient right, and annexed the common soil to a
neighbouring domain. Whose it now is, by law, I know not, nor inquired.
I look around, and cottages have disappeared, and there are villas
instead; and the workhouses are enlarged, and, instead of labour,
tread-mills are provided. According to a political economist of ancient
times, “There is much food in the tillage of the poor;” and “He that
maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent.” To whom of old was it
said, “The spoil of the poor is in your houses?”

We lingered on our way, and passed a bridge over the canal, towards a
well-looking public-house, called “the Old Crooked Billet.” Before the
door is, what is called, a “sign,” which, according to modern usage, is
a sign-post, with a sign-board without a sign, inscribed with the name
of what the sign had been. Formerly this was a little ale-house, and to
denote its use to the traveller, the landlord availed himself of one of
the large old trees then before the door, and hung upon the lowest of
its fine spreading branches not the “sign” of the billet, but a real
“crooked billet:” this was the origin of “the Old Crooked Billet” on
(what _was_) Penge Common. We had set out late and loitered, and after a
brief reconnoitre entered the house in search of refreshment. The
landlord and his family were at dinner in a commodious, respectable bar.
He rose to us like “a giant refreshed,” and stood before us a
good-humoured “Boniface”--every inch a man--who had attained to strength
and fair proportion, by virtue of the ease and content wherein he lived.
We found from his notable dame that we could have eggs and bacon, and
spinach put into the pot from the garden, in a few minutes; nothing
could have been suggested more suitable to our inclination, and we had
the pleasure of being smiled into a comfortable parlour, with a
bow-window view of the common. The time necessary for the preparation of
our meal afforded leisure to observe the hostel. W. went out to pencil
the exterior in his sketch-book. Except for the situation, and the
broad, good-humoured, country face of our landlord, we might have
imagined ourselves in town; and this was the only uncomfortable feeling
we had. The sign-board on the other side of the road revealed the name
of our entertainer--“R. Harding,” and the parlour mantlepiece told that
he was a “Dealer in Foreign Wines, Segars, &c.” This inscription,
written in clerk-like German text, framed and glazed, was transportation
against my will, to the place from whence I came. Our attention was
diverted by the rolling up of a gig, espied afar off by “mine host,” who
waited at the door with an eye to business, and his hands in the pockets
of his jean jacket. The driver, a thin, sharp-featured, pock-faced man,
about forty, alighted with as much appearance of kindly disposition as
he could bring his features to assume, and begged the favour of an order
for “a capital article.” His presented card was received with a drop of
the landlord’s countenance, and a shake of the head. The solicitor--and
he looked as keenly as a Chancery-lane one--was a London
Capillaire-maker; he urged “a single bottle;” the landlord pleaded his
usage of sugar and demurred, nor could he be urged on to trial. Our
repast brought in, and finished with a glass of country brewed and a
segar, W. completed his sketch, and we paid a moderate charge, and
departed with “the Old Crooked Billet” as exhibited in the engraving.
The house affords as “good accommodation for man and horse” as can be
found in any retired spot so near London. Our stroll to it was
delightful. We withdrew along the pleasant road to the village of
Beckenham. Its white pointed spire, embowered in trees, had frequently
caught our sight in the course of the day, and we desired to obtain a
near view of a church that heightened the cheerful character of the
landscape. It will form another article--perhaps two.

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


~Witchcraft.~


THE MOUNTAIN ASH.

_To the Editor._

  _Witherslack, near Milnthorpe,
  Westmoreland._

Sir,--I think you have not celebrated in the _Every-Day Book_ the
virtues of the mountain ash, or as it is called in the northern
counties, the _Wiggen Tree_.--Its _anti-witching_ properties are there
held in very high esteem. No witch will come near it; and it is believed
that the smallest twig, which might cross the path of one of these
communers with the powers of darkness, would as effectually stop her
career, however wild it might be, or however intent she might be on the
business of evil, as did the “key-stane” of the bridge of Doon stop the
fiendish crew, that pursued poor Tam O’Shanter and his luckless mare
Maggie.

You are well aware that there are few places, especially in the country,
in which one of these agents of the devil, ycleped “witches,” does not
reside. She may always be known by her extreme penury and ugliness.
There is generally also a protuberance of flesh on some part of the neck
or jaw, by which it is known that she has sold herself to the father of
lies. She has usually a large black cat, of which she is prodigiously
fond, and takes special care. Some shrewdly suspect this to be the “old
gentleman” himself. She is very envious, and frequently makes malicious
prognostications of evil, which subsequent events but too faithfully
verify. She must therefore, with all these qualifications, be the
authoress of every mishap, which cannot more reasonably be accounted
for. For example, should the “auld witch” call at any farmhouse during
the operation of churning, and be suffered to depart without a sop being
thrown to her, in the shape of a small print of butter, you will be sure
to have many a weary hour of labour the next time you churn, before
butter can be obtained. And, therefore, to prevent the old beldam
introducing herself into the churn, the churn-staff must be made of the
“_Wiggen_ Tree,” and you will be effectually freed from her further
interference in that case. The cattle in the stables and cow-houses, if
she takes a spite against you, are frequently found, or dreaded to be
found, (for many an instance of such things is recorded on undoubted
testimony,) in a morning, tied together, standing on their heads, the
cows milked, and every other mischievous prank played, which a malicious
fiend could invent: and therefore to prevent all these dire ills, the
shafts of the forks, and all other utensils used in those places, must
be made of the all-powerful “Wiggen.” She frequently does the same
mischief in places far remote on the same night; and although old and
crippled, and showing “all the variety of wretchedness” by day, at night
she mounts her broomstick, and wings her airy course to the moon, if
need be. All honest people, who have a due regard to undisturbed
slumbers during the night, when all the world knows that

                     Church-yards yawn,
    And hell itself breathes forth contagion to the world,

take special care to have a branch of this never-failing antidote to
witchery at their bed heads. This has been the practice of my mother
ever since I can remember; she also carries a hare’s foot in her pocket,
to guard against all attacks in that quarter by day. You will think that
these precautions are very uncalled for, perhaps, at this time of day,
but such we have been in our generations, and such to a considerable
extent we _now are_, and therefore pray do record us.

  I remain, Sir, &c.

  CARLE.

       *       *       *       *       *


A PARTICULAR DIRECTION.

A few months ago a letter, bearing the following curious superscription,
was put into the post-office in Manchester:--“For Mr. Colwell that Keeps
the Shop in Back Anderson-st. to Bee Gave to Jack Timlen that Keeps the
pigs in his own Sellar in Back Anderson-st. the irish man that has the
Large family that bgs the mail from Mr. Colwell and milk to
Bolton.”[195]

  [195] Bolton Express.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XIX.

  [From the “Silver Age,” an Historical Play, by Thomas Heywood, 1613.]

_Proserpine seeking Flowers._

      _Pros._ O may these meadows ever barren be,
    That yield of flowers no more variety!
    Here neither is the White nor Sanguine Rose,
    The Strawberry Flower, the Paunce, nor Violet;
    Methinks I have too poor a meadow chose:
    Going to beg, I am with a Beggar met,
    That wants as much as I. I should do ill
    To take from them that need.--

       *       *       *       *       *

_Ceres, after the Rape of her Daughter._

      _Cer._ Where is my fair and lovely Proserpine?
    Speak, Jove’s fair Daughter, whither art thou stray’d
    I’ve sought the meadows, glebes, and new-reap’d fields
    Yet cannot find my Child. Her scatter’d flowers,
    And garland half-made-up, I have lit upon;
    But her I cannot spy. Behold the trace
    Of some strange wagon,[196] that hath scorcht the trees,
    And singed the grass: these ruts the sun ne’er sear’d.
    Where art thou, Love, where art thou, Proserpine?--

_She questions Triton for her Daughter._

      _Cer._----thou that on thy shelly trumpet
    Summons the sea-god, answer from the depth.
      _Trit._ On Neptune’s sea-horse with my concave trump
    Thro’ all the abyss I’ve shrill’d thy daughter’s loss.
    The channels clothed in waters, the low cities
    In which the water-gods and sea-nymphs dwell,
    I have perused; sought thro’ whole woods and forests
    Of leafless coral, planted in the deeps;
    Toss’d up the beds of pearl; rouzed up huge whales,
    And stern sea-monsters, from their rocky dens;
    Those bottoms, bottomless; shallows and shelves,
    And all those currents where th’ earth’s springs break in;
    Those plains where Neptune feeds his porpoises,
    Sea-morses, seals, and all his cattle else:
    Thro’ all our ebbs and tides my trump hath blazed her,
    Yet can no cavern shew me Proserpine.

_She questions the Earth._

      _Cer._ Fair sister Earth, for all these beauteous fields,
    Spread o’er thy breast; for all these fertile crops,
    With which my plenty hath enrich’d thy bosom;
    For all those rich and pleasant wreaths of grain,
    With which so oft thy temples I have crowned;
    For all the yearly liveries, and fresh robes,
    Upon thy summer beauty I bestow--
    Shew me my Child!
      _Earth._ Not in revenge, fair Ceres,
    That your remorseless ploughs have rak’t my breast,
    Nor that your iron-tooth’d harrows print my face
    So full of wrinkles; that you dig my sides
    For marle and soil, and make me bleed my springs
    Thro’ all my open’d veins to weaken me--
    Do I conceal your Daughter. I have spread
    My arms from sea to sea, look’d o’er my mountains,
    Examin’d all my pastures, groves, and plains,
    Marshes and wolds, my woods and champain fields,
    My dens and caves--and yet, from foot to head,
    I have no place on which the Moon[197] doth tread.
      _Cer._ Then, Earth, thou’st lost her; and, for Proserpine,
    I’ll strike thee with a lasting barrenness.
    No more shall plenty crown thy fertile brows;
    I’ll break thy ploughs, thy oxen murrain-strike:
    With idle agues I’ll consume thy swains;
    Sow tares and cockles in thy lands of wheat,
    Whose spikes the weed and cooch-grass shall outgrow,
    And choke it in the blade. The rotten showers
    Shall drown thy seed, which the hot sun shall parch,
    Or mildews rot; and what remains, shall be
    A prey to ravenous birds.--Oh Proserpine!--
    You Gods that dwell above, and you below,
    Both of the woods and gardens, rivers, brooks,
    Fountains and wells, some one among you all
    Shew me her self or grave: to you I call.

_Arethusa riseth._

      _Are._ That can the river Arethusa do.
    My streams you know, fair Goddess, issue forth
    From Tartary by the Tenarian isles:
    My head’s in Hell where Stygian Pluto reigns.
    There did I see the lovely Proserpine,
    Whom Pluto hath rapt hence; behold her girdle,
    Which on her way dropt from her lovely waist,
    And scatter’d in my streams.--Fair Queen, adieu!
    Crown you my banks with flowers, as I tell true.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Golden Age,” an Historical Play, by the same Author, 1611.]

_Sibilla, the Wife of Saturn, is by him enjoined to slay the new-born
Jupiter. None can do it for his smiles._

_Sibilla. Vesta. Nurse._

      _Sib._ Mother, of all that ever mothers were
    Most wretched! Kiss thy sweet babe ere he die,
    That hath life only lent to suffer death.
    Sweet Lad, I would thy father saw thee smile.
    Thy beauty, and thy pretty infancy,
    Would mollify his heart, were’t hew’d from flint,
    Or carved with iron tools from Corsic rock.
    Thou laugh’st to think thou must be kill’d in jest.
    Oh! if thou needs must die, I’ll be thy murtheress,
    And kill thee with my kisses, pretty knave.--
    And can’st thou laugh to see thy mother weep?
    Or art thou in thy chearful smiles so free,
    In scorn of thy rude father’s tyranny?
    I’ll kiss thee ere I kill thee: for my life
    The Lad so smiles, I cannot hold the knife.
      _Vest._ Then give him me; I am his Grandmother,
    And I will kill him gently: this sad office
    Belongs to me, as to the next of kin.
      _Sib._ _For heaven’s sake, when you kill him, hurt him not._
      _Vest._ Come, little knave, prepare your naked throat
    I have not heart to give thee many wounds,
    My kindness is to take thy life at once.
    Now--
    Alack, my pretty Grandchild, smilest thou still?
    I have lust to kiss, but have no heart to kill.
      _Nurse._ You may be careless of the King’s command
    But it concerns me; and I love my life
    More than I do a Stripling’s. Give him me,
    I’ll make him sure; a sharp weapon lend,
    I’ll quickly bring the Youngster to his end.--
    Alack, my pretty knave, ’twere more than sin
    With a sharp knife to touch thy tender skin.
    O Madam, he’s so full of angel grace,
    I cannot strike, he smiles so in my face.
      _Sib._ I’ll wink, and strike; come, once more reach him hither;
    For die he must, so Saturn hath decreed:
    ’Las, for a world I would not see him bleed.
      _Vest._ Ne shall he do. But swear me secrecy;
    The Babe shall live, and we be dangerless.

  C. L.

  [196] The car of Dis.

  [197] Proserpine; who was also Luna in Heaven, Diana on Earth.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE FIRST BUTTERFLY.

One of the superstitions prevailing in Devonshire is, that any
individual neglecting to kill the first butterfly he may see for the
season will have ill-luck throughout the year. The following recent
example is given by a young lady:--“The other Sunday, as we were walking
to church, we met a man running at full speed, with his hat in one hand,
and a stick in the other. As he passed us, he exclaimed, ‘I sha’n’t
hat’en now, I b’lieve.’ He did not give us time to inquire what he was
so eagerly pursuing; but we presently overtook an old man, whom we knew
to be his father, and who being very infirm, at upwards of seventy,
generally hobbled about by the aid of two sticks. Addressing me, he
observed, ‘My _zin_ a took away wan a’ my sticks, miss, wan’t be ebble
to kill’n now, though, I b’lieve.’ ‘Kill what?’ said I. ‘Why, ’tis a
butterfly, miss, the _furst_ hee’th a zeed for the year; and they zay
that a body will have cruel bad luck if a ditn’en kill a _furst_ a
zeeth.’”[198]

  [198] Dorset Chronicle, May, 1825.

       *       *       *       *       *


KING JAMES I. AT DURHAM.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--If you think the subjoined worthy of a place in your _Table Book_,
I shall feel glad to see it. I believe it has never been in print; it is
copied from an entry in one of the old corporation books.

  Yours, very truly,

  M. J.

  _Durham, May, 1827._

  THE MANNER OF THE KINGES MAJESTY COMING TO THE CITTIE OF DURHAM, ANNO
  DOM. 1617, AS FOLLOWETH.

Upon Good Friday, being the 18th of April, 1617, Mr. Heaborne, one of
his majesties gentlemen ushers spoke to George Walton, Maior, that it
was his majesties pleasure to come in state unto the cittie, and that it
were fitting that the maior and aldermen should be ready upon the next
daie following, being Satturdaie, to give their attendance upon his
majestie in some convenient place within the cittie; and the said maior
to have his _foot-cloth horse_ their ready to attend, which likewise was
done upon Elvet Bridge, near the tower thereof, being new rayled, within
the rayles of wood then made for that purpose: at which time his said
majesties said gentleman usher standing by the said maior and aldermen
till his majesties coming, when there was a speech delivered by the said
maior to his majestie, together with the maces and staffe; and at time
fitting in the same speech so made, a silver bowle gilt, with a cover,
was presented by the said maior to his majestie, which appeares as
followeth:--

“Most gracious soveraigne. What unspeakable joy is this your highness
presents unto us, your loving subjects; our tongues are not able to
utter, nor our meanes to shew you welcome. Your gracious majestie, at
your happie cominge hither with much peace and plentie found this cittie
inabled, with divers liberties and priveledges, all sovering pittie and
power spiritual and temporal being in yourself, gave unto us the same
againe; and afterwards, of your gracious bountie, confirmed them under
your great seal of England. We humbly beseech your majestie continue
your favours towards this cittie; and in token of our love and loyaltie,
crave the acceptance of this myte, and we shall be readie to the
uttermost expence of our dearest bloud, to defend you and your royal
progeny here on earth, as with our prayers to God to blesse you and all
yours in all eternitie.”

After which speech the maior was called by his majesties gentleman usher
to take his horse, and to ride before his majestie; immediate upon which
commandment made by his majesties gentleman usher, there was at the same
place, about forty yards distance, certayne verses spoken by an
apprentice of this cittie to his majestie, as followeth: after which,
the maior was placed in rank next the sword, and so rode forward,
carring the citties mace, to the church.

_To the Kinges most Excellent Majestie._

    “Durham’s old cittie thus salutss our king
    With entertainment, she doth homlie bring:
    And cannot smyle upon his majestie
    With shew of greatness; but humilitie
    Makes her express herself in modern guise
    Dejected to this north, bare to your eyes.
    For the great prelate, which of late adorde
    His dignities, and for which we implore
    Your highnesse aide to have a continuance--
    And so confirmed by your dread ---- arm.
    Yet what our royal James did grant herein,
    William, our bishoppe, hath oppugnant been;
    Small task to sway down smallnesse, where man’s might
    Hath greater force than equity or right.
    But these are only in your brest included
    From your most gracious grant. Therefore we pray,
    That the faire sunshine of your brightest daie,
    Would smyle upon this cittie with clere beams,
    To exhale the tempest off insuing streames.
    Suffer not, great prince, our ancient state,
    By one fore’d will to be depopulate,
    Tis one seeks our undoeing: but to you,
    Ten thousand hearts shall pray, and knees shall bowe
    And this dull cell of earth wherein we live,
    Unto your name immortal prayse shall give.
    Confirm our grant, good kinge. Durham’s old cittie
    Would be more powerful so it has Jame’s pittie.”


REMARK.

The complaint against the bishop arose from a suit which he had
instituted against the corporation in the Exchequer, for taking all the
bishop’s privileges and profits of the markets and courts into their own
hands, and for driving his officers by violence out of the tollbooth on
the 3d of October, (7th of James I.,) and preventing their holding the
courts there as usual, as well as for several other similar matters,
when judgment was given against the corporation on the 24th of June,
(8th of James I.,) 1611.

       *       *       *       *       *


MARCH OF INTELLECT.

Every intelligent mind of right reflection accords its wishes for
general enlightenment. It appears, from a fashionable miscellany, that a
late distinguished writer expressed himself to that effect; the
following are extracts from the article referred to. They contain, in
the sequel, a forcible opinion on the tendency of the present general
diffusion of literature.--


CONVERSATIONS OF MATURIN.

Maturin’s opinions of poetry, as of every thing else, were to be
inferred rather than gathered. It was very difficult to draw him into
literary conversation: like Congreve, he wished to be an author only in
his study. Yet he courted the society of men of letters when it was to
be had; but would at any time have sacrificed it to dally an hour in the
drawing-room, or at the quadrille. Sometimes, however, amongst friends
(particularly if he was in a splenetic mood) he freely entered into a
discussion upon the living authors of England, and delivered his
opinions rapidly, brilliantly, and with effect. On one occasion a
conversation of this description took place, in which I had the pleasure
of participating. I will recall the substance of it as well as I can. Do
not expect from Maturin the turgidity of Boswell’s great man, or the
amiable philosophy of Franklin: you will be disappointed if you
anticipate any thing profound or speculative from him; for at the best
of times he was exceedingly fond of mixing up the frivolity of a
fashionable conversazione with the most solid subjects.

I met him in the county of Wicklow on a pedestrian excursion in the
autumn; a relaxation he constantly indulged in, particularly at that
season of the year. It was in that part of the vale of Avoca, where
Moore is said to have composed his celebrated song: a green knoll forms
a gradual declivity to the river, which flows through the vale, and in
the centre of the knoll there is the trunk of an old oak, cut down to a
seat. Upon that venerable trunk, say the peasants, Moore sat when he
composed a song that, like the Rans de Vache of the Swiss, will be sung
amidst those mountains and valleys as long as they are inhabited.
Opposite to that spot I met Maturin, accompanied by a young gentleman
carrying a fishing-rod. We were at the distance of thirty miles from
Dublin; in the heart of the most beautiful valley in the island;
surrounded by associations of history and poetry, with spirits subdued
into tranquillity by the Italian skies above, and the peaceful gurgling
of the waters below us. Never shall I forget Maturin’s strange
appearance amongst those romantic dells. He was dressed in a crazy and
affectedly shabby suit of black, that had waxed into a “brilliant
polish” by over zeal in the service of its master; he wore no cravat,
for the heat obliged him to throw it off, and his delicate neck rising
gracefully from his thrice-crested collar, gave him an appearance of
great singularity. His raven hair, which he generally wore long, fell
down luxuriantly without a breath to agitate it; and his head was
crowned with a hat which I could sketch with a pencil, but not with a
pen. His gait and manner were in perfect keeping; but his peculiarities
excited no surprise in me, for I was accustomed to them. In a short time
we were seated on the banks of the Avoca, the stream cooling our feet
with its refreshing spray, and the green foliage protecting us from the
sun.

“Moore is said to have written his song in this place.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” replied Maturin. “No man ever wrote
poetry under a burning sun, or in the moonlight. I have often attempted
a retired walk in the country at moonlight, when I had a madrigal in my
head, and every gust of wind rang in my ears like the footsteps of a
robber. One robber would put to flight a hundred tropes. You feel uneasy
in a perfectly secluded place, and cannot collect your mind.”

“But Moore, who is a poet by inspiration, could write in any
circumstances?”

“There is no man of the age labours harder than Moore. He is often a
month working out the fag-end of an epigram. ’Pon my honour, I would not
be such a victim to literature for the reputation of Pope, the greatest
man of them all.”

“Don’t you think that every man has his own peculiarity in writing, and
can only write under particular excitements, and in a particular way?”

“Certainly. Pope, who ridiculed such a caprice, practised it himself;
for he never wrote well but at midnight. Gibbon dictated to his
amanuensis, while he walked up and down the room in a terrible passion;
Stephens wrote on horseback in a full gallop; Montaigne and
Chateaubriand in the fields; Sheridan over a bottle of wine; Molière
with his knees in the fire; and lord Bacon in a small room, which he
said helped him to condense his thoughts. But Moore, whose peculiarity
is retirement, would never come here to write a song he could write
better elsewhere, merely because it related to the place.”

“Why omit yourself in the list? you have your own peculiarity.”

“I compose on a long walk; but then the day must neither be too hot, nor
cold; it must be reduced to that medium from which you feel no
inconvenience one way or the other; and then when I am perfectly free
from the city, and experience no annoyance from the weather, my mind
becomes lighted by sunshine, and I arrange my plan perfectly to my own
satisfaction.”

“From the quantity of works our living poets have given to the public, I
would be disposed to say that they write with great facility, and
without any nervous whim.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“But lord Byron--he must write with great ease and rapidity?”

“That I don’t know; I never could finish the perusal of any of his long
poems. There is something in them excessively at variance with my
notions of poetry. He is too fond of the obsolete; but that I do not
quarrel with so much as his system of converting it into a kind of
modern antique, by superadding tinsel to gold. It is a sort of mixed
mode, neither old nor new, but incessantly hovering between both.”

“What do you think of Childe Harold?”

“I do not know what to think of it, nor can I give you definitively my
reasons for disliking his poems generally.”

“You have taken up a prejudice, perhaps, from a passage you have
forgotten, and never allowed yourself patience to examine it.”

“Perhaps so; but I am not conscious of a prejudice.”

“No man is.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“And which of the living poets fulfils your ideal standard of
excellence?”

“Crabbe. He is all nature without pomp or parade, and exhibits at times
deep pathos and feeling. His characters are certainly homely, and his
scenes rather unpoetical; but then he invests his subject with so much
genuine tenderness and sweetness, that you care not who are the actors,
or in what situations they are placed, but pause to recollect where it
was you met something similar in real life. Do you remember the little
story ‘Delay is Danger?’ I’ll recite you a few lines describing my
favourite scene, an autumn-evening landscape:--

    “On the right side the youth a wood survey’d,
    With all its dark intensity of shade;
    Where the rough wind alone was heard to move,
    In this, the pause of nature and of love,
    When now the young are rear’d, and when the old,
    Lost to the tie, grow negligent and cold--
    Far to the left he saw the huts of men
    Half hid in mist that hung upon the fen;
    Before him swallows, gathering for the sea,
    Took their short flights, and twitter’d on the lea
    And near the bean-sheaf stood, the harvest done,
    And slowly blacken’d in the sickly sun;
    All these were sad in nature, or they took
    Sadness from him, the likeness of his look,
    And of his mind--he ponder’d for a while,
    Then met his Fanny with a borrow’d smile.”

“Except Gray’s Elegy, there is scarcely so melancholy and touching a
picture in English poetry.”

“And whom do you estimate after Crabbe?”

“I am disposed to say Hogg. His Queen’s Wake is a splendid and
impassioned work. I like it for its varieties, and its utter simplicity.
What a fine image is this of a devoted vessel suddenly engulfed at sea:

    “Some ran to the cords, some kneel’d at the shrine.
    But all the wild elements seem’d to combine;
    ’Twas just but one moment of stir and commotion,
    And down went the ship like a bird of the ocean!”

“But do not altogether take me at my word in what I say of Crabbe and
Hogg. They have struck the chord of my taste; but they are not, perhaps,
the first men of the day. Moore is a writer for whom I feel a strong
affection, because he has done that which I would have done if I could:
but after him it would be vain to try any thing.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Is it your opinion that the swarm of minor poets and writers advance
the cause of literature, or that the public taste would be more refined
and informed, if those who administered to it were fewer and better?”

“I object to prescribing laws to the republic of letters. It is a free
republic, in which every man is entitled to publicity if he chooses it.
The effect unquestionably of a swarm of minor poets is the creation of a
false taste amongst a certain class; but then that is a class that
otherwise would have no taste at all, and it is well to draw their
attention to literature by any agency. In the next age their moral
culture will improve, and we shall go on gradually diminishing the
contagion.”[199]

  [199] New Monthly Magazine.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: “Sixpence a pound, fair cherries!”]

[Illustration: “Troop, every one!”

~Old London Cries~, No. II.]

We have here a print of the cherry-woman of a hundred years ago, when
cherries were so little grown, that the popular street cry was double
the price of the present day. Readers of the _Every-Day Book_ may
remember the engraving of the “London barrow-woman,” with her
cherry-cry--“round and sound”--the cherry-woman (that _was_) of our own
times--the recollection of whose fine person, and melodious voice, must
recur to every one who saw and heard her--a real picture to the mind’s
eye, discoursing “most excellent music.”

The man blowing a trumpet, “Troop, every one!” was a street seller of
hobby-horses--toys for the children of a hundred years ago. He carried
them, as represented in the engraving, arranged in a partitioned frame
on his shoulder, and to each horse’s head was a small flag with two
bills attached. The crier and his ware are wholly extinct. Now-a-days
we give a boy the first stick at hand to thrust between his legs as a
Bucephalus--the shadow of a shade:--our forefathers were better natured,
for they presented him with something of the semblance of the generous
animal. Is a horse now less popular with boys than then? or did they, at
that time, rather imitate the galloping of the real hobby-horse in the
pageants and mummeries that passed along the streets, or pranced in the
shows at fairs and on the stage? Be that as it may, this is a pretty
plaything for “little master;” and toymakers would find account in
reviving the manufacture for the rising generation. They have improved
the little girl’s doll, and baby-house: are they ignorant that boys, as
soon as they can walk, demand a whip and a horse?

       *       *       *       *       *


MR. HOBDAY’S GALLERY.

No. 54, PALL-MALL.

In addition to the associations for the exhibition and sale of pictures
by living artists, Mr. Hobday opened an establishment on the 21st of May
for the same purpose, adjoining the British Institution, This gentleman
is known to the public as a respectable portrait painter, with a taste
for art entitled to consideration for his present spirited endeavour in
its behalf.

In this exhibition there are performances of distinguished merit by
several eminent artists. The Upas, or poison-tree of Java, by Mr. Danby,
in illustration of the legend in Darwin’s Loves of the Plants, is a fine
picture, already known. Another by Mr. Danby--is a wood on the
sea-shore, with figures, Ulysses and Nausicaa, from Homer. A Fête
Champêtre, by Mr. Stothard, is one of a class of subjects, which its
venerable painter has distinguished by his magic pencil; Mr. Edwin
Landseer’s Lion disturbed at his repast, a forcible and well-remembered
effort of his genius, stands near it. Mr. Charles Landseer’s Merchant,
with Slaves and Merchandise, reposing in a Brazilian Rancho; the
Entombing of Christ, by Mr. Westall; landscapes, by Messrs. Daniel,
Glover, Hoffland, Laporte, Linnell, W. Westall, &c.; pictures by sir W.
Beechey, Messrs. Chalon, Kidd, Heaphy, Rigaud, Singleton, Stephanoff, J.
Ward, &c., grace the walls of the establishment. Every picture in this
gallery is for sale; and, under Mr. Hobday’s management, it promises to
be a means of introducing the public to an acquaintance with
distinguished works of art still remaining open to the selection of its
patrons.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Topography.~


ORIGINAL NOTICE.

_For the Table Book._

Denton-castle, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and on the north-west
side of Otley, was once the seat of the parliament’s general, Fairfax,
and came to the present family of Ibbetson by relationship. Prince
Rupert in passing by it on his march into Lancashire, in order to assist
the king’s troops in that quarter, was about to raze it, but going into
the house, he observed the pictures of the Manners and the Villiers,
Fairfax’s ancestors, and out of good will towards them he desisted. It,
however, was afterwards unfortunately destroyed by the carelessness of a
maid servant, who dropping asleep at the time she was picking feathers,
the candle fell into the feathers and burnt the house to the ground. In
a few years afterwards, it was rebuilt by the father of sir Henry
Ibbetson, bart. in the year 1721, and has this remarkable motto in the
pediment:--

    “Quod nec Jovis ira nec ignis nec poterit ferrum.”

VERSES

  To the memory of Denzil Ibbetson, fourth son of sir Henry Ibbetson,
  bart., who unfortunately lost his life by an accidental discharge of
  his gun when shooting at Cocken, near Durham, the seat of his aunt,
  lady Mary Carr, sister of Henry earl of Darlington--1774.

1.

    Thy fate, lamented Ibbetson, we were.
      With an unfeign’d and sympathetic tear;
    Thy virtues, on our mem’ries graven deep,
      Recall the painful thought of what was dear.

2.

    Yet ’tis not for thy sufferings, but our own,
      That heaves the heartfelt melancholy sigh,
    That death, which haply cost thee not a groan,
      Leaves us to mourn with what we ne’er can vie.

3.

    That life, good humour, and that manly sense,
      Those ever-pleasing ties, that friendly heart,
    Which but unwittingly could give offence,
      Disarm’d ev’n Death’s grim tyrant of his dart.

4.

    Without one pang or agonizing groan,
      Thy soul reliev’d forsook its vile abode,
    For joys more worthy of the good alone--
      “The bosom of thy Father and thy God.”

       *       *       *       *       *


PRONUNCIATION.

The difficulty of applying rules to the pronunciation of our language
may be illustrated in two lines, where the combination of the letters
_ough_, is pronounced in no less than seven different ways, viz. as _o_,
_uf_, _of_, _up_, _ow_, _oo_, and _ock_.

    Though the tough cough and hiccough plough me through;
    O’er life’s dark lough my course I still pursue.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


EMIGRATION OF THE ROOKS

FROM

CARLTON GARDENS, 1827.

    “I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau,
    If birds confabulate or no:--
    ’Tis certain they were always able,
    To hold discourse, at least in fable.”

  _Cowper._

    The mandate pass’d, the axe applied,
    The woodman’s efforts echoed wide;
    The toppling elm trees fell around,
    And cumbrous ruin strew’d the ground.
    The tuneful thrush, whose vernal song
    Was earliest heard the boughs among,
    Exil’d from grounds, where he was bred,
    To some far habitation fled;
    Remote from court and courtly strife,
    To pass a sober, quiet life.
    O’er head the Rooks, in circles flew,
    And closer still, and closer drew;
    Then perch’d amid the desolation,
    In senatorial consultation:
    The chairman, far advanc’d in age,
    A sapient-looking personage,
    Who long the councils of the land
    Had sway’d with a tenacious hand;
    --For e’en among the feather’d race,
    There are, who cling to pow’r and place:--
    There wanted not, among the throng,
    Those who averr’d, that much too long
    He had, within the sable state,
    Continued to adjudicate;--
    So tardily his judgments came,
    They injur’d his judicial fame;
    What, though they were unting’d by bribe,
    Or fear;--the sad impatient tribe,
    Who fed on Hope’s expectancies,
    Were ruin’d--by his just decrees!
    But to our tale:--the speaker now,
    Perch’d on an elm tree’s topmost bough,
    Had hush’d the multitude in awe,
    You might not hear a single “caw;”
    He then in pride of conscious pow’r,
    Commenc’d the bus’ness of the hour.
    “Ye rooks and daws in senate met;”
    He said, and smooth’d his breast of jet:
    “What crimes, among our sable band,
    Have brought this ruin on our land?
    Has murder mark’d our noonday flight?
    Or depredation in the night?
    Has rook or daw, in thought or word,
    Rebell’d against our Sovereign Lord?
    No! rather say, our loyalty
    Has echo’d oft, from tree to tree!
    Have we not, when the cannon’s sound
    Gave joyous intimation round,
    Of triumph won by land or sea,
    Join’d in the general jubilee?
    Why, then, ye advocates of _taste_,
    Lay ye our habitations waste?
    Why level low our rookery,
    And blot it out from memory?
    Man lacketh not a host of pleas,
    To vindicate his cruelties.
    ‘Improvement’s come!’ ’tis thus they rhyme
    ‘Upon the rolling car of Time.’[200]--
    Yes! come, if blessings they dispense,
    With due regard to feeling--sense;
    But when they emanate from pride,
    And scheme on scheme is multiplied,
    To beautify by acts like this,
    Their overgrown metropolis,
    To please the vitiate taste of men,
    They cease to be improvements then.
    ’Tis not enough, to please the eye,
    With terrace walks, and turrets high;
    With sloping lawns, and dark arcades;
    With cock-boat lakes, and forest glades,
    With schoolboy cataracts and jets;
    With Turkish mosques and minarets!
    Or Lilliputian arches, rich,
    Spanning a vegetating ditch!
    Improvement opes a nobler field,
    Than Grecian plinth and column yield!
    ’Tis when the streams of treasure flow,
    To lighten sorrow,--soften woe;--
    Rebuild the structure, ruin raz’d,
    Relume the eye, that want hath glaz’d:
    And flowing far from revelry,
    They cheer the sons of penury,
    Who sicken in the breeze of health!
    And starve, amid a nation’s wealth!
    To chase despair--and bring relief,
    For human crime, and human grief!
    These are thy triumphs, Virtue! these
    Are sparks of heav’n-born sympathies,
    That through man’s denser nature shine,
    And prove his origin divine!
    Oh! may we hope, in Britain’s school,
    There are, who, free from sophist rule,
    Have learnt not, ’neath Italian skies,
    Their native genius to despise;
    In whom, amid the bosom’s throes,
    The innate love of country glows!
    Assembled birds! it is for you
    To point the course we must pursue:
    Our monarch ne’er could contemplate
    Amid the recent change in state,
    That we, like other rooks, should be
    Exil’d from seats of royalty!
    Then let us humbly seek the throne,
    And make our common grievance known
    His Majesty will ne’er consent,
    That this, our sable parliament,
    Should thus be driv’n abroad to roam,
    And banish’d from our native home.”

      He ceas’d;--a shout of wild applause,
    Tumultuous burst, from rooks and daws!
    Ne’er yet, had yonder central sun,
    Since worlds had in their orbits run,
    Beheld upon a spot of earth
    So much of simultaneous mirth.
    Scarce had the turbulence subsided.
    When, as if Fate their joy derided,
    The hatchet reach’d with thund’ring stroke
    The tree from whence the Chairman spoke.
    Alas! the triumph was but brief;
    The sound struck awe--like midnight thief--
    The senate fled from falling trees,
    And stretch’d their pinions to the breeze:
    The shrubs behind Spring Garden-place
    Receiv’d the emigrated race.
    Now far from woodman’s axe, with care
    They build, and breed, and nestle there.

  T. T.

  [200]

    Come bright Improvement on the car of Time,
    And rule the spacious world from clime to clime.

  _Pleasures of Hope_


       *       *       *       *       *


MUSIC AND ANIMALS.

Bonaventure d’Argonne says, “Doubting the truth of those who say it is
natural for us to love music, especially the sounds of instruments, and
that beasts are touched with it, I one day, being in the country,
endeavoured to determine the point; and, while a man was playing on the
trump marine, made my observations on a cat, a dog, a horse, an ass, a
hind, cows, small birds, and a cock and hens, who were in a yard, under
a window on which I was leaning. I did not perceive that the cat was the
least affected; and I even judged, by her air, that she would have given
all the instruments in the world for a mouse, sleeping in the sun all
the time; the horse stopped short from time to time before the window,
lifting his head up now and then, as he was feeding on the grass; the
dog continued for above an hour seated on his hind legs, looking
steadfastly at the player; the ass did not discover the least indication
of his being touched, eating his thistles peaceably; the hind lifted up
her large wide ears, and seemed very attentive; the cows slept a little,
and after gazing as though they had been acquainted with us, went
forward: some birds who were in an aviary, and others on the trees and
bushes, almost tore their throats with singing; but the cock, who minded
only his hens, and the hens, who were solely employed in scraping on a
neighbouring dunghill, did not show in any manner that they took the
least pleasure in hearing the trump marine.”

       *       *       *       *       *


IRISHMEN ON A HOLIDAY.

When they met at a “pattern,” (patron, perhaps,) or merry-making, the
lively dance of the girls, and the galloping jig-note of the bagpipes,
usually gave place to the clattering of alpeens, and the whoops of
onslaught; when one of them sold his pig, or, under Providence, his cow,
at the fair, the kicking up of a “scrimmage,” or at least the plunging
head foremost into one, was as much matter of course as the long
draughts of ale or whiskey that closed his mercantile transaction. At
the village hurling-match, the “hurlet,” or crooked stick, with which
they struck the ball, often changed its playful utility; nay, at a
funeral, the body was scarce laid in the grave, when the voice of petty
discord might be heard above the grave’s silence.

These contentions, like all great events, generally arose from very
trivial causes. A drunken fellow, for instance, was in a strange
public-house; he could not content himself with the new faces near him,
so struck at some three, six, or ten, as it might be; and, in course,
got soundly drubbed. On his return home he related his case of injury,
exhibiting his closed eye, battered mouth, or remnant of nose; enlisting
all his relatives, “kith-and-kin;” in fact, all his neighbours who liked
“a bit of diversion,” and they generally included the whole male
population able to bear arms. At the head of his faction he attended the
next fair, or other place of popular resort, where he might expect to
meet his foes; the noise of his muster went abroad, or he sent a
previous challenge: the opposite party assembled in as much force as
possible, never declining the encounter; one or other side was beaten,
and tried to avenge its disgrace on the first opportunity; defeat again
followed, and again produced like efforts and results; and thus the
solemn feud ran through a number of years and several generations.

A wicked, “devil-may-care” fellow, feverish for sport, would, at fair,
pattern, or funeral, sometimes smite another without any provocation,
merely to create a riot; the standers-by would take different sides, as
their taste or connections inclined them; and the fray, thus commencing
between two individuals who owed each other no ill-will, embroiled half
the assembled concourse. Nay, a youth, in despair that so fine a
multitude was likely to separate peaceably, stripped off his heavy
outside coat, and trailed it through the puddle, daring any of the
lookers on to tread upon it; his defiance was rarely ineffectual; he
knocked down, if possible, the invited offender; a general battle
ensued, that soon spread like wild-fire, and every “alpeen” was at work
in senseless clatter and unimaginable hostility.

The occurrence of the word “alpeen” seems to suggest a description of
the weapon of which it is the name, and this can best be given in a
piece of biographical anecdote.

Jack Mullally still lives in fame, though his valiant bones are dust. He
was the landlord of a public-house in a mountain district; a chivalrous
fellow, a righter of wrongs, the leader of a faction of desperate
fighting men, and, like Arthur, with his doughty knights, a match for
any four among them, though each a hero; and, above all, the armourer of
his department. In Jack’s chimney-corner hung bundles of sticks,
suspended there for the purpose of being dried and seasoned; and these
were of two descriptions of warlike weapons; shortish oaken cudgels, to
be used as quarter-staves, or, _par excellence_, genuine shillelaghs;
and the alpeens themselves,--long wattles with heavy knobs at the ends,
to be wielded with both hands, and competent, under good guidance, to
the felling of a reasonable ox.

Jack and his subjects, Jack and his alpeens, were rarely absent from any
fair within twenty miles, having always business on hands in the way of
their association. When a skirmish took place, the side that could
enlist in its interests Jack, his alpeens, and his merry men, was sure
of victory. The patriarch was generally to be found seated by his
kitchen fire; business was beneath him; he left all that to the
“vanithee;” and his hours lapsed, when matters of moment did not warn
him to the field, either in wetting his sticks with a damp cloth, and
then heating them over the turf blaze, to give them the proper curve;
or, in teaching a pet starling to speak Irish, and whistle “Shaun Buoy;”
or, haply, in imbibing his own ale or whiskey, and smoking his short
black pipe, or _doohdeen_, as himself termed it. And here he gave
audience to the numerous suitors and ambassadors who, day by day, came
to seek his aid, preparatory to a concerted engagement. His answer was
never hastily rendered. He promised, at all events, to be with his corps
at the appointed ground; and then and there he would proclaim of which
side he was the ally. This precautionary course became the more
advisable, as he was always sure of a request from both factions; and
time, forethought, and inquiry, were necessary to ascertain which side
might prove the weakest; for to the weakest (the most aggrieved formed
no part of his calculations) Jack invariably extended his patronage.

The _vanithee_, good woman, when she heard of an approaching fair, or
other popular meeting, immediately set about preparing plasters and
ointments; and this resulted from a thrifty forecast; for were she to
call in a doctor every time her husband’s head wanted piecing, it would
run away with the profits of her business. Jack, indeed, never forgot
his dignity so far as to inform his wife that he intended being engaged
on such occasions; but she always took it for granted, and with the
bustle of a good housewife, set about her preparations accordingly:
till, at length, a breach happened in his skull which set her art at
defiance; and ever since she lives the sole proprietor of the
public-house where Jack once reigned in glory. The poor widow has
thriven since her husband’s death; and is now rich, not having lately
had Jack’s assistance in spending, (she never had it in earning.) She
recounts his exploits with modest spirit; and one blessing at least has
resulted from her former matronly care of the good man--she is the Lady
Bountiful of her district; a quack it may be, yet sufficiently skilful
for the uncomplicated ailments of her country customers.[201]

  [201] Tales of the O’Hara Family. _First Series._

       *       *       *       *       *


LONDON HOLIDAYS.

Holidays, like all other natural and lively things, are good things; and
the abuse does not argue against the use. They serve to keep people in
mind that there is a green and glad world, as well as a world of brick
and mortar and money-getting. They remind them disinterestedly of one
another, or that they have other things to interchange besides bills and
commodities. If it were not for holidays and poetry, and such like
stumbling blocks to square-toes, there would be no getting out of the
way of care and common-places.--They keep the world fresh for
improvement. The great abuse of holidays is when they are too few. There
are offices, we understand, in the city, in which, with the exception of
Sundays, people have but one holiday or so throughout the year, which
appears to us a very melancholy hilarity. It is like a single living
thing in a solitude, which only adds to the solitariness. A clerk
issuing forth on his exclusive Good Friday must in vain attempt to be
merry, unless he is a very merry person at other times. He must be
oppressed with a sense of all the rest of the year. He cannot have time
to smile before he has to be grave again. It is a difference, a dream, a
wrench, a lay-sabbath, any thing but a holiday. There was a Greek
philosopher, who, when he was asked on his death-bed what return could
be made him for the good he had done his country, requested that all the
little boys might have a holiday on the anniversary of his birth-day.
Doubtless they had many besides, and yet he would give them another.
When we were at school, we had a holiday on every saint’s day, and this
was pretty nearly all that we, or, indeed, any one else, knew of some of
those blessed names in the calendar. When we came to know that they had
earned this pleasure for us by martyrdom and torment, we congratulated
ourselves that we had not known it sooner; and yet, upon the principle
of the Greek philosopher, perhaps a true lover of mannikin-kind would
hardly object to have his old age burnt out at the stake, if he could
secure to thousands hereafter the beatitude of a summer’s holiday.[202]

  [202] Literary Pocket Book.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE HUSBANDMEN OF HINDU.

They are generally termed Koonbees, and on the whole they are better
informed than the lower classes of our own countrymen; they certainly
far surpass them in propriety and orderliness of demeanour. They are
mild and unobtrusive in their manners, and quickly shrink from any thing
like an opposite behaviour in others. Litigation is not a marked part of
their character. They are forgetful of injury; or if they harbour
animosity, they are seldom hurried by it into acts of violence or
cruelty. Custom has taught them not to have much respect for their
women, or rather, indeed, to look on them with contempt; but they are
always indulgent to them, and never put any restraint on their liberty.
The great attachment they have to their children forms an amiable part
of their character. They are usually frugal, inclining to parsimony, and
not improvident; but at their marriage feasts they are lavish and
profuse, and on these and other occasions often contract debts that are
a burden to them for life. Their religion strongly enjoins charity, and
they are disposed to be hospitable, but their extreme poverty is a bar
to their being extensively so. No person, however, would ever be in
want of a meal amongst them, and they are always kind and attentive to
strangers when there is nothing offensive in their manners. They are
just in their dealings amongst themselves, but would not be scrupulous
in overreaching government or those without. Theft is scarcely known
amongst them, and the voice of the community is loud against all
breaches of decorum, and attaches weight and respectability to virtuous
conduct in its members. The vices of this people, which they owe chiefly
to their government, are dissimulation, cunning, and a disregard to
truth. They are naturally timid, and will endeavour to redress their
wrongs rather by stratagem than more generous means; when roused,
however, they will be found not without courage, nor by any means
contemptible enemies. Although not remarkable for sharpness, they are
not wanting in intelligence. They are all minutely informed in every
thing that relates to their own calling. They are fond of conversation,
discuss the merits of different modes of agriculture, the characters of
their neighbours, and every thing that relates to the concerns of the
community, and many of them are not without a tolerable knowledge of the
leading events of the history of their country.

The Hindu husbandman rises at cock crow, washes his hands, feet, and
face, repeats the names of some of his gods, and perhaps takes a whiff
of his pipe or a quid of tobacco, and is now ready to begin his labour.
He lets loose his oxen, and drives them leisurely to his fields,
allowing them to graze, if there is any grass on the ground, as they go
along, and takes his breakfast with him tied up in a dirty cloth, or it
is sent after him by one of his children, and consists of a cake (made
unleavened of the flour of Badjeree or Juwaree,) and some of the cookery
of the preceding day, or an onion or two. On reaching his field it is
perhaps seven or eight o’clock; he yokes his oxen, if any of the
operations of husbandry require it, and works for an hour or two, then
squats down and takes his breakfast, but without loosing his cattle. He
resumes his work in a quarter of an hour, and goes on till near twelve
o’clock, when his wife arrives with his dinner. He then unyokes his
oxen, drives them to drink, and allows them to graze or gives them
straw; and takes his dinner by the side of a well or a stream, or under
the shade of a tree if there happens to be one, and is waited on during
his meal by his wife. After his dinner he is joined by any of his
fellow labourers who may be near, and after a chat takes a nap on his
spread cumley or jota for half an hour, while his wife eats what he has
left. He yokes his cattle again about two or half-past two o’clock, and
works till sunset, when he proceeds leisurely home, ties up and feeds
his oxen, then goes himself to a brook, bathes and washes, or has hot
water thrown over him by his wife at home. After his ablutions, and
perhaps on holidays anointing himself with sandal wood oil, he prays
before his household gods, and often visits one or more of the village
temples. His wife by this time has prepared his supper, which he takes
in company with the males of the family. His principal enjoyment seems
to be between this meal and bed-time, which is nine or ten o’clock. He
now fondles and plays with his children, visits or is visited by his
neighbours, and converses about the labour of the day and concerns of
the village, either in the open air or by the glimmering light of a
lamp, learns from the shopkeeper or beadle what strangers have passed or
stopped at the village, and their history, and from any of the community
that may have been at the city (Poohnah) what news he has brought. In
the less busy times, which are two or three months in the year, the
cultivators take their meals at home, and have sufficient leisure for
amusement. They then sit in groups in the shade and converse, visit
their friends in the neighbouring villages, go on pilgrimages, &c. &c.

The women of the cultivators, like those of other Asiatics, are seldom
the subject of gallantry, and are looked on rather as a part of their
live stock than as companions, and yet, contrary to what might be
expected, their condition seems far from being unhappy. The law allows a
husband to beat his wife, and for infidelity to maim her or else put her
to death; but these severities are seldom resorted to, and rarely any
sort of harsh behaviour. A man is despised who is seen much in company
with women. A wife, therefore, never looks for any fondling from her
husband; it is thought unbecoming in him even to mention her name, and
she is never allowed to eat in company with him, from the time of their
wedding dinner; but patiently waits on him during his meals, and makes
her repast on what he leaves. But setting aside these marks of contempt,
she is always treated with kindness and forbearance, unless her conduct
is very perverse and bad, and she has her entire liberty. The women have
generally the sole direction of household affairs, and if clever,
notwithstanding all their disadvantages, not unfrequently gain as great
an ascendancy over their lords as in other parts of the world.[203]

  [203] Mr. Coates in Trans. Bombay Lit. Soc.

       *       *       *       *       *


ROUND ROBIN.

It was customary among the ancients to write names, whether of the gods,
or of their friends, in a circle, that none might take offence at seeing
another’s name preferred to his own. The Cordeliers have formerly been
known to have paid the same attention to delicacy, and when a pope has
demanded the names of some priests of their order, that one might be
raised to the purple, they have sent those names written circularly,
that they might not seem to recommend one more than another. The race of
sailors are the only people who preserve this very ancient custom in its
purity, for when any remonstrance is on foot among them, they sign it in
a circle, and call it a _round robin_.

       *       *       *       *       *


NAMES.

Toward the middle of the fifteenth century, it was the fancy of the wits
and learned men of the age, particularly in Italy, to change their
baptismal names for classical ones. As Sannazarius, for instance, who
altered his own plain name “Jacopo” to “Actius Syncerus.” Numbers did
the same, and among the rest, Platina the historian, at Rome, who, not
without a solemn ceremonial, took the name of “Callimachus,” instead of
“Philip.” Pope Paul II., who reigned about that time, unluckily chanced
to be suspicious, illiterate, and heavy of comprehension. He had no idea
that persons could wish to alter their names, unless they had some bad
design, and actually scrupled not to employ imprisonment, and other
violent methods, to discover the fancied mystery. Platina was most
cruelly tortured on this frivolous account; he had nothing to confess,
so the pope, after endeavouring in vain to convict him of heresy,
sedition, &c. released him, after a long imprisonment.

       *       *       *       *       *

Formerly there were many persons surnamed _Devil_. In an old book, the
title of which does not recur, mention is made of one Rogerius Diabolus,
lord of Montresor.

An English monk, “Willelmus, cognomento Diabolus,” and another person,
“Hughes le Diable, lord of Lusignan.”

Robert, duke of Normandy, son to William the Conqueror, was surnamed
“the Devil.”

In Norway and Sweden there were two families of the name of “Trolle,” in
English “Devil,” and every branch of these families had an emblem of the
“Devil” for their coat of arms.

In Utrecht there was a family of “Teufels,” or “Devils,” and another in
Brittany named “Diable.”

       *       *       *       *       *


A SEA BULL.

An Irishman, who served on board a man of war in the capacity of a
waister, was selected by one of the officers to haul in a tow-line of
considerable length, which was towing over the tafrail. After rowsing in
forty or fifty fathoms, which had put his patience severely to proof, as
well as every muscle of his arms, he muttered to himself, “Sure, it’s as
long as to day and to-morrow! It’s a good week’s work for any five in
the ship!--Bad luck to the arm or leg it’ll leave me at last!--What!
more of it yet!--Och, murder; the sa’s mighty deep to be sure!”--After
continuing in a similar strain, and conceiving there was little
probability of the completion of his labour, he suddenly stopped short,
and addressing the officer of the watch, exclaimed, “Bad manners to me,
sir, if I don’t think somebody’s _cut off the other end of it_!”

       *       *       *       *       *


CHEERFUL FUNERAL.

Lodovick Cortusius, an eminent lawyer, who died at Padua on the 15th of
July, 1518, when upon his death-bed forbad his relations to shed tears
at his funeral, and even put his heir under a heavy penalty if he
neglected to perform his orders. On the other hand, he ordered
musicians, singers, pipers, and fiddlers, of all kinds, to supply the
place of mourners, and directed that fifty of them should walk before
his corpse with the clergymen, playing upon their several instruments;
for this service he ordered each of them half a ducat. He likewise
appointed twelve maids in green habits to carry his corpse to the church
of St. Sophia, where he was buried, and that they too as they went
along should sing aloud, having each of them, as a recompense, a
handsome sum of money allotted for a portion. All the clergy of Padua
marched before in long procession, together with all the monks of the
convent, except those wearing black habits, whom he expressly excluded
by his will, lest the blackness of their hoods should throw a gloom upon
the cheerfulness of the procession.

       *       *       *       *       *


ANECDOTE.

CHARLES I. AND PARLIAMENTS.

Mr. Pye, the late poet laureate, in his “Sketches,” says, “When I was at
Oxford, my tutor having the revisal of some papers relative to the civil
war, (I know not if they have been published,) showed me a letter from
one of the king’s secretaries, with remarks on the margin in the king’s
own handwriting. One expression particularly struck me, as seeming to
show his determination to lay aside the use of parliaments. The paper
was a circular request to some of the counties for their pecuniary
assistance, I believe on the Scots’ invasion. The words were, as nearly
as I can recollect, (sixteen years having elapsed since I saw the
letter,) ‘Your obliging me in this instance will induce me to ask your
aid in a manner more agreeable to yourselves.’ These words had a line
drawn through them; and there was written on the margin, in the king’s
hand: ‘I have SCORED out these words, as they seem to imply a promise of
calling a parliament, of which I have no intention.’”

       *       *       *       *       *


THE YANKEE CAUGHT IN HIS OWN TRAP.

_For the Table Book._

    A Pat--an odd joker--and Yankee more sly,
    Once riding together, a gallows pass’d by:
    Said the Yankee to Pat, “If I don’t make too free,
    Give that gallows its due, pray where then would you be?”
    “Why honey,” said Pat, “faith that’s easily known
    I’d be riding to town--by myself--all alone.”

  SAM SAM’S SON




Vol. I.--23.


[Illustration: ~Bridge on the Road to Beckenham.~]

    --Ancient Charity let flow this brook
    Across the road, for sheep and beggar-men
    To cool their weary feet, and slake their thirst.

  *

On our way from Penge,[204] W. thought this object worth sketching. He
occupied himself with his pencil, and I amused myself with dropping
grains of dust among a fleet of tadpoles on the yellow sands, and
watching their motions; a few inches from them, in a clearer shallow,
lay a shoal of stickle-backs as on their Dogger-bank: a thread and a
blood-worm, and the absence of my friend, and of certain feelings in
behalf of the worms, would have afforded me excellent sport. The rivulet
crosses the road from a meadow, where I heard it in its narrow channel,
and muttering inwardly “the rapids are near,” from the “Canadian
Boat-song,” I fell into a reverie on Wilson’s magnificent painting of
the falls of Niagara, in Mr. Landseer’s painting-room. While I seated
myself by the wayside, and, among ground-ivy and periwinkle,
discriminating the diminutive forms of trees in the varied mosses of an
old bank, I recollected descriptions I had read of transatlantic
scenery, and the gigantic vegetation on the Ohio and Mississipi.

A labourer told us, that this little brook is called “Chaffinch’s
River,” and that it springs from “the Alders,” near Croydon, and runs
into the Ravensbourne.

  [204] See p. 674.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XX.

  [From “Bussy D’Ambois his Revenge,” a Tragedy, by George Chapman,
  1613.]

_Plays and Players._

      _Guise._--I would have these things
    Brought upon Stages, to let mighty Misers
    See all their grave and serious mischiefs play’d,
    As once they were in Athens and old Rome.
      _Clermont._ Nay, we must now have nothing brought on Stages
    But puppetry, and pied ridiculous antics.
    Men thither come to laugh, and feed fool-fat:
    Check at all goodness there, as being profaned:
    When, wheresoever Goodness comes, she makes
    The place still sacred, though with other feet
    Never so much ’tis scandal’d and polluted.
    Let me learn any thing, that fits a man,
    In any Stables shewn, as well as Stages.--
      _Baligny._ Why, is not all the World esteem’d a Stage?
      _Clermont._ Yes, and right worthily; and Stages too
    Have a respect due to them, if but only
    For what the good Greek Moralist says of them:
    “Is a man proud of greatness, or of riches?
    Give me an expert Actor; I’ll shew all
    That can within his greatest glory fall:
    Is a man ’fraid with poverty and lowness?
    Give me an Actor; I’ll shew every eye
    What he laments so, and so much does fly:
    The best and worst of both.”--If but for this then,
    To make the proudest outside, that most swells
    With things without him, and above his worth,
    See how small cause he has to be so blown up;
    And the most poor man, to be griev’d with poorness;
    Both being so easily borne by expert Actors:
    The Stage and Actors are not so contemptful,
    As every innovating Puritan,
    And ignorant Swearer out of jealous envy,
    Would have the world imagine. And besides
    That all things have been liken’d to the mirth
    Used upon Stages, and to Stages fitted;
    The Splenetive Philosopher, that ever
    Laugh’d at them all, were worthy the enstaging:
    All objects, were they ne’er so full of tears,
    He so conceited, that he could distill thence
    Matter, that still fed his ridiculous humour.
    Heard he a Lawyer, never so vehement pleading,
    He stood and laugh’d. Heard he a Tradesman, swearing
    Never so thriftily, selling of his wares,
    He stood and laugh’d. Heard he a Holy Brother,
    For hollow ostentation, at his prayers
    Ne’er so impetuously, he stood and laugh’d.
    Saw he a Great Man, never so insulting,
    Severely inflicting, gravely giving laws,
    Not for their good but his--he stood and laugh’d.
    Saw he a Youthful Widow,
    Never so weeping, wringing of her hands
    For her dead Lord, still the Philosopher laugh’d.--
    Now, whether he supposed all these Presentments
    Were only maskeries, and wore false faces,
    Or else were simply vain, I take no care;
    But still he laugh’d, how grave soe’er they were.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Stoicism._

    ---- in this one thing all the discipline
    Of manners and of manhood is contain’d;
    A Man to join himself with the Universe
    In his main sway; and make (in all things fit)
    One with that All; and go on, round as it:
    Not plucking from the whole his wretched part,
    And into straits, or into nought revert;
    Wishing the complete Universe might be
    Subject to such a rag of it as He.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Apparitions before the Body’s Death_ SCOTICE, _Second Sight_.

    ---- these true Shadows of the Guise and Cardinal,
    Fore-running thus their Bodies, may approve,
    That all things to be done, as here we live,
    Are done before all times in th’ other life.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From “Satiromastix,” a Comedy, by Thomas Decker, 1602: in which Ben
  Jonson, under the name of Horace, is reprehended, in retaliation of
  his “Poetaster;” in which he had attacked two of his Brother
  Dramatists, probably Marston and Decker, under the names of Crispinus
  and Demetrius.]

      _Horace._ What could I do, out of a just revenge,
    But bring them to the Stage? they envy me,
    Because I hold more worthy company.
      _Demetrius._ Good Horace, no; my cheeks do blush for thine,
    As often as thou speaks’t so. Where one true
    And nobly-virtuous spirit for thy best part
    Loves thee, I wish one ten even from my heart.
    I make account I put up as deep share
    In any good man’s love, which thy worth owns,
    As thou thyself; we envy not to see
    Thy friends with bays to crown thy Poesy.
    No, here the gall lies; we that know what stuff
    Thy very heart is made of, know the stalk
    On which thy learning grows, and can give life
    To thy (once dying) baseness, yet must we
    Dance antics on thy paper.
      _Crispinus._ This makes us angry, but not envious.
    No; were thy warpt soul put in a new mould,
    I’d wear thee as a jewel set in gold.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Antipodes,” a Comedy, by Richard Brome, 1633.]

_Directions to Players._

      _Nobleman._ ---------My actors
    Are all in readiness, and I think all perfect,
    But one, that never will be perfect in a thing
    He studies; yet he makes such shifts extempore,
    (Knowing the purpose what he is to speak to),
    That he moves mirth in me ’bove all the rest.
    For I am none of those Poetic Furies,
    That threats the actor’s life, in a whole Play
    That adds a syllable, or takes away.
    If he can fribble through, and move delight
    In others, I am pleased.--     *     *     *     *
    Let me not see you now,
    In the scholastic way you brought to town with you,
    With see-saw sack-a-down, like a sawyer;
    Nor in a comic scene play Hercules Furens,
    Tearing your throat to split the audients’ ears;--
    And you, Sir, you had got a trick of late
    Of holding out your breech in a set speech;
    Your fingers fibulating on your breast,
    As if your buttons or your bandstrings were
    Helps to your memory; let me see you in’t
    No more, I charge you. No, nor you, Sir,
    In that o’er-action of your legs I told you of,
    Your singles and your doubles--look you--thus--
    Like one of the dancing-masters of the bear-garden;
    And when you’ve spoke, at end of every speech,
    Not minding the reply, you turn you round
    As tumblers do, when betwixt every feat
    They gather wind by firking up their breeches.
    I’ll none of these absurdities in my house;
    But words and actions married so together,
    That shall strike harmony in the ears and eyes
    Of the severest, if judicious, critics.
      _Players._ My Lord, we are corrected.
      _Nobleman._ Go, be ready.--
    But you, Sir, are incorrigible, and
    Take licence to yourself to add unto
    Your parts your own free fancy; and sometimes
    To alter or diminish what the writer
    With care and skill composed; and when you are
    To speak to your Co-actors in the scene,
    You hold interloqutions with the audients.
      _Player._ That is a way, my Lord, has been allowed
    On elder stages, to move mirth and laughter.
      _Nobleman._ Yes, in the days of Tarleton and Kemp,
    Before the Stage was purged from barbarism,
    And brought to the perfection it now shines with.
    Then Fools and Jesters spent their wits, because
    The Poets were wise enough to save their own
    For profitabler uses.--

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE DIVER OF CHARYBDIS.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--Mr. Brydone, in the quotations you have made,[205] appears to
doubt the accuracy of the stories relating to Charybdis. I never
recollect to have heard mention of the name of Colus, but apprehend he
was the same as the famous Sicilian diver, Nicolo Pesce. Associated with
Charybdis, some notice of this extraordinary man may not be
uninteresting.

The authenticity of this account depends entirely on the authority of
Kircher. He assures us, he had it from the archives of the kings of
Sicily; but its having so much of the marvellous in it, many have been
disposed to doubt its accuracy. Historians are too fond of fiction, but
we should by no means doubt their sincerity, when we find them on other
subjects not contemptible authorities.

“In the time of Frederic, king of Sicily, (says Kircher,) there lived a
celebrated diver, whose name was _Nicholas_, and who, from his amazing
skill in swimming, and his perseverance under the water, was surnamed
the _fish_. This man had from his infancy been used to the sea; and
earned his scanty subsistence by diving for corals and oysters, which he
sold to the villagers on shore. His long acquaintance with the sea at
last brought it to be almost his natural element. He was frequently
known to spend five days in the midst of the waves, without any other
provisions than the fish which he caught there, and ate raw. He often
swam over from Sicily into Calabria, a tempestuous and dangerous
passage, carrying letters from the king. He was frequently known to swim
among the gulfs of Lipari, no way apprehensive of danger.

“Some mariners out at sea one day observing something at a distance from
them, regarded it as a sea-monster; but upon its approach it was known
to be Nicholas, whom they took into their ship. When they asked him
whither he was going in so stormy and rough a sea, and at such a
distance from land, he showed them a packet of letters, which he was
carrying to one of the towns of Italy, exactly done up in a leather bag,
in such a manner that they could not be wetted by the sea. He kept them
company for some time in their voyage, conversing and asking questions;
and, after eating with them, took his leave, and jumping into the sea,
pursued his voyage alone.

“In order to aid these powers of enduring in the deep, nature seemed to
have assisted him in a very extraordinary manner; for the spaces between
his fingers and toes were webbed as in a goose: and his chest became so
very capacious, that he was able, at one inspiration, to take in as much
breath as would serve him a whole day.

“The account of so extraordinary a person did not fail to reach the king
himself; who commanded Nicholas to be brought before him. It was no
easy matter to find Nicholas, who generally spent his time in the
solitudes of the deep; but, at last, after much searching, he was
discovered, and brought before his majesty. The curiosity of this
monarch had long been excited by the accounts he had heard of the bottom
of the gulf of Charybdis; he now therefore conceived that it would be a
proper opportunity to obtain more certain information. He therefore
commanded the poor diver to examine the bottom of this dreadful
whirlpool; and, as an incitement to his obedience, he ordered a golden
cup to be thrown into it. Nicholas was not insensible of the danger to
which he was exposed; dangers best known only to himself, and therefore
he presumed to remonstrate; but the hopes of the reward, the desire of
pleasing the king, and the pleasure of showing his skill, at last
prevailed. He instantly jumped into the gulf, and was as instantly
swallowed up in its bosom. He continued for three quarters of an hour
below, during which time the king and his attendants remained on shore
anxious for his fate: but he at last appeared, holding the cup in
triumph in one hand, and making his way good among the waves with the
other. It may be supposed he was received with applause when he came on
shore; the cup was made the reward of his adventure; the king ordered
him to be taken proper care of; and, as he was somewhat fatigued and
debilitated with his labour, after a hearty meal he was put to bed, and
permitted to refresh himself with sleeping.

“When his spirits were thus restored, he was again brought before the
king, to satisfy his curiosity with a narrative of the wonders he had
seen; and his account was to the following effect:--He would never, he
said, have obeyed the king’s commands, had he been apprized of half the
dangers that were before him. There were four things, he said, which
rendered the gulf dreadful, not only to men but to the fishes
themselves. 1. The force of the water bursting up from the bottom, which
required great strength to resist. 2. The abruptness of the rocks, which
on every side threatened destruction. 3. The force of the whirlpool
dashing against these rocks. And, 4. The number and magnitude of the
polypous fish, some of which appeared as large as a man; and which,
every where sticking against the rocks projected their fibrous arms to
entangle him. Being asked, how he was able so readily to find the cup
that had been thrown in, he replied, that it happened to be flung by
the waves into the cavity of a rock against which he himself was urged
in his descent. This account, however, did not satisfy the king’s
curiosity. Being requested once more to venture into the gulf for
further discoveries, he at first refused: but the king, desirous of
having the most accurate information possible of all things to be found
in the gulf, repeated his solicitations; and to give them greater
weight, produced a larger cup than the former, and added also a purse of
gold. Upon these considerations the unfortunate diver once again plunged
into the whirlpool, and was never heard of more.”

This is Kircher’s account, some assertions of whom will undoubtedly
excite incredibility in the minds of all. I do not wish to offer any
remarks, but leave your readers to form their own opinions.

People, by being accustomed to the water from their infancy, may often,
at length, not only be enabled to stay much longer under water, but
putting on a kind of amphibious nature, have the use of all their
faculties as well under the water as on the dry land. Most savage
nations are remarkable for this; and, even among civilized nations, many
persons are found capable of continuing submerged for an incredible
time.

  I am, &c.,

  A. B.

  _Hackney, May, 1827._

  [205] At page 643, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *


COUNTRY LITTLE KNOWN.

We have to inform the public of a remarkable discovery, which, though
partially disclosed by former travellers, has still remained, for the
most part, a strange secret. It is this;--that there is actually, at
this present moment, and in this our own beautiful country of Great
Britain, a large tract of territory, which to nine hundred and
ninety-nine thousandths of our beloved countrymen is as much an
undiscovered land as the other end of New South Wales, or the Pole which
they have gone to find out. We have read of places in romance, which
were more shut out by magic from people’s eyes, though close to them,
than if a fifty-foot wall encircled them. It would seem as if some such
supernatural prohibition existed with regard to the land in question;
for the extremities of it reach to within a short distance from the
metropolis, which it surrounds on all sides; nay, we have heard of
persons riding through it, without seeing any thing but a sign-post or
some corn; and yet it is so beautiful, that it is called emphatically
“the country.”

It abounds in the finest natural productions. The more majestic parts of
it are at a distance, but the zealous explorer may come upon its gentler
beauties in an incredibly short time. Its pastures and cattle are
admirable. Deer are to be met with in the course of half a day’s
journey; and the traveller is accompanied, wherever he goes, with the
music of singing birds. Immediately towards the south is a noble river,
which brings you to an upland of the most luxuriant description, looking
in the water like a rich-haired beauty in her glass: yet the place is in
general solitary. Towards the north, at a less distance, are some other
hilly spots of ground, which partake more of the rudely romantic,
running however into scenes of the like sylvan elegance; and yet these
are still more solitary. The inhabitants of these lands, called the
country-people, seem, in truth, pretty nearly as blind to their merits
as those who never see them; but their perceptions will doubtless
increase, in proportion as their polished neighbours set the example. It
should be said for them, that some causes, with which we have nothing to
do in this place, have rendered them duller to such impressions than
they appear to have been a century or two ago; but we repeat, that they
will not live in such scenes to no purpose, if those who know better
take an interest in their improvement. Their children have an instinct
that is wiser, till domestic cares do it away. They may be seen in the
fields and green lanes, with their curly locks and brown faces,
gathering the flowers which abound there, and the names of which are as
pretty as the shapes and colours. They are called wild roses, primroses,
violets, the rose campion, germander, stellaria, wild anemone,
bird’s-eye, daisies and buttercups, lady-smocks, ground-ivy, hare-bells
or blue-bells, wake-robin, lillies of the valley, &c. &c. The trees are
oaks, elms, birches, ash, poplar, willow, wild cherry, the flowering
may-bush, &c. &c. all, in short, that we dote upon in pictures, and wish
that we had about us when it is hot in Cheapside and Bond-street. It is
perfectly transporting, in fine weather, like the present for instance,
to lounge under the hedge-row elms in one of these sylvan places, and
see the light smoke of the cottages fuming up among the green trees, the
cattle grazing or lying about with a heavy placidity accordant to the
time and scene, “painted jays” glancing about the glens, the gentle
hills sloping down into water, the winding embowered lanes, the leafy
and flowery banks, the green oaks against the blue sky, their ivied
trunks, the silver-bodied and young-haired birches, and the mossy grass
treble-carpeted after the vernal rains. Transporting is it to see all
this; and transporting to hear the linnets, thrushes, and blackbirds,
the grave gladness of the bee, and the stock-dove “brooding over her own
sweet voice.” And more transporting than all is it to be in such places
with a friend, that feels like ourselves, in whose heart and eyes
(especially if they have fair lids) we may see all our own happiness
doubled, as the landscape itself is reflected in the waters.[206]

  [206] The Indicator.

       *       *       *       *       *


SPECTROLOGY.

A REMARKABLE NARRATIVE.

Nicolai, the celebrated German bookseller, a member of the royal society
of Berlin, presented to that institution a memoir on the subject of a
complaint with which he was affected, and one of the singular
consequences of which was, the representation of various spectres. M.
Nicolai for some years had been subject to a congestion in the head, and
was blooded frequently for it by leeches. After a detailed account of
the state of his health, on which he grounds much medical as well as
psychological reasoning, he gives the following interesting narrative:--

In the first two months of the year 1791, I was much affected in my mind
by several incidents of a very disagreeable nature; and on the 24th of
February a circumstance occurred which irritated me extremely. At ten
o’clock in the forenoon my wife and another person came to console me; I
was in a violent perturbation of mind, owing to a series of incidents
which had altogether wounded my moral feelings, and from which I saw no
possibility of relief: when suddenly I observed at the distance of ten
paces from me a figure--the figure of a deceased person. I pointed at
it, and asked my wife whether she did not see it. She saw nothing, but
being much alarmed endeavoured to compose me, and sent for the
physician. The figure remained some seven or eight minutes, and at
length I became a little more calm; and as I was extremely exhausted, I
soon afterwards fell into a troubled kind of slumber, which lasted for
half an hour. The vision was ascribed to the great agitation of mind in
which I had been, and it was supposed I should have nothing more to
apprehend from that cause; but the violent affection having put my
nerves into some unnatural state, from this arose further consequences,
which require a more detailed description.

In the afternoon, a little after four o’clock, the figure which I had
seen in the morning again appeared. I was alone when this happened; a
circumstance which, as may be easily conceived, could not be very
agreeable. I went therefore to the apartment of my wife, to whom I
related it. But thither also the figure pursued me. Sometimes it was
present, sometimes it vanished; but it was always the same standing
figure. A little after six o’clock several stalking figures also
appeared; but they had no connection with the standing figure. I can
assign no other reason for this apparition than that, though much more
composed in my mind, I had not been able so soon entirely to forget the
cause of such deep and distressing vexation, and had reflected on the
consequences of it, in order, if possible, to avoid them; and that this
happened three hours after dinner, at the time when the digestion just
begins.

At length I became more composed with respect to the disagreeable
incident which had given rise to the first apparition; but though I had
used very excellent medicines, and found myself in other respects
perfectly well, yet the apparitions did not diminish, but, on the
contrary, rather increased in number, and were transformed in the most
extraordinary manner.

After I had recovered from the first impression of terror, I never felt
myself particularly agitated by these apparitions, as I considered them
to be what they really were, the extraordinary consequences of
indisposition; on the contrary, I endeavoured as much as possible to
preserve my composure of mind, that I might remain distinctly conscious
of what passed within me. I observed these phantoms with great accuracy,
and very often reflected on my previous thoughts, with a view to
discover some law in the association of ideas, by which exactly these or
other figures might present themselves to the imagination.--Sometimes I
thought I had made a discovery, especially in the latter period of my
visions; but, on the whole, I could trace no connection which the
various figures that thus appeared and disappeared to my sight had,
either with my state of mind or with my employment, and the other
thoughts which engaged my attention. After frequent accurate
observations on the subject, having fairly proved and maturely
considered it, I could form no other conclusion on the cause and
consequence of such apparitions than that, when the nervous system is
weak, and at the same time too much excited, or rather deranged, similar
figures may appear in such a manner as if they were actually seen and
heard; for these visions in my case were not the consequence of any
known law of reason, of the imagination, or of the otherwise usual
association of ideas; and such also is the case with other men, as far
as we can reason from the few examples we know.

The origin of the individual pictures which present themselves to us,
must undoubtedly be sought for in the structure of that organization by
which we think; but this will always remain no less inexplicable to us
than the origin of these powers by which consciousness and fancy are
made to exist.

The figure of the deceased person never appeared to me after the first
dreadful day; but several other figures showed themselves afterwards
very distinctly; sometimes such as I knew, mostly, however, of persons I
did not know, and amongst those known to me, were the semblances of both
living and deceased persons, but mostly the former; and I made the
observation, that acquaintances with whom I daily conversed never
appeared to me as phantasms; it was always such as were at a distance.
When these apparitions had continued some weeks, and I could regard them
with the greatest composure, I afterwards endeavoured, at my own
pleasure, to call forth phantoms of several acquaintance, whom I for
that reason represented to my imagination in the most lively manner, but
in vain.--For however accurately I pictured to my mind the figures of
such persons, I never once could succeed in my desire of seeing them
_externally_; though I had some short time before seen them as phantoms,
and they had perhaps afterwards unexpectedly presented themselves to me
in the same manner. The phantasms appeared to me in every case
involuntarily, as if they had been presented externally, like the
phenomena in nature, though they certainly had their origin internally;
and at the same time I was always able to distinguish with the greatest
precision phantasms from phenomena. Indeed, I never once erred in this,
as I was in general perfectly calm and self-collected on the occasion. I
knew extremely well, when it only appeared to me that the door was
opened, and a phantom entered, and when the door really was opened and
any person came in.

It is also to be noted, that these figures appeared to me at all times,
and under the most different circumstances, equally distinct and clear.
Whether I was alone, or in company, by broad daylight equally as in the
nighttime, in my own as well as in my neighbour’s house; yet when I was
at another person’s house, they were less frequent; and when I walked
the public street they very seldom appeared. When I shut my eyes,
sometimes the figures disappeared, sometimes they remained even after I
had closed them. If they vanished in the former case, on opening my eyes
again nearly the same figures appeared which I had seen before.

I sometimes conversed with my physician and my wife, concerning the
phantasms which at the time hovered around me; for in general the forms
appeared oftener in motion than at rest. They did not always continue
present--they frequently left me altogether, and again appeared for a
short or longer space of time, singly or more at once; but, in general,
several appeared together. For the most part I saw human figures of both
sexes; they commonly passed to and fro as if they had no connection with
each other, like people at a fair where all is bustle; sometimes they
appeared to have business with one another. Once or twice I saw amongst
them persons on horseback, and dogs and birds; these figures all
appeared to me in their natural size, as distinctly as if they had
existed in real life, with the several tints on the uncovered parts of
the body, and with all the different kinds of colours of clothes. But I
think, however, that the colours were somewhat _paler_ than they are in
nature.

None of the figures had any distinguishing characteristic; they were
neither terrible, ludicrous, nor repulsive; most of them were ordinary
in their appearance--some were even agreeable.

On the whole, the longer I continued in this state, the more did the
number of phantasms increase, and the apparitions became more frequent.
About four weeks afterwards I began to hear them speak: sometimes the
phantasms spoke with one another; but for the most part they addressed
themselves to me: those speeches were in general short, and never
contained any thing disagreeable. Intelligent and respected friends
often appeared to me, who endeavoured to console me in my grief, which
still left deep traces in my mind. This speaking I heard most
frequently when I was alone; though I sometimes heard it in company,
intermixed with the conversation of real persons; frequently in single
phrases only, but sometimes even in connected discourse.

Though at this time I enjoyed rather a good state of health, both in
body and mind, and had become so very familiar with these phantasms,
that at last they did not excite the least disagreeable emotion, but on
the contrary afforded me frequent subjects for amusement and mirth; yet
as the disorder sensibly increased, and the figures appeared to me for
whole days together, and even during the night, if I happened to awake,
I had recourse to several medicines, and was at last again obliged to
have recourse to the application of leeches.

This was performed on the 20th of April, at eleven o’clock in the
forenoon. I was alone with the surgeon, but during the operation the
room swarmed with human forms of every description, which crowded fast
one on another; this continued till half-past four o’clock, exactly the
time when the digestion commences. I then observed that the figures
began to move more slowly; soon afterwards the colours became gradually
paler; and every seven minutes they lost more and more of their
intensity, without any alteration in the distinct figure of the
apparitions. At about half-past six o’clock all the figures were
entirely white, and moved very little; yet the forms appeared perfectly
distinct; by degrees they became visibly less plain, without decreasing
in number, as had often formerly been the case. The figures did not move
off, neither did they vanish, which also had usually happened on other
occasions. In this instance they dissolved immediately into air; of some
even whole pieces remained for a length of time, which also by degrees
were lost to the eye. At about eight o’clock there did not remain a
vestige of any of them, and I have never since experienced any
appearance of the same kind. Twice or thrice since that time I have felt
a propensity, if I may be so allowed to express myself, or a sensation,
as if I saw something which in a moment again was gone. I was even
surprised by this sensation whilst writing the present account, having,
in order to render it more accurate, perused the papers of 1791, and
recalled to my memory all the circumstances of that time. So little are
we sometimes, even in the greatest composure of mind, masters of our
imagination.


[Illustration: ~The Porch of Beckenham Church-yard.~]

    Beyond the _Lich-gate_ stand ten ancient yews--
    Branching so high they seem like giant mutes,
    With plumes, awaiting rich men’s funerals
    And poor men’s bury’ngs:--stretching, over all,
    An arch of triumph for Death’s victories.

  *

Over the wickets to many of the church-yards in Kent is a shed, or
covered way, of ancient structure, used as a resting-place for funerals,
and for the shelter of the corpse until the minister arrives to commence
the service for the dead. This at Beckenham is one of the most perfect
in the county: the footway beyond, to the great entrance-door of the
church, is canopied by a grove of trees, “sad sociate to graves.” These
old church-yard buildings, now only seen in villages, were formerly
called _lich-gates_, and the paths to them were called _lich-lanes_, or
_lich-ways_.

The word _lich_ signified a corpse. Hence the death-owl was anciently
called the _lich-owl_.

    The shrieking _Litch-owl_, that doth never cry
    But boding death, and quick herself inters
    In darksome graves, and hollow sepulchres.

  _Drayton._

Also, from _lich_ is derived the name of the city of _Lichfield_, so
called because of a massacre on that spot.

    A thousand other saints whom Amphibal had taught,
    Flying the pagan foe, their lives that strictly sought,
    Were slain where _Litchfield_ is, whose name doth rightly sound
    There, of those Christians slain, _dead field_, or burying ground.

  _Drayton._

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


THE TWO GRAVES.

    In yonder cowslip’s sprinkled mead
      A church’s tapering spire doth rise,
    As if it were directing us
      Unto a fairer paradise;
    Within the yard, so fair and green,
    Full many a grave is to be seen.

    Often upon a summer’s eve
      The church-yard’s smooth, green sward I’ve trod!
    Reading the rugged epitaphs
      Of those who lie beneath the sod;
    But in one spot two graves were seen,
    Which always stopp’d my wandering.

    Upon one stone’s expansive front
      Was writ, in language stiff and cold,
    That he, who lay beneath that slab,
      Had died when he was very old;
    And at its close a simple line
    Said, that his age was ninety-nine.

    Another small and polish’d stone
      Beside the former did appear;
    It said, that that grave’s occupant
      Had died when in his third year:
    How eloquent the polish’d praise
    Lavish’d on that child’s winning ways!

    The old man lay beneath the stone,
      Where nought in praise of him was told;
    It only said, that there he lay,
      And that he died when he was old:
    It did not chronicle his years,
    His joys and sorrows--hopes and fears.

    Ninety-nine years of varying life
      On gliding pinions by had fled;
    (Oh what long years of toil and strife!)
      Ere he was number’d with the dead;
    But yet no line was left to tell
    How he had liv’d, or how he fell!

    Had he no wife,--no child,--no friend?
      To cheer him as he pass’d away;
    No one who would his name commend,
      And wail as he was laid in clay?
    Of this the record nought supplied,--
    It only said he liv’d and died!

    How must his soul have been oppress’d,
      As intimates dropp’d from his side!
    And he, almost unknown, was left
      Alone,--upon this desert wide!
    Wife--children--friends--all, all were gone,
    And he left in the world alone!

    His youthful friends had long grown old,
      And then were number’d with the dead;
    His step had totter’d, sight grown dim,
      And ev’ry source of pleasure fled;
    By nature’s law such must have been,
    Th’ effect of the long years he’d seen!

    But then the record nought supplied,
      How he had spent this length’ned life;
    Whether in peace and quietness,
      Or had he worried been with strife:
    Perhaps the muse to him had given
    Visions of glory, fire from Heaven!

    All is conjecture! He was laid
      Beneath the cold, unfeeling clay,
    His fame--if he had sigh’d for fame--
      Had from remembrance pass’d away.
    Hope, joy, fear, sorrow, all were fled,
    And he lay number’d with the dead!

    Oh! cold and cheerless is the thought,
      That I shall be as he is now;
    My very name remember’d not,
      And fame’s wreath wither’d on my brow:
    Of me no record be supplied,
    But that I liv’d, and that I died!

    Such is the tone of sorrowing thought
      That through my heart has often past,
    As, on a summer’s brightning eve,
      A look upon those graves I’ve cast,
    Where youth and age together lie,
    Emblems of frail mortality!

  O. N. Y.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE WHITE LADY.

A ROMANTIC AND TRUE ANECDOTE.

At Nottingham, a year or two ago, Sophia Hyatt, in consequence of
extreme deafness, was accidentally run over by a carrier’s cart, at the
entrance of the Maypole inn-yard, and unfortunately killed. She had
arrived that morning in a gig from Newstead Papplewick, or somewhere in
that neighbourhood, and had been, for the three or four preceding years,
a lodger in one of the farm-houses belonging to colonel Wildman, at
Newstead Abbey. No one knew exactly from whence she came, nor what were
her connections. Her days were passed in rambling about the gardens and
grounds of the abbey, to which, from the kindness of colonel Wildman,
she had free access. Her dress was invariably the same; and she was
distinguished by the servants at Newstead, as the “white lady.” She had
ingratiated herself with the Newfoundland dog which came from Greece
with the body of lord Byron, by regularly feeding him; and on the
evening before the fatal accident, she was seen, on quitting the
gardens, to cut off a small lock of the dog’s hair, which she carefully
placed in her handkerchief. On that evening also, she delivered to Mrs.
Wildman a sealed packet, with a request that it might not be opened
till the following morning. The contents of the packet were no less
interesting than surprising; they consisted of various poems in
manuscript, written during her solitary walks, and all of them referring
to the bard to whom Newstead once belonged. A letter, addressed to Mrs.
Wildman, was enclosed with the poetry, written with much elegance of
language and native feeling; it described her friendless situation,
alluded to her pecuniary difficulties, thanked the family for their kind
attention towards her, and stated the necessity she was under of
removing for a short period from Newstead. It appeared from her
statement, that she had connections in America, that her brother had
died there, leaving a widow and family, and she requested colonel
Wildman’s assistance to arrange certain matters, in which she was
materially concerned. She concluded with declaring, that her only
happiness in this world consisted in the privilege of being allowed to
wander through the domain of Newstead, and to trace the various spots
which had been consecrated by the genius of lord Byron. A most kind and
compassionate note was conveyed to her immediately after the perusal of
this letter, urging her, either to give up her journey, or to return to
Newstead as quickly as possible. With the melancholy sequel the reader
is acquainted. Colonel Wildman took upon himself the care of her
interment, and she was buried in the church-yard of Hucknall, as near as
possible to the vault which contains the body of lord Byron. The last
poem she composed was the following: it seems to have been dictated by a
melancholy foreboding of her fate.

MY LAST WALK IN THE GARDENS OF NEWSTEAD ABBEY.

    Here no longer shall I wander
      Lone, but in communion high,
    Kindred spirits greet me--yonder
      Glows the form that’s ever nigh.

    Wrapt in blissful contemplation,
      From that hill no more I gaze
    On scenes as fair as when creation
      Rose--the theme of seraphs’ lays.

    And thou, fair sylph, that round its basis
      Driv’st thy car, with milk-white steed;
    Oft I watch’d its gentle paces--
      Mark’d its track with curious heed.

    Why? oh! why thus interesting,
      Are forms and scenes to me unknown?
    Oh you, the Muses’ power confessing,
      Define the charm your bosoms own.

    Why love to gaze or playful fountain,
      Or lake, that bore him on its breast?
    Lonely to wander o’er each mountain,
      Grove, or plain, his feet have press’d?

    It is because the Muses hover,
      And all around, a halo shed;
    And still must every fond adorer
      Worship the shrine, the idol fled.

    But ’tis past; and now for ever
      Fancy’s vision’s bliss is o’er;
    But to forget thee, Newstead--never,
      Though I shall haunt thy shades no more.[207]

  [207] Nottingham Review.

       *       *       *       *       *


DUELS.

Duelling in England was carried to its greatest possible excess in the
reigns of James I. and of the two Charles’s. In the reign of the latter
Charles, the seconds always fought as well as their principals; and as
they were chosen for their courage and adroitness, their combats were
generally the most fatal. Lord Howard, of Carlisle, in the reign of
Charles II., gave a grand fête champêtre at Spring Gardens, near the
village of Charing, the Vauxhall of that day. This fête was to
facilitate an intrigue between lord Howard and the profligate duchess of
Shrewsbury: but the gay and insinuating Sidney flirted with the duchess,
abstracted her attention from Howard, and ridiculed the fête. The next
day his lordship sent a challenge to Sidney, who chose as his second a
tall, furious, adroit swordsman, named Dillon; Howard selected a young
gentleman, named Rawlings, just come into possession of an estate of
10,000_l._ a year. Sidney was wounded in two or three places, whilst his
second was run through the heart, and left dead on the field. The duke
of Shrewsbury became afterwards so irritated as to challenge the
infamous Buckingham for intriguing with his wife. The duchess of
Shrewsbury, in the disguise of a page, attended Buckingham to the field,
and held his horse whilst he fought and killed her husband. The
profligate king, in spite of every remonstrance from the queen, received
the duke of Buckingham with open arms, after this brutal murder.

In 172 duels fought during the last sixty years, 69 persons were killed;
(in three of these duels, neither of the combatants survived;) 96
persons were wounded, 48 desperately and 48 slightly; and 188 escaped
unhurt. Thus, rather more than one-fifth lost their lives, and nearly
one-half received the bullets of their antagonists. It appears also,
that out of this number of duels, eighteen trials took place; six of the
arraigned were acquitted, seven found guilty of manslaughter, and three
of murder; two were executed, and eight imprisoned for different
periods.

About thirty years ago, there was a duelling society held in Charleston,
South Carolina, where each “gentleman” took precedence according to the
numbers he had killed or wounded in duels. The president and deputy had
killed many. It happened that an old weather-beaten lieutenant of the
English navy arrived at Charleston, to see after some property which had
devolved upon him, in right of a Charleston lady, whom he had married;
and on going into a coffee-house, engaged in conversation with a native,
whose insults against England were resented, and the English lieutenant
received a challenge. As soon as the affair was known, some gentlemen
waited upon the stranger to inform him, that the man who had called him
out was a duellist, a “dead shot,” the president of the duellist club;
they added, that the society and all its members, though the wealthiest
people of the place, were considered so infamous by really respectable
persons, that he would not be held in disesteem by not meeting the
challenger. The lieutenant replied, that he was not afraid of any
duellist; he had accepted the challenge, and would meet his man. They
accordingly did meet, and at the first fire the lieutenant mortally
wounded his antagonist. In great agony, and conscience-stricken, he
invoked the aid of several divines, and calling the “duellist society”
to his bedside, lectured them upon the atrocity of their conduct, and
begged, as his dying request, that the club might be broken up. The
death of this ruffian suppressed a society which the country did not
possess sufficient morals or gentlemanly spirit to subdue.

In Virginia, a Mr. Powell, a notorious duellist, purposely met and
insulted an English traveller, for having said, that “the Virginians
were of no use to the American Union, it requiring one half of the
Virginians to keep the other half in order;” the newspapers took it up
as a national quarrel, and anticipated the meeting, without the
magistracy having decency, morals, or public spirit sufficient to
interfere. The Englishman, therefore, got an American duellist as his
second, went into training and practice, and met his adversary amidst a
mob of many thousands to witness the fight. Mr. Powell was killed on
the first shot, and the Englishman remained unhurt.

The brother of general Delancey, the late barrack-master general, having
high words with a “gentleman” in a coffee-house at New York, the
American immediately called for pistols, and insisted upon fighting in
the public coffee-room, across one of the tables. None of the
“gentlemen” present interfered; they fought across the table, and the
American dishonestly firing before his time, the Englishman was shot
dead upon the spot. Lately, at Nashville, a gentleman was shot dead
before his own door, in a duel, in the principal square of the city.

In 1763, the secretary of the English treasury, Mr. Martin, notoriously
trained himself as a duellist, for the avowed purpose of shooting Mr.
Wilkes, whom he first insulted in the House of Commons, and afterwards
wounded in the park. This gave rise to Churchill’s poem of “The
Duellist;” the House of Commons ordered his majesty’s sergeant surgeon
to attend Mr. Wilkes, and Mr. Martin was considered to “have done the
state some service.”

At that period duels were frequent among clergymen. In 1764, the _Rev._
Mr. Hill was killed in a duel by cornet Gardener, of the carabineer. The
_Reverend_ Mr. Bate fought two duels, and was subsequently created a
baronet, and preferred to a deanery after he had fought another duel.
The _Reverend_ Mr. Allen killed a Mr. Delany in a duel, in Hyde Park,
without incurring any ecclesiastical censure, though judge Buller, on
account of his extremely bad conduct, strongly charged his guilt upon
the jury.

In 1765, occurred a celebrated duel between the father of the late lord
Byron and Mr. Chaworth, a famous duellist. They quarrelled at a
club-dinner at the Star and Garter, Pall Mall, about game; Chaworth was
a great game preserver, and lord Byron had argued upon the cruelty and
impolicy of the game laws. They agreed to fight in an adjoining room, by
the light of only one candle. Lord Byron entered first; and, as Chaworth
was shutting the door, turning his head round, he beheld lord Byron’s
sword half undrawn; he immediately whipped his own weapon out, and
making a lunge at his lordship, ran it through his waistcoat, conceiving
that his sword had gone through his body: lord Byron closed, and,
shortening his sword, stabbed Mr. Chaworth in the belly. The challenge
had proceeded from Chaworth. Lord Byron read his defence to the House of
Lords, and was found guilty of manslaughter; and, upon the privilege of
his peerage, was discharged on paying his fees.

In 1772, a Mr. M‘Lean was challenged and killed by a Mr. Cameron; and
the mother of Mr. M‘Lean, on hearing of the shocking event, instantly
lost her senses, whilst a Miss M‘Leod, who was to have been married to
the deceased, was seized with fits, and died in three days.

In Mr. Sheridan’s duel with Mr. Mathews, the parties cut and slashed at
each other, _à la mode de théâtre_, until Mr. Mathews left a part of his
sword sticking in Mr. Sheridan’s ear.

In a famous duel in which Mr. Riddell was killed, and Mr. Cunningham
very severely wounded, the challenge, by mistake, had fallen in the
first instance into the hands of sir James Riddell, father to Mr.
Riddell, who, on having it delivered to him, did no more than provide
surgeons for the event.

In 1789, colonel Lennox conceived himself to have been insulted by the
late duke of York having told him, before all the officers on the parade
of St. James’s, “that he desired to derive no protection from his rank
of prince.” The colonel accordingly fought his royal highness, it was
said, with cork bullets; but be that as it may, he contrived to disturb
one of the huge rows of curls which it was then the fashion to wear on
the side of the head.

In 1790, a captain Macrae fought and killed sir George Ramsay, for
refusing to dismiss a faithful old servant who had insulted captain
Macrae. Sir George urged, that even if the servant were guilty, he had
been sufficiently punished by the cruel beating that captain Macrae had
given him. As soon as the servant heard that his master had been killed
on his account, he fell into strong convulsions, and died in a few
hours. Captain Macrae fled, and was outlawed.

In 1797, colonel Fitzgerald, a married man, eloped from Windsor with his
cousin, the daughter of lord Kingston. Colonel King, the brother, fought
colonel Fitzgerald in Hyde Park. They fired six shots each without
effect; and the powder being exhausted, colonel King called his opponent
“a villain,” and they resolved to fight again next day. They were,
however, put under an arrest, when colonel Fitzgerald had the audacity
to follow lord Kingston’s family to Ireland, to obtain the object of his
seduction from her parents. Colonel King hearing of this, repaired to
the inn where colonel Fitzgerald put up. Colonel Fitzgerald had locked
himself in his room, and refused admission to colonel King, who broke
open the door, and running to a case of pistols, seized one, and desired
colonel Fitzgerald to take the other. The parties grappled, and were
fighting, when lord Kingston entered the room; and perceiving, from the
position of the parties, that his son must lose his life, instantly shot
Fitzgerald dead on the spot.

In 1803, a very singular duel took place in Hyde Park, between a
lieutenant W., of the navy, and a captain I., of the army. Captain I.
had seduced the lieutenant’s sister. Lieutenant W. seemed impressed with
a deep sense of melancholy: he insisted that the distance should be only
six paces. At this distance they fired, and the shot of captain I.
struck the guard of lieutenant W.’s pistol, and tore off two fingers of
his right hand. The lieutenant deliberately wrapped his handkerchief
round the wound, and looking solemnly to heaven, exclaimed, “I have a
left hand, which never failed me.” They again took their ground.
Lieutenant W. looked steadfastly at captain I., and casting his eyes up
to heaven, was heard to utter “forgive me.” They fired, and both fell.
Captain I. received the ball in his head, and died instantly: the
lieutenant was shot through the breast. He inquired if captain I.’s
wound was mortal. Being answered in the affirmative, he thanked heaven
that he had lived so long. He then took his mourning ring off his
finger, and said to his second, “Give this to my sister, and tell her it
is the happiest moment I ever knew.” He had scarcely uttered the last
word, when a quantity of blood gushed from his wound, and he instantly
expired.

These are practices in a _Christian_ country.

       *       *       *       *       *


ANSWER TO A CHALLENGE.

At a late meeting under a commission of bankruptcy, at Andover, between
Mr. FLEET and Mr. MANN, both respectable solicitors of that town, some
disagreement arose, which ended in the former sending the latter a
challenge, to which the following answer was returned.

_To Kingston Fleet, Esq._

    I am honour’d this day, sir, with challenges two,
    The first from friend Langdon, the second from you;
    As the one is to _fight_, and the other to _dine_,
    I accept _his_ “engagement,” and yours must decline.
    Now, in giving this preference, I trust you’ll admit
    I have acted with prudence, and done what was fit,
    Since encountering _him_, and my weapon a knife,
    There is some little chance of _preserving_ my life;
    Whilst a bullet from you, sir, _might_ take it away,
    And the maxim, you know, is to live while you may.
    If, however, you still should suppose I ill-treat you,
    By sternly rejecting this challenge to meet you,
    Bear with me a moment, and I will adduce
    Three powerful reasons by way of excuse:
    In the first place, unless I am grossly deceiv’d,
    I myself am in conscience the party aggriev’d;
    And therefore, good sir, if a challenge _must_ be,
    Pray wait till that challenge be _tender’d_ by _me_.
    Again, sir, I think it by far the more sinful,
    To stand and be shot, than to sit for a skinful;
    From whence you’ll conclude (as I’d have you, indeed)
    That fighting composes not part of my creed--
    And my courage (which, though it was never disputed,
    Is not, I imagine, too, too deeply rooted)
    Would prefer that its fruit, sir, whate’er it may yield,
    Should appear at “_the table_,” and not in “_the field_.”
    And, lastly, _my life_, be it never forgot,
    Possesses a value which _yours_, sir, does not;[208]
    So I mean to preserve it as long as I can,
    Being justly entitled “a family _Man_,”
    With three or four children, (I scarce know how many,)
    Whilst _you_, sir, have not, or _ought_ not, to have any.
    Besides, that the contest would be too unequal,
    I doubt not will plainly appear by the sequel:
    For e’en _you_ must acknowledge it would not be meet
    That one small “_Mann_ of war” should engage “a whole _Fleet_.”

_Andover, July 24, 1826._

  [208] Mr. Fleet is a batchelor.

       *       *       *       *       *


_SIGNS_ OF LOVE, AT OXFORD.

_By an Inn-consolable Lover._

    She’s as light as the _Greyhound_, and fair as the _Angel_;
      Her looks than the _Mitre_ more sanctified are;
    But she flies like the _Roebuck_, and leaves me to range ill,
      Still looking to her as my true polar _Star_.
    _New Inn_-ventions I try, with new art to adore,
    But my fate is, alas! to be voted a _Boar_;
    My _Goats_ I forsook to contemplate her charms,
    And must own she is fit for our noble _King’s Arms_.
    Now _Cross’d_, and now _Jockey’d_, now sad, now elate,
    The _Chequers_ appear but a map of my fate;
    I blush’d like a _Blue-cur_ to send her a _Pheasant_,
    But she call’d me a _Turk_, and rejected my present;
    So I moped to the _Barley-mow_, griev’d in my mind,
    That the _Ark_ from the flood ever rescu’d mankind!
    In my dreams _Lions_ roar, and the _Green Dragon_ grins
    And fiends rise in shape of the _Seven deadly_ sins.
    When I ogle the _Bells_, should I see her approach,
    I skip like a _Nag_ and jump into the _Coach_.
    She is crimson and white, like a _Shoulder of Mutton_,
    Not the red of the _Ox_ was so bright, when first put on:
    Like the _Hollybush_ prickles, she scratches my liver,
    While I moan, and I die like the _Swan_ by the river!

       *       *       *       *       *


~Prolific Writers.~

The copiousness and the multiplicity of the writings of many authors,
have shown that too many find a pleasure in the act of composition,
which they do not communicate to others. Great erudition and every-day
application is the calamity of that voluminous author, who, without good
sense, and what is more rare, without that exquisite judgment which we
call good taste is always prepared to write on any subject, but at the
same time on no one reasonably. We are astonished at the fertility and
the size of our own writers of the seventeenth century, when the
theological war of words raged, spoiling so many pages and brains. They
produced folio after folio, like almanacks. The truth is, that it was
then easier to write up to a folio, than in our days to write down to an
octavo; for correction, selection, and rejection, were arts as yet
unpractised. They went on with their work, sharply or bluntly, like
witless mowers, without stopping to whet their scythes. They were
inspired by the scribbling demon of that rabbin, who, in his oriental
style and mania of volume, exclaimed, that were “the heavens formed of
paper, and were the trees of the earth pens, and if the entire sea run
ink, these only could suffice” for the monstrous genius he was about to
discharge on the world.

       *       *       *       *       *


WILLIAM PRYNNE.

Prynne seldom dined: every three or four hours he munched a manchet, and
refreshed his exhausted spirits with ale brought to him by his servant;
and when “he was put into this road of writing,” as Anthony à Wood
telleth, he fixed on “a long quilted cap, which came an inch over his
eyes, serving as an umbrella to defend them from too much light;” and
then, hunger nor thirst did he experience, save that of his voluminous
pages. Prynne has written a library, amounting, perhaps, to nearly two
hundred books. Our unlucky author, whose life was involved in
authorship, and his happiness, no doubt, in the habitual exuberance of
his pen, seems to have considered the being debarred from pen, ink, and
books, during his imprisonment, as an act more barbarous than the loss
of his ears. The extraordinary perseverance of Prynne in this fever of
the pen appears in the following title of one of his extraordinary
volumes, “Comfortable Cordials against discomfortable Fears of
Imprisonment; containing some Latin Verses Sentences, and Texts of
Scripture, _written by Mr. Wm. Prynne on his Chamber Walls_, in the
Tower of London, during his Imprisonment there; translated by him into
English Verse, 1641.” Prynne literally verified Pope’s description:--

    “Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls,
    With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls.”

We have also a catalogue of printed books, written by Wm. Prynne, Esq.,
of Lincoln’s Inn, in these classes,

  BEFORE, }
  DURING, } _his imprisonment_,
  and     }
  SINCE   }

with this motto, “Jucundi acti labores,” 1643. The secret history of
this voluminous author concludes with a characteristic event: a
contemporary who saw Prynne in the pillory at Cheapside, informs us,
that while he stood there they “burnt his huge volumes under his nose,
which had almost suffocated him.”

       *       *       *       *       *


FRENCH PAMPHLETEER.

One Catherinot all his life was printing a countless number of _feuilles
volantes_ in history and on antiquities; each consisting of about three
or four leaves in quarto: Lenglet du Fresnoy calls him “Grand auteur des
petits livres.” This gentleman liked to live among antiquaries and
historians; but with a crooked head-piece, stuck with whims, and hard
with knotty combinations, all overloaded with prodigious erudition, he
could not ease it at a less rate than by an occasional dissertation of
three or four quarto pages. He appears to have published about two
hundred pieces of this sort, much sought after by the curious for their
rarity: Brunet complains he could never discover a complete collection.
But Catherinot may escape “the pains and penalties” of our voluminous
writers, for De Bure thinks he generously printed them to distribute
among his friends. Such endless writers, provided they do not print
themselves into an alms-house, may be allowed to print themselves out;
and we would accept the apology which Monsieur Catherinot has framed for
himself, which is preserved in _Beyeri Memoriæ Librorum Rariorum_. “I
must be allowed my freedom in my studies, for I substitute my writings
for a game at the tennis-court, or a club at the tavern; I never counted
among my honours these _opuscula_ of mine, but merely as harmless
amusements. It is my partridge, as with St. John the Evangelist; my cat,
as with Pope St. Gregory; my little dog, as with St. Dominick; my lamb,
as with St. Francis; my great black mastiff, as with Cornelius Agrippa;
and my tame hare, as with Justus Lipsius.” Catherinot could never get a
printer, and was rather compelled to study economy in his two hundred
quartos of four or eight pages; his paper was of inferior quality, and
when he could not get his dissertations into his prescribed number of
pages, he used to promise the end at another time, which did not always
happen. But his greatest anxiety was to publish and spread his works; in
despair he adopted an odd expedient. Whenever Monsieur Catherinot came
to Paris, he used to haunt the _quaies_ where books are sold, and while
he appeared to be looking over them, he adroitly slided one of his own
dissertations among these old books. He began this mode of publication
early, and continued it to his last days. He died with a perfect
conviction that he had secured his immortality; and in this manner he
disposed of more than one edition of his unsaleable works.[209]

  [209] D’Israeli.

       *       *       *       *       *


LOVE’S PROGRESS OF A TOBACCONIST.

_For the Table Book._

1.

    When bless’d with Fanny’s rosy smiles,
      I thought myself in heaven;
    Fanny is blooming twenty-two,
      And I am--_thirty-seven_.

2.

    I thought her deck’d with every grace,
      Without one vice to _jar_,
    Fresh as new _carrot_ was her face
      And sweet as _Macabar_.

3.

    Besides a person fair to view
      She had a thousand pounds;
    Not to be _sneezed at_--I had two,
      And credit without bounds.

4.

    Our courtship oft consisted in
      Slight _taps_ and gentle _knocks_;
    And when I gave her a small _pinch_,
      She quick return’d a _box_.

5.

    Howe’er, one morning, in a rage,
      With me herself she put,
    She call’d me _blackguard_, and declar’d
      I was from thence _short cut_.

6.

    In vain I tried the cause to _smoke_,
      When she had ta’en offence;
    In vain recall’d the words I spoke,
      That she had deem’d _bad scents_.

7.

    But soon a mutual friend contriv’d
      Our quarrel up to botch;
    Fanny confess’d her temper warm--
      ’Twas natural--she was _Scotch_.

8.

    We married--snugly in my shop
      Fanny’s become a fixture,
    And all the neighbourhood declare,
      We’re quite a _pleasant mixture_.

  SAM SAM’S SON.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE LORD CHANCELLOR.

The title of chancellor originated with the Romans. It was adopted by
the church, and became a half ecclesiastic, and half lay office. The
chancellor was intrusted with all public instruments which were
authenticated; and when seals came into use, the custody of them was
confided to that officer. The mere delivery of the king’s great seal, or
the taking it away, is all the ceremony that is used in creating or
unmaking a chancellor, the officer of the greatest weight and power
subsisting in the kingdom. The first chancellor in England was appointed
in the reign of William the Conqueror, and with only one exception, it
was enjoyed by ecclesiastics until the time of Elizabeth, when such
officers were called keepers of the great seal. From the time of sir
Thomas More’s appointment, which took place in the reign of Henry VIII.,
there is only one instance of a clergyman having been elevated to the
office--namely, Dr. Williams, dean of Westminster, in the time of James
I.--The chancellor is a privy counsellor by office, and speaker of the
house of lords by prescription. To him belongs the appointment of all
justices of the peace throughout the kingdom. When the chancellor was an
ecclesiastic, he became keeper of the king’s conscience, and remained
so. He is also visitor of all hospitals and colleges of the king’s
foundation. He is patron of all livings under twenty pounds per annum in
the king’s book. He is the general guardian of all infants, idiots, and
lunatics, and has the superintendence of all charitable institutions in
the kingdom. He takes precedent of every temporal lord, except the royal
family, and of all others, except the archbishop of Canterbury. It is
declared treason by statute of Edward III. to slay the chancellor in his
place, and doing his office.--In the year 1689, there were commissioners
appointed for executing the office of lord chancellor.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Anonymiana.~


THE GREAT LORD CHANCELLOR.

Sir Thomas More, when at the bar, is said to have undertaken only such
causes as appeared just to his conscience, and never to have accepted a
fee from a widow, orphan, or poor person; yet he acquired by his
practice the considerable sum, in those days, of four hundred pounds per
annum. When he rose to the height of his profession, his diligence was
so great, that one day being in court he called for the next cause, on
which it was answered, that there were no more suits in chancery. This
made a punning bard of that time thus express himself:--

    When _More_ some years had chancellor been,
    No _more_ suits did remain;
    The same shall never _more_ be seen.
    Till _More_ be there again.


CHANCERY.

_Cancellæ_ are lattice-work, by which the chancels being formerly parted
from the body of the church, they took their names from thence. Hence,
too, the court of _chancery_ and the lord _chancellor_ borrowed their
names, that court being enclosed with open work of that kind. And, so,
to _cancel_ a writing is to _cross_ it out with the pen, which naturally
makes something like the figure of a lattice.


DILIGENCE AND DELIGHT.

It is a common observation, that unless a man takes a _delight_ in a
thing, he will never pursue it with pleasure or assiduity. _Diligentia_,
diligence, is from _diligo_, to love.


PAMPHLET, PALM, PALMISTRY.

_Pamphlet._--This word is ancient, see Lilye’s Euphnes, p. 5; Lambarde’s
Perambulation of Kent, p. 188; Hearne’s Cur. Disc. p. 130; Hall’s
Chronicle, in Edward V. f. 2; Richard III. f. 32; Skelton, p. 47;
Caxton’s Preface to his Virgil, where it is written _paunflethis_;
Oldys’s British Librarian, p. 128; Nash, p. 3, 64; and also his preface,
wherein he has the phrase, “to _pamphlet_ on a person” and
_pampheleter_, p. 30.

The French have not the word pamphlet, and yet it seems to be of French
extraction, and no other than _palm-feuillet_, a leaf to be held in the
hand, a book being a thing of a greater weight. So the French call it
now _feuille volante_, retaining one part of the compound.

_Palm_ is the old French word for _hand_, from whence we have
_palmistry_, the _palm_ of the hand, a _palm_ or span, and to _palm_ a
card, and from thence the metaphor of _palming_ any thing upon a person.


CAMBRIDGE WIT.

A gentleman of St. John’s College, Cambridge, having a clubbed foot,
which occasioned him to wear a shoe upon it of a particular make, and
with a high heel, one of the college wits called him _Bildad the
shuhite_.


GRADUAL REFORM.

When lord Muskerry sailed to Newfoundland, George Rooke went with him a
volunteer: George was greatly addicted to lying; and my lord, being very
sensible of it, and very familiar with George, said to him one day, “I
wonder you will not leave off this abominable custom of lying, George.”
“I can’t help it,” said the other. “Puh!” says my lord, “it may be done
by degrees; suppose you were to begin with uttering one truth a day.”


PRIVATE AND PUBLIC.

Charles II. spending a cheerful evening with a few friends, one of the
company, seeing his majesty in good humour, thought it a fit time to ask
him a favour, and was so absurd as to do so: after he had mentioned his
suit, Charles instantly and very acutely replied, “Sir, you must ask
your _king_ for that.”


A HUNDRED TO ONE.

“There were a hundred justices,” says one, “at the monthly meeting.” “A
hundred,” says another. “Yes,” says he, “do you count, and I will name
them. There was justice Balance, put down one; justice Hall, put down a
cipher, he is nobody; justice House, you may put down another cipher for
him--_one_ and _two ciphers_ are a _hundred_.”

       *       *       *       *       *


THE CHILD OF MIGHT.

_For the Table Book._

    War was abroad, and the fleeting gale
    Loud, o’er the wife’s and the daughter’s wail,
    Brought the summoning sound of the clarion’s blast--
    Age and affection looked their last
    On the valour and youth that went forth to the tomb--
    Young eyes were bright at the nodding plume--
    Banner and spear gleam’d in the sun--
    And the laugh was loud as the day were won:
    But the sun shall set, and--ere ’tis night,--
    _Woe_ to thee, Child of Pride and Might.

    ’Tis the hour of battle, the hosts are met,
    Pierc’d is the hauberk, cleft the bass’net:
    Like a torrent the legions thunder’d on--
    Lo! like its foam, they are vanish’d and gone
    _Thou_ whom this day beauty’s arms carest,
    The hoof of the fleeing spurns thy crest--
    Thy _pride_ yet lives on thy dark brow’s height,
    But, where is thy _power_, CHILD OF MIGHT?

  J. J. K.




Vol. I.--24.


[Illustration: ~The old Water Carrier.~]

    “Any New-River water here.”

This is another of the criers of a hundred years ago, and, it seems, he
cried “_New-River_ water.” The cry is scarce, though scarcely extinct,
in the environs of London.

I well remember the old prejudices of old-fashioned people in favour of
water brought to the door, and their sympathy with the complaints of the
water-bearer. “Fresh and fair new River-water! none of your pipe
sludge!” vociferated the water-bearer. “Ah dear!” cried his customers,
“Ah dear! Well, what’ll the world come to!--they wo’n’t let poor people
live at all by and by--here they’re breaking up the ground, and we shall
be all under water some day or other with their goings on--I’ll stick to
the carrier as long as he has a pail-full and I’ve a penny, and when we
haven’t we must all go to the workhouse together.” This was the talk and
the reasoning of many honest people within my recollection, who
preferred taxing themselves to the daily payment of a penny and
often twopence to the water-carrier, in preference to having
“Company’s-water” at eighteen shillings per annum. Persons of this order
of mind were neither political economists nor domestic economists: they
were, for the most part, simple and kind-hearted souls, who illustrated
the ancient saying, that “the destruction of the poor is their
poverty”--they have perished for “lack of knowledge.”

The _governing_ principle of Napoleon was, that “every thing must be
done for the people, and nothing by them:” the ruling practice of the
British people is to do every thing for themselves; and by the
maintenance of this good old custom they have preserved individual
freedom, and attained to national greatness. All our beneficial national
works have originated with ourselves--our roads, our bridges, our
canals, our water-companies, have all been constructed by our own
enterprise, and in the order of our wants.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXI.

[From Sir Richard Fanshaw’s Translation of “Querer Por Solo Querer”--“To
love for love’s sake”--a Romantic Drama, written in Spanish by Mendoza:
1649.]

_Felisbravo, Prince of Persia, from a Picture sent him of the brave
Amazonian Queen of Tartary, Zelidaura, becoming enamoured, sets out for
that realm; in his way thither disenchants a Queen of Araby; but first,
overcome by fatigue, falls asleep in the Enchanted Grove, where
Zelidaura herself coming by, steals the Picture from him. The passion of
the Romance arises from his remorse at being taken so negligent; and her
disdain that he should sleep, having the company of her Picture. She
here plays upon him, who does not yet know her, in the disguise of a
Rustic._

      _Fel._ What a spanking Labradora!
      _Zel._ You, the unkent Knight, God ye gud mora![210]
      _Fel._ The time of day thou dost mistake.
      _Zel._--and joy--
      _Fel._--of what?
      _Zel._ That I discover.
    By a sure sign, you are awake.
      _Fel._ Awake? the sign--
      _Zel._ Your being a lover.
      _Fel._ In love am I?
      _Zel._--and very deep.
      _Fel._ Deep in love! how is that seen?
      _Zel._ Perfectly. You do not sleep.
      _Fel._ Rustic Excellence, unscreen,
    And discover that sweet face,
    Which covers so much wit and grace.
      _Zel._ You but dream so: sleep again,
    And forget it.
      _Fel._ Why, now, Saint?
      _Zel._ Why, the Lady, that went in,[211]
    Looks as if that she did paint.
      _Fel._ What has that to do with sleeping?
    She is indeed angelical.
      _Zel._ _That_ picture now’s well worth your keeping.
    For why? ’tis an original.
      _Fel._ Is this Shepherdess a Witch?
    Or saw the sleeping treason, which
    I committed against Love
    Erst, in the Enchanted Grove?
    Me hast thou ever seen before?
      _Zel._ Seen? aye, and know thee for a man
    That will turn him, and sleep more
    Than a dozen dunces can.
    Thou ken’st little what sighs mean.
      _Fel._ Unveil, by Jove, that face serene.
      _Zel._ What, to make thee sleep again?
      _Fel._ Still in riddles?
      _Zel._ Now he sees:
    This pinching wakes him by degrees.
      _Fel._ Art thou a Nymph?
      _Zel._ Of Parnass Green.
      _Fel._ Sleep I indeed, or am I mad?
      _Zel._ None serve thee but the Enchanted Queen?
    I think what dull conceits ye have had
    Of the bird Phœnix, which no eye
    E’er saw; an odoriferous Lye:
    How of her beauty’s spells she’s told;
    That by her spirit thou art haunted;
    And, having slept away the old,
    With this new Mistress worse enchanted.
      _Fel._ I affect not, Shepherdess,
    Myself in such fine terms to express;
    Sufficeth me an humble strain:
    Too little happy to be vain.--
    Unveil!
      _Zel._ Sir Gallant, not so fast.
      _Fel._ See thee I will.
      _Zel._ See me you shall:
    But touch not fruit you must not taste.

(_She takes off her veil._)

    What says it, now the leaf doth fall?
      _Fel._ It says, ’tis worthy to comprize
    The kernel of so rare a wit:
    Nor, that it grows in Paradise;
    But Paradise doth grow in it.
    The tall and slender trunk no less divine,
    Tho’ in a lowly Shepherdesses rine.

(_He begins to know her._)

    This should be that so famous Queen
    For unquell’d valour and disdain.--
    In these Enchanted Woods is seen
    Nothing but illusions vain.
      _Zel._ What stares the man at?
      _Fel._ I compare
    A Picture--I once mine did call--
    With the divine Original.
      _Zel._ Fall’n again asleep you are:
    We poor human Shepherd Lasses
    Nor are pictured, nor use glasses.
    Who skip their rank, themselves and betters wrong:
    To our Dames, god bless ’em, such quaint things belong.
    Here a tiny brook alone,
    Which fringed with borrow’d flowers (he has
    Gold and silver enough on his own)
    Is heaven’s proper looking-glass,
    Copies us: and its reflections,
    Shewing natural perfections,
    Free from soothing, free from error.
    Are our pencil, are our mirror.
      _Fel._ Art thou a Shepherdess?
      _Zel._--and bore
    On a mountain, called THERE.
      _Fel._ Wear’st thou ever heretofore
    Lady’s clothes?
      _Zel._ I Lady’s gear?--
    Yes--what a treacherous poll have I!--
    In a Country Comedy
    I once enacted a main part;
    Still I have it half by heart:
    The famous History it was
    Of an Arabian--let me see--
    No, of a Queen of Tartary,
    Who all her sex did far surpass
    In beauty, wit, and chivalry:
    Who with invincible disdain
    Would fool, when she was in the vein,
    Princes with all their wits about ’em;
    But, an they slept, to death she’d flout ’em.
    And, by the mass, with such a mien
    My Majesty did play the Queen;
    Our Curate had my Picture made,
    In the same robes in which I play’d.

To my taste this is fine, elegant, Queen-like raillery; a second part of
Love’s Labours Lost, to which title this extraordinary Play has still
better pretensions than even Shakspeare’s: for after leading three pair
of Royal Lovers thro’ endless mazes of doubts, difficulties; oppositions
of dead fathers’ wills; a labyrinth of losings and findings; jealousies;
enchantments; conflicts with giants, and single-handed against armies;
to the exact state in which all the Lovers might with the greatest
propriety indulge their reciprocal wishes--when, the deuce is in it, you
think, but they must all be married now--suddenly the three Ladies turn
upon their Lovers; and, as an exemplification of the moral of the Play,
“Loving for loving’s sake,” and a hyper-platonic, truly Spanish proof of
their affections--demand that the Lovers shall consent to their
mistresses’ taking upon them the vow of a single life; to which the
Gallants with becoming refinement can do less than consent.--The fact is
that it was a Court Play, in which the Characters; males, giants, and
all; were played by females, and those of the highest order of
Grandeeship. No nobleman might be permitted amongst them; and it was
against the forms, that a great Court Lady of Spain should consent to
such an unrefined motion, as that of wedlock, though but in a play.

Appended to the Drama, the length of which may be judged from its having
taken nine days in the representation, and me three hours in the reading
of it--hours well wasted--is a poetical account of a fire, which broke
out in the Theatre on one of the nights of its acting, when the whole
Dramatis Personæ were nearly burnt, because the common people out of
“base fear,” and the Nobles out of “pure respect,” could not think of
laying hands upon such “great Donnas;” till the young King, breaking the
etiquette, by snatching up his Queen, and bearing her through the
flames upon his back, the Grandees, (dilatory Æneases), followed his
example, and each saved one (Anchises-fashion), till the whole Courtly
Company of Comedians were got off in tolerable safety.--Imagine three or
four stout London Firemen on such an occasion, standing off in mere
respect!

  C. L.

  [210] She affects rusticity.

  [211] The Enchanted Queen of Araby, of whom Zelidaura is jealous.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE STUART PAPERS,

IN POSSESSION OF THE KING.

In the year 1817 the public, or, more correctly speaking, the English
public at Rome, were much excited by the report of a very singular
discovery. The largest and the most interesting collection of papers
relating to the Stuart family, probably existing, was suddenly
recovered. The circumstances connected with the discovery are curious.
Dr. W., whose residence on the continent for many years had been
unceasingly devoted to every species of research which could tend to
throw light on the antiquities of his country and the history of her
kings, had in the Scotch college at Paris, after much patient
investigation, arrived at the knowledge of some Gaelic MSS., and, what
may be perhaps deemed of more consequence, of several papers relating to
the dethroned family. The Gaelic MSS., it was imagined, would throw some
light on the quarrel _de lana caprina_ of the Ossian “remains,” a name
which, as it has been given to the Iliad and Odyssey, cannot be
considered as an insult to the claims of the Irish or Scottish phantom
which has been conjured up under the name of Ossian: but the Journals,
&c., though they added little to his actual information, and
communicated few facts not hitherto before the public, had at least the
merit of placing the end of the clue in his hand, and hinting first the
probability of a more productive inquiry elsewhere. It occurred to him
that after the demise of James II., as the majority of the family
habitually resided at Rome, much the greater number of interesting
documents ought still to be discoverable in that city, and, whatever
facilities might originally have existed, they must have been increased
considerably, and indeed enhanced by the late extinction of the direct
line in the person of the cardinal de York.[212] His journey to Rome,
and the results of his perseverance fully justified these conjectures.
There was nothing in Dr. W.’s appearance or manner, nothing in the
circumstances of his long absence from his country, which could offer
motives of encouragement; no man carried less before him, as far as
externals were in question, that letter of recommendation to which the
most uncourteous are compelled to yield. He was in bad odour with his
own government, and consequently with every thing legitimate and
subservient on the continent, and one of the worst calculated
individuals that Providence could have selected, if not for a discovery,
at least for its preservation. Dr. W. was known to few of his countrymen
at Rome; and as well as I recollect, they were exclusively Scotch, but
his acquaintance amongst the natives was extensive and useful. He had
been engaged in some cotton speculations in the Campagna, which had
altogether failed; more, I believe, from want of funds and public
spirit, than from any error in the project or its execution. The soil
was favourable, the climate favourable, and the specimen I saw scarcely
inferior to the Asiatic. But whatever may have been the causes, the
results were salutary, and productive at least of this advantage, that
it served to introduce him to the “mezzo ceto” circles of the capital. A
mercante di Campagna is a personage in nowise inferior to a lawyer, and
Dr. W. knew how to preserve his importance amongst his competitors. The
information which he gained here was a new source of encouragement.
After much sagacious and persevering inquiry, and occasional but partial
disappointments, he at last chanced in a happy hour on the great object
of all his labours. He was informed in rather a circuitous manner, that
a considerable portion of the late cardinal de York’s effects lay still
in the hands of the executors, but could not at first ascertain whether
they comprehended any large masses of his papers. Enough, however, had
been detected to lead him much farther: he seized the hint, profited by
it, and in a few weeks satisfactorily assured himself that the papers
were, as he suspected, included, and were at that very moment at Rome.
He lost no time in addressing himself to the proper quarter, but
monsignor ---- was out of town, (the acting executor of the cardinal,)
and it was very doubtful whether his agent, the abbate Lupi, was
sufficiently authorized or empowered to dispose of them in his absence;
the abbate Lupi, less scrupulous, or more ignorant than persons in
situations of such high trust, smiled at the communication, and
conducted the doctor without delay to the premises where these cartacci,
or paper-rubbish, as he termed them, were still lying in confusion. It
was a dark and dreary garret or gallery, at the top of the house. The
abbate pushed back a crazy door, and showed them heaped up, in large
lots, in various parts of the chamber. The garret was crumbling, the
wind and rain entered _ad libitum_ through the broken tiles, the rats
prowled and plundered at full discretion, like the followers of Omar,
and had now lived for many years at free quarters on the spoils; but
neither decay, nor the seasons and their ravages, nor the rats and their
incursions, nor the appearance of daily loss, were sufficient to rouse
the habitual indolence of the administrators to the least effort for the
preservation of the remainder. There was a sufficient quantity, however,
left to surpass the most ardent anticipations of the doctor: he gazed in
silence and astonishment; it was a moment of true and unalloyed
delight--an instant which, in the estimate of the enthusiast, will
outbalance the sufferings of months and years, like the “Land! land!” of
Columbus, or the _eureka_ of Pythagoras. He hesitated, he doubted--he
took up the paper that was nearest to him; his warmest wishes were
realized; it was an autograph of James II. A glance over the rest was
sufficient; it was with difficulty he could suppress the feeling of
exultation which shivered and fled over his whole frame. After an
affected question or two, the abbate accepted his proposal, and very
near five hundred thousand documents, of unquestionable authenticity and
of the first historic importance and authority, were knocked down to him
for not more than three hundred Roman crowns. Dr. W. still meditated,
paused, appeared reluctant, inquired for the letter of attorney,
examined it, and finding all in order, and powers as he imagined
sufficiently full, the arrangement in a few moments was completed. Two
carts were brought to the door, the papers were thrown into them
confusedly, and so little did the abbate value their utility, that on
two or three packets falling into the street, they undoubtedly would
have lain there with other rubbish, had not the doctor immediately
hastened to take them up and carried them himself to his lodgings.

The prize was now won, and a collection perhaps unrivalled in Europe, an
El Dorado of imaginary wealth and glory, was safely lodged in the
precincts of his own apartment. Joy is talkative, and for once the
doctor altogether forgot his caution, and in the dangerous moment of a
first triumph, rushed to his countrymen, and proclaimed his _veni, vidi,
vici_ to their envy and astonishment. They were invited to inspect them.
Rome, the capital of a considerable state, is still a provincial town,
and events of this kind hardly require newspapers. In a few days the
news of all the poets and barbers was the singular good fortune of the
doctor. What it was no one knew, except the duchess of D----. Her
drawing-room was not only the rendezvous of every stranger, and
particularly of every Englishman at Rome, but, what ought to have been
considered as of infinitely more moment and indeed danger, was a sort of
antechamber to the Vatican. Her acquaintance with the cardinal secretary
intimately connected her with the Papal government; and, during her life
and his administration, the English might almost be said to be, in the
language of the modern city, the assistants of the pontifical throne.
The duchess requested a cabinet peep. The doctor expostulated;--he ought
to have done so, but on the contrary he was gratified by the compliment,
and a little conversazione packet was made up with expedition for her
next evening party. The doctor had time to judge of his acquisition, and
made a judicious selection, but so unfortunately inviting, that his
noble patroness could with difficulty confine to her own breast the
sentiments she felt of surprise and admiration. Besides, it would be
selfish to conceal the gratification from her friends; the papers were
of course in a few days to start for England. Who could tell when they
were likely to be out? Then there was an enjoyment, not likely to be
resisted by a duchess and a protectress, of all that was literary at
Rome, in tumbling over an original MS.--and such a MS.--and reading and
judging the important work, before it was even dreamt of by the rest of
the world. She had been favoured, and could not be blamed for extending,
like the doctor, the favour to others. She had two or three very dear
friends, and she could not reflect without pain on what they might say,
and with so much justice, should they discover, some days afterwards,
that she had been in possession of such a treasure, though for a few
hours, without kindly participating her pleasures with her
acquaintances.

These reasons, cogent at any time, were altogether invincible under the
circumstances of the case. The duchess had many friends, but the most
intimate of these many was the cardinal secretary. The practised eye of
that statesman could not be so easily seduced. He was one of the chief
invited of the evening, and as usual appeared amongst the earliest of
the guests. The papers were on the table on his entry; they became the
chief, the first, and soon the only topic of conversation. They were
examined; the cardinal read, folded them up, and was silent; but ere
daylight the next morning a guard of the pope’s carabiniers attacked Dr.
W.’s apartment, which was not the castle of an Englishman, and very
important papers were irrecoverably lost to him, and perhaps to the
public for ever.

The next morning, all the valets de place in Rome knew, and took care to
inform their masters, that during the night the abbate Lupi had been
arrested, and lay actually in prison for a gross violation of his trust;
but it was not understood till much later in the day, that the moment
the cardinal had left the apartments of the duchess, orders had been
also given to have the papers immediately put under the seal and
wardship of the state. The doctor was consequently awakened, as we have
seen, rather earlier than usual, in the most unceremonious manner
imaginable, and requested, in rather a peremptory manner, to point out
the treasury room. Tortures were not used, but threats were. The
sanctuary was easily discovered; the inviolable seal was fixed on the
door; and a guard put over the house, during the remainder of the day.

The arrest of the abbate was followed up by a measure of more rigour,
and of far greater importance. The contract itself was annulled on the
ground of incompetence in the seller--the three hundred crowns were
ordered to be paid back, and Dr. W. permitted to appeal, and satisfy
himself with civil answers as well as he could, and with what every
jurisconsult of the Curia Innocenziana had decided, or would decide if
called upon by the secretary, to be the ancient and existing law of
Rome.

The doctor made, through himself and others, the ordinary applications,
each of which were received and answered in the ordinary manner. This
was encouraging; and he vented his indignation amongst his
acquaintances; and, when the access and struggle was over, lay like
Gulliver, fatigued on his back.

In the mean time, a vessel arrived from England at Cività Vecchia, and a
boat’s crew a little after from Fiumicino at Rome. The papers were
released and embarked. The doctor expostulated, and the cardinal
secretary received him with his usual urbanity. His visit was quite as
satisfactory as any of the preceding, and as conclusive as such visits
generally are at Rome. The cardinal heard every thing with the most
dignified composure, and simply replied, that any application to him
personally was now unavailing, and that he could not do better than
apply to the king of England, in whose hands the papers in question
would probably be found in the course of another month.

The doctor bowed and took the advice,--but, in leaving the room, it
occurred to him that he might not meet a more favourable reception at
Downing-street than at the Vatican. A friend at that time resident at
Rome proposed to act as his representative to the minister, and
acquitted himself in the sequel with a fidelity as rare amongst
ambassadors as attorneys.

I never heard any thing decisive of the result of this interview;--but I
have no doubt the cardinal was in the right. No inquiries at all
disquieting were made, or questions asked, of the keeper of the king’s
conscience, on the adjudication of the court of Rome. The king of
England, in right of his Stuart blood, keeps, and will leave to his
descendants, probably, the care of publishing all the Stuart MSS.

But in the momentous interval between the discovery of the papers, and
their voyage to England, more eyes than those of an English duchess and
a cardinal secretary of state contrived to glance over the treasure. For
a day or two they were exposed to the inspection of the privileged few,
at the head of whom was the late professor Playfair, lord S----, lord of
session, &c.: to one of these favoured individuals I am indebted for
most of the particular which follow.

On entering the chamber where they were arranged, which was a small
room, on the first floor, of a small apartment in a secondary quarter of
Rome, he found the walls to a great height literally covered with piles
of paper of every size and quality. They were packed so close, had been
so long unopened, and had so much suffered from the humidity, that each
packet was found to contain, on examination, a very much larger quantity
than had at first been expected. They were arranged in the most perfect
order, and classed according to the age, country, or writer. Several
were autographs, and copies, where they existed, were in the best
preservation, and generally under the eye, and by the order of the first
authority. The series commenced about the period of the king’s arrival
in France, and were continued down, with scarcely any interruption or
hiatus, to the demise of the last direct heir, the cardinal de York.
They embraced not only every document connected with political matters,
but entered into the most minute details on the domestic and personal
affairs of the illustrious individuals, to whom they related, and threw
a very singular light on transactions which have been long concealed, or
viewed under very partial bearings, by the British public. Not only the
private and confidential correspondence between the different members of
the royal family, but references to the most trivial circumstances
connected with the interior of the royal household, and various other
matters of similar interest, were everywhere observable. The revenues,
the expenditure, were regularly noted; a large volume or ledger, almost
completely filled with items of this kind, gave no bad scale of the
gradation or diminution of expense, calculated on country, time, and
situation, and therefore a very fair estimate of their means under the
successive fortunes to which they had been exposed. But by far the most
interesting documents of the collection referred to the important
political transactions of that memorable epoch. James II. occupies a
considerable, and, indeed, a principal portion of this interest. His
letters to his son, written and corrected in his own hand, give a very
flattering portrait, and perhaps a very authentic one, of his character
in almost all his domestic relations, without much claim, but also
without much pretension, to style--the sin of that age, and not less of
the succeeding: they are not without a certain tinge of the elegance of
manner, which, though by no means his apanage, had more or less been
contracted in those dissolute circles which had inspired Hamilton. But
there were other qualities with which they abounded, of much higher
value and importance, greater depth of feeling than what usually exists
in courts, paternal affection in all the bitterness of an unrequited
fondness, and a settled and unavailing despair (he died, indeed, of a
lethargy) of the future destinies of his house, grounded on the frail
support he could anticipate from the depraved habits of his son. The
reproaches addressed to him are frequent, and fraught with the
overflowing waters of fatherly disappointment; the _brouillon_, or rough
draft of the letter, which was sometimes preserved, was often blotted,
and the wavering and agitation of his mind betrayed itself very visibly
in his very hand. The general view which they give is favourable, and
presents a kindlier aspect of his character than what we are habituated
to meet with in the generality of the Whig writers.[213]

  [212] His Royal Highness the Cardinal de York, or as he was sometimes
  called, “Your Majesty,” reposes in the subterraneous church of St.
  Peter, under a plain sarcophagus, which bears the name of Hen. IX. No
  one will dispute the title of a few handfuls of dust, but it is worth
  observing that something very similar reappears on the monument in St.
  Peter’s itself. This is consistent in a Roman: legitimacy, like the
  priesthood, is indelible, and cannot be rubbed out by misfortune or
  wrong. The sketch in Forsyth is interesting and delicate, though
  rather Jacobite and Scotch. I met many persons who retained
  recollections of him at Rome, but none of these recollections are
  worth noticing. He seems to have rendered himself more remarkable by
  petty peculiarities, than any great quality of heart or head. He was
  supposed to be the quickest driver for a cardinal of the whole
  college, and sometimes came in from Frascati, (his bishopric and
  habitual residence,) a distance of about fourteen miles, in an hour
  and a quarter. This was thought in the first instance marvellous, and
  in the next indecorous. The only honours he retained were his titles
  great and little, and the privilege of mounting the Vatican in a
  sedan-chair.

  [213] New Monthly Magazine.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE PLANETS.

THEIR COMPARATIVE SIZES AND POSITIONS.

To assist the mind in framing a conception of the magnitude and relative
distances of the primary planets, let us have recourse to the following
method. The dome of St. Paul’s is 145 feet in diameter. Suppose a globe
of this size to represent the Sun; then a globe of 9⁷⁄₁₀ inches will
represent Mercury; one of 17⁹⁄₁₀ inches, Venus; one of 18 inches, the
Earth; one of 5 inches diameter, the Moon, (whose distance from the
earth is 240,000 miles;) one of 10 inches, Mars; one of 15 feet,
Jupiter; and one of 11½ feet, Saturn, with his ring four feet broad, and
at the same distance from his body all round.

In this proportion, suppose the Sun to be at St. Paul’s, then

☿ Mercury might be at the Tower of London,

♀ Venus at St. James’s Palace,

⊖ The Earth at Marylebone,

♂ Mars at Kensington,

♃ Jupiter at Hampton Court,

♄ Saturn at Clifden;

all moving round the cupola of St. Paul’s as ☉ their common centre.

       *       *       *       *       *


ACCOUNT OF THE BEE-EATER

_Of Selborne, Hampshire._

BY THE REV. GILBERT WHITE, 1789.

We had in this village, more than twenty years ago, an idiot boy, whom I
well remember, who, from a child, showed a strong propensity to bees:
they were his food, his amusement, his sole object; and as people of
this cast have seldom more than one point in view, so this lad exerted
all his few faculties on this one pursuit. In the winter he dosed away
his time, within his father’s house, by the fire-side, in a kind of
torpid state, seldom departing from the chimney-corner; but in the
summer he was all alert, and in quest of his game in the fields and on
sunny banks. Honey-bees, humble-bees, and wasps, were his prey, wherever
he found them: he had no apprehensions from their stings, but would
seize them _nudis manibus_, and at once disarm them of their weapons,
and suck their bodies for the sake of their honey-bags. Sometimes he
would fill his bosom between his shirt and his skin with a number of
these captives; and sometimes would confine them in bottles. He was a
very _merops apiaster_, or _bee-bird_, and very injurious to men that
kept bees; for he would slide into their bee-gardens, and, sitting down
before the stools, would rap with his finger on the hives, and so take
the bees as they came out. He has been known to overturn hives for the
sake of honey, of which he was passionately fond. Where metheglin was
making, he would linger round the tubs and vessels, begging a draught of
what he called _bee-wine_. As he ran about, he used to make a humming
noise with his lips, resembling the buzzing of bees. This lad was lean
and sallow, and of a cadaverous complexion; and, except in his favourite
pursuit, in which he was wonderfully adroit, discovered no manner of
understanding. Had his capacity been better, and directed to the same
object, he had perhaps abated much of our wonder at the feats of a more
modern exhibiter of bees; and we may justly say of him now,

                            “Thou,
    Had thy presiding star propitious shone,
    Should’st _Wildman_ be.”

When a tall youth, he was removed from hence to a distant village, where
he died, as I understand, before he arrived at manhood.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ~Poor’s-Box in Cawston Church, Norfolk.~]

Before the Reformation, says Anthony à Wood, “in every church was a poor
man’s box, but I never remembered the use of it; nay, there was one at
great inns, as I remember it was, before the wars.”

Poor-boxes are often mentioned in the twelfth century. At that period
pope Innocent III. extended papal power to an inordinate height;
absolved subjects from allegiance to their sovereigns; raised crusades
throughout Europe for the recovery of the holy sepulchre; laid France
under an interdict; promised paradise to all who would slaughter the
Albigenses; excommunicated John, king of England; and ordered hollow
trunks to be placed in all the churches, to receive alms for the
remission of the sins of the donors.[214]

A communication to the Antiquarian Society, accompanied by drawings of
the poor-boxes on this and the opposite page, briefly describes
them.[215] The common poor-box in the churches appears to have been a
shaft of oak, hollowed out at the top, covered by a hinged lid of iron,
with a slit in it, for the money to fall through into the cavity, and
secured by one or two iron locks.

Perhaps the most curiously constructed of the ancient poor-boxes now
remaining, is that in the church of Cawston, near Aylsham. The church
was built between 1385 and 1414. The poor-box was provided with three
keys, two of which were for the churchwardens, and the third was most
probably for the clergyman, as one of the key-holes is more ornamented
than the others. The most singular part of this box is an inverted iron
cup, for preventing the money from being taken out by means of any
instrument through the holes on the top of the box.

The engravings above represent--1. this poor-box, as it stands on an
octangular stone basement; 2. a perfect view of the lid; 3. another of
the interior, with the manner wherein the cup is suspended for the
security of the money; 4. a section of the box.

In places where the presumed richness of the boxes rendered them liable
to be plundered, they were strongly bound or clamped with iron plates,
as shown in the present engravings.

[Illustration: ~Poor’s-Box in Loddon Church, Norfolk.~]

The church of Loddon, in the south-eastern angle of the county of
Norfolk, about five miles from Bungay, was built about 1495, and
contains a depository of this description, with two separate boxes, each
of them secured by two padlocks: over one of these is a hole in the lid
for the offerings. When a sufficient sum was collected, it was taken out
and placed in the adjoining box in the presence of the two
churchwardens.

Ben Jonson, in his “Masque of the Metamorphosed Gipsies, as it was
thrice presented before king James, 1621, &c.” makes a gipsy tell Tom
Ticklefoot, a rustic musician,--

    “On Sundays you rob the poor’s-box with your tabor;
    The collectors would do it, you save them a labour.”

Whereunto a countryman answers,

    “Faith, but a little: they’ll do it _non-upstant_.”[216]

From this we gather that it was customary at that time to put money in
the parish poor’s-box on Sundays, and that the trustees of the poor were
sometimes suspected of misapplying it.

The neglect of this mode of public contribution is noted in Hogarth’s
marriage scene of the “Rake’s Progress,” by a cobweb covering the
poor’s-box in the church. There is an intimation to the same effect in
one of Beaumont and Fletcher’s plays, which further intimates that
poor’s-boxes had posies--

    The poor man’s box is there too: if ye find any thing
    Besides the posy, and that half rubb’d out too,
    For fear it should awaken too much charity,
    Give it to pious uses: that is, spend it.

  _Spanish Curate_, 1647.

The posies or mottoes on poor’s-boxes were short sentences to incite
benevolence--such as, “He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord,”
&c.

  [214] Fosbroke’s Encyclopædia of Antiquities.

  [215] This communication from J. A. Repton, Esq., is printed, with
  engravings from his drawings, in the “Archæologia,” 1821.

  [216] _Non-upstant_, notwithstanding.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Poetry.~

ANGEL HELP.[217]

    This rare Tablet doth include
    Poverty with Sanctitude.
    Past midnight this poor Maid hath spun,
    And yet the work not half is done,
    Which must supply from earnings scant
    A feeble bed-rid parent’s want.
    Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask,
    And Holy hands take up the task;
    Unseen the rock and spindle ply,
    And do her earthly drudgery.

    Sleep, saintly Poor One, sleep, sleep on,
    And, waking, find thy labours done.

    Perchance she knows it by her dreams;
    Her eye hath caught the golden gleams
    (Angelic Presence testifying,)
    That round her everywhere are flying;
    Ostents from which she may presume
    That much of Heaven is in the room.
    Skirting her own bright hair they run,
    And to the Sunny add more Sun:
    Now on that aged face they fix,
    Streaming from the Crucifix;
    The flesh-clogg’d spirit disabusing.
    Death-disarming sleeps infusing,
    Prelibations, foretastes high,
    And equal thoughts to live or die.

    Gardener bright from Eden’s bower,
    Tend with care that Lily Flower;
    To its leaves and root infuse
    Heaven’s sunshine, Heaven’s dews;
    ’Tis a type and ’tis a pledge
    Of a Crowning Privilege:
    Careful as that Lily Flower,
    This Maid must keep her precious dower;
    Live a Sainted Maid, or die
    Martyr to Virginity.

    Virtuous Poor Ones, sleep, sleep on,
    And, waking, find your labours done.

  C. LAMB.

  New Monthly Magazine,

  June 1, 1827.

       *       *       *       *       *


COWPER.

The poet of “The Sofa,” when “in merry pin,” trifled pleasantly. As an
instance of his manner, there remains the following

LETTER TO THE REV. J. NEWTON.

  _July 12, 1781._

My very dear Friend,--I am going to send, what, when you have read, you
may scratch your head, and say, I suppose there’s nobody knows, whether
what I have got, be verse or not; by the tune or the time, it ought to
be rhyme; but if it be, did you ever see, of late or of yore, such a
ditty before?

I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but as well as I could, in
hopes to do good; and if the reviewers should say “to be sure, the
gentleman’s muse wears Methodist shoes; you may know by her pace, and
talk about grace, that she and her bard, have little regard, for the
taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoidening play, of the
modern day: and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now and then
wear a tittering air, ’tis only her plan, to catch if she can, the giddy
and gay, as they go that way, by a production, on a new construction;
she has baited her trap, in hopes to snap, all that may come, with a
sugar plum.”--This opinion in this will not be amiss: ’tis what I
intend, my principal end; and if I succeed, and folks should read, till
a few are brought, to a serious thought, I should think I am paid for
all I have said, and all I have done, though I have run, many a time,
after a rhyme, as far from hence, to the end of my sense, and by hook or
crook, write another book, if I live and am here, another year.

I have heard before, of a room with a floor, laid upon springs, and such
like things, with so much art, in every part, that when you went in, you
was forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace, swimming
about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight,
without pipe or string, or any such thing. And now I have writ, in a
rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and as you advance, will keep you
still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, till you
come to an end of what I have penned; which that you may do, ere madam
and you are quite worn out, with jigging about, I take my leave, and
here you receive a bow profound, down to the ground, from your humble
me--

  W. C.

       *       *       *       *       *

When prevented by rains and floods from visiting the lady who suggested
“The Task,” Cowper beguiled the time by writing to her the following
lines, and afterwards printing them with his own hand. He sent a copy of
these verses, so printed, to his sister, accompanied by the subjoined
note written upon his typographical labours.

    To watch the storms, and hear the sky
    Give all the almanacks the lie;
    To shake with cold, and see the plains
    In autumn drown’d with wintry rains:
    ’Tis thus I spend my moments here,
    And wish myself a Dutch mynheer;
    I then should have no need of wit,
    For lumpish Hollander unfit;
    Nor should I then repine at mud,
    Or meadows delug’d with a flood;
    But in a bog live well content,
    And find it just my element;
    Should be a clod, and not a man,
    Nor wish in vain for sister Anne,
    With charitable aid to drag
    My mind out of its proper quag;
    Should have the genius of a boor,
    And no ambition to have more.

My dear Sister,--You see my beginning; I do not know but in time I may
proceed to the printing of halfpenny ballads. Excuse the coarseness of
my paper; I wasted so much before I could accomplish any thing legible,
that I could not afford finer. I intend to employ an ingenious mechanic
of this town to make me a longer case, for you may observe that my lines
turn up their tails like Dutch mastiffs; so difficult do I find it to
make the two halves exactly coincide with each other.

We wait with impatience for the departure of this unseasonable flood. We
think of you, and talk of you; but we can do no more till the waters
subside. I do not think our correspondence should drop because we are
within a mile of each other; it is but an imaginary approximation, the
flood having in reality as effectually parted us, as if the British
Channel rolled between us.

Yours, my dear sister, with Mrs. U.’s best love,

  WILLIAM COWPER.

  _Monday, Aug. 12, 1782._

  [217] Suggested by a picture in the possession of Charles Aders, Esq.
  Euston-square, in which is represented the Legend of a poor female
  Saint, who, having spun past midnight to maintain a bed-rid mother,
  has fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work. In
  another part of the chamber, an Angel is tending a lily, the emblem of
  her purity.

       *       *       *       *       *


HIGHLAND DEER AND SHEEP.

“THE LAST DEER OF BEANN DORAN.”

A note to a poem, with this title, by John Hay Allan, Esq., relates,
that in former times the barony of Glen Urcha was celebrated for the
number and the superior race of its deer. When the chieftains
relinquished their ancient character and their ancient sports, and sheep
were introduced into the country, the want of protection, and the
antipathy of the deer to the intruding animals, gradually expelled the
former from the face of the country, and obliged them to retire to the
most remote recesses of the mountains. Contracted in their haunts from
corrai to corrai, the deer of Glen Urcha at length wholly confined
themselves to Beann Doran, a mountain near the solitary wilds of Glen
Lyon, and the vast and desolate mosses which stretch from the Black
Mount to Loch Ranach. In this retreat they continued for several years;
their dwelling was in a lonely corrai at the back of the hill, and they
were never seen in the surrounding country, except in the deepest
severity of winter, when, forced by hunger and the snow, a straggler
ventured down into the straiths. But the hostility which had banished
them from their ancient range, did not respect their last retreat. The
sheep continually encroached upon their bounds, and contracted their
resources of subsistence. Deprived of the protection of the laird, those
which ventured from their haunt were cut off without mercy or fair
chase; while want of range, and the inroads of poachers, continually
diminished their numbers, till at length the race became extinct.

About the time of the disappearance of the deer from these wilds, an
immense stag was one evening seen standing upon the side of Beann
Donachan. He remained for some time quietly gazing towards the lake, and
at length slowly descended the hill, and was crossing the road at
Stronnmilchon, when he was discovered by some herdsmen of the hamlet.
They immediately pursued him with their cooleys; and the alarm being
given, the whole straith, men, women, and children, gathered out to the
pursuit. The noble animal held them a severe chase till, as he passed
through the copse on the north side of Blairachuran, his antlers were
entangled in the boughs, he was overtaken by the pursuers, and
barbarously slaughtered by the united onset, and assault of dogs,
hay-forks, and “Sgian an Dubh.” When divided, he proved but a poor
reward for the fatigue; for he was so old, that his flesh was scarcely
eatable. From that time the deer were seen no more in Beann Doran; and
none now appear in Glen Urcha, except when, in a hard winter, a solitary
stag wanders out of the forest of Dalness, and passes down Glen Strae or
Corrai Fhuar.

The same cause which had extirpated the deer from Glen Urcha has equally
acted in most part of the Highlands. Wherever the sheep appear, their
numbers begin to decrease, and at length they become totally extinct.
The reasons of this apparently singular consequence is, the closeness
with which the sheep feed, and which, where they abound, so consumes the
pasturage, as not to leave sufficient for the deer: still more is it
owing to the unconquerable antipathy which these animals have for the
former. This dislike is so great, that they cannot endure the smell of
their wool, and never mix with them in the most remote situations, or
where there is the most ample pasturage for both. They have no
abhorrence of this kind to cattle, but, where large herds of these are
kept, will feed and lie among the stirks and steers with the greatest
familiarity.

       *       *       *       *       *


HIGHLAND MEALS.

Among the peculiarities of highland manners is an avowed contempt for
the luxuries of the table. A highland hunter will eat with a keen
appetite and sufficient discrimination: but, were he to stop in any
pursuit, because it was meal time, to growl over a bad dinner, or
visibly exult over a good one, the manly dignity of his character would
be considered as fallen for ever.[218]

  [218] Mrs. Grant.

       *       *       *       *       *


TREAD MILLS.

At Lewes, each prisoner walks at the rate of 6,600 feet in ascent per
day; at Ipswich, 7,450; at St. Alban’s, 8,000; at Bury, 8,650; at
Cambridge, 10,176; at Durham, 12,000; at Brixton, Guildford, and
Reading, the summer rate exceeds 13,000; while at Warwick, the summer
rate is about 17,000 feet in ten hours.[219]

  [219] The Times.

       *       *       *       *       *


EXTRAORDINARY

ORAN-OUTANG,

THE WILD MAN OF THE WOODS.

The largest and most remarkable oran-outang ever seen by Europeans, was
discovered by an officer of the ship Mary Anne Sophia, in the year 1824,
at a place called Ramboon, near Touromon, on the west coast of Sumatra.

When the officer alluded to first saw the animal, he assembled his
people, and followed him to a tree in a cultivated spot, on which he
took refuge. His walk was erect and waddling, but not quick, and he was
obliged occasionally to accelerate his motion with his hands; but with a
bough which he carried, he impelled himself forward with great rapidity.
When he reached the trees his strength was shown in a high degree, for
with one spring he gained a very lofty branch, and bounded from it with
the ease of the smaller animals of his kind. Had the circumjacent land
been covered with wood, he would certainly have escaped from his
pursuers, for his mode of travelling by bough or tree was as rapid as
the progress of a very fleet horse: but at Ramboon there are but few
trees left in the midst of cultivated fields, and amongst these alone he
jumped about to avoid being taken. He was first shot on a tree, and
after having received five balls, his exertion was relaxed, owing, no
doubt, to loss of blood; and the ammunition having been by that time
expended, his pursuers were obliged to have recourse to other measures
for his destruction. One of the first balls probably penetrated his
lungs, for immediately after the infliction of the wound, he slung
himself by his feet from a branch with his head downwards, and allowed
the blood to flow from his mouth. On receiving a wound, he always put
his hand over the injured part, and the human-like agony of his
expression had the natural effect of exciting painful feelings in his
assailants. The peasantry seemed as amazed at the sight of him as the
crew of the ship; for they had never seen one before, although living
within two days’ journey from the vast and impenetrable forests on the
island. They cut down the tree on which he was reclining exhausted; but
the moment he found it falling, he exerted his remaining strength, and
gained another, and then a third, until he was finally brought to the
ground, and forced to combat his unrelenting foes, who now gathered very
thickly round, and discharged spears and other missiles against him.
The first spear, made of a very strong supple wood, which would have
resisted the strength of the strongest man, was broken by him like a
carrot; and had he not been in almost a dying state, it was feared that
he would have severed the heads of some of the party with equal ease. He
fell, at length, under innumerable stabs inflicted by the peasantry.

The animal is supposed to have travelled some distance from the place
where he was killed, as his legs were covered with mud up to the knees.
His hands and feet had great analogy to human hands and feet, only that
the thumbs were smaller in proportion, and situated nearer the
wrist-joint. His body was well proportioned; he had a fine broad
expanded chest and a narrow waist; but his legs were rather short, and
his arms very long, though both possessed such sinew and muscle as left
no doubt of their strength. His head was well proportioned with his
body, and the nose prominent; the eyes were large, and the mouth larger
than the mouth in man. His chin was fringed, from the extremity of one
ear to the other, with a shaggy beard, curling luxuriantly on each side,
and forming altogether an ornamental, rather than a frightful appendage
to his visage. When he was first killed, the hair of his coat was smooth
and glossy, and his teeth and whole appearance indicated that he was
young, and in the full possession of his physical powers. He was nearly
eight feet high.

The skin and fragments of this surprising oran-outang were presented to
the Asiatic Society at Calcutta; and on the 5th of January, 1825, Dr.
Abel examined them, and read the observations he had made. The height
already mentioned is according to the estimate of those who saw the
animal alive, but the measurement of the skin went far to determine this
question. The skin, dried and shrivelled as it was, in a straight line
from the top of the shoulder to the point whence the ancle had been
removed, measured five feet ten inches; the perpendicular length of the
neck in the preparation, was three inches and a half; the length of the
face, from the forehead to the chin, nine inches; and of the skin
attached to the foot, from the line of its separation from the body to
the heel, eight inches. The measurements were made by Dr. Abel himself.
Thus we have one foot eight inches and a half to be added to the five
feet ten inches, in order to approximate his real stature, which would
make seven feet six inches and a half; and allowing the six inches and a
half for the shortening that would result from the folding of the skin
over the shoulders, the height would then be full seven feet. This is
the greatest ascertained height of any tail-less monkey mentioned in the
several notices which Dr. Abel collected from different writers on
man-like apes.

The skin itself was of a dark leaden colour; the hair a brownish red,
shaggy, and long over the shoulders and flanks.

Dr. Abel remarked, that of the small animals more particularly known in
Europe, under the designation of oran-outang, one was an inhabitant of
Africa, and the other of the east. Several living specimens of both have
been seen in Europe, but all were of small stature, and very young,
never exceeding three feet in height, or as many years of age. These
animals were long considered as varieties of the same species, although
in point of fact they are very distinctly separated by external
character and anatomical distinctions. The African animal being always
black with large ears, the eastern specimens as invariably having
reddish brown hair, and very small ears; the former also are unprovided
with the sacs communicating with the windpipe, which are always found in
the latter.[220]

Different naturalists have deemed the oran-outang to be the connecting
link between the brute and the human being.

  [220] Calcutta Government Gazette, Jan. 13, 1825.

       *       *       *       *       *


A LITTLE LEARNING

---- “_not_ a dangerous thing.”

_Mr. Thomas Campbell_ having been chosen lord rector of the university
of Glasgow, made his inaugural speech on the 12th of April, 1827,
wherein are the following estimable remarks on desultory attainments:--

“In comparing small learned acquisitions with none at all, it appears to
me to be equally absurd to consider a little learning valueless, or even
dangerous, as some will have it, as to talk of a little virtue, a little
wealth, or health, or cheerfulness, or a little of any other blessing
under heaven, being worthless or dangerous.

“To abjure any degree of information, because we cannot grasp the whole
circle of the sciences, or sound the depths of erudition, appears to be
just about as sensible as if we were to shut up our windows because
they are too narrow, or because the glass has not the magnifying power
of a telescope.

“For the smallest quantity of knowledge that a man can acquire, he is
bound to be contentedly thankful, provided his fate shuts him out from
the power of acquiring a larger portion--but whilst the possibility of
farther advancement remains, be as proudly discontented as ye will with
a little learning. For the value of knowledge is like that of a diamond,
it increases according to its magnitude, even in much more than a
geometrical ratio.--One science and literary pursuit throws light upon
another, and there is a connection, as Cicero remarks, among them all--

  “‘Omnes Artes, quæ ad humanitatem pertinent, habent quoddam commune
  vinculum, et quasi cognatione quadam inter se continentur.’

“No doubt a man ought to devote himself, in the main, to one department
of knowledge, but still he will be all the better for making himself
acquainted with studies which are kindred _to_ and _with_ that
pursuit.--The principle of the extreme division of labour, so useful in
a pin manufactory, if introduced into learning, may produce, indeed,
some minute and particular improvements, but, on the whole, it tends to
cramp human intellect.

“That the mind may, and especially in early youth, be easily distracted
by too many pursuits, must be readily admitted. But I now beg leave to
consider myself addressing those among you, who are conscious of great
ambition, and of many faculties; and what I say, may regard rather the
studies of your future than of your present years.

“To embrace different pursuits, diametrically opposite, in the wide
circle of human knowledge, must be pronounced to be almost universally
impossible for a single mind.--But I cannot believe that any strong mind
weakens its strength, in any one branch of learning, by diverging into
cognate studies; on the contrary, I believe that it will return home to
the main object, bringing back illustrative treasures from all its
excursions into collateral pursuits.”

       *       *       *       *       *


FIGURES, AND NUMBERS.

Respecting the origin of the numeral figures 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9,
there are various opinions, but the one most generally received is, that
they were brought into Europe from Spain; that the Spaniards received
them from the Moors, the Moors from the Arabians, and the Arabians from
the Indians.

Bishop Huet, however, thinks it improbable that the Arabians received
figures from the Indians, but, on the contrary, that the Indians
obtained them from the Arabians, and the Arabians from the Grecians;
from whom, in fact, they acquired a knowledge of every science they
possessed. The shape of the figures they received underwent a great
alteration; yet if we examine them, divested of prejudice, we shall find
very manifest traces of the Grecian figures, which were nothing more
than letters of their alphabet.

A small comma, or dot, was their mark for units.

The letter β (b) if its two extremities are erased, produces the figure
2.

If we form the letter γ (g) with more inclination to the left than
usual, shorten the foot, and give some rotundity to the left horns near
the left side, we shall make the figure 3.

The letter Δ (D) is the figure 4, as we should find on giving the left
leg a perpendicular form, and lengthening it below the base, which also
should be enlarged towards the left.

From the ε (e short) is formed the 5, by only bringing towards the right
side the demicircle which is beneath inclining to the left.

From the figure 5 they made the 6, by leaving out the foot, and rounding
the body.

Of the Ζ (Z) they make the 7, by leaving out the base.

If we turn the four corners of the Η (e long) towards the inside, we
shall make the figure 8.

The ϑ (th) was the figure 9 without any alteration.

The _nought_ was only a point which they added to their figures, to make
them ten times more; it was necessary that this point should be made
very distinctly, to which end they formed it like a circle, and filled
it up; this method we have neglected.

Theophanus, the Eastern chronologist, says in express terms, that the
Arabians had retained the Grecian numbers, not having sufficient
characters in their own language to mark them.

Menage says, they were first employed in Europe in 1240, in the
Alphonsian Tables, made under the direction of Alphonso, son to king
Ferdinand of Castile, by Isaac Hazan, a Jew of Toledo, and Abel Ragel,
an Arabian. Dr. Wallis conceives they were generally used in England
about the year 1130.

In the indexes of some old French books these figures are called Arabic
ciphers, to distinguish them from Roman numerals.


NUMBER X, 10.

It is observed by Huet as a remarkable circumstance, that for
calculation and numerical increase the number 10 is always used, and
that decimal progression is preferred to every other. The cause of this
preference arises from the number of our fingers, upon which men
accustom themselves to reckon from their infancy. First, they count the
units on their fingers, and when the units exceed that number, they have
recourse to another ten. If the number of tens increase, they still
reckon on their fingers; and if they surpass that number, they then
commence a different species of calculation by the same agents; as
thus--reckoning each finger for tens, then for hundreds, thousands, &c.

From this mode of reckoning by the fingers then, we have been led to
prefer the number ten, though it is not so convenient and useful a
number as twelve. Ten can only be divided by two and five, but twelve
can be divided by two, three, four, and six.

The Roman numbers are adduced in proof of the origin of reckoning by the
number ten, viz.--

The units are marked by the letter I, which represent a finger.

The number five is marked by the letter V, which represents the first
and last finger of a hand.

Ten, by an X, which is two V’s joined at their points, and which two V’s
represent the two hands.

Five tens are marked by an L; that is half the letter E, which is the
same as C, the mark for a hundred.

Five hundred is marked by a D, half of the letter Φ, which is the same
as M, the mark for a thousand.

According to this, the calculation of the Roman numbers was from five to
five, that is, from one hand to the other. Ovid makes mention of this
mode, as also of the number ten:--

    “Hic numeris magno tunc in honore fuit.
    Seu quia tot digiti per quos numerare solemnus,
    Seu quia bis quino femina mense parit.
    Seu quod ad usque decem numero crescente venitur:
    Principium spatiis sumitur inde novis.”

Vitruvius also makes the same remark; he says, “Ex manibus denarius
digitorum numerus.”

We have refined, however, upon the convenience which nature has
furnished us with to assist us in our calculations; for we not only use
our fingers, but likewise various figures, which we place in different
situations, and combine in certain ways, to express our ideas.

       *       *       *       *       *

Many unlettered nations, as the inhabitants of Guinea, Madagascar, and
of the interior parts of America, know not how to count farther than
ten. The Brasilians, and several others, cannot reckon beyond five; they
multiply that number to express a greater, and in their calculations
they use their fingers and toes. The natives of Peru use decimal
progression; they count from one to ten; by tens to a hundred; and by
hundreds to a thousand. Plutarch says, that decimal progression was not
only used among the Grecians, but also by every uncivilized nation.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Omniana.~


FOX, THE QUAKER.

This individual, many years deceased, was a most remarkable man in his
circle; a great natural genius, which employed itself upon trivial or
not generally interesting matters. He deserved to have been known better
than he was. The last years of his life he resided at Bristol. He was a
great Persian scholar, and published some translations of the poets of
that nation, which were well worthy perusal. He was self-taught, and had
patience and perseverance for any thing. He was somewhat eccentric, but
had the quickest reasoning power, and consequently the greatest
coolness, of any man of his day, who was able to reason. His house took
fire in the night; it was situated near the sea; it was uninsured, and
the flames spread so rapidly nothing could be saved. He saw the
consequences instantly, made up his mind to them as rapidly, and
ascending a hill at some distance in the rear of his dwelling, watched
the picture and the reflection of the flames on the sea, admiring its
beauties, as if it were a holiday bonfire.

       *       *       *       *       *


DIVING-BELLS.

The first diving-bell we read of was nothing but a very large kettle,
suspended by ropes, with the mouth downwards, and planks to sit on fixed
in the middle of its concavity. Two Greeks at Toledo, in 1588, made an
experiment with it before the emperor Charles V. They descended in it,
with a lighted candle, to a considerable depth. In 1683, William Phipps,
the son of a blacksmith, formed a project for unloading a rich Spanish
ship sunk on the coast of Hispaniola. Charles II. gave him a ship with
every thing necessary for his undertaking; but being unsuccessful, he
returned in great poverty. He then endeavoured to procure another
vessel, but failing, he got a subscription, to which the duke of
Albemarle contributed. In 1687, Phipps set sail in a ship of two hundred
tons, having previously engaged to divide the profits according to the
twenty shares of which the subscription consisted. At first all his
labours proved fruitless; but at last, when he seemed almost to despair,
he was fortunate enough to bring up so much treasure, that he returned
to England with the value of 200,000_l._ sterling. Of this sum he got
about 20,000_l._, and the duke 90,000_l._ Phipps was knighted by the
king, and laid the foundation of the fortunes of the present noble house
of Mulgrave. Since that time diving-bells have been often employed. On
occasion of the breaking in of the water of the Thames during the
progress of the tunnel under the Thames, Mr. Brunel frequently descended
in one to the bed of the river.

       *       *       *       *       *


GAMING.

    ----“The ruling passion strong in death.”

In “Arliquiniana” avarice, and love of gaming, are exemplified by the
following anecdote:--

A French woman, who resided on her estate in the country, falling ill,
sent to the village curate, and offered to play with him. The curate
being used to gaming, gladly entertained the proposal, and they played
together till he lost all his money. She then offered to play with him
for the expenses of her funeral, in case she should die. They played,
and the curate losing these also, she obliged him to give her his note
of hand for so much money lent, as her funeral expenses would amount to.
She delivered the note to her son, and died within eight or ten days
afterwards, and the curate was paid his fees in his own note of hand.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE TANNER.

AN EPIGRAM.

    A Bermondsey tanner would often engage,
      In a long _tête-à-tête_ with his dame,
    While trotting to town in the Kennington stage,
      About giving their villa a name.

    A neighbour, thus hearing the skin-dresser talk,
      Stole out, half an hour after dark,
    Pick’d up in the roadway a fragment of chalk,
      And wrote on the palings--“_Hide_ Park!”[221]

       *       *       *       *       *


FRIENDSHIP ON THE NAIL.

When Marigny contracted a friendship with Menage, he told him he was
“upon his _nail_.” It was a method he had of speaking of all his
friends; he also used it in his letters; one which he wrote to Menage
begins thus: “Oh! illustrious of my _nail_.”

When Marigny said, “you are upon my _nail_,” he meant two things--one,
that the person was always present, nothing being more easy than to look
at his nail; the other was, that good and real friends were so scarce,
that even he who had the most, might write their names on his nail.

  [221] New Monthly Magazine.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Notice~

TO THE CHANCE CUSTOMERS

OF THE

COMPANY OF FLYING STATIONERS.

Formerly there was a numerous class who believed every thing they saw in
print. It is just possible that a few of these persuadable persons may
survive; I therefore venture to remark, that my name printed on the
squibs now crying about the streets is a forgery.

  W. HONE.

  _June 8, 1827._




Vol. I.--25.


[Illustration: ~Beckenham Church, Kent.~]

The parish of Beckenham lends its name to the hundred, which is in the
lath of Sutton-at-Hone. It is ten miles from London, two miles north
from Bromley, and, according to the last census, contains 196 houses and
1180 inhabitants. The living is a rectory valued in the king’s books at
6_l._ 18_s._ 9_d_. The church is dedicated to St. George.

----Beyond “Chaffinch’s River” there is an enticing field-path to
Beckenham, but occasional sights of noble trees kept us along the high
road, till the ring of the blacksmith’s hammer signalled that we were
close upon the village. We wound through it at a slow pace, vainly
longing for something to realize the expectations raised by the prospect
of it on our way.

Beckenham consists of two or three old farm-like looking houses, rudely
encroached upon by a number of irregularly built dwellings, and a
couple of inns; one of them of so much apparent consequence, as to
dignify the place. We soon came to an edifice which, by its publicity,
startles the feelings of the passenger in this, as in almost every other
parish, and has perhaps greater tendency to harden than reform the
rustic offender--the “cage,” with its accessory, the “pound.” An angular
turn in the road, from these lodgings for men and cattle when they go
astray, afforded us a sudden and delightful view of

    “The decent church that tops the neighb’ring hill.”

On the right, an old, broad, high wall, flanked with thick buttresses,
and belted with magnificent trees, climbs the steep, to enclose the
domain of I know not whom; on the opposite side, the branches, from a
plantation, arch beyond the footpath. At the summit of the ascent is the
village church with its whitened spire, crowning and pinnacl’ing this
pleasant grove, pointing from amidst the graves--like man’s last only
hope--towards heaven.

This village spire is degradingly noticed in “An accurate Description of
Bromley and Five Miles round, by Thomas Wilson, 1797.” He says, “An
extraordinary circumstance happened here near Christmas, 1791; the
steeple of this church was destroyed by lightning, but a new one was put
up in 1796, made of copper, in the form of an extinguisher.” The old
spire, built of shingles, was fired on the morning of the 23d of
December, in the year seventeen hundred and _ninety_, in a dreadful
storm. One of the effects of it in London I perfectly remember:--the
copper roofing of the new “Stone Buildings” in Lincoln’s Inn was
stripped off by the wind, and violently carried over the opposite range
of high buildings, the Six Clerks’ offices, into Chancery Lane, where I
saw the immense sheet of metal lying in the carriage way, exactly as it
fell, rolled up, with as much neatness as if it had been executed by
machinery. As regards the present spire of Beckenham church, its “form,”
in relation to its place, is the most appropriate that could have been
devised--a picturesque object, that marks the situation of the village
in the forest landscape many miles round, and indescribably graces the
nearer view.

We soon came up to the corpse-gate of the church-yard, and I left W.
sketching it,[222] whilst I retraced my steps into the village in
search of the church-keys at the parish clerk’s, from whence I was
directed back again, to “the woman who has the care of the church,” and
lives in the furthest of three neat almshouses, built at the church-yard
side, by the private benefaction of Anthony Rawlings, in 1694. She
gladly accompanied us, with the keys clinking, through the mournful
yew-tree grove, and threw open the great south doors of the church. It
is an old edifice--despoiled of its ancient font--deprived, by former
beautifyings, of carvings and tombs that in these times would have been
remarkable. It has remnants of brasses over the burial places of
deceased rectors and gentry, from whence dates have been wantonly
erased, and monuments of more modern personages, which a few years may
equally deprave.

There are numerous memorials of the late possessors of Langley, a
predominant estate in Beckenham. One in particular to sir Humphry Style,
records that he was of great fame, in his day and generation, in
Beckenham: he was “Owner of Langley in this parish, Knight and Baronet
of England and Ireland, a gentleman of the privy chamber in ordinary to
James I., one of the cupbearers in ordinary to King Charles, and by them
boath intrusted with the weighty affairs of this countye: Hee was
justice of peace and quorum, Deputy lieftenant, and alsoe (an hono’r not
formerly conferred upon any) made Coronell of all the trayned band horse
thereof.”

The possession of Langley may be traced, through the monuments, to its
last heritable occupant, commemorated by an inscription; “Sacred to the
Memory of Peter Burrell, Baron Gwydir, of Gwydir, Deputy Great
Chamberlain of England, Born July 16, 1754; Died at Brighton, June 29th,
1820, aged 66 years.” After the death of this nobleman Langley was sold.
The poor of Beckenham speak his praise, and lament that his charities
died with him. The alienation of the estate deprived them of a
benevolent protector, and no one has arisen to succeed him in the
character of a kind-hearted benefactor.

A tablet in this church, to “Harriet, wife of (the present) J. G.
Lambton, Esq. of Lambton Hall, Durham,” relates that she died “in her
twenty-fifth year.”

Within the church, fixed against the northern corner of the west end, is
a plate of copper, bearing an inscription to this import:--Mary Wragg,
of St. John’s, Westminster, bequeathed 15_l._ per annum for ever to the
curate of Beckenham, in trust for the following uses; viz. a guinea to
himself for his trouble in taking care that her family vault should be
kept in good repair; a guinea to be expended in a dinner for himself,
and the clerk, and parish officers; 12_l._ 10_s._ to defray the expenses
of such repairs; if in any year the vault should not require repair, the
money to be laid out in eighteen pennyworth of good beef, eighteen
pennyworth of good bread, five shillings worth of coals, and 4_s._ 6_d._
in money, to be given to each of twenty of the poorest inhabitants of
the parish; if repairs should be required, the money left to be laid out
in like manner and quantity, with 4_s._ 6_d._ to as many as it will
extend to; and the remaining 8_s._ to be given to the clerk. In
consequence of Mary Wragg’s bequest, her vault in the church-yard is
properly maintained, and distribution made of beef, bread, and money,
every 28th of January. On this occasion there is usually a large
attendance of spectators; as many as please go down into the vault, and
the parochial authorities of Beckenham have a holiday, and “keep
wassel.”

There is carefully kept in this church a small wooden hand-box, of
remarkable shape, made in king William’s time, for the receipt of
contributions from the congregation when there are collections. As an
ecclesiastical utensil with which I was unacquainted, W. took a drawing,
and has made an engraving of it.

[Illustration]

This collecting-box is still used. It is carried into the pews, and
handed to the occupants, who drop any thing or nothing, as they please,
into the upper part. When money is received, it passes through an open
slit left between the back and the top enclosure of the lower half;
which part, thus shut up, forms a box, that conceals from both eye and
hand the money deposited. The contrivance might be advantageously
adopted in making collections at the doors of churches generally. It is
a complete security against the possibility of money being withdrawn
instead of given; which, from the practice of holding open plates, and
the ingenuity of sharpers, has sometimes happened.

In the middle of two family pews of this church, which are as commodious
as sitting parlours, there are two ancient reading desks like large
music stands, with flaps and locks for holding and securing the service
books when they are not in use. These pieces of furniture are either
obsolete in churches, or peculiar to that of Beckenham; at least I never
saw desks of the like in any other church.

Not discovering any thing further to remark within the edifice, except
its peal of five bells, we strolled among the tombs in the church-yard,
which offers no inscriptions worth notice. From its solemn yew-tree
grove we passed through the “Lich-gate,” already described. On our
return to the road by which we had approached the church, and at a
convenient spot, W. sketched the view he so freely represents in the
engraving. The melodists of the groves were in full song. As the note of
the parish-clerk rises in the psalm above the common voice of the
congregation, so the loud, confident note of the blackbird exceeds the
united sound of the woodland choir: one of these birds, on a near tree,
whistled with all his might, as if conscious of our listening, and
desirous of particular distinction.

Wishing to reach home by a different route than that we had come, we
desired to be acquainted with the way we should go, and went again to
the almshouses which are occupied by three poor widows, of whom our
attendant to the church was one. She was alone in her humble habitation
making tea, with the tokens of her office-bearing, the church keys, on
the table before her. In addition to the required information, we
elicited that she was the widow of Benjamin Wood, the late parish-clerk.
His brother, a respectable tradesman in London, had raised an excellent
business, “Wood’s eating-house,” at the corner of Seething-lane,
Tower-street, and at his decease was enabled to provide comfortably for
his family. Wood, the parish-clerk, had served Beckenham in that
capacity many years till his death, which left his widow indigent, and
threw her on the cold charity of a careless world. She seems to have
outlived the recollection of her husband’s relatives. After his death
she struggled her way into this almshouse, and gained an allowance of
two shillings a week; and on this, with the trifle allowed for her
services in keeping clean the church, at past threescore years and ten,
she somehow or other contrives to exist.

We led dame Wood to talk of her “domestic management,” and finding she
brewed her own beer with the common utensils and fire-place of her
little room, we asked her to describe her method: a tin kettle is her
boiler, she mashes in a common butter-firkin, runs off the liquor in a
“crock,” and tuns it in a small-beer-barrel. She is of opinion that
“poor people might do a great deal for themselves if they knew _how_:
_but_,” says she, “where there’s a _will_, there’s a _way_.”

  *

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ~The old Font of Beckenham Church.~]

A font often denotes the antiquity, and frequently determines the former
importance of the church, and is so essential a part of the edifice,
that it is incomplete without one. According to the rubrick, a church
may be without a pulpit, but not without a font; hence, almost the first
thing I look for in an old church is its old stone font. Instead
thereof, at Beckenham, is a thick wooden baluster, with an unseemly
circular flat lid, covering a sort of wash-hand-basin, and this the
“gentlemen of the parish” call a “font!” The odd-looking thing was “a
present” from a parishioner, in lieu of the ancient stone font which,
when the church was repaired after the lightning-storm, was carried away
by Mr. churchwarden Bassett, and placed in his yard. It was afterwards
sold to Mr. Henry Holland, the former landlord of the “Old Crooked
Billet,” on Penge Common, who used it for several years as a cistern,
and the present landlord has it now in his garden, where it appears as
represented in the engraving. Mr. Harding expresses an intention of
making a table of it, and placing it at the front of his house: in the
interim it is depicted here, as a hint, to induce some regard in
Beckenham people, and save the venerable font from an exposure, which,
however intended as a private respect to it by the host of the “Crooked
Billet,” would be a public shame to Beckenham parish.

  [222] Mr. W.’s engraving of his sketch is on p. 715.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


GONE OR GOING.

1.

    Fine merry franions,
    Wanton companions,
    My days are ev’n banyans
            With thinking upon ye;
    How Death, that last stringer,
    Finis-writer, end-bringer,
    Has laid his chill finger,
            Or is laying, on ye.

2.

    There’s rich Kitty Wheatley,
    With footing it featly
    That took me completely,
            She sleeps in the Kirk-house;
    And poor Polly Perkin,
    Whose Dad was still ferking
    The jolly ale firkin--
            She’s gone to the Work-house:

3.

    Fine gard’ner, Ben Carter
    (In ten counties no smarter)
    Has ta’en his departure
            For Proserpine’s orchards;
    And Lily, postillion,
    With cheeks of vermilion,
    Is one of a million
            That fill up the church-yards.

4.

    And, lusty as Dido,
    Fat Clemitson’s widow
    Flits now a small shadow
            By Stygian hid ford;
    And good Master Clapton
    Has thirty years nap’t on
    The ground he last hap’t on;
            Intomb’d by fair Widford;

5.

    And gallant Tom Docwra,
    Of Nature’s finest crockery,
    Now but thin air and mockery,
            Lurks by Avernus;
    Whose honest grasp of hand,
    Still, while his life did stand,
    At friend’s or foe’s command,
            Almost did burn us.

6.

    (Roger de Coverly
    Not more good man than he),
    Yet is he equally
            Push’d for Cocytus,
    With cuckoldy Worral,
    And wicked old Dorrel,
    Gainst whom I’ve a quarrel--
            His death might affright us!

7.

    Had he mended in right time,
    He need not in night time,
    (That black hour, and fright-time,)
            Till sexton interr’d him,
    Have groan’d in his coffin,
    While demons stood scoffing--
    You’d ha’ thought him a coughing--
            My own father[223] heard him!

8.

    Could gain so importune,
    With occasion opportune,
    That for a poor Fortune,
            That should have been ours,[224]
    In soul he should venture
    To pierce the dim center,
    Where will-forgers enter,
            Amid the dark Powers?--

9.

    Kindly hearts I have known;
    Kindly hearts, they are flown;
    Here and there if but one
            Linger, yet uneffaced,--
    Imbecile, tottering elves,
    Soon to be wreck’d on shelves,
    These scarce are half themselves,
            With age and care crazed.

10.

    But this day, Fanny Hutton
    Her last dress has put on;
    Her fine lessons forgotten,
            She died, as the dunce died;
    And prim Betsey Chambers,
    Decay’d in her members,
    No longer remembers
            Things, as she once did:

11.

    And prudent Miss Wither
    Not in jest now doth _wither_,
    And soon must go--whither
            Nor I, well, nor you know;
    And flaunting Miss Waller--
    _That_ soon must befal her,
    Which makes folks seem taller,[225]--
            Though proud, once, as Juno!

  ELIA.

  [223] Who sat up with him.

  [224] I have this fact from Parental tradition only.

  [225] Death lengthens people to the eye.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Scottish Legends.~


HIGHLAND SCENERY.

The scenery and legend of Mr. James Hay Allan’s poem, “The Bridal of
Caölchairn,” are derived from the vicinity of Cruachan, (or
Cruachan-Beinn,) a mountain 3390 feet above the level of the sea,
situated at the head of Loch Awe, a lake in Argyleshire. The poem
commences with the following lines: the prose illustrations are from Mr.
Allan’s descriptive notes.

    Grey Spirit of the Lake, who sit’st at eve
    At mighty Cruächan’s gigantic feet;
    And lov’st to watch thy gentle waters heave
    The silvery ripple down their glassy sheet;
    How oft I’ve wandered by thy margin sweet,
    And stood beside the wide and silent bay,
    Where the broad Urcha’s stream thy breast doth meet,
    And Caölchairn’s forsaken Donjon grey
    Looks from its narrow rock upon thy watery way.

    Maid of the waters! in the days of yore
    What sight yon setting sun has seen to smile
    Along thy spreading bound, on tide, and shore,
    When in its pride the fortress reared its pile,
    And stood the abbey on “the lovely isle;”
    And Fraòch Elan’s refuge tower grey
    Looked down the mighty gulf’s profound defile.
    Alas! that Scottish eye should see the day,
    When bower, and bield, and hall, in shattered ruin lay.

    What deeds have past upon thy mountain shore;
    What sights have been reflected in thy tide;
    But dark and dim their tales have sunk from lore:
    Scarce is it now remembered on thy side
    Where fought Mac Colda, or Mac Phadian died.
    But lend me, for a while, thy silver shell,
    ’Tis long since breath has waked its echo wide;
    Then list, while once again I raise its swell,
    And of thy olden day a fearful legend tell--


INISHAIL.

    “----the convent on the lovely isle.”

Inishail, the name of one of the islands in Loch Awe, signifies in
Gaëlic “the lovely isle.” It is not at present so worthy of this
appellation as the neighbouring “Fràoch Elan,” isle of heather, not
having a tree or shrub upon its whole extent. At the period when it
received its name, it might, however, have been better clothed; and
still it has a fair and pleasant aspect: its extent is larger than that
of any other island in the lake, and it is covered with a green turf,
which, in spring, sends forth an abundant growth of brackens.

There formerly existed here a convent of Cistercian nuns; of whom it is
said, that they were “memorable for the sanctity of their lives and the
purity of their manners: at the Reformation, when the innocent were
involved with the guilty in the sufferings of the times, their house was
supprest, and the temporalities granted to Hay, the abbot of Inchaffrey,
who, abjuring his former tenets of religion, embraced the cause of the
reformers.”[226] Public worship was performed in the chapel of the
convent till the year 1736: but a more commodious building having been
erected on the south side of the lake, it has since been entirely
forsaken; nothing now remains of its ruin but a small part of the shell,
of which only a few feet are standing above the foundation. Of the
remaining buildings of the order there exists no trace, except in some
loose heaps of stones, and an almost obliterated mound, which marks the
foundation of the outer wall. But the veneration that renders sacred to
a Highlander the tombs of his ancestors, has yet preserved to the
burying-ground its ancient sanctity. It is still used as a place of
interment, and the dead are often brought from a distance to rest there
among their kindred.

In older times the isle was the principal burying-place of many of the
most considerable neighbouring families: among the tombstones are many
shaped in the ancient form, like the lid of a coffin, and ornamented
with carvings of fret-work, running figures, flowers, and the forms of
warriors and two-handed swords. They are universally destitute of the
trace of an inscription.

Among the chief families buried in Inishail were the Mac Nauchtans of
Fràoch Elan, and the Campbells of Inbherau. Mr. Allan could not discover
the spot appropriated to the former, nor any evidence of the gravestones
which must have covered their tombs. The place of the Campbells,
however, is yet pointed out. It lies on the south side of the chapel,
and its site is marked by a large flat stone, ornamented with the arms
of the family in high relief. The shield is supported by two warriors,
and surmounted by a diadem, the signification and exact form of which it
is difficult to decide; but the style of the carving and the costume of
the figures do not appear to be later than the middle of the fifteenth
century.

On the top of the distant hill over which the road from Inverara
descends to Cladich there formerly stood a stone cross, erected on the
spot where Inishail first became visible to the traveller. These crosses
were general at such stations in monastic times, and upon arriving at
their foot the pilgrims knelt and performed their reverence to the
saint, whose order they were approaching. From this ceremony, the spot
on the hill above-mentioned was and is yet called “the cross of
bending.”


FRAOCH ELAN.

                      “The refuge tower grey
    Looked down the mighty gulf’s profound defile.”

The little castellated isle of “Fràoch Elan” lies at a short distance
from Inishail, and was the refuge hold of the Mac Nauchtans. It was
given to the chief, Gilbert Mac Nauchtan, by Alexander III. in the year
1276, and was held by the tenure of entertaining the king whenever he
should pass Loch Awe. The original charter of the grant was lately in
possession of Mr. Campbell of Auchlian, and a copy is to be found in
“Sir James Balfour’s Collection of Scottish Charters.” The islet of
“Fràoch Elan” is in summer the most beautiful in Scotland. On one side
the rock rises almost perpendicular from the water. The lower part and
the shore is embowered in tangled shrubs and old writhing trees. Above,
the broken wall and only remaining gable of the castle looks out over
the boughs; and on the north side a large ash-tree grows from the
foundation of what was once the hall, and overshadows the ruin with its
branches. Some of the window-niches are yet entire in the keep, and one
of these peeping through the tops of the trees, shows a view of fairie
beauty over the waters of the lake, and the woody banks of the opposite
coast. In the summer, Fràoch Elan, like most of the islands in Loch Awe,
is the haunt of a variety of gulls and wild fowl. They come from the
sea-coast, a distance of twenty-four miles, to build and hatch their
young. At this season, sheldrakes, grey gulls, kitaweaks, white ducks,
teal, widgeon, and divers, abound in the Loch. Fràoch Elan is chiefly
visited by the gulls, which hold the isle in joint tenure with a
water-eagle who builds annually upon the top of the remaining chimney.

It is not very long since this beautiful isle has been delivered over to
these inhabitants; for a great aunt of a neighbouring gentleman was born
in the castle, and in “the forty-five,” preparations were privately made
there for entertaining the prince had he passed by Loch Awe.

From the name of Fràoch Elan some have erroneously, and without any
authority of tradition, assigned it as the dragon’s isle,[227] in the
ancient Gaëlic legend of “Fràoch and the daughter of Mey.” There is, in
truth, no farther relation between one and the other, than in a
resemblance of name between the island and the warrior. The island of
the tale was called “Elan na Bheast,” the Monster’s Isle, and the lake
in which it lay was named Loch Luina. This is still remembered to have
been the ancient appellation of Loch Avich, a small lake about two miles
north of Loch Awe. There is here a small islet yet called “Elan na
Bheast,” and the tradition of the neighbourhood universally affirms,
that it was the island of the legend.


RIVAL CHIEFS.

    “Where fought Mac Colda, and Mac Phadian died.”

“Alaister Mac Coll Cedach.” Alexander, the son of left-handed Coll, was
a Mac Donald, who made a considerable figure in the great civil war: he
brought two thousand men to the assistance of Montrose, and received
from him a commission of lieutenancy in the royal service. He is
mentioned by contemporary writers, under the corrupted name of Kolkitto;
but time has now drawn such a veil over his history, that it is
difficult to ascertain with any degree of certainty from what family of
the Mac Donalds he came. By some it is asserted, that he was an
islesman; but by the most minute and seemingly authentic tradition, he
is positively declared to have been an Irishman, and the son of the earl
of Antrim.

Of his father there is nothing preserved but his name, his fate, and his
animosity to the Campbells, with whom, during his life, he maintained
with deadly assiduity the feud of his clan. It was his piper who was
hanged at Dunavàig in Ceantir, and in his last hour saved the life of
his chieftain by composing and playing the inexpressibly pathetic
pibroch, “Colda mo Roon.” But though he escaped at this juncture, Colda
was afterwards taken by the Campbells, and hung in chains at
Dunstaffnage. His death was the chief ground of that insatiate vengeance
with which his son ever after pursued the followers of Argyle. Long
after the death of his father, Alaister chanced to pass by Dunstaffnage
in return from a descent which he had made in the Campbell’s country. As
he sailed near the castle, he saw the bones of his father still hanging
at the place where he had suffered, and swinging in the sea-breeze. He
was so affected at the sight of the lamentable remains, that he solemnly
vowed to revenge them by a fearful retribution, and hastening his return
to Ireland gathered what force he was able, and sailing back to Scotland
offered his services to Montrose. He was gladly accepted; and during the
various adventures of the marquis in the Hielands, Alaister Mac Colda
was one of the most valuable of his adherents; and his followers were
accounted among the bravest and best experienced in the royal army. Some
of their exploits are recorded in the “Leobhair Dearg,” or “Red Book of
Clanranald,” and fully justify the fame which they received.

Alaister was present at the battle of Inbherlochie, and after the action
he was sent with his followers to the country of Argyle. He entered the
Campbell lands by Glen Eitive, and wherever he came put all who bore the
name of that clan to fire and sword. As he marched down Glen Eitive, he
crossed the bounds of the Mac Intires in Glen O, and in passing the
house of their chieftain, a circumstance occurred, which gives a lively
picture of the extent of the ancient respect paid by a clansman to the
ties of his blood. The Mac Intires were originally descended from the
Mac Donalds, and lived from time immemorial upon the border of the
Campbells, between that race and the south-east march of the Clan Donald
in Glen Coe. Upon the decline of the vast power of this sept after the
fatal battle of Harlow, and upon the subsequent increase of power to the
Campbells, the Mac Intires placed themselves under the latter clan, and
lived with them as the most powerful of their followers. When Alaister
Mac Colda passed through Glen O, he was not acquainted with the name of
the place nor the race of its inhabitants; but knowing that he was
within the bounds of the Campbells, he supposed that all whom he met
were of that clan. Glen O was deserted at his approach, and it is
probable that the men were even then in service with Argyle. Alaister,
in his usual plan of vengeance, ordered fire to the house of the
chieftain. A coal was instantly set in the roof, and the heather of
which it was made was quickly in a blaze. Before, however, the flames
had made much progress, Alaister was told that the house which he was
burning was that of the chieftain of Mac Intire. The man of Mac Donald
immediately commanded his people to do their endeavour to extinguish
the fire; “for,” said he, “it is the house of our own blood.”[228] The
flames were soon overcome, and Colda passed through the glen of the Mac
Intires in peace into Glen Urcha, where he burnt and destroyed all
within his reach. From hence, he marched entirely round Loch Awe,
carrying devastation through the ancient and original patrimony of the
Campbells. As he passed by the Loch of Ballemòr, the inhabitants (a
small race named Mac Chorchadell, and dependant upon the former clan)
retired from their huts into the little castle of their chieftain, which
is situated in the midst of the Loch. Being in no way connected with his
enemies by blood, Alaister did not conceive that with them he held any
feud, and quietly marched past their deserted habitations, without
laying a hand upon their property. But as his men were drawing from the
lake, one of the Mac Chorchadells fired upon their rear, and wounded a
Mac Donald. Alaister instantly turned: “Poor little Mac Chorchadell,”
said he in Gaëlic, “I beg your pardon for my want of respect in passing
you without stopping to pay my compliments; but since you will have it
so, I will not leave you without notice.”--He returned, and burnt every
house in Ballemòr.

The power of the Campbells had been so broken at Inbherlochie, that it
was not until Mac Colda had arrived near the west coast of their
country, that they were again in a condition to meet him in a pitched
fight. At length they encountered him on the skirt of the moss of
Crenan, at the foot of a hill not far from Auchandaroch. The battle was
fought with all the fury of individual and deadly hatred, but at last
the fortune of Alaister prevailed, and the Campbells were entirely
routed, and pursued with great slaughter off the field of battle. Some
time afterwards they again collected what numbers they could gather, and
once more offered battle to Alaister, as he was returning to Loch Awe.
The conflict was fought at the ford of Ederline, the eastern extremity
of the lake; but here the success of the Mac Donalds forsook them. They
were entirely beaten and scattered, so that not six men were left
together; and those who escaped from the field were cut off by their
enemies, as they endeavoured to lurk out of their country. Of
Alaister’s fate each clan and each district has a different story. The
Argyle Campbells say that he was killed at the ford, and a broadsword
said to have been his, and to have been found on the field of battle, is
at this day in the possession of Peter Mac Lellich (smith), at the croft
of Dalmallie. The Louden Campbells, on the contrary, assert, that
Alaister escaped from the overthrow, and wandering into Ayrshire, was
slain by them while endeavouring to find a passage into Ireland. The Mac
Donalds do not acknowledge either of these stories to be true, but
relate that their chieftain not only escaped from the battle, but
(though with much difficulty) effected his flight to Ireland, where a
reward being set upon his head, he was at length, in an unguarded
moment, when divested of his arms, slain by one of the republican
troopers, by whom he was sought out.

The fate of Alaister Mac Colda is said to have been governed by that
fatality, and predicted by that inspiration, which were once so firmly
believed among the Highlanders. His foster-mother, says tradition, was
gifted with the second sight; and, previous to his departure from
Ireland, the chieftain consulted her upon the success of his expedition.
“You will be victorious over all born of woman,” replied the seer, “till
you arrive at Goch-dum Gho; but when you come to that spot, your fortune
shall depart for ever.”--“Let it be so,” said Alaister, “I shall receive
my glory.” He departed, and the spirit of his adventure and the hurry of
enterprise, perhaps, banished from his mind the name of the fatal place.
It was indeed one so insignificant and remote, that its knowledge was
most probably confined to the circle of a few miles, and not likely to
be restored to the notice of Mac Colda, by mention or inquiry. It was on
the eve of his last battle, as his “bratach” was setting up at the ford
of Ederline, that his attention was caught by a mill at a little
distance; for some accidental reason he inquired its name:--“Mullian
Goch-dum Gho,” replied one of his men. The prediction was at once
remembered. The enemy were at hand, and Alaister knew that he should
fall. Convinced of the fatality of the prophecy, he sought not to
retreat from the evil spot: the bourne of his fortune was past, and he
only thought of dying as became him in the last of his fields. He made
no comment upon the name of the place; but, concealing from his
followers the connection which it bore with his fate, gave directions
for the proceedings of the approaching morning. In the battle he behaved
as he was wont, and in the close of the day was seen fighting furiously
with two of the Campbells, who appeared unable to overcome him. Nothing
more was heard of him: his body was never discovered; but when the slain
were buried by the conquerors, his claidh-mòr was found beneath a heap
of dead.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mac Phadian was an Irish captain, who, with a considerable body of his
countrymen, assisted Edward I. of England in his war to subvert the
independence of Scotland; but though he took a very active part in the
turbulent period in which he lived, and possessed sufficient courage and
talents to raise himself from obscurity to power, yet we have nothing
left of his history but the account of his last enormities, and the
overthrow and death which they finally brought. It is probable, that we
are even indebted for this information to the celebrity of the man by
whom he fell, and which in preserving the victory of the conqueror, has
also perpetuated the memory of the vanquished.

The scene of the last actions of Mac Phadian lay in Lorn and Argyle; and
the old people in the neighbourhood of Loch Awe still retain a
tradition, which marks out the spot where he fell. Time, however, and
the decay of recitation during the last century, have so injured all
which remained of oral record, that the legend of Mac Phadian is now
confined to a very few of the elder fox-hunters and shepherds of the
country, and will soon pass into oblivion with those by whom it is
retained----

Some time in the latter end of the year 1297, or the beginning of the
year 1298, Edward made a grant to Mac Phadian of the lordships of Argyle
and Lorn. The first belonged to sir Niel Campbell, knight, of Loch Awe,
and chief of his clan; the second was the hereditary patrimony of John,
chief of Mac Dougall. Sir Niel did his endeavour to resist the
usurpation of his lands, and though fiercely beset by the traitor lords,
Buchan, Athol, and Mentieth, he for some time maintained his
independence against all their united attempts. But John of Lorn, who
was himself in the interest and service of the English, and at that time
in London, concurred with king Edward in the disponing of his
territories, and received in remuneration a more considerable lordship.
Mac Phadian did not, however, remain in quiet possession of his
ill-acquired domains; he was strongly opposed by Duncan of Lorn, uncle
to the lord; but joining with Buchan, Athol, and Mentieth, he at length
drove out his enemy, and compelled him to seek shelter with sir Niel
Campbell. Upon this success the above-mentioned allies, at the head of a
mixed and disorderly force gathered from all parts, and from all
descriptions, Irish and Scots, to the amount of fifteen thousand men,
made a barbarous inroad into Argyle, and suddenly penetrating into the
district of Nether Loch Awe, wasted the country wherever they came, and
destroyed the inhabitants without regard to age or sex. In this exigency
the Campbell displayed that constancy and experience which had rendered
his name celebrated among his countrymen. Unable to resist the
intoxicated multitude of his enemies, with Duncan of Lorn, and three
hundred of his veteran clansmen, he retired by the head of Loch Awe and
the difficult pass of Brandir to the inaccessible heights of Craiganuni,
and breaking down the bridge over the Awe below, prevented the pursuit
of the enemy to his position. Nothing could be more masterly than the
plan of this retreat.

Mac Phadian, thus baffled and outmanœuvred, not only failed in his
object of offence, but found himself drawn into an intricate and
desolate labyrinth, where his multitude encumbered themselves: the want
of subsistence prevented him from remaining to blockade sir Niel, and
his ignorance of the clues of the place made it difficult to extricate
himself by a retreat. In this exigence he was desirous of returning to
Nether Loch Awe, where there was abundance of cattle and game for the
support of his men. At length he discovered a passage between the rocks
and the water; the way was only wide enough for four persons to pass
abreast; yet, as they were not in danger of pursuit, they retired in
safety, and effected their march to the south side of the lake.

The measures employed by Wallace to relieve the Campbell, and to reach
the fastness wherein Mac Phadian had posted himself, were romantic and
daring----

Mac Phadian’s followers were completely surprised and taken at disarray.
They snatched their arms, and rushed to defend the pass with the boldest
resolution. At the first onset the Scots bore back their enemies over
five acres of ground; and Wallace, with his iron mace, made fearful
havoc among the enemy. Encouraged, however, by Mac Phadian, the Irish
came to the rescue; the battle thickened with more stubborn fury; and
for two hours was maintained with such obstinate eagerness on both
sides, that neither party had any apparent advantage. At length the
cause and valour of Wallace prevailed. The Irish gave way and fled, and
the Scots of their party threw down their arms, and kneeled for mercy.
Wallace commanded them to be spared for their birth sake, but urged
forward the pursuit upon the Irish. Pent in by the rocks and the water,
the latter had but little hope in flight. Many were overtaken and slain
as they endeavoured to climb the crags, and two thousand were driven
into the lake and drowned. Mac Phadian, with fifteen men, fled to a
cave, and hoped to have concealed himself till the pursuit was over; but
Duncan of Lorn having discovered his retreat, pursued and slew him with
his companions; and having cut off the head of the leader, brought it to
Wallace, and set it upon a stone high in one of the crags as a trophy of
the victory.

In one of the steeps of Cruächan, nearly opposite the rock of Brandir,
there is a secret cave, now only known to a very few of the old
fox-hunters and shepherds: it is still called “Uagh Phadian,” Mac
Phadian’s cave; and is asserted by tradition to be the place in which
Mac Phadian died. The remembrance of the battle is nearly worn away, and
the knowledge of the real cave confined to so few, that the den in which
Mac Phadian was killed is generally believed to be in the cliffs of
Craiganuni: this is merely owing to the appearance of a black chasm in
the face of that height, and to a confusion between the action of Mac
Phadian with Wallace, and his pursuit of sir Niel Campbell. But the
chasm in Craiganuni, though at a distance it appears like the mouth of a
cave, is but a cleft in the rock; and the few who retain the memory of
the genuine tradition of the battle of the Wallace, universally agree
that the cave in the side of Cruächan was that in which Mac Phadian was
killed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The “Bridal of Caölchairn” is a legendary poem, founded upon a very
slight tradition, concerning events which are related to have occurred
during the absence of sir Colin Campbell on his expedition to Rome and
Arragon. It is said by the tale, that the chieftain was gone ten years,
and that his wife having received no intelligence of his existence in
that time, she accepted the addresses of one of her husband’s vassals,
Mac Nab of Barachastailan. The bridal was fixed; but on the day when it
was to have been solemnized, the secret was imparted to sir Colin in
Spain, by a spirit of the nether world. When the knight received the
intelligence, he bitterly lamented the distance which prevented him from
wreaking vengeance upon his presumptuous follower. The communicating
spirit, either out of love for mischief, or from a private familiarity
with sir Colin, promised to obviate this obstacle; and on the same day,
before the bridal was celebrated, transported the chieftain in a blast
of wind from Arragon to Glen Urcha. In what manner sir Colin proceeded,
tradition does not say; it simply records, that the bridal was broken,
but is silent upon the nature of the catastrophe. The legend is now
almost entirely forgotten in the neighbourhood where its events are said
to have taken place. “As far as I know,” says Mr. Allan, “it is confined
to one old man, named Malcolm Mac Nab, who lives upon the hill of
Barachastailan; he is between eighty and ninety years of age, and the
last of the race of ancient smiths, who remains in the place of his
ancestors. A few yards from his cottage there is the foundation of one
of those ancient circular forts built by the Celts, and so frequently to
be met in the Highlands: these structures are usually ascribed by the
vulgar to Fion and his heroes. In a neighbouring field, called ‘Larich
nam Fion,’ there were formerly two others of these buildings; their
walls of uncemented stone were not many years since entire, to the
height of eight or nine feet; but they have since been pulled down and
carried away to repair the neighbouring cottages: it is from these
buildings that the hill received its name of ‘Bar-a-chas-tailan,’ the
‘eminence of the castles.’”

    The tide of centuries has rolled away
    O’er Innishail’s solitary isle,
    The wind of ages and the world’s decay
    Has swept upon the Campbells’ fortress pile:
    And far from what they were is changed the while
    The monks’ grey cloister, and the baron’s keep.
    I’ve seen the sun within the dungeon smile,
    And in the bridal bower the ivy creep.
    I’ve stood upon the fane’s foundation stone,
    Heard the grass sigh upon the cloister’s heap,
    And sat upon the holy cross o’erthrown,
    And marked within the cell where warriors sleep,
    Beneath the broad grey stone the timorous rabbit peep.

    The legend of the dead is past away
    As the dim eye amid the night doth fail.
    The memorie of the fearful bridal day
    Is parted from the people of the vale;
    And none are left to tell the weary tale.
    Save on yon lone green hill by Fion’s tower
    Yet lives a man bowed down with age and ail:
    Still tells he of the fearful legend’s hour--
    It was his father fell within the bridal bower.

    But though with man there is a weary waste.
    It is not so beyond the mortal way;
    With the unbodied spirits nought is spaced;
    But when the aged world has worn away,
    They look on earth where once their dwelling lay.
    And to their never-closing eye doth show
    All that has been--a fairie work of day;
    And all which here their mortal life did show,
    Yet lives in that which never may decay;
    When thought, and life, and memorie below
    Has sunk with all it bore of gladness or of woe.

    At eventime on green Inchail’s isle
    A dim grey form doth sit upon the hill:
    No shadow casts it in the moonshine smile,
    And in its folded mantle bowed and still
    No feature e’er it showed the twilight chill,
    But seems beneath its hood a void grey.
    The owlet, when it comes, cries wild and shrill;
    The moon grows dim when shows it in its ray,
    None saw it e’er depart;--but it is not at day.

    By Caölchairn at night when all is still,
    And the black otter issues from his lair,
    He hears a voice along the water chill,
    It seems to speak amid the cloudy air;
    But some have seen beyond the Donjon stair
    Where now the floor from the wall is gone,
    A form dim standing ’mid the ether fair,
    No light upon its fixed eye there shone,
    And yet the blood seems wet upon its bosom wan.

  [226] Statistical Account, vol. viii. p. 347.

  [227] Statistical Account of Scotland, vol. viii. p. 346; and
  Pennant’s Tour in Scotland, 1774, p. 217.

  [228] When the chieftain returned to his house, the coal which had so
  near proved its destruction, was found in the roof; it was taken out
  by order of Mac Intire, and preserved with great care by his
  descendants, till the late Glen O was driven to America by the
  misfortunes of the Highlands and the oppression of his superior.

       *       *       *       *       *


MY ARM-CHAIR.

_For the Table Book._

In my humble opinion an arm-chair is far superior to a sofa; for
although I bow to Cowper’s judgment, (who assigned the superiority to
the sofa,) yet we must recollect that it was in compliance with the
request of a fair lady that he chose that subject for praise: he might
have eulogized in equal terms an arm-chair, had he consulted his own
feelings and appreciation of comfort. I acknowledge the “soft recumbency
of outstretched limbs,” so peculiar to the sofa--the opportunity
afforded the fair sex of displaying grace and elegance of form, while
reposing in easy negligence on a Grecian couch--but then think of the
snug comfort of an easy-chair. Its very name conveys a multitude of
soothing ideas: its commodious repose for your back; its generous and
unwearied support of your head; its outstretched arms wooing you to its
embraces:--think on these things, and ask yourself if it be possible to
withstand its affectionate and disinterested advances.

On entering a room where there is an easy-chair, you are struck by the
look of conscious self-importance which seems to distinguish it as the
monarch of all the surrounding chairs; there is an appearance of regal
superiority about it, blended, however, with such a charming
condescension, that you immediately avail yourself of its gracious
inclination to receive the _burden_ of your homage.

There is one kind of arm-chair for which I entertain a very resentful
feeling, it _assumes_ the title of an _easy_-chair to induce you to
believe it one of that amiable fraternity, whereas it only claims
kindred on account of its shape, and is in reality the complete
antipodes of ease--I mean the horse-hair arm-chair. Its arms, like those
of its brethren, invite you to repose; but, if you attempt it, you are
repulsed by an ambush of sharp shooting prickles. It is like a person
who has a desire to please and obtain you for his friend, but who is of
so incorrigibly bad a temper that attachment is impossible. If you try
to compose yourself with one of these pretenders, by endeavouring to
protect the back of your head with your pocket-handkerchief for a
pillow, you either dream that you are under the hands of a surgeon who
is cupping you on the cheek, or that you are transformed into your
cousin Lucy, and struggling to avoid being kissed by old Mr. D----, who
does not shave above once a week. When you awake, you discover that your
face has slipped off the handkerchief, and come immediately in contact
with the _chevaux de frise_ of bristles.

As an excellent specimen of an easy-chair, I select the one I at present
occupy. Its ancient magnificence of red damask silk--embossed in wavy
flowers and curved arabesques, surrounded by massive gilt carving--is
now shrouded with an unostentatious covering of white dimity. This,
however, does not compromise its dignity--it is rather a resignation of
fatiguing splendour, and the assumption of the ease suitable to
retirement in old age. Perhaps a happy father once sat in it surrounded
by his smiling offspring: some climbing up the arms; others peeping over
the lofty back, aiming to cling round his neck; his favourite little
girl insinuating herself behind him, while he gazes with affectionate
but anxious thoughts on the countenance of his eldest son, standing
between his knees. Perhaps two lovers once sat in it _together_,
although there were plenty of other chairs in the room. (For fear some
of my fair readers should be incredulous, I beg leave to assure them
that it is quite possible for two people to sit together in an
arm-chair, if they choose to be accommodating; therefore I would not
have them dislike an easy-chair on the plea of its being _unsocial_.)
Perhaps it may have been the means of concealment--in a similar way with
the arm-chair in “Le Nozze di Figaro.” Often have I when a child curled
myself round in it, and listened to my old nurse’s wonderful stories,
till I have fallen fast asleep. Often have I since enjoyed many a
delightful book, while lolling indolently enclosed in its soft, warm,
cushioned sides--

  M. H.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick’s Plays.~

No. XXII.

[From “Querer Por Solo Querer:” concluded from last Number.]

_Address to Solitude._

    Sweet Solitude! still Mirth! that fear’st no wrong,
    Because thou dost none: Morning all day long!
    Truth’s sanctuary! Innocency’s spring!
    Inventions Limbeck! Contemplation’s wing!
    Peace of my soul, which I too late pursued;
    That know’st not the world’s vain inquietude:
    Where friends, the thieves of time, let us alone
    Whole days, and a man’s hours are all his own.

_Song in praise of the Same._

    Solitude, of friends the best,
    And the best companion;
    Mother of truths, and brought at least
    Every day to bed of one:
    In this flowery mansion
    I contemplate how the rose
    Stands upon thorns, how quickly goes
    The dismaying jessamine:
    Only the soul, which is divine,
    No decay of beauty knows.
    The World is Beauty’s Mirror. Flowers,
    In their first virgin purity,
    Flatt’rers both of the nose and eye.--
    To be cropt by paramours
    Is their best of destiny:
    And those nice darlings of the land,
    Which seem’d heav’n’s painted bow to scorn.
    And bloom’d the envy of the morn,
    Are the gay trophy of a hand.

_Unwilling to love again._

    --sadly I do live in fear,
    For, though I would not fair appear,
    And though in truth I am not fair,
    Haunted I am like those that are
    And here, among these rustling leaves,
    With which the wanton wind must play,
    Inspired by it, my sense perceives
    This snowy Jasmin whispering say,
    How much more frolic, white, and fair
    In her green lattice she doth stand,
    To enjoy the free and cooler air,
    Than in the prison of a hand.[229]

_Loving without hope._

    I look’d if underneath the cope
    Were one that loved, and did not hope;
    But from his nobler soul remove
    That _modern heresy in love_
    When, hearing a shrill voice, I turn,
    And lo! a sweet-tongued Nightingale,
    Tender adorer of the Morn,--
    In him I found that One and All.
    For that same faithful bird and true,
    Sweet and kind and constant lover,
    Wond’rous passion did discover,
    From the terrace of an eugh.
    And tho’ ungrateful she appear’d
    Unmoved with all she saw and heard;
    Every day, before ’twas day,
    More and kinder things he’d say,
    Courteous, and never to be lost,
    Return’d not with complaints, but praise
    Loving, and all at his own cost;
    Suffering, and without hope of ease:
    For with a sad and trembling throat
    He breathes into her breast this note:
    “I love thee not, to make thee mine;
    But love thee, ’cause thy form’s divine.”

_The True Absence in Love._

    Zelidaura, star divine,
    That do’st in highest orb of beauty shine;
    Pardon’d Murd’ress, by that heart
    Itself, which thou dost kill, and coveted smart
    Though my walk so distant lies
    From the sunshine of thine eyes;
    Into sullen shadows hurl’d,
    To lie here buried from the world
    ’Tis the least reason of my moan,
    That so much earth is ’twixt us thrown.
    ’Tis absence of another kind,
    Grieves me; for where you are present too,
    Love’s Geometry does find,
    I have ten thousand miles to you.
    ’Tis not absence to be far,
    But to abhor is to absent;
    To those who in disfavour are,
    Sight itself is banishment.[230]

_To a Warrioress._

    Heav’n, that created thee thus warlike, stole
    Into a woman’s body a man’s soul.
    But nature’s law in vain dost thou gainsay;
    The woman’s valour lies another way.
    The dress, the tear, the blush, the witching eye.
    More witching tongue, are beauty’s armoury:
    To railly; to discourse in companies,
    Who’s fine, who courtly, who a wit, who wise;
    And with the awing sweetness of a Dame,
    As conscious of a face can tigers tame,
    By tasks and circumstances to discover,
    Amongst the best of Princes, the best Lover;
    (The fruit of all those flowers) who serves with most
    Self diffidence, who with the greatest boast;
    Who twists an eye of Hope in braids of Fear;
    Who silent (made for nothing but to bear
    Sweet scorn and injuries of love) envies
    Unto his tongue the treasure of his eyes:
    Who, without vaunting shape, hath only wit;
    Nor knows to hope reward, tho’ merit it:
    Then, out of all, to make a choice so rare,
    So lucky-wise, as if thou wert not fair.[231]

_All mischiefs reparable but a lost Love._

1.

    A second Argo, freighted
    With fear and avarice,
    Between the sea and skies
    Hath penetrated
    To the new world, unworn
    With the red footsteps of the snowy morn.

2.

    Thirsty of mines;
    She comes rich back; and (the curl’d rampire past
    Of watry mountains, cast
    Up by the winds)
    Ungrateful shelf near home
    Gives her usurped gold a silver home.

3.

    A devout Pilgrim, who
    To foreign temple bare
    Good pattern, fervent prayer,
    Spurr’d by a pious vow;
    Measuring so large a space,
    That earth lack’d regions for his plants[232] to trace.

4.

    Joyful returns, tho’ poor:
    And, just by his abode,
    Falling into a road
    Which laws did ill secure,
    Sees plunder’d by a thief
    (O happier man than I! for ’tis) his life.

5.

    Conspicuous grows a Tree,
    Which wanton did appear,
    First fondling of the year.
    With smiling bravery,
    And in his blooming pride
    The Lower House of Flowers did deride:

6.

    When his silk robes and fair
    (His youth’s embroidery,
    The crownet of a spring,
    Narcissus of the air)
    Rough Boreas doth confound,
    And with his trophies strews the scorned ground.

7.

    Trusted to tedious hope
    So many months the Corn;
    Which now begins to turn
    Into a golden crop:
    The lusty grapes, (which plump
    Are the last farewell of the summer’s pomp)

8.

    How spacious spreads the vine!--
    Nursed up with how much care,
    She lives, she thrives, grows fair;
    ’Bout her loved Elm doth twine:--
    Comes a cold cloud; and lays,
    In one, the fabric of so many days.

9.

    A silver River small
    In sweet accents
    His music vents,
    (The warbling virginal,
    To which the merry birds do sing--
    Timed with stops of gold[233] the silver string);

10.

    He steals by a greenwood
    With fugitive feet;
    Gay, jolly, sweet:
    Comes me a troubled flood;
    And scarcely one sand stays,
    To be a witness of his golden days.--

11.

    The Ship’s upweigh’d;
    The Pilgrim made a Saint;
    Next spring re-crowns the Plant;
    Winds raise the Corn, was laid;
    The Vine is pruned;
    The Rivulet new tuned:--
    But in the Ill I have
    I’m left alive only to dig my grave.

12.

    Lost Beauty, I will die,
    But I will thee recover;
    And that I die not instantly,
    Shews me more perfect Lover:
    For (my Soul gone before)
    I live not now to live, but to deplore.

  C. L.

  [229] Claridiana, the Enchanted Queen, speaks this, and the following
  speech.

  [230] Claridoro, rival to Felisbravo, speaks this.

  [231] Addressed to Zelidaura.

  [232] Soles of his feet.

  [233] Allusion to the Tagus, and golden sands.

       *       *       *       *       *


WELSH WEDDINGS.

_From a Lady--To the Editor._

Sir,--If a brief account of the manner of celebrating marriage in some
parts of Wales should afford entertainment to your readers, I shall feel
gratified.

The early part of my life was spent at a village in the mountainous part
of Glamorganshire, called Myrther Tidvel. Since then it has become a
considerable place for the manufactory of iron, and I expect both the
manners and inhabitants are much changed: the remembrance of its rural
and lovely situation, and of the simplicity of its humble villagers,
when I lived amongst them, often produces in my mind the most pleasing
sensations.

Some weeks previous to a wedding taking place, a person, well-known in
the parish, went round and invited all, without limitation or
distinction, to attend. As the ceremonies were similar I shall select
one, as an illustration, in which I took part as bride’s-maid to a much
valued servant.

On the evening previous to the marriage, a considerable company
assembled at the bride’s father’s, and in a short time the sound of
music proclaimed the approach of the bridegroom. The bride and her
company were then shut up in a room, and the house-doors locked; great
and loud was the cry for admittance from without, till I was directed,
as bride’s-maid, by an elderly matron, to open the window, and assist
the bridegroom to enter, which being done the doors were set open, and
his party admitted. A room was set apart for the young people to dance
in, which continued for about an hour, and having partaken of a common
kind of cake and warm ale, spiced and sweetened with sugar, the company
dispersed.

At eight, next morning, I repaired to the house of the bridegroom, where
there had assembled in the course of an hour about one hundred and fifty
persons: he was a relation to the dissenting minister, a man highly
esteemed; and he was much respected on that as well as his own account.
The procession set out, preceded by a celebrated harper playing “Come,
haste to the wedding;” the bridegroom and I came next, and were followed
by the large company. At the door of the bride’s father we were met by
the bride, led by her brother, who took their station behind the
bridegroom and me; her company joining, and adding nearly as many again
to the procession: we then proceeded to the church, the music playing as
before. After the ceremony the great door of the church was opened, and
the bride and her maid having changed their partners were met at it by
the harper, who struck up “Joy to the bridegroom,” and led the way to a
part of the church-yard never used as a burial-ground; there placing
himself under a large yew-tree the dancers immediately formed, the bride
and bridegroom leading off the two first dances,--“The beginning of the
world,” and “My wife shall have her way:” these are never danced but on
like occasions, and then invariably.

By this time it was twelve o’clock, and the bride and bridegroom,
followed by a certain number, went into the house, where a long table
was tastefully set out with bread of two kinds, one plain and the other
with currants and seeds in it; plates of ornamented butter; cold and
toasted cheese; with ale, some warmed and sweetened. The bride and her
maid were placed at the head of the table, and the bridegroom and her
brother at the bottom. After the company had taken what they liked, a
plate was set down, which went round, each person giving what they
chose, from two to five shillings; this being done, the money was given
to the bride, and the company resigned their places to others; and so on
in succession till all had partaken and given what they pleased. Dancing
was kept up till seven, and then all dispersed. At this wedding upwards
of thirty pounds was collected.

In an adjoining parish it was the custom for the older people to go the
evening before, and take presents of wheat, meal, cheese, tea, sugar,
&c., and the young people attended next day, when the wedding was
conducted much in the way I have described, but smaller sums of money
were given.

This method of forwarding young people has always appeared to me a
pleasing trait in the Welsh character; but it only prevails amongst the
labouring classes.

When a farmer’s daughter, or some young woman, with a fortune of from
one hundred to two hundred pounds, marries, it is generally very
privately, and she returns to her father’s house for a few weeks, where
her friends and neighbours go to see her, but none go empty-handed. When
the appointed time arrives for the young man to take home his wife, the
elderly women are invited to attend the _starald_, that is, the
furniture which the young woman provides; in general it is rather
considerable. It is conveyed in great order, there being fixed rules as
to the articles to be moved off first, and those which are to follow. I
have thought this a pleasing sight, the company being all on horseback,
and each matron in her appointed station, the nearest relations going
first; all have their allotted basket or piece of small furniture, a
horse and car following afterwards with the heavier articles. The next
day the young couple are attended by the younger part of their friends,
and this is called a _turmant_, and is frequently preceded by music. The
derivation of _starald_ and _turmant_ I never could learn, though I have
frequently made the inquiry.

  I am, sir, &c. &c.

  A. B.

       *       *       *       *       *


CUMBERLAND WEDDINGS.

In Cumberland, and some other parts of the north of England, they have a
custom called a “bridewain,” or the public celebration of a wedding. A
short time after a match is entered into, the parties give notice of it;
in consequence of which the whole neighbourhood, for several miles
round, assemble at the bridegroom’s house, and join in various pastimes
of the county. This meeting resembles the wakes or revels celebrated in
other places; and a plate or bowl is fixed in a convenient place, where
each of the company contributes in proportion to his inclination and
ability, and according to the degree of respect the parties are held in;
by which laudable custom a worthy couple have frequently been benefited
with a supply of money, from fifty to a hundred pounds. The following
advertisements are from Cumberland newspapers:--

INVITATION.

    Suspend for one day your cares and your labours,
    And come to this wedding, kind friends and good neighbours.

NOTICE is hereby given, that the marriage of Isaac Pearson with Frances
Atkinson, will be solemnized in due form in the parish church of
Lamplugh, in Cumberland, on Tuesday next, the 30th of May inst. (1786);
immediately after which the bride and bridegroom, with their attendants,
will proceed to Lonefoot, in the said parish, where the nuptials will be
celebrated by a variety of rural entertainments.

                Then come one and all
                At Hymen’s soft call,
    From Whitehaven, Workington, Harington, Dean,
    Hail, Ponsonby, Blaing, and all places between;
    From Egremont, Cockermouth, Barton, St. Bee’s,
    Cint, Kinnyside, Calder, and parts such as these;
    And the country at large may flock in if they please.
    Such sports there will be as have seldom been seen,
    Such wrestling and fencing, and dancing between,
    And races for prizes, for frolic and fun,
    By horses and asses, and dogs, will be run,
    That you’ll go home happy--as sure as a gun.
    In a word, such a wedding can ne’er fail to please;
    For the sports of Olympus were trifles to these.

    _Nota Bene_--You’ll please to observe that the day
    Of this grand bridal pomp is the thirtieth of May,
    When ’tis hop’d that the sun, to enliven the sight,
    Like the flambeau of Hymen, will deign to burn bright.

_Another Advertisement._

BRIDEWAIN.

    There let Hymen oft appear,
    In saffron robe and taper clear,
    And pomp and feast and revelry,
    With mask and antic pageantry;
    Such sights as youthful poets dream,
    On summer eves by haunted stream.

George Hayto, who married Anne, the daughter of Joseph and Dinah Colin,
of Crosby mill, purposes having a Bridewain at his house at Crosby, near
Maryport, on Thursday, the 7th day of May next, (1789), where he will be
happy to see his friends and well-wishers; for whose amusement there
will be a variety of races, wrestling-matches, &c. &c. The prizes will
be--a saddle, two bridles, a pair of _gands d’amour_, gloves, which,
whoever wins, is sure to be married within the twelvemonths; a girdle
(_ceinture de Venus) possessing qualities not to be described;_ and many
other articles, sports, and pastimes, too numerous to mention, but which
can never prove tedious in the exhibition.

    From fashion’s laws and customs free,
    We welcome sweet variety;
    By turns we laugh, and dance, and sing;
    Time’s for ever on the wing;
    And nymphs and swains on Cumbria’s plain,
    Present the golden age again.

       *       *       *       *       *


A GOOD EXCUSE.

In the Court of Session in Scotland, the judges who do not attend, or
give a proper excuse for their absence, are, by law, liable to a fine;
but it is common, on the first day of the session, for the absentee to
send an excuse to the lord president. Lord Stonefield having sent such
an excuse, on the president mentioning it, the late lord justice clerk
Braxfield said, in his broad dialect, “What excuse can a stout fallow
like him hae?” “My lord,” said the president, “he has lost his wife.”
The justice, who was fitted with a Xanthippe, replied, “Has he? that is
a gude excuse indeed; I wish we had a’ the same.”

       *       *       *       *       *


EARLY RISING.

Buffon rose always with the sun, and he used often to tell by what means
he had accustomed himself to get out of bed so early. “In my youth,”
said he, “I was very fond of sleep; it robbed me of a great deal of my
time; but my poor Joseph (his domestic) was of great service in enabling
me to overcome it. I promised to give Joseph a crown every time that he
could make me get up at six. The next morning he did not fail to awake
and torment me, but he received only abuse. The day after he did the
same, with no better success, and I was obliged at noon to confess that
I had lost my time. I told him, that he did not know how to manage his
business; that he ought to think of my promise, and not to mind my
threats. The day following he employed force; I begged for indulgence, I
bid him begone, I stormed, but Joseph persisted. I was therefore obliged
to comply, and he was rewarded every day for the abuse which he suffered
at the moment when I awoke, by thanks accompanied with a crown, which he
received about an hour after. Yes, I am indebted to poor Joseph for ten
or a dozen of the volumes of my work.”

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCTUALITY.

“A QUARTER BEFORE.”

Industry is of little avail, without a habit of very easy
acquirement--punctuality: on this jewel the whole machinery of
successful industry may be said to turn.

When lord Nelson was leaving London on his last, but glorious,
expedition against the enemy, a quantity of cabin furniture was ordered
to be sent on board his ship. He had a farewell dinner party at his
house; and the upholsterer having waited upon his lordship, with an
account of the completion of the goods, he was brought into the
dining-room, in a corner of which his lordship spoke with him. The
upholsterer stated to his noble employer, that every thing was finished,
and packed, and would go in the waggon, from a certain inn, at _six
o’clock_. “And you go to the inn, Mr. A., and see them off.” “I shall,
my lord; I shall be there punctually _at six_.” “A quarter _before_ six,
Mr. A.,” returned lord Nelson; “be there a quarter _before_: to that
_quarter of an hour_ I owe every thing in life.”




Vol. I.--26.


[Illustration: ~Reading the Newspaper.~]

    The folio of four pages, happy work!
    Which not even critics criticize.--_Cowper._

A venerable old man is, as the reader of a newspaper, still more
venerable; for his employment implies that nature yet lives in
him;--that he is anxious to learn how much better the world is on his
leaving it, than it was when he came into it. When he reads of the
meddlings of overlegislation, he thinks of “good old times,” and feels
with the poet--

    But times are alter’d; trade’s unfeeling train
    Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;
    Along the lawn where scatter’d hamlets rose,
    Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;
    And ev’ry want to luxury ally’d,
    And ev’ry pang that folly pays to pride.
    Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
    Those calm desires that ask’d but little room;
    Those healthful sports that grac’d the peaceful scene
    Liv’d in each look, and brighten’d all the green;
    These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
    And rural mirth and manners are no more.

He reads of proposals for extending the poor-laws to one part of the
United Kingdom not yet cursed with that sure and certain means of
increasing the growth of poverty--he reads of schemes of emigration for
an alleged surplus of human beings from all parts of the empire--he
reads of the abundance of public wealth, and of the increase of private
distress--and he remembers, that

    A time there was, ere England’s griefs began,
    When ev’ry rood of ground maintain’d its man:
    For him light labour spread her wholesome store.
    Just gave what life requir’d, but gave no more:
    His best companions, innocence and health;
    And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

The old man, who thus reads and recollects, has seen too much of
factions to be a partisan. His only earthly interest is the good of his
country. A change in the administration is to him of no import, if it
bring not blessings to the present generation that entail a debt of
gratitude upon posterity. Alterations in public affairs, if violently
effected, he scarcely expects will be lasting, and loves human nature
too well to desire them; yet he does not despair of private undertakings
on account of their novelty or vastness; and therefore he was among the
earliest promoters of vaccination, and of Winsor’s plan for lighting the
streets with gas. He was a proprietor of the first vessel navigated by
steam, and would rather fail with Brunel than succeed at court.

The old man’s days are few. He has discovered that the essential
requisites of human existence are small in number; and that in strength
itself there is weakness. He speculates upon ruling mankind by the law
of kindness; and, as a specimen of the possibility, he kindles good-will
with the materials of strife.

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXIII.

  [From the “Downfall of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon,” an Historical
  Play, by T. Heywood, 1601.]

_Chorus; Skelton, the Poet._

      _Skelton_, (_to the Audience_). The Youth that leads yon virgin
          by the hand
    As doth the Sun the Morning richly clad,
    Is our Earl Robert--or your Robin Hood--
    That in those days was Earl of Huntingdon.

_Robin recounts to Marian the pleasures of a forest life._

      _Robin._ Marian, thou see’st, tho’ courtly pleasures want,
    Yet country sport in Sherwood is not scant:
    For the soul-ravishing delicious sound
    Of instrumental music, we have found
    The winged quiristers, with divers notes
    Sent from their quaint recording pretty throats,
    On every branch that compasseth our bower,
    Without command contenting us each hour.
    For arras hangings and rich tapestry,
    We have sweet Nature’s best embroidery.
    For thy steel glass, wherein thou wont’st to look,
    Thy chrystal eyes gaze in a chrystal brook.
    At Court a flower or two did deck thy head;
    Now with whole garlands it is circled:
    For what we want in wealth, we have in flowers;
    And what we lose in halls, we find in bowers.
      _Marian._ Marian hath all, sweet Robert having thee;
    And guesses thee as rich in having me.

_Scarlet recounts to Scathlock the pleasures of an Outlaw’s life._

      _Scarlet._ It’s full seven years since we were outlaw’ first,
    And wealthy Sherwood was our heritage.
    For all those years we reigned uncontroll’d,
    From Barnsdale shrogs to Nottingham’s red cliffs.
    At Blithe and Tickhill were we welcome guests;
    Good George-a-green at Bradford was our friend,
    And wanton Wakefield’s Pinner loved us well.
    At Barnsley dwells a Potter tough and strong,
    That never brook’d we brethren should have wrong.
    The Nuns of Farnsfield, pretty Nuns they be,
    Gave napkins, shirts, and bands, to him and me.
    Bateman of Kendal gave us Kendal green,
    And Sharpe of Leeds sharp arrows for us made.
    At Rotherham dwelt our Bowyer, God him bliss;
    Jackson he hight his bows did never miss.

_Fitzwater, banished, seeking his daughter Matilda (Robin’s Marian) in
the forest of Sherwood, makes his complaint._

      _Fitz._ Well did he write, and mickle did he know,
    That said “This world’s felicity was woe,
    Which greatest states can hardly undergo.”
    Whilem Fitzwater in fair England’s Court
    Possest felicity and happy state,
    And in his hall blithe Fortune kept her sport;
    Which glee one hour of woe did ruinate.
    Fitzwater once had castles, towns, and towers;
    Fair gardens, orchards, and delightful bowers;
    But now nor garden, orchard, town, nor tower
    Hath poor Fitzwater left within his power.
    Only wide walks are left me in the world,
    Which these stiff limbs will hardly let me tread:
    And when I sleep, heavn’s glorious canopy
    Me and my mossy couch doth overspread.

_He discovers Robin Hood sleeping; Marian strewing flowers over him._

      _Fitz._--in good time see where my comfort stands,
    And by her lies dejected Huntingdon.
    Look how my Flower holds flowers in her hands,
    And flings those sweets upon my sleeping son.

_Feigns himself blind, to try if she will know him._

      _Marian._ What aged man art thou? or by what chance
    Camest thou thus far into the wayless wood?
      _Fitz._ Widow, or wife, or maiden, if thou be;
    Lend me thy hand: thou see’st I cannot see.
    Blessing betide thee! little feel’st thou want;
    With me, good child, food is both hard and scant.
    These smooth even veins assure me, He is kind,
    Whate’er he be, my girl, that thee doth find.
    I poor and old am reft of all earth’s good;
    And desperately am crept into this wood,
    To seek the poor man’s patron, Robin Hood.
      _Marian._ And thou art welcome, welcome, aged man,
    Aye ten times welcome to Maid Marian.
    Here’s wine to cheer thy heart; drink, aged man.
    There’s venison, and a knife; here’s manchet fine.--
    My Robin stirs: I must sing him asleep.

_A Judgment._

_A Wicked Prior. Servingman._

      _Prior._ What news with you, Sir?
      _Serv._ Ev’n heavy news, my Lord; for the light fire,
    Falling in manner of a fire-drake
    Upon a barn of yours, hath burnt six barns,
    And not a strike of corn reserv’d from dust.
    No hand could save it; yet ten thousand hands
    Labour’d their best, though none for love of you:
    For every tongue with bitter cursing bann’d
    Your Lordship, as the viper of the land.
      _Prior._ What meant the villains?
      _Serv._ Thus and thus they cried:
    “Upon this churl, this hoarder up of corn,
    This spoiler of the Earl of Huntingdon,
    This lust-defiled, merciless, false Prior,
    Heav’n raineth judgment down in shape of fire.”
    Old wives that scarce could with their crutches creep,
    And little babes that newly learn’d to speak,
    Men masterless that thorough want did weep,
    All in one voice with a confused cry
    In execrations bann’d you bitterly.
    “Plague follow plague,” they cried; “he hath undone
    The good Lord Robert, Earl of Huntingdon.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From “Phillis of Scyros,” a Dramatic Pastoral, Author Unknown, 1655.]

_True Love irremovable by Death._

_Serpilla. Phillis._

      _Serpilla._ Thyrsis believes thee dead, and justly may
    Within his youthful breast then entertain
    New flames of love, and yet therein be free
    From the least show of doing injury
    To that rich beauty which he thinks extinct,
    And happily hath mourn’d for long ago:
    But when he shall perceive thee here alive,
    His old lost love will then with thee revive.
      _Phillis._ That love, Serpilla, which can be removed
    With the light breath of an imagined death,
    Is but a faint weak love; nor care I much
    Whether it live within, or still lie dead.
    Ev’n I myself believ’d him long ago
    Dead, and enclosed within an earthen urn;
    And yet, abhorring any other love,
    I only loved that pale-faced beauty still;
    And those dry bones, dissolved into dust:
    And underneath their ashes kept alive
    The lively flames of my still-burning fire.

_Celia, being put to sleep by an ineffectual poison, waking believes
herself to be among the dead. The old Shepherd Narete finds her, and
re-assures her of her still being alive._

      _Shepherd._ Celia, thou talkest idly; call again
    Thy wandering senses; thou art yet alive.
    And, if thou wilt not credit what I say,
    Look up, and see the heavens turning round;
    The sun descending down into the west,
    Which not long since thou saw’st rise in the east:
    Observe, that with the motion of the air
    These fading leaves do fall:--
    In the infernal region of the deep
    The sun doth never rise, nor ever set;
    Nor doth a falling leaf there e’er adorn
    Those black eternal plants.
    Thou still art on the earth ’mongst mortal men,
    And still thou livest. I am Narete. These
    Are the sweet fields of Scyros. Know’st thou not
    The meadow where the fountain springs? this wood?
    Enro’s great mountain, and Ormino’s hill;
    The hill where thou wert born?

_Thyrsis, upbraided by Phillis for loving another, while he supposed her
dead, replies--_

      _Thirsis._ O do not turn thy face another way.
    Perhaps thou thinkest, by denying thus
    That lovely visage to these eyes of mine,
    To punish my misdeeds; but think not so.
    Look on me still, and mark me what I say,
    (For, if thou know’st it not, I’ll tell thee then),
    A more severe revenger of thy wrongs
    Thou canst not have than those fair eyes of thine,
    Which by those shining beams that wound my heart
    Punish me more than all the world can do.
    What greater pain canst thou inflict on me,
    Than still to keep as fire before my face
    That lovely beauty, which I have betray’d;
    That beauty, I have lost?

NIGHT _breaks off her speech_.[234]

      NIGHT.--But stay! for there methinks I see the Sun,
    Eternal Painter, now begin to rise,
    And limn the heavens in vermilion dye;
    And having dipt his pencil, aptly framed,
    Already in the colour of the morn,
    With various temper he doth mix in one
    Darkness and Light: and drawing curiously
    Strait golden lines quite thro’ the dusky sky,
    A rough draught of the day he seems to yield,
    With red and tawny in an azure field.--
    Already, by the clattering of their bits,
    Their gingling harness, and their neighing sounds.
    I hear Eous and fierce Pirous
    Come panting on my back; and therefore I
    Must fly away. And yet I do not fly,
    But follow on my regulated course,
    And those eternal Orders I received
    From the First Mover of the Universe.

  C. L.

  [234] In the Prologue.

       *       *       *       *       *


~The Drama.~

The following communication from “a-matter-of-fact” correspondent,
controverts an old dramatist’s authority on an historical point. It
should be recollected, however, that poets have large license, and that
few playwrights strictly adhere to facts without injury to poetical
character and feeling. The letter is curious, and might suggest an
amusing parallel in the manner of Plutarch, between the straightforward
character and the poetical one.


KING JOHN AND MATILDA.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--Having been in the country during the publication of the first
parts of the _Table Book_, I have but now just bought them; and on
perusing them, I find in part 1, col. 112 et infrâ, Mr. C. Lamb’s first
specimen of the Garrick Plays, called “King John and Matilda;” wherein
the said Matilda, the daughter of the _old_ baron Fitzwater[235] is
supposed to be poisoned by King John’s order, in a nunnery. She is
especially entitled therein as “immaculate”--“Virtue’s white
_virgin_,”--and “_maid_ and martyr.” Now, sir, I presume it to be well
known, that in the best legends extant of the times of Richard I. and
John, this identical Matilda, or Maud Fitzwater, is chronicled as the
_chère amie_ and companion of the outlawed Robert Fitzooth, earl of
Huntingdon, whom, as “Robin Hood,” she followed as “_Maid_ Marian;” and
with whom, on his restoration to his honours by king Richard, (to his
earldom and estates,) she intermarried, and became countess of
Huntingdon, and was in _every_ respect a wife, though we have no records
whether she ever became a mother; and that when by king John the earl
was again outlawed, and driven to the wilds of Sherwood forest, his
countess also again shared his misfortunes, and a second time took the
name of “_Maid_ Marian,” (then rather a misnomer,) as he did that of
“_Robin Hood_.”

During the _first_ outlawry of Robin Hood, and while Marian, or more
properly Matilda, was yet a _maid_, John (then prince John, Richard
being in Palestine) made overtures to the old baron Fitzwalter for his
daughter as a mistress, and being refused, and finding she was in the
society of Robin Hood and his merry men, attacked them, and a bloody
fray ensued; during which, John and Matilda (in the _male_ costume of
forest green) met, and fought: John required her to yield, and she as
resolutely desired him, in a reproachful taunt, to _win_ her first; and
so stoutly did she belabour him, as the rest of the foresters did his
party also, that he was constrained to yield, and to withdraw from a
contest in which nothing was to be got but blows.

We hear nothing more of any attempts of John’s to molest her or her
party till after the death of Richard, and his own accession to the
throne, when he spitefully ousted the earl and countess from their
honours and possessions, and confiscated all to his own use; and thus
this unfortunate pair, as I have above stated, were again constrained to
quit the castle for the forest.

But it is certain, that long before John became king, Matilda, alias
Maud, alias Marian, had ceased to be a maid; and we have no account of
any attempts whatsoever made by _king_ John upon or against the quondam
Matilda Fitzwalter, afterwards alternately Maid Marian and countess of
Huntingdon. Indeed all the legends of Robin Hood’s life present “Maid
Marian” as having lived with him unmolested by any such attempts during
the whole of his _second outlawry_, and as having survived Robin’s
tragical end; though of _her_ subsequent fate they are all silent,
expressing themselves indeed ignorant of what was her destiny. Certainly
she may then have retired into a nunnery, but at all events not as
Matilda Fitzwalter; for she had been legally married and formally
acknowledged by Richard I. as countess of Huntingdon; and as she spent
the last part of her fellowship with her husband in Sherwood forest
under her romantic forest appellation, it is scarcely probable that she
would resume her title on entering into a nunnery. I would presume,
therefore, that however and wherever she ended her days, it must have
been under the cognomen of “_Maid_ Marian.” And as her husband lived for
some years in the forest after the accession of John, I should think it
scarcely likely that after such a great lapse of time, and after the
change which had taken place in Matilda both as regards her worldly
station and age, and I should presume person, (from such a continued
exposure to the air and weather,) John should renew any attempt upon
her. I should therefore feel exceedingly gratified if either yourself or
Mr. C. Lamb could adduce any historical facts to reconcile all these
discrepancies, and to show how the facts, as supposed in the play of
“King John and Matilda,” could, in the natural course of events, and in
the very teeth of the declarations made in the history of Robin Hood and
his consort, have taken place.

Mark this also;--the historians of Robin Hood and Maid Marian (and their
history was written, if not by contemporaries, yet in the next
generation; nor is it likely that such a renowned personage should be
unnoticed in chronicles for any space of time) all declare that they
could not ascertain the fate of Marian after the death of Robin. _His_
death and burial are well known, and the inscription to his memory is
still extant; but _she_ was lost sight of from the time of his decease.
How comes it then that Robert Davenport, in the 17th century, should be
so well informed, as to know that Matilda ended her days in a nunnery by
poison administered by order of king John, when there is _no tradition
extant_ of the time or manner of _her_ decease? We have no other
authority than this of Davenport’s tragedy on the subject; and I should
therefore be inclined to think that he was misinformed, and that the
event recorded by him never happened. As to its being _another_ Matilda
Fitzwalter, it is highly preposterous to imagine. Is it likely that at
the same time there should be two barons of that name and title, each
having a daughter named Matilda or Maud? Davenport calls his baron the
_old_ baron Fitzwater; and the father of Maid Marian is described as the
_old_ baron: both must therefore have lived in the reign of Richard I.,
and also in that of John till their death. Indeed we have proof that the
baron was alive in John’s reign, because Richard I. having restored him
at the same time that he pardoned Fitzooth, _John dispossessed them
both_ on his accession.

I think it therefore highly improbable that there should have been so
remarkable a coincidence as _two_ barons Fitzwalter, and _two_ Matildas
at the same time, and both the latter subject to the unwelcome addresses
of John: consequently I cannot give credence, without _proofs_, to the
incident in Davenport’s play.

  I am, Sir,

  respectfully yours,

  “THE VEILED SPIRIT.”

  _May 17, 1827._

P.S.--Since writing the above, my friend F. C. N. suggests to me, that
there was a baron Fitzwalter in John’s reign, proprietor of Castle
Baynard, whose daughter Matilda John saw at a tourney, and being
smitten with her charms, proposed to her father for her as his
mistress, (precisely the events connected with Maid Marian;) and being
refused, he attacked Castle Baynard, and ultimately destroyed it.
However, for the reasons I have before stated, I am decidedly of
opinion, that if such a baron was proprietor of Castle Baynard, it must
have been the father of Maid Marian, as I cannot suppose that there were
_two_. I cannot precisely remember, nor have I any thing at hand to
refer to, but I believe it was at a tourney somewhere that _prince_ John
first saw _Maud_.

  [235] This is an error of the poet’s. His real name was Fitz-Wa_l_ter,
  i. e. _the son of Walter_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


THE PHANTOM LIGHT

    What phantom light from yonder lonely tower,
      Glimmers yet paler than the pale moon beam;--
    Breaking the darkness of the midnight hour,--
      What bodes its dismal, melancholy gleam?

    ’Tis not the brightness of that glorious light,
      That bursts in splendour from the hoary north;
    ’Tis not the pharos of the dangerous night,
      Mid storms and winds benignly shining forth.

    Still are the waves that wash this desert shore,
      No breath is there to fill the fisher’s sail;
    Yet round yon isle is heard the distant roar
      Of billows writhing in a tempest’s gale.

    Doomed are the mariners that rashly seek
      To land in safety on that dreadful shore;
    For once engulfed in the forbidden creek,
      Their fate is sealed--they’re never heard of more.

    For spirits there exert unholy sway--
      When favoured by the night’s portentous gloom--
    Seduce the sailor from his trackless way,
      And lure the wretch to an untimely doom.

    A demon tenant’s yonder lonely tower,
      A dreadful compound of hell, earth, and air;
    To-night he visits not his favourite bower,
      So pale the light that faintly glimmers there.

    In storms he seeks that solitary haunt,
      And, with their lord, a grim unearthly crew;
    Who, while they join in wild discordant chant,
      The mystic revels of their race pursue.

    But when the fiends have gained their horrid lair,
    The light then bursts forth with a blood-red glare;
    And phantom forms will flit along the wave
    Whose corses long had tenanted the grave.

       *       *       *       *       *


A GROVE

THE FORMATION OF ONE WITH A VIEW TO THE PICTURESQUE.

The prevailing character of a grove is _beauty_; fine trees are lovely
objects; a grove is an assemblage of them; in which every individual
retains much of its own peculiar elegance; and whatever it loses is
transferred to the superior beauty of the whole. To a grove, therefore,
which admits of endless variety in the disposition of the trees,
differences in their shapes and their greens are seldom very important,
and sometimes they are detrimental. Strong contrasts scatter trees which
are thinly planted, and which have not the connection of underwood; they
no longer form one plantation; they are a number of single trees. A
thick grove is not indeed exposed to this mischief, and certain
situations may recommend different shapes and different greens for their
effects upon the _surface_; but in the _outline_ they are seldom much
regarded. The eye attracted into the depth of the grove passes by little
circumstances at the entrance; even varieties in the form of the line do
not always engage the attention: they are not so apparent as in a
continued thicket, and are scarcely seen, if they are not considerable.

But the surface and the outline are not the only circumstances to be
attended to. Though a grove be beautiful as an object, it is besides
delightful as a spot to walk or to sit in; and the choice and the
disposition of the trees for effects _within_ are therefore a principal
consideration. Mere irregularity alone will not please: strict order is
there more agreeable than absolute confusion; and some meaning better
than none. A regular plantation has a degree of beauty; but it gives no
satisfaction, because we know that the same number of trees might be
more beautifully arranged. A disposition, however, in which the lines
only are broken, without varying the distances, is less natural than
any; for though we cannot find straight lines in a forest, we are
habituated to them in the hedge-rows of fields; but neither in wild nor
in cultivated nature do we ever see trees equidistant from each other:
that regularity belongs to art alone. The distances therefore should be
strikingly different; the trees should gather into groups, or stand in
various irregular lines, and describe several figures: the intervals
between them should be contrasted both in shape and in dimensions: a
large space should in some places be quite open; in others the trees
should be so close together, as hardly to leave a passage between them;
and in others as far apart as the connection will allow. In the forms
and the varieties of these groups, these lines, and these openings,
principally consists the interior beauty of a grove.

The consequence of variety in the disposition, is variety in the light
and shade of the grove; which may be improved by the choice of the
trees. Some are impenetrable to the fiercest sunbeam; others let in here
and there a ray between the large masses of their foliage; and others,
thin both of boughs and of leaves, only checker the ground. Every degree
of light and shade, from a glare to obscurity, may be managed, partly by
the number, and partly by the texture of the trees. Differences only in
the manner of their growths have also corresponding effects; there is a
closeness under those whose branches descend low and spread wide, a
space and liberty where the arch above is high, and frequent transitions
from the one to the other are very pleasing. These still are not all the
varieties of which the interior of a grove is capable; trees, indeed,
whose branches nearly reach the ground, being each a sort of thicket,
are inconsistent with an open plantation; but though some of the
characteristic distinctions are thereby excluded, other varieties more
minute succeed in their place; for the freedom of passage throughout
brings every tree in its turn near to the eye, and subjects even
differences in foliage to observation. These, slight as they may seem,
are agreeable when they occur; it is true they are not regretted when
wanting, but a defect of ornament is not necessarily a blemish.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


GROVES AND HIGH PLACES.

The heathens considered it unlawful to build temples, because they
thought no temple spacious enough for the sun. Hence the saying, _Mundus
universus est templum solis_, “The whole world is a temple of the sun.”
Thus their god Terminus, and others, were worshipped in temples
open-roofed. Hills and mountains became the fittest places for their
idolatry; and these consecrated hills are the “high places” so often
forbidden in the sacred writings. As the number of their gods increased,
so the number of their consecrated hills multiplied; and from them their
gods and goddesses took names, as Mercurius Cyllenius, Venus Erycina,
Jupiter Capitolinus. To beautify these holy hills, the places of their
idolatrous worship, they beset them with trees; and thence arose the
consecration of groves and woods, from whence also their idols were
often named. At length certain choice and select trees began to be
consecrated. The French magi, termed Dryadæ, worshipped the oak; the
Etrurians worshipped an elm-tree; and amongst the Celtæ, a tall oak was
the very idol of Jupiter.

Amongst the Israelites, idolatry began under the judges Othniel and
Ehud, and became so common, that they had peculiar priests, whom they
termed the prophets of the grove and idols of the grove.

Christians, in the consecration of their churches, make special choice
of peculiar saints, by whose name they are called. The heathens
consecrated their groves to peculiar idols; whence in profane authors we
read of Diana Nemorensis, Diana Arduenna, Albunea Dea, &c., all
receiving their names from the groves in which they were worshipped. The
idol itself is sometimes called a grove--“Josiah brought out _the grove_
from the house of the Lord.” It is probable, that in this idol was
portraited the form and similitude of a grove, and that from thence it
was called a grove, as those similitudes of Diana’s temple, made by
Demetrius, were termed temples of Diana.

These customs appear exemplified by inscriptions on coins, medals, in
church-yards, and the various buildings commemorated by marble, flowers,
and durable and perishing substances.

  J. R. P.

⁂ The groves round London within a few years have been nearly destroyed
by the speculating builders.

       *       *       *       *       *

J. R. P.’s note may be an excuse for observing, that the “grove” best
known, perhaps, to the inhabitants of London is that at Camberwell--a
spacious roadway and fine walks, above half a mile in length, between
rows of stately trees, from the beginning of the village and ascending
the hill to its summit, from whence there is, or rather was, the finest
burst of scenery the eye can look upon within the same distance from
London. The view is partially obstructed by new buildings, and the
character of the “grove” itself has been gradually injured by the
breaking up of the adjacent grounds and meadows into brick-fields, and
the flanking of its sides with town-like houses. This grove has been the
theme of frequent song. Dr. Lettsom first gave celebrity to it by his
writings, and pleasant residence on its eastern extremity; and it was
further famed by Mr. Maurice in an elegant poem, with delightful
engravings on wood. After the death of the benevolent physician, and
before the decease of the illustrator of “Indian Antiquities,” much of
the earth, consecrated by their love and praise, “passed through the
fire” in sacrifice to the Moloch of improvement. In a year or two “Grove
Hill” may be properly named “Grove Street.”

Hampstead, however, is the “place of groves;”--how long it may remain so
is a secret in the bosom of speculators and builders. Its first grove,
townward, is the noble private avenue from the Hampstead-road to
Belsize-house, in the valley between Primrose hill and the hill whereon
the church stands, with Mr. Memory-Corner Thompson’s remarkable house
and lodge at the corner of the pleasant highway to the little village of
West-end. In the neighbourhood of Hampstead church, and between that
edifice and the heath, there are several old groves. Winding southwardly
from the heath, there is a charming little grove in Well Walk,
with a bench at the end; whereon I last saw poor Keats, the poet of
the “Pot of Basil,” sitting and sobbing his dying breath into a
handkerchief,--gleaning parting looks towards the quiet landscape he had
delighted in--musing, as in his Ode to a Nightingale.

    My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
      My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
    Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
      One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
    Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
      But being too happy in thine happiness,--
        That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
            In some melodious plot
      Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
        Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
    O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
      Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
    Tasting of Flora and the country green,
      Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
    O for a beaker full of the warm south,
      Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
        With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
          And purple-stained mouth;
      That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
        And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
    Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
      What thou among the leaves hast never known,
    The weariness, the fever, and the fret
      Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
    Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
      Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies
        Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
            And leaden-eyed despairs,
      Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
        Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow


[Illustration: ~West Wickham Church, Kent.~]

----From Beckenham church we walked about two miles along a nearly
straight road, fenced off from the adjoining lands, till we reached West
Wickham. It was from a painted window in this church that I made the
tracing of St. Catherine engraved in the _Every-Day Book_, where some
mention is made of the retired situation of this village.

“Wickham Court,” the ancient manor-house adjacent to the church, was
formerly the residence of Gilbert West, the translator of Pindar, and
author of the “Observations on the Resurrection of Christ.” for which
the university of Oxford conferred on him the degree of doctor of laws.
“He was very often visited by Lyttelton and Pitt, who, when they were
weary of faction and debates, used, at Wickham, to find books and quiet,
a decent table, and literary conversation.”[236] It was in West’s
society, at Wickham, that lord Lyttelton was convinced of the truth of
Christianity. Under that conviction he wrote his celebrated
“Dissertation on the Conversion and Apostleship of St. Paul,” which,
until the appearance of Paley’s “Horæ Paulina,” was an unrivalled
treatise. Mr. Pitt, (the great earl of Chatham,) during his intimacy
with West, formed a walk at Wickham Court. In a summer-house of the
grounds, Mr. West inscribed the following lines, in imitation of
Ausonius, a Latin poet of the fourth century, “Ad Villam:”--

    Not wrapt in smoky London’s sulphurous clouds,
      And not far distant stands my rural cot;
    Neither obnoxious to intruding crowds,
      Nor for the good and friendly too remote.

    And when too much repose brings on the spleen,
      Or the gay city’s idle pleasures cloy;
    Swift as my changing wish I change the scene,
      And row the country, now the town enjoy.

The ancient manor of West Wickham was vested in sir Samuel Lennard,
bart., from whom it passed to his daughter Mary, the present dowager
lady Farnaby, who resides in the manor-house, and with whose permission
we were permitted a look at the hall of the mansion, which contains in
the windows some painted remains of armorial bearings on glass, removed
from the windows of the church. A view in Hasted’s “History of Kent”
represents the towers of this mansion to have been surmounted by
sextagon cones, terminated at the top with the fleur de lis, a bearing
in the family arms; these pinnacles have been taken down, the roofs of
the towers flattened, and the walls castellated. By a charter of free
warren, in the eleventh year of Edward II., a weekly market was granted
to West Wickham, but it is no longer held, and Wickham, as a town, has
lost its importance.

The manor-house and church are distant from the village about half a
mile, with an intervening valley beautifully pleasant, in which is a
road from Hayes Common to Addington and Croydon. The church is on a
hill, with an old lich-gate, like that at Beckenham, though not so
large. At this spot W. sat down, and made the sketch here represented by
his graver. Although I had been in the edifice before, I could not avoid
another visit to it. At the north-east corner, near the communion table,
are many ancient figured tiles sadly neglected, loose in the pavement;
some displaced and lying one upon the other. Worst of all,--and I mean
offence to no one, but surely there is blame somewhere,--the ancient
stone font, which is in all respects perfect, has been removed from its
original situation, and is thrown into a corner. In its place, at the
west end, from a nick (not a niche) between the seats, a little
trivet-like iron bracket swings in and out, and upon it is a wooden
hand-bowl, such as scullions use in a kitchen sink; and in this
hand-bowl, of about twelve inches diameter, called a font, I found a
common blue-and-white Staffordshire-ware halfpint basin. It might be
there still; but, while inveighing to my friend W. against the
depravation of the fine old font, and the substitution of such a paltry
modicum, in my vehemence I fractured the crockery. I felt that I was
angry, and, perhaps, I sinned; but I made restitution beyond the extent
that would replace the baptismal slop-basin.

The fragments of old painted glass in the windows of this church are
really fine. The best are, St. Anne teaching the virgin to read; whole
lengths of St. Christopher wading, with the infant Saviour beating the
globe in his hand; an elderly female saint, very good; and a skeleton
with armour before him. Some years ago, collectors of curiosities paid
their attentions to these windows, and carried off specimens: since then
wires have been put up on the outside. On the walls are hung pennons,
with an iron helmet, sword, spurs, gloves, and other remains of a
funereal pageant. A small organ stands on the floor: the partitions of
some of the pewings are very ancient.

  *

  [236] Dr. Johnson.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Topography.~


GODSTOW NUNNERY,

NEAR OXFORD.

    The wild-flower waves, in lonely bloom,
      On Godstow’s desolated wall:
    There thin shades flit through twilight gloom,
      And murmured accents feebly fall.
    The aged hazel nurtures there
    Its hollow fruit, so seeming fair,
    And lightly throws its humble shade,
    Where Rosamonda’s form is laid,

    The rose of earth, the sweetest flower
      That ever graced a monarch’s breast,
    In vernal beauty’s loveliest hour,
      Beneath that sod was laid to rest.
    In vain the bower of love around
    The Dædalëan path was wound:
    Alas! that jealous hate should find
    The clue for love alone designed!

    The venomed bowl,--the mandate dire,--
      The menaced steel’s uplifted glare,--
    The tear, that quenched the blue eye’s fire,--
      The humble, ineffectual prayer:--
    All these shall live, recorded long
    In tragic and romantic song,
    And long a moral charm impart,
    To melt and purify the heart.
    A nation’s gem, a monarch’s pride.
    In youth, in loveliness, she died:
    The morning sun’s ascending ray
    Saw none so fair, so blest, so gay:
    Ere evening came, her funeral knell
    Was tolled by Godstow’s convent bell.

    The marble tomb, the illumined shrine,
      Their ineffectual splendour gave:
    Where slept in earth the maid divine.
      The votive silk was seen to wave.
    To her, as to a martyred saint.
      His vows the weeping pilgrim poured
    The drooping traveller, sad and faint,
      Knelt there, and found his strength restored:
    To that fair shrine, in solemn hour,
      Fond youths and blushing maidens came.
    And gathered from its mystic power
      A brighter, purer, holier flame:
    The lightest heart with awe could feel
      The charm her hovering spirit shed
    But superstition’s impious zeal
      Distilled its venom on the dead!

    The illumined shrine has passed away;
      The sculptured stone in dust is laid:
    But when the midnight breezes play
      Amid the barren hazel’s shade,
    The lone enthusiast, lingering near,
      The youth, whom slighted passion grieves,
    Through fancy’s magic spell may hear
      A spirit in the whispering leaves;
    And dimly see, while mortals sleep,
      Sad forms of cloistered maidens move,
    The transient dreams of life to weep,
      The fading flowers of youth and love!

NOTE.

A small chapel, and a wall, enclosing an ample space, are all now
remaining of the Benedictine nunnery at Godstow. A hazel grows near the
chapel, the fruit of which is always apparently perfect, but is
invariably found to be hollow.

This nunnery derives its chief interest from having been the
burial-place of Rosamond. The principal circumstances of her story are
thus related by Stowe: “Rosamond, the fair daughter of Walter lord
Clifford, concubine to Henry II., (poisoned by queen Eleanor, as some
thought,) died at Woodstock, (A. D. 1177,) where king Henry had made for
her a house of wonderful working; so that no man or woman might come to
her, but he that was instructed by the king, or such as were right
secret with him touching the matter. This house, after some, was named
Labyrinthus, or Dædalus work, which was wrought like unto a knot in a
garden, called a maze: but it was commonly said, that lastly the queen
came to her by a clue of thread, or silk, and so dealt with her, that
she lived not long after: but when she was dead, she was buried at
Godstow, in a house of nuns, beside Oxford, with these verses upon her
tomb:

    “Hic jacet in tumbâ, Rosa mundi, non Rosa munda:
         Non redolet, sed olet, quæ redolere solet.”

After her death, she appears to have been considered as a saint, from
the following inscription on a stone cross, which, Leland says, was
erected near the nunnery:

    Qui meat huc, oret, signumque salutis adoret,
    Utque sibi detur veniam, Rosamunda precetur.

A fanatical priest, Hugh, bishop of Lincoln, visiting the nunnery at
Godstow, and observing a tomb covered with silk, and splendidly
illuminated, which he found, on inquiry, to be the tomb of Rosamond,
commanded her to be taken up, and buried without the church, lest the
Christian religion should grow into contempt. This brutal order was
instantly obeyed: but “the chaste sisters,” says Speed, “gathered her
bones, and put them in a perfumed bag, enclosing them so in lead, and
laid them again in the church, under a fair large grave-stone, about
whose edges a fillet of brass was inlaid, and thereon written her name
and praise: these bones were at the suppression of the nunnery so
found.”[237]

       *       *       *       *       *


ST. MARY MAGDALEN, BERMONDSEY, SURREY.

In the parish register of this church is the following very singular
entry:

  “The forme of a solemn vowe made betwixt a man and his wife, having
  been long absent, through which occasion the woman being married to
  another man, took her again as followeth:


THE MAN’S SPEECH.

“Elizabeth, my beloved wife, I am right sorie that I have so long
absented myself from thee, whereby thou shouldst be occasioned to take
another man to be thy husband. Therefore I do now vowe and promise, in
the sight of God and this company, to take thee again as mine owne; and
will not onlie forgive thee, but also dwell with thee, and do all other
duties unto thee, as I promised at our marriage.”


THE WOMAN’S SPEECH.

“Raphe, my beloved husband, I am righte sorie that I have in thy absence
taken another man to be my husband; but here, before God and this
companie, I do renounce and forsake him, and do promise to keep mysealfe
only to thee duringe life, and to performe all the duties which I first
promised to thee in our marriage.”

  Then follows a short occasional prayer, and the entry concludes
  thus:--

“The first day of August, 1601, Raphe Goodchilde, of the parish of
Barking, in Thames-street, and Elizabeth, his wife, were agreed to live
together, and thereupon gave their hands one to another, making either
of them a solemn vow so to do in the presence of us,

  “WILLIAM STERE,--_Parson_.

  “EDWARD COKER; and

  “RICHARD EYERS,--_Clerk_.”

       *       *       *       *       *

There is also in the same register the following entry:--

  “James Herriot, Esq. and Elizabeth Josey, gent. were married June 4th,
  1624-5.--N. B. This James Herriott was one of the _forty_ children of
  his father, a Scotchman.”

_Query._--Was this James Herriot related to George Heriot, the
munificent founder of the hospital at Edinburgh, who died at London in
January of the same year?

       *       *       *       *       *


BROUGH, WESTMORELAND.

The church at Brough is a pretty large handsome building. The steeple is
not so old; having been built about the year 1513, under the direction
of Thomas Blenkinsop, of Helbeck, Esq. There are in it four excellent
bells, by much the largest in the county, except the great bell at
Kirkby Thore. Concerning these bells at Brough, there is a tradition
that they were given by one _Brunskill_, who lived upon Stanemore, in
the remotest part of the parish, and had a great many cattle. One time
it happened that his bull fell a bellowing, which, in the dialect of the
country, is called _cruning_, (this being the Saxon word to denote that
vociferation.) Whereupon he said to one of his neighbours, “Hearest thou
how loud this bull crunes? If these cattle should all crune together,
might they not be heard from Brough hither?” He answered, “Yea.” “Well,
then,” says _Brunskill_, “I’ll make them all crune together.” And he
sold them all; and with the price thereof he bought the said bells, (or
perhaps he might get the old bells new cast and made larger.)--There is
a monument in the church, in the south wall, between the highest and
second windows, under which, it is said, the said _Brunskill_ was the
last that was interred.

The pulpit is of stone. There was heretofore a handsome _reading desk_,
given by sir _Cuthbert Buckle_, knight, vintner in London, who was born
upon Stanemore in this parish, and was lord mayor of London in the year
1593. His name was upon the desk thus:--“By Cuthbert Buckle, Anno Domini
1576.” He built also a bridge upon Stanemore, which still bears the name
of _Buckle’s Bridge_; and gave eight pounds a year to a school upon
Stanemore.

  [237] From the “Genius of the Thames, a Lyrical Poem, with Notes, by
  Thomas Love Peacock,” 1810.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


TO MY PSEUDO-MUSE.

    Hence, thou tormenting wayward Being!
    For ever courting, trifling, spreeing.
      Thou _Erysipelas_ of thrall:
    For ever, with thine addled hatch,
    I’ll shun thee as an arrant Scratch,
      Unworthy to be scratched at all.

    Thy Sonnets, staves, and stanzas rhyming
    To every key, to every chiming,
      St. _Vitus’ Dance_ is ease to Thee:
    Thou shalt no more provoke my Quill
    To deeds of labour, or of skill,
      Thou _cacoëthes mise-re_.

    Promethean fire--Parnassus smiling,
    Helicon’s spirituous drops beguiling,--
      Where’er thou com’st--whate’er thou be:
    The _Vagrant Act_ may take thee in;
    I’ll drive thee out as Satan’s sin
      Thou worse than _fire of Anthony_.

    Hence Jade! tormentress of the feelings;--
    Thou _Witch of End-or_ like revealings:--
      Go--haunt the brains, not frenzy past:
    I’ll haste to Monmouth Street and buy
    A suit of Prose--then joyful cry
      _Ecce Stultus!_ grown wise at last.

    If thou shou’d’st to my brain-door, knocking,
    Come with thy wheedling-pamby, mocking;
      I’ll catch thee _vi et armis_:--then
    By Habeas Corpus to the Pleas--
    --_Sure_ I will rob thee of degrees,
      And scare thee from my _Smithfield Pen_.

    If I’m asleep--then thou art waiting,
    Angler-like, with thy couplets baiting,
      To drag my crazy thought to light:
    Awake! thy float, with stanza-hook,
    Is ever dipping in _Mal-Brook_--
      I’ll brook no more--if sense is right.

  *, *, P.

       *       *       *       *       *


BATHING.

I do not know any author who has reckoned man among the amphibious race
of animals; neither do I know any animal that better deserves it. Man is
lord of the little ball on which he treads, one half of which, at least,
is water. If we do not allow him to be amphibious, we deprive him of
half his sovereignty. He justly bears that name, who can _live_ in the
water. Many of the disorders incident to the human frame are prevented,
and others cured, both by fresh and salt bathing; so that we may
properly remark, “_He lives in the water_ who can find life, nay, even
_health_ in that friendly element.”

The greatest treasure on earth is health; but a treasure, of all others,
the least valued by the owner. Other property is best rated when in
possession, but this can only be rated when lost. We sometimes observe a
man, who, having lost this inestimable jewel, seeks it with an ardour
equal to its worth; but when every research by land is eluded, he
fortunately finds it in the water. Like the fish, he pines away upon
shore, but, like that, recovers again in the deep.

The cure of disease among the Romans, by bathing, is supported by many
authorities; among others, by the number of baths frequently discovered,
in which pleasure, in that warm climate, bore a part. But this practice
seemed to decline with Roman freedom, and never after held the eminence
it deserved. Can we suppose the physician slept between the disease and
the bath to hinder their junction; or, that he lawfully holds by
prescription the tenure of sickness in _fee_?[238]

  [238] W. Hutton.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Rural Sports.~


ANGLING.

    When genial spring a living warmth bestows,
    And o’er the year her verdant mantle throws,
    No swelling inundation hides the grounds,
    But crystal currents glide within their bounds;
    The finny brood their wonted haunts forsake,
    Float in the sun, and skim along the lake,
    With frequent leap they range the shallow streams,
    Their silver coats reflect the dazzling beams.
    Now let the fisherman his toils prepare,
    And arm himself with every wat’ry snare;
    His hooks, his lines peruse with careful eye,
    Increase his tackle, and his rode retie.

      When floating clouds their spongy fleeces drain
    Troubling the streams with swift-descending rain,
    And waters tumbling down the mountain’s side,
    Bear the loose soil into the swelling tide;
    Then, soon as vernal gales begin to rise,
    And drive the liquid burthen thro’ the skies,
    The fisher to the neighbouring current speeds,
    Whose rapid surface purls, unknown to weeds;
    Upon a rising border of the brook
    He sits him down, and ties the treach’rous hook;
    Now expectation cheers his eager thought,
    His bosom glows with treasures yet uncaught;
    Before his eyes a banquet seems to stand,
    Where every guest applauds his skilful hand.

      Far up the stream the twisted hair he throws,
    Which down the murm’ring current gently flows;
    When if or chance, or hunger’s pow’rful sway,
    Directs the roving trout this fatal way,
    He greedily sucks in the twining bait,
    And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat:
    Now, happy fisherman, now twitch the line!
    How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine
    Cast on the bank, he dies with gasping pains,
    And trickling blood his silver mail distains.

      You must not ev’ry worm promiscuous use,
    Judgment will tell thee proper bait to choose;
    The worm that draws a long immod’rate size
    The trout abhors, and the rank morsel flies;
    And if too small, the naked fraud’s in sight,
    And fear forbids, while hunger does invite.
    Those baits will best reward the fisher’s pains,
    Whose polish’d tails a shining yellow stains:
    Cleanse them from filth, to give a tempting gloss,
    Cherish the sully’d reptile race with moss;
    Amid the verdant bed they twine, they toil,
    And from their bodies wipe their native soil.

      But when the sun displays his glorious beams,
    And shallow rivers flow with silver streams,
    Then the deceit the scaly breed survey,
    Bask in the sun, and look into the day.
    You now a more delusive art must try,
    And tempt their hunger with the curious fly.

      To frame the little animal, provide
    All the gay hues that wait on female pride:
    Let nature guide thee; sometimes golden wire
    The shining bellies of the fly require;
    The peacock’s plumes thy tackle must not fail,
    Nor the dear purchase of the sable’s tail.
    Each gaudy bird some slender tribute brings,
    And lends the growing insect proper wings:
    Silks of all colours must their aid impart,
    And ev’ry fur promote the fisher’s art.
    So the gay lady, with expensive care,
    Borrows the pride of land, of sea, and air;
    Furs, pearls, and plumes, the glittering thing displays,
    Dazzles our eyes, and easy hearts betrays.

      Mark well the various seasons of the year,
    How the succeeding insect race appear;
    In this revolving moon one colour reigns,
    Which in the next the fickle trout disdains
    Oft have I seen a skilful angler try
    The various colours of the treach’rous fly;
    When he with fruitless pain hath skimm’d the brook,
    And the coy fish rejects the skipping hook,
    He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow,
    Which o’er the stream a waving forest throw;
    When if an insect fall, (his certain guide)
    He gently takes him from the whirling tide;
    Examines well his form with curious eyes,
    His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns, and size.
    Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds,
    And on the back a speckled feather binds;
    So just the colours shine thro’ every part,
    That Nature seems to live again in art,
    Let not thy wary steps advance too near,
    While all thy hope hangs on a single hair:
    The new-form’d insect on the water moves,
    The speckled trout the curious snare approves;
    Upon the curling surface let it glide,
    With nat’ral motion from thy hand supply’d.
    Against the stream now gently let it play,
    Now in the rapid eddy roll away.
    The scaly shoals float by, and seiz’d with fear,
    Behold their fellows toss’d in thinner air;
    But soon they leap, and catch the swimming bait,
    Plunge on the hook, and share an equal fate.

      When a brisk gale against the current blows,
    And all the wat’ry plain in wrinkles flows,
    Then let the fisherman his art repeat,
    Where bubbling eddies favour the deceit.
    If an enormous salmon chance to spy
    The wanton errors of the floating fly,
    He lifts his silver gills above the flood,
    And greedily sucks in th’ unfaithful food;
    Then downward plunges with the fraudful prey,
    And bears with joy the little spoil away.
    Soon in smart pain he feels the dire mistake,
    Lashes the wave, and beats the foamy lake:
    With sudden rage he now aloft appears,
    And in his eye convulsive anguish bears;
    And now again, impatient of the wound,
    He rolls and wreaths his shining body round;
    Then headlong shoots beneath the dashing tide,
    The trembling fins the boiling wave divide;
    Now hope exalts the fisher’s beating heart,
    Now he turns pale, and fears his dubious art;
    He views the tumbling fish with longing eyes;
    While the line stretches with th’ unwieldy prize;
    Each motion humours with his steady hands,
    And one slight hair the mighty bulk commands:
    Till tir’d at last, despoil’d of all his strength,
    The game athwart the stream unfolds his length.
    He now, with pleasure, views the gasping prize
    Gnash his sharp teeth, and roll his blood-shot eyes,
    Then draws him to the shore, with artful care,
    And lifts his nostrils in the sick’ning air:
    Upon the burthen’d stream he floating lies,
    Stretching his quivering fins, and gasping dies.

      Would you preserve a num’rous finny race?
    Let your fierce dogs the rav’nous otter chase;
    Th’ amphibious monster ranges all the shores,
    Darts through the waves, and ev’ry haunt explores;
    Or let the gin his roving steps betray,
    And save from hostile jaws the scaly prey.

      I never wander where the bordering reeds
    O’erlook the muddy stream, whose tangling weeds
    Perplex the fisher; I, nor choose to bear
    The thievish nightly net, nor barbed spear;
    Nor drain I ponds the golden carp to take,
    Nor troll for pikes, dispeoplers of the lake.
    Around the steel no tortur’d worm shall twine,
    No blood of living insect stain my line;
    Let me, less cruel, cast the feather’d hook,
    With pliant rod athwart the pebbled brook,
    Silent along the mazy margin stray,
    And with the fur-wrought fly delude the prey.

  _Gay._

       *       *       *       *       *


GOOD-LIVING.

A DOMESTIC SCENE.

_Gent._ I wish, my dear, you would not keep the carriage an hour always
at the door, when we go to a party.

_Lady._ Surely, my dear, it could not have waited half so long; and that
was owing to the unusual length of our rubber.

_Gent._ I feel exceedingly unwell this evening, my head aches
confoundedly, and my stomach is very uneasy.

_Lady._ You know, my dear, Mr. Abernethy told you, that after such a
severe fit you ought to be very careful and moderate in your living.

_Gent._ Mr. Abernethy is a fool. Can any body be more moderate than I
am? you would have me live upon water-gruel, I suppose. The rich
pudding, indeed, that Mrs. Belcour made me eat, might possibly not have
sat quite easy on the soup, and the salmon, and the chicken and ham, and
the harrico, and the turkey and sausages; or, it is possible, the
patties I eat before dinner might not perfectly agree with me, for I had
by no means a good appetite when I sat down to dinner.

_Lady._ And then, you know, you eat so many cakes, and such a quantity
of almonds and raisins, and oranges after dinner.

_Gent._ How could I have got down Belcour’s insufferable wine, that
tasted of the cork, like the fag bottle at a tavern dinner, without
eating something?

_Lady._ And I am sure you drank a glass of Madeira with every mouthful
almost at dinner; for I observed you.

_Gent._ Why how could one swallow such ill-dressed things, half cold
too, without drinking? I can’t conceive what makes me feel so unwell
this evening; these flatulencies will certainly kill me. It must be the
easterly wind we have had for these three days that affects me: indeed,
most of my acquaintance are complaining, and the doctors say, disorders
are very prevalent now.----What can I _have_? John, make me a tumbler of
brandy and water--make it strong, and put ginger enough in it. I have
not the least appetite--what _can_ I have?

_Lady._ There is ham, and, I believe, some chicken--

_Gent._ Why, do you think I have the stomach of a ploughman, that I can
eat such insipid things! Is there nothing else?

_Lady._ There is a loin of pork--perhaps you could relish a chop, nicely
done?

_Gent._ _Why_, if it _was_ nicely done, _very_ nicely, perhaps I
_could_; I’ll _try_--but remember it must be done _to a moment_, or I
shan’t be able to touch it--and made _hot_--and some nice gravy.
Confound these parties!--could any thing be more stupid. While Martin
was sleeping on one side of me, there was Bernard on the other did
nothing but bore me about his horses, and his wines, and his pictures,
till I wished them all at old Harry--I think I shall have done with
parties.

_Lady._ I am sure, my dear, they are no pleasure to me; and, if they
were, I pay dear enough for it: for you generally come home in an ill
humour--and your health and your pocket too suffer for it. Your _last_
bill came to more than ninety pounds, besides your expenses at
Cheltenham--and the _next_ thing, I suppose, will be a voyage to
Madeira, or Lisbon--and then what will _become_ of us?

_Gent._ What, do you grudge me the necessaries of life? It is I that am
the sufferer--

_Lady._ Not entirely so: I am sure I feel the effects of it, and so do
the servants. Your temper is so entirely changed, that the poor children
are afraid to go near you--you make every body about you miserable, and
you know Smith lost his cause from your not being able to attend at the
last assizes, which will be nearly the ruin of him and his family. Two
days before you were tolerably well, but after you had dined at ----’s,
you were laid up.

_Gent._ Nay, I was as much concerned at it as any body could be; and I
think I had reason to be so, for I lost three hundred pounds myself--but
who can help illness? Is it not a visitation of Providence? I am sure
nobody can live more temperately than I do--do you ever see me drunk?
A’n’t I as regular as clockwork? Indeed, my dear, if you cannot talk
more rationally, you had better go to bed. John! why don’t you bring the
brandy and water! and see if the chop is ready; if I am not better in
the morning, I am sure I shall not be able to attend my appointment in
the city----

       *       *       *       *       *

There will always be a few ready to receive the hints of experience, and
to them only can this scene be useful.

       *       *       *       *       *


DRINKING.

Lime applied to trees makes them put forth leaves and flourish, and
produce fruit early, but then it kills them. Wine cheers and stimulates
men, and makes them thrust forth flowers of wit; but, then, there is no
doubt it shortens life.[239]

  [239] Perron.

       *       *       *       *       *


KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD

BY ST. EVREMOND.

The first thing by which we know men, is the physiognomy, the colour,
and the lineaments of the face; the briskness, the air, the motion of
the body, the action, the sound of the voice, the aspect, &c.: and there
is no man, but at first sight we are either well or ill affected towards
him. Every man makes some impressions upon us of what he is; but these
impressions, being sudden, are not always certain, a little frequent
conversation with him perfects our knowledge of him.

Hear the man with whom you keep company; endeavour to draw him in to
make a long discourse, and then you will easily perceive the greatness
or meanness of his wit, his civility, his inclination to vice or virtue,
and to what kind of vice or virtue he is most inclined; whether he be
sincere in his speech or a man of artifice; whether he aggravates
matters, if he be a liar, or a proud man, and to what degree he carries
his good or bad qualities.

Study well the persons with whom you converse familiarly, and with least
circumspection. Examine them when they are sedate, in an obliging
humour; and when they are in anger, in a disdainful and morose humour.
When something vexes or pleases them, observe them in their sorrow and
disgrace, in their pleasures, in their advancement, and in their
humiliation. Be attentive to their discourse in all these several
states, consider their behaviour, their sentiments, their projects, and
the different motions which their passions, their ranks, and their
affairs, produce in them.

Moreover, endeavour also to know yourself very well; consider in all the
different states, wherein good or bad fortune has placed you, the
designs which you pursue, and the resolutions for doing good or evil,
you are capable of making. These several observations upon yourself and
others will infallibly make you know mankind. And the reason of it is
this:--all men, and even philosophers themselves, are, more or less,
subject to the same passions, and all of them think very nearly after
the same manner.

Of the most excellent qualities, that of knowing the world is most
necessary for our behaviour, and for our fortune:--for our _behaviour_,
because otherwise our life is liable to continual crosses, and is
nothing else but one continued series of extravagancies, which will
bring upon us a thousand bad businesses:--for our _fortune_, because if
we do not know men, we cannot make use of them in that way which is most
convenient with respect to our interest. It is necessary therefore to
know them, and to behave ourselves with each of them after such a manner
as is most agreeable to their character. A prudent man, with respect to
others, is like a master who knows all the springs of an engine, and
makes them play as he pleases, either for his pleasure or advantage.

It seems to me, that our first motion should be to distrust the world in
general, and even to have a bad opinion of it. The world, such as it
should be, is full of virtue; out as we see it, it is full of wickedness
and malice; and this latter world is that we should endeavour to know
well, because we live in it, and it concerns us very much to avoid its
deceits.

But why should we have so bad an opinion of the world? Why, because men
are born with a bad disposition, and they carry in their heart at their
birth the source of all vices, and an aversion to all virtues, which
would hinder their singularity; and which they cannot acquire but by
such pains as they are not willing to take. Yet I do not say that we
must therefore think ill of all particular persons, but it is good to
know them.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE TONGA ISLANDS.

    Wild and straggling as the flowers
      Is human nature there;
    Uncultivated all its powers
      In that secluded air:
    The passions fiery, bold, and strong,
    Impetuous urge their course along,
      Like mountain torrent rolling,
    More rapid as the more confined,
    Far leaving Reason’s rules behind,
      No curb of law controlling!
    The spectre Superstition there
      Sits trembling on her gloomy throne!
    Pale child of Ignorance and Fear,
      Embodying shapes of things unknown:
    When, when shall rise the glorious morn
      Of heavenly radiance unconfined?
    When shall the mental veil be torn,
      And GOD be known by all mankind?

    Full many a ray must pierce the soul,
    Ere darkness quits the southern pole:
    Yet here are maidens kind and true
    As ever northern pencil drew;
    And here are warriors brave and young
    As ever northern minstrel sung!
    And see, upon the valley’s side
    With fairy footstep lightly glide
    A train of virgins soft and fair,
    With sparkling eyes and shining hair,
    As beauteous as the flowers they bear--
    Fresh flowers of every scent and hue,
    Besprinkled with the morning dew,
    Which they have risen before the sun
    To gather for some favourite one.

It is a custom at Tonga for the young women to gather flowers in the
earlier part of the morning, and twine them on their return into various
ornaments, for themselves, and their relations and friends. They gather
them at sunrise while the dew of the morning is still fresh on them;
because, when plucked at that time, their fragrance is of longer
continuance.[240]

  [240] From the “Ocean Cavern, a Tale of the Tonga Islands,” 1819.

       *       *       *       *       *


SENSIBILITY IN A RAVEN.

In 1785 there was living at the Red Lion inn, Hungerford, Wiltshire, a
raven, respecting which a correspondent communicated to “Mr. Urban” the
following anecdote:--

His name, I think, is “Rafe:” and you must know, that going into that
inn, my chaise ran over, or bruised, the leg of my Newfoundland dog.
While we were examining the injury done to the dog’s foot, Rafe was
evidently a concerned spectator; for, the minute the dog was tied up
under the manger with my horses, Rafe not only visited, but fetched him
bones, and attended upon him with particular and repeated marks of
kindness. The bird’s notice of the dog was so marked, that I observed it
to the hostler. John then told me, that the raven had been bred from his
pin-feather in intimacy with a dog; that the affection between them was
mutual; and that all the neighbourhood had often been witnesses of the
innumerable acts of kindness they had conferred upon each other. Rafe’s
poor dog, after a while, unfortunately broke his leg; and during the
long time he was confined, Rafe waited upon him constantly, carried him
his provisions daily, and never scarce left him alone. One night, by
accident, the hostler had shut the stable door, and Rafe was deprived of
the company of his friend the whole night; but the hostler found in the
morning the bottom of the door so pecked away, that, had it not been
opened, Rafe would, in another hour, have made his own entrance-port. I
then inquired of my landlady, (a sensible woman,) and heard what I have
related confirmed by her, with several other singular traits of the
kindnesses this bird showed to all dogs in general, but particularly to
maimed or wounded ones.

       *       *       *       *       *


DIAMONDS.

    And the sparkling stars began to shine,
    Like scatter’d gems in the diamond mine.

The diamond is chiefly found in the provinces of Golconda and Visiapour,
and also in that of Bengal. Raolconda, in Visiapour, and Gandicotta, are
famed for their mines, as is Coulour in Golconda. The diamond is
generally found in the narrow crevices of the rocks, loose, and never
adherent to the fixed stratum. The miners, with long iron rods, which
have hooks at the ends, pick out the contents of the fissures, and wash
them in tubs, in order to extricate the diamonds. In Coulour they dig on
a large plain, to the depth of ten or fourteen feet; forty thousand
persons are employed; the men to dig, and the women and children to
carry the earth to the places where it is deposited till the search is
made.[241]

  [241] A note to the “Ocean Cavern.”

       *       *       *       *       *


STOICAL WIT.

Zeno detected his slave in a theft, and ordered him to be _flogged_. The
slave having in mind the dogmas of his master, and thinking to
compliment him, in order to save himself from punishment, exclaimed--“It
was _fated_ that I should commit this theft.”--“And _also_ that you
should be _flogged_ for it,” replied Zeno.

       *       *       *       *       *


CAMBRIDGE WIT.

When Dr. Jeggon, afterwards bishop of Norwich, was master of Bennet
College, Cambridge, he punished all the under graduates for some general
offence; and because he disdained to convert the penalty-money into
private use, it was expended on new whitening the hall of the college. A
scholar hung the following verses on the screen:--

                 “Dr. Jeggon, Bennet College master,
    Broke the _scholars’ heads_, and gave the _walls_ a _plaster_.”

The doctor, perusing the paper, wrote underneath, extempore:--

    “Knew I but the wag that writ these verses in bravery,
    I’d _commend_ him for his _wit_, but _whip_ him for his _knavery_.”

       *       *       *       *       *


SENTENCES

WORTHY TO BE GOT BY HEART.

As you cannot overtake time, the best way is to be always a few minutes
before him.

Whatever your situation in life may be, lay down your plan of conduct
for the day. The half hours will glide smoothly on, without crossing or
jostling each other.

When you set about a good work, do not rest till you have completed it.

In the morning, think on what you are to do in the day, and at night,
think on what you have done.

Religion is the best armour, but the worst cloak.

If you make an intentional concealment of any thing in a court of
judicature, it will lie like lead upon your conscience all the days of
your life.

Do as you wish to be done by. Follow this rule, and you will need no
force to keep you honest.




Vol. I.--27.


INDEXES.

    I. GENERAL INDEX.

   II. CORRESPONDENTS’ INDEX.

  III. INDEX TO THE POETRY.

   IV. INDEX TO THE ENGRAVINGS.


I. THE GENERAL INDEX.

  Abingdon, old parish accompts of, 481.
  Abridgement of a library by Pilpay, 247.
  Accommodation extraordinary, 562.
  Acquaintance table, 377.
  Admiral, lord high;
    office and seal of, 573.
  Adoption of children, in France, 220.
  “Adrasta,” old play, 321.
  Advertisement;
    at Ghent, 59;
    letter in consequence of one, 60.
  Advice, danger of giving, 330.
  Affectation, less prevalent among women than formerly, 358.
  African young woman’s compliment to her lover, 187.
  Agriculture, British, derived from the Romans, 393.
  “Ahab,” by S. R. Jackson, 498.
  Air and exercise for ladies, 209.
  Airay, Thomas, Grassington manager, notice of, 69.
  Albany and York, duke of, 93;
    the dukedom of Albany, 409.
  Albemarle, duke of, creditable patronage by, 763.
  Alcock, Rev. Mr., the waggish clergyman, 634.
  Alderson, Hut., of Durham, 365.
  Ale, Prynne “put into the road of writing” by, 726.
  “All Fools,” old play, 192.
  Allan-a-Maut, engraving, 116.
  Allen, Rev. Mr., fatal duel fought by, 722.
  Alleyn, the actor, “master of the bears and dogs,” 497.
  Alliteration, clever specimen of, 155.
  Ally, a good one, 632.
  Almanacs;
    Liege, 274;
    curious notices in French almanacs, 540.
  Alms-houses, [workhouses;]
    none before the Reformation, 392.
  Ambassadors, former custom of, 663.
  Amurath, sultan, effect of music on, 229.
  Ancient Britons. See Wales.
  Andalusia, deadly irritation of winds in, 273.
  Angel help, 751.
  Angling, notices concerning, 659.
  Angoulême, duchess of;
    anecdote of, 9.
  Animals;
    a common effect of attempting to domesticate wild ones, 617;
    connection between muscular power and speed, 618;
    experiment of music upon, 691.
  “Antipodes, (The)” old play, 704.
  Antiquarian Hall, engraving and memoir of, 139.
  Antique bronze found in the Thames, 267.
  Aphorisms;
    by Lavater, 279;
    by other persons, 828.
  Apparitions, curious narrative of, 710.
  Apprentices, former maxims for, 562, 564.
  Architecture, brought in by the Normans, 393.
  “Arden of Feversham,” old play, 221.
  Aremburg, duke of, his love of the arts, 10.
  Arithmetical notices, 759.
  Armorial bearings;
    of ambassadors, 663;
    having emblems of the devil, 699.
  Armories, formerly possessed by private lords and gentlemen, 391.
  Arms [of the human body,] one stated to be broken by the throbbings of
  rheumatism, 142.
  “Arraignment of Paris,” old play, 511.
  Arran, earl of, his letter on duke of Buckingham’s death, 526.
  Arrens, near Marseilles, interring the carnival at, 271.
  Artist’s (Young) letter from Switzerland, 427.
  Arts, benevolent application of profits from, 510.
  Ash, (mountain) an antidote to witchcraft, 674.
  Astrologers, account of Hart, 135.
  Aubrey, John, curious collection by, 389.
  Auld Robin Gray, ballad of;
    history of, 200, 201.
  Authors;
    Mrs. Charke reading her manuscript to a bookseller, engraving of,
    125;
    suggestions to authors, 248;
    their two wishes, 279;
    peculiarities of in composing, 681;
    prolific authors, 726.
  Autograph of Charles Lord Howard of Effingham, 573.

  Bacchus, bronze head of, found in the Thames, 267.
  Bacon, gammon of, at Easter, 39.
  ----, lord;
    his judgment on books, 218;
    his method of condensing thought, 682.
  ---- (Friar) and his servant, 633.
  Badajos, (the dean of) 323.
  Bag, duel with, 20.
  Bagdad, effect of music after capture of, 229.
  Baker, Miss Polly, fiction of, 89.
  Baldwin, Samuel, singular burial of, 412.
  Ballads, licenses for printing, 586.
  Bank, (country) capital for, 59.
  ----side bear garden, 489.
  Banquet given by Whitelock to queen of Sweden, 552.
  “---- of the dead,” 515.
  Barbers;
    description of a barber, 241;
    Dudley, barber, at Portsmouth, 405.
  Barley-break, an old pastime, 37.
  Barnard, lady Ann, poetess, 200.
  Barre, (Du) madame, and the Liege almanac, 274.
  Bate, Rev. Mr., three duels fought by, 722.
  Bath chairman, mock funeral of, 41.
  Bathing, utility of, 819.
  Battalia, Francis, a stone-eater, 355.
  Battle;
    prize-fighting formerly sometimes with swords, 495;
    “Battle of the Poets,” 407;
    “Battle of Alcazar,” old play, 486;
    field of battle, 661.
  Battle-bridge, remains of an elephant found near, 80.
  Bayswater, projected improvement at, 215.
  Bazaar, (Soho) 153.
  Bear garden, (old) Southwark, 489;
    of elector of Saxony, 490.
  Beauty, compliment to, 344.
  Beaux not always mere coxcombs, 666.
  Beckenham, Kent, 765;
    bridge in road to, 701.
  Bees;
    “Parliament of Bees,” old play, 133;
    a boy bee-eater, curious account of, 746.
  Beeston, clerk of, 420.
  “Begin again,” 421.
  Behnes, Mr., his bust of duke of York, 93.
  Belfast, Easter custom at, 506.
  Belgrave, siege of, 155.
  Bell, (diving) origin and notices of, 763.
  ----, (Tommy) engraving of, 651.
  Berne, description of, 427.
  Berners, dame Julia, treatise on field sports by, 392.
  Best of a bad matter, 762.
  Bibliomaniac ridiculed, 218.
  Bibo’s (General) tale, 515.
  Bibury, rector of, 501.
  Bielfeld, baron, his account of the dance of torches, 107.
  Bigotry punished, 558.
  “Billet, (Crooked)” on Penge Common, 669.
  Billingsgate, old satire on, 168.
  Billy Boots, notice and engraving of, 302.
  Bilsington Priory, tenure of, 616.
  Bird-catcher, engraving of, 589.
  ---- seller, engraving of, 509.
  Birds;
    a play in which all the characters are birds, 133;
    particulars respecting birds, 588, 591.
    See Parrots, Starlings.
  Birmingham old conjurors, 234.
  Bishops;
    one misled by a saint, 415;
    “bishop of Butterby,” 365.
  Black jacks and warming pans, 15.
  ---- -letter books, curious criticism on, 425.
  Blacksmiths;
    their endurance of fire, 315;
    Gretna-green blacksmith, 431.
  Bleeding;
    for one’s country, 90;
    practised by a woman, 141;
    former frequency of, 479;
    in silence and psalmody, _ib._
  Blind Hannah, engraving of, 221.
  ---- Willie, of Newcastle, 461.
  Bloody hand, (the) 258.
  “Blythe Cockpen,” and the merry monarch, 411.
  Boar’s head, custom concerning, 85, 390.
  Bodmin, royal joke on, 348.
  Bogs, remarks on timber in, 185.
  Bonaparte;
    his grand procession to Notre Dame, 503;
    his system of over-governing, 734.
  Bones, curious account of breaking of one, 142;
    embalming of, 576.
  _Bon_-fire, singular one, 762.
  Books;
    pleasures and consolation of, 16, 217;
    old, with new titles, 68;
    one dedicated to the author, 125;
    proper standard of, 248;
    (black letter) naif criticism on, 425;
    when first made of paper, 507.
    See Doomsday book.
  Booksellers, an author reading a manuscript to one;
    engraving, 125.
  Boots, Billy, engraving of, 302.
  Bowring, Mr., his “Popular Servian Poetry,” 529.
  Boys;
    at school, 149;
    on errands, 150;
    account of a boy bee-eater, 746.
  Bradenstoke Priory, 232.
  “Brazen Age, (The)” old play, 447.
  Bread seals, used by ladies, 90.
  Breach of promise, curious case of, 180.
  Breakfast, singular dishes at, 618.
  Breaking of an arm bone by rheumatism, 142.
  Brecon, minstrelsy society at, 338.
  Breeds, (mixed) curious complaint of, 626.
  Brentford Hannah, [Blind Hannah,] engraving of, 221.
  Brewer’s drayman, character of, 374.
  Brewing, private, 772.
  “Bridal of Caölchairn,” 784.
  Bride, description of one, 295.
  Bridesman, 294, 296.
  Bridlington, irregular stream near, 230.
  Bristol, Lent custom at, 625.
  Britannia’s sup-porter, 412.
  British Museum, pleasures and facilities of, 111.
  ---- poetesses, by Mr. Dyce, 195.
  ---- portraits, sale catalogue of, 236.
  Britons, (ancient.) See Wales.
  Bromholm, former pilgrimage to, 392.
  Bronze, antique, found in the Thames, 267.
  Brookes, Mr. J., dissection of king’s ostrich by, 617.
  “Brose and Butter,” a favourite royal air, 411.
  Brothers, younger not allowed formerly to pursue trades, 393.
  Brough, in Westmoreland;
    twelfth-night customs at, 26;
    March fair at, 317;
    church, 817.
  Brougham, Mr., his speech on the founding of the London university,
  596.
  Brouwer, a painter, notice of, 10.
  Brummelliana, 666.
  Bryan, Daniel, a brave old seaman, 631.

  Cabbage and tailors, 471.
  Cairo, characteristic salutation at, 197.
  Camberwell Grove, 809.
  Campbell, Mr. T., speech of at Glasgow, 758.
  Campbells, the, 778.
  Canons, near Edgeware, former celebrity of, 621.
  Capital for banking, 59.
  ---- punishments, 455, 460.
  Caps and hats, fashionable days for new ones, 478.
  Captain and lieutenant, mortal duel between, 724.
  Cards, fortune-telling, 74.
  Carew, lady Elizabeth, 196.
  Carnival, ceremony of interring, 271, 273.
  Carthago, Nova, its present to Scipio, 265.
  Carts, dignity of, 169.
  Castle-building, 464.
  ---- Coombe, tickling trout at, 662.
  Catherine de Medicis, vow of, 475.
  Catherinot, a French pamphleteer, 727.
  Catholic German universities, 124.
  Cawston church, poor’s-box in, 747.
  Ceremonies, a true paper currency, 219.
  Chafin, Rev. Mr., his anecdotes about Cranbourne Chase, 32.
  Chairman, (Bath) mock funeral of, 41.
  Chairs, (arm,) 786.
  Challenges, a poetical solicitor’s answer to one, 724.
    See Duels.
  Chambers, James, the poor poet, 436.
  Chancellor, (lord) office of, 729.
  Chancery, 540;
    despatch in, 730.
  Chandler, Mary, a poetess, 199.
  “Changes, (The)” old play, 417.
  Characters;
    of servants at hirings, 177;
    national, in compliment, 186, &c.;
    tendency of former lessons to meanness of character, 564;
    character of the old gentleman, 118;
    of Kimberley, a Birmingham conjuror, 235;
    of the barber, 241;
    of Mrs. Aurelia Sparr, 340;
    of Agrestilla, 358;
    of the drayman, 371;
    a literary character, 410;
    of “the good clerk,” 562;
    of the Durham pitmen, 651.
  Charke, Mrs., her autobiography, 125;
    farther notices, 258.
  Charlemagne, privilege granted by, 554.
  Charles I., curious anecdote concerning, 701.
  ---- II., character of, 547;
   anecdotes of, 701, 732.
  Charlestown, ugly club at, 468;
    duelling society at, 720.
  Charybdis and Scylla, conflicting descriptions of, 642, 705.
  “Chaste Maid in Cheapside,” old play, 255.
  Chastity of Scipio, 265.
  Chatham, earl of, 812.
  Chaworth, Mr., duel with lord Byron, 722.
  Cheapside Turk, inquiry for, 194.
  Cheese and stones, comparative digestibility of, 355.
  “Cherry woman” of long since, engraving of, 685.
  Chest, a wonderfully capacious one, 706.
  Chester, mysteries of, treated by Mr. Sharp, 14.
  Chesterfield, lord, bleeding for his country, 90.
  Children, lost, proper means for recovering, 18;
    adoption of, in France, 220;
    former austere treatment of, 394.
  Chiltern Hundreds, account of, 649.
  Chimneys, rare before the Reformation, 389;
    smoky, how cured, 572.
  Chinese ceremonies of salutation, 197;
    idol, 627.
  Christina queen of Sweden, curious collation given to, 552.
  Christmas customs, 390, 391.
  Christ’s sepulchre and resurrection, 484.
  Churches;
    church processions, 392;
    church-houses before the Reformation described, 392;
    few built in the correct line, 393;
    throughout Europe, pope’s grant to Italian architects for building,
    393;
    organs first used in, 473;
      (see Organs;)
    visiting the churches, 478;
    curious old church accompts, 481.
    See Fonts.
  Cibber, (Colley) life of his daughter, 125.
  “City nightcap,” old play, 559.
  Clare, Elizabeth, her intense attachment, 458.
  Clarence, duke of, lord high admiral, 577;
    dukedom of Clarence, 409.
  Classes of mankind, how many, 455.
  Clemency, policy of, 401.
  Clergyman, a waggish clergyman, 633;
    duels fought by, 722;
    office of lord chancellor formerly held by, 729.
  “Clerk, (the good)” 562.
  Clerkenwell, ancient river Fleet at, 75.
  Clerks and parsons, anecdotes about, 662.
  Clothes, economical allowance for, 668.
  Clubs, the ugly, 264, 468;
    parliament, 280;
    the silent, 467;
    the duellists’ in Charlestown, 721.
  Coaches, in 1684, 169;
    coach and steam travelling compared, 262.
  Coin, (old silver) how to read inscriptions of, 452.
  Coke, sir Edward, immense fan used by, 394.
  Colas, a celebrated diver, 647.
  Cole, Mr. J., his “Antiquarian Trio,” 525, 530.
  Colliers of Durham, account of, 651.
  Colours, the Isabella colour, 558.
  Columns, engraving of a curious British one, 349.
  Companies, certain uses of, 229.
  Compliments, 196;
    a natural compliment, 344.
  Condemnation, criminal, stupefaction attending, 457.
  Conjurors, (Birmingham) 234.
  Conscience, force of, 138, 401.
  Constable’s “Miscellany,” 114.
  Convents, ambition of the nuns in, 478.
  Cooke, Rev. T., inquiry about, 136;
    notice of, 406.
  Cookesley, Mr., patron of Mr. W. Gifford, 52.
  Cooks for the royal table, 377.
  Copper mines, valuable, in Cornwall, 658.
  Cordeliers, their lists of candidates how arranged, 698.
  Cornwall, valuable mines in, 658;
    suffered little in recent pressure, 659;
    parsons and clerks in, 662.
  Corporations, anatomy of, 524.
  Cortusius Lodovick, a lawyer, funeral of, 699.
  Coulour, in Golconda, celebrated for diamonds, 827.
  Counter, tradesman’s duty behind, 565.
  Country, bleeding for, 90;
    parties and pleasures, 358;
    little known, 708;
    former manners of country gentlemen, 391.
  Court banquet, innocent gaiety at, 551.
  Courtier, shrewd, 405.
  Courts of justice, contrast of feelings in, 457.
  Covent Garden, gambling-houses formerly in, 86.
  Coventry, pageant vehicle and play at, 11.
  Cowper, the poet, two letters of, 752.
  Crabbe, poet, criticism on, 683.
  Cranbourne Chase, notice and engraving of emigration of deer from, 29;
    town and parish of Cranbourne, _ib._;
    bloody affray in the chase, 32;
    origin and history of the chase, 36.
  Craven, (Skipton in) theatrical company in, 69;
    legend of, 515.
  Creditors, unblushing impudence of one, 667.
  Cresses, green-grocers’ devices with, 607.
  Cries, London;
    engraving of the “young lambs” seller, 395;
    of the bird-seller, 509;
    of the cherry-woman, 685;
    of the old water-carrier, 733.
  Criminals, capital, feelings of before and after hanging, 455.
  Cromwell, Oliver, anecdote of, 14.
  Crown lands, under Elizabeth, 580, 581.
  Cruelty relenting at music, 229.
  Crusades, effects of, 392.
  Cumberland weddings, 794.
  Cups, gold and maple, exchange of at coronations, 616.
  Cushion dance described, 161.
  Customers, how to be considered, 566;
    a spruce mercer and a lady customer, 567;
    invitation of customers, 627.

  Dabshelim, king of India, library of, 247.
  Damages for breach of promise by a <DW64>, 180.
  Dancing;
    goose-dancing described, 81;
    the dance of torches, 107;
    cushion dance, 161;
    May-day dance of milk-maids, 557;
    particular wedding dances, 793.
  Davenant, Sir W., his description of London, 167.
  “David and Bethsabe,” old play, 609.
  “David’s Sow, (As drunk as)” explained, 379.
  Death;
    “Death’s Doings,” 240;
    horror at mention of, 423;
    description of a death-bed, 425;
    banquet of the dead, 515;
    custom of laying salt on the dead, 523;
    singular disposal of a royal corpse, 576;
    singular phantasms or figures of the dead, 710.
  Decimals, 741.
  Decker, the dramatist, excellence of, 358.
  Dedication, curious, 125.
  Deer, emigration of from Cranbourne Chase, notice and engraving of,
  29;
    driven from the Highlands, 754;
    their abhorrence of sheep, _ib._, 755.
  Defoeana, 564, 626.
  Delaval (Sir) and the monk, 599.
  Denton castle, seat of Fairfax, 687.
  “Devil,” often assumed as a surname, with corresponding arms, 698.
  Devonshire, butterfly hunting in, 678.
  ----, duchess of, compliment to, 344.
  Diamond cut diamond, 649.
  Diamonds, where and how found, 827.
  Diligence and delight, 730.
  Dinner, mysterious privacy of, 424.
  Directions;
    pious direction posts, 539;
    a particular direction, 675.
  Discount for cash, 283.
  Disease, philosophical observation under, 711.
  Dishes for the royal table marked, 377.
  Ditton, (Thames) great resort of anglers, 659.
  Diver of Charybdis, account of, 705.
  Diving-bell, origin and notices of, 763.
  Doctors, dilemma against, 81.
  Doge of Venice, marriage of, 452.
  Dolcoath, valuable mine in Cornwall, 658.
  Doomsday-book, dissertations on, 610.
  Dormer, judge, 406.
  Dover Cliffs, humane warning against, 450.
  “Downfall of May-games,” 545.
  “---- of Robert, earl of Huntingdon,” old play, 799.
  Draining the fens, effect of, 143.
  Drama. See Plays.
  Drayman, brewer’s, description of, 374.
  Drayton, his sarcasm on trade, 564.
  Dresden, elector’s bear-garden at, 490.
  “Drunk as David’s sow,” 379.
  Drunkards, the place they go to, 540;
    warning to, 824.
  “Duchess of Suffolk,” old play, 583.
  Dudley [a barber] of Portsmouth, 405.
  Duels;
    singular mode of duelling with a bag, 20;
    interesting account of duels, 720;
    poetical answer to a challenge, 724.
  Dulwich college, and the founder, 495, 497, 670.
  Dumplings, Norfolk, by whom to be eaten, 355.
  Dungeons for prisoners formerly in castles and monasteries, 391.
  Durham, engraving of Tommy Sly of, 331;
    Hut. Alderson bellman of, engraving, 365;
    Elvet bridge in, engraving, 413;
    ecclesiastical survey of see of, 415;
    account of the pitmen in county of Durham, 651;
    visit of James I. to the city, 679.
  Dustman, happy compliment by, 344.
  Dutch compliments of salutation, 197.
  Dyce, Alexander, his specimens of British poetesses, 198.

  Early rising, 796.
  East Grinstead old play-bill, 137.
  Easter, antipathy to the Jews at, 390;
    Easter ceremonies, 477, &c. 502, 554.
  Eating, advice against excess of, 81;
    fire-eaters, 314;
    stone-eaters, 353.
  Eclipse, [race-horse] engraving and account of, 617, &c.
  Economy equally necessary with industry, 346.
  Education, how conducted before the Reformation, 389;
    lamented by a mulatto, _ib._
  Effingham, lord Howard of, his autograph, 573.
  Egyptians in France, description of, 478.
  El Dorado of literature, 741.
  Elephant, remains of, found near Battle-bridge, 80.
  Elizabeth, queen, simile used by, 220;
    washing poor’s feet by, 479.
  Elvet bridge, Durham, 413.
  Emblems and mottos, 90;
    emblems used by servants at hirings, 174, 203.
  Epitaphs;
    by Dr. Lowth on his daughter, 138;
    extempore one on a French general, 633.
  Errors, clerical, 634.
  Ethiopians, mode of salutation by, 196.
  Etiquette, cut down by civilization, 219;
    nearly fatal excess of, 737.
  Etymology;
    of various English words, 473;
    of words of necessity from the German, and of those of luxury from
    the French, _ib._
  “Every Man in his Humour,” original scene of changed, 302.
  Ewart’s old port, 343.
  Excuse, a good one, 796.
  Execution, case of revival after apparent execution, 455.
  Excursions of tradesmen, limits of, 567.
  Exercise and air recommended to ladies, 209.

  Fairs, former importance of, 205.
  Falcon tavern, site of, 497.
  Families, former discipline in, 394;
    singular abandonment of family, 424;
    picture of desolation in, 656.
  Fanatic, (fasting) 134.
  Fans, former size and application of, 394.
  Fares of ticket porters, 19.
  Farmers in 1782, and in 1822, 463.
  Faro Straits, 643, 646.
  Farthings, 378.
  Fasting, extraordinary, 134;
   fast-pudding and Friar Bacon, 633.
  Fate, plea and answer respecting, 828.
  “Father’s Home, (A),” 170.
  Feast, a fearful one, 520.
  Feathers, 141.
  February, advice for, 252.
  Fees, the best of, 540.
  Feet, washing of, at Vienna, 477;
    and at Greenwich by queen Elizabeth, 479.
  Felons, sensations of, before and after hanging, 455.
  Female friendship, 363.
  Fens, goose-herds in, 140;
    effect of draining in, 143.
  Figures and numbers, 759.
  ---- of the dead, singular narrative of, 710.
  Filial custom, 625.
  Fingers, numbering by, 761.
  Fire-damp, explosions of, 656.
  Fire-eaters, 314.
  Fish-street, (Old), 167.
  Fishermen, sarcasms upon, 570.
  Fitzgerald, Col., and Col. King, duel between, 723.
  Fleet river at Clerkenwell, 75.
  Flogging, formerly, at Oxford, 394.
  Flora, games of, 541;
    indictment and trial of Flora, 545.
  Flowers, singular attention to, by the pitmen, 653.
  Fly-berry plant, 144.
  Font, of Harrow church, 157;
    of Beckenham church, 765;
    of West Wickham church, 813.
  Foot-ball, formerly played in London streets, 169.
  <DW2> and wit, union of, 666.
  Fortune;
    cards for telling fortunes, 74;
    how to be commanded, 347;
    fortune favours the brave, or butterfly hunting, 678.
  “Fortune by Land and Sea,” old play, 299.
  Fownes, Thomas, and his fox-hounds, 33.
  Fox, the quaker, 762.
  Franklin, Dr., anecdote of, 89.
  Fraock Elan, isle of, 777.
  Fraser, Simon, brother of lord Lovat, 633.
  French;
    nobility, 132;
    valentines, 206;
    adoption of children by, 220;
    transmigration of French noblesse, 242;
    ceremonies in France, 271, 272, 502;
    present jumble of ranks among, 362;
    former hospitality to travellers, 396;
    nationality of, 504, 505;
    decorum of in crowds, _ib._;
    almanacs, statements of, 540.
  Friar Bacon and his servant, 633.
  Friendship; destroyed by advice, 330;
    on the nail, supposed meaning of, 764.
  Fritters in France and England, 271.
  Funerals;
    mock, of a Bath chairman, 41;
    of a French general by a British sailor, 631;
    a cheerful one, 699.
  Futurity, peep into, 74.

  “Game at Chess,” old play, 321.
  Gaming, curious notice about gambling houses, 86;
    gaming for funeral expenses, 763.
  Gammon of bacon, Easter custom of, 390.
  Garlands, May-day, 541, 543, 550.
  Garrick Plays, selections from, contributed by Mr. C. Lamb, 111, 133,
  159, 192, 223, 255, 299, 324, 356, 384, 417, 447, 486, 511, 559, 581,
  608, 640, 676, 703, 735, 788, 799.
  Geese, in the fens, management of, 141;
    goose-dancing in Scilly islands, 81.
  Geikie, Mr., a meritorious artist, 116.
  Gems of the twelve months, 321.
  Genius;
    unrewarded, 316;
    chance a great patron of, 421.
  Gentleman, (The Old) character of, 118.
  Gentry;
    heralds formerly kept by, 390;
    former manners and oppressions of, 391, 392;
    austere treatment of their children, 394.
  George I., anecdote of, 406.
  ---- II. and his cooks, 377.
  Germain, lord George, anecdote of, 410.
  Germany, universities in, 123.
  Gibbs, alias Huck’n, Dr., 554.
  Gilford, William, death and memoir of, 43.
  Gifts;
    new-year, 7;
    wedding, 793, 794.
  Ginger beer, receipt for, 471.
  Gipsies, health and happiness of, 210.
  Gipsy [a stream] in Yorkshire, 230.
  Gladiators in England, 495.
  Glass windows, rare before the Reformation, 392.
  Glenstrae, laird of, 465.
  Glisseg, in Wales, the happy valley, 352.
  “God keep you,” old salutation, 390.
  “God save the King,” author of, 225.
  Goethe, his philosophy of life, 398.
  Gold found in Scotland and Cornwall, 658.
  “Golden Age, (The)” old play, 677.
  ---- tooth, learned disputes about, 453.
  Gone or going, 773.
  Good-eating pernicious, 277;
    domestic dialogue on good-living, 822.
  Good-Friday, 478, 482.
  Goodrick, St., a bishop misled by, 415.
  Granger, Rev. Mr., the Linnæus of British portraits, 510.
  Grassington manager, [T. Airay] 69.
  Gratitude, in birds, 592.
  Gravity mistaken for wisdom, 393.
  Great Unknown discovered, 306, &c.
  Green-grocers’ devices, 607.
  Greenland, English sailors in, 629.
  Greenock Adam and Eve, antiquity of, 538.
  Gregory, (Old) selfishness of defeated, 240.
  Gresham committee, notice by, about lost children, 18.
  Gretna Green blacksmith and marriages, 431, 436.
  Grey, lady Jane, table book of, 3.
  Grief, expressive silence of, 459.
  Grinstead, (East) old play-bill, 137.
  Grosvenor, earl, and Mr. Gifford, 57.
  Groves;
    on a picturesque one, 807;
    groves and high places, 808.
  “Guardian, (The)” old play, 418.
  Guards, Swiss, monument of, engraving, 253.
  Guilty, stupefaction on verdict of, 457.
  Gwennap, in Cornwall, productive mine in, 658.

  Hagman Heigh, new year’s eve custom, 7.
  Hairdresser. See Barber.
  Halfpennies, 378.
  Hall, (Antiquarian) of Lynn, engraving and notice of, 139.
  ----, Thomas, his “Funebria Floræ,” 545.
  Ham and stilton, 179.
  Hampstead, Shepherd’s Well at, 381;
    the place of groves, 810.
  Hands;
    peculiarity of the barber’s hand, 245;
    the bloody hand, 258;
    reason for preferring the right hand, 280.
  Hanged and unhanged, mankind divided into, 455.
  Hannah, (Blind) notice and engraving of, 221.
  Hard fare, 353.
  ---- labour, varied by different tread-mills, 755.
  Hare’s foot an antidote to witchcraft, 674.
  Harp, notices of, 335.
  Harris, Renatus, organist, 260.
  Harrow church, engraving of its old font, 157.
  Hart, the astrologer, 135.
  Hatred, to be insured by advice, 330.
  Hawking, ladies formerly devoted to, 392.
  Health, importance and means of, 209, 277.
  Hedgehog, celestial, 627.
  Henley, in Arden, custom in, 176.
  Henry IV., anecdotes of, 401, 402.
  ---- IX., notice of, 739.
  Heralds formerly in the train of nobility and gentry, 390.
  Herefordshire, new-moon custom in, 393.
  Heriot, curious register concerning, 817.
  Hero, singular one of an old play, 385.
  Heroism and humanity, 632.
  Herrings, curing and virtues of, 569.
  Heywood, Thomas, his excellence as a dramatist, 301, 358.
  _Hide_ park, or a tanner’s villa, 764.
  “Hierarchie of Angels,” old play, 385.
  High admiral, (lord) office and seal of, 573.
  Highlands;
    legend of, 290;
    weddings, 292;
    tartans nearly obsolete in, 293;
    customs in, 465, 543;
    deer and sheep in, 754;
    contempt for table luxuries in, 755;
    Highland scenery, 775.
  Hill, Rev. Mr., killed in a duel, 722.
  Hindoo husbandmen, 696.
  Hiring of servants at statutes, 171, 203.
  Hobby horses, obsolete toys, engraving of, 686.
  Hobday, Mr., artist, exhibition of, 687.
  Hobson, (old) pleasant conceits of, 419.
  Hoby, sir Edward, 578.
  Hogarth, and engraving from his picture of lord Lovat, 237.
  Holidays;
    how spent in Ireland, 692;
    their utility, 694;
    the benevolent Greek philosopher, 695.
  Holly tree, carrying of, at Brough, 26.
  Home, a father’s, 170;
    spells of home, 216.
  Hornchurch, 84.
  Horses;
    engraving and account of the race-horse Eclipse, 618, &c.;
    their swiftness connected with great muscular power, _ib._;
    difference between theoretic standards and occasional excellence,
    620;
    insurance of, 621;
    great weight of the heart of Eclipse, _ib._;
    singular examination of horses, 660.
  Hot meals, 314.
  Hounds;
    first fox-hounds in the west, 35.
  Hour-glasses for pulpits, 485, 501.
  Howard of Effingham, lord, [lord high admiral] autograph of, 573, &c.
  Human life, 398.
  Humanity and heroism, 632;
    humanity sometimes nearly lost in forms, 737.
  Hunter, John, the anatomist, 618.
  Hunting;
    description of buck-hunting in Cranbourne Chase, 33.
  Husbandmen in India, 696.
  Hut. Alderson, of Durham, 365.
  Hy-jinks, a Scotch amusement, 467.
  Hyatt, Sophia, her poetical enthusiasm, 718.
  Hygrometer, new, 25.

  I, the pronoun, danger of wearing it out, 341.
  Idols, (Chinese) 627.
  Imagination;
    its transforming power, 9, 16.
  Immersion instead of interment, 412.
  Imperial drink, receipt for, 471.
  Improvisatore, extraordinary, 421.
  Inch, derivation of, 378.
  India, library of the king of, 247;
    husbandmen of, 696.
  “Indictment of Flora,” a dialogue, 545.
  Indulgences, (popish) not always ill applied, 413.
  Industry vain without thrift, 346.
  Inishail, isle of, 775.
  Innocent (Pope) III., 747.
  Inns, rare before the Reformation, 391;
    poor’s boxes formerly at, 392, 747.
  Inscriptions on old silver coin, how to read, 452.
  Intellect, march of, 60, 681.
  Interlaken, beauties of, 428.
  Interment superseded by immersion, 412.
  Ireland, bogs in, 185;
    customs in, 506, 523;
    custom of lord-lieutenants of, 663;
    Irishmen on a holiday, 692.
  Italian architects, pope’s grant to, for building churches, 393.

  “Jack Drum’s Entertainment,” old play, 416.
  Jack-o’-Lent, 270.
  Jamaica, speculation for warming-pans in, 15.
  James I., rudeness of his court to women, 390;
    at Durham, 679.
  ---- II., notices of the Stuart papers, 738.
  January, general prescriptions for, 81.
  Japanese mode of salutation, 197.
  Jeffries, Judge, a judge of music, 261.
  Jeggon, Dr., anecdote of, 828.
  Jerningham, Mr., notice of, 201.
  Jests;
    great merit of suppressing offensive ones, 280;
    effect of wealth on their success, 348.
  Jews, Easter custom against, 554.
  “John (King) and Matilda,” old play, 111, 803.
  John Bull, specimen of, 376;
    indecorum and rudeness of in crowds, 505.
  Joy, madness from excess of, 511.
  Judges, hunting their own venison on circuit, 34;
    immense fans formerly carried by, on circuit, 394.
  Justice, (impartial) 406.
  Justices of peace, former furniture of their halls, 391;
    arithmetical estimate of, 738.

  Keats, the poet, 810.
  Kimberley, Francis, Birmingham conjuror, 235.
  King, (The) and the private gentleman, 732.
  King, Col., and Col. Fitzgerald, duel between, 723.
  ---- Dr., _his_ pun, 252.
  Kirby Malhamdale church-yard legend, 515.
  ---- Moorside, death of duke of Buckingham at, 525.
  Kircher, his account of a marvellous diver, 705.
  Kissing, in Ireland, on Easter Monday, 506.
  Knowledge, defends from the juggle of forms, 219;
    even a little of it useful, 758;
    importance of a knowledge of the world, 824.

  Labour, hard, greatly varied by different tread-mills, 755.
  Ladies, in winter like tea-kettles, 151;
    air and exercise for, 209;
    lady of the hill, 291;
    character of Mrs. Aurelia Sparr, a maiden lady, 340;
    the lady and troubadour, 453;
    the white lady, 717.
    See Women.
  Laing, David, the Gretna-green blacksmith, 131.
  Lamb, Mr. C., lively letter to, 194.
  Lambert, [parliamentary] monument to, 522.
  “Lambs (Young) to sell,” a London cry, 395.
  Lamond of Cowel, tradition of, 465.
  Lancaster, dukes of, 100;
    and York, houses of, _ib._
  Language without words, 467;
    English, distinct derivations of, 473.
  Lansberg, Matthew, Liege almanac by, 274.
  Lanterns, court order for, in the streets, 414.
  Laplander’s mode of salutation, 186.
  Lapstone, beating the, 85.
  Lark, the evening, 622.
  Last tree, 88;
    last deer of Beann Doran, 754.
  “Late Lancashire Witches, (The)” old play, 193.
  Lauron, Marcellus, artist, 509.
  Lavater, aphorisms by, 274.
  Lawsuit, effect of, 134.
  Learning, and large libraries, 218;
    formerly united with pedantry, 394;
    a mulatto deploring his education, 626;
    a little learning _not_ dangerous, 757.
  Leathart, Mr., “Welsh Penillion of,” 335.
  “Legends, Scottish,” 775.
  Leicestershire, custom of, 523.
  Lendi, M. B., new hygrometer by, 25.
  Lent, customs in, 625.
  ---- Jack-o’, puppet formerly thrown at, 270.
  Lettered stones, curious ancient one, 351.
  Letters, address on one, 675.
  Lewis, St., disposal of his body, 576.
  Leybourne, W. de, first Englishman styled admiral, 576.
  Libels, actions for, formerly rare, 389;
    dramatic libel, 402.
  Libraries, cautions about forming, 218;
    that of the king of India, 247.
  Licenses, for enacting plays, 67, 68;
    for printing play-bills, 584, 586.
  Liege almanac, 274.
  Lieutenant and captain, dreadful duel between, 724.
  Life, 398;
    recovered after hanging, 455.
  Lilly, his account of the astrologer Hart, 135.
  Linnet fancy, 587.
  Liston, William, crier of “young lambs,” 395.
  Literature, a great bargain of, 740;
    a literary character, 410.
  Lloyd, T., Esq., curious pillar restored by, 352.
  Loaf-stealing, an old Christmas game, 391.
  Loddon church, poor’s box in, 747.
  London, described in 1634, 167;
    modern improvements in, 214;
    musicians incorporated in, 228;
    cries, see Cries;
    university, founding of, 593;
    notice of London watermen, 627;
    London merchants a hundred years since, 649;
    London holidays, 694.
    See Bankside, Battle-bridge, Clerkenwell, Covent Garden.
  “London Chanticleers,” old play, 256.
  Long, sir Walter, of Draycot, his style of travelling, 393.
  “Looking Glass for England and London,” old play, 641.
  Longevity, clerical, striking case of, 24.
  Lord chancellor, office of, 729.
  ---- high admiral, powers and seal of, 573.
  Lost children, notice about, 18.
  Lottery, madness from success in, 511.
  Lovat, lord, engraving of, 237;
    claimant to the title, 633.
  Love;
    loves of the <DW64>s, 180;
    music requested for a love dialogue, 514;
    refinements of Spanish love, 737.
  “Love for Love’s sake,” old play, 735, 788.
  Lowth, bishop, his epitaph on his daughter, 138.
  Lucerne, monument of the Swiss guards at, 253.
  Lying;
    why Thames Ditton called lying Ditton, 659;
    how to be reformed, 731.
  Lynn, Antiquarian Hall of, 139;
    Billy Boots of, 302;
    May-day at, 541.

  Mac Colda, Alaister, 778.
  ---- Donalds and Campbells, 778.
  ---- Gregor of Glenstrae, 465.
  ---- Phadian, captain, 782.
  Macham, discoverer of Madeira, 276.
  Macrae, captain, and sir George Ramsay, fatal duel between, 723.
  Madeira, discoverer of, 276.
  Madness, raving, from a lottery prize, 511.
  Madrid, carnival in, 273.
  Magpies, superstition relating to, 382.
  Malacca, salutation in, 196.
  Malmsbury abbey school, tradition about, 232.
  Mankind, only two classes of, 455.
  Manners, in Oliver Cromwell’s time, 19;
    before the Reformation, 389.
  Manuscripts, an author reading one to a bookseller, engraving, 125;
    curious account of Stuart manuscripts, 738.
  Maps, a curious old one, 506.
  March, first of, 283;
    fair, at Brough, 317.
  ---- of intellect, 60.
  Marden (Milton and) hundred of, 577.
  Marriages, a new plan for, 21;
    account of late duke of York’s, 105;
    breach of promise of marriage, 180;
    in Highlands, 292;
    at Gretna-green, 431;
    of the doges of Venice, 452;
    perplexing ones in relationship, 475;
    vulgarity of a court lady’s consenting to marriage, 737;
    Welsh, 742;
    Cumberland, 794;
    curious case of re-marriage, 817.
  Marseilles, custom at, 271;
    interesting history of, 539.
  “Master of the bears and dogs,” 497.
  Master of the revels, license by, 60, 68.
  Masters, an amiable one, 410.
  Matrimony. See Marriages.
  Maturin, conversations of, 681.
  Maundy Thursday, 477, &c.
  Maxims of meanness, 562, 564.
  May-day, customs on, 541, &c., 557, 628, 629.
  Mazarine, cardinal, easy patronage by, 405.
  Meals;
    hot meals, 314;
    taken with mysterious privacy, 424.
  Meanness formerly taught for morals, 562, &c.
  Memorandum books, 1.
  Mercer of London, old picture of, 569.
  Merchandise, unfavourable tendencies of, 564.
  Merchants, (London) a hundred years since, 649.
  Metastasio, memoir of, 421.
  Milton, hundred of, 575, 579.
  Mines;
    workers in coal-mines described, 653;
    fatal explosion in, 656;
    in Great Britain, 658.
  Ministers, cheap patronage by, 405.
  Minstrels, curious regulations for, 336.
  Mint, test of old silver coin at, 452.
  Miron, Francis, boldness and impunity of, 401.
  Miseries of travelling, 262.
  Monasteries, frequent and pious bleedings in, 479.
  Monks. See Monasteries.
  Monson, William, alias Billy Boots, 302.
  Month’s mind, a mass for the dead, 483.
  Months, twelve gems of the, 320.
  Moon, new, customs on, 393.
  Moore, T., the poet, remarks on, 681, 684.
  Moorfields and laundresses, 169.
  Mops or statutes for hiring servants, 171, 203.
  Morals, former system of, for tradesmen, 564, &c.
  More, sir T., notice of, 730.
  Mortality through duels, stated, 720.
  Mother-wit better than learning, 572.
  “Mothering Sunday,” 625.
  Mottos and emblems, 90.
  Mount Vernon, why so called, 617.
  Mountain ash, an antidote to witchcraft, 674.
  Mug-houses, described by a foreigner, 378.
  Mulattos, curious lamentation of one, 626.
  Mulgrave family, founder of, 763.
  Mullally, Jack, an Irish landlord, 693.
  Music; anecdotes of, 225;
    comparison of some much-admired, 228;
    musicians incorporated, 228;
    some effects of music, 229;
    in churches, 261;
    notice of the harp, 336;
    mischievous musical crash, 348;
    effects of, on rudeness and ignorance, 461;
    changes in church music, 485;
    requested for a beautiful love-dialogue, 514;
    of birds particularized, 589;
    experiment of, on animals, 691.
  Muskerry, lord, his receipt to cure lying, 731.
  Mustard and cress seeds, devices with, 607.
  Mysteries, dramatic, performed at Coventry, engraving of, 11.

  Nail, to be a friend upon the, 764.
  Names, of places, explained, 156;
    curtailment of baptismal names, 385;
    substitution of classical for baptismal ones, 698;
    the name of “devil” often assumed, _ib._
  Nash, T., on herrings, in 1599, 569.
  Necromancy, 323.
  <DW64>s, loves of, 180;
    salutation of two <DW64> kings, 197.
  Nelson, lord, punctuality of, 796.
  Nettleton, custom at, 85.
  New-moon, customs on, 393.
  New-year, ode to, set to music, 5;
    customs on, 7.
  Newcastle, Blind Willie of, 461.
  ----, duchess of, notices of, 197, 278.
  Newsman, description and engraving of, 61.
  Newspapers, varieties and interest of, 61, 65;
    reading the newspaper, engraving, 797.
  Newstead abbey, female enthusiast at, 718.
  Nicolai, M., bookseller, morbid phantasms of, 710.
  Nightingale, poets’ mistake about, 588.
  Nimeguen, two ravens at, 87.
  Nobility, French, remarks on, 132.
  Nominative case, 282.
  Norfolk dumplings, digested by a stone-eater, 355.
  Normans, what derived from, 393.
  Northumberland, custom in, 657.
  Notre Dame, grand Easter ceremony in, 502.
  Nottingham, earl of, 575.
  Numbers and figures, 759.
  Nunneries, girls formerly educated in, 389.

  Oddities of genius, 424.
  Offices and trades specified in Doomsday-book, 616.
  O’Kelly, Col., his celebrated race-horse and parrot, 621.
  Old age, a fair price for burning it out at the stake, 686.
  ---- gentleman, (the) character of, 118.
  ---- women, ridicule of, De Foe’s censure of, 20.
  Oran-outang, extraordinary one, 756.
  Orde, Mr., an amateur artist, 510.
  Organs; celebrated ones, 260;
    address to a barrel organ, 403;
    notices of, 474.
  Osnaburgh, bishopric of, 97.
  Ostend, siege of, 558.
  Ostrich, (the king’s) dissection of, 617.
  Otho, earl of York, 97.
  “Ough,” (the syllable) many ways of pronouncing, 688.
  Ounce, derivation of, 378.
  “Outlandish knight,” 130.
  Oxford, mayor of, 617.

  Padua, cheerful funeral at, 699.
  Pageant vehicle and play, representation of, 11.
  Painters, scene for, 655.
  Pamphleteers, a singular one, 727.
  Paper books not before the tenth century, 507.
  Papers, (Stuart) curious account of, 738.
  Parenthesis, explanation of, 571.
  Parents. See Children.
  Paris garden, Southwark, 489.
  Parish accompts, (old,) 481.
  Parliament, clubs, 280;
    anecdote of royal aversion to, 700.
  “Parliament of Bees,” old play, 608.
  Parrots, Col. O’Kelly’s most remarkable one, 622.
  Parsons and clerks, anecdotes about, 662.
   See Clergymen.
  Parsons, Joe, the samphire-gatherer, 451.
  Parties of pleasure, a successful one, 552.
  Passion-week, 477, &c.
  Patients, philosophical observation of their diseases by, 711.
  Patriotism, fervour and judgment of, 401.
  Patronage, (cheap) 405.
  Paulian, (Father) his account of a stone-eater, 353.
  Pearce, Dr. Zachary, H. Walpole’s ridicule of, 9.
  Pedantry formerly the associate of learning, 394.
  “Peep into futurity,” 74.
  Penge Common, “Crooked Billet” on, 670.
  Pens, how carried anciently, 507;
    their introduction, _ib._
  “Perhaps,” its importance in the sciences, 247.
  Pesce, Nicolo, the diver, and the royal gold cups, 705.
  Phantasms, singular case of, 710.
  Philippine Islands, salutations in, 196.
  “Phillis of Segros,” old play, 799.
  Phipps, William, founder of the Mulgrave family, 763.
  Phlebotomy. See Bleeding.
  Phrenology, 329.
  Physicians, curious jealousy of some, 274.
  Picture dealer, trade catalogue of, 236.
  Pilgrimages, intense interest of “Pilgrim’s Progress,” 217;
    pilgrimages formerly in England, 392;
    a curious one, 475.
  Pilpay’s abridgement of a library, 247.
  Pipe sludge, or prejudice against new water-conveyance, 733.
  Places, names of some explained, 156;
    high places and groves, 808.
  Planets, illustration of, 745.
  Platina, the historian, anecdote of, 698.
  Plays, representation of a pageant vehicle and play at Coventry, 11;
    license for enacting plays, 67;
    curious play-bills, 137, 257, 584, 636;
    origin and progress of theatrical representation, 306;
    not a third of old dramatic treasure exhausted, 358;
    supposed libels in, 401, 403;
    an author’s correct estimate of one, 572;
    one of nine days representation, 737;
    a straightforward critic upon, 803;
    Garrick’s collection of. See Garrick plays.
  Plough-Monday, 81.
  “Poetesses, (British)” by Mr. Dyce, 195.
  Poetry, Bowring’s popular Servian poetry, 529;
    poetry and fact, 646.
  Poets; advice to one from one younger, 248;
    estimate of various poets, 682;
    minor poets not useless, 683.
  Poland, custom in, 320.
  Poor’s boxes, notices and engravings of, 747.
  ---- rates, none before the Reformation, 392.
  Port wine, Ewart’s excellent, 343.
  Portaferry, Easter custom at, 506.
  Porter recommended, 412.
  Porters, (ticket) regulations and fares of, 19.
  Portraits, British, Rodd’s sale catalogue of, 236.
  Posts, (road) scripture texts on, 539.
  Potatoes, proper treatment of in frost, 17.
  Potter, Dr., university flogger, 394.
  Pound, derivation of, 378.
  Powell the fire-eater, 314.
  ----, Mr., a notorious duellist, 721.
  Presents, new-year’s, 7;
    wedding, 793, 794.
  Pretender, curious paternal notices of, 744.
  Priests in France, former hospitality of, 390.
  Printing, licenses for, 584, 586.
  Prison walls, 727.
  Private and public, 732.
  Prize-fighting with swords formerly, 495.
  Professors in German universities, 123.
  Prognostications, effect of a few successful ones, 275.
  Promise, breach of, curious case of, 180.
  Pronoun, first personal, not to be worn out, 341.
  Pronunciation, at the old Grassington theatre, 72;
    extreme irregularity of the English, 688.
  Property, fixed and movable, remarks on, 345.
  Protestant German Universities, 124.
  Prynne, William, notice of, 726.
  Public and private, 732.
  Publishers, how dispensed with, 727.
  Pudsey, bishop, notice of, 415.
  Pulpits furnished with hour-glasses and clocks, 485, 501.
  Punctuality recommended, 796.
  Punishments, capital, solemnity and terror of, 455, &c.
  Puns, not unnatural in grief as well as joy, 112.
  Purvis, William, or “Blind Willie” the minstrel, 461.
  Pye, Mr., curious anecdote from, of Charles I., 700.
  Pye-stealer detected, 419.

  “Quarter of an hour before,” 796.
  Queen’s college, Oxford, custom at, 85, 390.
  Questions, danger of asking, 342.
  Quin, his apology for a dancer’s absence, 16;
    his unfeeling jokes, _ib._, 17.

  Race-horses. See Horses.
  Radnor, lord, anecdote of, 90.
  Ramsay, sir George, killed in a duel, 723.
  Randwick near Stroud, custom at, 553.
  Ratting, 281.
  Ravens, at Nimeguen, 87;
    tradition respecting two at home, _ib._;
    anecdote of one at Hungerford, 826.
  Raynal, Abbé, anecdote of, 89.
  Reading aloud, remarks on, 278.
  Realities resembling dreams, 457.
  Red-herring on horseback, an old dish, 390;
    eulogium of red-herrings, 569.
  Reformation, manners and customs before, 389;
    progress of, 483.
  Regent’s-street and park, 214, 215.
  Relationship, involvement of by marriage, 475.
  Religion, 828.
  Restitution, better late than never, 138;
    for ease of conscience, 401.
  Retrospect, 184.
  Return made to a parish circular, 378.
  Revels, master of, license by for enacting plays, 68.
  Revenant, (Le), 455.
  Revenge, wishes of, 195.
  Reverie, 464.
  Revival, after hanging at the gallows, 455.
  “Rewards of Virtue,” old play, 159.
  Rheumatism, asserted effect of, 142.
  Rhone, river, Scipio’s shield found in, 264.
  Rhubarb, and the Turk in Cheapside, 194.
  Rich man defined, 346.
  Richardson, the first public fire-eater, 315.
  Riches, good and bad effects of, 347.
  Riddle and explanation, 410.
  Right hand, reason for preferring, 280.
  Rigi, in Switzerland, inscription on book at, 138.
  Rising, (early), 796.
  Road-posts inscribed with texts, 539.
  “Robin Gray, (Auld)” curious account of, 200.
  Robin Hood’s bower, 485.
  Rodd, Mr. H., picture-dealer, 236.
  Rollan, Madame, a celebrated dancer, 16.
  Roman antiquities, 79.
  Rooms, former lowness of, 168.
  Rosamond, (Fair), 315.
  Rouen, Easter custom at, 484.
  Round robin, ancient custom of, 698.
  Royal Society, 552.
  Rubens, liberality and kindness of, 10.
  Runaway mops or statutes, 176.
  Rural delights, 708.

  Sailors, custom of when in Greenland, 629;
    generous feeling of one for a dead enemy, 631;
    their remonstrance by a round robin, 689;
    anecdote of an Irish one, 699.
  St. Bride’s church, admirable organ in, 261.
  St. David’s day, 334.
  St. Giles Hill, near Winchester, fair at, 204.
  St. Goodrick misleading a bishop, 415.
  St. Jerome’s description of an organ, 474;
    conjecture about his dragon, 538.
  St. Lawrence church, capital organ in, 261.
  St. Margaret’s, at Cliff, 450.
  St. Mary church, admired organ in, 261.
  St. Sepulchre’s bell, at executions, 164.
  Saints, a poor female one, 751.
  Salt, the terror of spectres, 521, 523;
    custom of putting salt on the dead, 523.
  Salutation, different modes and forms of, 186, 390;
    curious one by lord Lovat, 239;
    lively lecture on the English mode, 555.
  Samphire, gathering, 450, 451.
  “Satiromastix,” old play, 704.
  Scaffold, the criminal’s view from, 460.
  Scandal, a grand receptacle of, 246.
  Scarborough, custom at, 403.
  Schmidt, celebrated organ-builder, 260.
  Schoolboys, 149;
    at Malmsbury, tradition about, 232.
  Schools, rare before the Reformation, 389.
  Scilly islands, custom in, 81.
  Scipio, anecdote and shield of, 264.
  Scot, John, a fasting fanatic, 134.
  Scotland, story of the Scotch soldier, 285;
    utility of the Scottish hospital, 286;
    customs on the new moon in, 393;
    amusement called hy-jinks in, 467;
    an old and corrected map of, 506;
    Scotch Adam and Eve, 538;
    some gold found in, 658;
    Scottish legends, 775. See Highlands.
  Scripture texts, how hung up formerly in houses, 389;
    inscribed on road-posts, 539.
  Scylla and Charybdis, ancient and modern descriptions of, 642.
  Sea bull, 699.
  ---- weed, address to, 452.
  Seals;
    bread seals, 90;
    seal of lord high admiral, 573.
  Second-sight, 781.
  Secrets worth keeping, 741.
  Seigneurs, the benevolent one, 132.
  Seignories in England, dreadful abuses and oppressions formerly in,
  391.
  Sepulchral remains, 82, 83.
  Servants, appropriate addresses of different ones, 178;
    description of statutes or mops for hiring, 171, 203.
  Servian popular poetry, 529.
  “Seven Champions of Christendom,” old play, 487.
  Shakspeare, a fault in, 302;
    contemporary dramatists of, 358;
    a giant _among_ giants, 358.
  Sharp, Mr., his dissertation on Coventry pageants, 11.
  Sheep, aversion of deer to, 754, 755.
  Shepherd’s well, Hampstead, 381.
  Shepherds, how paid formerly, 393.
  Sherbet, receipt for making, 471.
  Sheriff’s trumpets explained, 393.
  Shield of Scipio found in the Rhone, 264.
  “Ship, (The)” order of, 57.
  Shrove Tuesday, 271.
  Shute, bishop of Durham, pun on, 283.
  Sight, (second), 781.
  Signs, explanation of a modern one, 672;
    one near Skipton, 636;
    odd signs, 412.
  Silent club, (the), 467.
  Silver, how silver coin tested, 452;
   found in Cornwall, 658.
  “Silver Age, (The)” old play, 676.
  Singing birds. See Birds.
  “Single hair,” for angling, an enthusiast on, 660.
  Skating, 150.
  Skipton in Craven, theatrical company at, 69;
    custom in, 628.
  Smith, sir Sidney, and old Dan Bryan, 631.
  Smoking, much used in 1634, 169.
  Smoky chimnies, how cured, 572.
  Smyth, Capt. W. H., his account of Scylla and Charybdis, 646.
  Snuff and tobacco, proposed history of, 387.
  Snuffbox, (My) engraving and description of, 189.
  Snuffers, (curious old) account and engraving of, 639.
  Snuffing candles, curious process of, 348.
  Society simplified by civilization, 219.
  Soho bazaar, 153.
  Soldier, (Scotch) story of, engraving, 285.
  Southam, custom in, 176.
  Sparr, Mrs. A., a maiden lady, 340.
  Sparrow, address to, 364.
  Spectrology, 710.
  Spells of home, 216.
  Sporting, 283.
  Spring, the voice of, 624.
  Spring Gardens, a former Vauxhall, 720.
  Stag-hunting, near Beann Doran, 754.
  Stage-coach adventures, 263.
  Standing mannerly before parents, 394.
  Stanmore toll-house, engraving of, 171.
  Starlings, battle of, 661.
  Statistics, curious, 540.
  Statutes, for hiring servants, account of, 171, 203.
  Stealing to restore, 234.
  Stephens, his mode of writing, 682.
  “Steps retraced,” 475.
  Stilton, (ham and), 179.
  Stocking, throwing of, 298.
  Stoke Lyne, lord of manor of, 556.
  Stones, sepulchral accumulations of stones, 83;
    account of a stone-eater, 353;
    autobiography of one, 354.
  Storm in 1790, 767.
  Stourbridge fair, 205.
  Stratford-upon-Avon Church, engraving of, 445.
  Streams, irregularity of some, 230.
  Street circulars, 476.
  Stuart papers, interesting account of, 738.
  Students in German universities, 123.
  Studley statute for hiring servants, 174.
  Style, error respecting, 60.
  Styles, for writing on table-books, 1.
  Suicide never occurring among gipsies, 210.
  Sumatra, oran-outang of, 756.
  Summer drinks, receipts for, 471.
  Sunrise and sunset, 138.
  Sunday, diversions on, 489, 494.
  Suppers, a light and early one, 668.
  Sup-porter, a sign motto, 412.
  Surnames, various cases of that of the “devil” in families, and arms
  correspondent, 698.
  Surveys, of see of Durham, 415;
    in Doomsday-book, 610.
  Swimming, Kircher’s account of a man web-handed and web-footed, 705.
  Swiss guards, monument of, 253.
  Switzerland, an artist’s letter from, 427.
  Sword-dancing in Northumberland, 657.
  “Sybil’s Leaves,” 74.
  System for shopkeepers, 562, 564.

  Table Book, explanation of, 1;
    design of the present, 3;
    editor’s disclaimer of various publications in his name, 764.
  Tadloe’s tread like paviers’ rammers, 375.
  Tailors and cabbage, 471.
  “Tales, (Early metrical)” notice of, 114.
  Talker, the selfish, 341;
    talking, at times, how difficult, 362.
  “Tancred and Gismund,” old play, 322.
  Tanner, appropriate name for his villa, 764.
  Tartans, now little used in the Highlands, 293.
  Taste, its power and value, 86.
  Tempers of birds, how ascertained, 592.
  Temple church, organ in, 260.
  “Tethys’ Festival,” old play, 641.
  Test of talent, 572.
  Texts of scripture;
    formerly written in apartments, 389;
    on road-posts, 539.
  Thames, river, shut out state of, 168;
   bronze antique found in, 267.
  Thames Ditton, the resort of anglers, 659.
  Theatres, one projected at Edinburgh, 313;
    advice respecting formation of, _ib._;
    curious circumstances of a fire at one, 737. See Plays.
  “The thing to a T,” explanation of, 15.
  Thomas, Elizabeth, poetess, 198.
  Thorwaldsen, monument by, 253.
  Thoulouse, cruel custom at, 554.
  Throwing the stocking, 298.
  Thucydides, testimonial to, 647.
  Ticket porters, regulations and fares of, 19.
  Tickling trout, 662.
  Tighe, Mrs., poetess, 199.
  Timber in bogs, remarks on, 185.
  Tin mines, in Cornwall, 658.
  Titles, new, to old books, 68.
  Tobacco, much used in 1634, 169;
    and snuff, proposed history of, 387;
    anecdotes of dealers in, _ib._
  Toll-house at Stanmore, engraving, 171.
  Tollard, (royal) formerly a royal seat, 36.
  Tollet, Elizabeth, poetess, 198.
  Tomarton, former dungeon in, 391.
  Tomkins, an unrelenting creditor, 667.
  Tommy Bell, engraving of, 651.
  ---- Sly, engraving of, 331.
  Tonga Islands, custom in, 826.
  Tooth, (the golden) learned dispute on, 453.
  Torches, dance of, 107.
  “Tottenham Court,” old play, 581.
  Toupees, how formerly stiffened, 394.
  Trades, younger brothers formerly not bred to, 393;
    and offices specified in Doomsday-book, 616.
  Tradesmen, deviation from ancient rule of, 240;
    competition between, 387;
    “The Tradesman,” by Defoe, 564.
  Travellers, former hospitality to, in France, 390;
    before the Reformation were entertained at religious houses, 391.
  Travelling by coach and steam compared, 262.
  Tread-mills, different standards of labour in, 755.
  Trees, tasteful disposal of, 807.
  Trials, of Flora, 545;
    of a <DW64> for breach of promise, 180;
    for life, impressions under, 457.
  Trout, tickling, 662.
  Trumpets formerly sounded before lords and gentlemen, 393.
  Tuilleries, massacre of Swiss guards at, 253.
  Tumuli, 82, 83.
  Turk in Cheapside, inquiry for, 194.
  Turks, consolation under persecution by, 453;
    a terror to Christendom, 485, 575.
  Tutor for tradesmen, 562, 564.
  Twelfth-night custom at Brough, 26.
  “Two angry Women of Abingdon,” old play, 356.
  “Two Tragedies in one,” old play, 488.

  Ugly club, 264, 468.
  Unhanged and hanged, two only classes, 455.
  Universities, in Germany, 123;
    flogging in, 394;
    founding the London, 593.
  Unknown, (the great) discovered, 306, &c.

  Valediction, 399.
  Valentines, 206.
  Valle Crucis abbey, pillar near, 349.
  Vanithee, [wife] Jack Mullally’s, 694.
  Vauxhall, a dramatic sketch, 438.
  Vehicle, (pageant) and play, notice and engraving of, 11.
  Venice, the doge’s marriage, 452.
  Venison, hunted better than shot, 34.
  Vernon, admiral, patron of general Washington, 617.
  ----, mount, why so called, 617.
  ----, a musician, anecdote of, 17.
  Vienna, customs in, 17.
  Views, of a felon on the scaffold, 460.
  Village new-year described, 91.
  “Virgin Widow,” old play, 321.
  Virginia, deliberate duel in, 721.
  “Visiting the churches,” 478.

  W, (the letter), 410.
  Waggery, ancient, 419.
  Wales, character of the ancient Britons, 335;
    notices of the Welsh harp, _ib._;
    minstrelsy society in, 338;
    ancient British pillar, engraving of, 349.
  Wallis, lady, her correct estimate of her comedy, 572.
  Walpole, Horace, letter of, about extortion in Westminster abbey, 9.
  Walsh, Mr. H., his satire on corporations, 524.
  Wamphray, in Scotland, great hiring fair at, 204.
  Warming-pans for Jamaica, 15.
  Warwickshire, statutes or mops in, 172, &c.
  “Washing of the feet” at Vienna, 477;
    and at Greenwich by queen Elizabeth, 479.
  Washington, general, notice of, 607.
  Water, prejudice against pipe-conveyance of, 733.
  Water-carrier, (old) engraving of, 733.
  Waterloo-bridge, intended opening to, 214.
  Watermen, ancient misconduct of, 168;
    watermen hundred years ago, 627.
  Watson, bishop, letters of to duke of York, 109, 110.
  Watson, Tom, an eminent dramatist, 385.
  Waverley, more than ten years unpublished, 427;
    Waverley novels acknowledged by sir Walter Scott, 306.
  Wax-work and extortion in Westminster abbey, 9.
  Way to grow rich, 347.
  Way-posts with texts on them, 539.
  Wealth, good and bad effects of, 347.
  Weather, a new hygrometer, 25.
  Webster, the dramatist, excellence of, 358.
  ----, Dr., of St. Alban’s, 239.
  Weddings, Highland, 292;
    Welsh, 792;
    Cumberland, 794. See Marriages.
  Welsh. See Wales.
  Wesley, John, his return of plate, 40.
  West, Gilbert, notice of, 811.
  Westminster abbey, curious letter of H. Walpole about, 9;
    burial fees of, 333.
  Westmoreland, belief of witchcraft in, 674.
  Weston, the royal cook, 377.
  Whitelock, collation by, to queen of Sweden, 552.
  Whyte, Mr. S., his account of Mrs. Charke, 125.
  Wickham (West) church, 811.
  Wiggen [ash] tree;
    its virtues against witchcraft, 674.
  Wigs, 243.
  Wild man of the woods, an extraordinary one, 756.
  ----, Jonathan, first victim to a law, 235.
  Wildman, Mr., first purchaser of Eclipse, 621.
  ---- ----, Colonel, benevolent conduct of, 718.
  Will, Will-be-so, memoir of, 139.
  Willie, (Blind) of Newcastle, 461.
  Willy-Howe, in Yorkshire, legends about, 82.
  Wilson, comedian, anecdote of, 571.
  Wiltshire abroad and at home, 231.
  Windows, rarely of glass before the Reformation, 392.
  Winds, irritating effect of some, 273.
  Wine, effect of, 824.
  Winter’s day, description of, 148.
  “Wit in a Constable,” old play, 193.
  Witchcraft, how to recognise a witch, 674;
    preventives of, _ib._
  Wives, last resource of one, 451;
    use of a wife and children, 566.
  Wolfe, general, how his death wound received, 251.
  Wolverhampton church, valuable organ in, 262.
  Women;
    ungallant ridicule of the “old woman,” 20;
    poniards worn by, in Spain, 273;
    improvement of, 358;
    former education of, 389;
    former court rudeness to, 390;
    former amusements of, 392;
    prodigious fans used by, 394;
    a lady customer and a spruce mercer, 567;
    situation of a woman in India, 697;
    former refinement of court ladies in Spain, 737.
  Worfield, longevity of vicars of, 23.
  Wragg, Mary, 768.
  Writers, correct estimate by one of her own work, 572. See Authors.
  Writing tables, 2.

  Yard, derivation of the term, 378.
  Yarmouth, long famed for herrings, 569.
  York, cardinal de, notice of, 738.
  ----, duke of, engraving and notices of, 93;
    list of dukes of York, 99.
  Yorkshire, new year’s eve custom in, 7;
    fairies in, 82;
    Yorkshire Gipsy, [stream] 230.
  “Young lambs to sell,” a London cry, 395.
  “Your humble servant,” when first used in salutation, 390.
  Youth, illiberal teachers of, 561.


II. CORRESPONDENTS’ INDEX.

  A. B., 792.
  Alpha, 549.
  Blackmore, M., 267.
  Carle, 674.
  Dewhurst, H. W., 629.
  Edwin, S., 164.
  E. C. M. D., 194.
  E. J. H., 659.
  E. M. S., 320.
  Ex Dunelmensis, 331.
  F. W., 636.
  G. B., 569.
  Gaston, 242.
  J. H., 148, 217.
  J. J. K., 285.
  J. K., 5.
  J. R., 607.
  J. R. P., 374.
  J. W., 636.
  Juvenis, 625.
  K., 139, 541.
  L., 425.
  Lamb, C., 111.
  Lander, H. M., 538.
  M., 84.
  M. H., 786.
  N., 340, 358.
  P., 473, 662.
  P. N., 468.
  Pare, William, 161.
  Pegge, Samuel, 668.
  A Reader, 231, 233.
  R. J. P., 365.
  R. P., 91.
  S. R. J., 622.
  S. S. S., 467.
  Sam Sam’s Son, 156, 658.
  Ψ., 657.
  *, *, P., 635.
  **** ********, 408.
  T. C., 82, 230.
  T. Q. M., 69, 420, 515, 628.
  Tomlinson, C., 553.
  Veiled Spirit, (The), 803.
  W. H. H., 26, 317.
  W. P., 95, 387.
  Will o’ the Wisp, 67, 584.
  X., 556.


III. INDEX TO THE POETRY.

_Contributed by Correspondents under the following Signatures._

  Amicus, 426.
  Aquila, 166.
  B. C., 179.
  B. W. R., 148, 281.
  C., 806.
  E., 343.
  Elia, 773.
  F. P. H., 248.
  Gaston, 403.
  H., 399.
  H. L., 212.
  J. B. O., 398.
  J. G., 508.
  J. J. K., 453, 732.
  J. R. P., 476.
  Jackson, S. R., 500.
  Jehoiada, 405.
  O. N. Y., 388.
  P., 155.
  Prior, J. R., 162.
  R., 170.
  Sam Sam’s Son, 443, 444, 728.
  S. R. J., 571.
  *, *, P., 220, 236, 318.
  T. T., 689.
  W. T. M., 664.

_By the Editor_, on

  The emigration of deer from Cranbourne Chase, 30.
  River Fleet at Clerkenwell, 75.
  Duke of York, 93.
  Mrs. Charke, 125.
  Antiquarian Hall, 139.
  Valentine’s day, 205.
  Porch of Beckenham church-yard, 715.

AUTHORS QUOTED.

  Allan, J. H., 775, 785.
  Antiquarian Hall, 139.
  Byron, lord, 138.
  Chatham, earl of, 812.
  Cooke, Rev. T., 136, 406.
  Cowper, 65, 66, 217, 752, 753.
  Crabbe, 683.
  Crowley, 489.
  Fletcher, 16.
  Gay, 819.
  Gifford, W., 59.
  Goldsmith, 797, 798.
  Hemans, Mrs., 281, 624.
  Herrick, 524.
  Hogg, 684.
  Huddesford, 653.
  Hyatt, Sophia, 719.
  Jones, sir William, 344.
  Keats, 810.
  Lamb, C., 751.
  Leathart, W., 334, 338.
  Lowth, Dr., 138.
  Moffat, Mr., 233.
  Montgomery, J., 199.
  Peacock, T. L., 314.
  Pitt, 643.
  Pope, 525.
  Shakspeare, 252, 450.
  Sidney, sir P., 37, 38.
  Sotheby, 339.
  Trefusis, Elizabeth, 209.
  Wake, W. Basil, 117.
  Webb, Mr. J., 437.

WORKS CITED.

  Annals of Sporting, 81.
  Bath Herald, 122.
  Dunton’s Athenian Sports, 421.
  Dyce’s Specimens of British Poetesses, 196.
  Examiner, 364.
  Garrick Plays, selections from, contributed by Mr. C. Lamb, 111, 133,
  159, 192, 223, 255, 299, 324, 356, 384, 417, 447, 486, 511, 559, 581,
  608, 640, 676, 703, 735, 788, 799.
  Indicator, 291.
  “Love in a Village,” 178.
  Monthly Magazine, 184, 206, 216.
  Newsman’s Verses, 61.
  New Monthly Magazine, 88, 207, 764.

ANONYMOUS.

  8, 24, 25, 26, 40, 85, 122, 129, 138, 153, 155, 205, 277, 305, 370,
  377, 411, 420, 435, 452, 471, 540, 585, 599, 622, 624, 648, 654, 657,
  672, 687, 724, 725, 730, 826.


IV. INDEX TO THE ENGRAVINGS.

  Alderson, Hut., of Durham, 365.
  Antiquarian Hall, 139.
  Antique bronze found in the Thames, 267.
  ----------------------------------, another view, 269.
  Armorial bearing, 555.
  Barleycorn, sir John, 116.
  Bath chairman, mock funeral of, 41.
  Bear garden, in Southwark, in 1574, 491.
  -------------------------, in 1648, 493.
  Beckenham church-yard, porch of, 765.
  --------- church, font of, 771.
  Beckenham Church, Kent, 765.
  --------- road, bridge over, 701.
  Berne, arcades in, 428.
  Billy Boots, 303.
  Bird-catcher, (London) in 1827, 589.
  Blind Hannah, 221.
  ----- Willie, of Newcastle, 461.
  Buckingham, duke of, house in which he died, 525.
  Charke, Mrs., Colley Cibber’s daughter, 125.
  Chatham-hill, Star inn on, 605.
  Collecting-box, 769.
  Cranbourne Chase, emigration of deer from, 29.
  “Crooked Billet,” on Penge Common, 669.
  Eclipse, the race-horse, 619.
  Elvet bridge, Durham, 413.
  Fleet river, (ancient) at Clerkenwell, 75.
  Harrow church, font of, 157.
  Hobby-horses for children, crier of, 686.
  Holly-tree, carrying of at Brough, 27.
  Howard, of Effingham, lord, autograph of, 573.
  Interlaken, houses in, 428.
  London cries, 509.
  ------ cherry-woman, 685.
  Lovat, lord, 237.
  March Fair, at Brough, Westmoreland, 317.
  May-day, at Lynn, 541.
  ------- dance, 557.
  Monument at Lucerne, 253.
  Newsman, 61.
  Newspaper, reading the, 797.
  Pageant vehicle and play, 11.
  Pedestrian costume, 428.
  Petrarch’s Inkstand, frontispiece.
  Pillar, ancient British, 349.
  Poor’s-box in Cawston church, 747.
  ---------- in Loddon church, 749.
  Seal of the lord high admiral, 573.
  Servants, hiring of, at a statute fair, 203.
  Shepherd’s well, Hampstead, 581.
  Snuff-box, (My) 189.
  Snuffers, pair of old, 637.
  Soldier, (Scotch) story of, 285.
  Stanmore toll-house, 171.
  Stratford-upon-Avon church, 445.
  Swiss costume, 428.
  -------------, 429.
  Tommy Bell, 651.
  ----- Sly, of Durham, 334.
  York, duke of, 93.
  “Young lambs to sell,” 395.
  Water-carriers, (old) 733.
  West Wickham church, 811.




Vol. II.--28.


  THE
  TABLE BOOK.


[Illustration: ~The Gimmal Ring.~]

This is an ancient form of the “tool of matrimony,” from one found at
Horsleydown, and exhibited in 1800 to the Society of Antiquaries. Mr.
Robert Smith, the possessor of this curious ring, transmitted with it
some remarks and descriptions of a nature very interesting to the lovers
of archæology, and the “happy estate;” and from thence is derived the
following account of this particular ring, with illustrations of the
form and use of the _gimmal_-ring generally.--

This ring is constructed, as the name imports, of twin or double hoops,
which play one within another, like the links of a chain. Each hoop has
one of its sides flat, the other convex; each is twisted once round, and
each surmounted by a hand, issuing from an embossed fancy-work wrist or
sleeve; the hand rising somewhat above the circle, and extending in the
same direction. The course of the twist, in each hoop, is made to
correspond with that of its counterpart, so that on bringing together
the flat surfaces of the hoops, the latter immediately unite in one
ring. On the lower hand, or that of which the palm is uppermost, is
represented a heart; and, as the hoops close, the hands slide into
contact, forming, with their ornamented wrists, a head to the whole. The
device thus presents a triple emblem of love, fidelity, and union. Upon
the flat side of the hoops are engraven “Usé de Vertu,” in Roman
capitals; and, on the inside of the lower wrist, the figures “990.” The
whole is of fine gold, and weighs two pennyweights four grains.

It is of foreign workmanship, probably French, and appears to be of no
great antiquity; perhaps about the reign of our queen Elizabeth: for
though the time of the introduction into Europe of the Arabic numerals
be referred by some to an æra nearly corresponding with the figures on
the ring, the better opinion seems to be, that the Arabian method of
notation was unknown to the Europeans until about the middle of the 13th
century. It is conjecture, therefore, that the figures were meant to
express, not a date, but the artist’s number; such as we see still
engraven on watches. The workmanship is not incurious; and the ring
furnishes a genuine specimen of the _gimmal_, (a term now almost
forgotten.)

Rings, it is well known, are of great antiquity; and, in the early ages
of the world, denoted authority and government. These were communicated,
symbolically, by the delivery of a ring to the person on whom they were
meant to be conferred. Thus Pharaoh, when he committed the government of
Egypt to Joseph, took the ring from his finger and gave it to Joseph, as
a _token_ of the authority with which he invested him. So also did
Ahasuerus to his favourite Haman, and to Mordecai, who succeeded him in
his dignity.

In conformity to this ancient usage, recorded in the Bible, the
Christian church afterwards adopted the ceremony of the ring in
marriage, as a symbol of the authority which the husband gave the wife
over his household, and over the “earthly goods” with which he endowed
her.

But the _gimmal_ ring is comparatively of modern date. It should seem,
that we are indebted for the design to the ingenious fancies of our
Gallic neighbours, whose skill in diversifying the symbols of the tender
passion has continued unrivalled, and in the language of whose country
the mottoes employed on almost all the amorous trifles are still to be
found. It must be allowed, that the double hoop, each apparently free
yet inseparable, both formed for uniting, and complete only in their
union, affords a not unapt representation of the married state.

Among the numerous “love-tokens” which lovers have presented to their
mistresses, in all ages, the _ring_ bears a conspicuous part; nor is any
more likely than the _gimmal_ to “steal the impression of a mistress’s
fantasy,” as none so clearly expresses its errand. In the
“Midsummer-Night’s Dream” of Shakspeare, where Egeus accuses Lysander,
before the duke, of having inveigled his daughter’s affections, or, as
the old man expresses it, “witch’d the bosom” of his child, he exclaims,

                “Thou hast given her rhimes,
    And interchang’d love-tokens with my child:
    Thou hast, by moon-light, at her window sung,
    With feigning voice, verses of feigning love;
    And stol’n the impression of her fantasie,
    With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits.”

From a simple love-token, the gimmal was at length converted into the
more serious “sponsalium annulus,” or ring of affiance. The lover
putting his finger through one of the hoops, and his mistress hers
through the other, were thus, symbolically, yoked together; a yoke which
neither could be said wholly to wear, one half being allotted to the
other. In this use of the gimmal may be seen typified, “a community of
interests, mutual forbearance, and a participation of authority.”

The French term for it is _foi_, or _alliance_; which latter word, in
the “Dictionnaire de Trévoux,” is defined, “bague ou jonc que
_l’accordé_ donne à son _accordée_, où il y a un fil _d’or_, et un fil
_d’argent_.” This definition not only shows the occasion of its use, but
supposes the two hoops to be composed, one of gold, the other of silver;
a distinction evidently meant to characterise the bridegroom and bride.
Thus Columella calls those vines which produce two different sorts of
grapes, “gemellæ vites.”

Our English glossaries afford but little information on the subject.
Minshew refers the reader from _gimmal_ to _gemow_; the former he
derives from “gemellus,” the latter from the French “jumeau:” and he
explains the _gemow ring_ to signify “_double_ or _twinnes_, because
they be rings with two or more links.” Neither of the words is in
Junius. Skinner and Ainsworth deduce _gimmal_ from the same Latin
origin, and suppose it to be used only of something consisting of
correspondent parts, or double. Dr. Johnson gives it a more extensive
signification; he explains gimmal to mean, “some little quaint devices,
or pieces of machinery,” and refers to Hanmer: but he inclines to think
the name gradually corrupted from _geometry_ or _geometrical_, because,
says he, “any thing done by _occult means_ is vulgarly said to be done
by geometry.”

The word is not in Chaucer, nor in Spenser; yet both Blount in his
“Glossography,” and Philips in his “World of Words,” have _geminals_;
which they interpret _twins_.

Shakspeare has _gimmal_ in two or three places; though none of the
commentators seem thoroughly to understand the term.

_Gimmal_ occurs in “King Henry the Fifth,” Act IV. Scene II., where the
French lords are proudly scoffing at the condition of the English army.
Grandpree says,

    “The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks,
    With torch-staves in their hands; and their poor jades
    Lob down their heads, dropping the hide and hips:
    The gum down-roping from their pale dead eyes;
    And in their pale dull mouths the _gimmal_ bit
    Lies foul with chaw’d grass, still and motionless.”

We may understand the _gimmal_ bit, therefore, to mean either a double
bit, in the ordinary sense of the word (_duplex_,) or, which is more
appropriate, a bit composed of links, playing one within another,
(_gemellus_.)

In the “First Part of King Henry the Sixth,” after the French had been
beaten back with great loss, Charles and his lords are concerting
together the farther measures to be pursued, and the king says,

    “Let’s leave this town, for they are hare brain’d slaves,
    And hunger will enforce them to be more eager:
    Of old I know them; rather with their teeth
    The walls they’ll tear down, than forsake the siege.”

To which Reignier subjoins,

    “I think, by some odd _gimmals_ or device,
    Their arms are set, like clocks, still to strike on;
    Else they could ne’er hold out so, as they do,
    By my consent we’ll e’en let them alone.”

Some of the commentators have the following note upon this passage: “A
_gimmal_ is a piece of jointed work, where one piece moves within
another; whence it is taken at large for an _engine_. It is now vulgarly
called ‘gimcrack.’”

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Archdeacon Nares instances a stage direction in “Lingua,” an old
play--“Enter Anamnestes (a page to Memory) in a grave sattin sute,
purple buskins, &c. a _gimmal_ ring with one link hanging.” He adds,
that _gimmal_ rings, though originally double, were by a further
refinement made triple, or even more complicated; yet the name remained
unchanged. Herrick, in his “Hesperides,” has the following verses.

_The Jimmal Ring, or True-love-knot._

    Thou sent’st to me a true-love-knot; but I
    Return’d a ring of jimmals, to imply
    Thy love had one knot, mine a triple-tye.

According to Randle Holme, who, under the term “annulet,” figures the
_gimmal_ ring,[242] Morgan, in his “Sphere of Gentry,” speaks of “three
triple _gimbal_ rings borne by the name of Hawberke:” which Mr. Nares
says was “evidently because the hawberk was formed of rings linked into
each other.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A further illustration of the _gimmal_ ring may be gathered from the
following passage. “It is related in _Davis’s Rites of the Cathedral of
Durham_, (8vo. 1672, p. 51,) that over our lady of Bolton’s altar there
was a marvellous, lively, and beautiful image of the picture of our
lady, called the lady of Bolton, which picture was made to open with
_gimmes_ (or linked fastenings) from the breast downward; and within the
said image was wrought and pictured the image of our Saviour
marvellously finely gilt.”[243]

I find that the brass rings within which the seaman’s compass swings,
are by the seamen called _gimbals_. This is the only instance I can
discover of the term being still used.

  *

       *       *       *       *       *

The _gimmal_ ring appears in common language to have been called a
_joint_-ring. There is a passage relating to it in Dryden’s “Don
Sebastian.”

            “A curious artist wrought ’em,
    With joynts so close as not to be perceiv’d;
    Yet are they both each other’s counterpart,
    (Her part had _Juan_ inscrib’d, and his had _Zayda_.
    You know those names were theirs:) and, in the midst,
    A heart divided in two halves was plac’d.
    Now if the rivets of those rings, inclos’d,
    Fit not each other, I have forg’d this lye:
    But if they join, you must for ever part.”

According to other passages in this play one of these rings was worn by
Sebastian’s father: the other by Almeyda’s mother, as pledges of love.
Sebastian pulls off his, which had been put on his finger by his dying
father: Almeyda does the same with hers, which had been given her by
her mother at parting: and Alvarez unscrews both the rings, and fits one
half to the other.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is a beautiful allusion to the emblematical properties of the
wedding ring in the following poem:--

TO S---- D----, WITH A RING.

    Emblem of happiness, not bought, nor sold,
    Accept this modest ring of virgin gold.
    Love in the small, but perfect, circle, trace,
    And duty, in its soft, though strict embrace.
    Plain, precious, pure, as best becomes the wife;
    Yet firm to bear the frequent rubs of life.
    Connubial love disdains a fragile toy,
    Which rust can tarnish, or a touch destroy;
    Nor much admires what courts the gen’ral gaze,
    The dazzling diamond’s meretricious blaze,
    That hides, with glare, the anguish of a heart
    By nature hard, tho’ polish’d bright by art.
    More to thy taste the ornament that shows
    Domestic bliss, and, without glaring, glows.
    Whose gentle pressure serves to keep the mind
    To all correct, to one discreetly kind.
    Of simple elegance th’ unconscious charm,
    The holy amulet to keep from harm;
    To guard at once and consecrate the shrine,
    Take this dear pledge--It makes and keeps thee mine.[244]

  [242] Academy of Armory, b. iii. c. 2. p. 20.

  [243] Hone on Ancient Mysteries, p. 222.

  [244] Collection of Poems, Dublin, 1801, 8vo.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXIV.

  [From “Chabot, Admiral of France,” a Tragedy, by G. Chapman and J.
  Shirley, 1639.]

_No Advice to Self Advice._

        ------- another’s knowledge,
    Applied to my instruction, cannot equal
    My own soul’s knowledge how to inform acts.
    The sun’s rich radiance shot thro’ waves most fair,
    Is but a shadow to his beams i’ th’ air;
    His beams that in the air we so admire,
    Is but a darkness to his flame in fire;
    In fire his fervour but in vapour flies,
    To what his own pure bosom rarifies:
    And the Almighty Wisdom having given
    Each man within himself an apter light
    To guide his acts than any light without him,
    (Creating nothing, not in all things equal),
    It seems a fault in any that depend
    On others’ knowledge, and exile their own.

_Virtue under Calumny._

        ---- as in cloudy days we see the Sun
    Glide over turrets, temples, richest fields,
    (All those left dark and slighted in his way);
    And on the wretched plight of some poor shed
    Pours all the glories of his golden head:
    So heavenly Virtue on this envied Lord
    Points all his graces.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From “Cæsar and Pompey,” a Tragedy, by G. Chapman, 1631.]

_Cato’s Speech at Utica to a Senator, who had exprest fears on his
account._

    Away, Statilius; how long shall thy love
    Exceed thy knowledge of me, and the Gods,
    Whose rights thou wrong’st for my right? have not I
    Their powers to guard me in a cause of theirs,
    Their justice and integrity to guard me
    In what I stand for? he that fears the Gods,
    For guard of any goodness, all things fears;
    Earth, seas, and air; heav’n; darkness; broad daylight;
    Rumour, and silence, and his very shade:
    And what an aspen soul has such a creature!
    How dangerous to his soul is such a fear!--
    In whose cold fits, is all Heavn’s justice shaken
    To his faint thoughts; and all the goodness there,
    Due to all good men by the Gods’ own vows;
    Nay, by the firmness of their endless being;
    All which shall fail as soon as any one
    Good to a good man in them: for his goodness
    Proceeds from them, and is a beam of theirs.
    O never more, Statilius, may this fear
    Faint thy bold bosom, for thyself or friend,
    More than the Gods are fearful to defend.

_His thoughts of Death._

    Poor Slaves, how terrible this Death is to them!--
    If men would sleep, they would be wrath with all
    That interrupt them; physic take, to take
    The golden rest it brings; both pay and pray
    For good and soundest naps: all friends consenting
    In those invocations; praying all
    “Good rest the Gods vouchsafe you.” But when Death,
    Sleep’s natural brother, comes; that’s nothing worse,
    But better (being more rich--and keeps the store--
    Sleep ever fickle, wayward still, and poor);
    O how men grudge, and shake, and fear, and fly
    His stern approaches! all their comforts, taken
    In faith, and knowledge of the bliss and beauties
    That watch their wakings in an endless life,
    Drown’d in the pains and horrors of their sense
    Sustain’d but for an hour.

_His Discourse with Athenodorus on an After Life._

      _Cato._ As Nature works in all things to an end,
    So, in the appropriate honour of that end,
    All things precedent have their natural frame;
    And therefore is there a proportion
    Betwixt the ends of those things and their primes:
    For else there could not be in their creation
    Always, or for the most part, that firm form
    In their still like existence, that we see
    In each full creature. What proportion then
    Hath an immortal with a mortal substance?
    And therefore the mortality, to which
    A man is subject, rather is a sleep
    Than bestial death; since sleep and death are called
    The twins of nature. For, if absolute death,
    And bestial, seize the body of a man,
    Then there is no proportion in his parts,
    (His soul being free from death) which otherwise
    Retain divine proportion. For, as sleep
    No disproportion holds with human souls,
    But aptly quickens the proportion
    Twixt them and bodies, making bodies fitter
    To give up forms to souls, which is their end:
    So death, twin-born of sleep, resolving all
    Man’s body’s heavy parts, in lighter nature
    Makes a re-union with the sprightly soul;
    When in a second life their Beings given!
    Hold their proportions firm in highest heaven.
      _Athenodorus._ Hold you, our bodies shall revive resuming
    Our souls again to heaven?
      _Cato._ Past doubt; though others
    Think heav’n a world too high for our low reaches.
    Not knowing the sacred sense of Him that sings.
    “Jove can let down a golden chain from heaven.
    Which, tied to earth, shall fetch up earth and seas”--
    And what’s that golden chain but our pure souls
    That, govern’d with his grace and drawn by him,
    Can hoist the earthy body up to him?--
    The sea, the air, and all the elements,
    Comprest in it; not while ’tis thus concrete,
    But ’fined by death, and then giv’n heav’nly heat.
    We shall, past death,
    Retain those forms of knowledge, learn’d in life:
    Since if what here we learn we there shall lose,
    Our immortality were not life, but time:
    And that our souls in reason are immortal,
    Their natural and proper objects prove;
    Which Immortality and Knowledge are:
    For to that object ever is referr’d
    The nature of the soul, in which the acts
    Of her high faculties are still employ’d;
    And that true object must her powers obtain,
    To which they are in nature’s aim directed;
    Since ’twere absurd to have her set an object
    Which possibly she never can aspire.

_His last words._

       ---- now I am safe;
    Come, Cæsar, quickly now, or lose your vassal.
    Now wing thee, dear Soul, and receive her heaven.
    The earth, the air, and seas I know, and all
    The joys and horrors of their peace and wars;
    And now will see the Gods’ state and the stars.

_Greatness in Adversity._

    Vulcan from heav’n fell, yet on ’s feet did light,
    And stood no less a God than at his height.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From “Bussy D’Ambois,” a Tragedy, by G. Chapman, 1613.]

_Invocation for Secrecy at a Love-meeting._

      _Tamyra._ Now all the peaceful Regents of the Night,
    Silently-gliding Exhalations,
    Languishing Winds, and murmuring Falls of Waters,
    Sadness of Heart, and Ominous Secureness,
    Enchantment’s dead Sleeps; all the Friends of Rest,
    That ever wrought upon the life of man;
    Extend your utmost strengths, and this charm’d hour
    Fix like the center; make the violent wheels
    Of Time and Fortune stand; and great Existence.
    The Maker’s Treasury, now not seem to be
    To all but my approaching friend[245] and me.

_At the Meeting._

    Here’s nought but whispering with us: like a calm
    Before a tempest, when the silent air
    Lays her soft ear close to the earth, to hearken
    For that, she fears is coming to afflict her.

_Invocation for a Spirit of Intelligence._

      _D’Ambois._ I long to know
    How my dear Mistress fares, and be inform’d
    What hand she now holds on the troubled blood
    Of her incensed Lord. Methought the Spirit
    When he had utter’d his perplext presage,
    Threw his chang’d countenance headlong into clouds;
    His forehead bent, as he would hide his face:
    He knock’d his chin against his darken’d breast,
    And struck a churlish silence thro’ his powers.--
    Terror of Darkness: O thou King of Flames,
    That with thy music-footed horse dost strike
    The clear light out, of chrystal, on dark earth;
    And hurl’st instructive fire about the world:
    Wake, wake the drowsy and enchanted night,
    That sleeps with dead eyes in this heavy riddle.[246]
    Or thou, Great Prince of Shades, where never sun
    Sticks his far-darted beams; whose eyes are made
    To see in darkness, and see ever best
    Where sense is blindest: open now the heart
    Of thy abashed oracle, that, for fear
    Of some ill it includes, would fain lie hid;
    And rise Thou with it in thy greater light.[247]

_The Friar dissuades the Husband of Tamyra from revenge._

    Your wife’s offence serves not, were it the worst
    You can imagine, without greater proofs,
    To sever your eternal bonds and hearts;
    Much less to touch her with a bloody hand:
    Nor is it manly, much less husbandly,
    To expiate any frailty in your wife
    With churlish strokes or beastly odds of strength.--
    The stony birth of clouds[248] will touch no laurel,
    Nor any sleeper. Your wife is your laurel,
    And sweetest sleeper; do not touch her then:
    Be not more rude than the wild seed of vapour
    To her that is more gentle than it rude.

  C. L.

  [245] D’Ambois: with whom she has an appointment.

  [246] He wants to know the fate of Tamyra, whose intrigue with him has
  been discovered by her Husband.

  [247] This calling upon Light and Darkness for information, but, above
  all, the description of the Spirit--“Threw his chang’d countenance
  headlong into clouds”--is tremendous, to the curdling of the blood.--I
  know nothing in Poetry like it.

  [248] The thunderbolt.

       *       *       *       *       *


MAID MARIAN.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--A correspondent in your last Number[249] rather hastily asserts,
that there is no other authority than Davenport’s Tragedy for the
poisoning of Matilda by King John. It oddly enough happens, that in the
same Number[250] appears an Extract from a Play of Heywood’s, of an
older date, in two parts; in which Play, the fact of such poisoning, as
well as her identity with Maid Marian, are equally established. Michael
Drayton also hath a Legend, confirmatory (as far as poetical authority
can go) of the violent manner of her death. But neither he, nor
Davenport, confound her with Robin’s Mistress. Besides the named
authorities, old Fuller (I think) somewhere relates, as matter of
Chronicle History, that old Fitzwalter (he is called Fitzwater both in
Heywood and in Davenport) being banished after his daughter’s
murder,--some years subsequently--King John at a Tournament in France
being delighted with the valiant bearing of a combatant in the lists,
and enquiring his name, was told that it was his old faithful servant,
the banished Fitzwalter, who desired nothing more heartily than to be
reconciled to his Liege,--and an affecting reconciliation followed. In
the common collection, called Robin Hood’s Garland (I have not seen
Ritson’s), no mention is made, if I remember, of the nobility of Marian.
Is she not the daughter of plain Squire Gamwell, of old Gamwell
Hall?--Sorry that I cannot gratify the curiosity of your “disembodied
spirit,” (who, as such, is methinks sufficiently “veiled” from our
notice) with more authentic testimonies, I rest,

  Your humble Abstracter,

  C. L.

  [249] Vol. i. p. 803.

  [250] Ibid. p. 799.

       *       *       *       *       *


RIVAL ITALIAN DRAMATISTS.

The Venetian stage had long been in possession of Goldoni, a dramatic
poet, who, by introducing bustle and show into his pieces, and writing
principally to the level of the gondoliers, arrived to the first degree
of popularity in Venice. He had a rival in Pietro Chiari, whom the best
critics thought even inferior to Goldoni; but such an epidemic frenzy
seized the Venetians in favour of these two authors, that it quickly
spread to almost all parts of Italy, to the detriment of better authors,
and the derangement of the public taste. This _dramatic mania_ was
arrested by Carlo Gozzi, a younger brother of a noble family, who
attacked Goldoni and Chiari, and others soon followed him. On this
occasion the two bards suspended their mutual animosity, and joined to
oppose their adversaries. Chiari was a great _prose scribbler_, as well
as a _comedy-monger_, so that a warm paper war was soon commenced, which
grew hotter and hotter rapidly.

It happened one day that Gozzi met with Goldoni in a bookseller’s shop.
They exchanged sharp words, and in the heat of altercation Goldoni told
Gozzi, “that though it was an easy task to find fault with a play, it
was very difficult to write one.” Gozzi acknowledged “that to find fault
with a play was really very easy, but that it was still easier to write
such plays as would please so thoughtless a nation as the Venetians;”
adding, with a tone of contempt, “that he had a good mind to make all
Venice run to see the tale of the Three Oranges formed into a comedy.”
Goldoni, with some of his partisans in the shop, challenged Gozzi to do
it; and the critic, thus piqued, engaged to produce such a comedy within
a few weeks.

To this trifling and casual dispute Italy owed the greatest dramatic
writer it ever had. Gozzi quickly wrote a comedy in five acts, entitled
“I Tre Aranci,” or “The Three Oranges;” formed out of an old woman’s
story with which the Venetian children are entertained by their nurses.
The comedy was acted, and three beautiful princesses, born of three
enchanted oranges, made all Venice crowd to the theatre of St. Angelo.

In this play Goldoni and Chiari were not spared. Gozzi introduced in it
many of their theatrical absurdities. The Venetian audiences, like the
rest of the world, do not much relish the labour of finding out the
truth; but once point it out, and they will instantly seize it. This
was remarkable on the first night that the comedy of the “Three
Oranges” was acted. The fickle Venetians, forgetting the loud
acclamations with which they had received Goldoni’s and Chiari’s plays,
laughed obstreperously at them and their comedies, and bestowed frantic
applause on Gozzi and the “Three Oranges.”

This success encouraged Gozzi to write more; and in a little time his
plays so entirely changed the Venetian taste, that in about two seasons
Goldoni was stripped of his theatrical honours, and poor Chiari
annihilated. Goldoni quitted Italy, and went to France, where Voltaire’s
interest procured him the place of Italian master to one of the
princesses at Versailles; and Chiari retired to a country house in the
neighbourhood of Brescia.

       *       *       *       *       *


NATURAL CURIOSITIES OF DERBYSHIRE.


EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF A TOURIST.

_For the Table Book._

  _Buxton, May 27, 1827._

*     *     *   I was so fortunate as to meet at the inn (the
Shakspeare) at Buxton with two very agreeable companions, with whom I
dined. The elder was a native of the place, and seemed well acquainted
with all the natural curiosities at Buxton, and in the county of Derby.
The name of the other was H----, of a highly respectable firm in London,
sojourning at the Wells for the benefit of a sprained leg. He
accompanied me on the following morning to visit an immense natural
cavern, called Pool’s Hole, from a freebooter of that name having once
made it his place of abode. It is situated at the foot of a steep hill,
the entrance low and narrow: it is 696 feet in length, penetrating into
the bosom of the mountain, and varying in height from six to fifty or
sixty feet. Our guides were two old women, who furnished us with lights.
There is in it an incessant dripping of water, crystallizing as it
falls, forming a great variety of grotesque and fanciful figures, more
resembling inverted gothic pinnacles than any thing else I could
imagine: it was with great difficulty that we could break some fragments
off; they are termed by naturalists stalactites. A scene so novel and
imposing as the interior of this gloomy cave presented, with its huge
blocks of rocks irregularly piled upon each other, their shapes but
indistinctly visible from the glare of the torches, was of that kind as
to leave an indelible impression on my mind. It has many very large and
curious recesses within; one of which is called Pool’s chamber, another
his closet, and a third his shelf. The continual falling of the water
from the insterstices in the roof upon the rocks beneath, causes holes
on them, which are not formed by the friction of the water itself, but
by its gradual crystallization immediately around the spots whereon it
drips. The utmost extent that can be reached by a human foot is called
Mary Queen of Scot’s Pillar; from that point it becomes dangerous and
impassable.

After dinner we made a short excursion along the banks of the river Wye,
called Wye-dale; a walk, which from the grandeur of the scenery, and its
novelty, (for I had never before seen any of the Peak scenery,) will be
long imprinted in vivid colours on my recollection. In some parts the
river flowed smoothly along, but in others its motion was rapid,
impetuous, and turbulent: huge fragments of rock, disunited from the
impending crags, divided the stream into innumerable eddies; the water
bubbled and foamed around, forming miniature cataracts, and bestowing
life and animation to the otherwise quiet scene. On either side, the
rocks rose to a great height in every diversity of shape; some spiral,
or like the shattered walls or decayed bastions of ruined or demolished
fortresses; others bluff, or like the towers of citadels; all covered
with a variety of coarse vegetation, among which the stunted yew was the
most conspicuous; its dark foliage hanging over the projecting
eminences, gave an expressive character to surrounding objects. A few
water-mills, built of rough unhewn limestone, presented themselves as we
followed the windings of the stream, having a deserted and silent
appearance.

It appeared to me probable, that the now insignificant little stream
was, in by-gone distant ages, a mighty river; the great depth of the
valley, excavated through the rocks, could scarcely have been caused but
by the irresistible force of water. The lesser vales diverging from it
in some parts, favour the conjecture that they had been formerly some of
its tributary streams: in one of these, which we had the curiosity to
ascend, we observed a small rill. After a slippery ascent on the rough
stones of which its bed was formed, we reached a mineral spring, issuing
from a fissure in the rock, and depositing a greenish copperas-like
sediment at the bottom; we found some beautiful specimens of mosses and
lichens.

I inquired of a passing peasant what fish the Wye could boast of. “_Wee_
(Wye) fish to be sure,” said he: by which I understood him to mean, that
there was in it only one species of the finny race of any consequence,
and that trout.

It was late before we gained our inn; we had walked upwards of six miles
in that deep and romantic dale.

28th. This morning I enjoyed a beautiful ride to Tideswell, along the
banks of the Wye, about seven miles. The road wound up the sides of
lofty hills, in some parts commanding views of the river flowing in the
vale beneath; not so high however, but that the murmur of its waters,
mellowed by the distance, might be heard by the traveller. Tideswell
possesses a handsome church; from the steeple arise four gothic spires.

29th. Went forward to Castleton, down the hills called the Wynyats, by
the Sparrow Pit mountain; the ride took me over some of the wild and
barren hills which surround Buxton on every side. The immediate descent
to Castleton is from a steep mountain more than a mile in length, and is
only to be effected by a road formed in a zigzag direction. A fine view
of the rich vale beneath presents itself from this road, having the
appearance of a vast amphitheatre, for nothing is to be seen on any side
but mountains; it is of great fertility. The most remarkable mountain is
Mam-Tor; its height is 1301 feet. One of them I learnt was called the
“Shivering” Mountain; the reason for which being, that after severe
frosts, or in heavy gales, large quantities of earth separate from one
side of it, which is nearly perpendicular. At the foot of Mam-Tor there
is a lead mine, called Odin; from whence is procured the famous fluor
spar, of which so many articles of utility and ornament are made.
Castleton is by no means a handsome town; it has narrow dirty streets,
and a deplorably rough pavement. The objects worthy of notice near it
are, a celebrated cavern, called Peak’s Hole, and a venerable ruined
castle, situated on the rock immediately above it. It was built by
William Peveril, to whom the manor of Castleton was granted by William
the Conqueror.

On the path leading to the cavern, a streamlet is followed, which issues
from that extraordinary wonder of nature; the approach is grand and
striking; the perpendicular cliffs above are solemnly majestic--their
height is about 250 feet. The arch of the first and largest chamber in
this cavern is stupendously broad in its span. The top of the mountain
along the edges is fringed with a number of fine elms, wherein there is
perched a rookery, a singular situation of the noisy tribe: lower down
are innumerable jackdaws, which build in the ledges of the rocks.

The span of the grand arch is 180 feet; the length of the first cave 220
feet. A number of labourers in it are employed at rope walks, making
twine, &c. From the roof hang immense spiral masses of petrified water,
or stalactites. The entrance to the interior is through a small door at
the further end: the visiter is there directed to stop and gaze at the
arch of the first cavern; this is a most striking object; the very livid
colour of the light admitted, with the bluish-white reflection upon the
surrounding rocks, reminded me forcibly of the descriptions of the
infernal regions by Virgil, Milton, and other poets. Torches are here
put into your hands: the passage is narrow and low, and you reach an
immense hollow above you in the roof, called the Bell House, from its
resemblance to that form; the same stream is then seen which was
followed on your approach; on it is a small shallop. I was directed to
extend myself along its bottom with the guide, on account of the rock
being in this place but fourteen inches from the surface of the water,
which in depth is only four feet. I was then landed in a cavern more
stupendous than the first; the whole of it was surrounded with a number
of rugged rocks of limestone, which seemed to have been tossed and
heaped together by some violent convulsion of nature, or by the
impetuosity of the water that swells to a great height after heavy and
continued rains. This is called Pluto’s Hall; and when a distant
gallery, formed by a ledge of rocks, was illumined by the light of some
dozen of candles, the effect was the most imposing of the kind I ever
witnessed. There is a continual dropping of water; and after passing a
ford, I reached what is called “Roger _Rain’s_” House, from its always
dripping there. A little further on is a place called the Devil’s Wine
Cellar, from which is a descent of 150 feet; it becomes terrific in the
extreme: immense arches throw their gloomy and gigantic spans above; and
the abyss on one side, which it is impossible for the vision to
penetrate to the bottom, adds to the intensity of the horror. This
wonderful subterraneous mansion is 2250 feet in length.

30th. At Bakewell, one of the pleasantest of the small towns in England,
there is an excellent hotel, called the Rutland Arms, belonging to the
Rutland family, and under its patronage. The church is situated on a
rising ground. There is a neat stone bridge over the river Wye, and the
silvery stream winds the adjoining vale. The view from the church-yard
is enchanting. The two rivers, the Wye and Derwent, form a junction at
some little distance, and beyond are wood-tufted hills sloping their
gentle elevations. Haddon Hall, one of the finest and most perfect of
the ancient baronial residences in the kingdom, is seen embosomed in the
deep woods.

Bakewell is celebrated as a fishing station. The fine estates of the
Devonshire and Rutland families join near it.

In the church-yard I copied, from the tomb of one who had been rather a
licentious personage, the following curious


_Epitaph._

“Know posterity, that on the 8th of April, 1737, the rambling remains of
John Dale were, in the 86th year of his age, laid upon his two wives.

    “This thing in life might raise some jealousy,
    Here all three lie together lovingly;
    But from embraces here no pleasure flows,
    Alike are here all human joys and woes.
    Here Sarah’s chiding John no longer hears,
    And old John’s rambling, Sarah no more fears;
    A period’s come to all their toilsome lives,
    The good man’s quiet--still are both his wives.”


_Another._

    “The vocal powers here let us mark
    Of Philip, our late parish clerk;
    In church none ever heard a layman
    With a clearer voice say Amen:
    Who now with hallelujah’s sound
    Like him can make the roofs rebound?
    --The choir lament his choral tones
    The town so soon--here lie his bones.”

  E. J. H.

  _June, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


BRIBERY.

Charles V. sent over 400,000 crowns, to be distributed among the members
of parliament, in bribes and pensions, to induce them to confirm a
marriage between Mary and his son Philip. This was the first instance in
which public bribery was exercised in England by a foreign power.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ~The Retired Husbandman.~]

This is a sketch from nature--“a repose”--an aged man enjoying the good
that remains to him, yet ready for his last summons: his thoughts, at
this moment, are upon the little girl that fondles on him--one of his
grandaughters. The annals of his life are short and simple. “Born to
labour as the sparks fly upward,” he discharged the obligation of his
existence, and by the work of his hands endowed himself with
independence. He is contented and grateful; and filled with hope and
desire, that, after he shall be gathered to his fathers, there may be
many long years of happiness in store for his children and their
offspring. His days have passed in innocence and peace, and he prays for
peace to the innocent. His final inclination is towards the place of his
rest.

  *

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


A DIALOGUE BETWEEN VIRTUE AND DEATH,

  ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES PEMBERTON, KNIGHT, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE
  THE 8TH OF SEPTEMBER, 1613.

He was lord mayor of London in the reign of James I., and was a great
benefactor to several charities.

    _Vertue._ What Vertue challengeth, is but her right.
    _Death._ What Death layes claime to who can contradict?
    _Ver._ Vertue, whose power exceeds all other might.
    _Dea._ Wher’s Vertue’s power when Death makes all submit?
    _Ver._ I gave him life and therefore he is mine.
    _Dea._ That life he held no longer than I list.
    _Ver._ I made him more than mortall, neere diuine;
    _Dea._ How hapt he could not then Death’s stroke resist?
    _Ver._ Because (by nature) all are born to dye.
    _Dea._ Then thyne own tongue yeelds Death the victory.
    _Ver._ No, Death, thou art deceiued, thy enuious stroke
                Hath giuen him life immortal ’gainst thy will:
    _Dea._ What life can be, but vanished as smoake?
    _Ver._ A life that all thy darts can never kill.
    _Dea._ Haue I not locked his body in my graue?
    _Ver._ That was but dust, and that I pray thee keepe.
    _Dea._ That is as much as I desire to haue,
                His comely shape in my eternal sleepe.
    _Ver._ But wher’s his honorable life, renowne, and fame?
    _Dea._ They are but breath, them I resign to thee.
    _Ver._ Them I most couet.
    _Dea._ ------------ I prefer my claim,
                His body mine.
    _Ver._ ------------ mine his eternity.

     “And so they ceast, Death triumphs o’er his graue,
      Virtue o’er that which death can never haue.”

  H****t.

  _London, June 12, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


ANCIENT DIAL.

_For the Table Book._

The dial in use among the ancient Jews differed from that in use among
us. Theirs was a kind of stairs; the time of the day was distinguished,
not by _lines_, but by _steps_ or _degrees_; the shade of the sun every
hour moved forward to a new _degree_. On the dial of Ahaz, the sun went
back (magnoloth) _degrees_ or _steps_, not _lines_.--_Isai._ xxxviii. 8.

  P.

       *       *       *       *       *


PETER HERVE.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--Having had the happiness and honour of holding correspondence with
that most benevolent man, Mr. Peter Hervé, whose death I deeply deplore,
I shall feel myself relieved from a debt due to his memory, if you will
allow me, through the medium of your valuable publication, to express my
hope that he was not, in the time of need, forgotten by that society of
which he was the honoured founder. His last letter told me he was ill
and in distress; and had been advised to try the air of the south of
France, with scarcely any means of pursuing his journey but by the sale
of his drawings. My own inability to serve him made me hesitate; and I
am shocked to say, his letter was not answered. I am sorry, but
repentance will not come too late, if this hint will have any weight
towards procuring for his amiable widow, from that admirable
institution, a genteel, if not an ample independence: for certain I am,
that he could not have made choice of any one who had not a heart
generous as his own.

  I am, &c.

  F. S. Jun.

  _Stamford, June 24, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


CABALISTIC ERUDITION.

Nothing can exceed the followers of cabalistical mysteries, in point of
fantastical conceits. The learned Godwin recounts some of them.
“Abraham,” they say, “wept but _little_ for Sarah, probably because she
was old.” They prove this by producing the letter “Caph,” which being a
remarkably _small_ letter, and being made use of in the Hebrew word
which describes Abraham’s tears, evinces, they affirm, that his grief
also was _small_.

The Cabalists discovered likewise, that in the two Hebrew words,
signifying “man” and “woman,” are contained two letters, which,
together, form one of the names of “God;” but if these letters be taken
away, there remain letters which signify “fire.” “Hence,” argue the
Cabalists, “we may find that when man and wife agree together, and live
in union, God is with them, but when they separate themselves from God,
fire attends their footsteps.” Such are the whimsical dogmas of the
Jewish Cabala.

       *       *       *       *       *


OFFERINGS TO INFANTS.

_To the Editor._

  _Edgeley, near Stockport._

Sir,--I am anxious to notice a custom I have observed in Yorkshire,
relative to very young infants, which I think it would be desirable to
keep alive. I know that it is partially practised now, in that county,
in the neighbourhood of Wakefield. The custom I allude to is, the making
an offering to new-born infants on the occasion of their making their
first visit abroad, by the person who is honoured with it, of a cake of
bread, an egg, and a small quantity of salt. Special care is taken that
the young pilgrim in life makes its first visit to the house of a near
relative, or an esteemed friend, who will in nowise omit a ceremony so
necessary to its future welfare. For it is believed if this be not done,
that in its progress through life it will be exposed to the miseries of
want; and by parity of reason, the due observance of it will insure a
continual supply of those necessaries, of which the offering at setting
out in life presents so happy an omen. I know not whence or where this
custom originated, nor how extensively it may be still practised; but if
its origin be utterly unknown, we are, according to the usage of the
world in all such cases, bound the more to observe and reverence it.
There are many ancient customs, upon which the hand of Time has set his
seal, “more honoured in the breach than the observance;” but, I think,
you will agree with me, that this, from its air of social humanity, is
not of that class. Perhaps you can give it further elucidation. I
believe it to be of the most remote antiquity, and to have been amongst
the oldest nations.

  I am, &c.

  MILO.

       *       *       *       *       *

The only immediate illustration of the preceding custom that occurs, is
Hutchinson’s mention of it in his History of Northumberland; in which
county, also, infants, when first sent abroad in the arms of the nurse
to visit a neighbour, are presented with an egg, salt, and bread. He
observes, that “the egg was a sacred emblem, and seems a gift well
adapted to infancy.” Mr. Bryant says, “An egg, containing in it the
elements of life, was thought no improper emblem of the ark, in which
were preserved the rudiments of the future world: hence, in the
Dionusiaca, and in other mysteries one part of the nocturnal ceremony
consisted in the consecration of an egg. By this, as we are informed by
Porphyry, was signified the world. It seems to have been a favourite
symbol, and very ancient, and we find it adopted among many nations. It
was said by the Persians of Orosmasdes, that he formed mankind and
enclosed them in an egg. Cakes and salt were used in religious rites by
the ancients. The Jews probably adopted their appropriation from the
Egyptians:--‘And if thou bring an oblation of a meat-offering baken in
the oven, it shall be unleavened cakes of fine flour,’ &c. (Levit. ii.
4.) ‘With all thine offerings thou shalt offer salt.’” (Ibid, ii. 13.)

It is also customary in Northumberland for the midwife, &c. to provide
two slices, one of bread and the other of cheese, which are presented to
the first person they meet in the procession to church at the
christening. The person who receives this homely present must give the
child in return “three” different things, wishing it at the same time
health and beauty. A gentleman happening once to fall in the way of such
a party, and to receive the above present, was at a loss how to make the
triple return, till he bethought himself of laying upon the child which
was held out to him, a shilling, a halfpenny, and a pinch of snuff. When
they meet more than one person together, it is usual to single out the
nearest to the woman that carries the child.

Cowel says, it was a good old custom for God-fathers and God-mothers,
every time their God-children asked them blessing, to give them a cake,
which was a God’s-kichell: it is still a proverbial saying in some
countries, “Ask me a blessing, and I will give you some plum-cake.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Among superstitions relating to children, the following is related by
Bingham, on St. Austin: “If when two friends are talking together, a
stone, or a dog, or a child, happens to come between them, they tread
the stone to pieces as the divider of their friendship; and this is
tolerable in comparison of beating an innocent child that comes between
them. But it is more pleasant that sometimes the children’s quarrel is
revenged by the dogs: for many times they are so superstitious as to
dare to beat the dog that comes between them, who, turning again upon
him that smites him, sends him from seeking a vain remedy, to seek a
real physician.” Brand, who cites these passages, adduces the following


CHRISTENING CUSTOMS.

Dr. Moresin was an eye-witness to the following usages in Scotland. They
take, on their return from church, the newly-baptized infant, and
vibrate it three or four times gently over a flame, saying, and
repeating it thrice, “Let the flame consume thee now or never.”

Martin relates, that in the Western Islands, the same lustration, by
carrying of fire, is performed round about lying-in women, and round
about children _before they are christened_, as an effectual means to
preserve both the mother and infant from the power of evil spirits. This
practice is similar to an ancient feast at Athens, kept by private
families, called Amphidromia, on the fifth day after the birth of the
child, when it was the custom for the gossips to run round the fire with
the infant in their arms, and then, having delivered it to the nurse,
they were entertained with feasting and dancing.

There is a superstition that a child who does not cry when sprinkled in
baptism will not live.

Among the ancient Irish, the mother, at the birth of a man child, put
the first meat into her infant’s mouth upon the point of her husband’s
sword, with wishes that it might die no otherwise than in war, or by
sword. Pennant says, that in the Highlands, midwives give new-born babes
a small spoonful of earth and whisky, as the first food they take.

Giraldus Cambrensis relates, that “at the baptizing of the infants of
the wild Irish, their manner was not to dip their right arms into the
water, that so as they thought they might give a more deep and incurable
blow.” Mr. Brand deems this a proof that the whole body of the child was
anciently commonly immersed in the baptismal font.

In 1795 the minister of the parishes of South Ronaldsay and Burray, two
of the Orkney islands, describing the manners of the inhabitants, says:
“Within these last seven years, the minister has been twice interrupted
in administering baptism to a female child, _before the male child_, who
was baptized immediately after. When the service was over, he was
gravely told he had done very wrong; for, as the female child was first
baptized, she would, on her coming to the years of discretion, most
certainly have a strong beard, and the boy would have none.”

The minister of Logierait, in Perthshire, describing the superstitious
opinions and practices in that parish, says: “When a child was baptized
privately, it was, not long since, customary to put the child upon a
clean basket, having a cloth previously spread over it, with bread and
cheese put into the cloth; and thus to move the basket three times
successively round the iron crook, which hangs over the fire, from the
roof of the house, for the purpose of supporting the pots when water is
boiled, or victuals are prepared. This” he imagines, “might be anciently
intended to counteract the malignant arts which witches and evil spirits
were imagined to practise against new-born infants.”

It is a vulgar notion, that children, prematurely wise, are not
long-lived, and rarely reach maturity. Shakspeare puts this superstition
into the mouth of Richard the Third.

Bulwer mentions a tradition concerning children born open-handed, that
they will prove of a bountiful disposition and frank-handed. A character
in one of Dekker’s plays says, “I am the most wretched fellow: sure some
_left-handed_ priest christened me, I am so unlucky.”

The following charms for infancy are derived from Herrick:

    “Bring the holy crust of bread,
    Lay it underneath the head;
    ’Tis a certain charm to keep
    Hags away while children sleep.”

           *       *       *       *       *

    “Let the superstitious wife
    Neer the child’s heart lay a knife;
    Point be up, and haft be down,
    (While she gossips in the towne;)
    This, ’mongst other mystick charms,
    Keeps the sleeping child from harmes.”

       *       *       *       *       *


BUNYAN’S HOLY WAR DRAMATISED.

A very beautiful manuscript was once put into the hands of one of Dr.
Aikin’s correspondents by a provincial bookseller, to whom it had been
offered for publication. It consisted of two tragedies upon the subject
of John Bunyan’s Holy War: they were the _composition_ of a lady, who
had fitted together scraps from Shakspeare, Milton, Young’s Night
Thoughts, and Erskine’s Gospel Sonnets, into the dramatic form, with no
other liberty than that of occasionally altering a name. The lady
Constance, for instance, was converted into lady Conscience: the whole
speeches and scenes were thus introduced in a wholesale sort of cento.
The ghost in Hamlet also did for a Conscience.[251]

  [251] Athenæum.

       *       *       *       *       *


GENTLEMEN OF THE PARISH.

Look up at the inscription on that venerable church defaced with
plaster; what does it record? “_Beautified_ by Samuel Smear and Daniel
Daub, churchwardens.” And so these honest gentlemen call disguising that
fine, old, stone building, with a thick coat of lime and hair, or
whitewash, _beautifying_ it!

What is the history of all this? Why the plain matter-of-fact is, that
every parish officer thinks he has a right to make a round bill on the
hamlet, during his year of power. An apothecary in office physics the
poor. A glazier, first in cleaning, breaks the church-windows, and
afterwards brings in a long bill for mending them. A painter repairs the
commandments, puts new coats on Moses and Aaron, gilds the organ pipes,
and dresses the little cherubim about the loft, as fine as vermilion,
Prussian blue, and Dutch gold can make them. The late churchwardens
chanced to be a silversmith and a woollen-draper; the silversmith new
fashioned the communion plate, and the draper new clothed the pulpit,
and put fresh curtains to the windows. All this might be done with some
shadow of modesty, but to insult the good sense of every beholder with
their _beautified_! Shame on them!

Dr. Burney tells of some parish officers, that they applied to Snetzler
(a celebrated organ-builder) to examine their organ, and to make
improvements on it--“Gentlemen,” said the honest Swiss, “your organ be
wort von hondred pound, just now--well--I will spend von hondred pound
upon it, and it shall then be wort fifty.”

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


THE ANGLER.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

    Das Wasser rauscht’, das Wasser schwoll, &c.

    There was a gentle angler who was angling in the sea,
    With heart as cool as only heart untaught of love can be;
    When suddenly the water rush’d, and swell’d, and up there sprung
    A humid maid of beauty’s mould--and thus to him she sung:

    “Why dost thou strive so artfully to lure my brood away,
    And leave them then to die beneath the sun’s all-scorching ray?
    Couldst thou but tell how happy are the fish that swim below,
    Thou wouldst with me, and taste of joy which earth can never know.

    “Do not Sol and Diana both more lovely far appear
    When they have dipp’d in Ocean’s wave their golden, silvery hair?
    And is there no attraction in this heaven-expanse of blue,
    Nor in thine image mirror’d in this everlasting dew?”

    The water rush’d, the water swell’d, and touch’d his naked feet,
    And fancy whisper’d to his heart it was a love-pledge sweet;
    She sung another siren lay more ’witching than before,
    Half pull’d--half plunging--down he sunk, and ne’er was heard of
        more.

  R. W. D.

       *       *       *       *       *


CLOSING THE EYES.

_For the Table Book._


A GIPSY’S FUNERAL.

EPPING FOREST.

It was considered a mark of the strongest affection by the ancients,
that a son, when his father was dying, should lean over him and receive
his last gasp,

    “and kiss his spirit into happy rest.”

The Jews, Greeks, and Romans, esteemed it a high privilege for the
nearest relative to close the eyes of the deceased body; as in Genesis,
when Jacob’s sun was setting, “_Joseph_ shall put his hands upon thine
eyes.” And in another place,--“The memory of the father is preserved in
_the son_.” Again, (contra) “I have _no son_ to keep my name in
remembrance.” And in Homer, “Let not the _glory_ of his eyes depart,
without the _tender hand_ to move it silently to peace.” Ovid says,
“Ille _meos oculos_ comprimat, ille tuos.” The performing this ceremony
was so valued, that to die without friends to the due observance of this
affectionate and last testimony, was thought an irreparable affliction.

The sudden death of a man was attributed to Apollo; of a woman, to
Diana. If any relation were present, a vessel of brass was procured, and
beaten loudly in the ears of the deceased to determine the point. The
ringing of bells by the Romans, and others to this day is practised. The
Irish wake partakes also of this usage. When the moon was in eclipse,
she was thought asleep, and bells were rung to wake her: the eclipse
having past, and the moon recovered her light, faith in this noisy
custom became strengthened. Euripides says, when Hyppolitus was dying,
he called on his father to close his eyes, cover his face with a cloth,
and put a shroud over the corpse. Cassandra, desirous of proving the
Trojan cause better than that of the Greeks, eulogizes their happy
condition in dying at home, where the obsequies might be performed for
them by their nearest relatives. Medea tells her children she once hoped
they would have performed the duty for her, but she must do it for them.
If a father, or the mother died a widow, the children attended to it: if
the husband died, the wife performed it; which the Greeks lamented could
not be done if they died at Troy. The duty devolved on the sister if her
brother died; which caused Orestes to exclaim, when he was to suffer
death so far from his home--“Alas! how shall my _sister_ shroud me
now?”

Last month I was gratified by observing the funereal attentions of the
gipsy tribes to _Cooper_, then lying in state on a common, near Epping
forest. The corpse lay in a tent clothed with white linen; candles were
lighted over the body, on which forest flowers and blossoms of the
season were strewn and hung in posies. Cooper’s wife, dressed in black,
perceiving I did not wish to see the face of her husband, said in
perfect naïveté, “Oh, sir, don’t fear to look at him, I never saw his
countenance so _pleasant_ in all my life.” A wit might have construed
this sentence otherwise; but too much kindness emanated from this scene
of rustic association to admit of levity. Her partner was cold, and her
heart beat the pulsations of widowhood. The picture would have caught an
artist’s eye. The gipsy-friends and relations sat mutely in the
adjoining tents; and, like Job and his comforters, absorbed their grief
in the silence of the summer air and their breasts. When Cooper was put
in his coffin, the same feeling of attachment pervaded the scene. A
train of several pairs, suitably clothed, followed their friend to the
grave, and he was buried at the neighbouring church in quiet solemnity.

In addition to this, I transcribe a notice from a MS. journal, kept by a
member of my family, 1769, which confirms the custom above alluded to.
“Here was just buried in the church, (Tring,) the sister of the queen of
the gipsies, to whom it is designed by her husband, to erect a monument
to her memory of 20_l._ price. He is going to be married to the queen
(sister to the deceased.) He offered 20_l._ to the clergyman to marry
him directly; but he had not been in the town a month, so could not be
married till that time. When this takes place, an entertainment will be
made, and 20_l._ or 30_l._ spent. Just above esquire Gore’s park these
_destiny readers_ have a camp, at which place the woman died;
immediately after which, the survivors took all her wearing apparel and
burnt them, including silk gowns, rich laces, silver buckles, gold
earrings, trinkets, &c.,--for such is their custom.”

  J. R. P.

  _June, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


LITERARY INGENUITY.

    Odo tenet mulum, madidam mappam tenet anna.

The above line is said, in an old book, to have “cost the inventor much
foolish labour, for it is a perfect verse, and every word is the very
same both backward and forward.”

       *       *       *       *       *


ST. JAMES’S PARK.

    ’Twas June, and many a gossip wench,
      Child-freighted, trod the central Mall;
    I gain’d a white unpeopled bench,
      And gazed upon the long canal.
    Beside me soon, in motley talk,
      Boys, nursemaids sat, a varying race;
    At length two females cross’d the walk,
      And occupied the vacant space.

    In years they seem’d some forty-four,
      Of dwarfish stature, vulgar mien;
    A bonnet of black silk each wore,
      And each a gown of bombasin;
    And, while in loud and careless tones
      They dwelt upon their own concerns,
    Ere long I learn’d that Mrs. Jones
      Was one, and one was Mrs. Burns.

    They talk’d of little Jane and John,
      And hoped they’d come before ’twas dark;
    Then wonder’d why with pattens on
      One might not walk across the park:
    They call’d it far to Camden-town,
      Yet hoped to reach it by and by;
    And thought it strange, since flour was down,
      That bread should still continue high.

    They said last Monday’s heavy gales
      Had done a monstrous deal of ill;
    Then tried to count the iron rails
      That wound up Constitution-hill;
    This larum sedulous to shun,
      I don’d my gloves, to march away,
    When, as I gazed upon the one,
      “Good heavens!” I cried, “’tis Nancy Gray.”

    ’Twas Nancy, whom I led along
      The whiten’d and elastic floor,
    Amid mirth’s merry dancing throng,
      Just two and twenty years before.
    Though sadly alter’d, I knew her,
      While she, ’twas obvious, knew me not;
    But mildly said, “Good evening, sir,”
      And with her comrade left the spot.

    “Is this,” I cried, in grief profound,
      “The fair with whom, eclipsing all,
    I traversed Ranelagh’s bright round,
      Or trod the mazes of Vauxhall?
    And is this all that Time can do?
      Has Nature nothing else in store;
    Is this of lovely twenty-two,
      All that remains at forty-four?

    “Could _I_ to such a helpmate cling?
      Were such a wedded dowdy mine,
    On yonder lamp-post would I swing,
      Or plunge in yonder Serpentine!”
    I left the park with eyes askance,
      But, ere I enter’d Cleveland-row,
    Rude Reason thus threw in her lance,
      And dealt self-love a mortal blow.

    “Time, at whose touch all mortals bow,
      From either sex his prey secures,
    His scythe, while wounding Nancy’s brow,
      Can scarce have smoothly swept o’er yours;
    By her you plainly were not known;
      Then, while you mourn the alter’d hue
    Of Nancy’s face, suspect your own
      May be a _little_ alter’d too.”

  _New Monthly Magazine._

       *       *       *       *       *


ON CHANGE.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--We know that every thing in this world changes in the course of a
few years; but what I am about to communicate to you is a change
indeed.--“I’ve been roaming;” and in my city rounds I find the present
residence and profession of the undernamed parties to be as follows:

  ADAM is now an orange-merchant in Lower Thames-street; and a
  counseller in Old-square, Lincoln’s-inn.

  EVE is a stove-grate manufacturer in Ludgate-hill; and a
  sheep-salesman at 41, West Smithfield.

  CAIN is a builder at 22, Prince’s-row, Pimlico; and a surgeon, 154,
  Whitechapel-road.

  ABEL is a dealer in china at 4, Crown-street, Soho; and a glover at
  153, St. John-street-road.

  MOSES is a slopseller at 4, James-place, Aldgate; and a
  clothes-salesman in Sparrow-corner, Minories.

  AARON is a pawnbroker in Houndsditch, No. 129; and an oilman at
  Aldgate.

  ABRAHAM keeps a childbed-linen-warehouse at 53, Houndsditch; and is a
  special pleader in Pump-court, in the Temple.

  BENJAMIN is a fishmonger at 5, Duke’s-place.

  MORDECAI keeps a clothes-shop near Shoreditch church.

  ABSALOM is a tailor at No. 9, Bridge-road, Lambeth.

  PETER is a cotton-dyer in Brick-lane.

  I am, &c.,

  SAM SAM’S SON.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Anonymiana.~


THE JEWS-HARP.

The Jews-trump, or, as it is more generally pronounced, the Jew-trump,
seems to take its name from the nation of the Jews, and is vulgarly
believed to be one of their instruments of music. Dr. Littleton renders
Jews-trump by _sistrum Judaicum_. But there is not any such musical
instrument as this described by the authors that treat of the Jewish
music. In short, this instrument is a mere boy’s plaything, and
incapable of itself of being joined either with a voice or any other
instrument. The present orthography seems to be a corruption of the
French, _jeu-trump_, a trump to play with: and in the Belgick, or
Low-Dutch, from whence come many of our toys, a _tromp_ is a rattle for
children. Sometimes they will call it a _Jews-harp_; and another etymon
given of it is _Jaws-harp_, because the place where it is played upon is
between the jaws. It is an instrument used in St. Kilda. (Martin, p.
73.)


QUID PRO QUO.

“Give you a Rowland for an Oliver.” This is reckoned a proverb of late
standing, being commonly referred to Oliver Cromwell, as if he were the
Oliver here intended: but it is of greater antiquity than the protector;
for it is met with in Hall’s Chronicle, in the reign of Edward IV. In
short, Rolland and Oliver were two of Charlemagne’s peers. (See Ames’s
Hist. of Printing, p. 47, and Ariosto.) Rolando and Orlando are the same
name; Turpin calling him Roland, and Ariosto Rolando.


FATHER AND SON.

“Happy is the son whose father is gone to the devil,” is an old saying.
It is not grounded on the supposition, that such a father by his
iniquitous dealings must have accumulated wealth; but is a satirical
hint on the times when popery prevailed here so much, that the priests
and monks had engrossed the three professions of law, physic, and
divinity; when, therefore, by the procurement either of the confessor,
the physician, or the lawyer, a good part of the father’s effects were
pretty sure to go to the church; and when, if nothing of that kind
happened, these agents were certain to defame him, and adjudge that such
a man must undoubtedly be damned.


LIVING WELL.

“If you would live well for a week, kill a hog; if you would live well
for a month, marry; if you would live well all your life, turn priest.”
This is an old proverb; but by turning priest is not barely meant
becoming an ecclesiastic, but it alludes to the celibacy of the Romish
clergy, and is as much as to say, do not marry at all.


COUNTRY DANCES.

The term “country dance” is a corruption of the French _contre danse_,
by which they mean that which we call a country-dance, or a dance by
many persons placed opposite one to another: it is not from _contrée_,
but _contre_.


THE VINE.

The Romans had so much concern with the vine and its fruit, that there
are more terms belonging to it, and its parts, its culture, products,
and other appurtenances, than to any other tree:--

_Vitis_, the tree; _palmes_, the branch; _pampinus_, the leaf;
_racemus_, a bunch of grapes; _uva_, the grape; _capreolus_, a tendril;
_vindemia_, the vintage; _vinum_, wine _acinus_, the grape-stone.


POSTHUMOUS HONOUR.

Joshua Barnes, the famous Greek professor of Cambridge, was remarkable
for a very extensive memory; but his judgment was not exact: and when he
died, one wrote for him this

_Epitaph._

    Hic jacet Joshua Barnes,
      felicissimæ memoriæ,
        expectans judicium.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE KING’S ARMS.

When Charles II. was going home one night drunk, and leaning upon the
shoulders of Sedley and Rochester, one of them asked him what he
imagined his subjects would think if they could behold him in that
pickle.--“Think!” said the king, “that I am my arms, supported by two
beasts.”




Vol. II.--29.


[Illustration: ~Keston Cross.~

Com. Kent, 13 miles from London, 3 from Bromley.--_Itinerary._]

When I designed with my friend W. a visit to the Dulwich gallery, which
we did not effect, we did not foresee the consequence of diversion from
our intent; and having been put out of our way, we strolled without
considering “the end thereof.” Hence, our peradventure at the “Crooked
Billet,” on Penge Common;[252] our loitering to sketch the “Bridge on
the Road to Beckenham;”[253] the same, for the same purpose, at “the
Porch of Beckenham Church-yard;”[254] the survey of “Beckenham
Church;”[255] the view of its old Font in the public-house garden;[256]
and the look at the hall of “Wickham Court,” and West Wickham
church.[257] New and beautiful prospects opened to us from the latter
village; and to the just enumerated six articles, and their engravings,
respecting that part of the country, in the former volume of the _Table
Book_, it is intended to add like abstracts of our further proceedings.
In short, to be respectful and orderly, as one moiety of a walking
committee, self-constituted and appointed, I take permission to “report
progress, and ask leave to _go_ again.”

The “Crooked Billet” at Penge, and mine host of the “Swan” at West
Wickham, have had visitors curious to trace the pleasant route, and
remark the particulars previously described. While indulging the sight,
there is another sense that craves to be satisfied; and premising that
we are now penetrating further “into the bowels of the land,” it becomes
a duty to acquaint followers with head-quarters. For the present, it is
neither necessary nor expedient to nicely mark the road to “Keston
Cross”--go which way you will it is an agreeable one. A Tunbridge or
Seven-Oaks coach passes within a short half mile, and the Westerham
coach within the same distance. If a delightful two hours’ lounging walk
from Bromley be desired, take the turning from the Swan at Bromley to
Beckenham church; go through the church-yard over a stile, keep the
meadow foot-path, cross the Wickham road, and wander by hedge-row elms,
as your will and the country-folk direct you, till you arrive at Hayes
Common; then make for the lower or left-hand side of the common, and
leaving the mill on the right, get into the cottaged lane. At a few
hundred yards past the sheep-wash, formed in a little dell by the
Ravensbourne, at the end of the open rise, stands “Keston Cross.”

Before reaching this place on my first visit to it, the country people
had indiscriminately called it “Keston _Cross_” and “Keston _mark_;” and
lacking all intelligible information from them respecting the reason for
its being so named, I puzzled myself with conjectures, as to whether it
was the site of a cross of memorial, a market cross, a preaching cross,
or what other kind of cross. It was somewhat of disappointment to me,
when, in an angle of a cross-road, instead of some ancient vestige,
there appeared a commodious, respectable, and comfortable-looking house
of accommodation for man and horse; and, swinging high in air, its sign,
the red-cross, heraldically, a cross _gules_; its form being, on
reference to old Randle Holme, “a cross _molyne_, invertant;” to
describe which, on the same authority, it may be said, that “this cross
much resembles the molyne, or pomette; saving in this, the cut, or sawed
ends, so turn themselves inward that they appear to be escrowles rolled
up. Some term it _molyne_, the ends rolled up.”[258] So much for the
sign, which I take to be a forgotten memorial of some old boundary
stone, or land-mark, in the form of a cross, long since removed from the
spot, and perhaps after it had become a “stump-cross;” which crosses
were of so ancient date, that the Christians, ignorantly supposing them
to have been dedicated to idolatrous purposes, religiously destroyed
them, and their ancient names were soon forgotten: “this may be the
reason why so many broken crosses were called stump-crosses.”[259] The
observation is scarcely a digression; for the house and sign, commonly
called “Keston Cross,” or “Keston mark,” stand on a site, which, for
reasons that will appear by and by, the antiquary deems sacred. The
annexed representation shows the direction of the roads, and the star *
in the corner the angular situation of the house, cut out of Holwood,
the estate of the late Mr. Pitt, which is bounded by the Farnborough and
Westerham roads, and commands from the grounds of the enclosure the
finest view towards the weald of Kent in this part of the county.

                 |     |
                 |     | Westerham
                 |     |
               * |     |
  ---------------+     +---------------
  Farnboro and 7        Wickham and
  Oakes                 Croydon
  ---------------+     +---------------
                 |     |
                 |     | Bromley and
                 |     | Lewisham
                 |     |

“Keston Cross” I call “head-quarters,” because in this house you will
find yourself “at home.” You may sparkle forth to many remarkable spots
in the vicinage, and then return and take your “corporal refection,” and
go in and out at will; or you may sit at your ease, and do nothing but
contemplate in quiet; or, in short, you may do just as you like. Of
course this is said to “gentle” readers; and I presume the _Table Book_
has no others: certain it is, that ungentle persons are unwelcome
visitors, and not likely to visit again at “Keston Cross.” Its occupant,
Mr. S. Young--his name is beneath his sign--will not be regarded by any
one, who does himself the pleasure to call at his house, as a common
landlord. If you see him seated beside the door, you estimate him at
least of that order one of whom, on his travels, the chamberlain at the
inn at Rochester describes to Gadshill as worthy his particular
notice--“a franklin in the weald of Kent, that hath three hundred marks
with him in gold--one that hath abundance of charge too.”[260] You take
Mr. Young for a country gentleman; and, if you company with him, may
perhaps hear him tell, as many a country gentleman would--bating
obsolete phrase and versification--

    I lerned never rhetorike certain;
    Thing that I speke it mote be bare and plain:
    I slept never on the mount of Pernaso,
    Ne lerned Marcus Tullius Cicero.
    Colours ne know I non, withouten drede,
    But swiche colours as growen in the mede,
    Or elles swiche as men die with, or peint;
    Colours of rhetorike ben to me queinte;
    My spirit feleth not of swiche matere:
    But if you lust my tale shul ye here.[261]

In brief, if you “put up” at the “Red Cross,” and invite Mr. Young’s
society, you will find him

    ---------------a franklin faire und free,
    That entertaines with comely courteous glee.[262]

The house itself is not one of your bold looking inns, that if you enter
you assure yourself of paying toll at, in regard of its roystering
appearance, in addition to every item in your bill; but one in which you
have no objection to be “at charges,” in virtue of its cheerful,
promising air. You will find these more reasonable perhaps than you
expect, and you will _not_ find any article presented to you of an
inferior quality. In respect therefore of its self-commendations and
locality, the “Cross” at Keston is suggested as a _point d’appui_ to any
who essay from town for a few hours of fresh air and comfort, and with a
desire of leisurely observing scenery altogether new to most London
residents.

       *       *       *       *       *

The classical ancients had inns and public-houses. Nothing is a stronger
proof of the size and populousness of the city of Herculaneum, which was
destroyed by an eruption of Mount Vesuvius on the 24th of August, A. D.
79, than its nine hundred public-houses. A placard or inscription,
discovered on the wall of a house in that ruined city, was a bill for
letting one of its public-houses on lease; and hence, it appears that
they had galleries at the top, and balconies, or green arbours, and
baths. The dining-rooms were in the upper story. Although it was the
custom of the Romans to recline at their meals, yet when they refreshed
themselves at these places they sat. The landlord had a particular
dress, and landladies wore a _succinct_, or tucked up dress, and brought
the wine in vases for the visitors to taste. They had common drinking
vessels as with us, and sometimes the flaggons were chained to posts. In
the inns on the roads there were both hot and cold meats. Until the time
of Nero, inns provided every kind of delicacy: that emperor restricted
them to boiled vegetables. Tiberius prohibited their selling any baker’s
goods.

The company frequenting the ancient public-houses were usually
artificers, sailors, drunken galli, thieves, &c. Chess was played, and
the abacus, or chess-board, was made oblong. Hence came the common
painted post still at the doors of our own public-houses, the sign of
the chequer or chequers.[263] Sir William Hamilton presented to the
Antiquarian Society a view of a street in Pompeii, another Italian city
destroyed by Vesuvius, which contains the sign of the chequers, from
whence there can be no doubt that it was a common one among the Romans.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our Saxon ancestors had public-houses where they drank very hard out of
vessels of earthenware, as the country people do still.

The Anglo-Saxons had the _eala-hus_, ale-house, _win-hus_, wine-house,
and _cumen-hus_, or inn. Inns, however, were by no means common houses
for travellers. In the time of Edward I. lord Berkeley’s farm-houses
were used for that purpose. Travellers were accustomed to inquire for
hospitable persons, and even go to the king’s palaces for refreshment.
John Rous, an old traveller, who mentions a celebrated inn on the
Warwick road, was yet obliged to go another way for want of
accommodation.[264]

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Brand supposes, that the chequers, at this time a common sign of a
public-house, was originally intended for a kind of draught-board,
called “tables,” and that it showed that there that game might be
played. From their colour, which was red, and the similarity to a
lattice, it was corruptly called _the red_ lettuce, a word frequently
used by ancient writers to signify an alehouse. He observes, that this
designation of an alehouse is not altogether lost, though the original
meaning of the word is, the sign being converted into a _green_ lettuce;
of which an instance occurs in Brownlow-street, Holborn.

       *       *       *       *       *

In “A Fine Companion,” one of Shackerly Marmion’s plays, we read of “A
waterman’s widow at the sign of the Red _Lattice_ in Southwark.” Again,
in “Arden of Faversham,” 1592, we have

    --“his sign pulled down, and his _lattice_ born away.”

Again, in “The Miseries of Inforc’d Marriage,” 1607:

    --“’tis treason to the _Red Lattice_, enemy to the signpost.”

It were needless to multiply examples of this sign beyond one in
Shakspeare. Falstaff’s page, speaking of Bardolph, says, “He called me
even now, my lord, through a red _lattice_, and I could see no part of
his face from the window.”

A writer in the Gentleman’s Magazine for June 1793, says, “It has been
related to me by a very noble personage, that in the reign of Philip and
Mary the then earl of Arundel had a grant to license public-houses, and
part of the armorial bearings of that noble family is _a chequered
board_: wherefore the publican, to show that he had a license, put out
that mark as part of his sign.” On this, Mr. Brand inquires why the
publicans take but a part of the Arundel arms, and why this part rather
than any other? Another writer in the Gentleman’s Magazine for September
1794, says, “I think it was the great earl Warrenne, if not, some
descendant or heir near him, not beyond the time of Rufus, had an
exclusive power of granting licenses to sell beer: that his agent might
collect the tax more readily, the door-posts were painted in chequers;
the arms of Warren then, and to this day.” We may, however, reasonably
refer all these “_modern_ instances” to ancient times; and derive the
publican’s sign of the chequers from the great authors of many of our
present usages, the old Romans.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mons. Jorevin, a French traveller, who journeyed through England in the
reign of Charles II., stopped at the Stag inn, at Worcester, in the
High-street, and he describes the entertainment of himself and a friend
with whom he supped, so as to acquaint us somewhat with the
entertainments in inns at that time. “During supper he (his friend) sent
for a band of music, consisting of all sorts of instruments: among these
the harp is the most esteemed by the English. According to the custom of
the country the landladies sup with the strangers and passengers, and if
they have daughters they are also of the company, to entertain the
guests at table with pleasant conceits, where they drink as much as the
men. But what is to me the most disgusting in all this is, that when one
drinks the health of any person in company, the custom of the country
does not permit you to drink more than half the cup, which is filled up,
and presented to him or her whose health you have drank. Moreover, the
supper being finished, they set on the table half a dozen pipes and a
packet of tobacco for smoking, which is a general custom, as well among
women as men, who think that without tobacco one cannot live in England,
because, say they, “it dissipates the evil humours of the brain.” It
appears from a “Character of England,” printed in 1659, “that the ladies
of greatest quality suffered themselves to be treated in these taverns,
and that they drank their _crowned cups_ roundly, danced after the
fiddle, and exceeded the bounds of propriety in their carousals.”

       *       *       *       *       *

If a description of Scottish manners, printed about fifty years ago, may
be relied on, it was then a fashion with females at Edinburgh to
frequent a sort of public-house in that city. The writer says: “January
15, 1775.--A few evenings ago I had the pleasure of being asked to one
of these entertainments by a lady. At that time I was not acquainted
with this scene of ‘high life below stairs;’ and therefore, when she
mentioned the word ‘oyster-cellar,’ I imagined I must have mistaken the
place of invitation: she repeated it, however, and I found it was not my
business to make objections; so agreed immediately. I waited with great
impatience till the hour arrived, and when the clock struck away I went,
and inquired if the lady was there.--‘O yes,’ cried the woman, she has
been here an hour, or more.’ The door opened, and I had the pleasure of
being ushered in, not to one lady, as I expected, but to a large and
brilliant company of both sexes, most of whom I had the honour of being
acquainted with. The large table, round which they were seated, was
covered with dishes full of oysters and pots of porter. For a long time
I could not suppose that this was the only entertainment we were to
have, and I sat waiting in expectation of a repast that was never to
make its appearance. The table was cleared, and glasses introduced. The
ladies were now asked whether they would choose brandy or rum punch? I
thought this question an odd one, but I was soon informed by the
gentleman who sat next me, that no wine was sold here, but that punch
was quite ‘the thing;’ and a large bowl was immediately introduced. The
conversation hitherto had been insipid, and at intervals: it now became
general and lively. The women, who, to do them justice, are much more
entertaining than their neighbours in England, discovered a great deal
of vivacity and fondness for repartee. A thousand things were hazarded,
and met with applause; to which the oddity of the scene gave propriety,
and which could have been produced in no other place. The general ease
with which they conducted themselves, the innocent freedom of their
manners, and their unaffected good-nature, all conspired to make us
forget that we were regaling in a cellar, and was a convincing proof
that, let local customs operate as they may, a truly polite woman is
every where the same. When the company were tired of conversation they
began to dance reels, their favourite dance, which they performed with
great agility and perseverance. One of the gentlemen, however, fell down
in the most active part of it, and lamed himself; so the dance was at an
end for that evening. On looking at their watches, the ladies now found
it time to retire; the coaches were therefore called, and away they
went, and with them all our mirth. The company were now reduced to a
party of gentlemen; pipes and politics were introduced: I took my hat
and wished them good night. The bill for entertaining half a dozen very
fashionable women, amounted only to two shillings apiece. If you will
not allow the entertainment an elegant one, you must at least confess
that it was cheap.”[265]

       *       *       *       *       *

It may be amusing to wander for a moment to another place of public
entertainment, for the sake of a character of it two centuries ago, by
bishop Earle.


THE TAVERN, 1628,

Is a degree, or (if you will) a pair of stairs above an ale-house, where
men are drunk with more credit and apology. If the vintner’s nose be at
the door, it is a sign sufficient, but the absence of this is supplied
by the ivy-bush: the rooms are ill breathed like the drinkers that have
been washed well over night, and are smelt-to fasting next morning. It
is a broacher of more news than hogsheads, and more jests than news,
which are sucked up here by some spungy brain, and from thence squeezed
into a comedy. Men come here to make merry, but indeed make a noise; and
this musick above is answered with the clinking below. The drawers are
the civilest people in it, men of good bringing up; and howsoever we
esteem of them, none can boast more justly of their high calling. ’Tis
the best theater of natures, where they are truly acted, not played; and
the business, as in the rest of the world, up and down, to wit, from the
bottom of the cellar to the great chamber. A melancholy man would find
here matter to work upon, to see heads as brittle as glasses, and often
broken; men come hither to quarrel, and come hither to be made friends:
and if, Plutarch will lend me his simile, it is even Telephus’s sword
that makes wounds and cures them. It is the common consumption of the
afternoon, and the murderer or maker-away of a rainy day. It is the
torrid zone that scorches the face, and tobacco the gunpowder that blows
it up. Much harm would be done, if the charitable vintner had not water
ready for these flames. A house of sin you may call it, but not a house
of darkness, for the candles are never out; and it is like those
countries far in the north, where it is as clear at mid-night as at
mid-day. To give you the total reckoning of it; it is the busy man’s
recreation, the idle man’s business, the melancholy man’s sanctuary, the
stranger’s welcome, the inns-of-court man’s entertainment, the scholar’s
kindness, and the citizen’s courtesy. It is the study of sparkling wits,
and a cup of canary their book, whence we leave them.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bishop Earle, in his character of a “Poor Fiddler,” describes him as “in
league with the tapsters for the worshipful of the inn, whom he torments
next morning with his art, and has their names more perfect than their
men.” Sir John Hawkins, who cites this in his History of Music, also
abstracts a curious view of the customs at inns, from Fyne Moryson’s
“Itinerary,” rather later in the same age:--

“As soone as a passenger comes to an inne, the seruants run to him, and
one takes his horse and walkes him till he be cold, then rubs him, and
giues him meate, yet I must say that they are not much to be trusted in
this last point, without the eye of the master or his seruant to ouersee
them. Another seruant giues the passenger his priuate chamber, and
kindles his fier, the third puls of his bootes, and makes them cleane.
Then the host or hostesse visits him, and if he will eate with the host,
or at a common table with others, his meale will cost him sixepence, or
in some places but foure pence, (yet this course is lesse honourable,
and not vsed by gentlemen): but if he will eate in his chamber, he
commands what meate he will according to his appetite, and as much as he
thinkes fit for him and his company, yea, the kitchen is open to him, to
command the meat to be dressed as he best likes; and when he sits at
table, the host or hostesse will accompany him, or if they haue many
guests, will at least visit him, taking it for curtesie to be bid sit
downe: while he eates, if he haue company especially, he shall be offred
musicke, which he may freely take or refuse, and if he be solitary, the
musitians will giue him the good day with musicke in the morning. It is
the custome, and no way disgracefull, to set vp part of supper for his
breakefast: in the euening or in the morning after breakefast, (for the
common sort vse not to dine, but ride from breakefast to supper time,
yet comming early to the inne for better resting of their horses) he
shall haue a reckoning in writing, and if it seeme vnreasonable, the
host will satisfie him, either for the due price, or by abating part,
especially if the seruant deceive him any way, which one of experience
will soone find. I will now onely adde, that a gentleman and his man
shall spend as much, as if he were accompanied with another gentleman
and his man; and if gentlemen will in such sort ioyne together, to eate
at one table, the expences will be much deminished. Lastly, a man cannot
more freely command at home in his owne house, than hee may doe in his
inne; and at parting, if he giue some few pence to the chamberlin and
ostler, they wish him a happy iourney.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Through a most diligent collector of archæological authorities, we find
in the time of Elizabeth only eight-pence paid at an inn for a physician
all night; and in the time of Charles II. only two-pence for a man and
horse at Bristol.[266]

       *       *       *       *       *

Bristol has now attained to so great wealth and prosperity, as to
provide inns of importance equal perhaps to any in the kingdom. A
friend, who sojourned there at the undermentioned date, hands me a
printed document, which he received from his landlord, Mr. John Weeks;
it is so great a curiosity, as bespeaking the opulence of that ancient
city, and the spirit of its great innkeeper, that I cannot refrain from
recording it.

BUSH TAVERN.

BILL OF FARE FOR CHRISTMAS, 1800

  1 Bustard
  Red game
  Black game
  1 Turtle, 120lb.
  1 Land tortoise
  72 Pots turtle, different prices
  Vermicelli soup
  British turtle
  Giblet soup
  Pease soup
  Gravy soup
  Soup Santé
  Soup and bouillé
  Mutton broth
  Barley broth
  3 Turbots
  4 Cods
  2 Brills
  2 Pipers
  12 Dories
  2 Haddocks
  14 Rock fish
  18 Carp
  12 Perch
  4 Salmon
  12 Plaice
  17 Herrings
  Sprats
  122 Eels
  Salt fish
  78 Roach
  98 Gudgeons
  1 Dried salmon
  _Venison_,--1 Haunch hevior
              5 Haunches doe
              5 Necks
              10 Breasts
              10 Shoulders
  42 Hares
  17 Pheasants
  41 Partridges
  87 Wild ducks
  17 Wild geese
  37 Teal
  31 Widgeon
  16 Bald coots
  2 Sea pheasants
  3 Mews
  11 Veal burrs
  1 Roasting pig
  Oysters, stew’d & collop’d
  Eggs
  Hogs’ puddings
  Ragoo’d feet and ears
  Scotch’d collops
  Veal cutlets
  Harricoed mutton
  Maintenon chops
  Pork chops
  Mutton chops
  Rump steaks
  Joint steaks
  Pinbone steaks
  Sausages
  Hambro’ sausages
  Tripe, cow heels, and knotlings
  5 House lambs
  _Veal_--3 Legs & loins
          2 Breasts & shoulders
          2 Heads
  _Beef_--5 Rumps
          3 Sirloins
          5 Rounds
          2 Pieces of 5 ribs each
          7 Pinbones
  Dutch & Hambro’d beef
  _Mutton_--8 Haunches
            8 Legs
            8 Necks
            11 Loins
            6 Saddles
            6 Chines
            5 Shoulders
  _Pork_--4 Legs
          4 Loins
          4 Chines
          Sparibs
          Half a porker

  [COLD]

  1 Boar’s head
  1 Baron beef
  2 Hams
  4 Tongues
  6 Chicken
  4 Moor hens
  2 Water drabs
  7 Curlews
  2 Bitterns
  81 Woodcocks
  149 Snipes
  17 Wild Turkies
  18 Golden plovers
  1 Swan
  5 Quists
  2 Land rails
  13 Galenas
  4 Peahens
  1 Peacock
  1 Cuckoo
  116 Pigeons
  121 Larks
  1 Sea magpye
  127 Stares
  208 Small birds
  44 Turkies
  8 Capons
  19 Ducks
  10 Geese
  2 Owls
  61 Chickens
  4 Ducklings
  11 Rabbits
  3 Pork griskins
  Hogs’ feet and ears
  7 Collars brawn
  2 Rounds beef
  Collared veal
  Collared beef
  Collared mutton
  Collared eels
  Collared pig’s head
  Dutch tongues
  Bologna sausages
  Paraguay pies
  French pies
  Mutton pies
  Pigeon pies
  Venison pasty
  Sulks
  430 Mince pies
  13 Tarts
  Jellies
  Craw fish
  Pickled salmon
  Sturgeon
  Pickled oysters
  Potted partridges
  Lobsters
  52 Barrels Pyfleet & Colchester oysters
  Milford & Tenby oysters
  4 Pine apples

Could our ancestors take a peep from their graves at this bill of fare,
we may conceive what would be their astonishment at so great a variety
and abundance of provision for travellers at a single inn of our times;
in earlier days, wayfarers were, in many places, compelled to seek
accommodation from hospitable housekeepers, and knights were lodged in
barns.

       *       *       *       *       *

A history of inns would be curious. It is not out of the way to observe,
that the old inns of the metropolis are daily undergoing alterations
that will soon destroy their original character. “Courts with
bedchambers, below and around the old inns, occur in the middle age, and
are probably of Roman fashion; for they resemble the barracks at
Tivoli.”[267] There are specimens of this inn-architecture still
remaining to be observed at the Bell Savage, Ludgate-hill; the
Saracen’s Head, Snow-hill; the George, and the Ram, in Smithfield;
the Bull and Mouth; the Swan and two necks;[268] the Green Dragon,
Bishopsgate-street, and a few others; not forgetting the Talbot inn, in
the Borough, from whence Chaucer’s pilgrims set out to the shrine of St.
Thomas à Becket, at Canterbury; of which there is a modern painting
placed in front of one of its galleries facing the street entrance.
Stow, in his time, calls it, under the name of the “Tabard,” “the most
ancient” of the inns on the Surrey side of London. In Southwark, he
says, “bee many faire innes for receit of travellers--amongst the which,
the most ancient is the _Tabard_, so called of the signe, which as wee
now terme it, is of a jacket, or sleevelesse coate, whole before, open
on both sides, with a square collar, winged at the shoulders; a stately
garment, of old time commonly worne of noblemen and others, both at home
and abroad in the wars; but then (to wit, in the warres,) their armes
embroidered, or otherwise depict upon them, that every man by his coat
of armes might bee knowne from others: but now these tabards are onely
worne by the heralds, and bee called their coats of armes in service.”
Stowe then quotes Chaucer in commendation of the “Inne of the Tabard:”--

    It befelle in that season, on a day
    In Southwerk, at the _Tabard_ as I lay
    Ready to wend on my pilgrimage
    To Canterbury with devout courage;
    That night was come into that hostelrie
    Well nine and twenty in a compagnie
    Of sundry folke, by aventure yfalle
    In felawsship, and pilgrimes were they alle,
    That toward Canterbury wolden ride.
    The chambers and stables weren wide, &c.

Chaucer, whom it pleases to Stowe to call “the most famous poet of
England,” relates

      ------------ shortly in a clause
    Th’ estat, th’ araie, the nombre, and eke the cause,
    Why that assembled was this compagnie
    In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrie,
    That hight the _Tabard_, faste by the Bell.

In course of time the original name of the sign seems to have been lost,
and its meaning forgotten. The “Tabard” is corrupted or perverted into
the “Talbot” inn; and as already, through Stowe, I have shown the
meaning of the Tabard, some readers perhaps may excuse me for adding,
that the Talbot, which is now only a term for an armorial bearing, is
figured in heraldry as a dog, a blood-hound, or hunting hound.[269]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ~William Blake, Ostler at Keston Cross.~]

After thus beating up inns and public-houses generally, we will return
for a moment to “Keston Cross.” To this pleasant house there is attached
a delightful little flower and fruit-garden, with paddocks,
poultry-yard, outhouses, and every requisite for private or public use;
all well-stocked, and, by the order wherein all are kept, bespeaking the
well-ordered economy of the occupant’s mind. The stabling for his own
and visitors’ horses is under the management of an ostler of long
service: and it must not be forgotten, that the rooms in the house are
marked by its owner’s attachment to horses and field-sports. In the
common parlour, opposite the door, is a  print of the burial of
a huntsman--the attendants in “full cry” over the grave--with verses
descriptive of the ceremony. A parlour for the accommodation of private
parties has an oil painting of the old duke of Bolton, capitally
mounted, in the yard of his own mansion, going out, attended by his
huntsman and dogs. There are other pictures in the same taste,
particularly a portrait of one of Mr. Young’s horses.

The ostler at “Keston Cross” is the most remarkable of its obliging,
humble servants. The poor fellow has lost an eye, and is like the
“high-mettled racer” in his decline--except that he is well used. While
looking about me I missed W., and found he had deemed him a picturesque
subject, and that he was in the act of sketching him from behind the
door of the stable-yard, while he leaned against the stable-door with
his corn-sieve in his hand. I know not why the portrait should not come
into a new edition of Bromley’s Catalogue, or an appendix to Granger:
sure I am that many far less estimable persons figure in the
Biographical History of England. As an honest man, (and if he were not
he would not be in Mr. Young’s service,) I craved my friend W. to
engrave him on a wood-block; I have no other excuse to offer for
presenting an impression of it, than the intrinsic worth of the
industrious original, and the merit of the likeness; and that apology it
is hoped very few will decline.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Johnson derives “ostler” from the French word “hostelier,” but
“hostelier” in French, now spelt “hotelier,” signifies an innkeeper, or
host, not an ostler; to express the meaning of which term the French
word is wholly different in spelling and pronunciation. It seems to me
that “ostler” is derived from the word “hostel,” which was formerly
obtained from the French, and was in common use here to signify an inn;
and the innkeeper was from thence called the “hosteller.” This was at a
period when the innkeeper or “hosteller” would be required by his guests
to take and tend their horses, which, before the use of carriages, and
when most goods were conveyed over the country on the backs of horses,
would be a chief part of his employment; and hence, the “hosteller”
actually became the “hostler,” or “ostler,” that is, the horse-keeper.

       *       *       *       *       *

We will just glean, for two or three minutes, from as many living
writers who have gone pleasantly into inns, and so conclude.

       *       *       *       *       *

Washington Irving, travelling under the name of “Geoffrey Crayon, gent.”
and reposing himself within a comfortable hostel at Shakspeare’s
birth-place, says:--“To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide
world which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of
something like independence and territorial consequence, when, after a
weary day’s travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into
slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world
without go as it may; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the
wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch
of all he surveys. The arm chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre,
and the little parlour, of some twelve feet square, his undisputed
empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the
uncertainties of life; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a
cloudy day; and he who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of
existence, knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and moments
of enjoyment. ‘Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?’ thought I, as I
gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow chair, and cast a
complacent look about the little parlour of the Red Horse, at
Stratford-on-Avon.”----

       *       *       *       *       *

ELIA, to illustrate the “astonishing composure” of some of the society
of “friends,” tells a pleasant anecdote, which regards a custom at
certain inns, and is therefore almost as fairly relatable in this place,
as it is delightfully related in his volume of “Essays:”--“I was
travelling,” says ELIA, “in a stage-coach with three male quakers,
buttoned up in the straitest non-conformity of their sect. We stopped to
bait at Andover, where a meal, partly tea apparatus, partly supper, was
set before us. My friends confined themselves to the tea-table. I in my
way took supper. When the landlady brought in the bill, the eldest of my
companions discovered that she had charged for both meals. This was
resisted. Mine hostess was very clamorous and positive. Some mild
arguments were used on the part of the quakers, for which the heated
mind of the good lady seemed by no means a fit recipient. The guard came
in with his usual peremptory notice. The quakers pulled out their money,
and formally tendered it--so much for tea--I, in humble imitation,
tendering mine--for the supper which I had taken. She would not relax in
her demand. So they all three quietly put up their silver, as did
myself, and marched out of the room, the eldest and gravest going first,
with myself closing up the rear, who thought I could not do better than
follow the example of such grave and warrantable personages. We got in.
The steps went up. The coach drove off. The murmurs of mine hostess, not
very indistinctly or ambiguously pronounced, became after a time
inaudible--and now my conscience, which the whimsical scene had for a
while suspended, beginning to give some twitches, I waited, in the hope
that some justification would be offered by these serious persons for
the seeming injustice of their conduct. To my great surprise, not a
syllable was dropped on the subject. They sate as mute as at a meeting.
At length the eldest of them broke silence, by inquiring of his next
neighbour, ‘Hast thee heard how indigos go at the India House?’ and the
question operated as a soporific on my moral feeling as far as Exeter.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Finally, from the “Indicator” we learn, that to Mr. Leigh Hunt “a tavern
and coffee-house is a pleasant sight, from its sociality; not to mention
the illustrious club memories of the times of Shakspeare and the
Tatlers. The rural transparencies, however, which they have in their
windows, with all our liking of the subject, would perhaps be better in
any others; for tavern sociality is a town-thing, and should be content
with town ideas. A landscape in the window makes us long to change it at
once for a rural inn; to have a rosy-faced damsel attending us, instead
of a sharp and serious waiter; and to catch, in the intervals of chat,
the sound of a rookery instead of cookery. We confess that the commonest
public-house in town is not such an eyesore to us as it is with some. It
may not be very genteel, but neither is every thing that is rich. There
may be a little too much drinking and roaring going on in the middle of
the week; but what, in the mean time, are pride and avarice, and all the
unsocial vices about? Before we object to public-houses, and above all
to their Saturday evening recreations, we must alter the systems that
make them a necessary comfort to the poor and laborious. Till then, in
spite of the vulgar part of the polite, we shall have an esteem for the
Devil and the Bag o’ Nails; and like to hear, as we go along on Saturday
night, the applauding knocks on the table that follow the song of
‘Lovely Nan,’ or ‘Brave Captain Death,’ or ‘Tobacco is an Indian Weed,’
or ‘Why, Soldiers, why,’ or ‘Says Plato why should man be vain,’ or
that judicious and unanswerable ditty, commencing

    Now what can man more desire
    Nor sitting by a sea-coal fire;
    And on his knees, &c.”

  [252] Vol. i. p. 670.

  [253] p. 702.

  [254] p. 715.

  [255] p. 766.

  [256] p. 771.

  [257] p. 811.

  [258] Academy of Armory.

  [259] Fosbroke’s Ency. of Antiquities.

  [260] Henry IV. act ii. sc. 1.

  [261] The Frankelein’s prologue. Chaucer.

  [262] Spenser.

  [263] Fosbroke’s Ency. of Antiquities.

  [264] Ibid.

  [265] Letters from Edinburgh, written in the years 1774 and 1775.

  [266] Fosbroke.

  [267] Ibid.

  [268] See the derivation of this sign in the _Every-Day Book_.

  [269] Academy of Armory, b. ii. c. 9.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXV.

  [From “Edward the Third,” an Historical Play, Author Unknown, 1597.]

_The King, having relieved the Castle of the heroic Countess of
Salisbury, besieged by the Scots, and being entertained by her, loves
her._

      _Edward_ (_solus_.) She is grown more fairer far since I came
          hither:
    Her voice more silver every word than other,
    Her wit more fluent. What a strange discourse
    Unfolded she of David, and his Scots!
    Even thus, quoth she, he spake, and then spake broad
    With epithets and accents of the Scot;
    But somewhat better than the Scot could speak:
    And thus, quoth she, and answer’d then herself;
    For who could speak like her? but she herself
    Breathes from the wall an angel note from heaven
    Of sweet defiance to her barbarous foes.--
    When she would talk of peace, methinks her tongue
    Commanded war to prison: when of war,
    It waken’d Cæsar from his Roman grave,
    To hear war beautified by her discourse.
    Wisdom is foolishness, but in her tongue;
    Beauty a slander, but in her fair face;
    There is no summer, but in her chearful looks;
    Nor frosty winter, but in her disdain.
    I cannot blame the Scots that did besiege her,
    For she is all the treasure of our land:
    But call them cowards, that they ran away;
    Having so rich and fair a cause to stay.

_The Countess repells the King’s unlawful suit._

      _Countess._ Sorry I am to see my liege so sad:
    What may thy subject do to drive from thee
    This gloomy consort, sullome Melancholy?
      _King._ Ah Lady! I am blunt, and cannot strew
    The flowers of solace in a ground of shame.
    Since I came hither, Countess, I am wrong’d.
      _Coun._ Now God forbid that any in my house
    Should think my sovereign wrong! thrice-gentle king
    Acquaint me with your cause of discontent.
      _King._ How near then shall I be to remedy?
      _Coun._ As near, my liege, as all my woman’s power,
    Can pawn itself to buy thy remedy.
      _King._ If thou speak’st true, then have I my redress.
    Engage thy power to redeem my joys,
    And I am joyful, Countess; else I die.
      _Coun._ I will, my liege.
      _King._ Swear, Countess, that thou wilt.
      _Coun._ By heaven I will.
      _King._ Then take thyself a little way aside,
    And tell thyself, a king doth dote on thee.
    Say that within thy power it doth lie
    To make him happy, and that thou hast sworn
    To give him all the joy within thy power.
    Do this; and tell him, when I shall be happy.
      _Coun._ All this is done, my thrice-dread sovereign.
    That power of love, that I have power to give,
    Thou hast, with all devout obedience.
    Employ me how thou wilt in proof thereof.
      _King._ Thou hear’st me say that I do dote on thee.
      _Coun._ If on my beauty, take it if thou can’st;
    Though little, I do prize it ten times less:
    If on my virtue, take it if thou can’st;
    For virtue’s store by giving doth augment.
    Be it on what it will, that I can give,
    And thou can’st take away, inherit it.
      _King._ It is thy beauty that I would enjoy.
      _Coun._ O were it painted, I would wipe it off,
    And dispossess myself to give it thee;
    But, sovereign, it is soulder’d to my life:
    Take one, and both; for, like an humble shadow,
    It haunts the sunshine of my summer’s life.
      _King._ But thou may’st lend it me to sport withal.
      _Coun._ As easy may my intellectual soul
    Be lent away, and yet my body live,
    As lend my body (palace to my soul)
    Away from her, and yet retain my soul.
    My body is her bower, her court, her abbey.
    And she an angel pure, divine, unspotted;
    If I should lend her house, my Lord, to thee,
    I kill my poor soul, and my poor soul me.
      _King._ Didst thou not swear to give me what I would?
      _Count._ I did, my liege, so what you would, I could.
      _King._ I wish no more of thee, than thou may’st give:
    Nor beg I do not, but I rather buy;
    That is thy love; and for that love of thine
    In rich exchange, I tender to thee mine.
      _Coun._ But that your lips were sacred, my Lord,
    You would profane the holy name of love.
    That love, you offer me, you cannot give;
    For Cæsar owes that tribute to his Queen.
    That love, you beg of me, I cannot give;
    For Sara owes that duty to her Lord.
    He, that doth clip or counterfeit your stamp,
    Shall die, my Lord: and shall your sacred self
    Commit high treason ’gainst the King of Heaven,
    To stamp his image in forbidden metal,
    Forgetting your allegiance and your oath?
    In violating marriage’ sacred law,
    You break a greater Honour than yourself.
    _To be a King_, is of a younger house
    Than _To be married_; your progenitor,
    Sole-reigning Adam on the universe,
    By God was honour’d for a married Man
    But not by him anointed for a King.
    It is a penalty to break your statutes.
    Tho’ not enacted with your Highness’ hand;
    How much more to infringe the holy act,
    Made by the mouth of God, seal’d with his hand
    I know my Sovereign, in my Husband’s love,
    Doth but to try the Wife of Salisbury,
    Whether she will hear a wanton’s tale or no:
    Lest being guilty therein by my stay,
    From that, not from my liege, I turn away.

           *       *       *       *       *

      _King._ Whether is her beauty by her words divine
    Or are her words sweet chaplains to her beauty?
    Like as the wind doth beautify a sail,
    And as a sail becomes the unseen wind,
    So do her words her beauties, beauty words.

           *       *       *       *       *

      _Coun._ He hath sworn me by the name of God
    To break a vow made in the name of God.
    What if I swear by this right hand of mine
    To cut this right hand off? the better way
    Were to profane the idol, than confound it.

_Flattery._

    ---- O thou World, great nurse of flattery,
    Why dost thou tip men’s tongues with golden words
    And poise their deeds with weight of heavy lead,
    That fair performance cannot follow promise?
    O that a man might hold the heart’s close book
    And choke the lavish tongue, when it doth utter
    The breath of falsehood, not character’d there!

_Sin, worst in High Place._

    An honourable grave is more esteemed,
    Than the polluted closet of a king;
    The greater man, the greater is the thing,
    Be it good or bad, that he shall undertake.
    An unreputed mote, flying in the sun,
    Presents a greater substance than it is;
    The freshest summer’s day doth soonest taint
    The loathed carrion, that it seems to kiss;
    Deep are the blows made with a mighty axe;
    That sin does ten times aggravate itself,
    That is committed in a holy place;
    An evil deed done by authority
    Is sin, and subornation; deck an ape
    In tissue, and the beauty of the robe
    Adds but the greater scorn unto the beast;
    The poison shews worst in a golden cup;
    Dark night seems darker by the light’ning flash;
    Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.
    And every Glory, that inclines to Sin,
    The shame is treble by the opposite.

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Poetry.~

_For the Table Book._


SONNET TO MISS KELLY,

  ON HER EXCELLENT PERFORMANCE OF BLINDNESS, IN THE REVIVED OPERA OF
  ARTHUR AND EMMELINE.

    Rare artist, who with half thy tools, or none,
    Canst execute with ease thy curious art,
    And press thy powerful’st meanings on the heart
    Unaided by the eye, expression’s throne!
    While each blind sense, intelligential grown
    Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight,
    Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might,
    All motionless and silent seem to moan
    The unseemly negligence of nature’s hand,
    That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine,
    O mistress of the passions!--artist fine!--
    Who dost our souls against our sense command;
    Plucking the horror from a sightless face,
    Lending to blank deformity a grace.

  C. LAMB.

       *       *       *       *       *


VOLUNTEER REMINISCENCES.

_To the Editor._


SHAM-FIGHTS AND INVASION.

Dear Sir,--Some agreeable recollections induce me to pen a few
circumstances for the _Table Book_, which may kindle associations in the
many who were formerly engaged in representing the “raw recruit,” and
who are now playing the “old soldier” in the conflict of years. I do not
travel out of the road to take the “Eleven city regiments” into my
battalion, nor do I call for the aid of the “Gray’s-inn sharpshooters,”
(as lawyers are,) and other gents of the “sword and sash,” who then
emulated their brethren in “scarlet and blue.”--Erecting my canteen at
Moorgate, I hint to other quilldrivers to extend _their_ forces when and
where their memories serve. Inkshed, not bloodshed, is my only
danger--my greatest failing is a propensity (I fear) to digress and
enlarge, till I may not bring the numbers of my muster-roll within
proper discipline. Being on my guard, however, I take the succeeding
specimens from a spot filled with chapels of several persuasions, the
“London Institution,” and well-built houses, with a pleasant relief of
verdure in the centre for nursery maids and romping children.

_Moorfields_, alas! has no fields! Where the “Beth’lem hospital” raised
its magnificent but gloomy front, with old Cibber’s statues of “Raving
and Melancholy Madness” siding the centre entrance, no vestiges remain,
except the church and parts of London Wall, leading from Broker-row to
the Albion chapel, commonly called the Plum-cake. Who that knew the
crossing from Finsbury-square to Broad-street remembers not the
open-barred window at which “Mad Molly” daily appeared, singing, and
talking inconsistencies of love, confinement, and starvation? Who that
stood before the massive building heard not the tones of agony, and felt
not deep pity for the poor reasonless creatures?

----In Moorfields, when Buonaparte threatened this country with
invasion, the beat of drum and the shrillings of the fife brought corps
of gentlemen volunteers into rank and file, to show how much a “nation
of shopkeepers” could do. Ladies in clusters assembled here to witness
the feats of their soldier-like heroes--sanctioning with their presence,
and applauding with their smiles, the defenders of their domiciles.

The “Bank gentlemen,” distinguished by their long gaiters, and therefore
called black-legs, went farther off and exercised before bank-hours, in
the Tenter-ground beyond the Vinegar-yard.

The East India Company’s three regiments (the best soldiers next to the
foot-guards) drilled in a field which lay in the way on the one side to
the Rosemary Branch, (noted for a water-party or fives’ match,) and the
White Lead Mills, whose windsails are removed by the steam Quixotes of
the day. On the other side, skirted the once pleasant path, leading from
the Shepherd and Shepherdess across the meadow either to Queen’s
Head-lane, the Britannia, or the Almshouses, near the Barley Mow,
Islington. The East India field is now divided into gardens and snug
arbours, let to the admirers of flowers and retreats.

Lackington’s “Temple of Fame” was a temple of knowledge. This splendid
place and its winding shelves of books caught the passing eye with
astonishment at the success and skill of the once humble owner of a
bookstall in Chiswell-street. Here Finsbury’s “child of lore and
catalogue-maker” wrote a “book,” abounding with quotations from authors,
and refuted his own words in after-life by publishing his “Confessions.”
Lackington was, however, a man of deep judgment in his business, and no
every-day observer of the manners and variations of his contemporaries.

Then, the “Artillery Company” attracted well-dressed people on Wednesday
evenings, and from Finsbury-side to Bunhill-row there was a promenade of
fashionables from Duke’s-place and Bevis Marks, listening to a band of
music and the roar of cannon till dusk.

Moorfields gathered more regiments than any other spot excepting the
Park, in which reviews and sham-fights concentrated the corporate forces
on field-days. Wimbledon Common became also an occasional scene of busy
parade and preparation; baggage long drawn out, multitudes of friends,
sweethearts and wives, and nondescripts. In the roads were collected the
living beings of half of the metropolis. It seemed a stir in earnest of
great achievements. Many a white handkerchief dried the parting tear.
There were the adieu and the farewell; salutes given behind the counter,
or snatched in the passage, affected the sensibilities like last
meetings. Sir W. Curtis and other colonels reminded the “gentlemen” they
had “the honour” to command, that they were in “good quarters.” Sermons
were preached in and out of the establishment to “soldiers.”
Representations were given at the theatres to “soldiers.” The
shop-windows presented tokens of courage and love to “soldiers.” Not a
concert was held, not a “free and easy” passed, without songs and
melodies to “soldiers.” It was a fine time for publicans and poets.
Abraham Newland’s promises kept army-clothiers, gun-makers, Hounslow
powder-mills, and Mr. Pitt’s affairs in action. No man might creditably
present himself if he were void of the tone of military distinction; and
Charles Dibdin and Grimaldi--“wicked wags!”--satirized the fashion of
“playing at soldiers.”

In process of time, Maidstone, Colchester, and Rochester were select
places for trying the shopkeeping volunteers: they were on duty for
weeks, and returned with the honours of the barracks. Things taking a
more peaceful aspect, or rather the alarm of invasion having subsided,
the regimentals were put by, and scarcely a relic is now seen to remind
the rising generation of the deeds of their fathers.

I could travel further, and tell more of these and similar doings, but I
refrain, lest I tire your patience and your readers’ courtesy.

  Dear sir,

  Truly yours,

  A CITY VOLUNTEER.

  _June, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


~Discoveries~

OF THE

ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

No. I.

It has been ascertained by the researches of a curious
investigator,[270] that many celebrated philosophers of recent times
have, for the most part, taken what they advance from the works of the
ancients. These modern acquisitions are numerous and important; and as
it is presumed that many may be instructed, and more be surprised by
their enumeration, a succinct account of them is proposed.

It appears as unjust to praise and admire nothing but what savours of
antiquity, as to despise whatever comes from thence, and to approve of
nothing but what is recent. The moderns certainly have much merit, and
have laboured not a little in the advancement of science; but the
ancients paved the way, wherein at present is made so rapid a progress:
and we may in that respect join Quintilian, who declared, seventeen
hundred years ago, “that antiquity had so instructed us by its example,
and the doctrines of its great masters, that we could not have been born
in a more happy age, than that which had been so illuminated by their
care.” While it would be ingratitude to deny such masters the encomiums
due to them, envy alone would refuse the moderns the praise they so
amply deserve. Justice ought to be rendered to both. In comparing the
merits of the moderns and ancients, a distinction ought to be made
between the arts and sciences, which require long experience and
practice to bring them to perfection, and those which depend solely on
talent and genius. Without doubt the former, in so long a series of
ages, have been extended more and more; and, with the assistance of
printing and other discoveries, have been brought to a very high degree
of perfection by the moderns. Our astronomers understand much better the
nature of the stars, and the whole planetary system, than Hipparchus,
Ptolemy, and others of the ancients; but it may be doubted, whether they
had gone so far, unaided by telescopes. The moderns have nearly
perfected the art of navigation, and discovered new worlds; yet without
the compass, America had probably remained unknown. Likewise, by long
observation, and experiments often repeated, we have brought botany,
anatomy, and chirurgery, to their present excellence. Many secrets of
nature, which one age was insufficient to penetrate, have been laid open
in a succession of many. Philosophy has assumed a new air; and the
trifling and vain cavils of the schools, have at length been put to
flight by the reiterated efforts of Ramus, Bacon, Gassendi, Descartes,
Newton, Gravesand, Leibnitz, and Wolf. While, therefore, willingly
conceding to the moderns every advantage they are fairly entitled to,
the share which the ancients had in beating out for us the pathways to
knowledge is an interesting subject of inquiry.

       *       *       *       *       *

For two thousand years the ancient philosophers were so fully in
possession of the general esteem, that they often led men blindfold.
They were listened to as oracles, and their very obscurities regarded as
too sacred to be pried into by common eyes. An _ipse dixit_ of
Pythagoras, Aristotle, or any other ancient sage, was enough to decide
the most difficult case: the learned bowed in a body, and expressed
their satisfaction, while they surrendered their judgment. These habits
of submission were ill adapted to advance knowledge. A few noble
spirits, who, in recompense of their labours, have been honoured with
the glorious title of restorers of learning, quickly felt the hardship
of the bondage, and threw off the yoke of Aristotle. But instead of
following the example of those great men, whose incessant studies, and
profound researches, had so enriched the sciences, some of their
successors were content to make them the basis of their own slight
works; and a victory, which might have tended to the perfecting of the
human mind, dwindled into a petty triumph. Bruno, Cardan, Bacon,
Galileo, Descartes, Newton, and Leibnitz, the heroes of the literary
commonwealth, had too much merit, not to own that of the ancients. They
did them justice, and avowed themselves their disciples; but the
half-learned and feeble, whose little stock and strength were
insufficient to raise to themselves a name, rail at those from whom they
stole the riches with which they are bedecked, and ungratefully conceal
their obligations to their benefactors.

The method made use of by the moderns, in the new philosophy, recommends
itself by its own excellence; for the spirit of analysis and geometry
that pervades their manner of treating subjects, has contributed so
much to the advancement of science, that it were to be wished they had
never swerved from it. It is not, however, to be denied, that the
noblest parts of that system of philosophy, received with so much
applause in the three last centuries, were known and inculcated by
Pythagoras, Plato, Aristotle, and Plutarch. Of these great men, it may
be believed that they well knew how to demonstrate what they
communicated; although the arguments, upon which some portions of their
demonstrations were founded, have not come down to us. Yet, if in those
works which have escaped destruction from the fanaticism of ignorance,
and the injuries of time, we meet with numberless instances of
penetration and exact reasoning in their manner of relating their
discoveries, it is reasonable to presume that they exerted the same care
and logical accuracy in support of these truths, which are but barely
mentioned in the writings preserved to us. Among the titles of their
lost books are many respecting subjects mentioned only in general in
their other writings. We may conclude, therefore, that we should have
met with the proofs we now want, had they not thought it unnecessary to
repeat them, after having published them in so many other works, to
which they often refer, and of which the titles are handed down to us by
Diogenes Laertius, Suidas, and other ancients, with exactness sufficient
to give us an idea of the greatness of our loss. From numerous examples
of this kind, which might be quoted, one may be selected respecting
Democritus. That great man was the author of two books, from the titles
of which it evidently appears, that he was one of the principal
inventors of the elementary doctrine which treats of those lines and
solids that are termed irrational, and of the contact of circles and
spheres.

It is remarkable, that the illustrious ancients, by the mere force of
their own natural talents, attained to all those acquisitions of
knowledge which our experiments, aided by instruments thrown in our way
by chance, serve only to confirm. Without the assistance of a telescope
Democritus knew and taught, that the milky way was an assemblage of
innumerable stars that escape our sight, and whose united splendour
produces in the heavens the whiteness, which we denominate by that name;
and he ascribed the spots in the moon to the exceeding height of its
mountains and depth of its vallies. True it is, that the moderns have
gone farther, and found means to measure the height of those same
mountains; yet Democritus’s researches were those of a great genius;
whereas the operations of the moderns are merely organical and mechanic.
Besides which, we have this advantage,--that _we_ work upon _their_
canvass.

Finally, it may be repeated, that there is scarcely any discovery
ascribed to the moderns, but what was not only known to the ancients,
but supported by them with the most solid arguments. The demonstration
of this position will at least have this good effect; it will abate our
prejudices against the ancients, occasioned by a blind admiration of
some moderns, who had never shone at all but for the light they borrowed
of their masters. Their opinions fairly stated from their own works, and
often in their words, must render the decision easy; and the result may
restore to the early philosophers some part at least of their disputed
glory.

  [270] The Rev. L. Dutens, in his “Inquiry into the Origin of the
  Discoveries attributed to the Moderns.”

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


THE GOSSIP AND STARE.

    ------ A creature of so frightful mien,
    As to be hated needs but to be seen.

It is feminine; a lower animal of the tribe _Inquisitoria_; and with all
others of its species indescribably restless. It is commonly found with
the bosom slatternly arrayed, leaning with folded arms out of a
“two-pair front,” looking cunningly and maliciously over the side of a
garden-pot--like a starling through the water-hole of its cage over the
water-pot--with its head always on the bob, like that of the Chinese
figure in grocers’ shops. Its features are lean and sharp as the bows of
a Folkstone cutter, or the face of a Port Royal pig; its nose, like a
racoon’s, is continually on the twist; the ears are ever pricking up for
vague rumours and calumnious reports, and the eyes roll from side to
side, like those of the image in the wooden clock at Kaltenbach’s in the
Borough; the tongue is snake-like, is perpetually in motion--pretty yet
pert--and venomous. Its habit is bilious, its temper splenetic. It is a
sure extractor of all secrets, a thorough heart-wormer, a living
diving-bell, a walking corkscrew. It generally “appears as well as its
neighbours,” but it is fastidious, and loves to be different. Upon its
legs, which are of the sparrow order, it looks a merry, light-hearted,
artless, and good-natured little thing; but it is the green-bag-bearer
of the parish, and its food is scandal. Hear it talk on a first meeting
with a regular listener! Its voice is at first soft as the low piping of
the nightingale, but gradually becomes like the loud hissing of an
adder, and ends hoarse, and ominous of evil as that of the raven. It is
an untiring spreader of idle and false reports, to the injury of many a
good character. It is only innoxious to reasonable beings, for they
never listen to it, or when obliged to do so, are no more amused by its
sayings than by the singing of a tea-kettle; but these being few in
number, compared with the lovers of small talk, to whom its company is
always acceptable, it is a dangerous animal,

    ---- mother of deceit and lies.

Look at it sitting in its habitation!--every sound from the street draws
it to the light-hole[271]--every thing from a bonnet to a patten
furnishes it with matter for gossip--every opening of a neighbour’s door
brings its long neck into the street. Every misfortune that assails
others is to it a pleasure--every death a new life to itself--and the
failings of the departed are eternal themes for its envenomed slander.
It is at the heels of every thing that stirs, and the sooner it is
trodden upon the better. But people tolerate and like it, because it is
“so amusing,” and “so clever;” and yet each of its listeners is traduced
in turn. There is no dealing with it, but by giving it rope enough; it
will then hang itself, which, by the by, will be such an end as the
creature merits.

  S. R. J.

  [271] Window.

       *       *       *       *       *


NAVAL MANNERS.

When the old duke of York (brother to George III.) went on board lord
Howe’s ship, as a midshipman, the different captains in the fleet
attended, to pay him their respects, on the quarter-deck. He seemed not
to know what it was to be subordinate, nor to feel the necessity of
moderation in the display of superiority resulting from his high rank,
and he received the officers with some hauteur. This a sailor on the
forecastle observed; and after expressing astonishment at the duke’s
keeping his hat on, he told one of his messmates, that “the thing was
not in its sphere;” adding, “it is no wonder he does not know manners,
as he was never at sea before.”

       *       *       *       *       *


LEGAL RECREATION.

It is alleged in a memoir of the Life of Lord Eldon, that, when plain
John Scott, his zeal for knowledge of the law was so great, that he
abandoned the pursuit of almost every other species of information, and
never sacrificed a moment from his legal studies, beyond what was
absolutely necessary to his health. His brother William, (afterwards
lord Stowell,) with a view of engaging him to meet Dr. Johnson and other
men of distinguished literary talent, would sometimes say, “Where do you
dine to-day?” To this question John’s uniform answer was, “I dine on
Coke to-day.” William would then demur, with a “Nay, but come to my
chambers--you’ll see the doctor;” whereupon John argued, concerning the
doctor, “He can’t draw a bill;” and so the friendly suit concluded.

It is further affirmed, on the best authority, that it was an amusement
in the early legal life of John Scott to turn pieces of poetry into the
form of legal instruments; and that he actually converted the ballad of
“Chevy Chace” into the shape and style of a bill in chancery.

       *       *       *       *       *

A professional gentleman, who, during his pupilage, was recommended by a
distinguished barrister to commit the following verses to memory, duly
availed himself of that advantage, and obligingly communicates them.

_For the Table Book._


CANONS OF DESCENT.

BY AN APPRENTICE OF THE LAW.

_Canon_ I.

    Estates go to the issue (_item_)
    Of him last seized _in infinitum_;
    like cow-tails, downward, straight they tend,
    But never, lineally, ascend:

_Cannon_ II.

    This gives that preference to males,
    At which a lady justly rails.

_Canon_ III.

    Of two males, in the same degree,
    The eldest, only, heir shall be:
    With females we this order break,
    And let them all together take.

_Canon_ IV.

    When one his worldly strife hath ended,
    Those who are lineally descended
    From him, as to his claims and riches,
    Shall stand, precisely, in his breeches.

_Canon_ V.

    When lineal descendants fail,
    Collaterals the land may nail:
    So that they be (and that a bore is)
    _De sanguine progenitores_.

_Canon_ VI.

    The heir collateral, d’ye see,
    Next kinsman of whole blood must be:

_Canon_ VII.

    And, of collaterals, the male
    Stocks are preferred to the female;
    Unless the land come from a woman,
    And then her heirs shall yield to no man.

       *       *       *       *       *


FRENCH JUDICIAL AUTHORITY.

In the “Thuana” we read of a whimsical, passionate, old judge, who was
sent into Gascony with power to examine into the abuses which had crept
into the administration of justice in that part of France. Arriving late
at Port St. Mary, he asked “how near he was to the city of Agen?” He was
answered, “_two_ leagues.” He then decided to proceed that evening,
although he was informed that the leagues were long, and the roads very
bad. In consequence of his obstinacy the judge was bemired, benighted,
and almost shaken to pieces. He reached Agen, however, by midnight, with
tired horses and harassed spirits, and went to bed in an ill humour. The
next morn he summoned the court of justice to meet, and after having
opened his commission in due form, his first decree was, “That for the
future the distance from Agen to Port St. Mary should be reckoned _six_
leagues.” This decree he ordered to be registered in the records of the
province, before he would proceed to any other business.

       *       *       *       *       *


A LONG MINUET.

Hogarth, in his “Analysis of Beauty,” mentions the circumstance of a
dancing-master’s observing, that though the “minuet” had been the study
of his whole life, he could only say with Socrates, that he “knew
nothing.” Hogarth added of himself, that he was happy in being a
painter, because some bounds might be set to the study of his art.




Vol. II.--30.


[Illustration: ~The Bishop’s Well, Bromley, Kent.~]

There is a way from Bromley market-place across meadow grounds to the
palace of the bishop of Rochester. This edifice, about a quarter of a
mile from the town, is a plain, homely mansion, erected in 1783 by
bishop Thomas, on the site of the ancient palace built there by bishop
Gilbert Glanville, lord chief justice of England, after he succeeded to
the see in 1185, instead of a still more ancient palace, founded by the
prelate Gundalph, an eminent architect, bishop of Rochester in the reign
of William the Conqueror. At a few hundred yards eastward of the palace
is the “Bishop’s Well;” which, while I minutely examined it, Mr.
Williams sketched; and he has since engraved it, as the reader sees.

The water of the “Bishop’s Well” is a chalybeate, honoured by local
reputation with surprising properties; but, in reality, it is of the
same nature as the mineral water of Tunbridge Wells. It rises so slowly,
as to yield scarcely a gallon in a quarter of an hour, and is retained
in a small well about sixteen inches in diameter. To the stone work of
this little well a wooden cover is attached by a chain. When the fluid
attains a certain height, its surplus trickles through an orifice at the
side to increase the water of a moat, or small lake, which borders the
grounds of the palace, and is overhung on each side with the branches of
luxuriant shrubs and trees. Above the well there is a roof of thatch,
supported by six pillars, in the manner of a rustic temple, heightening
the picturesque appearance of the scene, so as to justify its
representation by the pencil. On visiting it, with Mr. W., this pleasant
seclusion, consecrated by former episcopal care, and the fond
recollections of ancient adjacent residents, was passing to ruin: we
disturbed some boys in their work of pulling reeds from the thatched
roof. A recent vacancy of the see seemed to have extended to the
superintendence of the well; the seeds of neglect had germinated, and
were springing up. I have revisited the spot, and seen

          ---------------- the wild-briar,
    The thorn, and the thistle, grown broader and higher.

The “Bishop’s Well” is said to have been confounded with a spring of
more ancient note, called St. Blase’s Well. Of this latter well
topographers[272] say, “It anciently had an oratory annexed to it,
dedicated to St. Blasius, which was much frequented at Whitsuntide,
because Lucas, who was legate for Sixtus the Fourth, here in England,
granted an indulgent remission of forty days; enjoined penance to all
those who should visit this chapel, and offer up their orizons there in
the three holidays of Pentecost. This oratory falling to ruin at the
Reformation, the well too became disused, and the site of both in
process of time was forgotten, and continued so till the well was
discovered again in the year 1754, by means of a yellow ochrey sediment
remaining in the tract of a small current leading from the spring to the
corner of the moat, with the waters of which it used to mix. In digging
round the well there were found the remains of the old steps leading
down to it, made of oak plank, which appeared to have lain under ground
many years. The water of this spring is chalybeate, and rises at the
foot of a declivity, at a small distance eastward from the bishop’s
palace. The soil through which it passes is gravel, and it issues
immediately from a bed of pure white sand. The course of the spring
seems to be about north-north-east and south-south-west from its
aperture; its opening is towards the latter; and as Shooter’s Hill bears
about north-north-east from its aperture, it probably comes from thence.
The water being thus found to be a good chalybeate, was, by the bishop’s
orders, immediately secured from the intermixture of other waters, and
enclosed.”

Wilson, a recent writer, affirms, that “the old well, dedicated to St.
Blase, is about two hundred yards north-west of the mineral spring, in a
field near the road, with eight oaks in a cluster, on an elevated spot
of ground adjoining.” This, however, seems wholly conjectural, and
wholly nugatory; for, if “the old steps made of oak-plank, which
appeared to have lain under ground many years,” led to the “Bishop’s
Well,” it may reasonably be presumed that they were the “old steps” to
St. Blase’s Well, and that the water of the ancient oratory now flows
within the humble edifice represented by the engraving.

  *

  [272] Philipot, and Hasted.

       *       *       *       *       *


MISS KELLY.

_To the Editor._

Dear Sir,--Somebody has fairly play’d a _hoax_ on you (I suspect that
pleasant rogue _M--x--n_[273]) in sending you the Sonnet in my name,
inserted in your last Number. True it is, that I must own to the Verses
being mine, but not written on the occasion there pretended, for I have
not yet had the pleasure of seeing the Lady in the part of Emmeline; and
I have understood, that the force of her acting in it is rather in the
expression of new-born sight, than of the previous want of it.--The
lines were really written upon her performance in the “Blind Boy,” and
appeared in the Morning Chronicle some years back. I suppose, our
facetious friend thought that they would serve again, like an old coat
new turned.

  Yours (and his nevertheless)

  C. LAMB.

  [273] It was.--ED.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXVI.

  [From “Doctor Dodypol,” a Comedy, Author unknown, 1600.]

_Earl Lassenburgh, as a Painter, painting his Mistress_ al grotesco.

      _Lass_. Welcome bright Morn, that with thy golden rays
    Reveal’st the radiant colours of the world;
    Look here, and see if thou can’st find dispers’d
    The glorious parts of fair Lucilia!
    Take them, and join them in the heavenly spheres;
    And fix them there as an eternal light,
    For lovers to adore and wonder at.
      _Luc._ You paint your flattering words, Lord Lassenburgh,
    Making a curious pencil of your tongue;
    And that fair artificial hand of yours
    Were fitter to have painted Heaven’s fine story,
    Than here to work on antics, and on me:
    Thus for my sake you of a noble Earl
    Are glad to be a mercenary Painter.
      _Lass._ A Painter, fair Lucilia: why, the world
    With all her beauty was by PAINTING made.
    Look on the heavens, colour’d with golden stars,
    The firmamental part of it all blue.
    Look on the air, where with an hundred changes
    The watery rainbow doth embrace the earth.
    Look on the summer fields, adorn’d with flowers,
    How much is Nature’s painting honour’d there.
    Look in the mines, and on the eastern shore,
    Where all our metals and dear gems are drawn;
    Though fair themselves, made better by their foils.
    Look on that little world, the Two-fold Man,
    Whose fairer parcel is the weaker still;
    And see what azure veins in stream-like form
    Divide the rosy beauty of the skin.
    I speak not of the sundry shapes of beasts;
    The several colours of the elements,
    Whose mixture shapes the world’s variety,
    In making all things by their colours known.
    And, to conclude--Nature herself divine
    In all things she has made is a mere Painter.
      _Luc._ Now by this kiss, the admirer of thy skill,
    Thou art well worthy th’ honour thou hast given
    With thy so sweet words to thy eye-ravishing Art;
    Of which my beauties can deserve no part.
      _Lass_. From these base antics, where my hand hath ’spersed
    Thy several parts, if I, uniting all,
    Had figured there the true Lucilia,
    Then might thou justly wonder at my art;
    And devout people would from far repair,
    Like pilgrims, with their duteous sacrifice,
    Adorning thee as Regent of their loves.
    Here in the center of this Marigold
    Like a bright diamond I enchased thine eye.
    Here underneath this little rosy bush
    Thy crimson cheeks peer forth, more fair than it.
    Here Cupid hanging down his wings doth sit,
    Comparing cherries to thy rosy lips.
    Here is thy brow, thy hair, thy neck, thy hand,
    Of purpose in all several shrouds dispersed!
    Lest ravish’d I should dote on mine own work.
    Or envy-burning eyes should malice it.

_A Cameo described._

    --- see this Agate, that contains
    The image of the Goddess and her Son,
    Whom ancients held the Sovereigns of Love.
    See naturally wrought out of the stone,
    Besides the perfect shape of every limb,
    Besides the wondrous life of her bright hair,
    A waving mantle of celestial blue,
    Embroidering itself with flaming stars;
    Most excellent! and see besides,--
    How Cupid’s wings do spring out of the stone,
    As if they needed not the help of Art.

_Earl Lassenburgh, for some distaste, flees Lucilia, who follows him._

      _Lass._ Wilt thou not cease then to pursue me still?
    Should I entreat thee to attend me thus,
    Then thou would’st pant and rest; then your soft feet
    Would be repining at these niggard stones:
    Now I forbid thee, thou pursuest like wind;
    Ne tedious space of time, nor storm can tire thee.
    But I will seek out some high slippery close,
    Where every step shall reach the gate of death,
    That fear may make thee cease to follow me.
      _Luc._ There will I bodiless be, when you are there;
    For love despiseth death, and scorneth fear.
      _Lass._ I’ll wander where some desperate river parts
    The solid continent, and swim from thee.
      _Luc._ And there I’ll follow, though I drown for thee.
      _Lass._ O weary of the way, and of my life,
    Where shall I rest my sorrow’d, tired limbs?
      _Luc._ Rest in my bosom, rest you here, my Lord;
    A place securer you can no way find--
      _Lass._ Nor more unfit for my unpleased mind.
    A heavy slumber calls me to the earth;
    Here will I sleep, if sleep will harbour here.
      _Luc._ Unhealthful is the melancholy earth;
    O let my Lord rest on Lucilia’s lap.
    I’ll help to shield you from the searching air,
    And keep the cold damps from your gentle blood.
      _Lass._ Pray thee away; for, whilst thou art so near,
    No sleep will seize on my suspicious eyes.
      _Luc._ Sleep then; and I am pleased far off to sit,
    Like to a poor and forlorn centinel,
    Watching the unthankful sleep, that severs me
    From my due part of rest, dear Love, with thee.

_An Enchanter, who is enamoured of Lucilia, charms the Earl to a dead
sleep, and Lucilia to a forgetfulness of her past love._

      _Enchanter (to Lassenburgh.)_ Lie there; and lose the memory of
          her,
    Who likewise hath forgot the love of thee
    By my enchantments:--come sit down, fair Nymph,
    And taste the sweetness of these heav’nly cates,
    Whilst from the hollow crannies of this rock
    Music shall sound to recreate my Love.
    But tell me, had you ever Lover yet?
      _Lucilia._ I had a Lover, I think; but who it was,
    Or where, or how long since, aye me! I know not:
    Yet beat my timerous thoughts on such a thing.
    I feel a passionate heat, yet find no flame;
    Think what I know not, nor know what I think.
      _Ench._ Hast thou forgot me then? I am thy Love,--
    Whom sweetly thou wert wont to entertain
    With looks, with vows of love, with amorous kisses.
    Look’st thou so strange? dost thou not know me yet?
      _Luc._ Sure I should know you.
      _Ench._ Why, Love, doubt you that?
    Twas I that led you[274] thro’ the painted meads,
    Where the light fairies danced upon the flowers,
    Hanging on every leaf an orient pearl,
    Which, struck together with the silken wind
    Of their loose mantles, made a silver chime.
    Twas I that, winding my shrill bugle horn,
    Made a gilt palace break out of the hill,
    Fill’d suddenly with troops of knights and dames,
    Who danced and revel’d; whilst we sweetly slept
    Upon a bed of roses, wrapt all in gold.
    Dost thou not know me now?
      _Luc._ Yes, now I know thee.
      _Ench._ Come then, confirm this knowledge with a kiss.
      _Luc._ Nay, stay; you are not he: how strange is this!
      _Ench._ Thou art grown passing strange, my Love,
    To him that made thee so long since his Bride.
      _Luc._ O was it you? come then. O stay awhile.
    I know not where I am, nor what I am;
    Nor you, nor these I know, nor any thing.

  C. L.

  [274] In charmed visions.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Life of an Usurer.~

HUGH AUDLEY.

There are memoirs of this remarkable man in a rare quarto tract,
entitled “The Way to be Rich, according to the practice of the great
Audley, who began with two hundred pounds in the year 1605, and died
worth four hundred thousand.” He died on the 15th of November, 1662, the
year wherein the tract was printed.

Hugh Audley was a lawyer, and a great practical philosopher, who
concentrated his vigorous faculties in the science of the relative value
of money. He flourished through the reigns of James I., Charles I., and
held a lucrative office in the “court of wards,” till that singular
court was abolished at the time of the restoration. In his own times he
was called “The great Audley,” an epithet so often abused, and here
applied to the creation of enormous wealth. But there are minds of
great capacity, concealed by the nature of their pursuits; and the
wealth of Audley may be considered as the cloudy medium through which a
bright genius shone, of which, had it been thrown into a nobler sphere
of action, the “greatness” would have been less ambiguous.

Audley, as mentioned in the title of his memoir, began with two hundred
pounds, and lived to view his mortgages, his statutes, and his judgments
so numerous, that it was observed, his papers would have made a good map
of England. A contemporary dramatist, who copied from life, has opened
the chamber of such an usurer,--perhaps of our Audley--

                   ------“Here lay
    A manor bound fast in a skin of parchment,
    The wax continuing hard, the acres melting,
    Here a sure deed of gift for a market-town,
    If not redeem’d this day, which is not in
    The unthrift’s power; there being scarce one shire
    In Wales or England, where my monies are not
    Lent out at usury, the certain hook
    To draw in more.--”

  _Massinger’s City Madam._

This genius of thirty per cent. first had proved the decided vigour of
his mind, by his enthusiastic devotion to his law-studies: deprived of
the leisure for study through his busy day, he stole the hours from his
late nights and his early mornings; and without the means to procure a
law-library, he invented a method to possess one without the cost; as
fast as he learned, he taught; and by publishing some useful tracts on
temporary occasions, he was enabled to purchase a library. He appears
never to have read a book without its furnishing him with some new
practical design, and he probably studied too much for his own
particular advantage. Such devoted studies was the way to become a
lord-chancellor; but the science of the law was here subordinate to that
of a money-trader.

When yet but a clerk to the clerk in the Counter, frequent opportunities
occurred which Audley knew how to improve. He became a money-trader as
he had become a law-writer, and the fears and follies of mankind were to
furnish him with a trading-capital. The fertility of his genius appeared
in expedients and in quick contrivances. He was sure to be the friend of
all men falling out. He took a deep concern in the affairs of his
master’s clients, and often much more than they were aware of. No man so
ready at procuring bail or compounding debts. This was a considerable
traffic then, as now. They hired themselves out for bail, swore what was
required, and contrived to give false addresses. It seems they dressed
themselves out for the occasion: a great seal-ring flamed on the finger,
which, however, was pure copper gilt, and they often assumed the name of
some person of good credit. Savings, and small presents for gratuitous
opinions, often afterwards discovered to be very fallacious ones,
enabled him to purchase annuities of easy landholders, with their treble
amount secured on their estates. The improvident owners, or the careless
heirs, were soon entangled in the usurer’s nets; and, after the receipt
of a few years, the annuity, by some latent quibble, or some
irregularity in the payments, usually ended in Audley’s obtaining the
treble forfeiture. He could at all times out-knave a knave. One of these
incidents has been preserved. A draper, of no honest reputation, being
arrested by a merchant for a debt of 200_l._ Audley bought the debt at
40_l._, for which the draper immediately offered him 50_l._ But Audley
would not consent, unless the draper indulged a sudden whim of his own:
this was a formal contract, that the draper should pay within twenty
years, upon twenty certain days, a penny doubled. A knave, in haste to
sign, is no calculator; and, as the contemporary dramatist describes one
of the arts of those citizens, one part of whose business was

    “To swear and break--they all grow rich by breaking--”

the draper eagerly compounded. He afterwards “grew rich.” Audley,
silently watching his victim, within two years, claims his doubled
pennies, every month during twenty months. The pennies had now grown up
to pounds. The knave perceived the trick, and preferred paying the
forfeiture of his bond for 500_l._, rather than to receive the
visitation of all the little generation of compound interest in the last
descendant of 2000_l._, which would have closed with the draper’s shop.
The inventive genius of Audley might have illustrated that popular tract
of his own times, Peacham’s “Worth of a Penny;” a gentleman who, having
scarcely one left, consoled himself by detailing the numerous comforts
of life it might procure in the days of Charles II.

Such petty enterprises at length assumed a deeper cast of interest. He
formed temporary partnerships with the stewards of country gentlemen.
They underlet estates which they had to manage; and, anticipating the
owner’s necessities, the estates in due time became cheap purchases for
Audley and the stewards. He usually contrived to make the wood pay for
the land, which he called “making the feathers pay for the goose.” He
had, however, such a tenderness of conscience for his victim, that,
having plucked the live feathers before he sent the unfledged goose on
the common, he would bestow a gratuitous lecture in his own
science--teaching the art of making them grow again, by showing how to
raise the remaining rents. Audley thus made the tenant furnish at once
the means to satisfy his own rapacity, and his employer’s necessities.
His avarice was not working by a blind, but on an enlightened principle;
for he was only enabling the landlord to obtain what the tenant, with
due industry, could afford to give. Adam Smith might have delivered
himself in the language of old Audley, so just was his standard of the
value of rents. “Under an easy landlord,” said Audley, “a tenant seldom
thrives; contenting himself to make the just measure of his rents, and
not labouring for any surplusage of estate. Under a hard one, the tenant
revenges himself upon the land, and runs away with the rent. I would
raise my rents to the present price of all commodities: for if we should
let our lands, as other men have done before us, now other wares daily
go on in price, we should fall backward in our estates.” These axioms of
political economy were discoveries in his day.

Audley knew mankind practically, and struck into their humours with the
versatility of genius: oracularly deep with the grave, he only stung the
lighter mind. When a lord, borrowing money, complained to Audley of his
exactions, his lordship exclaimed, “What, do you not intend to use a
conscience?” “Yes, I intend hereafter to use it. We monied people must
balance accounts: if you do not pay me, you cheat me; but, if you do,
then I cheat your lordship.” Audley’s monied conscience balanced the
risk of his lordship’s honour, against the probability of his own
rapacious profits. When he resided in the Temple among those “pullets
without feathers,” as an old writer describes the brood, the good man
would pule out paternal homilies on improvident youth, grieving that
they, under pretence of “learning the law, only learnt to be lawless;”
and “never knew by their own studies the process of an execution, till
it was served on themselves.” Nor could he fail in his prophecy; for at
the moment that the stoic was enduring their ridicule, his agents were
supplying them with the certain means of verifying it; for, as it is
quaintly said, he had his _decoying_ as well as his _decaying_
gentlemen.

Audley was a philosophical usurer: he never pressed hard for his debts;
like the fowler, he never shook his nets lest he might startle,
satisfied to have them, without appearing to hold them. With great
fondness he compared his “bonds to infants, which battle best by
sleeping.” To battle is to be nourished, a term still retained at the
university of Oxford. His familiar companions were all subordinate
actors in the great piece he was performing; he too had his part in the
scene. When not taken by surprise, on his table usually lay opened a
great Bible, with bishop Andrews’s folio sermons, which often gave him
an opportunity of railing at the covetousness of the clergy! declaring
their religion was “a mere preach;” and that “the time would never be
well till we had queen Elizabeth’s Protestants again in fashion.” He was
aware of all the evils arising out of a population beyond the means of
subsistence. He dreaded an inundation of men, and considered marriage,
with a modern political economist, as very dangerous; bitterly censuring
the clergy, whose children, he said, never thrived, and whose widows
were left destitute. An apostolical life, according to Audley, required
only books, meat, and drink, to be had for fifty pounds a year!
Celibacy, voluntary poverty, and all the mortifications of a primitive
Christian, were the virtues practised by this puritan among his money
bags.

Yet Audley’s was that worldly wisdom which derives all its strength from
the weaknesses of mankind. Every thing was to be obtained by stratagem,
and it was his maxim, that to grasp our object the faster, we must go a
little round about it. His life is said to have been one of intricacies
and mysteries, using indirect means in all things; but if he walked in a
labyrinth, it was to bewilder others; for the clue was still in his own
hand; all he sought was that his designs should not be discovered by his
actions. His word, we are told, was his bond; his hour was punctual; and
his opinions were compressed and weighty: but if he was true to his
bond-word, it was only a part of the system to give facility to the
carrying on of his trade, for he was not strict to his honour; the pride
of victory, as well as the passion for acquisition, combined in the
character of Audley, as in more tremendous conquerors. His partners
dreaded the effects of his law-library, and usually relinquished a claim
rather than stand a suit against a latent quibble. When one menaced him
by showing some money-bags, which he had resolved to empty in law
against him, Audley, then in office in the court of wards, with a
sarcastic grin, asked, “Whether the bags had any bottom?” “Ay!” replied
the exulting possessor, striking them. “In that case I care not,”
retorted the cynical officer of the court of wards; “for in this court I
have a constant spring; and I cannot spend in other courts more than I
gain in this.” He had at once the meanness which would evade the law,
and the spirit which could resist it.

The genius of Audley had crept out of the purlieus of Guildhall, and
entered the Temple; and having often sauntered at “Powles” down the
great promenade which was reserved for “Duke Humphrey and his guests,”
he would turn into that part called “The Usurer’s Alley,” to talk with
“Thirty in the hundred,” and at length was enabled to purchase his
office at that remarkable institution, the court of wards. The entire
fortunes of those whom we now call wards in chancery were in the hands,
and often submitted to the arts or the tyranny of the officers of this
court.

When Audley was asked the value of this new office, he replied, that “It
might be worth some thousands of pounds to him who after his death would
instantly go to heaven; twice as much to him who would go to purgatory;
and nobody knows what to him who would adventure to go to hell.” Such
was the pious casuistry of a witty usurer. Whether he undertook this
last adventure, for his four hundred thousand pounds, how can a
sceptical biographer decide! Audley seems ever to have been weak, when
temptation was strong.

Some saving qualities, however, were mixed with the vicious ones he
liked best. Another passion divided dominion with the sovereign one:
Audley’s strongest impressions of character were cast in the old
law-library of his youth, and the pride of legal reputation was not
inferior in strength to the rage for money. If in the “court of wards”
he pounced on incumbrances which lay on estates, and prowled about to
discover the craving wants of their owners, it appears that he also
received liberal fees from the relatives of young heirs, to protect them
from the rapacity of some great persons, but who could not certainly
exceed Audley in subtilty. He was an admirable lawyer, for he was not
satisfied with _hearing_, but _examining_ his clients; which he called
“pinching the cause where he perceived it was foundered.” He made two
observations on clients and lawyers, which have not lost their
poignancy. “Many clients, in telling their case, rather plead than
relate it, so that the advocate heareth not the true state of it, till
opened by the adverse party. Some lawyers seem to keep an
assurance-office in their chambers, and will warrant any cause brought
unto them, knowing that if they fail, they lose nothing but what was
lost long since, their credit.”

The career of Audley’s ambition closed with the extinction of the “court
of wards,” by which he incurred the loss of above 100,000_l._ On that
occasion he observed, that “his ordinary losses were as the shavings of
his beard, which only grew the faster by them; but the loss of this
place was like the cutting off of a member, which was irrecoverable.”
The hoary usurer pined at the decline of his genius, discoursed on the
vanity of the world, and hinted at retreat. A facetious friend told him
a story of an old rat, who having acquainted the young rats that he
would at length retire to his hole, desiring none to come near him:
their curiosity, after some days, led them to venture to look into the
hole; and there they discovered the old rat sitting in the midst of a
rich parmesan cheese. It is probable that the loss of the last
100,000_l._ disturbed his digestion, for he did not long survive his
court of wards.

Such was this man, converting wisdom into cunning, invention into
trickery, and wit into cynicism. Engaged in no honourable cause, he
however showed a mind resolved, making plain the crooked and involved
path he trod. _Sustine et abstine_, to bear and to forbear, was the
great principle of Epictetus, and our monied stoic bore all the contempt
and hatred of the living smilingly, while he forbore all the
consolations of our common nature to obtain his end. He died in unblest
celibacy.--And thus he received the curses of the living for his rapine,
while the stranger who grasped the million he had raked together, owed
him no gratitude at his death.--_D’Israeli._

       *       *       *       *       *


AVARICE.

There are two sorts of avarice. One consists in a solicitude to acquire
wealth for the sake of those advantages which wealth bestows, and the
dread of poverty and its attendant evils; the other, in an anxiety for
wealth on its own account only, and which sacrifices to the attainment
of it every advantage that wealth can give. The first is the
exaggeration of a quality, which when not carried to excess is
praiseworthy, and is called economy. The other, when indulged in the
extreme, produces the effect of a species of prodigality. Where is the
great difference between the man who reduces himself to the want of the
common necessaries of life, by completing a collection of books,
pictures, or medals, and the man who brings himself in effect to the
same situation, for the sole end of leaving a precise sum of money to
his executors? What signifies whether I starve myself and my family,
because I will possess a copper farthing of Otho, or will not part with
a golden guinea of king George?

But if there is more folly in one, the other is more likely to be
productive of vice. A man who considers wealth as the object of his
passion, will hardly refrain from acts of dishonesty when strongly
tempted; and yet some of these jackdaw hoarders are men of inviolable
integrity.

There are remarkable instances of improvident expenditure by misers on
particular occasions. The money-loving Elwes, at his first election for
Berkshire, besides opening houses, giving ribbons, and incurring every
expense common on those occasions, dispersed guineas and half-guineas
among the populace, with a profusion as useless as unprecedented.

Perhaps there is no character so seldom to be met with, as that of a man
who is strictly reasonable in the value he sets on property--who can be
liberal without profusion, and economical without avarice.

       *       *       *       *       *


ECONOMY.

A rich and parsimonious person, remarkable for having by his will
preferred public charities to his relations, was fond of going to the
theatre, and taking his great coat with him. But where should he leave
this useful appendage during the performance? The box-keepers would
expect at least sixpence; and, should he leave it at a coffee-house, he
must spend threepence to obtain house-room for it. His invention
supplied him with a method cheaper and equally secure. He pledged his
garment every evening that he attended the play, at a pawnbrokers, near
the door, for a shilling. This sum he carried back at the close of the
play, added _one penny_ to it for interest, and received his great coat
again safe and sound, as it had literally been laid up in lavender.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ~Mrs. Gilpin riding to Edmonton.~]

    Then Mrs. Gilpin sweetly said
      Unto her children three,
    “I’ll clamber o’er this style so high,
      And you climb after me.”

    But having climb’d unto the top,
      She could no further go,
    But sate, to every passer by
      A spectacle and show:

    Who said “Your spouse and you this day
      Both show your horsemanship,
    And if you stay till he comes back,
      Your horse will need no whip.”

The sketch, here engraved, (probably from the poet’s friend Romney,) was
found with the above three stanzas in the handwriting of Cowper, among
the papers of the late Mrs. Unwin. It is to be regretted that no more
was found of this little _Episode_, as it evidently was intended to be,
to the “Diverting History of Johnny Gilpin.” It is to be supposed that
Mrs. Gilpin, in the interval between dinner and tea, finding the time to
hang upon her hands, during her husband’s involuntary excursion, rambled
out with the children into the fields at the back of the Bell, (as what
could be more natural?) and at one of those high aukward styles, for
which Edmonton is so proverbially famed, the embarrassment represented,
so mortifying to a substantial City Madam, might have happened; a
predicament, which leaves her in a state, which is the very Antipodes to
that of her too loco-motive husband; in fact she rides a restive
horse.--Now I talk of Edmonton styles, I must speak a little about those
of Enfield, its next neighbour, which are so ingeniously
contrived--every rising bar to the top becoming more protuberant than
the one under it--that it is impossible for any Christian climber to get
over, without bruising his (or her) shins as many times as there are
bars. These inhospitable invitations to a flayed skin, are planted so
thickly too, and are so troublesomely importunate at every little
paddock here, that this, with more propriety than Thebes of old, might
be entitled Hecatompolis: the Town of the Hundred Gates, or _styles_.

  A SOJOURNER AT ENFIELD.

  _July 16, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


SAWSTON CROSS.

In the summer of the year 1815, I fulfilled my long standing promise of
spending a day with an old schoolfellow at Sawston, a pleasant little
village, delightfully situated in a fertile valley about seven miles
south of Cambridge, the north of which is encompassed by the Gogmagog
hills, which appear Apennines in miniature; the south, east, and west,
are beautifully diversified with trees and foliage, truly picturesque
and romantic. After partaking of the good things at the hospitable board
of my friend, we set out for a ramble among the quiet rural scenery, and
suddenly found ourselves in the midst of a group of people, near the
road leading to the church. They were holding a conversation on a
grass-plot; from the centre of which rose a _cross_, enclosed in a small
covered building, like an amphitheatre, that added not a little to the
romantic appearance of the village; towards the bottom of the southern
<DW72> of the grass-plot, propped with uncommon care, and guarded by a
holy zeal from the ravages of time, stood an ancient sycamore-tree; and
on the east side, to the terror of evil-doers, stood the stocks. Alas!
unsparing ignorance has, since then, destroyed this fine tree; “the
place that knew it knows it no more,” and the stocks are fallen never to
rise again.

My friend, taking me aside, informed me the persons assembled were
residents of the place, and that the meeting was convened to sell the
cross. “This cross,” continued my friend, “is the ornament of the
village. It escaped the phrenetic rage of the puritans in the civil
wars, and is of such antiquity, that when it was built is not to be
traced with certainty in the records of history. It may be supposed,
however, to have been erected by the Knights Templars, as the living
belonged to them; for, I believe, it was usual for them to erect crosses
on their property. Upon the abolition of the Templars, the living came
into the hands of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John, afterwards
called the Knights of Rhodes, and lastly, of Malta. So early as the
thirteenth century public officers sat on this cross to administer
justice; at other times, the bishop’s house, near the Campion-field, was
used for that purpose: this house is now in ruins, but the cross,”
continued my friend, “we possessed as an inheritance from our
forefathers, and at this moment the cupidity and folly of the covetous
and ignorant are conspiring to destroy the venerable relic.”

Wishing to preserve a memoranda of the old cross, I took a hasty sketch
of it, (too hastily perhaps to be sufficiently accurate for an
engraving,) and having reached my home, recorded the adventures of the
day in my pocket-book, from whence the above extract is taken. Passing
through the village in the following autumn, I found that the
inhabitants had sacrilegiously levelled the cross and sold the remnants.

    The Jews of old, as we’ve been told--
      And Scriptures pure disclose--
    With harden’d hearts drew lots for parts
      Of our Salvator’s clothes.

    The modern Jews--the Sawstonites--
    As harden’d as the Israelites--
      In ignorance still more gross--
    Thinking they could no longer thrive
    By Christian means, did means contrive--
      Drew lots, and sold the cross!

  _Cambridge._

  T. N.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Discoveries~

OF THE

ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

No. II.

  THE METHOD AND LOGIC OF DESCARTES AND LOCKE DERIVED FROM THE ANCIENTS.

Within the last two centuries some notions were advanced in logic and
metaphysics, which were taken to be new; and Descartes, Leibnitz,
Mallebranche, and Locke, were regarded as innovators, although nothing
be put forth in their works, but what is clearly laid down in those of
the ancients.

Descartes sets forth, as a first principle, that whoever searches for
truth, ought once in his lifetime at least to doubt of every thing. He
then lays down the four following rules, wherein consists the whole of
his logic.--1. Never to admit any thing as true, but what we evidently
discern to be so; that is, we should carefully avoid rashness and
prejudice, and assent to nothing, till it present itself so clearly to
the mind, that there be no occasion to hesitate about it.--2. To reduce
every difficulty into as many separate parts, as may be necessary to
come at its solution.--3. So to arrange our thoughts, that we may
gradually arise from the more simple and obvious, to the more complex
and remote, adhering to the order wherein they naturally precede one
another.--4. To take so extensive a view of our subject, and be so exact
in the enumeration of its parts, that nothing may escape our
observation.

The first of these principles of doubt and circumspection, so boasted of
in Descartes, is clearly laid down by Aristotle, and forcibly
recommended by the very arguments that Descartes assumes. “Whoever seeks
after instruction,” says Aristotle, “ought first of all to learn to
doubt; for that simplicity of mind, which accompanies hesitation,
contributes to the discovery of truth:” and, “whoever searches for
truth, without beginning his investigation by doubting of every thing,
is like one who wanders he knows not whither, and having no fixed scope,
cannot determine where he is; whilst, on the contrary, he who hath
learned to doubt, so as to inquire, will find, in the end, the place
where he ought to rest.” So, also, speaking of the method to be
observed in our investigations, Aristotle bids us begin always with what
is most evident and best known; and carefully trace to its first
elements and principles whatever is obscure, by properly severing and
defining them.

Descartes imagined he had been the first discoverer of one of the most
proper engines for sapping and demolishing the great bulwark of
scepticism, when he reared even upon doubt itself a basis for truth; for
he looked upon himself as the original advancer of the Enthymem,[275] “I
doubt (or think) therefore I am.” To Descartes has been assigned the
whole honour of this argument, though in reality it is to be found in
St. Augustine. “I do not see,” says that great man, “what mighty force
there is in the scepticism of the academics. For my part, I look upon it
as a very just observation of theirs, that we may deceive ourselves. But
if I deceive myself, may I not thence conclude that I am? For he who has
no existence, cannot deceive himself; wherefore, by that very
circumstance, that I deceive myself, I find that I am.”

Locke, in his “Essay on the Human Understanding,” merely advances the
fruits of an exact attention to the principles of Aristotle, who taught
that all our ideas originally spring from the senses, insomuch that a
blind man can never conceive the idea of colours, nor a deaf man of
sounds; and who makes the senses to convey truth, so far as the
imagination can discern it; and the understanding, so far as truth
regards the conduct of life and morals. It was Aristotle who laid the
foundation of that principle, so celebrated among the Peripatetics, that
“there is nothing in the understanding but what came into it by the
senses.” This principle diffuses itself through his works in a thousand
places, and Locke was singularly indebted for the very foundation of his
system to the Stoics. The basis of his work is, that our sensations are
the materials which reflection makes use of to come at mental notions;
and that our sensations are simple ideas. It is true, that he has thrown
great light upon our manner of acquiring and associating ideas; but the
Stoics reasoned in the very same manner; and if all that they advanced
on this subject, in those works of which we have nothing now remaining
but the titles, had reached our times, we had not needed the labours of
a Locke. There is a most remarkable passage to this point in Plutarch.
He says, “The foundation of the doctrine of Zeno and his school, as to
logic, was, that all our ideas come from sensation. The mind of man at
his birth, say they, is like white paper, adapted to receive whatever
may be written on it. The first impressions that it receives come to it
from the senses: if the objects are at a distance, memory retains those
types of them; and the repetition of these impressions constitutes
experience. Ideas or notions are of two kinds, natural and artificial.
The natural have their source in sensation, or are derived from the
senses; whence they also gave them the name of anticipations: the
artificial are produced by reflection, in beings endowed with reason.”
This passage, and others in Origen, Sextus Empiricus, Diogenes Laertius,
and St. Augustine, may serve to trace the true origin of the principle,
“That there is nothing in the understanding, but what entered into it by
the senses.” It may be observed, that this axiom, so clearly expressed
by the ancient Stoics and Epicureans, and by Locke among the moderns,
has been erroneously attributed by several learned men, especially
Gassendi and Harvey, to Aristotle.

  [275] _Enthymem_: an argument consisting only of an antecedent and
  consequential proposition; a syllogism, where the major proposition is
  suppressed, and only the minor and consequence produced in words.

  _Johnson._

       *       *       *       *       *


MECHANICAL POWER.

Mr. Robert Owen calculates that two hundred arms, with machines, now
manufacture as much cotton as twenty millions of arms were able to
manufacture without machines forty years ago; and that the cotton now
manufactured in the course of one year, in Great Britain, would require,
without machines, sixteen millions of workmen with simple wheels. He
calculates further, that the quantity of manufactures of all sorts
produced by British workmen with the aid of machines is so great, that
it would require, without the assistance of machinery, the labour of
four hundred millions of workmen.

In the wool manufacture, machines possess an eminent advantage over
common wheels. The yarn on thirty or thirty-six spindles is all equally
twisted and drawn to the same degree of fineness. The most dexterous
spinners cannot twist so equally and so gently twenty slips of yarn from
wool of the same quality, as a machine can do twenty thousand.

At one of the cotton mills in Manchester yarn has been spun so fine, as
to require 350 hanks to weigh one pound avoirdupois. The perimeter of
the common reel being one yard and a half, 80 threads or revolutions
would measure 120 yards; and one hank seven times as much, or 840 yards,
which multiplied by 350, gives 294,000 yards, or 167 miles and a
fraction.

A steam-engine of the ordinary pressure and construction, with a
cylinder of thirty inches in diameter, will perform the work of forty
horses; and, as it may be made to act without intermission, while horses
will not work more than eight hours in the day, it will do the work of
one hundred and twenty horses; and as the work of a horse is equal to
that of five men, it will perform as much as six hundred men can; while
its whole expense is only equal to about half the number of horses for
which it is substituted.

The only purpose to which steam-engines were first applied was the
raising of water from coal-pits, mines, &c.; but they are now used for
many different purposes in which great power is required. Mr. Bolton
applied the steam-engine to his apparatus for coining; and, by the help
of four boys only, it was capable of striking thirty thousand pieces of
money in an hour; the machine itself was made to keep an accurate
account of the number struck off.

       *       *       *       *       *


MANUFACTURING CELERITY.

In 1811 a gentleman made a bet of one thousand guineas, that he would
have a coat made in the course of a single day, from the first process
of shearing the sheep till its completion by the tailor. The wager was
decided at Newbury, on the 25th of June in that year, by Mr. John
Coxeter, of Greenham Mills, near that town. At five o’clock that
morning, sir John Throckmorton, bart. presented two Southdown wedder
sheep to Mr. Coxeter, and the sheep were shorn, the wool spun, the yarn
spooled, warped, loomed, and wove; and the cloth burred, milled, rowed,
dried, sheared, and pressed, and put into the hands of the tailors by
four o’clock that afternoon: and at twenty minutes past six the coat,
entirely finished, was presented by Mr. Coxeter to sir John
Throckmorton, who appeared with it before upwards of five thousand
spectators, who rent the air with acclamations at this remarkable
instance of despatch.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


BALLAD.

SUGGESTED ON READING THE NOVEL OF “CASTLE BAYNARD.”

    “And must thou go, and must thou go,
      So very, very soon?
    There is not time to say farewell
      Before the morrow’s noon.”

    “O let me kiss away those tears
      That dim thine eyes of blue,
    The king’s behest must be obeyed,
      And I must sigh, adieu.”

    “Yet stay! oh stay! my Eustace, stay!
      A little, little while;
    I fear me that in Gallia’s court
      Thou’lt woo another’s smile.”

    “Nay, nay, Matilda, say not so,
      Thy knight will aye be true,
    True to his own betrothed maid,
      So now, sweet love, adieu.”

    “Yet tarry--canst thou tarry not
      One other, other day?
    Then guard this pledge of plighted faith
      When thou art far away.”

    “This precious gift, this flaxen lock,
      How fondly shall I view,
    And cherish next my heart--but now,
      One last, last kiss, adieu.”

  * * *

  _July 3, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


HELL BRIDGE.

There is a narrow pass between the mountains in the neighbourhood of
Bendearg, in the Highlands of Scotland, which, at a little distance, has
the appearance of an immense artificial bridge thrown over a tremendous
chasm: but on nearer approach it is seen to be a wall of nature’s own
masonry, formed of vast and rugged bodies of solid rock, piled on each
other as if in giant sport of architecture. Its sides are in some places
covered with trees of a considerable size; and the passenger who has a
head steady enough to look down, may see the eyrie of birds of prey
beneath his feet. The path across is so narrow, that it cannot admit of
persons passing, and indeed none but natives attempt the dangerous
route, though it saves a circuit of three miles; yet it sometimes
happens that two travellers meet, owing to the curve formed by the pass
preventing a view over it from either side, and, in that case, one
person lies down while the other creeps over his body. One day, a
highlander walking along the pass, when he had gained the highest part
of the arch, observed another coming leisurely up, and being himself one
of the patrician order, called to him to lie down; the person addressed
disregarded the command, and the highlanders met on the summit. They
were Cairn and Bendearg, of two families in enmity to each other. “I was
first at the top,” said Bendearg, “and called out first; lie down, that
I may pass over in peace.” “When the Grant prostrates himself before the
M‘Pherson,” answered the other, “it must be with a sword through his
body.” “Turn back then,” said Bendearg, “and repass as you came.” “Go
back yourself, if you like it,” replied Grant; “I will not be the first
of my name to turn before the M‘Phersons.” They then threw their bonnets
over the precipice, and advanced with a slow and cautious pace closer to
each other--both were unarmed. Preparing for a desperate struggle, they
planted their feet firmly on the ground, compressed their lips, knit
their brows, and fixing fierce and watchful eyes on each other, stood
prepared for an onset. They both grappled at the same moment; but, being
of equal strength, were unable to shift each other’s position, and stood
fixed on the rock with suppressed breath, and muscles strained to the
“top of their bent,” like statues carved out of the solid stone. At
length M‘Pherson, suddenly removing his right foot so as to give him
greater purchase, stooped his body, and bent his enemy down with him by
main strength, till they both leaned over the precipice, looking into
the terrible abyss. The contest was doubtful, for Grant had placed his
foot firmly on an elevation at the brink, and had equal command of his
enemy, but at this moment M‘Pherson sunk slowly and firmly on his knee,
and, while Grant suddenly started back, stooping to take the supposed
advantage, whirled him over his head into the gulf. M‘Pherson himself
fell backwards, his body partly hanging over the rock, a fragment gave
way beneath him, and he sunk further, till, catching with a desperate
effort at the solid stone above, he regained his footing. There was a
pause of death-like stillness, and the bold heart of M‘Pherson felt sick
and faint. At length, as if compelled by some mysterious feeling, he
looked down over the precipice. Grant had caught with a death-like gripe
by the rugged point of a rock--his enemy was almost within his reach.
His face was turned upward, and there was in it horror and despair--but
he uttered no word or cry. The next moment he loosed his hold, his
brains were dashed out before the eyes of his hereditary foe: the
mangled body disappeared among the trees, and his last heavy and hollow
sound arose from the bottom. M‘Pherson returned home an altered man. He
purchased a commission in the army, and fell fighting in the wars of the
Peninsula. The Gaelic name of the place where this tragedy was acted
signifies “Hell Bridge.”

       *       *       *       *       *


~Clubs~

AT BIRMINGHAM.

The whole British empire may be justly considered as one grand alliance,
united for public and private interest; and this vast body of people is
subdivided into an infinity of smaller fraternities, for individual
benefit.

Perhaps there are hundreds of these societies in Birmingham, under the
name of “clubs;” some of them boast the antiquity of a century, and by
prudent direction have acquired a capital, at accumulating interest.
Thousands of the inhabitants are connected; nay, to be otherwise is
rather unfashionable, and some are people of sentiment and property.

Among a variety of purposes intended by these laudable institutions, the
principal one is that of supporting the sick. Each society is governed
by a code of laws of its own making, which have at least the honour of
resembling those of the legislature; for words without sense are found
in both, and we sometimes stumble upon contradiction.

The poor-rates, enormous as they appear, are softened by these brotherly
aids; they tend also to keep the mind at rest, for a man will enjoy the
day of health, with double relish, when he considers he has a treasure
laid up for that of sickness. If a member only of a poor family be sick,
the head still remains to procure necessaries; but if that head be
disordered, the whole source of supply is dried up.

The general custom is to meet at a public house every fortnight, spend a
trifle, and each contribute sixpence, or any stated sum, to the common
stock. The landlord is always treasurer, or father, and is assisted by
two stewards, annually or monthly chosen.

As honour and low life are not always found together, we sometimes see a
man, who is idle, wish the society may suppose him sick, that he may rob
them with more security; or, if a member hang long “upon the box,” his
brethren seek a pretence to expel him. On the other hand, we frequently
observe a man silently retreat from the club, if another falls upon the
box, and fondly suppose himself no longer a member; or if the box be
loaded with sickness, the whole club has been known to dissolve, that
the members might rid themselves of the burden. The Court of Requests
finds an easy remedy for these evils, at a trifling expense.

The charity of the club is often extended beyond the grave, and
terminates with a present to the widow.

Philosophers tell us, “There is no good without its kindred evil.” This
amiable body of men, marshalled to relieve disease, has one small alloy,
and perhaps but one. As liquor and labour are inseparable, the imprudent
member is apt to forget to quit the club-room when he has spent his
necessary two-pence, but continues there, to the injury of his family.

One of these institutions is the “_Rent Club_,” where, from the weekly
sums deposited by the members, a sop is regularly served up twice a
year, to prevent the growlings of a landlord.

In the “_Breeches Club_” every member ballots for a pair, value a
guinea, _promised_ of more value by the maker. This club dissolves when
all the members are served.

The intentions of the “_Book Club_” are well known to catch the
productions of the press as they rise.

The “_Watch Club_” has generally a watchmaker for its president, is
composed of young men, and is always temporary.

If a tailor be short of employment, he has only to consult a landlord
over a bottle, and by their joint powers, they give birth to a “_Clothes
Club_,” where every member is supplied with a suit to his taste, of a
stipulated price. These are chiefly composed of bachelors, who wish to
shine in the eyes of the fair.

A bricklayer stands at the head of the “_Building Club_,” where every
member perhaps subscribes two guineas per month, and each house, value
about one hundred pounds, is balloted for as soon as erected. As a house
is a weighty concern, every member is obliged to produce two bondsmen
for the performance of covenants.

I will venture to pronounce another, the “_Capital Club_;” for when the
contributions amount to fifty pounds, the members ballot for this
capital, to bring into business, here also securities are necessary. It
is easy to conceive the two last clubs are extremely beneficial to
building and to commerce.

The last I shall enumerate is the “_Clock Club_.” When the weekly
deposits of the members amount to about four pounds, they cast lots who
shall be first served with a clock of that value, and continue the same
method till the whole club is supplied; after which, the clock-maker and
landlord cast about for another set, who are chiefly young housekeepers.
Hence the beginner ornaments his premises with furniture, the artist
finds employment with profit, and the publican empties his barrel.[276]

  [276] Hutton’s History of Birmingham.

       *       *       *       *       *


HYPOCHONDRIA.

A person at Taunton often kept at home for several weeks, under an idea
of danger in going abroad. Sometimes he imagined that he was a cat, and
seated himself on his hind quarters; at other times he would fancy
himself a tea-pot, and stand with one arm a-kimbo like the handle, and
the other stretched out like the spout. At last he conceived himself to
have died, and would not move or be moved till the coffin came. His
wife, in serious alarm, sent for a surgeon, who addressed him with the
usual salutation, “How do you do this morning?”

“Do!” replied he in a low voice, “a pretty question to a dead man!”

“Dead, sir! what do you mean?”

“Yes, I died last Wednesday; the coffin will be here presently, and I
shall be buried to-morrow.”

The surgeon, a man of sense and skill, immediately felt the patient’s
pulse, and shaking his head, said, “I find it is indeed too true; you
are certainly defunct; the blood is in a state of stagnation,
putrefaction is about to take place, and the sooner you are buried the
better.”

The coffin arrived, he was carefully placed in it, and carried towards
the church. The surgeon had previously given instructions to several
neighbours how to proceed. The procession had scarcely moved a dozen
yards, when a person stopped to inquire who they were carrying to the
grave? “Mr. ----, our late worthy overseer.”

“What! is the old rogue gone at last? a good release, for a greater
villain never lived.”

The imaginary deceased no sooner heard this attack on his character,
than he jumped up, and in a threatening posture said, “You lying
scoundrel, if I was not dead I’d make you suffer for what you say; but
as it is, I am forced to submit.” He then quietly laid down again; but
ere they had proceeded half way to church, another party stopped the
procession with the same inquiry, and added invective and abuse. This
was more than the supposed corpse could bear; and jumping from the
coffin, was in the act of following his defamers, when the whole party
burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, the public exposure awakened
him to a sense of his folly, and he fought against the weakness, and, in
the end, conquered it.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Prisons,~

ANCIENT AND MODERN.

The prisons of the classical ancients consisted of “souterains,” or,
sometimes, of only simple vestibules, where the prisoners saw their
friends, &c.: it was in this latter kind of confinement that Socrates
was placed. Their “latomiæ” and “lapidicinæ” were caves or vast
quarries, guarded at the entrance: in the “latomiæ” prisoners could move
about; but in the “lapidicinæ” they were chained and fettered. The
famous “latomiæ” at Syracuse made a capital prison. The prisoners bribed
the lictor or executioner to introduce food, and allow them to visit
friends, &c. Some prisoners had merely chains upon the legs, others were
set fast in stocks. There were also free prisons; as committal to the
house of a magistrate, or custody of the accused in his own house.[277]
Felix, at Cesarea, commanded a centurion to keep Paul, and to let him
have liberty, and that he should forbid none of his acquaintance to
minister or come to him. At Rome, Paul was suffered to dwell by himself
with a soldier that kept him; and while in that custody the chief of the
Jews came and heard him expound. He spoke to them of being “bound with
this chain.” He dwelt two whole years in his own hired house preaching
and teaching with all confidence, no man forbidding him.[278]

In the middle age there were prisons provided with collars, handcuffs,
and other fetters, without doors or windows, and descended into only by
ladders. Other prisons were made like a cage, with portcullised doors,
as now; and there was a kind of prison, called “pediculus,” because in
it the feet were bound with chains, and prisons were made dark on
purpose.

Anglo-Saxon prisons were annexed to palaces, with a work-place in them;
the prisoners were chained and had guards. In castles there were
dungeons, consisting of four dark apartments, three below, and one
above, up a long staircase, all well secured; in the uppermost, a ring
to which criminals were chained. Prisons were sometimes guarded by dogs,
and prisoners bound in chains, brought in carts, and discharged upon a
new reign.[279]

       *       *       *       *       *


AN ENGLISH PRISON A. D. 1827.

In the _Table Book_, which notes the manners and customs, and sketches
the features of ancient and modern times, whenever they are conveniently
presented, it seems appropriate to notice a petition printed by order of
the House of Commons, on the 12th of February, 1827, respecting


HORSHAM GAOL, SUSSEX.

The petition alluded to is from debtors in the above prison, and the
Votes of the House state the following particulars, as set forth in the
petition:--

The said gaol is ill constructed, confined, and inconvenient, having
only twenty cells on the debtors’ side, half of which are appropriated
to the debtors, and the other half chiefly to smugglers and others for
notorious offences against the revenue laws, and to deserters from the
army.

The said cells for debtors are constructed of the same dimensions, and
in the same manner, as the cells for the felons, having no glazed
sash-windows, but merely iron-gratings, with the addition at night of an
ill-constructed wooden shutter, having a small square hole in the same
of about six inches diameter, in some instances glazed and in others
not, and by no means calculated to keep out the rain or cold during the
inclement season.

The cells are small, being only twelve feet by eight feet, and having no
fire-place or other means of being warmed.

The said cells are merely brick arches lime-whitened, with rough stone
pavement, and so exceedingly damp at times that the water condenses on
the walls, and runs down the sides thereof, and on to the floor, and
from thence into the common passage, which is so narrow, that when any
of the doors of the cells are open there is not room for one person
safely to walk, particularly as the passage is dark.

When the weather is wet, or otherwise inconvenient, the shutters of the
cells must necessarily be put up to exclude the same, thereby rendering
the cells so dark that the prisoners cannot conveniently see either to
read or write; and, therefore, when the prisoners wish to retire to read
or write they cannot do so, and are compelled to sit in the common
kitchen, which is small, and consequently crowded, and is the only place
for the cooking for all the prisoners and at the same time to
accommodate them for a sleeping ward and other purposes.

The fire-place is small and inconvenient, and very scantily supplied
with fuel, and when the prison is crowded, as it has lately been, it is
totally impossible for all the prisoners to have access to the fire, for
the required purposes of cooking or otherwise particularly when most
required, as in wet and inclement weather.

It sometimes happens that thirteen or more prisoners are obliged to
sleep in the said kitchen, and three in each bed in many of the cells.

To each cell is affixed an iron-grating door, and also a door made of
timber; and the debtors are locked up within their respective cells at
nine o’clock in the evening, having no access to them till seven o’clock
the next morning, so that any one being taken ill in the night might lay
and perish before his situation could be discovered or made known, or
any assistance rendered.

The prisoners are unlocked at seven o’clock in the morning, and are
allowed to go into the yard of the prison till eight, when they are
called in by means of a whistle until nine o’clock, and allowed to
remain in the yard again until twelve o’clock at noon, again locked into
the wards till one o’clock, and again in the same manner at five o’clock
in the afternoon for the night.

Respectable females are confined in the same ward with the smugglers and
others, and no female is appointed or employed to attend on them in any
case.

The state of the prison is in general filthy.

There is no sink or water-course, nor any water laid on to either of the
wards, nor any means of obtaining water after five o’clock in the
evening.

If any part or the whole of the prison is at any time cleaned, it is
done by some of the debtors.

There is no proper place for the reception of the dirty water or filth
from the wards, but the same is indiscriminately thrown out at the
iron-grating doors at the end of the passage to each ward, thereby
occasioning a great stench highly disagreeable and unwholesome to the
prisoners.

The prisoners are not allowed to see their respective friends or
solicitors within the walls of the prison, but are compelled to come
into a room in the gaoler’s house, and there meet their friends or
solicitors, subject to the continual interruption or presence of the
gaoler, his wife, or others, to the great annoyance of the prisoners and
their friends, and on the sabbath-day even this privilege is not
allowed.

No debtor is allowed to have any trunk, portmanteau, dressing-case, or
even a clothes-bag, with lock and key, within the prison, so that the
prisoners are obliged, whensoever they require any change of clothing,
to obtain leave to come into the room in the gaoler’s house before
mentioned, and there take them from their portmanteau, or otherwise; no
respectable prisoner can therefore have any article of convenience or
value with him, without being obliged either to carry it about his
person, or leave it exposed in his cell, or in an ill-constructed small
cupboard, where he is also obliged to keep his provisions, &c.; and so
great is the injustice in the prison, that smugglers not only receive
fourpence-halfpenny per day, but are also allowed a quart of strong beer
or ale each man, while the debtors are not permitted to have strong beer
or ale even by paying for it.

When a debtor is removed by a writ of habeas corpus to London, a
distance of thirty-six miles, and for which one shilling per mile is
allowed by law to the gaoler, the sum of two pounds five shillings has
been demanded and taken by the gaoler.

A marked inattention to the complaints or remonstrances repeatedly made
by various prisoners, together with the general bad state of the prison,
and the excessive and unnecessary harshness of the regulations, rendered
it imperative on the petitioners to attempt to lay their grievances
before the house, in the fervent hope that the house would be pleased to
cause inquiry to be made into the truth of the several allegations
contained in the petition, which the petitioners pledge themselves to
prove, if permitted, by affidavit or otherwise, as the house should
direct.

The petitioners humbly prayed, that a speedy remedy might be applied to
their complaints as to the house in its wisdom should seem meet.

  [277] Fosbroke’s Ency. of Antiquities.

  [278] Acts xxviii. 16, 20, 23, 30, 31.

  [279] Fosbroke.

       *       *       *       *       *


ODE

TO A SPARROW ALIGHTING BEFORE THE JUDGES’ CHAMBERS IN SERJEANT’S INN,
FLEET-STREET.

_Written in half an hour, while attending a Summons._

    Art thou solicitor for all thy tribe,
      That thus I now behold thee?--one that comes
    Down amid bail-above, an under-scribe,
            To sue for crumbs?--
    Away! ’tis vain to ogle round the square,--
      I fear thou hast no head--
      To think to get thy bread
            Where lawyers are!

    Say--hast thou pull’d some sparrow o’er the coals
      And flitted here a summons to indite?
    I only hope no curs’d judicial kite
      Has struck thee off the rolls!
    I scarce should deem thee of the law--and yet
      Thine eye is keen and quick enough--and still
    Thou bear’st thyself with perk and tiny fret:--
      But then how desperately short thy _bill_!
        How quickly might’st thou be of that bereft?
        A sixth “tax’d off”--how little would be left!

    Art thou on summons come, or order bent?
      Tell me--for I am sick at heart to know!
    Say,--in the sky is there “distress for rent,”
      That thou hast flitted to the courts below?
    If thou _wouldst_ haul some sparrow o’er the coals,
      And _wouldst_ his spirit hamper and perplex--
        Go to John Body--he’s available--
      Sign--swear--and get a bill of Middlesex
        Returnable (mind,--bailable!)
    On Wednesday after th’ morrow of All Souls.

    Or dost thou come a sufferer? I see--
      I see thee “cast thy _bail_-ful eyes around;”
    Oh, call James White, and he will set thee free,
      He and John Baines will speedily be bound,--
        In double the sum
        That thou wilt come
      And meet the plaintiff Bird on legal ground.
    But stand, oh, stand aside,--for look,
      Judge Best, on no fantastic toe,
    Through dingy arch,--by dirty nook,--
      Across the yard into his room doth go--
        And wisely there doth read
        Summons for time to plead.--
          And frame
          Order for same.

    Thou twittering, legal, foolish, feather’d thing,
      A tiny boy, with salt for latitat,
    Is sneaking, bailiff-like, to touch thy wing;--
      Canst thou not see the trick he would be at?
    Away! away! and let him not prevail.
      I do rejoice thou’rt off! and yet I groan
      To read in that boy’s silly fate my own
          _I_ am at fault!
      For from my _attic_ though I brought my _salt_,
    I’ve fail’d to put a little on thy _tale_!




Vol. II.--31.


[Illustration: ~Ancient Door of Bromley Church.~]

On our visit to Bromley church, as soon as the modern outer gates of the
porch were unlocked, we were struck by the venerable appearance of the
old inner oak door; and, instead of taking a view of the church, of
which there are several prints, Mr. Williams made a drawing of the
decayed portal, from whence he executed the present engraving. On the
hinge-side of the engraving, there is a representation of the outer edge
of the door.

This door formerly hung on the western stone jamb; but, for warmth, and
greater convenience, the churchwardens, under whose management the
edifice was last repaired, put up a pair of folding-doors covered with
crimson cloth; yet, with respectful regard, worthy of imitation in other
places, they preserved this vestige of antiquity, and were even careful
to display its time-worn front. For this purpose the door has been
attached to the eastern jamb, so that if it were shut its ornamented
side would be hidden; instead whereof, it is kept open by a slight
fastening against the eastern form, or settle, within the porch.

       *       *       *       *       *

It may be remembered by readers of the _Every Day Book_,[280] that, on
St. Mark’s eve, our ancestors “watched the _church-porch_,” as they do
to the present day in some parts of Yorkshire and the north of England,
from eleven o’clock at night till one in the morning. This done thrice,
on the third year they were supposed to have seen the ghosts of those
who were to die the next year pass by into the church. When any one
sickens that is thought to have been seen in this manner, it is
presently whispered about that he will not recover, for that such or
such an one, who watched on St. Mark’s eve, says so. This idle
superstition is in such force, that if the patients themselves hear of
it, they almost despair of recovery: many are said to have actually died
by their imaginary fears. The like irrational belief and fond practice
prevail on St. John’s eve. “I am sure,” says a writer in the
“Connoisseur,” “that my own sister Hetty, who died just before
Christmas, stood in the church-porch last Midsummer eve, to see all that
were to die that year in our parish; and she saw her own apparition.” It
is told of a company of these “watchers,” that one of them fell into a
sound sleep, so that he could not be waked, and while in this state his
ghost or spirit was seen by the rest of his companions knocking at the
church-door.

In relation to this church-watching on St. Mark’s and St. John’s eve,
there is a narrative in the “Athenian Oracle,” published by John
Dunton:--“Nine others besides myself went into a church-porch, with an
expectation of seeing those who should die that year; but about eleven
o’clock I was so afraid that I left them, and all the nine did
positively affirm to me, that about an hour after, the church-doors
flying open, the minister, (who it seems was very much troubled that
night in his sleep,) with such as should die that year, did appear in
order: which persons they named to me, and they appeared then all very
healthful; but six of them died in six weeks after, in the very same
order that they appeared.”[281]

       *       *       *       *       *

Before mention of the “church-porch,” it might have been more orderly
to have noticed the “church-_yard_-porch.” There is one at Bromley,
though more modern than the fine “lich-gate” at Beckenham already
engraved and described.[282] Sir John Sinclair records of some
parishioners in the county of Argyll, that “though by no means
superstitious, (an observation which in the sequel seems very odd,) they
still retain some opinions handed down by their ancestors, perhaps from
the time of the Druids. It is believed by them, that the spirit of the
last person that was buried watches round the church-yard till another
is buried, to whom he delivers his charge.” Further on, in the same
work,[283] is related, that “in one division of this county, where it
was believed that the ghost of the person last buried kept the _gate_ of
the church-_yard_ till relieved by the next victim of death, a singular
scene occurred, when two burials were to take place in one church-yard
on the same day. Both parties staggered forward as fast as possible to
consign their respective friend in the first place to the dust: if they
met at the gate, the dead were thrown down till the living decided, by
blows, whose ghost should be condemned to porter it.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Bromley church-door is a vestige; for on examination it will be found
not perfect. It is seven feet four inches in height, and in width four
feet eight inches: the width of the door-way, between the stone jambs,
is two inches more; the width of the door itself, therefore, has been
reduced these two inches; and hence the centre of the ornaments in
relief is not in the centre of the door in its present state. It is a
good specimen of the fast-decaying, and often prematurely removed, fine
doors of our old churches. The lock, probably of like age with the door,
and also of wood, is a massive effectual contrivance, two feet six
inches long, seven inches and a half deep, and five inches thick; with a
bolt an inch in height, and an inch and a half in thickness, that shoots
out two inches on the application of the rude heavy key, which as to
form and size is exactly depictured in the following page. It seemed
good to introduce the engraving, both in respect to the antiquity of the
original, and to the information it conveys of the devices of our
ancestors for locking-up.

[Illustration: ~Ancient Key of Bromley Church.~]

Keys varied in their form according to the age wherein they were made,
and the purposes for which they were used. Anciently, the figure of the
key of the west door of the church was put in the register. This was
mostly done on the delivery of the church keys to the “ostiarii,” who
were officers, created with much ceremony, to whom the keys were
intrusted: the bishops themselves delivered the _keys_, and the deacons
the _doors_ of the respective churches.[284]

       *       *       *       *       *

While W. drew the door of Bromley church I had ample opportunity to make
measurements and look about; and I particularly noticed a capital large
umbrella of old construction, which I brought out and set up in the
church-yard: with its wooden handle, fixed into a movable shaft, shod
with an iron point at the bottom, and struck into the ground, it stood
seven feet high; the awning is of a green oiled-canvass, such as common
umbrellas were made of forty years ago, and is stretched on ribs of
cane. It opens to a diameter of five feet, and forms a decent and
capacious covering for the minister while engaged in the burial-service
at the grave. It is in every respect a more fitting exhibition than the
watchbox sort of vehicle devised for the same purpose, and in some
church-yards trundled from grave to grave, wherein the minister and
clerk stand, like the ordinary of Newgate and a dying malefactor at the
new drop in the Old Bailey. An unseemly thing of this description is
used at St. George’s in the Borough.

       *       *       *       *       *

The church of Bromley, an ancient spacious edifice with a square tower,
has been much modernised, yet to the credit of the inhabitants it
retains its old Norman font. It is remarkable, that it is uncertain to
what saint it was dedicated: some ascribe it to St. Peter and St. Paul;
others to St. Blaise; but it is certain that Browne Willis, with all his
industry and erudite research, was unable to determine the point. This I
affirm from a MS. memorandum before me in his hand-writing. It abounds
with monuments, though none are of very old standing. There was formerly
a tomb to Water de Henche, “persone de Bromleghe, 1360.”[285] Among the
mural tablets are the names of Elizabeth, wife to “the great moralist”
Dr. Johnson; Dr. Hawkesworth, a resident in Bromley, popular by his
“Adventurer;” and Dr. Zachary Pearce. The latter was successively rector
of St. Bartholomew’s by the Royal Exchange, vicar of St. Martin’s in
the Fields, dean of Winchester, bishop of Bangor, dean of Westminster,
and bishop of Rochester. His principal literary labours were
editorial--“Longinus de Sublimitate,” “Cicero de Officiis,” and “Cicero
de Oratore.” He wrote in the “Spectator,” No. 572, upon “Quacks,” and
No. 633 upon “Eloquence;” and No. 121 in the “Guardian,” signed “Ned
Mum.” The chief of this prelate’s other works were Sermons. There is a
cenotaph to him in Westminster Abbey; a distinction he was entitled to
by his learning and virtues.

Dr. Zachary Pearce is remarkable for having desired to resign his
deanery and bishopric. In 1763, being then seventy-three years old, he
told his majesty in his closet that he found the business of his
stations too much for him; that he was afraid it would grow more so as
he advanced in years, and desired to retire, that he might spend more
time in his devotions and studies. Afterwards, one of the law lords
doubted the practicability of resigning a bishopric, but on further
consideration the difficulty disappeared. The king then gave his
consent, and the bishop kissed hands upon it; but lord Bath requesting
the bishopric and deanery of the king for Dr. Newton, then bishop of
Bristol, the ministry thought that no church dignities should pass from
the crown but through their hands, and opposed the resignation, as the
shortest way of keeping the bishopric from being disposed of otherwise
than they liked. On this occasion the law lord, earl Mansfield, who had
been doubtful, and who soon after had seen clear, doubted again, and Dr.
Pearce was told by the king he must think no more about resigning the
bishopric. In 1768 he resigned the deanery of Westminster, and wrote

THE WISH.

    From all Decanal cares at last set free,
    (O could that freedom still more perfect be)
    My sun’s meridian hour, long past and gone;
    Dim night, unfit for work, comes hast’ning on;
    In life’s late ev’ning, thro’ a length of day,
    I find me gently tending to decay:
    How shall I then my fated exit make?
    How best secure my great eternal stake?
    This my prime wish, to see thy glorious face,
    O gracious God, in some more happy place;
    Till then to spend my short remains of time
    In thoughts, which raise the soul to truths sublime;
    To live with innocence, with peace and love,
    As do those saints who dwell in bliss above:
    By prayers, the wings which faith to reason lends,
    O _now_ my soul to Heav’n’s high throne ascends:
    While here on earth, thus on my bended knee,
    O Power divine, I supplicate to thee;
    May I meet Death, when his approach is made,
    Not fend of life, nor of his dart afraid;
    Feel that my gain, which I esteem’d a loss:
    Heav’n is the gold refin’d, earth but the dross.

Bishop Pearce lived and laboured till June 29, 1774, when he died in the
eighty-fourth year of his age.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is a neat monument by Nollekens over the north gallery of the
church, with a remarkable inscription:--“Sacred to the memory of Thomas
Chase, Esq. formerly of this parish, born in the city of Lisbon the 1st
of November, 1729; and buried under the ruins of the same house where he
first saw the light in the ever-memorable and terrible earthquake which
befell that city the 1st of November, 1755: when after a most wonderful
escape, he by degrees recovered from a very deplorable condition, and
lived till the 20th of Nov 1788, aged 59 years.”

       *       *       *       *       *

On the outside of the church a monumental stone, fixed in the wall,
records a memorable and affecting instance of gratitude in noble
terms:--

  Near this Place lies the Body of
  ELIZABETH MONK,
  Who departed this Life
  On the 27th Day of August, 1753,
  Aged 101:
  She was the Widow of JOHN MONK, late of this
  Parish, Blacksmith,
  Her second Husband,
  To whom she had been a wife near fifty Years,
  By whom she had no Children;
  And of the Issue of the first Marriage none lived
  to the second;
  But VIRTUE
  Would not suffer her to be Childless:
  An Infant, to whom, and to whose Father and
  Mother she had been Nurse
  (Such is the Uncertainty of temporal Prosperity)
  Became dependent upon Strangers
  for the Necessaries of Life:
  To him she afforded the Protection of a Mother.
  This parental Charity
  Was returned with filial Affection;
  And she was supported, in the Feebleness of Age,
  by him whom she had cherished in
  the Helplessness of Infancy.
  LET IT BE REMEMBERED,
  That there is no Station in which Industry will
  not obtain Power to be liberal,
  Nor any Character on which Liberality will not
  confer Honor
  She had been long prepared, by a simple and
  unaffected Piety,
  For that awful moment, which, however delayed,
  Is universally sure.
  How few are allowed an equal Time of Probation!
  How many, by their Lives,
  appear to presume upon more!

  To preserve the memory of this person; and yet more, to perpetuate the
  lesson of her life, this stone was erected by voluntary contribution.

       *       *       *       *       *

An intelligent inhabitant of Bromley, in the year 1747, mentions a
discovery, with some accompanying remarks, appropriate to the present
notice:--

“In the year 1733, the present clerk of the parish church of Bromley in
Kent, by his digging a grave in that church-yard, close to the east end
of the chancel wall, dug up a funeral crown, or garland, which is most
artificially wrought in fillagree work with gold and silver wire, in
resemblance of myrtle, (with which plant the funebrial garlands of the
ancients were composed,[286]) whose leaves are fastened to hoops of
larger wire of iron, now something corroded with rust, but both the gold
and silver remain to this time very little different from their original
splendour. It was also lined with cloth of silver, a piece of which,
together with part of this curious garland, I keep as a choice relic of
antiquity.

“Besides these crowns, (which were buried with deceased virgins,) the
ancients had also their depository garlands, the use of which was
continued even till of late years (and perhaps are still retained in
many parts of this nation, for my own knowledge of these matters extends
not above twenty or thirty miles round London,) which garlands, at the
funerals of the deceased, were carried solemnly before the corpse by two
maids, and afterwards hung up in some conspicuous place within the
church, in memorial of the departed person, and were (at least all that
I have seen) made after the following manner, viz. the lower rim or
circlet was a broad hoop of wood, whereunto was fixed, at the sides
thereof, part of two other hoops crossing each other at the top, at
right angles, which formed the upper part, being about one-third longer
than the width; these hoops were wholly covered with artificial flowers
of paper, dyed horn, or silk, and more or less beauteous, according to
the skill or ingenuity of the performer. In the vacancy of the inside,
from the top, hung white paper, cut in form of gloves, whereon was
wrote the deceased’s name, age, &c. together with long slips of various
 paper or ribbons. These were many times intermixed with gilded
or painted empty shells of blown eggs, as farther ornaments; or, it may
be, as emblems of the bubbles or bitterness of this life; whilst other
garlands had only a solitary hour-glass hanging therein, as a more
significant symbol of mortality.

“About forty years ago these garlands grew much out of repute, and were
thought by many as very unbecoming decorations for so sacred a place as
the church; and at the reparation or new beautifying several churches
where I have been concerned, I was obliged, by order of the minister and
churchwardens, to take the garlands down, and the inhabitants were
strictly forbidden to hang up any more for the future. Yet
notwithstanding, several people, unwilling to forsake their ancient and
delightful custom, continued still the making of them, and they were
carried at the funerals, as before, to the grave, and put therein upon
the coffin over the face of the dead; this I have seen done in many
places.”[287]


  [280] See the _Every Day-Book_, on St. John’s eve, &c.

  [281] Brand.

  [282] In vol. i. p. 715.

  [283] Statistical Account of Scotland.

  [284] Fosbroke’s Ency. of Antiquities.

  [285] Weever.

  [286] Sir Thomas Brown’s Misc. Tracts, p. 29.

  [287] Gentleman’s Magazine.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXVII.

  [From the “Gentleman of Venice,” a Tragi-Comedy by James Shirley,
  1655.]

_Giovanni, of noble extraction, but brought up a Gardener, and ignorant
of any greater birth, loves Bellaura, a Princess; and is beloved again._

_Bellaura. Giovanni._

      _Bell._ How now, Giovanni;
    What, with a sword! You were not used to appear
    Thus arm’d. Your weapon is a spade, I take it.
      _Gio._ It did become my late profession, Madam:
    But I am changed--
      _Bell._ Not to a soldier?
      _Gio._ It is a title, Madam, will much grace me;
    And with the best collection of my thoughts
    I have ambition to the wars.
      _Bell._ You have?
      _Gio._ O ’tis a brave profession and rewards
    All loss we meet, with double weight in glory;
    A calling, Princes still are proud to own;
    And some do willingly forget their crowns,
    To be commanded. ’Tis the spring of all
    We here entitle fame to; Emperors,
    And all degrees of honours, owing all
    Their names to this employment; in her vast
    And circular embraces holding Kings,
    And making them; and yet so kind as not
    To exclude such private things as I, who may
    Learn and commence in her great arts.--My life
    Hath been too useless to my self and country;
    ’Tis time I should employ it, to deserve
    A name within their registry, that bring
    The wealth, the harvest, home of well-bought honour.
      _Bell._ Yet I can see
    Through all this revolution, Giovanni,
    ’Tis something else has wrought this violent change.
    Pray let me be of counsel with your thoughts,
    And know the serious motive; come, be clear.
    I am no enemy, and can assist
    Where I allow the cause.
      _Gio._ You may be angry,
    Madam, and chide it as a saucy pride
    In me to name or look at honour; nor
    Can I but know what small addition
    Is my unskilful arm to aid a country.
      _Bell._ I may therefore justly suspect there is
    Something of other force, that moves you to
    The wars. Enlarge my knowledge with the secret.
      _Gio._ At this command I open my heart. Madam,
    I must confess there is another cause,
    Which I dare not in my obedience
    Obscure, since you will call it forth; and yet
    I know you will laugh at me--
      _Bell._ It would ill
    Become my breeding, Giovanni--
      _Gio._ Then,
    Know, Madam, I am in love.
      _Bell._ In love with whom?
      _Gio._ With one I dare not name, she is so much
    Above my birth and fortunes.
      _Bell._ I commend
    Your flight. But does she know it?
      _Gio._ I durst never
    Appear with so much boldness to discover
    My heart’s so great ambition; it is here still
    A strange and busy guest.
      _Bell._ And you think absence
    May cure this wound--
      _Gio._ Or death--
      _Bell._ I may presume
    You think she’s fair--
      _Gio._ I dare as soon question your beauty, Madam,
    The only ornament and star of Venice,
    Pardon the bold comparison; yet there is
    Something in you, resembles my great Mistress.
    She blushes--(_aside_).
    Such very beams disperseth her bright eye,
    Powerful to restore decrepit nature;
    But when she frowns, and changes from her sweet
    Aspect, (as in my fears I see you now,
    Offended at my boldness), she does blast
    Poor Giovanni thus, and thus I wither
    At heart, and wish myself a thing lost in
    My own forgotten dust.

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


JAMES THOMSON.

A volume, entitled the “English Gentleman’s Library Manual,” contains
the following remarkable anecdotes respecting the author of “The
Seasons.”

  MEMORANDA COMMUNICATED BY JAMES ROBERTSON, ESQ. OF RICHMOND, IN
  SURREY, LATE SURGEON TO THE HOUSEHOLD AT KEW, OCTOBER 17, 1791, TO
  THOMAS PARKE, ESQ. THE POET, AND BY HIM TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN.

_Parke._ Have you any objection, sir, to my taking down memorandums to a
conversation?

_Robertson._ Not in the least, I will procure you pen, ink, and paper
immediately.

I understand, sir, you knew Thomson long?

I became acquainted with him in the year 1726, when he published his
poem of Winter. He lived opposite to me, in Lancaster-court, in the
Strand. I went to the East Indies soon after, which caused a chasm in
our acquaintance; but, on my return, our intimacy was strengthened, and
continued to the hour of his death. I do not know any man, living or
dead, I ever esteemed more highly, and he was attached to me. I had once
a complaint of a consumptive nature, which confined me much at home, and
he was so good as to come often from Kew-lane to sit with me.

Did you know Amanda?

Know her? Yes, sir, I married her sister. Amanda was a Miss Young,
daughter to captain Gilbert Young, of the Gulyhill family, in
Dumfriesshire, and was married afterwards to admiral Campbell. She was a
fine sensible woman, and poor Thomson was desperately in love with her.
Mr. Gilbert Young, her nephew, left my house this very morning. Thomson,
indeed, was never wealthy enough to marry.

Mr. Collins, the brewer, has told me, that he was so heedless in his
money concerns, that in paying him a bill for beer, he gave him two bank
notes rolled together instead of one. Collins did not perceive the
mistake till he got home, and when he returned the note Thomson appeared
perfectly indifferent about the matter, and said he had enough to go on
without it! Mr. Robertson smiled at this anecdote, and said it was like
him.

He was not, I believe, one of the weeping philosophers. He was no
Heraclitus?

No, he was not, indeed. I remember his being stopped once between London
and Richmond, and robbed of his watch, and when I expressed my regret
for his loss, “Pshaw, damn it,” said he, “I am glad they took it from
me, ’twas never good for any thing.”

Was he national in his affections?

He had no prejudices whatever; he was the most liberal of men in all his
sentiments.

I have been told that he used to associate with parson Cromer, and some
other convivials, at the Old Orange Tree, in Kew-lane?

Relaxation of any kind was to him frequently desirable, and he could
conform to any company. He was benevolent and social, both in his
writings and in his life; as his friend, Dr. Armstrong, said on another
occasion, he practised what he preached. Lord L.’s character of him as
an author was perfectly just, that in his last moments he had no cause
to wish any thing blotted he had ever written.

I hear he kept very late hours?

No, sir, very early; he was always up at sunrise, but then he had never
been in bed.

Did you ever correspond with him?

Very seldom. We were so much together there was little opportunity or
occasion for it.

You do not happen to have any reliques of his hand-writing?

I don’t think I have; but when I get my breath a little better I will
look among my papers to try if I can find any.

The kind old gentleman was warmed with the subject, and even set forward
to his escritoire in the pursuit, but returned only with a letter from
the late Dr. Armstrong, which he flattered himself contained something
relative to Thomson. In this he was mistaken. It was a rhapsody of
thanks in return for being presented with a large bottle of spirits; but
it was well worth an airing. This, said Mr. R., will show you the
intimate terms I was upon with Johnny Armstrong, who wrote that
beautiful poem, the “Art of Preserving the Health.” He was a very
ingenious and excellent man.

Did you know Dr. Patrick Murdoch, who wrote Thomson’s Life?

Ay, very well, and esteemed him. Pattie, as I always called him, had a
good heart.

Pope, as I have heard, used often to visit Thomson?

Yes, frequently. Pope has sometimes said, Thomson, I’ll walk to the end
of your garden, and then set off to the bottom of Kew-foot-lane and
back. Pope, sir, courted Thomson, and Thomson was always admitted to
Pope whether he had company or not; but Pope had a jealousy of every
eminent writer; he was a viper that gnawed the file.

Was Pope a great talker?

Pope, when he liked his company, was a very agreeable man. He was fond
of adulation, and when he had any dislike was a most bitter satirist.

Thomson, I think, was very intimate with David Mallet, the editor of
Bolingbroke?

Sir, that person’s name was properly “Malloch;” but I used to call him
“Moloch” in our festive moments, and Thomson enjoyed the jest. Sir, he
had not Thomson’s heart; he was not sound at the core; he made a
cat’s-paw of Thomson, and I did not like the man on that account.

Thomson had two cousins or nephews, who were gardeners, did they live
with him?

No, they did not live with him, they lived upon him. He was so generous
a man, that if he had but two eggs he would have given them both away.

Were you acquainted with Mr. Gray, who lived at Richmond Hill?

Yes, I knew a John Gray, who was a victualler. He purchased Thomson’s
collection of prints and drawings after his decease, but I believe
purely out of ostentation.

You must have had great influence over him, sir, from several
circumstances you have mentioned, but wish to be suppressed?

Without ostentation or vanity, sir, I really very often have wondered
how I came to have so much, and the rest of his friends wondered too;
for I do say it most sincerely, that I never could find out what made
Thomson and many of these geniuses so partial to me as they appeared.

Then, sir, I suspect you are the only one who could not make the
discovery?

Sir, I was not fishing for a compliment, I do assure you.

If you had, sir, I should not have snatched so eagerly at your bait.

I suppose you attended Thomson in a medical as well as in a social
capacity?

Yes, Armstrong and myself were with him till his last moments. I was in
the room with him when he died. A putrid fever carried him off in less
than a week. He seemed to me to be desirous not to live, and I had
reason to think that my sister-in-law was the occasion of this. He could
not bear the thoughts of her being married to another.

Pray did you attend his funeral?

Indeed I did, and a real funeral it was to me, as Quin said when he
spoke the prologue to “Coriolanus”--“I was in truth no actor there.”

Did you hear Quin speak that prologue, sir?

Yes, I could not have been absent.

Were you the only intimate friend who paid the last tribute of respect
to Thomson’s remains?

No, sir, Quin attended, and Mallet, and another friend, whose name I do
not recollect. He was interred in the north-west corner of Richmond
church, just where the christening pew now stands. I pointed out the
place to the sexton’s widow, that she might show it to strangers.

Did you know Andrew Millar, the bookseller?

I knew him well. He took a box near Thomson’s, in Kew-lane, to keep in
with him as an author who might be profitable to him. Andrew was a
good-natured man, and not an unpleasant companion, but he was a little
contracted in mind by his business, and had the dross of a bookseller
about him.

Did you know Paterson?

Yes. Paterson had been clerk to a counting-house in the city, went for
some time abroad, and on his return was amanuensis to Thomson, was his
deputy as surveyor-general to the Leeward Islands, and succeeded him in
that office, but he did not live long to enjoy it, I believe not more
than two years.

Collins, the poet, and Hammond, author of the “Love Elegies,” visited
Thomson?

Yes. Ah! poor Collins, he had much genius, but half mad. Hammond was a
gentleman, and a very pleasant man. Yet Thomson, I remember, one day
called him a burnished butterfly. Quin, the comedian, was a sincere
friend of Thomson; he was naturally a most humane and friendly man, and
only put on the brute when he thought it was expected from him by those
who gave him credit for the character.

Was the anecdote of Quin and Thomson true?

Yes, I believe it was.

Boswell surmised that Thomson was a much coarser man than is commonly
allowed?

Sir, Thomson was neither a _petit-maître_ nor a boor; he had simplicity
without rudeness, and a cultivated manner without being courtly. He had
a great aversion to letter-writing, and did not attempt much of prose
composition of any kind. His time for composition was generally at the
dead of night, and was much in his summer-house, which, together with
every memorial of his residence, is carefully preserved by the
honourable Mrs. Boscawen.

Did you know, sir, of any other attachments of Thomson’s, except that to
his Amanda?

No, I believe he was more truly attached to my little wife and her
sister than to any one else, next to Amanda. Mr. H., of Bangor, said he
was once asked to dinner by Thomson, but could not attend. One of his
friends, who was there, told him that there was a general stipulation
agreed on by the whole company, that there should be no hard drinking.
Thomson acquiesced, only requiring that each man should drink his
bottle. The terms were accepted unconditionally, and when the cloth was
removed, a three-quart bottle was set before each of his guests. Thomson
had much of this kind of agreeable humour. Mr. Aikman, the painter, and
Dr. De la Cour, a physician and ingenious writer, were intimate and
beloved friends of Thomson. Mr. Aikman was a gentleman of competent
estate, and was always friendly to Thomson.

Sir, I cordially thank you for this kindness, in suffering yourself to
be teased with interrogations; and when lord Buchan’s tablet on the
grave of the poet shall be imposed in Richmond church, I shall hope to
see you tripping across the green to take a peep at it.

Sir, if I can crawl across for such a gratification, I shall certainly
do it.

We then twice shook hands and parted. Intelligent old gentleman! Little
was I aware that his lengthened eve of life was so very near its close!
He was taken seriously ill a few hours after I left him, Monday, October
24, and on the Friday following he died, and was buried on Saturday, the
4th of November, by the south side of Richmond church.

    Mors ultima linea rerum est.

  (Signed) T. P.

       *       *       *       *       *


QUIPOES.

The Peruvians had a method of expressing their meaning by narrow knotted
ribands of various colours, which they called “Quipoes:” a certain
number of knots of one colour, divided by so many of another, expressed
particular meanings; and served these simple and innocent people in
place of the art of writing.

  P.

       *       *       *       *       *


SPANISH MYSTERIES.

Of all the dramatic works of Lope de Vega, the Lives of the Saints are
in every respect the most irregular. Allegorical characters, buffoons,
saints, peasants, students, kings, God, the infant Jesus, the devil, and
the most heterogeneous beings that the wildest imagination could bring
together, are introduced. Music seems always to have been an
indispensable accessary. Lope de Vega’s spiritual comedy, entitled the
Life of Saint Nicolas de Tolentino,[288] commences with a conversation
maintained by a party of students, who make a display of their wit and
scholastic learning. Among them is the future saint, whose piety shines
with the brighter lustre when contrasted with the disorderly gaiety of
those by whom he is surrounded. The devil disguised by a mask joins the
party. A skeleton appears in the air; the sky opens, and the Almighty is
discovered sitting in judgment, attended by Justice and Mercy, who
alternately influence his decisions. Next succeeds a love intrigue
between a lady named Rosalia, and a gentleman named Feniso. The future
saint then reenters attired in canonicals, and delivers a sermon in
redondillas. The parents of the saint congratulate themselves on
possessing such a son; and this scene forms the conclusion of the first
act. At the opening of the second a party of soldiers are discovered;
the saint enters accompanied by several monks, and offers up a prayer in
the form of a sonnet. Brother Peregrino relates the romantic history of
his conversion. Subtle theological quiddities ensue, and numerous
anecdotes of the lives of the saints are related. St. Nicolas prays
again through the medium of a sonnet. He then rises in the air, either
by the power of faith, or the help of the theatrical machinery; and the
Holy Virgin and St. Augustin descend from heaven to meet him. The sonnet
by which St. Nicolas performs this miracle is the most beautiful in this
sacred farce. In the third act the scene is transferred to Rome, where
two cardinals exhibit the holy sere-cloth to the people by torch-light.
Music performed on clarinets adds to the solemnity of this ceremony,
during which pious discourses are delivered. St. Nicolas is next
discovered embroidering the habit of his order; and the pious
observations which he makes, while engaged in this occupation, are
accompanied by the chanting of invisible angels. The music attracts the
devil, who endeavours to tempt St. Nicolas. The next scene exhibits
souls in the torments of purgatory. The devil again appears attended by
a retinue of lions, serpents, and other hideous animals; but in a scene,
which is intended for burlesque, (_graciosamente_,) a monk armed with a
great broom drives off the devil and his suite. At the conclusion of the
piece the saint, whose beatification is how complete, descends from
heaven in a garment bespangled with stars. As soon as he touches the
earth, the souls of his father and mother are released from purgatory,
and rise through a rock; the saint then returns hand-in-hand with his
parents to heaven, music playing as they ascend.[289]

  [288] St. Nicolas de Tolentino is a saint of modern creation.

  [289] Bouterwek.

       *       *       *       *       *


PORTUGUESE MYSTERIES.

One of the spiritual dramas of Gil Vicente, performed at Lisbon,
commences with shepherds, who discourse and enter a chapel, which is
decorated with all the apparatus necessary for the celebration of the
festival of Christmas. The shepherds cannot sufficiently express their
rustic admiration of the pomp exhibited in the chapel. Faith (_La Fé_)
enters as an allegorical character. She speaks Portuguese, and after
announcing herself to the shepherds as True Faith, she explains to them
the nature of faith, and enters into an historical relation of the
mysteries of the incarnation. This is the whole subject of the piece.

Another of these dramas, wherein the poet’s fancy has taken a wider
range, presents scenes of a more varied nature. Mercury enters as an
allegorical character, and as the representative of the planet which
bears his name. He explains the theory of the planetary system and the
zodiac, and cites astronomical facts from Regiomontanus, in a long
series of stanzas in the old national style. A seraph then appears, who
is sent down from heaven by God, in compliance with the prayers of Time.
The seraph, in the quality of a herald, proclaims a large yearly fair in
honour of the Holy Virgin, and invites customers to it. A devil next
makes his appearance with a little stall which he carries before him. He
gets into a dispute with Time and the seraph, and asserts, that among
men such as they are, he shall be sure to find purchasers for his wares.
He therefore leaves to every customer his free choice. Mercury then
summons eternal Rome as the representative of the church. She appears,
and offers for sale Peace of Mind, as the most precious of her
merchandise. The devil remonstrates, and Rome retires. Two Portuguese
peasants now appear in the market: one is very anxious to sell his wife,
and observes, that if he cannot sell her, he will give her away for
nothing, as she is a wicked spendthrift. Amidst this kind of
conversation a party of peasant women enter, one of whom, with
considerable comic warmth, vents bitter complaints against her husband.
She tells, with a humorous simplicity, that her ungrateful husband has
robbed her garden of its fruits before they were ripe; that he never
does any thing, but leads a sottish life, eating and drinking all day,
&c. The man who has already been inveighing against his wife immediately
recognises her, and says,--“That is my slippery helpmate.” During this
succession of comic scenes the action does not advance. The devil at
last opens his little stall and displays his stock of goods to the
female peasants; but one of them, who is the most pious of the party,
seems to suspect that all is not quite right with regard to the
merchandise, and she exclaims--“Jesus! Jesus! true God and man!” The
devil immediately takes to flight, and does not reappear; but the seraph
again comes forward and mingles with the rustic groups. The throng
continues to increase; other countrywomen with baskets on their heads
arrive; and the market is stored with vegetables, poultry, and other
articles of rural produce. The seraph offers Virtues for sale; but they
find no purchasers. The peasant girls observe, that in their village
money is more sought after than virtue, when a young man wants a wife.
One of the party, however, says, that she wished to come to the market
because it happened to fall on the festival of the mother of God; and
because the Virgin does not sell her gifts of grace, but distributes
them gratis. This observation crowns the theological morality of the
piece, which terminates with a hymn of praise, in the popular style, in
honour of the Holy Virgin.[290]

  [290] Bouterwek.

       *       *       *       *       *


POACHING.

A poor itinerant player, caught performing the part of a poacher, and
being taken before the magistrates assembled at a quarter sessions for
examination, one of them asked him what right he had to kill a hare?
when he replied in the following ludicrous parody on Brutus’s speech to
the Romans, in defence of the death of Cæsar:--

“Britons, hungry-men, and epicures! hear me for my cause; and be
silent--that you may hear; believe me for mine honour, and have respect
to mine honour, that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom; and
awake your senses that you may the better judge. If there be any in this
assembly, any dear friend of this hare, to him I say, that a player’s
love for hare is no less than his. If, then, that friend demand why a
player rose against a hare, this is my answer,--not that I loved hare
less, but that I loved eating more. Had you rather this hare were
living, and I had died starving--than that this hare were dead, that I
might live a jolly fellow? As this hare was pretty, I weep for him; as
he was nimble, I rejoice at it; as he was plump, I honour him; but, as
he was eatable, I slew him. There are tears, for his beauty; joy, for
his condition; honour, for his speed; and death, for his toothsomeness.
Who is here so cruel, would see a starved man? If any, speak, for him
have I offended. Who is here so silly, that would not take a tit bit? If
any, speak, for him have I offended. Who is here so sleek, that does not
love his belly? If any, speak, for him have I offended.”

“You have offended justice, sirrah,” cried one of the magistrates, out
of all patience at this long and strange harangue.

“Then,” cried the culprit, guessing at the hungry feelings of the bench,
“since justice is dissatisfied, it must needs have something to
devour--Heaven forbid I should keep any gentleman from his dinner--so,
if you please, I’ll wish your worships a good day, and a good appetite.”

       *       *       *       *       *


HAPPY UNION.

Quin used to say, that of all the bans of marriage he ever heard, none
gave him such pleasure as the union of delicate _Ann Chovy_ with good
_John Dory_. This sentiment was worthy of such a disciple of Apicius.

  S. S. S.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Fine View.~

LEITH HILL, NEAR DORKING.

  _Extracted from a letter from_ MR. DENNIS _to_ MR. SERJEANT, _near
  seventy years ago_.

In a late journey which I took into the wild of Sussex, I passed over a
hill, which showed me more transporting sights than ever I had seen
before, either in England or Italy. The prospects which in Italy pleased
me most were the Valdarno from the Apennines of Rome, and the
Mediterranean from the mountain of Viterbo; of Rome at forty, and the
Mediterranean at fifty miles distant from it; and that of the famous
Campagna of Rome from Tivoli and Frescati, to the very foot of the
mountain Viterbo, without any thing to intercept your sight.

But from an hill which I passed in my late journey into Sussex, I had a
prospect more extensive than any of these, and which surpassed them at
once in rural charms, in pomp, and magnificence. The hill which I speak
of is called Leith-hill, and is about five miles southward from Dorking,
about six miles from Box-hill, and near twelve from Epsom. It juts
itself out about two miles beyond that range of hills, which terminate
the north downs to the south. After conquering the hill itself the sight
is enchantingly beautiful. Beneath lie open to our view all the wilds of
Surrey and Sussex, and a great part of that of Kent, admirably
diversified in every part of them with woods, and fields of corn and
pasture, and everywhere adorned with stately rows of trees. This
beautiful vale is thirty miles in breadth, and sixty in length,
terminating on the south by the majestic range of hills and the sea.
About noon on a serene day you may, at thirty miles distance, see the
waters of the sea through a chasm of the mountains. And that which,
above all, makes it a noble and wonderful prospect is, that at the same
time you behold this noble sight, by a little turn of your head towards
the north, you look full over Box-hill, and see the country beyond it,
between that and London, and St. Paul’s, at twenty-five miles distance,
with Highgate and Hampstead beyond it all. It may perhaps appear
incredible to some, that a place which affords so great and so
surprising a prospect should have remained so long in obscurity, and
that it is unknown to the very visitors of Epsom and Box-hill. But,
alas! we live in a country more fertile of great things, than of men to
admire them.

Whoever talked of Cooper’s-hill, till sir John Denham made it
illustrious?--How long did Milton remain in obscurity, while twenty
paltry authors, little and vile compared to him, were talked of and
admired? But in England, nineteen in twenty like by other people’s
opinions, and not by their own.

       *       *       *       *       *


PARSIMONY.

Augustine Pentheny, Esq. who died on the 23d of November, 1810, in the
eighty-third year of his age, at an obscure lodging in Leeson-street,
Dublin, was a miser of the most perfect drawing that nature ever gave to
the world. He was born in the village of Longwood, county of Meath, and
became a journeyman-cooper. Very early in life he was encouraged to make
a voyage to the West Indies, to follow his trade, under the patronage of
his maternal uncle, another adventurer of the name of Gaynor, better
known among his neighbours by the name of “Peter Big Brogues,” from the
enormous shoes he was mounted in on the day he set out on his travels.
Peter acquired an immense fortune, and lived to see his only child
married to sir G. Colebrook, chairman to the East India Company, and a
banker in London, to whom Peter gave with his daughter two hundred
thousand pounds. His nephew, Anthony, acquired the enormous sum of three
hundred thousand pounds in the islands of Antigua and Santa Cruz.

Anthony Pentheny saw mankind only through one medium--money. His vital
powers were so diverted from generous or social objects by the
prevailing passion of gold, that he could discover no trait in any
character, however venerable or respectable, that was not seconded by
riches; in fact, any one that was not rich he considered as an inferior
animal, neither worthy of notice, nor safe to be admitted into society.
This feeling he extended to female society, and, if possible, with a
greater degree of disgust. A woman he considered only as an incumbrance
on a man of property, and therefore he could never be prevailed upon to
admit one into his confidence. Wedlock he utterly and uniformly
rejected. His wife was the public funds, and his children dividends; and
no parent or husband ever paid more deference or care to the objects of
his affection. He was never known to diminish his immense hoard, by
rewarding a generous action; or to alleviate distress, or accidental
misfortune, by the application of a single shilling. It could scarcely
be expected that a man would give gifts or bestow gratuities, who was a
niggard of comforts to himself. The evening before he died, some busy
friend sent a respectable physician to him. The old miser evinced no
dislike, until he recollected the doctor might expect a fee; this
alarmed him, and immediately raising himself in the bed, he addressed
his “medical friend” in the following words: “Doctor, I am a strong man,
and know my disorder, and could cure myself, but as Mr. Nangle has sent
you to my assistance, I shall not exchange you for any other person, if
we can come to an understanding; in fact, I wish to know what you will
charge for your attendance until I am recovered.” The doctor answered
“eight guineas.” “Ah! sir,” said the old man, “if you knew my disorder
you would not be exorbitant; but to put an end to this discussion, I
will give you six guineas and a half.” The doctor assented, and the
patient held out his arm with the fee, to have his pulse considered, and
laid himself down again.

Old Pentheny’s relations were numerous, but, in his opinion, wholly
unqualified, by want of experience in the management of money, to nurse
his wealth, and therefore he bequeathed the entire of it to a rich
family in the West Indies, with the generous exception of four pounds
annually to a faithful servant, who had lived with him twenty-four
years. In his will he expresses great kindness for “poor John,” and says
he bequeaths the four pounds for his kind services, that his latter days
might be spent in comfortable independence! He appointed Waller Nangle,
Esq. and major O’Farrell, his executors, and the right hon. David La
Touche and lord Fingal, trustees. Like Thellusson, he would not allow
his fortune to pass to his heirs immediately, as he directed that the
entire should be funded for fourteen years, and then, “in its improved
state,” be at the disposal of the heirs he had chosen.

       *       *       *       *       *


ON A LADY,

A GREAT CARDPLAYER, WHO MARRIED A GARDENER.

    _Trumps_ ever ruled the charming maid,
      Sure all the world must pardon her,
    The Destinies _turn’d up_ a _spade_--
      She married John the gardener.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Discoveries~

OF THE

ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

No. III.

  THE INNATE IDEAS OF DESCARTES AND LEIBNITZ, DERIVED FROM PLATO,
  HERACLITUS, PYTHAGORAS, AND THE CHALDEANS--THE SYSTEM OF MALLEBRANCHE
  FROM THE SAME SOURCE, AND ST. AUGUSTINE.

The innate perception of first truths, maintained by Descartes and
Leibnitz, which raised such warm and subtle disputes among
metaphysicians, is a doctrine derived from Plato. That great
philosopher, who acquired the surname of divine, by having written best
on the subject of Deity, entertained a very peculiar sentiment
respecting the origin of the soul. He calls it “an emanation of the
divine essence, from whom it imbibed all its ideas; but that having
sinned, it was degraded from its first estate, and condemned to a union
with body, wherein it is confined as in a prison; that its forgetfulness
of its former ideas was the necessary consequence of this penalty.” He
adds, that “the benefit of philosophy consists in repairing this loss,
by gradually leading back the soul to its first conceptions, accustoming
it by degrees to recognise its own ideas, and by a full recollection of
them to comprehend its own essence, and the true nature of things.” From
that Platonic principle of the soul’s “divine emanation,” it naturally
followed, that, having formerly had within itself the knowledge of every
thing, it still retained the faculty of recalling to mind its immortal
origin and primeval ideas. Descartes and Leibnitz reasoned in the very
same manner, in admitting eternal and first truths to be imprinted on
the soul:--they substitute indeed the creation and preexistence of
souls, in place of the “divine emanation” of them taught by Plato; but
they defend their system by the same sort of arguments.

Mallebranche entered the lists in defence of Descartes’s principles, and
took upon him to support an opinion respecting the nature of ideas,
which caused universal astonishment by its apparent singularity, and was
treated as almost extravagant; although he advanced nothing but what
might be defended by the authority of the finest geniuses of antiquity.
After having defined ideas to be “the immediate, or nearest objects of
the mind when it perceives any thing.” Mallebranche demonstrates the
reality of their existence, by displaying their qualities, which never
can belong to nothing, that have no properties. He then distinguishes
between sentiments and ideas; considers the five different ways, whereby
the mind comes at the view of external objects; shows the fallacy of
four of them, and establishes the preeminence of the fifth, as being
that alone which is conformable to reason, by saying, that it is
absolutely necessary God should have in himself the ideas of all
essences, otherwise he never could have given them existence. He
undertakes to prove, that God, by his presence, is nearly united to our
souls; insomuch, that he may be called the place of spirits, as space is
of bodies; and thence he concludes, that the soul may discern in God
whatever is representative of created things, if it be the will of God
to communicate himself in that manner to it. He remarks, that God, or
the universal intelligence, contains in himself those ideas which
illuminate us; and that his works having been formed on the model of his
ideas, we cannot better employ ourselves than in contemplating them, in
order to discover the nature and properties of created things.

Mallebranche was treated as a visionary for having advanced these
sentiments, although he accompanied them with the most solid and
judicious proofs that metaphysics could afford; but he was never charged
with plagiarism, though his system and manner of proof exist literally
in ancient authors. After reciting passages from the “Oracula
Chaldæorum,” which he reveres as a divine oracle, he says, “The gods
here declare where the existence of ideas is to be found, even in God
himself, who is their only source; they being the model according to
which the world was formed, and the spring from which every thing arose.
Others, by applying immediately to the divine ideas themselves, are
enabled to discover sublime truths; but as for our part, we are content
to be satisfied with what the gods themselves have declared in favour of
Plato, in assigning the name of ideas to causes purely intellectual; and
affirming, that they are the archetypes of the world, and the thoughts
of the supreme father; that, in effect, they reside in the paternal
intellect, and emanate from him to concur in the formation of the
world.”

Pythagoras and his disciples understood almost the same thing by their
numbers, that Plato did by his ideas. The Pythagorists expressed
themselves with regard to numbers in the same terms as Plato uses,
calling them “τα ὁντως ὁντα, real existences, the only things truly
endowed with essence, eternally invariable.” They give them also the
appellation of incorporeal entities, by means of which all other beings
participate of existence.

Heraclitus adopted those first principles of the Pythagoreans, and
expounded them in a very clear and systematic manner. “Nature,” says he,
“being in a perpetual flow, there must belong to it some permanent
entities, on the knowledge of which all science is founded, and which
may serve as the rule of our judgment in fleeting and sensible objects.”

Democritus also taught, that the images of objects are emanations of the
Deity, and are themselves divine; and that our very mental ideas are so
too. Whether the doctrine be true or erroneous is not here a subject of
inquiry: the present purpose being merely to show the analogy between
the principles of Mallebranche and those of the ancients.

Plato, who, of all the ancient philosophers, deservedly ranks the
highest, for the clearness and accuracy wherewith he hath explained and
laid open this system, gives the appellation of “ideas” to those eternal
intellectual substances, which were, with regard to God, the exemplary
forms or types of all that he created; and are, with regard to men, the
object of all science, and of their contemplation when they would attain
to the knowledge of sensible things. “The world,” according to Plato,
“always existed in God’s ideas; and when at length he determined to
produce it into being, such as it is at present, he created it according
to those eternal models, forming the sensible into the likeness of the
intellectual world.” Admitting, with Heraclitus, the perpetual
fluctuation of all sensible things, Plato perceived that there could be
no foundation for science, unless there were things real and permanent
to build it upon, which might be the fixed object of knowledge, to which
the mind might have recourse, whenever it wanted to inform itself of
sensible things. We clearly see that this was Plato’s apprehension of
things; and we need only look at the passages quoted from him to be
convinced, that whatever Mallebranche said on the subject, he derived
from Plato.

Mallebranche would not have been railed against as impious, had his
antagonists known to whom he was indebted for his opinions and
reasonings; and that St. Augustine himself had said, “Ideas are eternal
and immutable; the exemplars, or archetypes of all created things; and,
in short, exist in God.” In this respect he differs somewhat from Plato,
who separated them from the divine essence: but we may easily discern a
perfect conformity between the father of the church and the modern
philosopher.

Leibnitz was in some measure of the opinion of father Mallebranche; and
it was natural that he should be, for he derived his principles from the
same ancient sources. His “monads” were “entities truly existing; simple
substances; the eternal images of universal nature.”

       *       *       *       *       *

In this inquiry, concerning the discoveries and thoughts of the ancients
attributed to the moderns, it has appeared advisable that their views of
the mind, or intellectual system, should precede their consideration of
sensible qualities, and the system of the universe. To persons
unaccustomed to such investigations, the succeeding papers will be more
interesting.

       *       *       *       *       *


DISTRESSES OF MEN OF GENIUS.

Pope Urban VIII. erected an hospital for the benefit of decayed authors,
and called it “The Retreat of the Incurables,” intimating that it was
equally impossible to reclaim the patients from poverty or poetry.

Homer is the first poet and beggar of note among the ancients: he was
blind, sung his ballads about the streets, and his mouth was oftener
filled with verses than with bread.

Plautus, the comic poet, was better off; for he had two trades: he was a
poet for his diversion, and helped to turn a mill in order to gain a
living.

Terence was a slave, and Boethius died in a jail.

Among the Italians, Paulo Burghese, almost as good a poet as Tasso, knew
fourteen different trades, and yet died because he could get no
employment in either of them.

Tasso was often obliged to borrow a crown from a friend, to pay for a
month’s subsistence. He has left us a pretty sonnet to his cat, in which
he begs the light of her eyes to write by, being too poor to buy a
candle.

Bentivoglio, whose comedies will last with the Italian language,
dissipated a noble fortune in acts of benevolence, fell into poverty in
his old age, and was refused admittance into an hospital which, in his
better days, he had himself paid for building.

In Spain, the great Cervantes died of hunger; and Camoens, equally
celebrated in Portugal, ended his days in an hospital.

In France, Vaugelas was surnamed “the Owl,” from having been obliged to
keep within all day, and only venturing out by night, through fear of
his creditors. In his last will, he bequeathed every thing towards the
discharge of his debts, and desired his body to be sold, to that end.

Cassander was one of the greatest geniuses of his time, but barely able
to procure his livelihood.

In England, the last days of Spenser, Otway, Butler, and Dryden are our
national reproach.

  S. S. S.

       *       *       *       *       *


ON CHANGE.

No. II.

_For the Table Book._

  NOAH is now a tailor, No. 63, Pall-mall.

  HAM, a watchmaker, No. 47, Skinner-street, Snow-hill.

  ISAAC, a fishmonger, No. 8, Cullum-street.

  JACOB, an umbrella and parasol maker, No. 42, Burlington Arcade.

  ISRAEL is a surgeon in Keppell-street, Russel-square.

  JOSEPH is a pencil manufacturer, No. 7, Oxford-street.

  JOSHUA, a grocer, No. 155, Regent-street.

  SIMON, a ship broker, No. 123, Fenchurch-street.

  JOEL, an auctioneer, No. 44, Clifton-street, Finsbury.

  PAUL, a manufacturer of mineral waters, No. 5, Bow-street,
  Covent-garden.

  MATTHEW, a brush maker, No. 106, Upper Thames-street.

  MARK, a malt factor, No. 74, _Mark_-lane.

  LUKE, a boot maker, No. 142, Cheapside; and

  JOHN, a solicitor, No. 6, Palsgrave-place, Temple-bar.

  _July, 1827_

  SAM SAM’S SON.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE GRETNA GREEN PARSONS.

The first person that twined the bands of Hymen this way is supposed to
have been a man named Scott, who resided at the Rigg, a few miles from
the village of Gretna, about 1750 or 1760. He was accounted a shrewd,
crafty fellow, and little more is known of him.

George Gordon, an old soldier, started up as his successor. He always
appeared on marriage occasions in an antiquated full military costume,
wearing a large cocked hat, red coat, jack boots, and a ponderous sword
dangling at his side. If at any time he was interrogated “by what
authority he joined persons in wedlock?” he boldly answered, “I have a
special license from government, for which I pay fifty pounds per
annum.” He was never closely examined on the subject, and a delusion
prevailed during his life, that a privilege of the kind really existed.

Several persons afterwards attempted to establish themselves in the same
line, but none were so successful as Joseph Paisley, who secured by far
the greatest run of business, in defiance of every opposition. It was
this person who obtained the appellation of the “Old blacksmith,”
probably on account of the mythological conceit of Vulcan being employed
in rivetting the hymeneal chains. Paisley was first a smuggler, then a
tobacconist, but never, at any time, a blacksmith. He commenced his mock
pontifical career about 1789. For many years he was careful not to be
publicly seen on such occasions, but stole through by-paths to the house
where he was called to officiate, and he there gave a certificate
miserably written, and the orthography almost unintelligible, with a
feigned signature. An important trial arose out of one of his marriages;
and on being summoned to London in consequence, to undergo an
examination, he was so much alarmed that he was induced to consult a
gentleman of the Scotch bar on the occasion. His legal adviser stated as
his opinion, that using a feigned name was decidedly a misdemeanour, and
recommended the mock parson to effect, if possible, the destruction of
the original certificate, and substitute another in which he should
appear by his own name, and merely as a witness to the parties’
declaration that they were married persons. Afterwards, he invariably
adopted the plan of merely subscribing his own name as a witness in
future; and this has been the usual course of his successors. From that
period he made no secret of his profession, but openly walked the
street when called upon to officiate, dressed in his canonicals, with
the dignity of a bishop! He was long an object of curiosity to
travellers. He was tall, and had been well proportioned, but at his
death he was literally an overgrown mass of fat, weighing twenty-five
stone. He was grossly ignorant, and insufferably coarse in his manners,
and possessed a constitution almost proof against the ravages of
spirituous liquors; for though an habitual drinker, he was rarely ever
seen drunk: for the last forty years of his life he daily discussed a
Scotch pint, equal to two English quarts, of brandy. On one occasion, a
bottle companion, named “Ned the turner,” sat down with him on a Monday
morning to an anker of strong cogniac, and before the evening of the
succeeding Saturday they kicked the empty cask out at the door; neither
of them were at any of the time drunk, nor had they had the assistance
of any one in drinking.

After the decease of Paisley, the field lay more open for competition in
the trade, and the different candidates resorted to different means to
acquire the best share. Ultimately the post-boys were taken into
partnership, who had the power of driving to whichever house they
pleased: each mock-parson had his stated rendezvous; and so strong did
this description of opposition run, that at last the post-boys obtained
one entire half of the fees, and the business altogether got worse. The
rates were lowered to a trifle, and the occupation may now be said, in
common with others, to have shared the effects of bad times and
starvation prices.

There are two principal practitioners at present, one of whom was
originally a chaise-driver; the other, David Laing, an old soldier, who
figured as a witness on the trial of the Wakefields. At home they
exhibit no parade of office; they may be seen in shabby clothes at the
kitchen firesides of the pot-houses of the village, the companions of
the sots of the country, and disrespected by every class.

       *       *       *       *       *


A BLACK DREAM.

A number of years bygone, a black man, named Peter Cooper, happened to
marry one of the fair towns-women of Greenock, who did not use him with
that tenderness that he conceived himself entitled to. Having tried all
other arts to retrieve her lost affections in vain, Peter at last
resolved to work upon her fears of punishment in another world for her
conduct in this. Pretending, therefore, to awake one morning
extravagantly alarmed, his helpmate was full of anxiety to know what was
the matter; and having sufficiently, as he thought, whetted her
curiosity, by mysteriously hinting that “he could a tale unfold,” at
length Peter proceeded as follows:--“H--ll ob a dream last night. I
dream I go to Hebben and rap at de doa, and a gent’man com to de doa wid
black coat and powda hair. Whoa dere?--Peeta Coopa.--Whoa Peeta Coopa?
Am not know you.--Not knowa Peeta Coopa! Look de book, sa.--He take de
book, and he look de book, and he could’na find Peeta Coopa.--Den I say,
Oh! lad, oh! look again, finda Peeta Coopa in a corna.--He take de book,
an he look de book, an at last he finda Peeta Coopa in lilly, lilly
(little) corna.--‘Peeta Coopa,--cook ob de _Royal Charlotte_ ob
Greenock.’ Walk in, sa.--Den I walk in, and dere was every ting--all
kind of vittal--collyflower too--an I eat, an I drink, an I dant, an I
ting, an I neva be done; segar too, by Gum.--Den I say, Oh! lad, oh!
look for Peeta Coopa wife. He take de book, an he look all oba de book,
many, many, many a time, corna an all; an he couldna finda Peeta Coopa
wife. Den I say, Oh! lad, oh! look de black book; he take de black book,
an he look de black book, and he finda Peeta Coopa wife fust
page,--‘Peeta-Coopa-wife, buckra-woman, bad-to-her-husband.’”[291]

  [291] Times, July 7, 1827, from Greenock Advertiser.

       *       *       *       *       *


A MUCH-INJURED MAN.

George Talkington, once a celebrated horse-dealer at Uttoxeter, who died
on the 8th of April, 1826, at Cheadle, Cheshire, in his eighty-third
year, met with more accidents than probably ever befell any other human
being. Up to the year 1793 they were as follows:--Right shoulder broken;
skull fractured, and trepanned; left arm broken in two places; three
ribs on the left side broken; a cut on the forehead; lancet case, flue
case, and knife forced into the thigh; three ribs broken on the right
side; and the right shoulder, elbow, and wrist dislocated; back
seriously injured; cap of the right knee kicked off; left ancle
dislocated; cut for a fistula; right ancle dislocated and hip knocked
down; seven ribs broken on the right and left sides; kicked in the face,
and the left eye nearly knocked out; the back again seriously injured;
two ribs and breast-bone broken; got down and kicked by a horse, until
he had five holes in his left leg; the sinew just below the right knee
cut through, and two holes in that leg, also two shocking cuts above the
knee; taken apparently dead seven times out of different rivers.

Since 1793, (when a reference to these accidents was given to Mr.
Madely, surgeon, of Uttoxeter,) right shoulder dislocated and
collar-bone broken; seven ribs broken; breast-bone laid open, and right
shoulder dislocated; left shoulder dislocated, and left arm broken; two
ribs broken; and right thigh much bruised near the pope’s eye. In 1819,
then in his seventy-sixth year, a lacerated wound in the calf of the
leg, which extended to the foot, mortification of the wound took place,
which exposed all the flexor tendons of the foot, also the capsular
ligaments of the ancle joint; became delirious, and so continued upwards
of three weeks: his wonderful recovery from this accident was attributed
chiefly to the circumstance of a friend having supplied him with a
quantity of old Madeira, a glass of which he took every two hours for
eight weeks, and afterwards occasionally. Since then, in 1823, in his
eightieth year he had a mortification of the second toe of the right
foot, with exfoliation of the bone, from which he recovered, and at last
died from gradually declining old age. He was the father of eighteen
children, by one wife, in fifteen years, all of whom he survived, and
married again at the age of seventy-four.[292]

  [292] Oxford and University Herald, April 29, 1896. Communicated by J.
  J. A. F.

       *       *       *       *       *


GRAMMATICAL CONSTRUCTION.

A farmer’s son, just returned from a boarding school, was asked “if he
knew _grammar_?”--“Oh yes, father!” said the pupil, “I know _her_ very
well;--_Grammer_ sits in the chair fast asleep.”

  P.




Vol. II.--32.


[Illustration: ~A Sketch.~]

      Man loves knowledge, and the beams of Truth
    More welcome touch his understanding’s eye.
    Than all the blandishments of sound his ear,
    Than all of taste his tongue.

  _Akenside._

       *       *       *       *       *


A LOVER OF ART TO HIS SON.

  MY DEAR ALFRED,

Could you see my heart you would know my anxious feelings for your
progress in study. If I could express myself in words of fire I would
burn in lessons upon your mind, that would inflame it to ardent desire,
and thorough conviction, of attaining success.

Our talented friend, who permits you the use of his collection of models
and casts, and does you the honour to instruct you by his judgment,
assures me that your outlines evince an excellent conception of _form_.
To be able to make a true outline of a _natural_ form, is to achieve the
first great step in drawing.

You remember my dissatisfaction towards some engravings of hands and
feet that were given you by the person who would have continued to
instruct you, if I had not been dissatisfied. The hands in these prints
were beautifully finished, but their form was incorrect; the feet were
not representations of any thing in nature; and yet these deformities
were placed before you to begin with. If I had not taught you from your
infancy the value and use of sincerity, and the folly and mischief of
falsehood, you might have been at this time a liar, and become a
depraved and vicious character; instead of being, as you are, an upright
and honest youth, and becoming, as I hope you will, a virtuous and
honourable man. Had you continued the copying of engraved _lies_ of the
limbs, your drawings would have been misrepresentations of the human
figure. You will discover my meaning if you consider an old precept,
“Never begin any thing without considering the end thereof.”

  Your affectionate father,

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXVIII.

[From the “Devil’s Law Case,” a Tragi-Comedy, by John Webster, 1623.]

_Clergy-comfort._

    I must talk to you, like a Divine, of patience.--

    I have heard some talk of it very much, and many
    Times to their auditors’ impatience; but I pray,
    What practice do they make on’t in their lives?
    They are too full of choler with living honest,--
    And some of them not only impatient
    Of their own slightest injuries, but stark mad
    At one another’s preferment.

_Sepulture._

_Two Bellmen, a Capuchin; Romelio, and others._

      _Cap._ For pity’s sake, you that have tears to shed,
    Sigh a soft requiem, and let fall a bead,
    For two unfortunate Nobles,[293] whose sad fate
    Leaves them both dead and excommunicate.
    No churchman’s pray’r to comfort their last groans
    No sacred seed of earth to hide their bones;
    But as their fury wrought them out of breath,
    The Canon speaks them guilty of their own death.
      _Rom._ Denied Christian burial! I pray, what does that?
    Or the dead lazy march in the funeral?
    Or the flattery in the epitaph?--which shows
    More sluttish far than all the spiders’ webs,
    Shall ever grow upon it: what do these
    Add to our well-being after death?
      _Cap._ Not a scruple.
      _Rom._ Very well then--
    I have a certain meditation,
    (If I can think of,) somewhat to this purpose;--
    I’ll say it to you, while my mother there
    Numbers her beads.--
    “You that dwell near these graves and vaults,
    Which oft do hide physicians’ faults,
    Note what a small room does suffice
    To express men’s goods: their vanities
    Would fill more volume in small hand,
    Than all the evidence of Church Land.
    Funerals hide men in civil wearing,
    And are to the Drapers a good hearing;
    Make th’ Heralds laugh in their black rayment;
    And all die Worthies, die with payment
    To th’ Altar offerings: tho’ their fame,
    And all the charity of their name,
    ’Tween heav’n and this, yield no more light
    Than rotten trees, which shine in th’ night.
    O look the last Act be best in th’ Play,
    And then rest gentle bones! yet pray,
    That when by the Precise you’re view’d,
    A supersedeas be not sued;
    To remove you to a place more airy,
    That in your stead they may keep chary
    Stockfish, or seacoal; for the abuses
    Of sacrilege have turn’d graves to vilder uses.
    How then can any monument say,
    Here rest these bones to the Last Day;
    When Time, swift both of foot and feather,
    May bear them the Sexton knows not whither?--
    What care I then, tho’ my last sleep
    Be in the desart, or in the deep;
    No lamp, nor taper, day and night,
    To give my charnel chargeable light?
    I have there like quantity of ground;
    And at the last day I shall be found.”[294]

_Immature Death._

    Contarino’s dead.

    O that he should die so soon!

    Why, I pray, tell me:
    Is not the shortest fever best? and are not
    Bad plays the worse for their length?

_Guilty preferment._

    I have a plot, shall breed,
    Out of the death of these two noblemen;
    Th’ advancement of our house--

                    Oh take heed
    A grave is a rotten foundation.

_Mischiefs_

    ----- are like the visits of Franciscan friars,
    They never come to prey upon us single.

_Last Love strongest._

    -- as we love our youngest children best,
    So the last fruit of our affection,
    Wherever we bestow it, is most strong,
    Most violent, most irresistible;
    Since ’tis indeed our latest harvest home,
    Last merryment ’fore winter; and we Widows,
    As men report of our best picture-makers,
    We love the Piece we are in hand with better.
    Than all the excellent work we have done before.

_Mother’s anger._

      _Leonora._ Ha, my Son!
    I’ll be a fury to him; like an Amazon lady,
    I’d cut off this right pap that gave him suck,
    To shoot him dead. I’ll no more tender him,
    Than had a wolf stol’n to my teat in th’ night,
    And robb’d me of my milk.

_Distraction from guilt._

      _Leonora_ (_sola_). Ha, ha! What say you?
    I do talk to somewhat methinks; it may be.
    My Evil Genius.--Do not the bells ring?
    I’ve a strange noise in my head. Oh, fly in
    Come, age, and wither me into the malice
    Of those that have been happy; let me have
    One property for more than the devil of hell;
    Let me envy the pleasure of youth heartily;
    Let me in this life fear no kind of ill,
    That have no good to hope for. Let me sink,
    Where neither man nor memory may find me. (_falls to the ground_).
      _Confessor_ (_entering_). You are well employ’d, I hope; the best
          pillow in th’ world
    For this your contemplation is the earth
    And the best object, Heaven.
      _Leonora._ I am whispering
    To a dead friend----

_Obstacles._

    Let those, that would oppose this union,
    Grow ne’er so subtle, and entangle themselves
    In their own work, like spiders; while we two
    Haste to our noble wishes; and presume,
    The hindrance of it will breed more delight,--
    As black copartaments shews gold more bright.

_Falling out._

    To draw the Picture of Unkindness truly
    Is, to express two that have dearly loved
    And fal’n at variance.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Bride,” a Comedy, by Thomas Nabbs, 1640.]

_Antiquities._

_Horten, a Collector. His friend._

      _Friend._ You are learned in Antiquities?
      _Horten._ A little, Sir.
    I should affect them more, were not tradition
    One of the best assurances to show
    They are the things we think them. What more proofs,
    Except perhaps a little circumstance,
    Have we for this or that to be a piece
    Of Delphos’ ruins? or the marble statues,
    Made Athens glorious when she was supposed
    To have more images of men than men?
    A weather-beaten stone, with an inscription
    That is not legible but thro’ an optic,
    Tells us its age; that in some Sibyl’s cave
    Three thousand years ago it was an altar,
    Tis satisfaction to our curiosity,
    But ought not to necessitate belief.--
    For Antiquity,
    I do not store up any under Grecian;
    Your Roman antiques are but modern toys
    Compared to them. Besides they are so counterfeit
    With mouldings, tis scarce possible to find
    Any but copies.
      _Friend._ Yet you are confident
    Of yours, that are of more doubt.
      _Horten._ Others from their easiness
    May credit what they please. My trial’s such
    Of any thing I doubt, all the impostors,
    That ever made Antiquity ridiculous,
    Cannot deceive me. If I light upon
    Ought that’s above my skill, I have recourse
    To those, whose judgment at the second view
    (If not the first) will tell me what Philosopher’s
    That eye-less; nose-less, mouth-less Statue is,
    And who the workman was; tho’ since his death
    Thousands of years have been revolved.

_Accidents to frustrate Purpose._

    How various are the events that may depend
    Upon one action, yet the end proposed
    Not follow the intention! accidents
    Will interpose themselves; like those rash men,
    That thrust into a throng, occasioned
    By some tumultuous difference, where perhaps
    Their busy curiosity begets
    New quarrels with new issues.

  C. L.

  [293] Slain in a duel.

  [294] Webster was parish-clerk at St. Andrew’s, Holborn. The anxious
  recurrence to church-matters; sacrilege; tomb-stones; with the
  frequent introduction _of dirges_; in this, and his other tragedies,
  may be traced to his professional sympathies.

       *       *       *       *       *


NATURAL CURIOSITIES OF DERBYSHIRE.

FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF A TOURIST.[295]

_For the Table Book._

  _June 1, 1827._

Visited Chatsworth, the princely residence of the duke of Devonshire,
three miles to the north-east of Bakewell. As soon as the summit of the
neighbouring hill is attained, the house and park lie immediately in
front in a beautiful valley, watered by the Derwent. An addition is
making to the main building, which is large, but not very handsome in
its architectural design; on approaching it, I passed over an elegant
stone bridge, close to which is an island whereon a fictitious fortress
is built. The views on all sides are strikingly fine, and of great
variety; hills and dales, mountains and woods, water and verdant pasture
lands. It requires “a poet’s lip, or a painter’s eye,” to adequately
depict the beauties of this enchanting place. Perhaps no estate in the
kingdom furnishes choicer objects for the pencil. I do not think,
however, that the grounds in the immediate vicinity of the mansion are
so well disposed, or the scenery so rich, nor does the interior offer
such magnificent works of art, as at Blenheim. There is much sculpture,
of various degrees of merit, distributed about the apartments; but the
collection is in its infancy, and a splendid gallery is in progress for
its reception. The finest production of the chisel is Canova’s statue of
Napoleon’s mother; its natural grace and ease, with the fine flowings of
the drapery, and the grave placidity of the countenance, are solemnly
majestic--she _looks_ the mother of Napoleon. Among the other great
attractions here, are a bust of Petrarch’s Laura, another of his present
majesty, by Chantrey; and a portrait of his majesty by sir Thomas
Lawrence.

The next day I continued my route towards Matlock Bath--as beautiful a
ride as I ever took. The road follows the Wye for six miles in a vale,
past the aged towers of Haddon Hall, and the scenery presents every
interesting feature that can be coveted by the most enthusiastic lover
of nature;--rugged and beetling crags, gently sloping hills, extensive
woods, rich meadows and fertile vallies, form the composition of the
views. Handsome villas, farm-houses, and neat cottages--living pictures
of scarcely minor interest--embellish and diversify the natural beauties
of the delightful scene.

At the end of the six miles, the road turns over a bridge across the
Wye, leading through the dale (Matlock) to the Bath. The river here
rolls darkly along, its progress swifter and its depth greater; the same
rocky barrier that encloses all the dales in this county uplifting its
huge masses of rocks on either side. The margin of the river is thickly
studded with large trees, close copse-woods clothe the <DW72>s at the
bottom, and ascend part of the cliffs’ sides--wild shrubs branch from
the clefts above, whence innumerable jackdaws whirl their flights, and
make incessant monotonous noise. About a mile before reaching Matlock
Bath is a mountain called the High-Tor, its bare and jagged head rising
far above the adjoining rocks. I was informed that it contains a fine
natural grotto, but the river was too deep to wade, and I missed the
sight.

On rounding a point, the shining white buildings of the Bath appear
along the foot and some distance up the side of a steep lofty hill,
called the “Heights of Abraham.” The greater part of the village is
situated in the valley, but a second may be said to be beneath it,
through which the river flows: its banks are thickly planted with groves
of trees, and winding paths have been made throughout these delightful
haunts, for the pleasure of the visitors. The cliffs rise opposite
majestically perpendicular, and as finely picturesque as any I saw in
Derbyshire. The “Heights of Abraham” are at least a quarter of a mile
above the highest of the houses. A zigzag road through a shrubbery leads
to the celebrated natural cavern near the summit--an immense recess, as
grand as Peak’s Hole, but far more beautiful; for its sides are formed
of a variety of spars of surprising brilliancy. To mineralogists it is
the most interesting resort in England; and here collectors, prosecuting
their discoveries, think themselves happy, although deprived of the
light of heaven for whole days together. The whole of this immense
mountain is one sparkling mass of various spars and ores.

Ascending this steep road on horseback, I found the views, through the
shrubs, of the village and valley beneath, the river, and the
surrounding mountains, inconceivably grand. High-Tor was on the left,
and Wild-Cat-Tor on the right--beyond which the Wye, gleaming in the
sun’s rays, wound sinuously along the verdant vale, till it was so
diminished by the distance as to seem like a bent wire of shining
silver, and was lost to sight by the intervention of a far-off mountain.

Of all places this seems to present the greatest inducements to the
temporary visitant; and to anglers it is the _ne plus ultra_ of
piscatorial recreation.

After a day’s enjoyment of this charming spot, I went forward, but the
threatening appearance of the weather induced me to sojourn at a small
public-house in one of the smaller dales. Heavy clouds arose, and the
rain obscured the distant hills; running along their summits, having the
appearance of thick fog. The weather clearing, I walked out, and
surveyed the curious old limestone built “hostel,” with the sign of “A
Trout,” scarcely decipherable from age. Some anglers, whom the heavy
shower had driven for shelter under the cliffs, again appeared, and
threw their artificial temptations on the surface of a stream flowing
from the mountain at the back of the little inn. Its water turned
singularly constructed machinery for crushing the lead ore, washed down
from a neighbouring large mine. Immense fragments of rock, by falling
betwixt two iron wheels, with teeth fitted closely together, are pounded
to atoms. A number of men, women, and children, were busy shovelling it
into sieves set in motion by the machine, and it separated itself by its
own weight from the stone or spar that contained it.

Determined by my curiosity to descend into the mine, I procured a miner
to accompany me; and following the stream for a short distance, reached
a small hut near the entrance, where I clothed myself completely in
miner’s apparel, consisting of a stout woollen cap, under a large,
slouched, coarse beaver hat, thick trowsers, and a fustian jacket, with
“clods,” or miner’s shoes. At the mouth of the mine we seated ourselves
opposite to each other in a narrow mining cart, shaped from the bottom
like a wedge, attached to a train of others of similar make, used for
conveying the ore from the interior. Having been first furnished with a
light each, we proceeded, drawn by two horses, at a rapid pace, along a
very narrow passage or level, cut through the limestone rock, keeping
our arms within the sledge, to prevent their being jammed against the
sides, which in many places struck the cars very forcibly. In this
manner, with frequent alarming jolts, we arrived at a shaft, or descent,
into the mine. We got out of our vehicles and descended by means of
ladders, of five fathoms in length, having landing places at the bottom
of each. The vein of the lead ore was two hundred fathoms deep. We
therefore descended forty ladders, till we found ourselves at the
commencement of another passage similar to the first. All the way down
there was a tremendous and deafening noise of the rushing of water
through pipes close to the ear, caused by the action of a large
steam-engine. The ladders and sides of the rock were covered with a dark
slimy mud. We walked the whole length, several hundred yards, along the
second level, knee deep in water, till we reached the spot, or vein,
that the workmen were engaged on. They were labouring in a very deep
pit; their lights discovered them to us at the bottom. Into this chasm I
was lowered by a wheel, with a rope round my body; and having broken off
a piece of lead ore with a pickaxe, I was withdrawn by the same means.
Another set of labourers were procuring ore by the process of blasting
the rock with gunpowder--I fired one of the fusees, and retiring to a
distant shelter, awaited the explosion in anxious alarm; its
reverberating shock was awfully grand and loud. My ascent was dreadfully
fatiguing from the confined atmosphere; and I was not a little rejoiced
when I could inhale the refreshing air, and hail the cheering light of
day.

  E. J. H.

  [295] See p. 12.

       *       *       *       *       *


~August.~


THE FRUIT MARKETS OF LONDON AND PARIS IN THIS MONTH.

A gentleman, one of a deputation for inquiring into the state of foreign
horticulture, visited the Paris fruit and vegetable market in the month
of August, 1821, and having seen Covent Garden market nearly a fortnight
earlier, under peculiar circumstances, was enabled to form an estimate
of their comparative excellencies.

The coronation of George IV. on the 19th of July had caused a glut of
fruit in the London market, such as had never been remembered, and large
quantities of the fruit, which had not met with the expected demand,
remained on hand.

In regard to _Pine-apples_, Mr. Isaac Andrews of Lambeth alone cut sixty
ripe fruit on the occasion, and many hundreds, remarkable for size and
flavour, came from distant parts of the country. One from lord Cawdor’s
weighed 10 lbs.; and, after being exhibited at a meeting of the London
Horticultural Society, was sent to the Royal Banquet. Pine-apples are
not to be got at Paris. When they are wanted at grand entertainments,
they are generally procured from Covent Garden market by means of the
government messengers who are constantly passing between the two
capitals. From our possessing coals, and from our gardeners being well
versed in the modes of raising fruit under glass, it is probable that we
shall always maintain a superiority in the production of this delicious
article for the dessert.

The quantity of _ripe Grapes_ exhibited for sale in Covent Garden market
from the middle to the end of July, in the year alluded to, would, if
told, surpass the belief of Parisian cultivators; more especially when
it is added, that the kinds were chiefly the Black Hamburgh, the white
muscat of Alexandria, and the Frontignacs. Andrews also took the lead in
the grape department; insomuch that while very good Black Hamburgh
grapes, from different parts of the country, were selling, during the
crowded state of the capital, at 4_s._ per lb., his bunches currently
obtained 6_s._ 6_d._ per lb. Their excellence consisted chiefly in the
berries having been well thinned and thoroughly ripened. On the 29th of
July great quantities of grapes, remarkable for size and excellence,
still remained in the market, and were selling at 3_s._ and 3_s._ 6_d._
a pound. At Paris _ripe_ grapes are not to be procured, at this season
of the year, for any sum. On the 14th of August, prince Leopold, then on
his way to Italy, dined with the English ambassador, when a splendid
dessert was desirable; but ripe grapes could not be found at Paris. A
price equal to 12_s._ sterling per lb. was paid for some _unripe_
bunches, merely to make a show, for they were wholly unfit for table
use. On the 21st of the same month the duke of Wellington being expected
to arrive to dinner, another search for ripe grapes was instituted
throughout Paris, but in vain. In short, the English market is well
supplied with fine grapes from the middle of June till the middle of
November; but, from being raised under glass, they are necessarily high
priced; while the Paris market offers a copious supply of the table
Chasselas, from the middle of September to the middle of March, at very
cheap rates,--from 12 to 20 sous, or 6_d._ to 8_d._ per pound; the
coarse vineyard grapes being only 1_d._ a pound.

The Bigarreau or graffion _Cherry_ was still very abundant in Covent
Garden market, and also the black or Dutch guigne: at Paris, however,
even the late cherries had almost ceased to appear in the market.

In the London market the only good _Pear_ was the large English
Jargonelle (or épargne.) The Windsor pear was on the stalls, but not
ripe. The Green chisel, (hâtiveau,) and the skinless, (poire sans peau,)
were almost the only others I could see. The Paris market excelled,
being well supplied with fine summer pears. The Ognolet or summer
archduke, was pretty common: it is named _ognolet_, from growing in
clusters on the tree like bunches of onions. The large Blanquet, and the
long-stalked blanquet, (the latter a very small fruit,) were also
common. The Epargne, or Grosse cuisse Madame, was plentiful. A fruit
resembling it, called Poire des deux têtes, was likewise abundant: it
was large, sweet, and juicy, quite ripe, but without much flavour. The
Epine-rose, (Caillot or Cayeout,) a very flat pear; the Musk-orange,
which is of a _yellow_ colour only; the Red orange, which has the true
orange hue; and the Robine, or Royal d’été, were all plentiful. The
small early Rousselet was exceedingly common and cheap, being produced
abundantly on old standards in all country-places. Towards the end of
August, the Cassolette, a small pear of good flavour, and the Rousselet
de Rheims, made their appearance; and the Poiré d’Angleterre (à beurré)
began to be called through the streets in every quarter of the city.

_Apples_ were more plentiful at London than at Paris. The Dutch Codlin
and the Carlisle Codlin were abundant; and the Jenneting, the Summer
Pearmain, and the Hawthorndean, were not wanting. At Paris very few
apples appeared. The Summer Calville, a small conical dark-red fruit,
and the Pigeonnet, were the only kinds I remember to have seen.

_Plums_ were more plentiful and in greater variety at the Marché des
Innocens than at Covent Garden. At Paris, the Reine Claude, of excellent
quality and quite ripe, was sold at the rate of two sous, or one penny,
a dozen; while the same plum (green-gage) cost a penny each in London,
though in an unripe state. The next in excellence at Paris was the Prune
royale, of good size, and covered with the richest bloom. The
Jaune-hâtive, the drap d’or, the Mirabelle, the Musk-damson or Malta
plum, were common; likewise the Précoce de Tours, remarkable for its
peculiar dark hue; and a deep violet- plum, called Prune noire
de Montreuil. The Blue Perdrigon was just coming in. At Covent Garden
the Primordian, or jaune-hâtive, and the morocco or early damask, were
the only ripe plums to be seen.

_Apricots_ were much more plentiful at the Innocens than at Covent
Garden. The common apricot, the Portugal and the Angoumois, which much
resemble each other, were frequent; these were small, of brisk flavour.
The Abricot-pêche, however, not only excelled the others in size, but in
quality, holding that superiority among the Parisian apricots which the
Moorpark does among the English; and it appeared in considerable
abundance. At London only the Roman and Moorpark were to be found, and
the latter was not yet ripe.

In _Peaches_ the French market most decidedly surpassed the English. The
quantity of this fruit presented for sale toward the middle of August
appeared surprisingly great. It was chiefly from Montreuil, and in
general in the most perfect state. Although ripe, scarcely a single
fruit had suffered the slightest injury from the attacks of insects.
This fact affords satisfactory proof that the plastered walls, being
smooth and easily cleaned, are unfavourable to the breeding and lodging
of such insects as often infest our rougher fruit-walls. The fine state
of the fruit also shows the uncommon care which must be bestowed by the
industrious inhabitants of Montreuil to prevent its receiving bruises in
the gathering or carriage. The principal kinds in the market were the
small Mignonne; the large Mignonne, with some of the excellent
subvariety called Belle Bauce; the yellow Alberge; the Bellegarde or
Gallande; the Malta or Italian peach; the red Madeleine or De Courson;
and the Early Purple.

_Melons_ appeared in great profusion at Paris. In the Marché des
Innocens and Marché St. Honoré the kinds were rather select, chiefly
different varieties of Canteloup. These were not sold at so cheap a rate
as might have been expected; ripe and well-flavoured canteloups costing
2, 3, or 4 francs each. But in almost every street the marchands de
melons presented themselves; some occupying stalls, some moving about
with brouettes or long wheel-barrows, and others with hampers on their
backs, supported on crochets. In general those sold in the streets were
much cheaper, (perhaps not more than half the price of the others,) but
of coarse quality, such as would scarcely be thought fit for use in
England. The fruit is frequently long kept; and in the heats of August
the odour exhaled from the melon-stalls was sickening and offensive. The
kinds were chiefly the following: the Maraicher, a large netted melon,
so called from being cultivated in the marais or sale-gardens; the Melon
de Honfleur, of great size, often weighing from 20 to 30 lbs.; and the
Coulombier, a coarse fruit, raised chiefly at the village of that name.
These were almost the only sorts of melon sold in Paris, till our
countryman Blaikie, about forty-five years ago, introduced the Rock
Canteloup and Early Romana. It may be noticed, that melons of all kinds,
even the best canteloups, are here raised in the open ground, with the
aid of hand-glasses only, to protect the young plants in the early part
of the season. In Covent Garden market a great many small melons,
chiefly of the green-fleshed and white-fleshed varieties, appeared; but
they were uniformly high-priced, though not proportionally dearer than
the Parisian canteloups, considering that they had all been raised on
hot-beds under glass-frames.

_Mulberries_ were much more plentiful at Paris than at London.

At Paris, fresh or recent _Figs_ were, at this time, very common and
very cheap; it was indeed the height of the fig-season, and they daily
arrived in great quantities from Argenteuil. The round white fig seems
to be the only kind cultivated; at least it was the only kind that came
to market. No fresh figs can be expected in Covent Garden till the end
of August, and then only small parcels. To make amends the London market
was supplied with fine _Gooseberries_ in profusion, while not one of
good quality was to be seen at Paris. The same thing may be said of
_Raspberries_ and _Currants_, which are in a great measure neglected in
France, or used only by confectioners. The Parisians have never seen
these fruits in perfection; and it is therefore no wonder that, in the
midst of a profuse supply of peaches, reine claudes, figs, and pears,
they should be overlooked. There exists a strong prejudice against the
gooseberry, which prevents the Parisians from giving the improved kinds
a fair trial: they have no idea that it is possible that gooseberries
should form an excellent article of the dessert; they think of them only
as fit for making tarts, or sauce for mackerel![296]

  [296] Mr. Pat. Neill, Sec. Cal. Hort. Soc. in Horticultural Tour.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ~The Lee Penny.~

BELONGING TO SIR CHARLES LOCKHART, OF LEE AND CARNWORTH, LANARKSHIRE.]

This curious piece of antiquity is a stone of a dark red colour and
triangular shape, in size about half an inch each side, set in a piece
of silver coin; which, though much defaced, by some letters still
remaining, is supposed to be a shilling of Edward I., the cross being
very plain, as it is on his shillings. It is affirmed, by tradition, to
have been in the Lee family since the year 1320 odd; that is, a little
after the death of king Robert Bruce, who having ordered his heart to be
carried to the Holy Land for burial, one of the noble family of Douglass
was sent with it, and is said to have got the crowned heart in his arms
from that circumstance. On the other hand, it is alleged that the person
who carried the heart was Simon Locard, of Lee, who about that time
borrowed a large sum of money from sir William de Lendsay, prior of Air,
for which he granted a bond of annuity of ten pounds of silver, during
the life of the said sir William de Lendsay, out of his lands of Lee and
Cartland. The original bond, dated 1323, and witnessed by the principal
nobility of the country, is among the family papers. The sum, which was
a great one in those days, is thought to have been borrowed for that
expedition; and, on the authority of the story, of his being the person
who carried the royal heart, it is affirmed, that he changed his name to
“Lockheart;” or, as it is sometimes spelled, “Lockhart,” and obtained a
heart within a lock for part of his arms, with the motto, “corda serata
pando.”

It is said that this Simon Lockhart having taken a Saracen prince, or
chief, prisoner, his wife came to ransom him; and, on counting out the
money or jewels, the stone in question fell out of her purse, and she
hastily snatched it up, which Simon Lockhart observing, insisted on
having it, or retaining his prisoner. Upon this the Saracen lady gave
it him, and told him of its many virtues, namely, that it cured all
diseases in cattle, and the bite of a mad dog both in man and beast.

To effect these wonders the stone is dipped in water, which is given to
diseased cattle to drink, and to a person who has been bitten; and the
wound, or part infected, is washed with the water. There are no words
used in the dipping of the stone, nor any money taken by the servants
without incurring the owner’s displeasure. People come from all parts of
Scotland, and even from Yorkshire, to get the water in which the stone
is dipped, to give their cattle, especially when ill of the murrain and
black-leg.

Many years ago, a complaint was made to the ecclesiastical courts
against the laird of Lee, then sir James Lockhart, for using witchcraft:
a copy of their act is hereto annexed. There is no date; but from the
orthography, and James being the name of the laird of Lee, it must at
least have been in the seventeenth century.

COPY OF AN ACT OF THE SYNOD AND ASSEMBLY.

  “_Apud Glasgow, the 25 Octobr._

  “_Synod. Sess. 2._

“Quhilk dye, amongest the referries of the brethren of the ministrie of
Lanerk, it was propondit to the Synode, that Gawen Hammiltonne of
Raplocke had preferit an complaint before them against Sir James Lockart
of Lie, anent the superstitious vsing of an stene set in selver for the
curing of diseased cattell, qlk, the said Gawen affirmit, coud not be
lawfully vsed, and that they had differit to give ony decisionne
therein, till the advice of the Assemblie might be had concerning the
same. The Assemblie having inquirit of the maner of vsing thereof, and
particularlie vnderstoode, by examinationne of the said Laird of Lie,
and otherwise, that the custome is onlie to cast the stene in sume
water, and give the diseasit cattil thereof to drink, and qt the sam is
dene wtout vsing onie words, such as charmers and sorcerers vse in their
unlawfull practisess; and considering that in nature they are mony
thinges seen to work strange effects, q^{r}of no humane witt can give a
reason, it having pleasit God to give vnto stones and herbes special
virtues for the healing of mony infirmities in man and beast,--advises
the brethren to surcease thir proces, as q’rin they perceive no ground
of offence; and admonishes the said Laird of Lie, in the vsing of the
said stone, to tak heed that it be vsit heirafter wt the least scandal
that possiblie maye bie.

“Extract out of the books of the Assemblie helden at Glasgow, and
subscribed be thair clerk, at thair comand.

  “M. ROBERT YOUNG,

  “_Clerk to the Assemblie at Glasgow_.”

When the plague was last at Newcastle, the inhabitants are said to have
sent for the Lee Penny, and given a bond for a large sum in trust for
the loan; and that they thought it did so much good, that they offered
to pay the money, and keep the Lee Penny, but the owner would not part
with it. A copy of this bond is alleged to have been among the family
papers, but supposed to have been spoiled, with many more, by rain
getting into the charter-room, during a long minority, and no family
residing at Lee.

A remarkable cure is alleged to have been performed about a century ago,
on a lady Baird, of Sauchtonhall, near Edinburgh, “who, having been bit
by a mad dog, was come the length of a hydrophobia; upon which, having
sent to beg the Lee Penny might be sent to her house, she used it for
some weeks, drinking and bathing in the water it was dipped in, and was
quite recovered.”[297]

Good reasons are assigned for rejecting the story of Locard having been
the bearer of the heart of Robert Bruce; and there are some ludicrous
instances of wonderful cures performed in the north of England on
credulous people, by virtue of water wherein the Lee Penny was reputed
to have been dipped, and yet neither the water nor the Lee Penny had
crossed the Tweed.

  [297] Gentleman’s Magazine, Dec. 1787, from whence these particulars,
  and the engraving of the Lee Penny, are derived. Further accounts of
  it from correspondents will be acceptable.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


THE DEVIL’S PUNCH-BOWL.[298]

You,--Mr. Editor,--Have journeyed from London to Portsmouth, and must
recollect Hindhead--you will, therefore, sympathize with me:--the luxury
of riding round the rim of the Devil’s Punch-Bowl is over! Some few
years back the road, on one side, was totally undefended against
casualties of any description--overturning the coach into the bowl (some
three or four hundred yards deep)--the bolting of a horse--or any other
delightful mishap which could hurl you to the bottom--all is over!
They--(the improvers of roads, but destroyers of an awful yet pleasing
picture,)--have cut a new road about fifty or sixty feet below the
former, and raised a bank, four feet high, round the edge, so that an
accident is almost impossible, and no such chance as a roll to the
bottom will again occur! The new road is somewhat shorter than the
old--the _effect_ completely spoiled--the stone to perpetuate the murder
of the sailor unheeded[299]--the gibbet unseen--and nothing left to
balance the loss of these _pleasing_ memorials, but less labour to the
horses, and a few minutes of time saved in the distance! Eighteen years
since, the usual stoppage, and “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll have the
goodness to alight, and walk up, you’ll oblige,” took place. At the
present time you are galloped round, and have scarcely time to admire
the much-spoken-of spot.

The last time I passed the place, on the _Independent_, when conversing
on the subject, our coachee, Robert (or Bob, as he delights to be
called) Nicholas, related an anecdote of an occurrence to himself, and
which tells much of the fear in which passing the Devil’s Punch-Bowl was
once held. You shall have it, as nearly as I can recollect it:--

An elderly lady, with two or three younger ones, and servants, engaged
the coach to London, but with a special agreement, that the party should
_walk_ round the said bowl,--“As we understand, it is next to a miracle
to go along that horrid place in safety.” On the journey, each change of
horses was accompanied by an inquiry, how far was the dreaded place? a
satisfactory answer was, of course, generally given. When, at length,
the coach arrived at the stone-memorial, one-third round the place, the
coachman alighted, and pretended to be making some trifling alterations
to the harness: his lady-passenger, looking complacently into the vast
dell beneath her, inquired its name. “Higgin-bottom, ma’am.”--“What a
delightful but singular looking spot!” was the rejoinder. The coach then
drove on. On its arrival at the next stage, Road-lane, the anxious
inquiry, “How far off, sir?” was again repeated. “We’re passed,
ma’am.”--“Passed it!--in safety!--bless me!--where was it?”--“Where I
stopped, and you asked the name of that deep dell-that was the Devil’s
Punch-Bowl--Higgin-bottom’s the right name.” The delighted passenger
rewarded the coachman for his innocent deception, and promised always,
on that road, to travel under his guardianship.

---- I have spoken of a stone erected on the Bowl, and if, in this “airy
nothing,” I do not occupy too much space that, undoubtedly, could be
better filled, a brief recollection of the fact may close this notice of
the Devil’s Punch-Bowl:--

An unfortunate sailor, with a trifle in his pocket, on the way to
Portsmouth, fell in, at Esher, with three others, then strangers, and,
with characteristic generosity, treated them on their mutual way.
The party were seen at the Red Lion, Road-lane, together, which
they left, and journeyed forward. On Hindhead they murdered their
companion--stripped the body, and rolled it down the Devil’s Punch-Bowl.
Two men, who had observed the party at the Red Lion, and who were
returning home, not long after, on arriving at the spot, observed
something which appeared like a dead sheep; one descended, and was
shocked to find a murdered man, and recognised the sailor: conjecturing
who were his destroyers, they followed in haste. On arriving at Sheet,
the villains were overtaken, when in the act of disposing of their
victim’s apparel. They were apprehended, and shortly afterwards hung and
gibbeted near the spot. When at the place of execution one of them
observed, he only wished to commit one murder more, and that should be
on Faulkner, the constable, who apprehended him!--The following is (or
was) the inscription on the stone; and many a kind “Poor fellow!” has
been breathed as the melancholy tale has ended.

  THIS STONE
  Was erected in detestation of a barbarous
  MURDER,
  Committed near this Spot
  On an
  UNKNOWN SAILOR,
  By Edward Lonogan, Michael Casey, and
  James Marshall,
  September 24, 1786.

  Gen. ix. 6.

  “Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his
  blood be shed.”

  R. N. P.

       *       *       *       *       *

P. S.--Since writing as above, a mutilation of the Sailor’s stone is
noticed in a Portsmouth paper by the following advertisement:--

TEN GUINEAS REWARD.

WHEREAS some evil-disposed person or persons did, in the night of
Tuesday, the 17th instant, maliciously BREAK, DEFACE, and INJURE the
STONE lately put up at Hindhead, by the Trustees of the Lower District
of the Sheetbridge Turnpike Road, to perpetuate the memory of a murder
committed there, in the place of one removed by John Hawkins, Esq.

Whoever will give information of the offender or offenders shall on his,
her, or their conviction receive a Reward of TEN GUINEAS, which will be
paid by Mr. James Howard, the Surveyor of the said Road.

  _Witley, 26th July, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


NOTE.

“You, Mr. Editor,” says my pleasant correspondent R. N. P., “you, Mr.
Editor, have journeyed from London to Portsmouth, and must recollect
Hindhead--the luxury of riding round the rim of the Devil’s
Punch-Bowl--the stone to perpetuate the memory of the sailor--the
gibbet, &c.” Ah me! I travel little beyond books and imagination; my
personal journeys are only gyration-like portions of a circle, scarcely
of larger circumference than that allowed to a tethered dumb animal. If
now and then, in either of the four seasons, I exceed this boundary, it
is only for a few miles into one of the four counties--to a woodland
height, a green dell, or beside a still flowing water--to enjoy the
features of nature in loneliness and quiet--the sight of “every green
thing” in a glorious noontide, the twilight, and the coming and going of
the stars:--on a sunless day, the vapours of the sky dissolving into
thin air, the flitting and sailing of the clouds, the ingatherings of
night, and the thick darkness.

No, Mr. R. N. P., no sir, I am very little of a traveller, I have
not seen any of the things you pleasure me by telling of in your
vividly written letter. I know no gibbet of the murderer of a sailor,
except one of the “men in chains” below Greenwich--whom I saw last
Whitsuntide two-years through the pensioners’ telescopes from the
Observatory[300]--was a slayer of his messmate; nor though I have heard
and read of the Devil’s Punch-Bowl, have I been much nearer its “rim”
than the gibbet of Jerry Abershaw at Wimbledon Common.

Abershaw was the last of the great highwaymen who, when people carried
money about them, robbed every night, and sometimes in the open day, on
Bagshot, Wimbledon, Finchley, and other commons, and high roads, in the
neighbourhood of London. Some of these highwaymen of the “old school”
lived in the wretched purlieus of Saffron-hill, and would mount and
“take the road” in the afternoon from the end of Field-lane, at
Holborn-bridge, as openly as travellers setting out from an inn. On the
order in council, in 1797, which prohibited the Bank from paying in
specie, gold went out, and bank-notes came in; and as these were easily
concealed, and when stolen were difficult to pass, the business of “the
highway” fell off, and highwaymen gradually became extinct. Jerry
Abershaw was the most noted, because he was the most desperate, and most
feared of these marauders. He was a reckless desperado who, pistol in
hand, would literally have “your money, or your life;” and perhaps both.
He was as famous in his day as Sixteen-string-Jack, or the Flying
Highwayman. He shot several persons; his trial excited as much interest
as Thurtell’s; and the concourse of people at his execution was
innumerable. It was in the height of summer; and the following Sunday
being fine, London seemed a deserted city; for hundreds of thousands
went to see Abershaw hanging in chains. His fame will outlast his
gibbet, which I suppose has been down years ago. The papers tell us,
that the duke of Clarence, as Lord High Admiral, ordered down the
pirates’ gibbets from the river-side. These were the last “men in
chains” in the vicinage of the metropolis.

  *

  _July, 1827._

  [298] A deep valley in Surrey, so called from its circular form. It is
  about forty-one miles from London.

  [299] The old stone was destroyed at the alteration of the road; but a
  new one has very recently been erected on the new road.

  [300] Told of in the _Every-Day Book_.

       *       *       *       *       *


JERRY ABERSHAW

AND

THE MEN IN CHAINS.

Townsend, the Bow-street officer’s interesting examination before the
police committee of the House of Commons in June, 1816, contains some
curious particulars respecting Abershaw, the pirates, “the dangers of
the _road_” and “hanging matters,” toward the close of the last century.

_Q._ The activity of the officers of Bow-street has infinitely increased
of late years?

_A._ No doubt about it; and there is one thing which appears to me most
extraordinary, when I remember, in very likely a week, there should be
from ten to fifteen highway robberies. We have not had a man committed
for a highway robbery lately; I speak of persons on horseback. Formerly
there were two, three, or four highwaymen, some on Hounslow Heath, some
on Wimbledon Common, some on Finchley Common, some on the Romford Road.
I have actually come to Bow-street in the morning, and while I have been
leaning over the desk, had three or four people come in and say, ‘I was
robbed by two highwaymen in such a place;’ ‘I was robbed by a single
highwayman in such a place.’ People travel now safely, by means of the
horse-patrol that sir Richard Ford planned. Where are there highway
robberies now? As I was observing to the chancellor, as I was up at his
house on the Corn Bill: he said, ‘Townsend, I knew you very well so many
years ago.’ I said, ‘Yes, my lord; I remember your coming first to the
bar, first in your plain gown, and then as king’s counsel, and now
chancellor. Now your lordship sits as chancellor, and directs the
executions on the recorder’s report; but where are the highway robberies
now?’ and his lordship said, ‘Yes, I am astonished.’ There are no
footpad robberies or road robberies now but merely jostling you in the
streets. They used to be ready to pop at a man as soon as he let down
his glass.

_Q._ You remember the case of _Abershaw_?

_A._ Yes; I had him tucked up where he was; it was through me. I never
left a court of justice without having discharged my own feeling as much
in favour of the unhappy criminal as I did on the part of the
prosecution; and I once applied to Mr. Justice Buller to save two men
out of three who were convicted; and on my application we argued a good
deal about it. I said, ‘My lord, I have no motive but my duty; the jury
have pronounced them guilty. I have heard your lordship pronounce
sentence of death, and I have now informed you of the different
dispositions of the three men. If you choose to execute them all I have
nothing to say about it; but was I you, in the room of being the
officer, and you were to tell me what Townsend has told you, I should
think it would be a justification of you to respite those two unhappy
men, and hang that one who has been convicted three times before.’ The
other men never had been convicted before, and the other had been three
times convicted; and he very properly did. And how are judges or
justices to know how many times a man has been convicted but by the
information of the officer in whose duty and department it is to keep a
register of old offenders. The magistrate sits up there, he knows
nothing of it till the party is brought before him; he cannot.

_Q._ Do you think any advantages arise from a man being put on a gibbet
after his execution?

_A._ Yes, I was always of that opinion; and I recommended sir William
Scott to hang the two men that are hanging down the river. I will state
my reason. We will take for granted, that those men were hanged as this
morning, for the murder of those revenue officers--they are by law
dissected; the sentence is, that afterwards, the body is to go to the
surgeons for dissection; there is an end of it--it dies. But look at
this: there are a couple of men now hanging near the Thames, where all
the sailors must come up; and one says to the other, ‘Pray what are
those two poor fellows there for?’--‘Why,’ says another, ‘I will go and
ask.’ They ask. ‘Why, those two men are hung and gibbeted for murdering
his majesty’s revenue officers.’ And so the thing is kept alive. If it
was not for this, people would die, and nobody would know any thing of
it. In Abershaw’s case I said to the sheriff, ‘The only difficulty in
hanging this fellow, upon this place, is its being so near lord
Spencer’s house.’ But we went down, and pointed out a particular place;
he was hung at the particular pitch of the hill where he used to do the
work. If there was a person ever went to see that man hanging, I am sure
there was a hundred thousand. I received information that they meant to
cut him down. I said to sir Richard Ford, ‘I will counteract this; in
order to have it done right, I will go and sit up all night, and have
eight or ten officers at a distance, for I shall nail these fellows;’
for I talked cant language to him. However, we had the officers there,
but nobody ever came, or else, being so close to Kent-street, they would
have come down and sawed the gibbet, and taken it all away, for
Kent-street was a very desperate place, though it is not so now. Lord
chief justice Eyre once went the Home Circuit; he began at Hertford, and
finished at Kingston. Crimes were so desperate, that in his charge to
the grand jury at Hertford, he finished--‘Now, gentlemen of the jury,
you have heard my opinion as to the enormity of the offences committed;
be careful what bills you find, for whatever bills you find, if the
parties are convicted before me, if they are convicted for capital
offences, I have made up my mind, as I go through the circuit, to
execute every one.’ He did so--he never saved man or woman--and a
singular circumstance occurred, that stands upon record fresh in my
mind. There were seven people convicted for a robbery in Kent-street;
for calling in a pedlar, and after robbing the man, he jumped out of
window. There were four men and three women concerned; they were all
convicted, and all hanged in Kent-street, opposite the door; and, I
think, on Kennington Common eight more, making fifteen:--all that were
convicted were hung.

_Q._ Do you think, from your long observation, that the morals and
manners of the lower people in the metropolis are better or worse than
formerly?

_A._ I am decidedly of opinion, that, with respect to the present time,
and the early part of my time, such as 1781, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7, where
there is one person convicted now--I may say, I am positively
convinced--there were five then. We never had an execution wherein we
did not grace that unfortunate gibbet (at the Old Bailey) with ten,
twelve, to thirteen, sixteen, and twenty; and forty I once saw, at
twice; I have them all down at home. I remember in 1783, when sergeant
Adair was recorder, there were forty hung at two executions. The
unfortunate people themselves laugh at it now; they call it ‘a
bagatelle.’ I was conversing with an old offender some years ago, who
has now quite changed his life; and he said, ‘Why, sir, where there is
one hung now, there were five when I was young;’ and I said, ‘Yes, you
are right in your calculation, and you are very lucky that you were
spared so long, and have lived to be a better man.’ I agree with George
Barrington--whom I brought from Newcastle--and however great lord chief
baron Eyre’s speech was to him, after he had answered him, it came to
this climax: ‘Now,’ says he, ‘Townsend, you heard what the chief baron
said to me; a fine flowery speech, was it not?’ ‘Yes:’ ‘But he did not
answer the question I put to him.’ Now how could he? After all that the
chief baron said to him after he was acquitted--giving him advice--this
word was every thing: says he, ‘My lord, I have paid great attention to
what you have been stating to me, after my acquittal: I return my
sincere thanks to the jury for their goodness: but your lordship says,
you lament very much that a man of my abilities should not turn my
abilities to a better use. Now, my lord, I have only this reply to
make: I am ready to go into any service, to work for my labour, if your
lordship will but find me a master.’ Why, what was the reply to that?
‘Gaoler, take the prisoner away.’ Why who would employ him? It is really
farcical. I have heard magistrates say, ‘Young man, really I am very
sorry for you; you are much to be pitied; you should turn your talents
to a better account; and you should really leave off this bad course of
life.’ Yes, that is better said than done; for where is there any body
to take these wretches? They have said to me; ‘Sir, we do not thieve
from disposition; but we thieve because we cannot get employment: our
character is damned, and nobody will have us:’ and so it is; there is no
question about it.

       *       *       *       *       *


REMARKABLE EPITAPHS.


AT PENRYN.

    Here lies William Smith: and what is somewhat rarish,
    He was born, bred, and hang’d in this here parish.

       *       *       *       *       *


AT STAVERTON.

    Here lieth the body of Betty Bowden,
    Who would live longer but she couden;
    Sorrow and grief made her decay,
    Till her bad leg carr’d her away.

       *       *       *       *       *


AT LOCH RAUSA.

    Here lies Donald and his wife,
    Janet Mac Fee:
    Aged 40 hee,
    And 30 shee.

       *       *       *       *       *


ON MR. BYWATER.

    Here lie the remains of his relative’s pride,
    Bywater he lived, and by water he died;
    Though by water he fell, yet by water he’ll rise,
    By water baptismal attaining the skies.

       *       *       *       *       *


ON A MISER.

    Here lies one who for med’cine would not give
      A little gold, and so his life he lost;
    I fancy now he’d wish again to live,
      Could he but guess how much his fun’ral cost.

  S. S. S.

       *       *       *       *       *


KING HENRY II.

DESCRIBED BY GIRALDUS CAMBRENSIS,

_Who accompanied him (as he afterwards did King John) into Ireland, A.
D. 1172_.

Henry II., king of England, was of a very good colour, but somewhat red;
his head great and round, his eyes were fiery, red, and grim, and his
face very high ; his voice or speech was shaking, quivering, or
trembling; his neck short, his breast broad and big; strong armed; his
body was gross, and his belly somewhat big, which came to him rather by
nature than by any gross feeding or surfeiting; for his diet was very
temperate, and to say the truth, thought to be more spare than comely,
or for the state of a prince; and yet to abate his grossness, and to
remedy this fault of nature, he did, as it were, punish his body with
continual exercise, and keep a continual war with himself. For in the
times of his wars, which were for the most part continual to him, he had
little or no rest at all; and in times of peace he would not grant unto
himself any peace at all, nor take any rest: for then did he give
himself wholly unto hunting; and to follow the same, he would very early
every morning be on horseback, and then go into the woods, sometimes
into the forests, and sometimes into the hills and fields, and so would
he spend the whole day until night. In the evening when he came home, he
would never, or very seldom, sit either before or after supper; for
though he were never so weary, yet still would he be walking and going.
And, forasmuch as it is very profitable for every man in his lifetime
that he do not take too much of any one thing, for medicine itself,
which is appointed for man’s help and remedy, is not absolutely perfect
and good to be always used, even so it befell and happened to this
prince; for, partly by his excessive travels, and partly by divers
bruises in his body, his legs and feet were swollen and sore. And,
though he had no disease at all, yet age itself was a breaking
sufficient unto him. He was of a reasonable stature, which happened to
none of his sons; for his two eldest sons were somewhat higher, and his
two younger were somewhat lower and less than he was. If he were in a
good mood, and not angry, then would he be very pleasant and eloquent:
he was also (which was a thing very rare in those days) very well
learned; he was also very affable, gentle, and courteous; and besides,
so pitiful, that when he had overcome his enemy, yet would he be
overcome with pity towards him. In war he was most valiant, and in peace
he was as provident and circumspect. And in the wars, mistrusting and
doubting of the end and event thereof, he would (as Terence writeth) try
all the ways and means he could devise, rather than wage the battle. If
he lost any of his men in the fight, he would marvellously lament his
death, and seem to pity him more being dead, than he did regard or
account of him being alive; more bewailing the dead, than favouring the
living.

In times of distress no man was more courteous; and when all things were
safe, no man more cruel. Against the stubborn and unruly, no man more
sharp, yet to the humble no man more gentle; hard towards his own men
and household, but liberal to strangers; bountiful abroad, but sparing
at home; whom he once hated, he would never or very hardly love; and
whom he once loved, he would not lightly be out with him, or forsake
him. He had great pleasure and delight in hawking and hunting:--would to
God he had been as well bent and disposed unto good devotion![301]

It was said, that after the displeasure grown between the king and his
sons, by the means and through the enticing of the queen their mother,
he never was accounted to keep his word and promise, but, without any
regard or care, was a common breaker thereof. And true it is, that, of a
certain natural disposition, he was light and inconstant of his word;
and if the matter were brought to a narrow strait or pinch, he would not
stick rather to cover his word, than to deny his deed. And for this
cause, in all his doings, he was very provident and circumspect, and a
very upright and severe minister of justice, although he did therein
grieve and make his friends to smart. His answers, for the most part,
were perverse and froward. And, albeit, for profit and lucre all things
are set to sale, and do bring great gains, as well to the clergy as the
laity, yet they are no better to a man’s heirs and executors, than were
the riches of Gehasi, whose greedy doings turned himself to utter ruin
and destruction.

He was a great peace-maker, and careful keeper thereof himself; a
liberal alms-giver, and a special benefactor to the Holy Land; he loved
humility, abhorred pride, and much oppressed his nobility. The hungry
he refreshed, the rich he regarded not. The humble he would exalt, but
the mighty he disdained. He usurped much upon the holy church; and of a
certain kind of zeal, but not according to knowledge, he did intermingle
and conjoin profane with holy things; for why? _He would be all in all
himself._ He was the child of the holy mother church, and by her
advanced to the sceptre of his kingdom; and yet he either dissembled or
utterly forgot the same; for he was slack always in coming to the church
unto the divine service, and at the time thereof he would be busied and
occupied rather with councils and in conference about the affairs of his
commonwealth, than in devotion and prayer. The livelihoods belonging to
any spiritual promotion, he would, in time of their vacation, confiscate
to his own treasury, and assume that to himself which was due unto
Christ. When any new troubles or wars did grow, or come upon him, then
would he lavish and pour out all that ever he had in store or treasury,
and liberally bestow that upon a soldier, which ought to have been given
unto the priest. He had a very prudent and forecasting wit, and thereby
foreseeing what things might or were like to ensue, he would accordingly
order or dispose either for the performance or for the prevention
thereof; notwithstanding which, many times the event happened to the
contrary, and he was disappointed of his expectation: and commonly there
happened no ill unto him, but he would foretell thereof to his friends
and familiars.

He was a marvellous natural father to his children, and loved them
tenderly in their childhood and young years; but they being grown to
some age and ripeness, he was as a father-in-law, and could scarcely
brook any of them. And, notwithstanding they were very handsome, comely,
and noble gentlemen, yet, whether it were that he would not have them
prosper too fast, or whether they had evil deserved of him, he hated
them; and it was full much against his will that they should be his
successors, or heirs to any part of his inheritance. And such is the
prosperity of man, that as it cannot be perpetual, no more can it be
perfect and assured: for why?--such was the secret malice of fortune
against this king, that where he should have received much comfort,
there had he most sorrow; where quietness and safety--there unquietness
and peril; where peace--there enmity; where courtesy--there ingratitude;
where rest--there trouble. And whether this happened by the means of
their marriages, or for the punishment of the father’s sins, certain it
is, there was no good agreement, neither between the father and the
sons, nor yet among the sons themselves.

But at length, when all his enemies and the disturbers of the common
peace were suppressed, and his brethren, his sons, and all others his
adversaries, as well at home as abroad, were reconciled; then all things
happened and befell unto him (though it were long first) after and
according to his own will and mind. And would to God he had likewise
reconciled himself unto God, and by amendment of his life, had in the
end also procured his favour and mercy! Besides this, which I had almost
forgotten, he was of such a memory, that if he had seen and known a man,
he would not forget him: neither yet whatsoever he had heard, would he
be unmindful thereof. And hereof was it, that he had so ready a memory
of histories which he had read, and a knowledge and a manner of
experience in all things. To conclude, if he had been chosen of God, and
been obsequious and careful to live in his fear and after his laws, he
had excelled all the princes of the world; for in the gifts of nature,
no one man was to be compared unto him.[302]

  [301] Giraldus here alludes to his quarrel with Thomas à Becket.

  [302] Extracted (from lord Mountmorris’s History of the Irish
  Parliament, vol. i. page 33, et infra) by “THE VEILED SPIRIT.”

       *       *       *       *       *


AMSTERDAM--WITHOUT WATER.

An amusing and lively account of this capital, its public institutions,
society, painters, &c. may be found in a small volume, entitled “Voyage
par la Hollande,” published by a French visitant in 1806. This is
probably the most recent sketch of Amsterdam. With the exception of the
conversion of the stadt-house into a king’s palace, and the
establishment of certain societies, its general aspect and character
have undergone little change for a century past; insomuch that “Le Guide
d’Amsterdam,” published by Paul Blad in 1720, may be regarded as forming
a correct and useful pocket-companion at the present day. The
descriptions given of the Dutch towns by Mr. Ray in 1663, Dr. Brown in
1668, Mr. Misson in 1687, and Dr. Northleigh in 1702, are applicable in
almost every particular to the same towns at the present day; so
comparatively stationary has Holland been, or so averse are the people
to changes.

That fuel should be scarce and dear in Amsterdam, the capital of a
country destitute of coal-mines, and growing very little wood, might be
expected; but, surrounded and intersected by canals as the city is, it
is surprising that another of the necessaries of life, pure water,
should be a still scarcer commodity: yet such is the case. There is no
water fit for culinary purposes in Amsterdam but what is brought by
boats from the Vecht, a distance of fifteen miles; and limpid water is
brought from Utrecht, more than twice that distance, and sold in the
streets by gallon measures, for table use, and for making of tea and
coffee.[303]

  [303] Horticultural Tour.

       *       *       *       *       *


_For the Table Book._


REASON,

IF NOT RHYME.

    Dame Prudence whispers marry not
      ’Till you have pence enough to pay
    For chattels, and to keep a cot,
      And leave a mite for quarter-day.

    Beside chair, table, and a bed,
      Those need, who cannot live on air,
    Two plates, a basket for the bread,
      And knives and forks at least two pair.

    When winter rattles in the sky
      Drear is the bed that wants a rug,
    And hapless he whose purse is dry
      When sickness calls for pill and drug.

    So, Bess, we’ll e’en put off the day
      For parson C---- to tie us fast--
    Who knows but luck, so long away,
      May come and bide with us at last?

    Hope shall be ours the tedious while;
      We’ll mingle hearts, our lips shall join
    I’ll only claim thy sweetest smile,
      Only thy softest tress be mine.

  VERITE.

_For the Table Book._


SONG,

IMITATED FROM THE GERMAN OF HÖLTY.

  Wer wollte sich mit Grillen plagen, &c.

    Who--who would think of sorrowing
    In hours of youth and blooming spring,
    When bright cerulean skies are o’er us,
    And sun-lit paths before us--
    Who--who would suffer shade to steal
      Over the forehead’s vernal light,
      Whilst young Hope in her heav’n-ward flight
    Oft turns her face round to reveal
      Her bright eye to the raptur’d sight--
    Whilst Joy, with many smiles and becks,
    Bids _us_ pursue the road _he_ takes.

    ----Still, as erst, the fountain plays,
      The arbour’s green and cool,
    And the fair queen of night doth gaze
      On earth, as chastely beautiful
    As when she op’d her wond’ring eyes
    First--on the flowers of Paradise.

    Still doth, as erst, the grape-juice brighten
      The heart in fortune’s wayward hour--
    And still do kindred hearts delight in
      Affection’s kiss in evening-bower.
    Still Philomela’s passionate strain
    Bids long-fled feelings come again.

    The world, to _me_, is wond’rous fair--
      So fair, that should I cease to hold
    Communion with its scenes so dear,
      I’d think my days were nearly told.

  R. W. D.

       *       *       *       *       *


SWEETHEART SEEING.

ST. MARK’S EVE.--IN CHANCERY, _August 2, 1827._ In a cause, “Barker v.
Ray,” a deponent swore, that a woman, named Ann Johnson, and also called
“Nanny Nunks,” went to the deponent, and said to her, “I’ll tell you
what I did to know if I could have Mr. Barker. On St. Mark’s night I ran
round a haystack nine times, with a ring in my hand, calling out,
‘Here’s the sheath, but where’s the knife?’ and, when I was running
round the ninth time, I thought I saw Mr. Barker coming home; but he did
not come home that night, but was brought from the Blue Bell, at
Beverley, the next day.”

       *       *       *       *       *


THINGS WORTH REMEMBERING.


CONTROVERSY.

A man who is fond of disputing, will, in time, have few friends to
dispute with.


SPEECH.

Truth is clothed in white. But a lie comes forth with all the colours of
the rainbow.


ADVERSITY, A GOOD TEACHER.

Those bear disappointments the best, who have been the most used to
them.


EXAMPLE.

When a misfortune happens to a friend, look forward and endeavour to
prevent the same thing from happening to yourself.


STANDARD OF VALUE.

The worth of every thing is determined by the demand for it. In the
deserts of Arabia, a pitcher of cold water is of more value than a
mountain of gold.


LUCK AND LABOUR.

A guinea found in the street, will not do a poor man so much good as
half a guinea earned by industry.


EARNING THE BEST GETTING.

Give a man work, and he will find money.


EARLY HOURS.

Since the introduction of candles, luxury has increased. Our forefathers
rose with the lark, and went to bed with the sun.


INDICATIONS OF THE STATE-PULSE.

A jolly farmer returning home in his own waggon, after delivering a load
of corn, is a more certain sign of national prosperity, than a nobleman
riding in his chariot to the opera or the playhouse.


OVERWISE AND OTHERWISE.

A man of bright parts has generally more indiscretions to answer for
than a blockhead.




Vol. II.--33.


[Illustration]

    ------------------------ some monitor unseen,
      Calls for the song.--the call shall be obey’d;
    For ’tis that silent monitor, I ween,
      Which led my youth, to many a green-wood shade;
      Show’d me the spring, in thousand blooms array’d,
    And bade me look towards Heaven’s immensity:
      This is a power that schoolmen never made,
    That comes all unsolicited and free,
    To fire the youthful bard--lo! this is Poesy!

  _The Song of the Patriot._


~Robert Millhouse~

----The talented author of the poem from whence the motto is extracted
is scarcely known to fame, and not at all to fortune. His
unostentatious little volume, entitled “The Song of the Patriot,
Sonnets, and Songs,” was thrown accidentally in my way; and its perusal
occasions me to acquaint the readers of the _Table Book_ with its
uncommon merit. I do not know any thing concerning the poet beyond what
I have derived from printed particulars, which I now endeavour to
diffuse. That he is highly esteemed by a discriminating brother bard in
his native county, is apparent by the following beautiful address to him
in the Nottingham Mercury:--

STANZAS.

    My thoughts are of a solitary place,
      Where twilight dwells, where sunbeams rarely fall;
    And there a wild-rose hangs in pensive grace,
      Reflected in a fountain clear and small;
      Above them rise dark shadowy trees and tall,
    Whilst round them grow rank night-shades in the gloom,
      Which seem with noxious influence to pall
    The fountain’s light, and taint the flower’s perfume;
    As fainly they would mar what they might not out-bloom.

    These, mind me, Millhouse! of thy spirit’s light,
      That twilight makes in life so dark as thine!
    And though I do not fear the rose may blight,
      Or that the fountain’s flow may soon decline;
      Hope, is there none, the boughs which frown malign,
    High over-head, should let in heaven’s sweet face;
      Yet shall not these their life unknown resign,
    For nature’s votaries, wandering in each place,
    Shall find their secret shade, and marvel at their grace.

It appears from a small volume, published in 1823, entitled
“Blossoms--by Robert Millhouse--being a Selection of Sonnets from his
various Manuscripts,” that the Rev. Luke Booker, LL. D. vicar of Dudley,
deemed its author “a man whose genius and character seemed to merit the
patronage of his country, while his pressing wants, in an equal degree,
claimed its compassion.” The doctor “presumed to advocate his case and
his cause” before the “Literary Fund,” and a donation honourable to the
society afforded the poet temporary relief. This, says Millhouse, was
“at a time when darkness surrounded me on every side.” In a letter to
Dr. Booker, lamenting the failure of a subscription to indemnify him for
publishing his poems, when sickness had reduced a wife and infant child
to the borders of the grave, he says, “I am now labouring under
indisposition both of body and mind; which, with the united evils of
poverty and a bad trade, have brought on me a species of melancholy
that requires the utmost exertions of my philosophy to encounter.” About
this period he wrote the following:--

TO A LEAFLESS HAWTHORN.

    Hail, rustic tree! for, though November’s wind
      Has thrown thy verdant mantle to the ground:
    Yet Nature, to thy vocal inmates kind,
      With berries red thy matron-boughs has crown’d
    Thee do I envy: for, bright April show’rs
      Will bid again thy fresh green leaves expand;
    And May, light floating in a cloud of flow’rs,
      Will cause thee to re-bloom with magic hand.
    But, on _my_ spring, when genial dew drops fell,
      Soon did life’s north-wind curdle them with frost;
    And, when my summer-blossom op’d its bell,
      In blight and mildew was its beauty lost.

Before adducing other specimens of his talents, it seems proper to give
some account of the poet; and it can scarcely be better related than in
the following

  MEMOIR OF ROBERT MILLHOUSE, BY HIS ELDER BROTHER, JOHN MILLHOUSE.

Robert Millhouse was born at Nottingham the 14th of October, 1783, and
was the second of ten children. The poverty of his parents compelled
them to put him to work at the age of six years, and when ten he was
sent to work in a stocking-loom. He had been constantly sent to a Sunday
school, (the one which was under the particular patronage of that truly
philanthropic ornament of human nature, the late Mr. Francis Wakefield,)
till about the last-mentioned age, when a requisition having been sent
by the rector of St. Peter’s parish, Dr. Staunton, to the master of the
school, for six of his boys to become singers at the church, Robert was
one that was selected; and thus terminated his education, which merely
consisted of reading, and the first rudiments of writing.

When sixteen years old he first evinced an inclination for the study of
poetry, which originated in the following manner.--Being one day at the
house of an acquaintance, he observed on the chimney-piece two small
statues of Shakspeare and Milton, which attracting his curiosity, he
read on a tablet in front of the former, that celebrated inscription--

    “The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
    The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
    Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
    And like the baseless fabric of a vision,
    Leave not a wreck behind!”

Its beauty and solemnity excited in his mind the highest degree of
admiration At the first opportunity he related the occurrence to me
with apparent astonishment, and concluded by saying, “Is it not
Scripture?” In reply, I told him it was a passage from Shakspeare’s play
of the “Tempest,” a copy of which I had in my possession, and that he
had better read it. For, although he had from his infancy been
accustomed to survey with delight the beautiful scenery which surrounds
Nottingham, had heard with rapture the singing of birds, and been
charmed with the varied beauties of the changing seasons; and though his
feelings were not unfrequently awakened by hearing read pathetic
narratives, or accounts of the actions and sufferings of great and
virtuous men, yet he was totally ignorant that such things were in any
wise connected with poetry.

He now began to read with eagerness such books as I had previously
collected, the principal of which were some of the plays of Shakspeare,
Paradise Lost, Pope’s Essay on Man, the select poems of Gray, Collins,
Goldsmith, Prior, and Parnell, two volumes of the Tatler, and
Goldsmith’s Essays, all of the cheapest editions. But, ere long, by
uniting our exertions, we were enabled to purchase Suttaby’s miniature
edition of Pope’s Homer, Dryden’s Virgil, Hawkesworth’s translation of
Telemachus, Mickle’s version of the Lusiad, Thomson’s Seasons, Beattie’s
Minstrel, &c. These were considered as being a most valuable
acquisition; and the more so, because we had feared we should never be
able to obtain a sight of some of them, through their being too
voluminous and expensive.

In 1810 he became a soldier in the Nottinghamshire militia, joined the
regiment at Plymouth, and shortly afterwards made an attempt at
composition.

It will readily be expected that now, being separated, we should begin
to correspond with each other; and one day, on opening a letter which I
had just received from him, I was agreeably surprised at the sight of
his first poetical attempt, the “Stanzas addressed to a Swallow;” which
was soon after followed by the small piece written “On finding a Nest of
Robins.” Shortly after this the regiment embarked at Plymouth, and
proceeded to Dublin; from which place, in the spring of 1812, I received
in succession several other efforts of his muse.

Being now desirous of knowing for certain whether any thing he had
hitherto produced was worthy to appear in print, he requested me to
transmit some of them to the editor of the Nottingham Review, with a
desire that, if they met with his approbation, he would insert them in
his paper; with which request that gentleman very promptly complied.
Having now a greater confidence in himself, he attempted something of a
larger kind, and produced, in the summer of 1812, the poem of
“Nottingham Park.”

In 1814 the regiment was disembodied, when he again returned to the
stocking-loom, and for several years entirely neglected composition. In
1817 he was placed on the staff of his old regiment, now the Royal
Sherwood Foresters; and in the following year became a married man. The
cares of providing for a family now increased his necessities; he began
seriously to reflect on his future prospects in life; and perceiving he
had no other chance of bettering his condition than by a publication,
and not having sufficient already written to form a volume, he resolved
to attempt something of greater magnitude and importance than he had
hitherto done; and in February, 1819, began the poem of “Vicissitude.”
The reader will easily conceive that such a theme required some
knowledge of natural and moral philosophy, of history, and of the vital
principles of religion. How far he has succeeded in this poem is not for
me to say; but certain it is, as may be expected from the narrowness of
his education, and his confined access to books, his knowledge is very
superficial: however, with unceasing exertions, sometimes composing
while at work under the pressure of poverty and ill-health, and at other
times, when released from his daily labour, encroaching upon the hours
which ought to have been allotted to sleep, by the end of October, 1820,
the work was brought to a conclusion.

       *       *       *       *       *

To his brother’s narrative should be added, that Robert Millhouse’s
“Vicissitude,” and other poems, struggled into the world with great
difficulty, and were succeeded by the volume of “Blossoms.” The
impression of both was small, their sale slow, and their price low; and
nearly as soon as each work was disposed of, the produce was exhausted
by the wants of the author and his family.

Fresh and urgent necessities have required fresh exertions, and the
result is “The Song of the Patriot, Sonnets, and Songs,” a four-shilling
volume, “printed for the Author and sold by R. Hunter, St. Paul’s
Church-yard, and J. Dunn, Nottingham.” The book appeared in the autumn
of last year, after poor Millhouse had suffered much privation from the
bad state of the times. It was published with a slender list of
subscribers--only seventy-seven!--and, though intended to improve his
situation, has scarcely defrayed the bills of the stationer and printer.

The author of “The Song of the Patriot” anticipated the blight of his
efforts. In the commencement of that poem, he says:--

            ---- ’Tis difficult for little men
      To raise their feeble pigmy heads so high,
    As to attract the glance of passing ken
      Where giant shoulders intercept the sky;
      And ah! ’tis difficult for such as I,
    To wake fit strains where mighty minstrels sing;
      Perhaps, even this, shall but be born and die:
    Not fated to enjoy a second spring,
    But like some hawk-struck bird, expire on new-fledg’d wing.

In this poem there are stanzas expressed with all a poet’s fire, and all
a patriot’s heartfelt devotion to his country.

    Land of my fathers! may thy rocky coast
      Long be the bulwark of thy free-born race;
    Long may thy patriots have just cause to boast
      That mighty Albion is their native place;
      Still be thy sons unequall’d in the chase
    Of glory, be it science, arts, or arms;
      And first o’erweening conquerors to disgrace;
    Yet happier far, when Peace in all her charms,
    Drives out from every land the din of war’s alarms.

    Potent art thou in poesy--Yet there still
      Is one thing which the bard hath seldom scann’d;
    That national, exalting local thrill,
      Which makes our home a consecrated land:
      ’Tis not enough to stretch the Muses’ wand
    O’er states, where thy best blood has purchas’d fame;
      Nor that thy fertile genius should expand
    To cast o’er foreign themes the witching flame:
    This hath thy lyre perform’d, and won a glorious name.

    Be every hill and dale, where childhood wanders,
      And every grove and nook, the lover knows,
    And every stream, and runlet that meanders,
      And every plain that covers freedom’s foes
      The dwelling-place of Song,--and where repose
    The great immortal worthies of our isle
      Be hallow’d ground--and when the pilgrim goes
    To hail the sacred dust, and muse awhile,
    Be heard the free-born strain to blanch the tyrant’s smile.

The patriotism of that people, traces of whose victories are observable
in many of our customs, has been well discriminated. “In the most
virtuous times of the Roman republic their country was the idol, at
whose shrine her greatest patriots were at all times prepared to offer
whole hecatombs of human victims: the interests of other nations were no
further regarded, than as they could be rendered subservient to the
gratification of her ambition; and mankind at large were considered as
possessing no rights, but such as might with the utmost propriety be
merged in that devouring vortex. With all their talents and their
grandeur, they were unprincipled oppressors, leagued in a determined
conspiracy against the liberty and independence of mankind.”[304] Every
English patriot disclaims, on behalf of his country, the exclusive
selfishness of Roman policy; and Millhouse is a patriot in the true
sense of the word. His “Song of the Patriot” is a series of energetic
stanzas, that would illustrate the remark. At the hazard of exceeding
prescribed limits, two more are added to the specimens already quoted.

    A beacon, lighted on a giant hill;
      A sea-girt watch-tower to each neighbouring state;
    A barrier, to control the despot’s will;
      An instrument of all-directing fate
      Is Britain; for whate’er in man is great,
    Full to that greatness have her sons attain’d;
      Dreadful in war to hurl the battle’s weight;
    Supreme in arts, in commerce unrestrain’d;
    Peerless in magic song, to hold the soul enchain’d.

    In wealth and power stupendous is our isle!
      Obtain’d by Labour’s persevering hand:
    And heaven-born Liberty extends her smile
      To the remotest corners of our land:
      The meanest subject feels her potent wand;
    Peasant and peer are by one law controll’d;
      And this it is, that keeps us great and grand:
    This is the impulse makes our warriors bold,
    And knits more close the bond our fathers seal’d of old.

The prevailing feature in Robert Millhouse’s effusions is of a domestic
nature. He loves his country, and deems his birthplace and the hearth of
his family its brightest spots. One of his sonnets combines these
feelings:--

HOME.

    Scenes of my birth, and careless childhood hours.
      Ye smiling hills, and spacious fertile vales!
    Where oft I wander’d, plucking vernal flowers,
      And revell’d in the odour-breathing gales;
    Should fickle Fate, with talismanic wand,
      Bear me afar where either India glows,
    Or fix my dwelling on the Polar land,
      Where Nature wears her ever-during snows;
    Still shall your charms my fondest themes adorn,
      When placid evening paints the western sky,
    And when Hyperion wakes the blushing Morn,
      To rear his gorgeous sapphire throne on high.
    For, to the guileless heart, where’er we roam,
    No scenes delight us like our much-lov’d Home.

A man so humble, with such acquirements as have been here exemplified,
and so unfortunate as to have derived little from their exercise but
pain and disappointment, may be imagined to have penned the following
address in distress and despondency:--

TO GENIUS.

    O born of heaven, thou Child of magic Song!
      What pangs, what cutting hardships wait on thee,
      When thou art doom’d to cramping Poverty;
    The pois’nous shafts from Defamation’s tongue,--
    The jeers and tauntings of the blockhead throng,
      Who joy to see thy bold exertions fail;
      While Hunger, pinching as December’s gale,
    Brings moody dark Despondency along.
      And, should’st thou strive Fame’s lofty mount to scale,
    The steps of its ascent are cut in sand;
    And half-way up,--a snake-scourge in her hand,
      Lurks pallid Envy, ready to assail:
    And last, if thou the top, expiring, gain,
    When Fame applauds, thou hearest not the strain.

In this sheet there is not room to further make known, or plead at
greater length, the claims of Robert Millhouse to notice and protection.
I should blush for any reader of poetical taste, with four shillings to
spare, who, after perusing the preceding extracts, would hesitate to
purchase the poet’s last little volume. I should more than blush for the
more wealthy, who are reputed patrons of talent, if they decline to seek
out and effectually succour him. I am, and am likely to remain, wholly
unacquainted with him: my only wish is to induce attention to a talented
and estimable individual, who is obscure and neglected, because he is
unobtrusive and modest.

  _August 8, 1827._

  *

  [304] Robert Hall.

       *       *       *       *       *


AN INFERNAL PALINDROME.

  [_Palindrome._ A word or sentence which is the same read backward as
  forwards: as, _madam_; or this sentence _Subi dura a rudibus_.

  _Johnson._]

Whence did Geoffry Crayon derive “The Poor Devil Author,” the title to
one of his “Tales of a Traveller,” but from a legendary story, according
to which the devil is acquainted with versification, although his lines
are constructed in a very remarkable manner; for they can be read
forward and backward, and preserve the same sense. There is a specimen
of this “literary ingenuity” in the present volume of the _Table Book_,
(col. 28.) The “Lives of the Saints” afford another, viz:--

St. Martin (of whom there is an account in the _Every-Day Book_, vol. i.
p. 1469) having given up the profession of a soldier, and being elected
bishop of Tours, when prelates neither kept carriages, horses, nor
servants, had occasion to go to Rome, in order to consult his holiness
upon some important ecclesiastical matter. As he was walking gently
along the road, he met the devil, who politely accosted him, and
ventured to observe how fatiguing and indecorous it was for him to
perform so long a journey on foot, like the commonest of
cockle-shell-chaperoned pilgrims. The saint knew well the drift of Old
Nick’s address, and commanded him immediately to become a beast of
burthen, or _jumentum_; which the devil did in a twinkling, by assuming
the shape of a mule. The saint jumped upon the fiend’s back, who, at
first, trotted cheerfully along, but soon slackened his pace. The
bishop, of course, had neither whip nor spurs, but was possessed of a
much more powerful stimulus, for, says the legend, he made the sign of
the cross, and the smarting devil instantly galloped away. Soon,
however, and naturally enough, the father of sin returned to sloth and
obstinacy, and Martin hurried him again with repeated signs of the
cross, till twitched and stung to the quick by those crossings so
hateful to him, the vexed and tired reprobate uttered the following
distich in a rage:--

    Signa te, Signa: temere me tangis et angis:
    Roma tibi subito motibus ibit amor.

That is--“_Cross_, cross _thyself_--thou plaguest and vexest _me_
without necessity; for, owing to my exertions, Rome, the object of thy
wishes, will soon be near.” The singularity of this distich, consists,
as hinted above, in its being _palindromical_; or it reads backwards as
well as in the common way--_Angis_, the last word of the first line,
makes _signa_--_et_ makes _te_--and so on to the beginning. _Amor_, the
last of the last line, read backwards, makes _Roma_--_ibit_ makes
_tibi_--and so forth.

These lines have been quoted imperfectly and separately in
“Encyclopedies” and other books, under the words “Palindromical verses;”
but the reader will not easily meet with the legendary tale, which gives
them historical consistence and meaning.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXIX.

  [From the “Gentleman Usher,” a Comedy, by G. Chapman, 1606.]

_Vincentio, a Prince (to gain him over to his interest in a love-affair)
gulls Bassiolo, a formal Gentleman Usher to a Great Lord, with
commendations of his wise house-ordering at a great Entertainment._

      _Vinc._--besides, good Sir, your Show did shew so well--
      _Bass._ Did it indeed, my Lord?
      _Vinc._ O Sir, believe it,
    ’Twas the best fashion’d and well-order’d thing,
    That ever eye beheld: and therewithal,
    The fit attendance by the servants used,
    The gentle guise in serving every guest,
    In other entertainments; every thing
    About your house so sortfully disposed,
    That ev’n as in a turn-spit (call’d a Jack)
    One vice[305] assists another; the great wheels,
    Turning but softly, make the less to whirr
    About their business; every different part
    Concurring to one commendable end:
    So, and in such conformance, with rare grace
    Were all things order’d in your good Lord’s house.
      _Bass._ The most fit Simile that ever was.
      _Vinc._ But shall I tell you plainly my conceit,
    Touching the _man_ that (I think) caused this order?
      _Bass._ Aye, good my Lord.
      _Vinc._ You note my Simile?
      _Bass._ Drawn from the turn-spit----
      _Vinc._ I see, you have me.
    Even as in that quaint engine you have seen
    A little man in shreds stand at the winder,
    And seems to put in act all things about him,
    Lifting and pulling with a mighty stir,--
    Yet adds no force to it, nor nothing does:
    So, though your Lord be a brave gentleman,
    And seems to do this business, he does nothing.
    Some man about him was the festival robe
    That made him shew so glorious and divine.
      _Bass._ I cannot tell, my Lord; but I should know,
    If any such there were.
      _Vinc._ Should know, quoth you?
    I warrant, you know well. Well, some there be,
    Shall have the fortune to have such rare men
    (Like brave Beasts to their arms) support their state;
    When others, of as high a worth and breed,
    Are made the wasteful food of them they feed.--
    What state hath your Lord made you for your service?

           *       *       *       *       *


_The same Bassiolo described._

      _Lord’s Daughter._--his place is great; for he is not only
    My father’s Usher, but the world’s beside,
    Because he goes before it all in folly.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Bastard,” a Tragedy, Author Unknown, 1652.]

_Lover’s Frown._

      _Roderiguez._ Thy uncle, Love, holds still a jealous eye
    On all my actions; and I am advised,
    That his suspicious ears
    Are still behind the hangings; that the servants
    Have from him in command to watch who visits.
    ’Tis safest, in my judgment, in his presence
    That thou forbear to cast a smile upon me;
    And that, like old December, I should look
    With an unpleasant and contracted brow.
      _Varina._ What, can’st thou change thy heart, my dear, that heart
    Of flesh thou gav’st me, into adamant,
    Or rigid marble? can’st thou frown on me?
      _Rod._ You do mistake me, sweet, I mean not so
    To change my heart; I’ll change my countenance,
    But keep my heart as loyal as before.
      _Var._ In truth I cannot credit it, that thou
    Can’st cast a frown on me; I prithee, try.
      _Rod._ Then thus:

(_he tries, and cannot; they smile on each other._)

      _Var._ I prithee, sweet, betake thyself to school;
    This lesson thou must learn; in faith thou art out.
      _Rod._ Well, I must learn, and practice it, or we
    Shall blast our budding hopes.
      _Var._ Come, try again.
      _Rod._ But if I try, and prove a good proficient;
    If I do act my part discretely, you
    Must take it as a play, not as a truth;
    Think it a formal, not a real frown.
      _Var._ I shall----
      _Rod._ Then thus: i’faith, minion, I’ll look to thee.

(_she swoons._)

      _Rod._ Why, how now, sweet!--I did mistrust thy weakness:
    Now I have learn’d my part, you are to seek.
      _Var._ ’Faith, ’twas my weakness; when I did perceive
    A cloud of rage condensed on thy brow,
    My heart began to melt.----

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From “Love Tricks,” a Comedy, by James Shirley.]

_Passionate Courtship._

      _Infortunio._ I must have other answer, for I love you.
      _Selina._ Must! but I don’t see any necessity that
    I must love you. I do confess you are
    A proper man.
      _Inf._ O do not mock, Selina; let not excellence,
    Which you are full of, make you proud and scornful.
    I am a Gentleman; though my outward part
    Cannot attract affection, yet some have told me,
    Nature hath made me what she need not shame.
    Yet look into my heart; there you shall see
    What you cannot despise, for there you are
    With all your graces waiting on you; there
    Love hath made you a throne to sit, and rule
    O’er Infortunio; all my thoughts obeying,
    And honouring you as queen. Pass by my outside,
    My breast I dare compare with any man.
      _Sel._ But who can see this breast you boast of so?
      _Inf._ O ’tis an easy work; for though it be
    Not to be pierced by the dull eye, whose beam
    Is spent on outward shapes, there is a way
    To make a search into its hidden’st passage.
    I know you would not love, to please your sense.
    A tree, that bears a ragged unleav’d top
    In depth of winter, may when summer comes
    Speak by his fruit he is not dead but youthful,
    Though once he shew’d no sap: my heart’s a plant
    Kept down by colder thoughts and doubtful fears.
    Your frowns like winter storms make it seem dead,
    But yet it is not so; make it but yours,
    And you shall see it spring, and shoot forth leaves
    Worthy your eye, and the oppressed sap
    Ascend to every part to make it green,
    And pay your love with fruit when harvest comes.
      _Sel._ Then you confess your love is cold as yet,
    And winter’s in your heart.
      _Inf._ Mistake me not, Selina, for I say
    My heart is cold, not love.
      _Sel._ And yet your love is from your heart, I’ll warrant.
      _Inf._ O you are nimble to mistake.
    My heart is cold in your displeasures only,
    And yet my love is fervent; for your eye,
    Casting out beams, maintains the flame it burns in.
    Again, sweet Love,
    My heart is not mine own, ’tis yours, you have it;
    And while it naked lies, not deign’d your bosom
    To keep it warm, how can it be but cold,
    In danger to be frozen? blame not it,
    You only are in fault it hath no heat.
      _Sel._ Well, Sir; I know you have rhetoric, but I
    Can without art give you a final answer.
      _Inf._ O stay, and think awhile; I cannot relish
    You should say final: sweet, deliberate;
    It doth concern all the estate I have;
    I mean not dunghill treasure, but my life
    Doth stand or fall to it; if your answer be
    That you can love me, be as swift as light’ning;
    But if you mean to kill me, and reject
    My so long love-devotions, which I’ve paid
    As to an altar, stay a little longer,
    And let me count the riches I shall lose
    By one poor airy word; first give me back
    That part of Infortunio that is lost
    Within your love; play not the tyrant with me.

  C. L.

  [305] Turn.

       *       *       *       *       *


RIDICULE.

In many cases ridicule might be used in the place of severe
chastisement, and sometimes with a more lasting effect, especially among
young people. One scheme of this kind was tried with great success by
the elder Dr. Newcome, who governed a school at Hackney about forty
years ago. When a pupil mistook in the pronunciation of a Latin word, he
used to make the faulty lad repeat after him, before the whole school,
“Nos Germăni, non curămus, quantītătem, syllābărum.” The penalty of
uttering, in false quantity, this absurd assertion, supposed to be made
by a German, importing that “His countrymen minded not how they
pronounced Latin,” was more dreaded by the boys than the ferula or the
rod.

       *       *       *       *       *


RIDICULOUS SITUATIONS.


LITERARY NURSERYMEN.

Melancthon studied the gravest points of theology, while he held his
book in one hand, and in the other the edge of a cradle, which he
incessantly rocked.

“M. Esprit, a celebrated author and scholar, has been caught by me,”
says M. Marville, “reading Plato with great attention, considering the
interruptions which he met, from the necessity of frequently sounding
his little child’s whistle.”


A PRINCESS A-PICK-A-PACK.

The great constable of France, Anne de Montmorency, a man whose valour
and military skill was only exceeded by his pride, his cruelty, and his
bigotry, was ordered by Francis I. to carry on his shoulders, or any way
that he could contrive it, his niece, the princess of Navarre, to the
altar, where she was, against her will, to be married to the duc de
Cleves. Brantome observes, that this was a hard task, as the little lady
was so loaded with jewels, and rich brocade of gold and silver, that she
could scarcely walk. The whole court were amazed at the king’s command;
the queen of Navarre was pleased, as she wished her daughter to be
humbled, on account of her having imbibed Lutheran principles; but the
constable was much hurt, at being exposed to the ridicule of the whole
world, and said, “It is henceforward over with me; my favour at court is
passed away:” accordingly, he was dismissed as soon as the wedding was
over.


[Illustration: ~The Quintain.~]

Running at the “Quintain,” an old sport formerly common in England,
unexpectedly occurs, and is sufficiently described, in the following
report of a recent fashionable entertainment:--

COURT CIRCULAR.

Viscount and viscountess Gage gave a grand fête on Friday, (August 3,
1827,) at their seat at Firle-place, Sussex, to about a hundred and
sixty of the nobility and gentry, at which the ancient game of
_quintain_ was revived. The sports commenced by gentlemen riding with
light spiked staves at rings and apples, suspended by a string, after
which they changed their weapons to stout poles, and attacked the two
quintains, which consisted of logs of wood fashioned to resemble the
head and body of a man, and set upright upon a high bench, on which they
were kept by a chain passing through the platform, and having a weight
suspended to it, so that if the log was not struck full and forcibly the
figure resumed its seat. One was also divided in the middle, and the
upper part being fixed on a pivot turned, if not struck in the centre,
and requited its assailant by a blow with a staff, to which was
suspended a small bag of flour.

The purses for unhorsing this quintain were won by John Slater and
Thomas Trebeck, Esqrs. The other figure which did not turn, opposed a
lance towards the assailant’s face, and the rider was to avoid the
lance, and unhorse the quintain at the same time. The purses were won by
Sheffield Neave, Esq. and the hon. John Pelham.

A third pair of purses were offered for unhorsing the quintain, by
striking on a  bell, which hooped round the waist of the figure,
thereby raising the weight, which was considerable, by a much shorter
lever than when struck higher up. This was a feat requiring great
strength of arm and firmness of seat, and though not fairly won
according to the rules of the game, the purses were ultimately assigned
to the very spirited exertions of Messrs. Cayley and Gardener.

Viscountess Gage distributed the prizes to the conquerors.

About six o’clock the numerous party sat down to a cold collation of
upwards of three hundred dishes, consisting of every delicacy the season
could possibly afford, including the choicest collection of fruits, and
wines of the finest quality: after which many recontinued the game of
quintain; others diverted themselves at rifling the target. The ladies
amused themselves at archery. In the evening the assemblage of nobility
and gentry retired to the grand hall, where fashionable quadrilles
concluded the amusements of the day.[306]

       *       *       *       *       *

Combating the quintain is presumed to have preceded jousts and
tournaments. It was originally nothing more than the trunk of a tree, or
a post, set up for the practice of tyros in chivalry. Afterwards a staff
or spear was fixed in the earth, and a shield being hung upon it was the
mark to strike at: the dexterity of the performer consisted in smiting
the shield so as to break the ligatures, and throw it to the ground. In
process of time this diversion was improved, and instead of the staff
and the shield, the resemblance of a human figure carved in wood was
introduced. To render its appearance formidable it was generally made in
the likeness of an armed Turk or Saracen, with a shield on his left arm,
and brandishing a club or sabre with his right. The quintain was placed
upon a pivot, so as to move round with facility. In running at this
figure the horseman directed his lance to strike the forehead, between
the eyes or on the nose; for if he struck wide of those parts,
especially upon the shield, the quintain turned about with much
velocity, and unless he was exceedingly careful gave him a severe blow
upon the back with the wooden sabre; when this occurred it was deemed
disgraceful to the performer, and excited the laughter and ridicule of
the spectators.

       *       *       *       *       *

The quintain is more particularly described by the late Mr. Strutt in
his account of “The Sports and Pastimes of the People of England,” a
large quarto volume, with plates, which, from its increasing scarcity
and price, is scarcely attainable by the general reader. The above
representation of the armed quintain is one of a series of illustrations
for a new and correct edition of Mr. Strutt’s “Sports,” which is now
preparing for the press under the superintendence of the editor of the
_Table Book_. It will be accurately printed in octavo. Each of the
engravings will be fac-simile, and of the same size as the engravings in
the quarto volume. The price of the new edition will not exceed
one-sixth of the cost of the original, and it will be published in
shilling parts.

  [306] Times, August 7, 1827.

       *       *       *       *       *


DAVID LOVE.

_For the Table Book._

Died, on Tuesday afternoon, June 12th, 1827, David Love; of whom there
is a portrait, with a memoir, in the _Every-Day Book_, vol. ii. p. 225,
with a further notice at p. 1575. He had nearly attained his
seventy-seventh year; and, till within a few weeks of his death, pursued
his avocation of “walking stationer” in Nottingham. It was unnecessary
for him to take out an hawker’s license, as the commodities in which he
dealt were entirely of his own manufacture.

According to the memoirs of David Love’s life, (a curious specimen of
“autobiography,”) which he published in twenty-four penny numbers, in
1824, and which he sold very numerously, he was born near Edinburgh in
the year 1750; at three years of age he was abandoned by his father, and
his mother shortly afterwards became blind; he led her about, and was an
“unlucky urchin;” when older grown he worked in a coal-pit, but broke
his arm, and was discharged, and commenced hawking tracts and small
books. At twenty-five he was worth upwards of three pounds. Then,
thinking of settling in the world, he wooed, won, and married a young
woman: a small shop was established, which succeeded at first; but
finding his fortune wasting, he paid his first court to the Muses, by
composing two songs, of which the titles only are now extant:--“The
Pride and Vanity of Young Women, with Advice to Young Men, that they may
take care who they marry;” and “The Pride and Vanity of Young men, with
Advice to the Maids, to beware of being ensnared by their Flatteries and
enticing Words.” These versifyings he printed, and first started at a
distant fair. Their sale exceeded his expectations; he discontinued his
shop, paid his debts, and soon after (during the American war) enlisted
into the duke of Buccleugh’s regiment of South Fencibles. His wife
quickly presented him with a son, which being “the first man child born
in the regiment,” the duke accepted as his name-son. After experiencing
the vicissitudes of a soldier’s life, and getting out of the “black
hole” two or three times by his verses, he was discharged, in
consequence of a weakness in his arm. He then had his soldier’s poems
printed, resumed his old trade of walking stationer, turned his face to
the south, and was the more successful the farther he went from home.
After travelling for some years he settled at Gosport, commenced
bookseller with his old stock of old books, and printed a fourpenny
volume of original poems. He then lived for three years in London, and
composed many poems. Bristol was his next place of residence, and there
he performed several remarkable cures out of an old receipt-book, but
was too conscientious to turn quack doctor. Here, he saw his father, who
died shortly after, “a repenting sinner,” aged ninety-three. Still
travelling, he reached Newbury, in Berkshire, where he tells us he was
“converted,” and he dates his “new birth” on the 17th of April, 1796.
Many pages of his work are occupied by his religious experience, and
various texts of scripture, whence he derived consolation.

In 1804 David Love buried his wife, (aged fifty-one,) after a long
illness, at Rugby, in Warwickshire. He journeyed to Leicester, and
thence to Nottingham, where he from that time continued to reside,
except at intervals, and where he married again. In eighteen months his
second wife died suddenly, also at Rugby. The following is the
commencement of a long elegy on the subject:--

    “In this vain world my troubles still abound,
    My two wives lie in Rugby burial ground;
    Both of one name, and both of them one age,
    And in one house both were called off the stage.”

These lines refer to a singular coincidence respecting his wives; both
their maiden names were Mary Thompson, and both were aged fifty-one at
their death. In 1810, May 21, he married his third and surviving wife at
St. Mary’s church, Nottingham; and, excepting a journey to Edinburgh,
and another to London, they lived in various parts of the town till his
decease. David’s forte lay principally in religious acrostics and hymns,
for which he had a good demand among the pious inhabitants. The
following is inserted as being a _short_ one:--

TO ANN SHORT,

_Who said, “I am short of every thing.”_

    _A_ m short, O Lord, of praising thee,
    _N_ othing I can do right;
    _N_ eedy and naked, poor I be,
    _S_ hort, Lord, I am of sight:
    _H_ ow short I am of love and grace!
    _O_ f every thing I’m short:
    _R_ enew me, then I’ll follow peace
    _T_ hrough good and bad report.

In person David was below the middle stature; his features were not
unhandsome for an old man; his walk was exceedingly slow, deliberately
placing one foot before the other, in order perhaps to give his
customers time to hear what he had got; his voice was clear, and
strongly marked with the Scotch accent. He possessed a readiness of wit
and repartee, which is often united with aspiring talents in lower life.
A tribute to Love’s memory, written on the day of his burial, may not be
unacceptable

ELEGY, WRITTEN IN ST MARY’S CHURCH YARD, NOTTINGHAM.

    The sexton tolls the knell of David Love,
      The funeral train treads slowly thro’ the street,
    Old General,[307] wand in hand, with crape above,
      Conducts the pageant with demeanour meet.

    Now stops the mournful train beside the grave,
      And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
    Save when the clerk repeats his twanging stave,
      And on the coffin fall the pattering moulds;

    Save that from yonder grass-surrounded stone,
      The whining schoolboy loudly does complain
    Of such, as crowding round his mossy throne,
      Invade his tottering transitory reign.

    Beneath those rugged stones, that corner’s shade,
      And trodden grass in rough mis-shapen heap,
    (Unless by Friday’s art away convey’d,[308])
      In order due, what various bodies sleep.

    The call of “coals,” the cry of sooty sweep,
      The twist machine[309] loud lumbering over head;
    The jacks’ shrill whirring,[310] oft disturbing sleep--
      No more shall rouse them from their well-flock’d bed.

    For them no more the Indian weed shall burn,
      Or bustling landlord fill his beverage rare;
    No shopmates hail their comrade’s wish’d return,
      Applaud his song, and in his chorus share.

    Perhaps in this hard-beaten spot is laid
      Some head once vers’d in the mechanic powers,
    Hands that the bat at cricket oft have sway’d,
      Or won the cup for gooseberries and flowers.

    Slow through the streets on tottering footsteps borne,
      Muttering his humble ditties he would rove,
    Singing “Goose Fair,” [311] or “Tread Mill” where forlorn
      Consign’d by Lincoln ’squires trod David Love.

    One week I miss’d him from the market-place,
      Along the streets where he was wont to be;
    Strange voices came, but his I could not trace,
      Before the ’Change, nor by Sheep-lane was he.

    And now with honour due, in sad array
      Slow through the church-yard paths we’ve seen him borne;
    Approach and hear (if thou wilt hear) the lay
      In which the bard’s departed worth we mourn.

EPITAPH.

    Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
      A minstrel old in Nottingham well known,
    In Caledonia was his humble birth,
      But England makes his aged bones her own.

    Long were his verses, and his life was long,
      Wide, as a recompense, his fame was spread;
    He sold for halfpence (all he had) a song,
      He earn’d by them (’twas all he wish’d) his bread.

    No farther I his merits can disclose,
      His widow dwells where David late abode;
    Go, buy his life, wrote by himself, which shows
      His service to his country, and his God.

  ~G.~

  _Nottingham,_

  _June 14, 1827._

  [307] _Old General._ See _Every-Day Book_, vol. ii. col. 1570, for a
  memoir of this worthy.

  [308] _Old Friday._ The nickname of the ex-deputy sexton of St. Mary’s
  parish, who was more than suspected of participating in
  resurrectioning. In Feb. 1827, a discovery was made of some bodies
  about to be removed to London; an examination ensued, when it was
  found that, for many months, the dissecting rooms of the metropolis
  were supplied wholesale from the various grounds of the parish; and
  for many days nothing was heard of but the opening of graves, which
  were discovered to be empty.

  [309] Machines for making lace.

  [310] Part of a stocking-frame, which makes a great noise in working.

  [311] _Goose fair._ A great holiday fair at Nottingham, so called
  probably from its occurrence immediately after Michaelmas day, (viz.
  on October 2, 3, 4,) and the great quantity of geese slaughtered and
  eaten. One of David’s best songs is on this subject, but it is
  entirely local. Popular tradition, however, has assigned a far
  different origin to its name: a farmer who for some reason or other
  (whether grief for the loss of his wife, or her infidelity, or from
  mere curiosity, or dread of the fair sex, or some other reason equally
  unreasonable, according to various accounts) had brought up his three
  sons in total seclusion, during which they never saw woman. On their
  arriving at man’s estate, he brought them to the October fair,
  promising to buy each of them whatever he thought best. They gazed
  about them, asking the names of whatever they saw, when beholding some
  women walking, dressed in white, they demanded what they were; the
  farmer, somewhat alarmed at the eagerness of the question, replied,
  “Pho, those silly things are geese.” When, without waiting an instant,
  all three exclaimed, “Oh father, buy me a _goose_.”

       *       *       *       *       *


THINGS WORTH REMEMBERING.


BE HONEST.

If you only endeavour to be honest, you are struggling with yourself.


A DEFINITION.

Truth is the conformity of expression to thought.


TAKE CARE.

Equivocation is a mean expedient to avoid the declaration of truth,
without verbally telling a lie.


KEEP AN ACCOUNT.

Our debts and our sins are always greater than we think of.


THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS ILL LUCK.

It is true that some misfortunes are inevitable; but, in general, they
proceed from our own want of judgment and foresight.


OUR ENJOYMENTS ARE CONDITIONAL.

If we had it in our power to gratify every wish, we should soon feel the
effects of a surfeit.


OUR REAL WANTS ARE FEW.

The stomach tires of every thing but bread and water.


MODERATE YOUR DESIRES.

Take away your expensive follies, and you will have little occasion to
complain of hard times.


MANY A LITTLE MAKES A MICKLE.

When a shopkeeper has company, he may have two candles; but when alone,
one candle will be sufficient for common purposes. The saving will
nearly find his wife in shoes.


AS THE TWIG IS BENT, THE TREE INCLINES.

If you give your children an improper education, their future
misfortunes will lie at your door.


THERE ARE TRUE AND FALSE FACTS.

History should be read with caution. It often presents us with false and
delusive pictures; and, by the gay colouring of the artist, excites our
admiration of characters really odious.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Discoveries~

OF THE

ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

No. IV.


OF SENSIBLE QUALITIES.

The most eminent philosophers of antiquity, Democritus, Socrates,
Aristippus the chief of the Cyrenaïc sect, Plato, Epicurus, and
Lucretius, affirmed, that cold and heat, odours and colours, were no
other than sensations excited in our minds, by the different operations
of the bodies surrounding us, and acting on our senses; even Aristotle
himself was of opinion, that “sensible qualities exist in the mind.” Yet
when Descartes, and after him Mallebranche, taught the very same truths,
they were ascribed to these moderns, owing to the outcry they made, as
if the opposite error, which they attacked in the schoolmen, had been
that of all ages; and nobody deigned to search whether, in reality, it
was so or not. Were we to bring into review all that the ancients have
taught on this subject, we should be surprised at the clearness with
which they have explained themselves, and at a loss to account how
opinions came to be taken for new, which had been illustrated in their
writings with such force and precision.

Democritus was the first who disarrayed body of its sensible qualities.
He affirmed, that “the first elements of things having in them naturally
neither whiteness nor blackness, sweetness nor bitterness, heat nor
cold, nor any other quality, it thence follows, that colour, for
example, exists only in our imagination or perception of it; as also,
that bitterness and sweetness, which exist only in being perceived, are
the consequences of the different manner in which we ourselves are
affected by the bodies surrounding us, there being nothing in its own
nature yellow or white, or red, sweet or bitter.” He indicates what kind
of atoms produce such and such sensations: round atoms, for example, the
taste of sweetness; pointed and crooked, that of tartness; bodies
composed of angular and coarse parts, introducing themselves with
difficulty into the pores, cause the disagreeable sensations of
bitterness and acidity, &c. The Newtonians imitate this reasoning
everywhere, in explaining the different natures of bodies.

Sextus Empiricus, explaining the doctrine of Democritus, says, “that
sensible qualities, according to that philosopher, have nothing of
reality but in the opinion of those who are differently affected by
them, according to the different dispositions of their organs; and that
from this difference of disposition arise the perceptions of sweet and
bitter, heat and cold; and also, that we do not deceive ourselves in
affirming that we feel such impressions, but in concluding that exterior
objects must have in them something analogous to our feelings.”

Protagoras, the disciple of Democritus, carried farther than ever
Democritus did the consequences of his system; for admitting with his
master the perpetual mutability of matter which occasioned a constant
change in things, he thence concluded, that whatever we see, apprehend,
or touch, is just as they appear; and that the only true rule or
criterion of things, was in the perception men had of them. From
Protagoras, bishop Berkeley seems to have derived his idea, “that there
is nothing in external objects but what the sensible qualities existing
in our minds induce us to imagine, and of course that they have no other
manner of existence; there being no other substratum for them, than the
minds by which they are perceived, not as modes or qualities belonging
to themselves, but as objects of perception to whatever is percipient.”

We should think we were listening to the two modern philosophers,
Descartes and Mallebranche, when we hear Aristippus, the disciple of
Socrates, exhorting men “to be upon their guard with respect to the
reports of sense, because it does not always yield just information; for
we do not perceive exterior objects as they are in themselves, but only
as they affect us. We know not of what colour or smell they may be,
these being only affections in ourselves. It is not the objects
themselves that we are enabled to comprehend, but are confined to judge
of them only by the impressions they make upon us; and the wrong
judgments we form of them in this respect is the cause of all our
errors. Hence, when we perceive a tower which appears round, or an oar
which seems crooked in the water, we may say that our senses intimate so
and so, but ought not to affirm that the distant tower is really round,
or the oar in the water crooked: it is enough, in such a case, to say
with Aristippus and the Cyrenaïc sect, that we receive the impression of
roundness from the tower, and of crookedness from the oar; but it is
neither necessary nor properly in our power to affirm, that the tower is
really round, or the oar broken; for a square tower may appear round at
a distance, and a straight stick always seems crooked in the
water.”[312]

Everybody talks of whiteness and sweetness, but they have no common
faculty to which they can with certainty refer impressions of this kind.
Every one judges by his own apprehensions, and nobody can affirm that
the sensation which he feels when he sees a white object, is the same
with what his neighbour experiences in regard to the same object. He who
has large eyes will see objects in a different magnitude from him whose
eyes are little, and he who hath blue eyes, discern them under different
colours from him who hath grey; whence it comes, that we give common
names to things, of which, however, we judge very variously.

Epicurus, admitting the principles of Democritus, thence deduces “that
colour, cold, heat, and other sensible qualities are not inherent in the
atoms, but the result of their assemblage; and that the difference
between them flows from the diversity of their size, figure, and
arrangement; insomuch, that any number of atoms in one disposition
creates one sort of sensation; and in another, another: but their own
primary nature remains always the same.”

The moderns have treated this matter with much penetration and sagacity,
yet they have scarcely advanced any thing but what had been said before
by the ancient philosophers just quoted, and by others who might be
cited to the same effect.

  [312] Peter Huet, the celebrated bishop of Avranches, in his “Essay on
  the Weakness of the Human Understanding,” argues to the same effect,
  and almost in the same words. ED.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


MR. EPHRAIM WAGSTAFF, HIS WIFE AND PIPE.

About the middle of Shoemaker-row, near to Broadway, Blackfriars, there
resided for many years a substantial hardwareman, named Ephraim
Wagstaff. He was short in stature, tolerably well favoured in
countenance, and singularly neat and clean in his attire. Everybody in
the neighbourhood looked upon him as a “warm” old man; and when he died,
the property he left behind him did not bely the preconceived opinion.
It was all personal, amounted to about nineteen thousand pounds; and, as
he was childless, it went to distant relations, with the exception of a
few hundred pounds bequeathed to public charities.

The family of Ephraim Wagstaff, both on the male and female sides, was
respectable, though not opulent. His maternal grandfather, he used to
say, formed part of the executive government in the reign of George I.,
whom he served as petty constable in one of the manufacturing districts
during a long period. The love of office seems not to have been
hereditary in the family; or perhaps the opportunities of gratifying it
did not continue; for, with that single exception, none of his ancestors
could boast of official honours. The origin of the name is doubtful. On
a first view, it seems evidently the conjunction of two names brought
together by marriage or fortune. In the “Tatler” we read about the
_staff_ in a variety of combinations, under one of which the popular
author of that work chose to designate himself, and thereby conferred
immortality on the name of Bickerstaff. Our friend Ephraim was no great
wit, but he loved a joke, particularly if he made it himself; and he
used to say, whenever he heard any one endeavouring to account for his
name, that he believed it originated in the marriage of a Miss Staff to
some Wag who lived near her; and who, willing to show his gallantry, and
at the same time his knowledge of French customs, adopted the fashion of
that sprightly people, by adding her family name to his own. The
conjecture is at least probable, and so we must leave it.

At the age of fifty-two it pleased heaven to deprive Mr. Wagstaff of his
beloved spouse Barbara. The bereavement formed an era in his history.
Mrs. Wagstaff was an active, strong woman, about ten years older than
himself, and one sure to be missed in any circle wherein she had once
moved. She was indeed no cipher. Her person was tall and bony, her face,
in hue, something between brown and red, had the appearance of having
been scorched. Altogether her qualities were truly commanding. She loved
her own way exceedingly; was continually on the alert to have it; and,
in truth, generally succeeded. Yet such was her love of justice, that
she has been heard to aver repeatedly, that she never (she spoke the
word _never_ emphatically) opposed her husband, but when he was
decidedly in the wrong. Of these occasions, it must also be mentioned,
she generously took upon herself the trouble and responsibility of being
the sole judge. There was one point, however, on which it would seem
that Mr. Wagstaff had contrived to please himself exclusively; although,
how he had managed to resist so effectually the remonstrances and
opposition which, from the structure of his wife’s mind he must
necessarily have been doomed to encounter, must ever remain a secret.
The fact was this: Ephraim had a peculiarly strong attachment to a pipe;
his affection for his amiable partner scarcely exceeding that which he
entertained for that lively emblem of so many sage contrivances and
florid speeches, ending like it--in smoke. In the times of his former
wives (for twice before had he been yoked in matrimony) he had indulged
himself with it unmolested. Not so with Mrs. Wagstaff the third. Pipes
and smoking she held in unmitigated abhorrence: but having, by whatever
means, been obliged to submit to their introduction, she wisely avoided
all direct attempts to abate what she called among her friends “the
nuisance;” and, like a skilful general, who has failed of securing
victory, she had recourse to such stratagems as might render it as
little productive as possible to the enemy. Ephraim, aware how matters
stood, neglected no precaution to guard against his wife’s
manœuvres--meeting, of course, with various success. Many a time did her
ingenuity contrive an accident, by which his pipe and peace of mind were
at once demolished; and, although there never could be any difficulty in
replacing the former by simply sending out for that purpose, yet he has
confessed, that when he contemplated the possibility of offering too
strong an excitement to the shrill tones of his beloved’s voice, (the
only pipe she willingly tolerated,) he waved that proceeding, and
submitted to the sacrifice as much the lesser evil. At length Mrs.
Wagstaff was taken ill, an inflammation on her lungs was found to be her
malady, and that crisis appeared to be fast approaching, when

    The doctor leaves the house with sorrow,
    Despairing of his fee to-morrow.

The foreboding soon proved correct; and, every thing considered, perhaps
it ought not to excite much surprise, that when Ephraim heard from the
physician that there was little or no chance of her recovery, he
betrayed no symptoms of excessive emotion, but mumbling something
unintelligibly, in which the doctor thought he caught the sound of the
words “Christian duty of resignation,” he quietly filled an additional
pipe that evening. The next day Mrs. Wagstaff expired, and in due time
her interment took place in the church-yard of St. Ann, Blackfriars,
every thing connected therewith being conducted with the decorum
becoming so melancholy an event, and which might be expected from a man
of Mr. Wagstaff’s gravity and experience. The funeral was a walking one
from the near vicinity to the ground; and but for an untimely slanting
shower of rain, no particular inconvenience would have been felt by
those who were assembled on that occasion; that casualty, however,
caused them to be thoroughly drenched; and, in reference to their
appearance, it was feelingly observed by some of the bystanders, that
they had seldom seen so many tears on the faces of mourners.--

  _To be continued_--(perhaps.)

  NEMO.

       *       *       *       *       *


AN ULTRA-MARINER.

According to father Feyjoo, in the month of June, 1674, some young men
were walking by the sea-side in Bilboa, and one of them, named Francis
de la Vega, of about fifteen years of age, suddenly leaped into the sea,
and disappeared presently. His companions, after waiting some time, and
he not returning, made the event public, and sent an account of it to De
la Vega’s mother, at Lierganès, a small town in the archbishopric of
Burgos. At first she discredited his death, but his absence occasioned
her fond doubts to vanish, and she mourned his untimely loss.

About five years afterwards some fishermen, in the environs of Cadiz,
perceived the figure of a man sometimes swimming, and sometimes plunging
under the water. On the next day they saw the same, and mentioned it as
a very singular circumstance to several people. They threw their nets,
and baiting the swimmer with some pieces of bread, they at length caught
the object of their attention, which to their astonishment they found to
be a well-formed man. They put several questions to him in various
languages, but he answered none. They then took him to the convent of
St. Francis, where he was exorcised, thinking he might be possessed by
some evil spirit. The exorcism was as useless as the questions. At
length, after some days, he pronounced the word Lierganès. It happened
that a person belonging to that town was present when he uttered the
name, as was also the secretary of the Inquisition, who wrote to his
correspondent at Lierganès, relating the particulars, and instituting
inquiries relative to this very extraordinary man; and he received an
account of the young man who had disappeared in the manner before
related.

On this information, it was determined that the marine man should be
sent to Lierganès; and a Franciscan friar, who was obliged to go there
on other business, undertook to conduct him the following year. When
they came within a quarter of a league of the town, the friar ordered
the young man to go before and show him the way. He made no answer, but
led the friar to the widow De la Vega’s house. She recollected him
instantly, and embracing him, cried out, “This is my son, that I lost at
Bilboa!” Two of his brothers who were present also knew him immediately,
and embraced him with equal tenderness. He, however, did not evince the
least sensibility, or the smallest degree of surprise. He spoke no more
at Lierganès than at Cadiz, nor could any thing be obtained from him
relative to his adventure. He had entirely forgotten his native
language, except the words _pan_, _vino_, _tabaco_, “bread, wine,
tobacco;” and these he uttered indiscriminately and without application.
They asked him if he would have either of these articles; he could make
no reply.

For several days together he would eat large quantities of bread, and
for as many days following he would not take the least food of any kind.
If he was directed to do any thing, he would execute the commission very
properly, but without speaking a word: he would carry a letter to where
it was addressed, and bring an answer back in writing. He was sent one
day with a letter to St. Ander; to get there it was necessary to cross
the river at Padrenna, which is more than a league wide in that spot;
not finding a boat in which he could cross it, he threw himself in, swam
over, and delivered the letter as directed.

At this time Francis de la Vega was nearly six feet in height, and well
formed, with a fair skin, and red hair as short as a new-born infant’s.
He always went bare-footed, and had scarcely any nails either on his
hands or feet. He never dressed himself but when he was told to do it.
The same with eating; what was offered to him he accepted, but he never
asked for food.

In this way he remained at his mother’s for nine years, when he again
disappeared, without any apparent cause, and no one knew how. It may be
supposed, however that the motive or feeling which induced his first
disappearance influenced the second. Some time afterwards it was
reported that an inhabitant of Lierganès again saw Francis de la Vega in
some port of Asturias; but this was never confirmed.

When this very singular man was first taken out of the sea at Cadiz, it
is said that his body was entirely covered with scales, but they fell
off soon after his coming out of the water. They also add, that
different parts of his body were as hard as shagreen.

Father Feyjoo adds many philosophical reflections on the existence of
this phenomenon, and on the means by which a man may be enabled to live
at the bottom of the sea. He observes, that if Francis de la Vega had
preserved his reason and the use of speech, he would have given us more
instruction and information in marine affairs, than all the naturalists
combined.

       *       *       *       *       *


ANTIPATHIES.

Erasmus, though a native of Rotterdam, had such an aversion to fish,
that the smell of it threw him into a fever.

Ambrose Paré mentions a gentleman, who never could see an eel without
fainting.

There is an account of another gentleman, who would fall into
convulsions at the sight of a carp.

A lady, a native of France, always fainted on seeing boiled lobsters.
Other persons of the same country experienced the same inconvenience
from the smell of roses, though they were particularly partial to the
odour of jonquils or tuberoses.

Joseph Scaliger and Peter Abono never could drink milk.

Cardan was particularly disgusted at the sight of eggs.

Uladislaus, king of Poland, could not bear to see apples.

If an apple was shown to Chesne, secretary to Francis I., he bled at the
nose.

A gentleman, in the court of the emperor Ferdinand, would bleed at the
nose on hearing the mewing of a cat, however great the distance might be
from him.

Henry III. of France could never sit in a room with a cat.

The duke of Schomberg had the same aversion.

M. de Lancre gives an account of a very sensible man, who was so
terrified at seeing a hedgehog, that for two years he imagined his
bowels were gnawed by such an animal.

The same author was intimate with a very brave officer, who was so
terrified at the sight of a mouse, that he never dared to look at one
unless he had his sword in his hand.

M. Vangheim, a great huntsman in Hanover, would faint, or, if he had
sufficient time, would run away at the sight of a roasted pig.

John Rol, a gentleman in Alcantara, would swoon on hearing the word
_lana_, wool, pronounced, although his cloak was woollen.

The philosophical Boyle could not conquer a strong aversion to the sound
of water running through a pipe.

La Mothe le Vayer could not endure the sound of musical instruments,
though he experienced a lively pleasure whenever it thundered.

The author of the Turkish Spy tells us that he would rather encounter a
lion in the deserts of Arabia, provided he had but a sword in his hand,
than feel a spider crawling on him in the dark. He observes, that there
is no reason to be given for these secret dislikes. He humorously
attributes them to the doctrine of the transmigration of the soul; and
as regarded himself, he supposed he had been a fly, before he came into
his body, and that having been frequently persecuted with spiders, he
still retained the dread of his old enemy.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE LACTEALS IN A MOLE.

A curious observer of nature will be delighted to know, that the lacteal
vessels are more visible in a mole, than in any animal whatever. The
view, however, is not of long duration. These vessels are rendered
visible by the mode of killing the animal, which is by a wire gin that
compresses the thoracic duct, thereby preventing the ascent of the chyle
upwards. The time of demonstration is about half an hour after death.
This curious fact was unknown to anatomists, till mentioned by Dr. A.
Hunter, in his volume of maxims on men and manners.

       *       *       *       *       *


LOUIS GONZAGA

TO

MARIE MANCINI.

FLORENCE, 1649.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Il cantar che nel anima si sente.
    Il pin ne sente l’alma, il men l’orecchio.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I worshippe thee thou silverre starre,
      As thron’d amid the vault of blue,
    Rushes thy queenlye splendoure farre,
      O’er mountain top and vale of dewe.

    Yette more I love thy infante ray,
      As risinge from its easterne cave,
    With circlinge, fearfulle, fonde delaye,
      It seemes to kisse the crimsone wave.

    I love the proud and solemne sweepe
      Of harpe and trumpette’s harmonye,
    Like swellinges of the midnighte deepe,
      Like anthemes of the opening skye.

    But lovelier to my heart the tone
      That dies along the twilighte’s winge,
    Just heard, a silver sigh, and gone,
      As if a spiritte touch’d the stringe.

    Sweete Marie! swiftlye comes the noone
      That gives thy beautye all its rayes,
    And thou shalte be the rose, alone,
      And heartes shall wither in its blaze.

    Yette there are eyes had deeper loved
      That rosebudde in its matine-beam,
    The dew droppe on its blushe unmoved--
      And shalle mye love be all a dreame?

  PULCI.

       *       *       *       *       *


POINTS OF CHARACTER.


A PRIME MINISTER.

The late sir Robert Walpole was from his youth fond of field sports, and
retained his attachment to them until prevented by the infirmities of
age from their further enjoyment. He was accustomed to hunt in Richmond
Park with a pack of beagles. Upon receiving a packet of letters, he
usually opened that from his gamekeeper first; and in the pictures taken
of him, he preferred being drawn in his sporting dress.


A PRELATE.

Bishop Juxon, who attended Charles I. on the scaffold, retired after the
king’s death to his own manor of Little Compton, in Gloucestershire,
where, as Whitlocke tells us in his Memorials, “he much delighted in
hunting, and kept a pack of good hounds, and had them so well ordered
and hunted, chiefly by his own skill and direction, that they exceeded
all other hounds in England for the pleasure and orderly hunting of
them.”


A HUNTSMAN.

Mr. Woolford, a sporting gentleman, as remarkable for politeness in the
field as for the goodness of his fox-hounds, was one evening thus
addressed by his huntsman: “An’ please your honour, sir,” twirling his
cap and quid at the same time, “I should be glad to be excused going
to-morrow to Woolford-wood, as I should like to go to see my poor wife
buried.” “I am sorry for thee, Tom,” said his master, “we can do one day
without thee: she was an excellent wife.” On the following morning,
however, Tom was the first in the field. “Heyday!” quoth Mr. W., “did
not I give you leave to see the remains of your poor wife interred?”
“Yes, your honour, but I thought as how we should have good sport, as it
is a fine morning; so I desired our Dick, the dog-feeder, to see her
_earth’d_.”




Vol. II.--34.


[Illustration: ~My Desk.~]

_For the Table Book._

Every one will agree with me, that this is the favourite article of
furniture. Every one is fond of it as of an old friend--a faithful and
trustworthy one--to whom has been confided both joys and sorrows. It is
most likely the gift of some cherished, perhaps departed being,
reminding us by its good qualities of the beloved giver. We have no
scruple in committing our dearest secrets to its faithful bosom--they
are never divulged. The tenderest billet-doux, the kindest
acknowledgments, the sweetest confessions of a mistress--the cruellest
expressions and bitterest reproaches of a friend lost to us for ever
through the false and malignant representations of an enemy--or perhaps
the youthful effusions of our own brain, which we occasionally draw
forth from the recesses of the most secretly contrived _pigeon-hole_,
and read over _à la dérobée_, with a half blush (at our self-love) and a
smile partly painful from revived recollections of days gone, never to
return--all these we may unhesitatingly deposit in this personification
of _deskretion_.

The very posture assumed at a desk bespeaks confidence and security. The
head inclined over it, and the bosom leaning in gentle trustingness
against this kind and patient friend.

By this description I would present to the “mind’s eye” of the reader a
plain unostentatious piece of furniture, of too simple an exterior to be
admitted any where than in the study--square in shape, mahogany, bound
with brass at the corners, a plate of the same metal on the top, of just
a sufficient size to contain one’s own initials and those of the giver.
I detest those finicking machines one finds wrapped up in an oilskin
case in a drawing-room; made of rosewood, inlaid with silver, or
mother-of-pearl, and lined with blue velvet. It seems like an insult to
the _friendly_ character of a desk, to dress him smartly, seat him in a
fine apartment, and refuse to avail yourself of the amicable services he
tenders you.--The contents of these coxcombical _acquaintances_ are
seldom better than its fair owner’s private journal, (which no one
thinks worthy of perusal--herself of course excepted,) her album, and
scrap-book, the honourable Mr. Somebody’s poetical effusions, and the
sentimental correspondence of some equally silly young lady, her dearest
friend.

Then there is the clerk’s desk in a counting-house--there are no
pleasant associations connected with that mercantile scaffolding, with
its miniature balustrades at the top, partly intersected with accounts,
bills, and papers of all sorts, (referring to business,) and surrounded
by files clinging by their one hook. Above all this is seen the
semicircular scalp of a brown wig, which, as it is raised to reply to
your question, gradually discovers two eyes scowling at you from beneath
a pair of glaring spectacles, a little querulous turned-up nose, and a
mouth whose lines have become rigid with ill-humour, partly occasioned
by a too sedentary life.

Again, there is the pulpit desk, with its arrogant crimson
cushion--telling a tale of clerical presumption.

Lastly, there is the old bachelor’s desk. (Nay, do not curl up the
corners of your pretty mouths at me, sweet ladies--it may be worth while
to take a peep at it--at least, I cannot prevail upon _myself_ to omit
it in this notice of desks.) It is of the plain and quiet description
formerly mentioned, and very neatly and orderly arranged, both inside
and out. The latter is kept bright and shining by the indefatigable
hands of Sally the housemaid; who, while she breathes upon the plate to
give it a polish, at the same time breathes a wish (to herself) that her
breath possessed the magic power of unfastening locks, and so enabling
her to see “what the old gentleman keeps in this here box to make him so
fond on it.” The interior he takes infinite care to keep in complete and
exact order himself. Each particular compartment has its appropriate
contents consigned to it. The fold-down nearest to him, as he sits at
it, contains a small miniature within a red morocco case, of a placid
and gentle-faced girl, whose original sleeps for ever in the bosom of
the cold earth--a little box, containing a ring set with brilliants, and
enclosing a lock of _her_ hair--all _her_ letters carefully tied up with
green ribbon--a miniature edition of Shakspeare, and Milton, with his
name written in them in _her_ hand-writing. In the opposite fold, near
the receptacle for the pens, wafers, ink, &c. are his own little
writings, (for we are to suppose him fond of his pen, and as having
occasionally indulged that fondness,) of all of which he preserves neat
copies, some private memoranda, and an old pocket-book, given to him by
his old friend and school-fellow, admiral ----, when he left England
that year as a midshipman.

In the drawer are different letters from his friends; and, perhaps, at
the very back of it, a little hoard of gold pieces, bright and new from
the mint.

As I now lean upon my old friend and companion--my desk--I render it my
grateful acknowledgments for the many pleasant hours I have spent over
it; and also for its having been the means of my passing an agreeable
quarter of an hour with my gentle reader, of whom I now take a courteous
leave.

  _July, 1827._

  M. H.

       *       *       *       *       *


WRITING DESKS.

There is not any mention of writing-desks among the ancients. They
usually wrote upon the knee in the manner wherein Angelica Kauffman
represents the younger Pliny, as may be seen in a modern engraving; and
yet it appears from Stolberg, quoted by Mr. Fosbroke, that desks
resembling ours have been found in Herculaneum. Writing-desks in the
middle ages slanted so much, as to form an angle of forty-five degrees:
their slant till within the last two centuries was little less.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Topographiana.~


WILTS’ LOCAL CUSTOM.

DANCING ROUND THE HARROW.

_To the Editor._

Dear sir,--I hand you the following authentic particulars which happened
in the pleasant village of S****n B****r, and gave rise to “dancing
round the harrow:” if worthy of being chronicled in the _Table Book_,
they are yours.

John Jones, not finding his lovesuit successful with his master’s
daughter, because her father, a farmer, rebuked him, took umbrage, threw
down his whip on the “harrow” in the field, left the team, and, _sans
cérémonie_, went to sea.

The farmer and his daughter Nancy were variously affected by this
circumstance.--“Comfortable letters” were hoped for, news was expected
from some corner of the world, but no tidings arrived as to the fate or
designs of honest John. Village gossips often talked of the poor lad.
The farmer himself, who was a good sort of man, began to relent; for
Nancy’s cheeks were not so rosy as formerly; she was dull at milking
time. Observers at church whispered,--“How altered Nancy R* appears!”
* * *

After a lapse of about six years appearances change favourably. John
returns from sea auspiciously--meets his Nancy with open arms--her
father finds him disposed to make her happy--John requests forgiveness,
and is pardoned--his steadiness and attachment are tried and
approved--and--suffice it to say--John and Nancy are married. He assists
her father in the duties of the farm as his years decline, while she
supplies the absence of her mother, buried in the family grave of the
church-yard of her native village. * * * *

As soon as the wedding took place, a “harrow” was brought on the
grass-plot in the fore-close, when the villagers invited danced round it
till daybreak. * * * *

This “dancing round the harrow” was kept on several anniversaries of the
wedding-day; a young family and the old projector’s decease occasioned
its discontinuance; but, on each of these occasions, John does not
forget to present, instead, a not less acceptable offering, a good
supper to his workfolks in remembrance of his advance in life.

  I am, dear sir,

  Yours very truly,

  JEHOIADA.

  _Goat and Boots,_

  _August 3, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


BAKEWELL, DERBYSHIRE.

ANCIENT MONUMENTS AND INSCRIPTIONS IN THE CHURCH.

Upon the tablet over the mural monument in the chantry of the Holy
Cross, is the following inscription:

  Godfrey Foljambe, Knight, and Avena his wife, (who afterwards married
  Richard de Greene, Knight,) Lord and Lady of the Manors of Hassop,
  Okebrook, Elton, Stanton, Darley, Overhall, and Lokhawe, founded this
  Chantry in honor of the Holy Cross, in the 39th year of the Reign of
  King Edward the 3rd, 1366. Godfrey died on Thursday next after the
  Feast of the Ascension of our Lord, in the 50th year of the reign of
  the same King; and Avena died on Saturday next after the Feast of the
  Nativity of the blessed Virgin Mary, in the 6th year of the reign of
  Richard 2nd, 1383.

  N. B. The Dates are taken from the Escheat Rolls, which contain the
  Inquisitum post mortem, 50th Edward 3. No. 24.

_In the Vestry_, there is an effigy in alabaster, of sir Thomas
Wendersley de Wendersley, who was mortally wounded at the battle of
Shrewsbury, 4th Henry IV., 1403, and was buried at Bakewell, where
formerly were several shields of the arms of his family carved in wood.
(See Brailsford’s “Monumental Inscriptions of Derbyshire.”)

Adjoining the vestry are several handsome monuments of the Vernon and
Manners’ families.

In the centre is the tomb or cenotaph of sir George Vernon, inscribed
thus:

  Here lyeth Sir George Vernon, Knight, deceased, y^{e}    daye of
  An^{o} 156  and Dame Margaret his Wife, dowghter of S^{r} Gylbert
  Tayllboys, deceased the    daye of      156  and also Dame Mawde his
  Wyffe, dowghter to Sir Ralphe Langfoot, deceased the    daye of
  An^{o} 1566, whose solles God p--don--.

On the right is a monument to sir John Manners, with this inscription:

  Here lyeth Sir John Manners, of Haddon, Kn^{t}. Second Sonne of Thomas
  Erle of Rutland, who died the 4th of June, 1611, and Dorothy his Wife,
  one of the Dawghters and heires of Sir George Vernon, of Haddon,
  Kn^{t}. who deceased the 24th day of June, in the 26th yeere of the
  Rayne of Queene Elizabeth, 1584.

To the right of the window, on a mural monument, is the following:

  Heere lyeth buryed John Manners, Gent^{n} 3 Son̄e of Sir John Man̄ers,
  Knight, who dyed the 16th day of July, in the Yeere of our Lord God
  1590, being of the Age of 14 yeeres.

To the left is an elegant monument to sir John Manners, with this
inscription:

  George Manners of Haddon, Kn^{t}. here awaits the resurrection of the
  just in Christ. He married Grace, second daughter of Henry
  Pierrepoint, Kn^{t}. who afterwards bore him 4 sons and 5 daughters,
  and lived with him in Holy Wedlock 30 years, she caused him to be
  buried with his forefathers, and then placed this monument at her own
  expence, as a perpetual Memorial of their conjugal faith, and she
  united the figure of his body with hers, having resolwed that their
  bones and ashes should be laid together. He died 23rd Ap^{l}. 1623,
  aged 54--She died - - - aged - - -.

Beneath this monument, on an alabaster grave-stone on the floor, are
some figures engraved round them, with an inscription, now obliterated,
and the arms of Eyre impaled with Mordaunt.

_In the Chancel._

Upon an alabaster tomb, repaired, and the inscription cut, and filled up
with black in 1774, (by Mr. Watson.)

  Here lies John Vernon, son and heir of Henry Vernon, who died the 12th
  of August 1477, whose soule God pardon.

  _August, 1827._

  E. J. H.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


ERASMUS.

    Quæritur, unde tibi sit nomen Erasmus? _Eras-mus._

_Resp._

    Si sum _Mus_ ego, te judice _Summus_ ero.

  _Joannis Audoeni_, lib. vii. epig. 34.

       *       *       *       *       *

    That thou wast great _Erasmus_ none dispute;
      Yet, by the import of thy name, wast small:
    For none its truth can readily refute
      Thou wast--_a Mouse_,--ERAS-MUS after all.

THE REPLY OF ERASMUS.

    Hence, if _a Mouse_, thy wit must this confess:--
    I will be SUM-MUS:--Can’st thou make me less?

  J. R. P.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXX.

  [From a “Woman’s a Weathercock,” a Comedy, by Nathaniel Field, 1612.]

_False Mistress._

_Scudmore alone; having a letter in his hand from Bellafront, assuring
him of her faith._

      _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!”

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ~Fac-simile of a French Assignat for Ten Sous,~

REFERRED TO IN THE FOLLOWING COMMUNICATION.]

_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.


[Illustration: ~Case containing the Heart of Lord Edward Bruce,~

AT CULROSS ABBEY.]

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.

[Illustration: ~Appearance of the Heart of Lord Edward Bruce.~]

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  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- 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  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- 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.


[Illustration: ~Nathan Coward,~

GLOVER AND POET, OF DERSINGHAM, NORFOLK.]

_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._

  ----

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ~Burnsal Lich-Gate.~]

[Illustration: ~Grassmere Font.~]


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 <DW29>, 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.

       *       *       *       *       *


_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.

       *       *       *       *       *

_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._

  *

       *       *       *       *       *

_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.”

       *       *       *       *       *

_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.


[Illustration: ~Hogarth embarking at the Isle of Grain.~]

    ------------- 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.”

           *       *       *       *       *

        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.

[Illustration: ~Monument in Minster Church to Lord Shorland.~]

    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.


[Illustration: ~The Diet of Augsburgh Commemoration Medal.~]

_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._

       *       *       *       *       *


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 <DW29>s; 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._

       *       *       *       *       *


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.


[Illustration: ~The noted John Cooke of Exeter.~

“DRAWN FROM NATURE.”]

_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.

       *       *       *       *       *


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.

[Illustration: ~Hervey’s Birth-Place at 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.”

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


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.

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


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.

       *       *       *       *       *


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._

       *       *       *       *       *


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.”

       *       *       *       *       *


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.


[Illustration: ~View in Hagbush Lane, Islington.~

A HUT, ERECTED BY WILLIAM CORRALL, A POOR AND AGED LABOURER, AFTER THE
VIOLENT AND LAWLESS DESTRUCTION OF HIS COTTAGE, EARLY IN THE MORNING OF
THE SIXTH OF SEPTEMBER, 1827.]

    “-------------- ’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.


[Illustration: ~Penn and the Indians.~]

    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.


[Illustration: Fine Writing Ink!]

[Illustration: Buy an Iron Fork, or a Shovel?]

~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.


[Illustration: ~The Broom-maker’s at Shirley Common, Surrey.~]

    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.

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


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,

  *, *, *.

  _Sept. 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


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.

       *       *       *       *       *


~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.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [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.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [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.

       *       *       *       *       *


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?”

“Sire,” said the gardener, “I know no other than to put books on the
seats, protected from the rain, that those who walk in the garden may
read when they sit down.”

“This is not far from my meaning,” said the czar, laughing, “but, books
in a public garden! that will never do. Another idea has struck me. I
should like to erect statues here, representing the different subjects
of Æsop’s fables. For this purpose the ground must be differently laid
out, that the division of the several parts may correspond with the
fables I am speaking of.”

Schræder executed his orders with all possible intelligence and
despatch, and much to the satisfaction of the emperor.

The garden consisted of four squares, with walks in the form of
labyrinths leading to them. The angles were ornamented with figures,
representing different subjects from Æsop’s fables, with a _jet d’eau_
concealed in a little basin, under moss or ruins, and surrounded with
shells brought from lake Ilmen, or that of Novogorod. Most of the
animals were as large as life, and of lead, gilt. They ejected water
from their mouths, according to their various attitudes. In this way the
walks were ornamented with sixty fables, forming as many _jets d’eau_.
At the entrance was a statue of Æsop, likewise of lead, and gilt.

The czar very naturally supposed that few people would be able to
discover the meaning of these figures, and that fewer would comprehend
the instruction they were designed to convey. His majesty therefore
ordered a post to be placed near each of them, and to these posts sheets
of tin were fastened, on which the fables and their morals were written
in the Russian language.

This place was the czar’s favourite walk; in its shades he often passed
whole hours, recreating himself among these creatures of his creation.

This garden was afterwards nearly destroyed by a terrible tempest and
inundation. The trees it contained were torn up by the roots, and the
green hedges and figures of animals damaged, either by the fall of the
timber or by the elements. The trees were raised, put into their places
again, and propped up; but as it was not possible to repair the injuries
done to the figures, the czar’s “summer garden” ceased to be a “garden
of instruction.”

       *       *       *       *       *


LOVE OF GARDENS

IN DISTINGUISHED MEN.

Juvenal represents Lucan reposing in a garden.[370] Tasso pictures
Rinaldo sitting beneath the shade in a fragrant meadow: Virgil describes
Anchises seated beneath sweet-scented bay-trees; and Eneas, as
reclining, remote from all society, in a deep and winding valley.[371]
Gassendi, who ingrafted the doctrine of Galileo on the theory of
Epicurus, took not greater pleasure in feasting his youthful imagination
by gazing on the moon, than Cyrus, in the cultivation of flowers.--“I
have measured, dug, and planted the large garden, which I have at the
gate of Babylon,” said that prince; “and never, when my health permit,
do I dine until I have laboured two hours in my garden: if there is
nothing to be done, I labour in my orchard.” Cyrus is also said to have
planted all the Lesser Asia. Ahasuerus was accustomed to quit the charms
of the banquet to indulge the luxury of his bower:[372] and the
conqueror of Mithridates enjoyed the society of his friends, and the
wine of Falernium, in the splendid gardens, which were an honour to his
name. Dion gave a pleasure-garden to Speucippus as a mark of peculiar
regard.[373] Linnæus studied in a bower: Buffon in his summer-house; and
when Demetrius Poliorcetes took the island of Rhodes, he found
Protogenes at his palette, painting in his arbour. Petrarch was never
happier than when indulging the innocent pleasures of his garden.--“I
have made myself two,” says he, in one of his epistles; “I do not
imagine they are to be equalled in all the world: I should feel myself
inclined to be angry with fortune, if there were any so beautiful out of
Italy.”

Many of the wisest and the best of men have signalized their love of
gardens and shrubberies, by causing themselves to be buried in them; a
custom once in frequent practice among the ancient Jews.[374] Plato was
buried in the groves of Academus; and sir William Temple, though he
expected to be interred in Westminster abbey, gave orders for his heart
to be enclosed in a silver casket, and placed under a sun-dial, in that
part of his garden immediately opposite the window of his library, from
which he was accustomed to contemplate the beauties and wonders of the
creation, in the society of a beloved sister.[375]

  [370] The epithet he applies to _hortis_ is sufficiently curious. The
  scholiast cites Pliny, 1. xxxvi. c. 1. 2. The style of the Roman
  gardens in Trajan’s time is expressively marked:

    Contentus fama jaceat Lucanus in hortis
    _Marmoreis_.

  JUV. Sat. vii. 1. 79.

  It was very well said by one of the first women of the present age,
  (Mrs. Grant,) that Darwin’s Botanic Garden is an Hesperian garden,
  glittering all over; the fruit gold, the leaves silver, and the stems
  brass.

  [371] Eneid, lib. vi. 1. 679. lib. viii. 609.

  [372] Esther, vii. 7. Tissaphernes had a garden, much resembling an
  English park, which he called _Alcibiades_.

  [373] Plutarch in Vit. Dion.

  [374] In the middle of the Campo Santo, which is the most ancient
  burying-place at Pisa, is a garden formed of earth, brought from the
  neighbourhood of Jerusalem.

  [375] Philosophy of Nature.

       *       *       *       *       *


DUTCH ROYAL GARDEN AND SCHEVELING SCENERY.

  DESCRIBED BY THE DEPUTATION OF THE CALEDONIAN HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY.

_August 26, 1817._ Late in the afternoon, we took a walk to the
northward of the Hague, on the Amsterdam road, and entered a forest of
large and ancient trees, by much the finest which we have seen on the
continent, and evidently several centuries old. Many oaks, elms, and
beeches were magnificent. Some of the oaks, at two feet from the ground,
measured twelve feet in circumference, and had free and clean boles to
the height of about forty feet. This wood, in all probability, gave rise
to the name of the city; for _haag_ (the Dutch for Hague) signifies
thicket or wood. It was originally a seat of the counts of Holland, and
is often to this day called Graaf’s Haag, or Earl’s Wood.[376]

Although we had no guide, we easily found the palace called the “House
in the Wood,” about two miles distant from the Hague; and having
inquired for the gardener, Mr. Jacobus Munts, we readily procured access
to the royal garden. It is kept in good order, and is now arranged in
what is here reckoned the English style, the old formal hedges, and
fantastically shaped trees, having been in a great measure removed. The
grounds are now traversed by serpentine walks, laid with sand: these
wind among groves of forest-trees, which have never been subjected to
the shears; but the flexures are much too regular. Water, as usual, is
the only defence, or line of separation, from the conterminous[377]
fields, or from the high road. These ditches, though broad, brimful, and
kept tolerably clean, have a dull aspect. Shrubs and flowers are planted
in small compartments, cut out in the grassy covering of the lawn. The
figures of these compartments are different, circles, ovals, and
crescents. A bed of dahlias was now in flower, but presented nothing
uncommon. Indeed, we learned that the collection had been procured from
Antwerp only the year before. The plants in the borders and shrubberies
were in general of the more common kinds; but some rarities also
appeared. Among these the _passiflora cœrulea_ was here displaying its
gorgeous flowers in the shrubbery; but we observed that it was contained
in a pot sunk in the earth, and not well concealed. _Rosa Pennsylvanica_
was very abundant, and seemed not only to be healthy, but to produce its
flowers freely.

Close by the palace is a small greenhouse, erected in 1815 for the
princess of Orange. It contains a few pretty good plants; but there is
nothing becoming royalty either in the size of the house or the choice
nature of the collection. _Datura arborea_ was now in flower, and filled
the place with its odour; and the white variety of _vinca rosea_ was in
bloom. There are here no hot-houses for the forcing of fruit; nor did
there appear to be any thing remarkable among the hardy fruits
cultivated in the garden.

This garden at the House in the Wood, is the only one worth visiting at
the Hague, with the exception perhaps of Mr. Fagel’s. The Portland
gardens, belonging to the Bentincks, though celebrated in former times,
are now in a neglected and even ruinous condition.


SCHEVELING.

AVENUES OF TREES.

_August 27, 1817._ Early this morning we walked towards the fishing
village of Scheveling, by a grand avenue lined with trees, of which all
Dutchmen are justly proud. The length of this avenue is nearly a mile
and a half; and it is so straight and so level, that the village church
very soon appeared at the termination of the vista next the sea. The
tallest and finest trees are Dutch elm, abele, oak, and beech. Many of
these are of great size, and have probably seen more than two
centuries.[378] Sycamore, hornbeam, birch, and different species of
willow, are occasionally interspersed. There are properly three roads in
this noble avenue: a central one for carriages, one for horsemen, and
another for foot-passengers. The breadth of the plantation, on each
side, is on an average about seventy feet. In some places, the old trees
appear to have been cut down; but their places are now supplied by
others. Almost all the new-planted trees are white poplars, which are of
rapid growth.


FISHERY--FISHING VESSELS, &C.

We breakfasted in the _Hoff van Holland_ inn, the windows of which look
out upon the ocean. In addition to the usual repast of coffee and rolls,
a countryman of our own, whom we chanced here to meet, had shrimps
served to breakfast, which had been shown to him all alive a few minutes
before: by our desire, we had _tong-vischen_, or soles, fresh from the
sea. While at breakfast, we observed, that more than two dozen of small
sloops, which we easily recognised to be fishing-busses, were making
directly for the low sandy beach, although it was at present a
lee-shore, with a considerable surf. The sails were of various hues;
Isabella yellow, chocolate brown, and milk white; and this intermixture
of colours, set off by the brilliancy of a clear morning sun, increased
the picturesque effect. Not a little to our surprise, the crews did not
shorten sail, till their barks were just involved among the waves and
breakers; and in this odd situation, generally after taking the ground,
we saw them deliberately cast anchor. The propriety of the shape given
to the hulls of these busses, was now manifest to us; a small
British-built sloop would have been in danger of breaking up, while they
shoved along among the breakers in perfect security. Indeed, that Dutch
vessels in general should, of design, be built strong or clumsy, and
have their hulks well rounded below, can only appear surprising to those
who have not witnessed the nature of the seas which they have to
navigate at home, where they must often take the ground, and where they
not unfrequently sail right against the shore. As soon as the anchors
were cast, the boatmen, wading up to the middle in the waves, brought
out the fish on their shoulders; the sands were covered with persons of
both sexes and of all ages, who began to carry off the cargoes, in broad
baskets, on their heads. The principal kinds of fish were plaice,
turbot, sole, skate, and thornback; a very few cod and smelts made up
the list. The Dutch gave the name _schol_ to our plaice: and our sole
they call _tong_. Their name for the smelt is _spiering_; which nearly
approaches that by which this little fish is distinguished in the
Edinburgh market, viz. _spirling_.


COAST--FISHWOMEN--CART DOGS.

A continuous broad and high bank of sand lines the coast as far as we
could see, and forms the powerful protection of this part of Holland
against the inroads of the ocean. Without this provision of nature, the
country would be inundated by every extraordinary tide and gale; for it
may be truly said, “the broad ocean leans against the land.” On the
sand-hills, the same kind of plants prevail as in similar situations in
England; sea-holly and buckthorn, _asparago_ and _Galium verum_, with
sea-marran, _arundo arenaria_, which last is encouraged here, being
found very useful in binding the sand. In some places wheat-straw had
been dibbled in, as at Ostend, in order to promote the same object.
Considering Scheveling as a fishing-village, we were greatly pleased
with it: it was extremely neat and clean, and formed a perfect contrast
with our Newhaven and Fisherrow,[379] the lanes of which are generally
encumbered with all sorts of filth. We must confess, too, that in
tidiness of dress and urbanity of manners, the fishwomen of Scheveling
are equally superior to those of the Scottish villages just mentioned.

As we returned to the Hague, numbers of the inhabitants were also on
their way to the fish-market, some carrying baskets of fish on their
heads, and others employing three or four dogs to convey the fish in
small light carts. We had read in books, of these draught dogs being
well used, and fat and sleek; but we regret to say, that those which we
saw were generally poor half-starved looking animals, bearing no
equivocal marks of ill usage. The diligence with which they sped their
way to town, with their cargoes, in a sultry day, with tongues lolling
to the ground, seemed to entitle them to better treatment.


FISH-MARKET--STORKS

We traced the steps of some of our Scheveling companions to the
fish-market. As might be expected, the market proved commodious and
clean, and well supplied with water. Salmon was pretty common; carp was
plentiful; and a single John Dory and a single sturgeon appeared on a
stall. At some seasons, we believe, sturgeons are abundant, being taken
in numbers at the mouths of the Rhine, when about to ascend that river.
Four tame storks were stalking up and down in the market. They were in
full plumage; and did not appear to have been pinioned, so as to disable
them from flying. Their food consists wholly of the garbage which they
pick up about the fish-stalls. A small house, like a dog’s kennel, is
appropriated to their use; for the stork seems to be held as sacred by
the Dutch as by the Mahomedans.[380]

  [376] _Haag_, _hag_, _haigh_, &c. are explained in the _Every
  Day-Book_. Art. Hagbush-lane.--ED.

  [377] _Conterminous_: bordering.--_Johnson._ ED.

  [378] Le Long, indeed, puts this beyond doubt; for, writing in 1630,
  he describes this avenue as being then “adorned with fine trees.”
  _Kabinet van Outheden_, &c. published in 1732.

  [379] Two small towns on the shore of the Frith of Forth, near
  Edinburgh, chiefly inhabited by fishermen and their families.

  [380] Caledonian Horticultural Tour.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Michaelmas.~

CRABBING FOR HUSBANDS

_To the Editor._

Sir,--At this season “village maidens” in the west of England go up and
down the hedges gathering _Crab-apples_, which they carry home, putting
them into a loft, and form with them the initials of their supposed
suitors’ names. The _initials_, which are found on examination to be
most perfect on _old_ “Michaelmas Day,” are considered to represent the
strongest attachments, and the best for the choice of husbands. This
custom is very old, and much reliance is placed on the appearances and
decomposition of the Crabs. Should this trifle be worthy of being added
to your extensive notices of manners and localities, I shall be
encouraged to forward you other little remembrances of like tendency. In
the interim, give me leave to assure you, Sir, that I am your gratified
reader,

  PUCERON.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ~A Young Ash Tree,~

SHIRLEY HEATH, WARWICKSHIRE,

~Used for Charms.~]

Mr. Brand mentions, as a popular superstition, that if a tree of any
kind is split--and weak, rickety, or ruptured children drawn through it,
and afterwards the tree is bound, so as to make it unite, as the tree
heals and grows together, so will the child acquire strength.

Sir John Cullum, who saw this operation twice performed, thus describes
it:--“For this purpose a young _ash_ was each time selected, and split
longitudinally, about five feet: the fissure was kept wide open by my
gardener; whilst the friend of the child, having first stripped him
naked, passed him thrice through it, almost head foremost. As soon as
the operation was performed, the wounded tree was bound up with a
packthread; and, as the bark healed, the child was to recover. The first
of the young patients was to be cured of the rickets, the second of a
rupture.” This is a very ancient and extensive piece of superstition.

In the Gentleman’s Magazine, for October, 1804, is an engraving of an
ash tree, then growing by the side of Shirley-street, (the road leading
from Hockley House to Birmingham,) at the edge of Shirley-heath, in the
parish of Solihull, Warwickshire. It is stated that this tree is “close
to the cottage of Henry Rowe, whose infant son, Thomas Rowe, was drawn
through the trunk or body of it in the year 1791, to cure him of a
rupture, the tree being then split open for the purpose of passing the
child through it.” The writer proceeds to say, “The boy is now thirteen
years and six months old: I have this day, June 10, 1804, seen the ash
tree and Thomas Rowe, as well as his father, Henry Rowe, from whom I
have received the above account; and he superstitiously believes that
his son Thomas was cured of the rupture, by being drawn through the
cleft in the said ash tree, and by nothing else.”

Another writer concerning the same tree says, “The upper part of a gap
formed by the chisel has closed, but the lower remains open. [As
represented in the plate, from whence the engraving at the head of this
article is taken.] The tree is healthy and flourishing. Thomas
Chillingworth, son of the owner of an adjoining farm, now about 34, was,
when an infant of a year old, passed through a similar tree, now
perfectly sound, which he preserves with so much care that he will not
suffer a single branch to be touched, for it is believed the life of the
patient depends on the life of the tree; and that the moment it is cut
down, be the patient ever so distant, the rupture returns, and a
mortification ensues, and terminates in death. Rowe’s son was passed
through the present tree in 1792, at the age of one or two. It is not,
however, uncommon for persons to survive for a time the felling of the
tree. In one case the rupture returned suddenly, and mortification
followed. These trees are left to close of themselves, or are closed
with nails. The wood-cutters very frequently meet with the latter. One
felled on Bunnan’s farm was found full of nails. This belief is so
prevalent in this part of the country, that instances of trees that have
been employed in the cure are very common. The like notions obtain
credit in some parts of Essex.”

The same writer proceeds to observe a superstition “concerning the power
of ash trees to repel other maladies or evils, such as _Shrew-mice_; the
stopping one of which animals alive into a hole bored in an ash is
imagined an infallible preventive of their ravages in lands.”

On this there are some particulars in point related by the Rev. Gilbert
White, in his “Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne,” a parish
near Alton, in Hampshire. “In a farm-yard near the middle of this
village stands, at this day, a row of pollard-_ashes_, which, by the
seams and long cicatrices down their sides, manifestly show that in
former times they have been cleft asunder. These trees, when young and
flexible, were severed and held open by wedges, while ruptured children,
stripped naked, were pushed through the apertures, under a persuasion
that, by such a process, the poor babes would be cured of their
infirmity. As soon as the operation was over, the tree, in the suffering
part, was plastered with loam, and carefully swathed up. If the parts
coalesced and soldered together, as usually fell out, where the feat was
performed with any adroitness at all, the party was cured; but where the
cleft continued to gape, the operation, it was supposed, would prove
ineffectual. Having occasion to enlarge my garden not long since, I cut
down two or three such trees, one of which did not grow together. We
have several persons now living in the village, who, in their childhood,
were supposed to be healed by this superstitious ceremony, derived down
perhaps from our Saxon ancestors, who practised it before their
conversion to Christianity.”

Again, as respects _shrew-mice_, Mr. White says, “At the south corner of
the plestor, or area, near the church, there stood, about twenty years
ago, a very old grotesque hollow pollard-_ash_, which for ages had been
looked on with no small veneration as a _shrew_-ash. Now a _shrew_-ash
is an ash, whose twigs or branches, when gently applied to the limbs of
cattle, are immediately to relieve the pains which a beast suffers from
the running of a _shrew-mouse_ over the part affected: for it is
supposed that a shrew-mouse is of so baneful and deleterious a nature,
that wherever it creeps over a beast, be it horse, cow, or sheep, the
suffering animal is afflicted with cruel anguish, and threatened with
the loss of the use of the limb. Against this accident, to which they
were continually liable, our provident forefathers always kept a
_shrew_-ash at hand; which, when once medicated, would maintain its
virtue for ever. A shrew-ash was made thus:--Into the body of the tree a
deep hole was bored with an auger, and a poor devoted shrew-mouse was
thrust in alive, and plugged in, no doubt, with several quaint
incantations long since forgotten. As the ceremonies necessary for such
a consecration are no longer understood, all succession is at an end,
and no such tree is known to subsist in the manor or hundred. As to that
on the plestor, the late vicar stubbed and burnt it, when he was
waywarden, regardless of the remonstrances of the by-standers, who
interceded in vain for its preservation, urging its power and efficacy,
and alleging that it had been

    ‘Religione patrum multos servata per annos.’”

Mr. Ellis, in a note on this practice of enclosing field-mice, cites a
letter to Mr. Brand, dated May 9, 1806, from Robert Studley Vidal, Esq.
of Cornborough, near Biddeford, a gentleman to whom Mr. Brand was much
indebted for information on the local customs of Devonshire. Mr. Vidal
says:--“An usage of the superstitious kind has just come under my
notice, and which, as the pen is in my hand, I will shortly describe,
though I rather think it is not peculiar to these parts. A neighbour of
mine, on examining his sheep the other day, found that one of them had
entirely lost the use of its hinder parts. On seeing it, I expressed an
opinion that the animal must have received a blow across the back, or
some other sort of violence which had injured the spinal marrow, and
thus rendered it paralytic: but I was soon given to understand, that my
remarks only served to prove how little I knew of country affairs, for
that the affection of the sheep was nothing uncommon, and that the cause
of it was well known; namely, a mouse having crept over its back. I
could not but smile at the idea; which my instructor considering as a
mark of incredulity, he proceeded very gravely to inform me, that I
should be convinced of the truth of what he said by the means which he
would use to restore the animal; and which were never known to fail. He
accordingly despatched his people here and there in quest of a
field-mouse; and having procured one, he told me that he should carry it
to a particular tree at some distance, and, enclosing it within a
hollow in the trunk, leave it there to perish. He further informed me,
that he should bring back some of the branches of the tree with him, for
the purpose of their being drawn now and then across the sheep’s back;
and concluded by assuring me, with a very scientific look, that I should
soon be convinced of the efficacy of this process; for that, as soon as
the poor devoted mouse had yielded up his life a prey to famine, the
sheep would be restored to its former strength and vigour. I can,
however, state, with certainty, that the sheep was not at all benefited
by this mysterious sacrifice of the mouse. The tree, I find, is of the
sort called witch-elm, or witch-hazel.”

       *       *       *       *       *


TREES

POETICALLY AND NATIONALLY REGARDED.

A gentleman, who, on a tour in 1790, visited the burial-place of Edmond
Waller, in the church-yard of Beaconsfield, describes the poet’s
splendid tomb as enclosed, or cradled, with spiked iron palisadoes,
inserted into a great old ash tree, under which his head reposes. “This
umbrageous tree overshadows the whole mausoleum. As the pagan deities
had each their favourite tree--Jupiter, the oak; Apollo, the laurel;
Venus, the myrtle; Minerva, the olive; &c.--so poets and literary men
have imitated them herein; and all lovers of solitude are, like the Lady
Grace of Sir John Vanbrugh, fond of a cool retreat from the noon-day’s
sultry heat _under a great tree_.”[381]

       *       *       *       *       *

A modern author, whose works are expressive of beauty and feeling, and
from whom an elegant extract on “Gardens” in a former page has been
derived, adverts to the important use which the poets have made of trees
by way of illustration. He says--

Homer frequently embellishes his subjects with references to them; and
no passage in the Iliad is more beautiful, than the one where, in
imitation of Musæus, he compares the falling of leaves and shrubs to the
fall and renovation of great and ancient families.--Illustrations of
this sort are frequent in the sacred writings.--“I am exalted like a
cedar in Libanus,” says the author of Ecclesiastes, “and as a cypress
tree upon the mountain of Hermon. I was exalted like a palm tree in
Engeddi, and as a rose plant in Jericho; as a fair olive in a pleasant
field, and grew up as a plane tree by the water; as a turpentine tree I
stretched out my branches, and my branches are the branches of honour
and grace; as a vine brought I forth pleasant savour, and my flowers are
the fruits of honour and victory.”--In the Psalms, in a fine vein of
allegory, the vine tree is made to represent the people of Israel: “Thou
hast brought a vine out of Egypt; thou hast cut out the heathen, and
planted it. Thou didst cause it to take deep root, and it filled the
land. The hills were covered with its shadow, and the boughs thereof
were like the goodly cedars.”

In Ossian, how beautiful is the following passage of Malvina’s
lamentation for Oscar:--“I was a lovely tree in thy presence, Oscar,
with all my branches round me; but thy death came like a blast from the
desert, and laid my green head low; the spring returned with its
showers, but no green leaf of mine arose.” Again, where old and weary,
blind and almost destitute of friends, he compares himself to a tree
that is withered and decayed:--“But Ossian is a tree that is withered;
its branches are blasted and bare; no green leaf covers its
boughs:--from its trunk no young shoot is seen to spring; the breeze
whistles in its grey moss; the blast shakes its head of age; the storm
will soon overturn it, and strew all its dry branches with thee, Oh
Dermid, and with all the rest of the mighty dead, in the green winding
vale of Cona.”

That traveller esteemed himself happy, who first carried into Palestine
the rose of Jericho from the plains of Arabia; and many of the Roman
nobility were gratified, in a high degree, with having transplanted
exotic plants and trees into the orchards of Italy. Pompey introduced
the ebony on the day of his triumph over Mithridates; Vespasian
transplanted the balm of Syria, and Lucullus the Pontian cherry. Auger
de Busbeck brought the lilac from Constantinople; Hercules introduced
the orange into Spain; Verton the mulberry into England:--and so great
is the love of nations for particular trees, that a traveller never
fails to celebrate those by which his native province is distinguished.
Thus, the native of Hampshire prides himself upon his oaks; the
Burgundian boasts of his vines, and the Herefordshire farmer of his
apples. Normandy is proud of her pears; Provence of her olives; and
Dauphiné of her mulberries; while the Maltese are in love with their
own orange trees. Norway and Sweden celebrate their pines; Syria her
palms; and since they have few other trees of which they can boast,
Lincoln celebrates her alders, and Cambridge her willows! The Paphians
were proud of their myrtles, the Lesbians of their vines; Rhodes loudly
proclaimed the superior charms of her rose trees; Idumea of her balsams;
Media of her citrons, and India of her ebony. The Druses boast of their
mulberries; Gaza of her dates and pomegranates; Switzerland of her lime
trees; Bairout of her figs and bananas; Damascus of her plums;
Inchonnaugan of its birch, and Inchnolaig of its yews. The inhabitants
of Jamaica never cease to praise the beauty of their manchenillas; while
those of Tobasco are as vain of their cocoas.--The natives of Madeira,
whose spring and autumn reign together, take pride in their cedars and
citrons; those of Antigua of their tamarinds, while they esteem their
mammee sappota to be equal to any oak in Europe, and their mangos to be
superior to any tree in America. Equally partial are the inhabitants of
the Plains of Tahta to their peculiar species of fan palm; and those of
Kous to their odoriferous orchards. The Hispaniolans, with the highest
degree of pride, challenge any one of the trees of Europe or Asia to
equal the height of their cabbage trees--towering to an altitude of two
hundred and seventy feet:--Even the people of the Bay of Honduras have
imagination sufficient to conceive their logwood to be superior to any
trees in the world; while the Huron savages inquire of Europeans,
whether they have any thing to compare with their immense cedar
trees.[382]

  [381] Mr. T. Gosling, in the Gent. Mag. Sept. 1790.

  [382] The Philosophy of Nature.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE PEARL.

A PERSIAN FABLE.

_Imitated from the Latin of Sir W. Jones._

    Whoe’er his merit underrates,
    The worth which he disclaims creates.

    It chanc’d a single drop of rain
    Fell from a cloud into the main:
    Abash’d, dispirited, amaz’d,
    At last her modest voice she rais’d:
    “Where, and what am I? Woe is me!
    What a mere drop in such a sea!”--
    An oyster yawning, where she fell,
    Entrapp’d the vagrant in his shell;
    In that alembic wrought--for he
    Was deeply vers’d in alchemy--
    This drop became a pearl; and now
    Adorns the crown on GEORGE’S brow.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Discoveries~

OF THE

ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

No. XI.


COMETS.

Cassini, and after him sir Isaac Newton, by their close observations and
accurate calculations respecting the nature and courses of comets, have
given certainty to the opinions of the old philosophers; or, to speak
with more propriety, they have recalled and fixed our attention upon
what had before been advanced by the ancients on these subjects. For, in
treating of the nature of these stars, their definitions of them, the
reasons they assign for the rarity of their appearance, and the
apologies they make for not having yet formed a more exact theory, are
all in the very terms that Seneca had already used. In the time of that
philosopher, the observations previously made of the returns of comets,
were not sufficiently collected to establish the theory of these
phenomena. Their appearances were so very rare, that they had not
afforded an opportunity to determine, whether their course was regular
or not. The Greeks, however, before Seneca’s time, had remarked to the
same effect, and were applying themselves to researches of this kind.

Seneca says, that the Chaldeans looked upon comets as planetary bodies;
and Diodorus Siculus, in giving an account of the extent of knowledge
among the Egyptians, praises them for the application with which they
studied the stars and their courses; and remarks, that they had
collected, observations very ancient and very exact, fully informing
them of the several motions, orbits, stations, &c. of the planets. He
adds, that they could foretell earthquakes, inundations, and “the return
of comets.”

Aristotle says, that Anaxagoras apprehended comets to be an assemblage
of many wandering stars; which, by their approximation, and the mutual
blending of their rays, rendered themselves visible to us. This notion,
though far from being philosophical, was yet far preferable to that of
some great moderns, such as Kepler and Hevelius, who supposed that
comets were formed out of air, as fishes are out of water.

Pythagoras, however, who approached very near to the times of
Anaxagoras, held an opinion worthy of the most enlightened age. He
looked upon “comets as stars, which circulated regularly, though
elliptically, about the sun, and which appeared to us only in particular
parts of their orbit, and at considerable distances of time.”

Seneca, more than any other, has discussed this subject like a true
philosopher. He relates all the different opinions respecting comets,
and seems to prefer that of Artemidorus, who imagined, “that there was
an immense number of them, but that their orbits were so situated, that,
so far from being always within view, they could only be seen at one of
the extremities.” He reasons upon this with equal elegance and solidity.
“Why should we be astonished,” says he, “that comets, which are so rare
a spectacle in the world, have not yet come under certain rules; or that
we have not hitherto been able to determine, where begins or ends the
course of _planets, as ancient as the universe, and whose returns are at
such distant intervals_? The time will come,” he exclaims, with
enthusiasm, “when posterity will be amazed at our ignorance in things so
very evident; for what now appears to us obscure, will one day or other,
in the course of ages, and through the industry of our descendants,
become manifestly clear; but, a small number of years, passed between
study and the indulgence of passion, are not of avail for researches so
important, as those which propose to themselves the comprehension of
natures so remote.”

The moderns have said nothing satisfactory respecting comets, but what
is to be found in the writings of the ancients; except what later
observations have furnished them with, which Seneca judged to be so
necessary, and which only could be collected through a long succession
of ages.


THE MOON.

The ancients discovered very early, that “the moon had no light of its
own, but shone with that which it reflected from the sun.” This, after
Thales, was the sentiment of Anaxagoras, and that of Empedocles, who
thence accounted not only for the mildness of its splendour, but the
imperceptibility of its heat, which our modern experiments confirm: for
with all the aid of burning glasses, we have never yet found it
practicable to obtain the least warmth from any combination of its rays.

With a telescope, we easily discern in the moon parts more elevated and
more bright than others, which are judged to be mountains; and means
have been found to measure their elevation. We discern also other parts,
lower and less bright, which must be vallies, lying between those
mountains. There are other parts, which reflecting less light, and
presenting one uniform smooth surface, may therefore be supposed large
pieces of water. As the moon, then, has its collections of water, its
atmosphere, its mountains, and its vallies; it is thence inferred, that
there may also be rain there, and snow, and all the other aerial
commotions which are natural to such a situation; and our idea of the
wisdom and power of God suggests to us, that he may have placed
creatures there to inhabit it.

The ancients, who had not the aid of the telescope, supplied the defect
of that instrument by extraordinary penetration. They deduced all those
consequences that are admitted by the moderns; for they discovered long
before, by the mental eye, whatever has since been presented to bodily
sight through the medium of telescopes. We have seen in how sublime a
manner they entered into the views of the Supreme Being in his
destination of the planets, and the multitude of stars placed by him in
the firmament. We have already seen, that they looked upon them as so
many suns, about which rolled planets of their own, such as those of our
solar system; maintaining that those planets contained inhabitants,
whose natures they presume not to describe, though they suppose them not
to yield to those of ours, either in beauty or dignity.

Orpheus is the earliest author whose opinion on this subject hath come
down to us. Proclus presents us with three verses of that eminent
ancient, wherein he positively asserts, that “the moon was another
earth, having in it mountains, vallies,” &c.

Pythagoras, who followed Orpheus in many of his opinions, taught
likewise, that “the moon was an earth like ours, replete with animals,
whose nature he presumed not to describe,” though he was persuaded they
were of a more noble and elegant kind than ours, and not liable to the
same infirmities.

Cicero ascribes a similar sentiment to Democritus, when, in explaining
his theory, he says, that, according to it, Quintus Luctatius Catulus,
for instance, might without end be multiplied into an infinity of
worlds. It were easy to multiply quotations, in proof that this opinion
was common among the ancient philosophers. There is a very remarkable
passage of Stobæus, wherein he gives us Democritus’s opinion about the
nature of the moon, and the cause of those spots which we see upon its
disk. That great philosopher imagined, that “those spots were no other
than shades, formed by the excessive height of the lunar mountains,”
which intercepted the light from the lower parts of that planet, where
the vallies formed themselves into what appeared to us as shades or
spots.

Plutarch went still farther, alleging, that there were embosomed in the
moon, vast seas and profound caverns. These, his conjectures, are built
upon the same foundation with those of the moderns. He says, that those
deep and extensive shades which appear upon the disk of that planet,
must be occasioned by the “vast seas” it contains, which are incapable
of reflecting so vivid a light, as the more solid and opaque parts; or
“by caverns extremely wide and deep, wherein the rays of the sun are
absorbed,” whence those shades and that obscurity which we call the
spots of the moon. Xenophanes said, that those immense cavities were
inhabited by another race of men, who lived there, as we do upon this
earth.

       *       *       *       *       *


MEDICAL AND LEGAL DUALITY.


TWO PHYSICIANS.

A gentleman calling on a friend, found two physicians with him: he wrote
the following lines on the back of his card:--

    “By _one_ physician might your work be done,
    But _two_ are like a _double-barrell’d gun_;
    From one discharge sometimes a bird has flown,
    A second barrel always brings it down.”


TWO LAWYERS.

An opulent farmer applied about a law-suit to an attorney, who told him
he could not undertake it, being already engaged on the other side; at
the same time he said, that he would give him a letter of recommendation
to a professional friend, which he did. The farmer, out of curiosity,
opened it, and read as follows:

    “Here are two fat wethers fallen out together,
    If you’ll fleece one, I’ll fleece the other,
    And make ’em agree like brother and brother.”

The farmer carried this epistle to the person with whom he was at
variance. Its perusal cured both parties, and terminated the dispute.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE HAUNTED MILL.

_For the Table Book._

    -------------Can such things be,
    And overcome us like a summer’s cloud,
    Without our special wonder?

At the basis of the Wolds, in the north riding of Yorkshire, creeps a
sluggish stream, on whose bank may be seen the ruins of a mill, which
our good forefathers supposed to be haunted. I often gaze upon those
ruins with great interest; not so much for its picturesque beauty,
which, like a flower in the wilderness, makes solitude less lonely, as
for the many endearing claims it has upon my memory, by way of
association. It stands near the home of my childhood, it reminds me of
the companions of my youth, and tells of pleasures long departed.

It is now nearly ten years since I listened to a story, which haunts me
like the recollection of a fearful dream; perhaps, because of its
locality, or rather, of its having been told me as a _fact_. Be it as it
may, I have thought it worth the relating; and trust that the readers of
the _Table Book_ will at least be _interested_.

The mill, at the time referred to, had been uninhabited for some ten or
twelve years. It had found an occupier in the person of Joe Davis. The
inhabitants of the distant, though nearest village, endeavoured to
frighten Joe, the miller, by telling him of its being haunted. He
laughed at what he called their idle fears, bade them keep their
superstitious nonsense for their children’s ears; and laughingly added,
that if nought but ghosts visited the mill, he stood a good chance of
getting what he most required after a hard day’s work--a quiet rest.

When Joe took possession of the mill, he was as jolly a fellow as ever
lived, and a fine buxom wife had he, and three rosy children. His cup of
happiness was filled to the brim; his song, merry as the lark’s, and his
loud, hearty laugh, were alternately to be heard above the rush of the
dam, and the click-clacking of the wheel. When his work was done, it was
a treat to see him playing with his children at blindman’s-buff, or hide
and seek, or dandling them upon his knee.

All went on well for some time; but in a few months Joe became an
altered man. There was a visible difference in his face and manner. At
first, a shade was seen to overcast his hitherto unclouded brow--then
his cheek became robbed of its bloom, and his step lost its buoyancy.
His laughter (when he _did_ laugh, which was seldom) seemed laboured,
and was followed by a sigh; and the song--_that_ favourite song, which
he had so often sung to Mary in his courtship--faltered on his lips.
Instead of clinging to his home and family as usual, he deserted them;
and when the straying villager kindly questioned him as to the change,
he would not answer, but shake his head, and hurry onwards.

One day Mary found her husband unusually depressed. “Come, come,” said
she, “I’m sure all is not right within.” She hung fondly upon his
neck--kissed him, and besought him to make her the partner of his
sorrow; he raised his head, gazed at her affectionately, and endeavoured
to smile away her apprehensions--but it would not do. He dashed the tear
from his eye, and rushed out of the room.

Joe Davis had dreamed a dream; or, as my narrator informed me, had seen
a vision. Sitting one evening in his little parlour, with his wife and
children before him, he, on a sudden, leaned back in his chair--his eyes
became glazed, and were rivetted on the picture of his wife holding
three roses in her hand, which hung over the mantelpiece--he thought
that he beheld a shadow of himself bend over the picture, that the roses
began to fade, and, in fading, he distinctly saw the faces of his
children, while the portrait of his wife by degrees became colourless.
Such was the dream which gave him so much concern--such was the prophecy
which ere long was to be fulfilled.

Joe left his house, telling Mary he would return before night. The
darkness set in, but he did not make his appearance. Poor Mary, as the
night advanced, became mistrustful--she looked at the clock, and
listened for his approaching step. It was nearly midnight; and, save the
melancholy monotonous ticking of the clock, and the low breathing of her
sweet children, who were sleeping near, all was silent as the
grave--when, on a sudden, the eldest child cried out, “Father, how cold
you are!”--Mary started, and beheld the death-pale face of her husband
kissing her children--she shrieked wildly, and fell senseless on the
floor.

When Mary came to herself the fire was out, and the clock had stopped.
She endeavoured to calm her agitated mind, and thought she heard the
noise of the dam, and her husband singing the chorus--

    We’ll always be merry together, together,
    We’ll always be merry together.

She listened, and thought of her children, whom (by the revealment of
one of the secrets of her prison-house) she knew were dead. The rest of
that horrible night was a (----)

The morning came with its beautiful purple light--the lark hailed it
with his matin-song--the flower bloomed at the very door-stone of the
mill--the schoolboy whistled as he passed, as if in mockery of her woe.
The light of reason had passed from Mary Davis. In the course of the day
the body of her husband was found in the dam, but Mary knew it not.--

Say, gentle reader, did not Heaven deal kindly to her in bidding her
taste the waters of oblivion?

----I shall never forget the story.

  Q. T. M.

       *       *       *       *       *


COUNSELS AND SAYINGS,

BY DR. A. HUNTER.

ACCUSTOM YOURSELF TO REFLECT.

Seek wisdom, and you will be sure to find her; but if you do not look
for _her_, she will not look for _you_.

DO, AS YOU WOULD BE DONE BY.

Use yourself to kindness and compassion, and you may expect kindness and
compassion in return.

HAVE YOU A FRIEND?

If you have a grievance on your mind you may tell it to your friend, but
first be sure that he is your friend.

EDUCATE YOUR CHILDREN PROPERLY.

An university implies a seminary, where all the young men go the same
way. What that way is, fathers and grandfathers best know.

OBSTINACY IS WEAKNESS.

Obstinacy of temper proceeds from pride, and, in general, from ignorant
pride, that refuses to be taught.

REGULATE YOUR TEMPER.

We can bear with a man who is only peevish when the wind is in the east;
but it is intolerable to live with one who is peevish in every point of
the compass.

TRUE GENEROSITY IS DELICATELY MINDED.

Blame no man for what he cannot help. We must not expect of the dial to
tell us the hour after the sun is set.

       *       *       *       *       *


GERMAN EPIGRAMS

HONOURABLE SERVICE.

    If one have serv’d thee, tell the deed to many:
    Hast thou serv’d many--tell it not to any.--_Opitz._

A MOTHER’S LOVE.

    E’er yet her child has drawn its earliest breath
    A mother’s love begins--it glows till death--
    Lives before life--with death not dies--but seems
    The very substance of immortal dreams.--_Wernicke._

EPITAPH.

    What thou art reading o’er my bones,
    I’ve often read on other stones;
    And others soon shall read of thee,
    What thou art reading now of me.--_Fleming._

ADAM’S SLEEP.

    He laid him down and slept:--and from his side,
      A woman in her magic beauty rose,
    Dazzled and charm’d he call’d that woman “_Bride_,”
      And his first sleep became his last repose.--_Besser._

EPITAPH.

    Here lies, thank God, a woman, who
    Quarrell’d and storm’d her whole life through:
    Tread gently o’er her mouldering form,
    Or else you’ll rouse another storm.--_Weckherlin._

       *       *       *       *       *


PRUSSIAN COURT MOURNING.

Frederick the _first_ king of Prussia was an extremely vain man, and
continually engaged in frivolous pursuits. His queen, Sophia Charlotte,
the sister of our George I. was a woman of a very superior mind. In her
last illness she viewed the approach of death with much calmness and
serenity; and when one of her attendants observed how severely it would
afflict the king, and that the misfortune of losing her would plunge his
majesty into the deepest despair, the queen said, with a smile, “With
respect to _him_, I am perfectly at ease. _His_ mind will be completely
occupied in arranging the ceremonial of my funeral, and if nothing goes
wrong in the _procession_, he will be quite consoled for his loss.”

       *       *       *       *       *


MI-EAU IN AMERICA.

A New York paper says, that a lad in that city, on delivering his milk,
was asked why the milk was so warm. “I don’t know,” he replied, with
much simplicity, “unless they put in _warm_ water instead of _cold_.”

       *       *       *       *       *


A CAPITAL EXTEMPORE

TO THE AUTHOR OF SOME BAD LINES, ON THE RIVER DEE.

    Had I been U,
    And in the Q,
        As easy I might B.
    I’d let U C,
    Whilst sipping T,
        Far better lines on D.

       *       *       *       *       *


PETITION OF THE LETTER _H_ TO ITS DECIDED ENEMIES.

    Whereas, by you I have been driven
    From House, from Home, from Hope, and Heaven,
    And placed, by your most learn’d society,
    In Evil, Anguish, and Anxiety;
    And used, without the least pretence,
    With Arrogance and Insolence.
        I hereby ask full restitution,
        And beg you’ll change your elocution.

ANSWER.

    Whereas we’ve rescued you, ingrate,
    From Hell, from Horror, and from Hate--
    From Horseponds--Hanging in a _halter_,
    And consecrated you in--_altar_.
        We think you need no restitution,
        And shall not change our elocution.

  HEZEKIAH HULK, _Huntsman_.

  _Milford, June, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


THE GLORIOUS MEMORY.

Sir Jonah Barrington lately met rather a noted corporator of Dublin in
Paris, and in the course of conversation inquired why, after the king’s
visit to the metropolis of Ireland, and his conciliatory admonitions,
the corporation still appeared to prefer the “Boyne Water” and “King
William.” The answer was characteristic. “Lord bless you, sir Jonah,”
replied the corporator, “as for the _Wather_ we don’t care a farthing
about that; but if we once gave up ould _King William_, we’d give up all
our enjoyments! Only for the _Glorious Memory_ we would not have a toast
to get drunk with--eh! sir Jonah?”

       *       *       *       *       *


ERRATA.

  Col. 397, line 18, for “_modern_ Europe,” read “_northern_ Europe.”

  Col. 430. In the Will of John Keats, for “_losses_ of the sale of
  books,” read “_hopes_ of the sale of books.”




Vol. II.--43.


[Illustration: ~Catherine Mompesson’s Tomb at Eyam.~]

    Among the verdant mountains of the Peak
      There lies a quiet hamlet, where the <DW72>
    Of pleasant uplands wards the north-winds bleak;
      Below, wild dells romantic pathways ope;
      Around, above it, spreads a shadowy cope
    Of forest trees: flower, foliage, and clear rill
     Wave from the cliffs, or down ravines elope;
    It seems a place charmed from the power of ill
    By sainted words of old:--so lovely, lone, and still.

    And many are the pilgrim feet which tread
      Its rocky steeps, which thither yearly go;
    Yet, less by love of Nature’s wonders led,
      Than by the memory of a mighty woe,
      Which smote, like blasting thunder, long ago,
    The peopled hills. There stands a sacred tomb,
      Where tears have rained, nor yet shall cease to flow;
    Recording days of death’s sublimest gloom;
    Mompesson’s power and pain,--his beauteous Catherine’s doom.

  _The Desolation of Eyam._

Through the seventeenth and half of the eighteenth century the village
of Eyam, three miles east from Tideswell, in Derbyshire, was populous
and flourishing; and all that part of the country thickly sown with
little towns and hamlets, was swarming with inhabitants. Owing to the
exhausted state of the lead mines the scene is altered, and Eyam is now
thinly peopled. It had before endured a dreadful affliction. The year
after “that awful and terrible period, when the destroying angel passed
over this island, and in the cities of London and Westminster swept away
three thousand victims in one night,” the visitation was revived in this
distant village, and four-fifths of the inhabitants perished in the
course of the summer. This calamity is the subject of the title-page to
a poetical volume of eminent merit and beauty, “_The Desolation of
Eyam_, &c. by William and Mary Howitt, Authors of the Forest Minstrel
and other Poems.”

Eyam was the birthplace of the late Anna Seward, and in the “Gentleman’s
Magazine”[383] there is a letter written in her youthful days, which
naturally relates the devoted attachment of the village rector, during
the plague, to his stricken flock; and the affectionate adherence of his
noble wife. Extracts from this letter, with others from the notes to
“The Desolation of Eyam,” and a few stanzas from the poem itself, as
specimens of its worth, may here suffice to convey some notion of the
story. The poets’ “Introduction” is briefly descriptive of “The
Peak”--its romantic rocks and glens--the roar of its flying streams--the
welling-up of its still waters--the silence of its beautiful dells--

    Such brightness fills the arched sky;
    So quietly the hill-tops lie
    In sunshine, and the wild-bird’s glee
    Rings from the rock-nursed service tree;
    Such a delicious air is thrown,
    Such a reposing calm is known
      On these delightful hills,
    That, as the dreaming poet lies
    Drinking the splendour of the skies,
      The sweetness which distils
    From herbs and flowers--a thrilling sense
    Steals o’er his musing heart, intense,
    Passive, yet deep; the joy which dwells
    Where nature frames her loneliest spells.
    And Fancy’s whispers would persuade
    That peace had here her sojourn made,
    And love and gladness pitched their tent,
    When from the world, in woe, they went.
    That each grey hill had reared its brow
    In peaceful majesty, as now.
    That thus these streams had traced their way
    Through scenes as bright and pure as they;
    That here no sadder strain was heard
    Than the free note of wandering bird;
    And man had here, in nature’s eye,
    Known not a pain, except, to die.

    Poets may dream--alas! that they
    Should dream so wildly, even by day--
    Poets may dream of love and truth,
    Islands of bliss, and founts of youth:
    But, from creation’s earliest birth,
    The curse of blood has raged on earth.
    Since the first arm was raised to smite
    The sword has travelled like a blight,
    From age to age, from realm to realm,
    Guiding the seaman’s ready helm.
    Go! question well--search far and near,
    Bring me of earth a portion here.
    Look! is not that exuberant soil
    Fraught with the battle’s bloody spoil?
    Turn where thou may’st, go where thou wilt,
    Thy foot is on a spot of guilt.

    The curse, the blight have not passed by
    These dales now smiling in thine eye.
    Of human ills an ample share,
    Ravage, and dearth, domestic care,
    They have not ’scaped. This region blest
    Knew not of old its pleasant rest.
    Grandeur there was, but all that cheers,
    Is the fair work of recent years.
    The Druid-stones are standing still
    On the green top of many a hill;
    The fruitful plough, with mining share,
    At times lays some old relic bare;
    The Danish mell; the bolt of stone,
    To a yet ruder people known:
    And oft, as on some point which lies
    In the deep hush of earth and skies,
    In twilight, silence, and alone,
    I’ve sate upon the Druid-stone,
    The visions of those distant times,
    Their barbarous manners, creeds and crimes,
    Have come, joy’s brightest thrill to raise,
    For life’s blest boon in happier days.
    But not of them--rude race--I sing;
    Nor yet of war, whose fiery wing,
    From age to age, with waste and wail,
    Drove from wide champaign, and low vale,
    Warrior and woman: child and flock,
    Here, to the fastness of the rock.
    The husbandman has ceased to hear
    Amidst his fields the cry of fear.
    Waves the green corn--green pastures rise
    Around,--the lark is in the skies.
    The song a later time must trace
    When faith here found a dwelling-place.
    The tale is tinged with grief and scath,
    But not in which man’s cruel wrath,
    Like fire of fiendish spirit shows,
    But where, through terrors, tears, and woes,
      He rises dauntless, pure, refined;
    Not chill’d by self, nor fired by hate,
    Love in his life,--and even his fate
      A blessing on his kind.

These latter lines allude to the poem, and it immediately commences.

“Eyam,” says Miss Seward, “is near a mile in length; it sweeps in a
waving line amongst the mountains, on a kind of natural terrace about
303 yards broad; above which, yet higher mountains arise. From that
dale of savage sublimity, which on the Buxton road from Matlock
commences at the end of Middleton, we ascend a quarter of a mile up a
narrow and steep lane on the right hand, which conducts us into Eyam.
About the centre of the village the continuance of the houses is broken
by a small field on the left. From its edge a deep and grassy dingle
descends, not less picturesque, and much more beautiful from its softer
features, than the craggy dale and its walls of barren rocks from which
we had ascended to Eyam, and in which, by a winding course, this dingle
terminates. Its ascent from the middle of Eyam is a steep, smooth, and
verdant turf, with scattered nut-trees, alders, and the mountain ash.
The bottom is scarcely five yards wide, so immediately ascend the noble
rocks on the opposite side, curtained with shrubs, and crowned with
pines that wave over their brows; only that a few bare parts appear in
fantastic points and perforated arches. Always in winter and summer,
after recent showers, a small clear rill ripples along the bottom of
this dell, but after long drought the channel is dry, and its pebbles
are left to bleach in the sun. Cliffs and fields stretch along the tops
of the rocks, and from their heights we descend gradually to the upper
part of Eyam, which, though high, is less elevated

    “Than are the summits of those hilly crofts,
    That brow the bottom glade.”

At the time of the plague, the rector of Eyam, the Rev. William
Mompesson, was in the vigour of youth; he had two children, a boy and
girl of three and four years old, and his wife Catherine, a young and
beautiful lady:--

    There dwelt they in the summer of their love.
      He, the young pastor of that mountain fold,
    For whom, not Fancy could foretell above,
      Bliss more than earth had at his feet unrolled.
      Yet, ceased he not on that high track to hold,
    Upon whose bright, eternal steep is shown
      Faith’s starry coronal. The sad, the cold
    Caught from his fervent spirit its warm tone,
    And woke to loftier aims, and feelings long unknown.

    And she,--his pride and passion,--she, all sun,
      All love, and mirth and beauty;--a rich form
    Of finished grace, where Nature had outdone
      Her wonted skill. Oh! well might Fancy’s swarm
      Of more than earthly hopes and visions, warm
    His ardent mind; for, joyous was her mood;
      There seemed a spirit of gladness to inform
    Her happy frame, by no light shock subdued,
    Which filled her home with light, and all she touched imbued.

    So lived, so loved they. Their life lay enshrined
      Within themselves and people. They reck’d not
    How the world sped around them, nor divined;
      Heaven, and their home endearments fill’d their lot.
      Within the charmed boundary of their cot,
    Was treasured high and multifarious lore
      Of sage, divine, and minstrel ne’er forgot
    In wintry hours; and, carolled on their floor,
    Were childhood’s happy lays. Could Heaven award them more?

Eyam, as before mentioned, had escaped the contagion in the “Great Year
of the Plague.” It was conveyed thither, however, in the ensuing spring
by infected cloths. Its appearance is vigorously sketched:--

    --------------- But, as in the calm
      Of a hot noon, a sudden gust will wake;
    Anon clouds throng; then fiercer squalls alarm;
      Then thunder, flashing gleams, and the wild break
      Of wind and deluge:--till the living quake,
    Towers rock, woods crash amid the tempest,--so
      In their reposing calm of gladness, spake
    A word of fear; first whispering--dubious--low,
    Then lost;--then firm and clear, a menacing of woe:

    ’Till out it burst, a dreadful cry of death;
      “The Plague! the Plague!” The withering language flew,
    And faintness followed on its rapid breath;
      And all hearts sunk, as pierced with lightning through.
      “The Plague! the Plague!” No groundless panic grew;
    But there, sublime in awful darkness, trod
      The Pest; and lamentation, as he slew,
    Proclaimed his ravage in each sad abode,
    Mid frenzied shrieks for aid--and vain appeals to God.

On the commencement of the contagion, Mrs. Mompesson threw herself with
her babes at the feet of her husband, to supplicate his flight from that
devoted place; but not even the entreaties and tears of a beloved wife
could induce him to desert his flock, in those hours of danger and
dismay. Equally fruitless were his solicitations that she would retire
with her infants. The result of this pathetic contest was a resolve to
abide together the fury of the pestilence, and to send their children
away.

    They went--those lovely ones, to their retreat.
      They went--those glorious ones, to their employ;
    To check the ominous speed of flying feet;
      To quell despair; to soothe the fierce annoy,
      Which, as a stormy ocean without buoy
    Tossing a ship distressed, twixt reef and rock,
      Hurried the crowd, from years of quiet joy
    Thus roused to fear by this terrific shock;
    And wild, distracted, mazed, the pastor met his flock.

It was the immediate purpose of this wise and excellent man, to stay his
parishioners from flight, lest they should bear the contagion beyond
their own district, and desolate the country.

    They heard, and they obeyed,--for, simple-hearted,
      He was to them their wisdom and their tower;
    To theirs, his brilliant spirit had imparted
      All that they knew of virtue’s loftier power;
      Their friend, their guide, their idolized endower
    With daily blessings, health of mind and frame;
      They heard, and they obeyed;--but not the more
    Obeyed the plague; no skill its wrath could tame;
    It grew, it raged, it spread; like a devouring flame.

    Oh! piteous was it then that place to tread;
      Where children played and mothers had looked on,
    They lay, like flowers plucked to adorn the dead;
      The bright-eyed maid no adoration won;
      Youth in its greenness, trembling age was gone;
    O’er each bright cottage hearth death’s darkness stole;
      Tears fell, pangs racked, where happiness had shone.

From a rational belief, that assembling in the crowded church for public
worship during the summer heats, must spread and increase the contagion,
he agreed with his afflicted parishioners, that he should read prayers
twice a week, and deliver his two customary sermons on the sabbath, from
one of the perforated arches in the rocks of the dingle. By his advice
they ranged themselves on the grassy steep in a level direction to the
rocky pulpit; and the dell being narrow, he was distinctly heard from
that arch.

The poem describes the spot, and the manner of the worship:--

    There is a dell, the merry schoolboy’s sling
      Whirled in the village, might discharge a stone
    Into its centre; yet, the shouts which ring
      Forth from the hamlet travel, over blown,
      Nor to its sheltered quietude are known.
    So hushed, so shrouded its deep bosom lies,
      It brooks no sound, but the congenial tone
    Of stirring leaves, loud rill, the melodies
    Of summer’s breezy breath, or autumn’s stormier skies.

    Northward, from shadowy rocks, a wild stream pours;
      Then wider spreads the hollow--lofty trees
    Cast summer shades; it is a place of flowers,
      Of sun and fragrance, birds and chiming bees.
      Then higher shoot the hills. Acclivities
    Splintered and stern, each like a castle grey,
      Where ivy climbs, and roses woo the breeze,
    Narrow the pass; there, trees in close array
    Shut, from this woodland cove, all distant, rude survey.

    But its chief ornament, a miracle
      Of Nature’s mirth, a wondrous temple stands,
    Right in the centre of this charmed dell,
      Which every height and bosky <DW72> commands.
      Arch meeting arch, unwrought of human hands,
    Form dome and portals.
    When hark!--a sound!--it issued from the dell;
      A solemn voice, as though one did declaim
    On some high theme; it ceased--and then the swell
    Of a slow, psalm-like chant on his amazement fell.

           *       *       *       *       *

      In that fantastic temple’s porch was seen
      The youthful pastor; lofty was his mien,
    But stamped with thoughts of such appalling scope,
      As rarely gather on a brow serene;
    And who are they, on the opposing <DW72>,
    To whom his solemn tones told but one awful hope?

    A pallid, ghost-like, melancholy crew,
      Seated on scattered crags, and far-off knolls,
    As fearing each the other. They were few.
      As men whom one brief hour will from the rolls
      Of life cut off, and toiling for their souls’
    Welcome into eternity--they seemed
      Lost in the heart’s last conflict, which controls
    All outward life--they sate as men who dreamed;
    No motion in their frames--no eye perception beamed.

The two following stanzas are fearfully descriptive of the awful
interruptions to the solemn service in this sequestered spot.

    But suddenly, a wild and piercing cry
      Arose amongst them; and an ancient man,
    Furious in mood--red frenzy in his eye,
      Sprang forth, and shouting, towards the hollow ran.
      His white locks floated round his features wan;
    He rushed impatient to the valley rill;
      To drink, to revel in the wave began,
    As one on fire with thirst; then, with a shrill
    Laugh, as of joy, he sank--he lay--and all was still.

    Then from their places solemnly two more
      Went forth, as if to lend the sufferer aid;
    But in their hands, in readiness, they bore
      The charnel tools, the mattock and the spade.
      They broke the turf--they dug--they calmly laid
    The old man in his grave; and o’er him threw
      The earth, by prayer, nor requiem delayed;
    Then turned, and with no lingering adieu,
    Swifter than they approached, from the strange scene withdrew.

The church-yard soon ceased to afford room for the dead. They were
afterwards buried in an heathy hill above the village.[384] Curious
travellers take pleasure in visiting, to this day, the mountain tumulus,
and in examining its yet distinct remains; also, in ascending, from the
upper part of Eyam, those cliffs and fields which brow the dingle, and
from whence the descent into the consecrated rock is easy. It is called
Cucklet church by the villagers.

    And now hope gleamed abroad. The plague seemed staid;
      And the loud winds of autumn glad uproar
    Made in the welkin. Health their call obeyed,
      And Confidence her throne resumed once more.
      Nay, joy itself was in the pastor’s bower;
    For him the plague had sought, its final prey;
      And Catherine pale, and shuddering at its power,
    Had watched, had wept, had seen it pass away,--
    And joy shone through their home like a bright summer’s day.

    The sudden fear woke memory in her cell;
      And tracing back the brightness of their being;
    Their love, their bliss, the fatal shafts which fell
      Around them--smote them--yet, even now were fleeing;
      Death unto numbers, but to them decreeing
    Safety;--rich omens for succeeding years,
      In that sweet gaiety of spirit seeing,
    Theirs was that triumph which distress endears;
    And gladness which breaks forth in mingling smiles and tears.

    So passed that evening: but, still midnight falls,
      And why gleams thence that lamp’s unwonted glare?
    Oh! there is speechless woe within those walls:
      Death’s stern farewell is given in thunder there.
      Mompesson wrapt in dreams and fancies fair,
    Which took their fashion from that evening’s tone,
      At once sprang up in terror and despair,
    Roused by that voice which never yet had known
    To wake aught in his heart, but pure delight alone.

    “My William!” faint and plaintive was the cry,
      And chill the hand which fell upon his breast,
    “My dearest William, wake thee! Oh! that I
      With such sad tidings should dispel thy rest.
      But death is here!” With agony possessed,
    He snatched a light--he saw--he reeled--he fell.
      There, in its deadliest form prevailed the pest.
    Too well he knew the fatal signs--too well:
    A moment--and to life--to happiness farewell!

The good and beautiful woman, Catherine Mompesson, expired in her
husband’s arms, in the twenty-seventh year of her age. Her tomb is near
an ancient cross in the church-yard of Eyam. It is represented in the
vignette to the “Desolation of Eyam;” and by means of that print the
present engraving is laid before the reader of this article.

Mr. Mompesson was presented to the rectory of Eakring, near Ollerton, in
Nottinghamshire, and he quitted the fatal scene. On his going, however,
to take possession of his living, the people, naturally impressed with
the terrors of the plague, in the very cloud and whirlwind of which he
had so lately walked, declined admitting him into the village. A hut
therefore was erected for him in Rufford Park, where he abode till the
fear subsided.

To this gift were added prebends in York and Southwell, and the offer of
the deanery of Lincoln. But the good man, with an admirable
disinterestedness, declined this last substantial honour, and
transferred his influence to his friend, the witty and learned Dr.
Fuller, author of “the Worthies of England,” &c. who accordingly
obtained it. The wish, which he expressed in one of his letters, that
“his children might be good rather than great,” sprang from a living
sentiment of his heart. He had tasted the felicity and the bitterness of
this world; he had seen its sunshine swallowed up in the shadow of
death; and earth had nothing to offer him like the blessedness of a
retirement, in which he might prepare himself for a more permanent state
of existence.

A brass plate, with a Latin inscription, records his death in this
pleasant seclusion, March 7, 1708, in the seventieth year of his age.

    Bright shines the sun upon the white walls wreathed[385]
      With flowers and leafy branches, in that lone
    And sheltered quiet, where the mourner breathed
      His future anguish; pleasant there the tone
      Of bees; the shadows, o’er still waters thrown,
    From the broad plane-tree; in the grey church nigh,
      And near that altar where his faith was known,
    Humble as his own spirit we descry
    The record which denotes where sacred ashes lie.

    And be it so for ever;--it is glory.
      Tombs, mausoleums, scrolls, whose weak intent
    Time laughs to scorn, as he blots out their story,
      Are not the mighty spirit’s monument.
      He builds with the world’s wonder--his cement
    Is the world’s love;--he lamps his beamy shrine,
      With fires of the soul’s essence, which, unspent,
    Burn on for ever;--such bright tomb is thine,
    Great patriot, and so rests thy peerless Catherine.

So ends the poem of “The Desolation of Eyam.” Its authors, in one of the
notes, relate as follows:--

There are extant three letters written by W. Mompesson, from the nearly
depopulated place, at a time when his wife had been snatched from him by
the plague, and he considered his own fate inevitable. In the whole
range of literature, we know of nothing more pathetic than these
letters. Our limits do not allow us to give them entire, but we cannot
forbear making a few extracts. In one, he says,

“The condition of this place has been so sad, that I persuade myself it
did exceed all history and example. I may truly say that our town has
become a Golgotha--the place of a skull; and, had there not been a
small remnant of us left, we had been as Sodom and Gomorrah. My ears
never heard such doleful lamentations, and my eyes never beheld such
ghastly spectacles. Here have been seventy-six families visited in my
parish, out of which two hundred and fifty-nine persons died! Now,
blessed be God--all our fears are over: for none have died of the
infection since the eleventh of October; and all the pest-houses have
been long empty. I intend (God willing) to spend most of this week in
seeing all the woollen clothes fumed and purified, as well for the
satisfaction, as for the safety of the country.”

Thus it is he announces to his children, the death of their mother.

  “_To my dear children_, GEORGE _and_ ELIZABETH MOMPESSON, _these
  present with my blessing_.

  “_Eyam, August, 1666._

“Dear Hearts,--This brings you the doleful news of your dear mother’s
death--the greatest loss which ever yet befell you! I am not only
deprived of a kind and loving consort, but you also are bereaved of the
most indulgent mother that ever dear children had. We must comfort
ourselves in God with this consideration, that the loss is only ours,
and that what is our sorrow is her gain. The consideration of her joys,
which I do assure myself are unutterable, should refresh our drooping
spirits.

“I do believe, my dear hearts, upon sufficient ground, that she was the
kindest wife in the world; and I do think from my soul that she loved me
ten times more than herself. Further, I can assure you, my sweet babes,
that her love to you was little inferior to hers for me. For why should
she be so desirous of my living in this world of sorrows, but that you
might have the comfort of my life. You little imagine with what delight
she was wont to talk of you both; and the pains that she took when you
sucked on her breasts is almost incredible. She gave a large testimony
of her love to you on her death-bed. For, some hours before she died, I
brought her some cordials, which she plainly told me she was not able to
take. I desired her to take them for your dear sakes. Upon the mention
of your dear names, she lifted up herself and took them; which was to
let me understand, that whilst she had strength left, she would embrace
any opportunity she had of testifying her affection to you.”

So wrote this most affectionate spirit to comfort his children: but, in
a letter to a relative, the bitterness of his grief burst forth in an
inconsolable agony. “I find this maxim verified by too sad experience;
_Bonum magis carendo quam fruendo cernitur_. Had I been so thankful as
my condition did deserve, I might yet have had my dearest dear in my
bosom. But now, farewell all happy days, and God grant I may repent my
sad ingratitude.”

The following letter was written to sir George Saville, afterwards lord
Hallifax, his friend and patron, soon after this melancholy event, and
while the plague was in his house, and he looked upon his own death as
certain, and speedily approaching.

“_To_ SIR GEORGE SAVILLE, _Baronet_.

  “_Eyam, Sept. 1, 1666._

“Honoured and dear sir,--This is the saddest news that ever my pen could
write! The destroying angel having taken up his quarters within my
habitation, my dearest dear is gone to her eternal rest; and is invested
with a crown of righteousness, having made a happy end.

“Indeed had she loved herself as well as me, she had fled from the pit
of destruction with her sweet babes, and might have prolonged her days,
but that she was resolved to die a martyr to my interest. My drooping
spirits are much refreshed with her joys, which I think are unutterable.

“Sir, this paper is to bid you a hearty farewell for ever--and to bring
my humble thanks for all your noble favours; and I hope that you will
believe a dying man. I have as much love as honour for you; and I will
bend my feeble knees to the God of Heaven that you, my dear lady and
your children, and their children, may be blest with external and
eternal happiness; and that the same blessing may fall upon my lady
Sunderland and her relations.

“Dear sir, let your dying chaplain recommend this truth to you and your
family--that no happiness nor solid comfort may be found in this vale of
tears like living a pious life;--and pray remember ever to retain this
rule--never to do any thing upon which you dare not first ask the
blessing of God for the success thereof.

“Sir, I have made bold in my will with your name as an executor, and I
hope that you will not take it ill. I have joined two others with you
that will take from you the trouble. Your favourable aspect will, I
know, be a great comfort to my distressed orphans. I am not desirous
that they may be great, but good; and my next request is that they may
be brought up in the fear and admonition of the Lord.

“I desire, sir, that you will be pleased to make choice of an humble,
pious man to succeed me in my parsonage; and, could I see your face
before my departure from hence, I would inform you which way I think he
may live comfortably amongst his people, which would be some
satisfaction to me before I die. And with tears I beg, that, when you
are praying for fatherless infants, you would then remember my two
pretty babes. Sir, pardon the rude style of this paper, and if my head
be discomposed, you cannot wonder at me. However, be pleased to believe
that I am

  Dear sir,

  Your most obliged, most affectionate,

  and grateful servant,

  “WILLIAM MOMPESSON.”

When first the plague broke out in Eyam, Mr. Mompesson wrote to the then
earl of Devonshire, residing at Chatworth, some five miles from Eyam;
stating, that he thought he could prevail upon his parishioners to
confine themselves within the limits of the village, if the surrounding
country would supply them with necessaries, leaving such provisions as
should be requested in appointed places, and at appointed hours, upon
the encircling hills. The proposal was punctually complied with; and it
is most remarkable, that when the pestilence became, beyond all
conception, terrible, not a single inhabitant attempted to pass the
deathful boundaries of the village, though a regiment of soldiers could
not, in that rocky and open country, have detained them against their
will: much less could any watch, which might have been set by the
neighbourhood, have effected that infinitely important purpose.

By the influence of this exemplary man, obtained by his pious and
affectionate virtues, the rest of the county of Derby escaped the
plague; not one of the very nearly neighbouring hamlets, or even a
single house, being infected beyond the limits of Eyam village, though
the distemper raged there near seven months.

Further details will hardly be required respecting a story, which is as
true as it is sad. The manner wherein it is poetically related is
sufficiently exemplified, and therefore, without comment; and for
beauties, various as the scenery of nature, expressed in charmed lines,
the reader of feeling is referred to the exquisite little volume
mentioned before, under the title of “_The Desolation of Eyam_, and
other Poems; by William and Mary Howitt, authors of the Forest Minstrel,
&c.”

A little piece, however, is ventured from the volume, as a _seasonable_
conclusion at parting.

SUMMER AND THE POET.

POET.

    Oh! golden, golden summer,
      What is it thou hast done?
    Thou hast chased each vernal roamer
      With thy fiercely burning sun.

    Glad was the cuckoo’s hail;
      Where may we hear it now?
    Thou hast driven the nightingale
      From the waving hawthorn bough.

    Thou hast shrunk the mighty river;
      Thou hast made the small brook flee;
    And the light gales faintly quiver
      In the dark and shadowy tree.

    Spring waked her tribes to bloom,
      And on the green sward dance.
    Thou hast smitten them to the tomb
      With thy consuming glance.

    And now Autumn cometh on,
      Singing ’midst shocks of corn,
    Thou hastenest to be gone,
      As if joy might not be borne.

SUMMER.

    And dost thou of me complain,
      Thou, who, with dreamy eyes,
    In the forest’s moss hast lain,
      Praising my silvery skies?

    Thou, who didst deem divine
      The shrill cicada’s tune,
    When the odours of the pine
      Gushed through the woods at noon?

    I have run my fervid race;
      I have wrought my task once more;
    I have filled each fruitful place
      With a plenty that runs o’er.

    There is treasure for the garner;
      There is honey with the bee;
    And, oh! thou thankless scorner,
      There’s a parting boon for thee.

    Soon as, in misty sadness,
      Sere Autumn yields his reign,
    Winter, with stormy madness,
      Shall chase thee from the plain.

    Then shall these scenes Elysian
      Bright in thy spirit burn;
    And each summer-thought and vision
      Be thine till I return.

It may be remembered that from this volume the poem of “Penn and the
Indians,” in a former sheet, was extracted.


[Illustration: ~Mompesson’s Pulpit in the Rock.~]

    -----------Bursting through that woody screen
      What vision of strange aspect met his eyes!
    In that fantastic temple’s porch was seen
      The youthful pastor ----------------
    ------------------ No sabbath sound
      Came from the village;--no rejoicing bells
    Were heard; no groups of strolling youth were found,
      Nor lovers loitering on the distant fells,
      No laugh, no shout of infancy, which tells
    Where radiant health and happiness repair;
      But silence, such as with the lifeless dwells.

  _The Desolation of Eyam._

A plate in the “Gentleman’s Magazine” of September, 1801, presents the
above view, taken about three years before, accompanied by a remark from
Mr. Urban’s correspondent, that it was “at that time an exact
resemblance of the perforated rock near the village of Eyam, in which
the pious and worthy Mr. Mompesson, the rector, punctually performed the
duties of his office to the distressed inhabitants during the time of
the plague in that village.”

Here it may be well to observe, in the expressive language of “William
and Mary Howitt,” that “what a cordon of soldiers could not have
accomplished was effected by the wisdom and love of one man. This
measure was the salvation of the country. The plague, which would most
probably have spread from place to place, may be said to have been
hemmed in, and, in a dreadful and desolating struggle, destroyed and
buried with its victims.”

William Mompesson exercised a power greater than legislators have yet
attained. He had found the great secret of government. He ruled his
flock by the _Law of Kindness_.

  *

       *       *       *       *       *

In the summer, 1757, five cottagers were digging on the heathy mountain
above Eyam, which was the place of graves after the church-yard became a
too narrow repository. Those men came to something which had the
appearance of having once been linen. Conscious of their situation, they
instantly buried it again. In a few days they all sickened of a putrid
fever, and three of the five died. The disorder was contagious, and
proved mortal to numbers of the inhabitants.

  [383] Vol. lxxi. p. 300.

  [384] The great and good Howard visited Eyam the year before he last
  left England, to examine in that village the records of the
  pestilential calamity which it had endured, and of those virtues which
  resembled his own.

  [385] Eakring rectory.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXXVII.

  [From “Ram Alley,” a Comedy, by Lodowick Barry, 1611.]

In the Prologue the Poet protests the innocence of his Play, and gives a
promise of better things.

    Home bred mirth our Muse doth sing;
    The Satyr’s tooth, and waspish sting.
    Which most do hurt when least suspected,
    By this Play are not affected.
    But if conceit, with quick-turn’d scenes,
    Observing all those ancient streams
    Which from the Horse-foot fount do flow--
    As time, place, person--and to show
    Things never done, with that true life,
    That thoughts and wits shall stand at strife,
    Whether the things now shewn be true;
    Or whether we ourselves now do
    The things we but present: if these,
    Free from the loathsome Stage-disease,
    So over-worn, so tired and stale;
    Not satyrising, but to rail;--
    May win your favors, and inherit
    But calm acceptance of his merit,--
    He vows by paper, pen, and ink,
    And by the Learned Sisters’ drink,
    To spend his time, his lamps, his oil,
    And never cease his brain to toil,
    Till from the silent hours of night
    He doth produce, for your delight,
    Conceits so new, so harmless free,
    That Puritans themselves may see
    A Play; yet not in public preach,
    That Players such lewd doctrine teach,
    That their pure joints do quake and tremble,
    When they do see a man resemble
    The picture of a villain.--This,
    As he a friend to Muses is,
    To you by me he gives his word,
    Is all his Play does now afford.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Royal King and Loyal Subject,” a Tragi-comedy, by T.
  Heywood, 1627.]

In the Prologue to this Play, Heywood descants upon the variety of
topics, which had been introduced upon the English stage in that
age,--the rich Shakspearian epoch.

    To give content to this most curious age,
    The Gods themselves we’ve brought down to the stage,
    And figured them in Planets; made ev’n Hell
    Deliver up the Furies, by no spell
    Saving the Muses’ raptures: further we
    Have traffickt by their help; no History
    We’ve left unrifled; our pens have been dipt
    As well in opening each hid manuscript,
    As tracts more vulgar, whether read or sung,
    In our domestic or more foreign tongue.
    Of Fairy elves, Nymphs of the Sea and Land,
    The Lawns and Groves, no number can be scann’d,
    Which we’ve not given feet to. Nay, ’tis known,
    That when our Chronicles have barren grown
    Of story, we have all Invention stretcht;
    Dived low as to the center, and then reacht
    Unto the Primum Mobile above,
    (Nor ’scaped Things Intermediate), for your love
    These have been acted often; all have past
    Censure: of which some live, and some are cast.
    For this[386] in agitation, stay the end;
    Tho’ nothing please, yet nothing can offend.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Challenge to Beauty,” a Tragi-comedy, by T. Heywood, 1636.]

In the Prologue to this Play, Heywood commends the English Plays; not
without a censure of some writers, who in his time had begun to
degenerate.

    The Roman and Athenian Dramas far
    Differ from us: and those that frequent are
    In Italy and France, ev’n in these days,
    Compared with ours, are rather Jiggs than Plays.
    Like of the Spanish may be said, and Dutch;
    None, versed in language, but confess them such.
    They do not build their projects on that _ground_;
    Nor have their phrases half the weight and sound,
    Our labour’d Scenes have had. And yet our nation
    (Already too much tax’d for imitation,
    In seeking to ape others) cannot ’quit
    Some of our Poets, who have sinn’d in it.
    For where, before, great Patriots, Dukes, and Kings,
    Presented for some high facinorous things[387]
    Were the stage subject; now we strive to fly
    In their low pitch, who never could soar high:
    For now the common argument entreats
    Of puling Lovers, crafty Bawds, or Cheats.
    Nor blame I their quick fancies, who can fit
    These queasy times with humours flash’d in wit,
    Whose art I both encourage and commend;
    I only wish that they would sometimes bend
    To memorise the valours of such men,
    Whose very names might dignify the pen;
    And that our once-applauded Rosscian strain
    In acting such might be revived again;
    Which you to count’nance might the Stage make proud,
    And poets strive to key their strings more loud.

  C. L.

  [386] His own Play.

  [387] The foundations of the English Drama were laid deep in _tragedy_
  by Marlow, and others--Marlow especially--while our _comedy_ was yet
  in its lisping state. To this tragic preponderance (forgetting his own
  sweet Comedies, and Shakspeare’s), Heywood seems to refer with regret;
  as in the “Rosscian Strain” he evidently alludes to Alleyn, who was
  great in the “Jew of Malta,” as Heywood elsewhere testifies, and in
  the principal tragic parts both of Marlow and Shakspeare.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Wrestling~

IN CORNWALL AND DEVONSHIRE.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--The ready insertion given to my letter on the above subject, in
the second volume of the _Every-Day Book_, (p. 1009,) encourages me to
hope that you will as readily insert the present, which enters more
fully into the merits of this ancient sport, as practised in both
counties, than any other communication you have as yet lain before your
numerous readers.

Having been the first person to call your attention to the merits of
Polkinhorne, Parkins, and Warren, of Cornwall, (to which I could easily
have added the names of some dozen or two more, equally deserving of
notice,) I was much amused at the article you extracted from the London
Magazine, (into the _Every-Day Book_, vol. ii. p. 1337,) because I was
present at the sport there spoken of; and being well acquainted with the
play, and an eye-witness, I found the picture much too highly .

I am neither a Cornwall nor a Devon man myself, but have resided in both
counties for the last ten years, and am really an admirer of Abraham
Cann, of Devon, whose behaviour in the ring no one can at all complain
of: he _is_ a fine fellow, but so is Polkinhorne, and, beyond doubt, the
latter is “much the better man;” he threw Cann an _acknowledged_ fair
fall, and I regret he left the ring on the _bad_ advice of those whom he
thought then his friends. Had he not, I am certain he would have thrown
Cann “over and over again.”

In a late number of the _Table Book_ (p. 416) is given an extract from
Homer, to show that Ulysses’ mode of wrestling was similar to that of
Abraham Cann; it may be so; but what does Achilles say upon the
subject:--

    “Your nobler vigour, oh, my friends, restrain:
    Nor weary out your gen’rous strength in vain.
    Ye _both_ have won: let others who excel
    Now prove that prowess you have prov’d so well.”

Now Abraham Cann, with his monstrous shoe, and most horrible mode of
kicking, has never yet been able to throw Polkinhorne, nor do I think he
has the power or skill to enable him to do so. His defeat of Gaffney has
added no laurel to his brow, for the Irishman had not a shadow of
chance; nor is there an Irishman or a Cornishman, now in London, that
would stand any chance with Cann; but he would find several awkward
opponents if he would meet those from Westmoreland, Carlisle, and
Cumberland, and play in their mode. In the match, however, between
Polkinhorne and Cann the latter very properly received the stakes, on
account of the former having quitted the ring on conceiving he had won
the day, by throwing two falls. The second throw, on reference to the
umpires, was after some time deemed not a fair back fall.--This,
however, is foreign to my purpose; which is to systematically explain
the methods of wrestling in Cornwall and Devon.

I have seen in Cornwall more persons present at these games, when the
prize has only been a gold-laced hat, a waistcoat, or a pair of gloves,
than ever attend the sports of Devon, (where the prizes are very
liberal--for they don’t like to be kicked severely for a trifle,) or
even at the famed meetings of later days in London, at the Eagle in the
City Road, or the Golden Eagle in Mile End. How is this? Why, in the
latter places, six, eight, and, at farthest, twelve standards are as
much as a day’s play will admit of; while in Cornwall I have seen forty
made in one day. At Penzance, on Monday, 24th ult.,[388] thirty
standards were made, and the match concluded the day following. In
Devon, what with the heavy shoes and thick padding, and time lost in
equipment and kicking, half that number _cannot_ be made in a day: I
have frequently seen men obliged to leave the ring, and abandon the
chance of a prize, owing solely to the hurt they have received by kicks
from the knee downwards; and let me here add, that I have been present
when even Cann’s brothers, or relations, have been obliged to do so. So
much for kicking.--To the eye of a beholder unacquainted with wrestling,
the Cornish mode must appear as _play_, and that of Devon
_barbarous_.--It is an indisputable fact, that no Cornish wrestler of
any note ever frequents the games in Devon; and that whenever those from
Devon have played in Cornwall; they have been thrown: Jordan by Parkins,
and so on.

At a _Cornish_ wrestling, a man’s favourite play can be seen by the
_hitch_ or holdfast he takes; as right or left, which is sure to be
crossed by left and right, and the struggle immediately commences. The
_off-hand_ play is that in which the men have each a gripe on his
adversary’s collar, or on the collar and opposite elbow, or wrist; when
by a sudden blow against the outside of the foot, by the striker’s
inside, (if strong enough,) or by a corresponding twist of the collar,
one lays the other flat on his back. This is called _playing with the
toe_; but they never wear any shoes, and are generally bare-legged from
the knee downwards.

When the hitch is collar and elbow, one mode of play is to lift with the
heel placed in the fork, with the back twisted round towards the other’s
front, and pulling him strongly by the elbow and collar, carry him
forward; but a back fall is then uncertain. Another way is to _heave_
forward or backward with the _crook_, or _inlock_, or with the hip.

But the _struggle_ is on what is termed the _closing_ play, which is by
hitching over and under. If righthanded, the over player has his right
hand on the loins, or over the right shoulder of his adversary, with his
right side towards him, and his left hand on the right arm, at the wrist
or elbow; he then throws forward with the hip, or backward and forward
with the _crook_, as before.

The _under_ player has his right hand on the left side of the collar,
his left crossing the loins on the back, or crossing the belly in front,
and facing his opponent’s left side. His defensive play is to stop the
hip by the _clamp_ and the crook; by pushing forward with his left hand
on the nape of the neck, and then _heaving_; which in the ring is
considered the best play. A good and sure heaver is a perfect player. It
must be done backward, if the arm crosses the back; but if it crosses
the belly, either backward or forward will do. Cann was thrown by
Polkinhorne backwards, which is dangerous to the heaver to attempt; for,
if he does not lift with sufficient strength, and keep himself clear of
his antagonist’s legs, he will not go far enough round, and instead of
throwing his adversary a fair fall, he may fall on his own back, which
is termed _throwing himself_; or his adversary may crook his leg within,
and overbalance the heaver and by a quick movement throw him. Thus was
Warren thrown by Cann. (See the _Every-Day Book_, vol. ii. p. 1337.)

The _forward heave_, if done quickly, is certain. Both arms must cross
the belly, and your adversary be lifted across your chest; then,
plunging forward, you fall on him crosswise; he has thus no chance, and
the fall is complete; but the _in-turn_, if adopted before the lift from
the ground takes place, baffles the heaver.

The _Cornish hug_ is a tremendous struggle for victory. Both grasp
alike, and not much science is required. It only takes place where each
conceives himself to be the stronger of the two. It is either right or
left. If right, each man has his right hand on the other’s loins on the
left side, and his left hand on the right shoulder; they stand face to
face, and each strives to draw his adversary towards him, and grasps him
round the waist, till the hug becomes close, and the weakest man is
forced backward--the other falling heavily upon him. This is a very sure
and hard fall. So much for Cornish play. Now for that of Devonshire;
which resembles in every respect (the toe and heel excepted) the
off-hand play of Cornwall, but goes no farther.

The _Devonshire_ men have no under-play, nor have they one heaver; and
they do not understand or practise the _hug_. Visit a Devon ring, and
you’ll wait a tedious time after a man is thrown ere another appears.
After undergoing the necessary preparations for a good kicking, &c. he
enters, and shakes his adversary by the hand, and kicks and lays hold
when he can get a fit opportunity. If he is conscious of superior
strength he “goes to work,” and by strength of arms wrests him off his
legs, and lays him flat; or, if too heavy for this, he carries him round
by the hip. But when the men find they are “much of a muchness” it is
really tiresome: “caution” is the word; the _shoe_, only, goes to work;
and after dreadful hacking, cutting, and kicking, one is at last thrown.
The hardest shoe and the best kicker carries the day. Cann is a very
hard kicker and a cautious wrestler. The Irishman’s legs bore ample
testimony of the effects of Cann’s shoe. He left him knee-deep in a
stream of gore.

The Devon men never close with a Cornish adversary, if they find he
possesses any science; because they have no underplay, and cannot
prevent the risk of being heaved: they therefore stand off, with only
one hand in the collar, and kick; the Cornishman then attempts to get
in, and the Devonman tries to confine one of his opponent’s arms by
holding him at the wrist, and keeping him from coming in either over or
under, and at every move of his leg kicking it. Here ends the
description; by which it will be plainly seen that a Cornishman cannot
enter a Devon ring on any thing like an equality.

Wishing well to both counties, and disclaiming undue partiality to
either, I remain a true lover of wrestling as a rustic sport, and your
obedient servant,

  SAM SAM’S SON.

  _October 8, 1827._

  [388] See the West Briton paper of the 5th October.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Discoveries~

OF THE

ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

No. XII.


ETHER--WEIGHT AND ELASTICITY OF THE AIR--AIR-GUNS.

By _ether_ the moderns understand a rare fluid, or species of matter,
beyond the atmosphere, and penetrating it, infinitely more subtile than
the air we respire, of an immense extent, filling all the spaces where
the celestial bodies roll, yet making no sensible resistance to their
motions. Some suppose it to be a sort of air, much purer than that which
invests our globe; others, that its nature approaches to that of the
celestial fire, which emanates from the sun and other stars; others,
again, suppose it to be generically different from all other matter,
_sui generis_, and its parts finer than those of light; alleging that
the exceeding tenuity of its parts renders it capable of that vast
expansive force, which is the source of all that pressure and dilatation
whence most of the phenomena in nature arise; for that by the extreme
subtilty of its parts it intimately penetrates all bodies, and exerts
its energy everywhere. This last is the opinion of Newton and Locke. But
whatever be the sentiments now entertained on the subject, we find the
origin of all of them in the ancients.

The stoics taught, that there was a subtile and active fire which
pervaded the whole universe, that by the energy of this ethereal
substance, to which they gave the name of ether, all the parts of nature
were produced, preserved, and linked together; that it embraced every
thing; and that in it the celestial bodies performed their revolutions.

According to Diogenes Laertius and Hierocles, Pythagoras affirmed, that
the air which invests our earth is impure and mixed; but that the air
above it is essentially pure and healthful. He calls it “free ether,
emancipated from all gross matter, a celestial substance that fills all
space, and penetrates at will the pores of all bodies.”

Aristotle, explaining Pythagoras’s opinion of ether, ascribes the same
also to Anaxagoras. Aristotle himself, in another place, understands by
ether, _a fifth element pure and unalterable, of an active and vital
nature, but entirely different from air and fire_.

Empedocles, one of the most celebrated disciples of Pythagoras, is
quoted by Plutarch, and St. Clemens Alexandrinus, as admitting an
ethereal substance, which filled all space, and contained in it all the
bodies of the universe, and which he calls by the names of Titan and
Jupiter.

Plato distinguishes air into two kinds, the one gross and filled with
vapours, which is what we breathe; the other “more refined, called
ether, in which the celestial bodies are immerged, and where they roll.”

The nature of _air_ was not less known to the ancients than that of
ether. They regarded it as a general “_menstruum_,” containing all the
volatile parts of every thing in nature, which being variously agitated,
and differently combined, produced meteors, tempests, and all the other
changes we experience. They also were acquainted with its weight, though
the experiments transmitted to us, relative to this, are but few.
Aristotle speaks of “a vessel filled with air as weighing more than one
quite empty.” Treating of respiration, he reports the opinion of
Empedocles, who ascribes the cause of it “to the weight of the air,
which by its pressure insinuates itself with force” into the lungs.
Plutarch, in the same terms, expresses the sentiments of Asclepiades. He
represents him, among other things, as saying, that “the external air by
its weight opens its way with force into the breast.” Heron of
Alexandria ascribes effects to the elasticity of the air, which show
that he perfectly understood that property of it.

Seneca also knew its weight, spring, and elasticity. He describes “the
constant effort it makes to expand itself when it is compressed;” and he
affirms, that “it has the property of condensing itself, and forcing its
way through all obstacles that oppose its passage.”

It is still more surprising, however, that Ctesibius, “upon the
principle of the air’s elasticity,” invented _Wind-guns_, which we look
upon as a modern contrivance. Philo of Byzantium gives a very full and
exact description of that curious machine, planned upon the property of
the air’s being capable of condensation, and so constructed as to manage
and direct the force of that element, in such a manner as to carry
stones with rapidity to the greatest distance.

       *       *       *       *       *


INSCRIBED ON A SIGN

AT CASTLE CARY, SOMERSET.

FOOT,

    Maker of pattens, clogs, rakes, and mouse-traps too,
    Grinds razors, makes old umbrellas good as new:
    Knives bladed, spurs and lanterns mended; other jobs done;
    Teakettles clean’d, repaired, and carried home.

  J. T. H.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Manners and Customs.~

_For the Table Book._


PROVINCIAL SAYINGS, &C.

  1. As the days grow longer,
     The storms grow stronger.

  2. As the days lengthen,
     So the storms strengthen.

  3. Blessed is the corpse, that the rain falls on.

  4. Blessed is the bride, that the sun shines on.

  5. He that goes to see his wheat in May,
     Comes weeping away.


HARVEST-HOME CALL,

IN THE COUNTY OF DURHAM.

    Blest be the day that Christ was born,
    _We’ve getten_ mell of Mr. ----’s corn,
    Well won, and better shorn.
          Hip, hip, hip!--Huzza! huzza! huzza!


AN OLD YORKSHIRE MAY-GAME.

  “_An account of a May-Game, performed at Richmond, Yorkshire, on the
  29th of May, 1660, by the inhabitants of that town; whereby they
  demonstrated their universal joy for the happy return of Charles II.,
  whom God was pleased to make the instrument of freeing this nation
  from tyranny, usurpation, and the dismal effects of a civil war._

“They came into the town, in solemn equipage, as follows:--

“1. Three _antics_ before them with bagpipes.

“2. The representative of a _lord_, attended by trumpets, falconers,
four pages, as many footmen, and fifty attendants, all suited as became
persons of their quality.

“3. The representative of a _sheriff_, with forty attendants, in their
liveries.

“4. The _bishop_ of _Hereford_, with four pages and footmen, his
chaplain, and twenty other household officers, besides their attendants.

“5. Two companies of _morris-dancers_, who acted their parts to the
satisfaction of the spectators.

“6. _Sixty nymphs_, with music before them, following Diana, all richly
adorned in white and gorgeous apparel, with pages and footmen attending
them.

“7. Three companies of _foot soldiers_, with a captain and other
officers, in great magnificence.

“8. _Robin Hood_, in scarlet, with forty bowmen, all clad in Lincoln
green.

“Thus they marched into the town. Now follows their performance.

“They marched decently, in good order, round the market-cross, and came
to the church, where they offered their cordial prayers for our most
gracious sovereign; a sermon preached at that time.

“From thence my lord invited all his attendants to his house to dinner.

“The reverend bishop did the same to all his attendants, inviting the
minister and other persons to his own house, where they were sumptuously
entertained.

“The soldiers marched up to the cross, where they gave many vollies of
shot, with push of pike, and other martial feats.

“There was erected a scaffold and arbours, where the morris-dancers and
nymphs acted their parts; many thousands of spectators having come out
of the country and villages adjacent.

“Two days were spent in acting ‘Robin Hood.’ The sheriff and reverend
bishop sent bottles of sack to several officers acting in the play, who
all performed their parts to the general satisfaction of the spectators,
with acclamations of joy for the safe arrival of his sacred majesty.

“Something more might have been expected from the civil magistrate of
the town, who permitted the conduit to run water all the time.

“The preceding rejoicings were performed by the commonalty of the
borough of Richmond.”


CHRISTMAS PIE.

The following appeared in the Newcastle Chronicle, 6th Jan.
1770:--“Monday last was brought from Howick to Berwick, to be shipp’d
for London, for sir Hen. Grey, bart., a pie, the contents whereof are as
follows: viz. 2 bushels of flour, 20 lbs. of butter, 4 geese, 2 turkies,
2 rabbits, 4 wild ducks, 2 woodcocks, 6 snipes, and 4 partridges; 2
neats’ tongues, 2 curlews, 7 blackbirds, and 6 pigeons: it is supposed a
very great curiosity, was made by Mrs. Dorothy Patterson, housekeeper at
Howick. It was near nine feet in circumference at bottom, weighs about
twelve stones, will take two men to present it to table; it is neatly
fitted with a case, and four small wheels to facilitate its use to every
guest that inclines to partake of its contents at table.”


OLIVER CROMWELL’S WEDDINGS.

The singular mode of solemnizing marriages that took place during
Cromwell’s usurpation, was pretty strictly observed for the space of
four years; during which time sixty-six couple were joined together
before the civil magistrate (at Knaresbrough.) The gentlemen who were
applied to in this case, for the most part, appear to be Thomas
Stockdale, of Bilton Park, Esq.; sir Thomas Mouleverer, bart. of
Allerton Park; or the mayor of Ripon. The bans were published on three
separate days before marriage, sometimes at the market-cross, and
sometimes in the church. The following is a copy of one of the
certificates:--

  “_30 Mar. 1651._ Marmaduke Inman and Prudence Lowcock, both of the
  parish of Knaresbrough, were this day married together at Ripon,
  having first been published three several market-days in the
  market-place at Knaresbrough, according to the act of parliament, and
  no exceptions made.

  “In the presence of

  “_Thomas Davie_,

  “_Anthony Simpson_.”


ELECTIONEERING.

In sir Henry Slingsby’s Diary is the following note, respecting the
election at Knaresbrough in the year 1640. “There is an evil custom at
such elections, to bestow wine on all the town, which cost me sixteen
pounds at least.”

  D. A. M.

       *       *       *       *       *


A RARE BROAD FARTHING!

_To the Editor._

Sir,--In your last very pleasing number, p. 242, you give an account of
a “Farthing Lord.” As addenda to that article I state, that in the west
of England I knew a penurious old gentleman, who, by way of generous
reward, used to give the person who performed little services for him a
_farthing_!, with this grateful apostrophe, “Here, my friend; here is a
rare _broad farthing_ for thee!--go thy way--call to-morrow; and, if
thou earn it, thou shalt have another _rare broad farthing_!” By the
exercise of this liberality, he gained the appellation of “Broad
Farthing!” and retained it to the day of his death, when he left immense
wealth.

  I am, sir, yours, &c.

  *, *, *.

  _Islington, August 25, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The following good-tempered and agreeable letter has been published in
illustration of an excellent engraving of Wilkie’s interesting picture
of Sir Walter Scott and his family:--

  LETTER FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT TO SIR ADAM FERGUSON, DESCRIPTIVE OF A
  PICTURE PAINTED BY DAVID WILKIE, ESQ., R.A., EXHIBITED AT THE ROYAL
  ACADEMY, 1818.

My dear Adam,--I have duly received your letter, with that enclosed from
the gentleman whom you have patronised, by suffering the sketch from the
pencil of our friend Wilkie to be engraved for his work.

The picture has something in it rather of a domestic character, as the
personages are represented in a sort of masquerade, such being the
pleasure of the accomplished painter. Nevertheless, if it is to be
engraved, I do not see that I can offer any objection, since it is the
wish of the distinguished artist, and the friendly proprietor of the
sketch in question.

But Mr. Balmanno [Secretary to the Incorporated Artists’ Fund] mentions,
besides, a desire to have anecdotes of my private and domestic life, or,
as he expresses himself, a portrait of the author in his night-gown and
slippers; and this from you, who, I dare say, could furnish some
anecdotes of our younger days, which might now seem ludicrous enough.

Even as to my night-gown and slippers, I believe the time has been, when
the articles of my wardrobe were as familiar to your memory as _Poins’s_
to _Prince Henry_; but that time has been for some years past, and I
cannot think it would be interesting to the public to learn that I had
changed my old _robe-de-chambre_ for a handsome _douillette_ when I was
last at Paris. The truth is, that a man of ordinary sense cannot be
supposed delighted with the species of gossip which, in the dearth of
other news, recurs to such a quiet individual as myself; and though,
like a well-behaved lion of twenty years’ standing, I am not inclined to
vex myself about what I cannot help, I will not in any case, in which I
can prevent it, be accessory to these follies. There is no man known at
all in literature, who may not have more to tell of his private life
than I have: I have surmounted no difficulties either of birth or
education, nor have I been favoured by any particular advantages, and my
life has been as void of incidents of importance, as that of the “weary
knife-grinder,”--

    “Story! God bless you. I have none to tell, sir.”

The follies of youth ought long since to have passed away; and if the
prejudices and absurdities of age have come in their place, I will keep
them, as Beau Tibbs did his prospect, for the amusement of my domestic
friends. A mere enumeration of the persons in the sketch is all I can
possibly permit to be published respecting myself and my family; and as
must be the lot of humanity, when we look back seven or eight years,
even what follows cannot be drawn up without some very painful
recollections.

The idea which our inimitable Wilkie adopted was to represent our family
group in the garb of south country peasants, supposed to be concerting a
merry-making, for which some of the preparations are seen. The place is
the terrace near Kayside, commanding an extensive view towards the
Eildon hills. 1. The sitting figure, in the dress of a miller, I
believe, represents Sir Walter Scott, author of a few scores of volumes,
and proprietor of Abbotsford, in the county of Roxburgh. 2. In front,
and presenting, we may suppose, a country wag somewhat addicted to
poaching, stands sir Adam Ferguson, Knight-Keeper of the Regalia of
Scotland. 3. In the background is a very handsome old man, upwards of
eighty-four years old at the time, painted in his own character of a
shepherd. He also belonged to the numerous clan of Scott. He used to
claim credit for three things unusual among the Southland shepherds:
first, that he had never been _fou_ in the course of his life; secondly,
he never had struck a man in anger; thirdly, that though intrusted with
the management of large sales of stock, he had never lost a penny for
his master by a bad debt. He died soon afterwards at Abbotsford. 4, 5,
6. Of the three female figures, the elder is the late regretted mother
of the family represented. 5. The young person most forward in the group
is Miss Sophia Charlotte Scott, now Mrs. J. G. Lockhart; and 6, her
younger sister, Miss Ann Scott. Both are represented as ewe-milkers,
with their _leglins_, or milk-pails. 7. On the left hand of the
shepherd, the young man holding a fowling-piece is the eldest son of sir
Walter, now captain in the king’s hussars. 8. The boy is the youngest of
the family, Charles Scott, now of Brazenose College, Oxford. The two
dogs were distinguished favourites of the family; the large one was a
stag-hound of the old Highland breed, called Maida, and one of the
handsomest dogs that could be found; it was a present from the chief of
Glengary to sir Walter, and was highly valued, both on account of his
beauty, his fidelity, and the great rarity of the breed. The other is a
little Highland terrier, called _Ourisk_, (goblin,) of a particular
kind, bred in Kintail. It was a present from the honourable Mr. Stewart
Mackenzie, and is a valuable specimen of a race which is now also
scarce.

Maida, like Bran, Luath, and other dogs of distinction, slumbers
“beneath his stone,” distinguished by an epitaph, which, to the honour
of Scottish scholarship be it spoken, has only _one_ false quality in
_two_ lines.

    “Maidæ marmorea dormis sub imagine Maida,
    “Ad januam domini sit tibi terra levis.”

Ourisk still survives, but, like some other personages in the picture,
with talents and temper rather the worse for wear. She has become what
Dr. Rutty, the quaker, records himself in his journal as having
sometimes been--sinfully dogged and snappish.

If it should suit Mr. Balmanno’s purpose to adopt the above
illustrations, he is heartily welcome to them; but I make it my especial
bargain, that nothing more is said upon such a meagre subject.

It strikes me, however, that there is a story about old Thomas Scott,
the shepherd, which is characteristic, and which I will make your friend
welcome to. Tom was, both as a trusted servant and as a rich fellow in
his line, a person of considerable importance among the class in the
neighbourhood, and used to stickle a good deal to keep his place in
public opinion. Now, he suffered, in his own idea at least, from the
consequence assumed by a country neighbour, who, though neither so well
reputed for wealth or sagacity as Thomas Scott, had yet an advantage
over him, from having seen the late king, and used to take precedence
upon all occasions when they chanced to meet. Thomas suffered under this
superiority. But after this sketch was finished and exhibited in London,
the newspapers made it known that his present majesty had condescended
to take some notice of it. Delighted with the circumstance, Thomas Scott
set out, on a most oppressively hot day, to walk five miles to Bowden,
where his rival resided. He had no sooner entered the cottage, than he
called out in his broad forest dialect--“Andro’, man, de ye anes sey
(see) the king?” “In troth did I, Tam,” answered Andro’, “sit down, and
I’ll tell ye a’ about it: ye sey, I was at Lonon, in a place they ca’
the park, that is no like a hained hog-fence, or like the four-nooked
parks in this country----.” “Hout awa,” said Thomas, “I have heard a’
that before: I only came ower the Know to tell you, that, if you have
seen the king, the king has seen mey,” (me.) And so he returned with a
jocund heart, assuring his friends “it had done him much muckle gude to
settle accounts wi’ Andro’.”

Another favour I must request is, that Mr. Balmanno will be so good as
to send me a proof of these illustrations, as my hand is very bad, and
there be errors both of the pen and of the press.

_Jocose hœc_, as the old Laird of Restalrig writes to the Earl of
Gowrie.--Farewell, my old tried and dear friend of forty long years. Our
enjoyments must now be of a character less vivid than we have shared
together.

    “But still at our lot it were vain to repine.
    “Youth cannot return, or the days of Lang Syne.”

  Yours affectionately,

  WALTER SCOTT.[389]

  _Abbotsford, August 2._

  [389] From _The Times_, October 16, 1827.

       *       *       *       *       *


ADVICE

TO “LOOK AT HOME!”

The advice given by a girl to Thales, the Milesian philosopher, was
strong and practical. Seeing him gazing at the heavens, as he walked
along, and perhaps piqued by his not casting an eye on her attractions,
she put a stool in his path, over which he tumbled and broke his shins.
The excuse she made was, that she meant to teach him, before he indulged
himself in star-gazing, to “look at home.”


ADVICE FOR A BROKEN LIMB.

In a late translation of Hippocrates, we read the following piece of
grave advice, which, notwithstanding the great name of the counsellor,
will hardly have many followers.

In a fracture of the thigh, “the extension ought to be particularly
great, the muscles being so strong that, notwithstanding the effect of
the bandages, their contraction is apt to shorten the limb. This is a
deformity so deplorable, that when there is reason to apprehend it, I
would advise the patient to suffer the other thigh to be broken also,
in order to have them both of one length.”

The founder of the Jesuits, St. Ignatius Loyola, who, to preserve the
shape of his boot, had a considerable part of his leg-bone cut off,
would have been a docile patient to the sage Hippocrates. The story is
in the _Every-Day Book_, vol. i. p. 1050.


SINCERE ADVICE.

While Louis XIV. was besieging Lisle, the Spanish governor very
handsomely sent him, from the town, every day, fresh ice for the use of
his table. M. de Charost, a favourite of the king, happening to be near
him when one of these presents arrived, said to the messenger, with a
loud voice, “Do you be sure to tell M. de Brouai, your governor, that I
advise him not to give up his town like a coward, as the commandant of
Douai has done.” “Are you mad, Charost?” said the king, turning to him
angrily. “No, sir,” said Charost, “but you must excuse me. The comte de
Brouai is my near relation.”


ADVICE FOR JUDGING OF POETRY.

Cardinal de Retz desired Menage to favour him with a few lectures on
poetry; “for,” said he, “such quantities of verses are brought to me
every day, that I ought to seem, at least, to be somewhat of a
judge.”--“It would,” replied Menage, “be difficult to give your eminence
many rudiments of criticism, without taking up too much of your time.
But I would advise you, in general, to look over the first page or two,
and then to exclaim, _Sad stuff! wretched poetaster! miserable verses!_
Ninety-nine times in a hundred you will be sure you are right.”

       *       *       *       *       *


A NOMINAL ACCIDENT.

_To the Editor._

It is rather extraordinary that of the two pork-butchers in
Clare-market, one of their names should be “HUM,” the other’s
“SHUM.”--Fact! upon honour!--See for yourself; one is at the corner of
Blackmore-street, the other in the street adjoining Clement’s Inn.

  F. C. N.

  _August 9, 1827._




Vol. II.--44.


[Illustration: ~The Revolution-house at Whittington, Derbyshire.~]

    To eternize the delegated band,
      That seal’d their great forefathers’ fields their own,
    Rais’d ev’ry art that decks a smiling land,
      And laws that guard the cottage as the throne.

  _Rev. P. Cunningham_

This edifice obtained its name from the meeting of Thomas Osborne earl
of Danby, and William Cavendish earl of Devonshire, with Mr. John
D’Arcy, privately one morning, in 1688, upon Whittington Moor, as a
middle place between Chatsworth, Kniveton, and Aston, their respective
residences, to consult about the revolution, then in agitation.[390] A
shower of rain happening to fall, they removed to the village for
shelter, and finished their conversation at a public-house there, the
sign of “The Cock and Pynot.”[391]

The part assigned to the earl of Danby was, to surprise York; in which
he succeeded. After which, the earl of Devonshire was to take measures
at Nottingham, where the declaration for a free parliament, which he, at
the head of a number of gentlemen of Derbyshire, had signed Nov. 28,
1688,[392] was adopted by the nobility, gentry, and commonalty of the
northern counties, there assembled.[393] To the concurrence of these
patriots with the proceedings in favour of the prince of Orange in the
west, the nation is indebted for the establishment of its rights and
liberties.

The cottage here represented stands at the point where the road from
Chesterfield divides into two branches, to Sheffield and Rotherham. The
room where the noblemen sat is fifteen feet by twelve feet ten, and is
to this day called “The Plotting Parlour.” The old armed-chair, still
remaining in it, is shown by the landlord with particular satisfaction,
as that in which it is said the earl of Devonshire sat; and he tells
with equal pleasure, how it was visited by his descendants, and the
descendants of his associates, in the year 1788. Some new rooms, for the
better accommodation of customers, were added several years ago.

  _The duke of Leeds’ own account of his meeting the earl of Devonshire
  and Mr. John D’Arcy[394] at Whittington, in the county of Derby_, A.
  D. 1688.

The earl of Danby, afterwards duke of Leeds, was impeached, A. D. 1678,
of high treason by the house of commons, on a charge of being in the
French interest, and, in particular, of being popishly affected: many,
both peers and commoners, were misled, and had conceived an erroneous
opinion concerning him and his political conduct. This he has stated
himself, in the introduction to his letters, printed in 1710, where he
says, “The malice of my accusation did so manifestly appear in that
article wherein I was charged to be popishly affected, that I dare swear
there was not one of my accusers that did then believe that article
against me.”

The duke then proceeds, for the further clearing of himself, in these
memorable words, relative to the meeting at Whittington:--

“The duke of Devonshire also, when we were partners in the secret trust
about the revolution, and who did meet me and Mr. John D’Arcy, for that
purpose, at a town called Whittington, in Derbyshire, did, in the
presence of the said Mr. D’Arcy, make a voluntary acknowledgment of the
great mistakes he had been led into about me; and said, that both he,
and most others, were entirely convinced of their error. And he came to
sir Henry Goodrick’s house in Yorkshire purposely to meet me there
again, in order to concert the times and methods by which he should act
at Nottingham, (which was to be his post,) and one at York, (which was
to be mine;) and we agreed, that I should first attempt to surprise
York, because there was a small garrison with a governor there; whereas
Nottingham was but an open town, and might give an alarm to York, if he
should appear in arms before I had made my attempt upon York; which was
done accordingly;[395] but is mistaken in divers relations of it. And I
am confident that the duke (had he been now alive) would have thanked
nobody for putting his prosecution of me amongst the glorious actions of
his life.”

       *       *       *       *       *

On the 4th and 5th of November 1788, the centenary of the landing of
king William, the Revolution Jubilee was celebrated at Whittington and
Chesterfield, as appears by the following letter from the venerable
rector of the parish:--

_To Mr. Gough._

  _Whittington, Oct. 11, 1788._

Dear sir,--We are to have most grand doings at this place, 5th of
November next, at the _Revolution-house_, which I believe you saw when
you was here. The resolutions of the committee were ordered to be
inserted in the London prints, so I presume you may have seen them. I am
desired to preach the sermon.

  I remain, your much obliged, &c.

  S. PEGGE.

_Resolutions._

The committee appointed by the lords and gentlemen at the last
Chesterfield races, to conduct and manage the celebration of the
intended jubilee, on the hundredth anniversary of the glorious
revolution, at the Revolution-house in Whittington, in the county of
Derby, where measures were first concerted for the promotion of that
grand constitutional event, in these midland parts, have this day met,
and upon consideration come to the following resolutions:--

That general Gladwin do take the chair at this meeting. That the Rev.
Samuel Pegge be requested to preach a sermon on the occasion at
Whittington church, on the 5th day of November next. That the gentlemen
who intend to honour the meeting with their company do assemble at
Whittington church, exactly at eleven o’clock in the forenoon of that
day, to attend divine service. That immediately after service they meet
at the Revolution-house, where a cold collation will be provided. That
they go in procession from thence to Chesterfield, where ordinaries will
be provided at the Angel, Castle, and Falcon inns. That the meeting be
open to all friends of the revolution. That letters be written to the
dukes of Devonshire and Leeds, and the earl of Stamford, to request the
honour of their attendance at that meeting. That there be a ball for the
ladies in the evening at the assembly-room in Chesterfield. That a
subscription of one guinea each be entered into for defraying the
extraordinary expenses on the occasion, and that the same be paid into
the hands of Messrs. Wilkinson’s, in Chesterfield. That the committee do
meet again on Wednesday, the 8th of October next, at the Angel inn, in
Chesterfield, at one o’clock. That these resolutions be published in
the Derby and Nottingham newspapers, and in the St. James’s, Whitehall,
and Lloyd’s Evening Posts, and the London and English Chronicles.

  HENRY GLADWIN, Chairman.

  _Chesterfield, Sept. 27, 1788._

According to these resolutions, on Tuesday the 4th of November, the
committee appointed to conduct the jubilee had a previous meeting, and
dined together at the “Revolution-house” in Whittington. The duke of
Devonshire, lord Stamford, lord George and lord John Cavendish, with
several neighbouring gentlemen, were present. After dinner a
subscription was opened for the erecting of a monumental column, in
commemoration of the glorious revolution, on that spot where the earls
of Devonshire and Danby, lord Delamere, and Mr. John D’Arcy, met to
concert measures which were eminently instrumental in rescuing the
liberties of their country from perdition. As this monument was intended
to be not less a mark of public gratitude, than the memorial of an
important event, it was requested, that the representatives of the
above-mentioned families would excuse their not being permitted to join
in the expense.

On the 5th, at eleven in the morning, the commemoration commenced with
divine service at Whittington church. The Rev. Mr. Pegge, the rector of
the parish, delivered an excellent sermon from the words “This is the
day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.” Though
of a great age, having that very morning entered his eighty-fifth year,
he spoke with a spirit which seemed to have been derived from the
occasion; his sentiments were pertinent, well arranged, and his
expression animated.

The descendants of the illustrious houses of Cavendish, Osborne, Boothe,
and D’Arcy, (for the venerable duke of Leeds, whose age would not allow
him to attend, had sent his two grandsons, in whom the blood of Osborne
and D’Arcy united;) a numerous and powerful gentry; a wealthy and
respectable yeomanry; a hardy, yet decent and attentive peasantry; whose
intelligent countenances showed that they understood, and would be firm
to preserve, that blessing, for which they were assembled to return
thanks to Almighty God, presented a truly solemn spectacle, and, to the
eye of a philosopher, the most interesting that can be imagined.

After service the company went in succession to view the
“Revolution-house,” and the room called “The Plotting Parlour,” with the
old armed-chair in which the earl of Devonshire is said to have sitten;
and every one partook of an elegant cold collation, which was prepared
in the new rooms annexed to the cottage. Some time being spent in this,
then began

_The Procession._

Constables with long staves, two and two.

The eight clubs, four and four, with flags inscribed “The Protestant
Religion, and the Liberties of England, we will maintain,”--“Libertas;
quæ sera, tamen respexit inertem.” “Liberty secured.”--“The Glorious
Revolution 1688.”--“Liberty, Property, Trade, Manufactures.”--“In Memory
of the Glorious Assertors of British Freedom 1688.”--“Revolted from
Tyranny at WHITTINGTON 1688.”--“Bill of Rights.” “Willielmus Dux Devon.
Bonorum Principum Fidelis Subditus; Immicus et Invisus Tyrannis.”

  [The members of the eight clubs were estimated at two thousand
  persons, each having a white wand in his hand, with blue and orange
  tops and favours, with the word “Revolution” stamped upon them.]

  The Derbyshire militia’s band of music.

  The corporation of Chesterfield in their formalities, who joined the
  procession on entering the town.

  The duke of Devonshire in his coach and six.

  Attendants on horseback with four led horses.

  The earl of Stamford in his post-chaise and four.

  Attendants on horseback.

  The earl of Danby and lord Francis Osborne in their post-chaise and
  four.

  Attendants on horseback.

  Lord George Cavendish in his post-chaise and four.

  Attendants on horseback. Lord John Cavendish in his post-chaise and
  four.

  Attendants on horseback.

  Sir Francis Molyneux and sir Henry Hunloke, barts. in sir Henry’s
  coach and six.

  Attendants on horseback.

  And upwards of forty other carriages of the neighbouring gentry, with
  their attendants. Gentlemen on horseback, three and three.

  Servants on horseback, ditto.

The procession paraded different parts of the town of Chesterfield to
the Castle, where the Derbyshire band of music formed in the centre,
and played “Rule Britannia,” “God save the King,” &c. The clubs and
corporation still proceeded in the same order to the mayor’s, and then
dispersed.

The whole was conducted with order and regularity. Notwithstanding there
were fifty carriages, four hundred gentlemen on horseback, two thousand
on foot, and an astonishing throng of spectators, not an accident
happened. All was joy and gladness, without a single burst of unruly
tumult and uproar. The sun shed auspicious beams, and blessed the happy
day with unusual splendour.

The company was so numerous as scarcely to be accommodated at the three
principal inns. The dinner at the Castle was served in a style of
unusual elegance. The first five toasts after the repast were:--

1. The king.

2. The glorious and immortal memory of king William III.

3. The memory of the Glorious Revolution.

4. The memory of those Friends to their Country, who, at the risk of
their lives and fortunes, were instrumental in effecting the Glorious
Revolution in 1688.

5. The Law of the Land.

In the evening a brilliant exhibition of fireworks was played off, under
the direction of signior Pietro; during which the populace were regaled
with a proper distribution of liquor. The day concluded with a ball, at
which were present near three hundred gentlemen and ladies. The late
duchess of Devonshire, surrounded by the bloom of the Derbyshire hills,
presented a picture scarcely to be portrayed. Nearly two hundred and
fifty ball-tickets were received at the door.

The warm expression of gratitude and affection sparkling in every eye
must have excited in the breasts of those noble personages, whose
ancestors were the source of this felicity, a sensation which monarchs
in all their glory might envy. The utmost harmony and felicity prevailed
throughout the whole meeting. A hogshead of ale was distributed to the
populace at Whittington, and three hogsheads at Chesterfield; where the
duke of Devonshire gave also three guineas to each of the eight clubs.

At this meeting party distinctions were forgotten. Persons of all ranks
and denominations wore orange and blue in memory of the great event; and
the most respectable Roman Catholic families vied in their endeavours
to show how just a sense they had of the value of civil liberty.[396]

The Rev. P. Cunningham, of Eyam, a place which readers of the last sheet
can scarcely have forgotten, addressed some stanzas to the Rev. Samuel
Pegge, the rector of Whittington, on occasion of the festivity, together
with the following

ODE

_For the Revolution Jubilee_, 1788.

    When lawless power his iron hand,
    When blinded zeal her flaming brand
      O’er Albion’s island wav’d;
    Indignant freedom veil’d the sight;
    Eclips’d her son of glory’s light;
      Her fav’rite realm enslav’d.

    Distrest she wander’d:--when afar
    She saw her Nassau’s friendly star
      Stream through the stormy air:
    She call’d around a patriot band;
    She bade them save a sinking land;
      And deathless glory share.

    Her cause their dauntless hearts inspir’d,
    With ancient Roman virtue fir’d,
      They plough’d the surging main;
    With fav’ring gales from Belgia’s shore
    Her heaven-directed hero bore,
      And freedom crown’d his reign.

    With equal warmth her spirit glows,
    Though hoary Time’s centennial snows
      New silver o’er her fame.
    For hark, what songs of triumph tell,
    Still grateful Britons love to dwell
      On William’s glorious name.

  [390] Kennett.

  [391] A provincial name for a _Magpie_.

  [392] Rapin, xv. 199.

  [393] Deering’s Nottingham, p. 258.

  [394] Son and heir of Conyers earl of Holderness.

  [395] For the earl of Devonshire’s proceedings at Derby and
  Whittington, see Mr. Deering’s History of Nottingham, p. 260. Mr.
  Drake, p. 177 of his Eboracum, just mentions the earl of Danby’s
  appearance at York.

  [396] Pegge’s Anecdotes of Old Times, p. lxiii, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *


VIRTUOUS DESPOTISM.

CHARACTER OF ALIA BHYE.

One of the purest and most exemplary monarchs that ever existed, a
female without vanity, a bigot without intolerance, possessed of a mind
imbued with the deepest superstition, yet receiving no impressions
except what promoted the happiness of those under its influence; a being
exercising in the most active and able manner despotic power, not merely
with sincere humility, but under the severest moral restraint that a
strict conscience can impose upon human action. And all this combined
with the greatest indulgence for the weakness and faults of others.[397]

  [397] Sir John Malcolm’s Central India.

       *       *       *       *       *


UXBRIDGE

AND

THE TREATY HOUSE.

REMARKABLE COOKING FOUNTAIN, &c.

_For the Table Book._

Uxbridge, the most considerable market town in the county of Middlesex,
is distant from London about fifteen miles on the north-west. It
consists of one long street, which is neatly paved, and its situation on
the road to Oxford, Gloucester, and Milford Haven, is productive of much
benefit to the inhabitants, while it imparts a constant air of bustle
and vivacity to the main thoroughfare.[398] The name of this place was
anciently spelt Oxebruge; and in more modern records Woxebrugge, or
Woxebruge.[399] The derivation seems easily discovered:--the place was
noted in distant ages for the passage of oxen from the adjacent fields
in Buckinghamshire, and a bridge was constructed over the river Colne,
which flows near the town.

Speed asserts that a monastery was founded here, dedicated to St. Mary;
but it is neither mentioned by any other writer, nor is any trace of it
now to be met with.

Uxbridge has been celebrated in history, for the treaty which took place
there between commissioners appointed respectively by the king and the
parliament, during the disturbances of the seventeenth century.

The commissioners met in January 1645; the numbers were sixteen on the
part of the king, and twelve on behalf of the parliament, together with
the Scottish commissioners. It was agreed, that the Scottish and
parliamentary commissioners should give in their demands with regard to
three important articles, viz. religion, the militia, and Ireland; and
that these should be successively discussed in conference with the
king’s commissioners.[400]

It was soon discovered that no rational discussion could be expected.
The demands made by the parliament were so great, that, had they been
granted, the crown would have been divested of its due weight and
dignity in the state; and been rendered unable to protect those who had
so faithfully adhered to the royal cause during its troubles.

The mansion in which the commissioners met is thus described by lord
Clarendon:--“There was a good house at the end of the town, which was
provided for the treaty, where was a fair room in the middle of the
house, handsomely dressed up for the commissioners to sit in; a large
square table being placed in the middle with seats for the
commissioners, one side being sufficient for those of either party; and
a rail for others who should be thought necessary to be present, which
went round. There were many other rooms on either side of this great
room, for the commissioners on either side to retire to, when they
thought fit to consult by themselves, and to return again to the public
debate; and there being good stairs at either end of the house, they
never went through each other’s quarters, nor met but in the great
room.”

This mansion, which is situated at the western extremity of the town of
Uxbridge, (was formerly a seat of the Bennet family, and at the time of
the treaty, the residence of Mr. Carr,) is still standing, and was a few
years since converted into an inn, bearing the sign of the Crown, and
has since undergone considerable repairs. The part towards the high road
has been newly fronted, but one entire end, and some inferior portions
of the outside, still retain their original appearance. Two principal
rooms likewise remain untouched by modern innovations; one of these is
the room in which Charles I. slept; the other in which he signed the
treaty with the parliament, and in which the commissioners afterwards
met. The treaty room, as it is called, is a spacious apartment, and is
lined with panelled oak wainscotting: it contains an original portrait
of Mary queen of Scots, taken a short time previous to her execution,
which is greatly admired; a copy from Vandyke of Charles I.; and some
excellent portraits engraved by Bartolozzi from paintings in Windsor
castle, among whom are sir Thomas More, his father, (judge More,) and
his son; and two females who I believe were governesses to part of the
family of Charles I. The room in which the king slept is more handsomely
wainscotted than the former, being in many parts curiously and
laboriously carved, and has a circular oak pillar on each side of the
fire-place, which is ornamented with tasteful and elaborate workmanship.

Another curiosity at this house, though not of so ancient a date, or
possessing equal charms for the antiquarian, deserves a slight notice.
In the garden is a fountain supplied with water, which has been
obtained by boring, and which falls into a reservoir containing perch,
tench, and a considerable quantity of eels;[401] at the top of the
fountain is an appropriate weathercock--an angler, with his landing-net
resting against his shoulder, his rod in his hand, and his line and
float moving on the surface of the water, according as the figure is
turned by the wind. On the water attaining a certain height it is
carried off by a pipe, and falls on an overshot wheel about three feet
in circumference; the use to which this is applied is very
remarkable--that of turning four spits at once before the kitchen fire!
I am informed that a similar plan to this is adopted in Cheshire, but I
am unable to ascertain the place.

  J. R. J.

  [In the “Gentleman’s Magazine” for August, 1789, there is an
  engraving, described as “a view of the house where the unfortunate
  Charles I. signed the treaty of Uxbridge, Jan. 30, 1644.” The writer
  of the account annexed to that print says, “The house has been pulled
  down within these few years: it stood at the end of Uxbridge town, in
  the road to Beaconsfield.” ED.]

  [398] Beauties of England and Wales.

  [399] I believe I am right in stating (I do it from memory) that on
  the town measures it is spelt “Wexbrige.”

  J. R. J.


  [400] Whitelock, p. 121. Dugdale, p. 755.

  [401] At the time of my visit I was informed there were nearly two
  hundred weight.

  J. R. J.


       *       *       *       *       *


LONDON WATCHMEN.

Had a council of thieves been consulted, the regulations of the Watch
could not have been better contrived for their accommodation. The coats
of the Watchmen are made as large and of as white cloth as possible, to
enable the thieves to discern their approach at the greatest distance;
and that there may be no mistake, the lantern is added. They are fixed
at stations, that thieves, by knowing where they are, may infer where
they are not, and do their best; the intervals of half an hour in going
the rounds are just such as to give expert thieves a fair opportunity of
getting a moderate booty from a house. That they may not be taken by
surprise, they have the same accommodation in the cry of the time that
was prayed for by the rats, when they asked that bells might be hung
about the necks of the cats; and lastly, that the burglars may have all
possible chance, even, if surprised, the watchmen mostly chosen are old,
infirm, and impotent.[402]

  [402] The Times, October, 1827.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXXVIII.

  [From the “Fawn,” a Comedy, by John Marston, 1606.]

In the Preface to this Play, the Poet glances at some of the
Play-wrights of his time; with a handsome acknowledgment,
notwithstanding, of their excellencies.

  “for my own interest let this once be printed, that, of men of my own
  addition, I love most, pity some, hate none: for let me truly say it,
  I once only loved myself for loving them; and surely I shall ever rest
  so constant to my first affection, that, let their ungentle
  combinings, discurteous whisperings, never so treacherously labour to
  undermine my unfenced reputation, I shall (as long as I have being)
  love the least of their graces, and only pity the greatest of their
  vices.

    _Ipse semi-paganus_
    _Ad sacra vatûm carmen affero nostrum._”

       *       *       *       *       *

  [Commendatory Verses before three Plays of Sir William Killigrew, by
  T. L.]

1.

        That thy wise and modest Muse
        Flies the Stage’s looser use;
    Not bawdry _Wit_ does falsely name,
    And to move laughter puts off shame:

2.

        That thy theatre’s loud noise
        May be virgin’s chaste applause;
    And the stoled matron, grave divine,
    Their lectures done, may tend to thine:

3.

        That no actor’s made profane,
        To debase Gods, to raise thy strain;
    And people forced, that hear thy Play,
    Their money and their souls to pay:

4.

        That thou leav’st affected phrase
        To the shops to use and praise;
    And breath’st a noble Courtly vein,--
    Such as may Cæsar entertain,

5.

        When he wearied would lay down
        The burdens that attend a crown;
    Disband his soul’s severer powers;
    In mirth and ease dissolve two hours:

6.

        These are thy inferior arts,
        These I call thy second parts.
    But when thou earnest on the plot,
    And all are lost in th’ subtle knot;

7.

        When the scene sticks to every thought,
        And can to no event be brought;
    When (thus of old the scene betraid)
    Poets call’d Gods unto their aid,

8.

        Who by power might do the thing,
        Art could to no issue bring;
    As the Pellean prince, that broke
    With a rude and down-right stroke

9.

        The perplext and fatal noose,
        Which his skill could not unloose:--
    Thou dost a nobler art profess;
    And the coyl’d serpent can’st no less

10.

        Stretch out from every twisted fold,
        In which he lay inwove and roll’d,
    Induce a night, and then a day,
    Wrap all in clouds, and then display.

11.

        Th’ easy and the even design:
        A plot, without a God, divine!--
    Let others’ bold pretending pens
    Write acts of Gods, that know not men’s;
    In this to thee all must resign:
    Th’ Surprise of th’ Scene is wholly thine.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [Commendatory Verses before the “Faithful Shepherd” of Fletcher.]

    There are no sureties, good friend, will be taken
    For works that vulgar good-name hath forsaken.
    A Poem and a Play too! Why, ’tis like
    A Scholar that’s a Poet; their names strike,
    And kill out-right: one cannot both fates bear.--
    But as a Poet, that’s no Scholar, makes
    Vulgarity his whiffler, and so takes
    Passage with ease and state thro’ both sides ’press
    Of pageant-seers: or, as Scholars please,
    That are no Poets, more than Poets learn’d,
    Since _their_ art solely is by souls discern’d,
    (The others’ falls within the common sense,
    And sheds, like common light, her influence):
    So, were your Play no Poem, but a thing
    That every cobbler to his patch might sing;
    A rout of nifles, like the multitude,
    With no one limb of any art endued,
    Like would to like, and praise you: but because
    Your poem only hath by _us_ applause;
    Renews the Golden Age, and holds through all
    The holy laws of homely Pastoral,
    Where flowers, and founts, and nymphs, and semi-gods,
    And all the Graces, find their old abodes;
    Where poets flourish but in endless verse,
    And meadows nothing-fit for purchasers:
    This Iron Age, that eats itself, will never
    Bite at your Golden World, that others ever
    Loved as itself. Then, like your Book, do you
    Live in old peace: and that far praise allow.

  _G. Chapman._

       *       *       *       *       *

  [Commendatory Verses before the “Rebellion,” a Tragedy, by T. Rawlins,
  1640.]

    To see a Springot of thy tender age
    With such a lofty strain to word a Stage;
    To see a Tragedy from thee in print,
    With such a world of fine meanders in’t;
    Puzzles my wond’ring soul: for there appears
    Such disproportion ’twixt thy lines and years,
    That, when I read thy lines, methinks I see
    The sweet-tongued Ovid fall upon his knee
    With “_Parce Precor_.” Every line and word
    Runs in sweet numbers of its own accord.
    But I am thunderstruck, that all this while
    Thy unfeather’d quill should write a tragic style.
    This, above all, my admiration draws,
    That one so young should know dramatic laws:
    Tis rare, and therefore is not for the span
    Or greasy thumbs of every common man.
    The damask rose that sprouts before the Spring,
    Is fit for none to smell at but a king.
    Go on, sweet friend: I hope in time to see
    Thy temples rounded with the Daphnean tree;
    And if men ask “Who nursed thee?” I’ll say thus,
    “It was the Ambrosian Spring of Pegasus.”

  _Robert Chamberlain._

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE ACTING OF CHILDREN.

The acting of children in adult characters is of very ancient date.
Labathiel Pavy, a boy who died in his thirteenth year, was so admirable
an actor of old men, that Ben Jonson, in his elegant epitaph on him,
says, the fates _thought him one_, and therefore cut the thread of life.
This boy acted in “Cynthia’s Revels” and “The Poetaster,” in 1600 and
1601, in which year he probably died. The poet speaks of him with
interest and affection.

    Weep with me all you that read
      This little story;
    And know for whom a tear you shed
      Death’s self is sorry.

    ’Twas a child that did so thrive
      In grace and feature,
    That heaven and nature seem’d to strive
      Which own’d the creature.

    Years he number’d, scarce thirteen
      When fates turn’d cruel,
    Yet three fill’d Zodiacs had he been
      The stage’s jewel.

    And did act, what now we moan,
      Old men so duly,
    As sooth, the Parcæ thought him one,
      He played so truly.

  _Jonson._

       *       *       *       *       *


~A Dumb Peal of Grandsire Triples.~

In the just departed summer, (1827,) on my way from Keston, I stept into
“The Sun--R. Tape,” at Bromley, to make inquiry of the landlord
respecting a stage to London; and, over the parlour mantelpiece,
carefully glazed, in a gilt frame, beneath the flourishing surmounting
scroll, there appeared the following inscription “_in letters of
gold:_”--

[Illustration: RANG AT S^{T}. PETERS, BROMLEY.]

  On the 15th of January 1817, by the Society of BROMLEY YOUTHS, A
  complete Peal of _Grandsire Triples_, which is 5040 changes with the
  _Bells Muffled_, in commemoration of WM. CHAPMAN deceased, being a
  Ringer in the Parish of Bromley 43 years, and rang upwards of 60
  peals. This Dumb Peal was completed in 3 Hours and 6 minutes.

  THOS. GILES    1st.
  RD. CHAPMAN    2nd.
  WM. SANGER     3rd.
  GE. STONE      4th.
  WM. KING       5th.
  JNO. ALLEN     6th.
  WM. FULLER     7th.
  JNO. GREEN     8th.

  BEING _the first Dumb Peal of this kind ever rang in this Kingdom, and
  conducted by_

  J. ALLEN.

If “Wm. Chapman deceased” deserved to be commemorated by such a singular
feat, should not the commemoration of the feat itself be commemorated?
Is R. Tape--(_stay_-Tape, though he now be)--_everlasting_ Tape? Will he
not “fall as the leaves do?” Shall “The Sun” itself move to and fro in
the High Street of Bromley, as a sign, for ever? Can the golden
inscription--in honour of “the first Dumb Peal of Grandsire Triples ever
rang in this kingdom”--endure longer than corporation freedoms presented
“in letters of gold,” which are scarcely seen while the enfranchised
worthies live; nor survive them, except with their names, in the
engulfing drawers of the lovers and collectors of hand-writings? The
time must come when the eloquence of the auctioneer shall hardly obtain
for the golden record of the “Bromley Youths” the value of the glass
before it--when it shall increase a broker’s litter, and be of as
little worth to him as Chatterton’s manuscript was to the cheesemonger,
from whose rending fangs it was saved, the other day, by the “Emperor of
Autographs.”

“A Dumb Peal of Grandsire Triples!”--I am no ringer, but I write the
venerable appellation--as I read it--with reverence. There is a solemn
and expressive euphony in the phrase, like that of a well-known sentence
in Homer, descriptive of the billowings and lashings of the sea; which,
the first time I heard it, seemed to me an essay by the father of Greek
poesy towards universal language.

There is a harmony in the pealing of bells which cannot be violated,
without discovery of the infraction by the merest tyro; and in virtue of
the truth in bells, good ringers should be true men. There is, also,
evidence of plainness and sincerity in the very terms of their art: a
poem, “In praise of Ringing,” duly dignifies the practice, and sets
forth some of them--

    First, the YOUTHS try _One Single Bell_ to sound;
    For, to perfection who can hope to rise,
    Or climb the steep of science, but the man
    Who builds on steady principles alone,
    And method regular. Not he who aims
    To plunge at once into the midst of art,
    Self-confident and vain:--amazed he stands
    Confounded and perplex’d, to find he knows
    Least, when he thinks himself the most expert.

           *       *       *       *       *

    In order due to _Rounds_ they next proceed,
    And each attunes numerical in turn.
    Adepts in this, on _Three Bells_ they essay
    Their infant skill. Complete in this, they try
    Their strength on _Four_, and, musically bold,
    Full four-and-twenty _Changes_ they repeat.
    Next, as in practice, gradual they advance
    Ascending unto _Five_, they ring a peal
    Of _Grandsires_,--pleasing to a tuneful soul!
    On they proceed to _Six_. What various peals
    Join’d with plain _Bobs_ loud echo thro’ the air,
    While ev’ry ear drinks in th’ harmonic sound.
    With _Grandsire Triples_ then the steeple shakes--&c.

Next come the musical _Bob-majors_, on eight bells,--_Caters_, on
nine,--

    On ten, _Bobs-royal_;--from eleven, _Cinques_
    Accompanied with tenor, forth they pour;--
    And the _Bob-maximus_ results from twelve!

“Grandsire Triples!” My author says, “Ever since _Grandsire Triples_
have been discovered or practised, 5040 changes manifestly appeared to
view; but”--mark ye his ardent feeling under this--“but--to reach the
lofty summit of this grand climax was a difficulty that many had
encountered, though none succeeded; and those great names, Hardham,
Condell, Anable, &c., who are now recorded on the ancient rolls of fame,
had each exhausted both skill and patience in this grand pursuit to no
other purpose than being convinced, that either the task itself was an
utter impossibility, or, otherwise, that all their united efforts were
unequal to it; and it is possible that this valuable piece of treasure
would at this day have been fast locked up in the barren womb of sterile
obscurity, had not a poor unlettered youth appeared, who no sooner
approached this grand pile, but, as if by magic power, he varied it into
whatever form he pleased, and made it at once subservient to his will!”
It appears that this surprising person was Mr. John Holt “whose
extraordinary abilities must forever excite the astonishment and
admiration of all professors in this art, whether novices or adepts!”
The _first_ perfect peal of “Grandsire Triples” was John Holt’s; “it was
rung at St. Margaret’s, Westminster, on Sunday, the 7th of July, 1751.”
Be it remembered, that it is to commemorate the ringing of the _first_
“complete peal of _Grandsire Triples_ with the bells _muffled_,” by the
“Bromley youths,” that they have placed their golden lines in the “Sun.”

The “Bromley _Youths_!” Why are ringers of all ages called “youths?” Is
it from their continued service in an art, which by reason of
multitudinous “changes” can never be wholly learned?--such, for
instance, as in “the _profession_,” barristers whereof, are, in legal
phraseology, “_apprentices_ of the Law?”

By the by, I have somewhere read, or heard, that one of the ancient
judges, a lover of tintinnabulary pastime, got into a county town
_incog._ the day before he was expected thither to hold the assizes, and
the next morning made one among the “youths” in the belfry, and lustily
assisted in “ringing-in” his own clerk. Certain it is that doctors in
divinity have stripped off their coats to the exercise. “And moreover,”
says the author of the treatise before quoted, “at this time, to our
knowledge, there are several learned and eminent persons, both clergy
and laymen of good estates, that are members of several societies of
ringers, and think themselves very highly favoured that they can arrive
at so great an happiness and honour.”

In the advice to a “youth,” on the management of his bell, he is
recommended to “avoid all ungraceful gestures, and unseemly grimaces,
which, to the judicious eye, are both disagreeable and highly
censurable.”[403] Ringing, then, is a _comely_ exercise; and a lover of
the “music of bells” may, genteelly, do more than “_bid_ them
discourse.” Before the close of all gentlemanly recreation, and other
less innocent vanities, he may assure himself of final commemoration, by
a _muffled_ peal of “Grandsire Triples.” As a loyal subject he dare not
aspire to that which is clearly for kings alone,--_dumb_ “Bobs _Royal_.”
I take it that the emperor of Austria is the only sovereign in Europe,
except his Holiness, who can rightfully claim a _muffled_ “Bob
_Maximus_.”

  *

  [403] Clavis Campanalogia.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE CONDEMNED SHIP

AND

THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

Various announcements in the American papers of a large vessel,
constructed for the purpose of passing the Falls of Niagara, have
terminated in very unsatisfactory accounts of the manner wherein the
ship descended. All descriptions, hitherto, are deficient in exactness;
nor do we know for what purpose the experiment was devised, nor why
certain animals were put aboard the condemned ship. The latest
particulars are in the following letter to the printers of the “Albany
Daily Advertiser:”--

  “_Buffalo, Sept. 9, 1827._

“I would have written yesterday some few lines on the subject of the
‘_Condemned Ship_,’ but it was utterly impossible. The public-houses at
the falls were so thronged, that almost every inch of the floor was
occupied as comfortable sleeping apartments. My companions and myself
slept upon three straws for a bed, and had a feather turned edgeways for
a pillow. At about two o’clock p.m. the word was given ‘she comes, she
comes,’ and in about half an hour she struck the first rapid, keeled
very much, and lost her masts and spars, which caused her again to
right. Imagine to yourself a human being on board, and the awful
sensations he must have experienced on her striking the rapid, which
appeared for a moment to the beholders to be her last; but, as I
observed before, on her masts giving way, she again righted, and was
turned sideways, in which course she proceeded to the second rapid,
where she struck and stuck about a minute, and it seemed as though the
elements made their last and desperate effort to drive her over this
rapid. She was thrown completely on her side, filled, and again righted,
and proceeded on her course. Here let me remark, there were two bears, a
buffalo, a dog, and several other animals on board. The bears now left
the wreck and laid their course for shore, where they were caught, and
brought up to Mr. Brown’s hotel, and sold for five dollars a piece. The
buffalo likewise left the schooner, but laid his course down the falls,
and was precipitated over them and was killed, as was said, by a spar
falling across his back; as for the other animals, it is not known what
became of them. The vessel after going over the second rapid was turned
stern foremost, in which way she was precipitated over the mighty
falls, and when about half way over her keel broke, and in a few seconds
she was torn to fragments. There were probably from thirty to fifty
thousand spectators who witnessed this novel and imposing spectacle.”

It appears from the same paper that “the perpendicular height of the
falls, was then taken by actual measurement, from the new bridge
recently erected from the west end of Goat Island, extending to the
Terrapin rocks, eight hundred feet from the shore. The mode adopted in
ascertaining the depth, from the brink of the fall to the surface of the
water below, leaves no room to question its correctness. A piece of
scantling was used, projecting from the railing of the bridge over the
edge of the precipice, from which was suspended a cord with a weight
attached, reaching fairly to the water in a perpendicular line. The
length of the cord to the surface of the water at the brink was thirteen
feet one inch--from this to the water below, on accurate measurement,
the distance was found to be a hundred and fifty-three feet four inches.
These facts are duly certified to us by several gentlemen, natives and
foreigners, and by Mr. Hooker, the superintendent of Goat Island. We are
told, this is the first successful attempt that was ever made to
ascertain the perpendicular descent by actual measurement. Heretofore it
has been done by observation.”

Kalm, the Swedish traveller and naturalist, who was born in 1715, and
died about 1779, visited the Falls of Niagara in August 1750, and he
being, perhaps, the first distinguished writer who seems to have written
concerning them with accuracy, his account is subjoined, divested of a
few details, which on this occasion would not be interesting.

When Kalm saw these astonishing waters the country was in the possession
of the French. By the civility of the commandant of the neighbouring
fort, he was attended by two officers of the garrison, with instructions
to M. Joncaire, who had lived ten years at the “carrying place,” to go
with him and show and tell him whatever he knew. He writes to this
effect in a letter to one of his friends at Philadelphia:--“A little
before we came to the carrying-place the water of Niagara river grew so
rapid, that four men in a light birch canoe had much work to get up
thither. Canoes can go yet half a league above the beginning of the
carrying-place, though they must work against a water extremely rapid;
but higher up it is quite impossible, the whole course of the water, for
two leagues and a half up to the great fall, being a series of smaller
falls, one under another, in which the greatest canoe or bateau would in
a moment be turned upside down. We went ashore therefore, and walked
over the carrying-place, having, besides the high and steep side of the
river, two great hills to ascend one above the other. At half an hour
past ten in the morning we came to the great fall, which I found as
follows:--

“The river (or rather strait) runs here from S.S.E. to N.N.W. and the
rock of the great fall crosses it, not in a right line, but forming
almost the figure of a semicircle, or horse-shoe. Above the fall, in the
middle of the river, is an island, lying also S.S.E. and N.N.W. or
parallel with the sides of the river; its length is about seven or eight
French arpents, (an arpent being a hundred and twenty feet.) The lower
end of this island is just at the perpendicular edge of the fall. On
both sides of this island runs all the water that comes from the Lakes
of Canada, viz. Lake Superior, Lake Misohigan, Lake Huron, and Lake
Erie, which are rather small seas than lakes, and have besides a great
many large rivers that empty their water into them, whereof the greatest
part comes down this Niagara fall. Before the water comes to this island
it runs but slowly, compared with its motion when it approaches the
island, where it grows the most rapid water in the world, running with a
surprising swiftness before it comes to the fall; it is quite white, and
in many places is thrown high up into the air! The greatest and
strongest bateaux would here in a moment be turned over and over. The
water that goes down on the west side of the island is more rapid, in
greater abundance, whiter, and seems almost to outdo an arrow in
swiftness. When you are at the fall, and look up the river, you may see
that the river above the fall is everywhere exceeding steep, almost as
the side of a hill. When all this water comes to the very fall, there it
throws itself down perpendicular. The hair will rise and stand upright
on your head when you see this! I cannot with words express how amazing
this is! You cannot see it without being quite terrified; to behold so
vast a quantity of water falling abrupt from so surprising a height!

“Father Hennepin calls this fall six hundred feet perpendicular; but he
has gained little credit in Canada; the name of honour they give him
there is _un grand menteur_, or “the great liar.” Since Hennepin’s time
this fall, in all the accounts that have been given of it, has grown
less and less; and those who have measured it with mathematical
instruments find the perpendicular fall of the water to be exactly one
hundred and thirty-seven feet. M. Morandrier, the king’s engineer in
Canada, told me, and gave it me also under his hand, that one hundred
and thirty-seven feet was precisely the height of it; and all the French
gentlemen that were present with me at the fall did agree with him
without the least contradiction. It is true, those who have tried to
measure it with a line find it sometimes one hundred and forty,
sometimes one hundred and fifty feet, and sometimes more; but the reason
is, it cannot that way be measured with any certainty, the water
carrying away the line.

“When the water is come down to the bottom of the rock of the fall, it
jumps back to a very great height in the air; in other places it is as
white as milk or snow; and all in motion like a boiling caldron. When
the air is quite calm you can hear it to Niagara fort, six leagues; but
seldom at other times, because when the wind blows the waves of Lake
Ontario make too much noise there against the shore. The gentlemen who
were with me said it could be heard at the distance of fifteen leagues,
but that was very seldom. When they hear, at the fort, the noise of the
fall louder than ordinary, they are sure a north-east wind will follow,
which never fails: this seems wonderful, as the fall is south-west from
the fort; and one would imagine it to be rather a sign of a contrary
wind. Sometimes it is said, that the fall makes a much greater noise
than at other times; and this is looked on as a certain mark of
approaching bad weather or rain; the Indians here hold it always for a
sure sign.

“From the place where the water falls there rises abundance of vapours,
like the greatest and thickest smoke, though sometimes more, sometimes
less: these vapours rise high in the air when it is calm, but are
dispersed by the wind when it blows hard. If you go nigh to this vapour
or fog, or if the wind blows it on you, it is so penetrating, that in a
few minutes you will be as wet as if you had been under water. I got two
young Frenchmen to go down, to bring me from the side of the fall, at
the bottom, some of each of the several kinds of herbs, stones, and
shells, they should find there; they returned in a few minutes, and I
really thought they had fallen into the water: they were obliged to
strip themselves, and hang their clothes in the sun to dry.

“When you are on the other or east side of Lake Ontario, a great many
leagues from the fall, you may every clear and calm morning see the
vapours of the fall rising in the air; you would think all the woods
thereabouts were set on fire by the Indians, so great is the apparent
smoke. In the same manner you may see it on the west side of Lake Erie a
great many leagues off. Several of the French gentlemen told me, that
when birds come flying into this fog or smoke of the fall, they fall
down and perish in the water; either because their wings are become wet,
or that the noise of the fall astonishes them; and they know not where
to go in the darkness: but others were of opinion, that seldom or never
any bird perishes there in that manner, because, as they all agreed,
among the abundance of birds found dead below the fall, there are no
other sorts than such as live and swim frequently in the water, as
swans, geese, ducks, waterhens, teal, and the like; and very often great
flocks of them are seen going to destruction in this manner. As
water-fowl commonly take great delight in being carried with the stream,
so here they indulge themselves in enjoying this pleasure so long, till
the swiftness of the water becomes so great that it is no longer
possible for them to rise, but they are driven down the precipice and
perish. They are observed when they are drawing nigh to endeavour with
all their might to take wing and leave the water, but they cannot. In
the months of September and October such abundant quantities of dead
water-fowl are found every morning below the fall, on the shore, that
the garrison of the fort for a long time live chiefly upon them. Besides
the fowl they find several sorts of dead fish, also deer, bears, and
other animals, which have tried to cross the water above the fall; the
larger animals are generally found broken to pieces. Just below, a
little way from the fall, the water is not rapid, but goes all in
circles and whirls, like a boiling pot, which, however, does not hinder
the Indians going upon it in small canoes a fishing; but a little
further, and lower, begin the other smaller falls. When you are above
the fall, and look down, your head begins to turn. The French, who have
been here a hundred times, will seldom venture to look down, without, at
the same time, keeping fast hold of some tree with one hand.

“It was formerly thought impossible for any body living to come at the
island that is in the middle of the fall: but an accident that happened
twelve years ago, or thereabouts, made it appear otherwise. Two Indians
of the Six Nations went out from Niagara fort to hunt upon an island in
the middle of the river, above the great fall, on which there used to be
abundance of deer. They took some French brandy with them from the fort,
which they tasted several times as they were going over the
carrying-place, and when they were in their canoe they took now and then
a dram, and so went along up the strait towards the island where they
proposed to hunt; but growing sleepy they laid themselves down in the
canoe, which getting loose drove back with the stream farther and
farther down, till it came nigh that island that is in the middle of the
fall. Here one of them, awakened by the noise of the fall, cried out to
the other that they were gone! They tried if possible to save their
lives. This island was nighest, and with much working they got on shore
there. At first they were glad; but when they considered, they thought
themselves hardly in a better state than if they had gone down the fall,
since they had now no other choice than either to throw themselves down
the same, or to perish with hunger. But hard necessity put them on
invention. At the lower end of the island the rock is perpendicular, and
no water is running there. The island has plenty of wood; they went to
work then, and made a ladder or shrouds of the bark of lindtree, (which
is very tough and strong,) so long, till they could with it reach the
water below; one end of this bark ladder they tied fast to a great tree
that grew at the side of the rock above the fall, and let the other end
down to the water. By this they descended. When they came to the bottom
in the middle of the fall they rested a little, and as the water next
below the fall is not rapid, they threw themselves out into it, thinking
to swim on shore. I have said before, that one part of the fall is on
one side of the island, the other on the other side. Hence it is, that
the waters of the two cataracts running against each other, turn back
against the rock that is just under the island. Therefore hardly had the
Indians begun to swim, before the waves of the eddy threw them with
violence against the rock from whence they came. They tried it several
times, but at last grew weary, for they were much bruised and lacerated.
Obliged to climb up their stairs again to the island, and not knowing
what to do, after some time they perceived Indians on the shore, to whom
they cried out. These hastened down to the fort, and told the commandant
where two of their brothers were. He persuaded them to try all possible
means of relief, and it was done in this manner:--The water that runs
on the east side of this island being shallow, especially a little above
the island towards the eastern shore, the commandant caused poles to be
made and pointed with iron, and two Indians undertook to walk to the
island by the help of these poles, to save the other poor creatures or
perish themselves. They took leave of all their friends as if they were
going to death. Each had two poles in his hands, to set to the bottom of
the stream to keep them steady. So they went and got to the island, and
having given poles to the two poor Indians there, they all returned
safely to the main.

“The breadth of the fall, as it runs in a semicircle, is reckoned to be
about six arpents, or seven hundred feet. The island is in the middle of
the fall, and from it to each side is almost the same breadth. The
breadth of the island at its lower end is two thirds of an arpent,
eighty feet, or thereabouts.

“Every day, when the sun shines, you see here from ten o’clock in the
morning to two in the afternoon, below the fall, and under you, where
you stand at the side of the fall, a glorious rainbow, and sometimes
two, one within the other. I was so happy as to be at the fall on a fine
clear day, and it was with great delight I viewed this rainbow, which
had almost all the colours you see in a rainbow in the air. The more
vapours, the brighter and clearer is the rainbow. I saw it on the east
side of the fall in the bottom under the place where I stood, but above
the water. When the wind carries the vapours from that place, the
rainbow is gone, but appears again as soon as new vapours come. From the
fall to the landing above it, where the canoes from Lake Erie put
ashore, (or from the fall to the upper end of the carrying place,) is
half a mile. Lower the canoes dare not come, lest they should be obliged
to try the fate of the two Indians, and perhaps with less success.

“The French told me, they had often thrown whole great trees into the
water above, to see them tumble down the fall. They went down with
surprising swiftness, but could never be seen afterwards; whence it was
thought there was a bottomless deep or abyss just under the fall. I am
of opinion that there must be a vast deep here; for I think if they had
watched very well, they might have found the trees at some distance
below the fall. The rock of the fall consists of a grey limestone.”

So far is Kalm’s account; to which may be added, that the body of water
precipitated from the fall has been estimated to be nearly seven
hundred thousand tons per minute!

       *       *       *       *       *

A recent traveller, Miss Wright, departing from the falls of the
Gennesse river, for the purpose of seeing the Falls of Niagara, alighted
in the evening at a little tavern in the village of Lewiston, about
seven miles short of the place she was proceeding to. She heard the roar
of the waters at that distance. Her description of the romantic scene is
surprisingly interesting; viz:--

----In the night, when all was still, I heard the first rumbling of the
cataract. Wakeful from over fatigue, rather than from any discomfort in
the lodging, I rose more than once to listen to a sound which the
dullest ears could not catch for the first time without emotion. Opening
the window, the low, hoarse thunder distinctly broke the silence of the
night; when, at intervals, it swelled more full and deep, you will
believe, that I held my breath to listen; they were solemn moments.

This mighty cataract is no longer one of nature’s secret mysteries;
thousands now make their pilgrimage to it, not through

    “Lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and caves of death,”

but over a broad highway; none of the smoothest, it is true, but quite
bereft of all difficulty or danger. This in time may somewhat lessen the
awe with which this scene of grandeur is approached; and even now we
were not sorry to have opened upon it by a road rather more savage and
less frequented than that usually chosen.

Next morning we set off in a little waggon, under a glorious sun, and a
refreshing breeze. Seven miles of a pleasant road which ran up the ridge
we had observed the preceding night, brought us to the cataract. In the
way we alighted to look down from a broad platform of rock, on the edge
of the precipice, at a fine bend of the river. From hence the blue
expanse of Ontario bounded a third of the horizon; fort Niagara on the
American shore; fort George on the Canadian, guarding the mouth of the
river, where it opens into the lake; the banks, rising as they
approached us, finely wooded, and winding now hiding and now revealing
the majestic waters of the channel. Never shall I forget the moment
when, throwing down my eyes, I first beheld the deep, slow, solemn tide,
clear as crystal, and green as the ocean, sweeping through its channel
of rocks with a sullen dignity of motion and sound, far beyond all that
I had heard, or could ever have conceived. You saw and _felt_
immediately that it was no river you beheld, but an imprisoned sea; for
such indeed are the lakes of these regions. The velocity of the waters,
after the leap, until they issue from the chasm at Queenston, flowing
over a rough and shelving bed, must actually be great; but, from their
vast depth they move with an apparent majesty, that seems to temper
their vehemence, rolling onwards in heavy volumes, and with a hollow
sound, as if labouring and groaning with their own weight. I can convey
to you no idea of the solemnity of this moving ocean. Our eyes followed
its waves until they ached with gazing.

A mile farther, we caught a first and partial glimpse of the cataract,
on which the opposing sun flashed for a moment, as on a silvery screen
that hung suspended in the sky. It disappeared again behind the forest,
all save the white cloud that rose far up into the air, and marked the
spot from whence the thunder came.

Two foot-bridges have latterly been thrown, by daring and dexterous
hands, from island to island, across the American side of the channel,
some hundred feet above the brink of the fall; gaining in this manner
the great island which divides the cataract into two unequal parts, we
made its circuit at our leisure. From its lower point, we obtained
partial and imperfect views of the falling river; from the higher, we
commanded a fine prospect of the upper channel. Nothing here denotes the
dreadful commotion so soon about to take place; the thunder, indeed, is
behind you, and the rapids are rolling and dashing on either hand; but
before, the vast river comes sweeping down its broad and smooth waters
between banks low and gentle as those of the Thames. Returning, we again
stood long on the bridges, gazing on the rapids that rolled above and
beneath us; the waters of the deepest sea-green, crested with silver,
shooting under our feet with the velocity of lightning, till, reaching
the brink, the vast waves seemed to pause, as if gathering their
strength for the tremendous plunge. Formerly it was not unusual for the
more adventurous traveller to drop down to the island in a well-manned
and well-guided boat. This was done by keeping between the currents, as
they rush on either side of the island, thus leaving a narrow stream,
which flows gently to its point, and has to the eye, contrasted with the
rapidity of the tide, where to right and left the water is sucked to the
falls, the appearance of a strong back current.

It is but an inconsiderable portion of this imprisoned sea which flows
on the American side; but even this were sufficient to fix the eye in
admiration. Descending the ladder, (now easy steps,) and approaching to
the foot of this lesser fall, we were driven away blinded, breathless,
and smarting, the wind being high and blowing right against us. A young
gentleman, who incautiously ventured a few steps farther, was thrown
upon his back, and I had some apprehension, from the nature of the
ground upon which he fell, was seriously hurt; he escaped, however, from
the blast, upon hands and knees, with a few slight bruises. Turning a
corner of the rock (where, descending less precipitously, it is wooded
to the bottom) to recover our breath, and wring the water from our hair
and clothes, we saw, on lifting our eyes, a corner of the summit of this
graceful division of the cataract hanging above the projecting mass of
trees, as it were in mid air, like the snowy top of a mountain. Above,
the dazzling white of the shivered water was thrown into contrast with
the deep blue of the unspotted heavens; below, with the living green of
the summer foliage, fresh and sparkling in the eternal shower of the
rising and falling spray. The wind, which, for the space of an hour,
blew with some fury, rushing down with the river, flung showers of spray
from the crest of the fall. The sun’s rays glancing on these big drops,
and sometimes on feathery streams thrown fantastically from the main
body of the water, transformed them into silvery stars, or beams of
light; while the graceful rainbow, now arching over our heads, and now
circling in the vapour at our feet, still flew before us as we moved.
The greater division of the cataract was here concealed from our sight
by the dense volumes of vapour which the wind drove with fury across the
immense basin directly towards us; sometimes indeed a veering gust
parted for a moment the thick clouds, and partially revealed the heavy
columns, that seemed more like fixed pillars of moving emerald than
living sheets of water. Here, seating ourselves at the brink of this
troubled ocean, beneath the gaze of the sun, we had the full advantage
of a vapour bath; the fervid rays drying our garments one moment, and a
blast from the basin drenching them the next. The wind at length having
somewhat abated, and the ferryman being willing to attempt the passage,
we here crossed in a little boat to the Canada side. The nervous arm of
a single rower stemmed this heavy current, just below the basin of the
falls, and yet in the whirl occasioned by them; the stormy north-west
at this moment chafing the waters yet more. Blinded as we were by the
columns of vapour which were driven upon us, we lost the panoramic view
of the cataract, which, in calmer hours, or with other winds, may be
seen in this passage. The angry waters, and the angry winds together,
drove us farther down the channel than was quite agreeable, seeing that
a few roods more, and our shallop must have been whirled into breakers,
from which ten such arms as those of its skilful conductor could not
have redeemed it.

Being landed two-thirds of a mile below the cataract, a scramble, at
first very intricate, through, and over, and under huge masses of rock,
which occasionally seemed to deny all passage, and among which our guide
often disappeared from our wandering eyes, placed us at the foot of the
ladder by which the traveller descends on the Canada side. From hence a
rough walk, along a shelving ledge of loose stones, brought us to the
cavern formed by the projection of the ledge over which the water rolls,
and which is known by the name of the Table Rock.

The gloom of this vast cavern, the whirlwind that ever plays in it, the
deafening roar, the vast abyss of convulsed waters beneath you, the
falling columns that hang over your head, all strike, not upon the ears
and eyes only, but upon the heart. For the first few moments, the
sublime is wrought to the terrible. This position, indisputably the
finest, is no longer one of safety. A part of the Table Rock fell last
year, and in that still remaining, the eye traces an alarming fissure,
from the very summit of the projecting ledge over which the water rolls;
so that the ceiling of this dark cavern seems rent from the precipice,
and whatever be its hold, it is evidently fast yielding to the pressure
of the water. You cannot look up to this crevice, and down upon the
enormous masses which lately fell, with a shock mistaken by the
neighbouring inhabitants for that of an earthquake, without shrinking at
the dreadful possibility which might crush you beneath ruins, yet more
enormous than those which lie at your feet.

The cavern formed by the projection of this rock, extends some feet
behind the water, and, could you breathe, to stand behind the edge of
the sheet were perfectly easy. I have seen those who have told me they
have done so; for myself, when I descended within a few paces of this
dark recess, I was obliged to hurry back some yards to draw breath.
Mine to be sure are not the best of lungs, but theirs must be little
short of miraculous, that can play in the wind, and foam, that gush from
the hidden depths of this watery cave. It is probable, however, that the
late fracture of the rock has considerably narrowed this recess, and
thus increased the force of the blast that meets the intruder.

From this spot, (beneath the Table Rock,) you _feel_, more than from any
other, the height of the cataract, and the weight of its waters. It
seems a tumbling ocean; and that you yourself are a helpless atom amid
these vast and eternal workings of gigantic nature! The wind had now
abated, and what was better, we were now under the lee, and could admire
its sport with the vapour, instead of being blinded by it. From the
enormous basin into which the waters precipitate themselves in a clear
leap of one hundred and forty feet, the clouds of smoke rose in white
volumes, like the round-headed clouds you have sometimes seen in the
evening horizon of a summer sky, and then shot up in pointed pinnacles,
like the ice of mountain glacières. Caught by the wind, it was now
whirled in spiral columns far up into the air, then, re-collecting its
strength, the tremulous vapour again sought the upper air, till, broken
and dispersed in the blue serene, it spread against it the only silvery
veil which spotted the pure azure. In the centre of the fall, where the
water is the heaviest, it takes the leap in an unbroken mass of the
deepest green, and in many places reaches the bottom in crystal columns
of the same hue, till they meet the snow-white foam that heaves and
rolls convulsedly in the enormous basin. But for the deafening roar, the
darkness and the stormy whirlwind in which we stood, I could have
fancied these massy volumes the walls of some fairy palace--living
emeralds chased in silver. Never surely did nature throw together so
fantastically so much beauty, with such terrific grandeur. Nor let me
pass without notice the lovely rainbow that, at this moment, hung over
the opposing division of the cataract as parted by the island, embracing
the whole breadth in its span. Midway of this silvery screen of shivered
water, stretched a broad belt of blazing gold and crimson, into which
the rainbow dropped its hues, and seemed to have based its arch.
Different from all other scenes of nature that have come under my
observation, the cataract of Niagara is seen to most advantage under a
powerful and opposing sun; the hues assumed by the vapour are then by
far the most varied and brilliant; and of the beauty of these hues, I
can give you no idea. The gloom of the cavern (for I speak always as if
under the Table Rock) needs no assistance from the shade of evening; and
the terrible grandeur of the whole is not felt the less for being
distinctly seen.

We again visited this wonder of nature in our return from Lake Erie; and
have now gazed upon it in all lights, and at all hours,--under the
rising, meridian, and setting sun, and under the pale moon when

    “riding in her highest noon.”

The edge of the Table Rock is not approached without terror at the
latter hour. The fairy hues are now all gone; excepting indeed, the
rainbow, which, the ghost of what it was, now spans a dark impervious
abyss. The rays of the sweet planet but feebly pierce the chill dense
vapour that clogs the atmosphere; they only kiss, and _coldly_ kiss, the
waters at the brink, and faintly show the upper half of the columns, now
black as ebony, plunging into a storm-tossed sea of murky clouds, whose
depth and boundaries are alike unseen. It is the storm of the elements
in chaos. The shivering mortal stands on the brink, like the startled
fiend

      “on the bare outside of this world,
    Uncertain which, in ocean or in air.”[404]

  [404] Views of Society and Manners in America; by an Englishwoman,
  1821, 8vo.

       *       *       *       *       *


NAVARINO.

This is a strong town on the west coast of the Morea on the Gulf of
Zoncheo, with an excellent harbour, recently distinguished by the fleet
of the pacha of Egypt being blockaded there by admiral sir E.
Codrington.

It is affirmed that this was the ancient Pylus, where the eloquent and
venerable Nestor reigned. At the siege of Troy, according to Homer, he
moderated the wrath of Achilles, the pride of Agamemnon, the impetuosity
of Ajax, and the rash courage of Diomedes. In the first book of the
Iliad he is represented as interposing between the two first-mentioned
chiefs:

    To calm their passions with the words of age
    Slow from his seat arose the _Pylian_ sage,
    Experienced Nestor, in persuasion skill’d.
    Words sweet as honey from his lips distill’d.[405]

It appears to have been also called Coryphasion, from the promontory on
which it was erected. It was built by Pylus, at the head of a colony
from Megara. The founder was dispossessed of it by Neleus, and fled
into Elis, where he dwelt in a small town, also called Pylos. There was
likewise a third town of the same name, and they respectively claimed
the honour of having given birth to Nestor. The Pylos at Elis seems, in
the opinion of the learned, to have won the palm. Pindar, however,
assigns it to the town now called Navarino.

  [405] Bourn’s Gazetteer.

       *       *       *       *       *


COUNSELS AND SAYINGS.

BY DR. A. HUNTER.

UP, AND BE DOING.

The folly of delaying what we wish to be done is a great and punishing
weakness.

BE ORDERLY.

Uniformity of conduct is the best rule of life that a man can possibly
observe.

MAN IS ORDERLY BY NATURE.

Is it not a matter of astonishment that the heart should beat, on the
average, about four thousand strokes every hour during a period of
“threescore years and ten,” and without ever taking a moment’s rest?

IN TRAVELLING BE CONTENTED.

When we complain of bad inns in poor and unfrequented countries, we do
not consider that it is numerous passengers that make good inns.

ARE YOU AN ORATOR?

Chew a bit of anchovy, and it will instantly restore the tone of voice
when lost by public speaking.

DO NOT FORGET.

When your memory begins to leave you, learn to make memorandums.

SHUN WILL-MONGERING.

If you induce a person to make an improper will, your conscience will
smite you from the rising to the setting sun.

MARRIAGE IS A VOYAGE FOR LIFE.

One who marries an ill-tempered person attempts to lick honey from off a
thorn.

AN ODD REMARK.

Women who love their husbands generally lie upon their right side.

NOTE.--I can only speak, from experience, of one; and, as regards her,
the observation is true.




Vol. II.--45.


[Illustration: ~St. John’s Well, at Harpham, Yorkshire.~]

_To the Editor._

The preceding sketch was made on the 17th instant. The well stands by
the roadside. The covering stones, though heavy, were at that time laid
as above represented, having just before been knocked over by some
waggon. Although but a poor subject for the pencil, it is an object of
interest from its connection with St. John of Beverley.

“St. John of Beverley may be challenged by this county (York) on a
threefold title; because therein he had his

  “1. Birth; at Harpham, in this county, in the East Riding.

  “2. Life; being three and thirty years, and upwards, archbishop of
  York.

  “3. Death; at Beverley, in this county, in a college of his own
  foundation.

“He was educated under Theodorus the Grecian, and archbishop of
Canterbury. Yet was he not so famous for his _teacher_ as for his
_scholar_, Venerable Bede, who wrote this John’s life; which he hath so
spiced with miracles, that it is of the hottest for a discreet man to
digest into his belief.”

See “Fuller’s Worthies,” in which a lengthened account of St. John may
be found.

  T. C.

  _Bridlington, July 30, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *

Respecting the subject of the engraving, T. C. subsequently writes: “The
stones over St. John’s Well were replaced when I passed it on the 9th of
October, 1827.”

Concerning St. John of Beverley, not having “Fuller’s Worthies” at hand
to refer to, a few brief particulars are collected from other sources.
If the curious reader desires more, he may consult my authorities, and
“old Fuller,” as recommended by T. C.


ST. JOHN OF BEVERLEY.

On his return from pupilage under St. Theodorus, in Kent, St. John of
Beverley settled at Whitby, in the monastery of St. Hilda, till, in the
reign of Alfred, he was made bishop of Hexham, which see he vacated in
favour of St. Wilfrid, and sometime afterwards was seated in the
archi-episcopal chair of York. He occasionally retreated to a monastery
he had built at Beverley, which was then a forest, called Endeirwood, or
Wood of the Deiri. In 717 he resigned the see of York to his chaplain,
St. Wilfrid the younger, and finally retired to Beverley, where he died
on the 7th of May, 721.[406]

According to Bede, St. John of Beverley being at a village near Hexham,
there was brought to him a youth wholly dumb, and with a disorder in the
head, “which entirely hindred the grouth of haires, except a few which,
like bristles, stood in a thinn circle about the lower part of his
head.” He desired the child “to putt forth his tongue, which the holy
man took hold of, and made the sign of the crosse upon it. And having
done this, he bid him speak: Pronounce, said he to him, _gea, gea_,
(that is, _yea, yea_.) This the child pronounced distinctly, and
presently after other words of more syllables; and, in conclusion, whole
sentences: so that, before night, by frequent practice, he was able to
expresse his thoughts freely.” Then St. John “commanded a surgeon to use
his skill; and in a short time, by such care, but principally by the
prayers and benedictions of the good prelat, he became of a lovely and
chearfull countenance, adorned with beautifully curled haire, and ready
in speech. This _miracle_ was wrought in his first diocese.”[407]
Notwithstanding the author of the “Church History of Brittany” calls
this a “miracle,” the story rather proves that John of Beverley used a
judicious method to remove impediments of speech, and obtained the
growth of the boy’s hair by surgical aid.

The same writer adds, on the same authority, that the wife of “a count,
named Puch,” was cured of a forty days’ sickness, by John of Beverley
giving her holy water, which he had used in dedicating the count’s
church. Also, according to him, when the lusty men of Beverley drag wild
bulls into the church-yard (to bait them) in honour of the saint, they
“immediately loose all their fury and fiercenes, and become gentle as
lambes, so that they are left to their freedom to sport themselves.”
William of Malmsbury relates this “as a thing usually performed, and
generally acknowledged by the inhabitants of Beverley, in testimony of
the sanctity of their glorious patron.”

Again, it is related in the Breviary of the church of Sarum, concerning
St. John of Beverley, that while he governed in the see of York, “he was
praying one day in the porch of St. Michael, and a certain deacon
peeping in saw the Holy Ghost sitting upon the altar, excelling in
whiteness a ray of the sun:” and the face of this deacon, whose name was
Sigga, “was burnt by the heat of the Holy Spirit,” so that the skin of
his cheek was shrivelled up; and his face was healed by the touch of the
saint’s hand: and “the saint adjured him, that whilst he lived he would
discover this vision to no man.”[408]

The more eminent fame of the patron of Beverley is posthumous. In 937,
when England was invaded by the Norwegians, Danes, Picts, and certain
chiefs of the Scottish isles, under Analaf the Dane, king Athelstan,
marching with his army through Yorkshire to oppose them, met certain
pilgrims returning from Beverley, who “informed him of the great
miracles frequently done there, by the intercession of St. John.”
Whereupon the king, with his army, went to Beverley, and entering into
the church there performed his devotions before St. John’s tomb; and,
earnestly begging his intercession, rose up before the clergy, and
vowed, that if victory were vouched to him by the saint’s intercession,
he would enrich that church with many privileges and plentiful revenues.
“In token of which,” said he, “I leave this my knife upon the altar,
which at my return I will redeem with an ample discharge of my vow.”
Then he caused an ensign, duly blessed, to be taken out of the church,
and carried before him. And at the sea-coast “he received a certain hope
of victory by a vision, in which St. John of Beverley, appearing to him,
commanded him to passe over the water, and fight the enemy, promising
him the upper hand.” Athelstan was suddenly surprised by Analaf; but a
sword fell “as from heaven” into the king’s scabbard, and he “not only
drove Analafe out of his camp, but courageously sett upon the enemy,
with whose blood he made his sword drunk, which he had received from
heaven.” This battle, which was fought at Dunbar, was the bloodiest
since the coming of the Saxons. The victory was entirely for the
English: five kings were slain, and among them the Scottish king
Constantine. Athelstan, returning in triumph, passed by the church of
St. John at Beverley, where he redeemed his knife. He bestowed large
possessions on the church, with privilege of sanctuary a mile round;
ordaining that whoever should infringe it should forfeit eight pounds to
the church; if within the three crosses, at the entrance of the town,
twenty-four pounds; if within the church-yard, seventy-two pounds; but,
if in sight of the relics, the penalty was the same that was due to the
most enormous capital crime. A testimony of this privilege of sanctuary
at Beverley was a chair of stone, thus inscribed:--“This stone chair is
called Freed-stoole, or the Chaire of Peace: to which any offender
flying shall enjoy entire security.” In the charter of the privilege,
“King Athelstan,” saith mine author, “expressed it elegantly, in this
distich:--

    As free make I thee,
    As heart may think or eye may see.”[409]

Moreover, respecting the great victory of Athelstan, an ancient
biographer of the saints[410] relates, that the king prayed that through
the intercession of St. John of Beverley he might show some evident
sign, whereby both future and present ages might know, that the Scots
ought, of right, to be subject to the English. And thereupon, saith this
writer, “the king with his sword smote upon a hard rock by Dunbar, and
to this day it is hollowed an ell deep by that stroke.”[411] This, saith
another author, was near Dunbar castle; and “king Edward the first, when
there was question before pope Boniface of his right and prerogative
over Scotland, brought this historie for the maintenance and strength of
his cause.”[412]

The monastery of St. John at Beverley having been destroyed by the
Danes, king Athelstan founded in that place a church and college of
canons, of which church St. Thomas à Becket was some time provost.[413]
In 1037, the bones of St. John were “translated” into the church by
Alfric, archbishop of York, and the feast of his translation ordained to
be kept at York on the 25th of October.[414] “On the 24th of September,
1664, upon opening a grave in the church of Beverley a vault was
discovered of free-stone, fifteen feet long and two broad; in which
there was a sheet of lead, with an inscription, signifying that the
church of Beverley having been burnt in the year 1188, search had been
made for the relics of St. John, anno 1197, and that his bones were
found in the east part of the sepulchre and there replaced. Upon this
sheet lay a box of lead, in which were several pieces of bones, mixed
with a little dust, and yielding a sweet smell: all these were
reinterred in the middle alley of the church.”[415] Another writer[416]
states the exhumation to have taken place “on the _thirteenth_ of
September, not the _twenty-fourth_;” and he adds, “that these relics had
been hid in the beginning of the reign of king Edward VI.”

It must not be omitted, that the alleged successful intercession of St.
John of Beverley in behalf of the English against the Scotch, is said to
have been paralleled by patronage as fatal to the French. The memorable
battle of Agincourt was fought in the year 1415, on the anniversary of
the translation of St. John of Beverley, and Henry V. ascribed the
decisive victory to the saint’s intercession. In a provincial synod,
under Henry Chicheley, archbishop of Canterbury, is a decree, at the
instance of that king, “whereby it appeares, that this most holy bishop,
St. John of Beverley, hath been an ayde to the kings of England in the
necessitie of their warres, not only in auncient, but allsoe in these
later ages.”[417] In consequence of this ascription, his festivals were
ordained to be celebrated annually through the whole kingdom of England.
The anniversary of his death has ceased to be remembered from the time
of the Reformation; but that of his translation is accidentally kept as
a holiday by the shoemakers, in honour of their patron, St. Crispin,
whose feast falls on the same day.

  *

  [406] Alban Butler.

  [407] Father Cressy.

  [408] Capgrave: in bishop Patrick’s Devotions of the Roman Church.

  [409] Father Cressy.

  [410] Capgrave.

  [411] Bishop Patrick’s Devotions of the Roman Church.

  [412] Father Porter’s Lives.

  [413] Britannia Sancta.

  [414] Alban Butler.

  [415] Britannia Sancta.

  [416] Alban Butler.

  [417] Father Porter.

       *       *       *       *       *


BEVERLEY THE STRONG MAN.

In March 1784, a porter of amazing strength, named Beverley, was
detected in stealing pimento on board a ship in the river Thames. A
number of men were scarcely able to secure him; and when they did, they
were under the necessity of tying him down in a cart, to convey him to
prison. The keeper of the Poultry Counter would not take him in; they
were therefore obliged to apply for an order to carry him to Newgate.
Beverley was supposed to have been the strongest man of his time in
England.[418]

  [418] Gentleman’s Magazine, March 1784.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XXXIX.

  [From the “Ambitious Statesman,” a Tragedy, by John Crowne, 1679.]

_Vendome, returning from the wars, hears news, that Louize is false to
him._

      _Ven. (solus.)_ Wherere I go, I meet a wandering rumour,
    Louize is the Dauphin’s secret mistress.
    I heard it in the army, but the sound
    Was then as feeble as the distant murmurs
    Of a great river mingling with the sea;
    But now I am come near this river’s fall,
    Tis louder than the cataracts of Nile.
    If this be true,
    Doomsday is near, and all the heavens are falling.--
    I know not what to think of it, for every where
    I meet a choking dust, such as is made
    After removing all a palace furniture:
    If she be gone, the world in my esteem
    Is all bare walls; nothing remains in it
    But dust and feathers, like a Turkish inn,
    And the foul steps where plunderers have been.--

_Valediction._

    _Vendome (to his faithless Mistress.)_ Madam, I’m well assur’d,
        you will not send
    One poor thought after me, much less a messenger,
    To know the truth; but if you do, he’ll find,
    In some unfinish’d part of the creation,
    Where Night and Chaos never were disturb’d,
    But bed-rid lie in some dark rocky desart,
    There will he find a thing--whether a man,
    Or the collected shadows of the desart
    Condens’d into a shade, he’ll hardly know;
    This figure he will find walking alone,
    Poring one while on some sad book at noon
    By taper-light, for never day shone there:
    Sometimes laid grovelling on the barren earth,
    Moist with his tears, for never dew fell there:
    And when night comes, not known from day by darkness,
    But by some faithful messenger of time,
    He’ll find him stretcht upon a bed of stone,
    Cut from the bowels of some rocky cave,
    Offering himself either to Sleep or Death;
    And neither will accept the dismal wretch:
    At length a Slumber, in its infant arms,
    Takes up his heavy soul, but wanting strength
    To bear it, quickly lets it fall again;
    At which the wretch starts up, and walks about
    All night, and all the time it should be day;
    Till quite forgetting, quite forgot of every thing
    But Sorrow, pines away, and in small time
    Of the only man that durst inhabit there,
    Becomes the only Ghost that dares walk there.

_Incredulity to Virtue._

      _Vendome._ Perhaps there never were such things as Virtues,
    But only in men’s fancies, like the Phœnix;
    Or if they once have been, they’re now but names
    Of natures lost, which came into the world,
    But could not live, nor propagate their kind.

_Faithless Beauty._

      _Louize._ Dare you approach?
      _Vendome._ Yes, but with fear, for sure you’re not Woman.
    A Comet glitter’d in the air o’ late,
    And kept some weeks the frighted kingdom waking.
    Long hair it had, like you; a shining aspect;
    Its beauty smiled, at the same time it frighten’d;
    And every horror in it had a grace.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From “Belphegor,” a Comedy, by John Wilson, 1690.]

_Doria Palace described._

    That thou’d’st been with us at Duke Doria’s garden!
    The pretty contest between art and nature;
    To see the wilderness, grots, arbours, ponds;
    And in the midst, over a stately fountain,
    The Neptune of the Ligurian sea--
    Andrew Doria--the man who first
    Taught Genoa not to serve: then to behold
    The curious waterworks and wanton streams
    Wind here and there, as if they had forgot
    Their errand to the sea.
                    And then again, within
    That vast prodigious cage, in which the groves
    Of myrtle, orange, jessamine, beguile
    The winged quire with a native warble,
    And pride of their restraint. Then, up and down,
    An antiquated marble, or broken statue,
    Majestic ev’n in ruin.
                      And such a glorious palace:
    Such pictures, carving, furniture! my words
    Cannot reach half the splendour. And, after all,
    To see the sea, fond of the goodly sight,
    One while glide amorous, and lick her walls,
    As who would say Come Follow; but, repuls’d,
    Rally its whole artillery of waves,
    And crowd into a storm!

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Floating Island,” a Comedy, by the Rev. W. Strode, acted by
  the Students of Christ-Church, Oxford, 1639.]

_Song._

        Once Venus’ cheeks, that shamed the morn,
                Their hue let fall;
        Her lips, that winter had out-born,
                In June look’d pale:
        Her heat grew cold, her nectar dry;
        No juice she had but in her eye,
    The wonted fire and flames to mortify.
        When was this so dismal sight?--
        When Adonis bade good night.

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


PLAYERS--GHOST LAYERS.

_For the Table Book._

CHRISTIAN MALFORD, WILTS.

It required a large portion of courage to venture abroad after sunset at
Christian Malford, for somebody’s apparition presented itself to the
walker’s imagination. Spritely gossips met near their wells with their
crooked sticks and buckets, to devise means for laying the disturbed
returners and their once native associates; but a party of strolling
players did more towards sending the spectres to the “tomb of all the
Capulets,” than the divinations of feminine power.

Application being made to the magistrate, who was not exempt from the
superstitious and revered infection, that plays might be performed in
the malthouse, said to be so daringly haunted, a timely caution was
given as to “Beelzebub and his imps,” and permission was granted, and
bills were circulated by the magnanimous manager himself. He was a
polite man, a famous anecdote retailer, retainer, and detailer, an
excellent spouter, and a passable singer. His dress and address were
eccentric. The hessians he wore, by fit necessity, were of the buskin
order; and, as bread was then dear, a sixpenny loaf might have supplied
the absence of calves. His pigtail-wig, hat, and all his apparel indeed,
served, when on the dramatic floor, most aptly the variations required
in his wardrobe.

I remember, when the “Miller of Mansfield” was played, the bell rang,
the baize was drawn up by a stable-halter, the fiddler began to scrape a
ditty by way of overture; but, before the miller could appear, a
smockfrock was called for, from one of the frocked rustics in the
gallery, (the back seats of the scaffolding.) This call was generously
obeyed. A youth pulled off his upper-all, proudly observing, that “the
player should have it, because his was a sacred persuasion.” The miller
appeared, and the play proceeded, with often repeated praises of the
frock. On another night, “Richard” was personated by a red-haired woman,
an active stroller of the company. Her manner of enacting the deformed
and ambitious Glo’ster so charmed the village censors, that for three
weeks successively nothing else would please but “Richard.” Nor was the
effect less operative in the field, (not of Bosworth)--Virgil’s
“Bucolics and Georgics” were travestied. Reaphooks, sithes, pitchforks,
and spades were set in contact in the daytime, to the great amusement
and terror of quiet people.--The funds of the company being exhausted,
the Thespians tramped off rather suddenly, leaving other bills than
playbills behind them. Ever after this the ghosts of the malthouse
disappeared, the rustics of the valley crying, as they triumphantly
passed, “Off with his head!” and others, replying in the words of
Hamlet, “Oh! what a falling _off_ is here!”

  ΠΡΙ.

  _Oct. 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


EX-THESPIANISM.

_For the Table Book._

I am the son of a respectable attorney, who sent me, when very young, to
an excellent school, at which I conducted myself much to the
satisfaction of my superiors. It was customary for the scholars to enact
a play at Christmas, to which the friends of the master were invited. On
one of these occasions, when I was now nearly head-boy, I was called
upon to perform the part of Charles Surface, in the admirable comedy of
the School for Scandal. I studied the character, and played it with
great applause, and shortly afterwards left the school, and was sent by
my father to Boulogne to finish my education.

There were then at that place a number of English gentlemen, who were
endeavouring to establish a company of amateurs. On their request I
joined them, and made my first appearance upon a regular stage in the
character of Shylock. It was a decided hit! I was received throughout
with “unbounded applause,” and the next day was highly gratified by
reading “honourable mention” of my performance in the newspapers. I
repeated this and other characters several times with undiminished
success; but, in the very zenith of my popularity, I was recalled to
England by my father, who, having heard of my operations, began to fear
(what afterwards proved to be the case) that I should be induced to
adopt that as a profession, which I had hitherto considered merely as an
amusement.

Soon after my return home my father articled me to himself, but it was
impossible for me to forget my success at Boulogne, and my inclination
for the stage ripened into a determination to become an actor. I
secretly applied to Mr. Sims, of the Harp, who procured me an engagement
in a sharing company in the west of England, where I was to do the “low
comic business” and “second tragedy.” I spent some of the money that I
had saved in buying wigs and a few other stage-requisites, and left my
paternal roof with three pounds in my pocket.

My exchequer not being in a state to afford me the luxury of riding, I
was compelled to walk the last thirty miles of my journey. Upon my
arrival at ----, my first care was to inquire for the theatre, when I
was directed to a barn, which had been dignified by that appellation. I
was received with all possible civility by the company, which consisted
of the manager, his wife, and three gentlemen. I was informed by the
manager that Jane Shore was the play for that evening, and that he
should expect me to perform the part of Belmont, and also that of
Bombastes Furioso in the afterpiece. The wardrobe of the theatre was
unable to afford me a dress superior to my own for the part of Belmont,
I therefore played that character “accoutred as I was,” viz. in a blue
coat, buff waistcoat, striped trowsers, and Wellington’s. The audience
was very select, consisting only of ten persons, who seemed totally
indifferent to the performance, for they never once, in the course of
the evening, gave any indication of pleasure, or the reverse, but
witnessed our efforts to amuse with the most provoking apathy. Between
the pieces I was much surprised by one of the gentlemen requesting the
loan of my hat for a few minutes, as he was about to sing a song, and he
assured me that there was no hat in the company, save mine, which was
worthy to appear before the audience. At the conclusion of the
performance we shared the receipts, which, after deducting the expenses
of the house, amounted to one shilling and sixpence each. We continued
to act for some time, sharing (three nights a week) from about one
shilling and sixpence to two shillings each, which sum did not at all
equal my sanguine expectations. Frequently have I performed kings and
princes after having breakfasted upon a turnip.

I soon found that this mode of living did not suit me, for I was
becoming exceedingly spare. I therefore resolved to quit the company,
and return to London. Having informed the manager of my intention, I
departed, and arrived in the metropolis with twopence in my pocket. I
proceeded to my father’s house, where I was received with kindness, and
where I still continue. I have relinquished all my pretensions to the
sock, having learned from experience that which it was not in the power
of reason to convince me of.

  GILBERTUS.

       *       *       *       *       *


SILCHESTER, HANTS.

_For the Table Book._

Every thing in this world is subject to change, and the strongest
buildings to decay. The ancient Vindonum of the Romans, from whence
Constantius issued several of his edicts, does not form an exception to
this rule. From being a principal Roman station, it is now a heap of
ruins.

Silchester is situated about eleven miles from Reading, on the side of a
hill, or rather on a level spot between two, and commands most beautiful
views: from its being surrounded by woodland, a stranger would be
unaware of his approach to it, until he arrived at the spot. The
circumference of the walls is about two miles; they possess four gates,
east, north, west, and south, and are in some places twelve or fourteen
feet high, and four or five feet in width; there are many fine trees (as
was observed by Leland in his time) growing out of them: the wall was
surrounded by a deep and broad ditch, which is now in some places nearly
filled up by the ruins of the wall, and beyond which is “the external
vallum, very perfect and easily to be traced out round the whole city;
its highest parts, even in the present state, are at least fifteen feet
perpendicular from the bottom of the ditch. A straight line, drawn from
the top of this bank to the wall on the north-east side, measured
thirty-four yards, its full breadth.”[419]

Between the outside of the walls and the furthest vallum was the
Pomœrium, which is defined by Livy to be that space of ground both
within and without the walls, which the augurs, at the first building of
cities, solemnly consecrated, and on which no edifices were suffered to
be raised.[420] Plutarch is of a different opinion, and ascribes the
derivation of Pomœrium to _pone mœnia_, and states that it signifies
the line marked out for the wall at the first foundation of a city.[421]

About a hundred and fifty yards from the north-east angle of the wall is
a Roman amphitheatre, the form of which is similar to that near
Dorchester, with high and steep banks, now covered with a grove of
trees, and has two entrances. The elevation of the amphitheatre consists
of a mixture of clay and gravel: the seats were ranged in five rows one
above the other; the <DW72> between each measuring about six feet: each
bank progressively rises, (and increases proportionably in width,) to a
considerable height in the centre. The area of the amphitheatre is about
twenty-five yards in diameter, as near as I could guess; it is commonly
covered with water, and is become a complete marsh, having a drain
across the centre, and is filled up with rushes. I was informed by the
woman who showed it, that some gentlemen a short time since procured a
shovel, and found a fine gravel bottom at about a foot deep.

The only buildings within the walls are the farm-house and the parish
church, which is an ancient structure, built of brick and flint, in the
form of the letter T. The interior of the church is plain and neat; the
font is of an octagonal form, of plain stone; the pulpit is also
octagonal, made of oak, and is remarkably neat; over it is a handsome
carved oak sounding-board, surmounted by a dove, with an olive-branch in
its mouth, and round the board, at the lower part, in seven
compartments, is the following inscription:--“The Gyift of James Hore,
Gent. 1639.” The ascent to the pulpit is from the minister’s
reading-desk, which also serves for a seat for his family. The chancel
is separated from the body of the church by a handsome carved screen, in
excellent preservation. In the south wall of the church, under a low
pointed arch, is the recumbent figure of a female, carved in stone, of a
very remote date, with the feet resting against an animal, (probably a
dog,) the head of which is much damaged: there is also an angel’s head,
which has been broken off from some part of the monument, and is of
course loose; from what part it came I was unable to discover.

In the chancel affixed to the north wall is the following inscription on
a handsome white marble monument; it is surmounted by a crown of glory,
and at the bottom is a death’s head:--

  Vive ut Vivas.
  Hic juxta situs est
  JOHANNIS PARIS, D.D.
  Collegii Trinitatis apud Cantabrigiensis
  Socius Senior
  & hujus Ecclesiæ Rector: de quo
  nisi opera loquantur
  Siletur.
  O I[422]

There are also monuments of the Baynards, the Cusanzes, and the Blewets,
which families were owners of the manor from the time of the conquest
for some generations.

On the south side of the city is a small postern under the wall, called
by the common people “Onion’s hole,” and is so designated from a
traditional account of a giant of that name; the coins which have been
discovered are called from the cause “Onion’s pennies.”

A fair field is here open for the researches of the antiquarian; and it
is much to be regretted that a good account of the place is not yet
published. “The History and Antiquities of Silchester,” whence I have
cited, is a pamphlet of thirty-two pages, and affords but little
information. Hoping to see justice done to the place, I beg to subscribe
myself, &c.

  J. R. J.

  [419] The History and Antiquities of Silchester, p. 12.

  Silchester, a parish bordering on Berkshire, about 7 miles N. from
  Basingstoke, and 45 from London, contains, according to the last
  census, 85 houses and 407 inhabitants. It is supposed to have been
  once a populous city, called by the Romans “Segontiaci,” by the
  Britons “Caer-Segont,” and by the Saxons “Silcester,” or the great
  city. _Capper._--ED.

  [420] Livy, b. i.

  [421] Plutarch in Romul. See Kennet’s Antiquities of Rome, p. 29.

  [422] I should like to be informed the meaning of these letters--there
  is no date to the monument. J. R. J.

       *       *       *       *       *


TO THE NIGHTSHADE.

_For the Table Book._

    Lovely but fearful,
      Thy stem clings round a stronger power,
    Like a fond child that trusts and grows
      More beautiful in feeling’s hour.

    Rich is thy blossom,
      Shaped like a turban, with a spire
    Of orange in a purple crest,
      And humid eye of sunny fire.

    When the day wakens,
      Thou hearest not the happy airs
    Breathed into zephyr’s faery dreams,
      By insects’ wings, like leaves, in pairs.

    Summer--when over--
      Quits thee, with clust’ring berries red.
    Hanging like grapes, and autumn’s cold
      Chills what the noon-day’s sunbeams fed.

    Thou art like beauty,
      Gentle to touch and quickly faded;
    ’Tis death to taste thee void of skill,
      And thou, like death, art nightly shaded.

  *, *, P.

  _Sept. 1827._


[Illustration: ~The Velocitas~,

OR MALTON, DRIFFIELD, AND HULL FLY BOAT.]

_To the Editor._

A carriage bearing this name, of which the above is a sketch, forms a
neat, safe, pleasant, and commodious conveyance from Malton, by way of
Driffield, to Hull every other day, and from Hull to Malton on the
intermediate days, during the summer months. The vehicle is, in fact, a
boat on wheels, driven like a stage-coach, and furnished on each side of
the body with a seat, extending the whole length, on which the
passengers are ranged. The top is covered with a permanent awning, to
which a curtain appended may be drawn up or let down at pleasure, so as
to enjoy a view of the country, or shut out the sun and weather.

  T. C.

  _Bridlington, Oct. 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


SHEEPSHEARING IN CUMBERLAND.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--The letters of W. C., in a recent number of the _Table Book_,
recalled to my mind four of the happiest years of my life, spent in
Cumberland, amongst the beautiful lakes and mountains in the
neighbourhood of Keswick, where I became acquainted with a custom which
I shall attempt to describe.

A few days previous to the “clipping,” or shearing of the sheep, they
are washed at a “beck,” or small river, not far from the mountain on
which they are kept. The clippings that I have witnessed have generally
been in St. John’s vale. Several farmers wash their sheep at the same
place; and, by that means, greatly assist each other. The scene is most
amusing. Imagine to yourself several hundred sheep scattered about in
various directions; some of them enclosed in pens by the water-side;
four or five men in the water rolling those about that are thrown in to
them; the dames and the pretty maidens supplying the “mountain dew” very
plentifully to the people assembled, particularly those that have got
themselves well ducked; the boys pushing each other into the river,
splashing the men, and raising tremendous shouts. Add to these a fine
day in the beginning of June, and a beautiful landscape, composed of
mountains, woods, cultivated lands, and a small meandering stream; the
farmers and their wives, children, and servants, with hearty faces, and
as merry as summer and good cheer can make them: and I am sure, sir,
that you, who are a lover of nature in all her forms, could not wish a
more delightful scene.

I will now proceed to the “clipping” itself. Early in the forenoon of
the appointed day, the friends and relatives of the farmer assemble at
his house, for they always assist each other, and after having regaled
themselves with hung-beef, curds, and home-brewed ale, they proceed
briskly to business. The men seat themselves on their stools, with
shears in their hands, and the younger part of the company supply them
with sheep from the fold; which, after having been sheared, have the
private mark of the farmer stamped upon them with pitch. In the mean
time the lasses are fluttering about, playing numerous tricks; for
which, by the by, they get paid with interest by kisses; and the
housewife may be seen busy in preparing the supper, which generally
comprises all that the season affords. After the “clipping” is over, and
the sheep driven on to the fells, (mountains,) they adjourn in a body to
the house; and then begins a scene of rustic merriment, which those who
have not witnessed it, can have no conception of. The evening is spent
in drinking home-brewed ale, and singing. Their songs generally bear
some allusion to the subject in question, and are always rural. But what
heightens the pleasure is, that there is no quarrelling, and the night
passes on in the utmost harmony. I have attended many of them, and never
saw the slightest symptoms of anger in any of the party. They seldom
break up till daylight makes its appearance next morning.

  I am, sir,

  Your constant reader,

  A. W. R.

       *       *       *       *       *


DR. GRAHAM.

_For the Table Book._

In the year 1782, that extraordinary empiric of modern times, Dr.
Graham, appeared in London. He was a graduate of Edinburgh, wrote in a
bombastic style, and possessed a great fluency of elocution. He opened a
mansion in Pall Mall, called “The Temple of Health;” the front was
ornamented with an enormous gilt sun, a statue of Hygeia, and other
attractive emblems. The rooms were superbly furnished, and the walls
decorated with mirrors, so as to confer on the place an effect like that
of an enchanted palace. Here he delivered “Lectures on Health, &c.” at
the extravagant rate of two guineas each. As a further attraction, he
entertained a female of beautiful figure, whom he called the “goddess of
health.” He hired two men of extraordinary stature, provided with
enormous cocked hats and showy liveries, to distribute bills from house
to house about town.

These unusual means to excite curiosity were successful; but his two
guinea auditors were soon exhausted; he then dropped to one guinea;
afterwards to half a guinea; then to five shillings; and, subsequently,
as he said, “for the benefit of all,” to two shillings and sixpence.
When he could not “draw” at that price, he finally exhibited the “Temple
of Health” at one shilling a head to daily crowds for several months.

Among the furniture of Dr. Graham’s temple was a _celestial bed_, which
he pretended wrought miraculous effects on those who reposed on it: he
demanded for its use during one night one hundred pounds; and such is
the folly of wealth, that several personages of high rank acceded to his
terms. He also pretended to have discovered “The Elixir of Life,” by
taking of which a person might live as long as he pleased. When this was
worn out, he recommended “earth bathing,” and sanctioned it by his own
practice. During one hour every day, he admitted spectators to view him
and the goddess of health immersed naked in the ground to their chins.
The doctor’s head was dressed and powdered, and the goddess’s was
arranged in the highest fashion of the times. He carried this exhibition
to every provincial town wherein he could obtain permission of the
magistrates. The goddess nearly fell a victim to the practice, and the
doctor, in spite of his enormous charges and his “Elixir of life,” died
in poor circumstances at the age of fifty-two.

Dr. Graham’s brother married the celebrated Mrs. Macaulay, the
historian, and Dr. Arnold, of Leicester, the respectable author of an
able treatise on insanity, married his sister. It is generally
understood that the lady who performed the singular part of the “Goddess
of Health” was Emma, afterwards the wife of sir William Hamilton, and
the personal favourite of the celebrated lord Nelson. She died in
misery--

    Deserted in her utmost need
    By those her former bounty fed.

  SAM SAM’S SON.

  _Sept. 1, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


STORKS.

The storks of the Low Countries are mentioned more than once in the
journal of the gentlemen deputed by the “Caledonian Horticultural
Society” to visit the gardens of our continental neighbours. Their route
from Antwerp to Rotterdam is marked by the following entry:--

August 22, 1817. “In the course of our progress into this land of
meadows and waters, we had been making inquiries about the _storks_
(Ardea Ciconia, L.) which every year visit Holland in the breeding
season; and we learned that the great flock had taken its departure
about ten days before. We observed several of their nests, set like
wicker-baskets on the roofs of the dwelling-houses; and we had the good
fortune to see one solitary dam still covering her brood, on account
probably of the young one not having been sufficiently fledged to enable
it to accompany the main body. We persuaded the conductor to allow us to
get out of the carriage, and examine this rarity: the bird showed no
sort of alarm, the _ooyevaar_ (as our Dutch friends called it) being
privileged in Holland. In many places where a new house is built a
nest-box is erected on the gable, or on the ridge of the roof, partly to
invite the bird to make a settlement, and partly perhaps to save the
thatch of the roof, in case it should come without invitation.” It is
remarked by way of note, that “previous to the great migration the
storks assemble in large groups, and make an unusual noise. It is known
that they winter chiefly in Egypt. Pope has finely alluded to their
remarkable instinct:--

    Who calls the council, states the certain day?
    Who forms the phalanx, and who points the way?

In the beginning of May they return, like swallows, to their former
haunts, the old birds carefully seeking out their accustomed nests.
Sometimes, though rarely, a stray stork crosses the channel, and is seen
on the English coast. It is there incessantly persecuted; it commonly
perches on the roof of some thatched farm-house, where its experience
leads it to hope for protection,--but it is not the dwelling of a quiet
Dutch boor;[423] some pseudo-sportsman of a farmer shoots the poor bird
while at roost.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Of the numerous families which frequent the sides of rivers and the
sea-beach, that of the stork is the best known and the most celebrated.
It contains two species, the white and the black. They are exactly of
the same form, and have no external difference but that of colour.

The _black_ stork prefers desert tracts, perches on trees, haunts
unfrequented marshes, and breeds in the heart of forests.

The _white_ stork, on the contrary, settles beside dwellings; inhabits
towers, chimnies, and ruins. The friend of man, it shares his
habitations, and even his domain. It fishes in his rivers, pursues its
prey into his gardens, and takes up its abode in the midst of cities,
without being disturbed by the noise and bustle. On the Temple of
Concord, in the capitol of Rome, were many storks’ nests. The fact is
memorialized on the medals of the emperor Adrian, and alluded to by
Juvenal in his first satire.

       *       *       *       *       *

The stork flies steadily and with vigour; holds its head straight
forward, and stretches back its legs, to direct its motion; soars to a
vast height, and performs distant journies even in tempestuous seasons.
It arrives in Germany about the eighth or tenth of May, and is seen
before that time in the provinces of France. Gesner says, it precedes
the swallow, and enters Switzerland in the month of April, and sometimes
earlier. It arrives in Alsace in March, or even in the end of February.
The return of the storks is ever auspicious, as it announces the spring.
They instantly indulge those tender emotions which that season inspires:
Aldrovandus paints with warmth their mutual signs of felicity, the eager
congratulations, and the fondling endearments of the male and female, on
their coming home from their distant journey. “When they have arrived at
their nest--good God! what sweet salutation; what gratulation for their
prosperous return! what embraces! what honied kisses! what gentle
murmurs they breathe!” It is to be observed, that they always settle in
the same spots, and, if their nest has been destroyed, they rebuild it
with twigs and aquatic plants, usually on lofty ruins, or the
battlements of towers; sometimes on large trees beside water, or on the
point of bold cliffs. In France it was formerly customary to place
wheels on the house-tops, to entice the stork to nestle. The practice
still subsists in Germany and Alsace: and in Holland square boxes are
planted on the ridge, with the same view.

When the stork is in a still posture it rests on one foot, folds back
its neck, and reclines its head on its shoulder. It watches the motions
of reptiles with a keen eye, and commonly preys on frogs, lizards,
serpents, and small fish, which it finds in marshes by the sides of the
streams, and in wet vales.

It walks like the crane with long measured strides. When irritated or
discomposed, or influenced by affection to its mate, it makes with its
bill a repeated clattering, which the ancients express by the
significant words _crepitat_ and _glotterat_,[424] and which Petronius
accurately marks by the epithet _crotalistria_,[425] formed from
_crotalum_, the castanet or rattle. In this state of agitation it bends
its head back, so that the lower mandible appears uppermost, the bill
lies almost parallel on the back, and the two mandibles strike violently
against each other; but in proportion as it raises up its neck the
clattering abates, and ceases when the bird has resumed its ordinary
posture. This is the only noise the stork ever makes, and, as it seems
dumb, the ancients supposed it had no tongue.

The stork does not lay more than four eggs, oftener not more than two;
they are of a dirty and yellowish white, rather smaller, but longer than
those of a goose. The male sits when the female goes in quest of food;
the incubation lasts a month; both parents are exceedingly attentive in
bringing provisions to the young, which rise up to receive it, and make
a sort of whistling noise. The male and female never leave the nest at
once; but, while the one is employed in searching for prey, the other
stands near the spot on one leg, and keeps an eye constantly on the
brood. When first hatched the young are covered with a brown down, and
their long slender legs not having yet strength enough to support them,
they creep upon their knees. When their wings begin to grow, they essay
their force in fluttering about the nest; though it often happens that
in this exercise some of them fall, and are unable to regain their
lodgment. After they venture to commit themselves to the air, the mother
leads and exercises them in small circumvolutions around the nest, and
conducts them back. About the latter end of August, when the young
storks have attained strength, they join the adults, and prepare for
migration.

The Greeks have placed the rendezvous of the storks in a plain of Asia,
called the “Serpent’s District,” where they congregated, as they do now
in some parts of the Levant, and even in Europe, as in Brandenburg and
elsewhere. Shaw says, in his Travels, “It is remarked that the storks
before they pass from one country into another, assemble a fortnight
beforehand, from all the neighbouring parts, in a plain; holding once a
day a _divan_, as they say in that country, as if their object was to
fix the precise time of their departure and the place of their retreat.”

When they convene previous to their departure, they make a frequent
clattering with their bill, and the whole flock is in tumultuary
commotion; all seem eager to form acquaintance, and to consult on the
projected route, of which the signal in our climate is the north wind.
Then the vast body rises at once, and in a few seconds is lost in the
air. Klein relates, that having been called to witness this sight he was
a moment too late, and the whole flock had already disappeared. Indeed
this departure is the more difficult to observe, as it is conducted in
silence, and often during the night. Belon says, that their departure is
not remarked, because they fly without noise or cries, while the cranes
and wild-geese, on the contrary, scream much on the wing. It is
asserted, that in their passage, before they venture to cross the
Mediterranean, they alight in great numbers in the neighbourhood of Aix
in Provence. Their departure appears to be later in warm countries; for
Pliny says, that “after the retreat of the stork it is improper to sow.”

It was remarked by the Jewish prophet, that “the stork in the heaven
knoweth her appointed time,” (Jeremiah viii. 7.;) but though the
ancients observed the migrations of these birds, they do not seem to
have been certain as to the countries of their retirement. Modern
travellers acquaint us more accurately. “It is perfectly ascertained,”
says Belon, “that the storks winter in Egypt and in Africa; for we have
seen the plains of Egypt whitened by them in the months of September and
October. At that season, when the waters of the Nile have subsided, they
obtain abundance of food; but the excessive heats of summer drive them
to more temperate climates; and they return again in winter, to avoid
the severity of the cold: the contrary is the case with the cranes,
which visit us with the geese in winter, when the storks leave us.” This
remarkable difference is owing to that of the climates which these
birds inhabit; the geese and ducks come from the north, to escape the
rigours of the winter; the storks leave the south, to avoid the
scorching heats of summer. It was a common opinion in the time of
Albertus Magnus that the storks do not retire in winter, but lurk in
caverns, or even at the bottom of lakes. Klein relates, that two storks
were dragged out of the water in the pools near Elbing. Gervais of
Tillebury speaks of other storks that were found clustered in a lake
near Arles; Merula, in Aldrovandus, speaks of some which fishermen drew
out of the lake of Como; and Fulgosus, of others that were fished near
Metz. Martin Schoockius, who wrote a treatise on the stork in 1648,
supports these testimonies. But the history of the migrations of the
storks is too well known, not to attribute to accidents the facts just
mentioned, if they indeed may be relied on.

Belon says, that he saw storks wintering round Mount Amanus, near
Antioch; and passing about the end of August towards Abydus, in flocks
of three or four thousand, from Russia and Tartary. They cross the
Hellespont; and on the summits of Tenedos divide into squadrons, and
disperse themselves northwards.

Dr. Shaw says, that about the middle of May, 1722, “Our vessel, being
anchored under Mount Carmel, I saw three flocks of storks, each of which
was more than three hours in passing, and extended a half mile in
breadth.” Maillet relates, that he saw the storks descend, towards the
end of April, from Upper Egypt, and halt on the grounds of the Delta,
which the inundation of the Nile soon obliges them to leave.

Crows sometimes intermingle with the storks in their passage, which has
given rise to the opinion of St. Basil and Isidorus, that the crows
serve to direct and escort the storks. The ancients also speak much of
the combats between the storks and ravens, jays, and other species of
birds, when their flocks, returning from Lybia and Egypt, met about
Lycia and the river Xanthus.

Storks, by thus removing from climate to climate, never experience the
severities of winter; their year consists of two summers, and twice they
taste the pleasures natural to the season. This is a remarkable
peculiarity of their history; and Belon positively assures us, that the
stork has its second brood in Egypt.

It is said, that storks are never seen in England, unless they are
driven upon the island by some storm. Albin remarks, as a singular
circumstance, that there were two of these birds at Edgeware, in
Middlesex; and Willoughby declares, that a figure which he gives was
designed from one sent from the coast of Norfolk, where it had
accidentally dropped. Nor does the stork occur in Scotland, if we judge
from the silence of Sibbald. Yet it often penetrates the northern
countries of Europe; into Sweden, over the whole of Scania, into
Denmark, Siberia, Mangasea on the river Jenisca, and as far as the
territories of the Jakutes. Great numbers are seen also in Hungary,
Poland, and Lithuania. They are also met with in Turkey, and in Persia,
where Bruyn observed their nest carved on the ruins of Persepolis; and
according to that author, they are dispersed through the whole of Asia,
except the desert parts, which they seem to shun, and the arid tracts,
where they cannot subsist.

Aldrovandus assures us, that storks are never found in the territory of
Bologna; they are rare even through the whole of Italy, where
Willoughby, during a residence of twenty-eight years, saw them only
once. Yet it appears, from Pliny and Varro, that anciently they were
there common; and we can hardly doubt but that, in their route from
Germany to Africa, or in their return, they must pass over Italy and the
islands of the Mediterranean. Kœmpfer affirms, that they reside the
whole year in Japan; which therefore, if he is correct, is the only
country where they are stationary; in all others, they retire a few
months after their arrival. In France, Lorraine and Alsace are the
provinces where these birds are the most numerous; there they breed; and
few towns or villages in Lower Alsace are without storks’ nests on their
belfries.

The stork is of a mild disposition, neither shy nor savage; it is easily
tamed; and may be trained to reside in our gardens, which it will clear
of insects and reptiles. It has almost always a grave air, and a
mournful visage; yet, when roused by example, it shews a certain degree
of gaiety; for it joins the frolics of children, hopping and playing
with them. Dr. Hermann, of Strasburg, says, “I saw in a garden, where
the children were playing at hide and seek, a tame stork join the party,
run its turn when touched, and distinguish the child, whose turn it was
to pursue the rest, so well as to be on its guard.” In the domestic
condition the stork lives to a great age, and endures the severities of
our winters. Heerkens, of Groningen, author of a Latin poem on the
stork, says that he kept one fifteen years; and speaks of another which
lived twenty-one years in the fish-market of Amsterdam, and was interred
with solemnity by the people. Olaus Borrichius mentions a stork aged
more than twenty-two years, which became gouty.

To the stork are ascribed the virtues of temperance, conjugal fidelity,
and filial and paternal piety. There is a history, famous in Holland, of
“the Delft stork;” which, in the conflagration of that city, after
having in vain attempted to rescue her young, perished with them in the
flames. It is certain, that the stork bestows much time on the education
of its young, and does not leave them till they have strength sufficient
for their defence and support; when they begin to flutter out of the
nest, the mother bears them on her wings, protects them from danger, and
sometimes perishes with them rather than she will forsake them. The
stork shows tokens of attachment to its old haunts, and even gratitude
to the persons who have treated it with kindness. It has been heard to
rap at the door in passing, as if to tell its arrival, and give a like
sign of adieu on its departure. But these moral qualities are nothing in
comparison of the affection and tender offices which these birds lavish
on their aged and infirm parents. The young and vigorous storks
frequently carry food to others, which, resting on the brink of the
nest, seem languid and exhausted, either from accidental injuries or the
infirmities of years.

The ancients assert, that nature has implanted in brutes this venerable
piety, as an example to man, in whose breast the delicious sentiment is
often obliterated. The law which compelled the maintenance of parents
was enacted in honour of the stork, and inscribed by its name.
Aristophanes draws from its conduct a bitter satire on the human race.

Ælian alleges, that the moral qualities of the stork were the chief
cause of the respect and veneration which it enjoyed among the
Egyptians; and the notion which the common people among whom it resorts
still entertain, that its settling on a house betokens prosperity, is
perhaps a vestige of the ancient opinion.

An ancient writer affirms, that the storks, worn out with old age,
repair to certain islands in the ocean, where, in reward for their
piety, they are changed into men. In auguries, the appearance of the
stork denoted union and concord. Its departure in the time of public
calamity was regarded as a dismal presage; Paul, the deacon, says, that
Attila, having purposed to raise the siege of Aquileia, was determined
to renew his operations, upon seeing storks retiring from the city and
leading away their young. In hieroglyphics it signified piety and
beneficence, virtues which its name expressed in the most ancient
languages; and we often see the emblem, as on the two beautiful medals
of L. Antonius, given in Fulvius Ursinus, and in two others of Q.
Metellus, surnamed “the Pious,” as reported by Paterculus. Dr. Shaw
says, that the Mahometans have a great esteem and veneration for it. It
is almost as sacred among them as the ibis was among the Egyptians; and
they would look upon a person as profane, who should kill or even harm
it. So precious were storks held in Thessaly, which country they cleared
of serpents, that the slayer of one of these birds was punished with
death. They were not eaten among the Romans; and a person who, from a
strange sort of luxury, ordered one to be brought to his table, drew
upon himself the direful obloquy of the whole people. Nor is the flesh
of this bird recommended by its quality--formed by nature for our
friend, and almost our domestic, it was never destined to be our
victim.[426]

  [423] _Boer_ in the low countries, and _Bauer_ in Germany, signifies a
  farmer.

  [424] Quæque salutato crepitat concordia nido. _Juvenal_, Sat. I.

  Glotterat immenso de turre ciconia rostro. _Aut. Philomel._

  [425] Publius Syrus had made the same application of his word.

  [426] Buffon.

       *       *       *       *       *


VARIA.

_For the Table Book._


NEWSPAPER READERS.

Shenstone, the poet, divides the readers of a newspaper into seven
classes. He says--

1. The illnatured look at the list of bankrupts.

2. The poor to the price of bread.

3. The stockjobber to the lies of the day.

4. The old maid to marriages.

5. The prodigal to the deaths.

6. The monopolizers to the hopes of a wet and bad harvest.

7. The boarding-school and all other young misses, to all matters
relative to Gretna Green.


FIRES IN LONDON.

From the registry of fires for one year, commencing Michaelmas 1805, it
appears, that there were 366 alarms of fire, attended with little
damage; 31 serious fires, and 155 alarms occasioned by chimneys being
on fire, amounting in all to 552 accidents of this nature. The offices
calculate on an alarm of fire every day, and about eight serious fires
in every quarter of the year.


HENRY VIII. AND HIS PEERS.

When we advert to early parts of the history of this country, we cannot
but be thankful to heaven for the progress of just principles, and the
security we derive from the laws. In the reign of Henry VIII. that
monarch wanted to carry some measure through the house of lords,
contrary to its wishes. The peers hesitated in the morning, but
consented in the afternoon. Some of their body waited on him to inform
him thereof, when the tyrant made reply, “It is well you did it, or by
this time half your heads would have been upon Temple Bar.”


FEMALE SHERIFFS AND JUSTICES.

Nicholas, earl of Thanet, was succeeded by his next brother John, the
fourth earl, born 7th August, 1638. He also succeeded his mother
Margaret, countess of Thanet, as baron Clifford, Westmoreland, and
Vescey, who by her last will, dated June 19, 1676, gave the Yorkshire
and Westmoreland estates to this John for life; she died the 14th August
following, and he then succeeded her in the sheriffdoms of Westmoreland
and Cumberland, where it frequently happened that female heiresses
became possessed of them.

There are several instances of women bearing that office, as may be seen
in most of the treatises in which that duty is mentioned. Those things
required by it, not proper to be undertaken by a female, were intrusted
to a deputy, or shire clerk.

Not only the office of sheriff, but even justice of peace, has been in
the hands of the fair sex. Among the Harleian manuscripts is a very
remarkable note, taken from Mr. Attorney-general Noy’s readings in
Lincoln’s-inn, in 1632, in which, upon the point whether the office of a
justice of a forest might be executed by a woman, it was said, that
Margaret, countess of Richmond, mother to Henry VII., was a justice of
peace; that the lady Bartlet was made a justice of peace by queen Mary
in Gloucestershire; and that in Sussex, one Rouse, a woman, did usually
sit upon the bench at assizes and sessions among the other justices,
_gladio-cincta_, girded with a sword. It is equally certain, that Anne,
countess of Pembroke, exercised the office of hereditary sheriff of
Westmoreland, and at the assizes of Appleby sat with the judges on the
bench, which puts this point beyond a question.

  SAM SAM’S SON

       *       *       *       *       *


WOMEN.

It is the opinion of Mr. J. P. Andrews, that antiquarians are by no
means apt to pay great attention to the fair sex. He says,

    “Their Venus must be old, and want a nose.”

He instances, as among those who have “set themselves most warmly”
against females, old Antony à Wood, whose diary affords some specimens
of grotesque dislike.

Page 167. “He” (sir Thomas Clayton) “and his family, most of them
_womankind_, (which before were looked upon, if resident in the college,
a scandal and abomination thereunto,) being no sooner settled,” &c. than
“the warden’s garden must be altered, new trees planted, &c. All which,
though unnecessary, yet the poor college must pay for them, and all this
to please a woman!”

P. 168. “Frivolous expenses to pleasure his proud lady.”

P. 173. “Yet the warden, by the motion of his lady, did put the college
to unnecessary charges and very frivolous expenses. Among which were a
very large looking-glass, for her to see her ugly face and body to the
middle, and perhaps lower.”

P. 252. “Cold entertainment, cold reception, cold, clownish woman.”

P. 257. “Dr. Bathurst took his place of vice-chancellor, a man of good
parts, and able to do good things, but he has a wife that scorns that he
should be in print. A scornful woman! Scorns that he was dean of Wells!
No need of marrying such a woman, who is so conceited that she thinks
herself fit to govern a college or a university.”

P. 270. “Charles lord Herbert, eldest son of Henry, marquis of
Worcester, was matriculated as a member of Ch. Ch. Ætat 16. natus Lond.
I set this down here, because the father and ancestors were all
catholics, but because the mother is a presbyterian, a Capel, she
(against the father’s will, as it is said) will have him bred a
protestant; so that by this change the catholics will lose the
considerablest family in England, and the richest subject the king has.”

Selden, too, is cited as an antiquarian inattentive to gallantry.

“It is reason,” says he, “a man that will have a wife should be at the
charge of her trinkets, and pay all the scores she sets on him. He that
will keep a monkey it is fit he should pay for the glasses he breaks.”

But ladies can, if they please, retaliate severely. A gentleman who had
married a second wife, indulged himself in recurring too often in
conversation to the beauty and virtues of his first consort. He had,
however, barely discernment enough to discover that the subject was not
an agreeable one to his present lady. “Excuse me, madam,” said he, “I
cannot help expressing my regrets for the dear deceased.” “Upon my
honour,” said the lady, “I can most heartily affirm that I am as sincere
a mourner for her as you can be.”

       *       *       *       *       *


DOWER.

There was an absolute necessity for providing a dower for the widow in
the thirteenth century, because women at that period had no personal
fortune to entitle them to a jointure by way of marriage. Shiernhook,
and all the writers upon the ancient laws of the northern nations, dwell
much upon the _morgengavium_; i. e. the present made by the husband to
his wife the morning after consummation. It is singular, therefore, that
we have no traces of such a custom. In the Philippine islands, a certain
proportion of the dower is paid to the intended wife after liberty of
conversing with her; a greater share for the permission of eating with
her; and the balance upon consummation.[427]

  [427] Gemelli, vol. v. Napoli, 1708.

       *       *       *       *       *


SANS CHANGER.

_For the Table Book._

    The maiden, with a vivid eye,
    Whose breath is measured by her sigh;
    The maiden, with a lovely cheek,
    Whose blushes in their virtue break;
    Whose pulse and breath would die unblest
    If not by changeless Love carest;--
    ’Tis she that gives her partner’s life
    The perfect and the happy wife
                        _Sans changer_.

    If choice be true, she proves a friend
    Whose friendship fails not to the end;
    She sweetens dear affection’s power
    That lasteth to life’s parting hour:
    Her heart beats that her love might go
    Through every pang her Love’s could know,
    And yields its latest throb, to give
    Truth to that heart she loves, to live
                        _Sans changer_.

  ----.

       *       *       *       *       *


CASUALTIES OF THE ANCIENTS.

_To the Editor._

Your having, sir, inserted certain “Antipathies” which I communicated to
your work, encourages me to hope you will find some “Casualties” not
unacceptable.

Anacreon, according to Pliny and Valerius Maximus, was choked with the
kernel of a raisin, and Tarquinius Priscus with a fishbone; the senator
Fabius with a hair; and the very sight of a physician in a dream,
frighted Andragorus out of his life. Homer, Rutilius, Rusciacus, and
Pomperanus were overwhelmed with grief. Zeuxis and Philemon died with
laughing; the one at the picture of an old woman which himself had
drawn, the other at an ass eating of figs. Polycryta,[428] Philippides,
and Diagorus were carried away with a sudden joy; and the tyrant
Dionysius and Sophocles by excessive triumph at the news of a victory.
The bald head of Æschylus cost him dearly; for an eagle hovering over it
mistook it for a stone, and thinking to break an oyster upon it, gave
him a mortal wound.[429] Archimedes was killed by a soldier, as he was
making diagrams in the sand; and Pindar, in the theatre, by his repose
as he lay on the knees of his dear Theoxenus.[430]

Like the people in Pliny, we pay tribute for a shadow. Every age,
condition, and family has its peculiar evils. Cares and sorrows
intermingle with our possessions and gratifications. We taste myrrh in
our wine; and while we crop rosebuds to crown our heads, we prick our
fingers. We do not so properly enjoy our pleasures, as suffer them.

“The portion of man is like that of a rose, which at first is fair as
the morning, when it newly springs from the clefts of its hood, and full
with the dew of heaven as the fleece of a lamb; but when a ruder breath
has forced open its virgin modesty, and dismantled its retirements, it
begins to decline to the symptoms of a sickly age; it bows the head and
breaks the stalk, and at night having lost some of its leaves, and all
its beauty, falls into the lap of noisome weeds.”[431]

  ΠΡΙ

  [428] Agellius, lib. iii. cap. 15.

  [429] Suidas, Aristoph. in Ranis, lib. x. cap. 3. et Max. ibid.

  [430] Θεοξενου γονατα, Suidas.

  [431] Bishop Taylor

       *       *       *       *       *


THE HOUR OF PRIME.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Mira d’intorno, Silvio,
    Quanto il mondo ha di vago, e di gentile,
    Opra e d’amore: *       *      *
    *      *      * Amante e il cielo, Amante
    La terra, Amante il mare.
    Al fine, Ama ogni cosa.

  _Pastor Fido._

       *       *       *       *       *

    Ask why the violet perfume throws
      O’er all the ambient air;
    Ask why so sweet the summer rose,
      Ask why the lily’s fair.

    If these, in words, could answer frame,
      Or characters could trace,
    They’d say, the frolic zephyrs came
      And courted our embrace.

    And we (unskill’d in that false lore
      That teaches how to feign,
    While days and years fly swiftly o’er,
      And ne’er return again,)

    A prompt obedience ready paid
      To Nature’s kind command,
    And meeting Zephyr in the glade,
      We took his proffer’d hand.

    And loving thus, we led along
      In jocund mirth the hours;
    The bee bestow’d her ceaseless song,
      The clouds refreshing show’rs.

    From out the Iris’ radiant bow
      In gayest hues we drest,
    And all our joy is, that we know
      We have been truly blest.

    Believe not in the sombre lay
      Of one[432] who lov’d grief’s theme,
    That “_have been blest_” is “title gay”
      “Of misery’s extreme.”

    Discard so woe-begone a muse
      In melancholy drown’d,
    And list’ a mightier bard[433] who strews
      His laughing truths around.

    “The rose distill’d is happier far
      Than that which, with’ring on the thorn,
    Lives, grows, and dies a prey to care
      In single blessedness forlorn.”

    Mark then the lesson, O ye fair!
      The pretty flow’rets teach,
    The truths they tell more precious are
      Than coquetry can reach.

    Or all cold prudence e’er design’d
      To cloud affection’s beams,
    To cross with doubts the youthful mind,
      Or cheat it with fond dreams.

    Leave then at once all fond delay,
      Nor lose the hour of prime,
    For nought can call back yesterda
      Nor stop the hand of time.

    And youth and beauty both have wings,
      No art can make them stay,
    While wisdom soft, but ceaseless sings,
      “Enjoy them while you may.”

  E. E.

  [432] Dr. Young.

  [433] Shakspeare.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


THE SOLDIER’S RETURN.

A FRAGMENT.

    The sound of trumpet, drum and fife
      Are fit for younger men,
    He seeks the calm retreat of life,
      His Mary and his glen.

----Many days and nights the wounded soldier travelled with his knapsack
and stick to reach his native place, and find solace in the bosom of his
relatives. The season merged into the solstice of winter, the roads were
bad, his feet were tender, and his means were scanty. Few persons in
years could have borne the fatigue and hardships he endured; but if he
could find his wished-for Mary, he trusted all would be well--his spirit
could not break while the hope of his earliest attachment survived. He
had fought hard in the conflict of the battle-field--the conflict of
love had not smoothed his “wrinkled front.” He trudged onward, and
persevered till he reached the cottage of his nativity. It was humble
but neat. He drew the latch, crossed the threshhold, and entered the
domicile. An elderly female was lying on a bed. Her niece sat by the
bedside reading to her. The maiden rose, and, putting the book aside,
questioned his name and business. He threw down his knapsack; he caught
the countenance, though faded from its youth, like his, of his dear,
bedridden Mary, and, clasping his hands with hers, sat many hours
reciting his history, and listening in tears to her afflictions,
occasioned by his roving disposition. He now, to make reparation,
seasoned her hopes by promises of final rest with her till their suns
should set together in the sphere of earthly repose; for Mary was the
only person living of all his once numerous companions in the Glen--

  ----.




Vol. II.--46.


[Illustration: ~George Watson, the Sussex Calculator.~]

This singular being, who in every thing, but his extraordinary powers of
memory and calculation, is almost idiotic, was born at Buxted, in
Sussex, in 1785, and has followed the occupation of a labourer. He is
ignorant in the extreme, and uneducated, not being able to read or
write; and yet he can, with facility, perform some of the most difficult
calculations in arithmetic. The most extraordinary circumstance,
however, is the power he possesses of recollecting the events of every
day, from an early period of his life. Upon being asked, what day of the
week a given day of the month occurred? he immediately names it, and
also mentions where he was, and what was the state of the weather. A
gentleman who had kept a diary, put many questions of this kind to him,
and his replies were invariably correct. Watson has made two or three
tours into Hampshire, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, and Somersetshire, and
has exhibited his singular powers in the principal towns in those
counties; is familiar with every town, village, and hamlet in Sussex,
can tell the number of churches, public-houses, &c. in each. The
accompanying portrait, drawn by Mr. S. W. Lee, of Lewes, will give a
correct idea of this singular individual. Phrenologists, who have
examined George’s skull, state the _organ of numbers_ to be very
strongly developed.


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XL.

  [From “Fatal Jealousy,” a Tragedy, Author unknown, 1673.]

_No Truth Absolute: after seeing a Masque of Gipseys._

      _1st Spectator._ By this we see that all the world’s a cheat,
    Whose truths and falsehoods lie so intermixt,
    And are so like each other, that ’tis hard
    To find the difference. Who would not think these people
    A real pack of such as we call Gipseys?
      _2d Spect._ Things perfectly alike are but the same;
    And these were Gipseys, if we did not know
    How to consider them the contrary:
    So in terrestrial things there is not one
    But takes its form and nature from our fancy,
    Not its own being, and is but what we think it.
      _1st Spect._ But Truth is still itself?
      _2d Spect._ No, not at all, as Truth appears to us;
    For oftentimes
    That is a truth to me, that’s false to you;
    So ’twould not be, if it was truly true.

           *       *       *       *       *

    How clouded Man
    Doubts first, and from one doubt doth soon proceed
    A thousand more, in solving of the first!
    Like ’nighted travellers we lose our way,
    Then every ignis fatuus makes us stray,
    By the false lights of reason led about,
    Till we arrive where we at first set out:
    Nor shall we e’er truth’s perfect highway see,
    Till dawns the day-break of eternity.

_Apprehension_

            O Apprehension!--
    So terrible the consequence appears.
    It makes my brain turn round, and night seem darker
    The moon begins to drown herself in clouds,
    Leaving a duskish horror everywhere.
    My sickly fancy makes the garden seem
    Like those benighted groves in Pluto’s kingdoms.

_Injured Husband._

      _Wife (dying.)_ Oh, oh, I fain would live a little longer,
    If but to ask forgiveness of Gerardo!
    My soul will scarce reach heav’n without his pardon.
      _Gerardo (entering)._ Who’s that would go to heav’n,
    Take it, whate’er thou art; and may’st thou be
    Happy in death, whate’er thou didst design.

_Gerardo; his wife murdered._

      _Ger._ It is in vain to look ’em,[434] if they hide;
    The garden’s large; besides, perhaps they’re gone.
    We’ll to the body.
      _Servant._ You are by it now, my Lord.
      _Ger._ This accident amazes me so much,
    I go I know not where.

_Doubt._

    Doubt is the effect of fear or jealousy,
    Two passions which to reason give the lye;
    For fear torments, and never doth assist;
    And jealousy is love lost in a mist.
    Both hood-wink truth, and go to blind-man’s-buff,
    Cry here, then there, seem to direct enough,
    But all the while shift place; making the mind,
    As it goes out of breath, despair to find;
    And, if at last something it stumbles on,
    Perhaps it calls it false, and then ’tis gone.
    If true, what’s gain’d? only just time to see
    A breachless[435] play, a game at liberty;
    That has no other end than this, that men
    Run to be tired, just to set down again.

_Owl._

    ------ hark how the owl
    Summons their souls to take a flight with her,
    Where they shall be eternally benighted.--

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Traitor,” a Tragedy, by J Shirley: by some said to have
  been written by one Rivers, a Jesuit: 1635.]

_Sciarrah, whose life is forfeited, has offer of pardon, conditionally,
that he bring his sister Amidea to consent to the Prince’s unlawful
suit. He jestingly tries her affection._

      _Sci._--if thou could’st redeem me
    With anything but death, I think I should
    Consent to live.
      _Amid._ Nothing can be too precious
    To save a brother, such a loving brother
    As you have been.
      _Sci._ Death’s a devouring gamester,
    And sweeps up all;--what think’st thou of an eye?
    Could’st thou spare one, and think the blemish recompenced
    To see me safe with the other? or a hand--
    This white hand, that has so often
    With admiration trembled on the lute,
    Till we have pray’d thee leave the strings awhile,
    And laid our ears close to thy ivory fingers,
    Suspecting all the harmony proceeded
    From their own motions without the need
    Of any dull or passive instrument.--
    No, Amidea; thou shalt not bear one scar,
    To buy my life; the sickle shall not touch
    A flower, that grows so fair upon his stalk:
    I would live, and owe my life to thee,
    So ’twere not bought too dear.
      _Amid._ Do you believe, I should not find
    The way to heav’n, were both mine eyes thy ransom
    I shall climb up those high and ragged cliffs
    Without a hand.[436]

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Huntingdon Divertisement,” an Interlude, “for the general
  entertainment at the County Feast, held at Merchant Taylor’s Hall,
  June 20th, 1678, by W. M.”]

_Humour of a retired Knight._

_Sir Jeoffry Doe-right. Master Generous Goodman._

      _Gen._ Sir Jeoffry, good morrow.
      _Sir J._ The same to you, Sir.
      _Gen._ Your early zeal condemns the rising sun
    Of too much sloth; as if you did intend
    To catch the Muses napping.
      _Sir J._ Did you know
    The pleasures of an early contemplation,
    You’d never let Aurora blush to find
    You drowsy on your bed; but rouse, and spend
    Some short ejaculations,--how the night
    Disbands her sparkling troops at the approach
    Of the ensuing day, when th’ grey-eyed sky
    Ushers the golden signals of the morn;
    Whilst the magnanimous cock with joy proclaims
    The sun’s illustrious cavalcade. Your thoughts
    Would ruminate on all the works of Heaven,
    And th’ various dispensations of its power.
    Our predecessors better did improve
    The precious minutes of the morn than we
    Their lazy successors. Their practice taught
    And left us th’ good Proverbial, that “To rise
    Early makes all men healthy, wealthy, wise.”
      _Gen._ Your practice. Sir, merits our imitation;
    Where the least particle of night and day’s
    Improv’d to th’ best advantage, whilst your soul
    (Unclogg’d from th’ dross of melancholic cares)
    Makes every place a paradise.
      _Sir J._ ’Tis true,
    I bless my lucky stars, whose kind aspects
    Have fix’d me in this solitude. My youth
    Past thro’ the tropics of each fortune, I
    Was made her perfect tennis-ball; her smiles
    Now made me rich and honour’d; then her frowns
    Dash’d all my joys, and blasted all my hopes:
    Till, wearied by such interchange of weather,
    In court and city, I at length confined
    All my ambition to the Golden Mean,
    The Equinoctial of my fats; to amend
    The errors of my life by a good end.

  C.L.

  [434] The murderers.

  [435] Breathless?

  [436] My transcript breaks off here. Perhaps what follows was of less
  value; or perhaps I broke off, as I own I have sometimes done, to
  leave in my readers a relish, and an inclination to explore for
  themselves the genuine fountains of these old dramatic delicacies.

       *       *       *       *       *


“BURNING THE WITCH”

AT BRIDLINGTON, &c.

_For the Table Book._

A custom was very prevalent in this part of Yorkshire about fifty years
ago, and earlier, which has since been gradually discontinuing, until it
has become nearly extinct--called “burning the witch” in the
harvest-field. On the evening of the day in which the last corn was cut
belonging to a farmer, the reapers had a merrimaking, which consisted of
an extra allowance of drink, and burning of peas in the straw. The peas
when cut from the ground are left to dry in small heaps, named
_pea-reaps_. Eight or ten of these _reaps_ were collected into one, and
set fire to in the field, whilst the labourers ran and danced about, ate
the “brustled peas,” blacked each other’s faces with the burned straw,
and played other tricks; the lads generally aiming for the lasses, and
the lasses for the lads. Such of them as could add a little grease to
the grime seldom failed to do it. Even the good dame herself has
sometimes joined in the general sport, and consequently fallen in for
her share of the face-blacking. The evening’s entertainment consisted
also of the _cream-pot_, which was a supper of cream and cakes, provided
and eaten in the house prior to the commencement of the sport in the
field. Cream-pot cakes were made rather thick, and sweet with currants
and caraway-seeds. They were crossed on the top by small squares, owing
to the dough being slightly cut transversely immediately before baking.
The practice of “burning the witch” probably had its origin in those
days of superstition, when the belief in witchery so generally and,
indeed, almost universally prevailed, and was considered necessary under
an idea of its being available in preventing the overthrowing of the
wains, the laming of the horses, and the injuring of the servants, and
of securing general success in the removing, housing, or stacking of the
produce of the farm.

  T. C.

  _Bridlington, July, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *

P.S. _October, 1827._--One evening in the harvest of this year I was at
North Burton, near Bridlington, and three distinct fires were then seen
in the fields.

  T C.


WITCHCRAFT

_For the Table Book._

  RECOLLECTIONS OF PRACTICES FORMERLY USED TO AVERT AND AVOID THE POWER
  OF WITCHERY.

Having a small, smooth limestone, picked up on the beach, with its edges
rubbed down by friction and the continual action of the sea, and with a
natural hole through it, tied to the key of a house, warehouse, barn,
stable, or other building, prevented the influence of witches over
whatever the house, &c. contained.

Sailors nailed a horse-shoe on the foremast, and jockeys one on the
stable-door, but to be effective the shoe ought necessarily to be found
by accident.

On meeting a suspected witch the thumb of each hand was turned inward,
and the fingers firmly closed upon it; care was also taken to let her
have the wall-side or best path.

Caution was used that gloves, or any portion of apparel worn next to the
skin, came not into the possession of a witch, as it was strongly
believed she had an highly ascendant power over the rightful owner.

A bit of witch-wood, or a hare’s foot, was carried in the pocket, under
an impression that the possessor was free from any harm that otherwise
might accrue from the old hag’s malignant practices.

One thing of importance was not to go out of the house in a morning
without taking a bite of bread, cake, or other eatable to break the
fast.

A thick white curtain was hung inside the window, to prevent an “evil
eye” being cast into the room.

If a few drops of the old creature’s blood could be obtained, they were
considered sufficiently efficacious in preventing her “secret, black,
and baneful workings.”

Although the practices abovementioned are spoken of in the past tense,
they are not, at the present time, altogether done away; not a few, who
are now living, are credulous enough to believe in their potency. The
following may be mentioned as a fact, which occurred a short time ago in
the neighbourhood where the writer of this article resides:--A person
bought a pig, which after keeping for some time “grew very badly,” and
witchery was suspected to be the cause; to ascertain the certainty of
the fact nine buds of the elder-tree (here commonly called buttery) were
laid in a straight line, and all pointing one way; a dish made of ash
wood was inverted and placed carefully over them, and left to the next
morning. This was done under an idea that if the pig was bewitched the
buds would be found in disorder, but if not, in the state in which they
were originally left.

  T. C.

  _Bridlington, July 30, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


OLD HOUSES AND FURNITURE.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--A rare and valuable copy of “Holinshed’s Chronicles of Englande,
Scotlande, and Irelande,” a black letter folio volume, with curious
wood-cuts, “imprinted at London” in 1577, has lately fallen in my way,
and afforded me considerable amusement. One chapter especially, in “The
Seconde Booke of the Description of Britaine,” namely, “Cap. 10. Of the
Maner of Buylding, and furniture of our Houses,” cannot fail, I think,
to interest your readers.

After a very entertaining account of the construction of our ancient
cottages and country houses before glass came into general use, this
historian of the age of queen Elizabeth proceeds as follows:--

“The auncient maners and houses of our gentlemen are yet for the most
part of strong tymber. Howbeit such as be lately buylded are commonly
either of bricke, or harde stone, their rowmes large and stately, and
houses of office farder distaunt fro their lodginges. Those of the
nobilitie are likewise wrought with bricke and harde stone, as provision
may best be made; but so magnificent and stately, as the basest house of
a barren doth often match with some honours of princes in olde tyme; so
that if ever curious buylding did flourish in Englande it is in these
our dayes, wherein our worckemen excel and are in maner comparable in
skill with old Vitrunius and Serlo. The furniture of our houses also
exceedeth, and is growne in maner even to passing delicacie; and herein
I do not speake of the nobilitie and gentrie onely, but even of the
lowest sorte that have any thing ‘to take to.’[437] Certes, in noble
men’s houses it is not rare to see abundance of arras, riche hangings of
tapestry, silver vessell, and so much other plate as may furnish sūdrie
cupbordes, to the summe ofte times of a thousand or two thousande pounde
at the least; wherby the value of this and the reast of their stuffe
doth grow to be inestimable. Likewise, in the houses of knightes,
gentlemē, marchauntmen, and other wealthie citizens, it is not geson to
beholde generallye their great provision of tapestrie, Turkye worke,
_pewter_, _brasse_, fine linen, and therto costly cupbords of plate
woorth five or sixe hundred pounde, to be demed by estimation. But as
herein all these sortes doe farre exceede their elders and
predecessours, so in tyme past the costly furniture STAYED THERE,
whereas now it is descended yet lower, even unto the inferiour
artificers and most fermers, who have learned to garnish also their
cupbordes with plate, their beddes with tapestrie and silke hanginges,
and their table with fine naperie, whereby the wealth of our countrie
doth infinitely appeare. Neither do I speake this in reproch of any man,
God is my judge, but to shew that I doe rejoyce rather to see how God
hath blessed us with hys good giftes, and to behold how that in a time,
wherein all thinges are growen to most excessive prices, we doe yet
finde the meanes to obtayne and atchieve such furniture as hath
heretofore been impossible.

“There are _olde men yet dwelling in the village where I remayne_, which
have noted three things to be marveylously altered in Englande within
their sound remembraunce. One is, the multitude of _chimnies_ lately
erected, wheras, in their young dayes there were not above two or three,
if so many, in most uplandish townes of the realme, (the religious
houses and mannour places of their lordes alwayes excepted, and
peradventure some great personages,) but eache one made his fire against
a reredosse in the hall, where he dined and dressed his meate.

“The second is the great _amendment of lodginge_; for, sayde they, our
fathers, and we ourselves, have lyen full oft upon straw pallettes,
covered onely with a sheete under coverlettes, made of dagswain or
hop-harlots, (I use their own termes,) and a good round logge under
their heades in steade of a boulster. If it were so that our fathers, or
the good man of the house, had a matteress or flockbed, and therto a
sacke of chafe to rest hys head upon, he thought himself as well lodged
as the lorde of the towne; so well were they contented. Pillowes, sayde
they, were thoughte meete onely for women in childbed. As for servants
if they had any sheete above them it was well; for seldom had they any
under their bodies to keepe them from the pricking strawes that ran oft
thorow the canvass, and raced their hardened hides.[438]

“The thirde thinge they tell of is the exchange of treene _platters_
into pewter, and woode spoones into silver or tin. For so cōmon were al
sortes of treene vesselles in old time, that a man should hardly find
four peces of pewter, of which one was, peradventure, _a salte_ in a
good farmer’s house; and yet for al this frugalitie, (if it may so be
justly called,) they were scarse able to lyve and paye their rentes at
their dayes without selling of a cow or a horse, or more, although they
payde but foure poundes at the uttermost by the yeare. Such also was
their poverty, that if a fermour or husbandman had been at the
ale-house, _a thing greatly used in those dayes_, or amongst sixe or
seaven of hys neyghbours, and there in a bravery to shewe what store he
had did cast down his purse, and therein a noble, or sixe shillings in
silver, unto them, it was very likely that all the rest could not lay
downe so much against it: wheras, in my tyme, although peradventure
foure pounde of olde rent be improved to fourty or fiftye pound, yet
will the farmer think his gaines very small toward the middest of his
terme, if he have not sixe or seaven yeres rent lying by him, therewith
to purchase a newe lease, besides a faire garnish of _pewter_ in his
cowborde, three or foure feather beddes, so many coverlettes, and
carpettes of tapestry, a silver salte, a bowle for wine, (if not an
whole[439] neast,) and a dussen of spoones to furnishe up the sute. Thys
also he taketh to be his owne cleare; for what stocke of money soever he
gathereth in all his yeares, it is often seene that the landlorde will
take such order with him for the same when he renueth his lease, which
is commōly eight or ten yeares before it be expyred, sith it is nowe
growen almost to a custome, that if he come not to his lorde so long
before, another shall step in for a reversion, and so defeat him
outright, that it shall never trouble him more, then the heare of his
bearde when the barber hath washed and shaven it from his chinne.”

Submitting the above to the especial consideration of our “beaux” and
“belles,” doctors and patients, landlords and farmers, and informing
these last, that in the two reigns preceding land was let for one
shilling per acre,

  I remain, Mr. Editor,

  yours respectfully,

  N. S.

  _Morley, near Leeds,_

  _October 15, 1827._

  [437] “To tack to,” a very common expression among the lower classes
  hereabouts.

  [438] It may be useful to note, that as the body is often called
  hereabouts the “carcass,” so the skin is the “hide.”

  [439] I presume a “peg tankerd,” a “wassail cup,” a “porringer” or
  two, and a dozen “apostles’ spoons,” would seem a pretty “neast” in
  these days. As to the silver salte “thereby hangs a tale,” and a
  curious one too, as I have discovered since writing the above. See
  Drake’s “Illustrations of Shakspeare, &c.” vol. i. p. 74.

       *       *       *       *       *


LONDINIANA.

_For the Table Book._

Mr. Editor,--Since most of your readers will readily admit the propriety
of the adage, “Time and quarter-day wait for no man,” allow me the
favour of insertion for the following rhyming couplets, by John Heywood
the elder, distinctively known as “the epigrammatist.” They are an
extract from his “Workes, newlie imprinted, with six hundrede very
pleasant, pithie, and ingenious Epigrammes, 1598, 4to.;” and are thus
entitled:--

SEEKING FOR A DWELLING-PLACE.

    Still thou seekest for a quiet dwelling place--
    What place for quietnes hast thou now in chase:
    _London bridge_--that’s ill for thee, for the water.
    _Queene hyth_--that’s more ill for an other matter.
    _Smart’s key_--that’s most ill for feare of smarting smart.
    _Carter lane_--nay, nay, that sounded all on the cart.
    _Pawl’s cheyne_--nay, in no wise dwell not nere the chaine.
    _Wood street_--why wilt thou be wood yet once againe.
    _Bread street_--that’s too drie, by drought thou shalt be dead.
    _Philpot lane_--that breedeth moist humours in the head.
    _Silver street_--coppersmiths in Silver street; fie.
    _Newgate street_--’ware that, man, Newgate is hard bie.
    _Foster lane_--thou wilt as soone be tide fast, as fast.
    _Crooked lane_--nay crooke no more, be streight at last.
    _Creed lane_--they fall out there, brother against brother.
    _Ave mary lane_--that’s as ill as the tother.
    _Pater noster row_--aye, Pater noster row--
    Agreed--that’s the quietest place that I know.

  _Sign._ B b 3.

London-bridge had then houses upon it--a circumstance more fully treated
of in the Chronicles of London-bridge, recently published--and half
Foster-lane is becoming extinct by the erection of the new
general-post-office. The other places still retain their old
appellations.

  I am, &c.

  WILL O’ TH’ WISP.

  _Oct. 12, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


~Thomsoniana.~

_To the Editor._

Sir,--I shall be greatly obliged, and there can be no doubt your readers
will be considerably interested, by your insertion of the subjoined
article in your valuable _Table Book_. It was copied from the “Weekly
Entertainer,” published at Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, in the year 1800.

  I am, sir,

  Yours, very respectfully,

  G. H. I.

  _Memoranda of Mr. Thomson, the poet, collected from Mr. William
  Taylor, formerly a barber and peruke-maker, at Richmond, Surrey, now
  blind. September, 1791._

(Communicated by the Earl of Buchan.)

_Q._ Mr. Taylor, do you remember any thing of Thomson, who lived in
Kew-lane some years ago?

_A._ Thomson?--

_Q._ Thomson, the poet.

_A._ Ay, very well. I have taken him by the nose many hundred times. I
shaved him, I believe, seven or eight years, or more; he had a face as
long as a horse; and he sweated so much, that I remember, after walking
one day in summer, I shaved his head without lather by his own desire.
His hair was as soft as a camel’s; I hardly ever felt such; and yet it
grew so remarkably, that if it was but an inch long, it stood upright an
end from his head like a brush. (Mr. Robertson[440] confirmed this
remark.)

_Q._ His person, I am told, was large and clumsy?

_A._ Yes; he was pretty corpulent, and stooped forward rather when he
walked, as though he was full of thought; he was very careless and
negligent about his dress, and wore his clothes remarkably plain. (Mr.
Robertson, when I read this to him, said, “He was clean, and yet
slovenly; he stooped a good deal.”)

_Q._ Did he always wear a wig?

_A._ Always, in my memory, and very extravagant he was with them. I have
seen a dozen at a time hanging up in my master’s shop, and all of them
so big that nobody else could wear them. I suppose his sweating to such
a degree made him have so many; for I have known him spoil a new one
only in walking from London.

_Q._ He was a great walker, I believe?

_A._ Yes, he used to walk from Malloch’s, at Strand on the Green, near
Kew Bridge, and from London, at all hours in the night; he seldom liked
to go in a carriage, and I never saw him on horseback; I believe he was
too fearful to ride. (Mr. Robertson said he could not bear to get upon a
horse.)

_Q._ Had he a Scotch accent?

_A._ Very broad; he always called me Wull.

_Q._ Did you know any of his relations?

_A._ Yes; he had two nephews, (cousins,) Andrew and Gilbert Thomson,
both gardeners, who were much with him. Andrew used to work in his
garden, and keep it in order, at over hours; he died at Richmond, about
eleven years ago, of a cancer in his face. Gilbert, his brother, lived
at East Sheen, with one esquire Taylor, till he fell out of a
mulberry-tree and was killed.

_Q._ Did Thomson keep much company?

_A._ Yes; a good deal of the writing sort. I remember Pope, and
Paterson, and Malloch, and Lyttleton, and Dr. Armstrong, and Andrew
Millar, the bookseller, who had a house near Thomson’s, in Kew-lane. Mr.
Robertson could tell you more about them.

_Q._ Did Pope often visit him?

_A._ Very often; he used to wear a light- great coat, and
commonly kept it on in the house; he was a strange, ill-formed, little
figure of a man; but I have heard him and Quin, and Paterson, talk
together so at Thomson’s, that I could have listened to them for ever.

_Q._ Quin was frequently there, I suppose?

_A._ Yes; Mrs. Hobart, his housekeeper, often wished Quin dead, he made
her master drink so. I have seen him and Quin coming from the Castle
together at four o’clock in a morning, and not over sober you may be
sure. When he was writing in his own house, he frequently sat with a
bowl of punch before him, and that a good large one too.

_Q._ Did he sit much in his garden?

_A._ Yes, he had an arbour at the end of it, where he used to write in
summer time. I have known him lie along by himself upon the grass near
it, and talk away as though three or four people were along with him.
(This might probably be when he was reciting his own compositions.)

_Q._ Did you ever see any of his writing?

_A._ I was once tempted, I remember, to take a peep; his papers used to
lie in a loose pile upon the table in his study, and I had longed for a
look at them a good while: so one morning while I was waiting in the
room to shave him, and he was longer than usual before he came down, I
slipped off the top sheet of paper, and expected to find something very
curious, but I could make nothing of it. I could not even read it, for
the letters looked like all in one.

_Q._ He was very affable in his manner?

_A._ O yes! he had no pride; he was very free in his conversation and
very cheerful, and one of the best natured men that ever lived.

_Q._ He was seldom much burthened with cash?

_A._ No; to be sure he was deuced long-winded; but when he had money, he
would send for his creditors, and pay them all round; he has paid my
master between twenty and thirty pounds at a time.

_Q._ You did not keep a shop yourself then at that time?

_A._ No, sir; I lived with one Lander here for twenty years; and it was
while I was apprentice and journeyman with him that I used to wait on
Mr. Thomson. Lander made his majors and bobs, and a person of the name
of Taylor, in Craven-street, in the Strand, made his tie-wigs. An
excellent customer he was to both.

_Q._ Did you dress any of his visitors?

_A._ Yes; Quin and Lyttleton, sir George, I think he was called. He was
so tender-faced I remember, and so devilish difficult to shave, that
none of the men in the shop dared to venture on him except myself. I
have often taken Quin by the nose too, which required some courage, let
me tell you. One day he asked particularly if the razor was in good
order; and protested he had as many barbers’ ears in his parlour at
home, as any boy had of birds’ eggs on a string; and swore, if I did not
shave him smoothly, he would add mine to the number. “Ah,” said Thomson,
“Wull shaves very well, I assure you.”

_Q._ You have seen the “Seasons,” I suppose?

_A._ Yes, sir; and once had a great deal of them by heart. (He here
quoted a passage from “Spring.”) Shepherd, who formerly kept the Castle
inn, showed me a book of Thomson’s writing, which was about the
rebellion in 1745, and set to music, but I think he told me not
published. (I mentioned this to Mr. Robertson, but he thought Taylor had
made small mistake; perhaps it might be some of the patriotic songs in
the masque of Alfred.)

_Q._ The cause of his death is said to have been by taking a boat from
Kew to Richmond, when he was much heated by walking?

_A._ No; I believe he got the better of that; but having had a batch of
drinking with Quin, he took a quantity of cream of tartar, as he
frequently did on such occasions, which, with a fever before, carried
him off. (Mr. Robertson did not assent to this.)

_Q._ He lived, I think, in Kew Foot-lane?

_A._ Yes, and died there; at the furthest house next Richmond Gardens,
now Mr. Boscawen’s. He lived sometime before at a smaller one higher up,
inhabited by Mrs. Davis.

_Q._ Did you attend on him to the last?

_A._ Sir, I shaved him the very day before his death; he was very weak,
but made a shift to sit up in bed. I asked him how he found himself that
morning. “Ah, Wull,” he replied, “I am very bad indeed.” (Mr. Robertson
told me, he ordered this operation himself as a refreshment to his
friend.)

Taylor concluded by giving a hearty encomium on his character.

This conversation took place at one of the alcoves on Richmond-green,
where I accidentally dropped in. I afterwards found it was a rural
rendezvous for a set of old invalids on nature’s infirm list; who met
there every afternoon, in fine weather, to recount and comment on the
“tale of other times.”

I inquired after Lander, and Mrs. Hobart, and Taylor, of Craven-street,
but found that none of them were surviving. Mrs. Hobart was thought to
have a daughter married in the town, called Egerton; but it was not
likely, from the distance of time, that she could impart any thing new.

Taylor told me, the late Dr. Dodd had applied to him several years ago
for anecdotes and information relative to Thomson.

Park Egerton, the bookseller, near Whitehall, tells me, that when
Thomson first came to London, he took up his abode with his predecessor,
Millan, and finished his poem of “Winter” in the apartment over the
shop; that Millan printed it for him, and it remained on his shelves a
long time unnoticed; but after Thomson began to gain some reputation as
a poet, he either went himself, or was taken by Mallet, to Millar in the
Strand, with whom he entered into new engagements for printing his
works; which so much incensed Millan, his first patron, and his
countryman also, that they never afterwards were cordially reconciled,
although lord Lyttleton took uncommon pains to mediate between them.

  [440] It appears that this gentleman was very intimate with the author
  of the “Seasons,” but we know nothing farther respecting him.

       *       *       *       *       *


AN OLD SONG RESTORED

“BUSY, CURIOUS, THIRSTY FLY.”

_To the Editor._

Sir,--In Ritson’s “Collection of Old Songs” are but two verses of this,
in my estimation, very beautiful song. Going from this place, Liverpool,
to Chester, it was my good fortune to hear a blind fiddler on board the
packet both play and sing the whole of the following, which I procured
from him at his domicile about two years ago. He was lost in the same
boat with the captain and others, during a gale of wind off Elesmere
port. If you think them worthy a place in your amusing _Table Book_, be
pleased to accept from

  Sir,
  Your most obedient servant,

  J. F. PHŒNIX.

  _Bold-street, Liverpool,_

  _Oct. 15, 1827._

    Busy, curious, thirsty fly
    Drink with me and drink as I;
    Freely welcome to my cup,
    Couldst thou sip and sup it up.
    Make the most of life you may,
    Life is short and wears away.
                    Life is short, &c.

    Both alike are thine and mine,
    Hastening quick to their decline;
    Thine’s a summer, mine’s no more,
    Though repeated to threescore;
    Threescore summers, when they’re gone,
    Then will appear as short as one.
                    Then will appear, &c.

    Time seems little to look back,
    And moves on like clock or jack;
    As the moments of the fly
    Fortune swiftly passes by,
    And, when life’s short thread is spun,
    The larum strikes, and we are gone.
                    The larum, &c.

    What is life men so prefer?
    It is but sorrow, toil, and care:
    He that is endow’d with wealth
    Oftentimes may want his health,
    And a man of healthful state
    Poverty may be his fate.
                    Poverty may, &c.

    Some are so inclined to pride,
    That the poor they can’t abide,
    Tho’ themselves are not secure,
    He that’s rich may soon be poor;
    Fortune is at no man’s call,
    Some shall rise whilst others fall.
                    Some shall, &c.

    Some ambitious men do soar
    For to get themselves in power,
    And those mirk and airy fools
    Strive to advance their master’s rule;
    But a sudden turn of fate
    Shall humble him who once was great.
                    Shall humble, &c.

    He that will live happy must
    Be to his king and country just;
    Be content, and that is more
    Than all the miser’s golden store;
    And whenever life shall cease,
    He may lay him down in peace.
                    He may lay, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *


HERMITS.

Mr. J. Pettit Andrews has two anecdotes concerning hermits, which
exemplify the strength of the “ruling” passion, when the individual is
“dead to the world:” viz.


ST. ROMUALD.

Born at Ravenna, of noble parentage; he embraced, towards the middle of
the tenth century, the state of a hermit, under the direction of a
solitary, whose severity at least equalled his piety. Romuald bore for a
long time, without a murmur, the repeated thumps which he received from
his holy teacher; but observing that they were continually directed to
his _left_ side, “Honour my _right_ ear, my dear master,” said he,
meekly, “with some of your attention, for I have nearly lost the use of
my _left_ ear, through your partiality to that side.” Romuald, when he
became master of his own conduct, showed that he could on occasion copy
the rigour of his preceptor; for, hearing that his own father, who had
embraced a monastic life, entertained thoughts of re-entering the world
again, he hurried to the monastery, and, by the rhetoric of a very
hearty drubbing, brought his unsteady parent over to a more settled way
of thinking.


AMADEUS, DUKE OF SAVOY.

This prince, in the fifteenth century, took upon him to become a hermit;
with how much abstinence and moderation he demeaned himself, may be
judged from this circumstance, that the French make use of the
expression “faire _ripailles_,” when they would speak of giving way to
every indulgence and enjoyment; and they take the term from “Ripailles,”
the name of this pious recluse’s hermitage.

Besides his attachment to every possible luxury, this holy anchoret had
a peculiar pride in his beard, which was singularly fine and
picturesque. Political motives made the cardinals seek him in his
retreat, to confer on him the dignity of pope; but no persuasions nor
representations would make him consent to part with that favourite
beard, until the ridicule which its preposterous appearance under the
tiara occasioned, brought him to agree to its removal. Even the pomp of
the papal chair could not long detain him from Ripailles. He soon
quitted the triple crown, that he might repossess his beloved retreat.


A HERMIT’S MEDITATION.

      In lonesome cave
    Of noise and interruption void,
      His thoughtful solitude
    A hermit thus enjoy’d:

      His choicest book
    The remnant of a human head
      The volume was, whence he
    This solemn lecture read:--

      “Whoe’er thou wert,
    Partner of my retirement now,
      My nearest intimate,
    My best companion thou!

      On thee to muse
    The busy living world I left;
      Of converse all but thine,
    And silent that, bereft.

      Wert thou the rich,
    The idol of a gazing crowd?
      Wert thou the great,
    To whom obsequious thousands bow’d?

      Was learning’s store
    E’er treasur’d up within this shell?
      Did wisdom e’er within
    This empty hollow dwell?

      Did youthful charms
    E’er redden on this ghastful face?
      Did beauty’s bloom these cheeks,
    This forehead ever grace?

      If on this brow
    E’er sat the scornful, haughty frown,
      Deceitful pride! where now
    Is that disdain?----’tis gone.

      If cheerful mirth
    A gayness o’er this baldness cast,
      Delusive, fleeting joy!
    Where is it now?----’tis past.

      To deck this scalp
    If tedious long-liv’d hours it cost.
      Vain, fruitless toil! where’s now
    That labour seen?----’tis lost.

      But painful sweat,
    The dear-earn’d price of daily bread,
      Was all, perhaps, that thee
    With hungry sorrows fed.

      Perhaps but tears,
    Surest relief of heart-sick woe,
      Thine only drink, from down
    These sockets us’d to flow.

      Oppress’d perhaps
    With aches and with aged cares,
      Down to the grave thou brought’st
    A few, and hoary, hairs:

      ’Tis all perhaps!
    No marks, no token can I trace
      What, on this stage of life
    Thy rank or station was.

      Nameless, unknown!
    Of all distinction stript and bare,
      In nakedness conceal’d,
    Oh! who shall thee declare?

      Nameless, unknown!
    Yet fit companion thou for me,
      Who hear no human voice
    No human visage see.

      From me, from thee,
    The glories of the world are gone;
      Nor yet have either lost
    What we could call our own.

      What _we_ are now,
    The great, the wise, the fair, the brave,
      Shall all hereafter be,
    All Hermits--in the grave.”

       *       *       *       *       *


CURIOUS ANECDOTES OF BIRMINGHAM MANUFACTURERS AND MANUFACTURES.

Birmingham, says the late Mr. William Hutton, (the historian of this
large and populous town,) Birmingham began with the productions of the
anvil, and probably will end with them. The sons of the hammer were once
her chief inhabitants; but that great crowd of artists is now lost in a
greater. Genius seems to increase with multitude. Part of the riches,
extension, and improvement of Birmingham, are owing to the late John
Taylor, Esq. who possessed the singular power of perceiving things as
they really were. The spring and consequence of action were open to his
view. He rose from minute beginnings to shine in the commercial, as
Shakspeare did in the poetical, and Newton in the philosophical,
hemisphere.

To this uncommon genius we owe the gilt button, the japanned and gilt
snuff-boxes, with the numerous race of enamels. From the same fountain
issued the painted snuff-box, at which one servant earned three pounds
ten shillings per week, by painting them at a farthing each. In his
shops were weekly manufactured, buttons to the amount of 800_l._,
exclusive of other valuable productions. One of the present nobility, of
distinguished taste, examining the works with the master, purchased some
of the articles, among others, a toy of eighty guineas value; and while
paying for them, observed with a smile, “he plainly saw he could not
reside in Birmingham for less than two hundred pounds a day.” Mr. Taylor
died in 1775, at the age of sixty-four, after acquiring a fortune of
200,000_l._

The active powers of genius, the instigation of profit, and the affinity
of one calling to another, often induce the artist to change his
occupation. There is nothing more common among us; even the divine and
the lawyer are prone to this change. Thus the church throws her dead
weight into the scale of commerce, and the law gives up the cause of
contention: but there is nothing more disgraceful, except thieving, in
other places. “I am told,” says an elderly gentleman, as he amused
himself in a pitiful bookseller’s shop in a wretched market town, “that
you are a stocking-maker by trade!” The humble bookseller, half
confused, and wholly ashamed, could not deny the charge. “Ah,” cried the
senior, whose features were modelled between the sneer and the smile,
“there is neither honour nor profit in changing the trade you were bred
to. Do not attempt to sell books, but stay at home, and pursue your own
business.” The dejected bookseller, scarcely one step higher than a
“walking stationer,” lived to acquire a large fortune. Had he followed
the senior’s advice, he might, like a common foot soldier, have starved
upon eight-pence a day. This humble and dejected bookseller was Mr.
Hutton himself. He says, toy trades first made their appearance in
Birmingham in the beginning of Charles the Second’s reign, in an endless
variety, attended with all their beauties and their graces. When he
wrote, he ranked, as first in preeminence, the


BUTTON.

This beautiful ornament, says Mr. Hutton, appears with infinite
variation; and though the original date is rather uncertain, yet we well
remember the long coats of our grandfathers covered with half a gross
of high tops, and the cloaks of our grandmothers ornamented with a horn
button nearly the size of a crown piece, a watch, or a John-apple,
curiously wrought, as having passed through the Birmingham press.

Though, continues Mr. Hutton, the common round button keeps on with the
steady pace of the day, yet we sometimes see the oval, the square, the
pea, the concave, and the pyramid, flash into existence. In some
branches of traffic the wearer calls loudly for new fashions; but in
this, the fashions tread upon each other, and crowd upon the wearer. The
consumption of this article is astonishing: the value in 1781 was from
three-pence a gross to one hundred and forty guineas.

In 1818, the art of gilding buttons was arrived at such a degree of
refinement in Birmingham, that three pennyworth of gold was made to
cover a gross of buttons: these were sold at a price proportionably low.
The experiment has been tried to produce _gilt_ buttons _without any
gold_; but it was found not to answer, the manufacturer losing more in
the consumption than he saved in the material. There seems, says Mr.
Hutton, to be hidden treasures couched within this magic circle, known
only to a few, who extract prodigious fortunes out of this useful toy,
whilst a far greater number submit to a statute of bankruptcy. Trade,
like a restive horse, can rarely be managed; for, where one is carried
to the end of a successful journey, many are thrown off by the way.

The next to which Mr. Hutton calls our attention, is the


BUCKLE.

Perhaps the shoe, in one form or other, is nearly as ancient as the
foot. It originally appeared under the name of sandal; this was no other
than a sole without an upper-leather. That fashion has since been
inverted, and we have sometimes seen an upper-leather nearly without a
sole. But whatever was the cut of the shoe, it always demanded a
fastening. Under the house of Plantagenet, the shoe shot horizontally
from the foot, like a Dutch skate, to an enormous length; so that the
extremity was fastened to the knee, sometimes with a silver chain, a
silk lace, or even a packthread string, rather than avoid _genteel
taste_.

This thriving beak drew the attention of the legislature, which
determined to prune the exorbitant shoot; for, in 1465, we find an
order of council, prohibiting the growth of the shoe toe beyond two
inches, under the penalty of a dreadful curse from the priest--and, what
was worse, the payment of twenty shillings to the king.

This fashion, like every other, gave way to time; and, in its stead, the
rose began to bud upon the foot, which, under the house of Tudor, opened
in great perfection. No shoe was fashionable without being fastened with
a full blown rose. Ribbons of every colour, except white, the emblem of
the depressed house of York, were had in esteem; but the red, like the
house of Lancaster, held the preeminence. Under the house of Stuart the
rose withered, which gave rise to the shoestring. The beaux of that age
ornamented their lower tier with double laces of silk, tagged with
silver, and the extremities were beautified with a small fringe of the
same metal. The inferior class wore laces of plain silk, linen, or even
a thong of leather; which last is yet to be met with in the humble
plains of rural life.

The revolution was remarkable for the introduction of William, of
liberty, and the minute buckle, not differing much in size and shape
from the horse bean.

This offspring of fancy, like the clouds, is ever changing. The fashion
of to-day is thrown into the casting-pot to-morrow.

The buckle seems to have undergone every figure, size, and shape of
geometrical invention. It has passed through every form in Euclid. The
large square buckle, plated with silver, was the _ton_ of 1781. The
ladies also adopted the reigning taste; it was difficult to discover
their beautiful little feet, covered with an enormous shield of buckle;
and we wondered to see the active motion under the massive load.

In 1812, the whole generation of fashions, in the buckle line, was
extinct; a buckle was not to be found on a female foot, nor upon any
foot except that of old age.


GUNS.

King William was once lamenting, “that guns were not manufactured in his
dominions, but that he was obliged to procure them from Holland, at a
great expense, and with greater difficulty.” Sir Richard Newdigate, one
of the members for the county, being present, told the king, “that
genius resided in Warwickshire, and that he thought his constituents
would answer his majesty’s wishes.” The king was pleased with the
remark, and the member posted to Birmingham. Upon application to a
person in Digbeth, the pattern was executed with precision, and, when
presented to the royal board, gave entire satisfaction. Orders were
immediately issued for large numbers, which have been so frequently
repeated, that they never lost their road; and the ingenious artists
were so amply rewarded, that they have rolled in their carriages to this
day.

It seems that the word “London” marked upon guns is a better passport
than the word “Birmingham;” and the Birmingham gun-makers had long been
in the habit of marking their goods as being made in London.

In 1813 some of the principal gun-makers of London brought a bill into
the House of Commons to oblige every manufacturer of firearms to mark
them with his real name and place of abode. The Birmingham gun-makers
took the alarm; petitioned the house against the bill, and thirty-two
gun-makers instantly subscribed six hundred and fifty pounds to defray
the expense of opposing it. They represented that they made the
component parts of the London guns, which differed from theirs only in
being put together, and marked in the metropolis.

Government authorized the gun-makers of Birmingham to erect a
proof-house of their own, with wardens and a proof master; and allowed
them to decorate their guns with the ensigns of royalty. All firearms
manufactured in Birmingham and its vicinity are subjected to the proof
required by the Board of Ordnance: the expense is not to exceed one
shilling each piece; and the neglect of proving is attended with a
penalty not exceeding twenty pounds.


LEATHER.

Though there is little appearance of that necessary article in
Birmingham, yet it was once a famous market for leather. Digbeth not
only abounded with tanners, but large numbers of hides arrived weekly
for sale, and here the whole country found a supply. When the weather
would allow, they were ranged in columns in the High-street, and at
other times deposited in the leather-hall, at the east end of
New-street, appropriated for their reception. This market was of great
antiquity, perhaps not less than seven hundred years, and continued till
the beginning of the eighteenth century. Two officers are still annually
chosen, who are named leather sealers, from a power given them by
ancient charter to mark the vendible hides; but now the leather sealers
have no duty, but that of taking an elegant dinner. Shops are erected
on tan-vats, the leather-hall is gone to destruction, and in 1781 there
was only one solitary tanner in Birmingham.


STEEL.

The manufacture of iron, in Birmingham, is ancient beyond research; that
of steel is of modern date.

Pride is inseparable from the human character; the man without it, is
the man without breath. We trace it in various forms, through every
degree of people; but like those objects about us, it is best discovered
in our own sphere; those above and those below us rather escape our
notice; envy attacks an equal. Pride induced the pope to look with
contempt on the European princes, and it now induces them to return the
compliment; it taught insolence to the Spaniard, selfishness to the
Dutch; it teaches the rival nations of France and England to contend for
power. Pride induced a late high bailiff of Birmingham, at the
proclamation of the Michaelmas fair, to hold his wand two feet higher
than the usual rest, that he might dazzle the crowd with a beautiful
glove hanging pendant, a ruffle curiously wrought, a ring set with
brilliants, and a hand delicately white. Pride preserves a man from mean
actions; it throws him upon meaner. It whets the sword for destruction;
it urges the laudable acts of humanity. It is the universal hinge on
which we move; it glides with the gentle stream of usefulness; it
overflows the mounds of reason, and swells into a destructive flood.
Like the sun, in his milder rays, it animates and draws us towards
perfection; but like him, in his fiercer beams, it scorches and
destroys.

Money is not the necessary attendant of pride, for it abounds nowhere
more than in the lowest ranks. It adds a sprucer air to a Sunday dress,
casts a look of disdain upon a bundle of rags; it boasts the _honour_ of
a family, while poverty unites a sole and upper leather with a bandage
of shop-thread. There are people who even _pride_ themselves upon
humility.

This dangerous _good_, this necessary _evil_, supports the female
character; without it, the brightest part of the creation would
degenerate. It will be asked, “What portion may be allowed?” Prudence
will answer, “As much as you please, but not to disgust.” It is equally
found in the senate-house and the button-shop. The scene of action is
the scene of pride. He who makes steel prides himself in carrying the
art one step higher than he who makes iron.

This art appeared at Birmingham in the seventeenth century, and was
introduced by the family of Kettle. The name of Steelhouse-lane will
convey to posterity the situation of the works; the commercial spirit of
Birmingham will convey the produce to the antipodes.

From the warm but dismal climate of this town issues the button which
shines on the breast, and the bayonet intended to pierce it; the lancet
which bleeds the man, and the rowel the horse; the lock which preserves
the beloved bottle, and the screw to uncork it; the needle, equally
obedient to the thimble and the pole.


BRASS WORKS.

The manufacture of brass was introduced into Birmingham by the family of
Turner about 1740. They erected those works at the south end of
Coleshill-street; then near two hundred yards beyond the buildings, but
now the buildings extend half a mile beyond them.

Under the black clouds which arose from this corpulent tunnel, some of
the trades collected their daily supply of brass, but the major part was
drawn from the Macclesfield, Cheadle, and Bristol companies.

“Causes are known by their effects;” the fine feelings of the heart are
easily read in the features of the face; the still operations of the
mind are discovered by the rougher operations of the hand. Every
creature is fond of power, from that noble head of the creation man, who
devours man, down to that insignificant mite who devours his cheese:
every man strives to be free himself, and to shackle another. Where
there is power of any kind, whether in the hands of a prince, a people,
a body of men, or a private person, there is a propensity to abuse it:
abuse of power will everlastingly seek itself a remedy, and frequently
find it; nay, even this remedy may in time degenerate into abuse, and
call loudly for another.

Brass is an object of some magnitude in the trades of Birmingham, the
consumption is said to be a thousand tons per annum. The manufacture of
this useful article had long been in the hands of few and opulent men,
who, instead of making the humble bow for favours received, acted with
despotic sovereignty, established their own laws, chose their customers,
directed the price, and governed the market. In 1780 the article rose,
either through caprice or necessity, perhaps the former, from
seventy-two pounds a ton to eighty-four pounds. The result was, an
advance upon the goods manufactured, followed by a number of
counter-orders, and a stagnation of business.

In 1781, a person, from affection to the user or resentment to the
maker, perhaps the latter, harangued the public in the weekly papers,
censured the arbitrary measures of the brazen sovereigns, showed their
dangerous influence over the trades of the town, and the easy manner in
which works of our own might be constructed. Good often arises out of
evil; this fiery match quickly kindled another furnace in Birmingham.
Public meetings were advertised, a committee appointed, and
subscriptions opened to fill two hundred shares, of one hundred pounds
each, which was deemed a sufficient capital; each proprietor of a share
to purchase one ton of brass annually. Works were immediately erected
upon the banks of the canal, for the advantage of water carriage, and
the whole was conducted with the true spirit of Birmingham freedom.

The old companies, which we may justly consider the directors of a South
Sea bubble in miniature, sunk the price from eighty-four pounds to
fifty-six pounds. Two inferences arise from this measure; that their
profits were once very high, or were now very low; and, that like some
former monarchs in the abuse of power, they repented one day too late.


NAILS.

The art of nail-making is one of the most ancient in Birmingham. It is
not, however, so much a trade _in_, as _of_ Birmingham, for there are
but few nail-makers left in the town; the nailors are chiefly masters,
and rather opulent. The manufacturers are so scattered round the
country, that we cannot travel far in any direction out of the sound of
the nail-hammer. Birmingham, like a powerful magnet, draws the produce
of the anvil to herself.

When I first approached Birmingham, says Mr. Hutton, from Walsall in
1741, I was surprised at the prodigious number of blacksmiths’ shops
upon the road; and could not conceive how a country, though populous,
could support so many people of the same occupation. In some of these
shops I observed one or more females stript of their upper garment, and
not overcharged with their lower, wielding the hammer with all the grace
of the sex. The beauties of their face were rather eclipsed by the smut
of the anvil. Struck with the novelty, I inquired “Whether the ladies
in this country shod horses?” but was answered, with a smile, “They are
nailers.”

A fire without heat, a nailer of a fair complexion, or one who despises
the tankard, are equally rare among them. His whole system of faith may
be comprised in one article--That the slender mug, used in a
public-house, “is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.”

While the master reaps harvest of plenty, the workman submits to the
scanty gleanings of penury, a thin habit, an early old age, and a figure
bending towards the earth. Plenty comes not near his dwelling, except of
rags and of children. His hammer is worn into deep hollows, fitting the
fingers of a dark hand, hard as the timber it wears. His face, like the
moon, is often seen through a cloud.


BELLOWS.

Man first catches the profession; the profession afterwards moulds the
man. In whatever profession we engage we assume its character, become a
part of it, vindicate its honour, its eminence, its antiquity, or feel a
wound through its sides. Though there may be no more pride in a minister
of state who opens a budget, than in a tinker who carries one, yet they
equally contend for the honour of their trade.

The bellows-maker proclaims the _honour_ of his art by observing, he
alone produces that instrument which commands the winds; his soft
breeze, like that of the south, counteracts the chill blasts of winter;
by his efforts, like those of the sun, the world receives light; he
creates when he pleases, and gives breath when he creates. In his
caverns the winds sleep at pleasure, and by his “orders” they set Europe
in flames. He farther pretends, that the antiquity of his occupation
will appear from the plenty of elm, once in the neighbourhood, but long
cut up for his use; that the leather-market in Birmingham, for many
ages, furnished him with sides; and though the manufacture of iron is
allowed to be extremely ancient, yet the smith could not procure his
heat without a blast, nor could that blast be raised without the
bellows. One inference will arise from these remarks, that
bellows-making is one of the oldest trades in Birmingham.


THREAD.

We who reside in the interior parts of the kingdom may observe the first
traces of a river when it issues from its fountain, the current so
extremely small, that if a bottle of liquor, distilled through the
urinary vessels, were discharged into its course, it would manifestly
augment the water and quicken the stream: the reviving bottle, having
added spirits to the man, would seem to add spirits to the river. If we
pursue this river, winding through one hundred and thirty miles, we
shall observe it collect strength as it runs, expand its borders, swell
into consequence, employ multitudes of people, carry wealth in its
bosom, and exactly resemble thread-making in Birmingham. If we represent
to our ideas a man able to employ three or four people, himself in an
apron one of the number, but who being _unable_ to write his name, shows
his attachment to the Christian religion by signing the _cross_ to
receipts; whose method of book-keeping, like that of the publican, is _a
door and a lump of chalk_; producing a book which none can peruse but
himself; who having manufactured forty pounds weight of thread, of
divers colours, and rammed it into a pair of leathern bags, something
larger than a pair of boots, which we might deem the arms of his trade
_empaled_; slung them on a horse, and placed himself on the top by way
of a _crest_; visits an adjacent market, to starve with his goods at a
stall, or retail them to the mercer, nor return without the money--we
shall see a thread-maker of 1652. If we pursue this occupation, winding
through the mazes of one hundred and thirty years, we shall see it
enlarge its boundaries, multiply its people, increase its consequence
and wealth, till in 1782 we behold the master in possession of correct
accounts, the apron thrown aside, the stall kicked over, the bags tossed
into the garret, and the mercer overlooked in the grand prospect of
exportation. We farther behold him take the lead in provincial concerns,
step into his own carriage, and hold the king’s commission as a
magistrate.[441]

  [441] Hutton’s History of Birmingham.

       *       *       *       *       *


PRESERVATION OF FLOWERS.

A few grains of salt dropped into the water in which flowers are kept,
tends greatly to preserve them from fading, and will keep them fresh and
in bloom, double the period that pure water will.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


LETTER FROM A VILLAGE.

TO MR. CHARLES PICKWORTH.

  _Lincolnshire, -- June, 1815._

Dear Charles,--You remember our meeting the other day--I shall.--It’s a
long time since we ran riot, and got into mischief together--trundled
our hoops, gathered flowers in summer, and rolled in the snow in winter.
There is a dim pleasure in the remembrance of our late interview, and
that of these isolated scenes of our childhood: they are as faint gleams
of sunshine in a gloomy day. I don’t like, however, to reflect upon
being handwhipped, and put into the corner: the fears of that age are
dreadful--I see my aunt’s frown now, and hear her snap at me. But then
again, it was over _her_ grounds that we chased the hours away as
heedlessly as the butterflies. The homeclose-yard and kitchen
garden--how pleasant to remember _them_! The buzzard, you know, guarded
the fruit-garden, and kept us from the gooseberry-trees and
strawberry-beds; but in the others what a thousand frolics have we
sported in, and in what a thousand contrivances exercised our infant
minds. Every joy comes to my mind--I forget every hardship. The
coachman!--what would he not do for us! Bethink yourself--he had been in
the family a quarter of a century. How proud he was of it; how fussy and
fond of his favourite horses; how he used to pat them when out with the
carriage. You don’t forget that the old people continued the fashion of
postilions very long--but there is no end to remembrance.--I’ll stop----

You say in my behaviour the other day you saw the traces of my boyhood.
You compliment me. Children are selfish; they perhaps may have but
little to call their young feelings forth; for feelings must be met
half-way. I remember some _young_ feelings with delight still. I fancy I
have not that ecstasy now that the mind was tuned to then. Children have
but few friendships: the reason may be, that they have few objects to
engage them. This observation is vain--elder people have but few
friendships, and for the same reason. I had been more correct if I had
said, they are but little capable of a friendly disposition. The former
is a fact--this a speculation. You saw at the party wherein we last met,
how eager all the youngsters were to have their gallop in what they
considered their proper turn round the large close. This is a fair
sample of mankind in all their pursuits--of every age, old or young. I
waved my turn for you; and though I had a joyous idea of flying round
the course, I had more pleasure in seeing you gratified. It is well I
hit upon my old friend in my politeness; the others would have laughed
at me. The upper part of society profess more politeness than the lower;
the human heart is the same in both. The upper classes have more forms,
and the lower may say they are fools for their pains:--the upper bow
slavishly to each other; the lower do not. With the former it is of
service, but of none among the latter. For if among the ambitious and
supercilious of mankind it were not a matter of pride to know and do
this homage, one half of them would be turning up their noses, and
tossing their heads at the other. When I see a great man bow, I always
think he wants to creep into a greater man’s esteem.----

Excuse this wandering. I like to generalize mankind, and cast up the
proper value of every thing around me--the use is immense: hence flows
philosophy. I decide between grovelling and glorious ambition; and,
clearing myself of the former, am eased of impediment in the pursuit of
the latter. The consequence is, that I care nothing for wealth, provided
I have competence; that I can take up my abode with pleasure among poor
people, and not turn squeamish at sight of a fustian jacket; that I like
the humour of farm-houses, and would dine with a couple of vagabonds,
without fear of infection, amply compensated by the observation of their
vein; and looking upon the beauty of nature as the source of all
pleasure, far and wide as she extends, in this hole and cabin, my own
appropriate spot, my aim is to keep my health as the furtherance of a
superior object.

My maxim is--_necessaries_; that is, outward comfort and health. Observe
it.

  Your affectionate friend,

  C. O.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


GRASSINGTON FEAST.

CLOCK DRESSINGS.

During the continuance of “Grassington Feast,” it is customary for the
inhabitants to have convivial parties at one another’s houses: these are
called _clock dressings_; for the guests are invited to come and “dress
the clock.” Grassington feast was once one of the largest and most
celebrated one in Craven, but it is fast dwindling away. This year the
amusements were of a paltry description; and the sack racers, bell
racers, hasty-pudding eaters, and soaped-pig catchers, who used to
afford in former times such an unceasing fund of merriment, seem all
fled. Nothing told of olden time, except the presence of Frank King, the
Skipton minstrel, who seems determined to be in at the death.

  T. Q. M.

       *       *       *       *       *


A FRAGMENT

FOUND IN A SKELETON CASE AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY,

_Supposed to have been written by one of the Students, and deposited
there by him_.

SCELETOS.

    Behold this Ruin! ’twas a skull,
    Once of ethereal spirit full,
    This narrow cell was life’s retreat,
    This space was thought’s mysterious seat.
    What beauteous pictures fill’d this spot!
    What dreams of pleasure long forgot!
    Nor Love, nor Joy, nor Hope, nor Fear,
    Has left one trace or record here.

    Beneath this mouldering canopy
    Once shone the bright and busy eye!
    But start not at the dismal void,
    If social love that eye employ’d;
    If with no lawless fire it gleam’d,
    But thro’ the dew of kindness beam’d,
    The eye shall be for ever bright,
    When stars and suns have lost their light.

    Here in this silent cavern hung
    The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue,
    If falsehood’s honey it disdain’d,
    And where it could not praise, was chain’d;
    If bold in virtue’s cause--it spoke,
    Yet gentle concord never broke,
    That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee,
    When Death unveils eternity.

    Say, did these fingers delve the mine,
    Or with its envied rubies shine?
    To hew the rock, or wear the gem,
    Can nothing now avail to them:
    But if the page of truth they sought,
    Or comfort to the mourner brought,
    These hands a richer mead shall claim
    Than all that waits on wealth and fame.

    Avails it whether bare or shod,
    These feet the path of duty trod?
    If from the bowers of joy they fled
    To seek affliction’s humble bed,
    If grandeur’s guilty bribe they spurn’d,
    And home to virtue’s hope return’d,
    These feet with angel wings shall fly,
    And tread the palace of the sky.[442]

  [442] From the _Morning Chronicle_, Sept. 14, 1821.

       *       *       *       *       *


ANECDOTE OF A MAGPIE.

_For the Table Book._

A cobbler, who lived on indifferent terms with his wife in
Kingsmead-street, Bath, somewhat like Nell and Jobson, kept a magpie,
that learned his favourite ejaculatory exclamation--“What the plague art
_(h)at_?” Whoever came to his shop, where the bulk of his business was
carried on, the magpie was sure to use this exclamation; but the bird
was matched by the ghostly, bodily, and tall person of “Hats to dress!”
a well-known street perambulator and hat improver, who, with that cry,
daily passed the temple of Crispin. The magpie aspirating _at_ with _h_,
the crier of “Hats to dress!” considered it a personal insult, and after
long endurance, one morning put the bird into his bag, and walked away
with his living plague. When he reached home, “poor mag!” was daintily
fed, and became a favourite with the dresser’s wife. It chanced,
however, that the cobbler, who supplied the _sole_ understanding of
“Hats to dress!” waited on him to be rebeavered for his own
understanding. The magpie, hearing his old master’s voice, cried out,
“What the plague art _(h)at_?” “Ha, ha, ha,” said the astonished and
delighted cobbler, “come to fetch thee home, thou ’scapegrace.” The
hatter and the cobbler drank their explanation over a quart of ale; and
with a new, old, hat on his head, the latter trudged through
Stall-street, with his magpie in his apron, crying, “_What the plague
art (h)at?_”

  ----.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE ARTIST.

_For the Table Book._

    He is a being of deep reflection,--one
      That studies nature with intensest eye;
    Watching the works of air, earth, sea, and sun,
      Their motion, altitude, their form, their dye,
    Cause and effect. The elements which run,
      Or stagnant are, he traces to their source
    With vivid study, till his pencil makes
      A perfect likeness; or, by fancy’s force
    A new creation in his art he takes,
      And matches nature’s progress in his course
    Towards glory. In th’ abstractions of the mind,
      Harmony, passion, and identity,
    His genius, like the summer sun, is shrined,
      Till beauty and perfection he can see.

  ----.

       *       *       *       *       *




Vol. II.--47.


~The Giants~

IN THE LORD MAYOR’S SHOW,

AND IN GUILDHALL.

In the Lord Mayor’s Show on the 9th of November, 1827, there was a
remarkable variation from the customary route. Instead of the new chief
magistrate and corporation embarking at Blackfriars, as of late years
has been usual, the procession took a direction eastward, passed through
the Poultry, Cornhill, Leadenhall-street, Billiter-lane, Mincing-lane,
and from thence by Tower-street to the Tower Stairs, where they
embarked. This deviation is presumed to have been in compliment to the
Tower ward, in which the lord mayor presides as alderman. The ancient
lord mayors of London were accustomed to “ride and go” on horseback,
attended in like manner by the aldermen, and others of the corporation,
to the bottom of Queen-street, and there embark on board the barges for
Westminster. The present is the first instance of the lord mayor’s show
by water having proceeded from a more distant spot down the river.

In addition to the “men in armour,” and the length of the route by land,
in the lord mayor’s show of this year, there was “the far more
attractive novelty of two colossal figures representing the well-known
statues, Gog and Magog, (as they are called,) of Guildhall. They were
extremely well contrived, and appeared to call forth more admiration and
applause, than fell to the share of any of the other personages who
formed part of the procession. Whatever some fastidious critics may say
as to the taste of reviving in the present day some of the
long-neglected civic pageants, we think the appearance of these figures
augurs well for the future conduct of the new lord mayor: some of his
brother magistrates would, we make no doubt, be well content if in the
whole course, or at the close, of their official career, they could come
in for a little of the plaudits which were yesterday bestowed on the two
representatives of Gog and Magog.” (_The Times_, Nov. 10.) From the
report of a spectator, it appears that the giants were constructed of
wicker-work, gaily apparelled in the costume of their prototypes, and
similarly armed: each walked along by means of a man withinside, who
ever and anon turned the faces towards the thrones of company in the
houses; and, as the figures were fourteen feet high, their features were
on a level with the first-floor windows throughout the whole of their
progress.

In a work, which contains much information respecting the “London
Triumphs” of the lord mayors, and the “pageants” of those processions in
the olden time, there is a chapter devoted to a History of the Carvings
called the “Giants in Guildhall.” As the book is my own, and seems to be
little known “within the walls,” I presume to render the account in a
compressed form, as follows--


THE GIANTS IN GUILDHALL

From the time when I was astonished by the information, that “every day,
when the giants hear the clock strike twelve they come down to dinner,”
I have had something of curiosity towards them. How came they there, and
what are they for? In vain were my examinations of Stow, Howell, Strype,
Noorthouck, Maitland, Seymour, Pennant, and numberless other authors of
books and tracts regarding London. They scarcely deign to mention them,
and no one relates a syllable from whence we can possibly affirm that
the giants of their day were the giants that now exist.

To this remark there is a solitary exception. Hatton, whose “New View of
London” bears the date of 1708, says in that work, “This stately hall
being much damnify’d by the unhappy conflagration of the city in 1666,
was rebuilt anno 1669, and extremely well beautified and repaired both
in and outside, which cost about two thousand five hundred pounds, and
two _new_ figures of gigantick magnitude will be _as before_.”[443]
Presuming on the ephemeral information of his readers at the time he
published, Hatton obscured his information by a brevity, which leaves us
to suppose that the giants were destroyed when Guildhall was “much
damnify’d” by the fire of London in 1666; and that from that period they
had not been replaced. It is certain, however, that there were giants in
the year 1699, when Ned Ward published his London Spy: for, describing a
visit to Guildhall, he says, “We turned down King-street, and came to
the place intended, which we entered with as great astonishment to see
the giants, as the Morocco ambassador did London when he saw the snow
fall. I asked my friend the meaning and design of setting up those two
lubberly preposterous figures; for I suppose they had some peculiar end
in it. Truly, says my friend, I am wholly ignorant of what they
intended by them, unless they were set up to show the city what huge
loobies their forefathers were, or else to fright stubborn apprentices
into obedience; for the dread of appearing before two such monstrous
loggerheads, will sooner reform their manners, or mould them into a
compliance with their masters’ will, than carrying them before my lord
mayor or the chamberlain of London; for some of them are as much
frighted at the names of _Gog_ and _Magog_, as little children are at
the terrible sound of Raw-head and Bloody-bones.” There is no doubt that
at that time the city giants were far more popular than now; for, in the
same work, two passengers through Bartholomew fair, who had slyly
alighted from a coach without discharging it, are addressed by the
coachman with “Pay me my fare, or by _Gog_ and _Magog_ you shall feel
the smart of my whipcord;” an oath which in our time is obsolete, though
in all probability it was common then, or it would not have been used by
Ward in preference to his usual indecency.

Again; as to giants being in Guildhall before Hatton wrote, and whether
they were the present statues. On the 24th of April, 1685, there were
“wonderful and stupendous fireworks in honour of their majesties’
coronation, (James II. and his queen,) and for the high entertainment of
their majesties, the nobility, and _City of London_, made on the
Thames.”[444] Among the devices of this exhibition, erected on a raft in
the middle of the river, were two pyramids; between them was a figure of
the sun in polished brass, below it a great cross, and beneath that a
crown, all stored with fireworks; and a little before the pyramids “were
placed the statues of the two giants of Guildhall, in lively colours and
proportions facing Whitehall, the backs of which were all filled with
fiery materials; and, from the first deluge of fire till the end of the
sport, which lasted near an hour, _the two giants_, the cross, and the
sun, grew all in a light flame in the figures described, and burned
without abatement of matter.” From this mention of “statues _of_ the two
giants _of_ Guildhall,” it is to be inferred, that giants were _in_
Guildhall fourteen years before Ward’s book was published, and that,
probably, the firework-maker took them for his models, because their
forms being familiar to the “_City of London_,” their appearance would
be an attraction as well as a compliment to his civic audience.

Just before 1708, the date of Hatton’s book, Guildhall had been
repaired; and Hatton says, “In the middle of this front are depenciled
in gold these words, _Reparata et Ornata Thoma Rawlinson, Milit.
Majore_, An. Dom. M. DCC. VI.” From whence, and his observation, in the
extract first quoted, that “two _new_ figures of gigantick magnitude
_will be as before_,” he intends his reader to understand that, as
before _that_ reparation there _had been_ two giants, so, with the new
adornment of the hall there would be two _new_ giants. The proof of
Hatton’s meaning is to be found in “The Gigantick History of the two
famous Giants in Guildhall, London, third edition, corrected. London,
printed for Tho. Boreman, bookseller, near the Giants in Guildhall, and
at the Boot and Crown, on Ludgate-hill, 1741.”--2 vols. 64mo. This very
rare book states, that “before the present giants inhabited Guildhall,
there were two giants, made only of wicker-work and pasteboard, put
together with great art and ingenuity: and those two terrible original
giants had the honour yearly to grace my lord mayor’s show, being
carried in great triumph in the time of the pageants; and when that
eminent annual service was over, remounted their old stations in
Guildhall--till, by reason of their very great age, old Time, with the
help of a number of city rats and mice, had eaten up all their entrails.
The dissolution of the two old, weak, and feeble giants, gave birth to
the two present substantial and majestic giants; who, by order, and at
the city charge, were formed and fashioned. Captain Richard
Saunders,[445] an eminent carver in King-street, Cheapside, was their
father; who, after he had completely finished, clothed, and armed these
his two sons, they were immediately advanced to those lofty stations in
Guildhall, which they have peaceably enjoyed ever since the year 1708.”
The title-page of the “Gigantick History” shows that the work was
published within the Guildhall itself, when shops were permitted there;
so that Boreman, the publisher, had the best means that time and place
could afford of obtaining true information, and for obvious reasons he
was unlikely to state what was not correct. It is further related in
this work, that “the first honour which the two ancient wicker-work
giants were promoted to in the city, was at the restoration of king
Charles II., when with great pomp and majesty they graced a triumphal
arch, which was erected on that happy occasion at the end of
King-street, in Cheapside.” This was before the fire of London, by which
the hall was “much damnify’d,” but not burned down; for the
conflagration was principally confined to the wooden roof; and,
according to this account, the wicker-giants escaped, till their
infirmities, and the labours of the “city rats,” rendered it necessary
to supersede them.

That wicker was used in constructing figures for the London pageants is
certain. Haywood, in his description of the pageants in the show of the
lord mayor Raynton, in 1632, says, “The moddellor and composer of these
seuerall pieces, Maister Gerard Christmas, found these pageants and
showes of _wicker_ and paper, and reduc’t them to sollidity and
substance.”

To prove, however, the statement in the “Gigantick History,” that the
present giants were put up upon the reparation of the hall in 1706, an
examination of the city archives became necessary; and as the history
fortunately mentions captain Richard Saunders as the carver, the name
became a clue to successful inquiry. Accordingly, on examination of the
city accounts at the chamberlain’s office, under the head of
“Extraordinary Works,” for 1707, I discovered among the sums “paid for
repairing of the Guildhall and chappell,” an entry in the following
words:--

  To _Richard Saunders_, carver, seaventy
  pounds, by order of the co’mittee
  for repairing Guildhall, dated y^{e}
  x^{th}. of April, 1707, for work by
  him done                                 70_l._

This entry of the payment confirms the relation of the gigantic
historian; but Saunders’s bill, which doubtless contained the charges
for the two giants, and all the city vouchers before 1786, deposited in
the chamberlain’s office, were destroyed by a fire there in that year.

Giants were part of the pageantry used in different cities of the
kingdom. By an ordinance of the mayor, aldermen, and common-council of
Chester,[446] for the setting of the watch on the eve of the festival of
St. John the Baptist, in 1564, it was directed that there should be
annually, according to ancient custom, a pageant, consisting of four
giants, with animals, hobby-horses, and other figures, therein
specified.[447] In 1599, Henry Hardman, Esq. the mayor of Chester in
that year, from religious motives, caused the giants in the Midsummer
show “to be broken, and not to goe _the devil in his feathers_,” and he
provided a man in complete armour to go in their stead; but in 1601,
John Ratclyffe, a beer-brewer, being mayor, set out the giants and the
Midsummer show as usual. On the restoration of Charles II. new ones were
ordered to be made, and the estimate for finding the materials and
workmanship of the four great giants, as they were before, was at five
pounds a giant; and four men to carry them at two shillings and sixpence
each. The materials for making these Chester giants were deal-boards,
nails, pasteboard, scaleboard, paper of various sorts, buckram, size
cloth, and old sheets for their bodies, sleeves, and shirts, which were
to be ; also tinsel, tinfoil, gold and silver leaf, and colours
of different kinds. A pair of old sheets were to cover the _father and
mother giants_, and three yards of buckram were provided for the
mother’s and _daughter’s_ hoods. There is an entry in the Chester
charges of one shilling and fourpence “for arsenic to put into the paste
to save the giants from being eaten by the rats;”[448] a precaution
which, if adopted in the formation of the old wicker-giants of London,
was not effectual, though how long they had ceased to exist before the
reparation of the hall, and the carving of their successors, does not
appear. One conjecture may perhaps be hazarded, that, as after the mayor
of Chester had ordered the giants there to be destroyed, he provided a
man in armour as a substitute; so perhaps the dissolution of the old
London wicker-giants, and the lumbering incapacity of the new wooden
ones for the duty of lord mayor’s show, occasioned the appearance of the
men in armour in that procession.

Until the last reparation of Guildhall, in 1815, the present giants
stood with the old clock and a balcony of iron-work between them, over
the stairs leading from the hall to the courts of law and the council
chamber. When they were taken down in that year, and placed on the floor
of the hall, I thoroughly examined them as they lay in that situation.
They are made of wood,[449] and hollow within, and from the method of
joining and gluing the interior, are evidently of late construction, and
every way too substantially built for the purpose of being either
carried or drawn, or any way exhibited in a pageant. On inspecting them
at that period, I made minute inquiry of an old and respectable officer
of Guildhall, with whom they were favourites, as to what particulars
existed in the city archives concerning them; he assured me that he had
himself anxiously desired information on the same subject, and that
after an investigation through the different offices, there was not a
trace of the period when they commenced to be, nor the least record
concerning them. This was subsequently confirmed to me by gentlemen
belonging to other departments.

However stationary the present ponderous figures were destined to
remain, there can scarcely be a question as to the frequent use of their
wicker predecessors in the corporation shows. The giants were great
favourites in the pageants.[450] Stow, in describing the ancient setting
of the nightly watch in London on St John’s eve, relates that “the mayor
was surrounded by his footmen and torch-bearers, and followed by two
henchmen on large horses: the mayor had, besides his _giant_, three
pageants; whereas the sheriffs had only two, besides their _giants_,
each with their morris dance and one henchman.”[451] It is related,
that, to make the people wonder, these giants were armed, and marched as
if they were alive, to the great diversion of the boys, who, peering
under, found them stuffed with brown paper.[452] A character in
Marston’s “Dutch Courtezan,” a comedy acted in 1605, says, “Yet all will
scarce make me so high as one of the _gyant’s stilts_ that stalks before
my lord mayor’s pageants.”[453]

During queen Elizabeth’s progress to her coronation, Gogmagog and
Corinæus, two giants, were stationed at Temple-bar. It is not certain,
yet it is probable, that these were the wicker-giants brought from
Guildhall for the occasion. In the reign before, when queen Mary and
Philip II. of Spain made their public entry, there was at London bridge
a grand spectacle, with two images representing two giants, the one
named Corinæus, and the other Gogmagog, holding between them certain
Latin verses.[454] There is scarcely a likelihood that these were any
other than the Guildhall giants, which on the occasion of a corporation
rejoicing could be removed with the utmost ease.

Orator Henley, on the 21st of October, 1730, availed himself of the
anticipated civic festival for that year to deliver a lecture upon it,
mentioning the _giants_, which he announced by newspaper advertisement
as follows:--

  At the Oratory, the corner of Lincoln’s-Inn-Fields, near Clare-market,
  this Day, being Wednesday, at Six o’Clock in the Evening, will be a
  new Riding upon an old Cavalcade, entituled THE CITY IN ITS GLORY; OR,
  MY LORD MAYOR’S SHEW: Explaining to all Capacities that wonderful
  Procession, so much envy’d in Foreign Parts, and nois’d at Paris: on
  my Lord Mayor’s Day; the fine Appearance and Splendor of the Companies
  of Trade; Bear and Chain; the Trumpets, Drums, and Cries, intermix’d;
  the qualifications of my L--’s Horse, the whole Art and History of the
  City Ladies and Beaux at Gape-stare in the Balconies; the Airs, Dress,
  and Motions; THE TWO GIANTS walking out to keep Holiday; like Snails
  o’er a Cabbage, says an old Author, they all crept along; admir’d by
  their Wives, and huzza’d by the Throng.

There is no stronger evidence of the indifference to playfulness and wit
at city elections, than the almost total silence on those occasions
respecting such ample subjects for allusion and parallel as the giants
in the hall. Almost the only instance of their application in this way
is to be found in a handbill on occasion of a mayoralty election, dated
Oct. 4th, 1816, addressed “To the London Tavern Livery and their
Spouses.” It states, that “the day after Mr. Alderman ---- is elected
lord mayor for the year ensuing, the following entertainments will be
provided for your amusement gratis, viz. 1. The two giants, at the
bottom of the hall, will dance a minuet by steam, attended by Mr.
Alderman ---- in a new wig upon an elastic principle, gentleman having
bought half of his old one for the purpose of making a new peruke for
the aforesaid giants.” This is the first humorous allusion to the giants
after their removal to their present station.

It is imagined by the author of the “Gigantick History,” that the
Guildhall giants represent Corinæus a Trojan, and Gogmagog a Cornish
giant, whose story is related at large in that work; the author of which
supposes, that as “Corinæus and Gogmagog were two brave giants, who
nicely valued their honour, and exerted their whole strength and force
in defence of their liberty and country; so the city of London, by
placing these their representatives in their Guildhall, emblematically
declare, that they will, like mighty giants, defend the honour of their
country and liberties of this their city, which excels all others, as
much as those huge giants exceed in stature the common bulk of mankind.”
Each of these giants, as they now stand, measures upwards of fourteen
feet in height: the young one is believed to be Corinæus, and the old
one Gogmagog.

Such being the chief particulars respecting these enormous carvings, the
terror of the children, the wonder of the ’prentices, and the talk of
the multitude, in former days, I close the subject, satisfied with
having authenticated their origin. Trifling as this affair may seem, I
pursued the inquiry for upwards of sixteen years; and though much of the
time I spent in the search might have been better employed, I can assure
those who are unacquainted with the nature of such investigations, that
I had much pleasure in the pursuit, and when I had achieved my purpose I
felt more highly gratified, than I think I should had I attained to the
dignity of being “proud London’s proud lord mayor.”

There are other memoranda respecting the giants and lord mayors’ shows
in my volume on “Ancient Mysteries,” from whence the present particulars
are extracted.

  *

  [443] Hatton’s New View of London, 1708, 8vo. p. 607.

  [444] See the “Narrative,” by R. Lowman, 1685, folio, half sheet,
  1685.

  [445]

    “-------------- a citizen
        Of credit and renown,
      A _trainband captain_----.”--_Cowper_.


  [446] Harl. MSS. 1368.

  [447] Ibid. 2125.

  [448] Strutt’s Sports, Pref. p. xxvi.

  [449] Noorthouck writing in 1773, (Hist. of London, 4to. p. 590,)
  erroneously affirms that the giants are made of pasteboard.

  [450] Strutt, p. xxiii.

  _Giants_ were introduced into the May-games. “On the 26th of May,
  1555, was a gay May-game at St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields, with giants
  and hobby-horses, drums and guns, morris-dancers, and other
  minstrels.”--(Strype’s Memorials.) Burton, in his “Anatomy of
  Melancholy,” includes giants among the ordinary domestic recreations
  of winter.

  [451] Strutt, p. 319.

  [452] Brand, i. p. 257.

  [453] _Stilts_ to increase the stature of the _giants_, and the
  introduction of the _morris-dance_, are instances of the desire to
  gratify the fondness of our ancestors for strange sights and festive
  amusements. A cock dancing on _stilts_ to the music of a pipe and
  tabor is in Strutt’s Sports, from a book of prayers written towards
  the close of the thirteenth century. Harl. MSS. 6563.

  [454] Strutt’s Sports, Pref. p. xxvii.

       *       *       *       *       *


NORWICH GUILD.

MAYOR’S FEAST, TEMP. ELIZABETH.

The earls of Northumberland and Huntingdon, the lords Thomas Howard and
Willoughby, with many other noblemen and knights, paid a visit to the
duke of Norfolk, and were entertained, with their retinue, at the duke’s
palace, in Norwich, in 1561. The guild happening at this time, William
Mingay, Esq., then mayor, invited them and their ladies to the feast,
which they accepted, and expressed the greatest satisfaction at their
generous and hospitable reception. At the entertainment the duke and
duchess of Norfolk sat first; then the three earls of Northumberland,
Huntingdon, and Surrey, lord Thomas Howard, lord Scroop and his lady,
lord and lady Bartlet, lord Abergavenny, with so many other peers,
knights, and ladies, that the hall could scarcely contain them and their
retinue.[455] The mayor’s share of the expense was one pound, twelve
shillings, and ninepence. The feast makers, four in number, paying the
rest. The mayor’s bill of fare was as follows:--

                                                      £. _s._ _d._

  Eight stone of beef, at 8d. a stone, and a sirloin   0   5    8
  Two collars of brawn                                 0   1    0
  Four cheeses, at 4d. a cheese                        0   1    4
  Eight pints of batter                                0   1    6
  A hinder quarter of veal                             0   0   10
  A leg of mutton                                      0   0    5
  A fore quarter of veal                               0   0    5
  Loin of mutton and shoulder of veal                  0   0    9
  Breast and coat of mutton                            0   0    7
  Six pullets                                          0   1    0
  Four couple of rabbits                               0   1    8
  Four brace of partridges                             0   2    0
  Two Guinea cocks                                     0   1    6
  Two couple of mallard                                0   1    0
  Thirty-four eggs                                     0   0    6
  Bushel of flour                                      0   0    6
  Peck of oatmeal                                      0   0    2
  Sixteen white bread-loaves                           0   0    4
  Eighteen loaves of white wheat-bread                 0   0    9
  Three loaves of meslin bread                         0   0    3
  Nutmegs, mace, cinnamon, and cloves                  0   0    3
  Four pounds of Barbary sugar                         0   1    0
  Sixteen oranges                                      0   0    2
  A barrel of double strong beer                       0   2    6
  A barrel of table beer                               0   1    0
  A quarter of wood                                    0   2    2
  Two gallons of white wine and Canary                 0   2    0
  Fruit, almonds, sweet water, perfumes                0   0    4
  The cook’s wages                                     0   1    2
                                                      -----------
                                      Total           £1  12    9
                                                      ===========

After dinner, Mr. John Martyn, a wealthy and honest man of Norwich, made
the following speech:--“Maister Mayor of Norwich, and it please your
worship, you have feasted us like a king. God bless the queen’s grace.
We have fed plentifully and now, whilom I can speak plain English, I
heartily thank you, maister Mayor, and so do we all. Answer, boys,
answer. Your beer is pleasant and potent, and will soon catch us by the
_caput_ and stop our manners: and so huzza for the queen’s majesty’s
grace, and all her bonny-brow’d dames of honour.[456] Huzza for maister
Mayor, and our good dame Mayoress. His noble grace,[457] there he is,
God bless him, and all this jolly company. To all our friends round
county, who have a penny in their purse and an English heart in their
bodies, to keep out Spanish dons, and <DW7>s with their <DW19>s to burn
our whiskers. Shove it about, twirl your cap-cases, handle your jugs,
and huzza for maister Mayor, and his bretheren their worships.”

The honesty, freedom, loyalty, and good-humour of this speech would, at
any time, entitle the orator to a patient hearing and an approving
smile.

The above is from Beatniffe’s Norfolk Tour.

  G. B.

  _Norwich,_

  _September, 1827._

  [455] Five hundred can conveniently dine in this hall. I have seen
  seven hundred entertained on the guild day.

  [456] This is familiar enough, and looks as if the fumes of the potent
  beverage had begun to attack the honest orator’s _caput_.

  [457] The duke of Norfolk.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XLI.

  [Dedications to Fletcher’s “Faithful Shepherdess;” without date;
  presumed to be the First Edition.]

1ST.

_To that noble and true lover of learning, Sir Walton Aston._

    Sir, I must ask your patience, and be true.
    This Play was never liked, except by few
    That brought their judgments with them; for of late
    First the infection,[458] then the common prate
    Of common people, have such customs got
    Either to silence Plays, or like them not:
    Under the last of which this Interlude
    Had fal’n, for ever press’d down by the rude
    That, like a torrent which the moist South feeds,
    Drowns both before him the ripe corn and weeds;
    Had not the saving sense of better men
    Redeem’d it from corruption. Dear Sir, then
    Among the better souls be you the best,
    In whom as in a center I take rest,
    And proper being; from whose equal eye
    And judgement nothing grows but purity.
    Nor do I flatter; for, by all those dead
    Great in the Muses, by Apollo’s head,
    He that adds any thing to you, ’tis done
    Like his that lights a candle to the sun.
    Then be as you were ever, yourself still
    Moved by your judgement, not by love or will.
    And when I sing again (as who can tell
    My next devotion to that holy Well?)
    Your goodness to the Muses shall be all
    Able to make a work Heroical.

2ND.

_To the Inheritor of all Worthiness, Sir William Scipwith._

ODE.

1.

    If from servile hope or love
        I may prove
    But so happy to be thought for
    Such a one, whose greatest ease
        Is to please,
    Worthy Sir, I have all I sought for.

2.

    For no itch of greater name,
        Which some claim
    By their verses, do I show it
    To the world; nor to protest,
        ’Tis the best;
    These are lean faults in a poet.

3.

    Nor to make it serve to feed
        At my need;
    Nor to gain acquaintance by it;
    Nor to ravish kind Atturneys
        In their journies;
    Nor to read it after diet.

4.

    Far from me are all these aims;
        Frantic claims,
    To build weakness on and pity;
    Only to yourself, and such
        Whose true touch
    Makes all good, let me seem witty.

3RD.

_To the perfect gentleman, Sir Robert Townesend._

    If the greatest faults may crave
    Pardon, where contrition is,
    Noble Sir, I needs must have
    A long one for a long amiss.
    If you ask me how is this,
    Upon my faith I’ll tell you frankly;
    You love above my means to thank ye.
    Yet according to my talent,
    As sour fortune loves to use me,
    A poor Shepherd I have sent
    In home-spun gray, for to excuse me:
    And may all my hopes refuse me
    But, when better comes ashore,
    You shall have better, never more;
    ’Till when, like our desperate debtors,
    Or our three-piled sweet “protesters,”
    I must please you in bare letters;
    And so pay my debts, like jesters.
    Yet I oft have seen good feasters,
    Only for to please the pallet,
    Leave great meat, and chuse a sallet.

_Apologetical Preface, following these:_

_To the Reader._

If you be not reasonably assured of your knowledge in this kind of Poem,
lay down the Book; or read this, which I would wish had been the
Prologue. It is a Pastoral Tragic-Comedy; which the people seeing when
it was played, having ever had a singular gift in defining, concluded to
be a play of Country hired Shepherds, in gray cloaks, with cur-tailed
dogs in strings, sometimes laughing together, sometimes killing one
another; and, missing Whitsun Ales, cream, wassail, and Morris dances,
began to be angry. In their error I would not have you fall, lest you
incur their censure.[459] Understand, therefore, a Pastoral to be--a
Representation of Shepherds and Shepherdesses, with their Actions and
Passions, which must be such as agree with their natures; at least, not
exceeding former fictions and vulgar traditions. They are not to be
adorn’d with any art, but such improper ones as nature is said to
bestow, as Singing and Poetry; or such as experience may teach them, as
the virtues of herbs and fountains; the ordinary course of the sun,
moon, and stars; and such like. But you are ever to remember Shepherds
to be such, as all the ancient poets (and modern of understanding) have
received them; that is, the Owners of Flocks, and not Hirelings.--A
Tragic-comedy is not so called in respect of mirth and killing, but in
respect it wants deaths (which is enough to make it no Tragedy); yet
brings some near to it (which is enough to make it no Comedy): which
must be a Representation of Familiar People, with such kind of trouble
as no life can be without; so that a God is as lawful in this, as in a
Tragedy; and mean People, as in a Comedy.--Thus much I hope will serve
to justify my Poem, and make you understand it; to teach you more for
nothing, I do not know that I am in conscience bound.

  JOHN FLETCHER.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Wars of Cyrus;” a Tragedy Author unknown, 1594.]

_Dumb Show exploded._

    _Chorus (to the Audience)._ ------- Xenophon
    Warrants what we record of Panthea.
    It is writ in sad and tragic terms,
    May move you tears; then you content our Muse,
    That scorns to trouble you again with toys
    Or needless antics, imitations,
    Or shows, or new devises sprung o’ late;
    We have exiled them from our tragic stage,
    As trash of their tradition, that can bring
    Nor instance nor excuse: for what they _do_,[460]
    Instead of mournful plaints our Chorus _sings_;
    Although it be against the upstart guise,
    Yet, warranted by grave antiquity,
    We will revive the which hath long been done.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Married Beau,” a Comedy, by John Crowne, 1694.]

_Wife tempted: she pleads religion._

      _Lover._ Our happy love may have a secret Church
    Under the Church, as _Faith’s_ was under _Paul’s_,
    Where we may carry on our sweet devotion;
    And the Cathedral marriage keep its state,
    And all its decency and ceremonies.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Challenge for Beauty,” Tragi-Comedy, by T. Heywood, 1636.]

_Appeal for Innocence against a false accusation._

      _Helena._ Both have sworn:
    And, Princes, as you hope to crown your heads
    With that perpetual wreath which shall last ever,
    Cast on a poor dejected innocent virgin
    Your eyes of grace and pity. What sin is it,
    Or who can be the patron to such evil?--
    That a poor innocent maid, spotless in deed,
    And pure in thought, both without spleen and gall,
    That never injured creature, never had heart
    To think of wrong, or ponder injury;
    That such a one in her white innocence,
    Striving to live peculiar in the compass
    Of her own virtues; notwithstanding these,
    Should be sought out by strangers, persecuted,
    Made infamous ev’n there where she was made
    For imitation; hiss’d at in her country;
    Abandon’d of her mother, kindred, friends;
    Depraved in foreign climes, scorn’d every where,
    And ev’n in princes’ courts reputed vile:
    O pity, pity this!

  C. L.

  [458] The Plague: in which times, the acting of Plays appears to have
  been discountenanced.

  [459] He damns the Town: the Town before damn’d him.--ED.

  We can almost be not sorry for the ill dramatic success of this Play,
  which brought out such spirited apologies; in particular, the masterly
  definitions of Pastoral and Tragi-Comedy in this Preface.

  [460] So I point it; instead of the line, as it stands in this unique
  copy--

    Nor instance nor excuse for what they do.

  The sense I take to be, what the common playwrights _do_ (or shew by
  action--the “inexplicable dumb show” of Shakspeare--), our Chorus
  _relates_. The following lines have else no coherence.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: ~Lodge and Avenue at Holwood,~

THE RESIDENCE OF JOHN WARD, ESQ. FORMERLY OF THE LATE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM
PITT.]

Mr. S. Young’s comfortable little inn, the Cross at Keston, or Keston
Mark, is mentioned before as being at the north-east corner of the
grounds belonging to Holwood. My friend W---- and I, on a second visit
to Mr. Young’s house, went from thence, for the purpose of seeing the
church and village of Keston, through which the main road runs to
Westerham. We kept along to the entrance gate of Holwood, which we
passed, having the park palings on our left, till we came to a well in
the road, which derives its water from springs within Holwood, and
stands on a swell of meadow land, called “the War Bank.” Further on, and
out of the road to the right, lies the village of Keston, a few houses
embowered in a dell of trees; with a stone church, which did not seem to
have been built more than a couple of centuries. A peep through the
windows satisfied us that there was nothing worth looking at within. We
had heard of stone coffins having been found at the bottom of the War
Bank, and we returned to that spot; where, though the ground had been
ploughed and was in pasture, we met with much stone rubbish in the soil,
and some large pieces loose on the surface and in the ditches of the
hedge. These appearances indicated a former structure there; and an old
labourer, whom we fell in with, told us that when he was a boy, his
grandfather used to talk of “Keston old church” having stood in that
spot, but becoming decayed, it was pulled down, and the church rebuilt
in its present situation, with the materials of the ancient edifice. If
this information was correct, the coffins which were discovered in that
spot were more likely to have been deposited there in ordinary burial,
than to have contained, as most of the country people suppose, the
bodies of persons slain in battle on the War Bank. Besides, if that
mound derives its name, as tradition reports, from a conflict there
between the Romans and the ancient Britons, it must be remembered that
our rude aboriginal ancestors were unaccustomed to that mode of
sepulture, and that Cæsar had work of more consequence to employ his
soldiers on than such laborious constructions for the interment of his
officers. One of these coffins is at Mr. Smith’s, near the well-head on
the War Bank, and another is at lady Farnaby’s, at Wickham Court.

The little village of Keston is, of itself, nothing; but, looking over
it from the road towards the weald of Kent, and particularly Surrey,
there is a sweeping view of hill and dale, arable and pasture,
intersected with woodlands. Its name is said to have been derived from
Cæsar’s (pronounced Kæsar’s) town; but it is quite as likely to have
been a corruption of “castrum,” a fortress or citadel. There is little
doubt that the Romans maintained a military position on the heights
adjoining Keston for a considerable time. The site they held was
afterwards occupied by the late right honourable William Pitt; and
respecting it, there was published in the year 1792 the following


ACCOUNT OF HOLWOOD.

Holwood-hill, at present the seat of the right hon. William Pitt, is a
most beautiful eminence, commanding (without the view of water) one of
the most agreeable prospects in this country, or perhaps in this
kingdom.

The house is a very small, old, plastered brick building; but being on
the edge of a celebrated fox-hunting country, it was formerly the
residence of various gentlemen who hunted with the old duke of Grafton.
It afterwards came into the hands of the late Mr. Calcraft, the agent;
and, small as it is, was used as a house of rendezvous by the heads of
the great party at that time, where they privately formed their schemes
of parliamentary manœuvre, and partook of Mr. Calcraft and Mrs.
Bellamy’s elegant entertainment.

From Mr. Calcraft it came into the hands of the Burrell family: by them
it was sold to captain Ross, and was purchased of him by ---- Burrow,
Esq., (nephew of the late sir James Burrow,) who stuccoed the house,
added greatly to the grounds by various purchases, grubbed and converted
considerable woods into beautiful pasture and pieces of water, and
planted those ornamental shrubberies, which have rendered it so
delightful and so justly admired a spot.

---- Randall, Esq., an eminent shipbuilder, purchased it of Mr. Burrow,
and he has since sold it to the right hon. William Pitt, a native of
(Hayes) the adjoining parish.

Holwood is fourteen miles distant from London, in the parish of Keston,
Kent; which parish evidently, either by Latin or Saxon derivation, takes
its name from the camp, commonly called Julius Cæsar’s Camp; on the
south entrenchment of which Mr. Pitt’s house stands, and some part of
the pleasure-ground is within the same.

This celebrated camp, till within these twenty years, was tolerably
perfect: it consisted of a circular double, and in some places treble
entrenchment, enclosing about twenty-nine acres of land; into which
there appeared to have been no original entrance but by the opening to
the north-west, which descends to the spring called “Cæsar’s Spring.”
This spring has long been converted into a most useful public cold bath;
a dressing-house is built on the brink of it; it is ornamented with
beautiful trees, and from its romantic situation, forms a most pleasing
scene.

However antiquarians (from the variety of fragments, coins, &c.
discovered ploughed up in the neighbourhood) may have been induced to
differ in conjecture as to the person who framed it, they all agree
that this camp was originally a strong and considerable Roman station,
though not of the larger sort; but rather from its commanding situation,
and short distance from the Thames, a camp of observation, or castra
æstiva. At the same time, there is great reason to suppose it to have
been since possessed by other invaders.

The beautiful common of Keston to the south-west of the camp, from its
charming turf, shade, and views, has long been the promenade of the
neighbouring company; and parties of gentry from even so far as
Greenwich, have long been accustomed to retire with music and provision
to spend in this delightful spot the sultry summer’s day, drinking at
Cæsar’s Fountain, and making the stupendous Roman bulwarks resound with
the strains of instruments and the voice of social glee.

The above is some account of the country-seat of Mr. Pitt; but as an
inhabitant of the capital may be desirous of knowing what works of
taste, or of neighbouring utility, may have engaged the retirement of
our illustrious prime minister, the following are the few improvements
Holwood has yet undergone.

Whether from a natural antipathy to the animal, or from too much of
“Fox” in other places, certain it is, the first order that was issued,
was for the utter destruction of the “fox earth,” being a lodgement in
one side of the bulwarks, which the sagacious Reynards are supposed to
have been in quiet possession of ever since the Roman abdication.

The house standing on a high hill, the gentlemen who have hitherto lived
in it, judging “not much good was to be had from the _North_,” had
defended it on that quarter by large plantations of evergreens; but the
present possessor has cut down these plantations, and seems determined
“to be open to every thing that comes from that delightful region.”

The house itself has undergone no other alteration than the addition of
a small eating-room covered with pantiles, and a curious new-invented
variegated stucco, with which the whole has been done over: this stucco
has now stood several winters, and only requires to be a little more
known to be universally adopted.[461]

       *       *       *       *       *

While Holwood was in the occupation of Mr. Pitt he there seemed to enjoy
the short cessations he could obtain from official duty. His chief
delight in these spare hours was planting; which, as he pursued it only
as opportunity enabled him, was without system of purchase or order of
arrangement, and consequently very expensive. After his death Holwood
successively devolved into different hands, and the residence and
grounds were variously altered. At length the estate was purchased by
John Ward, Esq. a merchant of London, who pulled down the house, and
erected the present edifice from a design by Mr. Burton, under whose
direction the work was completed in the spring of 1827. Its exterior is
chaste, and the interior commodious and elegantly laid out. It stands on
the summit of a noble ascent, well defended from adverse winds by
full-grown trees and young plantations. From the back front, a fine
sweep of lawn descends into a wide spreading valley; and the high and
distant woodlands of Knole, Seven Oaks, Tunbridge, and the hills of
Sussex, form an extensive amphitheatre of forest scenery and downs, as
far as the eye can reach. The home grounds are so disposed, that the
domain seems to include the whole of the rich and beautiful country
around.

In the rear of Holwood Mr. Ward is forming a vineyard, which, if
conducted with the judgment and circumspection that mark the
commencement, may prove that the climate of England is suited to the
open culture of the grape. Mr. Ward has imported ten sorts of vines,
five black and five white, from different parts of the Rhine and
Burgundy. They are planted on a <DW72> towards the S.S.E. Difficulties
and partial failures are to be expected in the outset of the experiment,
and are to be overcome, in its progress, by enlarged experience and
information respecting the treatment of the plants in foreign countries.
That the vine flourished here several centuries ago can be proved
historically. There is likewise evidence of it in the old names of
places still existing. For instance, in London, there is
“Vineyard-gardens,” Clerkenwell; and in Kent, there is a field near
Rochester cathedral, which has been immemorially called “the Vines.”
Many examples of this nature might be adduced. But far stronger than
presumptive testimony is the fact, that, in some parts of the weald of
Kent, the vine grows wild in the hedges; a friend assures me of this
from his own knowledge, he having often assisted when a boy in rooting
up the wild vine on his father’s land.

Mr. Ward’s alterations at Holwood are decisive and extensive. Besides
the erection of a new and spacious residence, instead of the old one,
which was small and inconvenient, and ill suited to the commanding
character and extent of the grounds, he has greatly improved them; and
perfected a stately approach to the mansion. Immediately within the
great entrance gates, from Keston Common, is the elegant lodge
represented by the engraving. For the purpose of making the drawing, we
obtained seats just within the gates. While W. sketched it the silence
was unbroken, save by the gentle rustle of the leaves in the warm
afternoon air of summer, and the notes of the small birds preparing for
their vesper song; the rabbits were scudding from their burrows across
the avenue, and the sun poured glowing beams from between the branches
of the magnificent trees, and dressed the varied foliage in a thousand
beauteous liveries----

       *       *       *       *       *

Circumstances prevent this article from concluding, as had been
purposed, with notices of Holwood-hill as a Roman encampment, and of
“Cæsar’s Spring,” in the declivity, beneath the gates of Holwood on
Keston Common. An engraving of that ancient bourne, which Julius Cæsar
is said to have himself discovered nearly two thousand years ago, and
thither directed his legions to slake their thirst, will precede the
remaining particulars in another sheet.

  *

  [461] European Magazine, Dec. 1792.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE PLAGUE AT EYAM, AND THE REV. THOMAS STANLEY.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--The publication of the paper, entitled “Catherine Mompesson’s
Tomb,” on “The Desolation of Eyam, and other Poems, by William and Mary
Howitt,” at p. 482 of the _Table Book_, gives me an opportunity, with
your good offices, of rescuing from a degree of oblivion the name and
merits of an individual, who has unaccountably been almost generally
overlooked, but who ought, at least, to be equally identified in any
notice of the “Plague at Eyam” with Mr. Mompesson himself.

The Rev. Thomas Stanley was instituted to the rectory of Eyam by the
ruling powers in 1644, which he held till the “Act of Uniformity,” in
1662, threw him out.

It appears that he continued to reside at Eyam after his ejectment, and
the tradition of the place at this day is, that he was supported by the
voluntary contributions of _two-thirds_ of the inhabitants; this may
have been the cause of some jealousy in those who might have been
satisfied with his removal from the living.

His comparative disinterestedness, with other circumstances worthy of
notice, are recorded by his friend and fellow-sufferer Bagshaw, usually
called “the Apostle of the Peak;” he concludes a most interesting
account of Mr. Stanley in these words:--“When he could not serve his
people publickly, some (yet alive) will testifie, how helpful he was to
’em in private; especially when the sickness (by way of eminency so
called, I mean the Pestilence) prevailed in that town, he continuing
with ’em, when, as it is written, 259 persons of ripe age, and 58
children were cut off thereby. When some, who might have been better
employed, moved the then noble earl of Devonshire, lord lieutenant, to
remove him out of the town; I am told by the credible, that he said, ‘It
was more reasonable that the whole country should, in more than words,
testify their thankfulness to him, who, together with his care of the
town, had taken such care as no one else did, to prevent the infection
of the towns adjacent.’”

Mr. Stanley died at Eyam 24th August, and was buried there on the 26th
following, 1670.

I have thus extracted what, as an act of justice, ought to have been
published long since, and which, indeed, ought to accompany every
memorial of the plague at Eyam: though I scarcely regret that it has
waited for the extensive circulation the _Table Book_ must give to
it--if it is so fortunate as to be considered a communication to your
purpose. My authority is, “_De Spiritualibus Pecci_. Notes (or Notices)
concerning the Work of God, and some of those who have been workers
together with God in the High Peak of Derbyshire,” &c. 12mo. 1702.
(Sheffield.)

Some farther account of Stanley may be seen in Calamy’s “Nonconformist’s
Memorial,” and Hunter’s “History of Hallamshire,” but both follow
Bagshaw.

I exceedingly regret that “William and Mary Howitt” were unacquainted
with Mr. Stanley’s services at Eyam.

  I am, sir,

  Your obedient and humble servant,

  M. N.

  _Nov. 9, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


THE REIGN OF DEATH.

  And I saw, and beheld a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow;
  and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to
  conquer.

  _Revelations_, vi. 2.

      In nightly vision, on my bed, I saw
    A form unearthly, on a pale horse sat,
    Riding triumphant o’er a prostrate world.
    Around his brows he wore a crown of gold,
    And in his bony hand he grasp’d a bow,
    Which scatter’d arrows of destruction round.
    His form was meagre--shadowy--indistinct--
    Clothed with the faint lineaments of man.
    He pass’d me swifter than the winged wind--
    Or lightning from the cloud--or ghostly vision.
    From his eye he shot devouring lightnings,
    And his dilated nostril pour’d a stream
    Of noisome, pestilential vapour.
    Where’er he trod all vegetation ceas’d,
    And the spring flow’rs hung, with’ring, on their stalks.
      He passed by a city, whose huge walls,
    And towers, and battlements, and palaces,
    Cover’d the plain, aspiring to the skies:
    As he pass’d, he smil’d--and straight it fell--
    Wall, tower, and battlement, and glittering spire,
    Palace, and prison, crumbling into dust;
    And nought of this fair city did remain,
    But one large heap of wild, confused ruin.
      The rivers ceas’d to flow, and stood congeal’d.
    The sea did cease its roaring, and its waves
    Lay still upon the shore----
    No tide did ebb or flow, but all was bound
    In a calm, leaden slumber. The proud ships,
    Which hitherto had travers’d o’er the deep,
    Were now becalmed with this dead’ning stillness:--
    The sails hung motionless--straight sunk the mast
    O’er the huge bulwarks, and the yielding planks
    Dropt silently into the noiseless deep:--
    No ripple on the wave was left to show
    Where, erst, the ship had stood, but all was blank
    And motionless.
      Birds in the air, upon the joyous wing,
    Fell, lifeless, as the shadowy monster pass’d
    And hostile armies, drawn in warlike lines,
    Ceas’d their tumultuous conflict in his sight--
    Conqueror and conquer’d yielding ’neath the power
    Of the unknown destroyer! Nations fell;
    And thrones, and principalities and powers.--
    Kings with their glitt’ring crowns, lay on the earth,
    And at their sides, their menials.----
    Beauty and beggary together lay;
    Youth, innocence, and age, and crime, together.
      I saw a murderer, in a darksome wood,
    Wielding a dagger o’er a beauteous bosom,
    Threat’ning quick destruction to his victim:--
    The shadow pass’d--the leaves grew sere and dropp’d--
    The forest crumbled into ashes, and
    The steel dissolv’d within th’ assassin’s hand--
    His face grew wan and bloodless--his eyes stood
    Fix’d, and glazed--he stiffen’d, and he fell--
    And o’er his prostrate body sunk his victim!
      I still pursued the conqueror with my eye--
    The earth grew desart as he rode along--
    The sun turn’d bloody in the stagnant air--
    The universe itself was one vast ruin----
      Then, stopp’d the Fiend. By him all mortal things
    Had been destroyed; yet was he unsated;
    And his vengeful eyes still flash’d destruction.--
    Thus, alone, he stood; and reign’d--sole monarch--
    All supreme--THE KING OF DESOLATION!

  O. N. Y.

  _Oct. 14, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


~Discoveries~

OF THE

ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

No. XIII.


THUNDER--LIGHTNING--AURORA BOREALIS--EARTHQUAKES--EBBING AND FLOWING OF
THE SEA--THE LOADSTONE AND AMBER--ELECTRICITY--RIVERS.

Some of the moderns have assigned the cause of _Thunder_ to inflamed
exhalations, rending the clouds wherein they are confined; others, to
the shock between two or more clouds, when those that are higher and
more condensed fall upon those that are lower, with so much force as
suddenly to expel the intermediate air, which vigorously expanding
itself, in order to occupy its former space, puts all the exterior air
in commotion, producing those reiterated claps which we call thunder.
This is the explanation of Descartes, and had but few followers; the
former had more, being that of the Newtonians. For a third theory, which
makes the matter productive of thunder the same with that of
electricity, its author, Dr. Franklin, is in no part indebted to the
ancients.

The notion of Descartes entirely belongs to Aristotle, who says, that
“thunder is caused by a dry exhalation, which, falling upon a humid
cloud, and violently endeavouring to force a passage for itself,
produces the peals which we hear.” Anaxagoras refers it to the same
cause.

All the other passages, which occur in such abundance among the
ancients, respecting thunder, contain in them the reasonings of the
Newtonians, sometimes combining the notions of Descartes.

Leucippus, and the Eleatic sect, held that “thunder proceeded from a
fiery exhalation, which, enclosed in a cloud, burst it asunder, and
forced its way through.” Democritus asserts, that it is the effect of a
mingled collection of various volatile particles, which impel downwards
the cloud which contains them, till, by the rapidity of their motion,
they set themselves and it on fire.

Seneca ascribes it to a dry sulphureous exhalation arising out of the
earth, which he calls the aliment of lightning; and which, becoming more
and more subtilized in its ascent, at last takes fire in the air, and
produces a violent eruption.

According to the stoics, thunder was occasioned by the shock of clouds;
and lightning was the combustion of the volatile parts of the cloud, set
on fire by the shock. Chrysippus taught, that lightning was the result
of clouds being set on fire by winds, which dashed them one against
another; and that thunder was the noise produced by that rencontre: he
added, that these effects were coincident; our perception of the
lightning before the thunder-clap being entirely owing to our sight’s
being quicker than our hearing.

In short, Aristophanes, in his comedy of the “Clouds,” introducing
Socrates as satisfying the curiosity of one of his disciples as to the
cause of thunder, makes him assign it to the action of the compressed
air in a cloud, which dilating itself bursts it, and, violently
agitating the exterior air, sets itself on fire, and by the rapidity of
its progress occasions all that noise.

The _Aurora Borealis_ was also observed by the ancients, as may be seen
in Aristotle, Pliny, Seneca, and other writers, who conjectured
differently its cause.

The Cartesians, Newtonians, and other able moderns, ascribe
_Earthquakes_ to the earth’s being filled with cavities of a vast
extent, containing in them an immense quantity of thick exhalations,
resembling the smoke of an extinguished candle, which being easily
inflammable, and by their agitation catching fire, rarefy and heat the
central and condensed air of the cavern to such a degree, that finding
no vent, it bursts its enclosements; and, in doing this, shakes the
surrounding earth all around with dreadful percussions, producing all
the other effects which naturally follow.

Aristotle and Seneca assigned these dreadful events to the same cause.
The former says, that they were occasioned by the efforts of the
internal air in dislodging itself from the bowels of the earth; and he
observes, that on the approach of an earthquake the weather is
generally serene, because that sort of air which occasions commotions in
the atmosphere, is at that time pent up in the entrails of the earth.

Seneca is so precise, we might take him for a naturalist of the present
times. He supposes that the earth hides in its bosom many subterraneous
fires, which uniting their flames, necessarily put into fervid motion
the congregated vapours of its cells, which finding no immediate outlet,
exert their utmost powers, till they force a way through whatever
opposes them. He says also, that if the vapours be too weak to burst the
barriers which retain them, all their efforts end in weak shocks, and
hollow murmurs, without any fatal consequence.

Of all the solutions of the _Ebbing and Flowing of the Sea_, the most
simple and ingenious, though afterwards found by observation to be
inadequate, is that of Descartes, who supposes a vortex of subtile
matter, of an elliptic form, to invest our globe, and compress it on all
sides. The moon, according to this philosopher, is immerged in this
elliptic vortex, and when at its greatest elongation from the earth, it
makes less impression upon the circumambient ethereal matter; but when
it comes to the narrowest part of the ellipse, gives such an impulse to
the atmosphere, as puts the whole ocean in agitation. He supports his
system by this remark, that the ebbing and flowing of the sea generally
coincides with the irregularity of the moon’s course.

The opinion of Kepler and Newton is more conformable to observation, and
is founded on this hypothesis--that the moon attracts the waters of the
sea, diminishing the weight of those parts of it over whose zenith it
comes, and increasing the weight of the collateral parts, so that the
parts directly opposite to the moon, and under it in the same
hemisphere, must become more elevated than the rest. According to this
system, the action of the sun concurs with that of the moon, in
occasioning the tides; which are higher or lower respectively, according
to the situation of those two luminaries, which, when in conjunction,
act in concert, raising the tides to the greatest height; and when in
opposition, produce nearly the same effect, in swelling the waters of
the opposite hemispheres; but when in quadrature, suspend each other’s
force, so as to act only by the difference of their powers; and thus the
tides vary, according to the different positions of the sun and moon.

The Cartesian method of solution has been indicated by Pytheas
Massiliensis, who observes, that the tides, in their increase and
decrease, follow the irregular course of the moon; and by Seleucus of
Erythrea, the mathematician, who ascribing to the earth a rotation about
its axis, imputes the cause of tides to the activity of the earth’s
vortex, in conjunction with that of the moon.

Pliny’s account has more affinity to that of sir Isaac Newton. The great
naturalist of the ancients maintained, that “the sun and moon had a
reciprocal share in causing the tides:” and after a course of
observations for many years, he remarked, that “the moon acted most
forcibly upon the waters when it was nearest to the earth; but that the
effect was not immediately perceived by us, but at such an interval as
may well take place between the action of celestial causes, and the
discernible result of them on earth.” He remarked also, that the waters,
which are naturally inert, do not swell up immediately upon the
conjunction of the sun and moon; but having gradually admitted the
impulse, and begun to raise themselves, continue in that elevation, even
after the conjunction is over.

There are few things which have more engaged the attention of
naturalists, and with less success, than the wonderful properties of the
_Loadstone_. Almost all have agreed in affirming that there are
corpuscles of a peculiar form and energy that continually circulate
around and through the loadstone, and that a vortex of the same matter
circulates around and through the earth. Upon these suppositions
Descartes and others have advanced, that the loadstone has two poles
similar to those of the earth; and that the magnetic matter which issues
at one of the poles, and circulates around to enter at the other,
occasions that impulse which brings iron to the loadstone, whose small
corpuscles have an analogy to the pores of iron, fitting them to lay
hold of it, but not of other bodies.

All this the ancients had said before. The impulsive force which joins
iron to the loadstone, and other things to _Amber_, was known to Plato;
though he would not call it attraction, as allowing no such cause in
nature. This philosopher called the magnet the stone of Hercules,
because it subdued iron, which conquers every thing.

Descartes’s idea of his explanation was doubtless derived from
Lucretius, who admitted, that there was a “vortex of corpuscles, or
magnetic matter, which, continually circulating around the loadstone,
repelled the intervening air betwixt itself and the iron. The air thus
repelled, the intervening space became a vacuum; and the iron, finding
no resistance, approached with an impulsive force, pushed on by the air
behind it.”

Plutarch likewise is of the same opinion. He says, that “amber attracts
none of those things that are brought to it, any more than the
loadstone, but emits a matter, which reflects the circumambient air, and
thereby forms a void. The expelled air puts in motion the air before it,
which making a circle, returns to the void space, driving before it,
towards the loadstone, the iron which it meets in its way.” He then
proposes a difficulty, to wit, “why the vortex which circulates around
the loadstone does not make its way to wood or stone, as well as iron?”
He answers, like Descartes, that “the pores of iron have an analogy to
the particles of the vortex circulating about the loadstone, which
yields them such access as they can find in no other bodies, whose pores
are differently formed.”

Certain authors report, that the properties of the loadstone,
particularly its tendency towards the north pole, enabled the ancients
to undertake long voyages; and they pretend, that the Egyptians,
Phœnicians, and Carthaginians, employed the compass to guide them in
their naval excursions; though afterwards they lost the use of it, just
as they did of dying purple,[462] and of embroidering, and of composing
bricks, and a cement able to resist the force of all weathers; arts,
without all doubt, formerly well known to them. Pineda and Kircher
affirm likewise, that Solomon knew the use of the compass, and that his
subjects steered their course by it in sailing to the land of Ophir.
There is also a passage of Plautus[463] produced, wherein it is alleged
he speaks of the compass. There is not however a single passage in the
ancients that directly supports these pretensions.[464]

It is scarcely credible, that the real cause of _Electricity_ was known
to the ancients, and yet there are indications of it in the work of
Timæus Locrensis, concerning the soul of the world.

The moderns are also divided in their sentiments, as to how it happens
that _Rivers_, continually flowing into the sea, do not swell the mass
of waters, so as to make it overflow its banks. One of the solutions of
this difficulty is, that rivers return again to their source by
subterraneous passages or canals; and that there is, between the sea and
the springs of rivers, a circulation analogous to that of blood in the
human body. This solution, however, is the same as Seneca’s, who
accounts for their not overflowing the bed of the ocean, by imagining
secret passages, which reconduct them to their springs; and because, at
their springs, they retain nothing of that brackishness which they
carried with them from the sea, he supposes they are filtrated in their
circuit through winding paths, and layers of every soil, so that they
must needs return to their source as pure and sweet as they departed
thence.

  [462] We may with exactness determine what the true colour was of the
  purple of the ancients, by attending to two passages of Pliny, wherein
  he says, that the whole aim of the Tyrians and Phœnicians, in bringing
  their purple to the utmost perfection, was to render it in colour as
  like as possible to the oriental amethyst. Plin. Hist. Natur. lib. ix.
  c. 38 & 41, et lib. xxxvii. c. 9.

  [463]

    Hùc secundus ventus nunc est; cape modò Vorsoriam,
    Stasime; cape Vorsoriam, recipe te ad Herum.


  [464] With respect to what was known to the ancients, and of which we
  still are ignorant, recourse may be had to Pancirolus _de rebus
  Deperditis_, particularly to his first book, chap. i. 35, 36, 39,
  respecting the colour of purple, the ductility of glass and the
  effects of the ancient music. See especially Dion. Cassius’s History,
  in Tiber. lib. lvii. p. 617. E. Plin. lib. xxxvi. c. 26, &c. Isidor.
  de Originib. lib. xvi. c. 15, respecting the ductility of glass.

       *       *       *       *       *


FILEY, YORKSHIRE.


HADDOCK LEGEND, AND HERRING FISHERY.

_For the Table Book._

At Filey a singular range of rock, said to resemble the celebrated mole
of Tangiers, extends from the cliff a considerable way into the sea, and
is called Filey bridge. It is covered by the sea at high tide, but may
be traversed for upwards of a quarter of a mile at low water. From the
farther end a distant, but, in fine weather, a distinct view may be had
of Scarborough and the Castle on the one hand, and of Flamborough-head
and the Lighthouse, with an extensive stretch of lofty chalk-stone
cliff, on the other. When the wind is from the north-east the waves
break over it majestically, and may be seen rising up in foamy spray to
a great distance, producing an imposing and awful appearance. From its
singularity there is no wonder that the credulous, the superstitious,
and the vulgar, who have always had a propensity to attach something of
the marvellous to whatever is extraordinary, should have made this ridge
an object from which to form a story.

Perhaps, Mr. Editor, you, as well as many of the readers of the _Table
Book_, may have seen the haddock at different times, and observed the
black marks on its sides. But do you know, sir, how the haddock came by
these said marks? The legendary tale of Filey says, that the devil in
one of his mischievous pranks determined to build Filey bridge for the
destruction of ships and sailors, and the annoyance of fishermen, but
that in the progress of his work he accidentally let fall his hammer
into the sea, and being in haste to snatch it back caught a haddock, and
thereby made the imprint, which the whole species retains to this day.

The village of Filey is seated in a small and beautiful bay. The settled
inhabitants depend chiefly on the fishery, which is carried on with
success to a considerable extent, although of late years a few good
houses have been built, and several respectable families have resorted
thither during the season, for the purpose of sea-bathing, for which the
beach is well adapted. The church is in the form of a cross, with a
steeple in the middle, and bears some resemblance to an ancient
cathedral in miniature; it stands at a distance from the village, being
divided by a deep ravine, which forms the boundary of partition between
the North and East Ridings of Yorkshire; the church consequently stands
in the former, and the village in the latter of the two Ridings.

  T. C.

  _Bridlington, Sept. 27, 1827._

Since the foregoing was written I have been at Filey, and was there
informed that in the month of September, yearly, about ninety men,
sometimes accompanied by their wives and children, leave this village
for the herring fishery at Yarmouth. Previously to their setting out for
the fishing station they send a piece of sea-beef on shore from each
boat to such of their friends at the public-houses as they wish “_weel
teea_;” this occasions “a bit of a supper,” at which those who are going
away and those who stay meet to enjoy good cheer, heightened with mutual
good-will.

  _October 11, 1827._

  T. C.

       *       *       *       *       *


PISCATORIA.

Lucan, the Roman poet, makes a beautiful digression to paint the happy
life of a fisherman. In plain prose it will read in this manner:--

News (says he) was brought to Cæsar, at a late hour, that Pompey was up
in arms in Calabria, ready to dispute with him the sovereignty of the
world; perplexed in mind, he knew not for a while what steps best to
pursue, when, stealing from the arms of his Calphornia, he cast his
mantle about him, and through the gloom of midnight hastened alone to
the mouth of the Tiber, and coming to the cabin of Amilcas the
fisherman, struck thrice with his arm upon the door of the slumberer.
“Arise, Amilcas,” said Cæsar, in a subdued tone. The fisherman and his
family, without care, were reposing on their beds of sheepskins. Amilcas
knew the voice of Cæsar, and threw open his wicket to receive his
master. “Come away, Amilcas,” cried the emperor, “launch your boat with
all speed, and bear me to Calabria; Pompey is there in arms against me
while I am absent; hasten then, and ask what thou wilt of Cæsar.” The
night was dark, and the elements were at war with each other; but by the
strength, courage, and judgment of the boatman, Cæsar was soon landed on
the shore of Calabria.--“And now, Amilcas,” rejoined the mighty chief,
“make thy demand.” “Grant me then,” replied the fisherman, “that I may
return the way I came to my peaceful family; for at daybreak should they
not see me spreading my nets upon the beach, as they are wont, their
faithful bosoms will be rent with sorrow.”--“Go,” replied the Roman
chief, “thou humble, modest man, and never let it be forgotten that
Cæsar is thy friend.”

       *       *       *       *       *


INCREDIBLE LIARS

The French papers in the autumn of 1821 mention, that a man named
Desjardins was tried, on his own confession, as an accomplice with
Louvel, the assassin of the duke de Berri. But, on his defence,
Desjardins contended that his confession ought not to be believed,
because he was so notorious for falsehood, that nobody in the world
would give credit to a word he said. In support of this, he produced a
host of witnesses, his friends and relatives, who all swore that the
excessive bad character he had given of himself was true, and he was
declared “not guilty.”

This case parallels with a similar instance some years before in
Ireland. A man was charged with highway robbery. In the course of the
trial the prisoner roared out from the dock that he was guilty; but the
jury pronounced him by their verdict “not guilty.” The astonished judge
exclaimed, “Good God, gentlemen, did you not hear the man himself
declare that he was guilty?” The foreman said, “We did, my lord, and
that was the very reason we acquitted him, _for we knew the fellow_ to
be so notorious a liar that he never told a word of truth in his life.”

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


HEBREW MELODY,

A PORTUGUESE HYMN.

    How blest is the mortal who never reposes
      In seat of the scorner, nor roams o’er the ground,
    Where Pleasure is strewing her thorn-covered roses.
      And waving her gay silken banners around.

    Who worships his Maker when evening is throwing
      Her somberest shadows o’er mountain and lea;
    And kneels in devotion when daylight is glowing,
      And gilding the waves of the dark rolling sea.

    He shall be like a tree on the calm river waving,
      That riseth all glorious all lovely to view,
    Whose deeply fix’d root the pure waters are laving,
      Whose boughs are enriched with the kindliest dew.

    Not so the ungodly! his fate shall resemble
      The chaff by autumnal winds wafted away;
    And when life’s fading lamp in its socket shall tremble
      Shall look to the judgment with fear and dismay!

  T. Q. M.

  _Ivy Cottage, Grassington in Craven,_

  _October 21, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


FACTITIA.

_For the Table Book._


“WHERE IS MY THERMOMETER?”

In a certain town a certain military gentleman regulates his dress by a
thermometer, which is constantly suspended at the back door of his
house. Some wicked wag once stole the instrument, and left in its place
the following lines:--

    When ----n to Tartarus got,
      That huge and warm gasometer!
    “Good lord!” quoth he, “how wondrous hot!
      O, where is my thermometer!”


DEGRADATION OF A DEGREE.

“Why,” said our friend T. Q. M. to Sally Listen, an old inhabitant of
Wensleydale, “why do you call Mr. ----, _doctor_, when he has no title
to such an appellation? he is only a quack!”--“Why,” said Sally, “I’ll
call him naught else. What mun a body _mister_ sic chaps as him for?
_Doctor_’s good enough for sic blacks!”




Vol. II.--48.


[Illustration: ~Source of the Ravensbourne.~]

    On Keston Heath wells up the Ravensbourne,
    A crystal rillet, scarce a palm in width,
    Till creeping to a bed, outspread by art,
    It sheets itself across, reposing there:
    Thence, through a thicket, sinuous it flows,
    And crossing meads, and footpaths, gath’ring tribute.
    Due to its elder birth, from younger branches,
    Wanders, in Hayes and Bromley, Beckenham vale,
    And straggling Lewisham, to where Deptford Bridge
    Uprises in obeisance to its flood,
    Whence, with large increase it rolls on, to swell
    The master current of the “mighty heart”
    Of England.

  *

Before I had seen Keston I heard, at West Wickham, that it had been the
site of a Roman camp, and that a Roman bath was still there. It was from
curiosity towards this piece of antiquity that I first visited the spot,
in company with my friend W----. The country people, whom we met on our
way, spoke of it as the “Old Bath,” and the “Cold Bath,” and as a water
of great virtue, formerly bathed in, and still resorted to, by persons
afflicted with weak or sprained limbs, which by dipping in this bath
became cured.

Our walk from Wickham was remarkably pleasant; we passed noble oaks of
many centuries’ growth, and descended from the broad open highway into
an old road on our left, a ravine, or intrenchment perchance, clothed
with tendril plants and blossoming briars, festooning and arching over
wild flowers growing amid the verdure of its high banks. Here we paced
up hill, till we reached an open, lofty tract of heathland, in a rude,
uncultivated, picturesque state, with a few houses in distant parts,
surrounded by thriving plantations. On our left were the woodlands of
the pleasant village of Hayes, remarkable for having been the seat of
the great earl of Chatham, and the birthplace of his well-remembered
son. On our right were the heights of Holwood, and fine forest scenery.
Near a cluster of cottages immediately before us there was a mill, with
its sails going; these we scarcely glanced at, but made our way to an
old alehouse, the sign of the Fox, where an ancient labourer, sitting at
the door, directed us to “the Bath.” We found it in a romantic little
bottom, immediately under the gates of Holwood.

The delightful landscape, from the opening of this dell towards London
and beyond it, so much engaged our attention, that for a while we forgot
the “Bath,” on the brink of which we were standing. There is no
appearance of its having been a bathing-place, and certainly it has not
the least character of a Roman bath. It is simply a well of fine
pellucid water, which gently overflowing threads a small winding channel
in the herbage, and suddenly expands, till it seems bounded by an
embankment and line of trees. This is the road to the pleasant inn
“Keston Cross.” In the distance are the Kentish and Essex hills, with
the dome of the metropolitan cathedral. Presuming that information
respecting the spring might be obtained at Holwood we reascended, and
inquired of several labourers employed in levelling and gravelling the
avenue; but we derived nothing satisfactory till a Keston man, working
at a distance, came up, and told us that it was the source of the
Ravensbourne.

I had formerly heard and read of a tradition respecting this spring, and
now that I unexpectedly found myself upon its margin, recollection of
the story heightened the interest of the scene. The legend runs, that
when Cæsar was encamped here his troops were in great need of water, and
none could be found in the vicinity. Observing, however, that a raven
frequently alighted near the camp, and conjecturing that it was for the
purpose of quenching its thirst, he ordered the coming of the bird to be
watched for, and the spot to be particularly noted; this was done, and
the result was as he anticipated. The object of the raven’s resort was
this little spring; from thence Cæsar derived a supply of water for the
Roman legions, and from the circumstance of its discovery the spring was
called the Raven’s bourne, or the Raven’s brook. From the lodge at
Holwood, W. obtained the loan of a chair, and taking his seat on the
brink of the well, sketched the view represented in his engraving of it
above.

If the account of Holwood[465] in 1792 be correct, this spring, there
called “Cæsar’s Spring,” was then a public cold bath, ornamented with
trees, and a dressing-house on the brink. Hasted, in 1778,[466] gives a
view of the Roman intrenchments on Holwood Hill, and figures the ancient
road to the spring of the Ravensbourne, as running down to it from where
Holwood gates now stand: he also figures the spring with twelve trees
planted round it. Now, however, there is not a vestige of tree or
building, but there are in the ground the stumps of a poled fencing,
which was standing within recollection. On further examination I found
the well bricked round, but the bricks at the top edge had decayed, or
been thrown in; and the interior brickwork is lined with hair moss and
other water-weeds. On the side opposite to that whereon a man is
represented in the engraving. I traced the remains of steps for
descending into the well as a bath. Its circle is about nine feet in
diameter. At what time it commenced, or ceased, to be used as a bath, is
uncertain.

Here, then, about twelve miles from London, in a delightful country, is
a spring, rendered venerable by immemorial tradition and our ancient
annals; and which, during eighteen centuries, from the time of its
alleged discovery by Cæsar, has remained open to general use. Sorry
therefore am I to add, that there are rumours of a wish to _enclose_
this public relic of bygone ages. I invite public attention to the place
and to the report. Even at this season the lover of natural scenery will
find charms at the source of the Ravensbourne, and be able to imagine
the beauty of the surrounding country in summer. Had I a right of common
on Keston Heath, rather than assist in a base “homage,” to colourably
admit the enclosure of “Cæsar’s Spring,” I would surrender my own right,
and renounce community and neighbourhood with the heartless hirelings,
who would defraud themselves and the public of the chief attraction to
Keston Common. At so small a distance from London I know of nothing so
remarkable in history as this spring. On no pretence ought the public to
be deprived of it. There are rights of nature as well as of property:
when the claims of the latter are urged too pertinaciously against the
former, it is time to cry out; and if middle men do not interfere to
prevent the oppression, they will, in their turn, cry aloud when there
will be none to help them.

  [465] In col. 626.

  [466] History of Kent, folio, vol. i. 129.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XLII.

  [From “Thyestes,” a Tragedy, by John Crowne, 1681.]

_Atreus, having recovered his Wife, and Kingdom, from his brother
Thyestes, who had usurped both, and sent him into banishment, describes
his offending Queen._

      _Atreus (solus)._ ------ still she lives;
    ’Tis true, in heavy sorrow: so she ought,
    If she offended as I fear she has.
    Her hardships, though, she owes to her own choice.
    I have often offer’d her my useless couch;
    For what is it to me? I never sleep:
    But for her bed she uses the hard floor.
    My table is spread for her; I never eat:
    And she’ll take nothing but what feeds her grief.

_Philisthenes, the Son of Thyestes, at a stolen interview with Antigone,
the daughter of Atreus, is surprised by the King’s Spies: upon which
misfortune Antigone swooning, is found by Peneus._

_Antigone. Peneus, an ancient retainer to the Court of Mycenæ._

      _Peneus._ Ha! what is she that sleeps in open air?
    Indeed the place is far from any path,
    But what conducts to melancholy thoughts;
    But those are beaten roads about this Court.
    Her habit calls her, Noble Grecian Maid;
    But her sleep says, she is a stranger here.
    All birds of night build in this Court, but Sleep;
    And Sleep is here made wild with loud complaints,
    And flies away from all. I wonder how
    This maid has brought it to her lure so tame.
      _Antigone, (waking from her swoon)._ Oh my Philisthenes!
      _Peneus._ She wakes to moan;
    Aye, that’s the proper language of this place!
      _Antigone._ My dear, my poor Philisthenes!
    I know ’tis so! oh horror! death! hell! oh--
      _Peneus._ I know her now; ’tis fair Antigone,
    The daughter and the darling of the King.
    This is the lot of all this family.[467]
    Beauteous Antigone, thou know’st me well;
    I am old Peneus, one who threescore years
    Has loved and serv’d thy wretched family.
    Impart thy sorrows to me; I perhaps
    In my wide circle of experience
    May find some counsel that may do thee good.
      _Antigone._ O good old man! how long have you been here?
      _Peneus._ I came but now.
      _Antigone._ O did you see this way
    Poor young Philisthenes? you know him well.
      _Peneus._ Thy uncle’s son, Thyestes’ eldest son--
      _Antigone._ The same, the same--
      _Peneus._ No; all the Gods forbid
    I should meet him so near thy father’s Court.
      _Antigone._ O he was here one cursed minute past.
      _Peneus._ What brought him hither?
      _Antigone._ Love to wretched me.
    Our warring fathers never ventured more
    For bitter hate than we for innocent love.
    Here but a minute past the dear youth lay,
    Here in this brambly cave lay in my arms;
    And now he is seized! O miserable me--(_tears her hair._)
      _Peneus._ Why dost thou rend that beauteous ornament?
    In what has it offended? hold thy hands.
      _Antigone._ O father, go and plead for the poor youth;
    No one dares speak to the fierce King but you--
      _Peneus._ And no one near speaks more in vain than I;
    He spurns me from his presence like a dog.
      _Antigone._ Oh, then--
      _Peneus._ She faints, she swoons, I frighten’d her,
    Oh I spake indiscretely. Daughter, child,
    Antigone, I’ll go, indeed I’ll go.
      _Antigone._ There is no help for me in heav’n or earth.
      _Peneus._ There is, there is; despair not, sorrowful maid.
    All will be well. I’m going to the King,
    And will with pow’rful reasons bind his hands;
    And something in me says I shall prevail.
    But to whose care shall I leave thee the while?--
    For oh! I dare not trust thee to thy grief.
      _Antigone._ I’ll be disposed of, father, as you please,
    Till I receive the blest or dreadful doom.
      _Peneus._ Then come, dear daughter, lean upon my arm,
    Which old and weak is stronger yet than thine;
    Thy youth hath known more sorrow than my age.
    I never hear of grief, but when I’m here;
    But one day’s diet here of sighs and tears
    Returns me elder home by many years.

_Atreus, to entrap his brother Thyestes; who has lived a concealed life,
lurking in woods, to elude his vengeance; sends Philisthenes and old
Peneus to him with offers of reconciliation, and an invitation to Court,
to be present at the nuptials of Antigone with Philisthenes._

_Thyestes. Philisthenes. Peneus._

      _Thy._ Welcome to my arms,
    My hope, my comfort! Time has roll’d about
    Several months since I have seen thy face,
    And in its progress has done wond’rous things.
      _Phil._ Strange things indeed to chase you to this sad
    Dismal abode; nay, and to age, I think:
    I see that winter thrusting itself forth
    Long, long before its time, in silver hairs.
      _Thy._ My fault, my son; I would be great and high,
    Snow lies in summer on some mountain tops.
    Ah, Son! I’m sorry for thy noble youth,
    Thou hast so bad a father; I’m afraid,
    Fortune will quarrel with thee for my sake.
    Thou wilt derive unhappiness from me,
    Like an hereditary ill disease.
      _Phil._ Sir, I was born, when you were innocent;
    And all the ill you have contracted since,
    You have wrought out by painful penitence;
    For healthy joy returns to us again;
    Nay, a more vigorous joy than e’er we had.
    Like one recover’d from a sad disease,
    Nature for damage pays him double cost,
    And gives him fairer flesh than e’er he had.

_Thyestes is won from his retirement by the joint representations of
Philisthenes and Peneus, of the apparent good faith, and returning
kindness of his brother; and visits Mycenæ:--his confidence; his
returning misgivings._

_Thyestes_. _Philisthenes_. _Peneus._

      _Thy._ O wondrous pleasure to a banish’d man,
    I feel my loved long look’d-for native soil!
    And oh! my weary eyes, that all the day
    Had from some mountain travell’d toward this place,
    Now rest themselves upon the royal towers
    Of that great palace where I had my birth.
    O sacred towers, sacred in your height,
    Mingling with clouds, the villas of the Gods
    Whither for sacred pleasures they retire;
    Sacred because you are the work of Gods;
    Your lofty looks boast your divine descent:
    And the proud city which lies at your feet,
    And would give place to nothing but to you,
    Owns her original is short of yours.
    And now a thousand objects more ride fast
    On morning beams, and meet my eyes in throngs;
    And see, all Argos meets me with loud shouts!
      _Phil._ O joyful sound!
      _Thy._ But with them Atreus too--
      _Phil._ What ails my father, that he stops, and shakes,
    And now retires?
      _Thy._ Return with me, my son,
    And old friend Peneus, to the honest beasts,
    And faithful desart, and well-seated caves;
    Trees shelter man, by whom they often die,
    And never seek revenge: no villainy
    Lies in the prospect of an humble cave.
      _Pen._ Talk you of villainy, of foes, and fraud.
      _Thy._ I talk of Atreus.
      _Pen._ What are these to him?
      _Thy._ Nearer than I am, for they are himself.
      _Pen._ Gods drive these impious thoughts out of your mind.
      _Thy._ The Gods for all our safety put them there.--
    Return, return with me.
      _Pen._ Against our oaths?
    I cannot stem the vengeance of the Gods.
      _Thy._ Here are no Gods: they’ve left this dire abode.
      _Pen._ True race of Tantalus! who parent-like
    Are doom’d in midst of plenty to be starved.
    His hell and yours differ alone in this:
    When he would catch at joys, they fly from him;
    When glories catch at you, you fly from them.
      _Thy._ A fit comparison; our joys and his
    Are lying shadows, which to trust is hell.

_The day of the pretended Nuptials.--Atreus feigns a returning love for
his Queen._

      _Ærope._ O this is too much joy for me to bear:
    You build new palaces on broken walls.
      _Atreus._ Come, let our new-born pleasures breathe sweet air;
    This room’s too vile a cabinet for gold.
    Then leave for ever, Love, this doleful place,
    And leave behind thee all thy sorrows here;
    And dress thyself as this great day requires.
    ’Twill be thy daughter’s nuptials; and I dream’d,
    The Sun himself would be asham’d to come,
    And be a guest in his old tarnish’d robe;
    But leave my Court,[468] to enlighten all the globe.--

_Peneus to Atreus, dissuading him from his horrid purpose._

      _Pen._ Fear you not men or Gods?
      _Atr._ The fear of Gods ne’er came in Pelops’ House.
      _Pen._ Think you there are no Gods?
      _Atr._ I find all things
    So false, I am sure of nothing but of wrongs.--

_Atreus. Thyestes._

A TABLE, AND A BANQUET.

      _Atr._ Come, brother, sit.
      _Thy._ May not Philisthenes
    Sit with us, Sir?
      _Atr._ He waits upon the Bride.
    A deeper bowl. This to the Bridegroom’s health.
      _Thy._ This to the Gods for this most joyful day.--
    Now to the Bridegroom’s health.
      _Atr._ This day shall be
    To Argos an eternal festival.
      _Thy._ Fortune and I to day both try our strengths.
    I have quite tired her left hand Misery;
    She now relieves it with her right-hand Joy,
    Which she lays on me with her utmost force;
    But both shall be too weak for my strong spirit.
      _Atr. (aside)._ So, now my engines of delight have screw’d
    The monster to the top of arrogance;
    And now he’s ready for his deadly fall.
      _Thy._ O these extremes of misery and joy
    Measure the vast extent of a man’s soul.
    My spirit reaches Fortune’s East and West.
    She has oft set and ris’n here; yet cannot get
    Out of the vast dominion of my mind.--
    Ho! my proud vaunting has a sudden check;
    See, from my head my crown of roses falls;
    My hair, tho’ almost drown’d beneath sweet oils,
    With strange and sudden horrors starts upright:
    Something I know not what bids me not eat;
    And what I have devour’d[469] within me groans;
    I fain would tear my breast to set it free;--
    And I have catch’d the eager thirst of tears,
    Which all weak spirits have in misery.
    I, who in banishment ne’er wept, weep now.
      _Atr._ Brother, regard it not; ’tis fancy all.
    Misery, like night, is haunted with ill spirits,
    And spirits leave not easily their haunts;
    ’Tis said, sometimes they’ll impudently stand
    A flight of beams from the forlorn of day,
    And scorn the crowing of the sprightly cocks:--
    Brother, ’tis morning with our pleasure yet.
    Nor has the sprightly wine crow’d oft enough.
    See in great flagons at full length it sleeps,
    And lets these melancholy thoughts break in
    Upon our weaker pleasures. Rouse the wine,
    And bid him chase these fancies hence for shame.
    Fill up that reverend unvanquish’d Bowl,
    Who many a giant in his time has fallen,
    And many a monster; Hercules not more.
      _Thy._ If he descends into my groaning breast,
    Like Hercules, he will descend to hell--
      _Atr._ And he will vanquish all the monsters there.
    Brother, your courage with this Hero try;
    He o’er our House has reign’d two hundred years,
    And he’s the only king shall rule you here.
      _Thy._ What ails me, I cannot heave it to my lips?
      _Atr._ What, is the bowl too heavy?
      _Thy._ No; my heart.
      _Atr._ The wine will lighten it.
      _Thy._ The wine will not
    Come near my lips.
      _Atr._ Why should they be so strange?
    They are near a-kin.
      _Thy._ A-kin?
      _Atr._ As possible; father and son not nearer.
      _Thy._ What do you mean?
      _Atr._ Does not good wine beget good blood?
      _Thy._ ’Tis true.
      _Atr._ Your lips then and the wine may be a-kin.
    Off with your kindred wine; leave not a drop
    To die alone, bewilder’d in that bowl.
    Help him to heave it to his head; that’s well.

(_Thyestes drinks. A clap of thunder. The lights go out._)

      _Thy._ What pond’rous crimes pull heav’n upon our heads?
    Nature is choak’d with some vast villainy,
    And all her face is black.
      _Atr._ Some lights, some lights.
      _Thy._ The sky is stunn’d, and reels ’twixt night and day;
    Old Chaos is return’d.
      _Atr._ It is to see
    A young One born, more dreadful than herself;
    That promises great comfort to her age,
    And to restore her empire.
      _Thy._ What do you mean?
      _Atr._ Confusion I have in thy bowels made.
      _Thy._ Dire thoughts, like Furies, break into my mind
    With flaming brands, and shew me what he means.
    Where is Philisthenes?
      _Atr._ Ask thy own bowels:
    Thou heard’st them groan; perhaps they now will speak.
      _Thy._ Thou hast not, Tyrant--what I dare not ask?
      _Atr._ I kill’d thy Son, and thou hast drunk his blood.

  C. L.

  [467] The descendants of Tantalus.

  [468] A hint of the dreadful banquet which he meditates, at which the
  Sun is said to have turned away his horses.

  [469] The mangled limbs of his son Philisthenes, which Atreus has set
  before him.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book_


THEATRALIA.


TOM DURFEY

Once got fifty guineas (according to tradition) for singing a single
song to queen Anne in ridicule of “the princess Sophia, electress and
duchess dowager of Hanover,” (as she is called in the oath of
allegiance,) naturally no great favourite with the then reigning
monarch. The only lines of this satirical production that have come down
to us are the following; and, until now, only the two first of the
stanza have been preserved by Durfey’s biographers:--

        “The crown’s far too weighty
        For shoulders of eighty;
    She could not sustain such a trophy;
        Her hand, too, already
        Has grown so unsteady
        She can’t hold a sceptre;
        So Providence kept her
    Away.--Poor old Dowager Sophy.”

“Merry Tom” had sung before the king in the former reign, and Charles
II., as is well known, was very fond of his company.


LISTON’S MARRIAGE.

The following got into circulation just after Mr. Liston was united to
Miss Tyrer but never was published:--

    Liston has married Fanny Tyrer:
    He must, like all the town, admire her,
    A pretty actress, charming voice!
    But some, astonish’d at his choice
    Of one, compar’d with him, so small
    She scarcely seem’d a wife at all,
    Express’d their wonder: his reply
    Show’d that he had “good reason why.”--
    “We needs must when the devil drives;
    And since all married men say, wives
    Are of created things the worst,
    I was resolv’d I would be curst
    With one as small as I could get her.
    The smaller, as I thought, the better.
    I need not fear to lay my fist on,
    Whene’er ’tis needed, Mrs. Liston:
    And since, ’like heathen Jew or Carib,
    I like a _rib_, but not a _spare-rib_,
    I got one broad as she is long--
    Go and do better, if I’m wrong.”


CHARLES JENNENS, ESQ.

One of the most singular characters of his day was Charles Jennens,
Esq., a sort of literary Bubb Doddington. Being born to a good estate,
from his boyhood he was ridiculously fond of show and pomp, and his
style of writing was of a piece with his style of living. It has been
said, that he put together the words of Handel’s “Messiah:” that he had
something to do with them is true; but he had a secretary of the name of
Pooley, a poor clergyman, who executed the principal part of the work,
and, till now, has obtained no part of the credit. Charles Jennens, Esq.
took it into his head, (perhaps the most rational notion he had ever
indulged,) that the majority of Shakspeare’s commentators were mere
twaddling antiquaries, without taste or talent; but he adopted an
unfortunate way of proving it: he himself published an edition of
_Hamlet_, _Lear_, _Othello_, and one or two more tragedies. He was of
course laughed at for his attempt, and George Steevens tried to show a
little of the wit, for which his friends gave him credit, and of the
ill-nature for which he deserved it. Jennens published a pamphlet in
reply, the greater part his own writing, which for years was his delight
and solace: his poor secretary used to have the task of reading it from
beginning to end, whenever his patron called for it, on giving an
entertainment to his friends. Jennens commented, explained, and
enforced, as he proceeded. In some of the biographical accounts of this
personage it is asserted gravely, that for some time after the
appearance of this tract he carefully looked over the newspapers every
day, to learn if the success and severity of his attack had not
compelled Dr. Johnson, Malone, Steevens, or Warburton, to hang
themselves. This depends upon the following epigram, written at the
time, and now only existing in MS., but which obtained a wide
circulation, and is attributed, perhaps correctly, to Steevens. The only
objection to this supposition is, that if it had been Steevens’s it is
strange how his vanity could keep it out of the public prints, though
after all it possesses but little merit:--

    “After Mister Charles Jennens produc’d his _Defence_,
      He saw all the papers at Martyr’s,
    To learn if the critics had had the good sense
      To hang themselves in their own garters.
    He thought they could never out-live it. The sot
    Is ready _to hang himself_, ’cause they have _not_.”

When we called Jennens a literary Bubb Doddington, we ought to have
remembered that Doddington had talents, but Jennens had none.


ELLISTON’S EPIGRAM.

The following has been handed about as from the pen of Mr. Elliston, now
of the Surrey theatre. It may be his or it may not, but whichever way
the fact be, it can do him no harm to publish it. The point is in the
Greek Anthology, though we do not suppose that Mr. E. went there for it.

_The best Wine._

    “What wine do you esteem the first,
      And like above the rest?”
    Ask’d Tom--said Dick--“My own is worst,
      My friend’s is always best.”


SIR JOHN HILL

Was a Polish knight and an English physician, more celebrated by
Garrick’s epigrams than by his own dramatic compositions, consisting of
two farces, _The Maiden’s Whim_ and _The Rout_. He wrote books enough on
all subjects “to build his own papyral monument,” if the grocers and
trunk-makers had not committed such havoc among them, even before his
death. That event was produced by taking his own remedy for the gout,
and it is thus commemorated.

_On the Death of Doctor Hill._

    “Poor Doctor Hill is dead!”--“Good lack!
    Of what disorder?”--“An attack
    Of gout.”--“Indeed! I thought that he
    Had found a wondrous remedy.”--
    “Why so he had, and when he tried
    He found it true--_the Doctor died!_”

       *       *       *       *       *


GOUT.

The contest among medical men for the most proper mode of curing this
complaint cannot but produce a smile, when we recollect that the
afflicted have recourse to various and opposite remedies with success.

We have heard of a man who would find his pains alleviated by drinking a
wineglass full of verjuice, while a table-spoonful of wine would torture
him almost to distraction.

There were two counsellors, some years ago, who generally cured
themselves in a very pleasant manner; one, who was accustomed to drink
water constantly, would cure himself by drinking wine; and the other,
who invariably took his bottle or more of wine a day, was constantly
cured by the use of water.

Others, by living on a milk diet only, have entirely cured themselves.

Some years ago there was a man in Italy who was particularly successful
in the cure of the gout: his mode was to make his patients sweat
profusely, by obliging them to go up and down stairs, though with much
pain to themselves.

A quack in France acquired great reputation for the cure of this malady,
by the use of a medicine he called “Tincture of the Moon,” of which he
administered some drops every morning in a basin of broth. It was never
used by any but the richest persons; for the price of a bottle full, not
larger than a common sized smelling bottle, was eighty louis d’ors.
Furetière mentions this quack, and says he possessed many valuable
secrets. He adds, that the surprising cures, to which he was witness, by
the “Tincture of the Moon,” astonished all the faculty at Paris. The
operation of this medicine was insensible.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Stories~

OF THE

~Craven Dales.~

No. II.[470]

    He had been in Yorkshire dales,
      Amid the winding scars;
    Where deep and low the hamlets lie
    Beneath a little patch of sky,
      And little patch of stars.--WORDSWORTH.


THE LEGEND OF THE TROLLER’S GILL.

    On the steep fell’s height shone the fair moonlight,
      And its beams illum’d the dale,
    And a silvery sheen cloth’d the forest green,
      Which sigh’d to the moaning gale.

    From Burnsal’s tower the midnight hour
      Had toll’d, and its echo was still,
    And the elfin band, from faërie land,
      Was upon Elboton hill.

    ’Twas silent all, save the waters’ fall,
      That with never ceasing din,
    Roar and rush, and foam and gush,
      In Loupscar’s troubled linn.

    From his cot he stept, while the household slept,
      And he carroll’d with boist’rous glee,
    But he ne hied to the green hill’s side,
      The faerie train to see.

    He went not to roam with his own dear maid
      Along by a pine-clad scar,
    Nor sing a lay to his ladye love,
      ’Neath the light of the polar star.

    The Troller, I ween, was a fearless wight,
      And, as legends tell, could hear
    The night winds rave, in the Knave Knoll cave,[471]
      Withouten a sign of fear.

    And whither now are his footsteps bent?
      And where is the Troller bound?
    To the horrid gill of the limestone hill,
      To call on the Spectre Hound!

    And on did he pass, o’er the dew-bent grass,
      While the sweetest perfumes fell,
    From the blossoming of the trees which spring
      In the depth of that lonely dell.

    Now before his eyes did the dark gill rise,
      No moon-ray pierced its gloom,
    And his steps around did the waters sound
      Like a voice from a haunted tomb.

    And there as he stept, a shuddering crept
      O’er his frame, scarce known to fear,
    For he once did dream, that the sprite of the stream
      Had loudly called--FORBEAR!

    An aged yew in the rough cliffs grew,
      And under its sombre shade
    Did the Troller rest, and with charms unblest,
      He a magic circle made.

    Then thrice did he turn where the streamers burn,[472]
      And thrice did he kiss the ground,
    And with solemn tone, in that gill so lone,
      He call’d on the Spectre Hound!

    And a burning brand he clasp’d in his hand,
      And he nam’d a potent spell,
    That, for Christian ear it were sin to hear,
      And a sin for a bard to tell.[473]

    And a whirlwind swept by, and stormy grew the sky,
      And the torrent louder roar’d,
    While a hellish flame, o’er the Troller’s stalwart frame
      From each cleft of the gill was pour’d.

    And a dreadful thing from the cliff did spring,
      And its wild bark thrill’d around--
    Its eyes had the glow of the fires below--
      ’Twas the form of the Spectre Hound!

           *       *       *       *       *

    When on Rylstonne’s height glow’d the morning light,
      And, borne on the mountain air,
    The Priorie[474] bell did the peasants tell
      ’Twas the chanting of matin prayer,

    By peasant men, where the horrid glen
      Doth its rugged jaws expand,
    A corse was found, where a dark yew frown’d,
    And marks were imprest on the dead man’s breast--
      But they seem’d not by mortal hand.

           *       *       *       *       *

    In the evening calm a funeral psalm
      Slowly stole o’er the woodland scene--
    The harebells wave on a new-made grave
      In “Burnsall’s church-yard green.”

    That funeral psalm in the evening calm,
      Which echo’d the dell around,
    Was his, o’er whose grave blue harebells wave,
      Who call’d on the Spectre Hound!

       *       *       *       *       *

The above ballad is founded on a tradition, very common amongst the
mountains of Craven. The spectre hound is _Bargest_. Of this mysterious
personage I am able to give a very particular account, having only a few
days ago seen Billy B----y, who had once a full view of it. I give the
narrative in his own words; it would detract from its merit to alter the
language.


BILLY B----’S ADVENTURE.

“You see, sir, as how I’d been a clock-dressing at Gurston
[Grassington], and I’d staid rather lat, and may be gitten a lile sup o’
spirit, but I war far from being drunk, and knowed every thing that
passed. It war about 11 o’clock when I left, and it war at back end o’t’
year, and a most admīrable [beautiful] neet it war. The moon war varra
breet, and I nivvr seed Rylstone-fell plainer in a’ my life. Now, you
see, sir, I war passin down t’ mill loine, and I heerd summut come past
me--brush, brush, brush, wi’ chains rattling a’ the while; but I seed
nothing; and thowt I to mysel, now this is a most mortal queer thing.
And I then stuid still, and luik’d about me, but I seed nothing at aw,
nobbut the two stane wa’s on each side o’t’ mill loine. Then I heerd
again this brush, brush, brush, wi’ the chains; for you see, sir, when I
stuid still it stopped; and then, thowt I, this mun be a Bargest, that
sae much is said about: and I hurried on towards t’ wood brig, for they
say as how this Bargest cannot cross a watter; but lord, sir, when I gat
o’er t’ brig, I heerd this same thing again; so it mud either hev
crossed t’ watter, _or gone round by t’ spring heed!_ [About thirty
miles!] And then I becam a valliant man, for I war a bit freeten’d
afore; and thinks I, I’ll turn and hev a peep at this thing; so I went
up Greet Bank towards Linton, and heerd this brush, brush, brush, wi’
the chains a’ the way, but I seed nothing; then it ceased all of a
sudden. So I turned back to go hame, but I’d hardly reach’d t’ door,
when I heerd again this brush, brush, brush, and the chains going down
towards t’ Holin House, and I followed it, and the moon there shone
varra breet, and I _seed its tail_! Then, thowt I, thou owd thing! I can
say Ise seen thee now, so I’ll away hame. When I gat to t’ door, there
war a girt thing like a sheep, but it war larger, ligging across t’
threshold of t’ door, and it war woolly like; and says I, ‘git up,’ and
it wouldn’t git up--then says I, ‘stir thysel,’ and it wouldn’t stir
itsel! And I grew valliant, and I rais’d t’ stick to baste it wi’, and
then it luik’d at me, and sich oies! [eyes] they did glower, and war as
big as saucers, and like a cruelled ball; first there war a red ring,
then a blue one, then a white one; and these rings grew less and less
_till they cam to a dot_! Now I war nane feer’d on it, tho’ it girn’d at
me fearfully, and I kept on saying ‘git up,’ and ‘stir thysel,’ and t’
wife heerd as how I war at t’ door, and she cam to oppen it; and then
this thing gat up and walked off, _for it war mare feer’d o’ t’ wife
than it war o’ me_! and I told t’ wife, and she said it war Bargest; but
I nivver seed it since, and that’s a true story!”

In the glossary to the Rev. Mr. Carr’s “Horæ Momenta Cravenæ,” I find
the following--“_Bargest_, a sprite that haunts towns and populous
places. Belg. _birg_, and _geest_, a ghost.” I really am not a little
amused at Mr. Carr’s derivation, which is most erroneous. Bargest is not
a _town_ ghost, nor is it a haunter “of towns and populous places;” for,
on the contrary, it is said in general to frequent small villages and
_hills_. Hence the derivation may be _berg_, Germ., a _hill_, and
_geist_, a ghost; i.e. a hill ghost: but the real derivation appears to
me to be _bär_, Germ., a _bear_, and _geist_, a ghost; i.e. a bear
ghost, from its appearing in the form of a bear or large dog, as Billy
B----’s narrative shows.[475]

The appearance of the spectre hound is said to precede a death; which
tradition will be more fully illustrated in my next legend, “The Wise
Woman of Littondale.” Like most other spirits Bargest is supposed to be
unable to cross a water; and in case any of my Craven readers should
ever chance to meet with his ghostship, it may be as well to say, that
unless they give him the wall he will tear them to pieces, or otherwise
illtreat them, as he did one John Lambert, who, refusing to let him have
the wall, was so punished for his want of manners, that he died in a
few days.

This superstition has in one instance been productive of good. A few
years ago an inhabitant of Threshfield kept a huge he-goat, which the
wags of the village would sometimes turn into the lanes, in the
night-time, with a chain about his neck, to frighten the farmers on
their return from Kettlewell market. They once determined to terrify a
badger, or miller, as he returned from the market, by driving the animal
with the chains, &c. into the lane through which the man of meal was to
pass. About ten o’clock the miller, on entering Threshfield with his
cart, espies the goat; and hearing the chains, overwhelmed with terror,
he conjectures it to be Bargest, that was sent to take him away for his
dishonest dealings; the miller stops his cart, and kneeling down in it,
thus prayed, to the great amusement of the young rogues behind the
wall:--“Good Lord, don’t let the devil take me this time, and I’ll never
cheat any more; do let me get safe home, and I’ll never raise my meal
again so extravagantly as I have done of late.” He _did_ get safe home,
and was as good as his word till he discovered the trick, when he
returned to his old malpractices; exemplifying the old epigram--

    “The devil was sick, the devil a monk would be,
    The devil got well, the devil a monk was he.”

In the second verse of the legend of “The Troller’s Gill,” it is said,

    And the elfin band from faërie land
      Was upon Elbōton hill.

Elboton is the largest of five or six very romantic green hills, that
seem to have been formed by some tremendous convulsion of nature, at the
foot of that fine chain of fells, which extends from Rylstone to
Burnsall, and is said to have been, from “time whereof the memory of man
runneth not to the contrary,” the haunt of faëries; numbers of these
pretty little creatures having been seen there by several men of honour
and veracity in this neighbourhood, one of whom _has had a faëry in his
hand_! The elfin train has been visible in many parts of our district,
but I know of no place they frequent more than Elboton. One of these
diminutive beings, called Hob, is reputed to be a watchful preserver of
the farmer’s property, and a most industrious workman. At Close-house,
near Skipton in Craven, Hob used to do as much work in one night as
twenty human workmen could in the same time; and, as I have been
informed by an individual, who resided there about twenty years ago,
Hob was accustomed to house the hay, stack the corn, and churn the
butter, as well as perform several other offices, which tended
materially to lessen the labour of the husbandman and the dairy maid.
The occupier of Close-house at that time, thinking to make Hob some
return for his kindness and assiduity, laid out a new red cloak for him,
which so offended the good faëry, that he ceased his labours, and left
the place. On the spot where the cloak was left, the following stanza
was found,

    Hob red coat, Hob red hood,
    Hob do you no harm, but no more good.[476]

Loupscar, alluded to in the third verse, is a place in the Wharfe near
Burnsall, where the river is pent in with rocks, and boils along in a
confined channel, and then discharges itself into a pool of tremendous
depth, forming, as Dr. Whitaker says in his history, “a scene more
dreadful than pleasing.” The channel of the Wharfe is in general craggy,
and the river abounds with similar vortices to Loupscar; the two most
celebrated of which are the Gastrills above Grassington, and the Strid,
in Bolton woods. The latter will be recognised by the poetical reader,
as the fatal gulf where the Boy of Egremond was drowned, whose story
Rogers has versified with such exquisite pathos.

“The Troller’s Gill” is in Skyram pastures, beyond Appletreewick. I
visited it a few days ago, when the torrent was considerably swollen by
the recent heavy rains amongst the mountains. The roar of the water, the
terrific grandeur of the overhanging crags, and its loneliness, united
to heighten the terrors of the place. To an inhabitant of London, the
scene of the wolf’s glen, in the Drury version of “Der Freischütz,” may
give some faint idea of it. Dr. Whitaker thought Troller’s Gill “wanted
the deep horror of Gordale,” near Malham. There is certainly more
sublimity and grandeur about Gordale; but as to horror, I think it
nothing to “the Troller’s Gill.” This, however, is a matter of taste.

The last verses allude to the beautiful and ancient custom, still
universally prevalent throughout our district, of chanting a solemn
dirge at funerals, till the corpse reaches the church-yard gateway. I
know of nothing more affecting to a stranger than to meet, at evening, a
funeral train proceeding along one of our romantic vallies, while the
neighbouring rocks are resonant with the loud dirge sung by the friends
of the departed. Long may this custom continue! Too many of our old
customs fall into misuse by the ridicule thrown on them by dissenters,
as being popish, &c.; but I am happy to say, that in Craven the
dissenters are great encouragers of funeral dirges. In Mrs. Heman’s
sacred melody, “Last Rites,” this stanza alludes to the practice:--

    By the chanted psalm that fills
    Reverently the ancient hills,
    Learn, that from his harvests done,
    Peasants bear a brother on
            To his last repose!

  T. Q. M.

  _Grassington in Craven,_

  _Nov. 6, 1827._

  [470] For No. I., see the “Banquet of the Dead.”

  [471] A cave near Thorp.

  [472] The Northern Lights. These beautiful meteors have been very
  vivid and frequent of late.

  [473] These two lines are from a German ballad.

  [474] Bolton Priorie.

  [475] That bears were common in Craven in ancient times is evident
  from one of our villages being called Barden, i.e. the bear’s den. I
  consider this circumstance in favour of my derivation.--T. Q. M.

  [476] Mr. Story, of Gargrave, has written a beautiful Craven faëry
  tale, called Fitz Harold.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE SECOND SERIES OF

WHIMS AND ODDITIES,

WITH FORTY ORIGINAL DESIGNS,

BY THOMAS HOOD.

  “What demon hath possessed thee, that thou wilt never forsake that
  impertinent custom of punning?”

  _Scriblerus._

If I might be allowed to answer the question instead of Mr. Hood, I
should say, that it is the same demon which provokes me to rush directly
through his new volume in preference to half a dozen works, which order
of time and propriety entitle to previous notice. This book detains me
from my purposes, as a new print in a shop-window does a boy on his way
to school; and, like him, at the risk of being found fault with for not
minding my task, I would talk of the attractive novelty to wights of the
same humour. It comes like good news, which nobody is ignorant of, and
every body tells to every body, and sets business at a stand-still. It
puts clean out of my head all thought of another engraving for the
present sheet, though I know, good reader, that already “I _owe_ you
one”--perhaps two:--never mind! you shall have “_all_ in good time;” if
you don’t, I’ll give you leave to eat me. With such a tender, the most
untender will, or ought to be, as content as “the blacks of Niger at its
infant rill,” seated at their “_white-bait_,” the thirty-eighth
_cut_--in Mr. Hood’s book, very near “the end,”--a very inviting one to
Shylock-kind of people, who have not

    “------seen, perchance, unhappy white folks cook’d,
    And then made free of <DW64> corporations.”--p. 149.

Mr. Hood begins--to be modest--with pleading guilty to what he calls
“some verbal misdemeanours,” and then, leaving “his defence to Dean
Swift, and the other great European and oriental _pun_dits,” puts
himself upon his country. But by whom is he arraigned, save a few
highwaymen in the “march of intellect,” who sagely affirm, that “a man
who would make a pun would pick a pocket!”--a saying devised by some
wag, to the use and behoof of these doldrums, who never hear a good
thing, but they button up their pockets and features, and walk off with
nothing about them of likeness to humanity but the biforked form. For
capital likenesses of such persons, turn to the story of “Tim Turpin,”
and look first, to pay due honour, at the engravings of “the Judges of
a-size,” and then at “Jurors--not con-jurors.” Portraits of this order
could not have been drawn by any other than a close and accurate
observer of character. Indeed, that Mr. Hood is eminently qualified in
this respect, he has before abundantly testified; especially by “The
Progress of Cant,” a print that must occupy a distinguished place in a
history of Character and Caricature, whenever such a work shall be
written.[477] In this new series of “Whims and Oddities,” he presents a
sketch, called “Infant Genius;”--a little boy delighted with having
rudely traced an uncouth figure; such a “drawing” as excites a good
mistaken mother to declare, “the little fellow has quite a genius, and
will be very clever if he only has encouragement:”--and thus many a
child’s talent for fine-drawing--which, at the tailoring trade, might
have secured the means of living--has been misencouraged to the making
up of fifth-rate artists with a starvation income. The engraving of the
“Infant Genius” illustrates the following poem.

THE PROGRESS OF ART.

    O happy time!--Art’s early days!
    When o’er each deed, with sweet self-praise,
      Narcissus-like I hung!
    When great Rembrandt but little seem’d,
    And such old masters all were deem’d
      As nothing to the young!

    Some scratchy strokes--abrupt and few
    So easily and swift I drew,
      Suffic’d for my design;
    My sketchy, superficial hand,
    Drew solids at a dash--and spann’d
      A surface with a line.

    Not long my eye was thus content.
    But grew more critical--my bent
      Essay’d a higher walk;
    I copied leaden eyes in lead--
    Rheumatic hands in white and red,
      And gouty feet--in chalk.

    Anon my studious art for days
    Kept making faces--happy phrase,
      For faces such as mine!
    Accomplish’d in the details then
    I left the minor parts of men,
      And drew the form divine.

    Old gods and heroes--Trojan--Greek,
    Figures--long after the antique,
      Great Ajax justly fear’d;
    Hectors of whom at night I dreamt,
    And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt
      Bird-nesters to his beard.

    A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,
    A Pallas, that outstar’d her owl,
      A Vulcan--very lame;
    A Dian stuck about with stars,
    With my right hand I murder’d Mars--
      (One Williams did the same.)

    But tir’d of this dry work at last,
    Crayon and chalk aside I cast,
      And gave my brush a drink!
    Dipping--“as when a painter dips
    In gloom of earthquake and eclipse”--
      That is--in Indian ink.

    Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose.
    Crested with soot, and not with snows;
      What clouds of dingy hue!
    In spite of what the bard has penn’d,
    I fear the distance did not “lend
      Enchantment to the view.”

    Not Radcliffe’s brush did e’er design
    Black Forests, half so black as mine,
      Or lakes so like a pall;
    The Chinese cake dispers’d a ray
    Of darkness, like the light of Day
      And Martin over all.

    Yet urchin pride sustain’d me still,
    I gaz’d on all with right good-will,
      And spread the dingy tint;
    “No holy Luke helped me to paint.
    The Devil surely, not a saint.
      Had any finger in’t”.

    But colours came!--like morning light,
    With gorgeous hues displacing night,
      Or spring’s enliven’d scene:
    At once the sable shades withdrew;
    My skies got very, very blue;
      My trees extremely green.

    And wash’d by my cosmetic brush,
    How beauty’s cheek began to blush;
      With locks of auburn stain--
    (Not Goldsmith’s Auburn)--nut-brown hair,
    That made her loveliest of the fair;
      Not “loveliest of the plain!”

    Her lips were of vermilion hue;
    Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue,
      Set all my heart in flame!--
    A young Pygmalion, I adored
    The maids I made--but time was stor’d
      With evil--and it came!

    Perspective dawn’d--and soon I saw
    My houses stand against its law;
      And “keeping” all unkept!
    My beauties were no longer things
    For love and fond imaginings;
      But horrors to be wept!

    Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?
    Why did I get more artist-wise?
      It only serves to hint,
    What grave defects and wants are mine;
    That I’m no Hilton in design--
      In nature no Dewint!

    Thrice happy time!--Art’s early days!
    When o’er each deed with sweet self-praise,
      Narcissus-like I hung!
    When great Rembrandt but little seem’d,
    And such old masters all were deem’d
      As nothing to the young!

In verification of the old saying, “Once a man, twice a child,” Mr. Hood
tells of “A School for Adults,”--and gives a picture of aged men,
baldheaded and wigged, whose education had been neglected, studying
their A, B, C. A letter from one of them at a preparatory school is
exceedingly amusing. The article is preceded by a dramatic scene.

      _Servant._ 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, singing._

      _All three._ 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 them.
      _2d Old Man._ You shan’t send us, now, so you shan’t--
      _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?
      _Traveller._ Do men of such fair years here go to school?
      _Native._ 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 ’em to school again;
    They’d die as speechless else as new-born children.
      _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!

    [_Exit, singing._]

  “THE ANTIPODES,” _by R. Brome_.

No reader of the first series of the “Whims and Oddities” can have
forgotten “The Spoiled Child” of “My Aunt Shakerly,” or the unhappy lady
herself; and now we are informed that “towards the close of her life, my
aunt Shakerly increased rapidly in bulk: she kept adding growth unto her
growth,

    “Giving a sum of more to that which had too much,”

till the result was worthy of a Smithfield premium. It was not the
triumph, however, of any systematic diet for the promotion of
fat,--(except oyster-eating there is no human system of
_stall_-feeding,)--on the contrary, she lived abstemiously, diluting her
food with pickle-acids, and keeping frequent fasts in order to reduce
her compass; but they failed of this desirable effect. Nature had
planned an original tendency in her organization that was not to be
overcome:--she would have fattened on sour krout.

“My uncle, on the other hand, decreased daily; originally a little man,
he became lean, shrunken, wizened. There was a predisposition in his
constitution that made him spare, and kept him so:--he would have fallen
off even on brewer’s grains.

“It was the common joke of the neighbourhood to designate my aunt, my
uncle, and the infant Shakerly, as ‘WHOLESALE, RETAIL, and FOR
EXPORTATION;’ and, in truth, they were not inapt impersonations of that
popular inscription,--my aunt a giantess, my uncle a pigmy, and the
child being ‘carried abroad.’”--This is the commencement of an article
entitled “The _Decline_ of Mrs. Shakerly.”

A story of “the Absentee,” and of the “absent tea,” on a friend’s visit
to him, is painfully whimsical. Akin to it is an engraving of a person
who had retired to rest coming down stairs in his shirt, and shorts, and
great alarm, with a chamber-light in his hand, and the top of his
nightcap in a smothering blaze, exclaiming

“_Don’t you smell Fire?_”

    Run!--run for St. Clement’s engine!
      For the pawnbroker’s all in a blaze,
    And the pledges are frying and singing--
      Oh! how the poor pawners will craze!
    Now where can the turncock be drinking?
      Was there ever so thirsty an elf?--
    But he still may tope on, for I’m thinking
      That the plugs are as dry as himself.

    The engines!--I hear them come rumbling:
      There’s the Phœnix! the Globe! and the Sun!
    What a row there will be, and a grumbling,
      When the water don’t start for a run!
    See! there they come racing and tearing,
      All the street with loud voices is fill’d;
    Oh! it’s only the firemen a-swearing
      At a man they’ve run over and kill’d!

    How sweetly the sparks fly away now,
      And twinkle like stars in the sky;
    It’s a wonder the engines don’t play now
      But I never saw water so shy!
    Why there isn’t enough for a snipe,
      And the fire it is fiercer, alas!
    Oh! instead of the New River pipe,
      They have gone--that they have--to the gas!

    Only look at the poor little P----’s
      On the roof--is there any thing sadder?
    My dears, keep fast hold, if you please,
      And they won’t be an hour with the ladder!
    But if any one’s hot in their feet,
      And in very great haste to be sav’d,
    Here’s a nice easy bit in the street,
      That M‘Adam has lately unpav’d!

    There is some one--I see a dark shape
      At that window, the hottest of all,--
    My good woman, why don’t you escape?
      Never think of your bonnet and shawl:
    If your dress is’nt perfect, what is it
      For once in a way to your hurt?
    When your husband is paying a visit
      There, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt!

    Only see how she throws out her _chancy_!
      Her basins, and teapots, and all
    The most brittle of _her_ goods--or any,
      But they all break in breaking their fall:
    Such things are not surely the best
      From a two-story window to throw--
    She might save a good iron bound chest,
      For there’s plenty of people below!

    O dear! what a beautiful flash!
      How it shone thro’ the window and door;
    We shall soon hear a scream and a crash,
      When the woman falls thro’ with the floor!
    There! there! what a volley of flame,
      And then suddenly all is obscur’d!--
    Well--I’m glad in my heart that I came;--
      But I hope the poor man is insur’d!

There are ballads in the “New Series” that rival “Sally Brown and Ben
the Carpenter” in the former volume. Of this class are “Mary’s Ghost;”
the story of “Tim Turpin,” mentioned before; and another of “Jack Hall,”
showing, how Jack was an undertaker’s mute--how Jack sometimes drove the
hearse--how Jack was in league with resurrection-men, and stole the
bodies he buried--how Death met Jack in St. Pancras burying-ground, and
shook hands with him--how Death invited Jack home to supper--how Jack
preferred going to the Cheshire Cheese, and Death didn’t--how Jack was
brought to Death’s door, and what he saw there--how Jack was obliged to
go in, and Death introduced him to his friends as “Mr. Hall the
body-snatcher”--how Jack got off without bidding them good night--how
Jack was indisposed--how twelve doctors came to visit Jack without
taking fees--how Jack got worse, and how he confessed he had sold his
own body twelve different times to the twelve doctors--how the twelve
doctors did not know Jack was so bad--how the twelve doctors disputed in
Jack’s room which should have his body till twelve o’clock--how Jack
then departed, the twelve doctors couldn’t tell how--and how, as Jack’s
body could not be found, the twelve doctors departed, and not one of
them was satisfied.

In the forementioned ballads there are many “verbal misdemeanours,” at
which the author cautiously hints in his preface with some tokens of
deprecation:--“Let me suggest,” he says, “that a pun is somewhat like a
cherry: though there may be a slight outward indication of partition--of
duplicity of meaning--yet no gentleman need make two bites at it against
his own pleasure. To accommodate certain readers, notwithstanding, I
have refrained from putting the majority in italics.” He is equally
sinful and considerate in his prose: as, for instance, in the following
character, which fairly claims a place with those of bishop Earle, sir
Thomas Overbury, and even Butler.


“A BALLAD SINGER

Is a town-crier for the advertising of lost tunes. Hunger hath made him
a wind instrument; his want is vocal, and not he. His voice had gone
a-begging before he took it up and applied it to the same trade it was
too strong to hawk mackerel, but was just soft enough for Robin Adair.
His business is to make popular songs unpopular,--he gives the air, like
a weathercock, with many variations. As for a key, he has but one--a
latch-key--for all manner of tunes; and as they are to pass current
amongst the lower sorts of people, he makes his notes like a country
banker’s, as thick as he can. His tones have a copper sound, for he
sounds for copper; and for the musical divisions he hath no regard, but
sings on, like a kettle, without taking any heed of the bars. Before
beginning he clears his pipe with gin; and he is always hoarse from the
thorough draft in his throat. He hath but one shake, and that is in
winter. His voice sounds flat, from flatulence; and he fetches breath,
like a drowning kitten, whenever he can. Notwithstanding all this his
music gains ground, for it walks with him from end to end of the street.

“He is your only performer that requires not many entreaties for a song;
for he will chant, without asking, to a street cur or a parish post. His
only backwardness is to a stave after dinner, seeing that he never
dines; for he sings for bread, and though corn has ears, sings very
commonly in vain. As for his country, he is an Englishman, that by his
birthright may sing whether he can or not. To conclude, he is reckoned
passable in the city, but is not so good off the stones.”

An incurable joker subjects himself to the inconvenience of not being
believed, though he speak the truth; and therefore the following
declaration of the author of “Whims and Oddities” is questionable. He
says:--


“A MAD DOG

Is none of my bugbears. Of the bite of dogs, large ones especially, I
have a reasonable dread; but as to any participation in the canine
frenzy, I am somewhat sceptical. The notion savours of the same fanciful
superstition that invested the subjects of Dr. Jenner with a pair of
horns. Such was affirmed to be the effect of the vaccine matter--and I
shall believe what I have heard of the canine virus, when I see a rabid
gentleman, or gentlewoman, with flap ears, dew-claws, and a
brushtail!----

“I put no faith in the vulgar stories of human beings betaking
themselves, through a dog-bite, to dog-habits: and consider the
smotherings and drownings, that have originated in that fancy, as cruel
as the murders for witchcraft. Are we, for a few yelpings, to stifle all
the disciples of Loyola--Jesuits’ bark--or plunge unto death all the
convalescents who may take to bark and wine?

“As for the hydrophobia, or loathing of water, I have it mildly myself.
My head turns invariably at thin washy potations. With a dog, indeed,
the case is different--he is a water-drinker; and when he takes to
grape-juice, or the stronger cordials, may be dangerous. But I have
never seen one with a bottle--except at his tail.

“There are other dogs who are born to haunt the liquid element, to dive
and swim--and for such to shun the lake or the pond would look
suspicious. A Newfoundlander, standing up from a shower at a door-way,
or a spaniel with a parapluie, might be innocently destroyed. But when
does such a cur occur?”

Mr. Hood answers the question himself by “hydrophobia” of his own
creation, namely, an engraving of a dog, on whom he makes “each
particular hair to stand an end;” and whom he represents walking
biped-fashion; he hath for his shield, as Randle Holme would say, an
umbrella _vert_, charged with the stick thereof, as a bend _or_.

“The career of this animal,” says Mr. Hood, “is but a type of his
victim’s--suppose some bank clerk. He was not bitten, but only splashed
on the hand by the mad foam or dog-spray: a recent flea-bite gives
entrance to the virus, and in less than three years it gets possession.
Then the tragedy begins. The unhappy gentleman first evinces uneasiness
at being called on for his New River rates. He answers the collector
snappishly, and when summoned to pay for his supply of water, tells the
commissioners, doggedly, that they may cut it off. From that time he
gets worse. He refuses slops--turns up a pug nose at pump water--and at
last, on a washing-day, after flying at the laundress, rushes out, ripe
for hunting, to the street. A twilight remembrance leads him to the
house of his intended. He fastens on her hand--next worries his
mother--takes a bit apiece out of his brothers and sisters--runs a-muck,
‘giving tongue,’ all through the suburbs--and finally, is smothered by a
pair of bed-beaters in Moorfields.

“According to popular theory the mischief ends not here. The dog’s
master--the trainer, the friends, human and canine--the bank
clerks--the laundresses--sweet-heart--mother and sisters--the-two
bed-beaters--all inherit the rabies, and run about to bite others.”

But, is not this drollery on hydrophobia feigned? Is it not true that a
certain bootmaker receives orders every July from the author of “Whims
and Oddities,” for boots to reach above the calf, of calf so
inordinately stout as to be capable of resisting the teeth of a dog,
however viciously rabid, and with underleathers of winter thickness, for
the purpose of kicking all dogs withal, in the canicular days? These
queries are not urged upon Mr. H. with the tongue of scandal; of that,
indeed, he has no fear, for he dreads no tongue, but (to use his
quotation from Lord Duberly) the “vermicular tongue.” This little
exposure of his prevailing weakness he has provoked, by affecting to
discredit what his sole shakes at every summer.

The “New Series of Whims and Oddities” abounds with drolleries. Its
author’s “Forty Designs” are all ludicrous; and, that they have been
engraven with fidelity there can be little doubt, from his compliment to
the engraver. “My hope persuades me,” he says, “that my illustrations
cannot have degenerated, so ably have I been seconded by Mr. Edward
Willis; who, like the humane Walter, has befriended my offspring in the
wood.”[478] Though the engravings are indescribably expressive, yet a
few may be hinted at, viz.

“Speak up, sir!” a youth on his knees, vehemently declaring his love,
yet in a tone not sufficiently loud, to a female on a sofa, who doth
“incline her ear” with a trumpet, to assist the auricle.

“In and out Pensioners,” exemplifying the “Suaviter in modo,” and
“Fortiter in re.”

“The spare bed,” uncommonly spare.

“Why don’t you get up behind?” addressed by a donkey-rider--who does not
sit before--to a boy on the ground.

“Banditti,” street minstrels.

“Dust O!” Death collecting his dust--_critically_ speaking, this might
be objected to.

“Crane-iology;” a crane, with its bill calliper-wise, speculating on a
scull, and ascertaining its developements.

“A Retrospective Review;” very literal.

“She is all heart;” a very hearty body.

“The last visit;” quacks.

“The Angel of Death;” one of them--very fine.

“Joiners;” Vicar and Moses.

“Drill and Broadcast;” nature and art.

“High-born and Low-born;” odd differences.

“Lawk! I’ve forgot the brandy!” abominably provoking--only look!

“Comparative Physiology” is “a wandering camel-driver and exhibitor,
parading, for a few pence, the creature’s outlandlish hump, yet
burthened himself with a bunch of flesh between the shoulders.”--

    “Oh would some power the giftie gi’ us
    To see oursel’s as others see us!”

Mr. Hood’s talents are as versatile as his imagination is excursive: and
it would be difficult to decide, whether he excels in the ludicrous or
the grave. He depicts a pathetic scene with infinitely delicate and
discriminative touches, and his powers are evidently equal to a high
order of poetical grandeur. His “Sally Holt and the Death of John
Hayloft,” is an exquisite specimen of natural feeling.

“Nature, unkind to _Sally Holt_ as to Dogberry, denied to her that
knowledge of reading and writing, which comes to some by instinct. A
strong principle of religion made it a darling point with her to learn
to read, that she might study in her Bible: but in spite of all the help
of my cousin, and as ardent a desire for learning as ever dwelt in
scholar, poor Sally never mastered beyond A-B-ab. Her mind, simple as
her heart, was unequal to any more difficult combinations. Writing was
worse to her than conjuring. My cousin was her amanuensis: and from the
vague, unaccountable mistrust of ignorance, the inditer took the pains
always to compare the verbal message with the transcript, by counting
the number of the words.

“I would give up all the tender epistles of Mrs. Arthur Brooke, to have
read one of Sally’s epistles; but they were amatory, and therefore kept
sacred: for plain as she was, Sally Holt had a lover.

“There is an unpretending plainness in some faces that has its charm--an
unaffected ugliness, a thousand times more bewitching than those
would-be pretty looks that neither satisfy the critical sense, nor leave
the matter of beauty at once to the imagination. We like better to make
a new face than to mend an old one. Sally had not one good feature,
except those which John Hayloft made for her in his dreams; and to judge
from one token, her partial fancy was equally answerable for his charms.
One precious lock--no, not a lock, but rather a remnant of very short,
very coarse, very yellow hair, the clippings of a military crop, for
John was a corporal--stood the foremost item amongst her treasures. To
her they were curls, golden, Hyperian, and cherished long after the
parent-head was laid low, with many more, on the bloody plain of
Salamanca.

“I remember vividly at this moment the ecstasy of her grief at the
receipt of the fatal news. She was standing near the dresser with a
dish, just cleaned, in her dexter hand. Ninety-nine women in a hundred
would have dropped the dish. Many would have flung themselves after it
on the floor; but Sally put it up, orderly, on the shelf. The fall of
John Hayloft could not induce the fall of the crockery. She felt the
blow notwithstanding; and as soon as she had emptied her hands, began to
give way to her emotions in her own manner. Affliction vents itself in
various modes, with different temperaments: some rage, others compose
themselves like monuments. Some weep, some sleep, some prose about
death, and others poetize on it. Many take to a bottle, or to a rope.
Some go to Margate, or Bath.

“Sally did nothing of these kinds. She neither snivelled, travelled,
sickened, maddened, nor ranted, nor canted, nor hung, nor fuddled
herself--she only rocked herself upon the kitchen chair!

“The action was not adequate to her relief. She got up--took a fresh
chair--then another--and another--and another,--till she had rocked on
all the chairs in the kitchen.

“The thing was tickling to both sympathies. It was pathetical to behold
her grief, but ludicrous that she knew no better how to grieve.

“An American might have thought that she was in the act of enjoyment,
but for an intermitting O dear! O dear! Passion could not wring more
from her in the way of exclamation than the tooth-ache. Her lamentations
were always the same, even in tone. By and by she pulled out the
hair--the cropped, yellow, stunted, scrubby hair; then she fell to
rocking--then O dear! O dear!--and then Da Capo.

“It was an odd sort of elegy; and yet, simple as it was, I thought it
worth a thousand of lord Littelton’s!

“‘Heyday, Sally! what is the matter?’ was a very natural inquiry from my
aunt, when she came down into the kitchen; and if she did not make it
with her tongue, at least it was asked very intelligibly by her eyes.
Now Sally had but one way of addressing her mistress, and she used it
here. It was the same with which she would have asked for a holiday,
except that the waters stood in her eyes.

“‘If you please, ma’am,’ said she, rising up from her chair, and
dropping her old curtsey, ‘if you please, ma’am, it’s John Hayloft is
dead;’ and then she began rocking again, as if grief was a baby that
wanted jogging to sleep.”----

The many “stories of storm-ships and haunted vessels, of spectre
shallops, and supernatural Dutch-doggers--the adventures of Solway
sailors, with Mahound in his bottomless barges, and the careerings of
the phantom-ship up and down the Hudson,” suggest to Mr. Hood a story
entitled “The Demon-Ship.” This he illustrates by an engraving called
“The Flying-Dutchman,” representing the aerial ascent of a native of the
Low Countries, by virtue of a reversal of the personal gravity, which,
particularly in a Hollander, has been commonly understood to have a
tendency downwards. Be this as it may, Mr. Hood’s tale is illustrated by
the tail-piece referred to. The story itself commences with a highly
wrought description of a sea-storm, of uncommon merit, which will be the
last extract from his interesting volume that can be ventured, viz.:--

    ’Twas off the Wash--the sun went down--the sea look’d black and
        grim,
    For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at the brim;
    Titanic shades! enormous gloom!--as if the solid night
    Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light!
    It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye,
    With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky!

    Down went my helm--close reef’d--the tack held freely in my hand--
    With ballast snug--I put about, and scudded for the land.
    Loud hiss’d the sea beneath her lee--my little boat flew fast,
    But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast.
    Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail!
    What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail!
    What darksome caverns yawn’d before! what jagged steeps behind!
    Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind.
    Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase,
    But where it sank another rose and gallop’d in its place;
    As black as night--they turn to white, and cast against the cloud
    A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturn’d a sailor’s shroud:--
    Still flew my boat; alas! alas! her course was nearly run!
    Behold yon fatal billow rise--ten billows heap’d in one!
    With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling, fast,
    As if the scooping sea contain’d one only wave at last!
    Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave;
    It seem’d as though some cloud had turn’d its hugeness to a wave!
    Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face--
    I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base!
    I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine!
    Another pulse--and down it rush’d--an avalanche of brine.
    Brief pause had I, on God to cry, or think of wife and home;
    The waters clos’d--and when I shriek’d, I shriek’d below the foam!

  [477] A “History of the Art of Caricaturing, by J. P. Malcolm, F.S.A.,
  1813,” 4to., is by no means what its title purports. Mr. Malcolm was a
  very worthy man, and a diligent compiler of facts on other subjects;
  but, in the work alluded to, he utterly failed, from want of knowledge
  and discrimination. He confounds character with caricature, and was
  otherwise inadequate to the task he undertook.

  [478] This passage is quoted here from kind feeling, and friendly
  wishes, towards the worthy person mentioned in it.




Vol. II.--49.


[Illustration: ~Mr. Gliddon’s Cigar Divan.~

KING STREET, COVENT GARDEN.]

Our readers, whom, between ourselves, and without flattery, we take to
be as social a set of persons as can be, people of an impartial
humanity, and able to relish whatever concerneth a common good, whether
a child’s story or a man’s pinch of snuff, (for snuff comes after
knowledge,) doubtless recollect the famous tale of the Barmecide and his
imaginary dinner in the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. We hereby invite
them to an imaginary cigar and cup of coffee with us in a spot scarcely
less oriental--to wit, our friend Gliddon’s Divan in King-street. Not
that our fictitious enjoyment is to serve them instead of the real one.
Quite the contrary; our object being to advance the good of all
parties,--of our readers, inasmuch as they are good fellows in their
snuffs,--of our friend, who can supply them in a manner different from
any body else,--and of ourselves, because the subject is a pleasant
one, and brings us all together agreeably. Those who have the greatest
relish for things real, have also the best taste of them in imagination.
We confess, that for our private eating (for a cigar, with coffee, may
truly be said to be meat and drink to us) we prefer a bower with a
single friend; but for public smoking, that is to say, for smoking with
a greater number of persons, or in a coffee-room, especially now that
the winter is coming on, and people cannot sit in bowers without boots,
commend us to the warmth, and luxury, and conspiracy of comforts, in the
Cigar Divan.

In general, the room is occupied by individuals, or groups of
individuals, sitting apart at their respective little mahogany tables,
and smoking, reading, or talking with one another in a considerate
undertone, in order that nobody may be disturbed. But on the present
occasion we will have the room to ourselves, and talk as we please. In
the East it is common to see dirty streets and poor looking houses, and
on being admitted into the interior of one of them, to find yourself in
a beautiful room, noble with drapery, and splendid with fountains and
gilded trellices. We do not mean to compare King-street with a street in
Bagdad or Constantinople. We have too much respect for that eminent
thoroughfare, clean in general, and classical always; where you cannot
turn, but you meet recollections of the Drydens and Hogarths. The hotel
next door to the Divan is still the same as in Hogarth’s picture of the
Frosty Morning; and looking the other way, you see Dryden coming out of
Rose Alley to spend his evening at the club in Russell-street. But there
is mud and fog enough this weather to render the contrast between any
thoroughfare and a carpeted interior considerable; and making due
allowance for the palace of an effendi and the premises of a tradesman,
a person’s surprise would hardly be greater, certainly his comfort not
so great, in passing from the squalidness of a Turkish street into the
gorgeous but suspicious wealth of the apartment of a pasha, as in
slipping out of the mud, and dirt, and mist, and cold, and shudder, and
blinking misery of an out-of-door November evening in London, into the
oriental and carpeted warmth of Mr. Gliddon’s Divan. It is pleasant to
think, what a number of elegant and cheerful places lurk behind shops,
and in places where nobody would expect them. Mr. Gliddon’s shop is a
very respectable one; but nobody would look for the saloon beyond it;
and it seems in good oriental keeping, and a proper _sesame_, when on
touching a door in the wall, you find yourself in a room like an eastern
tent, the drapery festooned up around you, and views exhibited on all
sides of mosques, and minarets, and palaces rising out of the water.

But here we are inside ourselves. What do you think of it?

_B._ This is a tent indeed, exactly as you have described it. It seems
pitched in the middle of the Ganges or Tigris; for most of the views are
in the midst of water.

_J._ Yes; we might fancy ourselves a party of British merchants, who had
purchased a little island in an Eastern gulf, and built themselves a
tent on it to smoke in. The scenes, though they have a panoramic effect,
are really not panoramic daubs. This noble edifice on the left, touched
in that delicate manner with silver, (or is it rather not gold?) unites
the reality of architecture built by mortal hands, with the fairy lustre
of a palace raised by enchantment. One has a mind to sail to it, and get
an adventure.

_E._ And this on the left. What a fine sombre effect that mountain with
a building on it has in the background;--how dark yet aerial! You would
have a very solemn adventure there,--nothing under a speaking
stone-gentleman, or the loss of your right eye.

_O._ Well, this snug little corner for me, under the bamboos; two
gigantic walking-sticks in leaf! A cup of coffee served by a pretty
Hindoo would do very well here; and there is a temple to be religious
in, when convenient. ’Tis pleasant to have all one’s luxuries together.

_T._ If there is any fault, it is in the scene at the bottom of the
room, which is perhaps too full of scattered objects. But all is
remarkably well done; and as the newspapers have observed, as oriental
as any thing in the paintings of Daniel or Hodges.

_C._ Are you sure we are not all Mussulmen? I begin to think I am a Turk
under the influence of opium, who take my turban for a hat, and fancy
I’m speaking English. We shall have the sultan upon us presently.

_L._ With old Ibrahim to give us the bastinado. I have no fair Persian
at hand to offer him; and, if I had, wouldn’t do it. But here’s ----; he
shall have _him_.

_O._ (_grinding with laughter._) What, in woman’s clothes, to beguile
him, and play the lute?

_L._ No; as a fair dealer; no less a prodigy, especially for a
bookseller. You should save your head every day by a new joke; and we
would have another new Arabian Nights, or the Adventures of Sultan
Mahmoud and the Fair Dealer. You should be Scheherezade turned into a
man. Every morning, the prince’s jester should say to you, “Brother
Scratch-his-head, if you are awake, favour his Majesty with a handsome
come-off.”

_E._ I cannot help thinking we are the Calenders, got into the house
full of ladies; and that we shall have to repent, and rub our faces with
ashes, crying out, “_This_ is the reward of our debauchery: _This_ is
the reward of taking too many cups of coffee: _This_ is the reward of
excessive girl and tobacco.”

_L._ But, alas! in that case we should have the repentance without the
lady, which is unfair. No ladies, I believe, are admitted here, Mr.
Gliddon?

_Mr. G._ No, sir; it has been often observed to me, by way of hint, that
it was a pity ladies were not admitted into English coffee-houses, as
they are on the continent; but this is a smoking as well as a
coffee-room. Ladies do not smoke in England, as they do in the East; and
then, as extremes meet, and the most respectable creatures in the world
render a place, it seems, not respectable, I was to take care how I
risked my character, and made my Divan too comfortable.

_O._ And we call ourselves a gallant nation! We also go to the theatres
to sit and hear ourselves complimented on our liberal treatment of
women, and suffer them all the while to enjoy the standing-room!

_C._ Women are best away, after all. We should be making love, while
they ought to be making the coffee.

_L._ Women and smoking would not do together, unless we smoked perfumes,
and saw their eyes through a cloud of fragrance, like Venus in her
ambrosial mist. This room, I confess, being full of oriental scenes,
reminds one of other things oriental--of love and a lute. I could very
well fancy myself Noureddin, sitting here with my fair Persian, eating
peaches, and sending forth one of the songs of Hafiz over those
listening waters.

_J._ The next time Mr. Gliddon indulges us with a new specimen of his
magnificence, he must give us animate instead of inanimate scenes, and
treat us with a series of subjects out of the Arabian Nights--lovers,
genii, and elegant festivities.

_Mr. G._ Gentlemen, here is a little festivity at hand, not, I hope,
altogether inelegant. Your coffee and cigars are ready.

_C._ Ah, this is the substantial picturesque. I was beginning to long
for something oriental to eat, elegant or not; an East-dumpling for
instance.

_H._ I wonder whether they have any puns in the East.

_J._ To be sure they have. The elegancies of some of their writers
consist of a sort of serious punning, like the conceits of our old
prosers; such as, a man was “deserted for his deserts;” or “graceless,
though full of gracefulness, was his grace, and in great disgrace.”

_C._ But I mean proper puns; puns worthy of a Pundit.

_L._ You have it. It is part of their daily _expunditure_. How can
there be men and not puns?

    To pun is human; to forgive it, fine.

_H._ There’s an instance in Blue Beard; in a pun set to music by Kelly;

    _Fat_ima, _Fat_ima, _See-limbs_ here!

_C._ Good. I think I see Kelly, who used to stick his arms out, as if he
were requesting you to see his limbs; and Mrs. Bland, whom he used to
sing it to--a proper little Fatima. Come; I feel all the beauty of the
room, now that one is “having something.” This is really very Grand,
Signior; though to complete us, I think we ought to have some Sublime
Port.

_Mr. G._ Excuse me: _whining_ is not allowed to a true Mussulman.

_C._ Some snuff, however.

_Mr. G._ The best to be had.

_W._ Take some of mine; I have cropped the flower of the shop.

_J._ You sneeze, C. I thought you too old a snuff-taker for that.

_C._ The air of the water always makes me sneeze. It’s the Persian gulf
here.

_W._ This is a right pinch, friend C. I’ll help you at another, as
you’ve helped me.

_C._ Snuff’s a capital thing. I cannot help thinking there is something
providential in snuff. If you observe, different refreshments come up
among nations at different eras of the world. In the Elizabethan age, it
was beef-steaks. Then tea and coffee came up; and people being irritable
sometimes, perhaps with the new light let in upon them by the growth of
the press, snuff was sent us to “support uneasy thoughts.” During the
Assyrian monarchy, cherry-brandy may have been the thing. I have no
doubt Semiramis took it; unless we suppose it too matronly a drink for
_So-Mere-a-Miss_.

(Here the whole Assyrian monarchy is run down in a series of puns.)

_H._ Gentlemen, we shall make the Tour of Babel before we have done.

_L._ Talking of the refreshments of different ages, it is curious to see
how we identify smoking with the Eastern nations; whereas it is a very
modern thing among them, and was taught them from the west. One wonders
what the Turks and Persians did before they took to smoking; just as the
ladies and gentlemen of these nervous times wonder how their ancestors
existed without tea for breakfast.

_J._ Coffee is a modern thing too in the East, though the usual
accompaniment of their tobacco. “Coffee without Tobacco,” quoth the
Persian, as our friend’s learned placard informs us, “is like meat
without salt.”[479] But coffee is of Eastern growth. It is a species of
jasmin. I remember, in a novel I read once, the heroine was described in
grand terms, as “presiding at the hysonian altar;” that is to say,
making tea. This lady might have asked her lover, whether before his
hysonian recreation, he would not “orientalize in a cup of jessamine.”

_W._ I met with a little story in a book yesterday, which I must tell
you, not because it is quite new or very applicable, but because it is
Eastern, and made me laugh. I don’t know whether it is in the
jest-books; but I never saw it before. A fellow was going home through
one of the streets of Bagdad with a forbidden bottle of wine under his
cloak, when the cadi stopped him. “What have you got there, fellow?” The
fellow, who had contrived to plant himself against a wall, said,
“Nothing, sir.” “Put out your hand, sir.” The right hand was put out;
there was nothing in it. “Your left, sir.” The left was put out, equally
innocent. “You see, sir,” said the fellow, “I have nothing.” “Come away
from the wall,” said the cadi. “No, sir,” returned he, “_it will
break_.”

_H._ Good. That is really dramatic. It reminds me that I must be off to
the play.

_J._ And I.

_C._ And I.

_O._ And I. We’ll make a party of it, and finish our evening worthily
with Shakspeare; one of the greatest of men, and most good-natured of
punsters.

_L._ By the by, Mr. Gliddon, your room is not so large as in the
lithographic print they have made of it; but it is more Eastern and
picturesque.

_W._ We’ll have a more faithful print to accompany this conversation,
for I am resolved to be treacherous for this night only, and publish it.
It is not a proper specimen of what my friends _could_ say; but it is
not unlike something of what they do; and sociality, on all sides, will
make the best of it.

  ☞

  [479] A quotation from a prospectus published by Mr. Gliddon. As this
  prospectus is written in the “style social,” and contains some
  particulars of his establishment, which our article has not noticed,
  we lay a few passages from it before our readers:--

  “The recreation of smoking, which was introduced into this country in
  an age of great men, by one of the greatest and most accomplished men
  of that or any other age, was for a long time considered an elegance,
  and a mark of good-breeding. Its very success gradually got it an ill
  name by rendering it too common and popular; and something became
  necessary to give it a new turn in its favour,--to alter the
  association of ideas connected with it, and awaken its natural friends
  to a due sense of its merits. Two circumstances combined to effect
  this desirable change. One was the discovery of a new mode of smoking
  by means of rolling up the fragrant leaf itself, and making it perform
  the office of its own pipe; the other was the long military experience
  in our late wars, which have rendered us so renowned; and which, by
  throwing the most gallant of our gentry upon the hasty and humble
  recreations eagerly snatched at by all campaigners, opened their eyes
  to the difference between real and imaginary good-breeding, and made
  them see that what comforted the heart of man under such grave
  circumstances, must have qualities in it that deserved to be rescued
  from an ill name. Thus arose the cigar, and with it a reputation that
  has been continually increasing. There is no rank in society into
  which it has not made its way, not excepting the very highest. If
  James the First, an uncouth prince, unworthy of his clever, though
  mistaken race, and who hated the gallant introducer of tobacco, did
  not think it beneath his princely indignation to write in abuse of it,
  George the Fourth, who has unquestionably a better taste for some of
  the best things in the world, has not thought it beneath his princely
  refinement to give the cigar his countenance.

  “The art of smoking is a contemplative art; and being naturally allied
  to other arts meditative, hath an attachment to a book and a
  newspaper. Books and newspapers are accordingly found at the Cigar
  Divan; the latter consisting of the principal daily papers, and the
  former of a PROFUSE COLLECTION OF THE MOST ENTERTAINING PERIODICALS.
  The situation of the house is unexceptionable, being _at an equal
  distance from the city and the west end, and in the immediate
  neighbourhood of the great theatres_. Writers of the most opposite
  parties have conspired to speak in the highest terms of the
  establishment, on their own personal knowledge; and should any
  authority be wanting to induce a reader of this paper to taste all the
  piquant advantages of fragrance, and fine drinks, and warmth, and
  quiet, and literature, which they have done the proprietor the honour
  to expatiate on, he may find it, if a man of wit and the town, in the
  person of Fielding; if a philosopher, in that of Hobbes; if a divine,
  in that of Aldrich; and if a soldier, seaman, patriot, statesman, or
  cavalier, in the all-accomplished person of sir Walter Raleigh.”--See
  also an article in the New Monthly Magazine, for January, 1826.

       *       *       *       *       *


LAURENCE-KIRK SNUFF-BOXES.

James Sandy, the inventor of these pocket-utensils, lived a few years
ago at Alyth, a town on the river Isla, in Perthshire, North Britain.
The genius and eccentricity of character which distinguished him have
been rarely surpassed. Deprived at an early age of the use of his legs,
he contrived, by dint of ingenuity, not only to pass his time agreeably,
but to render himself an useful member of society.

Sandy soon displayed a taste for mechanical pursuits; and contrived, as
a workshop for his operations, a sort of circular bed, the sides of
which being raised about eighteen inches above the clothes, were
employed as a platform for turning-lathes, table-vices, and cases for
tools of all kinds. His talent for practical mechanics was universal. He
was skilled in all sorts of turning, and constructed several very
curious lathes, as well as clocks and musical instruments of every
description, which were no less admired for the sweetness of their tone
than the elegance of their workmanship. He excelled, too, in the
construction of optical instruments, and made some reflecting
telescopes, the specula of which were not inferior to those finished by
the most eminent London artists. He likewise suggested some important
improvements in the machinery for spinning flax; and, as before stated,
he was the first who made the wooden-jointed snuff-boxes, generally
called Laurence-Kirk boxes, some of which, fabricated by this
self-taught artist, were purchased and sent as presents to the royal
family.

To his other endowments he added an accurate knowledge of drawing and
engraving, and in both these arts produced specimens of great merit.

For upwards of fifty years Sandy quitted his bed only three times, and
on these occasions his house was either inundated with water, or
threatened with danger from fire. His unbounded curiosity prompted him
to hatch different kinds of birds’ eggs by the natural warmth of his
body, and he reared his various broods with all the tenderness of a
parent. On visiting him it was no unusual thing to see singing birds of
different species, to which he may be said to have given birth, perched
on his head, and warbling the artificial notes he had taught them.

Naturally possessed of a good constitution, and an active, cheerful turn
of mind, his house was the general coffee-room of the village, where the
affairs of church and state were freely discussed. In consequence of
long confinement his countenance had rather a sickly cast, but it was
remarkably expressive, particularly when he was surrounded by his
country friends. This singular man had acquired by his ingenuity and
industry an honourable independence, and died possessed of considerable
property. About three weeks before his death he married.

       *       *       *       *       *


INN-YARDS.

_For the Table Book._

It was a November morning--sullen and lowering. A dense fog left the
houses but half distinguishable on either side the way, as I passed
through Holborn to the Saracen’s Head, Snow-hill, where I had taken my
place the preceding evening in the ---- coach, in order to pay a
long-promised visit to my friend and schoolfellow T----. My feelings
were any thing but enviable. They were in a state of _seasonable_ and
almost intolerable irritation, resulting from all successive evils of a
shivering and early resignation of enveloping bed-clothes, a hurried
dressing, (productive of an utter failure in the arrangement of the bow
of my neckcloth,) a trembling hand that caused a gash in my chin with a
blunt razor, (all my others had been officiously packed up by Mrs.
Sally,) a breakfast swallowed standing, (which I abominate, as it
_stands_ to reason it must be unwholesome,) tea that seemed “as if it
never would grow _cool_,” though poured out in the saucer, and sundry
admonitory twitchings of the bit of court-plaster on my sliced chin,
threatening the total discomfiture of my habilimentary economy. All
these things tended but little towards rendering my frame of mind
peculiarly equable, while hurrying forward towards the point of
destination, gulping down fresh (no not _fresh_) mouthfuls of the thick
yellow atmosphere, at each extorted exclamation of disgust and
impatience.

At last I arrived in the inn-yard, fully prepared for an expected look
of surprise, and accompanying exclamation of--“The ---- coach, sir! why,
Lord bless you, sir, it’s off long ago; it leaves here at seven
precisely, and it’s now nearly half past.” Conceive then what was my
agreeable astonishment when I learned that the real time was only half
past six! I found that, owing to my anxious fears lest I should be too
late, I had neglected to perceive that my watch had gained half an hour
in the course of the night; and the shame I now felt at having thus
suffered my irritability to get the better of me, led me to reflect upon
the patient gentleness of the mild and amiable Fanny, (my friend’s
wife,) who is indeed a perfect specimen of a delightful woman. In her
are joined those two qualities so rarely united (yet, which, when they
are so, form a gem)--a truly feminine and gentle heart, and a strong and
well-informed mind. It is truly delightful to see her blend the domestic
duties of a housewife, (the fulfilment of which is ever graceful in a
female,) and the affectionate attentions of a mother and wife, with
literary information and attainments.

I was called off from this pleasing subject of reflection by a view of
the scene before me. The coach, a handsome, well-built vehicle, stood on
one side of the yard in all the brilliancy of a highly-varnished claret
ground, and burnishe       The four beautiful, spirited animals
belonging to it, with their glossy bright skins covered with cloths till
the moment of “putting to,” were then led forth by a fellow in corduroy
breeches, laying in massive rolls on his large muscular limbs, and
terminating in a pair of dull and never-shining top-boots--a waistcoat
which had been of red plush, spotted with black; but the glories of its
gules and sable were well nigh effaced by the long line of successive
cross-quarterings of grease and mud--a face hard and liny, that looked
impenetrable, and certainly conveyed no idea to my mind of a “Robin
Ostler,” who “never joy’d since the price of oats rose,” much less could
it have ever been “the death of him.” He came forward with that
slouching gait and hoarse rasping voice, so well personified by the
admirable and all-observing Matthews.

Then the coachman appeared--well buttoned up to the throat in an
enormous box-coat of a whitish drab colour, fastened with immense
mother-o’-pearl buttons--a yellow silk handkerchief round his neck,
reaching just under the nether lip, and covering the tips of his ears--a
hat with brims, like the walls of Babylon--and an air of affected
_nonchalance_, which tells you, that you are expected to look upon him
in a very different light from the attentive “coachee” of some few years
back. He is now a complete fine gentleman; for as the gentleman affects
the coachman, why should not the coachman affect the gentleman? They are
now not to be known apart.

The “luggage” is then brought forth and “loaded”--and all the passengers
installed in their different places. The last directions are given.
“More last words,” and a paper of biscuits is handed in at the
coach-window to the little boy who is going to ----, under the special
care of the coachman, and, as his mamma delightedly observes, is already
become a favourite with the “kind-looking lady” opposite to him. The
small parcel “to be left at Mr. K----’s at the small white cottage” is
snugly slipt into the coach-pocket--and the final “all right” is given
from the impatient passengers “behind.” How different is the quiet and
orderly manner in which a vehicle is thus despatched to go hundreds of
miles, from the dire bustle and utter “confusion of tongues” attendant
upon the departure of a French diligence.----

Imagine a spacious yard, paved with stones shaped like enormous “sugared
almonds,” jutting out in all directions to the utter annoyance of the
_five_ poor animals, or rather skeletons, in rope harness, which are
about to be yoked to an uncouth machine, looking the complete antipodes
of rapidity of motion--of a colour perfectly indescribable, but
something approaching to a dingy red, intermixed with a rusty, dusty
black--straw peeping out in every direction; whether from roof, or
sides, or entangled among the broken, rickety steps, which project in
awful forewarning of grazed shins and sprained ancles. The _Conducteur_
in his dark blue jacket turned up with scarlet--leather breeches shining
with the perpetual friction of the saddle--boots, like brewing vats--a
hat, very nearly a “perfect cone,” with a rim, set in the middle of a
regular copse-wood of coal black hair, surmounting a face whose dark
complexion, fiercely sparkling eyes, and stiff mustachios, help to give
force to the excessive tension of muscle in his countenance, which is
actually convulsed with ire, as he sends forth volleys of _sacrés_ and
_morbleus_ at the _maudit entêté_ on the roof, who persists in loading
the different articles in exact opposition to all the passionate
remonstrances and directions of poor _Monsieur le Conducteur_. _Femmes
de chambres_ shrieking at the very top of their voices--“_Garçons_ of
fifty” equally vociferous in bawling “_On vient! on vient!_” though no
one calls--_Commissionaires_ insisting upon the necessity of passports
to incredulous Englishmen, with an incessant “_Mais que diable donc,
Monsieur!_”--Hordes of beggars shouting forth their humble petitions of
“_Pour l’amour du bon Dieu un petit liard, Monsieur._” “_Ah! Seigneur,
qu’est-ce que j’ai fait de mes clefs!_” screams the landlady. “_Sacré
nom de tonnerre! tais-toi, donc_,” growls the landlord, in a voice like
the thunder he invokes.

At last the ponderous vehicle is set in motion amid the deafening
clamour of the surrounding group, and the hideous, unrelentingly,
eternal cracking of the _Conducteur’s_ detested _fouet_!

  M. H.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


THE TURNPIKE MAN.

    “Good and bad of all sorts.”

As the “Commissioners” rely on the _trust_ reposed in the “Pikeman,” I
imagine him to be worthy of being shown in the most favourable colours.
Like a good sexton, he must attend to his toll--like a salesman, know
his head of cattle--like a lottery prize-seeker, be acquainted with his
number--like Fielding’s Minos, in his “Journey from this world to the
next,” shut his gate against those who are brought up improperly to the
bar. A modern Gilpin should scarcely risk a ride unwittingly through his
demesne.

In the “dead waste and middle of the night,” when sleep steals over him
wearily, how many calls of the coachman, the chaise driver, the stanhope
gentleman, the important bagman, and the drover, is he obliged to obey!
The imperative “Pike!”--“Gate!”--“Hallo!”--are like so many _knells_
rung in his ear. The clock is a friend to most men in the various
occupations of life; the shadow on the grass warns the shepherd and hind
to retire to rest; the dial gives the gardener leave to quit his
vegetable and floral world in safety till the succeeding morning; but
the pikeman finds no solace in the instructive progress of his
Dutch-clock, or in the more highly favoured one with a window before its
pulselike-pendulum, (as the person with a window in his breast,) or in
the weather betokening “man and woman,” who, like an unhappy couple,
never go out together.

Who that has looked upon the pikeman’s contracted span--his little
white-painted hut, like a showman’s figured canvass--but shrewdly
guesses that the best portions of his sunside of comforts are on the
outside? What a Jack in the Box![480] He seems in his room like a
singing-bird in a cage. His cat and dog are his companions, save when
the newsman, postman, or any man, in short, arrives. Munden’s “Crack” is
not to be seen at every turnpike gate. A magpie, or blackbird, often
hangs and whistles, like himself, in stationary captivity. Yet he is a
man of some information. The waggoner, the duellist, the huckster, and
the Gretna folks, in pursuit of romantic happiness, sometimes make him
useful. The horse patrol consults him in the way of business; few fights
occur without his knowledge; and even the political express gives him
broad hints as to the secret operations of his majesty’s ministers. He
is completely _au fait_ in all common concerns in his vicinity--a local
“finger-post.”

Occasionally, I have seen a chubfaced, curly-headed child playing near
his “box” on the roadside, like idleness in ease, with rushes and flags
round its brow, enjoying the luxuries of fancied greatness, and
twisting leaves and weeds together--emblems of our varied and united
virtues. And I have beheld a pikeman’s housewife (if her dwelling may be
called a house) busily employed within her narrow sphere to “keep things
straight,” and “make both ends meet,” with an understanding, that “all’s
well that ends well.”[481] And I have observed her lovely child,
kneeling before its mother on a stool, with its palms pressed together,
in the grateful attitude of an acknowledged beneficent Providence.

_I_ once _knew_ an upright and a civil pikeman. He had seen better
days.--One of the beauties of education is, that it distinguishes a man,
however he is placed.--He was planed down, as a carpenter might say,
from the knots of pride, to smooth humanity. To use a beautiful, though
much quoted, apostrophe by Avon’s bard, “I shall not look upon his like
again!” All good characters give useful example:--they teach as they
live, and win inferiors in virtue by the brightness and placidity of
their decline and fall.

There is a difference between a Tyburn-gate official, and a promiscuous
sojourner, who guards the pass of a new, lone road, through which
scarcely a roadster trots. The cockney keeper of cockney riders, is
rarely without “short cut” and the “ready” in word and deed. In his
short-pocketed white apron he stands defiance, and seems to say, “Who
cares?” His knowing wink to the elastic arm of the coachee, which
indicates the “all right!” has much meaning in it. His twirl of the
sixpence on his thumb nail, and rattle of “coppers” for “small change,”
prove his knowledge of exchange and the world.

The pikeman out of town is allowed a scrap of garden-ground, which he
sedulously cultivates. In town, he has not the liberty of a back
door--to be acquainted with his boundaries, you need only look at the
“Farthing pie gate” for an example. He may be sometimes seen in a chair,
in front of his domicile, making remarks on “men and manners.” His name
hangs on a thread over his door: if he is an honest man, equestrians
will appreciate his merits, and do well if they imitate his philosophy.

  J. R. P.

  [480] The original “Jack in the Box,” with the nutmeg-grater at the
  bottom, has disappeared with its contemporary, the “Horn Alphabet,” to
  the no small loss of all good young people.

  [481]

    Contented in my little house,
      On every call I wait
    To take the toll: to ope and shut
      The five-barr’d turnpike gate.

  RUSTIC FRIEND.


[Illustration: ~Robert North, Esq. of Scarborough.~]

This portrait, copied from a picture at Scarborough by Mr. Baynes, jun.
and not before engraven, is of a very worthy person, whose
eccentricities in well doing rendered him in some degree remarkable. Mr.
Robert North, whom it represents, was born at that place, of which his
father was vicar, on the second of November, 1702. His education was
liberal. After completing his studies at one of the universities he
visited the continent, and was distinguished for refinement of manners
and exemplary benevolence and piety. In the latter part of his life he
sought retirement, and seldom went abroad except to the church, which he
regularly attended on every occasion when service was performed. He
generally appeared absorbed in meditation, and was accustomed to make
ejaculatory prayers, or fervent aspirations, as he walked. Once in every
year he had a sort of gala-day for the entertainment of his female
friends, whom he charmed by his polite attention and pleasing
conversation. With the next morning he resumed his usual seclusion for
the ensuing twelvemonth. He lived many years in full expectation of the
commencement of the millennium.

But that which has given celebrity to the name of the late “Robert
North, Esq.” at Scarborough is the founding, in the year 1728, of a very
useful institution, called “The Amicable Society,” for clothing and
educating the children of the poor; which under the government of a
president, four trustees, and four wardens, annually elected, with a
fund for its support, arising from the weekly subscriptions of the
members, collections made in the church, and other voluntary donations,
continues to flourish. The number of children thus clothed and educated,
now in the school, is sixty, and the number of members two hundred and
sixty-five.

This institution has preserved many children from the contagion of evil
example, and enabled them to follow useful occupations in life with
credit and advantage. Several, who, by their early education at this
seminary, attained a competent knowledge of navigation, became mates and
commanders of vessels, and eventually benefactors and patrons of the
institution.

The exact day of Mr. North’s death does not appear; but his interment is
dated in the parish-register of Scarborough, 14th October, 1760.

Mr. North, by a singular codicil to his will, gives one pair of his
silver candlesticks to the celebrated Dr. Young, author of the poem on
the Last Day, &c.; and the other pair to the Rev. James Hervey, author
of the Meditations among the Tombs, &c. “I call these,” he says, “in
some measure legacies to the public, having given them to persons so
well able to employ them for the benefit of mankind.”

The other legacies by this codicil are usually in themselves remarkable,
and all the bequests are accompanied by remarks, which denote the
peculiar character of the donor’s disposition: for example--“To the lady
Lowther, of Swillington, _a curious basket made of beads, the product of
the virgin amusements of my grandmother_--and her two sisters--it
seeming highly proper to present a thing, which has gained the applause
of most people, to a person who I hope has gained the applause of all.
To Mrs. Philadelphia Boycott, my Kerry seal set in gold, with _Mr.
Addison’s head_ engraven on it--which will be very fitly deposited in
the hands of a lady, whose letters are much celebrated for their wit
and humour. In pursuance of an old promise, to Mrs. Barbara Tatton _a
picture in needlework_, which was likewise _made at the leisure hours of
my aforesaid grandmother and her sisters_, and which I _suppose_ to have
been designed for king Charles II.--the subject of which may perhaps
sometimes engage her to reflect on this great truth, that the finest
wit, if it deviate from the paths of virtue, is but a more elegant sort
of folly. To Mrs. Christiana Hargrave, _spinster_, my silver coffee-pot,
silver tea-pot, the silver stands for them, and my silver tea-canisters,
milk-pot, and tea-spoons--being all of them baubles of some dignity and
importance, even to women of sense, when in complaisance to the customs
of an inconsiderate age they condescend to trifle. To the Rev. Thomas
Adam,[482] rector of Wintringham in Lincolnshire, my mahogany bureau and
bookcase--which may serve as a cabinet in which to reposit his
manuscripts, till he may think it proper to make a cabinet of the world.
In pursuance of an old promise to Mrs. Susannah Adam, his wife, my gold
snuff-box--but if the contents of it prejudice her constitution, I hope
she will upon this occasion follow the example of many fine ladies, who
have many fine things which they never use. My silver cup and best
silver tankard to Barnabas Legard, of Brompton, county of York, Esq., a
person qualified by experience to teach our fine gentlemen a truth,
which perhaps many of them will be surprised to hear--that temperance is
the most delicious and refined luxury. To ensign William Massey, (my
godson,) son of the late Capt. John Massey, of Hull, my sword; and hope
he will, if ever occasion require it, convince a rash world that he has
learned to obey his God as well as his general, and that he entertains
too true a sense of honour ever to admit any thing into the character of
a good soldier, which is inconsistent with the duty of a good
Christian.[483] I give the sum of forty pounds, to be paid into the
king’s exchequer.--I give thirty pounds to be added to the common stock
of our East India company--which two last legacies I leave, as the best
method I know, though not an exact one, of making restitution for the
injustice I may have done, in buying (inadvertently) any uncustomed
goods; and which I hope will be accepted by the great Judge of all men,
in case I do not meet with a better before I die.--I give the sum of one
hundred pounds to the person who shall within four years after my
decease _make_ and publish the _best tragedy_, entitled _Virtue
Triumphant_--wherein among such others, as the poet shall think proper
to introduce, shall be drawn the character of a virtuous man unconquered
by misfortunes, &c. I give the sum of one hundred pounds to the person
who shall, within four years after my decease, _make_ and publish the
_best comedy_; wherein--among such others as the poet shall think proper
to introduce--shall be drawn the four following characters, viz. of a
fine gentleman, a fine lady, a beau, and a coquet; the two first to be
drawn with a thorough taste for religion and virtue, accompanied with
fine sense and humour, and to be crowned with success; the two last with
the fopperies and follies common to persons of these denominations, and
to be made objects of contempt and ridicule,” &c.[484]


MR. NORTH’S PRIZES FOR THE POETS.

Nothing further appears to be known respecting Mr. North, except that,
through the “Gentleman’s Magazine” for July, 1734, he proposed, and was
the anonymous donor of fifty pounds, “as a prize for the poets,” to
encourage them “to _make_ the best poem, Latin or English, on Life,
Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell, viz. all the said subjects jointly,
and not any single one independent of the rest:” and, that the poets
might not be discouraged “upon suspicion of _incapacity_ in their
judges,” he entirely resigned the decision of the best poem to
“universal suffrage” and election by “vote;” or, as he is pleased to
call it, in the Magazine for August, “the public vote of kingdoms.” He
presumes that this scheme “will probably be most agreeable to _the
poets_ themselves, because they will be tried by such a number as is not
capable of being bribed, and because this method of determination will,
as he conceives, tend most to the honour of that poet who shall
succeed.” In October he prescribes that the voters shall sign a
declaration, disclaiming undue influence; and he suggests, that if the
majority of candidates prefer a determinate number of judges to the
public at large, he will accord to that arrangement, provided they
express their desires with their poems. Accordingly, the Gentleman’s
Magazine of May, 1735, “informs the candidates, that as the majority of
them are for a decision by a _select_ number of judges, the donor is
desirous that Mr. _Urban_ should apply to _three_ particular gentlemen
of unexceptionable merit, to undertake this office;” and it is
announced, that the poems will be published in “an entire _Magazine
Extraordinary_,” to render which “acceptable, to those who have no great
taste for poetry,” there will be added “something of general use.” In
the following July the poems appeared in the promised “Gentleman’s
_Magazine Extraordinary_, printed by E. Cave, at St. John’s Gate, for
the _benefit of the poets_;” whereto was added, as of “general use,”
agreeably to the above promise, and for those “who have no great taste
in poetry,” the Debates in the first session of parliament for 1735.

What gratification Mr. North derived from his encouragement of “the
poets,” is to be inferred from this--that, in the supplement to the
Gentleman’s Magazine of the same year, 1735, he announced, that other
prizes thereafter mentioned would be given to persons who should “_make_
and send” to Mr. Urban, before the 11th of June, 1736, the four best
poems, entitled “The Christian Hero”--viz.

  “1. To the person who shall make the best will be given a gold medal,
  (intrinsic value about ten pounds,) which shall have the head of the
  right hon. the lady Elizabeth Hastings on one side, and that of James
  Oglethorpe, Esq. on the other, with this motto--‘England may
  challenge the world, 1736.’

  “2. To the author of the second, a complete set of Archbishop
  Tillotson’s Sermons.

  “3. To the author of the third, a complete set of Archbishop Sharpe’s
  Sermons. And,

  “4. To the author of the fourth, a set of Cooke’s Sermons.”

In the Magazine of February, 1736, Mr. North begs pardon of the lady
Elizabeth Hastings, (a female of distinguished piety,) for the
uneasiness he had occasioned her by proposing to engrave her portrait on
his prize medal: being, “however, desirous that _the poets_ should
exercise their pens,” he proposes to substitute the head of archbishop
Tillotson, and “hopes that Mr. Oglethorpe will be prevailed upon to
consent that the medal shall bear his effigies.” Several of the poems
_made_ by “the poets” for this second prize appear in the Magazine of
the same year, to which readers, desirous of perusing the effusions
elicited by Mr. North’s liberality, are referred.

       *       *       *       *       *

The “James Oglethorpe, Esq.” whose head Mr. North coveted for his prize
medal, was the late general Oglethorpe, who died in 1785, at the
advanced age of ninety-seven, the oldest general in the service. Besides
his military employments, first as secretary and aide-de-camp to prince
Eugene, and afterwards in America, and at home during the rebellion in
1745, he was distinguished as a useful member of the House of Commons,
by proposing several regulations for the benefit of trade and the reform
of prisons. In 1732 he settled the colony of Georgia, and erected the
town of Savannah, and arrived in England in June, 1734, with several
Indian chiefs. This gentleman’s public services at that time, and his
eminent philanthropy, were inducements to Mr. North to do him honour.
The following is an interesting account of the presentation of the
Indians at court.

On the 1st of August, 1734, Tomo Chachi, the king, Senauki his wife,
with Tooanakowki, their son, Hillispilli, the war captain, and the other
Cherokee Indians, brought over by Mr. Oglethorpe from Georgia, were
introduced to his majesty at Kensington, who received them seated on his
throne; when Tomo Chachi, micho, or king, made the following speech, at
the same time presenting several eagles’ feathers, trophies of their
country.

“This day I see the majesty of your face, the greatness of your house,
and the number of your people. I am come for the good of the whole
nation, called the Creeks, to renew the peace which was long ago had
with the English. I am come over in my old days, though I cannot live to
see any advantage to myself; I am come for the good of the children of
all the nations of the Upper and of the Lower Creeks, that they may be
instructed in the knowledge of the English.

“These are the feathers of the eagle, which is the swiftest of birds,
and who flieth all round our nations. These feathers are a sign of peace
in our land, and have been carried from town to town there; and we have
brought them over to leave with you, O great king, as a sign of
everlasting peace.

“O great king, whatsoever words you shall say unto me, I will tell them
faithfully to all the kings of the Creek nations.”

To which his majesty graciously answered,

“I am glad of this opportunity of assuring you of my regard for the
people from whom you come, and am extremely well pleased with the
assurances you have brought me from them, and accept very gratefully
this present, as an indication of their good disposition to me and my
people. I shall always be ready to cultivate a good correspondence
between them and my own subjects, and shall be glad of any occasion to
show you a mark of my particular friendship and esteem.”

Tomo Chachi afterwards made the following speech to the queen.

“I am glad to see this day, and to have the opportunity of seeing, the
mother of this great people.

“As our people are joined with your majesty’s, we do humbly hope to find
you the common mother and protectress of us and all our children.”

Her majesty returned a suitably gracious answer.

The war captain, and other attendants of Tomo Chachi, were very
importunate to appear at court in the costume of their own country,
merely a covering round the waist, the rest of the body being naked, but
were dissuaded from it by Mr. Oglethorpe. But their faces were variously
painted after their country manner, some half black, others triangular,
and others with bearded arrows instead of whiskers, Tomo Chachi, and
Senauki, his wife, were dressed in scarlet, trimmed with gold.

On the 17th of the same month Tomo Chachi, and the rest of the Indians,
dined with the lady Dutry at Putney; and then waited on the archbishop
of Canterbury, (Potter,) who received them with the utmost kindness and
tenderness, and expressed his fatherly concern for their ignorance with
respect to Christianity, and his strong desire for their instruction.
His grace, though very weak, would not sit down, the micho therefore
omitted speaking to him what he intended, and only desired his blessing;
adding, that what he had further to say he would speak to Dr. Lynch, his
grace’s son-in-law, and then withdrew. He was afterwards entertained at
a noble collation, and had a conference with Dr. Lynch, expressing his
joy, as believing some good persons would be sent amongst them to
instruct their youth.

On the 30th of October the Indian king, queen, prince, &c. set out from
the Georgia office, in the king’s coaches, for Gravesend, to embark on
their return home. During their stay in England, which had been about
four months, his majesty allowed them 20_l._ a week for their
subsistence. Whatever was curious and worthy observation in and about
London and Westminster had been carefully shown them; and nothing had
been wanting to contribute to their diversion and amusement, and to give
them a just idea of English politeness and respect. In return, they
expressed themselves heartily attached to the British nation. They had
about the value of 400_l._ in presents. Prince William presented the
young micho, John Towanohowi, with a gold watch, with an admonition to
call upon Jesus Christ every morning when he looked on it, which he
promised. They appeared particularly delighted with seeing his highness
perform his exercise of riding the managed horse, the Horse Guards pass
in review, and the agreeable appearance of the barges, &c. on the Thames
on lord mayor’s day. In the same ship embarked several relations of the
English settled in Georgia, with sir Francis Bathurst, his son, three
daughters, and servants; together with fifty-six Saltzburghers, newly
arrived from Rotterdam. These people had been at the German church in
Trinity-lane, where 47_l._ was collected for them.[485]

  [482] The Whole Works of the Rev. Thomas Adam have been lately first
  collected in three vols. by the Rev. W. Smith.

  [483] A brave man thinks no one his superior who does him an injury,
  for he has it then in his power to make himself superior to the other
  by forgiving it.

  _Testator_.


  [484] Besides these bequests, Mr. North desired that two
  manuscript-books, consisting of miscellaneous pieces, and particularly
  a discourse, the first and last parts whereof were composed with a
  view of their being preached instead of a sermon at his funeral,
  should be printed in one volume after his decease, at an expense of
  one hundred pounds, and directed the profits of the books sold to be
  expended in causing an impression to be made of four sermons by
  archbishop Sharp and bishop Beveridge, containing a description of the
  Joys of Heaven and the Torments of the Damned; together with some
  directions how men may obtain the one, and escape the other; the said
  four sermons to be printed on good paper, and in a fair character,
  bound or stitched in strong covers, and given _gratis_ among soldiers,
  sailors, poor persons, and common labourers. He further gave to the
  archbishop of York two hundred pounds, in trust, to be applied towards
  the building or other uses and services of another church, or a chapel
  of ease in Scarborough aforesaid, provided any such church or chapel
  should be erected within ten years after his decease. He also gave
  fifty pounds to the Society for promoting Christian Knowledge; and
  fifty pounds to the Society for propagating the Gospel in foreign
  parts. “I desire the lord archbishop of York (Hutton) will do me the
  honour to accept the picture of Pope Gregory I., which has been
  commended, and was a legacy to me from the painter, Mr. John
  Settrington. I desire the lord bishop of Carlisle (Osbaldeston) will
  do me the honour to accept my own picture, drawn by the same hand.”

  These particulars, and those preceding, are contained in “A
  Biographical Sketch” of Mr. North, printed at Scarborough by and for
  John Cole, 1823. 8vo. pp. 16.

  [485] Gentleman’s Magazine, 1734.

       *       *       *       *       *


MENDIP MINES.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--The very great entertainment I have derived from your _Every-Day
Book_ induces me to contribute to your present publication, if you
consider the accompanying copy from an old record merits a place in the
_Table Book_. It formed part of a brief held by counsel in a cause,
“Hembury and Day,” tried at Taunton assizes in 1820. On referring to the
papers I find that the present Mr. justice Gaselee was the counsel
employed. Some of these old Mendip laws are recognised in “Collinson’s
History of Somersetshire.”

  I am,

  Your very obedient servant,

  JOHN PINCHARD.

  _Taunton, August 24, 1827._


LAWS AND ORDERS OF THE MENDIP MINERS.

Be it known that this is a true Copy of the Enrollment in the King’s
Exchequer in the time of King Edward the Fourth, of a dispute that was
in the County of Somerset, Between the Lord Bonfield and the tenants of
Chewton and the prior of Green Oare; the said prior complaining unto the
King of great injuries and wrongs that he had upon Mendip, being the
King’s Forrest. The said King Edward, commanded the lord Chock the lord
Chief Justice of England to go down into the County of Somerset, to
Mendipp, and sit in concord and Peace in the said County concerning
Mendipp upon pain of high displeasure. The said Lord Chock sate upon
Mendipp on a place of my Lord’s of Bath, called the Forge, Whereas he
commanded all the Commoners to appear, and especially the four Lords
Royal of Mendipp (that is to say) the Bishop of Bath, my Lord of
Glaston, my Lord of Bonfield, the Lord of Chewton, and my Lord of
Richmond, with all the appearance to the Number of ten Thousand people.
A Proclamation was made to enquire of all the company how they would be
ordered. Then they with one consent made answer, That they would be
Ordered and tryed by the four Lords of the Royalties. And then the four
Lords Royal were agreed, that the Commoners of Mendipp should hem out
their outlets as much the Summer as they be able to Winter, without
hounding or pounding upon whose ground soever they went to take their
course and recourse, to which the four Lords Royal did put their Seals,
and were also agreed that whosoever should break the said Bonds should
forfeit to the King 1000 Marks, and all the Commoners their Bodies and
goods to be at the King’s pleasure or command that doeth either hound or
pound.------

  THE OLD ANCIENT OCCUPATION OF MINERS UPON MENDIPP, _being the King’s
  Forrest within the County of Somerset one of the four Staples of
  England which have been Exercised, used and continued through the said
  Forrest of Mendipp from the time whereof no Man living hath no memory;
  as hereafter doth particularly ensue the Order_;

FIRST. That, if any man whatsoever he be that doeth intend to venture
his Life to be a Workman in the said Occupation, he must first of all
crave licence of the Lords of the Soyle where he doth purpose to work,
and in his absence of his said Officers, as the lead-reave or Bailiff,
and the lord, neither his Bailiffs can deny him.

2D ITEM. That, after the first Licence had, the Workman shall never need
to ask leave again, but to be at his free will to pitch within the
Forrest, and to break the ground where and in what place it shall please
him, to his behalf and profit, using himself justly and truly.

3D ITEM. If any doth begin to pitch or groof he shall heave his hacks
through two ways after the Rate.--Note, that he that throw the hack must
stand to the Girdle or Waste in the same Groof, and then no Man shall or
may work within his hack’s throwe: provided always, that no man shall or
can keep but his wet, and dry Groof, and his Mark--

4TH ITEM. That, when a Workman have landed his Oare, he may carry the
same, to cleansing or blowing, to what Minery it shall please him, for
the speedy making out of the same, so that he doth truly pay the lord of
the Soyle, where it was landed, his due, which is the Tenth part
thereof--

5TH ITEM. That if any Lord or Officer hath once given licence to any Man
to build, or set up an hearth, or Washing-house, to wash, cleanse or
blow the Oare, He that once hath leave shall keep it for ever, or give
it to whom he will, so that he doth justly pay his Lot-lead, which is
the Tenth pound which shall be blown at the Hearth or hearths, and also
that he doth keep it Tenantable, as the Custom doth require--

6TH ITEM. That, if any of that Occupation doth pick or steal any lead or
Oare to the value of _thirteen-pence halfpenny_[486] the lord or his
Officer may Arrest all his Lead-works, house and hearth, with all his
Groofs and Works, and keep them as safely for his own Use; and shall
take the person that hath so offended, and bring him where his house is,
or his work, and all his Tools or Instruments which to the Occupation
belongs, as he useth, and put him into the said house, and set Fire on
all together about him, and banish him from that Occupation before the
Miners for ever--

7TH ITEM. That, if ever that person do pick or Steal there any more, he
shall be tryed by the Common Law, for this Custom and Law hath noe more
to do with him--

8TH ITEM. That every Lord of Soyle or Soyles ought to keep two Mynedrie
Courts by the year, and to swear twelve Men or more of the same
occupation, for the orders of all Misdemeanours and wrongs touching the
Mynedries.

9TH ITEM. The Lord, or Lords, may make three manner of Arrests, (that is
to say) ye first is for strife between man and man, for their workes
under the Earth, &c.; the second is for his own duty, for Lead or Oare,
wheresoever he find it within the said Forrest; the third is upon
felon’s goods of the same occupation, wheresoever he find it within the
same Hill, &c.--

10TH ITEM. That, if any Man, by means of Misfortune take his Death, as
by falling of the Earth upon him, by drawing or Stifling, or otherwise,
as in time past many have been, the Workmen of the same Occupation are
bound to fetch him out of the Earth, and to bring him to Christian
burial, at their own Costs and Charges, although he be Forty Fathoms
under the Earth, as heretofore hath been done; and the Coroner, or any
Officer at large, shall not have to do with him in any respect.

  [486] _Thirteen-pence halfpenny._ This particular sum is the subject
  of an article immediately ensuing the present.

       *       *       *       *       *


THIRTEEN-PENCE HALFPENNY.

HANGMAN’S WAGES.

JACK KETCH A GENTLEMAN.

Dr. Samuel Pegge, who is likely to be remembered by readers of the
article on the Revolution-house at Whittington, he having, on the day he
entered his eighty-fifth year, preached the centenary sermon to
commemorate the Revolution, was an eminent antiquary. He addressed a
paper to the Society of Antiquaries, on “the vulgar notion, though it
will not appear to be a vulgar error, that _thirteen-pence halfpenny_ is
the fee of the executioner in the common line of business at
Tyburn,[487] and that, therefore, it is called _hangman’s wages_.” It
is proposed from this paper to give an account of the origin of the
saying.

According to Dr. Pegge, the office of hangman was, in some parts of the
kingdom, annexed to other posts; for the porter of the city of
Canterbury was the executioner for the county of Kent, temporibus Hen.
II. and Hen. III.; for which he had an allowance from the sheriff, who
was reimbursed from the exchequer, of twenty shillings per annum.[488]
From the great and general disesteem wherein the office is held, the
sheriffs are much obliged to those who will undertake it, as otherwise
its unpleasant and painful duty must fall upon themselves. For, to them
the law looks for its completion, as they give a receipt to the gaoler
for the bodies of condemned criminals whom they are to punish, or cause
to be punished, according to their respective sentences. Sometimes in
the country, sheriffs have had much difficulty to procure an
executioner. In short, although, in the eyes of the people generally, a
stigma attaches to the hangman, yet, in fact, the hangman is the
sheriff’s immediate deputy in criminal matters, as his under-sheriff is
for civil purposes. The nature and dignity of the office in some
particulars, and the rank of the officer, called _Squire Ketch_, will be
found to be supportable, as well as the fee of office.

And first, as regards the sheriff himself. The sheriff is, by being so
styled in the king’s patent under the great seal, an esquire, which
raises him to that rank, unless he has previously had the title
adventitiously. None were anciently chosen sheriffs, but such
_gentlemen_ whose fortunes and stations would warrant it; so, on the
other hand, merchants, and other liberal branches of the lower order,
were admitted first into the rank of gentlemen, by a grant of arms, on
proper qualifications, from the earl marshal, and the kings of arms,
respectively, according to their provinces. After a negotiant has become
a gentleman, courtesy will very soon advance that rank, and give the
party the title of esquire; and so it happened with a worthy
_gentleman_, for so a _hangman_ will be proved to have been. This
remarkable case happened in the year 1616, in the manner following.

Ralph Brooke, whose real name was Brokesmouth, at that time “York
herald,” put a trick upon sir William Segar, “garter king of arms,”
which had very nearly cost both of them their places. Brooke employed a
person to carry a coat of arms ready drawn to garter, and to pretend it
belonged to one Gregory Brandon, a gentleman who had formerly lived in
London, but was then residing in Spain. The messenger was instructed to
desire garter to set his hand to this coat of arms: and to prevent
deliberation, he was further to pretend that the vessel, which was to
carry this confirmation into Spain, when it had received the seal of the
office and garter’s hand, was just ready to sail.[489] This being done,
and the fees paid, Brooke carried it to Thomas earl of Arundel, then one
of the commissioners for executing the office of earl marshal; and, in
order to vilify garter, and to represent him as a rapacious, negligent
officer, assured his lordship that those were the arms of Arragon, with
a canton for Brabant, and that Gregory Brandon was a mean and
inconsiderable person. This was true enough; for he was the common
hangman for London and Middlesex. Ralph Brooke afterwards confessed all
these circumstances to the commissioners who represented the earl
marshal; the consequence of which was, that, by order of the king, when
he heard the case, garter was committed to prison for negligence, and
the herald for treachery. There was this previous result, however, that
Gregory Brandon, the hangman, had become a _gentleman_; and, as the
Bastard says in King John, “could make any Joan a gentlewoman.”

Thus was this Gregory Brandon advanced, perhaps from the state of a
convict, to the rank of a gentleman; and though it was a personal honour
to himself, notwithstanding it was surreptitiously obtained by the
herald, of which _Gregory Brandon, gentleman_, was perhaps ignorant, yet
did it operate so much on his successors in office, that afterwards it
became transferred from the family to the officer for the time being;
and from Mr. Brandon’s popularity, though not of the most desirable
kind, the mobility soon improved his rank, and, with a jocular
complaisance, gave him the title of _esquire_, which remains to this
day.

It seems too as if this office had once, like many other important
offices of state, been hereditary. Shakspeare has this passage in
Coriolanus, act ii. sc. 1.--

  “_Menenius._--Marcius, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your
  predecessors, since Deucalion; though, peradventure, some of the best
  of them were hereditary hangmen.”

This looks as if the office of executioner had run in some family for a
generation or two, at the time when Shakspeare wrote; and that it was a
circumstance well understood, and would be well relished, at least by
the galleries. This might, indeed, with regard to time, point at the
ancestors of Mr. Brandon himself; for it was in the reign of king James
I. that this person was brought within the pale of gentility. Nay, more,
we are told by Dr. Grey, in his Notes on Shakspeare,[490] that from this
gentleman, the hangmen, his successors, bore for a considerable time his
Christian name of _Gregory_, though not his arms, they being a personal
honour, till a greater man arose, viz. _Jack Ketch_, who entailed the
present official name on all who have hitherto followed him.[491]

Whether the name of _Ketch_ be not the provincial pronunciation of
_Catch_ among the cockneys, may be doubted, notwithstanding that learned
and laborious compiler, B. E., gent., the editor of the “Canting
Dictionary,” says that _Jack Kitch_, for so he spells it, was the real
name of a hangman, which has become that of all his successors.

So much for the office. It now remains to consider the emoluments which
appertain to it, and assign a reason why _thirteen-pence halfpenny_
should be esteemed its standard fee for inflicting the last stroke of
the law.

Before proceeding to matters of a pecuniary nature, it may be allowed,
perhaps, to illustrate a Yorkshire saying. It was occasioned by a truly
unfortunate man, whose guilt was doubtful, and yet suffered the sentence
of the law at York. This person was a saddler at Bawtry, and hence the
saying among the lower people to a man who quits his friends too early,
and will not stay to finish his bottle:--“He will be hanged for leaving
his liquor, like the saddler of Bawtry.” The case was this:--There was
formerly an ale-house, which house to this day is called “The Gallows
House,” situate between the city of York and their Tyburn; at this house
the cart used always to stop, and there the convict and the other
parties were refreshed with liquors; but the rash and precipitate
saddler of Bawtry, on his road to the fatal tree, refused this little
regale, and hastened on to the place of execution; where, but not until
after he had been turned off, and it was too late, a reprieve arrived.
Had he stopped, as was usual, at the gallows house, the time consumed
there would have been the means of saving his life. He was hanged, as
truly as unhappily, for leaving his liquor.

Similar means of refreshment were anciently allowed to convicts, on
their passage to Tyburn, at St. Giles’s hospital; for we are told by
Stowe, that they were there presented with a bowl of ale, called “_St.
Giles’s bowl_; thereof to drink at their pleasure, as their last
refreshing in this life.” Tyburn was the established scene of executions
in common cases so long ago as the first year of king Henry IV.;
Smithfield and St. Giles’s Field being reserved for persons of higher
rank, and for crimes of uncommon magnitude, such as treason and heresy.
In the last of these, sir John Oldcastle, lord Cobham, was burnt, or
rather roasted, alive; having been hanged up over the fire by a chain
which went round his waist.[492]

The executioner of the duke of Monmouth (in July, 1685) was peculiarly
unsuccessful in the operation. The duke said to him, “Here are six
guineas for you: pray do your business well; do not serve me as you did
my lord Russell: I have heard you struck him three or four times. Here,
(to his servant,) take these remaining guineas, and give them to him if
he does his work well.”

_Executioner._--“I hope I shall.”

_Monmouth._--“If you strike me twice, I cannot promise you not to stir.
Pr’ythee let me feel the axe.” He felt the edge, and said, “I fear it is
not sharp enough.”

_Executioner._--“It is sharp enough, and heavy enough.”

The executioner proceeded to do his office; but the note says, “it was
under such distraction of mind, that he fell into the very error which
the duke had so earnestly cautioned him to avoid; wounding him so
slightly, that he lifted up his head, and looked him in the face, as if
to upbraid him for making his death painful; but said nothing. He then
prostrated himself again, and received two other ineffectual blows; upon
which the executioner threw down his axe in a fit of horror; crying
out, ‘he could not finish his work:’ but, on being brought to himself by
the threats of the sheriffs, took up the fatal weapon again, and at two
other strokes made a shift to separate the head from the body.”[493]

As to the fee itself, “thirteen-pence half-penny--hangman’s wages,” it
appears to have been of Scottish extraction. The Scottish mark (not
ideal or nominal money, like our mark) was a silver coin, in value
_thirteen-pence halfpenny_ and two placks, or two-thirds of a penny;
which plack is likewise a coin. This, their mark, bears the same
proportion to their pound, which is twenty-pence, as our mark does to
our pound, or twenty shillings, being two-thirds of it. By these
divisions and sub-divisions of their penny (for they have a still
smaller piece, called a bodel or half a plack) they can reckon with the
greatest minuteness, and buy much less quantities of any article than we
can.[494] This Scottish mark was, upon the union of the two crowns in
the person of king James I., made current in England at the value of
thirteen-pence halfpenny, (without regarding the fraction,) by
proclamation, in the first year of that king; where it is said, that
“the coin of silver, called the mark piece, shall be from henceforth
current within the said kingdom of England, at the value of
thirteen-pence halfpenny.”[495] This, probably, was a revolution in the
current money in favour of the hangman, whose fee before was perhaps no
more than a shilling. There is, however, very good reason to conclude,
from the singularity of the sum, that the odious title of “hangman’s
wages” became at this time, or soon after, applicable to the sum of
_thirteen-pence halfpenny_. Though it was contingent, yet it was then
very considerable pay; when one shilling per day was a standing annual
stipend to many respectable officers of various kinds.

Nothing can well vary more than the perquisites of this office; for it
is well known that Jack Ketch has a _post-obit_ interest in the convict,
being entitled to his clothes, or to a composition for them; though, on
the other hand, they must very frequently be such garments that, as
Shakspeare says, “a hangman would bury with those who wore them.”[496]

This emolument is of no modern date, and has an affinity to other
_droits_ on very dissimilar occasions, which will be mentioned
presently. The executioner’s perquisite is at least as old as Henry
VIII.; for sir Thomas More, on the morning of his execution, put on his
best gown, which was of silk camlet, sent him as a present while he was
in the Tower by a citizen of Lucca, with whom he had been in
correspondence; but the lieutenant of the Tower was of opinion that a
worse gown would be good enough for the person who was to have it,
meaning the executioner, and prevailed upon sir Thomas to change it,
which he did for one made of frize.[497] Thus the antiquity of this
obitual emolument, so well known in Shakspeare’s time, seems well
established; and, as to its nature, has a strong resemblance to a fee of
a much longer standing, and formerly received by officers of very great
respectability. For anciently “garter king of arms” had specifically the
gown of the party on the creation of a peer; and again, when
archbishops, bishops, abbots, and priors, did homage to the king, their
upper garment was the perquisite even of the lord chamberlain of the
household. The fee in the latter case was always compounded for, though
garter’s was often formerly received in kind, inasmuch as the statute
which gives this fee to the lord chamberlain directs the composition,
because, as the words are, “it is more convenient that religious men
should fine for their upper garment, than to be stripped.”[498] The same
delicate necessity does not operate in the hangman’s case, and his fee
extends much farther than either of them, he being entitled to _all_ the
sufferer’s garments, having first rendered them useless to the party.
Besides this perquisite, there has always been a pecuniary compliment,
where it could possibly be afforded, given by the sufferer to the
executioner, to induce him to be speedy and dexterous in the operation.
These outward gifts may likewise be understood as tokens of inward
forgiveness.

“Upon the whole,” says Dr. Pegge, “I conceive that what I have offered
above, though with much enlargement, is the meaning of the ignominious
term affixed to the sum of thirteen-pence halfpenny, and I cannot but
commiserate those for whom it is to be paid.”[499]

  [487] “The executions, on ordinary occasions, were removed from this
  memorable place, and were performed in the street of the Old Bailey,
  at the door of Newgate. This was first practised on the 9th of
  December, 1783. See the printed account. Every of these executions I
  was told by Mr. Reed, 1785, is attended with an expense of upwards of
  nine pounds. Twenty persons were hanged at once in February,
  1785.”--Dr. Pegge.

  [488] Madox’s History of the Exchequer, ii. p. 373.

  [489] These arms actually appear in Edmondson’s Body of Heraldry,
  annexed to the name of _Brandon_, viz. the arms of Arragon with a
  difference, and the arms of Brabant in a canton.

  [490] Vol. ii, p. 163.

  [491] The hangman was known by the name of _Gregory_ in the year 1642,
  as we learn from the Mercurius Aulicus, p. 553.

  [492] Rapin. See also Bale’s Life and Trial of Sir John Oldcastle. St.
  Giles’s was then an independent village, and is still called St.
  Giles’s in the Fields, to distinguish it from St. Giles’s,
  Cripplegate; being both in the same diocese.

  [493] Lord Somers’s Tracts, vol. i. pp. 219, 220; the note taken from
  the Review of the reigns of Charles and James, p. 885.

  [494] Mr. Ray, in his Itinerary, gives the fractional parts of the
  Scottish penny.

  [495] The proclamation may be seen in Strype’s Annals, vol. iv. p.
  384, where the mark-piece is valued exactly at thirteen-pence
  halfpenny.

  [496] Coriolanus, act. i. sc. 8.

  [497] More’s Life of sir Thomas More, p. 271.

  [498] Stat. 13 Edward I.

  [499] Pegge’s Curialia Miscellanea.




Vol. II.--50.


[Illustration: ~The Running Horse at Merrow, Surrey.~]

The first point of peculiarity that strikes the traveller on approaching
the “Running Horse” is the pictorial anomaly on the front of the
house--the sign represents a race-horse with a rider on its back; but
the painter has given us a horse _standing_ as still as most horses
would be glad to do after having been _running horses_ for more than
half a century. Our “Running Horse” then, _stands_ hard by the church in
the village of Merrow, (_olim_ Merewe,) about two miles from Guildford,
in Surrey, on the road leading from the latter place to London by way of
Epsom. It is at the intersection of the high roads leading to Epsom, to
Guildford, to Stoke, and to Albury, Shere, and Dorking. The latter road
passes over Merrow Downs, upon which, at the distance of a quarter of a
mile from our hostel, is the course whereon Guildford races are annually
held.

Guildford races formerly attracted a very numerous assemblage of
spectators. The elderly inhabitants of the above-named ancient borough
relate that, such was the influx of company, not a bed was to be had in
Guildford unless secured some weeks before the sports commenced. From
some cause, the nature of which the good people of Guildford have never
been able satisfactorily to ascertain, the races have, for several
years, gradually declined in celebrity and importance, and at present
they are too often but thinly attended. The _programme_ of the sports,
which annually issues from the Guildford press, is embellished with a
wood-cut, an impression I believe of the same block that has been used
for the last century. The course is not considered by sportsmen a good
one, but its situation, and the views it commands, are delightful.

When king George the First was at lord Onslow’s at Clandon, (the
adjoining parish,) he gave a plate of one hundred guineas to be run for;
and this is now the principal attraction to the proprietors of horses.
The members for the borough of Guildford also give a plate of fifty
pounds, and there is generally a subscription plate besides.

Our hostel, the “Running Horse” at Merrow, is the place of rendezvous
for all the “running horses.” Its stable doors bear highly
characteristic and interesting trophies of the honours obtained by
their former temporary inmates. The best formed _pumps_ that ever trod
the floors of Almack’s or the saloons of Carlton palace, are not more
delicately turned than the shoes, (albeit they are of iron,) which,
having done their duty on the course, and brought their high-mettled
wearers first to the winning-post, are now securely nailed against the
honoured portals, as memorials of his success. They are placed heel to
heel, and within the oval is carved, in rude characters, the name of the
horse, with the day on which he won for his master the purse of gold.
What an association of ideas does the simple record convey! Here, on a
fine warm evening in June, the evening preceding

    -----------“the great, th’ important day,
    Big with the fate of jockey and of horse,”

arrived the majestic “Cydnus.” His fine proportions were hid from vulgar
gaze, by cloths of purest white. As he walked slowly up the village
street ridden by his jockey, a stripling of sixteen, his approach was
hailed by the acclamations of the village boys, and the calmer
admiration of the men, all looking forward to their holiday on the
succeeding day. “Here, I say; here, here;--here comes one of the
racers!--There’s a _purty_ creatur! _law_--look at his long legs--_law_,
Jem, I say, look what long steps he _do_ take--fancy how he must
_gallop_, if he walks _so_--_purty fellur!_--I’m sure he’ll win--mind if
he don’t now!” Meanwhile the noble animal arrives at the inn door--high
breeding, whether in biped or quadruped, is not to be kept waiting--out
comes the host in an important bustle, with the bright key of the stable
door swinging upon his finger. He shows the way to the best stall, and
then takes his station at the door to keep out the inquisitive gazers,
while the jockey and trainer commence their tender offices of cleaning
and refreshing the horse after his unusual exercise of walking the
public road. This done, he is fed, clothed, and left to his repose upon
as soft a bed as clean straw will make, while the jockey and trainer
adjourn to the house, the admiration of the knot of idlers who are there
assembled to hear the pedigree, birth, parentage, education, and merits
of “the favourite.” Other horses soon arrive, and the conversation takes
a more scientific turn, while the jockies make their own bets, and
descant learnedly upon those of their masters, till they betake
themselves to rest, “perchance to dream” of the important event of the
succeeding day.

Long before the dew has left the short herbage on the neighbouring
downs, the jockies are busily engaged in the stables; and before the
sun’s heat has exceeded that of an April noon, they are mounted, and
gently cantering over the turf, with the double object of airing their
horses and showing them the course over which, in a few hours, they are
urged, at their utmost speed, in the presence of admiring thousands.
What an elating thought for the youthful rider of “the favourite;” with
what delight does he look forward to the hour when the horse and his
rider will be the objects of attraction to hundreds of fair one’s eyes
glancing upon _him_ with looks of admiration and interest; while, in his
dapper silk jacket and cap of sky-blue and white, he rides slowly to the
weighing-place, surrounded by lords and gentlemen “of high degree.”
Within a short space the vision is realized--more than realized--for he
has won the first heat “by a length.” In the next heat he comes in
second, but only “half a neck” behind, and his horse is still fresh. The
bell rings again for saddling; and the good steed is snuffing the air,
and preparing for renewed exertions, while his rider “hails in his heart
the triumph yet to come.” The bell rings for starting--“They are off,”
cry a hundred voices at once. Blue and white soon takes the lead. “Three
to one”--“five to one”--“seven to one”--are the odds in his favour;
while at the first rise in the ground he gives ample proof to the
admiring “cognoscenti” that he “_must_ win.” A few minutes more, and a
general hum of anxious voices announces that the horses are again in
sight. “Which is first?”--“Oh, blue and white still.”--“I knew it; I was
sure of it.” Here comes the clerk of the course flogging out the
intruders within the rails, and here comes the gallant bay--full two
lengths before the only horse that, during the whole circuit of four
miles, has been once within speaking distance of him. He keeps the lead,
and wins the race without once feeling the whip. Here is a moment of
triumph for his rider! he is weighed again, and receives from his
master’s hand the well-earned reward of his “excellent riding.” The
horse is carefully reclothed, and led back to his stable, where his feet
are relieved from the shoes which are destined to assist in recording,
to successive generations of jockies, the gallant _feats_, performed by

    “Hearts that then beat high for praise,
    But feel that pulse no more.”

Our hostel, however, must not be thus quitted.--The date inscribed
within the circle above the centre window is, I think, 1617. (I have a
memorandum of it somewhere, but have mislaid it.) The house is plastered
and washed with yellow; but its gables, Elizabethan chimnies, and
projecting _bay_ window, (a very proper kind of window for a “running
horse,”) render it a much more picturesque building than I have been
able to represent it on the small scale of my drawing. In front of it,
at about the distance of thirty yards, there was formerly a well of more
than a hundred feet in depth; the landlord used to repair this well,
receiving a contribution from all who made use of it; but other wells
have of late years been dug in the neighbourhood, and the use of this
has subsequently been confined to the inmates of the public-house.

The church of Merrow, of which there is a glimpse in the background, is
worthy of further notice than I have the means of affording in the
present communication.

  PHILIPPOS.

  _November, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


WILLIAM CAPON,

THE SCENE PAINTER.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--Presuming you may not have been acquainted with the late Mr.
William Capon, whose excellence as a gothic architectural scene-painter
has not been equalled by any of his compeers, I venture a few
particulars respecting him.

My acquaintance with Mr. Capon commenced within only the last five or
six years, but his frank intimacy and hearty good-will were the same as
if our intercourse had been of longer date. A memoir of him, in the
“Gentleman’s Magazine,” seems to me somewhat deficient in its
representation of those qualities.

The memoir just noticed assigns the date of his birth at Norwich to have
been October 6, 1757; and truly represents, that though wanting but ten
days of arriving at the seventieth year of his age when he died, his
hale appearance gave little indication of such a protracted existence.
He laboured under an asthmatic affection, of which he was accustomed to
complain, while his fund of anecdote, and his jocular naïveté in
recitation, were highly amusing. His manner of relating many of the
follies of theatrical monarchs, now defunct, was wont to set the table
in a roar; and could his reminiscences be remembered, they would present
a detail quite as amusing as some that have recently diverted the town.
Kemble he deified; he confessed that he could not get rid of old
prejudices in favour of his old friend; and, to use his own phrase,
“there never was an actor like him.” I have often seen him in ecstasy
unlock the glazed front of the frame over his drawing-room
chimney-piece, that enclosed a singularly beautiful enamel portrait of
that distinguished actor, which will shortly be competed for under the
auctioneer’s hammer. Some of his finest drawings of the Painted Chamber
at Westminster, framed with the richness of olden times, also decorated
this room, which adjoined his study on the same floor. His larger
drawings had green silk curtains before them; and these he would not
care to draw, unless he thought his visitors’ ideas corresponded with
his own respecting the scenes he had thus depicted. The most valuable
portion of his collection was a series of drawings of those portions of
the ancient city of Westminster, which modern improvements have wholly
annihilated. During the course of demolition, he often rose at daybreak,
to work undisturbed in his darling object; and hence, some of the tones
of morning twilight are so strictly represented, as to yield a hard and
unartist-like appearance.

It was a source of disquiet to Mr. Capon that the liberality of
publishers did not extend to such enlargements of Smith’s Westminster,
as his own knowledge would have supplied. In fact, such a work could not
be accomplished without a numerous list of subscribers; and as he never
issued a prospectus, the whole of his abundant antiquarian knowledge has
died with him, and the pictorial details alone remain.

Mr. Capon was, greatly to his inconvenience, a creditor of the late
Richard Brinsley Sheridan, of whom he was accustomed to speak with
evident vexation. He had been induced to enter into the compromise
offered him by the committee of management of Drury-lane theatre, and
give a receipt barring all future claims. This galled him exceedingly;
and more than once he hinted suspicions respecting the conflagration of
the theatre, which evinced that he had brooded over his losses till his
judgment had become morbid.

But he is gone, and in him society has lost an amiable and respected
individual. To the regret of numerous friends he expired on the 26th of
September at his residence, No. 4, North-street, Westminster.

  I am, &c.

  A. W.

  _November 3, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XLIII.

[From “Brutus of Alba,” a Tragedy, by Nahum Tate, 1678.]

_Ragusa, and four more Witches, about to raise a storm._

      _Rag._ ’Tis time we were preparing for the storm.
    Heed me, ye daughters of the mystic art;
    Look that it be no common hurricane,
    But such as rend the Caspian cliffs, and from
    Th’ Hyrcanian hills sweep cedars, roots and all.
    Speak; goes all right?
      _All._ Uh! Uh! Uh! Uh!
      _1st W._ The cricket leaves our cave, and chirps no more.
      _2d W._ I stuck a ram, but could not stain my steel.
      _3d W._ His fat consumed in th’ fire, and never smok’d.
      _4th W._ I found this morn upon our furnace wall
    Mysterious words wrought by a slimy snail,
    Whose night-walk fate had guided in that form.
      _2d W._ Thou’rt queen of mysteries, great Ragusa.
    How hast thou stemm’d the abyss of our black science,
    Traced dodging nature thro’ her blind ’scape-roads,
    And brought her naked and trembling to the light!
      _Rag._ Now to our task--
    Stand off; and, crouching, mystic postures make,
    Gnawing your rivel’d knuckles till they bleed,
    Whilst I fall prostrate to consult my art,
    And mutter sounds too secret for your ear.

(_storm rises._)

      _Rag._ The storm’s on wing, comes powdering from the Nore;
    Tis past the Alps already, and whirls forward
    To th’ Appenine, whose rifted snow is swept
    To th’ vales beneath, while cots and folds lie buried.
    Thou Myrza tak’st to-night an airy march
    To th’ Pontic shore for drugs; and for more speed
    On my own maple crutch thou shalt be mounted,
    Which bridled turns to a steed so manageable,
    That thou may’st rein him with a spider’s thread.
      _4th W._ And how if I o’ertake a bark in the way?
      _Rag._ Then, if aloft thou goest, to tinder scorch
    The fauns; but if thou tak’st a lower cut,
    Then snatch the whips off from the steersman’s hand,
    And sowce him in the foam.
      _4th W._ He shall be drench’d.

(_storm thickens._)

      _Rag._ Aye, this is music! now methinks I hear
    The shrieks of sinking sailors, tackle rent,
    Rudders unhing’d, while the sea-raveners swift
    Scour thro’ the dark flood for the diving corpses.

(_the owl cries._)

    Ha! art thou there, my melancholy sister?
    Thou think’st thy nap was short, and art surpris’d
    To find night fallen already.
    More turf to th’ fire, till the black mesh ferment;
    Burn th’ oil of basilisk to fret the storm.
    That was a merry clap: I know that cloud
    Was of my Fricker’s rending, Fricker rent it;
    0 ’tis an ardent Spirit: but beshrew him,
    ’Twas he seduced me first to hellish arts.
    He found me pensive in a desart glin,
    Near a lone oak forlorn and thunder-cleft,
    Where discontented I abjured the Gods,
    And bann’d the cruel creditor that seiz’d
    My Mullees,[500] sole subsistence of my life.
    He promised me full twelve years’ absolute reign
    To banquet all my senses, but he lied,
    For vipers’ flesh is now my only food,
    My drink of springs that stream from sulph’rous mines;
    Beside with midnight cramps and scalding sweats
    I am almost inured for hell’s worst tortures.--
    I hear the wood-nymphs cry; by that I know
    My charm has took--
                  but day clears up,
    And heavenly light wounds my infectious eyes.
      _1st W._ Now, sullen Dame, dost thou approve our works?
      _Rag._ ’Twas a brave wreck: O, you have well perform’d.
      _2d W._ Myrza and I bestrid a cloud, and soar’d
    To lash the storm, which we pursued to th’ City,
    Where in my flight I snatch’d the golden globe,
    That high on Saturn’s pillar blaz’d i’ th’ air.
      _3d W._ I fired the turret of Minerva’s fane.
      _4th W._ I staid i’ th’ cell to set the spell a work.
    The lamps burnt ghastly blue, the furnace shook;
    The Salamander felt the heat redoubled,
    And frisk’d about, so well I plied the fire.
      _Rag._ Now as I hate bright day, and love moonshine,
    You shall be all my sisters in the art:
    I will instruct ye in each mystery;
    Make ye all Ragusas.
      _All._ Ho! Ho! Ho!
      _Rag._ Around me, and I’ll deal to each her dole.
    There’s an elf-lock, tooth of hermaphrodite,
    A brace of mandrakes digg’d in fairy ground,
    A lamprey’s chain, snake’s eggs, dead sparks of thunder
    Quench’d in its passage thro’ the cold mid air,
    A mermaid’s fin, a cockatrice’s comb
    Wrapt i’ the dried caul of a brat still-born.
    Burn ’em.--
    In whispers take the rest, which named aloud
    Would fright the day, and raise another storm.
      _All._ Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!

_Soziman, a wicked Statesman, employs Ragusa for a charm._

      _Rag._--my drudges I’ll employ
    To frame with their best arts a bracelet for thee,
    Which, while thou wear’st it lock’d on thy left arm,
    Treason shall ne’er annoy thee, sword and poison
    In vain attempt; Nature alone have power
    Thy substance to dissolve, nor she herself
    Till many a winter-shock hath broke thy temper.
      _Soz._ Medea for her Jason less performed!
    My greatening soul aspires to range like thee,
    In unknown worlds, to search the reign of Night.
    Admitted to thy dreadful mysteries,
    I should be more than mortal.
      _Rag._ Near my cell,
    <DW41>’st circling rocks (in form a theatre)
    Lies a snug vale--
      _Soz._ With horror I have view’d it;
    Tis blasted all and bare as th’ ocean beech,
    And seems a round for elves to revel in.
      _Rag._ With my attendants there each waining moon
    My dreadful Court I hold, and sit in state:--
    And when the dire transactions are dispatch’d,
    Our zany Spirits ascend to make us mirth
    With gambals, dances, masks and revelling songs,
    Till our mad din strike terror through the waste,
    Spreads far and wide to th’ cliffs that bank the main,
    And scarce is lost in the wide ocean’s roar.
    Here seated by me thou shalt view the sports,
    Whilst demons kiss thy foot, and swear thee homage.

_Ragusa, with the other Witches, having finished the bracelet._

      _Rag._ Proceed we then to finish our black projects.--
    View here, till from your green distilling eyes
    The poisonous glances center on this bracelet,
    A fatal gift for our projecting son;--
    Seven hours odd minutes has it steept i’ th’ gall
    Of a vile Moor swine-rooted from his grave.
    Now to your bloated lips apply it round,
    And with th’ infectious dew of your black breaths
    Compleat its baleful force.

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From the “Fatal Union,” a Tragedy; Author Unknown.]

_Dirge._

    Noblest bodies are but gilded clay.
    Put away
    But the precious shining rind,
    The inmost rottenness remains behind.
    Kings, on earth though Gods they be,
    Yet in death are vile as we.
    He, a thousand Kings before,
    Now is vassal unto more.
    Vermin now insulting lie,
    And dig for diamonds in each eye;
    Whilst the sceptre-bearing hand
    Cannot their inroads withstand.
    Here doth one in odours wade,
    By the regal unction made;
    While another dares to gnaw
    On that tongue, his people’s law.
    Fools, ah! fools are we that so contrive,
    And do strive,
    In each gaudy ornament,
    Who shall his corpse in the best dish present.

  C. L.

  [500] Her cows.

       *       *       *       *       *


ISLE OF WIGHT

_To the Editor._


HAY HARVEST CUSTOM.

Sir,--Perhaps you may deem the following singular tenure from “Horsey’s
Beauties of the Isle of Wight, 1826,” worth adding to those already
perpetuated in the _Every-Day Book_, and your present agreeable
continuation of it.

At the foot of St. John’s Wood are two meadows, one on each hand, the
main road running between them. These meadows are known by the name of
Monk’s Meads. It is a remarkable circumstance, that the first crop of
hay they produce annually is reaped, not by the owner, nor the person
who may rent the land, but by the tenant of Newnham farm, which is
situated upwards of two miles distant, and has no connection whatever
with the land. There is a legend attaching to this circumstance. The
tale is, that one of the monks of Quarr was in the habit of visiting the
family that once occupied Newnham farm, and as his visits were pretty
frequent, and he was accustomed to put up his horse at the farmer’s
expense, he bequeathed to the tenant of Newnham farm the first crop of
hay which these meadows produce annually, each meadow to be reaped for
his benefit every alternate year; and the warrant for his doing so was
to be the continuance of a rude image in the wall of the house. Whether
this be the legal tenure or not is another question; one thing is
certain, the idol is preserved in the wall, the farmer comes on the
specific day for the crop, and the produce is carried to Newnham.

  I am, &c.

  DICK DICK’S SON.

  _May 17, 1827_

       *       *       *       *       *


ORIGIN OF HAY-BAND?

_For the Table Book._

Many of our origins and customs are derived from the Romans. In the time
of Romulus, a handful of hay was used in his ranks instead of a flag;
and his military ensign, who commanded a number of soldiers, was called
a _band_, or ancient bearer. Thus it will appear, that a twisted band of
hay being tied round a larger quantity of hay, for its support, it is,
agreeably to the derivation, properly called a _hay-band_.

This word might serve for the tracing a variety of “bands,”--as the
“band of gentleman pensioners,”--the “duke of York’s band,” _cum multis,
et cæt_.

  P.

       *       *       *       *       *


BRISTOL HIGH CROSS.

_For the Table Book._

The High Cross, which formerly stood at Bristol, was first erected in
1373 in the High-street, near the Tolsey; and in succeeding times it was
adorned with the effigies of four kings, who had been benefactors to the
city, viz. king John facing north to Broad-street, king Henry III. east
to Wine-street, king Edward III. west to Corn-street, and king Edward
IV. south to High-street.

After the original Cross had stood three hundred and sixty years at the
top of High-street, a silversmith who resided in the house (now 1827)
called the Castle Bank, facing High-street and Wine-street, _offered to
swear_ that during every high wind his premises and his life were
endangered by the expected fall of the Cross!--A petition, too, was
signed by several _respectable citizens!_ to the corporation for its
removal, with which that body _complied with great reluctance, and saw
its demolition with great regret_!

In the year 1633 it was taken down, enlarged, and raised higher, and
four other statues were then added, viz. king Henry VI. facing east,
queen Elizabeth west, king James I. south, and king Charles I. north;
the whole was painted and gilded, and environed with iron palisadoes.

In 1733, being found incommodious by obstructing the passage of
carriages, it was again taken down, and erected in the centre of
College-green, the figures facing the same points as before. On that
occasion it was painted in imitation of grey marble, the ornaments were
gilt, and the figures were painted in their proper colours.

About the year 1762 it was discovered that it prevented ladies and
gentlemen from walking eight or ten abreast, and its final ruin resolved
upon; and it was once more taken down by the order of the Rev. Cuts
Barton, then dean, and strange to say, as if there were no spot in the
whole city of Bristol whereon this beautiful structure could be again
erected, it was given by the “very reverend” gentleman to Mr. Henry
Hoare of Stourton, who afterwards set it up in his delightful gardens
there.

The following extracts from some old newspapers preserved by the Bristol
antiquary, the late Mr. George Symes Catcott, are interesting.

“August 21, 1762.--Several workmen are now employed in raising the walls
in College-green, and taking down the High Cross, which, _when
beautified_, will be put up in the middle of the grass-plot near the
lower green, about thirty yards from where it now stands.”

“A.D. 1764--Epigram:--

    “Ye people of Bristol deplore the sad loss
    Of the kings and the queens that once reigned in your Cross;
    Tho’ your patrons they were, and their reigns were so good,
    Like Nebuchadnezer they’re forced to the wood.
    Your great men’s great wisdom you surely must pity,
    Who’ve banished what all men admir’d from the city.”

“October, 1764.--To the printer (of one of the Bristol newspapers)--

“Sir,--By inserting the following in your paper you will oblige, &c.:--

    “In days of yore, when haughty France was tamed,
    In that great battle, which from Cressy’s named,
    Our glorious Edward and his Godlike son
    To England added what from France they’d won.
    In this famed reign the High Cross was erected,
    And for its height and beauty much respected.
    Succeeding times (for gratitude then reigned
    On earth, nor was by all mankind disdained)
    The Cross adorned with four patron kings,
    So History assures the muse that sings;
    Some hundred years it stood, to strangers shown
    As the palladium of this trading town:
    Till in king Charles the first’s unhappy reign
    ’Twas taken down, but soon was raised again:
    In bulk and height increased, four statues more
    Were added to the others, there before:
    Then gilded palisadoes fenc’d it round--
    A Cross so noble grac’d no other ground.
    There long it stood, and oft admir’d had been,
    Till mov’d from thence to adorn the College-green.
    There had it still remained; but envious fate,
    Who secret pines at what is good or great,
    Raised up the _ladies_ to conspire its fall,
    For boys and men, and dogs defiled it all.
    For those faults condemned, this noble pile
    Was in the sacred college stow’d a while.
    From thence these kings, so very great and good,
    Are sent to grace proud Stourton’s lofty wood.

  “R. S.”

Mr. Britton observes, that “the improvements and embellishments of this
Cross in 1633 cost the chamber of Bristol 207_l._ Its height from the
ground was thirty-nine feet six inches. After taking it down in 1733 it
was thrown into the Guildhall, where it remained till some gentlemen of
the College-green voluntarily subscribed to have it re-erected in the
centre of that open space; but here it was not suffered long to
continue, for in 1763 the whole was once more levelled with the ground,
and thrown into a secluded corner of the cathedral, so insensible were
the Bristolians of its beauty and curiosity. Mr. Hoare expended about
300_l._ in its removal to and re-erection at Stourton. The present
structure at Stourton, however, varies in many particulars from the
original Cross. It constitutes not only an unique garden ornament in its
present situation, but is singularly beautiful for its architectural
character, its sculpture, and its eventful history.”

1821.--A clergyman of Bristol (the Rev. Mr. Sayer) having an occasion to
write to sir R. C. Hoare, bart. received in reply a letter containing
the following paragraph:--“I am glad to hear that the citizens of
Bristol show a desire to restore the ancient monuments of their royal
benefactors; pray assure them, that I shall be very happy to contribute
any assistance, but my original is in such a tottering state that no
time should be lost.”

Thus the beautiful High Cross which once adorned the city of Bristol may
now, through the liberality of sir R. C. Hoare, be transplanted (if we
may use the expression) to its native soil, after a banishment of
fifty-seven years. Its reappearance in the College-green would be
beautiful and highly appropriate.

At a meeting of the Bristol Philosophical and Literary Society on the
19th April, 1827, Mr. Richard Smith read a paper from Thomas Garrard,
Esq. the chamberlain of Bristol, on the subject of the High Cross,
together with a brief notice of “the well of St. Edith” in Peter-street.
The latter, as well as the remains of the Cross, are still preserved at
sir R. C. Hoare’s at Stourton. Many other interesting particulars may be
found in the Bristol Mirror, April 28, 1827.

  A. B.

  _August, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


ORIGIN OF THE WORD TAILOR.

_To the Editor._

Dear Sir,--Bailey derives “_tailor_ from _tailler_, French, a maker of
garments:” but when a boy I remember perfectly well, my grandfather, who
was facetious, and attached to the usages of the past, acquainting me
with _his_ origin of the word “tailor.” He stated it nearly thus:--“The
term tailor originated between a botcher (a man that went from
farm-house to farm-house, and made and repaired clothes by the day) and
his wife--who, going to a town fair without her husband, returned in a
storm at a late hour, all bespattered with mud. The wearied botcher had
searched for her in vain, till meeting a neighbour, who told him his
wife was gone home draggletailed, he exclaimed, ‘God be praised!
_she’s_ where she ought to be; but the De’el take the _tail-’o’her_.’
His brother villagers ever after called him (not the botcher) but the
_tail o’her_--hence _tailor_. The Devil among the Tailors perhaps owes
its origin to a similar freak.”

Speaking of a _tail_, the following from Bailey may not be
inappropriate.--“_Kentish long tails._ The Kentish men are said to have
had tails for some generations, by way of punishment, as some say; for
the Kentish pagans abusing Austin the monk and his associates, by
beating them, and opprobriously tying fish-tails to them; in revenge of
which, such appendages grew to the hind parts of all that generation.
But the scene of this lying wonder was not in Kent, but at Carne, in
Dorsetshire. Others again say, it was for cutting off the tail of Saint
Thomas of Canterbury’s horse; who, being out of favour with Henry II.,
riding towards Canterbury upon a poor sorry horse, was so served by the
common people. _Credat Judæus Apella._”

“Animals’ tails” were worn at country festivals by buffoons and
sportmakers; for which, see “Plough Monday,” in the _Every-Day Book_;
and also, see Liston, in Grojan, “I could a _tail_ unfold!” &c.

  Yours truly,

  *, *, P.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


THE CLERK IN THE DARK.

“_Set forth, but not allowed to be sung in all Churches, of all the
people together._”

    Once on a time, ’twas afternoon,
      And winter--while the weary day
    Danced off with Phœbus--to the tune
      Of “O’er the hills and far away”----

    I went to church, and heard the clerk
      Preface the psalm with “Pardon me,
    But really friends it is so dark,
      Do all I may I cannot see”----

    The “quire” that used the psalms to chant
      Not dreaming to be thus misled--
    Struck up in chorus jubilant,
      The clerk’s apology instead!

MORAL.

    “The force of habit” should not keep
      Our trust in other heads so sure,
    That reason may drop off to sleep.
      Or sense enjoy a sinecure.

  A. X.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


CINDERELLA.

Of all the narratives either of fact or of fiction there are none, I
will pledge my veracity, like the Fairy Tales of the Nursery, for
interesting all the best feelings of our nature, and for impressing an
imperishable and beautiful morality upon the heart. Was there ever, can
you imagine--was there ever a young woman hardened and heartless enough
to explore a forbidden closet, after she had perused the romantic
history of Bluebeard? Would she not fearfully fancy that every box, bag,
and bottle, jar, jelly, and jam-pot was grinning hideously at her in the
person of one of the departed Mrs. Bluebeards? In fact, there is not a
tale that does not convey some fine instruction, and, I would venture to
affirm, that does not produce more salutary influence on the youthful
mind, than all that Dr. Gregory and Mrs. Chapone, Dr. Fordyce and Miss
Hannah More, have ever, in their wearisome sagacity, advised.

Of the whole of these entertaining stories, perhaps the best, and
deservedly the most popular, is the History of Cinderella. How deeply do
we sympathise in her cinders! how do we admire her patient endurance and
uncomplaining gentleness,--her noble magnanimity in not arranging her
sisters’ _tresses amiss_--for presuming to be her _miss-tresses_--and
finally, how do we rejoice at her ultimate and unexpected prosperity!
Judge then of my horror, imagine my despair, when I read the New Monthly
Magazine, and saw this most exquisite story derived from the childish
folly of a strolling player! The account, which is in a paper entitled
“Drafts on La Fitte,” states, that the tale originated in an actual
occurrence about the year 1730 at Paris. It is to this effect:--An
actor, one Thevenard, saw a shoe, where shoes are frequently to be seen,
viz. at a cobbler’s stall, and, like a wise man, fell deeply in love
with it. He immediately took his stand by the stall all the rest of the
day--but nobody came for the shoe. Next morning “Ecce iterum Crispinus,”
he was with the cobbler again, still nobody came: however, to make a
short story of a long one, day after day the poor actor stood there,
till the proprietor of the shoe applied for it, in the person of a most
elegant young woman; when monsieur Thevenard took the opportunity of
telling her, he admired her foot so much he was anxious to gain her
hand; to this modest desire she kindly complied, and they were
accordingly married. Thus ends this pitiful account. He must have had an
inventive fancy, indeed, who could manufacture the sweet story of
Cinderella out of such meagre materials--it was making a mountain out of
a molehill! The gentle and interesting Cinderella dwindles down into a
girl, whose only apparent merit was her economy in having her shoe
patched--and the affable and affluent prince melts away into a French
actor. Were the prize of squeezing her foot into the little slipper only
to become the bride of an actor, I should imagine the ladies would not
have been quite so anxious to stand in her shoes!

Now, gentle reader, as I have told you what is _not_ the origin of my
story, it is but incumbent on me to tell you what _is_.--In the
thirteenth book of the “Various History” of Ælian is the real genuine
narrative from which Cinderella is derived--it is the twenty-third
anecdote: and the similarity of the two stories is so great, that, I
trust, a simple repetition of it will prove beyond a doubt the
antiquity, as well as the rank, of my favourite Cinderella. Of all the
Egyptians, says the historian, Rhodope was reckoned the most
beautiful;--to her, when she was bathing, Fortune, ever fond of sudden
and unexpected catastrophes, did a kindness more merited by her beauty
than her prudence. One day, when she was bathing, she judiciously left
her shoes on the bank of the stream, and an eagle (naturally mistaking
it for a sheep or a little child) pounced down upon one of them, and
flew off with it. Flying with it directly over Memphis, where king
Psammeticus[501] was dispensing justice, the eagle dropped the shoe in
the king’s lap. Of course the king was struck with it, and admiring the
beauty of the shoe and the skill and proportion of the fabrication, he
sent through all the kingdom in search of a foot that would fit it; and
having found it attached to the person of Rhodope, he immediately
married her.

P.S.--I have given my authority, chapter and verse, for my story; but
still farther to substantiate it, I am willing to lay both my name and
address before the reader.

  MR. SMITH,

  _London_.

  _November, 1827._

  [501] Psammeticus was one of the twelve kings of Egypt, and reigned
  about the year 670 B. C., just 2400 years before the poor Frenchman’s
  time!--(See his history in Herodotus, book 2. cap. 2 and 3.)

       *       *       *       *       *


HORÆ CRAVENÆ.

_For the Table Book._


HITCHINGSTONE FEAST.--COWLING MOONS.

On the highest part of Sutton Common, in Craven, is a huge block of
solid granite, of about fifty yards in circumference, and about ten
yards high. It is regarded as a great natural curiosity, and has for
generations been a prominent feature in the legends and old wife’s tales
of the neighbourhood. On the west side is an artificial excavation,
called “The Chair,” capable of containing six persons comfortably,
though I remember it once, at a pinch, in a tremendous thunder shower,
containing eight. On the north side is a similar excavation, called “The
Churn,” from its resemblance to that domestic utensil; on the top is a
natural basin, fourteen yards in circumference. This stone is the
boundary-mark for three townships and two parishes, viz. the townships
of Sutton, Cowling, and Laycock, and the parishes of Kildwick and
Keighley. From time immemorial it has been customary to hold a feast
round Hitchingstone on the 1st of August, the amusements at which are of
a similar nature with those of the village feasts and tides (as they are
called in some places) in the vicinity, as dancing, racing, &c. At a
short distance from Hitchingstone are two smaller stones, one on the
east, called Kidstone, the other on the north-east, called Navaxstone;
whence the three names are derived I am ignorant.

The inhabitants of Cowling, or Cowling-head, the village from which the
township takes its name, are known in Craven as “Moons;” an epithet of
derision, which is said to have had its origin from the following
circumstance:--Cowling-head is a wild mountain village, and the
inhabitants are not famed for travelling much; but it is told, that once
upon a time, a Cowling shepherd got so far from home as Skipton, (six
miles;) on entering Skipton it was a fine moonlight night, and the
shepherd is said to have made this sagacious remark: “How like your
Skipton moon is to our Cowling-head moon.” Be the story true or not, the
inhabitants are called “Moons;” and in the vulgar vocabulary of Craven a
silly fellow is called a “Cowling moon.” Not knowing a single inhabitant
of Cowling I cannot speak of their civilization; but it does not say
much for their advancement in knowledge, that the Joannites have a
chapel amongst them, and remain true to their _prophetess_; who, as they
suppose,

    ------is but vanish’d from the earth awhile,
    To come again with bright unclouded smile.

While residing a few days at a gentleman’s house in the neighbourhood, I
frequently observed the Cowling Joannites, with their long beards,
rambling up and down the fells. A friend likened them to the ancient
Druid priests, but I thought they more resembled goats, and formed no
bad substitute for that animal, which is almost wholly banished from the
fells of the district.


HE’S GOT T’OIL-BOTTLE IN HIS POCKET.

This is a Craven saying, and is applied to a person, who, like the
heathen Janus, has two faces; in other words, one who acts with
duplicity, who will flatter you to your face, and malign you behind your
back. Alas! how many are there amongst all ranks, and in all places, who
have “got t’oil bottles in their pockets.”


SWINE HARRY.

This is the name of a field on the side of Pinnow, a hill in
Lothersdale, in Craven; and is said to have derived its name from the
following singular circumstance. A native of the valley was once, at the
dead of night, crossing the field with a pig which he had stolen from a
neighbouring farmyard; he led the obstinate animal by a rope tied to its
leg, which was noosed at the end where the thief held it. On coming to a
ladder-style in the field, being a very corpulent man, and wishing to
have both hands at liberty, but not liking to release the pig, he
transferred the rope from his hands to his neck; but when he reached the
topmost step his feet slipped, the pig pulled hard on the other side,
the noose tightened, and on the following morning he was found dead. I
believe this story to be a fact; it was told me by an aged man, who said
it happened in his father’s time.

  T. Q. M.

  _Sept. 2, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


THOMAS SMITH,

A QUACK EXTRAORDINARY.

_For the Table Book._

The following advertisement, somewhat abridged from the original, which
must have been put forth upwards of a century ago, abundantly proves,
that quackery and puffing had made some progress even at that period:--

“In King-street, Westminster, at the Queen’s-arms and Corn-cutter,
liveth Thomas Smith; who, by experience and ingenuity, has learnt the
art of taking out and curing all manner of corns, without pain, or
drawing blood. He likewise takes out all manner of nails, which cause
any disaster, trouble, or pain, which no man in England can do the like.
He cures the tooth-ache in half an hour, let the pain be never so great,
and cleanses and preserves the teeth. He can, with God’s assistance,
perform the same in a little time.

“I wear a silver badge, with three verses; the first in English, the
second in Dutch, the third in French, with the States of Holland’s
crownet on the top, which was gave me as a present by the States-general
of Holland, for the many cures, &c. My name on the badge underwritten,
THOMAS SMITH, who will not fail, God willing, to make out every
particular in this bill, &c.

“The famousest ware in England, which never fails to cure the tooth-ache
in half an hour, price one shilling the bottle. Likewise a powder for
cleansing the teeth, which makes them as ivory without wearing them, and
without prejudice to the gums, one shilling the box. Also two sorts of
water for curing the scurry in the gums; though they are eaten away to
the bottom, it will heal them, and cause them to grow as firm as ever,
very safe, without mercury, or any unwholesome spirit. To avoid
counterfeits, they are only sold at his own house, &c., price of each
bottle half a crown, or more, according to the bigness, with
directions.”--_Harl. MSS._

Smith is mentioned in the Tatler. He used to go out daily in quest of
customers, and made a periodical call at all the coffee-houses then in
London.

  H. M. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


DUNCHURCH, COW, AND CALF.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--I am confidently assured, that the following coincidences really
occur. You may not perhaps deem them unworthy of the very small space
they will occupy in your amusing columns, of which I have ever been a
constant reader.

  T. R.

At _Dunchurch_, near Coventry, is an inn, or public-house, called the
_Dun Cow_, which supplies its landlord with the milk of existence. He is
actually named _Duncalf_; the product of his barrels may be, therefore,
not unaptly termed,--_mother’s milk_.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Discoveries~

OF THE

ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

No. XIV.


THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD, &c.

Two thousand years have elapsed since the time of Hippocrates, and there
has scarcely been added a new aphorism to those of that great man,
notwithstanding all the care and application of so many ingenious men as
have since studied medicine.

There exist evident proofs that Hippocrates was acquainted with the
circulation of the blood. Almelooven, in vindication of this father of
medicine not having more amply treated of this subject in his works,
assigns this reason, that Hippocrates having many other important
matters to discuss, judged that to enlarge upon what was so well known,
and had been so well explained by others, was as needless as it would
have been to have written an Iliad after Homer. It is less requisite
here to cite passages as proofs of Hippocrates’s knowledge on this vital
principle in the animal economy, than to state the fact of his
acquaintance with it. Briefly it may suffice to mention, that
Hippocrates compares the course of rivers, which return to their sources
in an unaccountable and extraordinary manner, _to the circulation of the
blood_. He says, that “when the bile enters into the blood it breaks its
consistence, and disorders its regular course.” He compares the
admirable mechanism of the blood “to clues of thread, whose filaments
overlap each other;” and he says, that “_in the body it performs just
such a circuit, always terminating where it began_.”

Mr. Dutens is of opinion that Plato, Aristotle, Julius Pollux, Apuleius,
and other ancients, treat the circulation of the blood as well known in
their time. To that end he cites passages from their writings, and
proceeds to affirm, that what reduces to a very small degree the honour
of Harvey’s claim to the discovery is, that Servetus had treated of it
very distinctly before him, in the fifth part of his book _De
Christianismi Restitutione_; a work so very scarce, that there are but
few who can boast of having seen it in print. Mr. Wotton, in his
_Reflections upon the Ancients and Moderns_, cites this passage of
Servetus entire. In this passage Servetus distinguishes three sorts of
spirits in the human body, and says that blood, “which he calls a vital
spirit, is dispersed through the body by the _anastomosis_, or mutual
insertion of two vessels, at their extremities, into one another.” Here
it deserves observation, that Servetus is the first who employed that
term to express the communication between the veins and arteries. He
makes “the expanded air in the lungs contribute to the formation of
blood, which comes to them from the right ventricle of the heart, by the
canal of the pulmonary artery.” He says, that “the blood is there
refined and perfected by the action of the air, which subtilises it and
blends itself with that vital spirit, which the expanded heart then
receives as a fluid proper to carry life every where.” He maintains that
“this conveyance and manner of preparing the blood in the lungs is
evident from the junction of the veins with the arteries in this
viscera.” And he concludes with saying, that “the heart having received
the blood thus prepared by the lungs sends it forth again by the artery
of its left ventricle, called the aorta, which distributes it into all
parts of the body.” Andreas Cesalpinus, who lived likewise in the
sixteenth century, has two passages which completely contain all that we
know about the circulation of the blood. He explains at length “how the
blood, gushing from the right ventricle of the heart through the
pulmonary artery to pass into the lungs, enters anastomosically into the
pulmonary veins, to be conveyed to the left ventricle of the heart, and
afterwards distributed by the aorta into all parts of the body.” Let it
be remarked, that, according to Boerhaave, the first edition of
Cesalpin’s book was at Venice in 1571; that is, almost sixty years
before Harvey’s work appeared, who studied at Padua, which is not far
from Venice; and spent a considerable part of his time there.

Johannes Leonicenus says, that the famous Paul Sarpi, otherwise known by
the name of Father Paul, was he who discovered the circulation of the
blood, and first discerned “the valves of the veins, which, like the
suckers of a pump, open to let the blood pass, but shut to prevent its
return;” and that he communicated this secret to Fabricius ab
Aquapendente, professor of medicine at Padoua in the sixteenth century,
and successor to Fallopius, who discovered it to Harvey, at that time
studying physic under him in the university of Padoua.


SERVETUS.

  HIS BOOKS--CHRISTIANISMI RESTITUTIO--DE TRINITATE ERRORIBUS--DE
  TRINITATE DIALOGORUM.

Mr. Dutens, in the course of his remarks on Servetus’s discourse
concerning the circulation of the blood, observes as follows:--

“Servetus published on this subject two different books. That for which
he was burnt at Geneva, in 1553, is entitled _Christianismi Restitutio_,
and had been printed but a month before his death. The care they took to
burn all the copies of it at Vienne in Dauphiny, at Geneva, and at
Frankfort, rendered it a book of the greatest scarcity. Mention is made
of one copy of it in the catalogue of Mr. de Boze’s books, p. 40, which
has been regarded as the only one extant. I have had in my hands a
surreptitious copy of it, published at London, which formerly belonged
to Dr. Friend; in the 143d, 144th, and 145th pages of which occurs the
passage (on the circulation.) The book is in quarto, but without the
name of the place where it was printed, or the time when, and is
incomplete, the bishop of London having put a stop to the impression,
which, if I mistake not, was about the year 1730. Care should be taken
not to confound this with another work of his, printed in 12mo. in 1531,
without mention of the place where, but supposed to be at Lyons. It is
entitled _De Trinitatis Erroribus Libri Septem, per Michaelem Serveto,
alias Reves, ab Aragonia Hispanum_; and there is along with it another
treatise, printed in 1532, entitled _Dialogorum de Trinitate, Lib. 2. de
Justitia Regni Christi, Capitula 4. per Michaelem Serveto, alias Reves,
ab Aragonià Hispanum_. This last, which is very scarce, and sold once
for one hundred pistoles, (that is 40_l._ sterl.) is in the library of
the duke of Roxburgh at London, where I have seen it, but it contains
not the passage referred to, which is only to be met with in the
corrected and enlarged edition of that work, published in 1553, and
entitled _Christianismi Restitutio_.”

Dr. Sigmond, in a recent work, entitled “The Unnoticed Theories of
Servetus,” speaks of a Life of Servetus in the Historical
Dictionary;[502] another, ascribed to M. de la Roche, in the
“Bibliothèque Angloise,” with extracts relating to Servetus’s Theory of
the Circulation of the Blood; and a third, by M. D’Artigny, in the
“Mémoires des Hommes Illustres,” who extracted the history of the trial
from the archives of the archbishop of Vienne in Dauphine. “And I have
lately read with considerable pleasure,” says Dr. Sigmond, “an Apology
for the Life of Servetus, by Richard Wright; not because he adds any
thing to our previous knowledge of his life and conduct, but that a
spirit of candour and liberality entitles the volume to much
consideration. He has evidently not met with the _Christianismi
Restitutio_.”

In relation to this latter work by Servetus, Dr. Sigmond says, “The late
Dr. Sims, for many years president of the Medical Society of London,
bequeathed to me his copy of Servetus, to which he has prefixed the
following note:--‘The fate of this work has been not a little singular;
all the copies, except one, were burned along with the author by the
implacable Calvin. This copy was secreted by D. Colladon, one of the
judges. After passing through the library of the landgrave of Hesse
Cassel, it came into the hands of Dr. Mead, who endeavoured to give a
quarto edition of it; but before it was nearly completed, it was seized
by John Kent, messenger of the press, and William Squire, messenger in
ordinary, on the 29th of May, 1723, at the instance of Dr. Gibson,
bishop of London, and burnt, a very few copies excepted. The late duke
de Valliere gave near 400 guineas for this copy, and at his sale it
brought 3810 livres. It contains the first account of the circulation of
the blood, above 70 years before the immortal Harvey published his
discovery.’”

“In justice to the memory of my late valued friend,” says Dr. Sigmond,
“I must state my conviction that this copy is not the original one; at
the same time, I firmly believe he imagined it to be that which he has
described. Yet he was well known as an accurate man, as a judicious
collector of books: and, indeed, to him is the Medical Society of London
indebted for its valuable and admirable library.” Dr. Sigmond’s
correction of Dr. Sims’s note is substantial; but it may be corrected
still further. Dr. Sims mistook as to the book having brought 3810
livres at the duke de Valliere’s sale. The duke gave that sum for the
book at the sale of M. Gaignat in 1769, and when the duke’s library was
sold in 1784, it produced 4120 livres. There is a particular account of
it in the catalogue of that collection, by De Bure, tom. i. p. 289. That
copy has hitherto been deemed _unique_. Is Dr. Sigmond’s _another_ copy
of Servetus’s own edition?

Dr. Sigmond’s own work, printed last year, is itself scarce, in
consequence of having been suppressed or withdrawn from
publication.[503] This circumstance, and the curiosity of its purpose,
may render an exemplifying extract from it agreeable:--

“I have quoted,” says Dr. S., “the whole of _Servetus’s_ theories
verbatim. Those that relate to the phenomena of mind, as produced by the
brain, will at this time have an additional interest, when Gall and
Spurzheim have attracted the attention of philosophers to the subject.
With some degree of boldness he has fixed upon the ventricles of the
brain, and the choroid plexus, as the seat of that ray divine which an
immortal Creator has shed upon man, and man alone. The awe and
veneration with which such a subject must be approached, are increased
by the conviction that though we may flatter our fond hopes with the
idea that some knowledge has been gained, we are still lost in the same
labyrinth of doubt and uncertainty that we ever were.

“After giving his description of the passage of the blood from the right
ventricle of the heart through the lungs, to the left ventricle of the
heart, he gives his reasons for his belief in his doctrine of the
circulation, and observes that Galen was unacquainted with the truth. He
then commences that most extraordinary passage upon the seat of the
mind. The blood, he supposes, having received in its passage through the
lungs the breath of life, is sent by the left ventricle into the
arteries; the purest part ascends to the base of the brain, where it is
more refined, especially in the retiform plexus. It is still more
perfected in the small vessels, the capillary arteries, and the choroid
plexus, which penetrate every part of the brain, enter into the
ventricles, and closely surround the origin of the nerves. From the
vital spirit it is now changed into the animal spirit, and acts upon the
mass of brain, which is incapable of reasoning without this stimulus. In
the two ventricles of the brain is placed the power of receiving
impressions from external objects; in the third is that of reasoning
upon them; in the fourth is that of remembering them. From the
communication through the foramina of the ethmoid bone, the two
ventricles receive a portion of external air to refresh the spirit, and
to give new animation to the soul. If these ventricles are oppressed by
the introduction of noxious vapour, epilepsy is produced, if a fluid
presses on the choroid plexus, apoplexy; and whatever affects this part
of the brain causes loss of mental power.

“I have transcribed his notions on vegetable and animal life: they are
more curious than correct. They are contained in the second Dialogue on
the Trinity, which is remarkable from its being the best proof that the
doctrines of Servetus were completely at variance with the Unitarianism
of which he was accused. It is a dialogue between Peter and Michael,
‘modum generationis Christi docens, quod ipse non sit creatura, nec
finitæ potentiæ, sed vere adorandus, verusque Deus.’

“He here enters very minutely into the soul, as the breath of life; and
the whole of the theories he has advanced are in support of the passages
in the Bible, relative to the Almighty pouring into the nostrils of man
the breath of life. A long metaphysical and theological discussion,
difficult to be understood, follows; but not one syllable can be found
contrary to the precepts of Christianity, or to the pure faith he wished
to instil into the mind. In another part of the work there is a
dissertation upon the heart as the origin of faith, which he believes,
on the authorities he cites from the Bible, to be the seat of some
degree of mental power. The heart, he supposes, deliberates upon the
will, but the will obeys the brain.”

Persons disposed to inquiries of the nature last adverted to, may peruse
a remarkable paper on the functions of the heart, as connected with
volition, by sir James Mackintosh; it was drawn up in consequence of a
table conversation with Mr. Benjamin Travers, and is inserted by that
gentleman in an appendix to his work on Constitutional Irritation.[504]

It remains further to be observed respecting Servetus, that, according
to Dr. Sigmond, another of his theories was, that “in the blood is the
life.” His notions “on vegetable and animal life,” are in his work “De
Trinitatis Erroribus, Libri VII.” 12mo. 1531. This book appears in the
“Bibliotheca Parriana,” by Mr. Bohn, with the following MS. remarks on
it by Dr. Parr.

  “_Liber rarissimus._ I gave two guineas for this book.” S. P.

  “Servetus was burnt for this book. He might be a heretic, but he was
  not an infidel. I have his life, in Latin, written by Allwoerden,
  which should be read by all scholars and true Christians.” S. P.

Dr. Sigmond’s opinion of Servetus evidently concurs with Dr. Parr’s.
Towards the close of Dr. Sigmond’s Introduction to his “Dissertatio,
quædam de Serveto complectens,” he says, “Of his religious opinions I
have but little to say: the bitter prejudices, the violent hatred, the
unmanly persecutions that disgraced the early introduction of a reformed
religion, have fortunately given place to the milder charities of true
Christianity. The penalty of death, by the most cruel torture, would not
now be inflicted on a man who offered to the world crude and undigested
dreams, or the visionary fancies of a disturbed imagination; and these,
to say the very worst, are the sins for which Servetus expired at the
stake, surrounded by the books his ardent and unconquerable spirit had
dared to compose.

A sincere love of Christianity beams forth in every page of the work I
have before me. His great anxiety was to restore religion to that
purity, which he believed it to have lost. The doctrine he opposed was
not that of Christ; it was that of the churchmen who had established, in
his name, their own vain and fleeting opinions. The best proof that
Calvin and Melancthon had deserted the mild, the charitable, the
peaceful religion of truth, and that they followed not the divine
precepts of their gentle Master, was, and is, that they pursued, even
unto death, a helpless, poor, and learned man.”

It is well known that Servetus was denounced by Calvin to the government
of Geneva, and that the civil authorities referred the case back to
Calvin. “At the instance of Mr. Calvin and his associates he was
condemned to be burnt alive; which sentence was executed October 27,
1553. He was upwards of two hours in the fire; the wood being green,
little in quantity, and the wind unfavourable.”[505] It is not now the
fashion to burn a man for heresy: the modern mode is to exaggerate and
distort his declared opinions; drive him from society by forging upon
him those which he disclaims; wound his spirit, and break his heart by
continued aspersions; and, when he is in his grave, award him the
reputation of having been an amiable and mistaken man.

  *

  [502] Of which there is an English translation in 8vo.

  [503] It is entitled “The Unnoticed Theories of Servetus, a
  Dissertation addressed to the Medical Society of Stockholm. By George
  Sigmond, M.D. late of Jesus College, Cambridge, and formerly President
  of the Royal Physical Society of Edinburgh. London, 1826.” 8vo. pp.
  80.

  [504] “An Inquiry concerning that disturbed State of the Vital
  Functions, usually denominated Constitutional Irritation. By Benjamin
  Travers, F.R.S. Senior Surgeon to St. Thomas’s Hospital, and President
  of the Medico-Chirurgical and Hunterian Societies of London, &c.
  second edition. London, 1827.” 8vo.

  [505] Dr. Adam Clarke; Bibliographical Dict. vol. vi.

       *       *       *       *       *


LINES,

_On seeing in the Table Book the Signature of a brother, W. W. K._

      Where’er those well-known characters I see,
    They are, and ever will be, dear to me!
    How oft in that green field, beneath the shade
    Of beechen-boughs, whilst other youngsters play’d,
    Have I, a happy schoolboy, o’er and o’er,
    Conn’d those dear signs, which now I read once more!
    How oft, as on the daisied grass I laid,
    Full pleas’d, the W. W. K. I’ve read!--
    When once espied, how tedious ’twas to wait
    The crippled postman’s well-known shuffling gait,
    As, slowly creeping down the winding lane,
    With such a sluggish pace he onward came;
    Or if in school,--his ring no sooner heard,
    Than home, with all its sweets, to mind recurr’d;
    And whilst the letter’s page its news reveal’d,
    The gath’ring drop my boyish sight conceal’d!

      Something then whisper’d, Bill, that life begun
    So well, the same still happily would run;
    That tho’ for years the briny sea divide,
    Or be it good, or ill, that each betide,
    The same fond heart would throb in either’s breast,
    Fondness by years and stealing time increas’d!
    So, as in early days it first became,
    Shall it in riper life, be still the same,
    That by and by, when we’re together laid
    ’Neath the green moss-grown pile--it may be said,
    As lonely footsteps tow’rds our hillock turn,
    “They were in life and death together one!”

       *       *       *       *       *


DOVER PIG.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--To the fact of the underwritten narrative there are many living
witnesses of high respectability. Anatomists and philosophers may not
think it unworthy their notice, and the lovers of the marvellous will
doubtless be interested by a subject which assimilates with the taste of
all.

On the 14th of December, 1810, several considerable falls of the cliffs,
both east and westward of Dover, took place; and one of these was
attended by a fatal domestic catastrophe. A house, situated at the base
of that part of the cliffs between Moat’s Bulwark and where the Dover
Gas Company’s works are built, was buried, with its inmates, consisting
of the father, mother, and five of their children, and a sister’s child.
The father only was dug from the ruins alive. All his family perished
with the ruin of his household property.

Behind the house, which stood just clear of the cliffs’ base, in an
excavation, was a pig-sty; which, when the cliff fell, was inhabited by
a solitary and very fat hog, supposed to weigh about eight score. In the
midst of his distress, the unfortunate owner of the quadruped forgot
this animal; and when it occurred to his recollection, so much time had
passed since the accident, that the pig was numbered with the dead. In
the ensuing summer, on the evening of the 23d of May, some workmen of
the Ordnance department, going home from labour, stopped, as they had
sometimes done before, to contemplate the yet remaining ruin. While thus
engaged, a sound broke the silence of the moment. It seemed like the
feeble grunting of a hog. The men listened, and the sound was repeated,
till it ceased to be matter of doubt. One of them immediately went to
the commanding officer of the Ordnance, and returned with a party of the
miners, who set to work; and as soon as they had cleared away the chalk
from before the chasm, the incarcerated animal came staggering forth,
more like the anatomy of a pig than a living one. Its skin was covered
with a long shaggy coat: the iris had disappeared from its eyes; and the
pupils were pale, and had almost lost their colour. Nothing beyond these
particulars was apparent externally. With great attention to its
feeding, the creature recovered from its debility, and its coat fell
off, and was renewed as before. When I saw this hog in the following
November, the eyes were of a yellowish tint, and the iris only
discoverable by a faint line round the pupil; no defect showed itself in
the vision of the organ: and, but for being told that the pig before me
was the one buried alive for six months, there was nothing about it to
excite curiosity. To the owner it had been a source of great profit, by
its exhibition, during the summer season, at the neighbouring towns and
watering-places; and, finally, it ended its existence in the way usual
to its race, through the hands of the butcher.

I have stated the supposed weight of this long-buried quadruped at the
time of its incarceration, to be about eight score, or twenty stone;
when liberated, it was weighed, and had lost half of its former
quantity, being then four score. A peculiar character of the pig is--its
indiscriminate gluttony and rapid digestion. The means by which the life
of this particular animal was sustained during the long period of its
imprisonment, may be worth the consideration of the zootomist.

  I am, &c.

  _September_, 1827.

  K. B.

       *       *       *       *       *


ANECDOTES.


JURIES.

Levinz reports a case in the King’s Bench, “Foster _v._ Hawden,”
“wherein the jury, not agreeing, _cast lots_ for their verdict, and gave
it according to lot; for which, upon the motion of Levinz, the verdict
was set aside, and the jury were ordered to attend next term to be
fined.”

On an appeal of murder, reported in Coke, the killing was not denied by
the murderer, but he rested his defence upon a point of law, viz. that
the deceased had provoked him, by mocking him; and he therefore
contended that it was not murder. The judges severally delivered their
opinions, that it was murder; but the jury could not agree. They however
came to the following understanding--“That they should bring in, and
offer their verdict not guilty; and if the court disliked thereof, that
then they should all change their verdict, and find him guilty.” They
brought in a verdict of _Not Guilty_. The court demurred, and sent them
back; when, according to the above understanding, they returned again in
a few minutes with a verdict of _Guilty_.

In 1752, Owen, a bookseller, was prosecuted by the attorney-general, on
information, for a libel. The direction of the lord chief justice Lee to
the jury does not appear at full length in the State Trials, but it
seems that he “declared it as his opinion, that the jury ought to find
the defendant guilty.” The jury brought in their verdict “Not Guilty.”
The report proceeds to state, “that the jury went away; but at the
desire of the attorney-general, they were called into court again, and
asked this leading question: viz. “Gentlemen of the Jury, do you think
the evidence laid before you, of Owen’s publishing the book by selling
it, is not sufficient to convince you that the said Owen did sell this
book.” Upon which the foreman, without answering the question, said,
“Not guilty, not guilty;” and several of the jury said, “That is our
verdict, my lord, and we abide by it.” Upon which the court broke up,
and there was a prodigious shout in the hall.”


A QUESTION--MAL-APROPOS.

When Dr. Beadon was rector of Eltham, in Kent, the text he one day took
to preach from was, “Who art thou?” After reading it he made a pause,
for the congregation to reflect on the words; when a gentleman, in a
military dress, who at the instant was proceeding up the middle aisle
of the church, supposing it a question addressed to him, replied, “I,
sir, am an officer of the sixteenth regiment of foot, on a recruiting
party here; and have come to church, because I wish to be acquainted
with the neighbouring clergy and gentry.” This so deranged the divine
and astonished the congregation, that the sermon was concluded with
considerable difficulty.

       *       *       *       *       *


GLASS.

Pliny informs us, the art of making glass was accidentally discovered by
some merchants who were travelling with nitre, and stopped near a river
issuing from Mount Carmel. Not readily finding stones to rest their
kettles on, they employed some pieces of their nitre for that purpose.
The nitre, gradually dissolving by the heat of the fire, mixed with the
sand, and a transparent matter flowed, which was, in fact, glass. It is
certain that we are more indebted to chance than genius for many of the
most valuable discoveries.

       *       *       *       *       *


VARIA.

_For the Table Book._


TOMB OF KING ALFRED.

Many Englishmen, who venerate the name of Alfred, will learn, with
surprise and indignation, that the ashes of this patriot king, after
having been scattered by the rude hands of convicts, are probably
covered by a building at Winchester, erected in 1788 for the confinement
of criminals. No one in the neighbourhood was sufficiently interested
towards his remains to attempt their discovery or preservation.


OLD LAW BOOKS.

It is remarkable, that the oldest book in the German law is entitled
“Spiegel,” or the Looking-glass which answers to our “Mirror of
Justices:” it was compiled by Eckius de Reckaw, and is inserted in
Goldastus’s Collectanea. One of the ancient Icelandish books is likewise
styled “Speculum Regale.” There is also in Schrevelius’s Teutonic
Antiquities a collection of the ancient laws of Pomerania and Prussia,
under the title of “Speculum.” Surely all this cannot be the effect of
pure accident.


CURIOUS WILL OF AN ATTORNEY.

Mr. Lambe, an attorney, who died at Cambridge in the year 1800, left
about eleven hundred pounds; and directed his executors (three gentlemen
of the university) to appropriate the sum of eight hundred pounds as
they might think proper. For this arduous task he bequeathed them one
hundred pounds each.

  S. S. S.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Epitaphs.~

_For the Table Book._

    ‘_These_ tell in homely phrase who lie below.’

  BLAIR.

_In Bois Church-yard, near Chesham, Bucks._

            In Memory of
          Mrs. Elizabeth, Wife of
          Mr. Edward Pinchbeck,
        of Chesham, who departed this
      Life 1st Oct. 1781, aged 60 years.

    Here a painful head is at rest,
      Its violent throbbings are o’er;
    Her dangerous mortified breast,
      Neither throbs nor aches any more.
    Her eyes, which she seldom could close
      Without opiates to give her some rest,
    Are now most sweetly composed,
      With her whom her soul did love best.

_On a Rail in Chesham Church-yard._

  In memory of Sarah Bachelor, wife of Benjamin Bachelor, daughter of
  Joseph and Sarah Barnes, who departed this life May 23d, 1813, aged 25
  years.

These three lines are on the reverse of the rail in question:--

    My time was short not long in this world to stay God
    Summon’d me and I was snatch’d away pray God to bless
    And friends be kind to my husband and children left behind.

       *       *       *       *       *

A plain white marble slab, placed over the remains of the illustrious
Boerhaven, in St. Peter’s, Leyden, bears only these four words in black
letters.

    Salutifero Boerhavii Genio Sacrum.

  J. J. K.

       *       *       *       *       *


A FILL UP.

_For the Table Book._

There is nothing I find so difficult to fill up as my spare time. Talk
as they will about liberty, it is after all nothing but a sort of
independent _ennui_--a freedom we are better without, if we do not know
how to use it. To instance myself:--the first thing I do on the
cessation of my daily avocations, which terminate rather early, is to
throw my two legs upon one chair, and recline my back against
another--when, after a provoking yawn of most ambiguous import, I
propound to myself with great gravity--what the deuce shall I do? A
series of questions instantly occur, which are as instantly
answered--generally in the negative. Shall I read Blackstone?--no: Coke
upon Littleton?--worse still: Fearne on Contingent Remainders?--horrid
idea!--it was recommended the other day to a young friend of mine, who
before he got to the end of the first page was taken with a shivering
fit, from which he has not yet recovered--no, no; confound the law! I
had enough of that this morning--What’s to be done then? The _Table
Book_ does not come out till to-morrow--Scott’s novels (unfashionable
wretch) I don’t like,--have read the Epicurean already twenty times--and
know Byron by heart. Take up my flute, mouthpiece mislaid, and can’t
play without--determined to try, notwithstanding it should be my three
thousandth failure; accordingly, blow like a bellows for about half an
hour--can make nothing of it, suddenly stop, and throw the instrument to
the other end of the room--forgetting the glass in the bookcase, the
largest pane of which it goes through with a loud crash. Still musical,
persist in humming a favourite air I have just thought of--hit the tune
to a T, and immediately strike up a most delightful strain, beginning
“Sounds delicious,” &c., when a cry comes from the parlour, “We really
must leave the house if that horrid noise is to be continued!”--Rather
galled by this rub--begin to get angry--start up from my two chairs and
walk briskly to the fireplace--arrange my hair pettishly--then stick my
hands in my pockets, and begin to muse--glass catches my eye--neckcloth
abominably out of order, instinctively untie and tie it again--tired of
standing--sit down to my desk--commence a Sonnet to the Moon, get on
swimmingly to the fifth line, and then--a dead stop--no rhyme to be got,
and the finest idea I ever had in my life in danger of being lost--this
will never do--determined to bring it in somewhere, and after a little
alteration introduce it most satisfactorily into a poem I had begun
yesterday on Patience, till, upon reading the whole over, I find it has
nothing whatever to do with the subject; and disgusted with the failure
tear up both poem and sonnet in a tremendous rage. Still at a loss what
to do--at length I have it--got a communication for the _Table
Book_--I’ll take a walk and leave it--

  GULIELMUS.




Vol. II.--51.


~Note.~

Under severe affliction I cannot make up this sheet as I wish. This day
week my second son was brought home with his scull fractured. To-day
intelligence has arrived to me of the death of my eldest son.

The necessity I have been under of submitting recently to a surgical
operation on myself, with a long summer of sickness to every member of
my family, and accumulated troubles of earlier origin, and of another
nature, have prevented me too often from satisfying the wishes of
readers, and the claims of Correspondents. I crave that they will be
pleased to receive this, as a general apology, in lieu of particular
notices, and in the stead of promises to effect what I can no longer
hope to accomplish, and forbear to attempt.

  W. HONE.

  _December 12, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


WINTER FLOWERS.

CHRYSANTHEMUM INDICUM.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--While the praises of our wild, native, simple flowers, the
primrose, the violet, the blue bell, and daisy, as well as the blossoms
of the hawthorn, wild rose, and honey-suckle, have been said and sung in
many a pleasant bit of prose and verse in the pages of your
extra-ordinary _Every-Day Book_, as connected with the lively
descriptions given therein of many a rural sport and joyous pastime,
enjoyed by our forefathers and foremothers of the “olden time,”
particularly in that enlivening and mirth-inspiring month, sweet May;
when both young and old feel a renovation of their health and spirits,
and hail the return of sunshine, verdure, and flowers; permit me to call
the attention of such of your readers as are fond of flowers (and there
is no one, who has “music in his soul” and a taste for poetry, that is
not) to that highly interesting plant, the Indian Chrysanthemum, which
serves, by its gay blossoms, to cheer the gloom, and enliven the sadness
of those dreary months, November and December.

Since the introduction of the Camellia and the Dahlia, I know of no
plant that produces so striking an effect upon the sight as the
Chrysanthemum. We have now about forty distinct varieties of it in the
country, for the greater part of which we are indebted to the London
Horticultural Society. Many of the flowers are much larger than the
largest full-blown Provence rose, highly aromatic, and of extremely
bright, vivid, and varied colours; as white, yellow, copper, red, and
purple, of all the different gradations of tint, and several of those
colours mixed and blended. Some very fine specimens of this flower have
been exhibited at the society’s rooms and greenhouse. Nothing, in my
opinion, could equal their beauty and splendour; not even the well-known
collection of carnations and foreign picotées of my neighbour, Mr. Hogg,
the florist.

This flower gives a very gay appearance to the conservatory and the
greenhouse at this season of the year, when there is hardly another in
blossom; and it may also be introduced into the parlour and
drawing-room; for it flowers freely in small sized pots of forty-eight
and thirty-two to the cast, requires no particular care, is not
impatient of cold, and is easily propagated by dividing the roots, or by
cuttings placed under a hand-glass in the months of May or June, which
will bloom the following autumn, for it is prodigal of its flowers; the
best method is to leave only one flowering stem in a pot.

The facility with which it is propagated will always make the price
moderate, and render it attainable by any one; there is much
dissimilarity in the form of the flowers, as well as in the formation of
the petals--some flowers are only half spread, and have the appearance
of tassels, while others are expanded fully, like the Chinese aster;
some petals are quilled, some half quilled, some are flat and
lanceolated, some crisped and curled, and others are in an imbricated
form, decreasing in length towards the centre. There is also some
variation in their time of flowering, some come much earlier than
others.

This plant is not a stranger to the country, for it was introduced about
thirty-five years ago; but the splendid varieties, of which I am
speaking, are new, having been brought hither, mostly from China, by the
Horticultural Society within these four or five years; and as the
society has made a liberal distribution of plants and cuttings to the
different nurserymen and florists round London, who are members thereof,
they can now be easily obtained. There is little chance of its ever
ripening its seed, from its coming into flower at the commencement of
winter, so that we can only look for fresh varieties from India or
China.

In conclusion, I will just note down a few that particularly engaged my
attention, namely:--

The pure or large paper white.

The large white, with yellow tinged flowerets, or petals round the disk
or centre.

The early blush.

The golden lotus.

The superb clustered yellow.

The starry purple.

The bright red, approaching to scarlet.

And the brown, red, and purple blended.

  I remain, sir, &c.

  JERRY BLOSSOM.

  _Paddington,_

  _December._

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XLIV.

  [From “Blurt, Master Constable:” a Comedy by T. Middleton, 1602.]

_Lover kept awake by Love._

    Ah! how can I sleep? he, who truly loves,
    Burns out the day in idle fantasies;
    And when the lamb bleating doth bid good night
    Unto the closing day, then tears begin
    To keep quick time unto the owl, whose voice
    Shrieks like the bellman in the lover’s ears:
    Love’s eye the jewel of sleep oh! seldom wears.
    The early lark is waken’d from her bed,
    Being only by Love’s plaints disquieted;
    And singing in the morning’s ear she weeps,
    Being deep in love, at Lovers’ broken sleeps.
    But say a golden slumber chance to tie
    With silken strings the cover of Love’s eye;
    Then dreams, magician-like, mocking present
    Pleasures, whose fading leaves more discontent.

_Violetta comes to seek her Husband at the house of a Curtizan._

_Violetta.--Imperia, the Curtizan._

  _Vio._ By your leave, sweet Beauty, pardon my excuse, which sought
  entrance into this house: good Sweetness, have you not a Property
  here, improper to your house; my husband?

  _Imp._ Hah! your husband here?

  _Vio._ Nay, be as you seem to be, White Dove, without gall. Do not
  mock me, fairest Venetian. Come, I know he is here. I do not blame
  him, for your beauty gilds over his error. ’Troth, I am right glad
  that you, my Countrywoman, have received the pawn of his affections.
  You cannot be hardhearted, loving him; nor hate me, for I love him
  too. Since we both love him, let us not leave him, till we have called
  home the ill husbandry of a sweet Straggler. Prithee, good wench, use
  him well.

  _Imp._ So, so, so--

  _Vio._ If he deserve not to be used well (as I’d be loth he should
  deserve it), I’ll engage myself, dear Beauty, to thine honest heart:
  give me leave to love him, and I’ll give him a kind of leave to love
  thee. I know he hears me. I prithee try my eyes, if they know him;
  that have almost drowned themselves in their own saltwater, because
  they cannot see him. In troth, I’ll not chide him. If I speak words
  rougher than soft kisses, my penance shall be to see him kiss thee,
  yet to hold my peace.

    Good Partner, lodge me in thy private bed;
    Where, in supposed folly, he may end
    Determin’d Sin. Thou smilest. I know thou wilt.
    What looseness may term dotage,--truly read,
    Is Love ripe-gather’d, not soon withered.

_Imp._ Good troth, pretty Wedlock, thou makest my little eyes smart with
washing themselves in brine. I mar such a sweet face!--and wipe off that
dainty red! and make Cupid toll the bell for your love-sick heart!--no,
no, no--if he were Jove’s own ingle Ganymede--fie, fie, fie--I’ll none.
Your Chamber-fellow is within. Thou shalt enjoy him.

_Vio_. Star of Venetian Beauty, thanks!

       *       *       *       *       *

  [From “Hoffman’s Tragedy, or Revenge for a Father,” 1631. Author
  Unknown.]

_The Sons of the Duke of Saxony run away with Lucibel, the Duke of
Austria’s Daughter.--The two Dukes, in separate pursuit of their
children, meet at the Cell of a Hermit: in which Hermit, Saxony
recognises a banished Brother; at which surprised, all three are
reconciled._

      _Austria._ That should be Saxon’s tongue.
      _Saxony._ Indeed I am the Duke of Saxony.
      _Austria._ Then thou art father to lascivious sons,
    That have made Austria childless.
      _Saxony._ Oh subtle Duke,
    Thy craft appears in framing the excuse.
    Thou dost accuse my young sons’ innocence.
    I sent them to get knowledge, learn the tongues,
    Not to be metamorphosed with the view
    Of flattering Beauty--peradventure painted.
      _Austria._ No, I defy thee, John of Saxony.
    My Lucibel for beauty needs no art;
    Nor, do I think, the beauties of her mind
    Ever inclin’d to this ignoble course,
    But by the charms and forcings of thy sons.
      _Saxony._ O would thou would’st maintain thy words, proud Duke!
      _Hermit._ I hope, great princes, neither of you dare
    Commit a deed so sacrilegious.
    This holy Cell
    Is dedicated to the Prince of Peace.
    The foot of man never profan’d this floor;
    Nor doth wrath here with his consuming voice
    Affright these buildings. Charity with Prayer,
    Humility with Abstinence combined,
    Are here the guardians of a grieved mind.
      _Austria._ Father, we obey thy holy voice.
    Duke John of Saxony, receive my faith;
    Till our ears hear the true course, which thy sons
    Have taken with me fond and misled child,
    I proclaim truce. Why dost thou sullen stand?
    If thou mean peace, give me thy princely hand.
      _Saxony._ Thus do I plight thee truth, and promise peace.
      _Austria._ Nay, but thy eyes agree not with thy heart.
    In vows of combination there’s a grace,
    That shews th’ intention in the outward face.
    Look chearfully, or I expect no league.
      _Saxony._ First give me leave to view awhile the person
    Of this Hermit.--Austria, view him well.
    Is he not like my brother Roderic?
      _Austria._ He’s like him. But I heard, he lost his life
    Long since in Persia by the Sophy’s wars.
      _Hermit._ I heard so much, my Lord. But that report
    Was purely feign’d; spread by my erring tongue,
    As double as my heart, when I was young.
    I am that Roderic, that aspired thy throne;
    That vile false brother, that with rebel breath,
    Drawn sword, and treach’rous heart, threaten’d your death.
      _Saxony._ My brother!--nay then i’ faith, old John lay by
    Thy sorrowing thoughts; turn to thy wonted vein,
    And be mad John of Saxony again.
    Mad Roderic, art alive?--my mother’s son,
    Her joy, and her last birth!--oh, she conjured me
    To use thee thus; [_embracing him_] and yet I banish’d thee.--
    Body o’ me! I was unkind, I know;
    But thou deservd’st it then: but let it go.
    Say thou wilt leave this life, thus truly idle,
    And live a Statesman; thou shalt share in reign,
    Commanding all but me thy Sovereign.
      _Hermit._ I thank your Highness; I will think on it
    But for my sins this sufferance is more fit.
      _Saxony._ Tut, tittle tattle, tell not me of sin.--
    Now, Austria, once again thy princely hand:
    I’ll look thee in the face, and smile; and swear.
    If any of my sons have wrong’d thy child,
    I’ll help thee in revenging it myself.
    But if, as I believe, they mean but honour,
    (As it appeareth by these Jousts proclaim’d),
    Then thou shalt be content to name[506] him thine,
    And thy fair daughter I’ll account as mine.
      _Austria._ Agreed.
      _Saxony._ Ah, Austria! ’twas a world, when you and I
    Ran these careers; but now we are stiff and dry.
      _Austria._ I’m glad you are so pleasant, good my Lord.
      _Saxony._ ’Twas my old mood: but I was soon turn’d sad,
    With over-grieving for this long lost Lad,--
    And now the Boy is grown as old as I;
    His very face as full of gravity.

  C. L.

  [506] By one of the Duke’s sons (her Lover) in honour of Lucibel.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Discoveries~

OF THE

ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

No. XV.


ANCIENT SURGERY.

Mr. Bernard, principal surgeon to king William, affirms respecting
ancient surgical skill as follows:--

There is no doubt but the perfection to which surgery has been carried
in these last ages, is principally owing to the discoveries which have
been made in anatomy. But the art of curing wounds, to which all the
other parts ought to give way, remains almost in the same state in which
the ancients transmitted it to us.

Celsus and other ancients have described a mode of operating for the
stone, although it must be owned that a method, deserving the preference
in many respects, and known by the name of _magnus apparatus_ or _the
grand operation_, was the invention of Johannes de Romanis, of Cremona,
who lived at Rome in the year 1520, and published his work at Venice in
1535. The instrument that we make use of in trepanning was doubtless
first used by the ancients, and only rendered more perfect by Woodall
and Fabricius. Tapping, likewise, is in all respects an invention of
theirs. Laryngotomy, or the opening of the larynx in the quinsey, was
practised by them with success; an operation which, though safe and
needful, is out of use at present. Galen, in particular, supported by
reason, experience, and the authority of Asclepiades, justly applauds it
as the ultimate resource in the case of a quinsey. _Hernia intestalis_,
with the distinguishing differences of the several species of that
malady, and their method of cure, are exactly described by the ancients.
They also cured the pterygion and cataract, and treated the maladies of
the eye as judiciously as modern oculists. The opening of an artery and
of the jugular vein is no more a modern invention, than the application
of the ligature in the case of an aneurism, which was not well
understood by Frederic Ruysch, the celebrated anatomist of Holland. The
extirpation of the amygdales, or of the uvula, is not at all a late
invention, though it must be owned the efficacious cauteries now used in
the case of the former, were neither practised nor known by the
ancients. The method we now use of treating the fistula lacrymalis, a
cure so nice and difficult, is precisely that of the ancients, with the
addition that Fabricius made of the cannula for applying the cautery. As
to the real caustic, which makes a considerable article in surgery,
although Costeus, Fienus, and Severinus have written amply on that
subject, yet it is evident from a single aphorism of Hippocrates, that
this great physician knew the use of it as well as those who have come
after him: and besides, it is frequently spoken of in the writings of
all the other ancients, who without doubt used it with great success in
many cases where we have left it off, or know not how to apply it. The
cure of the _varices_ by incision appears, from the works of Celsus and
Paulus Eginetus, to have been a familiar practice among the ancients.
The ancients describe the mode of curing the polypus of the ear, a
malady little understood by the moderns. They were likewise well
acquainted with all kind of fractures and luxations, and the means of
remedying them; as well as with all the sorts of sutures in use among
us, besides many we have lost. The various amputations of limbs,
breasts, &c. were performed among them as frequently and with as great
success as we can pretend to. As to the art of bandaging, the ancients
knew it so well, and to such a degree of perfection, that we have not
added any thing considerable to what Galen taught in his excellent tract
on that subject. As to remedies externally applied, we are indebted to
them for having instructed us in the nature and properties of those we
now use; and in general methods of cure, particularly of wounds of the
head, the moderns, who have written most judiciously upon it, thought
they could do no better service to posterity, than comment upon that
admirable book which Hippocrates wrote on this subject.


ANCIENT CHEMISTRY.

It is agreed almost by all, that chemistry was first cultivated in
Egypt, the country of Cham, of whom it is supposed primarily to have
taken its name, Χημεῑα, _Chemia, sive Chamia_, the science of Cham.
Tubal-Cain, and those who with him found out the way of working in brass
and iron, must have been able chemists; for it was impossible to work
upon these metals, without first knowing the art of digging them out of
the mine, of excavating them, and of refining and separating them from
the ore.


_Potable Gold._

From the story of the golden fleece, the golden apples that grew in the
gardens of the Hesperides, and the reports of Manethon and Josephus with
relation to Seth’s pillars, deductions have been made in favour of the
translation of metals; but to come to real and established facts, it
appears that Moses broke the golden calf, reduced it into powder, to be
mingled with water, and gave it to the Israelites to drink: in one word,
he rendered gold potable.

It was objected within a century, that this operation was impracticable,
and by some it was affirmed as having been impossible. But the famous
Joel Langelotte affirms in his works, that gold may be entirely
dissolved by attrition alone; and the ingenious Homberg assures us, that
by pounding for a long while certain metals, and even gold itself, in
_plain water_, those bodies have been so entirely dissolved as to become
potable. Frederic III., king of Denmark, being curious to ascertain the
fact, engaged some able chemists of his time to attempt it. After many
trials they at last succeeded, but it was in following the method of
Moses; by first of all reducing the gold into small parts by means of
fire, and then pounding it in a mortar with water, till it was so far
dissolved as to become potable. This fact is unquestionable; and
probably Moses, who was instructed in all the learning of the Egyptians,
became acquainted with the method from that ancient and erudite people,
from whom the most eminent philosophers of Greece derived their
knowledge.


_Mummies._

The art of embalming bodies, and of preserving them for many ages, never
could have been carried so far as it was by the Egyptians, without the
greatest skill in chemistry. Yet all the essays to restore it have
proved ineffectual; reiterated analyses of mummies have failed to
discover the ingredients of which they were composed. There were also,
in those mummies of Egypt, many things besides, which fall within the
verge of chemistry: such as their gilding,[507] so very fresh, as if it
were but of fifty years’ standing; and their stained silk, vivid in its
colours at the end of three thousand years. In the British Museum there
is a mummy covered all over with fillets of granulated glass, various in
colour, which shows that at that time they understood not only the
making of glass, but could paint it to their liking. These glass
ornaments are tinged with the same colours, and set off in the same
taste, as the dyes in which almost all other mummies are painted.


_Painting on Cloth._

Their manner of painting upon linen was, by first drawing upon it the
outlines of the design, and then filling each compartment of it with
different sorts of gums, proper to absorb the various colours; so that
none of them could be distinguished from the whiteness of the cloth.
They then dipped it for a moment in a caldron full of boiling liquor
prepared for the purpose; and drew it thence, painted in all the colours
they intended. These colours neither decayed by time, nor moved in the
washing; the caustic impregnating the liquor wherein it was dipped,
having penetrated and fixed every colour intimately through the whole
contexture of the cloth.


_Imitation of Precious Stones._

The preceding instance is sufficient to prove that chemistry had made
great progress among the Egyptians. History affords similar instances of
extraordinary attainment by this wonderful people, who were so ingenious
and industrious, that even their lame, blind, and maimed were in
constant employment. With all this, they were so noble-minded, as to
inscribe their discoveries in the arts and sciences upon pillars reared
in holy places, in order to omit nothing that might contribute to the
public utility. The emperor Adrian attests this in a letter to the
consul Servianus, upon presenting him with three curious cups of glass,
which, like a pigeon’s neck, reflected, on whatever side they were
viewed, a variety of colours, representing those of the precious stone
called _obsidianum_, and which some commentators have imagined to be
_cat’s-eye_, and others the opal. In this art of imitating precious
stones, the Greeks, who derived their knowledge from the Egyptians, were
also very skilful. They could give to a composition of crystal all the
different tints of any precious stone they wanted to imitate. They
remarkably excelled in an exact imitation of the ruby, the hyacinth, the
emerald, and the sapphire.


_Gold--Nitre--Artificial Hatching, &c._

Diodorus Siculus says, that some of the Egyptian kings had the art of
extracting gold from a sort of white marble. Strabo reports their manner
of preparing nitre, and mentions the considerable number of mortars of
granite, for chemical purposes, that were to be seen in his time at
Memphis. They likewise, by artificial means, hatched the eggs of hens,
geese, and other fowls, at all seasons.


_Medical Chemistry._

Egyptian pharmacy depended much upon chemistry; witness their extracted
oils, and their preparations of opium, for alleviating acute pains, or
relieving the mind from melancholy thoughts. Homer introduces Helen as
ministering to Telemachus a medical preparation of this kind. They also
made a composition or preparation of clay or fuller’s earth, adapted to
the relief of many disorders, particularly where it was requisite to
render the fleshy parts dry, as in dropsy, &c. They had different
methods of composing salts, nitre, and alum, sal cyrenaïc or ammoniac,
so called from being found in the environs of the temple of Jupiter
Ammon. They made use of the litharge of silver, the rust of iron, and
calcined alum, in the cure of ulcers, cuts, boils, defluctions of the
eyes, pains of the head, &c.; and of pitch against the bite of serpents.
They successfully applied caustics. They knew every different way of
preparing plants, or herbs, or grain, whether for medicine or beverage.
Beer, in particular, had its origin among them. Their unguents were of
the highest estimation, and most lasting; and their use of remedies,
taken from metallic substances, is so manifest in the writings of Pliny
and Dioscorides, that it would be needless, and indeed tedious, to enter
upon them. The latter especially often mentions their metallic
preparations of burnt lead, ceruse, verdigrise, and burnt antimony, for
plasters and other external applications.

All these chemical preparations the Egyptians were acquainted with in
their pharmacy. The subsequent practice of the Greeks and Romans
presents a field too vast to be observed on. Hippocrates, the
contemporary and friend of Democritus, was remarkably assiduous in the
cultivation of chemistry. He not only understood its general principles,
but was an adept in many of its most useful parts. Galen knew that the
energy of fire might be applied to many useful purposes; and that, by
the instrumentality of it, many secrets in nature were to be discovered,
which otherwise must for ever lie hid; and he instances this in several
places of his works. Dioscorides has transmitted to us many of the
mineral operations of the ancients, and in particular that of extracting
quicksilver from cinnabar; which is, in effect, an exact description of
distillation.

  [507] The ancients also understood gilding with beaten, or water
  gold.--Æs inaurari argento vivo, legitimum erat. Plin. Hist. Natur.
  lib. xxxiii. c. 3. Vitruv. lib. vii. c. 8.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


TALES OF TINMOUTHE PRIORIE.

No. II.


THE WIZARD’S CAVE.

    “Here never shines the sun; here nothing breeds
    Unless the nightly owl, or fatal raven.
    And when they shewed me this abhorred pit,
    They told me, here, at dead time of night,
    A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes,
    Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins,
    Would make such fearful and confused cries,
    As any mortal body, hearing it,
    Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly.”

  _Titus Andronicus._

    Young Walter, the son of Sir Robert the Knight,
    Far fam’d for his valour in border-fight,
    Sat prattling so sweet on his mother’s knee,
    As his arms twin’d her neck of pure ivory.

    Now tell me, dear mother, young Walter said,
    Some feat to be done by the bow or the blade,
    Where foe may be quell’d or some charm be undone;
    Or lady, or treasure, or fame may be won.

    The lady, she gaz’d on her war-born child,
    And smooth’d down his ringlets, and kiss’d him, and smil’d;
    And she told him high deeds of the Percy brave,
    Where the lance e’er could pierce, or the helm-plume wave.

    And she told wild tales, all of magic spell,
    Where treasures were hidden in mountain or dell;
    Where wizards, for ages, kept beauty in thrall
    ’Neath the mould’ring damp of their dank donjon wall.

    ------But list thee, my Walter, by Tinmouthe’s towers grey,
    Where chant the cowl’d monks all by night and by day;
    In a cavern of rock scoop’d under the sea,
    Lye treasures in keeping of Sorcery.

    It avails not the Cross, ever sainted and true,
    It avails not the pray’rs of the prior Sir Hugh,
    It avails not, O dread! Holy Virgin’s care,
    Great treasure long held by dark Sathan is there.

    Far, far ’neath the sea, in a deep rocky cell,
    Bound down by the chains of the strongest spell,
    Lies the key of gold countless as sands on the shore,
    And there it will rest ’till old time is no more.

    Nay, say not so, mother, can heart that is bold
    Not win from the fiend all this ill-gotten gold?
    Can no lion-soul’d knight, with his harness true,
    Do more than cowl’d monks with their beads e’er can do?

    Now hush thee young Walter, how like to thy sire!
    Thy heart is too reckless, thine eye full of fire:
    When reason with courage can help thee in need,
    I will tell how the treasure from spell may be freed.

    Full many a long summer with scented breath,
    Saw the flowers blossom wild on the north mountain heath;
    And the fleetest in chase and the stoutest in fight,
    Grew young Walter, the son of Sir Robert the Knight.

    Full many a long winter of sleet and of snow,
    Swept through the cold valleys where pines only grow;
    But heedless of sleet, snow, or howling blast,
    Young Walter e’er brav’d them, the first and the last.

    Who is that young knight in the Percy’s band?
    Who wieldeth the falchion with master hand?
    Who strideth the war-steed in border fight?
    ----’Tis Walter, the son of Sir Robert the Knight!

    Thy promise, dear mother, I claim from thee now,
    When my reason can act with my blade and my bow;
    But the lady she wept o’er bold Walter her son,
    For peril is great where renown can be won.

    And the lady she told what to brave knights befell,
    Who reckless of life sought the dark treasure cell;
    Who failing to conquer the fiends of the cave,
    For ever must dwell ’neath the green ocean wave.

    No tears the bold bent of young Walter could turn,
    And he laugh’d at her fears, as in veriest scorn--
    ---- Then prepare thy good harness, my bonny brave son,
    Prepare for thy task on the eve of Saint John.

    O loud was the green ocean’s howling din,
    When the eve of Saint John was usher’d in:
    And the shrieks of the sea-gulls, high whirling in air,
    Spread far o’er the land like the screams of despair.

    The monks at their vespers sing loud and shrill,
    But the gusts of the north wind are louder still
    And the hymn to the Virgin is lost in the roar
    Of the billows that foam on the whiten’d shore.

    Deep sinks the mail’d heel of the knight in the sand,
    As he seeks the dark cell, arm’d with basnet and brand;
    And clank rings the steel of his aventayle bright,
    As he springs up the rocks in the darkness of night.

    His plume it is raven and waves o’er his crest,
    And quails not the heart-blood that flows in his breast:
    Unblenched his proud eye that shines calm and serene,
    And floats in the storm his bright mantel of green.

    Now leaping, now swarving the slipp’ry steep,
    One spring and the knight gains the first cavern keep;
    The lightnings flash round him with madd’ning glare,
    And the thunderbolts hiss through the midnight air.

    Down deep in the rock winds the pathway drear,
    And the yells of the spirits seem near and more near,
    And the flames from their eye-balls burn ghastly blue
    As they dance round the knight with a wild halloo.

    Fierce dragons with scales of bright burnished brass,
    Stand belching red fire where the warrior must pass;
    But rushes he on with his brand and his shield,
    And with loud shrieks of laughter they vanish and yield.

    Huge hell-dogs come baying with murd’rous notes,
    Sulphureous flames in their gaping throats;
    And they spring to, but shrinks not, brave Walter the Knight,
    And again all is sunk in the darkness of night.

    Still down winds the warrior in pathway of stone,
    Now menac’d with spirits, now dark and alone;
    Till far in the gloom of the murky air
    A pond’rous lamp sheds unearthly glare.

    Then eager the knight presses on to the flame,
    Holy mother!--Why shudders his stalwart frame?
    A wide chasm opes ’neath his wond’ring view,
    And now what availeth his falchion true.

    Loudly the caverns with laughter ring,
    And the eyeless spectres forward spring:
    Now shrive thee young Walter, one moment of fear,
    And thy doom is to dwell ’neath the ocean drear.

    One instant Sir Walter looks down from the brink
    Of the bottomless chasm, then ceases to shrink;
    Doffs hauberk and basnet, full fearless and fast,
    And darts like an eagle the hell-gulf past.

    Forefend thee, good knight, but the demon fell
    Now rises to crush thee from nethermost hell;
    And monsters most horrible hiss thee around,
    And coil round thy limbs from the slimy ground.

    A noise, as if worlds in dire conflict crash,
    Is heard ’mid the vast ocean’s billowy splash;
    But it quails not the heart of Sir Robert’s brave son,
    He will conquer the fiend on the eve of Saint John.

    He seizes the bugle with golden chain,
    To sound it aloud once, twice, and again;
    It turns to a snake in his startled grasp,
    And its mouthpiece is arm’d with the sting of the asp.

    In vain is hell’s rage, strike fierce as it may
    The Wizard well knows ’tis the end of his sway;
    For the bugle is fill’d with the warrior’s breath,
    And thrice sounded loud in the caverns of death.

    The magic cock crows from a brazen bill,
    And it shakes its broad wings, as it shouts so shrill
    And down sinks in lightning the demon array,
    And the gates of the cavern in thunder give way.

    Twelve pillars of jasper their columns uprear,
    Twelve stately pillars of crystal clear,
    With topaz and amethyst, sparkles the floor,
    And the bright beryls stud the thick golden door.

    Twelve golden lamps, from the fretted doom,
    Shed a radiant light through the cavern gloom,
    Twelve altars of onyx their incense fling
    Round the jewell’d throne of an eastern king.

    It may not be sung what treasures were seen,
    Gold heap’d upon gold, and emeralds green,
    And diamonds, and rubies, and sapphires untold,
    Rewarded the courage of Walter the Bold.

    A hundred strong castles, a hundred domains,
    With far spreading forests and wide flowery plains,
    Claim one for their lord, fairly purchas’d by right,
    Hight Walter, the son of Sir Robert the Knight.

       *       *       *       *       *

The tradition of the “_Wizard’s Cave_” is as familiar to the inhabitants
and visitors of Tynemouth, as “household words.” Daily, during the
summer season, even fair damsels are seen risking their slender necks,
to ascertain, by adventurous exploration, whether young Walter the
knight might not, in his hurry, have passed over some of the treasures
of the cave: but alas! Time on this, as on other things, has laid his
heavy hand; for the falling in of the rock and earth, and peradventure
the machinations of the discomfited “spirits,” have, one or both,
stopped up the dark passage of the cavern at the depth of ten or twelve
feet. The entrance of the cave, now well known by the name of “_Jingling
Geordie’s Hole_,” is partly formed by the solid rock and partly by
masonry, and can be reached with some little danger about half way up
the precipitous cliff on which Tynemouth castle and priory stand. It
commands a beautiful haven, or sandy bay, on the north of Tynemouth
promontory, badly sheltered on both sides by fearful beds of black
rocks, on which the ocean beats with a perpetual murmur.

  Αλφα

  _London, Dec. 4, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


PERSONS OF DISTINCTION.


UPRIGHTNESS IN DEATH.

Of German pride we have the following extraordinary anecdote:--A German
lord left orders in his will not to be interred, but that he might be
enclosed upright in a pillar, which he had ordered to be hollowed, and
fastened to a post in the parish, in order to prevent any peasant or
slave from walking over his body.


TAKING A LIBERTY.

The most singular instance of British pride is related of a man, known
in his time by the name of the “Proud Duke of Somerset.” This pillar of
“the Corinthian capital of polished society” married a second wife. One
day, with an affectionate ease, she suddenly threw her arm round his
neck, and fondly saluted him. “Madam,” said the unmanly peer, “my first
wife was a Percy, and _she_ would not have taken such a liberty.”


ROYAL DINNER TIME.

The kham of the Tartars, who had not a house to dwell in, who subsisted
by rapine, and lived on mare’s milk and horse-flesh, every day after his
repast, caused a herald to proclaim, “That the kham having dined, all
other potentates, princes, and great men of the earth, might go to
dinner.”


SELF-ESTEEM.

Some Frenchmen, who had landed on the coast of Guinea, found a <DW64>
prince seated under a tree, on a block of wood for his throne, and three
or four <DW64>s, armed with wooden pikes, for his guards. His sable
majesty anxiously inquired, “Do they talk much of me in France?”


GUINEA SOVEREIGNS.

The different tribes on the coast of Guinea have each their king, whose
power is not greater than that of the <DW64> prince mentioned in the
preceding anecdote. These monarchs often name themselves after ours, or
adopt the titles of great men, whose exploits they have heard of.

In the year 1743, there was among them a “King William,” whose august
spouse called herself “Queen Anne.” There was another who styled himself
the “Duke of Marlborough.”

This king William was a little Cæsar. For twenty years he had carried on
a war against one Martin, who had dared to attempt to become his equal.
At length, after a famous and decisive general engagement, wherein
William lost three men, and his rival five, Martin made overtures for a
cessation of hostilities, which was agreed to, on the following
conditions:

1. That Martin should renounce the title of king, and assume that of
captain.

2. That captain Martin should never more put on stockings or slippers
when he went on board European ships, but that this brilliant
distinction should thenceforth solely belong to king William.

3. That captain Martin should give the conqueror his most handsome
daughter in marriage.

In pursuance of this glorious treaty, the nuptials were solemnized, and
king William went on board a Danish ship in stockings and slippers,
where he bought silk to make a robe for his queen, and a grenadier’s cap
for her majesty’s headdress. Captain Martin paid a visit of ceremony to
his royal daughter on occasion of her finery, and declared she never
appeared so handsome before. This wedding ended a feud, which had
divided the sable tribe into combatants as sanguinary and ferocious as
the partisans of the white and red rose in England.


TITLES.

Until the reign of Constantine, the title of “Illustrious” was never
given but to those whose reputation was splendid in arms or in letters.
Suetonius wrote an account of those who had possessed this title. As it
was _then_ bestowed, a moderate book was sufficient to contain their
names; nor was it continued to the descendants of those on whom it had
been conferred. From the time of Constantine it became very common, and
every son of a prince was “illustrious.”

Towards the decline of the Roman empire the emperors styled themselves
“divinities!” In 404, Arcadius and Honorius issued the following
decree:--

“Let the officers of the palace be warned to abstain from frequenting
tumultuous meetings; and those who, instigated by a _sacrilegious_
temerity, dare to oppose the authority of _our divinity_, shall be
deprived of their employments, and their estates confiscated.” The
letters of these emperors were called “holy.” When their sons spoke of
them, they called them--“Their father of _divine_ memory;” or “Their
_divine_ father.” They called their own laws “oracles,” and “celestial
oracles.” Their subjects addressed them by the titles of “Your
Perpetuity, Your Eternity.” A law of Theodore the Great ordains
thus--“If any magistrate, after having concluded a public work, put his
name rather than that of _Our Perpetuity_, let him be judged guilty of
high treason.”

De Meunier observes, that the titles which some chiefs assume are not
always honourable in themselves, but it is sufficient if the people
respect them. The king of Quiterva calls himself the “Great Lion;” and
for this reason lions are there so much respected, that it is not
permitted to kill them, except at royal huntings.

The principal officers of the empire of Mexico were distinguished by the
odd titles of “Princes of unerring javelins;” “Hackers of men;” and
“Drinkers of blood.”

The king of Monomotapa, surrounded by musicians and poets, is adulated
by such refined flatteries, as “Lord of the Sun and Moon;” “Great
Magician;” and “Great Thief!”

The king of Arracan assumes the title of “Emperor of Arracan; Possessor
of the White Elephant, and the two Ear-rings, and in virtue of this
possession, legitimate heir of Pegu and Brama, Lord of the twelve
provinces of Bengal; and of the twelve Kings who place their heads under
his feet.”

His majesty of Ava, when he writes to a foreign sovereign, calls
himself--“The King of Kings, whom all others should obey; the Cause of
the Preservation of all Animals; the Regulator of the Seasons; the
Absolute Master of the Ebb and Flow of the Sea; Brother to the Sun; and
King of the Four and Twenty Umbrellas.” These umbrellas are always
carried before him as a mark of his dignity.

The titles of the king of Achem are singular and voluminous. These are a
few of the most striking:--“Sovereign of the Universe, whose body is
luminous as the sun; whom God created to be as accomplished as is the
moon at her plenitude; whose eye glitters like the northern star; a King
as spiritual as a ball is round--who when he rises shades all his
people--from under whose feet a sweet odour is wafted, &c. &c.”

Formerly (says Houssaie) the title of “Highness” was only given to
kings. It was conferred on Ferdinand, king of Arragon, and his queen
Isabella, of Castile. Charles V. was the first who took that of
“Majesty;” not in quality of king of Spain, but as emperor.

Our English kings were apostrophized by the title of “Your Grace.” Henry
VIII. was the first who assumed the title of “Highness,” and at length
“Majesty.” Francis I. began to give him this last title, in their
interview in the year 1520. Our first “_Sacred_ Majesty” was our “Most
dread Sovereign, His Highness, the Most High and Mighty Prince, James
I.”


THE GREAT TURK.

This designation of the sovereign of the Ottoman empire was not
conferred, as some have imagined, to distinguish him from his subjects.
Mahomet II. was the first Turkish emperor on whom the Christians
bestowed the title of “The Great Turk.” The distinction was not in
consequence of his noble deeds, but from the vast extent of his
territories, in comparison of those of the sultan of Iconia, or
Cappadocia, his contemporary, who was distinguished by the title of “The
Little Turk.” After the taking of Constantinople, Mahomet II. deprived
“The Little Turk” of his dominions, yet he still preserved the title of
“The Great Turk,” though the propriety of it was destroyed by the event.

       *       *       *       *       *


AN INSCRIPTION,

_Said to have been dug out of the Ruins of a Palace at Rome._

Under this monument repose the ashes of DOMITIAN, the last of the
Cæsars, the fourth scourge of Rome; a tyrant, no less deliberate than
Tiberius, no less capricious than Caligula, and no less outrageous than
Nero.

When satiated with issuing edicts to spill human blood, he found an
amusement in stabbing flies with a bodkin.

His reign, though undisturbed by war, occasioned no less calamity to his
country than would have happened from the loss of twenty battles.

He was magnificent from vanity, affable from avarice, and implacable
from cowardice.

He flattered incessantly the soldiery, who governed him, and detested
the senate, who caressed him.

He insulted his country by his laws, heaven by his impiety, and nature
by his pleasures.

While living, he was deified; and the assassins alone, whom his empress
had sent to despatch him, could convince him of his mortality.

This monster governed during fifteen years; yet the administration of
Titus, the delight of humankind, was confined to two.

Ye passengers! who read this inscription, blaspheme not the Gods!

       *       *       *       *       *


DICKEY FLETCHER.

_To the Editor._

I hastily transcribe the following, originally written for the Hull
Advertiser, and printed in that paper for September 27, 1827, and
subsequently in some of the London and provincial newspapers.

On Saturday, September 22, 1827, the inhabitants and visitants of
Bridlington Quay, by a fatal accident, were suddenly deprived of the
services of Richard Fletcher, the facetious and well-known bellman of
that place, whose singular appearance, rhyming propensity, peculiar
manner of pronunciation, and drawling and general originality, have so
long been a source of amusement. In the forenoon of the above-mentioned
day he was following his usual vocation, with that accustomed gaiety and
cheerfulness for which he was remarkable, when having occasion to call
at the lodging-house of Mr. Gray, he accidentally fell down the steps of
a cellar-kitchen and broke his neck. The death of “poor Dickey,” and the
shocking manner in which it occurred, excited much commiseration. The
deceased was seventy-nine years of age, and left a widow at the age of
eighty-nine, the relict of a former bellman, to whom he had been united
about four years--during which period the antiquated pair formed a
striking pattern of attachment. Dickey was a freeman of Hull, and the
manner in which he made up his mind to vote for a candidate is deserving
of mention. In the event of a contested election he was uniformly for
the “third man;” as, he would say, “the other two would not think of
looking after _me_, but for _him_.”

A specimen of Dickey’s rhyming eccentricities appeared in the Hull
Advertiser of August 5th, 1825; a copy of which, and the paragraph
accompanying it, is here given:--

“The company at Bridlington Quay are often highly amused by that
eccentric little creature, yclep’d ‘the bellman.’ He is quite a
lion;--being a poet as well as a crier. His poetry is uncommonly
original, and if his pronunciation, when _improvising_, be not so too,
it is uncommonly _Yorkshire_, which is as good. The following lines are
a very faithful imitation of the ‘cry’ this singular-looking being
drawled forth on Saturday morning, July 30:--

    ‘Tack’n oop this forenoon a pod noarth sans
    Two keyes, wich I ev i’ my ans;--
    Wo-hever as lost ’um mus coom te mea,
    An they sal ev ’um agean an we can agrea.’”

“Dickey’s late marriage was one of the ‘largest and the funniest’ known
in Bridlington for a long time; a barouche and pair were gratuitously
provided on the occasion, as well as a wedding-dinner and other _et
cæteras_. Since ‘they twain became one flesh,’ Dickey has been very
proud of walking abroad, at fair times and public occasions, with ‘his
better part,’ when they generally formed objects of considerable
attraction to those to whom they were not particularly known.”

  T. C.

  _Bridlington, October, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


ANOTHER ODD SIGN.[508]

At Wold Newton, near Bridlington, there is a public-house with the sign
of a crooked billet, and the following lines on an angular board:--

_First side_

    When this comical stick grew in the wood
    Our ALE was fresh and very good,
    Step in and taste, O do make haste,
    For if you don’t ’twill surely waste.

_Second side._

    When you have view’d the other side,
    Come read this too before you ride;
    And now to end we’ll let it pass,
    Step in, kind friends, and take a GLASS.

  _Bridlington._

  T. C.

  [508] See _Table Book_, vol. i. p. 636.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


TO FANNY.

    No, Fanny, no, it may not be!
      Though parting break my heart in twain,
    This hour I go, by many a sea
      Divided--ne’er we meet again.

    I love thee; and that look of thine,
      That tear upon thy pallid cheek,
    Assures me that I now resign
      What long it was my joy to seek.

    Oh! once it was my happiest dream,
      My only hope, my fondest prayer;
    ’Tis gone, and like a meteor beam
      Hath past, and left me to despair.

    Yet may you still of joy partake,
      Nor find like me those hopes decay,
    Which ever, like a desert lake,
      Attract the sight to fade away.

    I could not brook to see that eye,
      So full of life, so radiant now,
    I could not see its lustre die,
      And time’s cold hand deface thy brow--

    And death will come, or soon or late,
      (I could not brook to know that hour,)
    But, if I do not learn thy fate,
      I’ll think thou ne’er canst feel his pow’r.

    Yes! I will fly! though years may roll,
      And other thoughts may love estrange,
    ’Twill give some pleasure to my soul
      To know I cannot see thee change.

    Then fare thee well, death cannot bring
      One hour of anguish more to me;
    Since I have felt the only sting
      He e’er could give, in leaving thee.

  S.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE PLEASURES OF ILLUSION.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--I am a person unable to reckon upon the certain receipt of
sixpence per annum, and yet I enjoy all the pleasures this sublunary
world can afford. My assertion may startle, but its truth will be
apparent when I declare myself a visionary, or, what is called by the
world, “a castle builder.” Many would denounce my profession as useless
and unprofitable; but the object constantly desired and incessantly
pursued by mankind is happiness, which they find as evanescent and
delusive as the silver of the moon upon the waters. Most men attach to
certain states of existence every pleasure that the earth can bestow.
Some enter these by laborious and careful steps, but find them, upon
examination, devoid of the charms which their enthusiastic imaginations
had painted. Others, more ardent and less calculating, rapidly ascend
towards the object of their wishes, and when their hands are stretched
forth to grasp it they lose their high footing by an incautious step,
and fall into an abyss of despondence and are lost for ever. How
different a fate is mine! I have been the conqueror of nations, without
feeling a pang at the recollection of the blood spilled in raising me to
my exalted situation. I have been the idol and defender of my country,
without suffering the anxieties of a statesman. I have obtained the
affections of an amiable girl, without enduring the solicitudes of a
protracted courtship. In fact, I possess every earthly pleasure, without
any of the pains of endeavouring to obtain them. True it is, that the
visions I create are easily dispelled, but this is a source of
gratification rather than regret. When glutted with conquest, I sink
into love; and on these failing to charm me, I enter upon scenes more
congenial to the desires with which I feel myself inspired. Every wish
that I conceive is instantly gratified, and in a moment I possess that
which many devote their whole lives to obtain. Surely the existence I
lead is an enviable one; yet many calling themselves my friends (and I
believe them to be such) would wish me to think otherwise. Sometimes, to
gratify their desires, I have endeavoured to break the fairy spells that
bind me; but when I dissipate the mist in which I am almost constantly
surrounded, the scenes of misery that present themselves to my view have
such an effect upon my senses, that on returning to my peculiar regions
they appear doubly delightful, from being contrasted by those of the
real world.

I have obtruded this epistle on your notice, in vindication of a
practice which has been deprecated by many; solely, as I believe, from
their powers of imagination being unable to lead them into the abodes
where I so happily dwell. Should you think it unworthy a place in your
miscellany, its rejection will not occasion me a moment’s mortification,
as I already possess a reputation for literary acquirements, far
surpassing any which has been given to the most celebrated writers that
have flourished since the creation of your miserable world.

  _November 6, 1827._

  T. T. B.

       *       *       *       *       *


OLD MACARONIC POEM.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--I am a literary lounger, and diurnally amuse myself, during about
four hours, in poring over old poetical MSS. in the British Museum: the
result of yesterday’s idle labours was the accompanying transcript from
a macaronic drinking song, which appears to me a very curious
amalgamation of jollity and devotion. If you coincide in this opinion,
perhaps you will honour its unknown author by inserting it in your
delightful miscellany, which, like the diving bell, restores to the
world many interesting relics of antiquity, and rescues them from
eternal oblivion.

  I am, sir, your obedient servant

  and constant reader,

  LE FLANEUR.

  _Reading Room,_

  _Brit. Mus. Nov. 22, 1827._

FROM THE COTTON MS. VESPASIAN A.XXV.

1.

    There is no tre that growe
    On earthe, that I do knowe,
    More worthie praise I trowe,
                Than is the vyne,
    Whos grapes, as ye may rede,
    Their licoure forthe dothe shede,
    Wherof is made indede
                All our good wyne.
    And wyne, ye maye trust me,
    Cause the men for to be
    Merie, for so ye see
                His nature is;
    Then put asyde all wrathe,
    For David showde us hathe,
    Vinum letificat
                Cor hominis.

2.

    Wyne taken with excesse,
    As Scripture dothe expresse,
    Cause the great hevines
                Unto the mynde:
    But theie that take pleasure
    To drinke it with measure,
    No doute a great treasure
                They shall it finde.
    Then voide you all sadnes,
    Drinke your wyne with gladnes,
    To take thought is madnes,
                And marke well this;
    And put asyde all wrathe, &c. ut supra.

3.

    How bringe ye that to pas
    Cordis Jucunditas,
    Is now and ever was
                The lyfe of man.
    Sithe that mirthe hathe no peare,
    Then let us make good cheare,
    And be you merie heare,
                While that ye can;
    And drinke well of this wyne,
    While it is good and fyne,
    And showe some outwarde syne
                Of joye and blisse;
    Expell from you all wrathe, &c. ut supra.

4.

    This thinge full well ye ken,
    Hevines dulleth men,
    But take this medicien then,
                Where’er ye come:
    Refreshe yourself therewith.
    For it was said long sithe,
    That vinum acuit
                Ingenium.
    Then give not a chery
    For sider nor perrye,
    Wyne maketh man merie.
                Ye knowe well this;
    And put asyde all wrathe, &c. ut supra.

5.

    In hope to have release
    From all our hevines,
    And mirthe for to encrease
                Sum dele the more,
    Pulsemus organa.
    Simul cum cithara,
    Vinum et musica
                Vegetabit cor.
    But sorowe, care, and strife
    Shortnethe the days of life,
    Bothe of man and of wyfe
                It will not mis;
    Then put asyde all wrathe, &c. ut supra.

6.

    A merie herte in cage
    Makethe a lustie age,
    As telleth us the sage,
                Ever for the noynes;
    Because we should delight
    In mirthe, bothe daye and night,
    He saith an hevie fright
                Driethe up the bones.
    Wherfor, let us alwaye
    Rejoice in God, I saye,
    Our mirthe cannot decaye
                If we do this,
    And put asyde all wrathe, &c. ut supra.

7.

    Nowe ye that be presente,
    Laud God Omnipotent,
    That hathe us given and sent
                Our dalie foode,
    When thorowe sinne we’re slaine,
    He sent his son againe,
    Us to redeeme from paine
                By his sweete bloode,
    And he is the trewe vyne,
    From whome distill’d the wyne,
    That boughte your soules and myne,
                You knowe well this:
    Then put asyde all wrathe,
    For David showde us hathe
    Vinum letificat
                Cor hominis.

       *       *       *       *       *


ANTY BRIGNAL AND THE BEGGING QUAKER.

_For the Table Book._

A few years ago a stout old man, with long grey hair, and dressed in the
habit of the Society of Friends, was seen begging in the streets of
Durham. The inhabitants, attracted by the novelty of a “_begging_
Quaker,” thronged about him, and several questioned him as to his
residence, &c. Amongst them was “Anty Brignal,” the police-officer, who
told him to go about his business, or he would put him in the kitty[509]
“for an _imposteror_.” “Who ever heard,” said Anthony, “of a begging
Quaker?” “But,” said the mendicant, while tears flowed adown his face,
“thou knowest, friend, there be bad Quakers as well as good ones; and, I
confess to thee, I have been a bad one. My name is John Taylor; I was in
the hosiery business at N----, and through drunkenness have become a
bankrupt. The society have turned me out, my friends have deserted me. I
have no one in the world to help me but my daughter, who lives in
Edinburgh, and I am now on my way thither. Thou seest, friend, why I
beg; it is to get a little money to help me on my way: be merciful, as
thou hopest for mercy.” “Come, come,” said the officer, “it won’t do,
you know; there’s not a word of truth in it; ’tis all false. Did not I
see you drunk at Nevill’s Cross (a public-house of that name) the other
night?” “No, friend,” said the man of unsteady habits, “thou didst not
see _me_ drunk there, but I was there, and saw _thee_ drunk; and thou
knowest when a man is drunk he thinks every body else so!” This was a
poser for the police-officer. The crowd laughed, and “Anty Brignal”
slunk away from their derision, while money fell plentifully into the
extended hat of the disowned quaker.

  T. Q. M.

  [509] So is the house of correction called in Durham.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


THE ORPHANS.

  WRITTEN ON SEEING A SMALL LITHOGRAPHIC PRINT OF TWO FEMALE ORPHAN
  CHILDREN.

1.

    Like two fair flowers that grow in some lone spot,
      Bent by the breeze that wafts their fragrance round--
    Pale, mild, and lovely; but by all forgot,--
      They droop neglected on the dewy ground.

2.

    Thus left alone, without a friend or guide
      To cheer them, through life’s drear and rugged way
    Stand these two pensive mourners side by side,
      To sorrow keen, and early grief, a prey.

3.

    Low in the grave, o’er which the cypress spreads
      Its gloomy shade, in death their parents sleep;
    Unconscious now they rest their weary heads,
      Nor hear their children sigh, nor see them weep.

4.

    And see, a tear-drop gems the younger’s eye,
      While struggling from its coral cell to start;
    Oh, how that pearl of sensibility
      In silence pleads to every feeling heart.

5.

    Not Niobe, when doom’d by cruel fate
      To weep for ever in a crystal shower,
    Could claim more pity for her hapless state,
      Than does, for you, that drop of magic power.

6.

    Breathes there on earth, of human form possest,
      One who would in those bosoms plant a thorn,
    And banish thence the halcyon’s tranquil nest,
      While they its loss in secret anguish mourn?

7.

    Perish the wretch! who with deceitful wile
      Forsaken innocence would lead astray,
    And round her like a treach’rous serpent coil,
      And having stung, relentless haste away.

8.

    May you the orphan’s friend find ever near
      To guard you safe, and strew your path with flowers.
    May hope’s bright sun your gloomy morning cheer,
      And shine in splendour on your evening hours.

  R. B.

  _Sept. 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


JACK THE VIPER.

This is an odd name for a man, who does not bear the appearance of a
viper, or “a snake in the grass.” He is a rough sort of fellow, has been
at Waterloo, but did not obtain a medal. He, nevertheless, carries the
hue of a triumphant soldier, wears an honest sunburnt face, and might be
trusted with his majesty’s great seal, or that of another description in
the British Museum. He is a lover of ringing bells and swine; but
without regular employment. A singular piece of human construction,
lone, and erratic in his love of nature. A shepherd lies down at ease by
the sides of his flocks and fountains, listens to the plaints of injured
birds, the voice of water and the music of skies, and dreams away his
existence, years of youth, manhood, and old age. Jack is more tranquil
even than the shepherd. He creeps silently in woods and forests, and on
retired hot banks, in search of serpentine amusement--he is a viper
catcher. Strange that creatures, generally feared and shunned by
mankind, should win Jack’s attention and sympathy, Yet, true it is, that
Jack regards them as the living beauties of solitude, the lovely but
startling inhabitants of luxuriant spots in the sultry summer. Were we
to look round us, in the haunts of men, we could, perhaps, discover
beings as fearful and awakening. Jack has travelled, seen the world, and
profited by his travels; for he has learned to be contented. He is not
entirely idle, nor wholly industrious. If he can get a crust sufficient
for the day, he leaves the evil if it should visit him. The first time I
saw him was in the high noon of a scorching day, at an inn in
Laytonstone. He came in while a sudden storm descended, and a rainbow of
exquisite majesty vaulted the earth. Sitting down at a table, he
beckoned the hostess for his beer, and conversed freely with his
acquaintance. By his arch replies I found that I was in company with an
original--a man that might stretch forth his arm in the wilderness
without fear, and, like Paul, grasp an adder without harm. He playfully
entwined his fingers with their coils and curled crests, and played with
their forked tongues. He had unbuttoned his waistcoat, and as
dexterously as a fish-woman handles her eels, let out several snakes and
adders, warmed by his breast, and spread them on the table. He took off
his hat, and others of different sizes and lengths twisted before me;
some of them, when he unbosomed his shirt, returned to the genial
temperature of his skin; some curled round the legs of the table, and
others rose in a defensive attitude. He irritated and humoured them, to
express either pleasure or pain at his will. Some were purchased by
individuals, and Jack pocketed his gain, observing, “a frog, or mouse,
occasionally, is enough for a snake’s satisfaction.”

The “Naturalist’s Cabinet” says, that “in the presence of the grand duke
of Tuscany, while the philosophers were making elaborate dissertations
on the danger of the poison of vipers, taken inwardly, a viper catcher,
who happened to be present, requested that a quantity of it might be put
into a vessel; and then, with the utmost confidence, and to the
astonishment of the whole company, he drank it off. Every one expected
the man instantly to drop down dead; but they soon perceived their
mistake, and found that, taken inwardly, the poison was as harmless as
water.”

William Oliver, a viper catcher at Bath, was the first who discovered
that, by the application of olive oil, the bite of the viper is
effectually cured. On the 1st of June, 1735, he suffered himself to be
bitten by an old black viper; and after enduring all the agonising
symptoms of approaching death, by using olive oil, he perfectly
recovered.

Viper’s flesh was formerly esteemed for its medicinal virtues, and its
salt was thought to exceed every other animal product, in giving vigour
to a languid constitution.

  _August, 1827._

  ----

       *       *       *       *       *


A SKETCH IN SPA FIELDS.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--Allow me to draw your attention to a veteran, who in the Egyptian
expedition lost his sight by the ophthalmy, and now asks alms of the
passenger in the little avenue leading from Sadler’s Wells to Spa
Fields, along the eastern side of the New River Head.

His figure, sir, would serve for a model of Belisarius, and even his
manner of soliciting would be no disgrace to the Roman general. I am not
expert at drawing portraits, yet will endeavour by two or three lines to
give a slight conception of this. His present height is full six feet,
but in his youth it must have been nearly two inches more; as the weight
of about sixty-five years has occasioned a slight curvature of the
spine. His limbs are large and muscular, his shoulders broad, his chest
capacious, the lines of his countenance indicate intelligence; his
motion is not graceful, for he appears to step without confidence,
occasioned no doubt by his blindness.

Now, sir, give his head no other covering than a few very short grey
hairs, and button him up close in the remains of a dragoon dress, and
you have his likeness as exact as an unskilful artist can give it.

  O.

N.B.--An old woman must lead him.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Extracts~

FROM MY NOTE BOOK.

_For the Table Book._

Moore, in his life of Sheridan, says, that “he (Sheridan) had a sort of
hereditary fancy for difficult trifling in poetry; particularly to that
sort which consists in rhyming to the same word through a long string of
couplets, till every rhyme that the language supplies for it is
exhausted:” and quotes some dozen lines, entitled “My Trunk,” and
addressed “To Anne,” wherein a lady is made to bewail the loss of her
trunk, and rhymes her lamentation. The editor, in a note, says, “Some
verses by general Fitzpatrick on lord Holland’s father, are the best
specimen I know of this scherzo.” The general’s lines I have never seen,
and it is probable they are only in MS.; but _le Seigneur des Accords_,
in his Bizarrures, (ed. 1585, Paris, Richer, feuillet 27,) quotes sixty
lines, rhyming on a very indecent word from “un certain hure contre les
femmes,” composed by Drusac, “un Tolosain rimailleur imitant Marot;” and
who is there stated to have composed 300 or 400 verses on the same
subject, and to the same rhyme. And at feuillet 162 of the same work and
edition, the Seigneur adduces two other remarkable instances of
“difficult trifling in poetry.” Speaking of one of which, he says, “Vn
Allemant nommé Petrus Porcius Porta, autrement Petrus Placentius, a fait
un petit poëme laborieux le possible auquel il descrit PUGNAM PORCORUM
en 350 _vers_ ou environ, qui commencent tous par P, dont j’ai rapporté
ces XVI suivas pour exemple, et pour contenter ceux qui ne l’ont pas
veu.” The quotation referred to commences with

    “Præcelsis Proauis Pulchrè Prognate Patrone,”

and concludes with

    “Pingui Porcorū Pingendo Poemate Pugnam.”

The other instances adduced by the Seigneur of this laborious folly, is
related also of a German, by name Christianus Pierius; who, says the
author, “depuis peu de temps a fait un opuscule d’environ _mille ou
douze cēs vers_, intitulé Christus Crucifixus, tous les mots duquel
commencent par C.” Four lines are quoted; they are as follows:--

    Currite Castalides Christi Comitante Camœnæ
    Concelabrature Cūctorum Carmine Certum
    Confugium Collapsorum Concurrite Cantus
    Concinnaturæ Celebres Celebresque Cothurnos.

I myself recollect seeing and copying at Notting Hill some lines written
(I think) on the battle of Waterloo, (the copy of which I have however
lost;) which, although short, were sufficiently curious. They were in an
album belonging to the sister of a schoolfellow, (W. O. S.,) and, as far
as I have ever seen, were unique in their species of the paronœmic
genus. The first line began with “A,” and each subsequent one with a
successive letter of the alphabet, and each word alliterated to the
initial letter of the line where it was placed. The poem went through
the whole of the alphabet, not even excepting X or Z, and must have
required a world of Patience and Perseverance to Perfect.

       *       *       *       *       *

Marot, christened Clement, the French poet, who is said, in a quotation
from le Seigneur des Accords in the foregoing note, to have been
imitated by Drusac, lived in the reign of Francis I., and was a
Protestant. There is a portrait of him at page 161 of “Les Vrais
Portraits des Hommes Illustres” of Théodore de Bèze, Geneva, 1581,
whereto a short sketch of his life is attached; which says, that “par
une admirable félicité d’esprit, _sans aucune cognoissance des langues_
ni des sciences, il surpassa tous les poëtes qui l’auoient dévancé.” He
was twice banished on account of his religion; and when in exile
translated one-third of the Psalms into French verse. “Mais au reste,”
says Théodore, “ayant passé presque toute sa vie à la suite de cour, (où
la piété et l’honēsteté n’ōt guères d’audiance,) il ne se soucia pas
beaucoup de réformer sa vie peu Chrétienne, ains se gouuernoit à sa
manière accoutumée mesmes en sa vieillesse, et mourut en l’âge de 60 ans
à Turin, où il s’estoit retiré sous la faueur du Lieutenant du Roi.” He
was a Quercinois, having been born at Cahors, in Quercy.

The following lines were written after his death by Jodelle, who was
famed for these “vers rapportez.”

    Quercy, la Cour, le Piedmont, l’Univers
    Me fit, me tint, m’enterra, me cogneut,
    Quercy mon los, la cour tout mon temps eut.
    Piedmont mes os, et l’univers mes vers.

       *       *       *       *       *

GUILDHALL.--Misson, in his “Mémoires et Observations faites par un
Voyageur en Angleterre,” published anonymously at the Hague in 1698,
under this head, accounts thus philologically for the name:--“Il est à
croire que la grande salle étoit autrefois dorée, puisque le mot _de
Guild_ ou _Gild-hall_, signifie SALLE DOREE.” To do him justice,
however, after quoting so ridiculous a passage, I must annex his note,
as follows:--“D’autres disent que _Guild_ est un ancien mot qui signifie
_incorporé_: _Guildhall_; la salle des incorporez ou associez.”--p. 236.

       *       *       *       *       *

Juliet was no doubt a delectable little creature, but, like most of the
genus, she was but a flimsy metaphysician. “What’s in a name?” that
depends now-a-days on the length or age of it. The question should be
put to a Buckinghamshire meeting man, if one would desire to know the
qualities of all the component parts of an Abraham or Absalom. In some
parts of the country, people seem to think they have bilked the devil,
and booked sure places in heaven for their children, if, at their
christening, they get but a scripture name tacked to the urchins. “In
proof whereof,” Esther, Aaron, and Shadrack Puddyfat, with master Moses
Myrmidon, formed a blackberrying party that I fell in with a summer back
near Botley, on the road between Chesham and Hemel Hempstead. At a
farm-house in Bucks it is no uncommon sight for the twelve apostles to
be seen tucking in greens and bacon, or for the tribes of Israel to be
found drunk together in a pot-house. Some poor drunken-brained bigots
would not accept even the free services of a ploughman, whose name was
not known before the flood.

NOTE.--The names above seem so very ludicrous, that I have no doubt
there will be many sceptics to the belief of their reality if this
passage be printed; but I declare positively, on the word, honour, and
faith of a man and a gentleman, that they are as true, real, and
existent, as Thomas Tomkins, or any other the most usual and common
place.

  J. J. K.

       *       *       *       *       *


WHIMSIES.


AN ESSAY ON THE UNDERSTANDING.

    “Harry, I cannot think,” says Dick,
    “What makes my _ancles_ grow so thick:”
    “You do not recollect,” says Harry,
    “How great _a calf_ they have to carry.”

       *       *       *       *       *


“OLD WESTMINSTER QUIBBLES.”


_Toes._

    A fellow did desire
      To warm at a fire
    His toes, before he went home;
    But the man said “No,
    If you put fire and _toe_
      Together, you will burn the room.”

_B. C._

    One did ask, why B
      Was put before C,
    And did much desire to know--
    Why a man must _be_,
    Before he can _see_,
      And I think I have hit on it now.

_The Red Nose._

    A Man did surmise,
    That another man’s eyes
      Were both of a different frame;
    For if they had been _matches_,
    Then, alas! poor wretches,
      His nose would a set ’em in a flame.

       *       *       *       *       *


“NEW WESTMINSTER QUIBBLES.”

_The Soldier._

    “There is one soldier less,”
    Exclaimed sister Bess,
      As a funeral passed by the door;
    Then said Mr. Brown,
    “I’ll bet you a crown,
      I’ll prove it is one soldier _mort_.”

_Scilicet._

    Why every silly cit
    Has pretensions to wit,
      You may learn if you listen to my ditty:
    The word _scilicet_
    In law means _to wit_,
      So citizens, by law, must be _witty_.




Vol. II.--52.


[Illustration: ~Irish Pipes.~]

A young friend brings me from Ireland a couple of pipes, in common use
among the labouring people in Dublin and Clonmel. Their shape and
materials being wholly different from any in England, they are
represented in the above engraving, which shows their exact size. The
bowl part, formed of iron, like the socket of a candlestick, is inserted
in a piece of mahogany carved, as here shown, in the shape of a violin,
or a pair of bellows, or other whimsical form; and the mahogany is
securely bound and ornamented with brass wire: to a small brass chain is
attached a tin cover to the bowl. The tube is of dogwood, such as
butchers’ skewers are made of, or of a similar hard wood; and, being
movable, may be taken out for accommodation to the pocket, or renewal at
pleasure. These pipes cost sixpence each.

The _dudeen_, or short pipe, the “little tube of magic power,” wherewith
the Irish labourer amuses himself in England, is thus mentioned in a
note on the “Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland,” by
Mr. Crofton Croker:--“_Dudeen_ signifies a little stump of a pipe. Small
tobacco-pipes, of an ancient form, are frequently found in Ireland on
digging or ploughing up the ground, particularly in the vicinity of
those circular intrenchments, called Danish forts, which were more
probably the villages or settlements of the native Irish. These pipes
are believed by the peasantry to belong to the Cluricaunes, and when
discovered are broken, or otherwise treated with indignity, as a kind of
retort for the tricks which their supposed owners had played off.” Mr.
Croker subjoins a sketch of one of these pipes, and adds, that “In the
Anthologia Hibernica, vol i. p. 352, (Dublin, 1793,) there is a print of
one, which was found at Brannockstown, county Kildare, sticking between
the teeth of a human skull; and it is accompanied by a paper, which, on
the authority of Herodotus, (lib. i. sec. 36,) Strabo, (lib. vii. 296,)
Pomponius Mela, (2,) and Solinus, (c. 15,) goes to prove that the
northern nations of Europe were acquainted with tobacco, or an herb of
similar properties, and that they smoked it through small tubes--of
course, long before the existence of America was known.”

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XLV.


FACETIÆ.

1.

_Holding in Capite._

  _First Gent._ ’Tis well known I am a Gentleman. My father was a man of
  £500 a year, and he held something _in capite_ too.

  _Second Gent._ So does my Lord something--

  _Foolish Lord._ Nay, by my troth, what I hold _in capite_ is worth
  little or nothing.

2.

_Fool’s Experience._

  _Page._ He that’s first a scholar, and next in love, the year after is
  either an arrant fool or a madman.

  _Master._ How came your knavery by such experience?

  _Page._ As fools do by news: somebody told me so, and I believe it.

3.

_Modern Sybarite._

  ----softly, ye villains!--the rogues of chairmen have trundled me over
  some damn’d nutshell or other, that gave me such a jerk as has half
  murder’d me.

4.

_Spare diet of Spaniards._

  _Spaniard._ The air being thin and rarified generally provides us good
  stomachs.

  _Englishman._ Aye, and the earth little or nothing to satisfy ’em
  with; I think a cabbage is a jewel among you.

  _Span._ Why, truly a good cabbage is respected. But our people are
  often very luxurious, they abound very often.

  _Eng._ O no such matter, faith, Spaniard! ’death, if they get but a
  piece of beef, they shall hang all the bones out, and write underneath
  _Here hath been beef eaten_, as if ’twere a miracle. And if they get
  but a lean hen, the feathers shall be spread before the door with
  greater pride than we our carpets at some princely solemnity.

5.

_Foolish Form._

  _Servant_ (_to my Lord Stately’s Gentleman Usher._) Sir, here’s your
  Lord’s footman come to tell you, your Lord’s hat is blown out of his
  hand.

  _Lord W._ Why did not the footman take it up?

  _Usher._ He durst not, my Lord; ’tis above him.

  _Lord W._ Where? a’top of the chimney?

  _Usher._ Above his office, my Lord.

  _Lord W._ How does this fool, for want of solid greatness, swell with
  empty ceremony, and fortify himself with outworks! That a man must dig
  thro’ rubbish to come at an ass.

  _English Friar._

6.

_Cast Books._

  _Waiting maid._ I have a new Bible too; and when my Lady left her
  Practice of Piety, she gave it me.

  _Newcastle._

7.

_Good at guessing_

  Nay, good Mr. Constable, you are e’en the luckiest at being wise that
  ever I knew.

  _Newcastle._

8.

_Essays at Essays._

  1. O eternal blockhead, did you never write Essays?

  2. I did essay to write Essays, but I cannot say I writ Essays.

  _Newcastle._

9.

_Hard words._

  Indiscerptibility, and Essential Spissitude: words which, though I am
  no competent judge of, for want of languages, yet I fancy strongly
  ought to mean nothing.

  _Mrs. Afra Behn._

10.

_Scandals to Atheism._

  ---- a late learned Doctor; who, though himself no great assertor of a
  Deity, yet was observed to be continually persuading this sort of men
  [the rakehelly blockheaded Infidels about town] of the necessity and
  truth of our religion; and being asked how he came to bestir himself
  so much this way, made answer, that it was because their ignorance and
  indiscreet debauch made them a Scandal to the Profession of Atheism.

  _Behn._

11.

_Excuse for being afraid in a Storm._

  _Master._ Courage! why what dost thou call courage? Hector himself
  would not have exchanged his ten years’ siege for our ten days’ storm
  at sea. A Storm! a hundred thousand fighting men are nothing to it;
  cities sack’d by fire, nothing. ’Tis a resistless coward, that attacks
  a man at disadvantage; an unaccountable magic, that first conjures
  down a man’s courage, and then plays the devil over him; and, in fine,
  it is a Storm!

  _Mate._ Good lack, that it should be all these terrible things, and
  yet that we should outlive it!

  _Master._ No god-a-mercy to our courages tho’, I tell you that now;
  but like an angry wench, when it had huffed and bluster’d itself
  weary, it lay still again.

  _Behn._

12.

_Dutch Gallantry_

  _Mate._ What, beat a woman, Sir?

  _Master._ ’Psha, all’s one for that; if I am provoked, anger will have
  its effects upon whomsoe’er it light: so said Van Tromp, when he took
  his Mistress a cuff on the ear for finding fault with an ill-fashioned
  leg he made her. I liked his humour well.

  _Behn._

13.

_Dutchman._

  ---- sitting at home in the chimney corner, cursing the face of Duke
  de Alva upon the jugs, for laying an imposition on beer.

  _Behn._

14.

_Rake at Church._

  ---- I shall know all, when I meet her in the chapel to-morrow. I am
  resolved to venture thither, tho’ I am afraid the dogs will bark me
  out again, and by that means let the congregation know how much I am a
  stranger to the place.

  _Durfey._

15.

_Lying Traveller_

  You do not believe me then? the devil take me, if these home-bred
  fellows can be saved: they neither know nor believe half the creation.

  _Lacy._

16.

_English Beau, contrasted with a French one._

  ---- a true-bred English Beau has indeed the powder, the essence, the
  toothpick, the snuff-box; and is as idle; but the fault is in the
  flesh--he has not the motion, and looks stiff under all this. Now a
  French <DW2> like a Poet, is born so, and would be known without
  clothes; it is in his eyes, his nose, his fingers, his elbows, his
  heels. They dance when they walk, and sing when they speak. We have
  nothing in that perfection as abroad; and our cuckolds, as well as our
  grapes, are but half ripened.

  _Burnaby._

17.

_Fanciful Recipe, prescribed for sick Fancy._

    The juice of a lemon that’s civil at seasons,
    Twelve dancing capers, ten lunatic reasons;
    Two dying notes of an ancient swan;
    Three sighs, a thousand years kept, if you can;
    Some scrapings of Gyges’s ring may pass,
    With the skin of a shadow caught in a glass;
    Six pennyworth of thoughts untold;
    The jelly of a star, before it be cold;
    One ounce of courtship from a country daughter;
    A grain of wit, and a quart of laughter.--

  Boil these on the fire of Zeal (with some beech-coals, lest the vessel
  burst).--If you can get these ingredients, I will compound them for
  you. Then, when the patient is perfectly recovered, she shall be
  married in rich cloth of rainbow laced with sunbeams.

  _Strode._

18.

_Beauties at Church._

  Fair Women in Churches have as ill effect as fine Strangers in Grammar
  schools: for tho’ the boys keep on the humdrum still, yet none of ’em
  mind their lesson for looking about ’em.

  _Fane._

19.

_Expedients._

  I have observed the wisdom of these Moors: for some days since being
  invited by one of the chief Bashaws to dinner, after meat, sitting by
  a huge fire, and feeling his shins to burn, I requested him to pull
  back his chair, but he very understandingly sent for three or four
  masons, and removed the chimney.

  _Brome._

20.

_Mayor of Queenborow, a Christian, giving orders for feasting Hengist, a
Pagan King of Kent, who has invited himself to the Mayor’s table._

  ---- give charge the mutton come in all raw; the King of Kent is a
  Pagan, and must be served so. And let those officers, that seldom or
  never go to church, bring it in; it will be the better taken.

  _Middleton._

21.

_Fat man’s device to get a dainty._

  I have a privilege. I was at the tavern the other day; in the next
  room I smelt hot venison. I sent but a drawer to tell the company,
  “one in the house with a great belly longed for a corner,” and I had
  half a pasty sent me immediately.

  _Shirley._

22.

_Miser’s Servant._

  _Friend._ Camelion, how now, have you turned away your master?

  _Camelion._ No; I sold my place. As I was thinking to run away, comes
  this fellow, and offers me a breakfast for my good will to speak to my
  master for him. I took him at his word, and resigned my office, and
  turned over my hunger to him immediately. Now I serve a man.

  _Shirley._

23.

_Walking._

  _Fine Lady._ I am glad I am come home, for I am even as weary with
  this walking; for God’s sake, whereabouts does the pleasure of walking
  lie? I swear I have often sought it till I was weary, and yet I could
  ne’er find it.

  _T. Killegrew._

24.

_Foolish Suitor._

      _Alderman._ Save you, Sir.
      _Suitor._ You do not think me damn’d, Sir, that you bestow
    That salutation on me?
      _Ald._ Good, Sir, no.
    Whom would you speak with here?
      _Suit._ Sir, my discourse
    Points at one Alderman Covel.
      _Ald._ I am the party.
      _Suit._ I understand you have a daughter, is
    Of most unknown perfections.
      _Ald._ She is as Heaven made her--
      _Suit._ She goes naked then;
    The tailor has no hand in her.

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Stories~

OF THE

~Craven Dales.~

No. III.

    He had been in Yorkshire dale
      Among the winding scars,
    Where deep and low the hamlets lie,
    Beneath a little patch of sky,
      And little patch of stars.--WORDSWORTH.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Proem._

In the summer of 1823 I was residing for a few days at a solitary inn
amongst the hills of Craven. One afternoon I had planned an excursion
to a neighbouring cave, but was prevented from going there by a heavy
rain which had fallen during the whole of the day. I had no friends in
the neighbourhood, and could not have procured at my inn any work worth
the perusal. The library of my landlord was small, and the collection
not remarkable for being well chosen; it consisted of Pamela, Baron
Munchausen, Fox’s Martyrs, the Pilgrim’s Progress, and a few other
publications of an equally edifying description. I should have been at a
loss how to have spent the tedious hours, had I not had a companion. He
was a stout, elderly man, a perfect stranger to me; and by his
conversation showed himself possessed of a very considerable share of
erudition: his language was correct, his remarks strong and forcible,
and delivered in a manner energetic and pointed. While engaged in
conversation, our ears were stunned by a number of village lads shouting
and hallooing at the door of the inn. On inquiring of the landlord into
the cause of this disturbance, we were informed that a poor woman, who
was reputed to be a witch, had taken shelter at his house from the
inclemency of the storm, and that some idle boys, on seeing her enter,
were behaving in the rude manner already mentioned.

The landlord having left the room, I said to my companion, “So you have
witches in Craven, sir; or, at least, those who pretend to be such. I
thought that race of ignorant impostors had been long extinct, but am
sorry to find the case is otherwise.”

The stranger looked at me, and said, “Do you then disbelieve the
existence of witchcraft?”

“Most assuredly,” I replied.

“But you must confess that witchcraft _did_ exist?”

“I _do_; but think not its existing in the prophetical ages to be any
evidence of its being permitted in the present.”

“But learned works have been written to prove the existence of it in
late times--You are aware of the treatises of Glanvill and Sinclair?”

“True; and learned men have sometimes committed foolish actions; and
certainly Glanvill and Sinclair, great as their talents undoubtedly
were, showed no great wisdom in publishing their ridiculous effusions,
which are nothing more than the overflowings of heated imaginations.”

My companion seeing I was not to be convinced by any arguments he could
advance, but that, like the adder in holy writ, I was “deaf to the
voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely,” thus addressed me:--“I
_was_ like you, sceptical on the subject of our present discourse; but
the doubts I once entertained have long since vanished; and if you can
attend patiently to a history I will relate, I think you will be
convinced that witchcraft _does_ exist; or at least has existed in very
modern times.”

The stranger then related the story of


THE WISE WOMAN OF LITTONDALE.

“In the year 17--, in a lonely gill, not far distant from Arncliffe,
stood a solitary cottage: a more wretched habitation the imagination
cannot picture. It contained a single apartment, inhabited by an old
woman, called Bertha, who was throughout the valley accounted a wise
woman, and a practiser of the ‘art that none may name.’ I was at that
time very young, and unmarried; and, far from having any dread of her,
would frequently talk to her, and was always glad when she called at my
father’s house. She was tall, thin, and haggard; her eyes were large,
and sunk deep in their sockets; and the hoarse masculine intonations of
her voice were anything but pleasing. The reason I took such delight in
the company of Bertha was this--she was possessed of much historical
knowledge, and related events which had occurred two or three centuries
ago, in a manner so minute and particular, that many a time I have been
induced to believe she had been a spectatress of what she was relating.
Bertha was undoubtedly of great age; but what that age was no one ever
knew. I have frequently interrogated her on the subject, but always
received an evasive answer to my inquiries.

“In the autumn, or rather in the latter end of the summer of 17--, I set
out one evening to visit the cottage of the wise woman. I had never
beheld the interior; and, led on by curiosity and mischief, was
determined to see it. Having arrived at the cottage, I knocked at the
gate. ‘Come in,’ said a voice, which I knew was Bertha’s. I entered; the
old woman was seated on a three-legged stool, by a turf fire, surrounded
by three black cats and an old sheep-dog. ‘Well,’ she exclaimed, ‘what
brings you here? what can have induced you to pay a visit to old
Bertha?’ I answered, ‘Be not offended; I have never before this evening
viewed the interior of your cottage; and wishing to do so, have made
this visit; I also wished to see you perform some of your
_incantations_.’ I pronounced the last word ironically. Bertha observed
it, and said, ‘Then you doubt my power, think me an impostor, and
consider my incantations mere jugglery; you _may_ think otherwise; but
sit down by my humble hearth, and in less than half an hour you shall
observe such an instance of my power as I have never hitherto allowed
mortal to witness.’ I obeyed, and approached the fire. I now gazed
around me, and minutely viewed the apartment. Three stools, an old deal
table, a few pans, three pictures of Merlin, Nostradamus, and Michael
Scott, a caldron, and a sack, with the contents of which I was
unacquainted, formed the whole stock of Bertha. The witch having sat by
me a few minutes, rose, and said, ‘Now for our incantations; behold me,
but interrupt me not.’ She then with chalk drew a circle on the floor,
and in the midst of it placed a chafing-dish filled with burning embers;
on this she fixed the caldron, which she had half filled with water.

“She then commanded me to take my station at the farther end of the
circle, which I did accordingly. Bertha then opened the sack, and taking
from it various ingredients, threw them into the ‘charmed pot.’ Amongst
many other articles I noticed a skeleton head, bones of different sizes,
and the dried carcasses of some small animals. My fancy involuntarily
recurred to the witch in Ovid--

      Semina, floresque, et succos in coquit acres;
    Addidit et exceptas lunâ pernocte pruinas,
    Et strigis infames ipsis cum carnibus alas,
    Vivacisque jecur cervi; quibus insuper addit,
    Ora caputque novem cornicis sæcula passæ.’

While thus employed, she continued muttering some words in an unknown
language; all I remember hearing was the word _konig_. At length the
water boiled, and the witch, presenting me with a glass, told me to look
through it at the caldron. I did so, and observed a figure enveloped in
the steam; at the first glance I knew not what to make of it, but I soon
recognised the face of N----, a friend and intimate acquaintance: he was
dressed in his usual mode, but seemed unwell, and pale. I was
astonished, and trembled. The figure having disappeared, Bertha removed
the caldron, and extinguished the fire. ‘_Now_,’ said she, ‘do you doubt
my power? I have brought before you the form of a person who is some
miles from this place; was there any deception in the appearance? I am
no impostor, though you have hitherto regarded me as such.’ She ceased
speaking: I hurried towards the door, and said, ‘Good night.’ ‘Stop,’
said Bertha, ‘I have not done with you; I will show you something more
wonderful than the appearance of this evening: to-morrow, at midnight,
go and stand upon Arncliffe bridge, and look at the water on the left
side of it. Nothing will harm you; fear not.’

“‘And why should I go to Arncliffe bridge? What end can be answered by
it? The place is lonely; I dread to be there at such an hour; may I have
a companion?’

“‘No.’

“‘Why not?’

“‘Because the charm will be broken.’

“‘What charm?’

“‘I cannot tell.’

“‘You will not.’

“‘I will not give you any further information: obey me, nothing shall
harm you.’

“‘Well, Bertha,’ I said, ‘you shall be obeyed. I believe you would do me
no injury. I will repair to Arncliffe bridge to-morrow at midnight; good
night.’”

I then left the cottage, and returned home. When I retired to rest I
could not sleep; slumber fled my pillow, and with restless eyes I lay
ruminating on the strange occurrences at the cottage, and on what I was
to behold at Arncliffe bridge. Morning dawned, I arose unrefreshed and
fatigued. During the day I was unable to attend to any business; my
coming adventure entirely engrossed my mind. Night arrived, I repaired
to Arncliffe bridge: never shall I forget the scene. It was a lovely
night: the full orb’d moon was sailing peacefully through a clear blue
cloudless sky, and its beams, like streaks of silvery lustre, were
dancing on the waters of the Skirfare; the moonlight falling on the
hills formed them into a variety of fantastic shapes; here one might
behold the semblance of a ruined abbey, with towers and spires, and
Anglo-Saxon and Gothic arches; at another place there seemed a castle
frowning in feudal grandeur, with its buttresses, battlements, and
parapets. The stillness which reigned around, broken only by the
murmuring of the stream, the cottages scattered here and there along its
banks, and the woods wearing an autumnal tinge, all united to compose a
scene of calm and perfect beauty. I leaned against the left battlement
of the bridge; I waited a quarter of an hour--half an hour--an
hour--nothing appeared. I listened, all was silent; I looked around, I
saw nothing. Surely, I inwardly ejaculated, I have mistaken the hour;
no, it must be midnight; Bertha has deceived me, fool that I am, why
have I obeyed the beldam? Thus I reasoned. The clock of the neighbouring
church chimed--I counted the strokes, it was twelve o’clock; I _had_
mistaken the hour, and I resolved to stay a little longer on the bridge.
I resumed my station, which I had quitted, and gazed on the stream. The
river in that part runs in a clear still channel, and ‘all its music
dies away.’ As I looked on the stream I heard a low moaning sound, and
perceived the water violently troubled, without any apparent cause. The
disturbance having continued a few minutes ceased, and the river became
calm, and again flowed along in peacefulness. What could this mean?
Whence came that low moaning sound? What caused the disturbance of the
river? I asked myself these questions again and again, unable to give
them any rational answer. With a slight indescribable kind of fear I
bent my steps homewards. On turning a corner of the lane that led to my
father’s house, a huge dog, apparently of the Newfoundland breed,
crossed my path, and looked wistfully on me. ‘Poor fellow!’ I exclaimed,
‘hast thou lost thy master? come home with me, and I will use thee well
till we find him.’ The dog followed me; but when I arrived at my place
of abode, I looked for it, but saw no traces of it, and I conjectured it
had found its master.

“On the following morning I again repaired to the cottage of the witch,
and found her, as on the former occasion, seated by the fire. ‘Well,
Bertha,’ I said, ‘I have obeyed you; I was yesterday at midnight on
Arncliffe bridge.’

“‘And of what sight were you a witness?’

“‘I saw nothing except a slight disturbance of the stream.’

“‘I know,’ she said, ‘you saw a disturbance of the water, but did you
behold nothing more?’

“‘Nothing.’

“‘Nothing! your memory fails you.’

“‘I forgot, Bertha; as I was proceeding home, I met a Newfoundland dog,
which I suppose belonged to some traveller.’

“‘That dog,’ answered Bertha, ‘never belonged to mortal; no human being
is his master. The dog you saw was Bargest; you may, perhaps, have heard
of him.’

“‘I have frequently heard tales of Bargest, but I never credited them.
If the legends of my native hills be true, a death may be expected to
follow his appearance.’

“‘You are right, and a death will follow his last night’s appearance.’

“‘Whose death?’

“‘Not yours.’

“As Bertha refused to make any further communication, I left her. In
less than three hours after I quitted her I was informed that my friend
N----, whose figure I had seen enveloped in the mist of the caldron, had
that morning committed suicide, by drowning himself at Arncliffe bridge,
in the very spot where I beheld the disturbance of the stream!”

Such was the story of my companion; the tale amused me, but by no means
increased my belief in witchcraft. I told the narrator so, and we again
entered into a serious discussion, which continued till the inn clock
struck seven, when the stranger left me, saying, that he could not stay
any longer, as he had a distance of ten miles to travel that evening
along a very lonely road.

The belief of witchcraft is still very prevalent in Craven; and there
are now residing in different parts wise men and wise women, whom the
country people consult when any property is stolen or lost, as well as
for the purpose of fortune-telling. These impostors pretend generally to
practise divination by the crystal, as in the tale--a mode of deception
which Moncrieff has very ingeniously ridiculed in his “Tom and Jerry.”
Witches and wizards are not so common as they were a few years ago
amongst us. The spread of education, by means of National and Sunday
Schools, goes a great way to destroy superstition. Few witches were
better known in Craven than Kilnsay Nan, who died a few years ago. This
old hag travelled with a Guinea pig in her breast, which she pretended
solved questions, and used at times to open a witchcraft shop in
Bag’s-alley, Skipton: her stock of spells was not very large, for it
only consisted of her Guinea pig, and about half a pack of dirty cards.

Littondale, the romantic valley which forms the scene of the above tale,
is at the extremity of the parish of Burnsal, where Wharfdale forks off
into two great branches, one whereof retains the name of Wharfdale to
the source of the river; and the other, which is watered by the
Skirfare, (sometimes called the Litton and Litton Bech,) is called
Littondale. The ancient name was Amerdale; and by that designation
Wordsworth alludes to it in his “White Doe,”

    “The deep fork of Amerdale.”

The whole of the dale is in the parish of Arncliffe; so called,
according to my great authority in Craven matters, Dr. Whitaker, from
Єaꞃn, an eagle, and clyꝼꝼ, a rock; i. e. the eagle’s rock; “as it
afforded many secure retreats for that bird in its ridges of
perpendicular limestone.” The western side of the valley extends to
Pennigent; on the skirts of which mountain are many ancient places of
interment, called “Giants’ Graves,” thought to be Danish.

During the last summer I took a ride up Littondale, principally with a
view of inspecting Arncliffe church, on the venerable tower of which I
had frequently gazed at a distance. Alas! it is the only venerable thing
about the church, all the rest of which has been rebuilt in a most
paltry and insignificant style--not an ornament about it, inside or
outside: as Dr. Whitaker truly says, “it has been rebuilt with all the
attention to economy, and all the neglect, both of modern elegance and
ancient form, which characterises the religious edifices of the present
day.” It is indeed, as the same historian observes, “a perfect specimen”
of a “plain, oblong, ill-constructed building, without aisles, choir,
column, battlements, or buttresses; the roof and wainscotting of deal,
the covering of slate; the walls running down with wet, and the whole
resembling a modern conventicle, which this year may serve as a chapel,
and the next as a cockpit.” The remarks that Arncliffe church leads the
doctor to make ought to be _thundered_ in the ears of every “beautifier”
from Cornwall to Berwick upon Tweed:--

“Awakened by the remonstrances of their ecclesiastical superior, a
parish discovers that, by long neglect, the roof of their church is half
rotten, the lead full of cracks, the pews falling down, the windows
broken, the mullions decayed, the walls damp and mouldy. Here it is well
if the next discovery be not the _value_ of the lead. No matter whether
this covering have or have not given an air of dignity and venerable
peculiarity to the church for centuries. It will save a parish
assessment; and blue slate will harmonize very prettily with the
adjoining cotton-mill! The work of renovation proceeds--the stone
tracery of the windows, which had long shed their dim religious light,
is displaced, and with it all the armorial achievements of antiquity,
the written memorials of benefactors, the rich tints and glowing drapery
of saints and angels--but to console our eyes for the losses, the smart
luminous modern sash is introduced; and if this be only pointed at top,
all is well; for all is--still _Gothic_![510] Next are condemned the
massy oaken stalls, many of them capable of repairs, many of them
wanting none: these are replaced by narrow slender deal pews, admirably
contrived to cramp the tall, and break down under the bulky. Next the
fluted wood work of the roof, with all its carved enrichments, is
plastered over. It looked dull and nourished cobwebs! Lastly, the
screens and lattices, which, from a period antecedent to the
Reformation, had spread their light and perforated surfaces from arch to
arch, are sawn away; and, in the true spirit of modern equality, one
undistinguishing blank is substituted for separations which are yet
_canonical_, and to distinctions which _ought to be revered_.”

In Littondale is the celebrated cave Doukerbottom Hole: the road leading
to it is steep and difficult to travel for one unused to hilly
countries; but the tourist will receive an ample recompense for the
badness of the road, by the splendid views obtained from all parts of it
of Whernside and the neighbouring hills. It is some years since I saw
Doukerbottom Cave; and at this distance of time I fear to attempt a
description of its wonders; but I remember that the entrance is steep
and rather dangerous; the first chamber very spacious and lofty, and the
roof starred with beautiful stalactites formed by the dripping of the
limestone; that then the cavern becomes narrower and lower, so much so,
that you have to stoop, and that at the end the ear is stunned by a
waterfall, which discharges itself into some still lower cave. I
remember, too, that I visited it in company with an amiable dissenting
minister, and that we were highly amused at the jokes and tales of our
one-eyed guide, Mr. Proctor, of Kilnsay. I have just been inquiring
after that worthy and eccentric old fellow, and find that he is dead. I
am sorry for it; and if my reverend friend should see this article, I
doubt not but he will lament with me, that poor old Proctor is gone. For
many years he had been guide to Doukerbottom Cave and Whernside.

In Littondale is a ridge of rock, called Tenant’s Ride, from one of the
Tenant family having galloped along it while hunting. A dangerous feat
truly, but not so daring as is generally supposed; for I am given to
understand the ridge is seven yards wide, and perfectly level. There are
fine waterfalls in the valley. I trust that a time will come when
Littondale will be more frequented than at present.

  T. Q. M.

  _December, 1827._

  [510] Rylstone chapel has been “beautified” in this way.

       *       *       *       *       *


HAGBUSH-LANE

From desire to afford the destroyers of Corrall’s cottage time to
reflect and make reparation for the injury they had inflicted on the old
man and his wife; and wishing to abstain from all appearance of
strife-making, the topic has remained till now untouched.

On the 28th of November Mr. S., as the agent of a respectable clergyman
whose sympathy had been excited by the statements of the _Table Book_,
called on me to make some inquiries into the case, and I invited him to
accompany me to Corrall’s shed. We proceeded by a stage to the “Old
Mother Red Cap,” Camden-town, and walked from thence along the New Road,
leading to Holloway, till we came to the spot at the western corner of
Hagbush-lane, on the left-hand side of the road. We had journeyed for
nothing--the shed had disappeared from the clay swamp whereon it stood.
Along the dreary line of road, and the adjacent meadows, rendered
cheerless by alternate frosts and rains, there was not a human being
within sight; and we were at least a mile from any place where inquiry
could be made, with a chance of success, respecting the fugitives. As
they might have retired into the lane for better shelter during the
winter, we made our way across the quaggy entrance as well as we could,
and I soon recognised the little winding grove, so delightful and
lover-like a walk in days of vernal sunshine. Its aspect, now, was
gloomy and forbidding. The disrobed trees looked black, like funeral
mutes mourning the death of summer, and wept cold drops upon our faces.
As we wound our slippery way we perceived moving figures in the distance
of the dim vista, and soon came up to a comfortless man and woman, a
poor couple, huddling over a small smouldering fire of twigs and leaves.
They told us that Corrall and his wife had taken down their shed and
moved three weeks before, and were gone to live in some of the new
buildings in White-conduit fields. The destitute appearance of our
informants in this lonely place induced inquiry respecting themselves.
The man was a London labourer out of employment, and, for two days, they
had been seeking it in the country without success. Because they were
able to work, parish-officers would not relieve them; and they were
without a home and without food. They had walked and sauntered during
the two nights, for want of a place to sleep in, and occasionally
lighted a fire for a little warmth--

    “The world was not their friend, nor the world’s law.”

We felt this, and Mr. S. and myself contributed a trifle to help them to
a supper and a bed for the night. It was more, by all its amount, than
they could have got in that forlorn place. They cheerfully undertook to
show us to Corrall’s present residence, and set forward with us. Before
we got out of Hagbush-lane it was dark, but we could perceive that the
site of Corrall’s cottage and ruined garden was occupied by heaps of
gas-manure, belonging to the opulent landowner, whose labourers
destroyed the poor man’s residence and his growing stock of winter
vegetables.

[Illustration: ~A last Look at Hagbush-lane.~]

----“A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine
ears: see how yon’ justice rails upon yon’ simple thief. Hark in thine
ear: change places; and handy dandy, which is the justice, which is the
thief?----

    “Through tatter’d cloaths small vices do appear;
    Robes and furr’d gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold,
    And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks:
    Arm it in rags, a pigmy’s straw doth pierce it.”

We found Corrall and his wife and child at No. 3, Bishop’s-place,
Copenhagen-street. The overseers would have taken them into the
workhouse, but the old man and his wife refused, because, according to
the workhouse rules, had they entered, they would have been separated.
In “The Form of Solemnization of Matrimony,” it is enjoined, after the
joining of hands, “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put
asunder;” and though this prescription is of the highest order of law,
yet it is constantly violated by parochial authority. Corrall is
sixty-nine years old, and his wife’s lungs appear diseased. Were they
together in the poor-house they would be as well circumstanced as they
can ever hope or wish; but, this not being allowed, they purpose
endeavouring to pick up a living by selling ready dressed meat and small
beer to labouring people. Their child, a girl about seven years of age,
seems destined to a vagabond and lawless life, unless means can be
devised to take her off the old people’s hands, and put her to school.
On leaving them I gave the wife five shillings, which a correspondent
sent for their use:[511] and Mr. S. left his address, that, when they
get settled, they may apply to him as the almoner of the benevolent
clergyman, on whose behalf he accompanied me to witness their
situation.----

This notice will terminate all remark on Hagbush-lane: but I reiterate,
that since it ceased to be used as the common highway from the north of
England into London, it became a green lane, affording lovely walks to
lovers of rural scenery, which lawless encroachments have despoiled, and
only a few spots of its former beauty remain. It is not “waste” of the
manors through which it passes, but belongs to the crown; and if the
Commissioners of Woods and Forests survey and inquire, they will
doubtless claim and possess themselves of the whole, and appropriate it
by sale to the public service. True it is, that on one or two occasions
manor homages have been called, and persons colourably admitted to
certain parcels; but the land so disposed of, a homage could not legally
admit claimants into possession of; nor could an entry on the court
rolls confer a legal title. Indeed the court rolls themselves will, at
least in one instance, show that the steward has doubted his lord’s
right; and the futility of such a title has seemed so obvious, that some
who retain portions of Hagbush-lane actually decline admission through
the manor-court, and hold their possessions by open seizure, deeming
such a holding as legal, to all intents and purposes, as any that the
lord of the manor can give. Such possessors are lords in their own
right--a right unknown to the law of England--founded on mere force;
which, were it exercised on the personalties of passengers, would
infallibly subject successful claimants to the inconvenience of taking
either a long voyage to New South Wales, or, perhaps, a short walk
without the walls of Newgate, there to receive the highest reward the
sheriff’s substitute can bestow.

  *

  [511] I am sorry I cannot remember the initials to this gentleman’s
  letter, which has been accidentally mislaid.


       *       *       *       *       *

~Discoveries~

OF THE

ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

No. XXXV.


ANCIENT CHEMISTRY, &c.

_Distillation._--It has been questioned whether the ancients were
acquainted with this art, but a passage of Dioscorides not only
indicates the practice, but shows that the name of its principal
instrument, the alembic, was derived from the Greek language. Pliny
gives the same explanation, as Dioscorides does, of the manner of
extracting quicksilver from cinnabar by distillation. And Seneca
describes an instrument exactly resembling the alembic. Hippocrates even
describes the process of distillation. He talks of vapours from the
boiling fluid, which meeting with resistance stop and condense, till
they fall in drops. Zosimus of Panopolis, an Egyptian city, desires his
students to furnish themselves with alembics, gives them directions how
to use them, describes them, and presents drawings of such as best
deserve to be employed in practice.

_Alcalis and Acids._--Of the substances promiscuously termed lixivial
salt, sal alcali, rock-salt, &c., Aristotle speaks, when he says that
in Umbria the burnt ashes of rushes and reeds, boiled in water, yield a
great quantity of salt. Theophrastus observes the same. Varro relates of
dwellers on the borders of the Rhine, who having neither sea nor pit
salt, supply themselves by means of the saline cinders of burnt plants.
Pliny speaks of ashes as impregnated with salts, and in particular of
the nitrous ashes of burnt oak; adding, that these salts are used in
medicine, and that a dose of lixivial ashes is an excellent remedy.
Hippocrates, Celsus, Dioscorides, and especially Galen, often recommend
the medical use of sal alcali. To the mixture of acids and alcali, Plato
ascribed fermentation. Solomon seems to have known this effect of them,
when he speaks of “vinegar upon nitre.”

_Cleopatra’s Pearl._--A convincing proof of the ability of the ancients
in chemistry is the experiment with which Cleopatra entertained Marc
Antony, in dissolving before him, in a kind of vinegar, a pearl of very
great value, (above 45,450_l._ sterling.) At present we know not of any
“vinegar” that can produce this effect; but the fact is well attested.
Probably the queen added something to the vinegar, omitted by the
historian. The aid of Dioscorides, surnamed Phacas, who was her
physician, might have enabled her thus to gain her wager with Marc
Antony, that she would exceed him in the splendour and costliness of her
entertainment. But Cleopatra herself was a chemical adept, as appears
from some of her performances still in the libraries of Paris, Venice,
and the Vatican. And Pliny informs us of the emperor Caius, that by
means of fire he extracted some gold from orpiment.

_Malleability of Glass._--The method of rendering glass ductile, which
is to us a secret, was assuredly a process well known to the ancients.
Some still doubt of it, as others have of the burning glasses of
Archimedes. Because forsooth they do not know how it could be effected,
they will not admit the fact, notwithstanding the exact accounts we have
of it, till somebody again recovers this lost or neglected secret, as
Kircher and Buffon did that of Archimedes’s mirrors. Pliny says, the
flexibility of glass was discovered in the time of Tiberius; but that
the emperor fearing lest gold and silver, those most precious metals,
should thereby fall in their value, so as to become contemptible,
ordered the residence, workhouse, and tools of the ingenious artisan to
be destroyed, and thus strangled the art in its infancy. Petronius is
more diffuse. He says, that in the time of Tiberius there was an
artificer who made vessels of glass, which were in their composition and
fabric as strong and durable as silver or gold; and that being
introduced into the presence of the emperor, he presented him with a
vase of this kind, such as he thought worthy of his acceptance. Meeting
with the praise his invention deserved, and finding his present so
favourably received, he threw the vase with such violence upon the
floor, that had it been of brass it must have been injured by the blow;
he took it up again whole, but dimpled a little, and immediately
repaired it with a hammer. While in expectation of ample recompense for
his ingenuity, the emperor asked him whether any body else was
acquainted with this method of preparing glass, and being assured that
no other was, the tyrant ordered his head to be immediately struck off;
lest gold and silver, added he, should become as base as dirt. Dion
Cassius, on this head, confirms the attestations of Pliny and Petronius.
Ibn Abd Alhokim speaks of malleable glass as a thing known in the
flourishing times of Egypt. Greaves, in his work on Pyramids, mentions
him as a celebrated chronologist among the Arabians, and cites from him
that “Saurid built in the western pyramid thirty treasuries, filled with
store of riches and utensils, and with signatures made of precious
stones, and with instruments of iron and vessels of earth, and with arms
which rust not, and with glass which might be bended, and yet not
broken, &c.” There is, however, a modern chemical composition, formed of
silver dissolved in acid spirits, and which is called _cornu lunæ_, or
horned moon, a transparent body, easily put into fusion, and very like
horn or glass, and which will bear the hammer. Borrichius, a Danish
physician of the seventeenth century, describes an experiment of his
own, by which he obtained a pliant and malleable salt: he gives the
receipt, and concludes from thence, that as glass for the most part is
only a mixture of salt and sand, and as the salt may be rendered
ductile, glass may be made malleable: he even imagines that the Roman
artificer, spoken of by Pliny and Petronius, may have successfully used
antimony as the principal ingredient in the composition of his vase.
Descartes supposed it possible to impart malleability to glass, and
Morhoff assures us that Boyle was of the same opinion.

_Painting on Glass._--This art, so far as it depends upon chemistry, was
carried formerly to high perfection. Of this we have striking instances
in the windows of ancient churches, where paintings present themselves
in the most vivid colours, without detracting from the transparency of
the glass. Boerhave and others observe, that we have lost the secret to
such a degree, that there are scarcely any hopes of recovering it. Late
experiments go far towards a successful restoration of this art.

_Democritus._--This eminent man, who was a native of Abdera in Thrace,
flourished upwards of four centuries before the Christian æra. For the
sake of acquiring wisdom he travelled into Egypt, and abode with the
priests of the country. He may be deemed the father of experimental
philosophy. It is affirmed that he extracted the juice of every simple,
and that there was not a quality belonging to the mineral or vegetable
kingdoms that escaped his notice. Seneca says, that he was the inventor
of reverberating furnaces, the first who gave a softness to ivory, and
imitated nature in her production of precious stones, particularly the
emerald.

_Gunpowder._--Virgil and his commentator Servius, Hyginus, Eustathius,
La Cerda, Valerius Flaccus, and many other authors, speak in such a
manner of Salmoneus’s attempts to imitate thunder, as suggest to us that
he used a composition of the nature of gunpowder. He was so expert in
mechanics, that he formed machines which imitated the noise of thunder,
and the writers of fable, whose surprise in this respect may be compared
to that of the Mexicans when they first beheld the fire-arms of the
Spaniards, give out that Jupiter, incensed at the audacity of this
prince, slew him with lightning. It is much more natural to suppose that
this unfortunate prince, as the inventor of gunpowder, gave rise to
these fables, by having accidentally fallen a victim to his own
experiments. Dion and Joannes Antiochenus report of the emperor
Caligula, that he imitated thunder and lightning by means of machines,
which at the same time emitted stones. Themistius relates, that the
Brachmans encountered one another with thunder and lightning, which they
had the art of launching from on high at a considerable distance.
Agathias reports of Anthemius Traliensis, that having fallen out with
his neighbour, Zeno the rhetorician, he set fire to his house with
thunder and lightning. Philostrates, speaking of the Indian sages, says,
that when they were attacked by their enemies they did not leave their
walls to fight them, but repelled and put them to flight by thunder and
lightning. In another place he alleges that Hercules and Bacchus
attempting to assail them in a fort where they were entrenched, were so
roughly received by reiterated strokes of thunder and lightning,
launched upon them from on high by the besieged, that they were obliged
to retire. The effects ascribed to these engines could scarcely be
brought about but by gunpowder. In Julius Africanus there is a receipt
for an ingenious composition to be thrown upon an enemy, very nearly
resembling that of gunpowder. But that the ancients were acquainted with
it seems proved beyond doubt, by a clear and positive passage of an
author called Marcus Græcus, whose work in manuscript is in the Royal
Library at Paris, entitled “Liber Ignium.” The author, describing
several ways of encountering an enemy, by launching fire upon him, among
others gives the following receipt:--Mix together one pound of live
sulphur, two of charcoal of willow, and six of saltpetre; reduce them to
a very fine powder in a marble mortar. He directs a certain quantity of
this to be put into a long, narrow, and well-compacted cover, and so
discharged into the air. Here we have the description of a rocket. The
cover with which thunder is imitated he represents as short, thick, but
half-filled, and strongly bound with packthread, which is exactly the
form of a cracker. He then treats of different methods of preparing the
match, and how one squib may set fire to another in the air, by having
it enclosed within it. In short, he speaks as clearly of the composition
and effects of gunpowder as any body in our times could do. This author
is spoken of by Mesue, an Arabian physician, who flourished in the
beginning of the ninth century. There is reason to believe that he is
the same of whom Galen speaks.


GENERATION.

There are two theories on this subject among the moderns. Harvey,
Stenon, Graaf, Redi, and other celebrated physicians, maintain that all
animals are oviparous, and spring from eggs, which in the animal kingdom
are what seed is in the vegetable. Hartsoëker and Lewenhoek are of a
different opinion, and maintain that all animals spring by metamorphosis
from little animals of extreme minuteness.

The first of these systems is merely a revival of that taught by
Empedocles, as cited by Plutarch and Galen, and next to him Hippocrates,
Aristotle, and Macrobius. The other system, that of animalcula or
spermatic vermiculi, is but a revival of the opinions of Democritus and
other ancients.

Hippocrates, founding himself upon a principle universally received by
antiquity that nothing arises from nothing, advanced that nothing in
nature absolutely perished; that nothing, taking it altogether, was
produced anew; nothing born, but what had a prior existence; that what
we call birth, is only such an enlargement as brings from darkness to
light, or renders visible, those small animalcula which were before
imperceptible. He maintains that every thing increases as much as it
can, from the lowest to the highest degree of magnitude. These
principles he afterwards applies to generation, and declares that the
larger sizes arise out of the lesser; that all the parts successively
expand themselves, and grow and increase proportionally in the same
series of time; that none of them in reality takes the start of another,
so as to be quicker or slower in growth; but that those which are
naturally larger sooner appear to the eye, than those which are smaller,
though they by no means preceded them in birth or existence.

_Polypi._--The multiplicity of animation of which the polypus is
capable, supposed to have been discovered by the moderns, was known to
the ancients. There are passages of Aristotle and St. Augustine, wherein
they speak of it as a thing which they knew from their own experience.
The latter, in his book entitled “De Quantitate Animæ,” relates, that
one of his friends performed the experiment before him of cutting a
polypus in two; and that immediately the separated parts betook
themselves to flight, moving with precipitation, the one one way, and
the other another. Aristotle, speaking of insects with many feet, says,
that there are of these animals or insects, as well as of plants and
trees, that propagate themselves by shoots: and as what were but the
parts of a tree before, become thus distinct and separate trees; so in
cutting one of these animals, says Aristotle, the pieces which before
composed altogether but one animal, become all of a sudden so many
different individuals. He adds, that the animating principle in these
insects is in effect but one, though multiplied in its powers, as it is
in plants.


_The Sexual System of Plants._

    Vivunt in Venerem frondes, omnesque vicissim
    Felix arbor amat, nutant ad mutua palmæ
    Fœdera, populeo suspirat populus ictu,
    Et platani platanis, alnoque assibilat alnus.

  _Claudian. de Nuptiis Honorii et Mariæ._

Claudian’s verses have been thus familiarly Englished:--“The tender
boughs live together in love, and the happy trees pass their time
entirely in mutual embraces. Palms by consent salute and nod to each
other; the poplar, smitten with the poplar, sighs; whilst planes and
alders express their affection in the melody of whispers.” This allusion
to the “Loves of the Plants” was not a mere imagination of the old poet:
their sexual difference was known to the old philosophers.
“Naturalists,” says Pliny, “admit the distinction of sex not only in
trees, but in herbs, and in all plants.”


ASTRONOMY--MATHEMATICS--MECHANICS--OPTICS, &c.

_The Vibration of the Pendulum_ was employed, for the purpose it is
still applied to, by the ancient Arabians, long before the epoch usually
assigned to its first discovery. A learned gentleman at Oxford, who
carefully examined the Arabian manuscripts in the library of that
university, says, “The advantages recommending the study of astronomy to
the people of the East were many.” He speaks of “the serenity of their
weather; the largeness and correctness of the instruments they made use
of much exceeding what the moderns would be willing to believe; the
multitude of their observations and writings being six times more than
what has been composed by Greeks and Latins; and of the number of
powerful princes who, in a manner becoming their own magnificence, aided
them with protection.” He affirms, that it is easy “to show in how many
respects the Arabian astronomers detected the deficiency of Ptolemy, and
the pains they took to correct him; how carefully they measured time by
water-clocks, sand-glasses, immense solar dials, and even by _the
vibrations of the pendulum_; and with what assiduity and accuracy they
conducted themselves in those nice attempts, which do so much honour to
human genius--the taking the distances of the stars, and the measure of
the earth.”

_Refraction of Light._--According to Roger Bacon, Ptolemy, the great
philosopher and geometrician, gave the same explanation of this
phenomenon, which Descartes has done since; for he says, that “a ray,
passing from a more rare into a more dense medium, becomes more
perpendicular.” Ptolemy wrote a treatise on optics whence Alhazen seems
to have drawn whatever is estimable in what he advances about the
refraction of light, astronomical refraction, and the cause of the
extraordinary size of planets when they appear on the horizon. Ptolemy,
and after him Alhazen, said, that “when a ray of light passes from a
more rare into a more dense medium, it changes its direction when it
arrives upon the surface of the latter, describing a line which
intersects the angle made by that of its first direction, and a
perpendicular falling upon it from the more dense medium.” Bacon adds,
after Ptolemy, that “the angle formed by the coincidence of those two
lines is not always equally divided by the refracted ray; because in
proportion to the greater or less density of the medium, the ray is more
or less refracted, or obliged to decline from its first direction.” Sir
Isaac Newton subsequently deducing the cause of refraction, from the
attraction made upon the ray of light by the bodies surrounding it,
says, “that mediums are more or less attractive in proportion to their
density.”

_Astronomic Refraction._--Ptolemy, acquainted with the principle of the
refraction of light, could not fail to conclude that this was the cause
of the appearance of planets upon the horizon before they came there.
Hence he accounted for those appearances from the difference there was
between the medium of air, and that of ether which lay beyond it; so
that the rays of light coming from the planet, and entering into the
denser medium of our atmosphere, must of course be so attracted as to
change their direction, and by that means bring the star to our view,
before it really come upon the horizon.

_Why Stars appear largest upon the Horizon_ is attempted to be accounted
for by Roger Bacon. He says it may proceed from this, that the rays
coming from the star are made to diverge from each other, not only by
passing from the rare medium of ether into the denser one of our
surrounding air, but also by the interposition of clouds and vapours
arising out of the earth, which repeat the refraction and augment the
dispersion of the rays, whereby the object must needs be magnified to
our eye. He afterwards adds, that there has been assigned by Ptolemy and
Alhazen another more reasonable cause. These authors thought that the
reason of a star’s appearing larger at its rising or setting than when
viewed over head arose from this, that when the star is over head there
are no immediate objects perceived between it and us, so that we judge
it nearer to us, and are not surprised at its littleness; but when a
star is viewed on the horizon, it lies then so low that all we can see
upon earth interposes between it and us, which making it appear at a
greater distance, we are surprised at observing it so large, or rather
imagine it larger than it is. For the same reason the sun and moon, when
appearing upon the horizon, seem to be at a greater distance, by reason
of the interposition of those objects which are upon the surface of our
earth, than when they are over head; and consequently there will arise
in our minds an idea of their largeness, augmented by that of their
distance, and this of course must make them appear larger to us, when
viewed on the horizon, than when seen in the zenith.

_Perspective of the Ancients._--Most of the learned deny the ancients
the advantage of having known the rules of perspective, or of having put
them in practice, although Vitruvius makes mention of the principles of
Democritus and Anaxagoras respecting that science, in a manner that
plainly shows they were not ignorant of them. “Anaxagoras and
Democritus,” says he, “were instructed by Agatarchus, the disciple of
Eschylus. They both of them taught the rules of drawing, so as to
imitate from any point of view the prospect that lay in sight, by making
the lines in their draught, issuing from the point of view there,
exactly resemble the radiation of those in nature; insomuch, that
however ignorant any one might be of the rules whereby this was
performed, yet they could not but know at sight the edifices, and other
prospects which offered themselves in the perspective scenes they drew
for the decoration of the theatre, where, though all the objects were
represented on a plain surface, yet they swelled out, or retired from
the sight, just as objects do endowed with all dimensions.” Again he
says, that the painter Apatarius drew a scene for the theatre at
Tralles, “which was wonderfully pleasing to the eye, on account that the
artist had so well managed the lights and shades, that the architecture
appeared in reality to have all its projections.” Pliny says, that
Pamphilus, who was an excellent painter, applied himself much to the
study of geometry, and maintained that “without its aid it was
impossible ever to arrive at perfection in that art.” Pliny elsewhere
says, that Apelles fell short of Asclepiodorus in “the art of laying
down distances in his paintings.” Lucian, in his Dialogue of Zeuxis,
speaks of the effects of perspective in pictures, and Philostratus, in
his preface to his Drawings, or History of Painting, makes it appear
that he knew this science; and in his account of Menoetius’s picture of
the siege of Thebes, describes the happy effects of perspective when
studied with care.

_Optical Problem._--Aristotle was the first who proposed the famous
problem respecting the roundness of that image of the sun, which is
formed by his rays passing through a small puncture, even though the
hole itself be square or triangular. “Why is it,” inquires Aristotle,
“that the sun, in passing through a square puncture, forms itself into
an orbicular, and not into a rectilinear figure, as when it shines
through a grate? Is it not because the efflux of its rays, through the
puncture, converges it into a cone, whose base is the luminous circle?”

_Squaring the Circle._--If there remain any hope of solving this problem
it is founded on that discovery of Hippocrates of Chios, called the
squaring of the _Lunulæ_, which is said to have first put him in heart,
they say, to attempt the squaring of the circle. This Hippocrates must
not be confounded with the father of medicine, who was of the isle of
Cos. He who is spoken of here was a famous geometrician, and lived about
five hundred years before Jesus Christ.

Anaxagoras appears to have been the first who dared this enterprise, and
it was when he was in prison at Athens. Plutarch says positively that he
achieved it; but this must be looked upon only as a general expression.
Aristotle in many places mentions the efforts of the Pythagoreans Bryson
and Antiphon, who likewise flattered themselves with having found out
the square of the circle. Aristophanes jeers the learned of his time for
attempting to resolve this problem. One of the nearest approximations to
the solution of this problem is that of Archimedes. He found the
proportion of the diameter to the circumference to be as 7 to 22, or
somewhat between 21 and 22; and it is in making use of Archimedes’s
method, that Wallis lays down rules for attaining nearly the square of
the circle; yet they bring us not fully up to it, how far soever we
advance. Archimedes contented himself with what he had in view, which
was to find out a proportion that would serve all the purposes of
ordinary practice. What he neglected to do, by extended approximations
was afterwards performed by Apollonius, and by Philo of Gadare, who
lived in the third century.

_The Squaring of the Parabola_ is one of the geometrical discoveries
which has done most honour to Archimedes. It is remarked to have been
the first instance of the reducing a curve figure exactly into a
square, unless we admit of Hippocrates’s squaring the _lunulæ_ to have
been of this sort.

_The Burning Glasses, employed by Archimedes_ to set fire to the Roman
fleet at the siege of Syracuse, Kepler, Naudéus, and Descartes have
treated as fabulous, though attested by Diodorus Siculus, Lucian, Dion,
Zonaras, Galen, Anthemius, Eustathius, Tzetzes, and other eminent
authors. Some have pretended to demonstrate by the rules of catoptrics
the impossibility of it; but Kircher, attentively observing the
description which Tzetzes gives of the burning glasses of Archimedes,
resolved upon an experiment; and having, by means of a number of plain
mirrors, collected the sun’s rays into one focus, he by an increased
number of mirrors produced the most intense degree of solar heat.
Tzetzes says, that “Archimedes set fire to Marcellus’s navy, by means of
a burning glass composed of small square mirrors, moving every way upon
hinges; which, when placed in the sun’s rays, directed them upon the
Roman fleet so as to reduce it to ashes at the distance of a bow-shot.”
Buffon’s celebrated burning glass, composed of 168 little plain mirrors,
produced so considerable a heat, as to set wood in flames at the
distance of two hundred and nine feet; melt lead, at that of one hundred
and twenty; and silver, at that of fifty.

Anthemius of Tralles in Lydia, celebrated as an able architect,
sculptor, and mathematician, who in the emperor Justinian’s time built
the church of St. Sophia at Constantinople, wrote a small treatise in
Greek, which is extant only in manuscript, entitled “Mechanical
Paradoxes,” wherein is a chapter respecting burning glasses, with a
complete description of the requisites, which, according to this author,
Archimedes must have possessed to enable him to set fire to the Roman
fleet. His elaborate description demonstrates the possibility of a fact
so well attested in history. Zonaras, speaking of Archimedes’s glasses,
mentions those of Proclus, who, he says, burnt the fleet of Vitellius at
the siege of Constantinople, in imitation of Archimedes, who set fire to
the Roman fleet at the siege of Syracuse. He intimates that the manner
wherein Proclus effected this, was by launching upon the vessels, from
the surface of reflecting mirrors, such a quantity of flame as reduced
them to ashes.

_Refracting Burning Glasses_ were certainly known to the ancients. Pliny
and Lactantius speak of glasses that burnt by refraction. The former
tells of balls or globes of glass, or crystal, which exposed to the sun
transmit a heat sufficient to set fire to cloth, or corrode away the
dead flesh of those patients who stand in need of caustics; and the
latter, after Clemens Alexandrinus, takes notice that fire may be
kindled, by interposing glasses filled with water between the sun and
the object, so as to transmit the rays to it. Aristophanes, in his
comedy of the Clouds, introduces Socrates as examining Strepsiades about
the method he had discovered for getting clear for ever of his debts.
The latter replies, that he thought of making use of a burning glass,
which he had hitherto used in kindling his fire; for, says he, should
they bring a writ against me, I’ll immediately place my glass in the
sun, at some little distance from the writ, and set it a fire.

       *       *       *       *       *

  ERRATUM.

  Col. 455, line 10 from the bottom, for “Hartley Common,” read
  “_Startley Common_.”

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


FREE TRANSLATION

OF A

DRINKING SONG, BY GOETHE.

SUNG BY THE POET AT A MEETING OF FRIENDS, TO JOIN WHICH HE AND OTHERS
HAD TRAVELLED A CONSIDERABLE DISTANCE.

1.

    Celestial rapture seizes me,
      Your inspiration merely;
    It lifts me to the winking stars,
      I seem to touch them nearly:
    Yet would I rather stay below,
      I can declare sincerely,
    My song to sing, my glass to ring
      With those I love so dearly.

2.

    Then wonder not to see me here
      To prop a cause so rightful:
    Of all lov’d things on this lov’d earth
      To me ’tis most delightful.
    I vow’d I would among ye be
      In scorn of fortune spiteful;
    So here I came, and here I am,
      To make the table quite full.

3.

    When thus we should together meet,
      Not quickly to be sunder’d,
    I hoped at other Poets’ songs
      My joy, too, should be thunder’d.
    To join such brothers who would grudge
      To travel miles a hundred!
    So eager some this day to come,
      Through very haste they blunder’d.

4.

    Long life to him who guards our lives!
      My doctrine’s not learnt newly:
    We’ll first do honour to our King,
      And drink to him most duly.
    May he his foes without o’ercome,
      Within quell all unruly;
    And grant support of every sort,
      As we shall serve him truly!

5.

    Thee next I give--thou only one,
      Who all thy sex defeatest!
    Each lover deems right gallantly,
      His mistress the completest.
    I therefore drink to her I love;
      Thou, who some other greetest,
    Ne’er drink alone--still think thine own
      As I do mine--the sweetest!

6.

    The third glass to old friends is due,
      Who aid us when we need it.
    How quickly flew each joyous day
      With such kind hearts to speed it!
    When fortune’s storm was gathering dark
      We had less cause to heed it:
    Then fill the glass--the bottle pass--
      A bumper!--we’ve agreed it!

7.

    Since broader, fuller, swells the tide
      Of friends, as life advances,
    Let’s drink to every lesser stream,
      The greater that enhances.
    With strength united thus we meet,
      And brave the worst mischances;
    Since oft the tide, must darkly glide
      That in the sunlight dances.

8.

    Once more we meet together here,
      Once more in love united:
    We trust that others’ toils like ours,
      Like ours will be requited.
    Upon the self-same stream we see
      Full many a mill is sited!
    May we the weal of all men feel,
      And with it be delighted.

  J. P. C.




Vol. II.--53.


[Illustration: ~George Bloomfield.~]

This portrait of the elder brother of Robert Bloomfield, “the Farmer’s
Boy,” is here presented from a likeness recently drawn in water colours
from the life, and communicated to the _Table Book_ for the purpose of
the present engraving.

The late Mr. Capel Llofft, in a preface to Robert Bloomfield’s “Farmer’s
Boy,” relates Robert’s history, from a narrative drawn up by George
Bloomfield. It appears from thence, that their father died when Robert
was an infant under a year old; that their mother had another family by
John Glover, a second husband; and that Robert, at eleven years old, was
taken by a kind farmer into his house, and employed in husbandry work.
Robert was so small of his age, that his master said he was not likely
to get his living by hard labour; his brother George informed his
mother, if she would let him have Robert, he would take him and teach
him his own trade, shoemaking; another brother, Nathaniel, offered to
clothe him; and the mother and Robert, who was then fifteen years old,
took coach, and came to London to George Bloomfield. “I have him in my
mind’s eye,” says George; “a little boy; not bigger than boys generally
are at twelve years old. When I met him and his mother at the inn, (in
Bishopsgate-street,) he strutted before us, dressed just as he came from
keeping sheep, hogs, &c.--his shoes filled full of stumps in the heels.
He, looking about him, slipt up--his nails were unused to a flat
pavement. I remember viewing him as he scampered up--how small he
was--little thought that little fatherless boy would be one day known
and esteemed by the most learned, the most respected, the wisest, and
the best men of the kingdom.” Robert developed his talents under the
fostering of George, to whose protection he was left by their mother.
“She charged me,” says George, “as I valued a mother’s blessing, to
watch over him, to set good examples for him, and never to forget that
he had lost his father.” Her injunctions were strictly observed till
Robert was eighteen, when George, having housed him, and taught him his
trade, quitted London, and left Robert to pursue shoemaking and playing
on the violin. “Robert told me in a letter,” says George, “‘that he had
sold his fiddle, and got a wife.’ Like most poor men, he got a wife
first, and had to get household stuff afterward. It took him some years
to get out of ready furnished lodgings. At length, by hard working, &c.
he acquired a bed of his own, and hired the room up one pair of stairs,
at No. 14, Bell-alley, Coleman-street. The landlord kindly gave him
leave to sit and work in the light garret, two pair of stairs higher. In
this garret, amid six or seven other workmen, his active mind employed
itself in composing the _Farmer’s Boy_.” George, with filial piety and
fondness, tells of his mother’s pains to imbue Robert’s mind in infancy
with just principles. “As his reason expanded,” continues George, “his
love of God and man increased with it. I never knew his fellow for
mildness of temper and goodness of disposition; and since I left him,
universally is he praised by those who know him best, for the best of
husbands, an indulgent father, and quiet neighbour.”

The progress and melancholy termination of Robert Bloomfield’s life are
familiar to most readers of sensibility: they may not know, perhaps,
that his brother George has long struggled with poverty, and is now an
aged man, overwhelmed by indigence.

Two letters, written to a friend by a gentleman of Thetford, Mr. Faux,
and some manuscripts accompanying them in George Bloomfield’s
hand-writing, are now before me. They contain a few particulars
respecting George Bloomfield and his present situation, which are here
made known, with the hope of interesting the public in the behalf of a
greatly distressed and very worthy man. The following extract from one
of Mr. Faux’s letters introduces George Bloomfield’s circumstances, and
conveys an idea of his character: it will be seen that he, too, is a
versifier.

  “_Thetford, Oct. 15, 1827._

“I have found the letter you allude to, regarding his _application to
the overseers_ of St. Peter’s. I was rather inclined to send you a
bundle of his letters and poetry, but I hardly think it fair without
first consulting poor old George, and obtaining his permission. The
letter enclosed, in answer to my invitation to him to be present on the
day the duke of Grafton laid the first stone of the Pump-room, will show
you what a _shy_ bird he is. His presence on that occasion would have
been highly beneficial to him; but his extreme modesty has been a
drawback upon him through life, leaving him generally with a coat
‘scarcely visible.’ I believe he has been always poor, and yet a more
temperate man never lived.”----

The following is the note above referred to.

  _From_ GEORGE BLOOMFIELD _to_ MR. FAUX.

  “_Wednesday_, 3 o’clock.

“I was just folding the papers to take them to Stone, when the Master
Fauxes came in, with great good nature in their countenances, and
delivered their father’s very kind invitation. I feel truly grateful for
the kindness: but when I can, without offence, avoid being seen, I have,
through life, consulted my sheepish feelings. I have been accused of
‘making myself scarce,’ and been always considered an ‘unsocial’ fellow:
it is a task to me to go into a situation where I am likely to attract
attention, and the observation of men. In childhood I read of an
invisible coat--I have sometimes worn a coat _scarcely visible_; but I
want a coat that would render me _invisible_. I hope to be excused
without giving offence, as I should be very ill at ease.

“Mr. Faux would have been presented with the enclosed papers a fortnight
back, but I waited a favourable opportunity. This week I had but little
work to do.--Lo, lo! here they are.”

A poem by George Bloomfield, called “The Spa,” which, being of local
interest, has scarcely passed beyond provincial circles, induced the
following public testimonial to his talents and virtues.

  LINES ADDRESSED TO GEORGE BLOOMFIELD, BY THE REV. MR. PLUMTREE, LATE
  FELLOW OF CLARE HALL, CAMBRIDGE.

    Hail, aged minstrel! well thine harp thou’st strong,
    Tuneful and pleasingly of Thetford sung;
    Her abbey nunnery, and her mounds of war,
    Her late discovered, healing, blessed, Spa;
    And with a skilful hand, and master’s art,
    Hast poured the tribute of a grateful heart.
    Thy talent must not sleep. Resume thy lyre,
    And bid it in some deeper notes respire.
    Thy great Creator and thy Saviour claim
    The emanations of a poet’s flame.
    Poets and prophets once were names entwin’d:
    Ah, why was virtue e’er from verse disjoin’d?
    Ah, why have Christians lent a willing ear
    To strains ’twas sin to sing, ’twas sin to hear?
    Will Christians listen to a Byron’s lay?
    To Bloomfield, rather, admiration pay.
    His simple verse, with piety enjoin’d,
    More grateful steal on my attentive mind;
    And if it thrills with less tumultuous joy,
    It is a pleasure free from all alloy.
    Then, aged minstrel, strike thy lyre again,
    And o’er the land be heard thy pleasing strain.
    And, oh! may Britain’s sons thy lay regard,
    And give the aged minstrel his reward:
    Not the cheap recompense of empty praise,
    Nor e’en the crown of never-fading bays;
    But such as may effectually assuage
    The wants and cares of thy declining age;
    And the last lay that shall thy lyre employ,
    Accompany a “heart” that sings for joy.

The hand of the “aged minstrel” is now too weak to strike the lyre; nor
will his voice again be heard. Mr. James Burrell Faux, of Thetford,
Norfolk, is anxious for immediate assistance in George Bloomfield’s
behalf; and to that gentleman communications and contributions should be
addressed. All that the _Table Book_ can do, is thus to make known the
_necessity_ of the case, and to entreat pecuniary relief from those who
have hearts to feel, and ability to give.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Garrick Plays.~

No. XLVI.


SERIOUS FRAGMENTS.

1.

  Misery lays stronger bonds of love than Nature; and they are more one,
  whom the same misfortune joined together, than whom the same womb gave
  life.

  _H. Killigrew._

2.

_Dying Person._

      ---------- my soul
    The warm embraces of her flesh is now,
    Ev’n now forsaking; this frail body must
    Like a lost feather fall from off the wing
    Of Vanity--

  _W. Chamberlain._

3.

       ------------- eternity:
    Within whose everlasting springs we shall
    Meet with those joys, whose blasted embryos were
    Here made abortive--

  _W. Chamberlain._

4.

_Crown declined by a Spiritual person._

    I know no more the way to temporal rule,
    Than he that’s born, and has his years come to him,
    On a rough desart--

  _Middleton._

5.

_To a Votaress._

    Keep still that holy and immaculate fire,
    You chaste lamp of eternity; ’tis a treasure
    Too precious for death’s moment to partake,
    The twinkling of short life.--

  _Middleton._

6.

    The fame that a man wins himself is best;
    That he may call his own: honours put to him
    Make him no more a man than his clothes do,
    Which are as soon ta’en off; for in the warmth
    The heat comes from the body, not the weeds;
    So man’s true fame must strike from his own deeds.

  _Middleton._

7.

_Adventurers._

    The sons of Fortune, she has sent us forth
    To thrive by the red sweat of our own merits.--

  _Middleton._

8.

_New made Honour._

      ------------- forgetfulness
    Is the most pleasing virtue they can have.
    That do spring up from nothing; for by the same.
    Forgetting all, they forget whence they came.

  _Middleton._

9.

_Œnone forsaken._

    Beguil’d, disdain’d, and out of love, live long, thou Poplar tree,
    And let thy letters grow in length to witness this with me.
    Ah Venus, but for reverence unto thy sacred name,
    To steal a silly maiden’s love I might account it blame.--
    And if the tales I hear be true, and blush for to recite,
    Thou dost me wrong to leave the plains, and dally out of sight,
    False Paris! this was not thy vow, when thou and I were one,
    To range and change old love for new; but now those days be gone.

  _Peel._

10.

_Epilepsy._

    --your [Cæsar’s] disease the Gods ne’er gave to man,
    But such a one as had a spirit too great
    For all his body’s passages to serve it;
    Which notes the excess of your ambition.

  _Chapman._

11.

  We are not tried but in our misery. He is a cunning coachman, that can
  turn well in a narrow room.

  _Anon._

12.

_Gray hairs._

      ---- upon whose reverend head
    The milk-white pledge of wisdom sweetly spreads.--

  _Lodge._

13.

_Ladies Dancing._

    ---- a fine sweet earthquake, gently moved
    By the soft wind of whispering silks.--

  _Decker._

14.

    ---- sharp witted Poets; whose sweet verse
    Makes heav’nly Gods break off their nectar draughts.
    And lay their ears down to the lowly earth--

  _Anon._

15.

_Grandsires’ Love._

    Old men do never truly doat, untill
    Their children bring them babies.

  _Shirley._

16.

_To a false Mistress._

    ------ thy name,
      sweeten’d once the name of him that spake it.--

  _Shirley._

17.

_Herod, jealous, to Mariamne._

    Hast thou beheld thyself, and could’st thou stain
    So rare perfection?--ev’n for love of thee
    I do profoundly hate thee.

  _Lady Elizabeth Carew._

18.

_Cleopatra._

    The wanton Queen, that never loved for Love.--

  _Lady E. Carew._

19.

_Conceit of a Princess’ love._

        ’Twas but a waking dream,
    Wherein thou madest thy wishes speak, not her;
    In which thy foolish hopes strive to prolong
    A wretched being: so sickly children play
    With health-loved toys, which for a time delay,
    But do not cure the fit.

  _Rowley._

20.

_Changing colour at sudden news._

    Why look’st thou red, and pale, and both, and neither?--

  _Chapman._

21.

_Rich Usurer to his Mistress._

    I will not ’joy my treasure but in thee,
    And in thy looks I’ll count it every hour;
    And thy white arms shall be as bands to me,
    Wherein are mighty lordships forfeited.--
    Then triumph, Leon, richer in thy love.
    Than all the hopes of treasure I possess.
    Never was happy Leon rich before;
    Nor ever was I covetous till now,
    That I see gold so ’fined in thy hair.

  _Chapman._

22.

_Puritan._

    ------ his face demure, with hand
    On breast, as you have seen a canting preacher.
    Aiming to cheat his audience, wanting matter.
    Sigh, to seem holy, till he thought on something.--

  _Anon._

23.

_Sects._

    Eternity, which puzzles all the world
    To name the inhabitants that people it;
    Eternity, whose undiscover’d country
    We fools divide before we come to see it,
    Making one part contain all happiness,
    The other misery, then unseen fight for it.
    All sects pretending to a right of choice,
    Yet none go willingly to take a part.

  _Anon._

24.

    Man is a vagabond both poor and proud,
    He treads on beasts who give him clothes and food;
    But the Gods catch him wheresoe’er he lurks,
    Whip him, and set him to all painful works:
    And yet he brags he shall be crown’d when dead.
    Were ever Princes in a Bridewell bred?
    Nothing is sinfully begot but he:
    Can base-born Bastards lawful Sovereigns be?

  _Crowne._

25.

_Wishes for Obscurity._

    How miserable a thing is a Great Man!--
    Take noisy vexing Greatness they that please;
    Give me obscure and safe and silent ease.
    Acquaintance and commerce let me have none
    With any powerful thing but Time alone:
    My rest let Time be fearful to offend,
    And creep by me as by a slumbering friend;
    Till, with ease glutted, to my bed I steal,
    As men to sleep after a plenteous meal.
    Oh wretched he who, call’d abroad by power,
    To know himself can never find an hour!
    Strange to himself, but to all others known,
    Lends every one his life, but uses none;
    So, e’er he tasted life, to death he goes;
    And himself loses, e’er himself he knows.

  _Crowne._

26.

_Mind constituted to Goodness._

  ---- you may do this, or any thing you have a mind to; even in your
  fantasy there is a secret counsel, seeing that all your actions, nay
  all your pleasures, are in some exercise of virtue--

  _H. Killigrew._

27.

_Returned Pilgrim._

    To man how sweet is breath! yet sweetest of all
    That breath, which from his native air doth fall.
    How many weary paces have I measured,
    How many known and unknown dangers past,
    Since I commenced my tedious pilgrimage,
    The last great work of my death-yielding age!
    Yet am I blest, that my returning bones
    Shall be rak’t up in England’s peaceful earth.

  _Anon._

28.

_Usury._

    Nature in all inferior things hath set
    A pitch or term, when they no more shall get
    Increase and offspring. Unrepaired houses
    Fall to decay; old cattle cease to breed;
    And sapless trees deny more fruit or seed:
    The earth would heartless and infertile be.
    If it should never have a jubilee.
    Only the Usurer’s Money ’genders still;
    The longer, lustier; age this doth not kill.
    He lives to see his Money’s Money’s Money
    Even to a hundred generations reach.

  _Anon._

29.

_Love defined by contraries._

    Fie, fie, how heavy is light Love in me!--
    How slow runs swift Desire!--this leaden air,
    This ponderous feather, merry melancholy;
    This Passion, which but in passion
    Hath not his perfect shape.--

  _Day._

30.

_Good Faith._

    What are we but _our words?_ when they are past,
    Faith should succeed, and that should ever last.

31.

_Weeping for good news._

    I knew your eye would be first served;
    That’s the soul’s taster still for grief or joy.

  _Rowley_

32.

_Forsaken Mistress._

    I thought the lost perfection of mankind
    Was in that man restored; and I have grieved,
    Lost Eden too was not revived for him;
    And a new Eve, more excellent than the first,
    Created for him, that he might have all
    The joys he could deserve: and he fool’d me
    To think that Eve and Eden was in me:
    That he was made for me, and I for him.

  _Crowne._

33.

_Love surviving Hope._

    ’Tis a vain glory that attends a Lover,
    Never to say he quits; and, when Hope dies,
    The gallantry of Love still lives, is charm’d
    With kindness but in shadow.

  _Browne._

34.

_Warriors._

    I hate these potent madmen, who keep all
    Mankind awake, while they by their great deeds
    Are drumming hard upon this hollow world,
    Only to make a sound to last for ages.

  _Crowne._

35.

_Life._

    What is’t we live for? tell life’s finest tale--
    To eat, to drink, to sleep, love, and enjoy,
    And then to love no more!
    To talk of things we know not, and to know
    Nothing but things not worth the talking of.

  _Sir R. Fane, jun._

36.

_Brother, supposed dead, received by a Sister: she shews him a letter,
disclosing an unworthy action done by him; at which he standing abashed,
she then first congratulates him:_

  ---- now I meet your love. Pardon me, my brother; I was to rejoyce at
  this your sadness, before I could share with you in another joy.

  _H. Killigrew._

37.

_Person just dead._

      ’Twas but just now he went away;
    I have not yet had time to shed a tear;
    And yet the distance does the same appear,
    As if he had been a thousand years from me.
    Time takes no measure in eternity.

  _Sir Robert Howard._

38.

_French Character._

    The French are passing courtly, ripe of wit;
    Kind, but extreme dissemblers: you shall have
    A Frenchman ducking lower than your knee,
    At the instant mocking ev’n your very shoe-tyes.

  _Ford._

39.

_Love must die gently._

    I hoped, your great experience, and your years,
    Would have proved patience rather to your soul,
    Than to break off in this untamed passion.
    Howe’er the rough hand of the untoward world
    Hath molded your proceedings in this matter,
    Yet I am sure the first intent was love.
    Then since the first spring was so sweet and warm,
    Let it die gently; ne’er kill it with a scorn.

  _Anon._

40.

_Poetic Diction._

    ----- worthiest poets
    Shun common and plebeian forms of speech,
    Every illiberal and affected phrase,
    To clothe their matter; and together tye
    Matter and form with art and decency.

  _Chapman._

41.

_Author Vanity._

    ------ the foolish Poet, that still writ
    All his most self-loved verse in paper royal,
    Or parchment ruled with lead, smooth’d with the pumice,
    Bound richly up, and strung with crimson strings;
    Never so blest as when he writ and read
    The ape-loved issue of his brain; and never
    But joying in himself, admiring ever--

  _Chapman._

42.

_Good wit to be husbanded._

    ------ as of lions it is said, and eagles,
    That when they go, they draw their seres and talons
    Close up, to shun rebating of their sharpness:
    So our wit’s sharpness, which we should employ
    In noblest knowledge, we should never waste
    In vile and vulgar admirations.

  _Chapman._

43.

_Impossibility of attaining, a bar to desire._

  Nothing is more ordinary, than for my Lady to love her Gentleman; or
  Mistress Anne, her father’s man. But if a country clown coming up
  hither, and seeking for his lawyer in Gray’s Inn, should step into the
  walks, and there should chance to spy some mastership of nature; some
  famed Beauty, that for a time hath been the name; he would stand
  amazed, perhaps wish that his Joan were such, but further would not be
  stirred. Impossibility would

               stop more bold desires,
    And quench those sparks that else would turn to fires.

  _Edmund Prestwick._

44.

_Theory of men’s choice in a Beauty._

  1.--She has a most complete and perfect beauty; nor can the greatest
  critic in this sort find any fault with the least proportion of her
  face, but yet methought I was no more taken with it, than I should be
  with some curious well-drawn picture.

  2.--That is somewhat strange.

  1.--In my mind, not at all; for it is not always that we are governed
  by what the general fancy of the world calls beauty; for each soul
  hath some predominant thoughts, which when they light on ought that
  strikes on them, there is nothing does more inflame. And as in music
  _that_ pleaseth not most, which with the greatest art and skill is
  composed; but those airs that do resemble and stir up some dormant
  passion, to which the mind is addicted; so, I believe, never yet was
  any one much taken with a face, in which he did not espy ought that
  did rouse and put in motion some affection that hath ruled in his
  thoughts, besides those features which, only for the sake of common
  opinion, we are forced to say do please.

  _E. Prestwick._

  C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


GENERAL REMINISCENCES

OF

THREE, THIRD, AND THRICE.

    “Thrice the brindled rat hath mewed--
    Thrice to thine and thrice to mine,
    And thrice again to make up nine.”--_Shakspeare._

The ordinal, cardinal, or numeral, THREE, possesses stronger power of
associating application than any other figure in history, or literature.
From the first notice of the Creation, _Ælohim_ is understood to
signify the Trinity. When the third day was created, the sun, moon, and
stars, were set in the firmament. Christ’s resurrection was on the third
day, and his crucifixion between two thieves. Noah’s sons were Shem,
Ham, and Japheth. Job’s daughters were Keziah, Jemima, and Kerenhappuck;
his comforters were Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar. Time is divided into
three parts. The ancients rose at the third hour. The Brahmins have
their Birmah, Vishnu, and Siva; the Persians their Oromanes, Mithra, and
Mithras; the Egyptians their Osiris, Isis, and Orus; the Arabians their
Allah, Al Uzza, and Manah; the Phœnicians and Tyrians their Belus,
Urania, and Adonis; the Greeks their Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto.
Aristotle, Plutarch, and Macrobius, wrote on the doctrine of numbers.
Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, were three Fates. The children that
endured the fiery furnace were Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.
Jupiter’s thunderbolt had three forks; Neptune’s trident, three prongs;
Cerberus three heads. The Pythian priestess sat on a tripod.[512] There
were the three Parcæ; the three Furies; three attributes of the sun,
Sol, Apollo, and Liber; of the moon, Hecate, Diana, and Luna. David
prayed three times a day. The Hindoos make three suppressions of the
breath when meditating on the triliteral syllable O’M. The Sabians
prayed morning, noon, and night. Three bows of the head, and three
prostrations are peculiar to some nations. In England, are king, lords,
and commons. The ancients washed their eyes three times; drunk potions
out of three cups. The Salians beat the ground three times in their
dance. Three times were allowed for execrations, for spitting on the
ground and sneezing. Juno Lucina was invoked three times in favour of
childbirth. Three steps were allowed to ascend the throne or the altar.
Persons dipped thrice into wells for cure. Persons were touched thrice
for the king’s evil. Three parts of the old world only were known. The
three professions are law, divinity, and physic. Three chirps of a
cricket is said to be a sign of death. Coleridge makes his mastiff bitch
howl three times for his Lady Christabel. The <DW7> crosses himself
three times. The raven’s croak, or the owl’s triad screech, indicates
(it is said) ill omens. Three crows in a gutter betoken good to the
beholder. The funeral bell is tolled thrice for the death of a man. The
third attack of apoplexy is thought fatal. The third finger of the left
hand bears the marriage ring. A Latin motto is _tria una in juncta_. The
witches in Macbeth ask, “When shall we three meet again?” There are
signs of the Three Crowns, Three Pigeons, Three Cups, Three Tuns, Three
Brewers, Three Johns, Three Bells, and others, to an infinite degree. In
the church service are the clerk, curate, and preacher; three priests
serve at the papal shrine. In the courts of justice are the judge, the
jury, and the culprit. In physic, the physician’s consultation is three.
An arbitration is three. A dual public-house sign is, with the gazer
added quaintly, “We _three_ loggerheads be.” The three warnings are
celebrated. The Jews boasted of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The United
Kingdom is England, (Wales included,) Ireland, and Scotland. Who has not
read of Three-fingered Jack? of Octavius, Lepidus, and Anthony? A nest
of chests is three. The British toast is echoed by hip! hip! huzzah!
Three signals decided the fate of Lucius Junius. In the third year of
Cyrus the name of Belteshazzar was revealed to Daniel: his prophecy was,
that “three kings should stand up in Persia;” and Daniel mourned three
weeks by reason of his vision. The beast that he saw, had three ribs in
the mouth of it. The householder went about the third hour, and saw
others standing idle in the market-place. Daniel’s petition was made
three times. In the Revelations, the third part of the creatures which
were in the sea and had life, died. Faith, Hope, and Charity, are three
virtues. The priests’ abodes in Eziekel were three chambers. In the
prophecy it says, “A third part of the hair shall be burnt; a third part
fall by the sword; a third part scattered by the wind.” Demosthenes
says, “Three years after, he met with the same fate as Æschines, and was
also banished from Athens.” History unites an Aristides, a Cimon, and a
Phocion. Peter’s denial was given by the cock crowing thrice. Homer, in
his Frogs and Mice, says,

    “Three warlike sons adorned my nuptial bed,
    Three sons, alas! before their father, dead.”

Pope Alexander III., 1182, compelled the kings of England and France to
hold the stirrups of his saddle when he mounted his horse. King Richard
III. put an end to the civil wars between the houses of York and
Lancaster, 1483. Peter III. was deposed 1762. Virgil, 565, lib. viii.
says, Nascenti cui _tres_ animas Feronia mater--_ter_ letho sternendus
erat: and again, _tres_ ulnas--_tribus_ nodis. Milton’s three fierce
spirits were Ariel, Arioch, and Ramiel. Lord Nelson’s ship, the Victory,
attacked the Trinidad.[513] Fairs are usually chartered for three days.
Persons used to walk three times round Horn church. The pawnbroker has
three balls. A hearth has a poker, tongs, and shovel.[514] The sentinel
asks--“Who comes there?” thrice, before he dares level his firelock at
the intruder. Three candles in a room are said to indicate death in the
family. The bashaw wears three tails. The passion flower has three
spires.

Thus, it will be readily seen, how intimately the number _three_ has
been, and is, connected with events and circumstances, hypothetical and
absolute. Were the subject worth tracing further, scarcely a poetic or
prose writer, but is liberal in the use of this number. Considering,
however, that the adductions already given are such as to satisfy the
most fastidious disciples of the square root, need I perform a triple
evolution in this threefold science of pure and mixed numbers? I
conclude by apologising for not having treated the subject like a
lexicographer, in technical and alphabetical routine.

  J. R. P.

  _December, 1827._

  [512] A milking-stool has three legs. It is superstitiously left in
  the field to keep witches from injuring the cattle.

  [513] The _Tres Horas_ are explained in the _Every-Day Book_.

  [514] For the use of which threepence, hearth money, was formerly
  paid.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For the Table Book._


DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM.

  Ελευσονται (γαρ) ημεραι εν αις ουκ αφησονται λιθος επι λιθω ος ου
  καταλυθησεται.

  Luc. Ev. c. xxi. v. 6.

1.

      Hark! again to the onset--the portals gape wide--
    And the warriors stream forth in the rush of their pride,
    The cold reckless eye of the Roman glows red,
    At the sound of their deathlike and trumpetless tread;
    For he knows that the workings of frenzy are there,
    The triumph of death and the might of despair.
    Hearts--that wildly live on but to riot in pain--
    Lips--that laugh, as in scorn, at the links of the chain--
    And full many a plume shall yon eagle let fall,
    Ere she wing her fierce flight o’er the rift of the wall;
    Ere she soar on the dark cloud of conquest and rest,
    On the rock of that temple, the strength of her hest.

2.

      Thy foes are around thee, fair city of peace!--
    Thy sons are fast sinking, the wicked increase--
    Yet proudly, ev’n now, thy high-place dost thou hold,
    Girt round with the pomp of their steel and their gold;
    And a pearl of rich price, on thine hill-top art thou,
    Meet to jewel the crown of a conqueror’s high brow.
    Yet deem not thy sons to that haughty array,
    Will fling thee unheeded, unbled for away.
    Shall the proud heathen tread where thy prophets have trod?
    Shall, the Flamen exult in the “Holy of God?”
    No--the hearts of thy children are one,--to hurl back
    The merciless wrath of the Gentiles’ attack.
    For the home of their fathers towers yet in their eye,
    As they lived will _they_ live, as they died will _they_ die.

3.

      But weak is thine armour, and worthless thy might,
    A fiercer than man strives against thee in fight,
    And in vain shall the chiefs of thy battle withstand
    The voice of his thunder, the bolt in his hand;
    His wrath knows no refuge, his might knows no bar.
    The stout spear he rendeth, and burns the swift car.
    Thou shalt crumble to nought in the day of his wrath,
    Like the reed trampled down in the whirlwind’s wild path.

4.

      Weep, daughter of Judah! that tempest hath come,
    And it laugheth to scorn the mild vengeance of Rome.
    Weep, daughter of Judah! a vengeance so dread
    Is bursting e’en now o’er thy desolate head,
    That the stern Roman eyes it with doubt and with fear.
    O’er the cheek of the conqueror there steals a soft tear
    Aye! the heathen for thee feels a pang of regret--
    --One blaze--and thy sun shall for ever be set;

5.

      One short flickering blaze;--and then passeth away
    The glory of years in the work of a day:
    The fair crown of Jacob lies trod in the dust.
    And shipwreck’d is now the strong hold of his trust;
    Tho’ the foxes have holes, and the fowls have a nest,
    Yet the “seed of the Promised” finds nowhere to rest;
    And despised shall he live on, in darkness and night,
    Till a Salem more blessed shall gladden his sight;
    The courts of whose house, in their measureless girth,
    Shall compass the tribes and the thousands of earth;
    Where none, save in triumph, their voices shall raise,
    And no trump shall peal forth save the trumpet of praise,
    In a realm far above, o’er that red eagle’s nest,
    Where the proud cease from wrong, and the poor are at rest.

  B.

       *       *       *       *       *


APOSTLE SPOONS.

_To the Editor._

Dear Sir,--In Roger North’s Life of his brother, Sir Dudley North, (4to.
London, 1744,) occurs the following passage, which, in connection with
the account you gave your readers (_Every-Day Book_, vol. i. p. 176,) of
“Apostle Spoons,” may be acceptable to you.

Mr. North, after some opposition, was elected sheriff of London; and
after stating this, his biographer thus proceeds: “When all the forms of
this shrieval instalment were over, Mr. North received the honour of
knighthood ... and, as the custom of feasting, lately laid aside, was
now resumed, Mr. North took a great hall, that belonged to one of the
companies, and kept his entertainments there. He had diverse very
considerable presents from friends and relations, besides the
compliments of the several companies inviting themselves and wives to
dinner, _dropping their guineys, and taking apostles’ spoons in the room
of them_; which, with what they ate and drank, and such as came in the
shape of wives, (for they often gratified a she-friend or relation with
that preferment,) carried away, made but an indifferent bargain. The
Middle Templars, (because of his relation to the lord chief justice
North, who was of that Society,) came with a compliment, and a purse of
one hundred guineys, and were entertained. The mirth and rejoicing that
was in the city, as well at these feasts as at private entertainments,
is scarce to be expressed.”

In perusing this quaintly written volume, there occur two or three
passages, which deserve to be ranked as aphorisms. For your own reading
I here add them:--

“Better a loss at sea than a bad debt on land. The former has no worse
consequence than itself; but the other draws loss of time and pains,
which might be employed to more profit.”

“Whoever serves a community, and does not secure his reward, will meet
with quarrels instead of thanks, for all the good he may have done it.”

Sir Dudley was wont to remark, “_Lay nothing to heart which you cannot
help._” A most useful principle of life.

  I am, &c.

  _Whitehaven_,

  J. G.

  _Sept. 12, 1827._

       *       *       *       *       *


PATIENT COURTSHIP.

_For the Table Book._

I knew a man that went courting his sweetheart the distance of three
miles every evening for fourteen years, besides dodging her home after
church, Sunday afternoons; making above 15,000 miles. For the first
seven years he only stood and courted in the door-porch; but for the
remaining period, he ventured (what a liberty after a septennial
attachment!) to hang his hat on a pin in the passage and sit in the
kitchen settle. The wedding--a consummation devoutly to be wished--was
solemnized when Robert and Hannah were in their “sear and yellow leaf.”
They had no family “to cry their fading charms into the grave.” Though
their courtship had been long, cool, and deliberate, they were not the
happiest couple in the village; to that union of temper, which is so
essential in wedded life, they were strangers.

  *, *, P.

       *       *       *       *       *


OLD AND FAITHFUL SERVANTS.

    “In their death they were not divided.”

  2 _Samuel_ i. 23.

_To the Editor_

Sir,--The following memorial I copied from a tablet, on the right hand
side of the clergyman’s desk, in the beautiful little church at Hornsey.
The scarceness of similar inscriptions make this valuable.

  S. T. L.

  “ERECTED _to the memory_ of MARY PARSONS, the diligent, faithful, and
  affectionate servant, in a family during a period of 57 years. She
  died on the 22d day of November, 1806, aged 85.

  “ALSO _to the memory_ of ELIZABETH DECKER, the friend and companion of
  the above; who, after an exemplary service of 47 years in the same
  family, died on the 2d of February, 1809, aged 75.

  “THEIR REMAINS, _by their mutual request_, WERE INTERRED IN THE SAME
  GRAVE.”

       *       *       *       *       *


~Discoveries~

OF THE

ANCIENTS AND MODERNS.

No. XXXVI.

Merely a cursory mention of all the important discoveries in geometry,
mathematics, and philosophy, for which we are indebted to the ancients,
would form a large book; yet a few of these particulars will be adverted
to by way of concluding the series of articles under the present title.


ANCIENT PHILOSOPHERS.

_Thales_ was the first we know of who predicted eclipses. He pointed out
the advantages that must arise from a due observation of the little bear
or polar star; and taught that the earth was round, and the ecliptic in
an oblique position.

_Pytheas_ also, by accurate observations at Marseilles, more than 300
years before Christ, determined the obliquity of the ecliptic, by means
of the solstitial shadow of the sun upon a dial. He found the height of
the gnomon was to the length of the shadow as 600 to 213⅛; whence he
concluded, that the obliquity of the ecliptic was 23° 49′. When Gassendi
was at Marseilles with the celebrated Peiresc, he reiterated the
experiment, and found it very just.

_Thales_ went to the Egyptians to be instructed in geometry, and himself
instructed them in that science. He showed them how to measure the
pyramids by the length of their shades, and to determine the measure of
inaccessible heights and distances, by the proportion of the sides of a
triangle. He demonstrated the various properties of the circle; he
discovered, respecting the isosceles triangle, that the angles at its
base were equal; and he was the first who found, that in right lines
cutting one another, the opposite angles are equal.

_Anaximander_, the successor of Thales, was the inventor of the
armillary sphere, and of sun-horologes, or dials; he was likewise the
first who drew a geographical map.

_Pythagoras_ was the first who gave sure and fundamental precepts in
music. Struck by the difference of sounds which issued from the hammers
of a forge, but came into unison at the fourth, and fifth, and eighth
percussions, he conjectured that this must proceed from the difference
of weight in the hammers; he weighed them, and found he had conjectured
right. Upon this he wound up some musical strings, in number equal to
the hammers, and of a length proportioned to their weight; and found,
that at the same intervals, they corresponded with the hammers in sound.
Upon this principle he devised the monochord; an instrument of one
string, capable of determining the various relations of sound. He also
made many fine discoveries in geometry.

_Plato_ by his studies in mathematics was enabled to devise the analytic
method, or that geometric analysis, which enables us to find the truth
we are in quest of, out of the proposition itself which we want to
resolve. He it was who at length solved the famous problem, respecting
the duplication of the cube. To him also is ascribed the solution of the
problem concerning the trisection of an angle; and the discovery of
conic sections.

_Hipparchus_ discovered the elements of plane and spherical
trigonometry.

_Diophantes_, who lived 360 years before Jesus Christ, was the inventor
of algebra. It was from this science that the ancients drew those long
and difficult demonstrations which we meet with in their works. They are
presumed to have aimed at concealing a method which furnished them with
so many beautiful and difficult demonstrations; and to have preferred
the proving of their propositions by reasonings _ad absurdum_, rather
than hazard the disclosure of the means by which they arrived more
directly at the result of what they demonstrated. We meet with strong
traces of algebra in the 13th book of Euclid. From the time of
Diophantes, algebra made but small progress, till that of Vietus, who
restored and perfected it, and was the first who marked the known
quantities by the letters of the alphabet. Descartes afterwards applied
it to geometry.

_Aristarchus_ was the first who suggested a method of measuring the
distance of the sun from the earth, by means of the half section of the
moon’s disk, or that phasis of it wherein it appears to us when it is in
its quadratures.

_Hipparchus_ was the first who calculated tables of the motion of the
sun and moon, and composed a catalogue of the fixed stars. He was also
the first who, from the observation of eclipses, determined the
longitude of places upon earth: but his highest honour is, that he laid
the first foundations for the discovery of the precession of the
equinoxes.

_Archimedes_ discovered the square of the parabola, the properties of
spiral lines, the proportion of the sphere to the cylinder, and the true
principles of statics and hydrostatics. His sagacity is evident from the
means he adopted to discover the quantity of silver that was mixed along
with the gold, in the crown of king Hieron. He reasoned upon the
principle, that all bodies immerged in water lose just so much of their
weight, as a quantity of water equal to them in bulk weighs. Hence he
drew this consequence, that gold being more compact must lose less of
its weight, and silver more; and that a mingled mass of both, must lose
in proportion to the quantities mingled. Weighing therefore the crown in
water and in air, and two masses, the one of gold, the other of silver,
equal in weight to the crown; he thence determined what each lost of
their weight, and so solved the problem. He likewise invented a
_perpetual screw_, valuable on account of its being capable to overcome
any resistance; and the _screw_ that still goes by his own name, used in
the elevating of water. He alone defended the city of Syracuse, by
opposing to the efforts of the Romans the resources of his genius. By
means of machines, of his own construction, he rendered Syracuse
inaccessible. Sometimes he hurled upon the land forces stones of such
enormous size, as crushed whole phalanxes of them at once. When they
retired from the walls, he overwhelmed them with arrows innumerable, and
beams of a prodigious weight, discharged from catapults and balistæ. If
their vessels approached the fort, he seized them by the prows with
grapples of iron, which he let down upon them from the wall, and rearing
them up in the air, to the great astonishment of every body, shook them
with such violence, as either to break them in pieces, or sink them to
the bottom. When they kept at a distance from the haven, he focalized
fire from heaven, and wrapped them in sudden and inevitable
conflagration. He once said to king Hieron, “Give me but a place to
stand upon, and I will move the earth.” The king was amazed by the
declaration, and Archimedes gave him a specimen of his power by
launching singly by himself a ship of a prodigious size. He built for
the king an immense galley, of twenty banks of oars, containing spacious
apartments, gardens, walks, ponds, and every convenience required by
regal dignity. He constructed a sphere, representing, the motions of the
stars, which Cicero esteemed one of the inventions which did the highest
honour to human genius. He perfected the manner of augmenting the
mechanic powers, by the multiplication of wheels and pullies; and
carried mechanics so far, that his works surpass imagination.


MECHANICS.

The immense machines, of astonishing force, which the ancients adapted
to the purposes of war, prove their amazing proficiency in mechanics. It
is difficult to conceive how they reared their bulky moving towers: some
of them were a hundred and fifty-two feet in height, and sixty in
compass, ascending by many stories, having at bottom a battering ram, of
strength sufficient to beat down walls; in the middle, a drawbridge, to
be let down upon the wall of the city attacked, afforded easy passage
into the town for the assailants; and at top a body of men, placed above
the besieged, harassed them without risk to themselves. An engineer at
Alexandria, defending that city against the army of Julius Cæsar, by
means of wheels, pumps, and other machinery, drew from the sea
prodigious quantities of water, and discharged it upon the adverse army
to their extreme discomfiture.

The mechanical enterprise and skill of the ancients are evidenced by
their vast pyramids existing in Egypt, and the magnificent ruins of the
cities of Palmyra and Balbec. Italy is filled with monuments of the
greatness of ancient Rome.


ANCIENT CITIES.

The finest cities of Europe convey no idea of the grandeur of ancient
Babylon, which being fifteen leagues in circumference, was encompassed
with walls two hundred feet in height, and fifty in breadth, whose sides
were adorned with gardens of a prodigious extent, which arose in
terraces one above another, to the very summit of the walls. For the
watering of these gardens there were machines, which raised the water of
the Euphrates to the highest of the terraces. The tower of Belus,
arising out of the middle of the temple, was of so vast a height, that
some authors have not ventured to assign its altitude; others put it at
a thousand paces.

Ecbatane, the capital of Media, was eight leagues in circumference, and
surrounded with seven walls in form of an amphitheatre, the battlements
of which were of various colours, white, black, scarlet, blue, and
orange; all of them covered with silver or with gold.

Persepolis was a city, which all historians speak of as one of the most
ancient and noble of Asia. There remain the ruins of one of its palaces,
which measured six hundred paces in front, and still displays relics of
its former grandeur.


THE LAKE MŒRIS AND THE PYRAMIDS.

The lake Mœris was a hundred and fifty leagues in circuit, and entirely
the work of one Egyptian king, who caused that immense compass of ground
to be hollowed, to receive the waters of the Nile, when it overflowed
its usual level, and to serve as a reservoir for watering Egypt by means
of canals, when the river was not of sufficient height to overflow and
fertilize the country. From the midst of this lake arose two pyramids,
of six hundred feet in height.

The other pyramids of Egypt, in bulk and solidity so far surpass
whatever we know of edifices, that we should be ready to doubt their
having existed, did they not still subsist. One of the sides of the base
of the highest pyramid measures six hundred and sixty feet. The
free-stones which compose it are each of them thirty feet long. The
moderns are at a loss to imagine by what means such huge and heavy
masses were raised to a height of above four hundred feet.


THE COLOSSUS OF RHODES.

This was another marvellous production of the ancients. Its fingers were
as large as statues; few were able with outstretched arms to encompass
the thumb. Ships passed between its legs.


STUPENDOUS STATUES.

Semiramis caused the mountain Bagistan, between Babylon and Media, to be
cut out into a statue of herself, which was seventeen stadia high, that
is, above half a French league; and around it were a hundred other
statues, of proportionable size, though less large.

It was proposed to Alexander the Great, to make a statue of him out of
mount Athos, which would have been a hundred and fifty miles in
circumference, and ten miles in height. The design was to make him hold
in his left hand a city, large enough to contain ten thousand
inhabitants; and in the other an urn, out of which should flow a river
into the sea.


BRIDGES--GLAZED WINDOWS.

In the structures of the ancients, the hardness of their cement equals
that of marble itself. The firmness of their highways has never been
equalled. Some were paved with large blocks of black marble. Their
bridges, some of which still remain, are indubitable monuments of the
greatness of their conceptions. The Roman bridge at Gard, near Nismes,
is one of them. It serves at once as a bridge and an aqueduct, goes
across the river Gardon, and connects two mountains, between which it is
enclosed. It comprehends three stories; the third is the aqueduct, which
conveys the waters of the Eure into a great reservoir, to supply the
amphitheatre and city of Nismes. Trajan’s bridge over the Danube had
twenty piers of free-stone, some of which are still standing, a hundred
and fifty feet high, sixty in circumference, and distant one from
another a hundred and seventy.

Among the ornaments and conveniences of ancient buildings was glass.
They decorated their rooms with glasses, as mirrors. They also glazed
their windows, so as to enjoy the benefit of light, without being
injured by the air. This they did very early; but before they discovered
that manner of applying glass, the rich made use of transparent stones
in their windows, such as agate, alabaster, phengifes, talc, &c.


CURIOUS MECHANISM.

The works of the ancients in miniature were excellent. Archytas, who was
contemporary with Plato, constructed a wooden pigeon, which imitated the
flight and motions of a living one. Cicero saw the whole of Homer’s
Iliad written in so fine a character that it could be contained in a
nutshell.[515] Myrmecides, a Milesian, made an ivory chariot, so small
and so delicately framed, that a fly with its wing could at the same
time cover it; and a little ivory ship of the same dimensions.
Callicrates, a Lacedemonian, formed ants and other little animals out of
ivory, so extremely small, that their component parts were scarcely to
be distinguished. One of these artists wrote a distich in golden
letters, which he enclosed in the rind of a grain of corn.


MICROSCOPES, &c.

Whether, in such undertakings as our best artists cannot accomplish
without the assistance of microscopes, the ancients were so aided, is
doubtful, but it is certain that they had several ways of helping and
strengthening the sight, and of magnifying small objects. Jamblichus
says of Pythagoras, that he applied himself to find out instruments as
efficacious to aid the hearing, as a ruler, or a square, or even optic
glasses, διοπτρα, were to the sight. Plutarch speaks of mathematical
instruments which Archimedes made use of, to manifest to the eye the
largeness of the sun; which may be meant of telescopes. Aulus Gellius
having spoken of mirrors that multiplied objects, makes mention of those
which inverted them; and these of course must be concave or convex
glasses. Pliny says that in his time artificers made use of emeralds to
assist their sight, in works that required a nice eye; and to prevent us
from thinking that it was on account of its green colour only that they
had recourse to it, he adds, that they were made concave the better to
collect the visual rays; and that Nero used them in viewing the combats
of the gladiators.


SCULPTURE.

Admirable monuments remain to us of the perfection to which the ancients
carried the arts of sculpture and design. The Niobé and the Laocoon, the
Venus de Medicis, the Hercules stifling Antæus, that other Hercules who
rests upon his club, the dying gladiator, and that other in the vineyard
of Borghese, the Apollo Belvedere, the maimed Hercules, and the Equerry
in the action of breaking a horse on mount Quirinal, loudly proclaim the
superiority of the ancients in those arts. These excellences are to be
observed upon their medals, their engraved precious stones, and their
_cameos_.


PAINTING.

Of ancient painting the reliques are so few and so much injured by time,
that to form a proper judgment of it, is at first difficult. Yet if due
attention be paid to pictures discovered at Rome, and latterly in the
ruins of Herculaneum, the applause which the painters of antiquity
received from their contemporaries may seem to have been merited. Among
the ancient paintings in fresco, still at Rome, are a reclining Venus at
full length, in the palace of Barbarini; the Aldovrandine nuptials; a
Coriolanus, in one of the cells of Titus’s baths; and seven other
pieces, in the gallery of the college of St. Ignatius; taken out of a
vault at the foot of mount Palatine; among which are a satyr drinking
out of a horn, and a landscape with figures, both of the utmost beauty.
There are also a sacrificial piece, consisting of three figures, in the
Albani collection; and an Œdipus, and a sphynx, in the villa Altieri;
which all formerly belonged to the tomb of Ovid. From these specimens an
advantageous judgment may be formed of the ability of the masters who
executed them. Others, discovered at Herculaneum, disclose a happiness
of design and boldness of expression, that could only have been achieved
by accomplished artists. Theseus vanquishing the minotaur, the birth of
Telephus, Chiron and Achilles, and Pan and Olympe, have innumerable
excellencies. There were found also, among the ruins of that city, four
capital pictures, wherein beauty of design seems to vie with the most
skilful management of the pencil. They appear of an earlier date than
those spoken of, which belong to the first century; a period when
painting, as Pliny informs us, was in its decline.


MOSAIC.

Of this work, which the Romans made use of in paving their apartments, a
beautiful specimen, described by Pliny, was found in the ruins of
Adrian’s villa at Tivoli. It represents a basin of water, with four
pigeons around its brim; one of them is drinking, and in that attitude
its shadow appears in the water. Pliny says, that on the same pavement
the breaking up of an entertainment was so naturally represented, that
you would have thought you really saw the scattered fragments of the
feast.


MUSIC.

The ancients have the whole merit of having laid down the first exact
principles of music; and the writings of the Pythagoreans, of
Aristoxenes, Euclid, Aristides, Nichomachus, Plutarch, and many others,
even such of them as still remain, contain in them every known theory of
the science. They, as well as we, had the art of noting their tunes,
which they performed by means of letters either contracted, or reversed,
placed upon a line parallel to the words, and serving for the direction,
the one of the voice, the other of the instrument. The scale itself, of
which Guy Aretin is the supposed inventor, is no other than the ancient
one of the Greeks a little enlarged, and what Guy may have taken from a
Greek manuscript, written above eight hundred years ago, which Kircher
says he saw at Messina in the library of the Jesuists, wherein he found
the hymns noted just as in the manner of Aretin. The ancient lyre was
certainly a very harmonious instrument, and was so constructed, and so
full of variety in Plato’s time, that he regarded it as dangerous, and
too apt to relax the mind. In Anacreon’s time, it had already obtained
forty strings. Ptolemy and Porphyry describe instruments resembling the
lute and theorb, having a handle with keys belonging to it, and the
strings extended from the handle over a concave body of wood. There is
to be seen at Rome an ancient statue of Orpheus, with a musical bow in
his right hand, and a kind of violin in his left. In the commentaries of
Philostrates by Vigenere, is a medal of Nero with a violin upon it. The
flute was carried to so high a degree of perfection by the ancients,
that there were various kinds of them, and so different in sound, as to
be wonderfully adapted to express all manner of subjects.

Tertullian mentions an organ invented by Archimedes. “Behold,” says
Tertullian, “that astonishing and admirable hydraulic organ of
Archimedes, composed of such a number of pieces, consisting each of so
many different parts, connected together by such a quantity of joints,
and containing such a variety of pipes for the imitation of voices,
conveyed in such a multitude of sounds, modulated into such a diversity
of tones, breathed from so immense a combination of flutes; and yet all
taken together, constitute but one single instrument.”

That the ancients knew and practised harmony is evident from Plato,
Macrobius, and other early writers. Aristotle, speaking of the
revolutions of the several planets, as perfectly harmonizing with one
another, they being all of them conducted by the same principle, draws a
comparison from music to illustrate his sentiments. “Just as in a
chorus,” says he, “of men and women, where all the variety of voices,
through all the different tones, from the bass to the higher notes,
being under the guidance and direction of a musician, perfectly
correspond with one another, and form a full harmony.” Aurelius
Cassiodorus defines symphony to be “the art of so adjusting the base to
the higher notes, and them to it, through all the voices and
instruments, whether they be wind or stringed instruments, that thence
an agreeable harmony may result.” Horace speaks expressly of the bass
and higher tones, and the harmony resulting from their concurrence. It
is true, however, that the ancients did not much use harmony in
concert. One fine voice alone, accompanied with one instrument,
regulated entirely by it, pleased them better than mere music without
voices, and made a more lively impression on their feeling minds; and
this is what even we ourselves every day experience.

The effects ascribed to the music of the ancients are surprising.
Plutarch reports of Antigenidas, that by playing on the flute, he so
roused the spirit of Alexander, that he started from the table, and flew
to his arms. Timotheus when touching his lyre so inflamed him with rage,
that drawing his sabre he suddenly slew one of his guests; which
Timotheus no sooner perceived, than altering the air from the Phrygian
to a softer measure, he calmed his passions, and infused into him the
tenderest feelings of grief and compunction for what he had done.
Jamblichus relates like extraordinary effects of the lyres of Pythagoras
and Empedocles. Plutarch informs us of a sedition quelled at Lacedemon
by the lyre of Terpander; and Boetius tells of rioters having been
dispersed by the musician Damon.

The delicacy of the ancient airs much surpassed ours; and it is in this
respect, principally, that we may be said to have lost their music. Of
their three kinds of music, the diatonic, chromatic, and the enharmonic,
there exists now only the first, which teaches the dividing the notes
into semi-notes: whereas the chromatic divided each note into three, and
the enharmonic into four parts. The difficulty there was to find voices
and hands proper to execute the chromatic kind, brought it first into
neglect, and then into oblivion; and for the same reason the enharmonic,
which was still more difficult, has not come down to us. All which now
remains of the ancient music, is that which knows of no other refinement
than the demi-note, instead of those finer kinds, which carried on the
division of a note into threes and fours. The variety of manner in which
the ancient music was performed, placed it in a rank of dignity superior
to ours. Our modes are but of two kinds, the flat and sharp; whereas the
ancients modified theirs into five, the principal of which were the
Ionic, the Lydian, the Phrygian, the Doric, and the Æolic; each adapted
to express and excite different passions: and by that means, especially,
to produce such effects as have been just noticed, and which are
incontestable from the authentic manner in which they have been
recorded.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTE--Here, if it were not necessary to close this series of papers,
they would be extended somewhat further for the purpose of relating the
long-reaching views of the ancients on other topics; but nothing can
conveniently be added save a passage from the author whose volume has
supplied the preceding materials. “Having received from our ancestors
the product of all their meditations and researches, we ought daily to
add what we can to it, and by that means contribute all in our power to
the increase and perfection of knowledge.”

Seneca, speaking eighteen centuries ago, of “the inventions of the
wise,” claims them as an inheritance.--“To me,” he says, “they have been
transmitted; for me they have been found out. But let us in this case
act like good managers, let us improve what we have received; and convey
this heritage to our descendants in better condition than it came to us.
Much remains for us to do, much will remain for those who come after us.
A thousand years hence, there will still be occasion, and still
opportunity to add something to the common stock. But had even every
thing been found out by the ancients, there would still this remain to
be done anew--to put their inventions into use, and make their knowledge
ours.”

  [515] In the _Every-Day Book_ there is an account of the means by
  which this performance can be effected.

       *       *       *       *       *


MANNERS IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--If the following extracts should suit the _Table Book_, they are
at your service.

  J. S.

  _Morley, November, 1827._

1637. The bishop of Chester, writing to the archbishop of York, touching
the entertainment given by the Chester men to Mr. Prynne, when on his
road to Caernarvon castle, has occasion to mention the reception given
to Prynne by the wife of Thomas Aldersey, the alderman, relates, “That,
on her examination, she swears, that Peter and Robert Ince brought
Prynne home to her house, where she was sitting with other gossips, and
neither expected nor invited Prynne; neither did _she send for a drop_
of wine for him, or bestowed any other gift upon him, but the offer of a
taste of a _pint of wine, which she and her gossips were then a
drinking_.”

  _New Discovery of the Prelate’s Tyranny_, p. 224.

1637. There came in my tyme to the college, Oxford, one Nathaniel
Conopios, out of Greece; _he was the first I ever saw drink coffee_,
which custom came not into England till _thirty years after_.

1640. Found my father at Bathe extraordinary weake; I returned home with
him in _his litter_.

1652. Having been robbed by two cutthroats near Bromley, I rode on to
London, and got 500 tickets printed.

The robber refusing to plead, was _pressed to death_.

1654. May. _Spring Garden_ till now had been the usual rendezvous for
the ladys and gallants at this season. I now observed how the _women
began to paint themselves_, formerly a most ignominious thing, and only
used by prostitutes.

  _Evelyn._

       *       *       *       *       *

1660. Jan. 16. I staid up till the _bellman_ came by with his bell just
under my window, and cried “Past one of the clock, and a cold frosty
window morning.”

When friends parted, they said, “_God be with you_.”

My dining-room was finished with green serge _hanging_ and gilt leather.

Jan. 2. I had been early this morning to Whitehall, at the Jewel office,
to choose a piece of gilt plate for my lord, in return of his offering
to the king, (which it seems is usual at this time of year, and an earl
gives 20 pieces in gold in a purse to the king,) I choose a gilt
tankard, weighing 31 ounces and a half, and he is allowed 30 ounces, so
I paid 12_s._ for the ounce and half over what he is to have: _but
strange it was for me to see what a company of_ SMALL FEES I was called
upon by a _great many to pay there, which I perceive is the_ manner that
_courtiers do get their estates_.

September. I did send for a cup of _tea_ (a China drink,) of which I had
never drank before.

November. To sir W. Batten’s to dinner, he having a couple of _servants
married_ to-day; and so there was a great number of merchants and others
of good quality, on purpose after dinner to make an offering, which,
when dinner was done, we did; and I gave 10_s._ and no more, though most
of them did give more, and did believe that I did also.

1661. Feb. Sir W. Batten sent my wife half a dozen pair of gloves and a
pair of silk stockings and garters for her _valentines_.

May. We went to Mrs. Browne’s, where sir W. Pen and I were godfathers,
and Mrs. Jordan and Shipman godmothers. And there before and after the
_christening_ we were with the woman above in her chamber. I did give
the midwife 10_s._ and the nurse 5_s._ and the maid 2_s._ But forasmuch
I expected to give the name to the child but did not, I forbore then to
give my plate, which I had in my pocket, namely, six spoons and a
porringer of silver.

July. A messenger brought me word that my uncle was dead. I rode over
and found my uncle’s corps in a coffin, standing upon joynt-stools _in
the chimney_ in the hall, but it began to smell, and so I caused it to
be set forth in the yard all night, and _watched by my aunt_. In the
morning my father and I read the _will_; _after that_ done we went about
getting things, as ribands and gloves, ready for the burial, which in
the afternoon was done; we served the people with wine and other things.

November. To church, and heard a simple fellow upon the praise of church
musique, and exclaiming _against men’s wearing their hats on in church_.

Civet cats, parrots, and apes, sent as _presents to ladies_; and
gentlemen lighted home by _link-boys_.

  _Pepys._

       *       *       *       *       *

The faire and famous comedian, Roxalana, was taken to be the earle of
Oxford’s _misse_, as at this time they began to call lewd women.

Dined at Chaffinch’s _house warming_.

  _Evelyn._

       *       *       *       *       *

1663. October. _To Guildhall_; we went up and down to see the tables. By
and by the lord mayor came into the hall _to dinner_, with the other
great lords, bishops, &c. I set near Creed. We had plenty of good wine,
but it was very unpleasing that we had no napkins, or knives, nor change
of trenchers, and drunk out of earthern pitchers and wooden dishes.

1664. Home to bed, having got a strange cold in my head, by _flinging
off my hat at dinner_.

To my lord chancellor’s (sir Orlando Bridgman, lord keeper,) in the
garden, where we conversed above an hour, walking up and down, and _he
would have me walk with my hat on_.

1665. At this time I have two tierces of _claret_, two quarter casks of
_canary_, and a smaller vessel of _sack_; a vessel of _tent_, another of
_Malaga_, and another of _white wine_, all in my own cellar.

1666. February. This morning came up to my wife’s bedside little Will
Mercer to be her _valentine_; and brought her name writ upon blue paper
in gold letters, done by himself very prettily. But I am also this year
my wife’s valentine, and it will cost me 5_l._ I find that Mrs. Pierce’s
little girl is my valentine, she having drawn me. But here I do first
observe the fashion of _drawing of mottos_, as well as names: my wife’s
motto was “Most courteous, most fair;” mine I have forgot. One wonder I
observed to-day, that there was _no musique in the morning to call up
our new married people, which was very mean methinks_.

1667. June. Find my wife making _tea_, a drink which her potticary tells
her is good for her cold and defluxions.

A flaggon of _ale and apples_ drunk out of a wood cup as a _Christmas
draught_.

1669. May. My wife got up by 4 o’c. to go to gather _May Dew_, which
Mrs. Turner hath taught her is the only thing in the world to wash her
face with.

  _Pepys._

       *       *       *       *       *

1671. To lord Arlington’s, where we found _M’lle Querouaille_; it was
universally reported, that the fair lady was bedded one of these nights
to the king, who was often here; and the _stocking flung_ after the
manner of a married bride; however, ’twas with confidence believed she
was first made a _misse_, as they call these unhappy creatures, with
solemnity at this time.

1683. I went with others into the _duchess of Portsmouth’s_
dressing-roome within her bedchamber, where she was in her morning loose
garment, her maids combing her, newly out of her bed, his majesty and
gallants standing about her.

1685. January 25, Sunday. Dr. Dove preached before the king. I saw this
evening such a scene of _profuse gaming_, and the king in the midst of
his three concubines, as I had never seen before, luxurious dallying and
prophaneness.

February 6. _The king died._ I can never forget the inexpressible luxury
and prophaneness, gaming, and all dissoluteness, and, as it were, total
forgetfulness of God, (it being Sunday evening,) which this day
se’nnight I was witnesse of. The king sitting and toying with his
concubines Portsmouth, Cleavland, and Mazarine, &c. and a French boy
singing love songs; whilst about twenty of the great courtiers and other
dissolute persons were at basset round a large table, a bank of at least
2000 in gold before them.

  _Evelyn._




Vol. II.--54.


[Illustration: ~The Cottage Wherein Robert Bloomfield was born,~

AT HONINGTON, IN SUFFOLK.]

Accompanying the portrait and papers of George Bloomfield, copied and
referred to in the preceding sheet of the _Table Book_, was a drawing,
taken in October last, of Robert Bloomfield’s birth-place. An engraving
of it is here presented, in order to introduce the following memorandum
drawn up by George Bloomfield, and now lying before me in his
hand-writing, _viz._


“THE POETICAL FREEHOLD.

“_February 4, 1822_, was sold at Honington Fox, the old cottage, the
natal place of Robert Bloomfield, the _Farmer’s Boy_.

“My father, a lively little man, precisely five feet high, was a tailor,
constantly employed in _snapping the cat_, that is, he worked for the
farmers at their own houses, at a shilling per day and his board. He was
a gay knight of the thimble, and as he wore a fashionable coat with a
very narrow back, the villagers called him George Narrowback. My mother
they called Mrs. Prim. She was a spruce, neat body, and was the village
school-dame. Her father found the money, and my father bought the
cottage in the year 1754. He died in the year 1766, and, like many
other landed men, died intestate. My mother married again. When I came
of age she showed me the title-deeds, told me I was heir-at-law, and
hoped she should finish her days there. I promised her she should; but
time rolled, and at length my wife, after two years of affliction with
the dropsy, died, and left me with five infant children, head and ears
in debt. To secure the cottage to my mother, I persuaded my brother
Robert to buy the title, and give all my brothers and sisters their
shares and me mine, and this money paid my debts. The _Farmer’s Boy_ was
now the proprietor; but it was a poor freehold, for he did all the
repairs, and my mother paid no rent. After my mother’s death, Isaac
lived in it upon the same terms,--too poor to pay rent or be turned out.
Isaac died, and left nine children. Bob kept the widow in the place, did
all the repairs, and she, also, paid nothing. At length the bankruptcies
and delays of the London booksellers forced Bob to _sell!_----

“----The late noble duke of Grafton gave my mother a gravestone. This is
all that remains to mark the village as the birth-place of _Giles_, and
all that now remains in it belonging to the Bloomfields.”

  G. B.

       *       *       *       *       *

With a sentence or two, by way of continuation to the appeal already
made in behalf of George Bloomfield, it was purposed to conclude the
present article; but just as the sheet was ready for the press a packet
of his manuscript papers arrived, and extracts from these will exemplify
his character and his necessities. The following address to one of his
old friends is a fair specimen of his talent for versifying:--

TO MR. THOMAS WISSET, OF SAPISTON, PSALM SINGER, PARISH CLERK, AND
SEXTON, &C. &C.

    Respectfully I would impart,
      In language most befitting,
    The sorrows of an aching heart,
      With care and trouble smitten.

    I’ve lost the best of wives, d’ye see,
      That e’er to man was given;
    Alas! she was too good for me,
      So she’s remov’d to heaven.

    But while her happiness I trace,
      Fell poverty pursuing,
    Unless another takes her place,
      ’Twill be my utter ruin.

    My children’s clothes to rags are worn,
      Nor have we wit to mend ’em;
    Their tatters flying all forlorn--
      Kind Providence, defend ’em.

    Dear Tom, thou art St. Andrew’s clerk,
      And glad I am to know it;
    Thou art a witty rhyming spark,
      The merry village poet.

    Make some fond woman to me fly.
      No matter what her form be;
    If she has lost a leg or eye,
      She still with love may charm me.

    If she loves _work_, Oh! what delight,
      What joy it will afford her,
    To darn our clothes from morn to night,
      And keep us all in order.

    Would some kind dame but hear my plaint,
      And would thou to me give her,
    St. Andrew!--he shall be my saint,
      And thou his clerk for ever.

    Dear Tom, may all thy joys increase,
      And to thee be it given,
    When singing here on earth shall cease,
      To pitch the key in Heaven.

  GEORGE BLOOMFIELD.

  _Nov. 3, 1803._

       *       *       *       *       *

Prefixed to some MS. verses, written by George Bloomfield in 1808, is
the subjoined account of the occasion that awakened his muse.


“THE APRIL FOOL.

“When on the wrong side of fifty I married a second time! My best
friends declared it was madness to risk a second family, &c. &c. We
married 7th of February, 1807. Early in 1808 it was discovered I should
have an increase, and Charles Blomfield, Esq. asked me when it would
happen. I answered, in _April_. ‘Sure,’ says he, ‘it won’t happen on the
_First_!’--I felt the force of the remark--the probability of my being
an _April Fool_--and wrote the following lines, and sent them to Mr. B.,
from whom I received a note enclosing another, value one pound. The note
said, ‘My daughters are foolish enough to be pleased with your _April
Fool_, and I am so pleased to see them pleased, I send the enclosed,
&c.’”

Trifles like these are only of importance as traits of the individual.
The next is abstracted from a letter to an overseer, with whom George
Bloomfield necessarily corresponded, as may be surmised from the
contents.

  To Mr. HAYWARD, _Thetford_.

  _Bury St. Edmund’s_, Nov. 23, 1819.

Sir,--When a perfect stranger to you, you treated me with great
condescension and kindness, I therefore enclose some lines I wrote and
addressed to the guardians of the poor in this town. They have assessed
all such persons as are not _legally_ settled here to the poor and
church rates, and they have assessed me full double what I ought to pay.
What renders it more distressing, our magistrates say that by the local
act they are restrained from interfering, otherwise I should have been
exempt, on account of my age and poverty. So I sent my rhymes, and Mr.
Gall, one of the guardians, sent for me, and gave me a piece of beef,
&c. I had sold the only coat I had that was worth a shilling, and was
prepared to pay the first seven shillings and sixpence, but the
guardians seem to think, (as I do,) that I can never go on paying--they
are confident the gentlemen of St. Peter’s parish will pay it for
me--bade me wait a fortnight, &c. The pressure of the times is so great
that the poor blame the rich, and the rich blame the poor.

----There is a figure in use called the _hyperbole_; thus we sometimes
say of an old man, “he is one foot in the grave, and t’other out.” I
might say I am one foot in Thetford workhouse, and t’other out.--The
scripture tells me, that the providence of God rules over all and in all
places, consequently to me a workhouse is, _on my own account_, no such
very dreadful thing; but I have two little girls whom I dread to
imprison there. I trust in Providence, and hope both rich and poor will
see better days.

  Your humble servant,

  GEORGE BLOOMFIELD.

Among George Bloomfield’s papers is the following kind letter to him,
from his brother Robert. The feeble, tremulous handwriting of the
original corroborates its expressions of illness, and is a sad memorial
of the shattered health of the author of the _Farmer’s Boy_, three years
before his death.

  “_Shefford_, July 18, 1820.

  “Dear brother George,

“No quarrel exists--be at ease. I have this morning seen your excellent
letters to your son, and your poem on the Thetford Waters, and am with
my son and daughter delighted to find that your spark seems to brighten
as you advance in years. You think that I have been weak enough to be
offended--there has been no such thing! I have been extremely unwell,
and am still a poor creature, but I now _force_ myself to write these
few words to thank you for the pleasure you have just given me.

“My son, or my daughter, shall write for me soon.

  “Yours unalterably,

  “Brother, and Brother Bard,

  “ROB. BLOOMFIELD.”

It may be remembered that _Giles_, the “Farmer’s Boy,” was Robert
Bloomfield himself, and that his master, the “Farmer,” was Mr. W. Austin
of Sapiston. In reference to his home at the farm Robert wrote, of
himself,

                          “the ploughman smiles.
    And oft the joke runs hard on sheepish _Giles_,
    Who sits joint-tenant of the corner stool,
    The converse sharing, though in Duty’s school.”

  _Farmer’s Boy._

The son of the benevolent protector of Robert in his childhood sunk
under misfortune, and George records the fact by the following lines,
written in 1820:--


THE UNFORTUNATE FARMER.

    When _Giles_ attuned his song in rural strains,
    He sang of Sap’ston’s groves, her meads, and plains;
    Described the various seasons as they roll’d,
    Of homely joys and peace domestic told.
    The Farmer there, alas! no more bears rule,
    And no “joint-tenants” sit in “Duty’s school:”
    No happy labourers now with humble fare
    His fire-side comforts and instruction share.
    No longer master he of those sweet fields,
    No more for him the year its bounty yields,
    Nor his the hope to see his children round
    With decent competence and comfort crown’d.
    These scenes and hopes from him for ever flown,
    In indigent old age he lives to mourn.

George Bloomfield subjoins, in explanation, on these lines, “My reading
in the Bury paper of the 6th of Dec. 1820, an advertisement of an
assignment for the benefit of creditors of the effects of Mr. Willian
Austin, gave rise to the above. Mr. A. was the young master of Giles,
when Giles was the _Farmer’s Boy_; and the admirers of rural poetry, as
well in the new as the old world, have been made acquainted with the
Austin family by means of the poem of that name. Mr. A. held the farm
near thirty years, and

    ’twas the same that his grandfather till’d.

He has _ten_ children, some of them very young. He has been by some
accused of imprudence: but the heavy poor-rates, (he paid 36_l._ last
year,) the weight of a numerous family, and the depreciation of the
price of produce, were the principal causes of his fall. He has been a
most indulgent father, a kind master, and a good neighbour.”

Twenty years after writing the lines to the “Psalm-singer, Parish Clerk,
and Sexton” of Sapiston, George again berhymed him. Preceding the
effusion, is the following

MEMORANDUM.

“My old friend Wisset has now entered his eighty-third year, and is
blind, and therefore cannot write; but he sent his kind regards to me by
a young man, and bade him repeat four lines to me. The young man forgot
the lines, but he said they were about _old age_ and _cold winter_. I
sent him the following:--

DEAR OLD BROTHER BARD,

    Now clothed with snow is hill and dale,
      And all the streams with ice are bound!
    How chilling is the wintry gale!
      How bleak and drear the scene around!

    Yet midst the gloom bright gleams appear,
      Our drooping spirits to sustain,
    Hope kindly whispers in the ear
      Sweet Spring will soon return again.

    ’Tis thus, old friend, with you and me
      Life’s Spring and Summer both are flown,
    The marks of wintry age we see,
      Our locks to frosty white are grown.

    O let us then our voices raise,
      For favours past due homage bring;
    Thus spend the winter of our days,
      Till God proclaims a glorious Spring.

  GEORGE BLOOMFIELD.

  _January 23, 1823._

The MSS. from whence the present selections have been hastily made, were
accompanied by a letter from George Bloomfield, written nearly a month
ago. They were delayed by the person who transmitted the parcel till the
opportunity of noticing them in this work had almost passed. All that
could be done in an hour or two is before the reader; and no more has
been aimed at than what appears requisite to awaken sympathy and crave
assistance towards an aged and indigent brother of the author of the
_Farmer’s Boy_. George’s present feelings will be better represented by
his own letter than by extracting from it.

  _2, High Baxter Street, Bury St.
  Edmond’s, Dec. 5th, 1827._

  TO MR. HONE,

Sir,--A gentleman desires me to write to you, as editor of the _Table
Book_, it being his wish that a view which he sent of the little cottage
at Honington should appear in that very curious work. The birth-place of
Robert Bloomfield I think may excite the interest of some of your
readers; but, sir, if they find out that you correspond with a
superannuated _cold water poet_, your work will smell of poverty.

Lord Byron took pains to flog two of my brothers, as poachers on the
preserves of the qualified proprietors of literature. It is thought, if
he had not been wroth with the Edinburgh Reviewers, these poor poachers
might have escaped; they, like me, had neither birth nor education to
entitle them to a qualification.

If, sir, you ever saw an old wall blown down, or, as we have it here in
the country, if the wall “_fall of its own accord_,” you may have
observed that the first thing the workmen do, is to pick out the whole
bricks into one heap, the bats into another, and the rubbish into a
third. Thus, sir, if in what falls from me to you, you can find any
whole bricks, or even bats, that may be placed in your work, pick them
out; but I much fear all will be but rubbish unfit for your purpose.

So much has been said, in the books published by my brothers, of “the
little tailor’s four little sons,” who once resided in the old cottage,
that I cannot add much that is new, and perhaps the little I have to
relate will be uninteresting. But I think the great and truly good man,
the late duke of Grafton, ought to have been more particularly
mentioned. Surely, after near thirty years, the good sense and
benevolence of that real _noble_man may be mentioned. When in my
boyhood, he held the highest office in the state that a subject can
fill, and like all that attain such preeminence, had his enemies; yet
the more Junius and others railed at him, the more I revered him. He was
our “Lord of the Manor,” and as I knew well his private character, I had
no doubt but he was “all of a piece.” I have on foot joined the
fox-chase, and followed the duke many an hour, and witnessed his
endearing condescension to all who could run and shout. When Robert
became known as the _Farmer’s Boy_, the duke earnestly cautioned him on
no account to change his habits of _living_, but at the same time
encouraged him in his habits of _reading_, and kindly gave him a
gratuity of a shilling a day, to enable him to employ more time in
reading than heretofore. This gratuity was always paid while the duke
lived, and was continued by the present duke till Robert’s death.

Could poor Robert have kept his children in their old habits of
_living_, he might have preserved some of the profits arising from his
works, but he loved his children too tenderly to be a niggard; and,
besides, he received his profits at a time when bread was six or seven
shillings per stone: no wonder that with a sickly family to support, he
was embarrassed.

The duke likewise strongly advised him not to write _too much_, but keep
the ground he had gained, &c. As hereditary sealer of the writs in the
Court of King’s Bench, the duke gave Robert the situation of under
sealer, but his health grew so bad he was obliged to give it up; he held
it several months, however, and doubtless many a poor fellow went to
coop under Robert’s seal. It was peculiarly unfortunate he could not
keep his place, for I think Mr. Allen, the master-sealer, did not live
above two years, and it is more than probable the duke would have made
Robert master-sealer, and then he would have had sufficient income. The
duke’s condescension and kindness to my mother was very great, he
learned her real character, and called on her at her own cottage, and
freely talked of gone-by times, (her father was an old tenant to the
duke.) He delicately left a half guinea at Mr. Roper’s, a gentleman
farmer, to be given to her after his departure, and when he heard of her
death he ordered a handsome gravestone to be placed over her, at his
expense, and requested the Rev. Mr. Fellowes to write an inscription. It
is thus engraven:--

  BENEATH THIS STONE

  Are deposited the mortal remains of

  ELIZABETH GLOVER, who died Dec. 27th, 1803.

  Her maiden name was MANBY, and she was twice married. By her first
  husband, who lies buried near this spot, she was mother of six
  children; the youngest of whom was ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, the pastoral
  Poet. In her household affairs she was a pattern of cleanliness,
  industry, and good management. By her kind, her meek, her inoffensive
  behaviour, she had conciliated the sincere good will of all her
  neighbours and acquaintance; nor amid the busy cares of time was she
  ever forgetful of Eternity. But her religion was no hypocritical
  service, no vain form of words; it consisted in loving God and keeping
  his commandments, as they have been made known to us by JESUS CHRIST.

  _Reader, go thou and do likewise._

If ever I was proud of any thing it was of my mother, nor do I think,
strong as is the praise in the above, it is overdone. For solid strength
of intellect she surpassed all her sons, and had more real practical
virtues than all of them put together. Kind Providence spared her to
bless me till I was far on the wrong side of fifty.

I must say a word or two on her sons, because Capel Loftt, Esq., in his
preface to my brother Nat’s poems, has said _too much_ about them, viz.
“Beyond question, the brothers of this family are all _extraordinary_
men.” Now, sir, as I am the oldest of these brothers, I will tell first
of myself. I wrote a little poem, when near seventy, on the “Thetford
Spa;” but dreading those snarling curs, the _critics_, forebore to affix
my name to it. Mr. Smith, of Cambridge, printed it gratuitously; but as
soon as it was discovered I was the author, my acquaintance styled me
the _cold water poet_. I think my title will do very well. Brother
Nathaniel wrote some poems; unluckily they were printed and published
here at Bury, and the pack of critics hunted down the book. Nat has had
thirteen children, and most of them are living, and so is he. Brother
Isaac was a machinist. John Boys, Esq. gave him in all twenty pounds,
but he died a young man, and left his self-working pumps unfinished.
Eight of his children are living.

The old cottage sold to Robert had been in the family near fourscore
years. It proved a hard bargain to Robert; my mother and Isaac occupied
the cottage, and could not pay rent; and after the death of my mother,
poor Robert was in distress and sold it:--the lawyers would not settle
the business, and Robert died broken-hearted, and never received
sixpence!

The lawyers constantly endeavour to make work for the trade. I believe
it to be true, as some say, that we are now as much _law_-ridden as we
were _priest_-ridden some ages ago. I like Charlotte Smith’s definition
of the Law Trade. Orlando, in the “Old Manor House,” says to Carr, the
lawyer, “I am afraid you are all rogues together;” Carr replies, “More
or less, my good friend;--some have more sense than others, and some a
little more conscience--but for the rest, I am afraid we are all of us a
little too much _professional_ rogues: though some of us, as
individuals, would not starve the orphan, or break the heart of the
widow, yet, in our vocation, we give all remorse of that sort to the
winds.” My last account from Robert’s family says, the lawyers have not
yet _settled_ the poor old cottage!

Nat and I only survive of the little tailor’s “extraordinary”
children--quite past our labour, and destitute of many comforts we used
to enjoy in youth. We have but one step farther to fall, (i.e.) into the
workhouse! Yet in the nature of things it cannot be long ere death will
close the scene. We have had our day, and night must come. I hope we
shall welcome it as heartily as Sancho in Don Quixote did sleep,
“Blessed be he who first invented sleep, it covers a man all over like a
cloak.”

I shall indeed be agreeably disappointed if any one should bestow any
thing upon Nat, or

  Sir, your humble obedient servant,

  GEO. BLOOMFIELD.

George Bloomfield is in his seventy-third year, and surely this fact,
with the contents of the preceding columns, will be sufficient to excite
commiseration in feeling and liberal minds. Mr. Faux, a respectable
resident at Thetford, in Norfolk, is represented to me as being his
friend. George Bloomfield’s own address at Bury St. Edmund’s is prefixed
to his letter above. Either to Mr. Faux for him, or to himself direct,
the remittance of a little money immediately would be highly
serviceable. Something, however, beyond that is clearly requisite, and
his statement of his brother Nathaniel’s equal necessities should be
considered at the same time. There are names dignified by rank and
talents in the list of individuals who admire the works of Robert
Bloomfield, and should this sheet fall into their hands it is natural to
presume that some of them may seek out and assist his surviving brothers
in sorrowing old age. This, however, may not happen, and is not
therefore to be relied upon.

The case of the family of the Bloomfields, altogether, is distressing.
As this is a season for present-making and social-meeting, I venture to
suggest that no gift can be better bestowed than on those who are in the
utmost need; nor will the pleasures of a convivial party be lessened,
if, while “the glasses sparkle on the board,” a subscription be
volunteered towards keeping the last two brothers of Robert Bloomfield
from the workhouse during their few remaining years of life. I have done
my best to make their distress publicly known, and it remains with
individuals to do their best to relieve it. Anything left at Messrs.
Hunt and Clarke’s, 4, York-street, Covent Garden, shall be appropriated
as the donors may direct. A _meeting_, and a few active individuals,
would effect much.

  _1st January, 1828._

  *

       *       *       *       *       *


~Travellers~

EAST AND WEST.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--I send you a short and plain demonstration, that by travelling
eastward or westward round the globe at a given rate, (if it were
practicable to do so,) a man might experience a greater or lesser number
of days and nights, than if he were to remain still in the same spot.
This, I may venture to say, is a fact that very few people are aware of,
and few would believe, until it were proved.

As “this goodly frame, the earth,” turns round upon its own axis once in
twenty-four hours, and as the circumference of the globe is divided into
360 degrees, consequently every part of the globe’s surface must travel
round its axis at the rate of fifteen degrees in one hour; or, which is
the same thing, one degree in four minutes. Having premised this, we
will suppose that a man sets off at seven o’clock in the morning, just
as the sun rises above the horizon, and travels westward in the sun’s
ecliptic; one degree before it sets, he will have light four minutes
longer than if he were to remain at the place from whence he set out;
and his day, instead of being twelve hours long, (dividing the
twenty-four hours into twelve day and twelve night,) and closing at
seven o’clock, will be twelve hours and four minutes, and close at four
minutes past seven. He continues to travel in the same direction, and
with the same velocity, during the night, (for he must never rest,) and
that also will be four minutes longer than it would have been had he
remained at the place where the sun set till it again rose; because, as
he is travelling after the sun when it goes down, and from it as the
morning approaches, of course it will be longer in overtaking him: he
will be then two degrees from the starting place or goal, which you
please, for we intend to send him completely round the world, and the
sun will not rise the second morning till eight minutes past seven. His
travel continues at the same rate, and he again has the sun four minutes
longer, which does not set on the second day till twelve minutes past
seven: this closes the third day. The next morning the sun rises not
till sixteen minutes past seven; then he has travelled four degrees, and
his day and night have each been four minutes longer than if he had been
stationary. Now we will suppose another man to have gone from the same
place at the same moment, (_viz._ seven o’clock,) taking the opposite
direction. He travels east to meet the sun, and at the same rate of
travel as our westward bound wight. The sun will go down upon him four
minutes _sooner_ than if he had remained at the place from which he
started, and eight minutes sooner than upon the other man: his day will
close at fifty-six minutes past six. He goes on from the sun as it
sinks, and towards it as it rises, and he will have light four minutes
earlier than if he had stopped when the sun went down till it again
rose, eight minutes sooner than he would have seen it at the starting
post, and sixteen minutes sooner than the opposite traveller; this is at
the end of the second day. He travels on; light again deserts him four
minutes earlier, _viz._ at forty-eight minutes past six at the end of
three degrees, and the second morning the sun will rise at forty-four
minutes past six, sixteen minutes earlier than at the place he started
from, and thirty-two minutes earlier than with the other man, with whom
on the same morning it does not rise till sixteen minutes past seven. It
is plain therefore, that while the western traveller has only seen two
nights and two days, the eastern has enjoyed the same number of each,
and more than half an hour of another day; and it is equally plain that
if they continue to travel round the globe at the same rate of motion,
the eastern traveller will have more days and nights than the western;
those of the former being proportionally shorter than those of the
latter. The following shows the commencement and length of each day to
both travellers:--

        WESTERN TRAVELLER’S                       EASTERN TRAVELLER’S
  1st day begins                            1st day begins
         at  7 o’clock,                             at 7 o’clock,
                      morning.                                 morning.
   2 ------  8 minutes past 7.              2 ------ 52 minutes past 6.
   3 ------ 16 ------------ 7.              3 ------ 44 ------------ 6.
   4 ------ 24 ------------ 7.              4 ------ 36 ------------ 6.
   5 ------ 32 ------------ 7.              5 ------ 28 ------------ 6.
   6 ------ 40 ------------ 7.              6 ------ 20 ------------ 6.
   7 ------ 48 ------------ 7.              7 ------ 12 ------------ 6.
   8 ------ 56 ------------ 7.              8 ------  4 ------------ 6.
   9 ------  4 ------------ 8.              9 ------ 56 ------------ 5.
  10 ------ 12 ------------ 8.             10 ------ 48 ------------ 5.
  11 ------ 20 ------------ 8.             11 ------ 40 ------------ 5.
  12 ------ 28 ------------ 8.             12 ------ 32 ------------ 5.
  13 ------ 36 ------------ 8.             13 ------ 24 ------------ 5.
  14 ------ 44 ------------ 8.             14 ------ 16 ------------ 5.
  15 ------ 52 ------------ 8.             15 ------  8 ------------ 5.
  16 ------ -- ------------ 9. 30 degrees. 16 ------ -- ------------ 5.
  17 ------  8 ------------ 9.             17 ------ 52 ------------ 4.
  18 ------ 16 ------------ 9.             18 ------ 44 ------------ 4.
  19 ------ 24 ------------ 9.             19 ------ 36 ------------ 4.
  20 ------ 32 ------------ 9.             20 ------ 28 ------------ 4.
  21 ------ 40 ------------ 9.             21 ------ 20 ------------ 4.
  22 ------ 48 ------------ 9.             22 ------ 12 ------------ 4.
  23 ------ 56 ------------ 9.             23 ------  4 ------------ 4.
  24 ------  4 ----------- 10.             24 ------ 56 ------------ 3.
  25 ------ 12 ----------- 10.             25 ------ 48 ------------ 3.
  26 ------ 20 ----------- 10.             26 ------ 40 ------------ 3.
  27 ------ 28 ----------- 10.             27 ------ 32 ------------ 3.
  28 ------ 36 ----------- 10.             28 ------ 24 ------------ 3.
  29 ------ 44 ----------- 10.             29 ------ 16 ------------ 3.
  30 ------ 52 ----------- 10.             30 ------  8 ------------ 3.
  31 ------ -- ----------- 11. 60 degrees. 31 ------ -- ------------ 3.

At the end of this degree, the sixtieth, the sun rises upon the eastern
traveller at three in the morning, he having had thirty days and thirty
nights. At the same degree it does not rise upon the western traveller
till eleven in the morning, he having had the same number of days and
nights. When, therefore, the morning of his thirty-first day is just
breaking, the eastern traveller has had the sun eight hours. They have
both then had an equal number of days and nights complete, but the
eastern will have had eight hours of another day more than the western.
Let us try it a little further. The

          WESTERN TRAVELLER’S
  32nd day will break at 8 min. past 11, morn.
  33                    16           11.
  34                    24           11.
  35                    32           11.
  36                    40           11.
  37                    48           11.
  38                    56           11.
  39                     4           12.
  40                    12           12.
  41                    20           12.
  42                    28           12.
  43                    36           12.
  44                    44           12.
  45                    52           12.
  46                                  1 at noon, 90
                                         degrees.

            EASTERN TRAVELLER’S
  32nd day will break at 52 min. past 2, morn.
  33                     44           2.
  34                     36           2.
  35                     28           2.
  36                     20           2.
  37                     12           2.
  38                      4           2.
  39                     56           1.
  40                     48           1.
  41                     40           1.
  42                     32           1.
  43                     24           1.
  44                     16           1.
  45                      8           1.
  46                                  1. at noon, 90
                                          degrees.

There appears to be two hours’ difference every fifteenth day.

  WESTERN TRAVELLER’S
  61st day will break at 3, P. M.
  76                     5
  91                     7.

  EASTERN TRAVELLER’S
  61st day will break at 11 at night.
  76                     9
  91                       7.

The men would now be together at the other side of the globe, and would
see the sun rise at the same moment, but he who had travelled eastward
would have seen a day and a night more than the other.

  WESTERN TRAVELLER’S
  106th day will break at 9, at night.
  121                           11.
  136                            1, morning.
  151                            3.
  166                            5.
  181                            7.     360 degrees.

  EASTERN TRAVELLER’S
  106th day will break at 5, P. M.
  121                     3.
  136                     1, noon.
  151                    11, A. M.
  166                     9.
  181                     7.

They will now be at the spot where they started from, the western
traveller having seen two days and two nights less than the
eastern.[516]

  N. G. S.

  [516] In this way, by hurrying the Jews round the globe at a given
  rate, their Sabbath might be made to fall upon the same day as the
  Christians’.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Old Customs.~

_For the Table Book._


HAGMENA.

The hagmena is an old custom observed in Yorkshire on new year’s eve.
The keeper of the pinfold goes round the town, attended by a rabble at
his heels, and knocking at certain doors, sings a barbarous song,
according to the manner “of old king Henry’s days;” and at the end of
every verse they shout “Hagman Heigh.”

When wood was chiefly used by our forefathers as fuel, this was the most
proper season for the hagman, or wood-cutter, to remind his customers of
his services, and solicit alms from them. The word “hag” is still used
among us for a wood, and the “hagman” may be a compound name from his
employment. Some give it a more sacred interpretation, as derived from
the Greek ἁγια μηνη, the “holy month,” when the festivals of the church
for our Saviour’s birth were celebrated. Formerly on the last day of
December, the monks and friars used to make a plentiful harvest by
begging from door to door, and reciting a kind of carol, at the end of
every stave of which they introduced the words “agia mene,” alluding to
the birth of Christ. A very different interpretation has, however, been
given to it by one John Dixon, a Scotch presbyterian parson, when
holding forth against this custom, in one of his sermons at
Kelso--“Sirs, do you know what hagman signifies?--It is the devil to be
in the house: that is the meaning of its Hebrew original.” It is most
probably a corruption of some Saxon words, which length of time has
rendered obsolete.


OLD ST. LUKE’S DAY.

On this day a fair is held in York for all sorts of small wares, though
it is commonly called “_Dish Fair_,” from the quantity of wooden dishes,
ladles, &c. brought to it. There was an old custom at this fair, of
bearing a wooden ladle in a sling on two stangs, carried by four sturdy
labourers, and each labourer supported by another. This, without doubt,
was a ridicule on the meanness of the wares brought to this fair, small
benefit accruing to the labourers at it. It is held by charter, granted
25th Jan., 17th Hen. VII.

St. Luke’s day is also known in York by the name of “_Whip-Dog Day_,”
from a strange custom that schoolboys use there, of whipping all the
dogs that are seen in the streets on that day. Whence this uncommon
persecution took its rise is uncertain. The tradition of its origin
seems very probable; that, in times of popery, a priest, celebrating
mass at this festival in some church in York, unfortunately dropped the
pix after consecration, which was forthwith snatched up suddenly and
swallowed by a dog that laid under the altar. The profanation of this
high mystery occasioned the death of the dog; the persecution, so begun,
has since continued to this day, though now greatly abridged by the
interference of some of the minor members of the honourable corporation,
against the whole species in that city.

  D. A. M.

       *       *       *       *       *


CHAPMAN’S “ALL FOOLS.”

_For the Table Book._

In Chapman’s “All Fools,” 1605, (as quoted, by Charles Lamb, in _Table
Book_, vol. i. 192,) is the following passage, under the title of
“Love’s Panegyric.”--

               ------- “’tis nature’s second Sun,
    Causing a spring of Virtues where he shines;
    And as without the Sun, the world’s Great Eye,
    All colours, beauties, both of art and nature,
    Are given in vain to man; so without Love
    All beauties bred in women are in vain,
    All virtues born in men lie buried;
    For Love _informs_ them as the Sun doth colours,” &c.

Chapman might be acquainted with Italian poets, but at all events the
coincidence between the above and the following canzon, by Andrew
Navagero, is remarkable. Navagero was the friend of Boscan, the Spanish
poet: they became acquainted at Grenada, while Navagero was there
ambassador from Venice. Boscan died before 1544; and, as he himself
confesses, he learnt the sonnet and other Italian forms of poetry from
Navagero.

_Love the Mind’s Sun._

    Sweet ladies, to whose lovely faces
       Nature gives charms, indeed,
       If those ye would exceed
    And are desirous, too, of inward graces;

    Ye first must ope your hearts’ enclosure,
       And give Love entrance there.
       Or ye must all despair
    Of what ye wish, and bear it with composure.

    For as the night than day is duller,
       And what is hid by night
       Glitters with morning light
    In all the rich variety of colour;

    So they, whose dark insensate bosoms
       Love lights not, ne’er can know
       The virtues thence that grow,
    Wanting his beams to open virtue’s blossoms.

Our version is made from the original in Dolce’s Collection of _Rime
Diverse_, i. 98. It ought to be mentioned, that Boscan’s admission of
his obligations to Navagero is to be found in the Introduction to the
second book of his works.

  _December, 1827._

  J. P. C.

       *       *       *       *       *


NORWICH MOCK ELECTIONS.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--At Costessy, a small village, three miles on the west side of
Norwich, there is an annual mock guild on Whit Tuesday. It takes its
name from the annual mayor’s feast at Norwich, being called the _City
Guild_. The corporation at Costessy is composed of the poor inhabitants
under the patronage of the marquis of Stafford, who has a beautiful seat
in this village. On this day a mock mayor is annually elected; he has a
proper and appropriate costume, and is attended by a sword-bearer, with
a sword of state of wood painted and gilt, two mace-bearers with gilt
maces, with a long array of officers, down to the snapdragon of Norwich,
of which they have a passable imitation. Their first procession is to
the hall, where they are recognised by the noble family who generally
support the expenses of the day, and the mock mayor and corporation are
liberally regaled from the strong-beer cellar. They then march, preceded
by a band of music, to the steward’s house, where the mock solemnities
take place, and speeches are made, which, if not remarkable for their
eloquence, afford great delight by their absurd attempts at being
thought so. The new mayor being invested with the insignia of his
office, a bright brass jack-chain about his neck, the procession is
again renewed to a large barn at some distance, where the place being
decorated with boughs, flowers, and other rural devices, a substantial
dinner of roast-beef, plum-pudding, and other good things, with plenty
of that strong liquor called at Norwich nogg--the word I have been told
is a provincial contraction for “knock me down.”

The village is usually thronged with company from Norwich, and all the
rural festivities attendant on country feasts take place. The noble
family before mentioned promote the hilarity by their presence and
munificence. The elder members of the body corporate continue at the
festal board, in imitation of their prototypes in larger corporations,
to a late hour; and some of them have been noticed for doing as much
credit to the good cheer provided on the occasion, as any alderman at a
turtle feast. There is no record of the origin of this institution, as
none of the members of the corporation have the gift of reading or
writing, but there are traces of it beyond the memory of any person now
living, and it has been observed to have increased in splendour of late
years.

The fishermen’s guild at Norwich has for some years been kept on the
real guild-day. The procession consists of a great number, all fishermen
or fishmongers, two of whom are very remarkable. The first is the
mayor: the last I saw was a well-looking young man, with his face
painted and his hair powdered, profusely adorned with a brass chain, a
fishing-rod in his hand, and a very large gold-laced hat; he was
supported on the shoulders of several of his brethren in a fishing-boat,
in which he stood up and delivered his speech to the surrounding
multitude, in a manner that did not disgrace him. The other personage
was the king of the ocean. What their conceptions of Neptune were, it is
as difficult to conceive as his appearance might be to describe. He was
represented by a tall man, habited in a seaman-like manner, his outward
robe composed of fishing-nets, a long flowing beard ill accorded with a
full-dress court wig, which had formerly been the property of some
eminent barrister, but had now changed its element, and from dealing out
law on the land, its mystic powers were transferred to the water. In his
right hand he carried his trident, the spears of which were formed of
three pickled herrings. His Tritons sounded his praise on all kinds of
discordant wind instruments, and Æolus blew startling blasts on a
cracked French horn. The olfactory nerves of the auditors who were hardy
enough to come in close contact with the procession, were assailed by “a
very ancient and fish-like smell.” The merriment was rude and very
hearty.

  P. B.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Old London Customs.~

_For the Table Book._


PAUL’S WALKERS--HIRED WITNESSES.

In the reigns of James I. and Charles I. a singular custom prevailed of
the idle and dissolute part of the community assembling in the naves or
other unemployed parts of large churches. The nave of St. Paul’s
cathedral bore the name of Paul’s Walk; and so little was the sanctity
of the place regarded, that if the description by an old author[517] is
not exaggerated, the Royal Exchange at four o’clock does not present a
greater scene of confusion. I carry the comparison no farther; the
characters assembled in the church appear to have been very different to
those composing the respectable assembly alluded to. The author referred
to thus describes the place: “The noyse in it is like that of bees. It
is the generall mint of all famous lies, which are here like the legends
popery first coyn’d and stampt in the church. All inventions are empty’d
here and not a few pockets.” “The visitants are all men without
exceptions; but the principal inhabitants and possessors are stale
knights, and captaines out of service; men of long rapiers and
breeches.”

From the following passage in Hudibras[518] I should judge that the
circular church in the Temple was the resort of characters of an equally
bad description:

    “Retain all sorts of witnesses,
    That ply i’ th’ Temples, under trees,
    Or walk the _round_, with knights o’ th’ posts,
    About the cross-legg’d knights, their hosts;
    Or wait for customers between
    The pillar-rows in Lincoln’s Inn.”

The cross-legged knights, it is almost needless to add, are the effigies
of the mailed warriors, which still remain in fine preservation. The
“pillar-rows in Lincoln’s Inn,” I apprehend, refer to the crypt, or open
vault, beneath Inigo Jones’s chapel in Lincoln’s Inn, originally
designed for an ambulatory.[519] It is singular to reflect on the entire
change in the public manners within two centuries. If coeval authorities
did not exist to prove the fact, who would believe in these days, that,
in a civilized country, men were to be found within the very seats of
law ready to perjure themselves for hire? or that juries and judges did
not treat the practice and the encouraging of it with a prompt and just
severity?


ST. THOMAS’S DAY ELECTIONS.

Previous to a court of common council, the members were formerly in the
habit of assembling in the great hall of the Guildhall. When the hour of
business arrived, one of the officers of the lord mayor’s household
summoned them to their own chamber by the noise produced by moving an
iron ring swiftly up and down a twisted or crankled bar of the same
metal, which was affixed behind the door of the principal entrance to
the passage leading to that part of the Guildhall styled, in civic
language, the inner chambers. The custom was disused about forty years
ago. The iron, I understand, remained until the demolition of the old
doorway in the last general repair of the hall, when the giants
descended from their stations without hearing the clock strike, and the
new doorway was formed in a more convenient place. With the
old-fashioned gallery, the invariable appendage to an ancient hall,
which, until that period, occupied its proper place over the entrance,
was destroyed that terror of idle apprentices, the prison of _Little
Ease_. This gallery must be still remembered, as well as its shrill
clock in a curious carved case. Its absence is not compensated by the
perilous-looking balcony substituted for it on the opposite side, an
object too trifling and frivolous for so fine a room as the civic common
hall.

  E. I. C.

  [517] Microcosmographis 1628, cited in Pennant’s London, 5th ed. 8vo.
  528.

  [518] Part III., Canto III., p. 213. ed. 1684.

  [519] Vide a paper by E. J. C. in Gent.’s Mag. vol. xc. p. 1, 589.

       *       *       *       *       *


A DEFENCE OF SLANG.

_For the Table Book._

“To think like wise men, and to talk like common people,” is a maxim
that has long stood its ground. What is the language of “common people?”
_slang_--_ergo_, every body ought to talk it. What is _slang_? Many will
answer that it consists of words used only by the lowest and most
ignorant classes of society, and that to employ them would be most
ungenteel. First, then, we must inquire a little what it is to be
_genteel_, and this involves the question, what is a _gentleman_?
Etymologically, every body knows what is the meaning of the term; and
Dekker, the old English play-poet, uses it in this sense, when in one of
his best dramas he justly calls our Saviour

    “The first _true gentleman_ that ever breathed.”

Dekker’s greatest contemporary, in reference to certain qualities he
attributes to “man’s deadliest enemy,” tells us, though we are not bound
to take his word for it, unless we like it,

    “The Prince of Darkness is a _gentleman_;”

in which he follows the opinion long before expressed by the Italian
poet Pulci, in his _Morgante Maggiore_, (canto xxv. st. 161.)

    _Che_ gentilezza _è bene anche in inferno._

Pulci seems so pleased with this discovery, (if it be one,) that he
repeats it in nearly the same words (in the following canto, st. 83.)

    _Non creder ne lo inferno anche fra noi_
    Gentilezza _non sia._

The old bone-shoveller in _Hamlet_ maintains that your only real and
thorough gentlemen are your “gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers;” so
that, after all, the authorities on this point are various and
contradictory. If it be objected that _slang_ (otherwise sometimes
called _flash_) is employed very much by boxers and prize-fighters,
teachers and practisers of “the noble science of self-defence,” one
answer may be supplied by a quotation from Aristotle, which shows that
he himself was well skilled in the art, and he gives instructions how
important it is to hit straight instead of round, following up the blow
by the weight of the body. His words upon this subject are quoted (with
a very different purpose certainly) in the last number of the _Edinburgh
Review_, (p. 279.) So that we need only refer to them. Another “old
Grecian” might be instanced in favour of the use of _slang_, and even of
incorrect grammar; for every scholar knows (and we know it who are no
scholars) that Aristophanes in the first scene of his comedy, named in
English _The Clouds_, makes his hero talk bad Greek, and employ language
peculiar to the stable: the scholiasts assert that Phidippides ought to
have said, even in his sleep, ω Φιλε αδιχεις instead of Φιλων αδιχεις,
which he uses. However, we are perhaps growing too learned, although it
will be found in the end, (if not already in the beginning,) that this
is a learned article, and ought perhaps to have been sent for
publication in the _Classical Journal_.

What we seek to establish is this:--_that the language of the ignorant
is the language of the learned_; or in less apparently paradoxical
terms, that what is considered _slang_ and unfit for “ears polite,” is
in fact a language derived from the purest and most recondite sources.
What is the chief recommendation of lady Morgan’s new novel?--for what
do ladies of fashion and education chiefly admire it? Because the
authoress takes such pains to show that she is acquainted with French,
Italian, and even Latin, and introduces so many apt and inapt
quotations. What is the principal advantage of modern conversation? That
our “home-keeping youths” have no longer “homely wits,” and that they
interlard their talk with scraps and words from continental tongues. Now
if we can show that _slang_ is compounded, in a great degree, of words
derived from German, French, Italian, and Latin, shall we not establish
that what is at present the language of the ignorant is in fact the
language of the learned, and ought to be the language employed by all
gentlemen pretending to education, and of all ladies pretending to
blue-stocking attainments? We proceed to do so by a selection of a few
of the principal words which are considered _slang_ or _flash_, of which
we shall show the etymology.

_Blowin_--“an unfortunate girl,” in the language of the police-offices.
This is a very old word in English, and it is derived from _blühen_,
German, to bloom or blossom. Some may think that it comes from the
German adjective _blau_. The Germans speak of a _blue-eye_, as we talk
of a _black-eye_, and every body is aware that _blowins_ are frequently
thus ornamented.

_To fib_--a term in boxing. It means, to clasp an antagonist round the
neck with one arm, and to punish him with the other hand. It is from the
Italian _fibbia_, a _clasp_ or buckle. The Italian verb _affibiare_ is
used by Casti precisely in this sense:--_Gli affibia un gran ceffon._
(Nov. xliii. st. 65.)

_Fogle_--a handkerchief--properly and strictly a handkerchief with a
bird’s eye pattern upon it. From the German _vogel_, a bird.

_Gam_--the leg. Liston has introduced this word upon the stage, when in
Lubin Log he tells old Brown that he is “stiffish about the _gams_.” We
have it either from the French _jambe_, or the Italian _gamba_.

_Leary_--cunning or wary. Correctly it ought to be written _lehry_. The
derivation of it is the German _lehre_, learning or warning. The
authorities for this word are not older than the time of James I.

_Max_--gin. Evidently from the Latin _maximus_, in reference to the
strength and goodness of the liquor.

_To nim_--to take, snatch, or seize. It is used by Chaucer--“well of
English undefiled.” It is derived from the Saxon _niman_, whence also
the German _nehmen_, to take. We have it in the every-day adjective,
_nimble_. The name of the corporal in Shakspeare’s _Henry V._ ought to
be spelled _Nim_, and not _Nym_, (as the commentators ignorantly give
it,) from his furtive propensity.

_Pal_--a companion. It is perhaps going too far to fetch this word from
the Persian _palaker_, a comrade. It rather originates in the famous
story told by Boccacio, Chaucer, Dryden, &c. &c. of the friendship of
Palamon and Arcyte; _pal_ being only a familiar abbreviation of Palamon,
to denote an intimate friend.

_To prig_--to rob or steal. It is doubtful whether this word be
originally Spanish or Italian. _Preguntar_ in Spanish is to _demand_,
and robbing on the highway is demanding money or life. _Priega_ in
Italian is a petition--a mode of committing theft without personal
violence. In English the word _to prig_ is now applied chiefly to
picking pockets, owing to the degeneracy of modern rogues: a _prig_ is a
pick-pocket.

_Sappy_--foolish, weak. Clearly from the Latin _sapio_--_lucus à non
lucendo_.

_Seedy_--shabby--worn out: a term used to indicate the decayed condition
of one who has seen better days: it refers principally to the state of
his apparel: thus a coat which has once been handsome, when it is old is
called _seedy_, and the wearer is said to look _seedy_. It is only a
corruption of the French _ci-devant_--formerly; with an ellipsis of the
last syllable. It has no reference to running to _seed_, as is commonly
supposed.

_Spoony_--silly or stupid--is used both as a substantive and as an
adjective. Some have conjectured that it owes its origin to the _wooden
spoon_ at Cambridge, the lowest honour conferred by that university, the
individual gaining it being entitled to no other, rather from his
dulness than his ignorance. Its etymology is in fact to be found in the
Italian word _saponé_, soap; and it is a well-known phrase that “a
stupid fellow wants his brains washing with _soap_-suds.”

_Spree_--fun, joke--is from the French _esprit_, as every body must be
aware in an instant.

_Togs_--dress--from the Latin _toga_, the robe worn by Roman citizens.
_Toggery_ means properly a great coat, but it is also used generally for
the apparel.

We might go through the whole vocabulary in the same way, and prove that
some terms are even derived from the Hebrew, through the medium of the
Jews; but the preceding “elegant extracts” will be sufficient. It is to
be regretted that the Rev. J. H. Todd has been so hasty in publishing
his second edition of _Johnson’s Dictionary_, or he might, and no doubt
would, after what we have said, include many words not now to be found
there, and which we contend are the chief ornaments of our vernacular.
Perhaps it would be worth his while to add a supplement, and we shall be
happy to render him any assistance.

  _December, 1827._

  PHILOLOGUS.

       *       *       *       *       *


DIVINATION BY FLOWERS.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--There is a love custom still observed in the village of Sutton
Bangor, Wilts--Two flowers that have not blossomed are paired, and put
by themselves--as many pairs as there are sweethearts in the
neighbourhood, and tall and short as the respective sweethearts are. The
initials of their names are attached to the stamens, and they are ranged
in order in a hayloft or stable, in perfect secrecy, except to those who
manage and watch their ominous growth. If, after ten days, any flower
twines the other, it is settled as a match; if any flower turns a
contrary way, it indicates a want of affection; if any flower blossoms,
it denotes early offspring; if any flower dies suddenly, it is a token
of the party’s death; if any flower wears a downcast appearance,
sickness is indicated. True it is that flowers, from their very nature,
assume all these positions; and in the situation described, their
influence upon villagers is considerable. I was once a party interested,
now

  I am

  A FLOWERBUD.

       *       *       *       *       *


WALTHAM, ESSEX.

_To the Editor._

Sir,--The following epitaph is upon a plain gravestone in the
church-yard of Waltham Abbey. Having some point, it may perhaps be
acceptable for the _Table Book_. I was told that the memory of the
worthy curate is still held in great esteem by the inhabitants of that
place.

  REV. ISAAC COLNETT,

  Fifteen years curate of this Parish,

  Died March 1, 1801--Aged 43 years.

    Shall pride a heap of sculptured marble raise,
    Some worthless, unmourn’d, titled fool to praise,
    And shall we not by one poor gravestone show
    Where pious, worthy Colnett sleeps below?

Surely common decency, if they are deficient in antiquarian feeling,
should induce the inhabitants of Waltham Cross to take some measures, if
not to restore, at least to preserve from further decay and dilapidation
the remains of that beautiful monument of conjugal affection, the cross
erected by Edward I. It is now in a sad disgraceful state.

  I am, &c.

  Z.

       *       *       *       *       *


FULBOURN, CAMBRIDGE.

ALL SAINTS’ AND ST. VIGOR’S BELLS.

_To the Editor._

On a visit to a friend at Fulbourn we strolled to the site whereon All
Saints’ church formerly stood, and his portfolio furnished me with the
subjoined memoranda, which by your fostering care may be preserved.

  I am, sir, &c.

  _Cambridge, May, 1826._

  T. N.


TRINITY SUNDAY, 1766.

This morning at five o’clock the steeple of All Saints’ church fell
down. An act of parliament passed the 22d May, 1775, to unite the
service in St. Vigor’s church, and to enable the vicar and churchwardens
to sell the materials and the bells, towards repairing the church of St.
Vigor’s--the amount was 150_l._ 0_s._ 6_d._ The two broken bells were
sold towards the expenses; the other three, with the two of St. Vigor’s,
and the saints’ bell, were new cast by E. Arnold at St. Neot’s Hunt’s,
and six new bells were put up on the 9th of May, 1776. The subscription
amounted to 141_l._; the bells cost 262_l._ 2_s._ 3_d._; the frames
45_l._, the six new ropes 1_l._ 15_s._; making together the sum of
308_l._ 17_s._ 3_d._

The poor inhabitants were so attached to the old bells, that they
frequently watched them in the evening, lest they should be carried away
and sold; for the broken bells lay among the ruins of All Saints’
church. At last their fears subsiding, they neglected their watching,
and the churchwardens set a waggon in Monk’s barn, (hard by,) and
carried away two of them in the night, delivering them to the Cambridge
waggon for St. Neot’s, and returning before morning, which occasioned
the following

_Ballad._

    There are some farmers in Fulbourn town,
    They have lately sold what was not their own;
    They have sold the bells, likewise the church,
    And cheat the poor of twice as much.
              And O! you Fulbourn farmers O!

    Some estate there was left, all for the poor,
    They have robb’d them of half, and something more,
    Such dirty tricks will go hard on their sides.
    For the d--l will have them, and singe their hides.
              And O! you Fulbourn farmers O!

    Before the bells they could be sold,
    They were forc’d to swear, as we’ve been told,
    They forswore themselves--then they cried.
    For this, my boys, we shall be tried.
              And O! you Fulbourn farmers O!

    There is old Twig, and young Twig--the whining dissenter,
    Says one to the other, this night we will venture;
    And says little Gibble-Gabble, I long for to go.
    But first I will call my neighbour Swing-toe:
              And O! you Fulbourn farmers O!

    In the dead of the night this thievish crew
    Broke into the church, as other thieves do,
    For to steal the bells and sell them all,
    May the d--l take such churchwardens all;
              And O! you Fulbourn farmers O!

This ballad is said to have been the production of one William Rolfe, a
labourer. It was probably written soon after the act passed. The new
peal was brought home on the 9th of May, 1776, so that it was not a year
from the passing of the act to the casting of the bells.

After the bill had been perused by counsel, Mr. Edward Hancock, the
rector’s churchwarden, conducted it through both houses of parliament
without the expense of a solicitor; sir John Cotton, one of the members
for the county, forwarding it in the different stages through the House
of Commons. So earnest were the populace about the bells, (when they
were satisfied they were to have a new peal of six,) that after they
were loaded they drew them a furlong or more before the horses were put
to the waggon. The tenor was cast in _G_ sharp, or old _A_. Mr. Edmund
Andrews Salisbury rode on the great bell, when it was drawn up within
the steeple, and his was the first death this bell was rung for; he was
buried 8th July, 1776. The motto on this bell is--

    “I to the church the living call--
    And to the grave I summon all.”

Mr. Charles Dawson was the author of the complete peal of _Plain Bob_,
called “_The Fulbourn Surprise_” with 154 bobs, and two singles, and 720
changes. The peal was opened December 7, 1789.

       *       *       *       *       *


ST. THOMAS’S DAY.

MR. DAY’S SHORT DAY.

Mr. Thomas Day, of D----t, Wilts, used, when living, to give his workmen
on St. Thomas’s Day a holiday, a short pint of his ale, an ounce of
short-cut tobacco, and a short pipe, in remembrance of his name. “For,”
said he,--in a couplet decidedly his own,--

    “Look round the village where ye may;
    Day is the shortest day, to-day.”

  PUCERON.

       *       *       *       *       *


A PAGE FROM MY NOTE BOOK.

_For the Table Book._


ELECTION BRIBERY.

The first instance that occurs of this practice was so early as 13
Eliz., when one Thomas Longe (being a simple man of small capacity to
serve in parliament) acknowledged that he had given the returning
officer and others of the borough for which he was chosen FOUR POUNDS,
to be returned member, and was for that premium elected. But for this
offence the borough was amerced, the member was removed, and the officer
was fined and imprisoned.--4 _Inst._ 23. _Hale of Parl._ 112. _Com.
Journ._ 10 and 11 May, 1571.


WONDER-WORKING PRECEDENTS.

“Unless,” said vice chancellor Leach, (11th March, 1826, in Mendizabal
_v._ Machado,) “_Unless I am bound hand and foot_ by precedents, _I will
not follow_ such a practice.”


MEM.

Blackstone, speaking of apprenticeships, says, “They are useful to the
commonwealth, by employing _of_ youth, and _learning_ them to be _early_
industrious.”

The same author says, “These payments (alluding to first fruits) were
only due if the heir was of full age, but if _he_ was under the age of
twenty-one _being a male_, or fourteen being a _female_, the lord was
entitled to the wardship of the heir, and was called the guardian in
chivalry.”--_Comm._ book ii. c. 5. p. 67.


DOWER.

The seisin of the husband, for a _transitory instant only_, when the
same act which gives him the estate conveys it also out of him again,
(as where, by a fine, land is granted to a man, and he immediately
renders it back by the same fine,) such a seisin will not entitle the
wife to dower: for the land was merely _in transitu_, and never rested
in the husband, the grant and render being one continued act. But if the
land abides in him for the interval of but a _single moment_, it seems
that the wife shall be endowed thereof.--_Black. Comm._ book ii. c. 8.
p. 132.

The author adds in a note: “This doctrine was extended very far by a
jury in Wales, where the father and son were both hanged in one cart,
but the son was supposed to have survived the father, _by appearing to
struggle longest_; whereby he became seised of an estate in fee by
survivorship, in consequence of which seisin his widow had a verdict for
her dower.”--_Cro. Eliz._ 503.[520]

AN UNINTENTIONAL IMITATION EXTEMPORE _of the 196th and 7th stanzas of
the 2d canto of Don Juan_.

    A mother bending o’er her child in prayer.
    An arm outstretch’d to save a conquer’d foe.
    The daughter’s bosom to the father’s lips laid bare.
    The Horatii when they woo’d the blow
    That say’d a nation’s blood, a young girl fair
    Tending a dying husband’s bed of woe,
    Are beautiful; but, oh, nor dead nor living.
    Is aught so beautiful as woman wrong’d forgiving.

    For there she is, the being who hath leant
    In lone confiding love and weakness all
    On us--whose unreproaching heart is rent
    By our deed; yet on our cheek but fall
    A tear, or be a sigh but spent.
    She sinks upon the breast whence sprang the gall
    That bitter’d her heart’s blood, and there caressing.
    For pain and misery accords a blessing.----

_Note for the Editor._--“An unintentional imitation” may sound something
like a solecism, although a very little reflection will prove it to be
far otherwise. I had been reading Don Juan till I had it by heart, and
nightly spouted to the moon Julia’s letter and the invocation to the
isles of Greece. I had a love fracas; a reconciliation, as one of the
two alternative natural consequences, took place, and the foregoing were
part of some propitiatory measures that effected it. At the time of
writing them I had no more idea of imitating Byron, than has my Lord
Chief Justice Best, in his charge to the jury in a newspaper cause, or
crim. con. I wrote them rapidly, scarcely lifting my pen till they were
finished, and certainly without bestowing a word or thought on any
thing, except the image I pursued; but my mind had received a deep
impression from my late reading, and my thoughts assumed the form they
did from it, unknown to me. Some months afterwards, I was reciting the
passage from Byron alluded to; I had heard something like it; I repeated
it: I was more struck; I rack’d my brain and my lady’s letter-box, and
made this discovery.

  J. J. K.

  [520] On a similar taking by the contingency of drowning, Fearne, the
  elegant writer on “Contingent Remainders,” has an admirable
  argument--a masterpiece of eloquent reasoning.--EDIT.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Original Poetry.~

_For the Table Book._

CHRISTMAS.

    Old Christmas comes again, and with him brings,
      Although his visits are in times austere,
    Not only recollections of good things.
      But beareth in his hands substantial cheer:
    Though short and dark the day, and long the night.
    His joyous coming makes all faces bright.

    And when you make your doors and windows fast.
      And to your happy cheerful hearth retire,
    A paradise is yours, safe from the blast,
      In the fair circle gathering round the fire;
    Whilst these, with social converse, books, and wine.
    Make Winter’s ragged front almost divine!

  W. M. W.

       *       *       *       *       *

SONNET.

AN AUTUMNAL MIDNIGHT.

    I walk in silence and the starry night;
      And travellers with me are leaves alone.
      Still onward fluttering, by light breezes blown.
    The moon is yet in heaven, but soon her light,
    Shed through the silvery clouds and on the dark
      Must disappear. No sound I hear save trees
      Swayed darkly, like the rush of far-off seas
    That climb with murmurs loud the rocky steep.
    There wakes no crowing cock, nor watch-dog’s bark.
      I look around, as in a placid dream
      Existing amidst beauty, and I seem
    Relieved from human weakness, and from sleep,
      A happy spirit ’neath the boundless heaven,
      To whom not Day alone but Night is given!

  W. M. W.

       *       *       *       *       *

SEASONABLE STANZAS.

    Winter, with hoary locks and frozen face,
      Hath thrown his naked sceptre from his hand;
    And he hath mended now his sluggish pace,
      Beside the blazing yule-block fire to stand.
      His ice-bound visage ’ginneth to expand;
    And, for the naked pine-branch which he swayed.
      He, smiling, hath a leaf-green sceptre planned;
    The ivy and the holly he doth braid,
    Beneath whose berries red is many a frolick played.

    Now not in vain hath been the blooming spring,
      The fruitful summer and the autumn sere;
    For jolly Christmas to his board doth bring
      The happy fulness of the passed year;
      Man’s creeping blood and moody looks to cheer.
    With mirthful revel rings each happy dome;
      Unfelt within the snows and winds severe;
    The tables groan with beef, the tankards foam,
    And Winter blandly smiles to cheer the British home.

  W. M. W.

       *       *       *       *       *


~Original Poetry.~

_For the Table Book._

The accompanying lines were written in allusion to that beautiful _Gem
of Dagley’s_ which _Mr. Croly_ (page 21 of the vol.) supposes a Diana,
and which Tassie’s Catalogue describes as such. I have, however, made
bold to address her in her no less popular character of

EURYDICE.

    “Ilia quidem dam te fugeret per flumina præceps
    Immanem ante pedes hydrum moritura puella
    Servantem ripas altâ non vidit in herbâ.”

  _Virg._ Georg. IV.

    Art can ne’er thine anguish lull,
    Maiden passing beautiful!
    Strive thou may’st,--’tis all in vain;
    Art shall never heal thy pain:
    Never may that serpent-sting
    Cease thy snow-white foot to wring.
    Mourner thou art doom’d to be
    Unto all eternity.

    Joy shall never soothe thy grief;
    Thou must fall as doth the leaf
    In thine own deep forest-bower,
    Where thy lover, hour by hour,
    Hath, with songs of woodland glee.
    Like the never-wearied bee.
    Fed him on the fond caress
    Of thy youth’s fresh loveliness.

    Youth!--’tis but a shadow now;--
    Never more, lost maid, must thou
    Trip it with coy foot across
    Leafy brooks and beds of moss;
    Never more, with stealthy tread,
    Track the wild deer to his bed,
    Stealing soft and silently,
    Like the lone moon o’er the sea.

    Vain thy lover’s whisper’d charm;
    Love can never death disarm;
    Hush’d the song he oft hath sung,--
    Weak his voice, his lyre unstrung.
    Think, then, if so hard to heal
    Is the anguish thou dost feel.
    Think--how bitter is the smart
    When that wound is in the heart!

  ‘ϵ . . .

  _Hampstead._

       *       *       *       *       *


~Notice.~

THE INDEX, &c. _to the present volume of the_ TABLE BOOK will _conclude
the work_.

I respectfully bid my readers Farewell!

  *

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]


SPORTS AND PASTIMES

OF

THE PEOPLE OF ENGLAND.

Perhaps I may be excused for noticing the forthcoming octavo edition of
“THE SPORTS AND PASTIMES OF ENGLAND,”--a work of very curious research
and remarkable information, written and published in quarto by the late
MR. JOSEPH STRUTT.

THE OCTAVO EDITION will be printed in a superior manner, on fine paper,
with at least 140 Engravings. It will be published in Monthly Parts,
price One Shilling each, and each part, on an average, will contain
fourteen engravings. Above half of the drawings and engravings are
already executed, and other means are taken to secure the punctual
appearance of the work. The printer is already engaged on it, and the
first part will certainly appear before the first of February.

A COPIOUS INDEX will be prepared, and the work be edited by

  _January 1, 1828._

  W. HONE.




Vol. II.--55.


INDEXES.

    I. GENERAL INDEX.

   II. CORRESPONDENTS’ INDEX.

  III. INDEX TO THE POETRY.

   IV. INDEX TO THE ENGRAVINGS.


I. THE GENERAL INDEX.

  Abduction, curious respite from execution for, 414.
  Abershaw, Jerry, 148, 149.
  Aborigines, 447.
  Abraham, heights of, in Derbyshire, 136.
  Accidents to one man, 127.
  Accompaniment to roasting, 201.
  Actors--acting of old men by children, 526. See Plays.
  Advertisements, singular, 222, 511, 616, 722.
  Advice. See Counsels.
  Age, reason for not reckoning, 352.
  Air, philosophy of, 503.
  Airay, (Tom) manager at Grassington, 247.
  Ale, old English, 351; antiquity of beer, 746.
  Alfred, tomb of, 734.
  Alia Bhye, East Indian princess, 520.
  Alleyn, actor, the Roscius of his day, 498, (note.)
  Amadeus, duke of Savoy, 594.
  “Ambitious Statesman, (The)” old play, 551.
  Amilcas the fisherman, 639.
  Amsterdam, notices of, 157, 460.
  Anaximander, and other ancients, 819. See Ancients.
  Ancients and moderns, discoveries of, 58, 83, 120, 182, 202, 214, 245,
    342, 375, 406, 438, 472, 503, 632, 724, 742, 788, 819.
  ----; mode of writing of the ancients, 196; superiority of their
    music, 202; casualties among, 574.
  “Andronicus,” old play, 456.
  Animals, theories on generation of, 792.
  Animated nature, 216.
  Anne, queen, 243.
  Antipathies, instances of, 190.
  “Antipodes, (The)” old play, 361.
  Anty Brignal and the Begging Quaker, 761.
  Aphorisms, 160, 181. See Counsels.
  “Apostle Spoons,” 817.
  Apothecary or Dramatist, 411.
  Apprentices, to be found in sufficient wigs, 432.
  Archimedes, and other ancients, 821. See Ancients.
  Argyll, customs of, 10.
  Aristarchus, and other ancients, 820. See Ancients.
  Aristotle, former bondage to, 59.
  Armstrong, Dr., notice of, 109.
  Artists, letter of one to his son, 129.
  Arts and Sciences, skill of the ancients in. See Ancients.
  Arum, herb called, 369.
  Ashburton Pop, 356.
  “Asparagus Gardens, (The)” 363.
  Assignats, (French) engraving, 209.
  Astronomy, curious tract on, 252; ancients’ knowledge of, 794. See
    Ancients.
  Atheism, scandals to, 773.
  Attraction, 342.
  Audley, Hugh, usurer, life of, 72.
  Augustus, anecdote of, 231.
  Aurora Borealis, opinions on, 633.
  Authors, difficulties of, 123, 174; vanity of, 263, 811.
  Avarice, sorts of, 77. See Misers.
  Avenues of trees near Scheveling, 461.
  Avon Mill, Wilts, 346.

  Babylon, 822.
  Bachelors; bachelor’s desk, 195; budge bachelors, 237; miserable home
    of bachelors, 269; pocket-book of one, 405.
  Bakewell, in Derb.; monuments, &c. in church of, 198.
  “Ballad Singer,” 666.
  Bans, happy, 116.
  Baptizing, customs touching, 23.
  Bargest, the spectre hound, 655.
  Barnes, Joshua, epitaph for, 33.
  Barrington, George, notice of, 152.
  “Bastard, (The)” old play, 171.
  Bathing, (earth) 562.
  Bear and Tenter, boys’ play, 364.
  Beards on women, superstition about, 23.
  Bears, habits of, 369.
  Beaus, English and French, 774.
  Beauty, ingenuous disclaimer of, 414; beauties at church, 774.
  Bed, (celestial) 562.
  Bede, (venerable) a hot spicer, 545.
  Beer, antiquity of, 746.
  Beethoven, musician, memoir of, 204.
  Begging Quaker, &c. 761.
  Bellows and bellows-makers, 603.
  Bells. See Ringing.
  “Belphegor,” old play, 552.
  Beverley, a strong porter, 550.
  Beverley, St. John of, 545.
  Bhye, Alia, amiable character of, 520.
  Bilbocquet, a royal amusement, 348.
  Bill of fare, 44.
  Birds; water-fowl at Niagara, 534; Dr. Fuller’s account of one, 287;
    Sandy’s method of hatching their eggs, 681. See Storks, &c.
  Birmingham, clubs of, 89; manufactures, &c. of, 595.
  Bishops; resignation of one, 103.
  Blacking, notices about, 435.
  Blackthorn, old custom of, 240.
  Blake, W., hostler, engraving of, 47.
  Blood, circulation of, notices about, 724.
  Bloomfield, George, poet’s brother, engraving, 801.
  ----, Robert, poet, notice of, 802.
  “Blurt, Master Constable,” old play, 739.
  Bodies, elements of, 214.
  Bolton, John, of Durham, 409.
  Bonaparte at Torbay, 360.
  Bones, advice for breaking, 511.
  Booker, Rev. L., notice of, 163.
  Books; lending of, 285, 287; my pocket-book, 403; device taken from a
    book of prayers, 615, (note.)
  Boots, importance of shape of, 512.
  Boswelliana, 255.
  Bowel complaints, receipt for, 256.
  Braco, Lord, and a farthing, 242.
  Brandon, Gregory, hangman, 699.
  Brass-works, 601.
  Bribery, in England, by foreigners, 16.
  Bridal, public, 374.
  “Bride, (The)” old play, 134.
  Bridlington, custom at, 582.
  Bristol, opulence and inns at, 243; prince George of Denmark at, 243;
    high cross at, 715.
  Bromley, bishop’s well at, 65; engraving of the church-door, 97;
    extraordinary ringing at, 527.
  Bruce, lord Edward, notices about, 225.
  “Brutus of Alba,” old play, 711.
  Brydges, sir E., epitaph on his daughter, 280.
  Buckles, notices of, 597.
  Budeus, (the learned) blunder of, 413.
  Budge, [Fur] notices about, 236; budge-bachelors, 237; Budge-row, 237.
  Building estimates should be doubled, 352.
  Bunyan’s holy war dramatized, 24.
  Burial in gardens, 460. See Funerals.
  Burkitt, Dan., an old jigger, 278.
  Bush tavern, Bristol, 44.
  Butler, (Hudibras,) hint adopted by, 410.
  Buttons, notices about, 596.
  Buying and selling, 211.

  Cabalistic learning, 20.
  Cabbage-trees, vast height of, 471.
  Calvin and Servetus, 730.
  Cann, Abraham, wrestler, 499.
  CAPITAL extempore, 480.
  Capon, William, scene painter, notice of, 709.
  Carlisle, customs at, 373.
  Castle-baynard, tale of, 242.
  Casualties of the ancients, 574.
  Cataracts of Niagara, 531.
  Caverns, tremendous one, 541.
  Centenaries; medal for the centenary of the diet of Augsburgh, 321;
    centenary of the revolution, 515.
  Cesar and Amilcas, 638.
  “Chabot, Admiral of France,” old play, 6.
  Chains, hanging in, 149.
  Chairs, (arm) curious ones, 436, 622.
  “Challenge to Beauty,” old play, 498, 622.
  Charlemagne, misfortunes in family of, 397.
  Charles I. and treaty of Uxbridge, 521.
  ---- II., anecdote of, 33; procession on his restoration, 505; his
    court, 832.
  ---- V., bribery of English parliament by, 16.
  Charost, M. de, a royal favourite, 512.
  Chartres, duke of, notice of, 209.
  Chateaubriand, viscount de, anecdote of, 415.
  Chatsworth, 135.
  Chemistry of the ancients, 743, 746, 789.
  Chequers at public-houses, 38.
  Chester, custom at, 613.
  Chiari and rival dramatists, 11.
  Children, customs relating to, 21; children and mother, 441; children
    and split trees superstition concerning, 465; affection for
    children, 491.
  Christening, customs at, 23.
  Christian Malford, plague at, 553.
  Christmas-pie, 506.
  Chrysanthemum Indicum, 737.
  Churches, remarks on beautifying, 25; custom of strewing with rushes,
    277. See Fonts.
  Church-yards, beautiful one at Grassmere, 278.
  Cigar divan of Mr. Gliddon, 673.
  Cinderella, origin of, 719.
  Circle, squaring the, 797.
  Circulation of the blood, 724.
  Cities, ancient, 822.
  Civilisation promoted by trade, 212.
  Cleopatra’s pearl, 789.
  Clergy, luxurious dress of, 236; weekly expenses of a clergyman, 283;
    devoted attachment of one to his flock, 483.
  Clerk’s desk, 195.
  Clocks, difference between, accounted for, 409.
  Closing the eyes, 27.
  Clubs at Birmingham, 89.
  Coachman, considerate, 146.
  Coats, how speedily made, 86.
  “Cock and Pynot” public-house, 513.
  Colossus of Rhodes, 823.
  Colours, philosophy of, 406.
  Comets, philosophy of, 472.
  Commerce, tendency of, 214.
  Compliment to a young laird, 256.
  Confession of Augsburgh, medal about, 321.
  Controversy, 160.
  Cookery aided by music, 204.
  Copernican system, 438.
  Cordon, sanitary, 493, 495.
  Corineus, a Trojan giant, 615, 617.
  Cornwall, wrestling in, 499.
  Corporations, fools kept by, 353.
  Corpuscular philosophy, 245.
  Corral,--a poor cottager, 784.
  Cottagers, singular difficulties of one, 385, &c.
  Counsels and cautions, 160, 181, 352, 478, 541, 817.
  Country, (native) 809.
  ---- dances, 32.
  Courtiers, humiliation of one, 174.
  Courtship, patient, 818.
  Coward, Nathan, glover and poet, 259.
  Crabbing for husbands, 465.
  Craven, notices of, 243, 721; stories of the Craven dales, 653, 775.
  Cries, old London, 431.
  Criticism, killing, 651.
  Crystal summer-house, 253.
  Cuckoo-pint, a plant, 369.
  Cumberland, customs of, 373, 559.
  Cup and ball, a royal amusement, 348.
  Cyrus, his love of gardening, 459.

  Dairy poetry, 238.
  Danby, earl of, and the revolution, 513.
  Dancing; country-dances, 32; profound study of minuets, 64; dancing
    round the harrow, 197.
  Darwin, Dr., his “Botanic garden,” 459, (note.)
  Davy, (old) the broom-maker, 452.
  D’Arcy, Mr. J., and the revolution, 515.
  Death and virtue, dialogue between, 19; superstitions touching death,
    99.
  “Defeat of Time, (The)” 335.
  Democritus, notice of, 791.
  Deposits, a well-kept one, 415.
  Derbyshire, notices respecting, 12, 135, 481, 493, 516.
  Descent, canons of, 63.
  “Desolation of Eyam, (The)” 481.
  Despotism, virtuous, 520.
  “Devil’s Law Case, (The)” old play, 131.
  Devil’s punch-bowl in Surrey, 145.
  Devonshire wrestling, 416, 499.
  ---- ----, earl of, and the revolution, 513.
  Dial, ancient, 19.
  Diarrhœa, receipt for, 256.
  Diligence (French) described, 183.
  Dining on Coke, 63; royal dinner time, 751.
  Diophantes and other ancients, 820. See Ancients.
  Discoveries of the ancients and moderns, 83, 120, 182, 214, 245, 342,
    375, 406, 438, 472, 503, 632, 724, 742, 788, 819.
  Diseases, passing patients through trees for, 465.
  Disputation to be avoided, 160.
  Distillation, ancients’ knowledge of, 788.
  Diversions, political origin of some, 364.
  Doctor degraded, 640.
  “Dodypol, Doctor,” old play, 69.
  Domitian, (the emperor) inscription for, 754.
  “Don Quixotte,” old play, 457.
  Dorking, Leith hill, near, 117.
  Dover pig, 731.
  Dramatists; rival Italian dramatists, 11; dramatist or apothecary,
    411.
  Dreams, a black dream, 126.
  Duddlestone, John, of Bristol, 243.
  Duels of sir E. Sackville and lord E. Bruce, 225, &c.
  Dunchurch cow and calf, 723.
  Durfey, Tom, notice of, 650.
  Durhamiana, 409.
  Dutch royal gardens, 460; Dutch trees, fisheries, &c., 460, &c.; Dutch
    customs, 563; Dutch gallantry, 773.

  Earning the best getting, 160.
  Earth-bathing, 562.
  Earthquakes, opinions on, 633.
  East Indies, amiable native monarch in, 520.
  Ecbatane, city of, 822.
  Echo, (moral) 410.
  Economy, curious instance of, 78. See Misers.
  Edmonton, inhospitable styles of, 81.
  “Edward the Third,” old play, 52.
  Eels, (Bush) 224.
  Eggs, peculiar mode of hatching, 681; artificial hatching by the
    ancients, 746.
  Eldon, lord, anecdote of, 63.
  Electricity, 637.
  Elm-tree, celebrated one, 422.
  Emigration, Highland, 322.
  Emperors and kings, ill-fated ones, 395, 397.
  “English Monsieur,” 330.
  Epilepsy, disorder of great minds, 807.
  Epitaphs, 16, 19, 33, 104, 147, 152, 182, 198, 249, 256, 259, 273,
    274, 280, 281, 295, 298, 300, 366, 410, 510, 526, 558, 754.
  Erasmus, notices of, 199, 340.
  Ether, doctrine of, 503.
  Esop in Russia, 457.
  Eternity, 808.
  Etiquette, Spanish, 254.
  Evelyn, extracts from, 829, &c.
  Executioner, 698.
  Executions, former frequency of, 151.
  Ex-Thespianism, 554.
  Eyam in Derb., notices of, 481, &c., 629.
  Eyes: closing the eyes, 27; guard against an evil eye, 583.
  Eyre, chief justice, notice of, 151, 152.

  Facetiæ, 771.
  “Fairies, tale of the,” 335.
  “Faithful Shepherd, (The)” old play, 525.
  “Faithful Shepherdess, (The)” old play, 619.
  Falls of Niagara, 531.
  Families; ill-fated royal ones, 397; Wilkie’s picture of one, 509.
  Fare, bill of, 44.
  Farthings; one found by a lord, 242; the broad farthing, 507.
  Fashion, a gentleman’s, 341.
  “Fatal Jealousy,” old play, 579.
  “Fatal Union, (The)” 713.
  Father and son, 31.
  Favourites, a singular one, 512.
  “Fawn, (The)” old play, 424.
  Ferguson, sir A., letter from sir Walter Scott to, 518.
  Filching, cure of, 285.
  Filey, in Yorkshire, 637.
  Fill-up, (a) 735.
  Fire, water mistaken for, 534.
  Fires in London, 570; “burning the witch,” 582.
  Fish, royal reason for not eating, 288.
  Fishermen; Lucan’s description of one, 638.
  Fishing-towns, Dutch and English, 463.
  “Five days’ Peregrination,” &c., 291.
  Fletcher, Dickey, 765.
  “Floating Island, (The)” 552.
  Flowers; Time’s source of pleasure from, 337; mode of preserving, 604;
    winter flowers, 737.
  Fly-boat, (the Malden) 559.
  Fonts; Grassmere font, 272.
  Forces, doctrine of, 342.
  Forests, ancient and decayed, in Scotland, 324, 325. See Trees.
  Forrest, ----, author of “Five Days’ Peregrination,” 291.
  Fractures, singular advice about, 511.
  French diligence, description of, 683.
  Fruit, markets for, at London and Paris, 130.
  Funerals, customs touching, 105, 272, 373, 658; consolation from
    funeral processions, 479.
  Furniture of old times, 584.
  Furs; tippets and scarfs, 235.

  Gage, viscount, his fête of the quintain, 175.
  Gallantry, Dutch, 773.
  Gaols. See Prisons.
  Gardens; summer garden of Peter the Great, 457; love of gardens, 459;
    Dutch royal garden, 460.
  Garlands, funeral, 105, 272.
  Garrick plays, selections from, contributed by Mr. Charles Lamb, 6,
    52, 67, 106, 131, 171, 200, 232, 265, 328, 361, 393, 456, 497, 524,
    551, 579, 619, 645, 711, 739, 771, 806.
  Genders, 284.
  Genius, distresses of men of, 123; genius and good temper, 414.
  “Gentleman Usher,” old play, 171.
  “Gentleman of Venice,” old play, 106.
  George, prince of Denmark, notice of, 243.
  Giants in lord mayor’s show, 609.
  Gibbeting, 151.
  Gibbon’s “Decline and Fall,” 287.
  Gilding without gold, 597.
  Gilpin (Mrs.) riding to Edmonton, 79.
  Gimmal ring, engraving, 1.
  Gin act, effect of passing, 249.
  Gipsies in Epping Forest, 28.
  Glass, discovery of, 734; skill of the ancients in, 789, 796, 824.
  Gleaning or leasing cake, 346.
  Gliddon, Mr., cigar divan of, 673.
  Glorious memory, (the) 480.
  Gluttony, instances of, 350; glutton and echo, 410.
  Gog and Magog of Guildhall, 609.
  Gold, skill of the ancients in arts relating to, 744.
  Goldoni and rival dramatists, 11.
  Good temper and good nature, 414.
  Goodrick, sir H., and the Revolution, 515.
  Goose-fair at Nottingham, 180, (note.)
  Gossip and Stare, the, 61; comment on literary gossip, 508.
  Gostling’s, Mr., account of Hogarth’s tour, 303.
  Gout, notices on, 652.
  Government, simplicity and wisdom of, 417, &c.
  Gozzi, Italian dramatist, 11.
  Graham, Dr., lecturer, 561.
  Grammar explained, 128.
  Grapes in Covent Garden, &c. 139. See also 33, 628.
  Grasshopper on Change, explanation of, 338, 339.
  Grassington theatricals, 247, 606.
  Grassmere, beauty of, 277.
  Gravity, doctrine of, 342.
  Greatness, tax on, 809.
  Green, W., artist and author, 281.
  Gregory, old name for the hangman, 701.
  Gresham, sir Thomas, a deserted child, 338.
  Gretna Green parsons, 125.
  Guildford races, 705.
  Guildhall, curious explanation of, 767.
  Guinea sovereigns, 751.
  Gunpowder, antiquity of, 791.
  Guns; air-guns, 508; notices concerning guns, 598.

  Hackerston’s cow, 250.
  Hague, fine woods near, 460.
  Hammond, the poet, notice of, 111.
  Handkerchief, white cambric, 294.
  Hanging in chains, 149; inducement to hanging, 256; hanging the
    shuttle, 221.
  Hangman, and his wages, 698.
  Harpham, St. John’s well at, 545.
  Harris, James, 284.
  Harrow, dancing round the, 197.
  Harvest-catch, in Norfolk, 333.
  Hats; substitute for the shovel-hat, 381.
  Hay-band, origin of, 714.
  Heart, perpetual motion of, 544; case containing Lord Bruce’s heart,
    225; instance of heart-burial, 230: disposal of sir W. Temple’s
    heart, 460.
  Heat, how counteracted at Siam, 253.
  Heaving, in wrestling, explained, 501.
  “Hectors, (The)” old play, 392.
  Hell-bridge, in the Highlands, 87.
  Henley, (Orator) advertisement of, 616.
  Henry II. character of, 154.
  ---- III. of France, amusements of, 348.
  ---- VIII. and his peers, 571.
  Hermits, 593.
  Hervé, Peter, artist, letter respecting, 20.
  Hervey, Rev. J., notices of, 366.
  “Hey for Honesty,” old play, 394.
  Highlands. See Scotland.
  Highwaymen, nearly extinct, 149, 150.
  Hill, sir John, physician, notice of, 652.
  Hipparchus, and other ancients, 820. See Ancients.
  Hippocrates, curious advice of, 511.
  History of Rome, doubt on, 413; pleasing passage of history, 422.
  “Hoffman’s Tragedy, or Revenge for a Father,” old play, 740.
  Hogarth, curious notices of, 289, &c.
  Holland, customs of, 563. See Dutch.
  Holt, John, a great ringer, 529.
  Holwood, seat of Mr. Pitt, engraving and notices of, 623, 642.
  Home, praises of, 268.
  Hood, T., sonnet to, 239; Plea of the Fairies, by, 340; “Whims and
    Oddities” of, 659.
  Hoppins, David, a singular parodist, 341.
  Horace, pious parody of, 339.
  Horæ Cravenæ, 721.
  Horns, emblems of kingly power, 420.
  Horsedealing, latitude of deceit in, 213.
  Horses, marks of age of, 357.
  Horsham gaol, 93.
  Horticulture recommended, 459.
  Hostler, derivation of, 49.
  Hotels. See Taverns.
  Houses and accommodations of old times, 584; country-houses lead to
    poor-houses, 352.
  Howitt, William and Mary, their Poems, 417, 481.
  Humour, definition of, 290.
  “Huntingdon Divertisement,” old play, 581.
  Huntsman, Mr. Woodford’s, 192.
  Husbandman, (The retired) engraving, 17.
  Husbands, a happy one, 442; crabbing for husbands, 464; evidence of
    affection for one, 544. See Wives.
  Hydrophobia, 667.
  Hypochondria, 91.

  Ideas (innate), 120.
  Illusion, pleasures of, 757.
  Imperial fate, 395.
  Indians--and William Penn, 417, &c.; adventure of some, 534; Indians
    at Court in 1734, 693.
  “Infant Genius,” 659.
  Infants, offerings to, 21; picture of a deserted one, 338.
  Innate ideas, 120.
  Inns of the Romans, &c. 37, 39, 49; seeking lost sign of one, 410;
    good ones the result only of great travelling, 544; inn yards, 681.
  Intemperance, corrected by echo, 410.
  Invasion and volunteers, 55.
  Ireland, customs in, 23; Irish tobacco-pipes, 769.
  Islington, rights of parish of, 392, 787.
  Italian dramatists, 11.

  Jack the Viper, 763.
  Jack Ketch a gentleman, 698.
  Jemmal ring, 1.
  Jennens, Charles, notice of, 651.
  Jew’s harp, 31.
  John, (St.) a custom on St. John’s eve, 99, St. John of Beverley’s
  Well at Harpham, 545.
  Johannites, notice of, 721.
  Johnson, Dr., “an odd kind of a chiel,” 255.
  Jones, Rev. M., Berkshire miser, 380.
  Jubilee, (Revolution) 515.
  Judges--a singular decree of one, 64; curious description of one, 255;
    a candid judge, 351; juries the better judges, 351.
  Juries, the better judges, 351; decisions of juries, 733.
  Justices of peace, female, 571.
  Juxton, bishop, notice of, 192.

  Kalm, Swedish traveller, his description of Niagara, 532.
  Keats, John, poet, epitaph on himself, 249; notices of, 371, 430.
  Kelly, Miss, notices respecting, 55, 68.
  Keston Cross, 33.
  Ketch, Jack, 698.
  Kicking, in wrestling, barbarous, 500, 502.
  Kings and emperors, ill-fated ones, 395, 397; kings in Africa, 752.
  “King’s Arms,” 32.
  Kirkby, 437.

  Labour and luck, 160.
  Lacteals in a mole, 191.
  Ladies. See Women.
  Lairds, compliment to a young one, 255.
  Landlady, agreeable, 285.
  Language, genders in, 284.
  Laurence Kirk snuff-boxes, 680.
  Law of kindness, 496.
  Law and poetry, 63; remark on law-books, 734.
  Lawyers, two, 475.
  Leaping, curious instance of, 279.
  Leaves scorched by summer-showers, 253.
  Lee Penny, The, engraving, 143.
  Leeds, duke of, [earl of Danby], vindication of, 515.
  Leith Hill, near Dorking, 117.
  Lettsom, Dr., notice of, 285.
  Liars, incredible, 639.
  Life, description of, 810.
  Light, philosophy of, 408, 794.
  Limbs, advice in case of one broken, 511.
  Liston, Mr., 650.
  Literature, foolish labour in, 28, 765.
  Living well, 32.
  Loadstone, opinions on, 635.
  London; fruit markets of London and Paris, 138; old London Cries, 431;
    a London watchman, 523; fires in London, 570; Londiniana, 587;
    giants in Guildhall, 609. See Islington, &c.
  Longevity of a Highlander, 213.
  Lord Mayor’s show, giants in, &c. 609.
  Lords and ladies, vegetable, 369.
  “Love Tricks,” old play, 172.
  Love, David, walking stationer, 177.
  Lovers, hostility of time to, 337.
  “Love’s Dominion,” old play, 456.
  “Love’s Metamorphosis,” old play, 265.
  Loyola, Ignatius, and his boot, 512.
  Luck and labour, 160.
  Lyttleton, sir George, notice of, 590.

  Macdonald, John, a Highlander, 213.
  “Mad Dog,” 666.
  Magpie, anecdote of, 608.
  Maid of honour, curious patent to one, 413.
  “Maid Marian,” letter respecting, 10.
  Mallet, David, notice of, 110.
  “Mamamouchi,” old play, 231.
  Man, description of, 809.
  “Man in the Moon,” tract called, 252.
  Manners of old times, 584, 829.
  Manufactures, celerity of processes of, 86; of Birmingham, 595.
  Manuscripts, curious restoration of one, 415.
  Mariner, (an ultra) 188.
  Mark, St., customs on St. Mark’s eve, 99, 159, 251.
  Markets (fruit) of London and Paris, 138.
  Marlow, poet, merit of, 498 (note.)
  Marot, Clement, French poet, notice of, 766.
  Marriage, the Gimmal Ring, 1; a happy marriage, 116; Gretna Green
    parsons, 125; old customs at, 239, 348, 373; ungallant toll on
    brides, 343; marriage under the protectorate, 506.
  “Married Beau, (The)” old play, 622.
  Martin, St., and the Devil, 170.
  Mary, Peter and, 264.
  Matlock, 135.
  Mayor’s feast, temp. Elizabeth, 617.
  Mechanical power, 85; ancients’ knowledge of, 794, 822, 824.
  Medals; commemoration medal of diet of Augsburgh, 321.
  Medicine, skill of the ancients in, 743, 746.
  Melancthon and Calvin, 736.
  Melons, varieties and weights of, 141.
  Memory with stupidity, instance of, 571.
  Menage, advice of, touching poetry, 512.
  Mendip mines and miners, 695.
  Merrow, in Surrey, 705.
  Meum et Tuum, 250.
  Mice, field, for preventing injuries from, 467.
  Michaelmas day, customs on, 464.
  Microscopes, whether known to the ancients, 824.
  Milk, in America, 480.
  Milky Way, the, 375.
  Mill, the haunted, 476.
  Millhouse, Robert, his Poems, 161.
  Mines, descent into, 137; Mendip mines and miners, 695.
  Minuets, laborious study of, 64.
  Misers, notices of, 72, 77, 78, 118, 153, 242, 380.
  Misery,--a bond of affection, 806; trial through, 807.
  Miss, designation of, 831.
  Mitcheson, Tommy, of Durham, 287.
  Moderns and ancients, discoveries of, 58, 83, 120, 182, 202, 214, 245,
    342, 375, 406, 438, 472, 503, 632, 724, 743, 788, 819.
  Mœris, (Lake) in Egypt, 823.
  Moles, lacteals in, 191.
  Mompesson, Rev. W., and his wife, 481, &c.
  Monarchs, most ancient of, 335; ill-fated ones, 395, 397; a pure and
    exemplary one, 520.
  Money, rareness of due care of, 78.
  Monkey, gallant comparison with, 573.
  Monmouth, duke of, 702.
  Montmorenci, Ann, anecdotes of, 174, 208.
  Moon, philosophy of, 473; tincture of moon, 653; moonlight view of
    Niagara, 543.
  More, sir T., 704.
  Mosaics of the ancients, 826.
  Mother and her children, 441.
  Mummies, 744.
  Music, superiority of the ancient, 202, 826, musical anecdotes, 204;
    memoir of Beethoven, 206; the music which old Time delights in, 336.
  My Pocket Book, 403.
  Mysteries dramatized, 113.

  Nails and nail-makers, 602.
  Names, scriptural, &c. 767.
  Nationality, 331.
  Nature, animated, 216.
  Navarino, description of, 513.
  Newspapers; newspaper orthography, 222; classification of readers of
    newspapers, 570. See Advertisements.
  Newtonian philosophy and the ancients. See Ancients.
  Niagara, cataracts of, 531.
  Nixon’s prophecies, notice of, 224.
  Norfolk, custom in, 333.
  Northumberland, custom in, 21.
  Norwich Guild, 617.
  Nottingham, custom at, 180 (note); Nottingham and the revolution, 513.

  Oaks, fine ones in Holland, 460.
  “Oddities, Whims and,” by T. Hood, 559.
  Offerings to infants, 21.
  Offices, estimates of value of, 76.
  Oglethorpe, general, notice of, 693.
  “Old England forever,” pamphlet called, 353.
  Opinions, former authority of, 59.
  Opium-eater, the, notices of, 277, 278.
  “Oranges, The Three,” play called, 11.
  Orleans, duchess of, ingenuous disclaimer by, 414.
  Ostler, derivation of, 49.
  Oyster cellars, entertainment of, 40.

  Page’s Lock, near Hoddesdon, curious chair at, 436.
  Painting on cloth and glass, by the ancients, 745, 789, 825.
  Palindrome, explanation and instance of, 169.
  Parents’ affection, 441, 491.
  Paris and London, fruit markets of, 138.
  Parishes, abuses in, 25.
  Parliament, bribery of, by Charles V., 16.
  Parodies, pious, of Horace, 339.
  Parr, Dr., early model of, for style, 369.
  Parsimony. See Misers.
  Party of pleasure, interesting, 289.
  Pastoral and tragi-comedy, definitions of, 621.
  Pavy Labathiel, 526.
  Pawning, valuable resource of, 78.
  Peak’s hole, 14.
  Peal (dumb) of Grandsire Triples, 527.
  Pearce, Dr. Z., anecdote of, 103.
  Pearl, Cleopatra’s, 789.
  Pegge, Rev. S., revolution centenary sermon of, 516, 517, 697.
  Pemberton, sir J., lord mayor, 19.
  Penn, William, and the Indians, engraving, 417.
  Penny, (The Lee) an antique, description of, 143.
  Pentheney, Anthony, a miser, notice of, 118.
  Pepys, extracts from, 830, &c.
  Perfection, the steps of, 222.
  Peter the Great, summer garden of, 457.
  Peter-house college, anecdote touching, 264.
  Philadelphia, origin of, 419.
  Philippos, 705.
  Philosophy; of ancients and moderns. See Ancients.
    Philosophy of a fairy, 339.
  Physicians, a benevolent one, 285; two physicians, 475.
  Pickpockets, 232.
  Pickworth, Mr. C., letter to, 605.
  Pie, Christmas, 506.
  Pikeman, or turnpike-man, 684.
  Pine apples, 138.
  Pipes, Irish tobacco, 769.
  Piscatoria, 638.
  Pitt, Mr. W., notices of, and of his seat at Holwood, 627.
  Plague at Eyam, 481, &c., 629.
  Planets, material of one, 252.
  Planting in Scotland, 326; planting recommended, 459, 470.
  Plato, mode of studying, 174; Plato and other ancients, 820. See
    Ancients.
  Plays at Linton and Grassington, 247; play-wrighting, 411; acting of
    extraordinary children in plays, 526; performance of plays at
    Christian Malford, 553; definition of pastoral and tragi-comedy,
    621; expedients and difficulties of players, 554; selections
    contributed by Mr. C. Lamb from the Garrick plays, 6, 52, 67, 106,
    131, 171, 200, 232, 265, 328, 361, 393, 456, 497, 524, 551, 579,
    619, 711, 739, 771, 806.
  “Plea of the Fairies,” 340.
  Pleasures of Illusion, 757.
  “Plotting Parlour, (The)” 514.
  Plurality of worlds, doctrine of, 375.
  Poaching, vindication of, 115.
  Pockets, pickpockets, and pocket-handkerchiefs, 231, 232.
  Poetry, thou and you in, 232; rule for criticism of, 512; diction of,
    811.
  Poets, distresses of, 123; an athletic poet, 279; reward of an
    ingenious one, 231; encouragement to poets, 691.
  Politeness, 414.
  Polkinghorne, a famous wrestler, 499.
  Polypi, 793.
  Pope, Alexander, notice of, 109.
  Portraits, picture of taking, 452.
  Portuguese mysteries, 114.
  Preacher, (Puritan) 808.
  Prescription of money, instead of physic, 286.
  Presents, to infants, custom of, 21; at weddings, 373.
  Pride, remarks on, 600; instances of, 751.
  Princesses, mode of carrying, 174.
  Prisons, ancient and modern, 92.
  Processions at funerals, 479; at the restoration, 505; on centenary of
    the revolution, 518.
  Public-houses, 37, 39, &c., 51.
  Puddle-dock, duke of, 291.
  Pulpits; pulpit desk, 195; pulpit in the rock, 495.
  Punch bowl, Devil’s, 145.
  Punctilio, Spanish, 254.
  Purple of the ancients, 636 (note.)
  Pyramids of Egypt, 823.
  Pythagoras, power of his music, 203; Pythagoras and other ancients,
    819. See Ancients.
  Pytheas and other ancients, 819. See Ancients.

  Quakers; The Three Quakers, 50; quakers under William Penn, 417, &c.;
    origin of the term quaker, 429.
  Queenborough, curious account of, 297.
  Qualities, sensible, doctrine of, 182.
  Quid pro quo, 31.
  Quin, notices of, 111, 589.
  Quintain, the, 175, 239.
  Quipoes explained, 112.

  Rain, effect of, 254.
  Rainbow at Niagara, 537, 542.
  “Ram Alley,” old play, 497.
  Ravensbourne, sources of the, engraving, 641.
  “Rebellion, (The)” old play, 525.
  Request, modest, 639.
  “Return, The Soldier’s,” 576.
  Rhodian Colossus, 823.
  Rhodope and Cinderella, 720.
  Ridicule, 174.
  Ringing, memorial of, at Bromley, 527; anecdotes of ringers, 529.
  Rings; the Gimmal ring, engraving and notice of, 1.
  Rivers, opinions on, 697.
  Roasting, musical, 204.
  Robertson, J., a friend of Thomson, 379.
  Romans, customs of, 37; fatality of Roman emperors, 395; doubts on
    Roman history, 413; Roman remains, 626, 629, 641.
  Romuald, St., 593.
  Rope-riding, at Venice, 251.
  Royal families, ill-fated ones, 397.
  “Royal King and Loyal Subject, (The)” old play, 497.
  Ruptures, curious application for, 466.
  Rushes, houses and churches strewed with, 277, &c.
  Russia, Esop in, 457.
  Rutty, Dr., a quaker, confession of, 510.
  Rydal Mount, seat of Wordsworth, 276.

  Sackville, sir E. and lord Bruce, duel between, 225.
  Saddles, rules touching, 357.
  Sailors, 298.
  Saint Giles’s bowl, 702.
  ---- John’s Well, at Harpham, engraving, 545.
  ---- Romuald, 593.
  “Sally Holt,” a story, 669.
  Sandy, James, an extraordinary artist, 680.
  Sanitary cordon, 493, 495.
  “Sappho and Phaon,” old play, 265.
  Satellites, 377.
  Saville, sir G., letter to, 492.
  Sawston Cross, 81.
  Saxons, customs of, 38.
  Scandal, picture of, 61.
  Scarfs and tippets, 235.
  Scheveling scenery, 460.
  “School of Adults,” 662.
  Schools, chastisement in, 174; schoolboys’ anticipations of home, 268.
  Sciences and arts, skill of the ancients in.--See Ancients.
  Scotland, customs in, 23, 40, 143; Scotch lairds and judges, 255;
    Highland emigration, 322; forests of Scotland, 324.
  Scott, sir Walter, letter of, to sir A. Ferguson, 508.
  ----, Thomas, shepherd, anecdote of, 510.
  Sculpture of the ancients, 825.
  Sects, exclusiveness of, 808.
  Selden, notice of, 572.
  Self-devotion, clerical, 536.
  Self-esteem, 751.
  Selling and buying, 211.
  Sensualist and his conscience, 410.
  Servants; servant maid’s pocket-book, 404; old and faithful servants,
    818.
  Servetus and his works, 726.
  Session, court of, satire on judges of, 255.
  “Shakerley, my aunt,” 663.
  Shakspeare, Time’s rival, 339, 340.
  Sham-fights and invasion, 55.
  Sheep, their injury to young woods, 324; superstition touching sheep
    and mice, 467; sheep-shearing in Cumberland, 559.
  Sheepshanks, Whittle, 267.
  Sheriffs, female, 571.
  Ships, descent of one over Niagara falls, 531.
  Shirley Common, broom-maker’s at, 449.
  Shirts, wearing two in travelling, 352.
  Shoeblacks, notices respecting, 435.
  Shoemakers, an ambitious one, 341.
  Shoes, old, curious application of, 318.
  Shorland, Lord, old legend and monument of, 300, 317.
  Showers, summer, 253.
  Shuttle, hanging the, 221.
  Siam, summer-house in, 253.
  Signs; sign-seeking, 412; curious signs, 448, 504, 756.
  Silchester, Hants, Roman station, 556.
  Simcoe, general, notice of, 422.
  Singing, test of excellence of, 210.
  “Sir Giles Goosecap,” old play, 329.
  Skimmington, procession called, 360.
  Skipton in Craven. See Craven.
  Sleeves, pockets formerly in, 231.
  Smith, Thomas, a quack, 722.
  Smoking and snuffing, oriental temple for, 673, 679; antiquity of
    smoking, 771.
  Snitzler, an honest organ-builder, 26.
  Snuffing and smoking, 673, &c.; Laurence-kirk snuff-boxes, 680.
  Soames, Dr., master of Peterhouse, 264.
  Soldiers; a soldier’s age, 352; a soldier’s return, 576.
  Somerset, proud duke of, 751.
  Son, father and, 31.
  Sophia Charlotte, sister of Geo. I., 479.
  Southey, poet, residence of, 282.
  Spa-fields, sketch in, 764.
  Spaniards, spare diet of, 772.
  Spanish mysteries, 113; punctilio, 254.
  Speculation, folly of, 352.
  Spinning, tenuity of, 85.
  Spit, movement of to music, 204.
  “Spoons, Apostle,” 817.
  Stanley, Rev. T., rector of Eyam, 629.
  Starch-wort, an herb, account of, 369.
  “Stare and Gossip, the,” 61.
  Stars, fixed, the, 375, 795.
  Statesmen, model of, 429.
  ----, small farming proprietors called, 378.
  Statues, stupendous, 823.
  Steam-engines, 85.
  Steel manufacturers, 600.
  Stones, (precious) ancients’ imitation of, 745.
  Stories, (long) 210.
  Storks, habits and treatment of, 464, 564.
  Strutt, Mr., new edition of his “Sports and Pastimes,” &c. by editor
  of the Table Book, 177.
  Stuarts, (The) unfortunate line of, 398.
  Summer; summer-house at Siam, 253; summer showers, an effect of, 253;
    summer garden of Peter the Great, 457.
  Surgery, skill of the ancients in, 742, 746.
  Sweetheart-seeing, 159.
  Sympathy, supposed effect of, 334.

  Table Book, editor of about to publish a cheap edition of “Strutt’s
  Sports and Pastimes,” 177; editor’s severe domestic afflictions, 737.
  Table rock at Niagara, 541.
  Tailor, origin of the word, 717.
  Talbot inn, Borough, 45.
  Talkington, George, casualties that befell, 127.
  Tanner, Dame, gleaning cake of, 346.
  Tasting days, 447.
  Taverns and inns, notices of, 41, &c. 49, &c.
  Taylor, John, of Birmingham, notice of, 595.
  Temple of Health, Dr. Graham’s, 561; for smoking, Mr. Gliddon’s, 673.
  Temple, Sir W., disposal of his heart, 460.
  Tenter, (Bear and) boys’ play, 364.
  Thales and other ancients, 819. See Ancients.
  Theatres. See Plays.
  Thunder, opinions on, 632.
  Tippets and scarfs, 235.
  Thomson, poet, notices of, 108, 378, 588.
  Thou and you, in poetry, 332.
  Thread and thread-makers, 603.
  “Thyestes,” old play, 645.
  Tides, opinions on, 634.
  Tie and bob wigs, 434.
  “Time, the defeat of,” 335.
  Titles, 752.
  Tobacco, or a substitute, ancient use of, 771. See Ancients.
  Toll, ungallant, 243.
  Tours, a curious one, 291.
  Townsend, (Bow street) evidence by, 149.
  Trade, good and ill of, 211.
  Tradition, picture of, 366.
  Tragi-comedy and pastoral comedy, 621.
  “Traitor, (The)” old play, 580.
  Transmigration, explanatory of antipathies, 191.
  Trashing, 348.
  Travelling, precautions for, 352, 364.
  Treasure-digging, patent for, 413.
  Treaties; one between W. Penn and the Indians, 417, &c.; treaty of
    Uxbridge, 521.
  Trees; skeletons of, 325; a memorable elm, 421; noble trees near
    Amsterdam, 461; superstition about passing patients through a split
    ash, 465; trees poetically and nationally considered, 469; height of
    the cabbage tree, 471.
  Tricks of the Fairies, 339.
  “Triumphant Widow, (The)” old play, 232.
  Troller’s Gill, (The) 653.
  Tromp, Van, gallantry of, 773.
  “True Trojans, (The)” old play, 328.
  Turk, the Great, 754.
  Turnpikeman, (The) 684.
  Tuum et Meum, 250.
  “Twins, (The)” old play, 329.

  Ugliness, _naif_ admission of, 414.
  Umbrella, clergyman’s, 101.
  Usurers; life of one, 72; a liberal one, 808.
  Utopia, (sir T. More’s) blunder about, 413.
  Uxbridge, town and treaty of, 521.

  Vega, Francis de la, adventures of, 188.
  ----, Lopez de, mysteries of, 113.
  Venice, 251.
  Venison, potted, curious notion about, 334.
  Vines, notices about, 33, 628. See Grapes.
  Viper’s poison, 764.
  Virtue and Death, dialogue between, 19.
  Voice, restoration of, by anchovy, 544.
  Volunteer reminiscences, 55.
  Vortices, doctrine of, 377.

  Wagstaff, Mr. E., 185.
  Wake-Robin, a plant, 369.
  Wakefield, custom near, 21.
  Walker (Willy) and John Bolton, 409.
  Waller, sir E., his tomb at Beaconsfield, 469.
  Walpole, sir H., and Hogarth, 290, 291.
  ---- sir R., notice of, 192.
  Walls of plaster advised for fruit, 141.
  Wards, court of, abuses of, 76.
  “Wars of Cyrus,” old play, 621.
  Warwickshire, custom in, 466.
  Watchmen, (London) 523.
  Water having the effect of fire, 535.
  Wedding. See Marriage.
  “Weston Favel History, &c.,” remarks on, 366.
  “Whims and Oddities,” by T. Hood, 559.
  Whittington, revolution house at, 513.
  Wight, Isle of, custom in, 714.
  Wigs, formerly general, 434.
  Wilson, Rev. Mr., curious tract by, 252.
  ----, professor of moral philosophy, notices of, 279.
  Wiltshire, custom in, 197.
  Winter flowers, 737.
  Witchcraft, decree against, 144; “burning the witch,” 582; guard
    against witchcraft, 583; the wise woman of Littondale, 776.
  Wives; Mr. E. Wagstaff’s, 185; lively letter from one, 442;
    consolation for loss of one, 479; evidence of affection in wives,
    544; a wife taking liberties, 751.
  Wizard’s Cave, 747, 750.
  Wolves; forests burnt in Scotland to exterminate them, 324.
  Women; customs at lying-in, 23; former freedom of society with men,
    40, 41; Egyptian compliment to, 405; ingenuous admission of ugliness
    by one, 414; a young one’s pocket-book, 404; women sheriffs and
    justices, 571; antiquarians’ supposed dislike to, 572; dower of
    women, 573; an amiable woman described, 682; “The Wise Woman of
    Littondale,” 777. See Wives.
  Wood feast, 455.
  Wood, Antony à, his dislike of women, 572.
  Wood, Nicholas, a glutton, 350.
  Wordsworth, (poet) notices of, 273.
  Worlds, plurality of, 375.
  Wrestling, 416, 499.
  Wright, (Mrs.) her description of Niagara falls, 538.
  Writing, Peruvian substitute for, 112; writing-desks, 193, 196.
  Wye Dale, 13.

  Years, reason for not counting, 352.
  York, and the revolution, 514.
  Yorkshire customs, 99, 144, 348, 505.
  Young, (Mr. S.) of Keston Cross, 36.


II. CORRESPONDENTS’ INDEX.

  A. B., 715.
  A. W., 709.
  A. W. R., 559.
  Alpha, 747.
  Auctor, 411.
  Barley Mow, (The) 220.
  Bob Short, 437.
  C. D., 604.
  C. L., 10, 68.
  C. W. P., 212.
  City Volunteer, (A) 55.
  Curio So, 411.
  D. A. M., 505.
  Dick Dick’s Son, 714.
  E. J. H., 12, 135.
  Elia, 335.
  F. C. N., 239, 512.
  F. S., jun., 20.
  G., 177.
  G. B., 617.
  G. H. I., 588.
  Gaston, 436.
  Gilbertus, 559.
  Gulielmus, 735.
  H*****, 19.
  ☞, 673.
  H. B., 321.
  H. L., 19.
  H. M. L., 723.
  I. V., 353.
  J. G., 817.
  J. J. R., 765.
  J. R. J., 521, 556.
  J.R.P., 27, 219, 220, 684, 812.
  J. S., 829.
  Jehoida, 197.
  Jerry Blossom, 737.
  K. B., 731.
  L. V., 416.
  M. H., 193, 209, 268, 403.
  M. N., 629.
  Milo, 21.
  N. S., 364, 584.
  Nemo, 185.
  O., 764.
  O. Z., 395, 430.
  Old Correspondent, 347.
  P., 19, 222, 224, 455.
  Pinchard, John, 690.
  ΠΡΙ, 284, 553, 574.
  Puceron, 464.
  R. N. P., 145.
  S. R. J., 6.
  S. S. J., 116, 734.
  S. T. J., 818.
  *, *, P., 221, 818.
  *, *, *, 558.
  Sam Sam’s Son, 124, 350, 499, 561, 570.
  Smith, Mr., 719.
  So and So, 387.
  Sojourner at Enfield, 79.
  T. B. H., 333.
  T. C., 545, 559, 582, 583, 637, 638, 755.
  T. Q. M., 235, 247, 267, 271, 287, 606, 721, 761, 775.
  T. R., 81, 257, 723.
  T. T. B., 757.
  W. C., 373.
  W. H., 445.


III. INDEX TO THE POETRY.

_Contributed by Correspondents under the following Signatures._

  A. X., 718.
  Alpha, 399, 747.
  B., 815.
  C. J., _Frontispiece_.
  Cole, C., 384.
  E. E., 575.
  Gaston, 371.
  Hezekiah Hulk, 480.
  J. J. K., 735.
  J. K. P., 199.
  J. P. C., 799.
  Le Flaneur, 763.
  M. W., 238.
  Moxon, Edward, 239.
  P., 288.
  Phœnix, J. F., 592.
  Pulci, 191.
  R. B., 762.
  R. W. D., 25, 159.
  S., 757.
  S., 250, 284, 286.
  S. N. Y., 223.
  * * *, 87.
  T. N., 82.
  T. Q. M., 412, 640, 653.
  Vérité, 156.

_By the Editor._

  Past, present, and future, 287.
  The Broom-maker’s at Shirley Common, 449.
  The Source of the Ravensbourne, 641.

AUTHORS QUOTED.

  Allan. J. Hey, 322, 326.
  Cowper, 79.
  Cunningham, Rev. P., 520.
  Heywood, T., 560, 662, 664, 671.
  Howitt, W. and M., 417, 481, &c.
  Jodelle, 767.
  Jones, sir. W., 471.
  Lamb, Charles, 55.
  Millhouse, R., 161, &c.
  Pearce, bishop, 103.
  Pierius, 766.
  Plumtree, Rev. Mr., 806.
  Pope, 416.
  Roscoe, 423.
  Thomsom, J., 379, 380.
  Wordsworth, 280, 775.

WORKS CITED.

  Garrick Plays, selections from, contributed by Mr. C. Lamb, 6, 52, 67,
  106, 131, 171, 200, 232, 265, 328, 361, 393, 456, 497, 524, 551, 579,
  619, 645, 711, 739, 771, 806.
  Morning Chronicle, 607.
  New Monthly Magazine, 29.

ANONYMOUS.

  6, 19, 63, 96, 119, 180, 262, 264, 270, 283, 448, 479, 480, 522, 572,
  594, 608, 650, 651, 652, 716, 731, 768.


IV. INDEX TO THE ENGRAVINGS.

  Augsburgh, (Diet of) commemoration medal of, 321.
  Blake, William, ostler, 47.
  Bloomfield, George, 815.
  Bromley, Bishop’s well at, 65.
  ---- church door of, 97.
  ---- ---- ---- key, 101.
  ---- memorial of a peal rung at, 527.
  Broom-maker’s at Shirley common, 449.
  Bruce, lord Edw., case containing his heart, 225.
  ------ ---- appearance of the heart, 329.
  Burnsal Lich-gate, 271.
  Cigar Divan of Mr. Gliddon, 673.
  Cooke, John, saddler, of Exeter, 353.
  Coward, Nathan, 257.
  Desk, (my) 193.
  French assignat, 209.
  Gilpin, Mrs., riding to Edmonton, 79.
  Gimmal ring, 1.
  Grassmere font, 272.
  Hagbush-lane, Islington, view in, 385.
  ---- ---- ---- a last look at, 785.
  Harpham, St. John’s well at, 545.
  Hervey, (author of Meditations) birth-place of, 367.
  Hogarth embarking at Isle of Grain, 289.
  Holwood, seat of Mr. Pitt, 623.
  Husbandman, the retired, 17.
  Keston Cross, 33.
  Lee Penny, (the) 143.
  “London Cries, (old)” 431.
  ---- ---- ---- another figure, 432.
  Millhouse, Robert, 161.
  Mompesson, Catherine, her tomb at Eyam, 481.
  ---- ----’s pulpit in the rock, 495.
  North, Robert, of Scarborough, 687.
  Penn, W., and the Indians, 417.
  Quintain, (the) 175.
  Ravensbourne, source of the, 641.
  Revolution-house, at Whittington, 513.
  “Running horse, (the)” at Merrow, 705.
  Shorland, lord, monument of, 317.
  Sketch, (A.) 129.
  Tobacco-pipes, Irish, 769.
  Tree, (ash) used as a charm, 465.
  Velocitas, (the) fly-boat, 559.
  Watson, George, Sussex calculator, 577.




  Transcriber’s Notes


  General remarks

  Where possible, corrections have been verified with later editions
  and/or with other sources.

  The spelling in this text follows that of the source document,
  including the spelling of proper names and place names, non-English
  words, and the use of accents and diacriticals. Inconsistent,
  erroneous and unusual spelling have been retained, except as mentioned
  below.

  Depending on the hard- and software used and their settings, not all
  elements may display as intended.

  The source document consisted of an introduction, followed by two sets
  of weekly instalments, numbered I.-1 through I-27 (page numbers I-1
  through I-860) and II.-28 through II.-55 (page numbers II-1 through
  II-888). Both sets have their own indexes.

  The indexes are not always in full alphabetical order, and some page
  numbers in the indexes may be wrong. Neither have been corrected,
  except as indicated below.

  Not all quote marks are paired properly with an opening or closing
  one; these were lacking in the source document, and it was not
  obvious where they should have been placed.

  The numbering of repeating subjects (for example, Discoveries of the
  Ancients and Moderns) is not always contiguous.

  Volume I and Volume II are available at Project Gutenberg as well
  (www.gutenberg.org).


  Specific remarks

  Page I-69, worthy insertion: possibly there is a word missing.

  Page I-386/387, Errata: the corrections mentioned have already been
  made in the text.

  Page I-562, Some merchants do the rather desire ...: as printed in the
  source document.

  Page I-579/580: the first sub-total (331_li._ 0_s._ 8_d._) does not
  agree with the items listed; this error is continued in the other
  (sub-)totals.

  Page I-621: Captain and Colonel O’Kelly: as printed in the source
  document.

  Page I-642, Philippe Gualtier: probably an error for Philippe Gaultier
  (Philippus Gaulterus).

  Page I-745, the Earth: ⊖ as printed in the source, rather than the
  more usual symbol ♁.

  Page II-128, footnote [292]: 1892 as printed in the source document.

  Page II-228, ... which will be inserted at a future time: not in this
  volume.

  Page II-294 ff., references to drawings (the 2nd, the 3rd, etc.):
  these drawings were not present in the source document, except Drawing
  the 5th.

  Page II-333/334, ~G. H. J.~: the contribution in vol. II has ~G. H.
  I.~

  Page II-440, he mentions Pythagoras ... in their time.: as printed in
  the source document, not changed.

  Page II-480, Errata: correction for page II-397 already made in text;
  the second erratum had apparently already been corrected in the
  source.

  Page II-512, Nay, doubtless; ...: as printed, although the punctuation
  seems wrong.

  Page II-626, coins, &c. discovered     ploughed up: the blank space in
  this text is deliberate, a word is missing in the source (possibly or
  or and).

  Page II-653, with his own dear maid: the last two letters are
  invisible in the source document; other sources give maid.

  Page II-799, erratum: the correction has already been made in the
  text.

  Page II-682/683, claret ground, and burnishe      The four beautiful
  ...: the blank space in this text is deliberate, one or more words are
  missing in the source.

  Page II-852, footnote [519]: the volume number is partly illegible;
  there may have been one or more characters after xc.

  Page II-871, (the Malden): possibly an error for Malton, one of the
  places served by the fly-boat.


  Changes made

  Footnotes have been moved to directly under the section to which they
  refer. In the footnotes, Ibid. has been replaced with the relevant
  title, and the title has been changed to Ibid. where appropriate.

  Obvious minor typographical errors and missing punctuation have been
  corrected silently.

  Miss Plumptre/Plumtree/Plumtre has been standardised to Miss Plumptre;
  à/a Wood has been standardised to à Wood; Caolchairn and similar
  spellings have been standardised to Caölchairn;
  Petheny/Penthany/Pentheny has been standardised to Pentheny.

  Page I-58, footnote [12]: not even myself changed to not even to
  myself

  Page I-60: ” inserted after Apply, &c. &c.

  Page I-142: ) added after (dreadful charm,

  Page I-153: “ inserted before How much is this?”

  Page I-222: “ inserted before most musical

  Page I-255: To deek their Night-piece changed to To deck their
  Night-piece

  Page I-291: spendour changed to splendour

  Page I-297: barley it scones,” changed to barley “scones,”

  Page I-298: in a “A Sing-Song changed to in “A Sing-Song

  Page I-312: ... in gratitude ing a theatre. changed to ... in
  establishing a theatre.

  Page I-357: Blush forth changed to Blushing forth; attain’d is sweet,
  changed to attain’d is sweet. (both cf. errata page I-386/387)

  Page I-371/372: last lines of poems 11 and 12 indented as in poems
  1-10

  Page I-470, footnote [104]: col. 263 changed to col. 264

  Page I-504: les Jacobins seront hébêté changed to les Jacobins seront
  hébêtés

  Page I-615: nsecum reddentes changed to censum reddentes

  Page I-660: middle age of live changed to middle age of life

  Page I-665: indifference’ dull throne changed to indifference’s dull
  throne

  Page I-835: Coŭloŭr changed to Coulour as in text; page number 9
  changed to 90 (Country, Bleeding for)

  Page I-859/860: leading numbers and some illustrations added to the
  list

  Page II-10: Turnament changed to Tournament

  Page II-22: Ibid. p. 13 changed to Ibid. ii. 13

  Page II-30: ON ’CHANGE changed to ON CHANGE

  Page II-33: ” inserted after Crooked Billet

  Page II-40: “ inserted before it dissipates

  Page II-57: ton of military distinction changed to tone of military
  distinction

  Page II-72: ” added after ... to draw in more.—

  Page II-174: quote marks deleted after ... Esprit, and before has been
  caught ...

  Page II-176: were fashionable quadrilles changed to where fashionable
  quadrilles

  Page II-178: comma inserted after ... died shortly after

  Page II-199: monument to sir John Maners changed to monument to sir
  John Manners

  Page II-204: Baun changed to Bonn

  Page II-215: ” added after ... things corporeal.

  Page II-236: furura changed to fururâ

  Page II-282: polytheutic changed to polytheistic

  Page II-356: receipe changed to recipe

  Page II-397: modern Europe changed to northern Europe (cf. erratum
  page II-480)

  Page II-398: kinded changed to kindred

  Page II-410: Tho’ conquerd changed to Tho’ conquer’d

  Page II-428: Spirit like changed to Spirit-like

  Page II-455: Hartley Common changed to Startley Common (cf. erratum
  page II-799)

  Page II-464, footnote [378]: Outhaden changed to Outheden

  Page II-498, footnote [387]: Roscian changed to Rosscian

  Page II-528: incription changed to inscription

  Page II-558: second correspondent’s name changed to *, *, P.

  Page II-570/571, footnote [423]: Bauar changed to Bauer

  Page II-653: Furetiere changed to Furetière

  Page II-661: ” added after ... earthquake and eclipse

  Page II-697: dry Goof changed to dry Groof

  Page II-779: ” inserted after ... good night.’

  Page II-833/834: entry I. I. P. I. deleted, and page references moved
  to entry ΠΡΙ

  Page II-834: T. B. D. changed to T. B. H.

  Page II-843/844: ... ecliptic one degree ... changed to ecliptic; one
  degree ...

  Page II-845, table row 8th day: 57 changed to 56

  Page II-847/848: 91 added to table row

  Page II-865, entry Alleyn: 648 changed to 498

  Page II-883-888: spelling of some names changed to correspond with the
  names used in the body of the text.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Every-day Book and Table Book. v.
3 (of 3), by William Hone

*** 