* Managers Crosse, Powell, Luffingham, &c. Temp. Queen Anneand George I.
Was the “young gentlewoman with six naked rapiers” ubiquitous, or had she rivals in the Rounds? But another lady, no less attractive, “invites our steps, and points to yonder” booth—where, “By His Majesty's permission, next door to the King's Head in Smithfield, is to be seen a woman-dwarf, * but three foot and one inch ** high, born in Somersetshire, and in the fortieth year of her age.”
* “One seeing a Dwarfe at Bartholomew Fair, which wassixteen inches high, with a great head, a body, and nothighs, said he looked like a block upon a barber's stall:—* 'No!' says another, 'when he speaks, he is like the BrazenHead of Fryer Bacon's.'”—The Comedian's Tales, 1729.** A few seasons after appeared “The wonderful andsurprising English dwarf, two feet eight inches high, bornat Salisbury in 1709; who has been shewn to the RoyalFamily, and most of the Nobility and Gentry of GreatBritain.”
And, as if we had not seen enough of “strange creatures alive? mark the following “advertisement”:—
“Next door to the Golden Hart, in Smithfield, is to be seen a live Turkey ram. Part of him is covered with black hair, and part with white wool. He hath horns as big as a bull's; and his tail weighs sixty pounds! Here is also to be seen alive the famous civet cat, and one of the holy lambs curiously spotted all over like a leopard, that us'd to be offered by the Jews for a sacrifice. Vivat Rex.”
This Turkey ram's tail is a tough tale, * even for the ad libitum of Smithfield Rounds. Such a tail wagged before such a master must have exhibited the two greatest wags in the fair.
* “A certain officer of the Guards being at the New Theatre,behind the scenes, was telling some of the comedians of therarities he had seen abroad. Amongst other things, he hadseen a pike caught six foot long. 'That 's a trifle,' saysthe late Mr. Spiller, the celebrated actor, 'I have seenhalf a pike in England longer by a foot, and yet not worthtwopence!'”
The Roots were under ground, or planted in a cool arbour, quaffing—not Bartlemy “good wines,” (doctors never take their own physic!)—but genuine nutbrown. Their dancing-days were over; for “Root's booth” (temp. Geo.I.) was now tenanted by Powell, the puppet-showman, and one Luf-fingham, who, fired with the laudable ambition of maintaining the laughing honours of their predecessors, issued a bill, at which we cry “What next?” as the sailor did when the conjuror blew his own head off.
“At Root's booth, Powell from Russell Court, and Luffingham from the Cyder Cellar, in Covent-Garden, now keep the King Charles's Head, and Man and Woman fighting for the Breeches, in Bartholomew Fair, near Long Lane: where two figures dance a Scaramouch after a new grotesque fashion; a little boy, five years old, vaults from a table twelve foot high on his head, and drinks the King's health standing on his head, with two swords at his throat; a Scotch dance by three men and a woman; an Irishwoman dances the Irish trot; Roger of Coventry is danced by one in a countryman's habit; a cradle dance, being a comical fancy between a woman and her drunken husband fighting for the breeches; a woman dances with fourteen glasses on the back of her hands full of wine. Also several entries, as Almands Pavans, Galliads, Gavots, English Jiggs, and the Sabbotiers dance, so mightily admired at the King's Playhouse. The company will be entertained with vocal and instrumental musick, as performed at the late happy Congress at Reswick, in the presence of several princes and ambassadors.”
Here will I pause. For the present, we have supped full with Scaramouches. “Six naked rapiers” at my throat all night would be a sorry substitute for the knife and fork I hope to play anon, after a “more pleasant and far ingeniuser” fashion, with some plump roast partridges. A select coterie of Uncle Timothy's brother antiquaries have requested to be enlightened on Bartlemy fair lore. Will you, my friend Eugenio, during the Saint's saturnalia, join us in the ancient “Cloth quarter”? On, brave spirit! on. Rope-dancers invite thee; conjurors conjure thee;Punchsqueaks thee a screeching welcome; mountebanks and posture-masters, * with every variety of physiognomical and physical contortion, lure thee to their dislocations.
* “From the Duke of Marlborough's Head in Fleet Street,during the fair, is to be seen the famous posture-master,who far exceeds Clarke and Higgins. He twists his body intoall deformed shapes, makes his hip and shoulder-bones meettogether, lays his head upon the ground, and turns his bodyround twice or thrice without stirring his face from theplace.”—1711.
0044m
Fawkes's dexterity of hand; the moving pictures; Pinchbeck's musical clock; Solomon's Temple; the waxwork, all alive! the Corsican fairy; * the dwarf that jumps down his—
* “The Corsican Fairy, only thirty-four inches high, andweighing but twenty-six pounds, well-proportioned and aperfect beauty. She is to be seen at the corner of Cow-Lane,during Bartholomew Fair.”—1743.
—own throat! * the High German Artist, born without hands or feet; ** the cow with Jive legs; the—
* “Lately arrived from Italy Signor Capitello Jumpedo, asurprising dwarf, not taller than a common tobacco-pipe. Hewill twist his body into ten thousand shapes, and then openwide his mouth, and jump down his own throat! He is to bespoke with at the Black Tavern, Golden Lane.” January 18,1749. This is the renowned “Bottle Conjuror.” Some suchdeception was practised either by himself, or an imitator,at Bartholomew Fair.** “Mr. Mathew Buchinger, twenty-nine inches high, bornwithout hands or feet, June 2, 1674, in Germany, near Nu-remburgh. He has been married four times, and has elevenchildren. He plays on the hautboy and flute; and is no lesseminent for writing and drawing coats of arms and pictures,to the life, with a pen. He plays at cards, dice, and nine-pins, and performs tricks with cups, balls, and live birds.”Every Jack has his Jill; and as a partner, not in aconnubial sense, my little Plenipo! we couple thee with“The High German Woman, born without hands or feet, thatthreads her needle, sews, cuts out gloves, writes, spinsfine thread, and charges and discharges a pistol. She is nowto be seen at the corner of Hosier Lane, during the time ofthe fair.”—Temp. Geo. II.Apropos of dwarfs—William Evans, porter to King Charles theFirst, who was two yards and a half in height, “dancing inan antimask at court, drew little Jeffrey the dwarf out ofhis pocket, first to the wonder, then to the laughter of thebeholders.” Little Jeffrey's height was only three feet nineinches. But even the gigantic William Evans, and George theFourth's tall porter whom we remember to have seen peep overthe gates of Carlton House, were nothing to the modernAmerican, who is so tall as to be obliged to go up a ladderto shave himself!
—hare that beats a drum; * the Savoyard's puppet-shew; the mummeries of Moorfields, ** urge thee forward on thy ramble of two centuries through Bartholomew Fair, which, like
'Th' adventure of the Bear and Fiddle
Is sung—but breaks off in the middle.'”
* Ben Jonson, in his play of Bartholomew Fair, mentions thissingular exhibition having taken place in his time; andStrutt gives a pictorial description of it, copied from adrawing in the Harleian collection (6563) said to be upwardsof four centuries old.** Moorfields, spite of its “melancholy Moor Ditch” wasformerly famous for,“Hills and holes, and shops for brokers,Open sinners, canting soakers;Preachers, doctors, raving, puffing,Praying, swearing, solving, huffing,Singing hymns, and sausage frying,Apple roasting, orange shying;Blind men begging, fiddlers drawling,Raree-shows and children bawling—Gingerbread! and see Gibraltar!Humstrums grinding tunes that falter;Maim'd and halt aloft are staging,Bills and speeches mobs engaging;'Good people, sure de ground you tread on,Me did put dis voman's head on!'”“The Flying Horse, a noted victualling house in Moor-fields,next to that of the late Astrologer Trotter, has beenmolested for several nights past, stones, and glass bottlesbeing thrown into the house, to the great annoyment andterror of the family and guests.”—News Letter of Feb. 25,1716.
As the Lauréat closed his manuscript, the door opened, and who should enter but Uncle Timothy.
“Ha! my good friends, what happy chance has brought you to the business abode and town Tusculum of the Boskys for half-a-dozen generations of Drysalters?”
“Something short of assault and battery, fine and imprisonment.”
And Mr. Bosky, after helping Uncle Timothy off with his great coat, warming his slippers, wheeling round his arm-chair to the chimney-corner, and seeing him comfortably seated, gave a detail of our late encounter at the Pig and Tinder-Box.
The old-fashioned housekeeper delivered a note to Mr. Bosky, sealed with a large black seal.
“An ominous looking affair!” remarked the middle-aged gentleman.
“A death's head and cross-bones!” replied the Lauréat of Little Britain. “'Ods, rifles and triggers! if it should be a challenge from the Holborn Hill Demosthenes.”
“A challenge! a fiddlestick!” retorted Uncle
Tim, “he's only a tame cheater!' Every bullet that he fires I 'll swallow for a forced-meat ball.” Mr. Bosky having broken the black seal, read out as follows:—
“Mr. Merripall presents his respectful services to Benjamin Bosky, Esq. and begs the favour of his company to dine with the High Cockolorum Club * of associated Undertakers at the Death's Door, Battersea Rise, to-morrow, at four. If Mr. Bosky can prevail upon his two friends, who received such scurvy treatment from a fraction of the Antiqueeruns, to accompany him, it will afford Mr. M. additional pleasure.”
* It may be curious to note down some of the odd clubs thatexisted in 1745, viz. The Virtuoso's Club; the Knights ofthe Golden Fleece; the Surly Club; the Ugly Club; the Split-Farthing Club; the Mock Heroes Club; the Beau's Club; theQuack's Club; the Weekly Dancing Club; the Bird-Fancier'sClub; the Chatter-wit Club; the Small-coal Man's Music Club;the Kit-cat Club; the Beefsteak Club; all of which and manymore, are broadly enough described in “A Humorous Account ofall the Remarkable Clubs in London and Westminster.” In1790, among the most remarkable clubs were, The Odd Fellows;the Humbugs, (held at the Blue Posts, Russell Street, CoventGarden,) the Samsonic Society; the Society of Bucks; thePurl-Drinkers; the Society of Pilgrims (held at theWoolpack, Kingsland Road); the Thespian Club; the GreatBottle Club; the Je ne sçai quoi Club (held at the Star andGarter, Pall Mall, and of which the Prince of Wales, and theDukes of York, Clarence, Orleans (Philip Egalité), Norfolk,Bedford, &c. &c. were members); the Sons of the ThamesSociety (meeting to celebrate the annual contest forDogget's Coat and Badge); the Blue Stocking Club; and the Nopay, no liquor Club, held at the Queen and Artichoke,Hampstead Road, where the newly-admitted member, having paidhis fee of one shilling, was invested with the inauguralhonours, viz. a hat fashioned in the form of a quart pot,and a gilt goblet of humming ale, out of which he drank thehealths of the brethren. In the present day, the Author ofVirginius has conferred classical celebrity on a club called“The Social Villagers” held at the Bedford Arms, a merryhostelrie at Camden Town.It was at one of these festivous meetings that Uncle Timothyproduced the following Lyric of his own.Fill, fill a bumper! no twilight, no, no!Let hearts, now or never, and goblets o'erflow!Apollo commands that we drink, and the Nine,A generous spirit in generous wine.The bard, in a bumper; behold, to the brimThey rise, the gay spirits of poesy—whim!Around ev'ry glass they a garland entwineOf sprigs from the laurel, and leaves from the vine.A bumper! the bard who, in eloquence bold,Of two noble fathers the story has told;What pangs heave the bosom, what tears dim the eyes,When the dagger is sped, and the arrow it flies.The bard, in a bumper! Is fancy his theme?'Tis sportive and light as a fairy-land dream;Does love tune his harp? 'tis devoted and pure;Or friendship? 'tis that which shall always endure.Ye tramplers on liberty, tremble at him;His song is your knell, and the slave's morning hymn!His frolicksome humour is buxom and bland,And bright as the goblet I hold in my hand.The bard! brim your glasses; a bumper! a cheer!Long may he live in good fellowship here.Shame to thee, Britain, if ever he roam,To seek with the stranger a friend and a home!Fate in his cup ev'ry blessing infuse,Cherish his fortune, and smile on his muse;Warm be his hearth, and prosperity cheerThose he is dear to, and those he holds dear.Blythe be his autumn as summer hath been;—Frosty, but kindly, and sweetly sereneGreen be his winter, with snow on his brow;Green as the wreath that encircles it now!To dear Paddy Knowles, then, a bumper we fill,And toast his good health as he trots down the hill;In genius he 5s left all behind him by goles!But he won't leave behind him another Pat Knowles!
“An unique invitation!” quoth Uncle Tim. “Gentlemen, you must indulge the High Coclcoorums, and go by all means.”
Mr. Bosky promised to rise with the lark, and be ready for one on the morrow; and, anticipating a good day's sport, we consented to accompany him.
Supper was announced, and we sat down to that social meal. In a day-dream of fancy, Uncle Timothy re-peopled the once convivial chambers of theFalconand theMermaid, with those glorious intelligences that made the reigns of Elizabeth and James I. the Augustan age of England. We listened to the wisdom, and the wit, and the loud laugh, as Shakspere and “rare Ben,” * in the full confidence of friendship, exchanged “thoughts that breathe, and words that burn,” so beautifully described by Beaumont in his letter to Jonson.
* “Shakespeare was god-father to one of Ben Jonson'schildren, and after the christening, being in a deepe study,Jonson came to cheere him up, and ask't him why he was somelancholy? 'No, faith, Ben, (says he,) not I, but I havebeen considering a great while what should be the fittestgift for me to bestow upon my god-child, and I have resolv'dat last.'—'I pr'y thee, what' says he,—'F faith, Ben, I'lee'en give him a douzen good Lattin spoones, and thou shalttranslate them.'”—L'Estrange, No. 11. Mr. Dun.—Latten wasa name formerly used to signify a mixed metal resemblingbrass. Hence Shakspere's appropriate pun, with reference tothe learning of Ben Jonson.Many good jests are told of “rare Ben.” When he went toBasingstoke, he used to put up his horse at the “Angel,”which was kept by Mrs. Hope, and her daughter, Prudence.Journeying there one day, and finding strange people in thehouse, and the sign changed, he wrote as follows:—“When Hope and Prudence kept this house, the Angel kept thedoor;Now Hope is dead, the Angel fled, and Prudence turn'd a w——!”At another time he designed to pass through the Half Moon inAldersgate Street, but the door being shut, he was deniedentrance; so he went to the Sun Tavern at the Long Lane end,and made these verses:—“Since the Half Moon is so unkind,To make me go about;The Sun my money now shall have,And the Moon shall go without.”That he was often in pecuniary difficulties the followingextracts from Henslowe's papers painfully demonstrate. “Lentun to Bengemen Johnson, player, the 28 of July, 1597, inRedy money, the some of fower powndes, to be payed agaynewhen so ever ether I, or any for me, shall demande yt,—Witness E. Alleyn and John Synger.”—“Lent BengemyneJohnson, the 5 of Janewary, 1597-8, in redy money, the someof Vs.”
“What things have we seen
Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame,
As if that every one from whom they came,
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest!”
Travelling by the swift power of imagination, we looked in atWills and Buttons; beheld the honoured chair that was set apart for the use of Dryden; and watched Pope, then a boy, lisping in numbers, regarding his great master with filial reverence, as he delivered his critical aphorisms to the assembled wits. Nor did we miss the Birch-Rod that “the bard whom pilfer'd pastoral renown” hung up at Buttons to chastise “tuneful Alexis of the Thames' fair side,” his own back smarting from some satirical twigs that little Alexis had liberally laid on! We saw St. Patrick's Dean “steal” to his pint of wine with the accomplished Addison; and heard Gay, Arbuthnot, and Boling-broke, in witty conclave, compare lyrical notes for the Beggar's Opera—not forgetting the joyous cheer that welcomed “King Colley” to his midnight troop of titled revellers, after the curtain had dropped on Fondle wife and Foppington. And, hey presto! snugly seated at the Mitre, we found Doctor Johnson, lemon in hand, demanding of Goldsmith, *—
* If ever an author, whether considered as a poet, a critic,an historian, or a dramatist, deserved the name of aclassic, it was Oliver Goldsmith. His two great ethic poems,“The Traveller,” and “The Deserted Village,” for sublimityof thought, truth of reasoning, and poetical beauty, fairlyplace him by the side of Pope. The simile of the birdteaching its young to fly, and that beginning with “As sometall cliffy” have rarely been equalled, and never surpassed.For exquisite humour and enchanting simplicity of style, hisessays may compare with the happiest effusions of Addison;and his “Vicar of Wakefield,” though a novel, has advancedthe cause of religion and virtue, and may be read with asmuch profit as the most orthodox sermon that was everpenned. As a dramatist, he excelled all his contemporariesin originality, character, and humour. As long as a truetaste for literature shall prevail, Goldsmith will rank asone of its brightest ornaments: for while he delighted theimagination, and alternately moved the heart to joy orsorrow, he “gave ardour to virtue and confidence to truth.”A tale of woe was a certain passport to his compassion; andhe has given his last guinea to an indigent suppliant.To Goldsmith has been imputed a vain ambition to shine incompany; it is also said that he regarded with envy allliterary fame but his own. Of the first charge he iscertainly guilty; the second is entirely false; unless atransient feeling of bitterness at seeing preferred meritinferior to his own, may be construed into envy. A greatgenius seldom keeps up his character in conversation: hisbest thoughts, clothed in the choicest terms, he commits topaper; and with these his colloquial powers are unjustlycompared. Goldsmith well knew his station in the literaryworld; and his desire to maintain it hi every society, ofteninvolved him in ridiculous perplexities. He would fain havebeen an admirable Crichton. His ambition to rival acelebrated posture-master had once very nearly cost him hisshins. These eccentricities, attached to so great a man,were magnified into importance; and he amply paid the tax towhich genius is subject, by being envied and abused by thedunces of his day. Yet he wanted not spirit to resent aninsult; and a recreant bookseller who had published animpudent libel upon him, he chastised in his own shop. Howdelightful to contemplate such a character! If ever therewas a heart that beat with more than ordinary affection formankind, it was Goldsmith's.
—Garrick, * Boswell, and Reynolds, “Who's forpoonch?”——
* Garrick was born to illustrate what Shakspere wrote;—tohim Nature had unlocked all her springs, and opened all herstores. His success was instantaneous, brilliant, andcomplete. Colley Cibber was constrained to yield himunwilling praise; and Quin, the pupil of Betterton andBooth, openly declared, “That if the young fellow was right,he, and the rest of the players, had been all wrong.” Theunaffected and familiar style of Garrick presented asingular contrast to the stately air, the solemn march, themonotonous and measured declamation of his predecessors. Tothe lofty grandeur of tragedy, he was unequal; but itspathos, truth, and tenderness were all his own. In comedy,he might be said to act too much; he played no less to theeye than to the ear,—he indeed acted every word. Macklinblames him for his greediness of praise; for his ambition toengross all attention to himself, and disconcerting hisbrother actors by “pawing and pulling them about.” Thiscensure is levelled at his later efforts, when he adoptedthe vice of stage-trick; but nothing could exceed the easeand gaiety of his early performances. He was the delight ofevery eye, the theme of every tongue, the admiration andwonder of foreign nations; and Baron, Le Kain, and Clairon,the ornaments of the French Stage, bowed to the superiorgenius of their illustrious friend and contemporary. Inprivate life he was hospitable and splendid: he entertainedprinces, prelates, and peers—all that were eminent in artand science. If his wit set the table in a roar, hisurbanity and good-breeding forbade any thing like offence.Dr. Johnson, who would suffer no one to abuse Davy buthimself! bears ample testimony to the peculiar charm of hismanners; and, what is infinitely better, to his liberality,pity, and melting charity. By him was the Drury LaneTheatrical Fund for decayed actors founded, endowed, andincorporated. He cherished its infancy by his munificenceand zeal; strengthened its maturer growth by appropriatingto it a yearly benefit, on which he acted himself; and hislast will proves that its prosperity lay near his heart,when contemplating his final exit from the scene of life. Inthe bright sun of his reputation there were, doubtless,spots: transient feelings of jealousy at merit thatinterfered with his own; arts that it might be almostnecessary to practise in his daily commerce with dullimportunate playwrights, and in the government of that mostdiscordant of all bodies, a company of actors. His grandmistakes were his rejection of Douglass and The Good Na-tured Man; and his patronage of the Stay-maker, and theschool of sentiment. As an author, he is entitled tofavourable mention: his dramas abound in wit and character;his prologues and epilogues display endless variety andwhim; and his epigrams, for which he had a peculiar turn,are pointed and bitter. Some things he wrote that do not addto his fame; and among them are The Fribbleriad, and TheSick Monkey. One of the most favourite amusements of hisleisure was in collecting every thing rare and curious thatrelated to the early drama; hence his matchless collectionof old plays, which, with Roubilliac's statue of Shakspere,he bequeathed to the British Museum: a noble gift! worthy ofhimself and of his country!The 10th of June, 1776, was marked by Garrick's retirementfrom the stage. With his powers unimpaired, he wiselyresolved (theatrically speaking) to die as he had lived,with all his glory and with all his fame. He might have,indeed, been influenced by a more solemn feeling—“Higher duties craveSome space between the theatre and grave;That, like the Roman in the Capitol,I may adjust my mantle, ere I fall,”The part he selected upon this memorable occasion was DonFelix, in the Wonder. We could have wished that, likeKemble, he had retired with Shakspere upon his lips; thatthe glories of the Immortal had hallowed his closing scene.His address was simple and appropriate—he felt that he wasno longer an actor; and when he spoke of the kindness andfavours that he had received, his voice faltered, and heburst into a flood of tears. The most profound silence, themost intense anxiety prevailed, to catch every word, look,and action, knowing they were to be his last; and the publicparted from their idol with tears for his love, joy for hisfortune, admiration for his vast and unconfined powers, andregret that that night had closed upon them for ever.Garrick had long been afflicted with a painful disorder. Inthe Christmas of 1778, being on a visit with Mrs. Garrick atthe country seat of Earl Spencer, he had a recurrence of it,which, after his return to London, increased with suchviolence, that Dr. Cadogan, conceiving him to be in imminentdanger, advised him, if he had any worldly affairs tosettle, to lose no time in dispatching them. Mr. Garrickreplied, “that nothing of that sort lay on his mind, andthat he was not afraid to die.” And why should he fear? Hisauthority had ever been directed to the reformation, thegood order, and propriety of the Stage; his example hadincontestibly proved that the profession of a player is notincompatible with the exercise of every Christian and moralduty, and his well-earned riches had been rendered the meanof extensive public and private benevolence. He thereforebeheld the approach of death, not with that recklessindifference which some men call philosophy, but withresignation and hope. He died on Wednesday, January 20th,1779, in the sixty-second year of his age.“Sure his last end was peace, how calm his exit!Night dews fall not more gently to the ground,Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft.”On Monday, February 1st, his body was interred with greatfuneral pomp in Westminster Abbey, under the monument of thedivine Shakspere.
——“And Sir John Hawkins,” exclaimed Uncle Timothy, with unwonted asperity, “whose ideas of virtue never rose above a decent exterior and regular hours! calling the author of theTraveller an Idiot' It shakes the sides of splenetic disdain to hear this Grub Street chronicler * of fiddling and fly-fishing libelling the beautiful intellect of Oliver Goldsmith! Gentle spirit! thou wert beloved, admired, and mourned by that illustrious cornerstone of religion and morality, Samuel Johnson, who delighted to sound forth thy praises while living, and when the voice of fame could no longer soothe 'thy dull cold ear,' inscribed thy tomb with an imperishable record! Deserted is the village; the hermit and the traveller have laid them down to rest; the vicar has performed his last sad office; the good-natured man is no more—He stoops but to conquer!”
* The negative qualities of this sober Knight long puzzledhis acquaintances (friends we never heard that he had any! )to devise an epitaph for him. At last they succeeded—“Here lies Sir John Hawkins,Without his shoes and stockings!”
The Lauréat, well comprehending an expressive look from his Mentor, rose to the pianoforte, and accompanied him slowly and mournfully in
Ah! yes, to the poet a hope there is given
In poverty, sorrow, unkindness, neglect,
That though his frail bark on the rocks may be driven,
And founder—not all shall entirely be wreck'd;
But the bright, noble thoughts, that made solitude sweet,
His world! while he linger'd unwillingly here,
Shall bid future bosoms with sympathy beat,
And call forth the smile and awaken the tear.
If, man, thy pursuit is but riches and fame;
If pleasure alluring entice to her bower;
The Muse waits to kindle a holier flame,
And woos thee aside for a classical hour.
And then, by the margin of Helicon's stream,
Th' enchantress shall lead thee, and thou from afar
Shalt see, what was once in life's feverish dream,
A poor broken spirit, * a bright shining star!——
Hail and farewell! to the Spirits of Light,
Whose minds shot a ray through this darkness of ours—
The world, but for them, had been chaos and night,
A desert of thorns, not a garden of flowers!
* Plautus turned a mill; Terenee was a slave; Boethius diedin a jail; Tasso was often distressed for a shilling; Benti-voglio was refused admission into an hospital he had himselffounded; Cervantes died (almost) of hunger; Camoens endedhis days in an almshouse; Vaugelas sold his body to thesurgeons to support life; Burns died penniless,disappointed, and heart-broken; and Massinger, Lee, andOtway, were “steeped in poverty to the very lips.” Yet howconsoling are John Taylor the Water Poet's lines! Addressinghis friend, Wm. Fennor, he exclaims,“Thou say'st that poetry descended is From poverty: thoutak'st thy mark amiss—In spite of weal or woe, or want of pelf,It is a kingdom of content itself,!”To the above unhappy list may be added Thomas Dekker theDramatist. “Lent unto the Company the 'of February, 1598, todischarge Mr. Dicker out of the Counter in the Poultry, thesome of Fortie Shillinges.” In another place Mr. Hensloweredeems Dekker out of the Clinke.
This was a subject that awakened all Uncle Timothy's enthusiasm!
“Age could not wither it, nor custom stale
Its infinite variety.”
But it produced fits of abstraction and melancholy; and Mr. Bosky knowing this, would interpose a merry tale or song. Upon the present occasion he made a bold dash from the sublime to the ridiculous, and striking up a comical voluntary, played us out of Little Britain.—
When I behold the setting sun,
And shop is shut, and work is done,
I strike my flag, and mount my tile,
And through the city strut in style;
While pensively I muse along,
Listening to some minstrel's song,
With tuneful wife, and children three—
O then, my love! I think on thee.
In Sunday suit, to see my fair
I take a round to Russell Square;
She slyly beckons while I peep.
And whispers, “down the area creep!”
What ecstacies my soul await;
It sinks with rapture—on my plate!
When cutlets smoke at half-past three—
And then, my love! I think on thee.
But, see the hour-glass, moments fly—
The sand runs out—and so must I!
Parting is so sweet a sorrow,
I could manger till to-morrow!
One embrace, ere I again
Homeward hie to Huggin Lane;
And sure as goose begins with G,
I then, my love! shall think on thee.
Mr. William Shakspere says
In one of his old-fashion'd plays,
That true love runs not smooth as oil—
Last Friday week we had a broil.
Genteel apartments I have got,
The first floor down the chimney-pot;
Mount Pleasant! for my love and me—
And soon one pair shall walk up three!
“Gentlemen,” said Uncle Timothy, as he bade us good night, “the rogue, I fear, will be the spoil of you, as he hath been of me!”
With the fullest intention to rise early the next morning, without deliberating for a mortal half-hour whether or not to turn round and take t' other nap, we retired to a tranquil pillow.
But what are all our good intentions?
Vexations, vanities, inventions!
Macadamizing what?—a certain spot,
To ears polite” politeness never mentions—
Tattoos, t' amuse, from empty drums.
Ah! who time's spectacles shall borrow?
And say, be gay to-day—to-morrow—
When query if to-morrow comes.
To-morrow came; so did to-morrow's bright sun; and so did Mr. Bosky's brisk knock. Good report always preceded Mr. Bosky, like the bounce with which champagne sends its cork out of the bottle! But (there are two sides of the question to be considered—theinsideof the bed and theout!) they found us in much such a brown study as we have just described. Leaving the Lauréat to enjoy his triumph of punctuality, (an “alderman's virtue!”) we lost no time in equipping ourselves, and were soon seated with him at breakfast. He was in the happiest spirits. “'Tis your birthday, Eugenio! Wear this ring for my sake; let it be friendship's * talisman to unite our hearts in one. Here,” presenting some tablets beautifully wrought, “is Uncle Timothy's offering. Mark,” pointing to the following inscription engraved on the cover, “by what poetical alchemy he hath transmuted the silver into gold!”
* Bonaparte did not believe in friendship: “Friendship isbut a word. I love no one—no, not even my brothers; Joseph,perhaps, a little. Still, if I do love him, it is fromhabit, because he is the eldest of us. Duroc! Yes, Mm Icertainly love: but why? His character suits me: he is cold,severe, unfeeling; and then, Duroc never weeps!” Bonapartecounted his fortunate days by his victories, Titus by hisgood actions.“Friendship, peculiar boon of Heaven,The noble mind's delight and pride,To men and angels only given,To all the lower world denied.”—Dr. Johnson.
Life is short, the wings of time
Bear away our early prime,
Swift with them our spirits fly,
The heart grows chill, and dim the eye.——
Seize the moment I snatch the treasure!
Sober haste is wisdom's leisure.
Summer blossoms soon decay;
“Gather the rose-buds while you may!”
Barter not for sordid store
Health and peace; nor covet more
Than may serve for frugal fare
With some chosen friend to share!
Not for others toil and heap,
But yourself the harvest reap;
Nature smiling, seems to say,
“Gather the rose-buds while you may!”
Learning, science, truth sublime,
Fairy fancies, lofty rhyme,
Flowers of exquisite perfume!
Blossoms of immortal bloom!
With the gentle virtues twin'd,
In a beauteous garland bind
For your youthful brow to-day,—
“Gather the rose-buds while you may!”
Life is short—but not to those
Who early, wisely pluck the rose.
Time he flies—to us 'tis given
On his wings to fly to Heaven.
Ah! to reach those realms of light,
Nothing must impede our flight;
Cast we all but Hope away!
“Gather the rose-buds while we may!”
Now a sail up or down the river has always been pleasant to us in proportion as it has proved barren of adventure. A collision with a coal-barge or steam-packet,—a squall off Chelsea Reach, may do vastly well to relieve its monotony: but we had rather be dull than be ducked. We were therefore glad to find the water smooth, the wind and tide in our favour, and no particular disposition on the part of the larger vessels to run us down. Mr. Bosky, thinking that at some former period of our lives we might have beheld the masts and sails of a ship, the steeple of a church, the smoke of a patent shot manufactory, the coal-whippers weighing out their black diamonds, a palace, and a penitentiary, forbore to expatiate on the picturesque objects that presented themselves to our passing view; and, presuming that our vision had extended beyond some score or two of garden-pots “all a-growing, all a-blow-ing,” and as much sky as would cover half-a-crown, he was not over profuse of vernal description. But, knowing that there are as many kinds of minds as moss, he opened his inquisitorial battery upon the waterman. At first Barney Binnacle, though a pundit among the wet wags of Wapping Old Stairs, fought shy; but there is a freemasonry in fun; and by degrees he ran through all the changes from the simple leer to the broad grin and horse-laugh, as Mr. Bosky “poked” his droll sayings into him. He had his predilections and prejudices. The former were for potations drawn from a case-bottle presented to him by Mr. Bosky, that made his large blue lips smack, and his eyes wink again; the latter were against steamers, the projectors of which he would have placed at the disposal of their boilers! His tirade against the Thames Tunnel was hardly less severe; but he reserved the magnums of his wrath for the Greenwich railroad. What in some degree reconciled us to Barney's anathemas, were his wife and children, to whom his wherry gave their daily bread: and though these gigantic monopolies might feather the nests of wealthy proprietors, they would not let poor Barney Binnacle feather either his nest or his oar.
“There's truth in what you say, Master Barney,” observed the Lauréat; “the stones went merrily into the pond, but the foolish frogs could not fish out the fun. I am no advocate for the philosophy of expediency.”
“Surely, Mr. Bosky, you would never think of putting a stop toimprovement!”
“My good friends, I would not have man become the victim of his ingenuity—a mechanical suicide! Where brass and iron, hot water and cold, can be made to mitigate the wear and tear of his thews and sinews, let them be adopted as auxiliaries, not as principals. I am no political economist. I despise the muddle-headed dreamers, and their unfeeling crudities. But for them the heart of England would have remained uncorrupted and sound. * Trifle not with suffering. Impunity has its limit. A flint will show fire when you strike it.