[303]Gentleman’s Magazine.[304]If the berries be gathered in wet weather, an hour will not be too long a time to boil them.[305]I have heard of the distress among the weavers, and heaven forbid that I should speak lightly of their calamities!—But eat theymust, andeat they do: and if reduced tobread, so called, butter, or cheese, is included; it is this I regret, for jam would be cheaper as well as more wholesome, and should be purchased at the shops as other articles of consumption are.[306]As they are called, near the uncultivated moorland waste where they grow.Wortleberreyis the correct name.[307]Mr. Rodd seldom adventures in paper and print, yet he has put forth a “second edition, with considerable additions,” of a curious and useful little volume bearing the modest title of “An Attempt at a Glossary of some words used in Cheshire, communicated to the Society of Antiquarians. By Roger Wilbraham, Esq. F. R. S. and S. A. London, 1826,” royal 18mo. pp. 120.If a person desires to collect books, or to be acquainted with the writers on any given subject, ancient or modern, rare or common, I know of no one to whom he can apply more successfully, or on whom he can rely for judgment and integrity more implicitly, than Mr. Thomas Rodd. His mind is as well stored with information, as his shop is with good authors, in every class of literature; and he is as ready to communicate his knowledge gratuitously, as he is to part with his books at reasonable prices “to those who choose to buy them.”—Editor.[308]Hollinshed.[309]Batman’s Doome.[310]Ency. Brit.[311]Sturm.[312]Annual Register.
[303]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[304]If the berries be gathered in wet weather, an hour will not be too long a time to boil them.
[305]I have heard of the distress among the weavers, and heaven forbid that I should speak lightly of their calamities!—But eat theymust, andeat they do: and if reduced tobread, so called, butter, or cheese, is included; it is this I regret, for jam would be cheaper as well as more wholesome, and should be purchased at the shops as other articles of consumption are.
[306]As they are called, near the uncultivated moorland waste where they grow.Wortleberreyis the correct name.
[307]Mr. Rodd seldom adventures in paper and print, yet he has put forth a “second edition, with considerable additions,” of a curious and useful little volume bearing the modest title of “An Attempt at a Glossary of some words used in Cheshire, communicated to the Society of Antiquarians. By Roger Wilbraham, Esq. F. R. S. and S. A. London, 1826,” royal 18mo. pp. 120.
If a person desires to collect books, or to be acquainted with the writers on any given subject, ancient or modern, rare or common, I know of no one to whom he can apply more successfully, or on whom he can rely for judgment and integrity more implicitly, than Mr. Thomas Rodd. His mind is as well stored with information, as his shop is with good authors, in every class of literature; and he is as ready to communicate his knowledge gratuitously, as he is to part with his books at reasonable prices “to those who choose to buy them.”—Editor.
[308]Hollinshed.
[309]Batman’s Doome.
[310]Ency. Brit.
[311]Sturm.
[312]Annual Register.
On the 26th of August, 1635, died Lope de Vega, called the “Spanish Phenix,” aged sixty-three years. His funeral was conducted with princely magnificence by his patron, the duke of Susa, and his memory was celebrated with suitable pomp in all the theatres of Spain.
Lope de Vega was the rival and conqueror of Cervantes in the dramatic art; yet in his youth he embarked in the celebrated Spanish armada, for the invasionof England, and spent part of his life in civil and military occupations.
His invention is as unparalleled in the history of poetry, as the talent which enabled him to compose regular and well constructed verse with as much ease as prose. Cervantes, on this account, styled him a prodigy of nature. His verses flowed freely, and such was his confidence in his countrymen, that as they applauded his writings, which were unrestrained by critical notes, he refused conformity to any restrictions. “The public,” he said, “paid for the drama, and the taste of those who paid should be suited.”
He required only four-and-twenty hours to write a versified drama of three acts, abounding in intrigues, prodigies, or interesting situations, and interspersed with sonnets and other versified accompaniments. In general the theatrical manager carried away what De Vega wrote before he had time to revise it, and a fresh applicant often arrived to prevail on him to commence a new piece immediately. In some instances he composed a play in the short space of three or four hours. This astonishing facility enabled him to supply the Spanish theatre with upwards of two thousand original dramas. According to his own testimony he wrote on an average five sheets every day, and at this rate he must have produced upwards of twenty millions of verses.
He was enriched by his talents, and their fame procured him distinguished honours. He is supposed at one time to have possessed upwards of a hundred thousand ducats, but he was a bad economist, for the poor of Madrid shared his purse. He was elected president of the spiritual college in that capital; and pope Urban VIII. sent him the degree of doctor in divinity with a flattering letter, and bestowed on him the cross of Malta; he was also appointed fiscal of the apostolic chamber, and a familiar of the inquisition, an office regarded singularly honourable at that period. Whenever he appeared in the streets, boys ran shouting after him; he was surrounded by crowds of people, all eager to gain a sight of the “prodigy of nature;” and those who could not keep pace with the rest, stood and gazed on him with wonder as he passed.
Lope de Vega’s inexhaustible fancy and fascinating ease of composition, communicated that character to Spanish comedy; and all subsequent Spanish writers trod in his footsteps, until its genius was banished by the introduction of the French taste intoSpain.[313]
Mean Temperature 60·77.
[313]Bouterwek.
[313]Bouterwek.
The editor has received a present from Mr. John Smith of a wood block, engraved by himself, as a specimen of his talents in that department of art, and in acknowledgment of a friendly civility he is pleased to recollect at so long a distance from the time when it was offered, that it only dwelt in his own memory.
The impression from thisengraving, and the accompanying information, will acquaint the reader with an old London “effigy” which many may remember to have seen. It is the only cut in the present sheet; for an article on a popular amusement, which will require a considerable number of engravings, is in preparation, and the artists are busily engaged on them.
Concerning this stone we must resort to old Stow. According to this “honest chronicler,” he peregrinated to where this stone now stands, and where in his time stood “the church of St. Michael ad Bladudum, or at thecorne(‘corruptly,’ he says, ‘at thequerne,’) so called, because in place thereof, was sometime a corne-market. At the west end of this parish church is a small passage for people on foot thorow the same church;” and he proceeds to throw the only light that seems to appear on this stone, “and west from the said church, some distance, is another passage out of Paternoster-row, and is called (of sucha signe) Panyer-alley, which commeth out into the north, over against Saint Martin’s-lane.”
It is plain from Stow’s account, that Panyer-alley derived its name from “a signe,” but what that “signe” was we are ignorant of. It may have been a tavern-sign, and this stonemayhave been the ancient sign in the wall of the tavern. It represents a boy seated on a panyer, pressing a bunch of grapes between his hand and his foot. By some people it is called “the Pick-my-toe.” The inscription mentions the date when it was eitherrepaired or put up in its present situation in a wall on the east side of the alley, and affirms that the spot is the highest ground of the city.
The Effigy in Panyer-alley, Paternoster-row.
The Effigy in Panyer-alley, Paternoster-row.
While we are at this place, it is amusing to remark what Stow observes of Ivy-lane, which runs parallel with Panyer-alley westward. He says, that “Ivie-lane” was “so called ofiviegrowing on the walls of the prebend’s houses,” which were situated in that lane; “but now,” speaking of his own days, “the lane is replenished on both sides with faire houses, and divers offices have been there kept, by registers, namely, for the prerogative court of the archbishop of Canturbury, the probate of wils, which is now removed into Warwicke-lane, and also for the lord treasurer’s remembrance of the exchequer, &c.”
Hence we see that in Ivy-lane, now a place of mean dwelling, was one of thegreat offices at present in Doctors’ Commons, and another of equal importance belonging to the crown; but the derivation of its name from the ivy on the walls of the prebends’ houses, an adjunctive ornament that can scarcely be imagined by the residents of the closely confined neighbourhood, is the pleasantest part of the narration.
And Stow also tells us of “Mount-goddard-street,” which “goeth up to the north end of Ivie-lane,” of its having been so called “of the tippling there, and thegoddardsmounting from the tappe to the table, from the table to the mouth, and some times over the head.”
These were cups or goblets made with a cover or otherwise. In “Tancred and Gismunda,” an old play, we are told, “Lucrece entered, attended by a maiden of honour with a coveredgoddardof gold, and, drawing the curtains, she offered unto Gismunda to taste thereof.” So also Gayton, in his “Festivous Notes on Don Quixote,”mentions—
“Agoddard, or an anniversary spice bowl,Drank off by th’ gossips.”
“Agoddard, or an anniversary spice bowl,Drank off by th’ gossips.”
“Agoddard, or an anniversary spice bowl,Drank off by th’ gossips.”
Goddard, according to Camden, means “godly the cup,” and appears to Mr. Archdeacon Nares, who cites these authorities to have been a christening cup. That gentleman can find no certain account of the origin of the name.
Perhapsgoddardwas derived from “godward:” we had looking godward, and thinking godward, and perhaps drinking godward, for a benediction might have been usual at a christening or solemn merry-making; and from thence godward drinking might have come to the godward cup, and so thegoddard.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,—If the following “Address to the Cuckoo,” from my work on birds, should suit the pages of theEvery-Day Book, it is quite at your service.
Of the cuckoo, I would just observe, that I do not think, notwithstanding all that Dr. Jenner has written concerning it, its natural history is by any means fully developed. I have had some opportunities of observing the habits of this very singular bird, and in me there is room for believing that, even when at maturity, it is sometimes, if not frequently,fed by other birds. It is very often attended by one, two, or even more, small birds, during its flight, for what purpose is not, I believe, at present known. The “wry-neck,”junx torquilla, called in some provinces the “cuckoo’s maiden,” is said to be one of these. Perhaps it may be novel information to your readers to be told, that there is a bird in the United States of America, called “Cowpen,”emberiza pecoris, by Wilson, which lays her eggs in other bird’s nests, in a similar way to the cuckoo in this country: the “cowpen” is, however, a much smaller bird than the cuckoo.
I am, &c.James Jennings.
Dalby-terrace, City-road,August 28, 1826.
To the Cuckoo.Thou monotonous bird! whom we ne’er wish away,Who hears thee not pleas’d at the threshold of MayThy advent reminds us of all that is sweet,Which nature, benignant, now lays at our feet;Sweet flowers—sweet meadows—sweet birds and their loves;Sweet sunshiny mornings, and sweet shady groves;Sweet smiles of the maiden—sweet looks of the youth,And sweet asseverations, too, prompted by truth;Sweet promise of plenty throughout the rich vale;And sweet the bees’ humming in meadow and vale;Of the summer’s approach—of the presence of spring,For ever, sweet cuckoo! continue to sing.Oh, who then, dear bird! could e’er wish thee away,Who hears thee not pleas’d at the threshold of May
To the Cuckoo.
Thou monotonous bird! whom we ne’er wish away,Who hears thee not pleas’d at the threshold of MayThy advent reminds us of all that is sweet,Which nature, benignant, now lays at our feet;Sweet flowers—sweet meadows—sweet birds and their loves;Sweet sunshiny mornings, and sweet shady groves;Sweet smiles of the maiden—sweet looks of the youth,And sweet asseverations, too, prompted by truth;Sweet promise of plenty throughout the rich vale;And sweet the bees’ humming in meadow and vale;Of the summer’s approach—of the presence of spring,For ever, sweet cuckoo! continue to sing.Oh, who then, dear bird! could e’er wish thee away,Who hears thee not pleas’d at the threshold of May
Thou monotonous bird! whom we ne’er wish away,Who hears thee not pleas’d at the threshold of MayThy advent reminds us of all that is sweet,Which nature, benignant, now lays at our feet;Sweet flowers—sweet meadows—sweet birds and their loves;Sweet sunshiny mornings, and sweet shady groves;Sweet smiles of the maiden—sweet looks of the youth,And sweet asseverations, too, prompted by truth;Sweet promise of plenty throughout the rich vale;And sweet the bees’ humming in meadow and vale;Of the summer’s approach—of the presence of spring,For ever, sweet cuckoo! continue to sing.Oh, who then, dear bird! could e’er wish thee away,Who hears thee not pleas’d at the threshold of May
As every trait in the natural history of birds is interesting, I beg leave to state that I shall be greatly obliged to any reader of theEvery-Day Bookfor the communication of anynovelfact or information concerning this portion of the animal kingdom, of which suitable acknowledgment will be made in my work. I understand the late lord Erskine wrote and printed for private circulation, a poem on the rook. Can any of your readers oblige me with a copy of it, or refer me to any person or book so that I might obtain a sight of it?J. J.
Mean Temperature 61·35.
Of this father of the church, whose name is in the church of England calendar, there is a memoir in vol. i. col. 1144.
On the 28th of August, 1736, a man passing the bridge over the Savock, near Preston, Lancashire, saw two large flights of birds meet with such rapidity, that one hundred and eighty of them fell to the ground. They were taken up by him, and sold in Preston market the same day.
The following bill was in circulation in Norwich and the neighbourhood for days previous, and on the evening of August 28, 1826, 20,000 sagacious people from the city and country around, on foot, on horseback, in chaises, gigs, and other vehicles, collected below the hill to witness the extraordinary performance.
“St. James’s-hill, back of the Horse-barracks.
“The public are respectfully informed that signor Carlo Gram Villecrop, the celebrated Swiss mountain-flyer, from Geneva and Mont Blanc, is just arrived in this city, and will exhibit, with a Tyrolese pole fifty feet long, his most astonishing gymnastic flights, never before witnessed in this country. Signor Villecrop has had the great honour of exhibiting his most extraordinary feats on the continent before the king of Prussia, Emperor of Austria, the Grand duke of Tuscany, and all the resident nobility in Switzerland. He begs to inform the ladies and gentlemen of this city, that he has selected St. James’s-hill and the adjoining hills for his performances, and will first display his remarkable strength, in running up the hill with his Tyrolese pole between his teeth. He will next lay on his back, and balance the same pole on his nose, chin, and different parts of his body. He will climb up on it with the astonishing swiftness of a cat, and stand on his head at the top; on a sudden he will leap three feet from the pole without falling, suspending himself by a shenese cord only. He will also walk on his head, up and down the hill, balancing his pole on one foot. Many other feats will be exhibited, in which signor Villecrop will display to the audience the much admired art of toppling, peculiar only to the peasantry of Switzerland. He will conclude his performance by repeated flights in the air, up and down the hill, with a velocity almost imperceptible, assisted only by his pole, with which he will frequently jump the astonishing distance of forty and fifty yards at a time. Signor Villecrop begs to assure the ladies and gentlemen who honour him with their company, that no money will be collected till after the exhibition, feeling convinced that his exertions will be liberally rewarded by their generosity. The exhibition to commence on Monday, the 28th of August, 1826, precisely at half-past 5 o’clock in the evening.”
Signor Carlo Gram Villecrop did not make his appearance. The people were drawn together, and the whole ended, as the inventor designed, in a “hoax.”
Mean Temperature 61·55.
The anniversary of the baptist’s decollation is in the church of England calendar. His death is known to have been occasioned by his remonstrance to Herod against his notorious cruelties. “In consequence of this,” says Mr. Audley, “Herod imprisoned him in the castle of Machærus, and would have put him to death, but was afraid of the people.” Herodias also would have killed John, had it been in her power. At length, on Herod’s birthday, Salome, the daughter of Herodias,by her former husband, Philip, danced before him, his captains, and chief estates, or the principal persons of Galilee. This so pleased Herod, that he “promised her, with an oath, whatsoever she should ask, even to the half of his kingdom.” Hearing this, she ran to her mother and said, “what shall I ask?” The mother, without hesitation, replied, “the head of John the Baptist.” Herod was exceedingly sorry when he heard such a request; but out of regard to his oaths and his guests, he immediately sent an executioner to behead John in prison. This was instantly done, and the head being brought in a charger, was given to Salome; and she, forgetting the tenderness of her sex, and the dignity of her station, carried it to her mother.
Jerome says, that “Herodias treated the baptist’s head in a very disdainful manner, pulling out the tongue which she imagined had injured her, and piercing it with a needle.” Providence, however, as Dr. Whitby observes, interested itself very remarkably in the revenge of this murder on all concerned. Herod’s army was defeated in a war occasioned by his marrying Herodias, which many Jews thought a judgment on him for the death of John. Both he, and Herodias, whose ambition occasioned his ruin, were afterwards driven from their kingdom, and died in banishment, at Lyons, in Gaul. And if any credit may be given to Nicephorus, Salome, the young lady who made the cruel request, fell into the ice as she was walking over it, which, closing suddenly, cut off her head.
It is added by Mr. Audley, that the abbot Villeloin says in his memoirs, “the head of St. John the Baptist was saluted by him at Amiens, and it was thefifthorsixthhe had had the honour to kiss.”
Lord Orford, in a letter dated the 29th of August, says, “I have just been reading a new public history of the colleges of Oxford, by Anthony Wood, and there found a feature in a character that always offended me, that of archbishop Chicheley, who prompted Henry V. to the invasion of France, to divert him from squeezing the overgrown clergy. When that priest meditated founding All Souls college, and ‘consulted his friends, who seem to have been honest men, what great matters of piety he had best perform to God in his old age, he was advised by them to build an hospital for the wounded and sick soldiers, that daily returned from the wars then had in France.’ I doubt his grace’s friends thought as I do of his artifice.—‘But,’ continues the historian, ‘disliking these motions, and valuing the welfare of the deceased more than the wounded and diseased, he resolved with himself to promote his design—which was to have masses said for the king, queen, and himself, &c., while living, and for their souls when dead;’ and that mummery, the old foolish rogue, thought more efficacious than ointments and medicines for the wretches he had made! and of the chaplains and clerks he instituted in that dormitory, one was to teach grammar, and another prick song. How history makes one shudder and laugh by turns!”
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,—I trouble you with an account of an eccentric character, which may, perhaps, amuse some of your numerous readers, if it should meet your approbation.
Yours, most respectfully,C.C——y,M. R. C. S. E.Ashton Under Lyne,
July 17th, 1826.
Near the summit of a small hill, called Gladwick Lowes, situated on the borders of Lancashire, near the populous town of Oldham, commanding a very extensive prospect, stands the solitary, yet celebrated hut of “Billy Butterworth.” The eccentric being who bears this name from his manner of dressing an immense beard reaching to his girdle, and many other singularities, has obtained the name of the “hermit,” though from the great numbers that daily and hourly visit him from all parts, he has no real claim to the title.
Billy Butterworth’s hut is a rude building of his own construction, a piece of ground having been given him for the purpose. In the building of this hut, the rude hand of uncultivated nature laughed to scorn the improvements of modern times, for neither saw, nor plane, nor level, nor trowel, assisted to make it appear gracious in the eye of taste; a rude heap of stones, sods of earth, moss, &c. without nails or mortar are piled togetherin an inelegant, but perfectly convenient manner, and form a number of apartments. The whole building is so firmly put together, that its tenant fears not the pelting of a merciless storm, but snug under his lowly roof appears equally content with the smiles or frowns of fortune.
To give a proper description of the hermit’s hut, would be very difficult, but a brief sketch will enable the reader to form a pretty good idea of the object. It is surrounded by a fancy and kitchen garden, fancifully decorated with rude seats, arches, grottos, &c., a few plaister of Paris casts are here and there placed so as to have a pleasing effect. The outer part of the hut consists of the hermit’s chapel, in which is a half-length figure of the hermit himself. To this chapel the hermit retires at certain hours, in devotion to his Maker; besides the chapel is an observatory, where the hermit amuses his numerous visiters, by exhibiting a small and rather imperfect camera obscura of his own construction, by which he is enabled to explain the surrounding country for four or five miles. Near the camera obscura is a raised platform, almost on a level with the roof of the hermitage—this he calls “the terrace.” From the terrace there is a beautiful view of country.—The towns of Ashton-under-Lyne, Stockport, Manchester, lie in the distance, with the adjacent villages, and the line of Yorkshire hills, from among which “Wild Bank” rises majestically above its neighbours. The hermit makes use of this situation, to give signals to the village at the foot of the hill, when he wishes to be supplied with any article of provision for the entertainment of his visiters, such as liquors, cream, sallads, bread, &c.; of confectionary, he has generally a good stock.
We next come to his summer arbours, which are numerous in his garden, and furnished with table and seats for parties to enjoy themselves separately, without interfering with others. The dovehouse is placed in the garden, where he keeps a few beautiful pairs of doves. Of the out-buildings, the last we shall describe, is the carriage-house. The reader smiles at the word “carriage” in such a situation, and would be more apt to believe me had I said a wheel-barrow. But no! grave reader, “Billy Butterworth” runs his carriage, which is of the low gig kind, drawn by an ass, and on some extra visits, by two asses. A little boy, called Adam, is the postillion, as there is only seating for one in the carriage. The boy acts as a waiter in busy times. In this carriage “Billy Butterworth” visits his wealthy neighbours, and meets with a gracious reception. He frequently visits the earl of Stamford, earl de Wilton, &c. &c. From his grotesque dress and equipage, he excites mirth to a great degree.
The inner part of this hermit’s hut consists of many different apartments, all of which are named in great style; such as the servants’ hall—pavilion—drawing-room—dining-room—library, &c. &c. The walls are lined with drapery, tastefully hung, and the furniture exhibits numerous specimens of ancient carved woodwork. Pictures of all sorts from the genuine oil painting, &c. prints of good line engraving down to the common caricature daubs, are numerously hung in every part of the hut. Natural curiosities are so placed, as to excite the curiosity of the gazing ignoramus.
“Billy Butterworth” is himself a tall man, of rather a commanding figure, with dark hair and dark sparkling eyes. His countenance is of a pleasing but rather melancholy appearance, which is increased by an immensely long black beard which makes him an object of terror to the neighbouring children. On the whole, although he is now in the evening of life, the remains of a once handsome man are very evident. His dress is varied according to the seasons, but always resembling the costume in king Charles’s days; a black cap, black ostrich feather and buckle, long waistcoat, jacket with silk let into the sleeves, small clothes of the same, and over the whole a short mantle.
“Billy Butterworth” has practised these whims, if I may call them so, for twelve or fourteen years in this solitary abode. His reason for this manner of life is not exactly known, but he seems to acknowledge in some degree, that a disappointment in love has been the cause. Let that rest as it will, he has a handsome property, accumulated, it is said, by these eccentric means. Indeed he acknowledged to the author of this, that on fine days in summer, he has realized from selling sweetmeats, and receiving gifts from visiters, five guineas a day. He is so independent now that he will not receive a present from friends. He is communicative as long as a stranger will listen, but if the stranger is inquisitive he ceases to converse any thing more. He is polite andwell informed on general topics, and has evidently read much.
While the hermit was lately on a journey to his friends, a mischievous wag advertised “the hut,” &c. to be let. The day fixed upon being rainy, no bidders made their appearance. I send you a copy of the advertisement from a printed one in my possession.
To be Let,
For a term of years, or from year to year; and may be entered upon immediately, all that hut, garden, and premises, with the appurtenances, situate at Gladwick Lowes, near Oldham, in the county of Lancaster, now occupied as an
Hermitage,By Mr. Wm. Butterworth.
This romantic spot being the only place of fashionable resort in the vicinity of the populous town of Oldham, and the unrivalled reputation which it has so long deservedly enjoyed, render it peculiar desirable to any gentleman who may wish to acquire an independency at a trifling risk. The motive for the intended removal of the present proprietor is, his having already secured a comfortable competency, joined to a desire of giving some gentleman of a disposition similar to his own, an opportunity of participating in the advantages which he has so long derived from this delightful retirement.
Among the many curiosities with which his sequestered hut abounds, may be particularized the following valuable articles.
His celebrated self-constructed Bed.A Table,
which is supposed formerly to have belonged to some of the ancient saxon monarchs, and was presented to Mr. B., by her grace the duchess of Beaufort.
Praxitele’s stature of Jupiter Ammon, brought from Greece, by the right honourable the earl of Elgin, and came into the hands of the present possessor, through the medium of the duke of Devonshire, after it had, for a considerable period, formed one of the most permanent ornaments of his grace’s splendid mansion, Chatsworth house.
A capital portrait of Mrs. Siddons, painted by B. West, Esq., P. R. A.
A most excellent and peculiarly constructed Camera Obscura, which distinctly represents objects at the distance of thirty miles.
A sonorous Speaking Trumpet, wonderfully adapted to the present situation.
A brace of pistols, formerly the property of Blind Jack of Knaresborough, by whom they were cut out of solid rock.
A very ancient and most curious Trebduchet, a relic of Ptolemy the Third’s Sarcophagus.
A variety of coins, medals, shells, fossils, and other mineral productions, tastefully classified and arranged.
It would be very desirable if the above could be disposed of with the hermitage, but if not, Mr. B. would be willing to enter into a separate agreement for them. For further particulars, apply to Mr. W. B.
N.B. The stock of pop, peppermint, gingerbread, and Eccles cakes, with the signboards, dials, inscriptions, rams’ horns, and other tasteful and appropriate decorations, will be required to be taken at a valuation.
To be let Monday August 29, 1825.
There is a spirit of waggery which contributes to public amusement, and occasionally annoys individual repose. The following lines are in a journal of this day 1826.
A VISION.BY THE AUTHOR OF CHRISTABEL.“Up!” said the spirit, and ere I could prayOne hasty orison, whirl’d me awayTo a limbo, lying—I wist not where—Above or below, in earth or air;All glimmering o’er with adoubtfullight,One couldn’t say whether ’twas day or night;And crost by many a mazy track,One didn’t know how to get on or back;And I felt like a needle that’s going astray(With itsoneeye out) through a bundle of hay:When the spirit he grinn’d, and whisper’d me,“Thou’rt now in the Court of Chancery!”Around me flitted unnumber’d swarmsOf shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms;(Like bottled-up babes, that grace the roomOf that worthy knight, sir Everard Home)—All of them, things half-kill’d in rearing;Some were lame—some wantedhearing;Some had through half a century run,Though they hadn’t a leg to stand upon.Others, more merry, as just beginning,Around on apoint of lawwere spinning;Or balanced aloft, ’twixtBillandAnswer,Lead at each end, like a tight rope dancer.—Some were socross, that nothing could please ’em;—Some gulp’d downaffidavitsto ease ’em;All were in motion, yet never a one,Let itmoveas it might, could ever moveon.“These,” said the spirit, “you plainly see,Are what they call suits in Chancery!”I heard a loud screaming of old and young,Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis’ sung;Or an Irish dump (“the words by Moore”)At an amateur concert scream’d in score;—So harsh on my ear that wailing fellOf the wretches who in this limbo dwell!It seem’d like the dismal symphonyOf the shapes Æneas in hell did see;Or those frogs, whose legs a barbarous cookCut off and left the frogs in the brook,To cry all night, till life’s last dregs,“Give us our legs!—give us our legs!”Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene,I ask’d what all this yell might mean,When the spirit replied with a grin of glee,“’Tis the cry of the suitors in Chancery!”I look’d, and I saw a wizard rise,With a wig like a cloud before men’s eyes.In his aged hand he held a wand,Wherewith he beckoned his embryo hand,And then mov’d and mov’d, as he wav’d it o’er,But they never got on one inch more,And still they kept limping to and fro,Like Ariels’ round old Prospero—Saying, “dear master, let us go,”But still old Prospero answer’d “No.”And I heard, the while, that wizard elf,Muttering, muttering spells to himself,While over as many old papers he turn’d,As Hume e’er moved for or Omar burn’d.He talk’d of his virtue—though some, less nice,(He own’d with a sigh) preferr’d hisVice—And he said, “I think”—“I doubt”—“I hope”—Call’d God to witness, and damn’d the Pope;With many more sleights of tongue and handI couldn’t, for the soul of me, understand.Amaz’d and poz’d, I was just aboutTo ask his name, when the screams withoutThe merciless clack of the imps within,And that conjurer’s mutterings, made such a din,That, startled, I woke—leap’d up in my bed—Found the spirit, the imps, and the conjurer fled.And bless’d my stars, right pleas’d to see,That I wasn’t, as yet, in Chancery.
A VISION.BY THE AUTHOR OF CHRISTABEL.
“Up!” said the spirit, and ere I could prayOne hasty orison, whirl’d me awayTo a limbo, lying—I wist not where—Above or below, in earth or air;All glimmering o’er with adoubtfullight,One couldn’t say whether ’twas day or night;And crost by many a mazy track,One didn’t know how to get on or back;And I felt like a needle that’s going astray(With itsoneeye out) through a bundle of hay:When the spirit he grinn’d, and whisper’d me,“Thou’rt now in the Court of Chancery!”Around me flitted unnumber’d swarmsOf shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms;(Like bottled-up babes, that grace the roomOf that worthy knight, sir Everard Home)—All of them, things half-kill’d in rearing;Some were lame—some wantedhearing;Some had through half a century run,Though they hadn’t a leg to stand upon.Others, more merry, as just beginning,Around on apoint of lawwere spinning;Or balanced aloft, ’twixtBillandAnswer,Lead at each end, like a tight rope dancer.—Some were socross, that nothing could please ’em;—Some gulp’d downaffidavitsto ease ’em;All were in motion, yet never a one,Let itmoveas it might, could ever moveon.“These,” said the spirit, “you plainly see,Are what they call suits in Chancery!”I heard a loud screaming of old and young,Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis’ sung;Or an Irish dump (“the words by Moore”)At an amateur concert scream’d in score;—So harsh on my ear that wailing fellOf the wretches who in this limbo dwell!It seem’d like the dismal symphonyOf the shapes Æneas in hell did see;Or those frogs, whose legs a barbarous cookCut off and left the frogs in the brook,To cry all night, till life’s last dregs,“Give us our legs!—give us our legs!”Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene,I ask’d what all this yell might mean,When the spirit replied with a grin of glee,“’Tis the cry of the suitors in Chancery!”I look’d, and I saw a wizard rise,With a wig like a cloud before men’s eyes.In his aged hand he held a wand,Wherewith he beckoned his embryo hand,And then mov’d and mov’d, as he wav’d it o’er,But they never got on one inch more,And still they kept limping to and fro,Like Ariels’ round old Prospero—Saying, “dear master, let us go,”But still old Prospero answer’d “No.”And I heard, the while, that wizard elf,Muttering, muttering spells to himself,While over as many old papers he turn’d,As Hume e’er moved for or Omar burn’d.He talk’d of his virtue—though some, less nice,(He own’d with a sigh) preferr’d hisVice—And he said, “I think”—“I doubt”—“I hope”—Call’d God to witness, and damn’d the Pope;With many more sleights of tongue and handI couldn’t, for the soul of me, understand.Amaz’d and poz’d, I was just aboutTo ask his name, when the screams withoutThe merciless clack of the imps within,And that conjurer’s mutterings, made such a din,That, startled, I woke—leap’d up in my bed—Found the spirit, the imps, and the conjurer fled.And bless’d my stars, right pleas’d to see,That I wasn’t, as yet, in Chancery.
“Up!” said the spirit, and ere I could prayOne hasty orison, whirl’d me awayTo a limbo, lying—I wist not where—Above or below, in earth or air;All glimmering o’er with adoubtfullight,One couldn’t say whether ’twas day or night;And crost by many a mazy track,One didn’t know how to get on or back;And I felt like a needle that’s going astray(With itsoneeye out) through a bundle of hay:When the spirit he grinn’d, and whisper’d me,“Thou’rt now in the Court of Chancery!”
Around me flitted unnumber’d swarmsOf shapeless, bodiless, tailless forms;(Like bottled-up babes, that grace the roomOf that worthy knight, sir Everard Home)—All of them, things half-kill’d in rearing;Some were lame—some wantedhearing;Some had through half a century run,Though they hadn’t a leg to stand upon.
Others, more merry, as just beginning,Around on apoint of lawwere spinning;Or balanced aloft, ’twixtBillandAnswer,Lead at each end, like a tight rope dancer.—Some were socross, that nothing could please ’em;—Some gulp’d downaffidavitsto ease ’em;All were in motion, yet never a one,Let itmoveas it might, could ever moveon.“These,” said the spirit, “you plainly see,Are what they call suits in Chancery!”
I heard a loud screaming of old and young,Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis’ sung;Or an Irish dump (“the words by Moore”)At an amateur concert scream’d in score;—So harsh on my ear that wailing fellOf the wretches who in this limbo dwell!It seem’d like the dismal symphonyOf the shapes Æneas in hell did see;Or those frogs, whose legs a barbarous cookCut off and left the frogs in the brook,To cry all night, till life’s last dregs,“Give us our legs!—give us our legs!”Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene,I ask’d what all this yell might mean,When the spirit replied with a grin of glee,“’Tis the cry of the suitors in Chancery!”
I look’d, and I saw a wizard rise,With a wig like a cloud before men’s eyes.In his aged hand he held a wand,Wherewith he beckoned his embryo hand,And then mov’d and mov’d, as he wav’d it o’er,But they never got on one inch more,And still they kept limping to and fro,Like Ariels’ round old Prospero—Saying, “dear master, let us go,”But still old Prospero answer’d “No.”And I heard, the while, that wizard elf,Muttering, muttering spells to himself,While over as many old papers he turn’d,As Hume e’er moved for or Omar burn’d.He talk’d of his virtue—though some, less nice,(He own’d with a sigh) preferr’d hisVice—And he said, “I think”—“I doubt”—“I hope”—Call’d God to witness, and damn’d the Pope;With many more sleights of tongue and handI couldn’t, for the soul of me, understand.Amaz’d and poz’d, I was just aboutTo ask his name, when the screams withoutThe merciless clack of the imps within,And that conjurer’s mutterings, made such a din,That, startled, I woke—leap’d up in my bed—Found the spirit, the imps, and the conjurer fled.And bless’d my stars, right pleas’d to see,That I wasn’t, as yet, in Chancery.
For several years before the appearance of his solemn “Aids to Reflection” in 1825, Mr. Coleridge had been to the world “as though he was not;” and since that “Hand-book” of masterly sayings his voice has ceased from the public. Forgotten he could not be, yet when he was remembered it was by inquiries concerning his present “doings,” and whispers of his “whereabout.” On a sudden the preceding verses startle the dull town, and dwelling on the lazy ear, as being, according to their printed ascription, “by the author of Christabel.” In vindication of himself against the misconception of the wit of their real author, the imputed parent steps forth in the following note.
To the Editor of the Times.
Grove, Highgate, Tuesday Evening.
Sir,—I have just received a note from a city friend, respecting a poem in “The Times” of this morning ascribed to me. On consulting the paper, I see he must refer to “A Vision,” by the author of “Christabel.” Now, though I should myself have interpreted these words as the author, I doubt not, intended them, viz., as a part of the fiction; yet with the proof before me that others will understand them literally, I should feel obliged by your stating, that till this last half hour the poem and its publication were alike unknown to me; and I remain, Sir, respectfully yours,S. T. Coleridge.
This little “affair” exemplifies that it is the fortune of talent to be seldom comprehended.
Mean Temperature 61·45.
August 30, 1750. Miss Flora Macdonald was married to a gentleman of the same name related to sir Alexander Macdonald, bart. This lady is celebrated in Scottish annals for having heroically and successfully assisted the young Pretender to escape, when a price was set upon his head. Her self-devotion is minutely recorded in the late Mr. Boswell’s “Ascanius,” and Johnson has increased her fame by his notice of her person and character, in his “Tour to the Hebrides.”
Mean Temperature 62·95.
It was observed at the end of August, 1742, great damage was done to the pastures in the country, particularly about Bristol by swarms of grasshoppers; and the like happened in the same year at Pennsylvania to a surprisingdegree.[314]
In 1476, “Grasshoppers and the great rising of the river Isula did spoyle alPoland.”[315]
Grasshoppers are infested by a species of “insect parasites” thicker than a horse hair, and of a brown colour. It consumes the intestines, and at first sight in the body of the grasshopper, has been mistaken for the intestines themselves.
The eminent entomologist who mentions this fact, observes that “insects generally answer the most beneficial ends, and promote in various ways, and in an extraordinary degree, the welfare of man and animals.” The evils resulting from them occur partially when they abound beyond their natural limits, “God permitting this occasionally to take place, not merely with punitive views, but also to show us what mighty effects he can produce by instruments seemingly the most insignificant: thus calling upon us to glorify his power, wisdom, and goodness, so evidently manifested, whether he relaxes or draws tight the reins by which he guides insects in their course, and regulates their progress; and more particularly to acknowledge his overruling Providence so conspicuously exhibited by his measuring them, as it were, and weighing them, and taking them out, so that their numbers, forces, and powers, being annually proportioned to the work he has prescribed to them, they may neither exceed his purpose, nor fall short ofit.”[316]
The Valley of Nightingales.A Scene near the Hotwells,Bristol.[317]“Then said I, master, pleasant is this placeAnd sweet are those melodious notes I hear;And happy they, among man’s toiling race,Who, of their cares forgetful, wander near.”Bowles.
The Valley of Nightingales.
A Scene near the Hotwells,Bristol.[317]
“Then said I, master, pleasant is this placeAnd sweet are those melodious notes I hear;And happy they, among man’s toiling race,Who, of their cares forgetful, wander near.”
“Then said I, master, pleasant is this placeAnd sweet are those melodious notes I hear;And happy they, among man’s toiling race,Who, of their cares forgetful, wander near.”
Bowles.
To those who might not happen to know St. Vincent’s rocks, Clifton, and the very beautiful scenery near the Hotwells, Bristol, it might be desirable to state that the river Avon winds here through a sinuous defile, on one side of which “the rocks” rise perpendicularly in a bold yet irregular manner, to the height of many hundred feet; the opposite side is not so bold, but it is, nevertheless, extremely beautiful, being clothed in many places with wood, and has besides aVALLEY, through which you may ascend to Leigh Down. This valley has been named the “Valley of Nightingales,” no doubt, in consequence of those birds making it their resort.