July 8.

St. Thomas a Becket.

Thisengravingis from a drawing by Mr. Harding, who states that he made it from a very rare engraving. The drawing belongs to Mr. J. J. A. F., who favoured the editor by lending it for the present purpose.

St. Thomas of Canterbury, bishop and martyr, attained the primacy during the reign of Henry II. He advanced the interests of the church against the interests of the kingdom, till a parliament declared his possessions forfeited, and Becket having left the kingdom, Henry seized the revenues of the see.

It appears from an old tract that this churchman was a swordsman. He accompanied Henry in one of his campaigns with a retinue of seven hundred knights and gentlemen, kept twelve hundred horse in his own pay, and bore his dignity with the carriage of the proudest baron. “His bridle was of silver, his saddle of velvet, his stirrups, spurs, and bosses, double gilt. His expenses far surpassing the expenses of an earl. He fed with the fattest, was clad with the softest, and kept company with the pleasantest. And the king made him his chancellor, in which office he passed the pomp and pride of Thomas [Wolsey] Cardinal, as far as the one’s shrine passeth the other’s tomb in glory and riches. And, after that, he was a man of war, and captain of five or six thousand men in full harness, as bright as St. George, and his spear in his hand; and encountered whosoever came against him, and overthrew the jollyest rutter that was in all the host of France. And out of the field, hot from blood-shedding, washe made bishop of Canterbury, and did put off his helm, and put on his mitre; put off his harness, and on with his robes; and laid down his spear, and took his cross, ere his hands were cold; and so came, with a lusty courage of a man of war, to fight another while against his prince for the pope; when his prince’s cause were with the law of God and the pope’s clean contrary.”

After his disgrace by the king he wore a hair shirt, ate meats of the driest, excommunicated his brother bishops, and “was favoured with a revelation of his martyrdom,” at Pontigni. Alban Butler says, “whilst he lay prostrate before the altar in prayers and tears, he heard a voice, saying distinctly, ‘Thomas, Thomas, my church shall be glorified in thy blood.’ The saint asked, ‘Who art thou, Lord?’ and the same voice answered, ‘I am Jesus Christ, the son of the living God, thy brother.’” He then returned to England, excited rebellious commotions, and on Christmas-day, 1170, preached his last sermon to his flock, on the text, “And peace to men of good-will on earth.” These are the words wherein Alban Butler expresses the “text,” which, it may be as well to observe, is a garbled passage from the New Testament, and was altered perhaps to suit the saint’s views and application. Room cannot be afforded in this place for particulars of his preceding conduct, or an exact description of his death, which is well-known to have been accomplished by “four knights,” who, from attachment to the king, according to the brutal manners of those days, revenged his quarrel by killing St. Thomas, while at prayers in Canterbury cathedral.

The following interesting paper relates to one of the knights who slewBecket—

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

June, 1826.

Sir,—I beg leave to transmit to you an account of the burial place of sir William de Tracy, one of the murderers of Thomas à Becket, archbishop of Canterbury, in the reign of Henry the Second. I regret, at the same time, that distance from the spot precludes the possibility of my taking a drawing of the tomb, but I have by me its measurement, and the inscription, which I copied with as great care as possible when there.

The parish church of Morthoe, probably built by Tracy himself, is situated on the bold and rocky coast of the north of Devon. It stands on an eminence, near the sea-shore, is sheltered by hills on the north and south, but open towards the west, on which side is the fine bay of Woolacombe. The interior of the church presents the humblest appearance; its length is near 80 feet, its breadth 18, excepting the middle, which, with an aisle, measures 30. On the west side is a recess, 15 feet by 14, in the centre of which is the vault, containing the remains of de Tracy. The rustic inhabitants of the parish can give no other account of the tomb than the traditionary one, that it contains the remains of a giant, to whom, in the olden time, all that part of the country belonged.

The vault itself is 2 feet 4 in. high; 7 feet 6 in. long at the base; three feet and a half broad at one end of ditto, and two feet and a half, at the other. The large black slab covering the top of the vault is half a foot in thickness. Engraved on this slab is the figure of a person in robes, holding a chalice in one hand; and round the border is an inscription, which is now almost illegible. I had a drawing of the whole, which I have lost, but with the account I wrote at the time of visiting the place, I have preserved the inscription, as far as I was able to make itout.[247]

On the east side of the vault are three armorial bearings, and the carved figures of two nuns; on the north is the crucifixion; on the west side, there is nothing but Gothic carving; and the south end is plain.

An old and respectable farmer, residing at Morthoe, informed me that about fifty or sixty years ago “a gentleman from London” came down to take an account of the tomb, and carried away with him the skull and one of the thigh bones of de Tracy. He opened and examined the vault with the connivance of a negligentand eccentric minister, then resident in the parish, who has left behind him a fame by no means to be envied.

The gentleman alluded to by the worthy yeoman was no doubt the celebrated antiquary Gough, who, in his “Sepulchral Monuments in Great Britain,” has given a long account of the life and burialplace of Tracy. In his introduction to that laborious and very valuable work, page ciii. he says:—“The instances of figures cut in the slab, and not inlaid with metal, nor always blacked, are not uncommon.” Among the instances which he cites to illustrate this remark, he mentions the slab on the vault of “William de Tracy, Rector of Morthoe, Devon, 1322.”—Here we find the gigantic knight dwindled to a parson; and the man whose name should be for ever remembered with gratitude by his countrymen, the hero who happily achieved a far more arduous enterprise, a work of greater glory than did the renowned but fabled saint, over the devouring dragon—forgotten beneath the robe of an obscure village rector! The parish of Morthoe is, however, not a rectory, but what is called a “perpetual curacy,” and the living is at present not worth much more than seventy pounds per annum.

Since I have, by the merest accident, got hold of Gough, I will extract what he records of the forgotten Tracy, as it may not be unentertaining to the lover of history to peruse a detail of the ultimate fate of one of the glorious four, who delivered their country from perhaps the greatest pest that was ever sent to scourge it.

“William de Tracy, one of the murderers of Becket, has been generally supposed, on the authority of Mr. Risdon, (p. 116.) to have built an aisle in the church of Morthoe, Devon; and to have therein an altar-tomb about 2 feet high, with his figure engraven on a grey slab of Purbeck marble, 7 feet by 3, and 7 inches thick, and this inscription, [in Saxon capitals,]

“SYRE [Guillau] ME DE TRACY [gist icy, Diu de son al] ME EYT MERCY.

“On the upper end of this tomb is carved in relief the crucifixion, with the virgin and St. John, and on the north side some Gothic arches, and these three coats; I. Az. 3 lions passant guardant, Arg. 2. Arg. 3. two bars, G. Az. a saltire, Or.——The first of these is the coat ofWilliam Camville, formerly patron of this church: the second, that of theMartins, formerly lords of Barnstaple, who had lands in this neighbourhood: the third, that of theSaint Albins, who had also estates in the adjoining parish of Georgeham.

“The figure on the slab is plainly that of a priest in his sacerdotal habit, holding a chalice between his hands, as if in the act of consecration.——Bishop Stapledon’s register, though it does not contain the year of his institution, fixes the date of his death in the following terms, ‘Anno, 1322, 16 Decr. Thomas Robertus præsentat. ad eccles. de Morthoe vacantem per mortem Wilhelmi de Traci, die dominic. primo post nativ. Virginis per mortem Will. de Campvill.’

“The era of the priest is therefore 140 years later than that of the knight. It does not appear by the episcopal registers that the Tracies were ever patrons of Morthoe, except in the followinginstances:—

“Anno, 1257, Cal. Junii, John Allworthy, presented by Henry de Traci, guardian of the lands and heirs of Ralph de Brag. Anno, 1275. Thomas Capellanus was presented to this rectory by Philip de Weston. In 1330, Feb. 5, Henry de la Mace was presented to this rectory by William de Camville. In 1381, Richard Hopkins was presented by the dean and chapter of Exeter, who are still patrons.

“It is probable that the stone with the inscription to William de Tracy did not originally belong to the altar-tomb on which it now lies; but by the arms seems rather to have been erected for the patronWilliam de Camville, it being unusual in those days to raise so handsome a monument for a priest, especially as the altar-tomb and slab are of very different materials, and the benefice itself is of very inconsiderable value. It is also probable the monument of Traci lay on the ground, and that when this monument was broken open, according to Risdon, in the last century, this purbeck slab was placed upon the altar-tomb though it did not at first belong to it.

“The Devonshire antiquaries assert that sir William de Tracy retired to this place after he had murdered Becket. But this tradition seems to rest on no better authoritythan the misrepresentation of the inscription here given, and because the family of Traci possessed the fourth part of a fee in Woolacombe within this parish, which is still called after their name. But the Tracies had many possessions in this country, as Bovey Traci, Nymett Traci, Bedford Traci, &c. William de Traci held the honor of Barnstaple, in the beginning of Henry the Second’s reign. King John granted the Barony of Barnstaple to Henry de Traci, in the 15th of his reign; and the family seem to have been possessed of it in the reign of Henry III. I am indebted to the friendship of the present Dean of Exeter for the above observations, which ascertain the monument in question.

“I shall digress no farther on this subject than to observe of sir William de Traci, that four years after the murder of Becket he had the title of Steward, i. e. Justice of Normandy, which he held but two years. He was in arms against King John in the last year of his reign, and his estate was confiscated; but on his return to his allegiance, 2 Henry III. it was restored. He was living, 7 Henry III. (Dugd. Bar. i. 622.) consequently died about or after 1223, having survived Becket upwards of 57years.”[248]

Another slight mention is made of Tracy in p. 26. In describing Becket’s shrine he quotes Stowe to this effect,—“The shrine of Thomas à Becket (says Stowe) was builded about a man’s height, all of stone, then upward of timber plain, within which was a chest of iron, containing the bones of Thomas Beckett, skull and all, with the wound of his death, and the piece cut out of his scull laid in the same wound.” Gough remarks:—“He should have added the point of Sir William Traci, the fourth assassin’s sword, which broke off against the pavement, after cutting off his scull, so that the brains came out.

‘In thulke stede the verthe smot, ytthe other adde er ydo,And the point of is suerd brec in the marbreston a tuo,Zat thulke point at Canterbury the monckes lateth wite,Vor honor of the holi man yttherewith was ismite.With thulke strok he smot al of the scolle & eke the crowneThat the brain ron al ebrod in the pauiment ther donne.’”(Robert of Glouces. p. 476.)

(Robert of Glouces. p. 476.)

This long extract, Mr. Editor, has, I confess, made me rather casuistical on the subject of Tracy’s tomb. I shall, however, search some of the old chroniclers and see if they throw any light upon the biography of our knight. Hume mentions Tracy, and his three companions, but is perfectly silent with respect to the cutting off the top of the churchman’s skull. His words are, “they followed him thither, attacked him before the altar, and having cloven his head with many blows, retired without meeting any opposition.” Should you, in the mean time, insert this, you will shortly hear again from

Your obedient servant,R. A. R.

Distrusting his own judgment on the subject of the preceding letter, the editor laid it before a gentleman whose erudition he could rely on for the accuracy of any opinion he might be pleased to express, and who obligingly writes asfollows:—

R. A. R.’s letter, submitted to me through the kindness of Mr. Hone, certainly conveys much interesting miscellaneous information, although it proves nothing, and leaves the question, of who is actually the tenant of this tomb, pretty much where he finds it. In my humble opinion, the circumstance of technical heraldic bearings, and those moreover quartered, being found upon it, completely negatives the idea of its being the tomb of Becket’s assassin. It is well known that the first English subject who ever bore arms quarterly is Hastings, earl of Pembroke, who died in the reign of Edward III. and is buried in Westminster abbey.

Family arms seem not to have been continuedly adopted, till towards the time of Edward I.

W. P.

The death of Becket appears to have been sincerely deplored by Henry II., inasmuch as the pope and his adherents visited the sin of the four knights upon the king, and upbraided him with his subjects by ecclesiastical fulminations. He endeavoured to make peace with the church by submitting to a public whipping. A late biographer records his meanness in the following sentences:

In 1174 king Henry went on a pilgrimage to the tomb of the late archbishop Becket, with the fame of whose miracles the whole realm was now filled, and whom the pope, by a bull dated in March the year before, had declared a saint and a martyr, appointing an anniversary festival to be kept on the day of his death, in order (says the bull) that, being continually applied to by the prayers of the faithful, he should intercede with God for the clergy and people of England.

Henry, therefore, desiring to obtain for himself this intercession, or to make others believe that the wrath of an enemy, to whom it was supposed that such power was given, might be thus averted from him, thought it necessary to visit the shrine of this new-created saint; and, as soon as he came within sight of the tower of Canterbury cathedral, (July 10,) at the distance of three miles, descended from his horse, and walked thither barefoot, over a road that was full of rough and sharp stones, which so wounded his feet that in many places they were stained with his blood.

When he got to the tomb, which was then in the crypt (or under-croft) of the church, he threw himself prostrate before it, and remained, for some time, in fervent prayer; during which, by his orders, the bishop of London, in his name, declared to the people, that “he had neither commanded, nor advised, nor by any artifice contrived the death of Becket, for the truth of which, he appealed, in the most solemn manner, to the testimony of God; but, as the murderers of that prelate had taken occasion from his words, too inconsiderately spoken, to commit this offence, he voluntarily thus submitted himself to the discipline of the church.”

After this he was scourged, at his own request and command, by all the monks of the convent, assembled for that purpose, from every one of whom, and from several bishops and abbots there present, he received three or four stripes.

This sharp penance being done, he returned to his prayers before the tomb, which he continued all that day, and all the next night, not even suffering a carpet to be spread beneath him, but kneeling on the hard pavement.

Early in the morning he went round all the altars of the church, and paid his devotions to the bodies of the saints there interred; which having performed, he came back to Becket’s tomb, where he staid till the hour when mass was said in the church, at which he assisted.

During all this time he had taken no kind of food; and, except when he gave his naked body to be whipped, was clad in sackcloth. Before his departure, (that he might fully complete the expiation of his sin, according to the notions of the church of Rome,) he assigned a revenue of forty pounds a year, to keep lights always burning in honour of Becket about his tomb. The next evening he reached London, where he found it necessary to be blooded, and rest somedays.[249]

Mean Temperature 62·00.

[247]Unfortunately it was not discovered that some of the letters, in the inscription referred to, could not be represented by the usual Saxon types, till it was too late to remedy the accident by having them engraven on wood; and hence the inscription is, of necessity, omitted.—Editor.[248]Gough’s Sepul. Mon. vol. i. p. 39, 40.[249]Lord Lyttleton.

[248]Gough’s Sepul. Mon. vol. i. p. 39, 40.

[249]Lord Lyttleton.

July 8, 1533, Ariosto, the celebrated Italian poet, died at Ferrara: he was born in 1474, at the castle of Reggio in Lombardy.

In high summer, persons accustomed to live “well” should diminish the usual quantity of their viands and fluids: wine should be taken very sparingly, and spirituous liquors seldom. Habits of indulgence at this period of the year fill many graves.

It may not be amiss to cite

WHEREAS the subscriber, through the pernicious habit of drinking, has greatly hurt himself in purse and person, and rendered himself odious to all his acquaintance, and finding there is no possibility of breaking off from the saidpractice, but through the impossibility to find the liquor; he therefore begs and prays that no persons will sell him, for money or on trust, any sort of spirituous liquors, as he will not in future pay it, but will prosecute any one for an action of damage against the temporal and eternal interests of the public’s humble, serious, and sober servant,

James Chalmers.

WitnessWilliam Andrews.

Nassau, June 28, 1795.

At the commencement of July, 1826, hedgehogs were seen wandering along the most public streets of Oldham, in Lancashire, during the open day. It is presumed that, as the brooks from which these animals were wont to be supplied with drink had been dried up from the long-continued drought, they were obliged to throw themselves upon the mercy and protection of their “good neighbours in thetown.”[250]

In this month we have a host of whizzing insects to prevent our lassitude becoming downright laziness. From the kind of resentment they excite, we may pretty well imagine the temper and disposition of the persons they provoke.

The Drowning Fly.In yonder glass behold a drowning fly!Its little feet how vainly does it ply!Its cries we hear not, yet it loudly cries,And gentle hearts can feel its agonies!Poor helpless victim—and will no one save?Will no one snatch thee from the threat’ning wave?Is there no friendly hand—no helper nigh,And must thou, little struggler—must thou die?Thou shalt not, whilst this hand can set thee free,Thou shalt not die—this hand shall rescue thee!My finger’s tip shall prove a friendly shore,There, trembler, all thy dangers now are o’er.Wipe thy wet wings, and banish all thy fear;Go, join thy num’rous kindred in the air.Away it flies; resumes its harmless play;And lightly gambols in the golden ray.Smile not, spectators, at this humble deed;For you, perhaps, a nobler task’s decreed.A young and sinking family to save:To raise the infant from destruction’s wave!To you, for help, the victims lift their eyes—Oh! hear, for pity’s sake, their plaintive cries;Ere long, unless some guardian interpose,O’er their devoted heads the flood may close!

The Drowning Fly.

In yonder glass behold a drowning fly!Its little feet how vainly does it ply!Its cries we hear not, yet it loudly cries,And gentle hearts can feel its agonies!Poor helpless victim—and will no one save?Will no one snatch thee from the threat’ning wave?Is there no friendly hand—no helper nigh,And must thou, little struggler—must thou die?Thou shalt not, whilst this hand can set thee free,Thou shalt not die—this hand shall rescue thee!My finger’s tip shall prove a friendly shore,There, trembler, all thy dangers now are o’er.Wipe thy wet wings, and banish all thy fear;Go, join thy num’rous kindred in the air.Away it flies; resumes its harmless play;And lightly gambols in the golden ray.Smile not, spectators, at this humble deed;For you, perhaps, a nobler task’s decreed.A young and sinking family to save:To raise the infant from destruction’s wave!To you, for help, the victims lift their eyes—Oh! hear, for pity’s sake, their plaintive cries;Ere long, unless some guardian interpose,O’er their devoted heads the flood may close!

Smile not, spectators, at this humble deed;For you, perhaps, a nobler task’s decreed.A young and sinking family to save:To raise the infant from destruction’s wave!To you, for help, the victims lift their eyes—Oh! hear, for pity’s sake, their plaintive cries;Ere long, unless some guardian interpose,O’er their devoted heads the flood may close!

Mean Temperature 63·07.

[250]Manchester Gazette.

Every year on the ninth of July, the eve of thegreat fairof Wolverhampton, there was formerly a procession of men in antique armour, preceded by musicians playing thefair tune, and followed by the steward of the deanry manor, the peace officers, and many of the principal inhabitants. Tradition says, the ceremony originated when Wolverhampton was a great emporium of wool, and resorted to by merchants of the staple from all parts of England. The necessity of an armed force to keep peace and order during the fair, (which is said to have lasted fourteen days, but the charter says only eight,) isnot improbable. This custom ofwalking the fair, as it was called, with the armed procession, &c. was first omitted about the year1789.[251]

Mean Temperature 63·87.

[251]Shaw’s Staffordshire.

On the tenth of July, 1740, died sir Charles Crispe, bart. of Oxfordshire. He was great-grandson of sir Nicholas Crispe, bart. who spent 100,000l.in the service of king Charles I. and II. He took out a commission of array for the city of London, for which the parliament offered 1000l.reward to bring him alive or dead. The city of London sent him commissioner to Breda, to invite over king Charles II. who took him in his arms, and kissed him, and said, “Surely the city has a mind highly to oblige me, by sending over my father’s old friend to invite me.” He was the first who settled a trade to the coast ofAfrica.[252]

Mean Temperature 62·85.

[252]Gentleman’s Magazine.

On the eleventh of July, 1804, general Hamilton of New-York was killed in a duel by colonel Burr, the vice-president of the United States.

Whereascertain persons who contemn the obligations of religion, are nevertheless mindful of the law of the land: And whereas it is supposed by some of such persons, that parties contemplating to fight a duel and bound over before a magistrate to keep the peace, may, notwithstanding, fight such duel in foreign parts:Be it known, that the law which extends protection to all its subjects, can also punish them for breach of duty, and that, therefore, offences by duelling beyond sea, are indictable and punishable in manner and form, the same as if such duels were fought within the United kingdom.

After this warning against a prevailing offence, we may become acquainted with the character of an unoffending individual, through the pen of a respected friend to this work.

CHEAP TOMMY.For the Every-Day Book.If I forget thee, worthy old Tam Hogg,May I forget that ever knives were cheap:—If I forget thy barrow huge and steep,Slow as a snail, and croaking like a frog:—Peripatetic, stoic, “cynic dog,”If from my memory perish thee, or thine,May I be doomed to gnaw asunder twine,Or shave with razor that has chipped a log!For in thy uncouth tabernacle dweltHonest philosophy; and oh! far moreReligion thy unstooping heart could melt,Nor scorned the muse to sojourn at thy door;What pain, toil, poverty didst thou endure,Reckless of earth so heaven might find thee pure!

CHEAP TOMMY.

For the Every-Day Book.

If I forget thee, worthy old Tam Hogg,May I forget that ever knives were cheap:—If I forget thy barrow huge and steep,Slow as a snail, and croaking like a frog:—Peripatetic, stoic, “cynic dog,”If from my memory perish thee, or thine,May I be doomed to gnaw asunder twine,Or shave with razor that has chipped a log!For in thy uncouth tabernacle dweltHonest philosophy; and oh! far moreReligion thy unstooping heart could melt,Nor scorned the muse to sojourn at thy door;What pain, toil, poverty didst thou endure,Reckless of earth so heaven might find thee pure!

In my native village of Heanor, in Derbyshire, some sixteen or seventeen years ago, there appeared a singular character, whose arrival excited asensation, and became an epoch in its history. Some boys who had been strolling to a distance brought an account that a little man, with a barrow as large as a house, was coming along the lane, at “a snail’s gallop.” Forth sallied a troop of gazerswho found a small, thick-set, round-faced man, in an old, red, soldier’s jacket, and cocked hat, sitting on the handle of his barrow, which was built and roofed after the manner of a caravan; and was a storehouse of some kind of merchandise, what they yet knew not. He sat very quietly as they came round him, and returned their greetings in a way short and dry, and which became markedly testy and impatient, as they crowded more closely, and began to ask questions. “Not too fast, my masters; not too fast! my first answer can’t overtake your twentieth question.” At length he rose, and, by the aid of a strong strap passed over his shoulders, heaved up the handles of his barrow, and placing his head against it, like a tortoise under a stone, proceeded at a toilsome rate of some few hundred yards per hour. This specimen of patient endurance amazed the villagers. A brawny labourer would have thought it a severe toil to wheel it a mile; yet this singular being, outdoing the phlegmatic perseverance of an ass, casting Job himself in the background for patience, from league to league, from county to county, and from year to year, urged on his ponderous vehicle with almost imperceptible progression.

It was soon found that he was not more singular in appearance, than eccentric in mind. A villager, thinking to do him a kindness, offered to wheel his barrow, but what was the surprise of the gazers to see him present the man payment when he had moved it a considerable way, and on its being refused, to behold him quietly raise the barrow, turn it round, and wheel it back to the identical spot whence the villager set out.

On reaching the hamlet, he took up his quarters in a stable, and opened his one-wheeled caravan, displaying a good assortment of cutlery ware. It was there I first saw him, and was struck with his grave and uncomplying air, more like that of a beadle stationed to keep off intruders, than of a solicitous vender of wares. He was standing with a pair of pliers, twisting wire into scissor-chains; keeping, at the same time, a shrewd eye upon the goods. The prices were so wonderfully low that it was whispered the articles could not be good, or they were stolen: yet I did not perceive that either idea was sufficient to dissuade the people from buying, or from attempting to get them still lower. Then it was that his character and temper showed themselves. He laid aside the goods attempted to be chaffered for, saying,—“You shall not have them at all, I tell no lies about them nor shall you.” In fact his goods weregoods. So much so, that many of them are in use in the village to this day: he desired only such a profit as would supply the necessities of one who never slept in a bed, never approached a fire for the sake of its warmth, nor ever indulged in any luxury. His greatest trial appeared to be to bear with the sordid spirit of the world. When this did not cross him he became smiling, communicative, and, strange as it may seem, exceedingly intelligent. I well recollect my boyish astonishment when he quoted to me maxims of Plato and Seneca, and when I heard him pouring out abundance of anecdote from the best sources. He had a real spirit of kindliness in him, though the most immediately striking features of his mind were shrewdness and rigid notions of truth; which, as he practised it himself, he seemed to expect from the whole world. He had a tame hedgehog which partook his fare, slept in a better nest than himself, and was evidently a source of affectionate enjoyment. He was fond of children; but he had a stern spirit of independence which made him refuse gifts and favours, unless permitted to make some return. My mother frequently sent him warm messes in the wintry weather, and he brought her a scissor-chain and a candlestick of brass-wire. He was a writer of anagrams, acrostics, and so forth; and one epitaph written for one of his bystanderswas,—

“Too bad for heaven, too good for hell,So where he’s gone I cannot tell.”

He always slept with his barrow chained to his leg; and on Sundays kept himself totally shut up, except during service time, standing the day through, reading his bible.

When his character was known, he grew to be a general favourite. His stable became a sort of school, where he taught, to a constant audience, more useful knowledge than has emanated from many a philosopher, modern or antique. The good-will he excited evidently pleased the old man; he came again, and again, till at length years rolled away without his reappearance, and he was considered as dead. But not so. For ten or elevenyears he was still going on his pilgrimage, a wanderer and an outcast; probably doing voluntary penance for some sin or unhappiness of youth; for he carefully kept aloof of his native country, Scotland, and though he spoke of one living sister with tearful eyes, he had not seen her for many, many years. In 1820 he had found his way to Midsomer Norton, near Bristol, where he was hooted into the town by a troop of boys, a poor, worn-down object, of the most apparent misery. This I accidentally learnt, a short time ago, from a little book, the memorial of his last days, written by the worthy clergyman of that place, and published by Simpkin and Marshall, London.

What a tale would the history of those years have displayed. What scenes of solitary travel, exhaustion, suffering, insults, and occasional sympathy and kindness, breaking, like cheering sunbeams, through the ordinary gloom.His barrow was gone!Poverty had wrung from him, or weakness had compelled him to abandon, that old companion of his travels. I have often thought what must have been his feelings at that parting. Poor old man, it was his house, his friend, his dog, his everything. What energies had he not expended in propelling it from place to place. It could not have been left without a melancholy pang,—without seeming to begin a more isolated and cheerless existence. But I cannot dwell upon the subject. It is sufficient to say that he found in the rev. William Read, who wrote the little book just mentioned, an excellent friend in the time of final need. That he retained the same eccentric, yet consistent character to the last; displaying, in a concluding scene of such bodily wretchedness and sufferings as has seldom been paralleled, the same astonishing endurance, nay ebullient thankfulness of heart; and that his piety seems to have worn off much of his asperity of manner.

A didactic poem called “The Flower Knot,” or, “The Guide Post,” was found after his death, a composition of no ordinary merit, from which we will quote two passages, and bid a final adieu to our old friend under every name of Thomas Hogg, Tam Hogg, or Cheap Tommy.

Wit.“Pope calls it feather—does he not say right?’Tis like a custard weak, and bears no weight;But had it not that wiping feather beenThe poet’s lines had never shone so clean.Wisdom on foot ascends by slow degrees;But wit has wings, and soars aloft with ease.The sweetest wine makes vinegar most sour,So wit debased is hell’s consummate power.”Hope.“Fountain of song, it prayer begins and ends;Hope is the wing by which the soul ascends.Some may allege I wander from the path,And give to Hope the proper rights of Faith.Like love and friendship, these, a comely pair,What’s done by one, the other has a share:When heat is felt, we judge that fire is near,Hope’s twilight comes,—Faith’s day will soon appear.Thus when the christian’s contest doth beginHope fights with doubts, till Faith’s reserves come in.Hope comes desiring and expects relief;Faith follows, and peace springs from firm belief.Hope balances occurrences of time;Faith will not stop till it has reached the prime.Just like copartners in joint stock of trade,What one contracts is by the other paid.Make use of Hope thy labouring soul to cheer,Faith shall be giv’n, if thou wilt persevere.We see all things alike with either eye,So Faith and Hope the self-same object spy.But what is Hope? or where, or how begun?It comes from God, as light comes from the sun.”H.

Wit.

“Pope calls it feather—does he not say right?’Tis like a custard weak, and bears no weight;But had it not that wiping feather beenThe poet’s lines had never shone so clean.Wisdom on foot ascends by slow degrees;But wit has wings, and soars aloft with ease.The sweetest wine makes vinegar most sour,So wit debased is hell’s consummate power.”

Hope.

“Fountain of song, it prayer begins and ends;Hope is the wing by which the soul ascends.Some may allege I wander from the path,And give to Hope the proper rights of Faith.Like love and friendship, these, a comely pair,What’s done by one, the other has a share:When heat is felt, we judge that fire is near,Hope’s twilight comes,—Faith’s day will soon appear.Thus when the christian’s contest doth beginHope fights with doubts, till Faith’s reserves come in.Hope comes desiring and expects relief;Faith follows, and peace springs from firm belief.Hope balances occurrences of time;Faith will not stop till it has reached the prime.Just like copartners in joint stock of trade,What one contracts is by the other paid.Make use of Hope thy labouring soul to cheer,Faith shall be giv’n, if thou wilt persevere.We see all things alike with either eye,So Faith and Hope the self-same object spy.But what is Hope? or where, or how begun?It comes from God, as light comes from the sun.”

In consequence of this interesting narrative concerning Thomas Hogg, the “little book—the memorial of his last days” by the rev. Mr. Read, was procured by the editor. It is entitled “The Scottish Wanderer,” and as our kind correspondent “H.” has only related his own observations, probably from apprehension that his narrative might be deemed of sufficient length, a few particulars are extracted from Mr. Read’s tract respecting the latter days of this “singular character.”

Mr. Read commences his “Memoir of Thomas Hogg,” by saying—“On Sunday the ninth of January 1820, as I was proceeding in the services of the day, my attention was attracted by a wretched object seated in the nave of the church. There was an air of devout seriousness about him, under all the disadvantages of tattered garments and squalid appearance, which afforded a favourable presentiment to my mind. When the service was over the stranger disappeared.”

Mr. Read conceived that he was some poor passing beggar, who had been allured by the fire in the stove, but to his surprise on the following Sunday the same object presented himself, and took his station, as before, near the stove. He seemed to be a man decrepit with age: his head resting upon his bosom, which was partly exposed, betokened considerable infirmity. Under a coarse and dirty sackcloth frock was to be seen a soldier’s coat patched in various places, which was strangely contrasted with the cleanliness of his shirt. His whole appearance was that of the lowest degree of poverty. His devout attention induced Mr. Read when the service was concluded to inquire who this old man was. “Sir,” replied his informant, “he is a person who works at the blacksmith’s shop; he is a remarkable man, and carries about with him a bible, which he constantly reads.”

In the course of the week Mr. Read paid him a visit. He found him standing by the side of the forge, putting some links of iron-wire together, to form a chain to suspend scissors. The impressions of wretchedness excited by his first appearance were greatly heightened by the soot, which, from the nature of his occupation, had necessarily gathered round his person; and after a few general observations Mr. Read went to Mr. H. S., the master of the shop, who informed him that on Tuesday the fourth of January, in the severely cold weather which then prevailed, this destitute object came to his shop, almost exhausted with cold and fatigue. In his passage through the neighbouring village ofP——,he had been inhumanly pelted with snow-balls by a party of boys, and might probably have perished, but for the humanity of some respectable inhabitants of the place, who rescued him from their hands. Having reached Mr. S.’s shop, he requested permission to erect, in a shed which adjoined the shop, his little apparatus, consisting of a slight table, with a box containing his tools. The benevolent master of the premises kindly stationed him near the forge, where he might pursue his work with advantage. In the evening, when the workmen were about to retire, Mr. S. asked him where he intended to lodge that night. The old man inquired if there were any ox-stall or stable near at hand, which he might be permitted to occupy. His benefactor offered his stable, and the poor creature, with his box and table upon his back, accompanied Mr. S. home, where as comfortable a bed as fresh straw, and shelter from the inclemency of the weather, could afford, was made up. One of Mr. S.’s children afterwards carried him some warm cider, which he accepted with reluctance, expressing his fears lest he should be depriving some part of the family of it.

The weather was very cold: the thermometer, during the past night, had been as low as six or seven degrees of Fahrenheit. In the morning he resumed his post by the side of the forge. Mr. S. allowed him to retain his station as long as he needed it; and contracted so great a regard for him, as to declare, that he never learned so complete a lesson of humility, contentment, and gratitude, as from the conduct of this man.

The poor fellow’s days continued to be passed much in the manner above described; but he had exchanged the stable, at night, for the shop, which was warmer, as soon as his benevolent host was satisfied respecting his principles; and with exemplary diligence he pursued his humble employment of making chains and skewers. He usually dined on hot potatoes, or bread and cheese, with occasionally half a pint of beer. If solicited to take additional refreshment, he would decline it, saying, “I am thankful for the kindness,—but it would beintemperate.”

At an early hour in the afternoon of the first Saturday which he spent in this village, he put by his work, and began to hum a hymn tune. Mr. S. asked him if he could sing. “No, sir,” he replied. “I thought,” added Mr. S., “I heard you singing.” “I was only composing my thoughts a little,” said the poor man, “for the sabbath.”

On Mr. Read being informed of these particulars, he was induced to return to the stranger with a view to converse with him. He says “There was a peculiar bluntness in his manner of expressing himself, but it was very far removed from any thing of churlishness or incivility. All his answers were pertinent, and were sometimes given in such measured terms as quite astonished me. The following was a part of our conversation.—‘Well, my friend, what are you about?’ ‘Making scissor-chains, sir.’ ‘And how long does it take you to make one?’ With peculiar archness he looked up in my face, (for his head always rested upon his bosom, so that the back part of it was depressed nearly to the same horizontal plane with his shoulders,) and with a complacent smile, said, ‘Ah! and you will next ask me how many I make in a day; and then what the wire costs me; and afterwards what I sell them for.’ From the indirectness of his reply, I was induced to conclude that he was in the habit of making something considerable from his employment, and wished to conceal the amount of his gains.” It appeared, however, that he was unable, even with success in disposing of his wares, to earn more than sixpence or sevenpence a day, and that his apparent reluctance to make known his poverty proceeded from habitual contentment.

Mr. Read asked him, why he followed a vagrant life, in preference to a stationary one, in which he would be better known, and more respected? “The nature of my business,” he replied, “requires that I should move about from place to place, that, having exhausted my custom in one spot, I may obtain employment in another. Besides,” added he, “my mode of life has at least this advantage, that if I leave my friends behind me, I leave also my enemies.”

When asked his age, he replied, with a strong and firm voice, “That is a question which I am frequently asked, as if persons supposed me to be a great age: why, I am a mere boy.”

“A mere boy!” repeated Mr. Read; “and pray what do you mean by that expression?”—“I am sixty-five years of age, sir; and with a light heel and a cheerful heart, hope to hold out a considerable time longer.” In the course of the conversation, he said, “It is not often that I am honoured with the visits of clergymen. Two gentlemen, however, of your profession once came to me when I was at ——, in ——, and I expressed a hope that I should derive some advantage from their conversation. ‘We are come,’ said they, ‘with the same expectation to you, for we understand that you know many things.’ I told them that I feared they would be greatly disappointed.” He then stated that the old scholastic question was proposed to him, “Why has God given us two ears and one mouth?” “I replied,” said he, “that we may hear twice as much as we speak;” adding, with his accustomed modesty, “I should not have been able to have given an answer to this question if I had not heard it before.”

Before they parted, Mr. Read lamented the differences that existed between persons of various religious persuasions. The old man rejoined in a sprightly tone, “No matter; there are two sides to the river.” His readiness in reply was remarkable. Whatever he said implied contentment, cheerfulness, and genuine piety. Before Mr. Read took leave of him, he inquired how long he intended to remain in the village. He answered, “I do not know; but as I have house-room and fire without any tax, I am quite satisfied with my situation, and only regret the trouble I am occasioning to my kind host.”

Until the twentieth of the month Mr. Read saw but little of him. On the morning of that day he met him creeping along under a vast burden; for on the precedingMonday he had set out on a journey to Bristol, to procure a fresh stock of wire, and with half a hundred weight of wire upon his back, and three halfpence in his pocket, the sole remains of his scanty fund, he was now returning on foot, after having passed two days on the road, and the intervening night before a coal-pit fire in a neighbouring village. The snow was deep upon the ground, and the scene indescribably desolate. Mr. Read was glad to see him, and inquired if he were not very tired. “A little, a little,” he replied, and taking off his hat, he asked if he could execute any thing for me. An order for some trifling articles, brought him to Mr. Read on the following Wednesday, who entered into conversation with him, and says, “he repeated many admirable adages, with which his memory appeared to be well stored, and incidentally touched on the wordcleanliness. Immediately I added, ‘cleanliness is next to godliness;’ and seized the opportunity which I had long wanted, but from fear of wounding his mind hesitated to embrace, to tell him of the absence of that quality in himself. He with much good nature replied, ‘I believe I amsubstantiallyclean. I have a clean shirt every week: my business, however, necessarily makes me dirty in my person.’ ‘But why do you not dress more tidily, and take more care of yourself? You know that God hath given us the comforts of life that we may enjoy them. Cannot you afford yourself these comforts?’ ‘That question,’ said he emphatically, but by no means rudely, ‘you should have set out with. No, sir, I cannot afford myself these comforts.’”

Mr. Read perceiving his instep to be inflamed, and that he had a miserable pair of shoes, pressed a pair of his own upon him.

On the following day he visited him, and found him working upon his chains while sitting,—a posture in which he did not often indulge. Mr. Read looked at his foot, and found the whole leg prodigiously swollen and discoloured. It had inflamed and mortified from fatigue of walking and inclemency of the weather during the journey to Bristol. Mr. Read insisted on his having medical assistance. “The doctor is expected in the village to-day, and youmustsee him: I will give orders for him to call in upon you.” “That is kind,verykind,” he replied. At this moment an ignorant talker in the shop exclaimed in a vexatious and offensive manner, that he would not have such a leg (taking off his hat) “forthat, full of guineas.” The old man looked up somewhat sharply at him, and said, “nor I, if I could help it.” The other, however, proceeded with his ranting. The afflicted man added, “You only torture me by your observations.” This was the only instance approaching to impatience he manifested.

It appears that of late he had slept in one corner of the workshop, upon the bare earth, without his clothes, and with the only blanket he had, wrapped round his shoulders. It was designed to procure him a bed in a better abode; but he preferred remaining where he was, and only requested some clean straw. He seemed fixed to his purpose; every thing was arranged, as well as could be, for his accommodation.

Early the next morning Mr. Read found the swelling and blackness extending themselves rapidly towards the vital parts. The poor fellow was at times delirious, and convulsed; but he dozed during the greater part of the day. It was perceived from an involuntary gesture of the medical gentleman on his entrance, that he had not before witnessed many such objects. He declared there was but little hope of life. Warm fomentations, and large doses of bark and port wine were administered. A bed was provided in a neighbouring house, and Mr. Read informed the patient of his wish to remove him to it, and his anxiety that he should take the medicines prescribed. He submitted to every thing proposed, and added, “One night more, and I shall be beyond the clouds.”

On the Saturday his speech was almost unintelligible, the delirium became more frequent, and his hands were often apparently employed in the task to which they had been so long habituated, making links for chains; his respiration became more and more hurried; and Mr. Read ordered that he should be allowed to remain quite quiet upon his bed. At certain intervals his mind seemed collected, and Mr. R. soothed him by kind attentions. He said, “There are your spectacles; but I do not think they have brought your bible? I dare say you would like to read it?” “By-and-by,” he replied: “I am pretty well acquainted with its contents.” He articulated indistinctly, appeared exhausted, and onSunday morning his death-knell was rung from the steeple. He died about two o’clock in the morning without a sigh. His last word was, in answer to the question, how are you?—“Happy.”

A letter from a gentleman of Jedburgh, to the publishers of Mr. Read’s tract, contains the following further particulars respecting this humble individual.

At school he seldom associated with those of his own age, and rarely took part in those games which are so attractive to the generality of youth, and which cannot be condemned in their own place. His declining the society of his schoolfellows did not seem to arise from a sour and unsocial temper, nor from a quarrelsome disposition on his part, but from a love of solitude, and from his finding more satisfaction in the resources of his own mind, than in all the noise and tumult of the most fascinating amusements.

He was, from his youth, noted for making shrewd and sometimes witty remarks, which indicated no ordinary cast of mind; and in many instances showed a sagacity and discrimination which could not be expected from his years. He was, according to the expressive language of his contemporaries, an “auld farrend” boy. He began at an early period to make scissor-chains, more for amusement than for profit, and without ever dreaming that to this humble occupation he was to be indebted for subsistence in the end of his days. When no more than nine or ten years of age, he betook himself to the selling of toys and some cheap articles of hardware; and gave reason to hope, from his shrewd, cautious, and economical character, that he would gradually increase his stock of goods, and rise to affluence in the world. His early acquaintances, considering these things, cannot account for the extreme poverty in which he was found at the time of his death. He appears to have been always inattentive to his external dress, which, at times, was ragged enough; but was remarkable for attention to his linen—his shirts, however coarse, were always clean. This was his general character in the days of his youth. On his last visit to Jedburgh, twenty-nine years before his death, he came with his clothes in a most wretched condition. His sisters, two very excellent women, feeling for their brother, and concerned for their own credit, got a suit of clothes made without delay. Dressed in this manner, he continued in the place for some time, visiting old acquaintances, and enjoying the society of his friends. He left Jedburgh soon after; and, from that time, his sisters heard no more of their brother.

Hogg’s father was not a native of Jedburgh. Those with whom I have conversed seem to think that he came from the neighbourhood of Selkirk, and was closely connected with the progenitor of theEttrick Shepherd. He, properly speaking, had no trade; at least did not practise any: he used to travel through the country with a pack containing some hardware goods, and at one time kept a small shop in Jedburgh. All accounts agree that the father had, if not a talent for poetry, at least a talent for rhyming.

He appears to have had a most excellent mother, whom he regularly accompanied to their usual place of public worship, and to whom he was indebted for many pious and profitable instructions, which seem to have been of signal service to her son when she herself was numbered with the dead and mouldering in the dust.

During the time of his continuance in Jedburgh and its vicinity, he evinced a becoming regard to the external duties of religion; but nothing of that sublime devotion which cheered the evening of his days, and which caused such astonishing contentment in the midst of manifold privations. My own belief is, from all the circumstances of the case, that the pious efforts of his worthy mother did not succeed in the first instance, but were blessed for his benefit at an advanced period of life. The extreme poverty to which he was reduced, and the corporal ailments under which he had laboured for a long time, were like breaking up the fallow ground, and causing the seed which had been sown to vegetate.

We must here part from “the Scottish Wanderer.” Some, perhaps, may think he might have been dismissed before—“for what was he?” He was not renowned, for he was neither warrior nor statesman, but to be guileless and harmless is to be happier than the ruler of the turbulent,and more honourable than the leader of an army. If his life was not illustrious, it was wise; for he could not have been seen, and sojourned in the hamlets of labour and ignorance, without exciting regard and communicating instruction. He might have been ridiculed or despised on his first appearance, but where he remained he taught by the pithy truth of his sayings, and the rectitude of his conduct: if the peripatetic philosophers of antiquity did so much, they did no more. Few among those who, in later times, have been reputed wise, were teachers of practical wisdom: the wisdom of the rest was surpassed by “Cheap Tommy’s.”

Mean Temperature 64·07.

In July, 1731, “an odd accident happened in Bushy-park to one of the helpers in the king’s stables, riding his majesty’s own hunting horse, who was frighted by a swan flying at him out of the canal, which caused him to run away, and dash out his brains against the iron gates; the man was thrown on the iron spikes, which only entering his clothes did him no hurt. Some time before, the same swan is said to have flown at his highness the duke, but caused nodisaster.”[253]

This, which is noticed by apleasant storyincolumn 914as the “swan-hopping season,” is a time of enjoyment with all who are fond of aquatic pleasures. On fine days, and especially since the invention of steam-boats, crowds of citizens and suburbans of London glide along the Thames to different places of entertainment on its banks.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Sir,—As it is the object of theEvery-Day Bookto preserve a faithful portraiture of the prominent features and amusements of the age, as well as the customs of the “olden time,” I subjoin for insertion a brief account of an unobtruding society for the relief of the distressed; with the sincere hope that its laudable endeavours may be followed by many others.

A number of respectable tradesmen, who meet to pass a few social hours at the house of Mr. Cross, Bethnal-green, impressed by the distresses of the thickly-populated district in which they reside, resolved to lay themselves and friends under a small weekly contribution, to allay, as far as possible, the wretchedness of their poorer neighbours. They feel much gratification in knowing that in the course of two years their exertions have alleviated the sorrows of many indigent families. Nearly four hundred friends have come forward as subscribers to assist them in their praise-worthy undertaking; yet such is the misery by which they are surrounded—such are the imperative demands on their bounty, that their little fund is continually impoverished.

In furtherance of their benevolent views they projected an annual excursion to Twickenham, sometime in the month of July; the profits from the tickets to be devoted to theFriend-in-Need Society. I have joined them in this agreeable trip, and regard the day as one of the happiest in my existence. A few gentlemen acted as a committee, and to their judicious arrangements much of the pleasure of the day is due. The morning was particularly favourable: at eight o’clock the “Diana” steam-packet left her moorings off Southwark-bridge, and bore away up the river with her long smoky pendant; a good band of music enlivened the scene by popular airs, not forgetting the eternal “Jagher chorus.” I arrived on board just at starting, and having passed the usual “how d’ye does,” seated myself to observe the happy circle. They appeared to have left “old care” behind them; the laugh and joke resounded from side to side, and happiness dwelt in every countenance. There was no unnecessary etiquette; all were neighbours and all intimate. As soon as we began to get clear of London, the beautiful scenery formed a delightful panoramic view. Battersea, Wandsworth, Putney, Kew, and Richmond, arose in succession; when, after staying a short time at the latter place to allow those who were disposed to land, we proceeded on to Twickenham Aite, an island delightfully situated in the middle of the Thames, where we arrived about twelve o’clock. Preparation had beenmade for our reception: the boat hauled up alongside the island for the better landing; tents were erected on the lawn; a spacious and well-stocked fruit-garden was thrown open for our pleasure; and plenty of good cheer provided by “mine host” of the “Eel-pie house.” On each side of the lawn might be seen different parties doing ample justice to “ham sandwiches, and bottled cider.” After the repast, the “elder” gentlemen formed into a convivial party; the “report of the society” was read; and, afterwards, the song and glee went merrily round; while the younger formed themselves in array for a country-dance, and nimbly footed to the sound of sweet music “under the greenwood tree:” the more juvenile felt equal delight at “kiss-in-the-ring,” on the grass-plat.

He must have been a stoic indeed who could have viewed this scene without feelings of delight, heightened as it was by the smiles of loveliness. These sports were maintained until time called for our departure; when having re-embarked, the vessel glided heavily back, as if reluctant to break off such happy hours. The dance was again renewed on board—the same hearty laugh was again heard; there was the same exuberance of spirits in the juniors; no one was tired, and all seemed to regret the quickly approaching separation. About nine o’clock we safely landed from the boat at Queenhithe stairs, and after a parting “farewell,” each pursued the way home, highly delighted with the excursion of the day, enhanced as it was by the reflection, that in the pursuit of pleasure we had assisted the purposes of charity.J. H. C.

Kingsland-road, July, 1826.

It appears that formerly—“When the citizens, in gaily-decorated barges, went up the river annually in August, to mark and count their swans, which is called swan-hopping, they used to land at Barn Elms, and, after partaking of a cold collation on the grass, they merrily danced away a few hours. This was a gala-day for the village; and happy was the lad or lass admitted into the party of the fine folks of London. This practice has, however, been longdiscontinued.”[254]

The yearly visit of members of the corporation of London to the swans on its noble river, is commonly termed “Swan-hopping.” This name is a vulgar and long used corruption of “Swan-upping,” signifying the duties of the official visiters, which was to “takeup” the swans and mark them. The ancient and real term may be gathered from the old laws concerning swans, to have been technically and properly used. They were manorial and royal birds; and in proof of their estimation in former times, a rare and valuable quarto tract of four leaves, printed in 1570, may be referred to. It mentions the “vppingdaies;” declares what persons shall “vpno swannes;” and speaks of a court no longer popularly known, namely, “the king’s majesties justices of sessions of swans.” This curious tract is here reprinted verbatim,viz:—

THEOrder for Swannesboth byThe Statutes, and by the Auncient Orders and Customes, used withinthe Realme of England.

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