ElegyWritten in Bartlemy Fair, atFive o’clock in the morning, in 1810.The clock-bell tolls the hour of early day,The lowing herd their Smithfield penance drie,The watchman homeward plods his weary wayAnd leaves the fair—all solitude to me!Now the first beams of morning glad the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds;Save when the sheep-dog bays with hoarse affright,And brutal drovers pen the unwilling folds.Save that where sheltered, or from wind or shower,The lock’d-out ’prentice, or frail nymph complain,Of such as, wandering near their secret bower,Molest them, sensible in sleep, to pain.Beneath those ragged tents—that boarded shade,Which late display’d its stores in tempting heaps;There, children, dogs, cakes, oysters, all are laid,There, guardian of the whole, the master sleeps.The busy call of care-begetting morn,The well-slept passenger’s unheeding tread;The showman’s clarion, or the echoing horn,Too soon must rouse them from their lowly bed.Perhaps in this neglected booth is laidSome head volcanic, oft discharging fire!Hands—that the rod ofmagiclately sway’d;Toes—that so nimbly danc’d upon the wire.Some clown, or pantaloon—the gazers’ jest,Here, with his train in dirty pageant stood:Some tired-out posture-master here may rest,Some conjuring swordsman—guiltless of his blood!The applause of listening cockneys to command,The threats of city-marshal to despise;To give delight to all the grinning band,And read their merit in spectators’ eyes,Is still their boast;—nor, haply, theirs alone,Polito’s lions (though nowdormantlaid)And human monsters, shall acquire renown,The spotted Negro—and the armless maid!Peace to the youth, who, slumbering at theBear,Forgets his present lot, his perils past:Soon will the crowd again be thronging there,To view the man on wild Sombrero cast.Careful their booths, from insult to protect,These furl their tapestry, late erected high;Nor longer with prodigious pictures deck’d,They tempt the passing youth’s astonish’d eye.But when the day calls forth the belles and beaux,The cunning showmen each device display,And many a clown the useful notice shows,To teach ascending strangers—where to pay.Sleep on, ye imps of merriment—sleep on!In this short respite to your labouring train;And when this time of annual mirth is gone,May ye enjoy, in peace, your hard-earnedgain![333]
Elegy
Written in Bartlemy Fair, atFive o’clock in the morning, in 1810.
The clock-bell tolls the hour of early day,The lowing herd their Smithfield penance drie,The watchman homeward plods his weary wayAnd leaves the fair—all solitude to me!Now the first beams of morning glad the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds;Save when the sheep-dog bays with hoarse affright,And brutal drovers pen the unwilling folds.Save that where sheltered, or from wind or shower,The lock’d-out ’prentice, or frail nymph complain,Of such as, wandering near their secret bower,Molest them, sensible in sleep, to pain.Beneath those ragged tents—that boarded shade,Which late display’d its stores in tempting heaps;There, children, dogs, cakes, oysters, all are laid,There, guardian of the whole, the master sleeps.The busy call of care-begetting morn,The well-slept passenger’s unheeding tread;The showman’s clarion, or the echoing horn,Too soon must rouse them from their lowly bed.Perhaps in this neglected booth is laidSome head volcanic, oft discharging fire!Hands—that the rod ofmagiclately sway’d;Toes—that so nimbly danc’d upon the wire.Some clown, or pantaloon—the gazers’ jest,Here, with his train in dirty pageant stood:Some tired-out posture-master here may rest,Some conjuring swordsman—guiltless of his blood!The applause of listening cockneys to command,The threats of city-marshal to despise;To give delight to all the grinning band,And read their merit in spectators’ eyes,Is still their boast;—nor, haply, theirs alone,Polito’s lions (though nowdormantlaid)And human monsters, shall acquire renown,The spotted Negro—and the armless maid!Peace to the youth, who, slumbering at theBear,Forgets his present lot, his perils past:Soon will the crowd again be thronging there,To view the man on wild Sombrero cast.Careful their booths, from insult to protect,These furl their tapestry, late erected high;Nor longer with prodigious pictures deck’d,They tempt the passing youth’s astonish’d eye.But when the day calls forth the belles and beaux,The cunning showmen each device display,And many a clown the useful notice shows,To teach ascending strangers—where to pay.Sleep on, ye imps of merriment—sleep on!In this short respite to your labouring train;And when this time of annual mirth is gone,May ye enjoy, in peace, your hard-earnedgain![333]
The clock-bell tolls the hour of early day,The lowing herd their Smithfield penance drie,The watchman homeward plods his weary wayAnd leaves the fair—all solitude to me!
Now the first beams of morning glad the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds;Save when the sheep-dog bays with hoarse affright,And brutal drovers pen the unwilling folds.
Save that where sheltered, or from wind or shower,The lock’d-out ’prentice, or frail nymph complain,Of such as, wandering near their secret bower,Molest them, sensible in sleep, to pain.
Beneath those ragged tents—that boarded shade,Which late display’d its stores in tempting heaps;There, children, dogs, cakes, oysters, all are laid,There, guardian of the whole, the master sleeps.
The busy call of care-begetting morn,The well-slept passenger’s unheeding tread;The showman’s clarion, or the echoing horn,Too soon must rouse them from their lowly bed.
Perhaps in this neglected booth is laidSome head volcanic, oft discharging fire!Hands—that the rod ofmagiclately sway’d;Toes—that so nimbly danc’d upon the wire.
Some clown, or pantaloon—the gazers’ jest,Here, with his train in dirty pageant stood:Some tired-out posture-master here may rest,Some conjuring swordsman—guiltless of his blood!
The applause of listening cockneys to command,The threats of city-marshal to despise;To give delight to all the grinning band,And read their merit in spectators’ eyes,
Is still their boast;—nor, haply, theirs alone,Polito’s lions (though nowdormantlaid)And human monsters, shall acquire renown,The spotted Negro—and the armless maid!
Peace to the youth, who, slumbering at theBear,Forgets his present lot, his perils past:Soon will the crowd again be thronging there,To view the man on wild Sombrero cast.
Careful their booths, from insult to protect,These furl their tapestry, late erected high;Nor longer with prodigious pictures deck’d,They tempt the passing youth’s astonish’d eye.
But when the day calls forth the belles and beaux,The cunning showmen each device display,And many a clown the useful notice shows,To teach ascending strangers—where to pay.
Sleep on, ye imps of merriment—sleep on!In this short respite to your labouring train;And when this time of annual mirth is gone,May ye enjoy, in peace, your hard-earnedgain![333]
Mean Temperature 60·40.
[331]Mirror of the Months.[332]Nelson’s History of Islington.[333]The Morning Chronicle, 1810.
[331]Mirror of the Months.
[332]Nelson’s History of Islington.
[333]The Morning Chronicle, 1810.
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
August 18, 1826.
Dear Sir,—Perhaps you, or some of your readers, may be acquainted with a small village in the north of Wiltshire, calledPurton, very pleasantly situated, and dear to me, from a child; it being the place where I passed nearly all my boyish days. I went to school there, and there spent many a pleasant hour which I now think of with sincere delight; and perhaps you will not object to a few particulars concerning a fair held there on the first day of May and the third day of September in every year.
The spot whereon Purton fair is annually celebrated, is a very pleasant little green called the “close,” or play-ground, belonging to all the unmarried men in the village. They generally assemble there every evening after the toils of the day to recreate themselves with a few pleasant sports. Their favourite game is what they callbackswording, in some places calledsinglestick. Some few of the village have the good fortune to be adepts in thatnoble art, and are held up as beings of transcendent genius among the rustic admirers of that noted science. They have one whom they call their umpire, to whom all disputes are referred, and he always, with the greatest possible impartiality, decides them.
About six years ago a neighbouring farmer, whose orchard joins the green, thought that his orchard might be greatly improved. He accordingly set to work, pulled down the original wall, and built a new one, not forgetting to take in several feet of the green. The villagers felt great indignity at the encroachment, and resolved to claim their rights. They waited till the new wall should be complete, and in the evening of the same day a party of about forty marched to the spot armed with great sticks, pickaxes, &c., and very deliberately commenced breaking down the wall. The owner on being apprised of what was passing, assembled all his domestics and proceeded to the spot, when a furious scuffle ensued, and several serious accidents happened. At last, however, the aggressor finding he could not succeed, proposed a settlement; he entirely removed the new wall on the following day, and returned it to the place where the old one stood.
On the morning of the fair, as soon as the day begins to dawn, all is bustle and confusion throughout the village. Gipsies are first seen with their donkies approaching the place of rendezvous; then the village rustics in their clean white Sunday smocks, and the lasses with their Sunday gowns, caps, and ribands, hasten to the green, and all is mirth and gaiety.
I cannot pass over a very curious character who used regularly to visit the fair, and I was told by an ancient inhabitant that he had done so for several years. He was an old gipsy who had attained to high favour with all the younkers of the place, from his jocular habits, curious dress, and the pleasant stories he used to relate. He called himself “Corey Dyne,” or “Old Corey,” and those are the only names by which he was known. He was accustomed to place a little hat on the ground, from the centre of which rose a stick about three feet high, whereon he put either halfpence or a small painted box, or something equally winning to the eye of his little customers. There he stood crying, “Now who throws with poor old Corey—come to Corey—come to Corey Dyne; only a halfpenny a throw, and only once a year!” A boy who had purchased the right to throw was placed about three feet from the hat, with a small piece of wood which he threw at the article on the stick, and if it fell in the hat, (which by the by it was almost invariably sure to do,) the thrower lost his money; but if out of the hat, on the ground, the article from the stick was claimed by the thrower. The good humour of “Old Corey” generally ensured him plenty of custom. I have oftentimes been a loser with him, but never a winner. I believe that no one in all Purton knows from whence he is, although every body is acquainted with him.
There was a large show on the place, at which the rustics were wont to gaze with surprise and admiration. The chief object of their wonder was our “punch.” They could not form the slightest idea how little wooden figures could talk and dance about; they supposed that there must be some life in them. I well remember that I once undertook to set them right, but was laughed at and derided me for my presumption and boast ofsuperior knowledge.
There was also another very merry fellow who frequented the fair by the name of “Mr. Merryman.” He obtainedgreat celebrity by giving various imitations of birds, &c., which he would very readily do after collecting a sufficient sum “to clear his pipe,” as he used to say. He then began with the nightingale, which he imitated very successfully, then followed the blackbird—linnet—goldfinch—robin—geese and ducks on a rainy morning—turkies, &c. &c. Then, perhaps, after collecting some more money “to clear his pipe,” he would imitate a jackass, or a cow. His excellent imitation of the crow of a cock strongly affected the risible muscles of his auditors.
The amusements last till near midnight, when the rustics, being exhilarated with the effects of good strong Wiltshire ale, generally part after a few glorious battles.
The next day several champions enter the field to contest the right to several prizes, which are laid out in the followingorder:—
1st. A new smock.
2nd. A new hat with a blue cockade.
3rd. An inferior hat with a white cockade.
4th. A still inferior hat without a cockade.
A stage is erected on the green, and at five o’clock the sport commences; and a very celebrated personage, whom they call theirumpshire, (umpire,) stands high above the rest to award the prizes. The candidates are generally selected from the best players at singlestick, and on this occasion they use their utmost skill and ingenuity, and are highly applauded by the surrounding spectators. I must not forget to remark that on this grand, and to them, interesting day, the inhabitants of Purton do not combat against each other. No—believe me, sir, they are better acquainted with the laws of chivalry. Purton produces four candidates, and a small village adjoining, called Stretton, sends forth four more. These candidates are representatives of the villages to which they respectively belong, and they who lose have to pay all the expenses of the day; but it is to the credit of the sons of Purton I record, that for seven successive years their candidates have been returned the victors. The contest generally lasts two hours, and, after that, the ceremony of chairing the representatives takes place, which is thus performed:—Four chairs made with the boughs of trees are in waiting, and the conquerors are placed therein and carried through the village with every possible demonstration of joy, the inhabitants shouting “Purton for ever! huzza! my boys, huzza!” and waving boughs over their triumphant candidates. After the chairing they adjourn to the village public-house, and spend the remainder of the evening as before.
The third day is likewise a day of bustle and confusion. All repair to a small common, called the cricket ground, and a grand match takes place between the Purton club and the Stretton club; there are about twenty candidates of a side. The vanquished parties pay a shilling each to defray the expense of a cold collation, which is previously provided in a pleasant little copse adjoining the cricket-ground, and the remainder of the day is spent convivially.
I remember hearing the landlord of the public-house at Purton, (which is situated on one side of the green,) observe to a villager, that during the three days’ merriment he had sold six thousand gallons of strong beer and ale; the man of course doubted him, and afterwards very sarcastically remarked to me, “It’s just as asy, measter, for he to zay zix thousand gallons as dree thousand!” Does not this, good Mr. Editor, show a little genuine Purton wit?
I have now, my dear sir, finished, and have endeavoured to describe three pleasant days spent in an innocent and happy manner; and if I have succeeded in affording you any service, or your readers any amusement, I am amply rewarded. Allow me to add I feel such an affection for old Purton, that should I at any time in my life visit Wiltshire, I would travel twenty miles out of my road to ramble once more in the haunts of my boyhood.
Believe me, my dear Sir,Yours very sincerely,C. T.
August, 18, 1826.
P.S. Since writing the above I have received a letter from a very particular friend who went to Purton school five years, to whom I applied for a few extra particulars respecting the fair, &c., and he thus writes, “Dear C. You seem to think that with the name I still retain all the characteristics and predilections of ahodge; and therefore you seek to me for information respecting the backsword-playing, fair, &c. Know that as to the first, it is (and has been for the last two years) entirely done away with, as the principal ‘farmers’ in the place ‘done’like it, and so don’t suffer it. As to the fair, where lads and lasses meet in their best gowns, and ribands, and clean smocks, you must know, most assuredly, more of it than I do, as I seldom troubled about it. You must bear in mind that this fair is exactly the same as that held in the month of May, but as no notice has been taken of it by Mr. Hone in either of his volumes, I suppose it very little matters whether your description is of the fair held in May or September.”
I have to lament, my dear sir, the discontinuance of the ancient custom of backswording at Purton village; but so long as they keep up their fairs, the other loss will not be so much felt.C. T.
August 30, 1826.
I forgot to mention in my particulars of Purton-fair, that Old Corey, and the othercelebratedworthies, only come to the September fair, as the May fair is disregarded by them, it being a fair principally for the sale of cattle, &c. and the September fair is entirely devoted to pleasure. Perhaps you can introduce this small piece of intelligence, together with the following doggrel song written for the occasion.C. T.
TO THE WORTHY AND RESPECTABLE INHABITANTS OF PURTON,ThisSONGis most respectfully inscribed,By their ever true and devoted humble servant,
Charles Tomlinson.
SONG.Purton Fair.Come, neighbours, listen, I’ll sing you a song,Which, I assure you, will not keep you long;I’ll sing a good song about old Purton fair,For that is the place, lads, to drive away care.The damsels all meet full of mirth and of glee,And they are as happy as happy can be;Such worth, and such beauty, fairs seldom display,And sorrow is banished on this happy day.There’s the brave lads of Purton at backsword so clever,Who were ne’er known to flinch, but victorious ever;The poor boys of Stretton are basted away,For Purton’s fam’d youths ever carry the day.’Tis “Old Corey Dyne,” who wisely declares,Stretton’s lads must be beaten at all Purton’s fairs;They can’t match our courage, then, huzza! my boys,To still conquering Purton let’s kick up a noise.“Old Corey’s” the merriest blade in the fair,What he tells us is true, so, prithee, don’t stare;“Remember poor Corey, come, pray have a throw,’Tisbutonce a year, as you very well know.”But—here ends my song, so let’s haste to the green,’Tis as pretty a spot as ever was seen;And if you are sad or surrounded with care,Haste quickly! haste quickly! toOld Purton Fair.
SONG.
Purton Fair.
Come, neighbours, listen, I’ll sing you a song,Which, I assure you, will not keep you long;I’ll sing a good song about old Purton fair,For that is the place, lads, to drive away care.The damsels all meet full of mirth and of glee,And they are as happy as happy can be;Such worth, and such beauty, fairs seldom display,And sorrow is banished on this happy day.There’s the brave lads of Purton at backsword so clever,Who were ne’er known to flinch, but victorious ever;The poor boys of Stretton are basted away,For Purton’s fam’d youths ever carry the day.’Tis “Old Corey Dyne,” who wisely declares,Stretton’s lads must be beaten at all Purton’s fairs;They can’t match our courage, then, huzza! my boys,To still conquering Purton let’s kick up a noise.“Old Corey’s” the merriest blade in the fair,What he tells us is true, so, prithee, don’t stare;“Remember poor Corey, come, pray have a throw,’Tisbutonce a year, as you very well know.”But—here ends my song, so let’s haste to the green,’Tis as pretty a spot as ever was seen;And if you are sad or surrounded with care,Haste quickly! haste quickly! toOld Purton Fair.
Come, neighbours, listen, I’ll sing you a song,Which, I assure you, will not keep you long;I’ll sing a good song about old Purton fair,For that is the place, lads, to drive away care.
The damsels all meet full of mirth and of glee,And they are as happy as happy can be;Such worth, and such beauty, fairs seldom display,And sorrow is banished on this happy day.
There’s the brave lads of Purton at backsword so clever,Who were ne’er known to flinch, but victorious ever;The poor boys of Stretton are basted away,For Purton’s fam’d youths ever carry the day.
’Tis “Old Corey Dyne,” who wisely declares,Stretton’s lads must be beaten at all Purton’s fairs;They can’t match our courage, then, huzza! my boys,To still conquering Purton let’s kick up a noise.
“Old Corey’s” the merriest blade in the fair,What he tells us is true, so, prithee, don’t stare;“Remember poor Corey, come, pray have a throw,’Tisbutonce a year, as you very well know.”
But—here ends my song, so let’s haste to the green,’Tis as pretty a spot as ever was seen;And if you are sad or surrounded with care,Haste quickly! haste quickly! toOld Purton Fair.
Mean Temperature 61·07.
Gather them dry, and put them with clean straw, or clean chaff, into casks; cover them up close, and put them into a cool dry cellar. Fruit will keep perfectly good a twelvemonth in this manner.
Let the cultivator of choice fruit cut in paper the initial letters of his name, or any other mark he likes; and just before his peaches, nectarines, &c. begin to be coloured, stick such letters or mark with gum-water on that side of the fruit which is next the sun. That part of the rind which is under the paper will remain green, in the exact form of the mark, and and so the fruit be known wheresoever found, for the mark cannot be obliterated.
Mean Temperature 59·92.
This day has been so marked in our almanacs since the new style.
We may expect very pleasant weather during this month. For whether the summer has been cold, warm, or showery, September, in all latitudes lying between 45 and 55 degrees north, produces, on an average, the finest and pleasantest weather of the year: as we get farther south the pleasantest temperature is found in October; more northward than 55 degrees the chills of autumn are already arrived, and we must look for temperature toAugust.[334]
The Gymnasium.For the Every-Day Book.Hæc opera atque hæ sunt generosi Principis artes.Juv. Sat. 8. L. 224.
The Gymnasium.For the Every-Day Book.
Hæc opera atque hæ sunt generosi Principis artes.
Hæc opera atque hæ sunt generosi Principis artes.
Juv. Sat. 8. L. 224.
Let cricket, tennis, fives, and ball,The active to amusement call;Let sportsmen through the fields at mornDischarge the gun and sound the horn,—Gymnastic sport shall fill my hours,Renew my strength and tone my powers.I learn to climb, to walk and run,I make defence, and dangers shun;Now quick, now slow, now poised on high,I stand in air and vault the sky;The sailor’s skill, the soldier’s part,I compass by Gymnastic art.All life’s concerns require that healthShould be secured to gather wealth;That limb and muscle, nerve and vein,Should vigorous force and motion gain:—Seek the Gymnasium,—try the plan,And be the strong and graceful man.The Olympic games, of Grecian birth,Gave many a youth athletic worth;Hence Romans shone;—hence Britons fought,The Picts and Vandals influence caught;The lance, the spear, and arrow flew,And prove what deeds Gymnastics do.With ease the horseman learns to rideAnd keep his hobby in his pride;Bloodless the feats are here pursued,And vanquished contests are renewed.Hey for Gymnastics!—’tis the rageBoth with the simple and the sage.Clias, and Voelker as the chief,Each makes his charge and gives relief;Each points his pupils to the goal,And, more than Parry, gains the pole:—Up and be trim!—the sport is fine,—Fling down the gauntlet,—mount the line.Caleidoscopes were once the taste,—Velocipedes were rode for haste,—Those fed the eye with pleasing views,These ran the streets and tithed their dues;Thrown to the shade like fashions past,Gymnastics reign, for they are last.Nature with art is like a tower,Strong in defence in every hour;Nature with art can nearly climbThe Alp and Appenine of time;Make life more lasting, life more bold,By true Gymnastic skill controlled.J. R. Prior.Sept. 1826.
Let cricket, tennis, fives, and ball,The active to amusement call;Let sportsmen through the fields at mornDischarge the gun and sound the horn,—Gymnastic sport shall fill my hours,Renew my strength and tone my powers.I learn to climb, to walk and run,I make defence, and dangers shun;Now quick, now slow, now poised on high,I stand in air and vault the sky;The sailor’s skill, the soldier’s part,I compass by Gymnastic art.All life’s concerns require that healthShould be secured to gather wealth;That limb and muscle, nerve and vein,Should vigorous force and motion gain:—Seek the Gymnasium,—try the plan,And be the strong and graceful man.The Olympic games, of Grecian birth,Gave many a youth athletic worth;Hence Romans shone;—hence Britons fought,The Picts and Vandals influence caught;The lance, the spear, and arrow flew,And prove what deeds Gymnastics do.With ease the horseman learns to rideAnd keep his hobby in his pride;Bloodless the feats are here pursued,And vanquished contests are renewed.Hey for Gymnastics!—’tis the rageBoth with the simple and the sage.Clias, and Voelker as the chief,Each makes his charge and gives relief;Each points his pupils to the goal,And, more than Parry, gains the pole:—Up and be trim!—the sport is fine,—Fling down the gauntlet,—mount the line.Caleidoscopes were once the taste,—Velocipedes were rode for haste,—Those fed the eye with pleasing views,These ran the streets and tithed their dues;Thrown to the shade like fashions past,Gymnastics reign, for they are last.Nature with art is like a tower,Strong in defence in every hour;Nature with art can nearly climbThe Alp and Appenine of time;Make life more lasting, life more bold,By true Gymnastic skill controlled.
Let cricket, tennis, fives, and ball,The active to amusement call;Let sportsmen through the fields at mornDischarge the gun and sound the horn,—Gymnastic sport shall fill my hours,Renew my strength and tone my powers.
I learn to climb, to walk and run,I make defence, and dangers shun;Now quick, now slow, now poised on high,I stand in air and vault the sky;The sailor’s skill, the soldier’s part,I compass by Gymnastic art.
All life’s concerns require that healthShould be secured to gather wealth;That limb and muscle, nerve and vein,Should vigorous force and motion gain:—Seek the Gymnasium,—try the plan,And be the strong and graceful man.
The Olympic games, of Grecian birth,Gave many a youth athletic worth;Hence Romans shone;—hence Britons fought,The Picts and Vandals influence caught;The lance, the spear, and arrow flew,And prove what deeds Gymnastics do.
With ease the horseman learns to rideAnd keep his hobby in his pride;Bloodless the feats are here pursued,And vanquished contests are renewed.Hey for Gymnastics!—’tis the rageBoth with the simple and the sage.
Clias, and Voelker as the chief,Each makes his charge and gives relief;Each points his pupils to the goal,And, more than Parry, gains the pole:—Up and be trim!—the sport is fine,—Fling down the gauntlet,—mount the line.
Caleidoscopes were once the taste,—Velocipedes were rode for haste,—Those fed the eye with pleasing views,These ran the streets and tithed their dues;Thrown to the shade like fashions past,Gymnastics reign, for they are last.
Nature with art is like a tower,Strong in defence in every hour;Nature with art can nearly climbThe Alp and Appenine of time;Make life more lasting, life more bold,By true Gymnastic skill controlled.
J. R. Prior.
Sept. 1826.
Mean Temperature 60·35.
[334]Perennial Calendar.
[334]Perennial Calendar.
On the 6th of September, 1734, died in France, the Sieur Michael Tourant, aged ninety-eight, of whom it is said he never eat salt, and had none of the infirmities of oldage.[335]
To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.
Sir,—As a subscriber to your highly entertaining work, I take the liberty of sending you the following.
In the first volume of theEvery-Day Book, page 1086, I found an account of some small writing, executed by Peter Bales, which Mr. D’Israeli presumed to have been the whole bible written so small, that it might be put in an English walnut no bigger than a hen’s egg. “The nut holdeth the book; there are as many leaves in this little book as in the great bible, and as much written in one of the little leaves, as a great leaf of the bible.”—There is likewise an account in the same pages of the “Iliad” having been written so small that it might be put in a nut-shell; which is nothing near so much as the above.
I have lately seen written within the compass of a new penny piece, with the naked eye, and with a common clarified pen, the lord’s prayer, the creed, the ten commandments, the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth collects after Trinity, the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, &c., the name of the writer, place of abode, nearest market town, county, day of the month and date of the year, all in words at length, and with the whole of the capital letters and stops belonging thereto, the commandments being all numbered. It was written by, and is in the possession of, Mr. John Parker of Wingerworth, near Chesterfield, Derbyshire: the writing bears date September 10, 1823. This piece of writing, I find, upon calculation, to be considerably smaller than either of the before-mentioned pieces. My calculation is asfollows:—
A moderate sized egg will hold a book one inch and three quarters by one inch and three-eighths. Bibles have from about sixty to eighty lines in a column; I have not seen more. In this ingenious display of fine penmanship, there are eighty lines in one inch, and two half-eighths of an inch, which in one inch and three quarters, (the length of the bible,) is one hundred and six lines, which would contain one-third more matter than the bibles with eighty lines in a column; and one line of this writing, one inch and two-half eighths of an inch in length, (which is the sixteenth of an inch less in bread than the small bible,) is equal to two lines from one column of the great bible—for example.
Isaiah. Chap.XXIV.—Two lines of verse 20, the bible having seventy-nine lines in acolumn:—
“and the transgression thereof shall be heavyupon it, and it shall fall, and not rise again.”
Ezekiel, Chap.XXX.—Two lines of verse 12, the bible having sixty-three lines in acolumn:—
“and I will make the Land waste, and all thatis therein, by the hand of strangers.”
One line of Mr. Parker’s writing being part of the seventh collect afterTrinity:—
“good things; graft in our hearts the love of thy name, increase in us true religion,now”—
Another line being part of the ninth and tenthcommandments:—
“false witness against thy neighbour. 10.—Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’shouse.”—
Mr. Parker very obligingly submits his writing to the inspection of the curious, and would execute one similar for a proper reward. If this account should be thought worthy of a place in your “Every-Day Book,” I shall feel much obliged by its insertion, and will endeavour to send you something amusing respecting the customs, pastimes, and amusements of this part of Derbyshire.
I am, Sir,Your well-wisherAnd obedient servant,John Francis Browne.
Lings, near Chesterfield,August, 30, 1826.
Mean Temperature 59·17.
[335]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[335]Gentleman’s Magazine.
For this saint, in the church of England calendar, see vol. i. col. 1253.
On the 7th of September, 1772, a most astonishing rain fell at Inverary, in Scotland, by which the rivers rose to such a height, as to carry every thing along with the current that stood in the way. Even trees that had braved the floods for more than one hundred years, were torn up by the roots and carried down the stream. Numbers of bridges were swept away, and the military roads rendered impassable. All the duke of Argyle’s cascades, bridges, and bulwarks, were destroyed at his fine palace, in thatneighbourhood.[336]
Baron Brown, the Durham Poet.
Baron Brown, the Durham Poet.
A Latin line beneath his nameMay lift along the laureate’s fame,As on a crutch, and make it goFor half an age, for all to knowThat there was one, in our time,Who thought mere folly not a crime;And, though he scorn’d to be a scornerAnd offer Brown to Poets Corner,Imagined it a fit proceedingTo give his life—let who will sneer atIt—“Palmam qui meruit ferat.”
A Latin line beneath his nameMay lift along the laureate’s fame,As on a crutch, and make it goFor half an age, for all to knowThat there was one, in our time,Who thought mere folly not a crime;And, though he scorn’d to be a scornerAnd offer Brown to Poets Corner,Imagined it a fit proceedingTo give his life—let who will sneer atIt—“Palmam qui meruit ferat.”
A Latin line beneath his nameMay lift along the laureate’s fame,As on a crutch, and make it goFor half an age, for all to knowThat there was one, in our time,Who thought mere folly not a crime;And, though he scorn’d to be a scornerAnd offer Brown to Poets Corner,Imagined it a fit proceedingTo give his life—let who will sneer atIt—“Palmam qui meruit ferat.”
Mr. John Sykes, bookseller, Johnson’s-head, Newcastle, in the “Local Records, or Historical Register of Remarkable Events,” which, in 1824, he compiled into a very interesting octavo volume, inserts the death, with some account of the “life, character, and behaviour,” of the self-celebrated poet-laureate of Durham, whoseportraitadorns this page. He has not been registered here under the day of his decease according to Mr. Syke’s obit, but it is not fitting as regards this work, that Brown should die for ever, and therefore, from a gentleman who knew him, the reader will please to accept the following
For the Every-Day Book.
This curious personage was well known for a long series of years to the inhabitants of Northumberland and Durham, and we believe few men have figured onthe stage of the world more remarkable for their peculiarities and eccentricities.
Of the early part of James Brown’s life little is known that can be depended upon, but the compiler of the present article has heard him assert that he was born at Berwick-on-Tweed; if this be the case it is probable he left that town at a very early age, as in his speech none of the provincialisms of the lower order of inhabitants of Berwick could be observed, and had he resided there for any length of time, he must have imperceptibly imbibed the vulgar dialect. Certain, however, it is, that when a young man he resided in that “fashionable” part of Newcastle-upon-Tyne called “the Side,” where he kept a rag-shop, and was in the habit of attending the fairs in the neighbourhood with clothes ready-made for sale. During his residence in Newcastle his first wife died; of this person he always spoke in terms of affection, and was known long after her death, to shed tears on her being alluded to. In all probability it was owing to his loss of her that his mind became disturbed, and from an industrious tradesman he became a fanatic. A few years after her decease he married a Miss Richardson, of Durham, a respectable though a very eccentric character, and who survived him a year. This lady being possessed of a theatre, and some other little property in Durham, he removed to that city to reside.
When Brown first devoted himself to the muses is uncertain, but about thirty-three years ago, he lived in Newcastle, styled himself the poet-laureate of that place, and published a poem explanatory of a chapter in the Apocalypse, which was “adorned” with a hideous engraving of a beast with ten horns. Of this plate he always spoke in terms of rapture. We have heard that it was designed by the bard; but as Mr. B., though a poet, never laid any claim to the character of an artist, it is our belief that he had no hand in its manufacture, but that it was the work of some of those waggish friends who deceived him by their tricks, and rendered his life a pleasure. Their ingenious fictions prevented his dwelling on scenes by which his existence might have been embittered, and it is but justice to his numerous hoaxers to assert, that without their pecuniary assistance he would have often been in want of common necessaries. Though credulous he was honest; though poor he was possessed of many virtues; and while they laughed at the fancies of the visionary, they respected the man. Brown once indulged a gentleman in Durham with a sight of the drawing above alluded to, and on a loud laugh at what the poet esteemed the very perfection of terrific sublimity, Brown told him “he was no christian, or he would not deride a scriptural drawingwhich the angel Gabriel had approved!”
Brown’s poesy was chiefly of a serious nature, (at least it was intended to be so,) levity and satire were not hisforte. Like Dante, his imagination was gloomy—he delighted to describe the torments of hell—the rattling of the chains, and the screams of the damned; the mount of Sisyphus was his Parnassus, the Styx was his Helicon, and the pale forms that flit by Lethe’s billows, the muses that inspired his lay. His poems consisted chiefly of visions, prophecies, and rhapsodies, suggested by some part of the sacred volume of the contents of which he had an astonishing recollection. When he was at the advanced age of ninety-two it was almost impossible to quote any passage of scripture to him without his remembering the book, chapter, and frequently the verse from whence it was taken. Of his poetry (though in his favourite city he has left many imitators) we cannot say any thing in praise; it had “neither rhyme nor reason,” it was such as a madman would inscribe on the walls of his cell. His song, like that of the witches in Thalaba, was “an unintelligible song” to all but the writer, on whose mind in reading it, to use the words of one of the sweetest of our modern poets, “meaning flashed like strong inspiration.” The only two lines in his works that have any thing like meaning in themare—
“When men let Satan rule their heartThey do act the devil’s part.”
“When men let Satan rule their heartThey do act the devil’s part.”
“When men let Satan rule their heartThey do act the devil’s part.”
Our author’s last, and as he esteemed it, his best work—hismonumentum ære perennius, was a pamphlet published in Newcastle in 1820, by Preston and Heaton, at the reasonable price of one shilling; for, unlike his brother bards, Mr. Brown never published in an expensive form. He was convinced that merit would not lie hid though concealed in a pamphlet, but like Terence’s beauty,diu latere non potest, and that nonsense, though printed in quarto with the types of a Davison, would be still unnoticed and neglected. On his once being shown thequarto edition of the “White Doe,” and told that he ought to publish in a similar manner, his answer was that “none but thedevil’spoets needed fine clothes!” The pamphlet above alluded to was entitled “Poems on Military Battles, Naval Victories, and other important subjects, the most extraordinary ever penned, a Thunderbolt shot from a Lion’s Bow at Satan’s Kingdom, the Kingdom of the Devil and the Kingdom of this World reserving themselves in darkness for the great and terrible Day of the Lord, as Jude, the servant of God, declareth: ByJames Brown, P. L.” This singular work was decorated with a whole length portrait of the author treading on the “devil’s books,” and blowing a trumpet to alarm sinners; it was, as we have heard him say, the work of a junior pupil of the ingenious Mr. Bewick.
During the contest for Durham, in 1820, a number of copies of an election squib, written by a humble individual connected with a northern newspaper, and entitled “A Sublime Epistle, Poetic and Politic, by James Brown, P. L.” was sent him for distribution; these, after printing an explanatory address on the back of the title, wherein he called himself S. S. L. D., the “Slayer of Seven Legions of Devils,” and disowned the authorship, he turned to his own emolument by selling at sixpence a copy.
In religious affairs Brown was extremely superstitious; he believed in every mad fanatic who broached opinions contrary to reason and sense. The wilder the theory, the more congenial to his mind. He was successively a believer in Wesley, Messrs. Buchan, Huntington, Imanuel Swedenburg, and Joanna Southcote; had he lived a little longer he would probably have been “a ranter.” He was a great reader, and what he read he remembered. The bible, of which he had a very old and curious pocket edition in black letter, was his favourite work; next to that he esteemed Alban Butler’s wonderful lives of the saints, to every relation of which he gave implicit credit, though, strange to tell, he was in his conversation always violent against the idolatries of the catholic church.
When Brown was a follower of Mr. Buchan, he used to relate that he fasted forty days and forty nights, and it is to this subject that veterinary doctor Marshall, of Durham, his legitimate successor, alludes in the following lines of an elegy he wrote on the death of his brother poet andfriend:—
“He fasted forty days and nightsWhen Mr. Buchan put to rightsThe wicked, for a wonder;And not so much, it has been thought,As weigh’d the button on his coat,He took to keep sin under.”
“He fasted forty days and nightsWhen Mr. Buchan put to rightsThe wicked, for a wonder;And not so much, it has been thought,As weigh’d the button on his coat,He took to keep sin under.”
“He fasted forty days and nightsWhen Mr. Buchan put to rightsThe wicked, for a wonder;And not so much, it has been thought,As weigh’d the button on his coat,He took to keep sin under.”
So said a Bion worthy of such an Adonis! but other accounts differ. If we may credit Mr. Sykes, the respectable author of “Local Records,” Marshall erred in supposing that the poet, camelion-like, lived on air for “forty days and forty nights.” Mr. Sykes relates that in answer to a question he put to him as to how he contrived for so long a time to sustain the cravings of nature, Brown replied, that “they (he and the rest of the party of fasters) only set on to the fire a great pot, in which they boiled water, and then stirred into it oatmeal, and suppedthat!”
Brown was very susceptible of flattery, and all his life long constantly received letters in rhyme, purporting to come from Walter Scott, Byron, Shelley, Southey, Wilson, and other great poets; with communications in prose from the king of England, the emperor of Morocco, the sultan of Persia, &c. All of these he believed to be genuine, and was in the habit of showing as curiosities to his friends, who were frequently the real authors, and laughed in their sleeves at his credulity.
In 1821, Brown received a large parchment, signed G. R., attested by Messrs. Canning and Peel, to which was suspended a large unmeaning seal, which he believed to be the great seal of Great Britain. This document purported to be a patent of nobility, creating him “baron Durham, of Durham, in the county palatine of Durham.” It recited that this title was conferred on him in consequence of a translation of his works having been the means of converting the Mogul empire! From that moment he assumed the name and style of “baron Brown,” and had a wooden box made for the preservation of his patent.
Of the poetic pieces which Brown was in the habit of receiving, many were close imitations of the authors whose names were affixed to them, and evinced that the writers were capable of better things. One “from Mr. Coleridge,” was a respectableburlesque of the “Ancient Mariner,” andbegan:—
It is a lion’s trumpeter,And he stoppeth one of three.
It is a lion’s trumpeter,And he stoppeth one of three.
It is a lion’s trumpeter,And he stoppeth one of three.
Another, “from Mr. Wilson,” commencedthus:—
Poetic dreams float round me now,My spirit where art thou?Oh! art thou watching the moonbeams smileOn the groves of palm in an Indian isle;Or dost thou hang over the lovely mainAnd list to the boatswain’s boisterous strain;Or dost thou sail on sylphid wingsThrough liquid fields of air,Or, riding on the clouds afar,Dost thou gaze on the beams of the evening starSo beautiful and so fair.O no! O no! sweet spirit of mineThou art entering a holy strain divineA strain which is so sweet,Oh, one might think ’twas a fairy thing,A thing of love and blessedness,Singing in holy tenderness,A lay of peaceful quietness,Within a fairy street!Butah! ’tisBrown, &c. &c.
Poetic dreams float round me now,My spirit where art thou?Oh! art thou watching the moonbeams smileOn the groves of palm in an Indian isle;Or dost thou hang over the lovely mainAnd list to the boatswain’s boisterous strain;Or dost thou sail on sylphid wingsThrough liquid fields of air,Or, riding on the clouds afar,Dost thou gaze on the beams of the evening starSo beautiful and so fair.O no! O no! sweet spirit of mineThou art entering a holy strain divineA strain which is so sweet,Oh, one might think ’twas a fairy thing,A thing of love and blessedness,Singing in holy tenderness,A lay of peaceful quietness,Within a fairy street!Butah! ’tisBrown, &c. &c.
Poetic dreams float round me now,My spirit where art thou?Oh! art thou watching the moonbeams smileOn the groves of palm in an Indian isle;Or dost thou hang over the lovely mainAnd list to the boatswain’s boisterous strain;Or dost thou sail on sylphid wingsThrough liquid fields of air,Or, riding on the clouds afar,Dost thou gaze on the beams of the evening starSo beautiful and so fair.O no! O no! sweet spirit of mineThou art entering a holy strain divineA strain which is so sweet,Oh, one might think ’twas a fairy thing,A thing of love and blessedness,Singing in holy tenderness,A lay of peaceful quietness,Within a fairy street!Butah! ’tisBrown, &c. &c.
A piece “from Walter Scott” openedwith:—