The heath-cock shrill his clarion blewAmong the heights of Benvenue,And fast the sportive echo flew,Adown Glenavin’s vale.But louder, louder was the knell,Of Brown’s Northumbrianpenance-bell,[337]The noise was heard on Norham fell,And rung through Teviotdale.
The heath-cock shrill his clarion blewAmong the heights of Benvenue,And fast the sportive echo flew,Adown Glenavin’s vale.But louder, louder was the knell,Of Brown’s Northumbrianpenance-bell,[337]The noise was heard on Norham fell,And rung through Teviotdale.
The heath-cock shrill his clarion blewAmong the heights of Benvenue,And fast the sportive echo flew,Adown Glenavin’s vale.But louder, louder was the knell,Of Brown’s Northumbrianpenance-bell,[337]The noise was heard on Norham fell,And rung through Teviotdale.
These burlesques were chiefly produced by the law and medical students in Newcastle and Durham, and the young gentlemen of the Catholic College of Ushaw, near the latter place. As the writer of this sketch was once congratulating Mr. Brown on his numerous respectable correspondents, the old man said that he had an acquaintance far superior to any of his earthly ones, and no less a personage than the angel Gabriel, who, he stated, brought him letters from Joanna Southcote, and call to carry back his answers! This “Gabriel” was a young West Indian then residing in Durham, who used to dress himself in a sheet with goose wings on his shoulders and visit the poet at night, with letters purporting to be written to him in heaven by the far-famed prophetess. After “Gabriel” left Durham, Brown was frequently told of the deception which had been practised upon him, but he never could be induced to believe that his nocturnal visiter was any other than the angel himself. “Did I not,” he once said, “see him clearly fly out at the ceiling!” Brown used to correspond with some of Joanna’s followers in London, on the subject of these supposed revelations, and actually found (credite posteri) believers in the genuineness.
Amongst Brown’s strange ideas, one was that he was immortal, and should never die. Under this delusion when ill he refused all medical assistance, and it induced him at the age of 90 to sell the little property which he acquired by marriage, for a paltry guinea a week, to be paid during the life of himself and Mrs. Brown, and the life of the survivor. The property he parted from, in consideration of this weekly stipend, was a leasehold house in Sadler-street, (the theatre having been pulled down soon after the erection of the present one opposite to it,) and the house was conveyed to two Durham tradesmen, Robinson Emmerson and George Stonehouse, by whom the allowance was for some time regularly paid; but on the latter becoming embarrassed in his circumstances, the payment was discontinued, and poor Brown and his aged wife were thrown on the world without a farthing, at a time when bodily and mental infirmities had rendered them incapable of gaining a livelihood. Far be it from the writer of this to cast any aspersion on Messrs. Emmerson and Stonehouse, but it does certainly appear to him that their conduct to Brown was unkind to say the least of it. After this calamity Brown became for a few months an inhabitant of a poor-house, which he subsequently left for a lodging at an obscure inn, where, on the 11th of July, 1823, he died in a state of misery and penury at the advanced age of 92; his wife shortly afterwards died in the poorhouse. They are both interred in the churchyard of St. Oswald.
Such was James Brown the Durham poet, who with all his eccentricities was an honest, harmless and inoffensive old man. Of his personal appearance, the excellentportraitwhich accompanies this memoir from a drawing by Mr. Terryis an exact resemblance. All who knew him will bear testimony to its correctness. It is indeed the only one in existence that gives a correct idea of what he was. The other representations of him are nothing better than caricatures.D.
Mean Temperature 58·45.
[336]Annual Register.[337]Ringing the penance-bell was an expression which frequently occurred in his writings.As—We toll’d the devil’s penance-bell,And warn’d you to keep from hell, &c.The penance-bell occurs three or four times in each of his several poems.
[336]Annual Register.
[337]Ringing the penance-bell was an expression which frequently occurred in his writings.As—
We toll’d the devil’s penance-bell,And warn’d you to keep from hell, &c.
We toll’d the devil’s penance-bell,And warn’d you to keep from hell, &c.
We toll’d the devil’s penance-bell,And warn’d you to keep from hell, &c.
The penance-bell occurs three or four times in each of his several poems.
The legend of this festival retained in the church of England calendar, is related in vol. i. col. 1274.
Extract from the Parish Register of Burwell, in Cambridgeshire, “1727, September 8. N. B. About nine o’clock in the evening, a most dismal fire broke out in a barn in which a great number of persons were met together to see a puppet-show. In the barn there were a great many loads of new light straw; the barn was thatched with straw, which was very dry, and the inner roof of the barn was covered with old dry cobwebs; so that the fire, like lightning, flew round the barn in an instant, and there was but one small door belonging to the barn, which was close nailed up, and could not be easily broke open; and when it was opened, the passage was so narrow, and every body so impatient to escape, that the door was presently blocked up, and most of those that did escape, which were but very few, were forced to crawl over the heads and bodies of those that lay on a heap at the door, and the rest, in number seventy-six, perished instantly, and two more died of their wounds within two days. The fire was occasioned by the negligence of a servant, who set a candle and lantern to, or near, the heap of straw that was in the barn. The servant’s name was Richard Whitaker, of the parish of Hadstock, in Essex, near Linton, in Cambridgeshire, who was tried for the fact at the assizes held at Cambridge, March 27, 1728, but he wasacquitted.”[338]
In a small apartment under the staircase leading to the gallery at the west end of the church, is presented the singular and undesirable spectacle of two unburied coffins, containing human bodies. The coffins are covered with crimson velvet and are otherwise richly embellished. They are placed beside each other on trestles, and bear respectively the followinginscriptions:—
“Jessie Aspasia.The most excellent and truly beloved wife of F. W. Campbell, Esq. of Barbreck, N. B. and of Woodlands in Surrey. Died in her 28th year,July 11th, 1812.”
“Jessie Aspasia.
The most excellent and truly beloved wife of F. W. Campbell, Esq. of Barbreck, N. B. and of Woodlands in Surrey. Died in her 28th year,
July 11th, 1812.”
“Henry E. A. Caulfield, Esq.Died Sept. 3, 1808.Aged 29 years.”
“Henry E. A. Caulfield, Esq.Died Sept. 3, 1808.Aged 29 years.”
As it was necessarily supposed that coffins thus open to inspection would excite much curiosity, a card is preserved at the sexton’s house, which states, in addition to the intelligence conveyed by the above inscriptions, that the deceased lady was daughter of W. T. Caulfield, Esq. of Rahanduff in Ireland, by Jessie, daughter of James, third lord Ruthven; and that she bore, with tranquil and exemplary patience, a fatal disorder produced by grief on the death of her brother, who removed from a former place of sepulture, now lies beside her in unburied solemnity.
Mean Temperature 57·87.
[338]Lysons.
[338]Lysons.
At this period of the year the fashionable people of unfashionable times were accustomed to close their sojournments on the coasts, and commence their inland retreats before they “came to town forgood.” In this respect manners are altered. The salubrity of the ocean-breeze is now courted, and many families, in defiance of gales and storms, spend the greater part of the winter at the southern watering places. The increase of this remarkable deviation deserves to be noticed, as a growing accommodation to the purposes of life.
A literary gentleman on his arrival from viewing the world of waters, obliges the editor with some original flowings from his pen, so fresh and beautiful, that they are submitted immediately to the reader’s enjoyment.
Sonnet.Written in a Cottage by the Sea-side. Hastings.Ye, who would flee from the world’s vanitiesFrom cities’ riot, and mankind’s annoy,Seek this lone cot, and here forget your sighs,For health and rest are here—guests but too coy.If the vast ocean, with its boundless space,Its power omnipotent, and eternal voice,Wean not thy thoughts from wearying folly’s choice,And mortal trifling, unto virtue’s grace,To high intent, pure purpose, and sweet peace,Leaving of former bitter pangs no trace;—If each unworthy wish it does not drown,And free thee from ennui’s unnerving thrall,Then art thou dead to nature’s warning call,And fit but for the maddening haunts of town.August, 1826.W. T. M.
Sonnet.Written in a Cottage by the Sea-side. Hastings.
Ye, who would flee from the world’s vanitiesFrom cities’ riot, and mankind’s annoy,Seek this lone cot, and here forget your sighs,For health and rest are here—guests but too coy.If the vast ocean, with its boundless space,Its power omnipotent, and eternal voice,Wean not thy thoughts from wearying folly’s choice,And mortal trifling, unto virtue’s grace,To high intent, pure purpose, and sweet peace,Leaving of former bitter pangs no trace;—If each unworthy wish it does not drown,And free thee from ennui’s unnerving thrall,Then art thou dead to nature’s warning call,And fit but for the maddening haunts of town.
Ye, who would flee from the world’s vanitiesFrom cities’ riot, and mankind’s annoy,Seek this lone cot, and here forget your sighs,For health and rest are here—guests but too coy.If the vast ocean, with its boundless space,Its power omnipotent, and eternal voice,Wean not thy thoughts from wearying folly’s choice,And mortal trifling, unto virtue’s grace,To high intent, pure purpose, and sweet peace,Leaving of former bitter pangs no trace;—If each unworthy wish it does not drown,And free thee from ennui’s unnerving thrall,Then art thou dead to nature’s warning call,And fit but for the maddening haunts of town.
August, 1826.
W. T. M.
Sonnet Stanzas.On the Sea.I never gaze upon the mighty sea,And hear its many voices, but there stealsA host of stirring fancies, vividlyOver my mind; and memory revealsA thousand wild and wondrous deeds to me;Of venturous seamen, on their daring keels;And blood-stain’d pirates, sailing fearlessly;And lawless smugglers, which each cave conceals;In his canoe, the savage, roving free;And all I’ve read of rare and strange, that beOn every shore, o’er which its far wave peals:With luxuries, in which Imagination reels,Of bread fruit, palm, banana, cocoa tree,And thoughts of high emprize, and boundless liberty!I ne’er upon the ocean gaze, but IThink of its fearless sons, whose sails, unfurl’d,So oft have led to Art’s best victory.Columbus upon unknown waters hurl’d,Pursuing his sole purpose, firm and high,The great discovery of another world;And daring Cook, whose memory’s bepearledWith pity’s tears, from many a wild maid’s eye;Their Heiva dance, in fancy I espy,While still the dark chief’s lip in anger curled:O’er shipwreck’d Crusoe’s lonely fate I sigh,His self-form’d bark on whelming billows whirled;And oft, in thought, I hear the Tritons cry,And see the mermaid train light gliding by.I never gaze upon the boundless deep,But still I think upon the glorious brave,Nelson and Blake, who conquered but to save;I hear their thunders o’er the billows sweep,And think of those who perish’d on the wave,That Britain might a glorious harvest reap!High hearts and generous, Vain did foemenPeace to their souls, and sweetly may they sleep,Entomb’d within the ocean’s lonely cave!Still many a lovely eye for them shall weep,Tears, far more precious than the pearls, that keepTheir casket there, or all the sea e’er gave,To the bold diver’s grasp, whose fearless leapWith wealth enriches, or in death must sleep!W. T. M.
Sonnet Stanzas.On the Sea.
I never gaze upon the mighty sea,And hear its many voices, but there stealsA host of stirring fancies, vividlyOver my mind; and memory revealsA thousand wild and wondrous deeds to me;Of venturous seamen, on their daring keels;And blood-stain’d pirates, sailing fearlessly;And lawless smugglers, which each cave conceals;In his canoe, the savage, roving free;And all I’ve read of rare and strange, that beOn every shore, o’er which its far wave peals:With luxuries, in which Imagination reels,Of bread fruit, palm, banana, cocoa tree,And thoughts of high emprize, and boundless liberty!I ne’er upon the ocean gaze, but IThink of its fearless sons, whose sails, unfurl’d,So oft have led to Art’s best victory.Columbus upon unknown waters hurl’d,Pursuing his sole purpose, firm and high,The great discovery of another world;And daring Cook, whose memory’s bepearledWith pity’s tears, from many a wild maid’s eye;Their Heiva dance, in fancy I espy,While still the dark chief’s lip in anger curled:O’er shipwreck’d Crusoe’s lonely fate I sigh,His self-form’d bark on whelming billows whirled;And oft, in thought, I hear the Tritons cry,And see the mermaid train light gliding by.I never gaze upon the boundless deep,But still I think upon the glorious brave,Nelson and Blake, who conquered but to save;I hear their thunders o’er the billows sweep,And think of those who perish’d on the wave,That Britain might a glorious harvest reap!High hearts and generous, Vain did foemenPeace to their souls, and sweetly may they sleep,Entomb’d within the ocean’s lonely cave!Still many a lovely eye for them shall weep,Tears, far more precious than the pearls, that keepTheir casket there, or all the sea e’er gave,To the bold diver’s grasp, whose fearless leapWith wealth enriches, or in death must sleep!
I never gaze upon the mighty sea,And hear its many voices, but there stealsA host of stirring fancies, vividlyOver my mind; and memory revealsA thousand wild and wondrous deeds to me;Of venturous seamen, on their daring keels;And blood-stain’d pirates, sailing fearlessly;And lawless smugglers, which each cave conceals;In his canoe, the savage, roving free;And all I’ve read of rare and strange, that beOn every shore, o’er which its far wave peals:With luxuries, in which Imagination reels,Of bread fruit, palm, banana, cocoa tree,And thoughts of high emprize, and boundless liberty!
I ne’er upon the ocean gaze, but IThink of its fearless sons, whose sails, unfurl’d,So oft have led to Art’s best victory.Columbus upon unknown waters hurl’d,Pursuing his sole purpose, firm and high,The great discovery of another world;And daring Cook, whose memory’s bepearledWith pity’s tears, from many a wild maid’s eye;Their Heiva dance, in fancy I espy,While still the dark chief’s lip in anger curled:O’er shipwreck’d Crusoe’s lonely fate I sigh,His self-form’d bark on whelming billows whirled;And oft, in thought, I hear the Tritons cry,And see the mermaid train light gliding by.
I never gaze upon the boundless deep,But still I think upon the glorious brave,Nelson and Blake, who conquered but to save;I hear their thunders o’er the billows sweep,And think of those who perish’d on the wave,That Britain might a glorious harvest reap!High hearts and generous, Vain did foemenPeace to their souls, and sweetly may they sleep,Entomb’d within the ocean’s lonely cave!Still many a lovely eye for them shall weep,Tears, far more precious than the pearls, that keepTheir casket there, or all the sea e’er gave,To the bold diver’s grasp, whose fearless leapWith wealth enriches, or in death must sleep!
W. T. M.
Mean Temperature 58·55.
The Rainbow.Behold yon bright, ethereal bow,With evanescent beauties glow;The spacious arch streams through the sky,Decked with each tint of nature’s dye:Refracted sunbeams, through the shower,A humid radiance from it pour;Whilst colour into colour fades,With blended lights and softening shades.
The Rainbow.
Behold yon bright, ethereal bow,With evanescent beauties glow;The spacious arch streams through the sky,Decked with each tint of nature’s dye:Refracted sunbeams, through the shower,A humid radiance from it pour;Whilst colour into colour fades,With blended lights and softening shades.
Behold yon bright, ethereal bow,With evanescent beauties glow;The spacious arch streams through the sky,Decked with each tint of nature’s dye:Refracted sunbeams, through the shower,A humid radiance from it pour;Whilst colour into colour fades,With blended lights and softening shades.
On the 10th of September, 1802, a very beautiful lunar rainbow was observed at Matlock, in Derbyshire, between the hours of eight and nine in the evening: its effect was singularly pleasing. The colours of these phenomena are sometimes very well defined; but they have a more tranquil tone than those which originate in the solar beams. They are not unfrequent in the vicinity of Matlock, being mentioned by some writers among the natural curiosities of that delightful spot.
On Saturday evening, September 28, 1822, an extremely interesting iris of this description was distinctly observed by many persons in the neighbourhood of Boston, in Lincolnshire. It made its appearance nearly north, about half-past eight in the evening. This bow of the heavens was every way complete, the curvature entire, though its span was extensive, and the altitude of its apex seemed to be about 20 degrees. The darkness occasioned by some clouds pregnant with rain, in the back ground of this white arch of beauty, formed a striking contrast, while several stars in the constellation of Ursa Major, (the great bear,) which were for a time conspicuous, imparted additional grandeur to thescene.[339]
An observer of a nocturnal rainbow on the 17th of August 1788, relates its appearance particularly. “On Sunday evening, after two days, on both of which, particularly the former, there had been a great deal of rain, together with lightning and thunder, just as the clocks were striking nine, three and twenty hours after full moon, looking through my window, I was struck with the appearance of something in the sky which seemed like a rainbow. Having never seen a rainbow by night, I thought it a very extraordinary phenomenon, and hastened to a place where there were no buildings to obstruct my view of the hemisphere. The moon was truly ‘walking in brightness,’ brilliant as she could be, not a cloud was to be seen near her; and over-against her, toward the northwest, or perhaps rather more to the north, was a rainbow, a vast arch, perfect in all its parts, not interrupted or broken as rainbows frequently are, but unremittedly visible from one horizon to the other. In order to give some idea of its extent, it is necessary to say, that, as I stood toward the western extremity of the parish of Stoke Newington, it seemed to take its rise from the west of Hampstead, and to end, perhaps, in the river Lea, the eastern boundary of Tottenham; its colour was white, cloudy, or greyish, but a part of its western leg seemed to exhibit tints ofa faint, sickly green. I continued viewing it for some time, till it began to rain; and at length the rain increasing, and the sky growing more hazy, I returned home about a quarter or twenty minutes past nine, and in ten minutes came out again, but by that time all was over, the moon was darkened by clouds, and the rainbow of coursevanished.”[340]
Pump at Hammersmith.
Pump at Hammersmith.
A “walking” man should not refrainTo take a saunter up Webb’s-lane,Tow’rds Shepherd’s bush, and see a rudeOld lumb’ring pump. It’s made of wood,And pours its water in a fontSo beautiful—that if he do’n’tAdmire how such a combinationWas form’d, in such a situation,He has no power of causation,Or taste, or feeling; but must livePainless, and pleasureless; and giveHimself to doing what he can;And die a sort of sort-of-man.
A “walking” man should not refrainTo take a saunter up Webb’s-lane,Tow’rds Shepherd’s bush, and see a rudeOld lumb’ring pump. It’s made of wood,And pours its water in a fontSo beautiful—that if he do’n’tAdmire how such a combinationWas form’d, in such a situation,He has no power of causation,Or taste, or feeling; but must livePainless, and pleasureless; and giveHimself to doing what he can;And die a sort of sort-of-man.
A “walking” man should not refrainTo take a saunter up Webb’s-lane,Tow’rds Shepherd’s bush, and see a rudeOld lumb’ring pump. It’s made of wood,And pours its water in a fontSo beautiful—that if he do’n’tAdmire how such a combinationWas form’d, in such a situation,He has no power of causation,Or taste, or feeling; but must livePainless, and pleasureless; and giveHimself to doing what he can;And die a sort of sort-of-man.
Some persons walk the strait road from Dan to Beersheba, and finding it firm beneath the foot, have no regard to any thing else, and are satisfied when they get to their journey’s end. I do not advise these good kind of people to go to Hammersmith; but, here and there, an out-of-the-way man will be glad to bend his course thitherward, in search of theobjectrepresented. It is fair to say I have not seen it myself: it turned up the other day in an artist’s sketch-book. He had taken it as an object, could tell no more than that he liked it, and, as I seemed struck by its appearance, but could not then go to look at it and make inquiries, he volunteered his services, and wrote me as follows:—“I went to Hammersmith, and was some time before I could find the place again; however, I at length discovered it in Webb’s-lane, opposite the Thatched-house, (Mr. Gowland is the landlord.) There I took some refreshment, and gained what information I could, which was but little. The stonefontwith other things (old carved ornaments, &c., which were used in fitting up the upper rooms of some cottages that the pump belongs to) were purchased at a sale; and this was all I could obtain at the Thatched-house. Coming from thence I learned from a cobler at work that there was originally aleadenpump, but that it was doubled up, and rolled away, by some thieves, and they attempted to take the font, but found it too heavy. The Crispin could not inform me where the sale was, but he told me where his landlady lived and her name, which was Mrs. Springthorp, of Hammersmith, any one could tell me her house: so, being very tired, I took coach, and rode to town without inquiry. Please to send me word whether I shall do it for next week.”
To the latter inquiry my answer of course was “yes,” but I am as dark as my informant, as to the origin of what he calls the “font” which forms the sink of this pump. It does not appear to me to be a font, but a vase. I could have wished he had popped the question to “Mrs. Springthorp” respecting the place from whence it came, and concerning the “other things, old carved ornaments, &c.” I entreat some kind reader to diligently seek out and obligingly acquaint me with full particulars of these matters. In the mean time I console myself with having presented a picturesque object, and with the hope of being enabled to account for the agreeable union.
Mean Temperature 58·07.
[339]Butler’s Chronological Exercises.[340]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[339]Butler’s Chronological Exercises.
[340]Gentleman’s Magazine.
These are delightful at any time. At about this season of the year, 1817, the following poetical description appeared in a newspaper which no longerexists:—
LINESBy Mr. J. H. Reynolds.Whence is the secret charm of this lone wood,Which in the light of evening sweetly sleeps!—I tread with lingering feet the quiet steeps,Where thwarted oaks o’er their own old age brood;—And where the gentler trees, in summer weather,Spring up all greenly in their youth together;And the grass is dwelling in a silent mood,And the fir-like fern its under forest keepsIn a strange stillness. My winged spirit sweepsNot as it hath been wont,—but stays with meLike some domestic thing that loves its home;It lies a-dreaming o’er the imageryOf other scenes,—which from afar do come,Matching them with this indolent solitude.Here,—I am walking in the days gone by,—And under trees which I have known before.My heart with feelings old is running o’er—And I am happy as the morning sky.The present seems a mockery of the past—And all my thoughts flow by me, like a stream,That hath no home, that sings beneath the beamOf the summer sun,—and wanders through sweet meads,—In which the joyous wildflower meekly feeds,—And strays,—and wastes away in woods at last.My thoughts o’er many things fleet silently,—But to this older forest creep, and cling fast.Imagination, ever wild and free,With heart as open as the naked sea,Can consecrate whate’er it looks upon:—And memory, that maiden never lone,Lights all the dream of life. While I can seeThis blue deep sky,—that sun so proudly settingIn the haughty west,—this spring patiently wettingThe shadowy dell,—these trees so tall and fair,That have no visiters but the birds and air:—And hear those leaves a gentle whispering keep,Light as young joy, and beautiful as sleep,—The melting of sweet waters in the dells,—The music of the loose flocks’ lulling bells,Which sinks into the heart like spirit’s spells.While these all softly o’er my senses sweep,—I need not doubt that I shall ever findThings, that will feed the cravings of my mind.My happiest hours were past with those I loveOn steeps;—in dells, with shadowy trees above;And therefore it may be my soul ne’er sleeps,When I am in a pastoral solitude:—And such may be the charm of this lone wood,That in the light of evening sweetly sleeps.
LINESBy Mr. J. H. Reynolds.
Whence is the secret charm of this lone wood,Which in the light of evening sweetly sleeps!—I tread with lingering feet the quiet steeps,Where thwarted oaks o’er their own old age brood;—And where the gentler trees, in summer weather,Spring up all greenly in their youth together;And the grass is dwelling in a silent mood,And the fir-like fern its under forest keepsIn a strange stillness. My winged spirit sweepsNot as it hath been wont,—but stays with meLike some domestic thing that loves its home;It lies a-dreaming o’er the imageryOf other scenes,—which from afar do come,Matching them with this indolent solitude.Here,—I am walking in the days gone by,—And under trees which I have known before.My heart with feelings old is running o’er—And I am happy as the morning sky.The present seems a mockery of the past—And all my thoughts flow by me, like a stream,That hath no home, that sings beneath the beamOf the summer sun,—and wanders through sweet meads,—In which the joyous wildflower meekly feeds,—And strays,—and wastes away in woods at last.My thoughts o’er many things fleet silently,—But to this older forest creep, and cling fast.Imagination, ever wild and free,With heart as open as the naked sea,Can consecrate whate’er it looks upon:—And memory, that maiden never lone,Lights all the dream of life. While I can seeThis blue deep sky,—that sun so proudly settingIn the haughty west,—this spring patiently wettingThe shadowy dell,—these trees so tall and fair,That have no visiters but the birds and air:—And hear those leaves a gentle whispering keep,Light as young joy, and beautiful as sleep,—The melting of sweet waters in the dells,—The music of the loose flocks’ lulling bells,Which sinks into the heart like spirit’s spells.While these all softly o’er my senses sweep,—I need not doubt that I shall ever findThings, that will feed the cravings of my mind.My happiest hours were past with those I loveOn steeps;—in dells, with shadowy trees above;And therefore it may be my soul ne’er sleeps,When I am in a pastoral solitude:—And such may be the charm of this lone wood,That in the light of evening sweetly sleeps.
Whence is the secret charm of this lone wood,Which in the light of evening sweetly sleeps!—I tread with lingering feet the quiet steeps,Where thwarted oaks o’er their own old age brood;—And where the gentler trees, in summer weather,Spring up all greenly in their youth together;And the grass is dwelling in a silent mood,And the fir-like fern its under forest keepsIn a strange stillness. My winged spirit sweepsNot as it hath been wont,—but stays with meLike some domestic thing that loves its home;It lies a-dreaming o’er the imageryOf other scenes,—which from afar do come,Matching them with this indolent solitude.Here,—I am walking in the days gone by,—And under trees which I have known before.My heart with feelings old is running o’er—And I am happy as the morning sky.The present seems a mockery of the past—And all my thoughts flow by me, like a stream,That hath no home, that sings beneath the beamOf the summer sun,—and wanders through sweet meads,—In which the joyous wildflower meekly feeds,—And strays,—and wastes away in woods at last.My thoughts o’er many things fleet silently,—But to this older forest creep, and cling fast.Imagination, ever wild and free,With heart as open as the naked sea,Can consecrate whate’er it looks upon:—And memory, that maiden never lone,Lights all the dream of life. While I can seeThis blue deep sky,—that sun so proudly settingIn the haughty west,—this spring patiently wettingThe shadowy dell,—these trees so tall and fair,That have no visiters but the birds and air:—And hear those leaves a gentle whispering keep,Light as young joy, and beautiful as sleep,—The melting of sweet waters in the dells,—The music of the loose flocks’ lulling bells,Which sinks into the heart like spirit’s spells.While these all softly o’er my senses sweep,—I need not doubt that I shall ever findThings, that will feed the cravings of my mind.My happiest hours were past with those I loveOn steeps;—in dells, with shadowy trees above;And therefore it may be my soul ne’er sleeps,When I am in a pastoral solitude:—And such may be the charm of this lone wood,That in the light of evening sweetly sleeps.
Mean Temperature 58·40.
On the 12th of September, 1817, the gentlemen forming a deputation of the “Caledonian Horticultural Society,” while inspecting Mr. Parmentier’s gardens at Enghien, were suddenly overtaken by a violent thunder storm, and compelled to flee for shelter to Mr. Parmentier’s house. “As this thunder storm was of a character different from what we are accustomed to in Scotland, and much more striking than what we had witnessed at Brussels, a short notice of it may be excused.—A dense, black cloud was seen advancing from the east; and as this cloud developed itself and increased in magnitude, one-half of the horizon became shrouded in darkness, enlivened only by occasional flashes of forked lightning, while the other half of the horizon remained clear, with the sun shining bright. As the black cloud approached, the sun’s rays tinged it of a dull copper colour, and the reflected light caused all the streets and houses to assume the same lurid and metallic hue. This had a very uncommon and impressive effect. Before we reached the mayor’s house, scarce a passenger was to be seen in the streets; but we remarked women at the doors, kneeling, and turning their rosaries as they invoked their saints. Meantime ‘thick and strong the sulphurous flame descended;’ the flashes and peals began to follow each other in almost instantaneous succession, and the tout-ensemble became awfully sublime. A sort of whirlwind, which even raised the small gravel from the streets, and dashed it against the windows, preceded the rain, which fell in heavy drops, but lasted only a short time. The sun now became obscured, and day seemed converted into night. Mr. Parmentier having ordered wine, his ladycame to explain that she could not prevail on any of the servants to venture across the court to the cellar. The mayor, in spite of our remonstrances, immediately undertook the task himself; and when, upon his return, we apologised for putting him to so much trouble, he assured us that he would not on any account have lost the brilliant sight he had enjoyed, from the incessant explosions of the electric fluid, in the midst of such palpable darkness. Such a scene, he added, had not occurred at Enghien for many years; and we reckoned ourselves fortunate in having witnessed it. We had to remain housed for more than two hours; when the great cloud began to clear away, and to give promise of a serene and clear evening.”
Two days before, on the 10th, the same party had been surprised at Brussels by a similar tempest. They were on a visit to the garden of Mr. Gillet, and remarking on the construction of his forcing-house. “In this forcing-house, as is usual, the front of the roof extends over the sloping glass, till it reaches the perpendicular of the parapet. Mr. Gillet had no doubt, that the object of this sort of structure is to help to save the glass from the heavy falls of hail, which frequently accompany thunder storms. Just as he had made this observation, we perceived menacing thunder clouds approaching: the gardener hastened to secure his glazed frames; Mr. Gillet took his leave; and before we could get home, the whole horizon was overcast; lightning flashed incessantly; the streets seemed to have been suddenly swept of the inhabitants, the shop-doors were shut, and we could scarcely find a person of whom to inquire the way.”—The day had been altogether sultry; and at ten o’clockP. M.the mercury in the thermometer stood at seventy-two degreesFahrenheit.[341]
Mean Temperature 56·42.
[341]Journal of a Horticultural Tour.
[341]Journal of a Horticultural Tour.
Mean Temperature 56·90.
The origin of the festival of “Holy Cross,” standing in the church of England calendar and almanacs, is related in vol. i. col. 1291, with some account of theroodand therood-loftin churches.
Mean Temperature 58·20.
On the 15th of September, 1731, “the famous devil that used to overlook Lincoln college in Oxford, was taken down, having, about two years since, lost his head, in a storm.”
On the same day in the same year “a crown, fixed on the top of Whitehall gate in the reign of king Charles II., fell downsuddenly.”[342]
The origin of the statue of the devil at Oxford is not so certain as that the effigy was popular, and gave rise to the saying of “the devil looking over Lincoln.”
That the devil has a “cloven foot,” which he cannot hide if it be looked for is a common belief with the vulgar. “The ground of this opinion at first,” says sir Thomas Browne, “might be his frequent appearing in the shape of a goat,” (this accounts also for his horns and tail,) “which answers this description. This was the opinion of the ancient christians, concerning the apparition of panites, fauns, and satyrs; and of this form we read of one that appeared to Anthony in the wilderness.” Mr. Brand collects, respecting this appearance, that Othello says, in the “Moor of Venice,”
“I look down towards his feet; but that’s a fable;If that thou be’st a devil, I cannot kill thee;”
“I look down towards his feet; but that’s a fable;If that thou be’st a devil, I cannot kill thee;”
“I look down towards his feet; but that’s a fable;If that thou be’st a devil, I cannot kill thee;”
which Dr. Johnson explains: “I look towards his feet, to see, if, according to the common opinion, his feet be cloven.” There is a popular superstition both inEngland and Scotland relative togoats: that they are never to be seen for twenty-four hours together; and that once in that space, they pay a visit to the devil in order to have their beards combed.
Baxter, in his “World of Spirits,” mentions an anecdote from whence Mr. Brand imagines, that “this infernal visitant was in no instance treated with moresang froidon his appearing, or rather, perhaps, his imagined appearance, than by one Mr. White of Dorchester.” That gentleman was assessor to the Westminster Assembly at Lambeth, and “the devil, in a light night, stood by his bed-side: he looked awhile whether he would say or do any thing, and then said, ‘If thou hast nothing else to do, I have;’ and so turned himself to sleep.”
King James I. told his parliament in a speech on a certain occasion, that “thedevilis a busybishop.” It has been objected to this saying of “His Most Dread Majesty,” that it would have sounded well enough from a professed enemy to the bench, “but came very improperly from a king who flattered them more, and was more flattered by them, than any prince till histime.”[343]
As I was going the other day into Lincoln’s-inn, (says a writer in the “Grub-street Journal” of October 26, 1732,) under a great gateway, I met several lads loaded with great bundles of newspapers, which they brought from the stamp-office. They were all exceeding black and dirty; from whence I inferred they were “printers’ devils,” carrying from thence the returns of unsold newspapers, after the stamps had been cut off. They stopt under the gateway, and there laid down their loads; when one of them made the following harangue: “Devils, gentlemen, and brethren:—though I think we have no reason to be ashamed on account of the vulgar opinion concerning the origin of our name, yet we ought to acknowledge ourselves obliged to the learned herald, who, upon the death of any person of title, constantly gives an exact account of his ancient family in my London Evening Post. He says, there was one monsieur Devile, or De Ville, who came over with William the Conqueror, in company with De Laune, De Vice, De Val, D’Ashwood, D’Urfie, D’Umpling, &c. One of the sons of a descendant of this monsieur De Ville, was taken in by the famous Caxton in 1471, as an errand boy; was afterwards his apprentice, and in time an eminent printer, from whom our order took their name; but suppose they took it from infernal devils, it was not because they were messengers frequently sent in darkness, and appeared very black, but upon a reputable account, viz., John Fust, or Faustus, of Mentz, in Germany, was the inventor of printing, for which he was called a conjurer, and his art the black art. As he kept a constant succession of boys to run on errands, who were always very black, these they called devils; some of whom being raised to be his apprentices, he was said to have raised many a devil. As to the inferior order among us, called flies, employed in taking newspapers off the press, they are of later extraction, being no older than newspapers themselves. Mr. Bailey thinks, their original name was lies, taken from the papers they so took off, and the alteration occasioned thus. To hasten these boys, the pressmen used to cry flie, lie, which naturally fell into one single word lie. This conjecture is confirmed by a little corruption in the true title of the fLying Post; since, therefore, we are both comprehended under the title of devils, let us discharge our office with diligence; so may we attain, as many of our predecessors have done, to the dignity of printers, and to have an opportunity of using others as much like poor devils, as we have been used by them, or as they and authors are used by booksellers. These are an upstart profession, who have engrossed the business of bookselling, which originally belonged solely to our masters. But let them remember, that if we worship Belial and Beelzebub, the God of flies, all the world agrees, that their God is mammon.”
The preceding is from the “Gentleman’s Magazine” for October, 1732; and it is mentioned, that “at the head of the article is a picture emblematically displaying the art and mystery of printing; in which are represented a compositor, with an ass’s head; two pressmen, one with the head of a hog, the other of a horse, being names which they fix upon one another; a flie taking off the sheets, and a devil hanging them up; a messenger with a greyhound’sface kicking out the “Craftsman;” a figure with two faces, for the master, to show he prints on both sides; but the reader is cautioned against applying it to any particular person, who is, or ever was a printer; for that all the figures were intended to represent characters and not persons.”
It is a proverbial expression, not confined to our country, that “the devil is not so black as he is painted.” The French, in their usual forms of speech, mention him with great honour and respect. Thus, when they would commend any thing, they break out into this pious exclamation, “Diable! que cela est bon!” When they would represent a man honest, sincere, and sociable, they call him “un bon Diable.” Some of our own countrymen will say, a thing is “devilish good;” a lady is “devilish pretty.” In a mixture of surprise and approbation, they say, “the devil’s in this fellow, or he is a comical devil.” Others speak of the apostate angel with abhorrence, and nothing is more common than to say, “such a one is a sad devil.” I remember when I was at St. Germains, a story of a gentleman, who being in waiting at the court of king James II., and the discourse running upon demons and apparitions, the king asked him whether ever he had seen any thing of that sort. “Yes,” replied he, “last night.” His majesty asked him what he had seen. He answered, “the devil.” Being asked in what shape,—“O sir,” said he, with a sigh, “in his usual and natural shape, that of an emptybottle.”[344]
Mean Temperature 59·32.
[342]Gentleman’s Magazine.[343]Ibid.[344]Ibid.
[342]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[343]Ibid.
[344]Ibid.
On the 16th of September, 1735, Mr. Yardley died in the Fleet prison, where he had been confined nearly ten years in execution for a debt of a hundred pounds. He was possessed of nearly seven hundred a year, and securities and other effects to the value of five thousand pounds were found in hisroom.[345]
Mean Temperature 59·04.
[345]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[345]Gentleman’s Magazine.
There is an account of this saint of the church of England calendar, in vol. i. col. 1295.
On the 17th of September, 1737, the secret was discovered of some mysterious robberies committed in Gray’s-inn, while the inhabitants had been in the country.
About a month before, there died at a madhouse near Red Lion-square, one Mr. Rudkins, who had chambers up three pair of stairs, at No. 14, in Holborn-court, Gray’s-inn. His sister-in law and executrix, who lived in Staffordshire, wrote to Mr. Cotton, a broker, to take care of the effects in her behalf; and he having read a Mr. Warren’s advertisement of his chambers having been robbed, found several of his writings there; several things of a Mr. Ellis, who had been robbed about two years before of above three hundred pounds, of a Mr. Lawson’s of the Temple, and of captain Haughton’s, whose chambers were broken open some years previously, and two hundred pounds’ reward offered for his writings, which were a part found here. There were also found books to one hundred pounds’ value, belonging to Mr. Osborne the bookseller in Gray’s-inn.
It is remarkable, that when Mr. Rudkins had any thing in view in this way, he would padlock up his own door, and take horse at noonday, giving out to his laundress that he was going into the country. His chambers consisted of five rooms, two of which not even his laundress was ever admitted into, and in these was found the booty, with all his working tools, picklocks, &c. He had formerly been a tradesman in King-street, near Guildhall. It is further remarkable of this private house-breaker, that he always went to Abingdon’s coffee-house, in Holborn, on an execution-day, to see from thence the poor wretches pass by to their dismal end; and at no other time did he frequent that coffee-house.
Mean Temperature 58·95.
The “coming over” of these two kings of the house of Brunswick, is marked inthe almanacs on this day, which is kept as a holiday at all the public offices, except the excise, stamps, and customs.
Mean Temperature 58·97.
In September, 1737, a new university founded at Gottingen, by his Britannic majesty, which has since attained to great eminence, was “opened with a very solemn inauguration.” In 1788, the black board, on the walls of its council-house, bore three edicts for the expulsion of three students named Westfield, Planch, and Bauer. These papers were drawn up in Latin by the celebrated professor Heyne, and are printed in the “Gentleman’s Magazine” for June, 1789. King George IV., when prince regent in 1814, sent a copy of every important work published in England during the ten preceding years, as a present to the library of the university, agreeable to a promise he had made to that purport.
Mean Temperature 57·87.
This is, of all times of the year, the most productive of epidemical disorders of the bowels, which are erroneously ascribed to fruits, but which, in reality, the autumnal fruits seem best calculated to mollify. If the diarrhea be very violent, or accompanied with incessant vomiting, as incholera morbus, the best practice is, after the intestinal canal has been suffered copiously to evacuate itself, to take small doses of chalk, or of some other substance known to check the disorder, with which chemists are always prepared. But in ordinary cases, it is a safer plan to let the disease spend itself, as there is a great deal of irritation of the intestines, which the flux carries off. We should avoid eating animal food, but take tea, broths, gruel, and other diluents, and the disorder will usually soon subside of itself. After it has so subsided we should guard against its return, by taking great care to keep the bowels regular, by eating light and vegetable food and fruits, or now and then taking a gentle dose of aloes, gr. iiii. The pills which commonly go by the name of Hunt’s pills, if genuine, are very good medicines to regulate the bowels. When low spirits and want of bile indicate the liver to partake much of the disease, two grains of the pil. hydrarg., commonly called blue pill, may be used now and then withadvantage.[346]
Mean Temperature 58·45.