Anecdotes.

To R. R.To you, dear Rowland, lodg’d in town,Where Pleasure’s smile soothes Winter’s frown,I write while chilly breezes blow,And the dense clouds descend in snow.For Twenty-six is nearly dead,And age has whiten’d o’er her head;Her velvet robe is stripp’d away,Her watery pulses hardly play;Clogg’d with the withering leaves, the windComes with his blighting blast behind,And here and there, with prying eye,And flagging wings a bird flits by;(For every Robinsparergrows,And every Sparrowrobbinggoes.)The Year’s two eyes—the sun and moon—Are fading, and will fade fullsoon;[65]With shattered forces Autumn yields,And Winter triumphs o’er the fields.So thus, alas! I’m gagg’d it seems,From converse of the woods and streams,(For all the countless rhyming rabbleHold leaves can whisper-waters babble)And, house-bound for whole weeks togetherBy stress of lungs, and stress of weather,Feed on the more delightful strainsOf howling winds, and pelting rains;Which shake the house, from rear to van,Like valetudinarian;Pouring innumerable streamsOf arrows, thro’ a thousand seams:Arrows so fine, the nicest eyeTheir thickest flight can ne’er descry,—Yet fashion’d with such subtle art,They strike their victim to the heart;While imps, that fly upon the point,Raise racking pains in every joint.Nay, more—these winds are thought magicians.And supereminent physicians:For men who have been kill’d outright,They cure again at dead of night.That double witch, who erst did dwellIn Endor’s cave, raised Samuel;But they each night raise countless hostsOf wandering sprites, and sheeted ghosts;Turn shaking locks to clanking chains,And howl most supernatural strains:While all our dunces lose their wits,And pass the night in ague-fits.While thisnocturnal series blowsI hide my head beneath the clothes,And sue the power whose dew distilsThe only balm for human ills.All day the sun’s prevailing beamAbsorbs this dew from Lethe’s stream:All night the falling moisture shedsOblivion over mortal heads.Then sinking into sleep I fall,And leave thempipingat theirball.When morning comes—no summer’s morn—I wake and find the spectres gone;But on the casement see emboss’dA mimic world in crusted frost;Ice-bergs, high shores, and wastes of snow,Mountains above, and seas below;Or, if Imagination bids,Vast crystal domes, and pyramids.Then starting from my couch I leap,And shake away the dregs of sleep,Just breathe upon the grand array,And ice-bergs slide in seas away.Now on the scout I sally forth,The weather-cock due E. by N.To meet some masquerading fog,Which makes all nature dance incog.And spreads blue devils, and blue looks,Till exercised by tongues and books.Books, do I say? full well I wistA book’s a famous exorcist!A book’s the tow that makes the tetherThat binds the quick and dead together;A speaking trumpet under ground,That turns a silence to a sound;A magic mirror form’d to show,Worlds that were dust ten thousand years ago.They’re aromatic cloths, that holdThe mind embalm’d in many a fold,And look, arrang’d in dust-hung rooms,Like mummies in Egyptian tombs;—Enchanted echoes, that reply,Not to the ear, but to the eye;Or pow’rful drugs, that give the brain,By strange contagion, joy or pain.A book’s the phœnix of the earth,Which bursts in splendour from its birth:And like the moon without her wanes,From every change new lustre gains;Shining with undiminish’d light,While ages wing their idle flight.By such a glorious theme inspiredStill could I sing—but you are tired:(Tho’ adamantine lungs would do,Ears should be adamantine too,)And thence we may deduce ’tis betterTo answer (’faith ’tis time) your letter.To answer first what first it says.Why will you speak of partial praise?I spoke with honesty and truth,And now you seem to doubt them both.The lynx’s eye may seem to him,Who always has enjoy’d it, dim:And brilliant thoughts to you may beWhat common-place ones are to me.You note them not—but cast them by,As light is lavish’d by the sky;Or streams from Indian mountains roll’dFling to the ocean grains of gold.But still we know the gold is fine—But still we know the light’s divine.As to the Century and Pope,The thought’s not so absurd, I hope.I don’t despair to see a throneRear’d above his—and p’rhaps your own.The course is clear, the goal’s in view,’Tis free to all, why not to you?But, ere you start, you should surveyThe towering falcon strike her prey:In gradual sweeps the sky she scales,Nor all at once the bird assails,But hems him in—cuts round the skies,And gains upon him as he flies.Wearied and faint he beats the air in vain,Then shuts his flaggy wings, and pitches to the plain.Now, falcon! now! One stoop—but one,The quarry’s struck—the prize is won!So he who hopes the palm to gain,So often sought—and sought in vain,Must year by year, as round by round,In easy circles leave the ground:’Tis time has taught him how to rise,And naturalized him to the skies.Full many a day Pope trod the vales,Mid “silver streams and murmuring gales.”Long fear’d the rising hills to tread,Nor ever dared the mountain-head.It needs not Milton to display,—Who let a life-time slide away,Before he swept the sounding string,And soar’d on Pegasean wing,—Nor Homer’s ancient form—to showThe Laurel takes an age to grow;And he who gives his name to fate,Must plant it early, reap it late;Nor pluck the blossoms as they spring,So beautiful, yet perishing.****More I would say—but, see, the paperIs nearly out—and so’s my taper.So while I’ve space, and while I’ve light,I’ll shake your hand, and bid good-night.

To R. R.

To you, dear Rowland, lodg’d in town,Where Pleasure’s smile soothes Winter’s frown,I write while chilly breezes blow,And the dense clouds descend in snow.For Twenty-six is nearly dead,And age has whiten’d o’er her head;Her velvet robe is stripp’d away,Her watery pulses hardly play;Clogg’d with the withering leaves, the windComes with his blighting blast behind,And here and there, with prying eye,And flagging wings a bird flits by;(For every Robinsparergrows,And every Sparrowrobbinggoes.)The Year’s two eyes—the sun and moon—Are fading, and will fade fullsoon;[65]With shattered forces Autumn yields,And Winter triumphs o’er the fields.So thus, alas! I’m gagg’d it seems,From converse of the woods and streams,(For all the countless rhyming rabbleHold leaves can whisper-waters babble)And, house-bound for whole weeks togetherBy stress of lungs, and stress of weather,Feed on the more delightful strainsOf howling winds, and pelting rains;Which shake the house, from rear to van,Like valetudinarian;Pouring innumerable streamsOf arrows, thro’ a thousand seams:Arrows so fine, the nicest eyeTheir thickest flight can ne’er descry,—Yet fashion’d with such subtle art,They strike their victim to the heart;While imps, that fly upon the point,Raise racking pains in every joint.Nay, more—these winds are thought magicians.And supereminent physicians:For men who have been kill’d outright,They cure again at dead of night.That double witch, who erst did dwellIn Endor’s cave, raised Samuel;But they each night raise countless hostsOf wandering sprites, and sheeted ghosts;Turn shaking locks to clanking chains,And howl most supernatural strains:While all our dunces lose their wits,And pass the night in ague-fits.While thisnocturnal series blowsI hide my head beneath the clothes,And sue the power whose dew distilsThe only balm for human ills.All day the sun’s prevailing beamAbsorbs this dew from Lethe’s stream:All night the falling moisture shedsOblivion over mortal heads.Then sinking into sleep I fall,And leave thempipingat theirball.When morning comes—no summer’s morn—I wake and find the spectres gone;But on the casement see emboss’dA mimic world in crusted frost;Ice-bergs, high shores, and wastes of snow,Mountains above, and seas below;Or, if Imagination bids,Vast crystal domes, and pyramids.Then starting from my couch I leap,And shake away the dregs of sleep,Just breathe upon the grand array,And ice-bergs slide in seas away.Now on the scout I sally forth,The weather-cock due E. by N.To meet some masquerading fog,Which makes all nature dance incog.And spreads blue devils, and blue looks,Till exercised by tongues and books.Books, do I say? full well I wistA book’s a famous exorcist!A book’s the tow that makes the tetherThat binds the quick and dead together;A speaking trumpet under ground,That turns a silence to a sound;A magic mirror form’d to show,Worlds that were dust ten thousand years ago.They’re aromatic cloths, that holdThe mind embalm’d in many a fold,And look, arrang’d in dust-hung rooms,Like mummies in Egyptian tombs;—Enchanted echoes, that reply,Not to the ear, but to the eye;Or pow’rful drugs, that give the brain,By strange contagion, joy or pain.A book’s the phœnix of the earth,Which bursts in splendour from its birth:And like the moon without her wanes,From every change new lustre gains;Shining with undiminish’d light,While ages wing their idle flight.By such a glorious theme inspiredStill could I sing—but you are tired:(Tho’ adamantine lungs would do,Ears should be adamantine too,)And thence we may deduce ’tis betterTo answer (’faith ’tis time) your letter.To answer first what first it says.Why will you speak of partial praise?I spoke with honesty and truth,And now you seem to doubt them both.The lynx’s eye may seem to him,Who always has enjoy’d it, dim:And brilliant thoughts to you may beWhat common-place ones are to me.You note them not—but cast them by,As light is lavish’d by the sky;Or streams from Indian mountains roll’dFling to the ocean grains of gold.But still we know the gold is fine—But still we know the light’s divine.As to the Century and Pope,The thought’s not so absurd, I hope.I don’t despair to see a throneRear’d above his—and p’rhaps your own.The course is clear, the goal’s in view,’Tis free to all, why not to you?But, ere you start, you should surveyThe towering falcon strike her prey:In gradual sweeps the sky she scales,Nor all at once the bird assails,But hems him in—cuts round the skies,And gains upon him as he flies.Wearied and faint he beats the air in vain,Then shuts his flaggy wings, and pitches to the plain.Now, falcon! now! One stoop—but one,The quarry’s struck—the prize is won!So he who hopes the palm to gain,So often sought—and sought in vain,Must year by year, as round by round,In easy circles leave the ground:’Tis time has taught him how to rise,And naturalized him to the skies.Full many a day Pope trod the vales,Mid “silver streams and murmuring gales.”Long fear’d the rising hills to tread,Nor ever dared the mountain-head.It needs not Milton to display,—Who let a life-time slide away,Before he swept the sounding string,And soar’d on Pegasean wing,—Nor Homer’s ancient form—to showThe Laurel takes an age to grow;And he who gives his name to fate,Must plant it early, reap it late;Nor pluck the blossoms as they spring,So beautiful, yet perishing.****More I would say—but, see, the paperIs nearly out—and so’s my taper.So while I’ve space, and while I’ve light,I’ll shake your hand, and bid good-night.

So thus, alas! I’m gagg’d it seems,From converse of the woods and streams,(For all the countless rhyming rabbleHold leaves can whisper-waters babble)And, house-bound for whole weeks togetherBy stress of lungs, and stress of weather,Feed on the more delightful strainsOf howling winds, and pelting rains;Which shake the house, from rear to van,Like valetudinarian;Pouring innumerable streamsOf arrows, thro’ a thousand seams:Arrows so fine, the nicest eyeTheir thickest flight can ne’er descry,—Yet fashion’d with such subtle art,They strike their victim to the heart;While imps, that fly upon the point,Raise racking pains in every joint.

Nay, more—these winds are thought magicians.And supereminent physicians:For men who have been kill’d outright,They cure again at dead of night.That double witch, who erst did dwellIn Endor’s cave, raised Samuel;But they each night raise countless hostsOf wandering sprites, and sheeted ghosts;Turn shaking locks to clanking chains,And howl most supernatural strains:While all our dunces lose their wits,And pass the night in ague-fits.

While thisnocturnal series blowsI hide my head beneath the clothes,And sue the power whose dew distilsThe only balm for human ills.All day the sun’s prevailing beamAbsorbs this dew from Lethe’s stream:All night the falling moisture shedsOblivion over mortal heads.Then sinking into sleep I fall,And leave thempipingat theirball.When morning comes—no summer’s morn—I wake and find the spectres gone;But on the casement see emboss’dA mimic world in crusted frost;Ice-bergs, high shores, and wastes of snow,Mountains above, and seas below;Or, if Imagination bids,Vast crystal domes, and pyramids.Then starting from my couch I leap,And shake away the dregs of sleep,Just breathe upon the grand array,And ice-bergs slide in seas away.

Now on the scout I sally forth,The weather-cock due E. by N.To meet some masquerading fog,Which makes all nature dance incog.And spreads blue devils, and blue looks,Till exercised by tongues and books.

Books, do I say? full well I wistA book’s a famous exorcist!A book’s the tow that makes the tetherThat binds the quick and dead together;A speaking trumpet under ground,That turns a silence to a sound;A magic mirror form’d to show,Worlds that were dust ten thousand years ago.They’re aromatic cloths, that holdThe mind embalm’d in many a fold,And look, arrang’d in dust-hung rooms,Like mummies in Egyptian tombs;—Enchanted echoes, that reply,Not to the ear, but to the eye;Or pow’rful drugs, that give the brain,By strange contagion, joy or pain.

A book’s the phœnix of the earth,Which bursts in splendour from its birth:And like the moon without her wanes,From every change new lustre gains;Shining with undiminish’d light,While ages wing their idle flight.

By such a glorious theme inspiredStill could I sing—but you are tired:(Tho’ adamantine lungs would do,Ears should be adamantine too,)And thence we may deduce ’tis betterTo answer (’faith ’tis time) your letter.

To answer first what first it says.Why will you speak of partial praise?I spoke with honesty and truth,And now you seem to doubt them both.The lynx’s eye may seem to him,Who always has enjoy’d it, dim:And brilliant thoughts to you may beWhat common-place ones are to me.You note them not—but cast them by,As light is lavish’d by the sky;Or streams from Indian mountains roll’dFling to the ocean grains of gold.But still we know the gold is fine—But still we know the light’s divine.

As to the Century and Pope,The thought’s not so absurd, I hope.I don’t despair to see a throneRear’d above his—and p’rhaps your own.The course is clear, the goal’s in view,’Tis free to all, why not to you?

But, ere you start, you should surveyThe towering falcon strike her prey:In gradual sweeps the sky she scales,Nor all at once the bird assails,But hems him in—cuts round the skies,And gains upon him as he flies.Wearied and faint he beats the air in vain,Then shuts his flaggy wings, and pitches to the plain.Now, falcon! now! One stoop—but one,The quarry’s struck—the prize is won!

So he who hopes the palm to gain,So often sought—and sought in vain,Must year by year, as round by round,In easy circles leave the ground:’Tis time has taught him how to rise,And naturalized him to the skies.Full many a day Pope trod the vales,Mid “silver streams and murmuring gales.”Long fear’d the rising hills to tread,Nor ever dared the mountain-head.

It needs not Milton to display,—Who let a life-time slide away,Before he swept the sounding string,And soar’d on Pegasean wing,—Nor Homer’s ancient form—to showThe Laurel takes an age to grow;And he who gives his name to fate,Must plant it early, reap it late;Nor pluck the blossoms as they spring,So beautiful, yet perishing.

****

More I would say—but, see, the paperIs nearly out—and so’s my taper.So while I’ve space, and while I’ve light,I’ll shake your hand, and bid good-night.

F. P. H.

Croydon, Dec. 17, 1826.

[65]To shield this line from criticism—’TisParody—not Plagiarism.

To shield this line from criticism—’TisParody—not Plagiarism.

It is related of this distinguished officer, that his death-wound was not received by the common chance of war.

Wolfe perceived one of the sergeants of his regiment strike a man under arms, (an act against which he had given particular orders,) and knowing the man to be a good soldier, reprehended the aggressor with much warmth, and threatened to reduce him to the ranks. This so far incensed the sergeant, that he deserted to the enemy, where he meditated the means of destroying the general. Being placed in the enemy’s left wing, which was directly opposed to the right of the British line, where Wolfe commanded in person, he aimed at his old commander with his rifle, and effected his deadly purpose.

The late Dr. King, of Oxford, by actively interfering in some measures which materially affected the university at large, became very popular with some individuals, and as obnoxious with others. The mode of expressing disapprobation at either of the universities in the senate-house, or schools, is by scraping with the feet: but deviating from the usual custom, a party was made at Oxford to hiss the doctor at the conclusion of a Latin oration he had to make in public. This was accordingly done: the doctor, however, did not suffer himself to be disconcerted, but turning round to the vice-chancellor, said, very gravely, in an audible voice, “Laudatur abHis.”

Conviviality and good cheer may convert the most dreary time of the year into a season of pleasure; and association of ideas, that great source of our keenest pleasures, may attach delightful images to the howling wind of a bleak winter’s night, and the hoarse screeching and mystic hooting of the ominousowl.[66]

Winter.When icicles hang by the wall,And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail;When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,Tu-who;Tu-whit tu-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.When all aloud the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marian’s nose looks red and raw:Then roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,And nightly sings the staring owl,Tu-who;Tu-whit tu-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.Shakspeare.

When icicles hang by the wall,And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail;When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,Tu-who;Tu-whit tu-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.When all aloud the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marian’s nose looks red and raw:Then roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,And nightly sings the staring owl,Tu-who;Tu-whit tu-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marian’s nose looks red and raw:Then roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,And nightly sings the staring owl,Tu-who;Tu-whit tu-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Shakspeare.

To “keel” the pot is an ancient spelling for “cool,” which is the past participle of the verb: see Tooke’s “Diversions of Purley,” where this passage is so explained.

[66]Dr. Forster’s Perennial Calendar.

Monument at Lucerne, designed by Thorwaldsen,To the Memory of the Swiss Guards who were massacred at the Tuilleries, on the Tenth of August, 1792.

Theengravingabove is executed from a clay figure, modelled by a Swiss artist from the original. It was obligingly sent to the editor, for the present purpose, by the gentleman to whom it belongs. The model was presented to him by a friend, who, in answer to his inquiries on the subject, wrote him a letter, of which the following is anextract:—

“TheTerra Incognitayou mention comes from Lucerne, in Switzerland, and is the model of a colossal work, cut in the solid rock, close to that city, on the grounds of general Pfyffer. It is from a design furnished by Thorwaldsen, which is shown close by. The ‘L’envoi,’ as don Armado calls it, is as follows:—‘The Helvetian lion, even in death, protects the lilies of France.’ The monument was executed by the Swiss, in memory of their countrymen, who were massacred, on the 10th of August, at the Tuilleries, in defending Louis XVI. from thesans culottes. The names of those who perished are engraved beneath the lion.”

The particulars of the dreadful slaughter, wherein these helpless victims fell, while defending the palace and the person of the unfortunate monarch, are recorded in different works within the reach of every person who desires to be acquainted with the frightful details. About sixty who were not killed at the moment, were taken prisoners, and conducted to the town-hall of the commons of Paris, for summary trial: but the ferocious females who mingled in the mobs of those terrifying times, rushed in bodies to the place, with cries of vengeance, and the unhappy men were delivered up to their fury, and every individual was murdered on the spot.

[From the “Chaste Maid in Cheapside,” a Comedy, by Thomas Middleton, 1620.]

Citizen to a Knight complimenting his Daughter.

Pish, stop your words, good Knight, ’twill make her blush else,Which are wound too high for the Daughters of the Freedom;Honour, and Faithful Servant! they are complimentsFor the worthy Ladies of White Hall or Greenwich;Ev’n plain, sufficient, subsidy words serve us, Sir.

Master Allwit (a Wittol) describes his contentment.

I am like a manFinding a table furnish’d to his hand,(As mine is still for me), prays for the Founder,Bless the Right worshipful, the good Founder’s life:I thank him,he[67]has maintain’d my house these ten years;Not only keeps my Wife, but he keeps me.He gets me all my children, and pays the nurseWeekly or monthly, puts me to nothing,Rent, nor Church dues, not so much as the Scavenger;The happiest state that ever man was born to.I walk out in a morning, come to breakfast,Find excellent cheer, a good fire in winter;Look in my coal-house, about Midsummer eve,That’s full, five or six chaldron new laid up;Look in my back yard, I shall find a steepleMade up with Kentish faggots, which o’erlooksThe water-house and the windmills. I say nothing,But smile, and pin the door. When she lies in,(As now she’s even upon the point of grunting),A Lady lies not in like her; there’s her imbossings,Embroiderings, spanglings, and I know not what,As if she lay with all the gaudy shopsIn Gresham’s Burse about her; then her restoratives,Able to set up a young ’Pothecary,And richly store the Foreman of a Drug shop;Her sugars by whole loaves, her wines by rundlets,I see these things, but like a happy manI pay for none at all, yet fools think it mine;I have the name, and in his gold I shine:And where some merchants would in soul kiss hell,To buy a paradise for their wives, and dyeTheir conscience in the blood of prodigal heirs,To deck their Night-piece; yet, all this being done,Eaten with jealousy to the inmost bone;These torments stand I freed of. I am as clearFrom jealousy of a wife, as from the charge.O two miraculous blessings! ’tis the Knight,Has ta’en that labour quite out of my hands.I may sit still, and play; he’s jealous for me,Watches her steps, sets spies. I live at ease.He has both the cost and torment; when the stringOf his heart frets, I feed fat, laugh, or sing.*******I’ll go bidGossips[68]presently myself,That’s all the work I’ll do; nor need I stir,But that it is my pleasure to walk forthAnd air myself a little; I am tyedTo nothing in this business; what I doIs merely recreation, not constraint.

*******

I’ll go bidGossips[68]presently myself,That’s all the work I’ll do; nor need I stir,But that it is my pleasure to walk forthAnd air myself a little; I am tyedTo nothing in this business; what I doIs merely recreation, not constraint.

Rescue from Bailiffs by the Watermen.

——I had been taken by eight Serjeants,But for the honest Watermen, I am bound to ’em.They are the most requiteful’st people living;For, as they get their means by Gentlemen,They’re still the forward’st to help Gentlemen.You heard how one ’scaped out of theBlackfriars[69]But a while since from two or three varlets,Came into the house with all their rapiers drawn,As if they’d dance the sword-dance on the stage,With candles in their hands, like Chandlers’ Ghosts!Whilst the poor Gentleman, so pursued and banded,Was by an honest pair of oars safe landed.

[From “London Chanticleers,” a rude Sketch of a Play, printed 1659, but evidently much older.]

Song in praise of Ale.1.Submit, Bunch of Grapes,To the strong Barley ear;The weak Wine no longerThe laurel shall wear.2.Sack, and all drinks else,Desist from the strife;Ale’s the only Aqua Vitæ,And liquor of life.3.Then come, my boon fellows,Let’s drink it around;It keeps us from grave,Though it lays us on ground.4.Ale’s a Physician,No Mountebank Bragger;Can cure the chill Ague,Though it be with the Stagger.5.Ale’s a strong Wrestler,Flings all it hath met;And makes the ground slippery,Though it be not wet.6.Ale is both Ceres,And good Neptune too;Ale’s froth was the sea,From which Venus grew.7.Ale is immortal;And be there no stopsIn bonny lads’ quaffing,Can live withouthops.[70]8.Then come, my boon fellows,Let’s drink it around;It keeps us from grave,Though it lays us on ground.

Song in praise of Ale.

Submit, Bunch of Grapes,To the strong Barley ear;The weak Wine no longerThe laurel shall wear.

Sack, and all drinks else,Desist from the strife;Ale’s the only Aqua Vitæ,And liquor of life.

Then come, my boon fellows,Let’s drink it around;It keeps us from grave,Though it lays us on ground.

Ale’s a Physician,No Mountebank Bragger;Can cure the chill Ague,Though it be with the Stagger.

Ale’s a strong Wrestler,Flings all it hath met;And makes the ground slippery,Though it be not wet.

Ale is both Ceres,And good Neptune too;Ale’s froth was the sea,From which Venus grew.

Ale is immortal;And be there no stopsIn bonny lads’ quaffing,Can live withouthops.[70]

Then come, my boon fellows,Let’s drink it around;It keeps us from grave,Though it lays us on ground.

C. L.

[67]A rich old Knight, who keeps Allwit’s Wife.[68]To his Wife’s Lying-in.[69]Alsatia, I presume.[70]The original distinction of Beer from the old Drink of our Forefathers, which was made without that ingredient.

[67]A rich old Knight, who keeps Allwit’s Wife.

[68]To his Wife’s Lying-in.

[69]Alsatia, I presume.

[70]The original distinction of Beer from the old Drink of our Forefathers, which was made without that ingredient.

The novel called “Mr. Dumont,” by this unfortunate woman, was published in the year 1755 in one volume, twelves, by H. Slater, of Drury-lane, who may be presumed to have been the bookseller that accompanied Mr. Whyte to her miserable dwelling, for the purpose of hearing her read the manuscript. Since the account at col. 125, I met with an advertisement of November, 1742, from whence it appears that she and her daughter, “MissCharke,” performed at one of those places of public amusement at that period, when, to evade the law, under pretence of a musical entertainment, a play and the usual afterpiece were frequently represented by way of divertisement, although they constituted the sole attraction. The notice referred to is altogether a curiosity: it runsthus:—

“For the Benefit of a Person who has a mind to get Money:At the New Theatrein James-street near the Haymarket, on Monday next, will be performed aConcertof vocal and instrumental Musick, divided intoTwo Parts. Boxes 3s.Pit 2s.Gallery 1s.Between the two parts of the Concert will be performed aTragedy, call’dThe Fatal Curiosity, written by the late Mr. Lillo, author of George Barnwell. The part of Mrs. Wilmot byMrs.Charke(who originally performed it at the Haymarket;)The rest of the parts by a Set of People who will perform as well as they can, if not as well as they wou’d, and the best can do no more. With variety of Entertainments, viz. Act I. A Preamble on the Kettle drums, by Mr. Job Baker, particularly,Larry Grovy, accompanied with French Horns. Act II. A new Peasant Dance by Mons. Chemont and Madem Peran, just arriv’d piping hot from the Opera at Paris. To which will be added a Ballad-Opera, call’dThe Devil to Pay; The part of Nell byMissCharkewho performed Princess Elizabeth at Southwark. Servants will be allow’d to keep places on the stage—Particular care will be taken to perform with the utmost decency, and to prevent mistakes, the Bills for the day will be blue and black, &c.”

For the Table Book.

One December evening, the year before last, returning toT—,in the northern extremity ofW—,in a drisling rain, as I approached the second milestone, I observed two men, an elder and a younger, walking side by side in the horse-road. The elder, whose appearance indicated that of a labourer in very comfortable circumstances, was in the path directly in front of my horse, and seemed to have some intention of stopping me; on my advancing, however, he quietly withdrew from the middle of the road to the side of it, but kept his eyes firmly fixed on me, which caused also, on my part, a particular attention to him. He then accosted me, “Sir, I beg your pardon.”—“For what, my man?”—“For speaking to you, sir.”—“What have you said, then?”—“I want to know the way toS—.”—“Pass on beyond those trees, and you will see the spire before you.”—“How far is it off, sir?”—“Less than two miles.”—“Do you know it, sir?”—“I was there twenty minutes ago.”—“Do you know the gentleman there, sir, that wants a man to go under ground for him?”—“For what purpose?” (imagining, from the direction in which I met the man, that he came from the mining districts ofS—,I expected that his object was to explore the neighbourhood for coals.) His answer immediately turned the whole train of my ideas. “To go under ground for him, to take off thebloody handfrom his carriage.”—“And what is that to be done for?”—“For a thousand pounds, sir. Have you not heard any thing of it, sir?”—“Not a word.”—“Well, sir, I was told that the gentleman lives here, atS—,at the hall, and that he offers a thousand pounds to any man thatwill take off thebloody handfrom his carriage.”—“I can assure you this is the first word I have heard on the subject.”—“Well, sir, I have been told so;” and then, taking off his hat, he wished me a good morning.

I rode slowly on, but very suddenly heard a loud call, “Stop, sir, stop!” I turned my horse, and saw the man, who had, I imagined, held a short parley with his companion, just leaving him, and running towards me, and calling out, “Stop, sir.” Not quite knowing what to make of this extraordinary accost and vehement call, I changed a stout stick in my left hand to my right hand, elevated it, gathered up the reins in my left, and trotted my horse towards him; he then walked to the side of the road, and took off his hat, and said, “Sir, I am told that if the gentleman can get a man to go under ground for him, for seven years, and never see the light, and let his nails, and his hair, and his beard grow all that time, that the king will then take off thebloody handfrom his carriage.”—“Which then is the man who offers to do this? is it you, or your companion?”—“I am the man, sir.”—“O, you intend to undertake to do this?”—“Yes, sir.”—“Then all that I can say is, that I now hear the first word of it from yourself.” At this time the rain had considerably increased, I therefore wished the man a good morning, and left him.

I had not, however, rode above a hundred and fifty yards before an idea struck me, that it would be an act of kindness to advise the poor man to go no further on such a strange pursuit; but, though I galloped after them on the way I had originally directed them, and in a few minutes saw two persons, who must have met them, had they continued their route toS—,I could neither hear any thing of them, nor see them, in any situation which I could imagine that they might have taken to as a shelter from the heavy rain. I thus lost an opportunity of endeavouring to gain, from the greatest depths of ignorance, many points of inquiry I had arranged in my own mind, in order to obtain a developement of the extraordinary idea and unfounded offer, on which the poor fellow appeared to have so strongly set his mind.

On further inquiry into the origin of thisstrange notionof the bloody hand in heraldry, and why the badge of honour next to nobility, and perpetuated from the ancient kings of Ulster, should fall, in two centuries, into indelible disgrace, I find myself in darkness equal to that of the anticipated cavern of the poor deluded man, and hitherto without an aid superior to himself. Under these circumstances, present the inquiry to you, and shall be among many others, greatly gratified to see it set in a clear light by yourself, or some friendly correspondent.

I am, sir,

1827.— —.

After the Restoration, the number of workmen in England being found too few to answer the demand for organs, it was thought expedient to make offers of encouragement for foreigners to come and settle here; these brought over Mr. Bernard Schmidt and —— Harris; the former, for his excellence in his art, deserves to live in the remembrance of all who are friends to it.

Bernard Schmidt, or, as we pronounce the name, Smith, was a native of Germany, but of what city or province in particular is not known. He brought with him two nephews, the one named Gerard, the other Bernard; to distinguish him from these, the elder had the appellation of father Smith. Immediately upon their arrival, Smith was employed to build an organ for the royal chapel at Whitehall, but, as it was built in great haste, it did not answer the expectations of those who were judges of his abilities. He had been but a few months here before Harris arrived from France, with his son Renatus, who had been brought up in the business of organ-making under him; they met with little encouragement, for Dallans and Smith had all the business of the kingdom: but, upon the decease of Dallans in 1672, a competition arose between these two foreigners, which was attended with some remarkable circumstances. The elder Harris was in no degree a match for Smith, but his son Renatus was a young man of ingenuity and perseverance, and the contest between Smith and the younger Harris was carried on with great spirit. Each had his friends and supporters, and the point of preference between them was hardly determined by that exquisite piece of workmanship by Smith, the organ now standing in the Temple church; of the building whereof, the following is the history.

On the decease of Dallans and the elder Harris, Renatus Harris and father Smithbecame great rivals in their employment, and there were several trials of skill betwixt them; but the famous contest was at the Temple church, where a new organ was going to be erected towards the latter end of king Charles II.’s time. Both made friends for that employment; and as the society could not agree about who should be the man, the master of the Temple and the benchers proposed that each should set up an organ on each side of the church. In about half or three quarters of a year this was done: Dr. Blow, and Purcell, who was then in his prime, showed and played father Smith’s organ on appointed days to a numerous audience; and, till the other was heard, everybody believed that father Smith would certainly carry it.

Harris brought Lully, organist to queen Catharine, a very eminent master, to touch his organ. This rendered Harris’s organ popular, and the organs continued to vie with one another near a twelvemonth.

Harris then challenged father Smith to make additional stops against a set time; these were the vox humane, the cremona or violin-stop, the double courtel or bass flute, with some others.

These stops, as being newly invented, gave great delight and satisfaction to a numerous audience; and were so well imitated on both sides, that it was hard to adjudge the advantage to either: at last it was left to the lord chief justice Jeffries, who was of that house; and he put an end to the controversy by pitching upon father Smith’s organ; and Harris’s organ being taken away without loss of reputation, Smith’s remains to this day.

Now began the setting up of organs in the chiefest parishes of the city of London, where, for the most part, Harris had the advantage of father Smith, making two perhaps to his one; among them some are very eminent, viz. the organ at St. Bride’s, St. Lawrence near Guildhall, St. Mary Axe, &c.

Notwithstanding Harris’s success, Smith was considered an able and ingenious workman; and, in consequence of this character, he was employed to build an organ for the cathedral of St. Paul. The organs made by him, though in respect of the workmanship they are inferior to those of Harris, and even of Dallans, are yet justly admired; and, for the fineness of their tone, have never yet been equalled.

Harris’s organ, rejected from the Temple by judge Jeffries, was afterwards purchased for the cathedral of Christ-church, at Dublin, and set up there. Towards the close of George II.’s reign, Mr. Byfield was sent for from England to repair it, which he objected to, and prevailed on the chapter to have a new one made by himself, he allowing for the old one in exchange. When he had got it, he would have treated with the parishioners of Lynn, in Norfolk, for the sale of it: but they, disdaining the offer of a second-hand instrument, refused to purchase it, and employed Snetzler to build them a new one, for which they paid him seven hundred pounds. Byfield dying, his widow sold Harris’s organ to the parish of Wolverhampton for five hundred pounds, and there it remains to this day. An eminent master, who was requested by the churchwardens of Wolverhampton to give his opinion of this instrument, declared it to be the best modern organ he had evertouched.[71]

[71]Hawkins.

For the Table Book.

“Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits,Leavening his blood as Cayenne doth a curry,As going at full speed——”Don Juan, c. 10. v. 72.

“Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits,Leavening his blood as Cayenne doth a curry,As going at full speed——”

Don Juan, c. 10. v. 72.

If the number of persons who have been killed, maimed, and disfigured for life, in consequence of stage-coachmishaps, could be ascertained, since the first establishment of steam-packets in this country, and, on the other hand, the number who have been similarly unfortunate by steam-boilers bursting, we should find that the stage-coach proportion would be in the ratio of ten to one! A solitary “blow up” of a steam-packet is “noised and proclaimed” from the Land’s End to the other extremity of the island; while hundreds of coach-accidents, and many of them fatal, occur, which are never heard of beyond the village, near to which the casualty takes place, or the neighbouring ale-house. These affairs it is to the interest of the proprietors to “hush up,” by means of a gratuity to the injured, rather than have their property ruined by an exposure in a court of justice. Should a poor man have a leg or an arm broken, through the carelessness of a drunken coachman, his poverty prevents his having recourse to law. Justice, in these cases, nine times in ten, is entirely out of the question, and an arrangement, between him and the proprietors, is easily effected; the unfortunatefellow rather receiving fifty or a hundred pounds “hush money,” than bring his action, when, perhaps, from some technical informality in the proceedings, (should he find a lawyer willing to act for him, beingpoor,) he would benonsuited, with all the costs of both parties on his own shoulders, and be, moreover, ruined for ever, in both purse and person. These remarks were suggested by reading an American work, some time since, on the above subject, from which I have extracted the following

Inside.—Crammed full of passengers—three fat, fusty, old men—a young mother and sick child—a cross old maid—a poll-parrot—a bag of red herrings—double-barreled gun, (which you are afraid is loaded)—and a snarling lap-dog, in addition to yourself—awaking out of a sound nap, with the cramp in one leg, and the other in a lady’s band-box—pay the damage (four or five shillings) for “gallantry’s sake”—getting out in the dark, at the half-way-house, in the hurry stepping into the return coach, and finding yourself the next morning at the very spot you had started from the evening before—not a breath of air—asthmatic old man, and child with the measles—windows closed in consequence—unpleasant smell—shoes filled with warm water—look up and find it’s the child—obliged to bear it—no appeal—shut your eyes, and scold the dog—pretend sleep, and pinch the child—mistake—pinch the dog, and get bit—execrate the child in return—black looks—“no gentleman”—pay the coachman, and drop a piece of gold in the straw—not to be found—fell through a crevice—coachman says, “he’ll find it”—can’t—get out yourself—gone—picked up by the ’ostler.—No time for “blowing up”—coach off for next stage—lose your money—get in—lose your seat—stuck in the middle—get laughed at—lose your temper—turn sulky, and turned over in a horse-pond.

Outside.—Your eye cut out by the lash of a clumsy coachman’s whip—hat blown off, into a pond, by a sudden gust of wind—seated between two apprehended murderers, and a noted sheep-stealer in irons, who are being conveyed to gaol—a drunken fellow, half asleep, falls off the coach, and, in attempting to save himself, drags you along with him into the mud—musical guard, and driver, “horn mad”—turned over—one leg under a bale of cotton, the other under the coach—hands in breeches pockets—head in a hamper of wine—lots of broken bottlesversusbroken heads—cutand run—send for surgeon—wounds dressed—lotion and lint, four dollars—take post-chaise—get home—lay down, and laid up.

Inside and Outside.—Drunken coachman—horse sprawling—wheel off—pole breaking, down hill—axle-tree splitting—coach overturning—winter, and buried in the snow—one eye poked out with an umbrella, the other cut open by the broken window—reins breaking—impudent guard—hurried at meals—imposition of innkeepers—five minutes and a half to swallow three and sixpennyworth of vile meat—waiter a rogue—“Like master, like man”—half a bellyfull, and frozen to death—internal grumblings and outward complaints—no redress—walk forward while the horses are changing—take the wrong turning—lose yourself and lose the coach—good-by to portmanteau—curse your ill luck—wander about in the dark and find the inn at last—get upon the next coach going the same road—stop at the next inn—brandy and water, hot, to keep you in spirits—warm fire—pleasant company—heard the guard cry “Allright?”—run out, just in time to sing out “I’mleft,” as the coach turns the corner—after it “full tear”—come up with it, at the end of a mile—get up “all in a blowze”—catch cold—sore throat—inflammation—doctor—warm bath—fever—Die.

Gaspard.

From a New York Paper.

The members of theUgly Clubare requested to attend a special meeting atUgly-hall, 4, Wall street, on Monday-evening next, at half-past seven o’clock precisely, to take into consideration the propriety of offering to the committee of defence the services of their ugly carcasses, firm hearts, sturdy bodies, and unblistered hands.—His Uglinessbeing absent, this meeting is called by order of

His Homeliness.

Aug. 13.

In 1656, a fisherman on the banks of the Rhone, in the neighbourhood of Avignon,was considerably obstructed in his work by some heavy body, which he feared would injure the net; but by proceeding slowly and cautiously, he drew it ashore untorn, and found that it contained a round substance, in the shape of a large plate or dish, thickly encrusted with a coat of hardened mud; the dark colour of the metal beneath induced him to consider it as iron. A silversmith, accidentally present, encouraged the mistake, and, after a few affected difficulties and demurs, bought it for a trifling sum, immediately carried it home, and, after carefully cleaning and polishing his purchase, it proved to be of pure silver, perfectly round, more than two feet in diameter, and weighing upwards of twenty pounds. Fearing that so massy and valuable a piece of plate, offered for sale at one time and at one place, might produce suspicion and inquiry, he immediately, without waiting to examine its beauties, divided it into four equal parts, each of which he disposed of, at different and distant places.

One of the pieces had been sold, at Lyons, to Mr. Mey, a wealthy merchant of that city, and a well-educated man, who directly saw its value, and after great pains and expense, procured the other three fragments, had them nicely rejoined, and the treasure was finally placed in the cabinet of the king of France.

This relic of antiquity, no less remarkable for the beauty of its workmanship, than for having been buried at the bottom of the Rhone more than two thousand years, was a votive shield, presented to Scipio, as a monument of gratitude and affection, by the inhabitants of Carthago Nova, now the city of Carthagena, for his generosity and self-denial, in delivering one of his captives, a beautiful virgin, to her original lover. This act, so honourable to the Roman general, who was then in the prime vigour of manhood, is represented on the shield, and an engraving from it may be seen in the curious and valuable work of Mr. Spon.

The story of “Scipio’s chastity,” which this shield commemorates, is related by Livy to the following effect.—The wife of the conquered king, falling at the general’s feet, earnestly entreated that the female captives might be protected from injury and insult.—Scipio assured her, that she should have no reason to complain.

“For my own part,” replied the queen, “my age and infirmities almost ensure me against dishonour, but when I consider the age and complexion of my fellow captives, (pointing to a crowd of females,) I feel considerable uneasiness.”

“Such crimes,” replied Scipio, “are neither perpetrated nor permitted by the Roman people; but if it were not so, the anxiety you discover, under your present calamities, to preserve their chastity, would be a sufficient protection:” he then gave the necessary orders.

The soldiers soon after brought him, what they considered as a rich prize, a virgin of distinction, young, and of such extraordinary beauty, as to attract the notice and admiration of all who beheld her. Scipio found that she had been betrothed, in happier days, to Allucius, a young Spanish prince, who was himself a captive. Without a moment’s delay, the conqueror sent for her parents and lover, and addressed the latter in the following words:

“The maid to whom thou wert shortly to have been married has been taken prisoner: from the soldiers who brought her to me, I understand that thy affections are fixed upon her, and indeed her beauty confirms the report. She is worthy of thy love; nor would I hesitate, but for the stern laws of duty and honour, to offer her my hand and heart. I return her to thee, not only inviolate, but untouched, and almost unseen; for I scarcely ventured to gaze on such perfection; accept her as a gift worthy receiving. The only condition, the only return I ask, is, that thou wilt be a friend to the Roman people.”

The young prince in a transport of delight, and scarcely able to believe what he saw and heard, pressed the hand of Scipio to his heart, and implored ten thousand blessings on his head. The parents of the happy bridegroom had brought a large sum of money, as the price of her redemption; Scipio ordered it to be placed on the ground, and telling Allucius that he insisted on his accepting it as a nuptial gift directed it to be carried to his tent.

The happy pair returned home, repeating the praises of Scipio to every one, calling him a godlike youth, as matchless in the success of his arms, as he was unrivalled in the beneficent use he made of his victories.

Though the story is known to most readers, its relation, in connection with the discovery of the valuable present from the conquered city to its illustrious victor, seemed almost indispensable, and perhaps the incident can scarcely be too familiar.

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