GOUT.

“After Mister Charles Jennens produc’d hisDefence,He saw all the papers at Martyr’s,To learn if the critics had had the good senseTo hang themselves in their own garters.He thought they could never out-live it. The sotIs readyto hang himself, ’cause they havenot.”

When we called Jennens a literary Bubb Doddington, we ought to have remembered that Doddington had talents, but Jennens had none.

The following has been handed about as from the pen of Mr. Elliston, now of the Surrey theatre. It may be his or it may not, but whichever way the fact be, it can do him no harm to publish it. The point is in the Greek Anthology, though we do not suppose that Mr. E. went there for it.

The best Wine.“What wine do you esteem the first,And like above the rest?”Ask’d Tom—said Dick—“My own is worst,My friend’s is always best.”

The best Wine.

“What wine do you esteem the first,And like above the rest?”Ask’d Tom—said Dick—“My own is worst,My friend’s is always best.”

Was a Polish knight and an English physician, more celebrated by Garrick’s epigrams than by his own dramatic compositions, consisting of two farces,The Maiden’s WhimandThe Rout. He wrote books enough on all subjects “to build his own papyral monument,” if the grocers and trunk-makers had not committed such havoc among them, even before his death. That event was produced by taking his own remedy for the gout, and it is thus commemorated.

On the Death of Doctor Hill.“Poor Doctor Hill is dead!”—“Good lack!Of what disorder?”—“An attackOf gout.”—“Indeed! I thought that heHad found a wondrous remedy.”—“Why so he had, and when he triedHe found it true—the Doctor died!”

On the Death of Doctor Hill.

“Poor Doctor Hill is dead!”—“Good lack!Of what disorder?”—“An attackOf gout.”—“Indeed! I thought that heHad found a wondrous remedy.”—“Why so he had, and when he triedHe found it true—the Doctor died!”

The contest among medical men for the most proper mode of curing this complaint cannot but produce a smile, when we recollect that the afflicted have recourse to various and opposite remedies with success.

We have heard of a man who would find his pains alleviated by drinking a wineglass full of verjuice, while a table-spoonful of wine would torture him almost to distraction.

There were two counsellors, some years ago, who generally cured themselves in a very pleasant manner; one, who was accustomed to drink water constantly, would cure himself by drinking wine; and the other, who invariably took his bottle or more of wine a day, was constantly cured by the use of water.

Others, by living on a milk diet only, have entirely cured themselves.

Some years ago there was a man in Italy who was particularly successful in the cureof the gout: his mode was to make his patients sweat profusely, by obliging them to go up and down stairs, though with much pain to themselves.

A quack in France acquired great reputation for the cure of this malady, by the use of a medicine he called “Tincture of the Moon,” of which he administered some drops every morning in a basin of broth. It was never used by any but the richest persons; for the price of a bottle full, not larger than a common sized smelling bottle, was eighty louis d’ors. Furetière mentions this quack, and says he possessed many valuable secrets. He adds, that the surprising cures, to which he was witness, by the “Tincture of the Moon,” astonished all the faculty at Paris. The operation of this medicine was insensible.

He had been in Yorkshire dales,Amid the winding scars;Where deep and low the hamlets lieBeneath a little patch of sky,And little patch of stars.—Wordsworth.

The Legend of the Troller’s Gill.On the steep fell’s height shone the fair moonlight,And its beams illum’d the dale,And a silvery sheen cloth’d the forest green,Which sigh’d to the moaning gale.From Burnsal’s tower the midnight hourHad toll’d, and its echo was still,And the elfin band, from faërie land,Was upon Elboton hill.’Twas silent all, save the waters’ fall,That with never ceasing din,Roar and rush, and foam and gush,In Loupscar’s troubled linn.From his cot he stept, while the household slept,And he carroll’d with boist’rous glee,But he ne hied to the green hill’s side,The faerie train to see.He went not to roam with his own dear maidAlong by a pine-clad scar,Nor sing a lay to his ladye love,’Neath the light of the polar star.The Troller, I ween, was a fearless wight,And, as legends tell, could hearThe night winds rave, in the Knave Knollcave,[471]Withouten a sign of fear.And whither now are his footsteps bent?And where is the Troller bound?To the horrid gill of the limestone hill,To call on the Spectre Hound!And on did he pass, o’er the dew-bent grass,While the sweetest perfumes fell,From the blossoming of the trees which springIn the depth of that lonely dell.Now before his eyes did the dark gill rise,No moon-ray pierced its gloom,And his steps around did the waters soundLike a voice from a haunted tomb.And there as he stept, a shuddering creptO’er his frame, scarce known to fear,For he once did dream, that the sprite of the streamHad loudly called—Forbear!An aged yew in the rough cliffs grew,And under its sombre shadeDid the Troller rest, and with charms unblest,He a magic circle made.Then thrice did he turn where the streamersburn,[472]And thrice did he kiss the ground,And with solemn tone, in that gill so lone,He call’d on the Spectre Hound!And a burning brand he clasp’d in his hand,And he nam’d a potent spell,That, for Christian ear it were sin to hear,And a sin for a bard totell.[473]And a whirlwind swept by, and stormy grew the sky,And the torrent louder roar’d,While a hellish flame, o’er the Troller’s stalwart frameFrom each cleft of the gill was pour’d.And a dreadful thing from the cliff did spring,And its wild bark thrill’d around—Its eyes had the glow of the fires below—’Twas the form of the Spectre Hound!***When on Rylstonne’s height glow’d the morning light,And, borne on the mountain air,ThePriorie[474]bell did the peasants tell’Twas the chanting of matin prayer,By peasant men, where the horrid glenDoth its rugged jaws expand,A corse was found, where a dark yew frown’d,And marks were imprest on the dead man’s breast—But they seem’d not by mortal hand.***In the evening calm a funeral psalmSlowly stole o’er the woodland scene—The harebells wave on a new-made graveIn “Burnsall’s church-yard green.”That funeral psalm in the evening calm,Which echo’d the dell around,Was his, o’er whose grave blue harebells wave,Who call’d on the Spectre Hound!

The Legend of the Troller’s Gill.

On the steep fell’s height shone the fair moonlight,And its beams illum’d the dale,And a silvery sheen cloth’d the forest green,Which sigh’d to the moaning gale.From Burnsal’s tower the midnight hourHad toll’d, and its echo was still,And the elfin band, from faërie land,Was upon Elboton hill.’Twas silent all, save the waters’ fall,That with never ceasing din,Roar and rush, and foam and gush,In Loupscar’s troubled linn.From his cot he stept, while the household slept,And he carroll’d with boist’rous glee,But he ne hied to the green hill’s side,The faerie train to see.He went not to roam with his own dear maidAlong by a pine-clad scar,Nor sing a lay to his ladye love,’Neath the light of the polar star.The Troller, I ween, was a fearless wight,And, as legends tell, could hearThe night winds rave, in the Knave Knollcave,[471]Withouten a sign of fear.And whither now are his footsteps bent?And where is the Troller bound?To the horrid gill of the limestone hill,To call on the Spectre Hound!And on did he pass, o’er the dew-bent grass,While the sweetest perfumes fell,From the blossoming of the trees which springIn the depth of that lonely dell.Now before his eyes did the dark gill rise,No moon-ray pierced its gloom,And his steps around did the waters soundLike a voice from a haunted tomb.And there as he stept, a shuddering creptO’er his frame, scarce known to fear,For he once did dream, that the sprite of the streamHad loudly called—Forbear!An aged yew in the rough cliffs grew,And under its sombre shadeDid the Troller rest, and with charms unblest,He a magic circle made.Then thrice did he turn where the streamersburn,[472]And thrice did he kiss the ground,And with solemn tone, in that gill so lone,He call’d on the Spectre Hound!And a burning brand he clasp’d in his hand,And he nam’d a potent spell,That, for Christian ear it were sin to hear,And a sin for a bard totell.[473]And a whirlwind swept by, and stormy grew the sky,And the torrent louder roar’d,While a hellish flame, o’er the Troller’s stalwart frameFrom each cleft of the gill was pour’d.And a dreadful thing from the cliff did spring,And its wild bark thrill’d around—Its eyes had the glow of the fires below—’Twas the form of the Spectre Hound!***When on Rylstonne’s height glow’d the morning light,And, borne on the mountain air,ThePriorie[474]bell did the peasants tell’Twas the chanting of matin prayer,By peasant men, where the horrid glenDoth its rugged jaws expand,A corse was found, where a dark yew frown’d,And marks were imprest on the dead man’s breast—But they seem’d not by mortal hand.***In the evening calm a funeral psalmSlowly stole o’er the woodland scene—The harebells wave on a new-made graveIn “Burnsall’s church-yard green.”That funeral psalm in the evening calm,Which echo’d the dell around,Was his, o’er whose grave blue harebells wave,Who call’d on the Spectre Hound!

On the steep fell’s height shone the fair moonlight,And its beams illum’d the dale,And a silvery sheen cloth’d the forest green,Which sigh’d to the moaning gale.

From Burnsal’s tower the midnight hourHad toll’d, and its echo was still,And the elfin band, from faërie land,Was upon Elboton hill.

’Twas silent all, save the waters’ fall,That with never ceasing din,Roar and rush, and foam and gush,In Loupscar’s troubled linn.

From his cot he stept, while the household slept,And he carroll’d with boist’rous glee,But he ne hied to the green hill’s side,The faerie train to see.

He went not to roam with his own dear maidAlong by a pine-clad scar,Nor sing a lay to his ladye love,’Neath the light of the polar star.

The Troller, I ween, was a fearless wight,And, as legends tell, could hearThe night winds rave, in the Knave Knollcave,[471]Withouten a sign of fear.

And whither now are his footsteps bent?And where is the Troller bound?To the horrid gill of the limestone hill,To call on the Spectre Hound!

And on did he pass, o’er the dew-bent grass,While the sweetest perfumes fell,From the blossoming of the trees which springIn the depth of that lonely dell.

Now before his eyes did the dark gill rise,No moon-ray pierced its gloom,And his steps around did the waters soundLike a voice from a haunted tomb.

And there as he stept, a shuddering creptO’er his frame, scarce known to fear,For he once did dream, that the sprite of the streamHad loudly called—Forbear!

An aged yew in the rough cliffs grew,And under its sombre shadeDid the Troller rest, and with charms unblest,He a magic circle made.

Then thrice did he turn where the streamersburn,[472]And thrice did he kiss the ground,And with solemn tone, in that gill so lone,He call’d on the Spectre Hound!

And a burning brand he clasp’d in his hand,And he nam’d a potent spell,That, for Christian ear it were sin to hear,And a sin for a bard totell.[473]

And a whirlwind swept by, and stormy grew the sky,And the torrent louder roar’d,While a hellish flame, o’er the Troller’s stalwart frameFrom each cleft of the gill was pour’d.

And a dreadful thing from the cliff did spring,And its wild bark thrill’d around—Its eyes had the glow of the fires below—’Twas the form of the Spectre Hound!

When on Rylstonne’s height glow’d the morning light,And, borne on the mountain air,ThePriorie[474]bell did the peasants tell’Twas the chanting of matin prayer,

By peasant men, where the horrid glenDoth its rugged jaws expand,A corse was found, where a dark yew frown’d,And marks were imprest on the dead man’s breast—But they seem’d not by mortal hand.

In the evening calm a funeral psalmSlowly stole o’er the woodland scene—The harebells wave on a new-made graveIn “Burnsall’s church-yard green.”

That funeral psalm in the evening calm,Which echo’d the dell around,Was his, o’er whose grave blue harebells wave,Who call’d on the Spectre Hound!

The above ballad is founded on a tradition, very common amongst the mountains of Craven. The spectre hound isBargest. Of this mysterious personage I am able to give a very particular account, having only a few days ago seen BillyB——y,who had once a full view of it. I give the narrative in his own words; it would detract from its merit to alter the language.

“You see, sir, as how I’d been a clock-dressing at Gurston [Grassington], and I’d staid rather lat, and may be gitten a lile sup o’ spirit, but I war far from being drunk, and knowed every thing that passed. It war about 11 o’clock when I left, and it war at back end o’t’ year, and a most admīrable [beautiful] neet it war. The moon war varra breet, and I nivvr seed Rylstone-fell plainer in a’ my life. Now, you see, sir, I war passin down t’ mill loine, and I heerd summut come past me—brush, brush, brush, wi’ chains rattling a’ the while; but I seed nothing; and thowt I to mysel, now this is a most mortal queer thing. And I then stuid still, and luik’d about me, but I seed nothing at aw, nobbut the two stane wa’s on each side o’t’ mill loine. Then I heerd again this brush, brush, brush, wi’ the chains; for you see, sir, when I stuid still it stopped; and then, thowt I, this mun be a Bargest, that sae much is said about: and I hurried on towards t’ wood brig, for they say as how this Bargest cannot cross a watter; but lord, sir, when I gat o’er t’ brig, I heerd this same thing again; so it mud either hev crossed t’ watter,or gone round by t’ spring heed![About thirty miles!] And then I becam a valliant man, for I war a bit freeten’d afore; and thinks I, I’ll turn and hev a peep at this thing; so I went up Greet Bank towards Linton, and heerd this brush, brush, brush, wi’ the chains a’ the way, but I seed nothing; then it ceased all of a sudden. So I turned back to go hame, but I’d hardly reach’d t’ door, when I heerd again this brush, brush, brush, and the chains going down towards t’ Holin House, and I followed it, and the moon there shone varra breet, and Iseed its tail!Then, thowt I, thou owd thing! I can say Ise seen thee now, so I’ll away hame. When I gat to t’ door, there war a girt thing like a sheep, but it war larger, ligging across t’ threshold of t’ door, and it war woolly like; and says I, ‘git up,’ and it wouldn’t git up—then says I, ‘stir thysel,’ and it wouldn’t stir itsel! And I grew valliant, and I rais’d t’ stick to baste it wi’, and then it luik’d at me, and sich oies! [eyes] they did glower, and war as big as saucers, and like a cruelled ball; first there war a red ring, then a blue one, then a white one; and these rings grew less and lesstill they cam to a dot!Now I war nane feer’d on it, tho’ it girn’d at me fearfully, and I kept on saying ‘git up,’ and ‘stir thysel,’ and t’ wife heerd as how I war at t’ door, and she cam to oppen it; and then this thing gat up and walked off,for it war mare feer’d o’ t’ wife than it war o’ me!and I told t’ wife, and she said it war Bargest; but I nivver seed it since, and that’s a true story!”

In the glossary to the Rev. Mr. Carr’s “Horæ Momenta Cravenæ,” I find the following—“Bargest, a sprite that haunts towns and populous places. Belg.birg, andgeest, a ghost.” I really am not a little amused at Mr. Carr’s derivation, which is most erroneous. Bargest is not atownghost, nor is it a haunter “of towns and populous places;” for, on the contrary, it is said in general to frequent small villages andhills. Hence the derivation may beberg, Germ., ahill, andgeist, a ghost; i.e. a hill ghost: but the real derivation appears to me to bebär, Germ., abear, andgeist, a ghost; i.e. a bear ghost, from its appearing in the form of a bear or large dog, as BillyB——’snarrativeshows.[475]

The appearance of the spectre hound is said to precede a death; which tradition will be more fully illustrated in my next legend, “The Wise Woman of Littondale.” Like most other spirits Bargest is supposed to be unable to cross a water; and in case any of my Craven readers should ever chance to meet with his ghostship, it may be as well to say, that unless they give him the wall he will tear them to pieces, or otherwise illtreat them, as he did one John Lambert, who, refusing to let him have thewall, was so punished for his want of manners, that he died in a few days.

This superstition has in one instance been productive of good. A few years ago an inhabitant of Threshfield kept a huge he-goat, which the wags of the village would sometimes turn into the lanes, in the night-time, with a chain about his neck, to frighten the farmers on their return from Kettlewell market. They once determined to terrify a badger, or miller, as he returned from the market, by driving the animal with the chains, &c. into the lane through which the man of meal was to pass. About ten o’clock the miller, on entering Threshfield with his cart, espies the goat; and hearing the chains, overwhelmed with terror, he conjectures it to be Bargest, that was sent to take him away for his dishonest dealings; the miller stops his cart, and kneeling down in it, thus prayed, to the great amusement of the young rogues behind the wall:—“Good Lord, don’t let the devil take me this time, and I’ll never cheat any more; do let me get safe home, and I’ll never raise my meal again so extravagantly as I have done of late.” Hedidget safe home, and was as good as his word till he discovered the trick, when he returned to his old malpractices; exemplifying the oldepigram—

“The devil was sick, the devil a monk would be,The devil got well, the devil a monk was he.”

In the second verse of the legend of “The Troller’s Gill,” it is said,

And the elfin band from faërie landWas upon Elbōton hill.

Elboton is the largest of five or six very romantic green hills, that seem to have been formed by some tremendous convulsion of nature, at the foot of that fine chain of fells, which extends from Rylstone to Burnsall, and is said to have been, from “time whereof the memory of man runneth not to the contrary,” the haunt of faëries; numbers of these pretty little creatures having been seen there by several men of honour and veracity in this neighbourhood, one of whomhas had a faëry in his hand!The elfin train has been visible in many parts of our district, but I know of no place they frequent more than Elboton. One of these diminutive beings, called Hob, is reputed to be a watchful preserver of the farmer’s property, and a most industrious workman. At Close-house, near Skipton in Craven, Hob used to do as much work in one night as twenty human workmen could in the same time; and, as I have been informed by an individual, who resided there about twenty years ago, Hob was accustomed to house the hay, stack the corn, and churn the butter, as well as perform several other offices, which tended materially to lessen the labour of the husbandman and the dairy maid. The occupier of Close-house at that time, thinking to make Hob some return for his kindness and assiduity, laid out a new red cloak for him, which so offended the good faëry, that he ceased his labours, and left the place. On the spot where the cloak was left, the following stanza was found,

Hob red coat, Hob red hood,Hob do you no harm, but no moregood.[476]

Loupscar, alluded to in the third verse, is a place in the Wharfe near Burnsall, where the river is pent in with rocks, and boils along in a confined channel, and then discharges itself into a pool of tremendous depth, forming, as Dr. Whitaker says in his history, “a scene more dreadful than pleasing.” The channel of the Wharfe is in general craggy, and the river abounds with similar vortices to Loupscar; the two most celebrated of which are the Gastrills above Grassington, and the Strid, in Bolton woods. The latter will be recognised by the poetical reader, as the fatal gulf where the Boy of Egremond was drowned, whose story Rogers has versified with such exquisite pathos.

“The Troller’s Gill” is in Skyram pastures, beyond Appletreewick. I visited it a few days ago, when the torrent was considerably swollen by the recent heavy rains amongst the mountains. The roar of the water, the terrific grandeur of the overhanging crags, and its loneliness, united to heighten the terrors of the place. To an inhabitant of London, the scene of the wolf’s glen, in the Drury version of “Der Freischütz,” may give some faint idea of it. Dr. Whitaker thought Troller’s Gill “wanted the deep horror of Gordale,” near Malham. There is certainly more sublimity and grandeur about Gordale; but as to horror, I think it nothing to “the Troller’s Gill.” This, however, is a matter of taste.

The last verses allude to the beautiful and ancient custom, still universally prevalent throughout our district, of chanting a solemn dirge at funerals, till the corpse reaches the church-yard gateway. I know of nothing more affecting to a stranger than to meet, at evening, a funeral train proceeding along one of our romantic vallies, while the neighbouring rocks are resonant withthe loud dirge sung by the friends of the departed. Long may this custom continue! Too many of our old customs fall into misuse by the ridicule thrown on them by dissenters, as being popish, &c.; but I am happy to say, that in Craven the dissenters are great encouragers of funeral dirges. In Mrs. Heman’s sacred melody, “Last Rites,” this stanza alludes to thepractice:—

By the chanted psalm that fillsReverently the ancient hills,Learn, that from his harvests done,Peasants bear a brother onTo his last repose!

Grassington in Craven,T. Q. M.Nov. 6, 1827.

[470]For No. I., see the “Banquet of the Dead.”[471]A cave near Thorp.[472]The Northern Lights. These beautiful meteors have been very vivid and frequent of late.[473]These two lines are from a German ballad.[474]Bolton Priorie.[475]That bears were common in Craven in ancient times is evident from one of our villages being called Barden, i.e. the bear’s den. I consider this circumstance in favour of my derivation.—T. Q. M.[476]Mr. Story, of Gargrave, has written a beautiful Craven faëry tale, called Fitz Harold.

[470]For No. I., see the “Banquet of the Dead.”

[471]A cave near Thorp.

[472]The Northern Lights. These beautiful meteors have been very vivid and frequent of late.

[473]These two lines are from a German ballad.

[474]Bolton Priorie.

[475]That bears were common in Craven in ancient times is evident from one of our villages being called Barden, i.e. the bear’s den. I consider this circumstance in favour of my derivation.—T. Q. M.

[476]Mr. Story, of Gargrave, has written a beautiful Craven faëry tale, called Fitz Harold.

“What demon hath possessed thee, that thou wilt never forsake that impertinent custom of punning?”

Scriblerus.

If I might be allowed to answer the question instead of Mr. Hood, I should say, that it is the same demon which provokes me to rush directly through his new volume in preference to half a dozen works, which order of time and propriety entitle to previous notice. This book detains me from my purposes, as a new print in a shop-window does a boy on his way to school; and, like him, at the risk of being found fault with for not minding my task, I would talk of the attractive novelty to wights of the same humour. It comes like good news, which nobody is ignorant of, and every body tells to every body, and sets business at a stand-still. It puts clean out of my head all thought of another engraving for the present sheet, though I know, good reader, that already “Ioweyou one”—perhaps two:—never mind! you shall have “allin good time;” if you don’t, I’ll give you leave to eat me. With such a tender, the most untender will, or ought to be, as content as “the blacks of Niger at its infant rill,” seated at their “white-bait,” the thirty-eighthcut—in Mr. Hood’s book, very near “the end,”—a very inviting one to Shylock-kind of people, who have not

“———seen, perchance, unhappy white folks cook’d,And then made free of negro corporations.”—p. 149.

Mr. Hood begins—to be modest—with pleading guilty to what he calls “some verbal misdemeanours,” and then, leaving “his defence to Dean Swift, and the other great European and orientalpundits,” puts himself upon his country. But by whom is he arraigned, save a few highwaymen in the “march of intellect,” who sagely affirm, that “a man who would make a pun would pick a pocket!”—a saying devised by some wag, to the use and behoof of these doldrums, who never hear a good thing, but they button up their pockets and features, and walk off with nothing about them of likeness to humanity but the biforked form. For capital likenesses of such persons, turn to the story of “Tim Turpin,” and look first, to pay due honour, at the engravings of “the Judges of a-size,” and then at “Jurors—not con-jurors.” Portraits of this order could not have been drawn by any other than a close and accurate observer of character. Indeed, that Mr. Hood is eminently qualified in this respect, he has before abundantly testified; especially by “The Progress of Cant,” a print that must occupy a distinguished place in a history of Character and Caricature, whenever such a work shall bewritten.[477]In this new series of “Whims and Oddities,” he presents a sketch, called “Infant Genius;”—a little boy delighted with having rudely traced an uncouth figure; such a “drawing” as excites a good mistaken mother to declare, “the little fellow has quite a genius, and will be very clever if he only has encouragement:”—and thus many a child’s talent for fine-drawing—which, at the tailoring trade, might have secured the means of living—has been misencouraged to the making up of fifth-rate artists with a starvation income. The engraving of the “Infant Genius” illustrates the following poem.

The Progress of Art.O happy time!—Art’s early days!When o’er each deed, with sweet self-praise,Narcissus-like I hung!When great Rembrandt but little seem’d,And such old masters all were deem’dAs nothing to the young!Some scratchy strokes—abrupt and fewSo easily and swift I drew,Suffic’d for my design;My sketchy, superficial hand,Drew solids at a dash—and spann’dA surface with a line.Not long my eye was thus content.But grew more critical—my bentEssay’d a higher walk;I copied leaden eyes in lead—Rheumatic hands in white and red,And gouty feet—in chalk.Anon my studious art for daysKept making faces—happy phrase,For faces such as mine!Accomplish’d in the details thenI left the minor parts of men,And drew the form divine.Old gods and heroes—Trojan—Greek,Figures—long after the antique,Great Ajax justly fear’d;Hectors of whom at night I dreamt,And Nestor, fringed enough to temptBird-nesters to his beard.A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,A Pallas, that outstar’d her owl,A Vulcan—very lame;A Dian stuck about with stars,With my right hand I murder’d Mars—(One Williams did the same.)But tir’d of this dry work at last,Crayon and chalk aside I cast,And gave my brush a drink!Dipping—“as when a painter dipsIn gloom of earthquake and eclipse”—That is—in Indian ink.Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose.Crested with soot, and not with snows;What clouds of dingy hue!In spite of what the bard has penn’d,I fear the distance did not “lendEnchantment to the view.”Not Radcliffe’s brush did e’er designBlack Forests, half so black as mine,Or lakes so like a pall;The Chinese cake dispers’d a rayOf darkness, like the light of DayAnd Martin over all.Yet urchin pride sustain’d me still,I gaz’d on all with right good-will,And spread the dingy tint;“No holy Luke helped me to paint.The Devil surely, not a saint.Had any finger in’t”.But colours came!—like morning light,With gorgeous hues displacing night,Or spring’s enliven’d scene:At once the sable shades withdrew;My skies got very, very blue;My trees extremely green.And wash’d by my cosmetic brush,How beauty’s cheek began to blush;With locks of auburn stain—(Not Goldsmith’s Auburn)—nut-brown hair,That made her loveliest of the fair;Not “loveliest of the plain!”Her lips were of vermilion hue;Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue,Set all my heart in flame!—A young Pygmalion, I adoredThe maids I made—but time was stor’dWith evil—and it came!Perspective dawn’d—and soon I sawMy houses stand against its law;And “keeping” all unkept!My beauties were no longer thingsFor love and fond imaginings;But horrors to be wept!Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?Why did I get more artist-wise?It only serves to hint,What grave defects and wants are mine;That I’m no Hilton in design—In nature no Dewint!Thrice happy time!—Art’s early days!When o’er each deed with sweet self-praise,Narcissus-like I hung!When great Rembrandt but little seem’d,And such old masters all were deem’dAs nothing to the young!

The Progress of Art.

O happy time!—Art’s early days!When o’er each deed, with sweet self-praise,Narcissus-like I hung!When great Rembrandt but little seem’d,And such old masters all were deem’dAs nothing to the young!Some scratchy strokes—abrupt and fewSo easily and swift I drew,Suffic’d for my design;My sketchy, superficial hand,Drew solids at a dash—and spann’dA surface with a line.Not long my eye was thus content.But grew more critical—my bentEssay’d a higher walk;I copied leaden eyes in lead—Rheumatic hands in white and red,And gouty feet—in chalk.Anon my studious art for daysKept making faces—happy phrase,For faces such as mine!Accomplish’d in the details thenI left the minor parts of men,And drew the form divine.Old gods and heroes—Trojan—Greek,Figures—long after the antique,Great Ajax justly fear’d;Hectors of whom at night I dreamt,And Nestor, fringed enough to temptBird-nesters to his beard.A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,A Pallas, that outstar’d her owl,A Vulcan—very lame;A Dian stuck about with stars,With my right hand I murder’d Mars—(One Williams did the same.)But tir’d of this dry work at last,Crayon and chalk aside I cast,And gave my brush a drink!Dipping—“as when a painter dipsIn gloom of earthquake and eclipse”—That is—in Indian ink.Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose.Crested with soot, and not with snows;What clouds of dingy hue!In spite of what the bard has penn’d,I fear the distance did not “lendEnchantment to the view.”Not Radcliffe’s brush did e’er designBlack Forests, half so black as mine,Or lakes so like a pall;The Chinese cake dispers’d a rayOf darkness, like the light of DayAnd Martin over all.Yet urchin pride sustain’d me still,I gaz’d on all with right good-will,And spread the dingy tint;“No holy Luke helped me to paint.The Devil surely, not a saint.Had any finger in’t”.But colours came!—like morning light,With gorgeous hues displacing night,Or spring’s enliven’d scene:At once the sable shades withdrew;My skies got very, very blue;My trees extremely green.And wash’d by my cosmetic brush,How beauty’s cheek began to blush;With locks of auburn stain—(Not Goldsmith’s Auburn)—nut-brown hair,That made her loveliest of the fair;Not “loveliest of the plain!”Her lips were of vermilion hue;Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue,Set all my heart in flame!—A young Pygmalion, I adoredThe maids I made—but time was stor’dWith evil—and it came!Perspective dawn’d—and soon I sawMy houses stand against its law;And “keeping” all unkept!My beauties were no longer thingsFor love and fond imaginings;But horrors to be wept!Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?Why did I get more artist-wise?It only serves to hint,What grave defects and wants are mine;That I’m no Hilton in design—In nature no Dewint!Thrice happy time!—Art’s early days!When o’er each deed with sweet self-praise,Narcissus-like I hung!When great Rembrandt but little seem’d,And such old masters all were deem’dAs nothing to the young!

Some scratchy strokes—abrupt and fewSo easily and swift I drew,Suffic’d for my design;My sketchy, superficial hand,Drew solids at a dash—and spann’dA surface with a line.

Not long my eye was thus content.But grew more critical—my bentEssay’d a higher walk;I copied leaden eyes in lead—Rheumatic hands in white and red,And gouty feet—in chalk.

Anon my studious art for daysKept making faces—happy phrase,For faces such as mine!Accomplish’d in the details thenI left the minor parts of men,And drew the form divine.

Old gods and heroes—Trojan—Greek,Figures—long after the antique,Great Ajax justly fear’d;Hectors of whom at night I dreamt,And Nestor, fringed enough to temptBird-nesters to his beard.

A Bacchus, leering on a bowl,A Pallas, that outstar’d her owl,A Vulcan—very lame;A Dian stuck about with stars,With my right hand I murder’d Mars—(One Williams did the same.)

But tir’d of this dry work at last,Crayon and chalk aside I cast,And gave my brush a drink!Dipping—“as when a painter dipsIn gloom of earthquake and eclipse”—That is—in Indian ink.

Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose.Crested with soot, and not with snows;What clouds of dingy hue!In spite of what the bard has penn’d,I fear the distance did not “lendEnchantment to the view.”

Not Radcliffe’s brush did e’er designBlack Forests, half so black as mine,Or lakes so like a pall;The Chinese cake dispers’d a rayOf darkness, like the light of DayAnd Martin over all.

Yet urchin pride sustain’d me still,I gaz’d on all with right good-will,And spread the dingy tint;“No holy Luke helped me to paint.The Devil surely, not a saint.Had any finger in’t”.

But colours came!—like morning light,With gorgeous hues displacing night,Or spring’s enliven’d scene:At once the sable shades withdrew;My skies got very, very blue;My trees extremely green.

And wash’d by my cosmetic brush,How beauty’s cheek began to blush;With locks of auburn stain—(Not Goldsmith’s Auburn)—nut-brown hair,That made her loveliest of the fair;Not “loveliest of the plain!”

Her lips were of vermilion hue;Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue,Set all my heart in flame!—A young Pygmalion, I adoredThe maids I made—but time was stor’dWith evil—and it came!

Perspective dawn’d—and soon I sawMy houses stand against its law;And “keeping” all unkept!My beauties were no longer thingsFor love and fond imaginings;But horrors to be wept!

Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?Why did I get more artist-wise?It only serves to hint,What grave defects and wants are mine;That I’m no Hilton in design—In nature no Dewint!

Thrice happy time!—Art’s early days!When o’er each deed with sweet self-praise,Narcissus-like I hung!When great Rembrandt but little seem’d,And such old masters all were deem’dAs nothing to the young!

In verification of the old saying, “Once a man, twice a child,” Mr. Hood tells of “A School for Adults,”—and gives a picture of aged men, baldheaded and wigged, whose education had been neglected, studying their A, B, C. A letter from one of them at a preparatory school is exceedingly amusing. The article is preceded by a dramatic scene.

Servant.How well you sawYour father to school to-day, knowing how aptHe is to play the truant.Son.But is he notyet gone to school?Servant.Stand by, and you shall see.

Enter three old men, with satchels, singing.

All three.Domine, domine, duster,Three knaves in a cluster.Son.O this is gallant pastime. Nay, come onIs this your school? was that your lesson, ha?1st Old Man.Pray, now, good son, indeed, indeed—Son.IndeedYou shall to school. Away with him; and takeTheir wagships with him, the whole cluster of them.2d Old Man.You shan’t send us, now, so you shan’t—3d Old Man.We be none of your father, so we be’nt.—Son.Away with ’em, I say; and tell their school-mistressWhat truants they are, and bid her pay ’em soundly.All three.Oh! oh! oh!Lady.Alas! will nobody beg pardon forThe poor old boys?Traveller.Do men of such fair years here go to school?Native.They would die dunces elseThese were great scholars in their youth; but whenAge grows upon men here, their learning wastes,And so decays, that, if they live untilThreescore, their sons send ’em to school again;They’d die as speechless else as new-born children.Traveller.’Tis a wise nation, and the pietyOf the young men most rare and commendable:Yet give me, as a stranger, leave to begTheir liberty this day.Son.’Tis granted.Hold up your heads; and thank the gentleman,Like scholars, with your heels now.All three.Gratias! gratias! gratias![Exit, singing.]“The Antipodes,”by R. Brome.

“The Antipodes,”by R. Brome.

No reader of the first series of the “Whims and Oddities” can have forgotten “The Spoiled Child” of “My Aunt Shakerly,” or the unhappy lady herself; and now we are informed that “towards the close of her life, my aunt Shakerly increased rapidly in bulk: she kept adding growth unto her growth,

“Giving a sum of more to that which had too much,”

till the result was worthy of a Smithfield premium. It was not the triumph, however, of any systematic diet for the promotion of fat,—(except oyster-eating there is no human system ofstall-feeding,)—on the contrary, she lived abstemiously, diluting her food with pickle-acids, and keeping frequent fasts in order to reduce her compass; but they failed of this desirable effect. Nature had planned an original tendency in her organization that was not to be overcome:—she would have fattened on sour krout.

“My uncle, on the other hand, decreased daily; originally a little man, he became lean, shrunken, wizened. There was a predisposition in his constitution that made him spare, and kept him so:—he would have fallen off even on brewer’s grains.

“It was the common joke of the neighbourhood to designate my aunt, my uncle, and the infant Shakerly, as ‘Wholesale,Retail, andFor Exportation;’ and, in truth, they were not inapt impersonations of that popular inscription,—my aunt a giantess, my uncle a pigmy, and the child being ‘carried abroad.’”—This is the commencement of an article entitled “TheDeclineof Mrs. Shakerly.”

A story of “the Absentee,” and of the “absent tea,” on a friend’s visit to him, is painfully whimsical. Akin to it is an engraving of a person who had retired to rest coming down stairs in his shirt, and shorts, and great alarm, with a chamber-light in his hand, and the top of his nightcap in a smothering blaze, exclaiming

“Don’t you smell Fire?”Run!—run for St. Clement’s engine!For the pawnbroker’s all in a blaze,And the pledges are frying and singing—Oh! how the poor pawners will craze!Now where can the turncock be drinking?Was there ever so thirsty an elf?—But he still may tope on, for I’m thinkingThat the plugs are as dry as himself.The engines!—I hear them come rumbling:There’s the Phœnix! the Globe! and the Sun!What a row there will be, and a grumbling,When the water don’t start for a run!See! there they come racing and tearing,All the street with loud voices is fill’d;Oh! it’s only the firemen a-swearingAt a man they’ve run over and kill’d!How sweetly the sparks fly away now,And twinkle like stars in the sky;It’s a wonder the engines don’t play nowBut I never saw water so shy!Why there isn’t enough for a snipe,And the fire it is fiercer, alas!Oh! instead of the New River pipe,They have gone—that they have—to the gas!Only look at the poor little P——’sOn the roof—is there any thing sadder?My dears, keep fast hold, if you please,And they won’t be an hour with the ladder!But if any one’s hot in their feet,And in very great haste to be sav’d,Here’s a nice easy bit in the street,That M‘Adam has lately unpav’d!There is some one—I see a dark shapeAt that window, the hottest of all,—My good woman, why don’t you escape?Never think of your bonnet and shawl:If your dress is’nt perfect, what is itFor once in a way to your hurt?When your husband is paying a visitThere, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt!Only see how she throws out herchancy!Her basins, and teapots, and allThe most brittle ofhergoods—or any,But they all break in breaking their fall:Such things are not surely the bestFrom a two-story window to throw—She might save a good iron bound chest,For there’s plenty of people below!O dear! what a beautiful flash!How it shone thro’ the window and door;We shall soon hear a scream and a crash,When the woman falls thro’ with the floor!There! there! what a volley of flame,And then suddenly all is obscur’d!—Well—I’m glad in my heart that I came;—But I hope the poor man is insur’d!

“Don’t you smell Fire?”

Run!—run for St. Clement’s engine!For the pawnbroker’s all in a blaze,And the pledges are frying and singing—Oh! how the poor pawners will craze!Now where can the turncock be drinking?Was there ever so thirsty an elf?—But he still may tope on, for I’m thinkingThat the plugs are as dry as himself.The engines!—I hear them come rumbling:There’s the Phœnix! the Globe! and the Sun!What a row there will be, and a grumbling,When the water don’t start for a run!See! there they come racing and tearing,All the street with loud voices is fill’d;Oh! it’s only the firemen a-swearingAt a man they’ve run over and kill’d!How sweetly the sparks fly away now,And twinkle like stars in the sky;It’s a wonder the engines don’t play nowBut I never saw water so shy!Why there isn’t enough for a snipe,And the fire it is fiercer, alas!Oh! instead of the New River pipe,They have gone—that they have—to the gas!Only look at the poor little P——’sOn the roof—is there any thing sadder?My dears, keep fast hold, if you please,And they won’t be an hour with the ladder!But if any one’s hot in their feet,And in very great haste to be sav’d,Here’s a nice easy bit in the street,That M‘Adam has lately unpav’d!There is some one—I see a dark shapeAt that window, the hottest of all,—My good woman, why don’t you escape?Never think of your bonnet and shawl:If your dress is’nt perfect, what is itFor once in a way to your hurt?When your husband is paying a visitThere, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt!Only see how she throws out herchancy!Her basins, and teapots, and allThe most brittle ofhergoods—or any,But they all break in breaking their fall:Such things are not surely the bestFrom a two-story window to throw—She might save a good iron bound chest,For there’s plenty of people below!O dear! what a beautiful flash!How it shone thro’ the window and door;We shall soon hear a scream and a crash,When the woman falls thro’ with the floor!There! there! what a volley of flame,And then suddenly all is obscur’d!—Well—I’m glad in my heart that I came;—But I hope the poor man is insur’d!

The engines!—I hear them come rumbling:There’s the Phœnix! the Globe! and the Sun!What a row there will be, and a grumbling,When the water don’t start for a run!See! there they come racing and tearing,All the street with loud voices is fill’d;Oh! it’s only the firemen a-swearingAt a man they’ve run over and kill’d!

How sweetly the sparks fly away now,And twinkle like stars in the sky;It’s a wonder the engines don’t play nowBut I never saw water so shy!Why there isn’t enough for a snipe,And the fire it is fiercer, alas!Oh! instead of the New River pipe,They have gone—that they have—to the gas!

Only look at the poor little P——’sOn the roof—is there any thing sadder?My dears, keep fast hold, if you please,And they won’t be an hour with the ladder!But if any one’s hot in their feet,And in very great haste to be sav’d,Here’s a nice easy bit in the street,That M‘Adam has lately unpav’d!

There is some one—I see a dark shapeAt that window, the hottest of all,—My good woman, why don’t you escape?Never think of your bonnet and shawl:If your dress is’nt perfect, what is itFor once in a way to your hurt?When your husband is paying a visitThere, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt!

Only see how she throws out herchancy!Her basins, and teapots, and allThe most brittle ofhergoods—or any,But they all break in breaking their fall:Such things are not surely the bestFrom a two-story window to throw—She might save a good iron bound chest,For there’s plenty of people below!

O dear! what a beautiful flash!How it shone thro’ the window and door;We shall soon hear a scream and a crash,When the woman falls thro’ with the floor!There! there! what a volley of flame,And then suddenly all is obscur’d!—Well—I’m glad in my heart that I came;—But I hope the poor man is insur’d!

There are ballads in the “New Series” that rival “Sally Brown and Ben the Carpenter” in the former volume. Of this class are “Mary’s Ghost;” the story of “Tim Turpin,” mentioned before; and another of “Jack Hall,” showing, how Jack was an undertaker’s mute—how Jack sometimes drove the hearse—how Jack was in league with resurrection-men, and stole the bodies he buried—how Death met Jack in St. Pancras burying-ground, and shook hands with him—how Death invited Jack home to supper—how Jack preferred going to the Cheshire Cheese, and Death didn’t—how Jack was brought to Death’s door, and what he saw there—how Jack was obliged to go in, and Death introduced him to his friends as “Mr. Hall the body-snatcher”—how Jack got off without bidding them good night—how Jack was indisposed—how twelve doctors came to visit Jack without taking fees—how Jack got worse, and how he confessed he had sold his own body twelve different times to the twelve doctors—how the twelve doctors did not know Jack was so bad—how the twelve doctors disputed in Jack’s room which should have his body till twelve o’clock—how Jack then departed, the twelve doctors couldn’t tell how—and how, as Jack’s body could not be found, the twelve doctors departed, and not one of them was satisfied.

In the forementioned ballads there are many “verbal misdemeanours,” at which the author cautiously hints in his preface with some tokens of deprecation:—“Let me suggest,” he says, “that a pun is somewhat like a cherry: though there may be a slight outward indication of partition—of duplicity of meaning—yet no gentleman need make two bites at it against his own pleasure. To accommodate certain readers, notwithstanding, I have refrained from putting the majority in italics.” He is equally sinful and considerate in his prose: as, for instance, in the following character, which fairly claims a place with those of bishop Earle, sir Thomas Overbury, and even Butler.

Is a town-crier for the advertising of lost tunes. Hunger hath made him a wind instrument; his want is vocal, and not he. His voice had gone a-begging before he took it up and applied it to the same trade it was too strong to hawk mackerel, but was just soft enough for Robin Adair. His business is to make popular songs unpopular,—he gives the air, like a weathercock, with many variations. As for a key, he has but one—a latch-key—for all manner of tunes; and as they are to pass current amongst the lower sorts of people, he makes his notes like a country banker’s, as thick as he can. His tones have a copper sound, for he sounds for copper; and for the musical divisions he hath no regard, but sings on, like a kettle, without taking any heed of the bars. Before beginning he clears his pipe with gin; and he is always hoarse from the thorough draft in his throat. He hath but one shake, and that is in winter. His voice sounds flat, from flatulence; and he fetches breath, like a drowning kitten, whenever he can. Notwithstanding all this his music gains ground, for it walks with him from end to end of the street.

“He is your only performer that requires not many entreaties for a song; for he will chant, without asking, to a street cur or a parish post. His only backwardness is to a stave after dinner, seeing that he never dines; for he sings for bread, and though corn has ears, sings very commonly in vain. As for his country, he is an Englishman, that by his birthright may sing whether he can or not. To conclude, he is reckoned passable in the city, but is not so good off the stones.”

An incurable joker subjects himself to the inconvenience of not being believed, though he speak the truth; and therefore the following declaration of the author of “Whims and Oddities” is questionable. Hesays:—

Is none of my bugbears. Of the bite of dogs, large ones especially, I have a reasonable dread; but as to any participation in the canine frenzy, I am somewhat sceptical. The notion savours of the same fanciful superstition that invested the subjects of Dr. Jenner with a pair of horns. Such was affirmed to be the effect of the vaccine matter—and I shall believe what I have heard of the canine virus, when I see a rabid gentleman, or gentlewoman, with flap ears, dew-claws, and abrushtail!——

“I put no faith in the vulgar stories of human beings betaking themselves, through a dog-bite, to dog-habits: and consider the smotherings and drownings, that have originated in that fancy, as cruel as the murders for witchcraft. Are we, for a few yelpings, to stifle all the disciples of Loyola—Jesuits’ bark—or plunge unto death all the convalescents who may take to bark and wine?

“As for the hydrophobia, or loathing of water, I have it mildly myself. My head turns invariably at thin washy potations. With a dog, indeed, the case is different—he is a water-drinker; and when he takes to grape-juice, or the stronger cordials, may be dangerous. But I have never seen one with a bottle—except at his tail.

“There are other dogs who are born to haunt the liquid element, to dive and swim—and for such to shun the lake or the pond would look suspicious. A Newfoundlander, standing up from a shower at a door-way, or a spaniel with a parapluie, might be innocently destroyed. But when does such a cur occur?”

Mr. Hood answers the question himself by “hydrophobia” of his own creation, namely, an engraving of a dog, on whom he makes “each particular hair to stand an end;” and whom he represents walking biped-fashion; he hath for his shield, as Randle Holme would say, an umbrellavert, charged with the stick thereof, as a bendor.

“The career of this animal,” says Mr. Hood, “is but a type of his victim’s—suppose some bank clerk. He was not bitten, but only splashed on the hand by the mad foam or dog-spray: a recent flea-bite gives entrance to the virus, and in less than three years it gets possession. Then the tragedy begins. The unhappy gentleman first evinces uneasiness at being called on for his New River rates. He answers the collector snappishly, and when summoned to pay for his supply of water, tells the commissioners, doggedly, that they may cut it off. From that time he gets worse. He refuses slops—turns up a pug nose at pump water—and at last, on a washing-day, after flying at the laundress, rushes out, ripe for hunting, to the street. A twilight remembrance leads him to the house of his intended. He fastens on her hand—next worries his mother—takes a bit apiece out of his brothers and sisters—runs a-muck, ‘giving tongue,’ all through the suburbs—and finally, is smothered by a pair of bed-beaters in Moorfields.

“According to popular theory the mischief ends not here. The dog’s master—the trainer, the friends, human and canine—the bank clerks—the laundresses—sweet-heart—mother and sisters—the-two bed-beaters—all inherit the rabies, and run about to bite others.”

But, is not this drollery on hydrophobia feigned? Is it not true that a certain bootmaker receives orders every July from the author of “Whims and Oddities,” for boots to reach above the calf, of calf so inordinately stout as to be capable of resisting the teeth of a dog, however viciously rabid, and with underleathers of winter thickness, for the purpose of kicking all dogs withal, in the canicular days? These queries are not urged upon Mr. H. with the tongue of scandal; of that, indeed, he has no fear, for he dreads no tongue, but (to use his quotation from Lord Duberly) the “vermicular tongue.” This little exposure of his prevailing weakness he has provoked, by affecting to discredit what his sole shakes at every summer.

The “New Series of Whims and Oddities” abounds with drolleries. Its author’s “Forty Designs” are all ludicrous; and, that they have been engraven with fidelity there can be little doubt, from his compliment to the engraver. “My hope persuades me,” he says, “that my illustrations cannot have degenerated, so ably have I been seconded by Mr. Edward Willis; who, like the humane Walter, has befriended my offspring in thewood.”[478]Though the engravings are indescribably expressive, yet a few may be hinted at, viz.

“Speak up, sir!” a youth on his knees, vehemently declaring his love, yet in a tone not sufficiently loud, to a female on a sofa, who doth “incline her ear” with a trumpet, to assist the auricle.

“In and out Pensioners,” exemplifying the “Suaviter in modo,” and “Fortiter in re.”

“The spare bed,” uncommonly spare.

“Why don’t you get up behind?” addressed by a donkey-rider—who does not sit before—to a boy on the ground.

“Banditti,” street minstrels.

“Dust O!” Death collecting his dust—criticallyspeaking, this might be objected to.

“Crane-iology;” a crane, with its bill calliper-wise, speculating on a scull, and ascertaining its developements.

“A Retrospective Review;” very literal.

“She is all heart;” a very hearty body.

“The last visit;” quacks.

“The Angel of Death;” one of them—very fine.

“Joiners;” Vicar and Moses.

“Drill and Broadcast;” nature and art.

“High-born and Low-born;” odd differences.

“Lawk! I’ve forgot the brandy!” abominably provoking—only look!

“Comparative Physiology” is “a wandering camel-driver and exhibitor, parading, for a few pence, the creature’s outlandlish hump, yet burthened himself with a bunch of flesh between theshoulders.”—

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